

### Plasma Frequency Magazine

### Issue 3: December/January 2012/13

Cover Art by Eleanor Leonne Bennett inspired by "Forest for the Trees"

Electronic Edition

Editor-in-Chief, Richard Flores IV

Assistant Editor, Amy Flores

Assistant Editor, Lara G. Carroll

Art Editor, Vacant

Marketing and Advertising, Vacant

Plasma Frequency ISSN 2168-1309 (Print) and ISSN 2168-1317 (Electronic), Issue 3 December/January 2012/13. Published bimonthly by Plasma Spyglass Press, Vacaville, California

Annual subscription available at www.plasmafrequencymagazine.com. Print edition $56 for US residents for one year. Electronic edition available free.

Published by Plasma Frequency at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by Plasma Spyglass Press. All Rights Reserved.

www.plasmafrequencymagazine.com

www.plasmaspyglass.com

In This Issue

Cover Art by Richard H. Fay

From the Editor

A Game of Distance

By Nathaniel Katz

Recording Angel

By Tim McDaniel

Art By: John Sowder

Hell and Back

By Kate O'Connor

King's Courier

By Mark Wolf

True Love

By Travis Omernick

Book Review

Beyond the Cell

Five Tips for Outsmarting Satan—

and Your Students

By Sarina Dorie

Phobophobia

By Bev Elliott

Forest for the Trees

By Shane D. Rhinewald

The Glass Hill

By Joanna Michal Hoyt

Job Satisfaction

By K. S. Dearsley

From the Editor

The holiday season is upon us. This means you can look forward to family gatherings and holiday festivities. It also means you can expect to deal with traffic jams, packed stores, and Christmas music on an endless loop.

In issue 3 we have a little break from the madness. You can slip into the realms our authors have created and get away. We have a lot of shorter fiction in this issue as well. Something you can jump into when you only have time for a quick read.

If you are looking for a last minute gift idea, check out our book review of Beyond the Cell by Sara Tribble. Also don't forget to give a our advertisers a look. They might have the perfect gift for you or your loved ones.

We have two new artists who have never been in our pages before. This includes the use of photography for the first time. I was a little skeptical of using photography, but Eleanor Bennett has brought a stunning piece of photography to our pages. I enjoy being proven wrong, especially when it turns out so magnificent.

We also have a new author, one who has not been published before. This is exciting for me, as I always enjoy finding new talent. When I started writing short fiction, I was given a shot by a magazine. I hope I have given this author his shot at recognition.

Issue 3 has been the toughest one for me to get out. Since we met last, I have been very busy. I released my debut novel, _Dissolution of Peace_ in the middle of October. You would think that would be the easy part of writing a book. But the countless hours of promotion just to get a few sales has been a very time consuming task. I also have had my own family gatherings, my birthday, and many other time consuming tasks.

Making a magazine every two months is a lot of hard work. But I really enjoy doing it. And I don't think I can ask for a better Christmas present than a successful magazine. So as we enter 2013, we will be hoping for continued success. Thanks to our readers for making our debut year a fun and successful one. And thank you to all the writers and artists who brought their talent to a brand new magazine.

From all of us at Plasma Frequency: Happy Holidays and Happy New Year. Let me step aside and let the work of our writers and artists shine. Enjoy.

Richard Flores IV

Editor-in-Chief

A Game of Distance

By Nathaniel Katz

The two men had become the best of friends, the spy and the spied upon, the hunter and the hunted. The spy watched, as he had for twenty-two years. His name was Vay, his quarry Raymos. They sat a table apart, with Raymos facing the door and the wounded sky and Vay facing Raymos.

Every morning, Raymos came here, and Vay followed. Raymos ordered eggs and coffee, and the waitress – a black skinned, black haired and the daughter of the man who had first served them – would smile at him. Then she would come to Vay, and he would order the same, and she would smile at him, though her smile to him was just a friend's smile.

Twenty-two years ago, Vay had followed Raymos with a squad of soldiers at his command. They carried heavy weapons and used words like target and enemy. At his call, they would kill Raymos and anyone around him. Twenty years ago, the squad had started to bleed away. Eighteen years ago, he had worked alone but for his quarry for the first time.

Vay and Raymos never spoke. Often, Raymos would speak to the waitress and she would leave him confused and come to Vay, who would speak to her the answer to Raymos's questions, to be overheard at the next table. The waitress would repeat the process until both had had their say, she always remaining nothing but a bemused middleman, willing enough to play provided they tipped well.

The streets were always filled with horses, neighing, and cars, skimming silent above, while people filed in and out of the café in endless streams. Some stayed, prying brief moments free of their hectic schedules. Others rushed in and out again with bread and tea balanced on overburdened arms. Vay and Raymos never had to wait long for service.

She brought their food, first to Raymos and then to Vay. As she left the table, Raymos raised his hand and asked if he could have the paper.

"Of course," she said. She could just have brought it to him when she brought his food, but no, it was a part of their ritual, like the game of cat and mouse which had been going on for so long that hiding places and secrets were no longer needed.

Raymos enjoyed his eggs heavily salted and his coffee black, and he read while he ate. Afterwards, when Raymos got up to leave, leaving four coins for the food and two more as a tip, he would leave the paper behind. Vay would get up, take the paper, and follow Raymos. As Vay left, he would leave four coins for food and two more as a tip. Later, when Raymos sat in the park and Vay sat on the bench behind his, Vay would read the passages that Raymos had highlighted for him.

Something went wrong on a summer day, the first day of a new week and a new month. Raymos stood, leaving the paper and his half-eaten food, threw down seven uncounted coins, and went to the door in a daze.

Vay watched him go, a man dropped by his most trusted partner in the midst of a familiar dance. He stood and walked to Raymos's table. Already other would-be patrons were eyeing it greedily. The waitress held them at bay.

The answers were in the paper, though he didn't see them right away. Fifteen years ago, it would have been a headline story. Now it was on page four. Sah Xi, last (but one) of the magi, had been found and killed. Once, people had thought the magi had cracked the sky and world. Now the world had found other scapegoats, but the hunt wasn't over.

Vay ran through the crowd. "Move," he shouted at them. "Out of my way!"

Raymos, last and least of the magi, had a great lead on Vay, but he was not fleeing. He walked with his head down, and he was buffeted by the crush of commuters all around him. "Wait!" Vay shouted, but Raymos kept going. Vay followed, but he could get no closer in the press of bodies.

The two of them reached the docks, and Raymos began to walk out onto the pier. "Stop!" Vay shouted, but Raymos walked on. Vay looked at the crowds and knew that he would never get to Raymos in time. Giving up pretences of obscurity, he drew his pistol from his coat. "Police," he shouted, firing into the air. "Make way for the police!" The crowd bolted from his shot, each telling him in their eyes and in their flight that they were guilty.

Raymos was near the end of the pier now, and he was looking down at the water. It was green with excretions and thick with pollutants. Down below, at the bottom of the bay, the earth's skin was broken, and the world's blood devoured all but the strongest hulled ships.

Vay dropped to one knee and aimed. "Forgive me," he said as he fired.

The bullet hit Raymos in the back of the knee, and the last of the magi fell. He howled as he hit the deck, tried to claw his way forward.

Vay reached him and stopped his friend. "Please," he said, "Raymos, do not do this."

Raymos looked at Vay with eyes so blinded with pain that they could not see. "I am alone, now," he said.

"No, Raymos, you are not. You have not seen another magus for twenty-two years, but I have been with you for that whole time."

Raymos did not speak.

"I am here," Vay said. "You are not alone."

Now Raymos was crying, but he was smiling behind his beard as sobs shook his broad body.

"The hospital," the policeman said.

"No," the magician, the traitor, the quarry, said. "The park."

Leaning on one another, they walked into their routine and did their best to forget the past.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nathaniel Katz blogs at The Hat Rack (evilhat.blogspot.com). When not blogging, he pretends he can write fiction. So far, _Beneath Ceaseless Skies_ and others have gone along with the idea. He is an Editorial Assistant over at Innsmouth Free Press and only occasionally spies on the people he knows and cares about.

Recording Angel

By Tim McDaniel

Beth had been sitting on the marble bench for ages, her eyes fixed on Michael as he worked silently at his desk. When he finally looked up and spoke, his voice as deep and resonant as she knew it would be, she was startled.

"Bethnael, of the Twenty-first House?"

Beth sprang to her feet and came before Michael's desk, keeping her wings properly folded behind her.

"Yes, Seraphim."

Michael leaned back in his chair and chuckled. "Oh, just Michael will do," he said. "You're the new girl. The new amanuensis."

"Yes, Sera-, Michael." Beth kept her eyes lowered, clasping her hands nervously.

"Well, don't worry," Michael said, standing up. "This job is bound to be a lot less complicated than the one you had in Twenty-one. No entwined destinies here! Your job, basically, is just to be on hand to jot down any of His sudden thoughts or commands. If you're not sure how important something is, just write it down anyway. Better safe than sorry, right?" Michael smiled encouragingly.

"Oh – this has just been flown in." He picked up a thin magazine that had been laid on his desk. "Why don't you bring it in with you? He loves it." She accepted it with a little bow, worried that her palms would stain it with pearlets of angel sweat. "Any questions?" Michael asked her.

Beth could hardly think. "No, Michael."

"Well, like I said, the work's not too tough. And this is quite a promotion for you, isn't it? You should be proud."

"Yes, Michael. Thank you."

"Not too proud, of course."

"No, Michael."

"Well, go ahead, go on in." Michael gestured to the double arched doors behind him. "Mustn't keep Him waiting."

"Yes, thank you." Beth forced her trembling feet towards the huge doors. They swung silently open as she approached, and before she knew it, she was in His presence.

The room was huge. One wall held a gigantic fireplace; the fire blazing within was frightening in spite of the heavy grate that screened it. The fire would have made the room intolerably hot, if it had not been one of the heatless kind that He seemed to favor in the deathless realm. Large arching windows lined another wall, letting bright sunlight into the room. There were lines of glass-fronted bookcases against a third wall, and several clerks sat at desks near them, hunched reverently over the naughty and nice lists on their computers, small porcelain and stained glass lamps lighting their work.

He Himself was sitting in a large, comfortably upholstered chair, white of course, facing the windows, sipping a cup of tea. At the sight Beth found herself rooted to the spot. He looked just as she had heard – He wore a silver-sparked glittering gown, and His long beard flowed nearly down to the foot of his chair. He looked up and saw her.

"You the new amanuensis? Bethnael, right?"

She bowed, saying nothing, her gaze dropping to the floor.

He chuckled, a rumbling deep in His chest. "No need to be afraid, girl! Speak right up." He placed the cup on the china saucer on a delicate tray table next to the chair. "I understand you were getting bored with your old job. My son suggested you come here?"

Beth could only nod.

He chuckled again. "That boy. Always picking up strays! But come closer, come closer. Is that the new issue of _Heavenly Messenger_?"

Beth approached the awesome figure, and proffered the paper with trembling hands.

"Ah, thanks, thanks. I do relish this little rag." He began flipping through the pages. "Look at all these asinine articles. 'Keeping Warm in Circle Nine.' Good luck! 'Circle One Flyaway Fashions – You'll be Blown Away!' Sure I will. 'St. George: a New Appreciation.' Boooring! Ah, here it is. The letters to the editor column." He folded the paper down and looked up, a glint in his eye. "Fun stuff in here, usually. Are you still standing? Have a seat, have a seat."

Beth started to say that there was no other chair nearby, but there was a soft tinkling noise behind her, and looking she saw a chair there; hardly more than a stool, but with a tiny writing table next to it. A quill pen, a bottle of black ink, and a sheaf of parchment lay on the table, ready for her hand. She quickly sat and took up the quill. It felt strange in her hand. She dipped it into the ink, to see how it absorbed the black liquid.

"Ha, hah! Yes, no computer here! I finally allowed _them_ to have the damn things –" He gestured over to the angels working at their desks – "but here is where _I_ draw the line. Think me old-fashioned if you want, but there's something about the dancing of the feather as the quill scritch-scritches along the parchment that just seems so – I don't know – elegant, you know?"

Beth nodded uncertainly.

"Ah, you'll get used to it in no time. Take a few notes, you'll see how right it feels in your hand." He turned back to the paper.

What should she take note of? Her instructions had been vague. She decided it would be prudent to write down everything He said.

He grunted with satisfaction. "Yes, the letters column. You'll enjoy these. Here's the first.

~

Dear Sir,

I have been subscribing to "The Heavenly Messenger" for nearly three hundred years now. I am not one to be hasty, and certainly I would not presume to judge He who decides such things, but I feel that there may have been some sort of oversight, and I hope your worthy magazine can be of help. Perhaps you could assign one of your intrepid investigative reporters to my case.

You see, I have been in Purgatory Circle Seven (Pride) for the entire three centuries since my death, and there can be no doubt that I am ready to move on now. It cannot be said that I lack any knowledge of spiritual matters; even your monthly crossword puzzles, which I used to find nearly impossible to complete, I now finish easily, and I can modestly assert that not a soul has passed through this Circle without learning something from my example.

It may be that He keeps me here in order that I may provide this instruction to those souls in need – but come now, enough is enough. It is time to move on. Do you suppose that your magazine could do a report on my grievance, and perhaps obtain for me the justice that is due?

Unfairly Treated but Ever Hopeful, J.S. Chuckwood

Purgatory Circle Seven (Pride).

~

"And here's what the editor says: 'Mr. Chuckwood, if I were you, I'd settle in for a long stay. God can be _so_ picky sometimes, you know!' Hah, hah! Hit the nail on the head there.

"What's next? Ah, one from Inferno Circle Five (Wrathful and Sullen). Those are always good. Listen."

Beth listened.

~

Dear Editor,

All right, that's it. I mean, that is just it. You promise your readers Part II of the Buddy Holly excerpt from his "Songs I Would've Written" book, but I pick up the new issue and guess what, it's not there.

I thought you people up there were supposed to be above this kind of thing. I guess we all know different now. God knows it's hard enough to keep my magazines readable here with all the jerks throwing mud and slime at me, and now you don't even put in the articles that you promise. If your rag wasn't the only magazine delivered to Hell I'd cancel my subscription right now. Thanks for nothing.'

Fred Blastikoff, Inferno Circle Five (Wrathful and Sullen).

~

"Hmpf! And there were those who thought I'd misplaced Fred — though they never said so to my face! Spineless pissants. Oh, here's one from Circle Nine that's bound to be a hoot." He looked up. "Beth, are you writing _all_ of this down?"

Beth paused in her furious scribbling. "Oh, yes, my lord! As fast as I can!"

"Well, why are you bothering? It's all printed in the magazine — if you want a copy of these letters, just clip them later! I got some scissors around here someplace."

Beth's face was red as hellfire, and she could hardly breathe.

"And relax, for My sake! Listen to this, this will give you a chuckle.

~

Dear Sir,

You don't understand. I was loyal.

Besides, I'm not even dead yet.

Oliver North, Inferno Circle Nine (Antenora: Treacherous to Country or Cause).

~

"And the editor says — listen to this — this is why I like that guy so much:

~

Mr. North,

Oh, my God! Has there been some ghastly error? Well, if you were _loyal_ , we'd better get you out of Nine immediately! So sorry, our mistake!

Just kidding. Alas, sometimes loyalty to King and loyalty to Country conflict! As to your second point, the souls of the treacherous go straight to Hell right after the treachery has been committed; your body on Earth is presently inhabited by a devil. (No need to worry — no one's noticed a change yet!) Think of all those boobs paying to schmooze with people like you and Henry Kissinger, without a clue! But you really should have been informed about this aspect of divine justice, though, and we _do_ apologize that _that_ mix-up.

~

"Damn straight!" He said. "Suck on _that_ egg, Ollie!" Without a pause, He read the next letter.

~

Dear Sir,

I've been a loyal subscriber to your magazine for simply the longest time. I just never miss an issue, and I'm hardly ever disappointed. I'm glad to see you're getting more full color pics, too! Let me just say that your magazine really passes the time. And I should know, I've been in Purgatory for twelve hundred years — nine hundred in this Circle alone! But I don't mind, as long as you keep up the good work.

Just one thing, though. Could you print another big, full-color picture of the Virgin Mary? With those beautiful soft, white wings folded protectively around her ivory shoulders, and with just a hint of a demure, alluring smile, and maybe leaning sleepily against the Tree of Life? I'd appreciate it. Or get Joan of Arc, if Mary's busy. Thanks.

Harry Langid, Purgatory Circle One (Lust).

~

He laughed, the paper falling into his lap as He leaned back. Then He regained control of Himself, and wiped at His eyes. "Oh, ho! You know, I know I should be offended at such talk, but actually it just tickles me. Make a note of this, though, Beth — have the editor send Harry a personal reply, promising such a photo, and then let there be a subscription department mix-up so he misses that issue. Got that?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good. A chance for him to move on past his obsession, hey?"

"I would suppose so, my Lord."

"You sound a little down. You can't take this stuff so seriously, you know; you'll go eccentric. Here, you read the next one." He thrust the paper at her.

Beth took the paper from His hand, and scanned down to the next letter. Her eyes widened.

"But, my Lord, the next letter — it's from —"

"Yeah, I know. He's a perennial letter-writer, that guy. Thinks he's with Amnesty International or something. Just read it. You'll find it amusing."

Yes, my Lord."

Beth read it, in a voice that quavered at embarrassing times.

~

Dear Editor,

As the recognized leader of the Opposition Party, I feel that it is once again time to call for a free and open election to determine just who is to be the head of state. For too long the present Incumbent has been governing unopposed, and we feel that this inevitably leads to a degeneration of the affairs of state. An open election, in which the citizens of Inferno, Purgatory, and Heaven can vote for whomsoever they wish to administer justice in the universe, would give the present administration an impetus to respond more directly to the urgent needs and desires of those governed.

If there is divine justice, the administration will declare such an election before this, the present fiscal year, has run its ordained course. A denial of a free election could only serve to inform those governed that the present administration does not truly have their interests at heart. We await a response.

Satan, Inferno Center.

~

"Ah, true to form! And what does the editor say in response?"

Beth gently cleared her throat.

"'Oh, really, Lucifer, must we go through this _every_ year? You _know_ what the answer will be.'"

"And so he should, so he should!"

"But--" Beth spoke before she thought.

"Yes, dear? Something? Go on, spit it out. I don't bite!"

"Well, it just seems to me — and I know that I am no authority in these matters... it just seems that it might be best to address these concerns. To demonstrate to the readers of the magazine that—"

"They need no proof — and if they do, it just shows that they're in the right place, eh?"

Beth dropped her gaze. "Yes, Lord."

He leaned back in his chair. "Ah, you know, sometimes I'm just tempted to chuck the whole thing — do any job for a few thousand years, and see if every little thing doesn't start to annoy the hell out of you! Chuck it, let him take on the job for a while — he'd soon see that it's not as much fun as it looks. I could take it easy. Clear the people out of Hawaii and just relax in the sun.

"But, no. Not in the job description." He perked Himself up and looked at Beth with a twinkle. "Tempting, though, huh? Even if I can't quit this damn job, maybe just the two of us could take a vacation, a break, hmmm?"

Bethnael couldn't speak for a moment. "I think the Universe requires our constant care," she finally said. She tried to sound reasonable but it came out as rather priggish.

"A fiesty young thing, huh?" He chuckled. "I appreciate that — I have so many damn toadies!" He leered at Beth good-naturedly for a long moment. "Just as well, anyway. That son of mine isn't nearly ready to take over things." He directed His attention back to the paper, and read aloud without preamble.

~

Dear Sir,

Minos, the Judge of the Dead here in Inferno, has asked me to consult your readership concerning modifications to be made down here in Inferno Circle Three (Violent Against Nature). In particular, it seems that we are expecting the arrival of certain individuals currently active in government, and who have been busily attempting to scrap pollution laws and to convert pristine areas into oilfields. We wish to welcome these people in a fitting manner. However, we have had some trouble devising suitable accommodations. Your readers were a great help when we had to deal with James Watt, so we would appreciate any ideas they might want to send us. Thank you.

Mammon

Assistant to Minos

Inferno Administration Center.

~

"Hah! I'll be looking for the responses — I get some of my best ideas that way.

"But see here, a letter from Heaven. They're usually pretty quiet, if not downright boring. But the editor's a friend of mine, and he cuts out the really insipid ones.

~

Dear Sir,

I know to Whom I should direct my inquiry, but in fact I am a bit embarrassed. My question: I am a blessed soul presently located in the highest of the Heavenly Spheres, and I just want to know -- is this really all there is? Is this what I've been working for, abstaining for, praying for all this time? Is this all there is -- these clouds and wings? A few hosannas?

The Blessed Saint Bill

Heaven, Empyrean Sphere.

~

"Here's your quick answer, Saint Bill: Yep. Uh huh."

Beth wrote His brief comment, her brow furrowed.

"Something, Beth?"

She looked up at Him guiltily. "Oh, no, my Lord!"

"There _are_ worse ways to spend eternity, you know!" His brow furrowed, and He leaned forward in His chair, the magazine on His lap.

"Yes, my Lord. Of course, my Lord." Did He not even care? Beth must be misunderstanding His banter.

He sat up again, and again took up the magazine. He glanced at it, then gave Beth a piercing look over the top of the page. "Maybe you enjoy this next one; another complaint, but at least these guys have a point to make. I think you'll appreciate it, if I'm any judge. Here it is.

~

Dear Sir,

Too long have we endured the unfair judgments of the so-called deity. Too long have others stood by, apathetically ignoring those crying out for justice from this Supreme Being. We now take a stand, and we ask our soul brothers and sisters to stand with us in our call for justice.

We are the Unbaptized Children and Virtuous Pagans Coalition. We demand recognition and restitution. We have been barred from the delights of Heaven through no fault of our own. To group the members of the UCVPC with the rest of those in Inferno is unthinkable, yet this is what is being done under the guise of divine justice.

On behalf of any person denied justice, on behalf of all people tyrannized and abused for no sane reason, we demand recognition of the exclusion being perpetrated by the ruling class.

All we ask for is fairness. All we wish is for justice to prevail. Hear us!

Socrates

Spokesperson

The Unbaptized Children and Virtuous Pagans Coalition

Inferno, Circle One (Limbo).

~

"Whine, whine!" He chuckled. "Little pissers!"

Beth clutched the quill so tightly her hand shook. She bit her lip and looked down, though she couldn't see the parchment in front of her.

"Yes, Bethnael?"

"Lord?" The word emerged from her tightened throat.

"You are upset about... something?" Beth could hear Him put the paper down, apparently giving her His full attention, which couldn't be a good thing right now. She forced herself to look up.

Blinking away the tears, she saw that He was looking at her with a vast kindness in His gray eyes, a small understanding smile on His lips. "Tell me, Beth," he said softly.

"It's just that — well, many of us have long felt..."

"Yes?"

"Well, Lord, that there is some justice that may be due... I mean, that the VP's have a point. It's not their fault —" Beth suddenly caught herself. "But of course we would not dream of questioning Your judgment. You see things we cannot..."Beth trailed off, trying to guess what lay behind His eyes.

"Oh, Beth," He said, "Do you think me a monster? I have reasons you have no inkling of, and plans beyond your vision, and love immeasurable."

Beth released her pent-up breath.

"Still, I cannot sanction subversive thoughts."

He looked towards the door. Gabriel was just entering.

"Yes?"

"Gabe, I have a reassignment in mind. Traitor to King or Country — Level Nine, I believe." He gave Beth one last smile, with a twinkle in His eye. "And I do hope you write some interesting letters while down there."

And she did.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tim McDaniel teaches English as a second language at Green River Community College, near Seattle. His stories have appeared in _F &SF_, _Asimov's_ , and many other magazines, and he has a truly impressive collection of plastic dinosaurs.

Hell and Back

By Kate O'Connor

Art By: John Sowder

The crumpled beer can arched gracefully through the clammy air and landed with a satisfying clang amongst its predecessors. Jamie reached languidly into the cardboard case beside the couch. He felt around fruitlessly, sensing that the end of his binge was fast approaching. The twisting rune on the inside of his left wrist burned even through the haze of alcohol. The Goddess had been calling for three days. Like any deity, She didn't like being ignored.

Jamie let his head drop limply onto the back of the couch. Sick shades of green-black swirled behind his eyes. The world tilted abruptly. He grabbed onto the edge of the couch, but it faded underneath him. He braced for impact. Instead of hitting the floor, he found himself standing in a doorway. In the room beyond, a silk-clad bed floated amidst a sea of candles and rose petals. From the middle of a mounded pile of cushions a woman beckoned. His pulse thudded in his ears. She was wearing nothing except for her long blonde curls and a bow-lipped promise in her smile. He blinked and the scene changed.

The candles were gone, the room lit by a bedside lamp instead. The bed was empty.

"Jamie! Get out of that bedroom!" There was an undercurrent of laughter in his wife's voice. "Haven't you spent enough time in there all ready? It's your night to cook and don't even think I've forgotten. And no getting takeout again. I'm on to you!" She thumped him gently between the shoulder blades, butterfly kissing the back of his neck.

"But Talia..." He grinned, spinning around and making a grab for her.

She darted away, teasing him with a look as she disappeared around the doorframe in a flutter of black hair.

Jamie jumped after her. His shins made contact with the newspaper strewn coffee table, stinging smartly as he pitched forward. He staggered to his feet, shaking his head to clear the vision out of his eyes. The small apartment barely resembled the one in his dream anymore. Talia had been dead six years.

Regardless of how tactlessly it was delivered, the message was clear. The Goddess wouldn't wait much longer before becoming unpleasant. Cursing steadily under his breath, Jamie let himself collapse back to the couch. Damn Her anyway. He didn't want another assignment. "Hades take me instead," he muttered just to piss Her off. His wrist throbbed painfully in response, fingers twitching as the nerves protested. Jamie resolutely settled deeper into the sofa cushions. It was going to take more than that to get him out this time.

The apartment door rattled. "Jamie Raven! Open the door or I'll take it down." Anika's warm alto rumbled with implied threat. Jamie snorted, not bothering to open his eyes. It figured She would send the cavalry. After being Anika's teacher for going on two years now, he didn't doubt his apprentice would do exactly what she said she would. He aimed a spell at the lock, the alcohol haze forcing him to try twice more before it clicked and swung open. Replacing the door wasn't something he wanted on his to-do list.

Anika bustled in, shooting him a deeply disgruntled look. Her nose wrinkled as she looked him over. He didn't really want to know how bad he looked at this point. The last shower had been...not recently enough that he remembered it well. Seeing the intention in Anika's expression, he threw an arm over his face before she had a chance to take a step towards the thick curtains. She went anyway, jerking them back and letting the wan afternoon sunlight in.

"Oh get up all ready. We both know you're being pathetic on purpose at this point." Anika moved to his work table, frowning as she pushed aside teetering stacks of loose paper and bundles of herbs. "Do you ever clean anything anymore?"

"My apprentice is supposed to do that for me." Jamie grumbled from underneath his arm. She wasn't really but if he let it get bad enough her sense of self-preservation would kick in and she spend a few days straightening and polishing until the apartment shone. It was a system that worked for them. Well, for him anyway.

Anika muttered something about curses. He moved his arm down a bit, wincing at the sudden influx of light. Several minutes of clinking glass and fizzing ingredients later, she shoved a gently smoking concoction under his nose. "Drink it or I'll make you." Jamie studied her through still foggy eyes. The view wasn't bad, all told, especially since she was leaning over to force the drink on him. He dragged his gaze back up to her face. Her clear gray eyes had gone glacial – a sure sign she had noticed where his eyes had been and wasn't happy. Anika didn't do men. He took the potion and downed it quickly, wincing at the bitter aftertaste.

The alcohol fled his system so fast it left him doubled over and gasping. "Damn, girl! A little subtlety wouldn't kill you!"

"You deserved it. I hate it when your stupid ego gets me dragged into divine shit." She folded her arms across her chest. "Shower, dress, and be at the Temple in an hour. You really don't want to know what She told me to do if you say no."

Jamie sighed in defeat, levering himself up and heading for the bathroom. There was no fighting it once both of them were on his case.

~

The Temple was at City Center. It was on the fifty-second floor of one of the many skyscrapers that ringed the Center's three-story high bronze fountain. Jamie punched his code into the staff elevator, shifting restlessly during the short ride up. The doors opened on a day-spa parlor. The receptionist glanced up at him from behind the curved oak desk. The shiny silver nametag pinned to her tailored jacket read 'Tina'. Typical. Her expression darkened as he stepped into the room, heavy boots and battered leather jacket clashing badly with the creamy carpet and ergonomic designer chairs. "Sir, you obviously have the wrong floor. Where were you trying to get to?"

"Oh I don't know, Tina. I think She'll see me." Jamie smirked as he held up his wrist. The twisting blue-green tattoo matched the stylized rune above the desk. The receptionist paled and stammered apologies. He shrugged her off, heading through the 'Employees Only' door on the left. She was new. She'd get over it.

The Temple's inner sanctum was far bigger than the building should have been able to manage. It was glass on three sides, looking out onto balconies draped with flowers. A plethora of small fountains filled the airy space with their bright burbling. In the center of the room, Aphrodite reclined on a lounge chair, chuckling musically to herself over a book with a bright pink and red cover. Today her hair was pure white-blond and falling in heavy ringlets over her shoulders and down to her waist.

Jamie crossed the room, coming to a stop in front of the chair. He was long over the bowing and kneeling bit. She turned the page, to all appearances unaware of his presence. He knew better. The pain coming from the mark on his arm had faded the moment he had entered the building. She picked up a bookmark, slender, perfectly shaped fingers tucking it between the pages like a secret. With a pouty sigh, She set the book aside and sat up.

Jamie's eyes caught on the faultless curve of Her hip framed between the hem of a cutoff t-shirt and the low waistband of Her artfully tattered jean-shorts. Even all these years after the stupid teenage moment that had left him promised to Her service until She was done with him, looking at Her was a kick in the gut.

"Took you long enough." Her voice was teasing but the intensity bubbling up underneath the girlishness had Jamie's attention. Unless he missed his guess, She was really pissed this time. Not good. Being defiant had seemed like a much better idea before Anika had sobered him up.

She came to Her feet gracefully, drifting across the room to the edge of a round pool with several white marble fish spouting water in the center. He followed behind her at a respectful distance. "I need you to retrieve something for me." She dipped a dainty bare foot in the water. Her shell pink toenail polish glinted through the rippling wavelets.

Jamie breathed a soft sigh of relief. If it was straight to business, with any luck she would forget about being upset with him. "What do you need me to get?"

She glanced at him, shocking green eyes catching his and freezing him where he stood. After a long moment, She looked away and he was free to breathe again. She gestured with Her right hand and a figure appeared by Her side. He looked human as far as Jamie could tell – tall, muscled, and GQ handsome if one didn't count the eyes that were glazed over like they belonged to a dead fish. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Jamie realized the man wasn't breathing.

"You will go to Erebus and recover his spirit." She stared up into the lifeless eyes of the corpse, stroking its cheek and smiling beatifically. "Hades had no right to take it yet. It wasn't time."

"Hades will toss me out on my ass. He doesn't do living mortals down there." Jamie took a small, hopefully unobtrusive step away from the macabre little scene. Seeing the Goddess of Love mooning over a dead man was disconcerting. In spite of the twinge of horrified curiosity, Jamie was fairly certain he didn't want to know the details.

"You are my messenger. He will tolerate you as long as you obey the rules." She still wasn't looking at him.

"What rules would those be?" As far as Jamie knew, Hades didn't give up souls. After losing Talia, Jamie had spent months pouring over old tomes, inventing spells when he couldn't find any that worked. He had tried blood magic, ritual sacrifices, infernal exchanges and all of it had yielded precisely nothing. He knew how to get to the Underworld and summon mystical beings out of it but nothing ever mentioned how to get a mortal spirit back. The God of the Dead didn't relinquish those who found their way into His care.

"You have to pay for passage over the River. The price for the trip back is steeper. You must pass the Guardian with no help from me. You will have to make a deal with Hades for what you want." She tilted her head to the side and adoringly straightened the corpse's stylishly shaggy hair. "Simple, really."

"Anything else?" Jamie didn't argue. One way or another he would have to try it. Hope stirred underneath years of disillusionment and cynicism. Maybe if he played his cards right he could get what he wanted out of this too.

"He won't lie but He will try to trick you." Her voice turned wispy as the corpse vanished back to wherever She was keeping it fresh. "He is very good at that."

~

Jamie stood at the geographic center of the place where three roads met. It had taken Anika most of the morning pouring over a minutely detailed city map to find a location that suited the spell he was planning on casting. Unsurprisingly, that had just helped to secure his place on her shit list. He smirked to himself. At least she was the type who would do a good job out of spite.

"This is the dumbest idea you've had in a while." Anika informed him from her seat on the curb.

"Far be it from the likes of me to question the will of the Goddess."

"At least out loud." Anika shook her head. "I can't believe you're going down to Erebus just to pick up the spirit of Her latest boy toy. Was he really that cute?"

"Have you ever known Her to pick one who wasn't?" Jamie paced out the distance one final time, checking the runes he had chalked onto the pavement as he went. Everything was in order. "All right, Ani. Stay back. If I'm not home in three months, congratulations, you inherit my shit. All of it."

"Gee, thanks Jamie. An apartment you don't even own full of crap that was old when Zeus still had peach fuzz, a library with perhaps two spell books of any real value, and if my patron deity doesn't feel like sticking up for me, I get your contract with Herself. At least the bike is decent."

"There you go. Look on the bright side. Now hush. I'm working." He frowned at her mutinous expression. When he was certain she would stay quiet, he walked back to the center of the intersection. He let his mind drift, feeling for the aura of the place. With his eyes half-lidded, the ley lines sparked into sight, bluish gold and throbbing. He grinned triumphantly. One ran down the center of each road, converging right in front of where he was standing.

Taking a breath, Jamie took a coin out of his pocket. It was old and tarnished from who knew how many years stuck between his couch cushions. A small, sharp knife came out of the other pocket. Whispering the opening verse of the spell he sliced his palm sharply. The blood welled up over the coin. When it was liberally coated, he dropped it into the center of the intersection.

That done, Jamie spread his fingers, grabbing onto either side of the place where the ley lines joined. The raw energy crackled and hissed. Steam rose from the wound on his palm. Jamie took a breath and held it against the lancing pain. This was his last chance to back out. The spell had a steep cost. This area would be magically dead for years to come. It would be a wound in the city, a place where everything felt doomed from the start.

The energy in his hands began to fluctuate. Jamie's jaw tightened and he ripped the lines apart, shouting the closing words of the spell as he did so. Talia's face rose vividly in his mind's eye. The freed energy slammed through him like a head rush, racing into the patterns his magic had created.

The air slowed to crystalline stillness. The place where the ley lines had crossed was dark and growing blacker. From one moment to the next, the air split. Jamie blinked, his eyes unwilling to focus immediately on the figure that stepped out of the newly created rift. He shook his head and forced himself to look.

Charon the Ferryman looked the same as the last time Jamie had seen him. He was tall and broad shouldered, clothed in ragged brown robes. The hand that picked the coin up off of the street was skeletal and wasted in spite of the firmly muscled strength of his arms. Charon lifted the coin to his lips, pink tongue darting out to taste it before he tucked it into the pouch tied to his belt. His mercury bright eyes flashed to Jamie's face.

"Raven," Charon hissed like an asthmatic smoker. "This is your blood."

"The coin's payment for the trip down. The blood for the trip back. Don't even think about shorting me or I'll take it up with your boss." Charon looked deeply affronted. Jamie met the Ferryman's feverish gaze. The cold fire looking back at him made his insides twist up and think seriously about leaving.

"I ferry any who make proper payment, even boys who are stupid enough to fight me over the inevitable." Charon rumbled angrily, catching hold of Jamie's jacket and unceremoniously yanking him into the rift. Jamie's skin went cold. Charon's fingers burned even through a layer of thick leather. Voices whispered gibberish in his ears, growing louder and louder the longer they hung in between worlds. Jamie fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. He had a feeling it wouldn't help much.

At long last, he felt solid ground under his feet again. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. He stood on the bank of a raging river. The rapids had broken the red rocks they ran over into a bloody, surging foam. Twisted black trees grew precariously along the steep shore. Charon hung in the air next to him, still looking highly annoyed.

"I have brought you over Styx to the far bank of Acheron. I will wait here for you as per our contract." The Ferryman turned away, staring blankly towards the horizon.

Jamie took out his knife again. Finding his way out would probably be much more difficult than getting in had been. He pricked his finger and let three drops of blood fall on a stone by the bank. Any magic he tried could be washed away and the terrain played its own games around here but like always called to like. As certain as he could be that he would be able to find the spot again, Jamie put his back to the river and started walking.

~

The view shifted as Jamie walked, twisted trees morphing into tall, iron-colored towers of teetering rock. The dull, dreamlike quality of the still air made him light-headed and tired. Each step raised clouds of dust that hung just above the surface. The sweat evaporated from his skin almost as soon as it formed even though the air was cool. He licked his parched lips, wishing he had thought to bring a bottle of water. Just because it was the Underworld, didn't mean he couldn't die of thirst. He was still just as mortal as he had always been.

Something tickled his senses and Jamie paused, listening intently. Very faintly, he thought he could hear the sound of running water. He adjusted his track a little to the left and picked up the pace. He grinned in relief as the sound grew louder. A low ridge of dark rock separated him from what sounded like a stream. He scrambled up and over it, tearing a hole in the knee of his jeans in the process. On the far side, he stopped, staring in surprise at what he had found.

Gentle, grassy banks sloped down to a wide stream that babbled lazily over its smooth stone bed. Tall willow trees leaned over it, dragging their green-gold leaves in the slow-moving water. A series of moss covered stepping stones provided passage to a great iron gate that blocked the beginnings of a road on the far side.

Jamie made his way down to the water. It was oddly colored, changing subtly each time he thought he had a name for it. He knelt in the soft ferns, cupping his hands and reaching for a drink. The feeling of being watched brought him to an abrupt halt. He pulled his hands back, easing his weight to his toes in case he needed to move quickly. From the far bank, a tousle-haired boy was surveying him with eager yellow eyes. The hair on the back of Jamie's neck stood on end.

"Got a problem, kid?" Jamie stood up slowly. Whatever the boy was, he was willing to bet it hadn't ever been human.

"Are you going to drink?" The boy shifted from foot to foot with animal grace and energy.

Jamie looked at the water. It flowed innocently by. "What will happen if I do?"

"Oh, you'll forget everything you ever knew. The Lethe does that." The boy grinned, revealing teeth like slender daggers. "So are you going to drink?"

"Of course not!" Jamie backed away cautiously from both the boy and the stream.

"Oh." The boy frowned, dark eyebrows coming together in an eerily adult expression. "That's a shame. You would be easier to eat if you forgot how to be afraid." His small face brightened suddenly. "But chasing is fun too! I don't get to chase often."

"Hold it right there!" Jamie glared at the boy, searching with his feet for flat, defensible ground. He was pissed. The bloody river had almost had him and he had been too stupid to notice. Now this brat was obviously planning on getting in the way. "Aphrodite sent me with a message for Hades. If you try to eat me they'll both have your hide."

"I am Cerberus. I guard the Gate. Any mortal who tries to pass is mine. That's the rule." The frown was back though tempered by what Jamie hoped was a bit of doubt. Cerberus paced the far bank, worrying his bottom lip between his viciously pointed teeth. "I'll give you a fair chance. You run and I'll chase. If you get away, you can deliver your message. If not, I eat you and your Goddess sends another messenger."

"Fine." Jamie gauged the distance across the stream and the slick, mossy stones. The beginnings of a thought flickered through his head. It wasn't much of a chance but it was better than running from the Hellhound, boy-shaped or not. "But it won't be a fair chance if you don't let me get across the stream first."

"All right." The Guardian of the Gate nodded and settled into a crouch next to the water, eyes glinting with anticipation.

Jamie edged to the bank, judging the distance. The first stone was just a hair too far away for him to step onto it. He jumped, windmilling his arms as his rigid boots slid on the slick moss. He took a slow breath once he managed to right himself. His heart banged in his chest and across the stream Cerberus rocked back and forth in time to its beat. Their eyes met and the boy licked his lips. For a moment, Jamie wondered if going for a quick swim wasn't the easier option.

He made it to the last stone with no more mishaps. He stretched his foot slowly for the bank, watching his adversary out of the corner of his eye. Cerberus had risen out of his crouch and was leaning forward, ready to pounce. Jamie's boot brushed the grass and the Hellhound lunged. Jamie threw himself forward, rolling onto his back and raising his knees rather than trying to make it to his feet. Cerberus hit him like a freight-train half a second later, claws raking his arm and teeth flashing in his face. Jamie scrabbled for purchase, muscles screaming in protest as he tried to hold the boy away from his throat.

Jamie thrashed, finally managing to set his boots in the Hellhound's stomach. He pushed with all his might. If his aim was off, he was going to be very dead very quickly. A loud splash brought him to his feet. He ran for the gate, sparing a glance over his shoulder. A massive, three-headed dog was crawling out of water. It made it back to the bank and shook itself, sending showers of water in all directions.

Jamie ducked through the open gate before the beast turned around. He dropped to a walk, listening carefully for any sounds of pursuit. There were none. He grinned, using his knife to cut a strip off the hem of his t-shirt. It had been a long shot but it had worked. Jamie doubted the water would have the same effect on an immortal but at least it seemed to have erased Jamie from the beast's memory.

Stopping to bind his wound, Jamie finally had a chance to take in his surroundings. A long, wide road stretched out in front of him, bordered on either side by fields of tall white flowers. Insubstantial figures drifted amongst the plants, stopping every so often to lower their faces to the flowers. In the distance, a temple-like palace shimmered in the dim light. Trying to ignore his stinging arm, Jamie got up and continued on down the road.

~

Hades was waiting when Jamie arrived in the open-air throne room. He was fair-haired and simply clothed with eyes the color of the Lethe. He was standing between the columns near the entrance, a woman at his side. The silver beads in her dark braids glittered and chimed when she moved. She was dressed in flowing gray silk and stared blankly into the middle distance. With her face devoid of emotion, Jamie didn't recognize her until he was almost within touching distance. When he did, his breath caught and he nearly tripped over his own feet. Talia.

"I have what you've come for, Raven." Hades put a possessive hand on Talia's shoulder. His voice was a soft tenor that echoed through the empty palace.

"I didn't come for her." Jamie reached for Talia in apology, fingertips stopping an inch from her skin. She drifted at Hades' side, apparently oblivious.

"Liar." Hades said it as if it meant less than nothing.

"All right. I didn't come only for her." Jamie folded his arms defiantly across his chest. "Aphrodite wants the spirit of her guy back. Supposedly he wasn't yours to take yet."

The corners of Hades' mouth twisted in the barest hint of a smile. "She and Persephone have been fighting over that one for a year now. I don't see the appeal myself but..." The God shrugged elegantly. He walked towards the dais steps, Talia following like an obedient doll. Jamie grit his teeth until his jaw ached.

Hades sank onto the dark, metal throne, leaning back and stretching his legs in front of him. He studied Jamie from over steepled fingers. "I have grown tired of this bickering between my wife and your mistress. I will give you one chance to fulfill your mission and get what you want. Only one. Will you hear my conditions?"

"I'll hear them." Jamie watched the God warily. The other shoe would be dropping any time now.

"You must make your way back to Charon. Talia will follow you and the man will follow her. You must not look back for her. If you make it, you are free to take them to the mortal world and do with them what you may."

"I want your promise that your minions won't try to stop us." Jamie knew he couldn't manage another wrestling match with Cerberus.

Hades smiled again. "No one will interfere. I am only interested in testing your capacity for trust."

"Looking back is the only disqualifier?" It sounded impossibly easy. Maybe Hades just really wanted to get rid of Aphrodite's man. Jamie couldn't blame him. If Talia had been messing around with some other guy, he would have wanted the bastard out of sight in a hurry too.

"Yes."

"All right. I'll do it then." Aphrodite had said Hades wouldn't lie. Jamie figured she would know better than he would.

Hades nodded and rose to his feet. "Then begin."

Jamie turned away from the throne and walked towards the door. The silvery clinking of Talia's beads followed behind him.

~

"I took Anika on like you wanted. She's a good student and not a bad house cleaner. She'll be a hell of a sorceress one day." Jamie babbled on, jumping carefully back across the stepping stones that bridged the Lethe. There was no response. There had been nothing but the sound of her beads since they had begun the trip. So he had been talking instead – first about how he had missed her and then, as the trip grew longer, about all of the things she had missed in the last six years.

He broke off to scramble over an outcropping of rock. The air was silent again except for the sound of the stream running. He walked more quickly, listening hard. Everything was quiet. There was no sound at all from behind him. No footsteps, though there had never been any. Worse, the bright, clacking sound of Talia's beaded hair was gone. Had he lost her to the Lethe? Could the river affect even a shade? It had worked well enough on Cerberus.

Jamie froze. He wanted to look. Just to reassure himself that she was all right. Aphrodite had said that Hades would try to trick him. He kept himself facing forward. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that the sudden lack of sound was the trick. He started walking again.

Each step was harder. Jamie found himself looking out of the corners of his eyes for the hint of a shadow, circling around in wide arcs to see if he could see footprints, stopping just to listen for anything that might help him believe Talia was still behind him. Each time there was nothing. Somewhere amidst the dim rocks, an indeterminate distance from the way home, he stopped again. He found a rock and sat down.

"This is driving me mad." He wasn't sure if he was telling himself or telling her. "Well, madder, anyhow." Jamie looked towards the pale horizon. "I'm going to screw this up if I keep going, love. Trust isn't something I've gotten any better at since you died. Guess that's not exactly a surprise." The lumpy rock was digging into his right hip. He shifted, wishing there was a way out of this that didn't rely on his rapidly fraying nerves. He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair and down his face. With the heels of his hands pressed into his eye sockets, it dawned on him. The ability _to_ look back was his biggest problem.

"All right, babe, this is gonna suck but it should get us out of here okay. Let's hope Anika's been working on her counter-spells, huh?" Trying not to think too closely about the long term effects of what he was about to do, Jamie put two fingers on each of his eyelids. " _Lux lucis ut obscurum_." His eyes began to burn. He bit his lip and tasted blood as the sensation grew. Bright colors kaleidoscope wildly behind his eyelids then faded to pitch black.

Jamie opened his eyes. The darkness remained. He sighed. No looking back now. He put one foot in front of the other, shuffling along slowly. With the sudden lack of distractions, he could feel the blood he had left at the exit like a pulse. He reached his hands out in front of him, feeling for any obstructions as he moved towards it. It was going to be a long trip.

~

Charon's skeletal hands released him, dropping Jamie a few inches onto hard pavement. The sun warmed his face, reassuring him that he really had made it back to the land of the living.

"Talia?" He reached out, turning in a circle as he searched for her. Her familiar hands touched his shoulders, moving up his neck and cupping his face. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close and burying his face in her hair. She was there for a moment and then slid away from him, fading and growing insubstantial as he tried to hold her. "Talia!" He yelled for her, reaching out blindly. Sacrificing his vision suddenly seemed like a monumentally bad decision.

The air swirled around him and Jamie knew he was no longer alone. "I warned you about Hades and his games. You brought her soul back, but her body is long gone. She couldn't stay without a physical form to hold her. She has gone back to Erebus." Aphrodite's voice whispered in his ear. Her breath smelled like candy apples. "You have done well, Raven. Don't worry. She will wait for you." A breeze ruffled Jamie's hair and the Goddess's presence faded, presumably taking the soul of the young man with her. It was just like Her to not even bother to fix up the injuries he had sustained running Her errand.

Jamie shook his head in annoyance, trying to ignore the ache ripping at his chest. Losing Talia once had been bad enough. Twice seemed unbearably cruel. At least now he knew she was there waiting for him. His eyes stung. He rubbed at them and his fingers came away wet. It wasn't enough.

He stood in the street until the sun dried the moisture on his cheeks then pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and fumbled for the speed dial. It rang twice before Anika picked up. He ignored most of her questions. "I'm at the crossroads, I think. I could use a ride home."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kate O'Connor is a sometime pilot, archaeology field technician on off days, and occasional dog groomer. Her short fiction has appeared in _Penumbra eMag, Daily Science Fiction_ and _Pressure Suite: Digital Science Fiction Anthology 3_. Her novella, _Mermaid_ , is forthcoming from Musa Publishing. She is currently living in the New York area.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

John Sowder currently resides in Kentucky. He has contributed art for small press magazines and independent comic books since 1991. Presently he writes and draws for Divine Authority Comics and will become a regular artist for Kris Moore's anthology comic 'Saturday Morning Snack Attack'. He draws inspiration from 1970s comic book artists such as Frank Brunner and Mike Ploog, the cinematography of John Alton, the films of Ishiro Honda and classic pulp illustrations. You can view his artwork at http://latitudezero.deviantart.com/

King's Courier

By Mark Wolf

Gerron's horse, Lightning, died in mid-stride, struggling to cough the broken arrow from her lungs. She gave a final wheeze, and then pitched forward, launching her courier from his saddle.

Gerron sat up and brushed the pine needles from his jerkin—twisted his neck and shoulders, assessing the damage. _Nothing broken,_ he thought. But he winced when his hand passed over a rapidly developing bruise on his shoulder. No doubt he'd be sore for some time.

He glanced around attempting to get his bearings. The forest through which he traveled looked the same in every direction, old growth conifers, brambles, the occasional deciduous blackthorn or oak, and moss covered boulders. _If I can find a bridge there should be a milestone set in its walls._

Gerron stood up, wincing in pain when he put weight on his injured leg. He looked down at the arrow stuck in it; grimaced when he thought about how he'd taken it.

_Four of the King's personal guards died defending me during that ambush. I must deliver his reply to the front._ He strained for any sound of his human pursuers or creatures moving through the brambles. Bears and wickedly cunning foul-life, the slythe, roamed the Slythewood.

His pursuers' horses whinnied in the distance. _They'll be on me any minute._ He started hobbling—gasped when his leg brushed up against a tree, jabbing the arrow in further.

_I've got to deal with this, now, damn it._ He sat down and rolled the top of his fine wyvern-hide boot away from his calf to examine the wound. The arrow head protruded slightly through the other side of his leg.

He broke the feathered tail off the arrow, and then pushed the arrowhead and shaft the rest of the way through his calf. Nauseated and dizzy, he tore strips from his shirt sleeve and bound up the oozing wound, staunching the blood flow.

Stumbling forward, he limped for thirty paces then turned downhill, dragging his bum leg. He left the road, hobbled forward another hundred paces—picked up a wind-tossed conifer branch and entered the road again.

He brushed out his foot prints as he re-crossed the road, this time heading uphill. As he climbed his wound began bleeding anew. He stopped, tore off his other shirt sleeve, and wrapped it over the existing bandage.

Squirrels and jays scolded him as he passed, then a sudden unnatural silence came over the wood. He halted and listened. A few crickets chirped and a brook gurgled nearby. He reached over his shoulder and drew his rapier from its hide scabbard.

Something huge knocked him from his feet. His rapier and missive pouch flew from his hand. The creature pinned him to the ground. Gerron struggled like a mouse caught beneath a cat's paws.

"What've we here?" the beast said.

Gerron tried to ignore the smell of rotting meat on the slythe's breath when it leaned forward and sniffed at him. The front half of the creature, that which was more bear-like, dripped saliva on his face when it spoke. He could barely see the green, warty-hided skin of the beast's hind quarters.

"A King's Courier, if you please, noble slythe," said Gerron.

"What if I don't please, meat? What care I for Kings or their couriers?" The slythe's tone changed pitch to a deep growl as its massive muzzle drew closer and sniffed at him again. "You smell wounded and vulnerable."

Gerron stopped struggling. One swat from the creature's heavy paws would break his neck. Annoying the beast would be extreme folly. In desperation, he said the only thing he could think of—the truth.

"Others chase me. They'd have my life for what I carry."

The slythe's eyes widened. It lifted its head, looked around, and sniffed. "I smell them. They're close. What do you carry that is so valuable?"

Gerron glanced at his missive pouch near his rapier. "It's in the pouch."

The slythe's head turned toward the pouch. It inhaled. "I smell nothing but parchment and a bit of moldy cheese. That's not food."

Gerron kept his voice calm. "It would become easy food for you if you knew what was written on the parchment."

"And that is?"

"First, your promise to spare me. Second, I demand a boon in return for telling you what the missive says."

The slythe snarled and drew his muzzle forward until his lips touched Gerron's neck. "I will knock your impudent head from your shoulders. You _demand_ a boon from me?"

Gerron gulped. "By your pardon. It's news as will be worth the boon and more to you, I promise. Besides, if you don't like what I have to say, you can still kill me anyway."

The slythe made an unusual choking-snarling sound. Gerron shut his eyes fearing the worst. The sound continued as the heavy paw pressure lifted. He opened his eyes to see tears in the eyes of the beast as it sat back on its hind legs. _It is laughing?_ Gerron sat up in wonder.

"You're right. I do have the power to kill you, anyway. You've your life for the moment, King's Courier." The slythe swatted the pouch to him. "Now read me this letter."

Gerron reached over and opened the pouch. He drew forth the missive from the King and began reading.

"To the Ambassador of Redhallow,

In the interest of renewing peaceable relations between our two Kingdoms and bringing this bloody war to an end, His Excellency has decided to accept your offered tithe of kine and sheep and the quarter man weight of gold each moon. Hostilities will cease immediately upon arrival of this missive to you. May peace prevail.

His Royal Highness,

King Darrowbold IV."

The slythe snorted. "And what does this mean to me?"

Gerron rolled his eyes. "What it means is, every month there will be scarcely-guarded herds of livestock driven through this forest. If one is careful not to be seen, one could pick off stragglers for a very long time without anyone becoming the wiser."

Gerron watched the slythe considering his words. After a moment the creature's sneer turned into a toothy grin.

"I believe I take your meaning. In fact, that's news of such worth as to spare your life. Now, what is this boon you would have of me?"

~

Gerron tried to stand when the three outlaw horsemen pulled up at the bridge. He'd removed his boots and was washing his wound in the stream. Two of the horsemen drew swords and dismounted to clamber down the bank to the stream. Their leader leaned over his saddle and smirked.

"Your life is already forfeit, courier. Hand over your missives and we will give you a merciful death."

As soon as the horsemen entered the shadow of the bridge tunnel, the slythe charged out with a roar and struck. Two swats and the two outlaws crumpled like barley sacks. Their leader spurred his horse—the other outlaws' horses bolted and followed.

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mark Wolf has stories published with bizarre titles such as "Bubba Versus the Werewolf," "Killer Krill from Outer Space," "Flat-Cat Frisbees and Bullfrog Amputees," and soon to be published, "Revenge of the Rabid, Killer Werepossum." He'd write more such stories if his attendants will ever give him back his crayons.

Book Review

Beyond the Cell

From the Amazon.com Book Description:

" _Sixteen-year-old Sonata Wilde is living in Hell. Not literally Hell, more like a prison stashed away in the mountains known as The Cell. All mythical beings were banished to live here nine years ago, segregated from the humans. Being trapped in captivity is breaking her down and the temptation of escaping grows stronger, regardless of what it might cost her.  
No one has ever made it out of The Cell, not with the extreme voltage on the wires and constant guards on patrol. It's damn near impossible, minus one loophole. Sonata has a plan ready to set in motion, along with help standing by to make sure it all goes accordingly. The taste of freedom is within her grasp and she's ready to embrace it once again."_

Sara Tribble is a fiction writer and publishing editor living in Michigan (www.saratribble.com). She has had several short story credits and worked for _Flash Me_ magazine. _Beyond the Cell_ is her debut novel.

This one has been scheduled for review for a few months now. I have been eager to dive into this one since I got the book description. The idea behind the story intrigued me. The idea of a prison break story involving mythical creatures seemed unique to me.

Take all the beings of myths you know of, round them up, and lock them in an internment camp style prison. That is the life of Sonata, a young banshee who desires a life outside the electric fences of The Cell. The story opens on her birthday, where she tries to convince her best friend, and love interest, Razz to join her in her escape.

The book description really makes the book sound like it was about the escape. So when it was so easily brought up and discussed in the first chapters, I wondered how this would pan out. But Sara does a great job of building up to the escape and the escape is really just the beginning of this story.

Once Sonata escapes she discovers humans, one in particular takes her interest. This brings in the confused teenage girl who thought she loved Razz, a harpee, to find she might be more interested in humans. But she wonders if she likes the human for the right reasons.

After spending time with the humans, she is tracked down by some other beings. They tell her she needs to return to The Cell, the one place she didn't want to return. To avoid spoilers, I'll leave it at that.

The story is told in first person. I don't have a problem with first person, but I don't like when a first person narrative changes point of view in the middle of the novel. There a few chapters told in other characters' view point. The thing about it is, it had to be done. There was information that needed to be told by other character, so you couldn't stay in Sonata's point of view. I can't help but wonder if this novel would have been better served in third person.

The main character is Sonata, a banshee. There were times I found her a bit melodramatic, but she is a teenage girl. Her best friend Razz, is a bit one dimensional. He was your classic bad boy and not much more. I could feel Sonata's connection with Razz, but only on her end. I didn't feel much of a connection with Razz. The human, Kyle, on the other hand seemed to be a more believable character. He was Sonata's brief love interest, but was a bit under-played. I'd have preferred to see more from him. The last character, Piñata is a creature, but no one really knows what she is. But from the beginning of the novel, I was certain she would be a key player.

This story is wonderfully imaginative. It takes some common themes and puts them in a unique setting that gives them new life. The story telling is well thought out. The conflict has a real stake with the characters, and the world is believable. The beginning pulls you into the story, the middle gets you comfortable with the characters, and the conflict is high stakes for all the characters. I cared about what was about to happen. I found the book was hard to put down. Sara Tribble is a author to watch out for as she releases more novels.

The last chapter felt a bit too much like a nice clean wrap up to everything. There were a few points where I felt like Sonata just accepted things a little too easy. A few of Sonata's personal conflicts seemed resolved too fast and rather easily. But the main conflict was resolved to my satisfaction and there was even a slight tease to a sequel. But even if Sara never tells another story of Sonata and Razz, the plot felt complete.

This book is available in a variety of locations: Barnes and Noble, Amazon, Kindle, and direct from the publisher. The ebook price ranges from $4.99 for the PDF to $5.99 for Kindle. For an electronic file from a new novelist, that is a hard price to swallow. It isn't available to borrow through the Amazon Prime lending library either. I'm not saying the book isn't worth the price, but I think is expecting a bit too much. I think if you are going to spend that money, spend five bucks more and get the paperback. Amazon.com has it listed for $10.95. I plan to purchase it for my personal collection.

Overall, I would say this is an excellent story. I am certain Sara Tribble will make significant impact on the genre. The book is enjoyable, the plot is unique, and the prose is believable. This book belongs in your collection.

The summary:

Beyond the Cell

By Sara Tribble

Published September 23, 2012

Published by Fire and Ice

ASIN B009MH67I6

ISBN: 1612354882

Available at: Amazon.com

Kindle: www.amazon.com/dp/B009MH67I6

Paperback: www.amazon.com/dp/1612354882

My ratings:

Prose: Good

Characters: Good

Story: Excellent

Value: Good

Overall: Good

A truly unique idea coupled with excellent story telling. Everyone should give it a read, it has an enjoyable element for just about anyone who reads fantasy.

True Love

By Travis Omernick

The warning klaxons screamed in the tight confines of the bridge, drowning out the rational thought that might have helped in the emergency. After first addressing the major issues on her engineering console, Zoey reached over and flicked off the siren, leaving only the yowling of the cat.

"It's about damn time. Or did you forget where the alarm button is?" said Luke, shooting her a petulant scowl.

_You make it very hard to love you sometimes,_ thought Zoey. She noticed that Luke hadn't checked his pilot station. He had been too busy clamping his hands over his ears to drown out the noise. "The drive has suffered a micro-meteor impact," she said, interpreting the complex stream of information on her console.

Finally checking his board, "I can see that." He rolled his eyes at her. "Too bad that cat doesn't have a mute button."

The animal in question, Salsa, was yowling under her seat, but began to quiet when Zoey soothed her with a quick stroke. _I only brought her on the Popeye because I was moving in with you_. The orbital tug was too small to live in long term. "What's our vector? Are we still on course?" she asked, knowing he had yet to check the most critical priorities. _Just try and tell him anything_.

"Oh my god! It knocked us out of our orbit. We're going to burn up in less than a minute." He struggled to get his restraints free, fear distorting his handsome features, never once looking over at her to see if she needed any help.

As if hearing him panic, the ship began to shake and shudder. The steady red emergency lights began to flicker.

A minute wasn't nearly long enough to reach the escape pod, but with no choice she clamped down on her own fear that threatened to rise up. Calculating quickly in her head, she recalibrated the engines to provide several bursts of thrust. "I sent a engine sub-routine to your board. Initiate it, and it'll buy us at least ten minutes."

"There's no time, we have to get out of here!" He was out of his chair, preparing to push off in the zero-g environment of the tug. It would be a brief flight through the limited work space behind their consoles to the escape pod. Zoey reached over and activated the sub-routine on his board.

After making it to the escape pod door, Luke fumbled at the controls, apparently forgetting in his panic that they first had to be initialized on her console. He still hadn't looked to see if she was behind him. _Thanks_.

Salsa used her genetically engineered long-digit toes to climb her way up into Zoey's lap and began to nervously knead it, sensing a problem. "Never mind, I activated the sub-routine myself." She quickly undid her own restraints.

Now that the immediate danger had passed he floated back over. "I better check and make sure you didn't make things worse."

_Things were so different in the beginning._ She ignored him and grabbed her essentials bag. _Was that guy even real?_

She was reaching for Salsa's essentials bag when Luke said, "No way." She glanced up, but he was eying Salsa. "There is no way I'm getting into _that_ pod with _that_ animal. It's dirty and there's no room for it." He tried to appear reasonable. "Didn't you see that article about how rescue missions sometimes take weeks."

_I sent you that article!_ "She's been hypno-indoctrinated to use the same toilet we do, so she's not dirty _and_ she's smaller than a football." She knew the real reason for the protest. He was insanely jealous of anything that didn't involve him, and Salsa had been with her for over ten years. Plus, the cat hated his guts.

"Look, I didn't tell you, but it crapped in the air during your last sleep cycle. I just cleaned it up before you saw. It's too old, better to just leave it here." He was haphazardly stuffing his belongings, which he never put away, into a plastic grocery bag he'd gotten from a hydro-station. "It'll be over quick and the cat won't feel a thing."

_Liar_. He thought he was so good at it that he didn't bother putting in any effort.

"No way."

He stopped what he was doing and grabbed her arm, digging his fingers painfully into her flesh, "I really think it'd be better off," he growled.

"Ok, sweetie, you're probably right. I just don't know what I'm thinking sometimes." She gave him a loving smile. "Just finish gathering your stuff and I'll prep the pod."

"Right on, babe." He turned around and began rummaging in a compartment, gathering up his vintage, collector's porno cubes. "You know, I think living together will be a lot better with that animal gone. And it'll be better off too. Seems almost — merciful or something." He turned around when the pod door slammed closed. "What are you doing?"

Zoey stared at him through the small view port. He wore the look of bewilderment that she had come to loath. "Oops, silly me. I'm so dumb, let me open it up again." She punched in the ejection sequence.

"Escape pod launch in fifteen seconds," the computer chimed.

"That's the wrong button, dummy!"

"Ten seconds," said the computer.

"No. It's not." She lifted Salsa up to look out the port and waved one of her paws at him. "Maybe you can watch one of your porns, if you hurry."

Fear and hate warred on his face.

"Five...four...three.."

"You fuc—" He was cut off when the pod blasted away from the dying tug, causing the bridge to explosively decompress.

_I might regret that later_ , _maybe_. She pulled out a robotic mouse that scooted around on gusts of air and set it dancing around the small pod. Salsa happily launched herself from the walls in pursuit. _At least I'll be in good company while I wait_.

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Travis Omernick is a full time college student with aspirations of either being a nurse or a writer of fiction. While hoping for the latter, he makes plans for the former. When it comes to writing he sincerely hopes to one day know what the hell he is doing and how he is doing it. He spends his free time writing or training a new Papillion puppy that may be secretly plotting against him. All while struggling against the all-consuming time-suck that is the--INTERWEBS.
Five Tips for Outsmarting Satan—

and Your Students

By Sarina Dorie

Tip Number One: Keep in mind that when you say things like, "I would trade my immortal soul for a full-time teaching job," Satan just might take you up on that offer.

Looking back, I knew it would be a rough semester. From the start, it made me suspicious a thirty-five year old woman would "retire" from her position as an orchestra teacher in a high school midyear. But when you're only working mornings as a middle school music teacher and subbing in subjects like trigonometry and special education in the afternoon (neither of which you know anything about) you tend not to ask too many questions.

It didn't make me feel a whole lot better when I met with the principal of South Drainfield High to discuss the job.

"I'm concerned that I wouldn't be able to arrive by 12:10 pm when my first class would start here at the high school," I said. "My classes at Emerson Middle School end at noon."

The principal pursued her weathered lips, making her face resemble a prune more than a middle-aged woman who frequented tanning beds. "Yes, well, human resources said we had to give you a lunch break and include travel time."

I glanced over the photos on the wall of the principal drinking in bars. In them she wore low cut dresses and mini skirts that I would never as a professional have been caught wearing in public. I refocused my attention. "Oh, that's nice. What time does class start?"

"Hmmph. We wanted to give you three afternoon classes and a study hall, but the district said we had to give you a prep period." She tossed back her highlighted hair, her jowls jiggling—giving me an opportunity to see what happened to cheerleaders at fifty. "So class will start at 1 pm for you. You should feel grateful. We didn't give a prep to the last music teacher."

"Oh, I see. Uh, thank you." I quickly calculated that in my mind. It would take five minutes to get there, ten minutes on average to find a parking spot at that time of day, five more minutes to walk over to the campus, and half an hour for a lunch break. That left me with a ten minute prep period. Right. How gracious of them. Those were my union dues at work.

It could have been worse, I reminded myself. Anything was better than getting drooled on and clawed at by out of control trig students. Oh, and the special ed students too. Almost anything, I soon realized.

After I met the English teacher next to the music room, I suspected things could get far, far worse.

~

I introduced myself to the other teachers in the English wing. Mr. Johnson complained how loud the last orchestra teacher was and that the school had no right to put a music class in the same area where _learning_ was going on. Mrs. Cleveland bustled around a messy desk, frantically looking for something, telling me she didn't have time to talk. Ms. Peters told me I had to be careful not to let more than one student leave the classroom at once because all they wanted to do was have sex in the bathroom. Eew.

Mr. Frost was a tall, thin man with long black hair and a pointed goatee. He resembled a Spanish poet in his all black attire more than an English teacher.

Since his room was next to mine, I figured it would be convenient to go to him in case I had questions. He sat at a tidy metal desk, staring up at the ceiling and muttering to himself in a deep voice as I came in to introduce myself. "Care . . . mare . . . where. . . hair . . . fair."

"Hello," I said, hating to interrupt. "I'm Ms. Katy Dunn. I'm your new neighbor."

"Blast it all!" He looked me up and down with an air of bored indifference. "Oh, yes, the new music teacher. I suppose if you have any problems, you can come to me for assistance. You might as well not even bother with the administration. They didn't do much for the last music teacher, even when the students threatened to kill her dog.

"And watch out for that Jamari White. If I were you, I'd get Gabriella Martinez to cough on his desk. She's recovering from mono. Better yet, have her sit next to him and pay her to cough on him. And a little tip, stickers and candy are nothing to these little monsters. Just like inmates, cigarettes are their currency."

I laughed, but stopped when I saw he wasn't smiling. "You're joking, right?"

He stared at me with pale blue eyes, the icy azure unnatural against his swarthy complexion. "You might want to join the other teachers for the 'Friday at Four' at the local bars to de-stress at the end of the week. Though, personally, I prefer my cocktail of Prozac, cocaine and gin. Have fun." He went back to staring at the ceiling and muttering to himself. "Chair . . . beware . . . share . . . dare . . . share. . . . Oh, damn it, I just said that one. I don't suppose you might know a good rhyme for the line 'filled with despair'?"

"Um, sorry, no." I slowly backed away, hoping to plan the lessons for my new classes that would start on Monday.

He strummed his fingers against the metal desk. "I would sell my soul to be able to come up with a good rhyme—if I had a soul. Such a pity, isn't it?"

An icy prickle skated down my spine. Something definitely wasn't right about this school, Mr. Frost being the worst of it.

~

Tip Number Two: Never show emotion. Especially not fear. These little demons smell weakness and are better at spotting someone's tell than a professional gambler.

If you find teaching rewarding and have a good relationship with your students, it doesn't matter if the administration sucks or the other teachers in your wing are weirdoes. It's supposed to be about the joy of music, the dedication to the students; my true reason for teaching. That's how it was for me at the middle school.

I soon learned teaching at a high school was different. On my first day, one of my students peed in the trash can when I wasn't looking, another told me my hair looked like a hack job from the 70's, and days later I received a phone call from a mother who threatened to sue me for discriminating against her son because he had a disability. Really, I don't think calling the teacher all sorts of profanity counted as Turrets, especially if that student only says such naughty things when you ask him to stop carving his name into the wall.

The first week didn't go so well. The second week was worse. Someone left a condom on the floor, two days later a student found a condom in his tuba and threatened to wrap it around someone else's neck to strangle her, and the advanced students revolted and refused to play any music because I wasn't as "cool" as the old teacher. That may have been because I enforced the school tardy policy and made them use the bathroom pass before they left the room.

I went to see the vice-principal in his snug little office. Mr. Rogers was youngest VP I'd ever met, only being twenty-eight, though he was already going gray and bald. I tried to convince myself it was genetics, not the school environment.

"You're doing fine," he said. "Just remember to enforce the school rules. No cell phones allowed, give them a grade for work they turn in, and make sure you come up with an incredible selection of songs for the spring orchestra concert in May. Oh and by the way, never show any emotion. They sense weakness."

What? There was a concert? They hadn't told me that. I hoped it didn't conflict with the middle school concert I was planning. That was also scheduled for May.

By the end of the third week I wanted to quit my job. It didn't help when I bumped into Mr. Frost in the hallway outside my classroom during my ten minute prep period. And when I say bump, I mean quite literally. I was unlocking my classroom door while he stared at the ceiling, staggering and reeking of alcohol.

"Torture . . . scorch her . . . overture . . . pressure . . . oof!" That final word came out as he collided into me.

He scowled, then his expression changed to his usual aloof coolness. "Oh, it's just you. I thought you were that student trying to break in and pee in the rubbish bin again. You look like shit, by the way."

I took in a quivering breath and burst into tears.

"Oh, fuck, I hate it when the music teachers cry."

"Music teachers?" I asked.

"Yes, well, you are the sixth one in five years. It's almost like one of those Harry Potter novels with the defense against the dark arts teacher. Only I suspect you won't have the benefit of turning into a werewolf and eating students." He ripped a page from an essay he'd been carrying. "Here, use this."

I stared at the paper marked with an F+, wondering what he meant for me to do with it.

He went on, his voice dripping with exasperation. "The paper towel dispenser in your room hasn't been refilled since last year's budget cuts, and that Joshua kid with allergies probably used the last of the tissue you brought in days ago. You might as well use this as toilet paper."

I handed it back to him. "Thank you for your, uh. . . chivalry, but I'm fine." I wiped my face on my sleeve, feeling stupid. I'd been teaching for nine years and I was acting like I was a teacher fresh out of grad school. "I'm just not used to teaching high school," I admitted. "They're so different. You can't scare them into behaving like you can at the middle school. We don't have reward tickets here for good behavior or consequence sheets for bad behavior, the vice principal doesn't want me to use detentions unless it's for skipping, fights, or sexual harassment. And don't get me started on the bathroom pass issue." They all wanted to get out of class. I wished I could use the excuse that I had to go to the bathroom and then hide in there for the rest of the semester.

Mr. Frost wasn't even listening. He muttered under his breath, trying to rhyme words.

How stupid of me. For a moment, I had thought he might care. I turned to my classroom in disgust, unlocking the door.

Mr. Frost jerked to attention. "Just do what I do; tell them they can go to the bathroom in exchange for their immortal soul. But make sure you have them sign out in a _black_ book . . . and it needs to be signed with their blood or else it doesn't count. It really works wonders. My students would rather break into your classroom through the utility closet we share to urinate in the rubbish bin than sign out of my class to use the bathroom. Have fun."

"Right. Thanks for the suggestion." What a creeper.

He wandered down the hallway, muttering to himself. "Blood . . . stud . . . mud . . . brud. Oh, fuck, that isn't even a word. I hate my life! I might as well just end it now and burn in Hell for the rest of eternity."

~

I about ready to strangle one of my students. If it hadn't been for my middle school students in the mornings and the joy on their cheery faces as I taught them Disney songs, I would have taken permanent medical leave due to stress. The vice principal was on me for giving too many detentions and of all the insults, asked me to observe Mr. Frost during my lunch break since he rarely had any discipline problems.

Considering Mr. Frost wrote an assignment on the board at the beginning of class and then sat at his desk writing his own poetry for the rest of the hour and ignored his students, I wondered what the school considered a bad teacher.

Me, apparently, or else I wouldn't be taking pointers from a lush. I picked up the black book in the corner of the classroom—his main means of classroom management. I noticed quite a few names in the book too. Most of them were written in a rust-tinted ink, the ones lower down on the list crimson.

Mr. Frost jumped out of his chair and stumbled over a stack of English textbooks on the floor to snatch the book out of my hands.

"That isn't for you," he said, replacing it on the ledge of the chalkboard. Some of the students looked up from the essay they were writing. A few of them giggled, breaking the silence of his classroom.

He glared at them. "Quiet all of you. I need silence. I'm an artist at work. After school detentions in my room to anyone who breaks my concentration."

Students exchanged apprehensive glances. A few of them stared at the leather-bound book on the chalkboard in trepidation. Was that supposed to be the difference in teaching high school versus middle school, a Machiavellian approach?

"So, are all those signatures just for leaving to use the restroom?" I asked.

His chuckle sounded especially wicked in the silence of the room. "In the beginning, yes, but now I've thought of other reasons to make them sign it. Over the years I've collected over six hundred signatures in my black book. I have less than ten to go."

"Ten until what?"

He pushed me toward the door. "Nothing. Never mind. You wouldn't understand. You aren't a poet."

~

Tip Number Three: Smother the little darlings with love. And when that doesn't work, use a pillow.

I was in the middle of teaching my beginning/advanced mixed class—talk about a curriculum challenge—when Mr. Frost burst through the door, pointing a finger at me. His eyes were bloodshot. He roared over the chaotic chords of thirty students practicing their music warm ups all at different times. "You! I should never have shared my secrets with you. You're stealing souls I could be selling to Satan. Now I'll never get my soul back!"

"What?" I looked to my students who hadn't noticed the interruption in their jumble of playing. I hoped I'd misheard him.

"Don't try to deny it. Kayli Avon, the new student, asked if she could use the restroom today, and I told her she could if she signed her name in my black book. She laughed like it was a joke, and she said she had already given her soul to you in exchange for going to buy a snack from the vending machine yesterday."

I tried to keep a straight face. "Um, I'm sure there are more than enough souls to go around."

"No, there isn't! I need those souls." Blue veins bulged against his flushed skin. "The worst of it is you're such an amateur. You didn't even make her sign it in blood."

By now, some of my students had begun to notice Mr. Frost's presence. A few of them stopped playing. One of my students approached, ignoring the red-faced English teacher.

Mark Juarez thudded his saxophone on the music book on my desk. "I'm not going to play this music. It's stupid."

I had been warned about Mark's temper from the school guidance counselor; he'd been raised by two drug-addict parents who now were recovered, but felt so guilty over the past, they let him do whatever he wanted, creating a spoiled brat.

"Now isn't the time," I said through clenched teeth.

Mark dropped his sax with a thunk. "Why don't I get a solo in the concert? I'm better than Jennifer. You're just playing favorites."

Mr. Frost's face scrunched up in disgust as he looked at Mark. He shook his head at me. "I'll be merciful and take care of this for you." He rounded on Mark. "You're so pathetic, your parents probably have to pretend to like you."

Mark picked up his instrument. For a second I thought he might hit Mr. Frost. But the veteran teacher pulled a small carton of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and tossed it to Mark. The kid caught it, looking confused.

"I'll pay you in cigarettes if you promise to go home and stay there for the rest of the week."

I pried the cigarettes out of Mark's hand, shoving them back at Mr. Frost. I turned to Mark. "Go sit down and practice your warm ups. I'll talk to you when I'm done." I glared at Mr. Frost. "You can't say that to kids. You'll be fired." Plus he'd damage their fragile psyche—not something I suspected he gave a rat's ass about.

"I wish. I will always be employed in this Hell hole. That's part of the problem. It was in my contract with my master," he sighed, a low miserable moan that could have rivaled a Hollywood mummy.

"Ms. Duuuuuunn!" one of the girl's screamed. She held up her flute. Something blue was stretched over it. Oh joy. One of them had brought in condoms from the health room again.

Mr. Frost rolled his eyes. "We have things to discuss. Tell your students to go away. End class thirty minutes early today."

"I can't do that! I'll lose my job!" Besides that, there was no way I wanted to be left alone with Mr. Frost.

"Oh right, you have a normal contract. Good for you, that means you can get out before you go insane. Well, have fun. I'll be in later."

~

At last I was alone in my classroom. I was still rattled from Mr. Frost's outburst, as well as the most recent fight that had broken out over the flute-condom incident. Things had gone downhill from there: during the last period of the day, Jamari White had threatened me for looking at him across the room and grown more disruptive from there.

Usually I went home around 3:45 pm, the scheduled time if I didn't have too many papers to grade. But on days like this, I usually let the last period go a couple minutes early so I could rush out the door when the bell rang at 3:05 and go home and eat hot fudge out of the jar as I cried.

Wouldn't you know it, right at 3:06 pm, just as I was about to lock up, a man strode through the door, blocking my exit to chocolate nirvana and my intended therapy.

"Tisk tisk, you aren't trying to leave work early, are you?" he asked. A wicked smile adorned his cherub-like lips. He loomed over me in the same way Josh Dormler, that intimidating football student did.

"That was a move straight out of Frost's book today, throwing Jamari's bag out in the hall when he was being disruptive and locking the classroom door behind him," he said.

Please don't be Jamari's father—or any of the other bad students' fathers. Though, there was something about the casualness of his attire: the "Hug a Tree" T-shirt; long, silver ponytail; and Buddhist prayer bead bracelet, that didn't speak of irate parent on drugs bent on telling me off for giving his son a detention.

The man stepped into the room, eying the broken pencil sharpener hanging on the wall by one hinge. One would have expected a set of Birkenstock sandals to match the hippie attire. Instead were a set of black, polished hooves. My heart caught in my throat. I had never bought into religion. But it was hard to refute what my eyes were seeing.

He strolled past the permanently locked student cubbyholes the previous teacher had lost the key to, glanced in the garbage can that I hoped wasn't full of urine today, and stopped before the wobbly choir bleachers in the back. He opened his arms, palms up as he gazed at his surroundings with pleasure in his eyes. "Ah, one of my finer works. It really is Hell on Earth in here, isn't it?"

I considered whether he meant the asbestos falling out of the ceiling in the corner where the music stands were stored, or he meant the chaos of the classes. Unable to make my voice work, I stared at him mutely.

"I can see you're a busy woman, so I'll cut to the chase. You are making unauthorized bargaining of souls without my permission."

I turned on the lights, blinking. I tried not to stare at his feet. "Um, what?"

"The black book with the signatures." Satan seated himself at one of the uncomfortable stools in front of the student tables, grunted and smiled as if pleased at finding it so ergonomically-challenged. "Of course, only the ones signed in blood count, but you've racked up five of those so far. Not bad for your first month. Frost only got four in his first semester here."

"What? Mr. Frost gets student's souls for you?" I mean, he'd said as much, but I also thought he was the mayor of crazy town.

Satan tapped on the desk with pointed black fingernails that resembled claws. "If you join me and work as my agent, I'll fulfill your deepest wishes. You need only tell me what that wish is."

I crossed my arms. "Yeah, just like you did with Mr. Frost."

Satan shrugged, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "Frost is a special case. He sold his soul to me in exchange for a teaching position at this school when the economy was bad. He only gets it back when he reaches six hundred and sixty-six souls. Of course, the idiot will probably sell his soul back to me again in exchange for being able to come up with the perfect rhyme. Or maybe he'll ask for green eyes next time." He chuckled.

"So those students, the ones who signed my book, you really own their souls? But they didn't know. They thought it was a joke."

"As I said, just the ones in blood. The ones who really meant it." He shrugged, indifferently. "It's not as though you like any of the ones that are mine. Consider: Rosa Bustraun is sabotaging your upcoming class concert with all her drama. Do you really mind if I own her soul? Jennifer Little openly defies you on a daily basis, but the vice principal isn't going to do anything about it because he's sleeping with her."

My jaw dropped.

He waved me off dismissively. "Don't worry, I sooo own the VP. There's a special place in Hell for him." He laughed wickedly. "Then there's Andre Martinelli who threatened to punch you yesterday. And Jamari White, the one who has been sneaking the condoms—"

"He's the one?" I interrupted.

Satan chuckled. "Children do the darnedest things, don't they? My point is, all of those students deserve burning in Hell for all of eternity. They'll never be anything more than delinquent, Generation Me, hell-raisers who will do the world more bad than good. If it's not you who sells me their souls, Mr. Frost will. You might as well get something out of it. What is your greatest desire?"

I considered what it would be like to have complete classroom management, total control over this group of juvenile delinquents. I imagined the high school students behaving as well as my middle school students.

A smile curled to Satan's lips. I shook my head, seeing the path I was being lured down. No, I would not compromise the souls of my students for my own personal gain. Surely the road to Hell was paved with such compromises.

"You can't tempt me," I said.

"Really? Not even by making chocolate Sundays low-carb and fat-free? Not even by giving you fulltime employment at the middle school? How about by giving you an administrator with realistic expectations?"

"No." I quivered with yearning, but I forced my hands to clench into fists to hide the way they wanted to reach out and grasp any of those offers. Even so, I felt my resolve weakening. "What do you do with their souls once they've signed my book? Do you make them do anything? Like kill people? Make teacher's lives Hell on Earth."

"No, they have free will to do as they please. I just influence the world around them and wait until they die. Usually I don't have to wait long. You'll be thanking me, really."

I thought again about the five students whose souls he now owned. Five less juvenile delinquents in the world. . . .No, I couldn't. I was a horrible person just for thinking about it.

I lifted my chin. "I think they're souls are worth something. It isn't too late for them." Or for me, I silently added. I would not turn into Mr. Frost. "I want their souls back. They didn't know they were selling their souls."

Satan sighed. He turned his palms up as though he had just been defeated. "You are just too good. Has anyone ever told you that? I suppose something could be worked out. If you really think they're worth it . . . prove it. If you can get them to be too good for Hell, you can have their souls back, the ones in blood and any others in your book. If you can't, your soul also will be mine." Satan extended his hand toward me.

I hesitated. Was I setting myself up for failure? Still, I could not allow those students to suffer as a result of what I'd unwittingly done. I shook his hand, wincing at the prick of his claws against my flesh.

"Now if you'll excuse me," Satan said. "I need to make a guest appearance in the detention room. . . ."

~

Tip Number Four: You have to stay one step ahead of them.

I peeked my head in the door to Mr. Frost's classroom. My stomach churned. I hated talking to him. But I had to get back the souls of the five students who had signed their names in blood. And he was my best hope.

He stared at the ceiling, leaning back in his chair. "Die . . . lie . . . why . . . nigh . . . high. Fucking shit."

The class of students sat reading. It was as silent as a graveyard. Even with Satan's help, I didn't see how he did it.

I approached his desk and lowered my voice to a whisper. "I just came to apologize." I hoped I looked sincere. I'd also put on lipstick. It wouldn't make me look earnest, but at least I looked attractive. It might distract him.

Mr. Frost raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

I glanced over the students. Was he going to make me say this publicly? "Um, I had a little visit from you-know-who. I didn't realize I was infringing on your territory."

He rose and sauntered over to the door. Glancing over his class he said, "If anyone gets up while I'm out of the room, I'm going to assign a detention. In Hell."

No one dared make a sound. He closed the door. "Have you anything else to say?"

"Besides that you're a brilliant poet? I typed your name into the internet and did a Google search. Wow, I had no idea you knew so many, um, rhymes."

He smiled at me now. "Yes, I am rather clever, aren't I?"

"Anyway, I was hoping you could help me. I don't want to be responsible for all those souls going to Hell. I wondered if you could tell me how I might be able free them—you know, so you could get them instead."

"Hmm." His icy blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. I held my breath. "Yes, I suppose I could take them off your hands. I should tell you how this works. It isn't so much about the written in blood thing—though that helps. It's really about intention. There's that saying, 'Good intentions pave the way to Hell.' But bad intentions never pave the way to heaven.

"What else . . . ? You get bonus points for getting teachers to sign in your book. And you don't have to get them to sign it if they'll at least say it out loud. You can tempt an adult to do something illicit like get a student with mono to cough on a student's desk who you . . . oh."

Perhaps my glare reminded him he had tried to convince me to do that. I asked, "So you were trying to get me to sell my soul to Satan?"

"It isn't anything personal. Anyway, back to our little problem. If you can get them to change their intentions, repent, or maybe get them to do something selfless, that may free their souls. Then again, it might just be easier to throw water balloons filled with holy water at them and play gospel music in the background so they can become born-agains. Well, have fun with that."

If Mr. Frost was right, I had to get these kids to do something profoundly good. I had to show Satan their souls were worth saving. Here's what I knew about the five students whose soul's belonged to Satan:

Rosa Bustraun: drama queen and major behavior influencer on the other girls. Both parents worked for the same corporation and were rarely home.

Jennifer Little: sexually-abused by mother's former boyfriend and now sleeping with the vice-principal

Andre Martinelli: regularly threatened to punch other students and adults. He had been an ideal student four years ago. His grades had gradually slipped and he became emotionally unstable when his younger sister had died of leukemia two years ago.

Jamari White: his abusibe mother was currently in jail. His father and brother had died in a house fire when he was a child.

Mark Juarez: former drug addict parents and current narcissist.

All these kids, and a few others not on Satan's list, had tough childhoods and never found constructive ways to deal with loss or abuse or disappointment. They had learned it was safer not to care. Somehow, I was going to have to learn to make them care again.

~

In the darkness of the classroom, a few students whispered as the first image projected onto the screen at the front of the room, the cheery notes of Mozart's "Divertimento in D Major" playing in the background. I used the digital projector from the middle school connected to my laptop to project the Power Point slide show I'd put together with the help of my morning middle school classes.

"This is a happy, healthy five-years-old. His name: Juan Chavez." I mentioned a few other facts about his life, his favorite color, his pet's name. The music switched to the slow, sad notes of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata," the images of James changing to those of him in the hospital, dark circles under his eyes, his black hair disappearing as the chemo progressed. "Juan developed a rare form of leukemia. He underwent treatments for five years." The slideshow flipped through an array of photos of him growing thinner and weaker as time passed, ending with the image of his grave. "He died this year."

The students ceased talking. A few of them who'd had their headphones on now removed them. Rosa stared at the screen, tears in her eyes. For once she wasn't talking.

The next song started, an upbeat Michael Jackson song as I spoke about the next child. The screen showed a smiling little girl hugging her teddy bear. The images progressed to the house demolished by a fire, her bandaged little body in the hospital, the stumps where her fingers used to be, and angry red scars on her face. "Yesterday" played softly in the background. A sniffle came from Jamari White's area of the room.

I showed more children, victims of abuse and neglect, babies of drug-addict parents born premature.

A rough, hoarse baritone shouted over the music. "What's any of this got to do with orchestra?"

Just the opening I had been waiting for. I turned down Sarah McLaughlin's "Angel" the images continuing on. "What do you hear in the background?"

"Duh, music," one of the girls said. "Two of those songs we've been working on in class."

"So how does it make you feel?"

A few shouted out answers: sad, depressed, sleepy—that last one was from Jamari White.

"This is music theory. Music affects mood. It's used in movies, in advertising, in political campaigns. It can be used to manipulate people's feelings, and it can be used as therapy and make someone feel a better. We are going to have Emmerson's Spring Concert in three months. I've already talked to the principal about making this one a charity benefit for Dornbecker's Children's Hospital. All those children you saw in the slideshow today are, or were once, patients at the hospital. Any donations we receive at the concert will go toward those children's treatments and making their lives a little better. I am going to put this class in charge of the slide show at the concert."

Students turned to each other and began to whisper. Jamari White stood and walked out of the classroom without taking the hall pass. I wondered if I might have overestimated his ability to feel sympathy.

The presentation in the other classes went well. Mark Juarez gasped when he saw the premature baby, muttering, "I was just like him when I was born."

When I turned on the lights, Andre Martinelli told the class about his younger sister who died of leukemia.

Jamari White approached me as I was locking up after school. "I've been working on a song about my brother. But I can't get all the notes right. If I bring in my guitar, could you help me write down the notes? Maybe it's something I could play at the concert."

Now awaited the true challenge. I went to Mr. Frost's room.

As usual, he stared at the ceiling, feet crossed on his desk as he leaned back in his chair. "Droll . . . pole . . . soul. . . ."

"Um, excuse me," I said. "I wondered if I could request your expertise for the music concert I'm putting on."

He continued staring at the ceiling. "If you're going to ask whether I think you should allow the orchestra to play the Michael Jackson song they've been practicing in class, the answer is no. That's just an invitation for the boys to grab themselves in front of the entire school."

"Um, actually, that wasn't what I was going to ask. I wondered if you would be willing to share your literary talent with the school and write a poem for our event. I have a list of songs and the content of the slide shows so you can see what we're looking for."

Frost sat up in his chair. "I suppose I could grace your event with my literary genius. But don't expect those illiterate cretins to recognize true talent when they see it."

~

After months of hard work, long hours, and countless bad dreams about going to Hell with all my students—which truly would be eternal punishment—came the long awaited evening.

The night of the concert, the school gym swarmed with the parents of the high school students as well as those of my middle school students. A combined concert. I wiped my clammy palms on my skirt and drew in a deep breath. The article printed in the local newspaper had drawn in the rest of the crowd. No big deal to stress about, right?

Maybe I should have listened to Mr. Frost about not using a Michael Jackson song. There were so many ways the students might ruin this night.

There were also many ways Mr. Frost might ruin the night, especially if he chanced to look in his black book and saw what I had done.

I paced in front of the art on the walls provided by the art teacher's classes. For the jillionth time, I checked my watch. I nodded to Rosa Bustraun at the door who ducked out to turn off the lights from the gym teacher's office. Before the room darkened, I spotted the man in the crowd with a silver ponytail and a tie-dyed shirt that said: "The children shall inherit the Earth."

I tried to swallow the lump in my throat but it remained.

The spotlights above the orchestra and middle school choir flickered on. The middle school started with a peppy tune from Mary Poppins. On the screen, images of flowers, rainbows and joyful children flashed across the screen. Quotes about the children pictured were interspersed, making the children come alive. After the first song, Andre Martinelli stepped up to the microphone, sharing an essay about his sister. The high school and middle school students took turns with their performances, slideshows projected during the pieces. After the first four songs, the photos and music grew more somber. Jamari White sang about his brother who died in the house fire as he played the guitar, his voice cracking. Twice I stepped forward, about to walk him off stage when he choked up, but each time he recovered enough to continue.

Then came my most anxious moment: Mr. Frost's poetry.

I had no idea what to expect. He'd insisted he would only write a poem if he didn't have to share it until the night of the event. For all I knew, he might focus on his pathos as an unrecognized poet. Or he might accuse me of tearing the pages out of his black book. Which would be true.

He cleared his throat at the microphone. His cold, blue eyes raked over the crowd. He placed a pair of black-rimmed spectacles on his nose. The paper crinkled in his hands. I held my breath as the first words slipped out over the sea of bodies.

"The heart of a child,

Loving and tender,

Dreams defiled,

With no defender.

The loss of innocence,

The loss of youth,

Taken without sense—"

"Ms. Dunn," a student whispered. "Jimmy just puked in Maria's tuba."

I delegated a few high school students to oversee the clean up while I listened to the rest of Mr. Frost's poem. He'd actually taken the request seriously and put heart into it. He'd written something beautiful and done something selfless for others.

The remaining half hour of the concert passed blissfully, the slide show focusing on individual success stories. Interwoven in a musical tapestry of hope, the photos showed my students at Dornbeckers Children's Hospital interacting with the young patients. They came to the microphone and made suggestions on how the community could get involved.

We ended on the song, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia."

Even after the event was over, the crowd lingered. My colleagues congratulated me on the success of the event. Students conversed with friends, reeling over the high of doing well. The parent volunteers at the door told me we had raised over two thousand dollars in one night.

I had done it. My students had achieved something beyond what they had ever done before; they helped others and all showed they had hearts—souls unworthy of Hell. But was it enough to get those five souls back? And to keep my own?

Satan had said he would free all the souls _in my book_ —which is why I had broken into Mr. Frost's room to tear out the pages of student signatures in his black book and put them in mine just before the concert. Obviously, he hadn't noticed yet.

Jennifer Little approached me, Rosa and two other girls behind her. "Ms. Dunn, that was a good turn out and all, but I don't think we did enough. I mean, don't you think it would be better to perform at Dornbeckers for the kids?"

"We wouldn't do the same slide show—we don't wanna make them sad, but we could do something else," Rosa said.

"What do you have in mind?" I asked.

The three girls looked at each other before Jennifer went on. "Rosa and I were talking about putting together a different kind of slideshow, you know, a happy one. We could play our happier songs—if you think the kids might like that."

I smiled. Tears filled my eyes. "Yes, I think they would like that."

~

I slept in until noon the next day, a Saturday, and then went to the grocery store. If there was one thing I deserved after months of work, it was a huge ice cream Sunday.

As I passed the natural food section of the store, I blinked and did a double-take. At the end of the bulk food isle, scooping granola out of a bin, was Satan. Apparently, even the devil needed fiber.

His shirt today said, "Reduce, reuse, recycle . . . and listen to really good music." His black eyes met mine. "Good afternoon to you, Ms. Dunn. Splendid concert you put on the other night."

My gaze flickered to his hooves. The other woman in the isle, a patchouli wearing hippie in patchwork bell-bottoms didn't notice.

I swallowed my fear. "Are you here to collect my soul?"

He dragged a pointed, black nail over a silver eyebrow. "Come now, it's my job to punish evil-doers, not those beyond temptation. You proved me wrong. Those students' souls were worth saving. My ownership of all of them in your book has been dissolved." A little smile quirked the corners of his mouth upward as if sharing a joke with me. "You even did Mr. Frost a bit of good."

I waited for the 'but.' It didn't come.

"What? Did you think I'd be a sore loser?" His raised an eyebrow. "I'm not all bad, you know. I once was an angel. I'm very good at bringing out the best in people—and the worst in others. It seems I've brought out the best in you with. As far as Frost is concerned, well, he brings out the worst in himself without my help." Satan picked out a nugget of granola from the bag he held and popped it in his mouth. "Mmm. Maple date, my favorite. Some things on Earth are just too good to mess with."

~

Tip Number Five: No matter how good of a teacher you are and how passionate you are in what you teach, it is important to remember that you can't reach every student.

When I unlocked the door Monday afternoon during my lunch/prep, Mr. Frost was already in my classroom. He sat in one of the uncomfortable student stools, his black book clenched in is hands.

"You were the one who stole my signatures, weren't you?" His eyes narrowed. There was something unsettling about his eyes—more unsettling than his usual cool gaze.

I flipped on the lights. "Satan implied he gave you your soul back. Was I mistaken?"

He lifted his chin, staring at the ceiling like a petulant child. "That isn't the point. I needed those souls. I made another bargain with him."

That's when I noticed how vividly green his eyes were.

I flopped my purse down on my desk. "Wait a minute. You didn't trade your soul just to change your eye color, did you? You have heard of color contacts, right?"

"They itch my eyes."

Obviously, I couldn't save everyone's soul. Some people brought Hell upon themselves. I shook my head. "You could have had heaven when you died, but chose green eyes."

He jumped to his feet, a hand raised melodramatically to his forehead. "This will be my Hell for all of eternity; teaching high school English when I could be the most brilliant poet who ever lived."

"Hmm, well, have fun, with that," I said. I opened my grade book, ready to start another rewarding afternoon with a great group of kids.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarina Dorie is a speculative fiction writer, artist and belly dance teacher who currently lives in Eugene, Oregon. She has sold 22 stories in the last two years to a variety of magazines including Daily Science Fiction, Flagship, Allasso, Roar, New Myths, Untied Shoelaces of the Mind, Penumbra, and Crossed Genres. Sarina's fantasy novel, Silent Moon, won two second place and three third place awards from Romance Writers of America. This novel is now available on Amazon and Smashwords. Now, if only Jack Sparrow asks her to marry him, all her dreams will come true. For more information, please visit: www.sarinadorie.com

Phobophobia

By Bev Elliott

The last time Anita Heyerdahl attempted to leave her house, she had a grand mal of a panic attack, if there were any such thing. It was just after telling Dan the truth about herself and their neighbor, Larry Nottingham. She didn't remember much else, but knew the disclosure was why Dan wouldn't talk to her anymore. He would get angry sometimes, and rage over her infidelity, but they didn't have conversations.

She envied Dan getting to leave the house every day, even though it was only to go to work. She never gave him any grief about it. After all, he wasn't the one who'd cheated.

Agoraphobia was her penance and she stoically bore it without complaint.

What she couldn't bear was the silence. She tried every morning and evening to get him to engage. Today was no exception. He was finishing up his breakfast when, smiling, she joined him at the table.

"You should carry an umbrella today. The weatherman says it's going to rain."

Dan finished the last forkful of Eggbeaters, followed by the last bite of turkey bacon. Chewing, he stared straight through her, as if she weren't there. She could see the pain he never bothered to mask in his eyes. It ripped her in two.

"Please," she said, in the same way she said every day—part entreaty, part apology.

He just pushed away from the table, rinsed the dishes and utensils, and loaded them into the dishwasher.

She felt bad enough to, but never cried. However, today was somehow different. The temperature plummeted as the cold, bitter tears of a repentant, unfaithful wife ran down her cheeks.

Certain Dan would walk out the door as he did every day without acknowledging her, she was shocked when he stopped, folded and massaged his arms as if to contain a shiver. Without turning he said, "I don't know if I forgive you, but I do miss you."

Anita was overjoyed. It was the first time he'd spoken to her without anger in weeks. Taking this as a sign, she cleaned the whole house thoroughly, and set the dining table for an intimate dinner for two. She didn't bother to attempt to cook. Dan would bring takeout home from their favorite organic restaurant as he'd fallen into the habit of doing lately.

She showered, and dressed in the little black dress she'd been wearing for weeks. She told herself it was a sign of mourning the rough patch they'd been going through. Even if she wanted to change—and she'd tried—everything slipped off like she'd wasted away—no longer corporeal.

Of course she'd lost weight. She had no appetite, and left a god-awful mess from the little she did manage to eat or drink. Dan seemed frightened at first, but then ticked off by her clumsiness, so she never ate in his presence again, and cleaned up any messes she made during the day before he came home.

To pass the time until they had the first of what she hoped would be many more romantic evenings, she decided she would clean Dan's office. She knew he preferred to clean it himself, but she wanted to do something special for him. Oddly, since telling Dan the truth, she was only able to touch or move certain items around the house. Others would slip right through her uncooperative fingers. So much of what they'd been through was hazy to her now as a result of the onset of her phobia. She didn't know why it was like this. Was she going mad?

She tried to pick up the papers Dan had been so consumed with the past few days. Maybe they held some clues to refresh her memory. She eyed the legal papers on his desk—depositions of their friends and neighbors, every motion imaginable—none of which she could move.

She gasped. "He must be filing for divorce."

Anita read what she could where they lay, finally coming to the police report dated the day she'd told Dan about the affair.

Incident Type: Homicide

"But Dan's a corporate lawyer. Why would he have a homicide case?" She read further.

Reporting Party: Heyerdahl, Daniel

Before she could read more, she heard a key in the lock. Dan was early. They'd had a breakthrough that morning, which she hoped wasn't a fluke. She needed to see if she could garner another favorable reaction. She ran to greet him.

When she entered the open living space, Dan's eyes were locked on the dining room table. Visibly shaken, he dropped the bags he was carrying, and looked furtively around.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" Anita asked. Her concern for his reaction made her forget the unarticulated rule regarding touching. She rushed to console him, but passed right through him.

Teeth chattering, Dan muttered, "I love you, Nita, but this . . . this can't continue. You've always been afraid of dying . . . and I know you don't want to be alone . . . but you've gone somewhere I can't follow . . . I can't do this anymore."

Anita was horrified. "What are you saying?"

Dan didn't answer. He picked up the bags. A spilled container dropped through the bottom of one of them. He busied himself cleaning, while Anita dogged his steps, screaming.

"Answer me. Dammit. Talk to me."

He put one of the place settings away, and heaved his weary body onto a chair.

Spent and confused, Anita ran back to his office to read the rest of the report.

Known Suspect: Nottingham, Tracey

Larry's wife. Anita skimmed furiously down the page. Did Tracey kill Larry when she found out?

Anita's eyes were drawn to the final section. What she saw seized the place in her chest where she realized her heart no longer beat.

Victim(s): Nottingham, Lawrence; Heyerdahl, Anita.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bev Elliott rekindled her passion for creative writing a few years ago. Her workshops with a group of writers on Zoetrope.com have yielded a growing portfolio of flash and short-fiction pieces. Twenty of them have been anthologized in a collection entitled "How Blue Can You Get?" which should be available for purchase on November 1, 2012. Elliott's short fiction appears in an eclectic list of flash and short fiction venues in print and online. She is also working on three novels. A Mississippian by birth, Elliott lives in the Florida Panhandle with her husband in their near-empty nest. www.bevelliott.com

Forest for the Trees

By Shane D. Rhinewald

Cover Art By: Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Sean saw his first tree at the age of eleven. His friend discovered a picture of one in an old book, the paper so weathered, so ancient, it flaked when he turned the pages. When Sean went home and described what he had seen to his mother, she shook her head and said, "Where'd you find that? I don't want to you looking at that smut."

He had to ask the gnarled, old neighbor to find out more. When he told the man about the brown and green thing he had seen in the book, the man smiled a toothless smile.

"That's a tree, son. There used to be more of them than people before man built overtop of everything with steel and glass. There are few left now, and they're in faraway places."

"What is a tree though?"

"Think of them like nature's oxygen-recyclers, except they're not loud, clanking machines. They're elegant and beautiful and quiet, at least until the wind rustles their leaves. Still, it's a soothing sound. It's unlike anything you'll find in this city."

"I want to see a real one then."

The neighbor tapped Sean's head. "And that's why no one wants you to know about them. Now run along before your mother starts looking for you."

~

At fourteen, Sean had a collection of tree photographs tucked underneath his mattress. Some he found in dusty, old texts in the library that the librarians had neglected to censor. Others he bought on the streets from men who sold pictures of the past as readily as drugs. And one—his favorite picture of a sturdy, strong oak—he found buried in a chest in his mother's closet.

The day his mother found the stash, she confronted him with the crumpled pictures clutched to her heaving chest. She ranted, raved, and left the trees strewn about the floor. When she finished, Sean asked, "Why did you have a picture of an oak in that chest you never open?"

She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Because your father was a foolish boy once who also dreamed of trees, grass, mountains, and all sorts of things he was never meant to see. This is the world now...smog and neon signs. Be happy with it."

"What happened to my father?"

"Put the picture back in the chest and never go in there again."

His mother put the other pictures in the garbage disposal, and he listened from the other room as it spun round and round with a clank, clank.

~

Sean left home at eighteen. The day he walked out the door, his mother shouted that he'd never see a tree and that he'd end up like his father. He boasted he'd be different and his quest would be successful.

Instead, he drove his hovercar for days, weeks, months. The city stretched on forever it seemed, a dark, smoky place where everything looked the same. Oxygen-recyclers sprouted from the cracked pavement on every street corner, black arms reaching to a blacker sky.

Every night he curled up to sleep he dreamed of that first tree he had seen.

~

At twenty, Sean's hovercar sputtered and died. He spent two years in the bowels of the Yakon Aviation Plant, cutting out engine parts with a laser saw, helping keep the march of industry alive. Each night he stumbled out covered in metal chips and grease, spitting black saliva.

The day he had enough money to buy a new craft, he packed his tools and walked out. He had played his part in the great machine, and it had unwittingly rewarded him with the possibility of something more, something better, a rendezvous with its enemy.

~

At twenty five, Sean met a girl named Carol. She lived in a high-rise apartment and designed virtual reality computers. He asked her to program a tree, and she said she would only do it if he married her. Sean agreed, and she designed him a dozen oaks and pines based on the visuals he described. At night, the computer transformed her apartment into a forest.

That prison almost kept him, nearly tricked him even. He saw the lure in it—fine things, fake things, and pretty smiles.

Carol's trees lied, though. On the day of their wedding, he packed his meager belongings and tore off through the city in the hovercar, heading somewhere, searching for something tangible and true.

~

Sean saw his first real tree at the age of thirty. It was a sturdy oak with deep roots that stood on the edge of no where and everywhere. He found others there—men and women of all races and creeds. Some prayed to the oak, others wept. He just stared at it.

"First time seeing one of these?" a man asked.

"Yes."

"Did you leave everything behind to find it?"

Sean nodded. He looked in the direction of the city, stretching behind him for a thousand, thousand miles.

"Worth it?"

The wind rustled the leaves, a soothing sound. "Yes, it's beautiful and pure. It's everything our world is not."

"A reminder of better days."

And yet those days would never return. Nothing he could do would change that. So he thought of the father he never knew, the mother he abandoned, and a girl who told him sweet lies. He looked at the men and women prostrated around the base of the oak, submissive to its siren call, and wondered what they had also left behind.

He stalked to the hovercraft, returned with the laser saw from his days at the Yakon Aviation Plant, and cut the tree down while its worshippers screamed around him.

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shane D. Rhinewald was raised and continues to live in Western New York. He's a public relations professional by day and writes speculative fiction by night (except when there's hockey on TV, of  
course). His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in _Daily Science Fiction_ , _Flash Fiction Online_ , Every _Day Fiction_ , _Big Pulp_ , _Alt Hist_ , and many other publications.

### ABOUT THE ARTIST

Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist. Her art is also globally exhibited and has been featured on ABC television.

The Glass Hill

By Joanna Michal Hoyt

They laughed at the boy. His quick mind, his vivid imagination and his deft flute-playing either didn't impress them or made them jealous. His lisp and his old clothes suggested things that they could say to him. They said them. He turned away, listening to something only he could hear. They grabbed him so he couldn't ignore them. He learned to hide his bruises under long sleeves. He didn't learn to hide his eyes when they laughed.

~

He ran away. They didn't follow him. Their laughter did, all the way out of the school and down the street and into the woods and over the little river and into the clearing where he used to go with his friends back when he had friends, back before the laughing drowned everything else out. He was too tired to keep running. He sat and gasped for breath. When it came he played his flute loud enough to cover any other sound.

The music let the tears out. He didn't want to cry. He couldn't stop. He played quicker and colder, trying to control himself. The tears kept coming, but as they fell they froze together, piled up beneath his feet into a hill as smooth as glass.

~

His father came to the foot of the hill, called him to come down, to be a man. Pausing for breath, the boy heard the disappointment in his father's voice. He played louder. He didn't hear his father saying that he loved him. He didn't see his father's face twisted with tears as he walked home alone.

~

His mother came to the foot of the hill, called him to come down, said she was frantic with worry, said she didn't know what to tell people about why he stayed away. He heard the need in her voice. He didn't hear the love. He couldn't possibly have heard the things she whispered in the night, wondering how to bring him back, wondering what had driven him away.

He played louder. The hill grew past the tops of the trees. Students in the schoolyard heard the music when the wind was right, and on clear days they saw the glass blazing in the sun.

Some of them came, frightened at what he'd done, at what they'd done. He saw them. He played loudly to drown out laughter or apologies, crouched low on the hilltop to hide his eyes. He saw pictures moving in the glass, following his music when he played, following his thoughts when he ran out of breath. White-winged birds flew over golden seas tossing with dolphins, over green islands. There were no people anywhere. It was always summer in the pictures, always summer where he sat. At the foot of the hill the leaves fell, and then the snow, but he wasn't cold.

There were pictures in his schoolmates' dreams, too, but they couldn't remember them when they awoke; they only remembered music with strange intervals and half-rhythms that no one could dance to, and cold light glinting from fragments of glass. Some of them thought about their dreams, about their memories, turned almost as quiet as he had been. Some laughed louder to cover up their memory of the music.

One came back to the glass hill's foot alone, huddled in her heavy coat.

"I miss you," she told him. "I used to want to get to know you. Even if they made fun of me--they would have anyway. But you looked right through me. I thought you thought you were too good for me--for us-- so I got together with them and acted too good for you. I'm sorry. They're sorry too, some of them. Some of them aren't ever sorry, but who cares? Come back!"

He didn't answer.

"Come down!" she said. "I love you. Come down!"

He didn't want to hear her, he wouldn't look. He stared into the glass. The waves were stained with livid green. For a moment the picture faded, and he thought he glimpsed cracks in the glass underneath. He didn't want to see those either. He concentrated on the sunlight on a dolphin's back until that was all he could see.

"It isn't my fault!" she shouted. She lowered her gaze and saw herself in the glass, a bony thing with hungry eyes and empty clutching hands.

She went home, shivering. She wouldn't talk to her mother. She wouldn't talk to her schoolmates. She didn't want to talk at all, but she didn't want, either, to do what he had done.

Finally she sought out the only person she knew who had eyes like his, a stubborn-jawed and club-footed old woman who lived alone on a farm at the end of the road, coming into town once a week to get groceries and sell produce. The old woman never talked about herself. She hardly talked at all. She listened silently through the story. At the end she said "Well," and tramped into the woods.

She saw herself in the glass, looking as she always looked. She saw something else, too. The glass was strewn with flaws like stars, their long cracked rays growing slowly toward each other.

"You, boy," she said.

He'd stopped looking in the glass, frightened by the shadowy shapes rising toward the sea's surface. He stood and looked down.

"It's no good." she said. "I tried keeping clear of them. For years I tried. I hadn't the skill to do what you've done, for a mercy. I kept to myself until my heart almost died, but I still had to take something from my neighbors, and give something to them. Now one of them's come to me, needed me. That's thanks to you. It's my turn to do something for you now. You can't stay up there, you must know that. The glass is cracking. If you don't come down it'll break under you. Cut you apart. It'll be sharp enough."

He looked back at the hilltop, saw the cracks spreading under the pictures. It occurred to him that he wanted to live after all.

"How can I?" he asked, looking down the sheer slope. "If I jump down I'll break my neck."

The cracks rang, widened.

"Use the cracks for handholds and footholds. They'll bloody your hands and feet, sure, but they'll bring you down. You can stay with me awhile. I won't pester you, but I'll need you at times, and you'll need me. So will your parents. Maybe others too."

"And the rest of them..."

"Some of them will laugh."

He looked into the glass, where the waters parted above faces he knew. No, faces like the ones that he had known, but bloated, distorted, more terrible than the real ones had ever been.

"I'm coming," he said.

He turned his back to the woman and began the long climb down.

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joanna Michal Hoyt grew up in Maine as a homeschooler; she now lives with her mother and brother on a Catholic Worker farm in upstate New York. She spends her days tending gardens, goats, and guests and her evenings writing odd stories, others of which have appeared in magazines including Scheherezade's Bequest, The Again and Daily Science Fiction.

Job Satisfaction

By K. S. Dearsley

Shards of vivid gold, green and violet light burst on the air. Umina could merely have blinded the young woman with a simple flash to make her walk into the arms of the man who would otherwise have passed her by unnoticed, but Umina believed that the start of a beautiful relationship should itself be beautiful.

"Very nice."

Umina jumped, almost scattering her supply of slippery beads and tripping half the rush hour crowd.

"Landine!" Her fellow Serendipity was carelessly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. "You might at least comb your hair." She patted her own creatively arranged style.

"Waste of effort, dear heart," he said. "No one sees us–like your little flourishes. All those two will remember is the spark in each other's eyes."

"You saw, I saw... "

"Listen!" He held up a hand to stop her.

The young woman was reluctantly detaching herself from the man's embrace. "... so sorry... I didn't see... stupid of me..."

Stupid. Umina's jaw set into an unattractive line.

"What did I tell you?"

All that effort and the woman called it a stupid accident!

Landine saw Umina's expression and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Never mind. Arpanna, the Star-Clad One, will be happy. The gods couldn't manage without us, you know." He began to fade.

"Oh yes, I know. But do we ever get credit for it?" There were statues dedicated to the gods, paintings of nymphs and odes addressed to the muses, but whoever sang in praise of the Serendipities or built shrines for them? Umina had half a mind to stick her foot out and make the male half of the new lovers fall into the path of a bus–let them call that stupid!

"Come on, I've got a commission from Mighty Politer to teach a pickpocket a lesson. Should be fun." Landine's voice hung on the air.

Umina sighed. "Thanks, but I'd better go and make my report."

~

Scarrus was checking the long ribbons of paper on which writing appeared as they wound from one scroll to another when Umina entered. She had always wanted to take a look at these flimsy records of human lives, but that was a privilege only the gods and the head of the Serendipity Department were allowed. Scarrus glanced at her much as he might a piece of fluff on his tunic.

"Mission successfully completed, sir." Umina had soon learned on taking up her fate as a Serendipity that reports in elaborate and exotic detail were a waste of breath. Scarrus barely took the trouble to look up from the life scrolls and usually limited his comments to a grunt. It took the fun out of it. Now, however, he signaled Umina to sit on the hard stool in front of his desk.

"I've been watching your work lately, and I've been wanting to have a word with you." He sorted through the mess on his desk for a sheet of paper which appeared to contain a long list.

Umina felt herself blushing. Landine had been wrong, after all.

"Last week, the avalanche you arranged to bury that mountain cabin, you started it by singing–correct?"

"It was the aria from... " Umina's eager explanation faded as Scarrus consulted his list again.

"And today–flashing light in all the colors of the rainbow."

"I've always regarded my work as an art."

"And so it is. It takes great skill to ensure that Serendipities produce the correct results. A split second too late with the light and that woman would have walked into a lamppost instead of the man of her dreams and Star-Clad Arpanna would have been down here demanding that I hang you with your own gizzards. It won't do!"

"Won't do?" Umina's voice squeaked an echo.

Scarrus shook his head over the page and tossed it towards her. The list was annotated with exclamation marks, big black crosses and the occasional 'NO!' in heavy capitals.

"But... if an accident's beautiful it will ease the pain, help the recipient to remember its lesson, find meaning so that they know it's not some stupid mishap." Umina spat out the word 'stupid' as if it was poison.

Scarrus stabbed a finger at the list. "No doubt this carpenter appreciated that the last thing he saw was the lovely pattern his blood made on the floor."

"Ah, now... "

"You were only supposed to incapacitate him so that his apprentice could finish carving the set of chairs and make a name for himself. Now the carpenter's widow has sold the business and the apprentice has gone to work in a pie factory. Luckily, I've convinced Mighty Politer that we can redeem the situation, but the fact is your 'creativity' puts missions at risk. There's to be no more of it. Understand? Another stupid slip-up and Mighty Politer will see to it that you spend the next millennium chained to a storm-lashed rock on an uninhabited island, or some other fate worse than death."

Umina nodded. If she had tried to answer words like 'boor' and 'cretin' might have escaped.

"Consider yourself on probation until further notice. You can go."

~

Umina wished she could go, leave the Serendipity Department and all the uncultured capricious gods behind. After weeks of sticking pins in condoms and tickling the noses of chefs so that they sneezed infection onto the plates of susceptible diners her tendency to explode into expletives whenever she opened her mouth had increased rather than subsided. All the interesting jobs seemed to be going to Landine. When she was summoned to Scarrus's office once more she ground her teeth expecting to be given another accidental conception to arrange, although most people were so careless Umina hardly saw the need for a Serendipity's intervention. She allowed her gaze to roam over the reels of written-on paper wondering which one was hers until Scarrus cleared his throat demanding her attention.

"I have a commission here of the highest importance. As you may or may not be aware, I allowed Landine to go on leave and he won't be back in time to do the job. I've tried asking Haak the Destroyer to postpone it, but you know how impatient he is when his blood's up. So–I've no option but to give the mission to you, Umina. Don't let me down." Scarrus's voice was hollow as an empty tomb. As she listened to his instructions, Umina grew as cold as if she was sealed up in one.

President March was due to sign a treaty with one of the emerging nations, thus deterring its neighbors from invading, in return for promises of cheap minerals. Haak the Destroyer wanted a Serendipity to kill the President before the signing could take place. The result was bound to be war, something they would all benefit from as both sides would try to bribe the gods for their support and the Serendipities would be in ever greater demand to tinker with events. Whatever Scarrus said, this accident would be momentous, but the method that Haak had chosen would appear humiliating and petty. If the President was really to die by choking on a fly that had fallen in his drink, it was only fitting that Umina should come up with something to raise the mishap from the farcical.

As always, Umina planned the serendipity meticulously. She chose a hover-fly, with a delicately striped body and iridescent wings as fragile as blossoms. Under Umina's prompting, it wove a dance around the doomed President. Even she was entranced by the elegant figures it drew on the air as both parties to the treaty took their seats. The hover-fly began an intricate pattern above the President's glass, flying higher in preparation for its final dive. Umina gasped at its poignant beauty. Then she coughed. The fly had vanished: she and not the President had swallowed it!

Too late, Umina blew on the sheets of paper, but the President's arm was already resting on them as he signed the treaty. She knocked the table and the water-filled carafe and glasses toppled. Water flooded the table and would have turned the treaty into an inky pulp had not an aide snatched them from the spate.

As the allies rose to shake hands Umina found herself muttering: "It was an accident, just a stupid, stupid, accident."

"That's right."

Umina's eyes widened at the sound of Scarrus's voice behind her. She had never known him to leave his office before.

She swung round. "You did this!"

"I warned you what would happen if you didn't stick to the rules."

"A fate worse than death?"

"Much worse." There was a look that could have been pity in his eyes as he faded.

Umina held her breath. There were no rumbles of thunder and the floor did not swallow her. She was about to breathe again, then she realized there was a notebook and pen in her hand. Her elaborate clothes had become a businesslike suit with a name badge on the lapel: Ms U. Mina, Correspondent, Daily Hearer. She let out a wail and everyone turned to look at her. A fate worse than death indeed: she was human, and as every Serendipity knew, no human ever achieved perfection. But perhaps it was not all bad. Now she and her works could be seen and appreciated by those who benefited from them. She would become an artist–a great artist–providing, of course, she remembered to keep a look out for loose paving stones and unexpected flashes of light.

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

K. S. Dearsley has an MA in Linguistics and Literature and has had numerous stories published on both sides of the Atlantic. She lives in Northampton, England, and is Writer in Residence at The Grid artists' studios in Warwickshire. When she is not writing, she lets her dogs take her for walks. Her fantasy novel, Discord's Child, is now available on Amazon. Find out more at www.ksdearsley.com.
