 
Unusual Stories: Volume 1

7 stories from 7 authors

Edited by Terry Persun

copyright 2013 by Terry Persun

Published by Terry Persun at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Unusual Stories

7 stories from 7 authors

Edited by Terry Persun

Cover Design by Daniel Ramer

Foreword

Exploring New Writers

I've collected these short stories to introduce a few authors who have come onto the scene with some powerful novels, some powerful writing skills, and some powerful momentum. As is the case with most readers, I read across genres, from literary and mainstream to horror and romance. Once I've found an author's work that I like, I look them up and proceed to read more of their work. I search out other authors they recommend, and I tell all my friends about the writers I discover.

This is why this project became important to me: I want other people to read authors I've been impressed with. That means that through this little free booklet, my hope is that you'll find your next "best" author (or more than one) who you will tell your friends about, and who will delight you with great stories for a long time to come.

We all read for different reasons and find different types of works enjoyable. You might like science-based fiction or you might like fantasy where world building is the most important element. You might like to be scared or informed; you might enjoy the style of writing or the depth of emotion expressed. Or, you may be drawn to several different types of writing altogether, from the experimental to the literary. And what's great about novels is that often you can find everything you want, all in the same novel.

Each of the seven authors in this collection have published at least one book by Booktrope Editions, a new standard publishing house located in the Pacific Northwest. Booktrope prides itself in producing well-designed, and well-edited novels across all genres. The company is proud to present its authors to the world, and has produced several bestselling authors to date.

On behalf of the authors in this collection, I thank you for taking the time to explore both recent talent and long-standing authors through this collection. And, please, by all means, tell everyone you know about this collection. It will remain free on Smashwords.

Happy reading,

-Terry Persun, February 2013

Table of Contents

Field of Yellow Poppies...Nicole J. Persun

The Loneliness of Left Field...alex kimmell

Taking Care of Things...Susan Wingate

As Yet Undecided...Steven Luna

Pandora...Elise Stephens

The Return of the King...Christopher Turkel

Jeremy's World...Terry Persun

Nicole J. Persun

I fell in love with stories as a very young child, when my father and I would make up bedtime stories instead of reading them. When I started seriously writing, completing my first novel at the age of fifteen, I quickly fell in love with writing's ability to encompass all subjects. Being eclectic in my interests, and having a father to guide me on my authorial adventures, I found myself diving headfirst into the world of writing as an art as well as a business. The story I wrote for this book is a contemporary science fiction that plays with the idea of some new discoveries in cellular biology. Rather than being outlandish, it provides merely a small scientific push in a direction I find fascinating and wholly possible.

Field of Yellow Poppies

by Nicole J. Persun

I have had my new lung for three days. I feel stale in my hospital bed and I keep dreaming about a little girl in a yellow sundress running from me in a field of yellow poppies. I miss my apartment in the city and my gray tabby named Smoky. My folks say that tall buildings, thick traffic, and the stench of alleys is depressing. I say that cancer centers are depressing.

They found it late and it did not take long for my doctor to sit me down and break the news. It took one minute, three tops. "You have cancer, Jared." That was it.

"Am I going to die?" The lump in my throat turned into a melon and my wheezy breathing became impossible. I would not accept death from a man with a stethoscope, and who dressed in a white coat.

He took so long to answer that I had to ask again. When his bifocals lifted off his clipboard, I swear my heart stopped. "We need to remove a portion of your left lung as soon as possible."

My mouth went dry. He spoke my name, but I could not answer. The room felt suddenly hot and I looked at the soft sunlight streaming in through the window. After a brief explanation from my doctor, without words, I got up and left.

Under the anesthesia, I could not replace the image of blood in the sink. I'd been brushing my teeth. I spit out the toothpaste and rinsed with extra-white whitening mouthwash. I started coughing violently. I'd been having shortness of breath and chest pain for a few weeks. Spitting out the taste of metal, I rinsed the red out of the sink. Hands on the cold porcelain edge, I took a deep breath. The man staring back at me in the mirror with wet hair and stubble was a stranger, in that moment.

From the other room, I heard Smoky jump off the counter. Through the open window came the sound of sirens. Someone hailed a taxi. Too afraid to eat or drink, I called the doctor for the first time in six years.

I lived with less than two lungs for a while, before they called me in again. "A routine chest scan," the doctor said. Routine.

Later, they started looking for a lung donor.

Three days. Breathing hurts, but I already feel a certain clarity to it that I have not felt in years. I had to quit my job at the factory and I stopped thinking about cigarettes. Beside my blackened right, I imagine my new lung a porous structure of unmarked peachy flesh. I stare up at the florescent lights, out the window, at the nurses and interns, blue blurs past my open door. I doze. I think about life. I get restless and I doze again, only to dream about the little girl in the yellow sundress in the field of yellow poppies.

I can taste the air, the sweet and earthy scent of pollen and dirt and fresh grass. The little girl, Molly, is laughing. She twirls out of my grasp, her blonde curls bouncing with her bare-foot steps.

"I'm going to tickle you," I call to her. In the dream, she is my daughter.

In the city, I live alone with my gray tabby.

My sister Joyce, who lives close to the cancer hospital, visits often. She comes alone, since her husband sleeps through lunch because of his graveyard shifts and her sons have school. She holds my hand and tells me it's a sign that the dream came to me after the surgery. "Have you ever had reoccurring dreams before?"

"No," I tell her. "Only this one."

My folks can afford to fly out, but instead they visit via Skype. My father was never sentimental or sympathetic and my mother listens to everything he says. I don't mind that they don't come, because it would be more stressful than comforting anyway. The glare off my father's glasses in the Skype camera makes it so that I can't see his eyes, but I know they're blue and it doesn't bother me. My mother's hair is brown and streaked with blonde. She colors it every few weeks and to change the subject off of me, I comment on how young she looks. She is afraid of aging. She has aged beautifully.

They ask about my breathing and my smoking and again request that I move back home, away from the city where they have golf courses and tennis courts and fancy outdoor pools. I tell them that I like the bustle and have a social life I could not leave behind. I don't bother to mention that my girlfriend Rosie dumped me for a coworker, nor do I tell them that she still sleeps with me on occasion and has been feeding Smoky while I'm in recovery.

The food in the hospital is terrible and I don't eat much. I'm losing weight not from the cancer (which I am assured is completely gone now), but from my lack of appetite toward cardboard bread and soup that tastes like dishwater. Weight loss will gain me sympathy, when I return home. I hate myself for finding pleasure in the idea.

The more I sleep, the more I dream about the little girl named Molly. I walk with her along an old wooden fence, and out in a pasture of grass is a big brown horse that trots toward us when we call to it. The horse's nose gets Molly's yellow dress dirty but she giggles all the while, standing on the third rung of the fence to reach the white star on his long face.

"His whiskers tickle," Molly says, allowing the horse to nuzzle her neck. Her brown eyes are alight with joy and I feel a sort-of ease being beside her.

In the dream, Molly looks like her mother, who died in a car accident when Molly was two. In the dream, I recall the crash, the rain, a truck swerving into sight. I recall visiting a grave and placing a bouquet of yellow poppies at its base. I recall Molly's conception, out in the field of yellow poppies. In the dream, their scent fills my nostrils. And when I lift Molly from the fence, I smell the pollen on her perfect skin.

"The cells reside in other organs of the body, not just in the brain and heart. In this new line of study, scientists are finding that the body is more interconnected than what was previously thought." Joyce closes the magazine and looks up at me. "Fascinating, isn't it?"

I shift in my hospital bed. "Why did you bring that in?"

"Those dreams you've been having, about the little girl. What if those aren't dreams?"

"Then what are they?"

"That new lung came with new cells, Jared. Fragments of someone else's heart and brain."

"And?"

She brushes a strand of long brown hair from her face. "What if those dreams are memories?"

I laugh, not nearly the outlandish believer as my sister. "That's absurd."

She waves the magazine at me. "Were you not listening to the article?"

"Were you? Nowhere in that did it say anything about receiving memories from organ donors, Joyce. You're being ridiculous."

I lay awake at night, thinking about the idea. Molly has a familiarity about her that is unlike any dream I've had before. The field of yellow poppies is vivid and feels like home, yet so does the thought of my apartment in the city with my cat. In the dream my love for Molly never fades. It is something I have never known, a healthy obsession that draws my shoulders down to her in protection. In reality, I am still in love with Rosie. I yearn for the nights she comes to my door and I dread the mornings when her boyfriend calls and she leaves early.

I take a deep breath from my new lung, imagining a honeycomb of pink expanding with oxygen, filling my blood with life. The lung feels as my own as Molly does. Odd and familiar and necessary.

I close my eyes, the scent of yellow poppies a whisper to my nose.

Nicole's latest novel is: "A Kingdom's Possession"

Find more information about Nicole at: http://www.NicoleJPersun.com

alex kimmell

Baseball. America's game. The smell of freshly cut grass and bubble gum. Eating hot dogs and cracker jacks in the bleachers. A way of life for generation after generation of American families. A right of passage for so many of us who played the game growing up.

Now I'm on the other side sitting in the bleachers watching my son play. Now I watch the skills learned and be discovered as that little white ball rolls off the pitcher's fingertips, rings that unmistakable song against the aluminum bat and darts across the dirt. Sometimes the play is made and it actually looks like real baseball. But more often than not, the ball squibs away sending an outfielder chasing after it while the coach destroys his larynx and most likely his sanity.

I sit in the stands watching my son and my heart melts. It brings me infinite joy to watch these kids growing and working together. They learn about a game, yes. But they're also learning about life.

Looking out past the outfield fence to the thick forest growing wild behind, my mind drifts and wonders... What if baseball turned out to be not so wholesome? What if in some mysterious way, the game opened a crack in our _everything_ leaving us broken and afraid?

In my dreams, I view the world from odd perspectives. Everyday items, events, places or animals might very well be exactly as we see them on the surface. On the other hand, there just may be a darker, hidden substance impatiently waiting for the right time to surface. The precise moment, when on arrival it can shatter our illusion of the expected that should be real giving birth to nightmares relentlessly coveting dread.

Take baseball for instance. Everyone in America knows the game, if only on a peripheral basis. Now take that familiar, comfortable and safe Saturday morning at the local little league fields. Turn it inside out and what might you find? No blood or gore. That's far too easy for our modern sensibilities.

Loss.

Panic.

Incomprehension.

Mix gently with a pinch of Love and a Dash of Vindictiveness.

These are the ingredients of this dark, modern ghost story.

The Loneliness of Left Field

by alex kimmell

Rip saw a movement in the trees. Yes the wind was blowing and the leaves were swaying, but there was a stirring deep back in the empty black spaces. He scrunched his face to see clearer through the glare because the brim of his Red Sox cap didn't want to do its job protecting him from the sun.

"Heads up out there!" Coach Leatherman shouted. Rip covered his head until the ball thudded the grass a couple of yards away. "Pay attention pal. You should have had that one!"

"Sorry coach." He trotted over to the loose ball and threw it in the direction of second base. The errant throw bounced way off left and Denny stumbled over himself trying to get it. In a scramble of uncoordinated flailing limbs, Tom finally scooped it up finally lobbing it back to the frustrated coach.

"We need good throws from you guys in the outfield. Good throws! This is why we've got to back each other up infielders." Coach waved his arms in frustration and continued to shout instructions in ever more explosive tones. Rip's mind was already elsewhere. He didn't like playing left, especially here at Whippett Field. If only coach let him pitch today. The left field fence was much too close to the trees. His house was surrounded by trees that he grew up climbing, swinging from, and playing Knights in Shining Armor in. He loved the woods. But not these trees, these trees were just _bad_. There was something wrong with this place

"Alright Sox!" Coach waved around. "Bring it in!"

Rip jogged back in for the start of the game. When he turned over his shoulder he thought something dark slid between the branches past the fence. He stopped at the infield's edge and strained his eyes to see better.

"Watcha' lookin' at Rip?" Carter stopped next to him on his way in from right field.

"Nothin'." Little clouds of brick dust puffed up behind each foot shuffling their way to the dugout. As the visiting team they surrendered the field to their opponents the North Camden Astros. Rip usually liked playing in the travel league. Getting to play against kids from different towns and schools was pretty cool. Sometimes the other teams weren't very good and the Pastor Red Sox won easily. These Astros were hitters though. Plus, they looked mean.

"Hey guys, watch the pitcher warm up yeah?" Coach Bill leaned his broad shoulder on the fence in front of the dugout. Bill Darden owned the hardware store in town. Even though he was a year younger, his son Tom and Rip were best friends. It was cool having him assistant coach this season. He always brought a case of Gatorade in his hand painted Red Sox cooler for the guys.

\--

Bill walked slowly backwards. Tapping Joe on the shoulder he leaned in close so none of the kids could hear him whisper, "Look at the leaves".

"What?" Joe turned his head making a quick motion as if to brush a buzzing fly away from his face.

"Look at the leaves." He didn't want to point and draw any attention.

"Man, I'm trying to call signs here."

"Joe. Look at the God damned leaves!"

"Okay. Okay Bill. Jesus. Calm the fuck dow..." The toothpick fell from Joe's bottom lip. His eyes couldn't decide if they wanted to squint or stretch open even wider.

There were hundreds of trees. Possibly even thousands sprouting countless numbers of leaves. Leaves that provided shade on hot summer days. Leaves that on any average day breathed in carbon dioxide and exhaled oxygen. Leaves that would eventually fade to the beautiful bright yellows, oranges and reds of Fall.

Now every single tree stood stark naked and bare. Empty deep brown branches scratched like sharpened fingernails against the blue sky. The deep green sea of leaves hovered in a thick, motionless straight line four feet above the ground.

One Cardinal hopped its way out from beneath the shadow of leaves up to the left field fence. It's beak reached up and grabbed on to the metal wire pulling itself up. Claws took hold lifting the body higher and climbed up. Rolling over top the bird dropped back down to the ground making no attempt to fly.

A handful of red breasted birds mimicked his ascent over the chain links. Then another emerged from the shadows. Then another. And another. The fence grew loud with clicking and rattling sounds of birds clamoring over falling silently to the grass. Hundreds of bright crimson breasts hopped in silence together toward the infield.

Rip stood in ready position. Knees bent punching right fist into glove anticipating anything hit his way. The first bird hopped a few feet to the left. He saw a hint of red in the corner of his eye. The next bounced down the left field foul line heading toward third base. He tried not to let them distract his focus. Not after coach chewed him out during warm-ups.

He felt something soft brush against his leg. He looked down at the bird walking between his legs. One of its little claws slid across the inside of his cleat. Heart clenched, his young ribcage on the verge of exploding. He jumped away for fear of getting pecked knocking it to the ground. The bird calmly whipped its wings twice, stood up and continued walking forward black eyes peering unfocused into the distance.

"Coach?" The flock of birds rolled in a slow tide, each of them striding in unsettling silence. The first scattered few made their procession to Rip's left. More followed close behind closer to center field.

Julia threw her best pitch, a curve ball. Darrell Matling took a long drink from the faded plastic of his Big Swig cup weaving on his feet behind the backstop fence. Half full with his very own concoction of cherry soda and vodka, the buzz felt pretty good about now. He liked to stand there and watch his daughter pitch knowing she could see his disappointment after every throw. Bat connected with ball. He traced the small white orb dart toward left-center. Instead of sighing in frustration and glaring at the pitiful attempts of his girl fighting to be tough as a boy, his eyes caught a reddish movement in the outfield that shouldn't be there.

Darrell swiveled his head around and nearly everyone in the stands was looking that way too. Fingers outstretched, speaking in strained whispers. Darrell felt his stomach tighten in a way it hadn't since he heard his own father's belt snap outside the door to his room.

Coach Bill ran on to the field waving and shouting at all of the players. Rip turned around and watched his feet disappear in the swarm of bright red feathers. His arms wheeled in circles knocking the cap from his head. He stumbled backwards tripping over the mindless birds walking ahead. A soft squishing sound accompanied the cracking of bones as the boy landed hard crushing a handful of them. One bird climbed on top of his legs as he lay trying to catch wind back to his lungs. With no attempt to avoid the boy, it continued walking on his stomach and over the bright lettering printed across his jersey.

"Dad?" He smacked the bird with his glove sending it tumbling across the grass knocking into three others as it rolled over and over. "Dad." Turning on to his front he shoved himself back up to his feet and ran, feet inadvertently kicking small red bodies out of the way. Feathers clung to the smear of moist red glistening on the back of his uniform distorting the number 9 into a nauseating double helix 8. "Daddy!"

Todd McKewan, hearing his son's frightened voice, raised his eyes from the laptop screen in annoyance. "Now what?" Slowly absorbing what they were witnessing, the image of Rip kicking through the red swarm of flightless birds entered in through his eyes and exited through his mouth in a terrified scream. "Rippington!"

The glowing screen tilted and slid from his lap, bounced on the metal footrest and fell with a loud clang. Todd jumped down the bleachers with a speed he wasn't aware he possessed not caring about keeping his balance. He tripped over a purse resting on the ground catching his foot in the shoulder strap. Using the side of the brick dugout for balance, Todd kicked the bag from his ankle feeling the bumps and jabs of other parent's elbows and knees storming past vainly charging to protect their suddenly fragile young.

\--

Collin Nancarlo edged his black and white past the eleven cars covered with dust in the lot. He stopped next to the unopened snack stand and opened the door. The gravel crunching beneath his boot reached his ears muffled and dampened like the world submerged itself in Styrofoam.

Still new to the Staties and wanting to beat back the constant hazing and jabs from the older guys, he decided to check things out on his own before calling Rita and the chief at the station. He put the wide brimmed hat on his head relieved to block out the glaring heat of the sun from his face. Turning to face the field, the odd silence disturbed him.

"I thought there was a game this morning." Once again, the sound of his voice became suffocated and brittle in the space between mouth and ear. His eyes scanned the empty field from across the parking lot. "Where is everybody?"

He should have felt a sense of urgency. A rush of adrenaline pumping through veins muscles brain. There ought to have been some warning that this was no longer a place of happy family time and daydreams of someday making it to the big leagues. Instead, a soothing calm dripped down his skin relaxing thoughts and responses. Fingers entwined with the chain links next to the dugout marked Visitors in bold white letters over a background of dark green.

Wind danced in silent circles across the field. Red brick dust on the infield twisted devilishly in one large speckled sheet sliding across the overstuffed white bases. A freshly scraped ball hung in the air on its way to the space between third base and shortstop. A glare of sunlight beamed off the top of a small aluminum bat paused mid-flight discarded by the hitter just outside of the batter's box.

One chewed up moist sunflower seed shell flipped end over end in the center of a chain linked fence square. Inside the dugout a dark blue helmet still in its drop from the bench. Spilled purple Gatorade splashed in the shape of a small shoe arcing outward from the center of a small puddle.

Flickering orange ashes from a discarded cigarette butt halted in mid-throw. Pink handles sparkled lifting the jump rope back up from the dirt at the beginning of one more revolution. Ringlets of steam curled thinly upward from hot brown coffee seized in pour over the lip of a white Styrofoam cup. One small Red Sox cap hung inches above the ground in deep left field. The brightly red lettered "B" signaling up to the crystalline blue sky.

Officer Nancarlo opened the gate, slowly walking on the grass next to first base. A high pitched rattling sound pulled his eyes toward the left field fence. Without thinking, his left hand moved closer to the gun holstered on his hip. Cautiously he walked across the infield moving closer to the area where the sound originated.

"Hello?" Air did in fact leave from his lungs into the surroundings. An oppressive thickness made its presence felt more potently by swallowing his words into nothingness before his ears noticed they weren't arriving at their destination. He searched the dark spaces hidden between the trees made all the more impenetrable by the sun bearing down on his eyes. "Where are you guys?"

At this moment he noticed a flicker of motion. Low to the ground a smear of dark red crawled through the shadows emerging at the outfield fence. The young policeman watched as the cardinal bit a bar of wire with its beak climbing to the fence top claws grasping and pulling in tandem. Plopping uncoordinatedly to the grass, the bird strolled casually on the grass, on to the infield, stepping over second base and finally stopping three feet in front of his black leather boot.

"What the..."

The bird faced upward staring directly into his eyes. Perplexed by this odd little visitor Officer Nancarlo looked back into the deepness. The small black ovals showed him there were things about the world he could not understand. A comprehension dispensed by this place that must be avoided. An understanding of things that are not always the way we are brought up to believe.

Collin dropped to his knees. Watching from the road one might have seen a policeman frantically digging away at the infield dirt screaming silently with his face pressed against the ground. Red feathers catch your eye taking your gaze up to watch a thick bird lift to the sky flying away into the bright. Looking back down, the wide brimmed hat rests flat on the dirt with no head to call home anywhere in sight.

"Collin (static) you there?" The woman's voice rough from a two pack a day three drink minimum habit. "Hey Collin (static) Chief wants to know the score of the game (static)" The window of the squad car remains rolled down. "Collin? (static) Hey Col... (static)"

Alex's latest novel is: "The Key to Everything"

Find more information about Alex at: http://www.alexkimmel.weebly.com

Susan Wingate

Susan Wingate is an award-winning author and #1 Amazon best seller. Her latest achievement is the inclusion of one of her poems in the Virginia Quarterly Review. Wingate wrote the story, "Taking Care of Things," when she and her husband, Bob, decided to mix up the concept of throwing a Halloween party. The Wingate's asked each of their guests to write a short Halloween story to present after dinner. "Taking Care of Things" was Wingate's contribution.

Taking Care of Things

by Susan Wingate

That's what the note said, to "please take care of things." Then it added, "the best _YOU_ can." Including the jibe contradicted my wife's normal complacent and boring nature.

When I awoke that Halloween morning, pain surged its path of misery across my back. In fact, that's what woke me—a dull throbbing sensation cutting through me at the middle of my spine. Plus, my feet tingled to the point my toes no longer felt like they were attached.

My body throbbed like a crushed thumb. I couldn't seem to move. That's how lethargic I was upon waking. But as I recall this day, I'm not really sure I wanted to move—not at that point, anyway.

The morning broke in shards as country mornings will, before daylight colors the walls or the endless tract of trees outside where nary a person strolls by—ever. Each turn of my head met with a blur of variant blacks, grays and grims in blocks, circles and triangles I figured were a chair or an end table or even the bulk of the mattress.

It was at this point I asked myself why I wasn't _IN_ the bed. I was somewhere NEXT to the bed on the floor.

Within the hour, as the morning flowed into the room and after dozing off then waking again three or four times, I noticed my knees bent as if my body were sitting. Then I realized my feet, which had been stripped of outerwear, were propped up in the air with a board tied across my legs fashioned like a table across my shins.

I _was_ sitting in a chair. Yes. The problem, however, was that the chair had been tipped backwards and I'd been tied to it with plastic cinches around my wrists and ankles, all locked as tightly as possible without cutting through each joint and depleting blood flow.

My hands took on a beet color which did not match the purple my feet had turned. For a good time tugging, lurching and screaming, my fight against the bonds turned out a futile chore.

When I gave up the first time, I noticed many things.

A rectangular shiny gray plastic shape had been strung up along some sort of pulley over my head. One window gaped fully open. My wife's nurse uniform hung inside the closed door by a hook with a note pinned to it. And, there were several open cans of cat food—some partially eaten, some empty and some not at all. Some were placed on the board across my legs and some strewn about the floor.

What made matters most troubling was that my abuser (whom, by now, I had to believe was my wife!) had gone to the effort of fastening me to the cold tile floor by several stretches of duct tape. Under which, I laid completely naked.

My dear wife had gone to great lengths to create a most uncomfortable situation for me.

The worst of which was pinching my pink genitalia between the silver strands of tape. My rescue would prove ever so embarrassing when found this way.

She'd even gone to the extent of tying a label onto my unit and scrawled on it, the name we'd once given him... a, one, Mr. Happy.

My attention, now on the label, was met with an overwhelming smell of a cat box somewhere in close quarters. As I looked around for the odor, my eyes connected on the letter pinned to her uniform. It read:

Bill,

Please take care of things—that is, the best YOU can. Like feeding the cats and the raccoons. You know, the ones you refer to as "hideous creatures."

And, oh. I found out about your little chippy on the side. Sorry about the powerful cocktail I gave you last night but it really was the only way to get you in the chair.

By the time you read this, I'll be in New York and, shortly after, off to my heritage land, Lebanon, which has no reciprocal extradition policy with the U.S.

After giving you everything—my heart and soul—to find out about your three-year affair with big-boobied Justine was a tad too much for me to bear as you must realize now or else you wouldn't be finding yourself in this position.

I'll think of you often, mostly when I eat kibbee—you know, that ground raw meat dish you never liked. The one I loved?

I'll think of you, especially when imagining what this morning will bring you.

Good luck, Stephanie

P.S. Cutting off a husband's genitals for adultery seemed amateurish to me when a wife can get ever so much MORE creative with her punishment.

After reading her note, a loud _Bing!_ sounded making me wrench my head back, slightly behind me. My eyes landed on a timer attached to the wall near the pulley and, when it went off, the gray rectangular plastic object slung above me shifted, dropping one side loose and emptying its contents onto my head and chest—a full container of un-sifted dirty litter landed squarely on my face, in my eyes, my nose and my mouth.

As I blew, spitting litter off my lips, I shook my head so wildly I nearly pulled a neck muscle in the process.

Another _Bing!_ sounded after another timer chimed off seconds later and Stephanie's voice clicked on, out of a machine. She'd recorded a series of cat calls in that tone of hers.

"Kitty, kitty, kitty! Kittens! Zum, Zum Zummy. Dinner!" She called.

And no sooner did the recorder click off, did five of her hideous creatures come syphoning through the open window, jumping up onto the plank between my legs and lapping at the open cans.

PNut Budda, the biggest cat and also the one who NEVER peed outside, promptly went for the sand.

She sniffed at the pile around my torso, scratched at a spot right next to my ear, got _en pointe_ , curved her back into the correct position for the job coming and squeezed out three hefty globs of poo.

Making matters worse (if that were possible) PNut didn't cover her feces. Instead, she proceeded to dig at an additional spot next to the reeking crap, squatted again then urinated.

Unfortunately, the thin layer of sand on top of the slick tile was not enough to contain the river of piss that now spilled out from under the litter and, finally flowing to my shoulder, pooled just under my neck.

Another _Bing!_ And her voice echoed out again. Not for the cats this time but for the hungry wild animals she'd been feeding since she arrived here fifteen years ago... _TODAY!_

She'd always made such a big deal about the date she arrived to the island. And now, upon leaving this place for good, she would make the biggest fuss of all on, this day—Halloween. Her anniversary.

"Raccoons!" Her voice beckoned from the recorder. "Raccoons!"

A brief pause between sets of calls and the cassette sounded again.

And again.

Until I heard the scampering of the fat and hungry beasts around the window.

It was then that one climbed up and peered in.

"No!" I screamed. But my voice only startled the animal.

Next, the sniveling varmint climbed up onto the window sill. The cats hissed and arched their backs, huddling together in a corner.

"Get back!" I yelled.

But, apparently "get back" in raccoon language means, "Come on in!" Because the animal scooted down the interior wall and began sniffing at the surroundings.

Thankfully, it found an open container of food. The beast picked up the can with its clawed fingers and licked it clean.

Then it peered at me.

It looked me up and down and seemed to understand my predicament. It came straight up to my face but instead of attacking, it smelled where PNut Budda had left her droppings. The raccoon defecated there as well and then sauntered toward the cats.

One by one, each feline scrambled to get away and raced out the window, growling and spitting upon their escape.

Then, I heard another sound. Another form of scratching came from outside. Hope bubbled within me, I thought, "Maybe the cats pow-wowed and decided to come back in and fight off the raccoon in an effort to save me!" Or, possibly (I didn't care why), to fight off the raccoons for their food.

When the scratching got louder and my hope for the cats' return got greater, another face appeared. It was a new raccoon.

My heart sank.

The snarling fiend pulled itself up and over the sill and began inspecting me much like the first one.

Then, another showed up then another and another and soon there were forty raccoons in the small room—all with me!

Oh, the horror!

It didn't take them long to polish off the cans of catfood and begin what Stephanie had surely hoped for.

First, they started on my toes. _The agony!_

Even though my feet had long gone numb, a set of razor teeth ripping into your skin is never a pleasantry. As the blood spewed out, spattering the wall and floor, I screamed.

Then they went for my fingers—growling and clawing for the taste of fresh blood. Through my screams, they proceeded. And my plasma continued to ooze forth.

I moaned. I howled. I begged for death.

And at last, the thing that finally did me in... they focused their attention to my mid-section and began their vicious work on... _Mr. Happy._

When the first raccoon grabbed my _thingumabob_ a sudden and unexpected sense of delight mixed with terror flooded my brain. But the delight soon vanished when he clamped his gnarling jaw onto my excited flesh.

After that, with all those raccoons taking turns at my tasty sweetbreads, with all that blood coursing out of me, through all of my wild shrieking... finally and thankfully...

Dear, Dear, God. I lost consciousness.

Susan's latest novel is "Spider Brains"

Read more of Susan's writing, her blog, and her books at: http://www.SusanWingate.com

Steven Luna

I began my authorly adventures several years ago, with a middle-grade fantasy tale. Several more followed, though I never felt like I had gotten the total hang of it. And while it was fun to tell my stories in that genre, once I shifted to writing for an adult audience, I realized I preferred a more of a magical realism style, where elements of fantasy are scattered about realistic situations rather than full-blown fantasy stories. The springboard for my writing has become the notion of ordinary folk touched by the extraordinary in ways that they find ridiculous or inconceivable – and sometimes even in ways they find completely acceptable. For me, in that setting, everything is possible.

As Yet Undecided

by Steven Luna

"So...suicide." He said it in the best therapist voice he could muster. But the concern just wasn't there.

"Yep. That's the new direction."

"Really? You're certain about it?"

"I am...almost...ninety-five percent sure. Ninety-four-point-six."

"Oh. Okay. As long as you're sure."

"You aren't going to try to talk me out of it, are you?"

"Could I possibly? You're ninety-four-point-six percent sure. It's hard to argue with certainty like that." His head lurched forward and fell into his cupped palm. It was the postural equivalent of a yawn.

There was an indignant shifting from the young man on the couch as he pulled his shirt cuffs down below his suit sleeves. "You know, sometimes it's difficult for me to tell the difference between your psychology bullshit and your sarcasm."

"I know. The line really blurs these days."

"This is how you treat a depressive patient with suicidal tendencies and a penchant for self-destructive behaviors?"

"Ah. I see you've been busily abusing Google again." He fiddled with his notebook. It held exactly zero notes from this session.

"Why are you being so casual about this?"

"Well, let's review. Two weeks ago you were convinced you had developed a second personality to help you cope with the stress of being 'you'."

"At the time, I thought I had."

"Bradley, I can barely find _one_ personality in there, let alone two."

"Wow...real nice, doctor. So I made a mistake. So what?"

"Three weeks before that, you believed your brain had been implanted with a microchip designed by the CIA to download your thoughts into their database."

Bradley shrugged. "It's still possible."

"As the plot of _Johnny Mnemonic_ , maybe...but not for you."

"Well, now I'm depressed. And suicidal. And depressed."

"Tell me, do you have an overwhelming sadness with a cause that can't be readily identified?"

He was a frequent whistler, and often soft-shoed as he walked down the street. "Well, no. But I might."

"Trust me: you don't. And what self-destructive behaviors have you been engaging in again? Can you remind me, please?"

"Oh, doctor, I am...just...I'm thoroughly reckless. Thoroughly."

"You ran your dad's Beemer into a canal last year because you thought you could handle a stick shift, and you bite your nails. I'd hardly call those behaviors 'self-destructive'. Stupid and ill-advised and unnecessary? Absolutely. Even indicators of deep-seated anxiety and loneliness, maybe. But 'self-destructive'? No."

"The Beemer could have been construed as self-destructive, at least."

"But it wasn't. And remind me again: when was the last time you attempted suicide? Or the first time, for that matter?"

"Uh...it was, I think..."

"Right."

"Everyone has thoughts about killing themselves, doctor."

"No doubt. But only those who have actually tried to do it can be diagnosed as having suicidal tendencies. Maybe you've wondered what it would be like, or considered how much attention it would garner. But if you've never done anything to hurt yourself in a fatal manner – and you haven't – then I can't really categorize you that way."

Bradley could tell now: this was just the psychology bullshit. No blurred line. "But I could easily drift toward that. Very easily."

"Based on what? I can't even diagnose you as clinically depressed. You're a neurotic mess for sure, but no worse than anyone else in your age bracket. You're all overdosing on plastic and sugar and instant gratification of every impulse you have, and it's playing havoc with your neurochemistry. Maybe try a little less of those...and maybe get yourself a girlfriend while you're shaking things up. You'll be fine."

He wondered if now would be a good time to talk about the Plan – yes, the Plan, with a capitalized P. It was that important. "What if I said it was the toaster that told me to do it?"

"The toaster? As in, the machine in your kitchen that browns bread - _that_ toaster?"

"Good description. Yes; _that_ toaster. Would that rate me a diagnosis of schizophrenic, or just highly delusional?"

"So your toaster – an inanimate appliance in your kitchen - suggested that you to kill yourself, and you decided the idea merited a second thought. Is this what you're telling me?"

He nodded. It was a very smug nod. "Yes. Would that affect your diagnosis?"

"I don't know. I'd probably need to consult with the coffee maker first."

"Coffee makers don't talk. Ass."

"All righty, then." The doctor stood and dropped the pad on the desk. " This session is over. Please leave your copay with Ashley at the front desk. You can make another appointment if you'd like, but I'd say you're wasting both your time and mine. And if you're still reluctant to bring your parents in as I keep recommending you do, I'll have to remand you into your own custody."

"My parents are...too busy. They can't make it. This has nothing to do with them, anyway."

"Google 'Freudian Psychotherapy' sometime. You'll be pleasantly surprised by how responsible our parents end up being for everything in our lives. Including our suicides."

"You're a shitty psychiatrist."  
"And you're a narcissistic, spoiled little brat who needs a good ass kicking. And a social life."

"Goodday, doctor. You're a blight on the fine profession of psychiatry. You should be stripped of your license." The young man swung the door open and drifted through it without looking back. Which was fine, since the doctor stepped up and slammed it behind him.

Ashley was waiting behind the front desk, as promised. He turned to her. "For this I pay one hundred ten dollars an hour? I should just stay home and let the toaster abuse me." He smiled, waiting for polite laughter.

Ashley volunteered nothing. She smelled sweet though, like ripe apples with a hint of total disinterest. "Next week – same time?" She didn't bother to look up at him.

"No. I won't be coming back. Therapy really isn't helping me."

"Shame. He obviously hasn't cured you of whatever you have yet."

"I'll be leaving for Paris on Saturday to commit suicide." He said it so casually now. It didn't sound odd anymore.

Ashley hardly looked up from her phone. "Everyone needs a dream, right?"

He noticed that, since his last appointment, her already-sizable implants had swelled even more. Each was the size of a small child's head. Her cleavage was now so troubled it looked as if she were smuggling a large naked ass beneath her blouse. "Your breasts look fantastic, Ashley." He leaned forward and sniffed. "They still have that new boob smell."

"Screw you."

"Is that a tag I see hanging off the left one? I can get that for you if you have a pair of scissors, or some nail clippers. Here...I'll just use my teeth."

"Good luck with your suicide. Jerk."

His eyes registered a fair amount surprise that she had been listening through the door. They also showed small delight that she had been interested enough to eavesdrop. "Finally...words of encouragement from _someone_." He tapped his heels, wiggled his bow tie and tipped his head. Ashley flipped him off as he sauntered away.

It was three flights down to the street through bricks and mortar, and Bradley whistled the whole way. He soft-shoed along the walk, casually checking the time on his pocket watch. Originally it had been something he carried for the sake of hipster fashion pretension as much as it was for utility. But now it was something of a companion for him as well. He popped the cover open, and suddenly the watch was all a-chatter. "He thought you were lying about the toaster."

Bradley shrugged. "I was. The toaster actually tried to talk me out of it."

"You should have let him ask me," said the watch. "I could have vouched for your instability."

"I'm not unstable," he replied. "Just suicidal."

"And in what way is that not unstable?"

"In the way that..." There was no rest of his sentence.

"You see?" For a pocket watch, he had great conviction.

"Anyway, my suicide will be more than just the irrational act of an insane seventeen year-old. I'm not like the others who do this, you know."

"And how is that?" the watch sniffed.

"Mine will be poetic. Literary. I have it all planned out. And I'm not doing this on a whim, or out of a dissociation from reality, or because I'm _unstable_."

"Oh, here we go again..." None of this was new to the watch.

"If anything, it's because I'm super-stable. I'm making my own decisions with great forethought about what the repercussions will be. That's a hallmark of sanity."

"Bradley," said the watch, "you're on a public street in full view of the citizenry, speaking to a piece of functional jewelry as though it's your best friend – likely because it _is_ your best friend. And it's keeping up its end of the conversation pretty well. Does that cry out 'Everyone, look at how sane I am!' to you?"

"You're a watch. What would you know?"

The watch sighed. "Ask the wallet then."

The wallet shifted in Bradley's breast pocket. "Ask me what? I can barely hear you in here."

The watch wanted to be certain the wallet could hear, so he spoke a bit louder. "I think Bradley's behavior – most notably the idea that he speaks to his personal effects, and that we speak to him in return - qualifies him as unstable. He doesn't think so...but he's under the impression that wanting to commit suicide is _poetic_."

The wallet was pensive. "Despite what classic literature and modern film would have you believe, there really isn't anything poetic about one killing oneself, you know."

"You see?" Bradley could hear the sneer in the watch's tone.

"But talking to one's wallet and watch? If that wouldn't result in a diagnosis of 'utterly and irrefutably insane', I don't know what would."

"I told the therapist that I'd talked to the toaster and he just blew it off."

"As well he should. The toaster is an imbecile." The wallet spoke like this frequently; the precise diction of his British accent made him sound superior and over-educated. Bradley cringed at it sometimes.

"Listen, folks," he interrupted. "The status of my mental condition isn't up for debate here." He had to raise his voice to be heard over their back-and-forth.

"Oh, but I really think it is," said the wallet. "I can't help but wonder how the keys would weigh in on this."

They jingled on their fob next to the watch. "Weigh in on what?"

The wallet was incensed. "Have you been sleeping this whole time?"

"Yes." They were so young, so guileless, these keys.

The watch offered a fill-in. "Bradley's planning a trip to Paris so he can commit suicide because he believes it will be a poetic, literary act. Wallet and I are convinced that, no, this would actually be the impulsive act of an unstable person."

"It's not impulsive," Bradley reminded them. "I have a written plan."

The watch huffed. "As you can see, Bradley doesn't agree with our assessment. We're wondering how you view the situation, given the facts and the state of our young friend's mentality." The watch was quite a fantastic mediator, which made total sense.

His previous owner had been a lawyer.

"You guys," Bradley interjected. "We don't really need to have this discussion. I'm pretty much set on suicide in France...ninety-four point six percent sure."

The wallet guffawed. "Well, then. As long as you're sure."

"That's what the therapist said..."

The keys rang happily. "Ooooh...we've never been to France! When will we go? Hopefully springtime."

The wallet sniffed. "I highly doubt he'd take his keys with him across the Pond."

"What pond?" The keys asked.

They weren't the most worldly of his belongings.

Bradley Umpton hushed them all. "Listen, everyone: I'm not looking for advice, or opinions, or a critique of my plan. I certainly am not expecting to be talked out of my decision. And God knows I don't need another label. I have enough of those for myself as it is. So, unstable or delusional or whatever the right adjective for my actions would be, I'm going to Paris, and I'm initiating my own death. Shuffling off the mortal coil at the force of my own hand. And possibly a sidewalk."

The watch grimaced. "A bit grisly, don't you think?"

Bradley was firm. "My death; my choice."

The wallet and the watch fell oddly silent. It wasn't like them to not weigh in, even when told their input wouldn't be welcomed. But both knew there would be opportunities in the coming days to talk sense into the young man whose confidantes they had both become.

The keys, on the other hand, jingled excitedly. They couldn't help but wonder what they'd look like in a red beret, sitting in a café while reading Proust.

Steven's latest novel is: "Joe Vampire: The Afterlife"

Find more information about Steven at: http://www.joevampire.blogspot.com

Elise Stephens

A mysterious box that makes strange, otherworldly sounds only you can hear is enough to drive anyone crazy, but Patricia already has her share of anxiety. I've always pitied the heroine of the Greek myth Pandora story, unable to understand why it was fair to blame her for failing under the burden of such impossible responsibility: "Here's a powerful container. Just one thing, never ever open it." Some mistakes are inevitable. Old myths, when retold in modern day, can develop a wonderful and sometimes creepy message that echoes for a long time inside our minds.

Pandora

By Elise Stephens

The box arrives as a wedding present. It's one of the cardless gifts and no one has said anything in their emails or conversations about the mysterious wooden chest. The glossy green lid encrusted with black and silver paisley appliqués reminds me of Indian mehndi tattoos. I notice it, distinct from the other presents, the morning after we return from our Maui honeymoon.

The house vibrates with the cacophony of moving in. Evan unboxes and arranges various kitchen appliances while I sort checks and gift cards and begin the thank you notes. I'm about to lick and seal the first envelope when I stop.

"Yes, honey?" I say.

Evan pokes out of the kitchen, his arms full of cardboard he's crushing for the recycle. He raises his eyebrows.

"Did you want something?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"You called my name."

"I was calling the new toaster some names, but none of them sounded like yours."

"Oh." I doodle a daisy on the envelope in front of me. "Never mind."

This is the first time it speaks. It doesn't say anything else for a whole year and a half. Nothing directly, at least.

***

Over the first twelve months, I rearrange furniture and re-hang art a thousand times until the house feels like home. Evan chuckles when I position the box from our unnamed beneficiary on center stage: the mantle over the fireplace. It doesn't seem right to set it anywhere else.

Sometimes, at random intervals during the day, I get the urge to check if the box is still there, as if it had the ability to sprout webbed feet and scamper under our bed. It's always right where I left it, its little gold keyhole glistening like an Olympic medal. No key accompanied this gift. I try to open it multiple times, but something always distracts me right when I approach with a screwdriver.

Sometimes, when I pass it, I feel eyes pressing into my spine.

***

On our one year anniversary, Evan says he wants me to stop working at Diva Espresso. He thinks it's time to try to get pregnant. Given his ability to support us financially, and how stress can interfere with conception, combined with my own track record for handling big changes poorly, it makes sense for me to embrace the stay-at-home life. We've talked a lot about kids and I am genuinely excited. I've felt harassed by my barista job, especially by my manager, Clarisse, who keeps finding things I'm doing wrong. Since when does wiping the counter with a sponge instead of a washcloth constitute a felony?

Evan tells me his idea in bed after he's treated me to an incredible seafood dinner at Ponti's with arugula salad, Dover sole, and crème brulee. I feel full, content, and ready. He kisses me, his hair falling across his eyes and whispers, "Let's make a baby."

My salvation from the daily grind has come, gilded by the rising sun of motherhood.

***

I convince Evan to let me take the upright Yamaha piano out of storage. Grandpa John bought it for me when I declared my music major and I'd played on it every day through all four years of college. Then I met Evan and my practice flew out the window as I practiced all sorts of things I'd never tried before.

The piano distracts me through four months of negative pregnancy tests. I buy a book on fertility and learn that a woman is technically fertile only one day each month. However, a man's sperm can live up to four days inside the proper environment, so a couple trying to conceive has a few days to give it a shot.

Suffice it to say that Evan and I are very diligent. We time our sleep, our evening activities with friends, and our meals around this all-important art of baby-making.

Two more months pass and my belly still lies empty and flat. On the day of my sixth unwanted period, I'm sitting on the toilet seat crying at the sight of my own blood.

I will have to tell Evan we've failed yet again when he comes home. I wash my hands and face with freezing water. As I scour my cheeks with a towel, I hear piano music in the living room. I'm supposed to be alone, and Evan should have locked the door on his way to the bus.

When I approach my piano, the bench stands vacant and nothing looks altered. The complete score for Les Miserables lays open at the song On My Own, just as I'd left it. I glare at the box on the mantle without knowing why, then walk to the kitchen, take the long knife that Evan uses for bell peppers, and prowl through every room in our house. Twenty minutes later I am sure the house is empty.

I put the knife back, change into jeans and a sweatshirt and, tackle the yard where I mulch the flower beds, mow the lawn, detach the hoses, and winterize the garden. When Evan arrives, he asks why I look so tired and I tell him that, once again, we're not pregnant. I cry harder than usual that night and he puts his arms around me so I can fall asleep. When he drifts, I am left wide awake, my mind still echoing with the memory of a ghost piano player.

I can't tell Evan about the piano. Word would get back to my dad and then I'd have to fight the medication war again.

I've lost that fight before.

***

I was fourteen years old when enough became enough. Mom used to say "Patricia will grow out of it," or "She's just going through a phase." But my teenage depression was more than the regular dollop of angst on top of hormones. I'd moved from the front row to the back of all my classes. My teachers melted with dismay at my crashing homework scores. On weekends, I confined my days to my room and hardly said or ate a morsel at the mandatory family dinners.

Daddy put his foot down. I needed professional help, he said. Mom cried. After a heated discussion in the laundry room—for some reason they thought the sound of the dryer would mask raised voices—my parents announced I'd see a doctor.

Mom drove me there and told me in a really quiet voice that she'd wanted to see a counselor, but Daddy had refused to let me see a "quack." So instead, I told Dr. Raymond Thatcher, that, yes, I did sometimes think about killing myself and, no, I'd never tried or planned anything.

He wrote a prescription in loopy blue ink. Mom drove straight to Bartell's and walked out, teary-eyed, with a white paper bag. She wouldn't let me look inside. At home she served Daddy his dinner with the rest of us, and when she brought out dessert, she put the paper bag on his plate, but gave herself, Meggie, and me a slice of apple pie.

Daddy pulled a little orange bottle with a white cap out of the bag. I let him tell me I needed to take half a purple pill every morning with breakfast. I was too frightened to want any pie.

I stopped crying in the showers after gym and regained place of most attentive student. Sometimes I wonder if the antidepressants were the reason I managed to get Jason Haselman, the super cute president of the musical theater club, to take me to Senior Prom.

Now that so many years have passed and I've taught piano to several teenagers, I think I was a pretty normal fourteen-year-old girl, just more imaginative and dramatic than my father at that age.

Whatever the case, those purple pills made high school more fun. Of course, if I'd done crack, it might have felt that way, too.

By the time I was studying piano performance in college, that orange cup with the white child-proof lid was like my right hand.

Necessity does not breed affection, however. The meds kept a fuzziness around my brain that never lifted, not even on Saturdays when I slept in. But I didn't want to revisit the misery of fourteen years old: lonely, horny, identity-confused, and acne-speckled.

And now, I have enough agony with our would-be pregnancy to deal with. I can't tell Evan about the ghost piano. Daddy would hear about it, and I'd find myself back in a doctor's office learning how to take a different colored pill.

***

"Do you want to see a fertility counselor?" Evan asks me the next morning.

I'm making a note to get paint swatches for the kitchen from Home Depot. I look up, my head still full of lemon yellows and Caribbean blues.

He asks again and I say yes so quickly we're both surprised. Anything is better than pills.

The counselor is a nice woman named Ruby with smooth blonde hair and lips that make sympathetic "oh" and "hmm" sounds while she listens. She tells Evan to leave the room and then asks me one hundred questions about my life and whether I want a baby. Then she has me leave and she talks to Evan for a much longer time. When she invites us both back, she recommends we take several evenings a week to stay home and build intimacy. I raise my eyebrow at Evan and that is the end of our session.

On the way home, Evan says, "She thought you were still working. I told her you left your job six months ago."

I shrug.

"She said you seemed preoccupied, and you weren't getting enough mental rest. Any kind of stress, if there's enough of it, can impair conception."

"No job stress for this one!" I say a little too cheerfully.

Evan makes a "humph" sound and doesn't speak again till we get home. He comes around the car to open the door for me. I take his hand and for a moment we're catapulted back in time, standing under blooming cherry trees, ensconced by old brick buildings. We're the students who fell in love during their senior year of college and the world supports our hopes and dreams.

***

There's nothing in existence that makes you feel more like a damned soul than insomnia.

I wake just moments after Evan falls asleep. He waits till I stop fidgeting and when I finally doze, he relaxes into his own dreams. Before thirty minutes have passed, I rise to full alertness and pass an agonizing hour or two before the sounds begin. They always begin.

Sometimes they're small enough to be ignored, but then they grow louder. The ghost piano player has been joined by a harmonica crooning on my roof. I always get up to investigate. So far, I have never found anything, but I know that if I ignore them and one night they're real, someone else would notice and wonder why I hadn't done anything. Thus, to hide my mental disease, I pursue it like a mad woman who doesn't know the difference. I know the box on the mantle makes all of these nocturnal sounds, but I can't explain it or offer any reasons why it waited eighteen months to do so.

Nineteen months after our wedding, the answer to my old question about the box's giver appears in an envelope striped with the blue and red border of international mail. We finish our spaghetti and read the letter. Evan's Aunt Iris, who lives in Tuscany with her partner Daryl, sends us her love. Aunt Iris relates gossip about her retirement community's escapades, an account of her trip to Florence, and an old church where she lit a candle for our future baby. She promises to send cannoli pastry shells in time for Christmas and closes with:

Has Patricia enjoyed the box I sent you? In case my note bears repeating, remind her that she must never open it.

Hugs and Kisses,

Auntie Iris

"Is that the box we have on the mantle?" Evan asks as he crumples the envelope and moves to toward the recycle bin.

"Don't!" I snatch the precious return address from his hands. "I want to write a thank you. I didn't know she was the one who gave it."

Evan ruffles my hair and turns to the bills. His eyes puff pink with fatigue and I want to help him. He looks up from Comcast, meets my gaze and says, "Honey, what do you think about hiring some help around the house?"

At first I think he's joking. I scrutinize the spotless kitchen. "Yes, it doesn't look like I can keep up with everything, does it?" I'm sarcastic, but Evan misinterprets. He doesn't see my battle to find things to do from the minute he leaves for work till the century later when he returns.

"I thought if you had help around the house, it would free you up to—"

"To do what?" My cheeks flame and I grab the porcelain lip of the sink to keep from swaying. "I need to stay busy or I'll go nuts."

Evan frowns. "I'm worried about you. You're eating less and getting bags under your eyes."

"I am?" The insomnia must be leaving signs. "Maybe I should go back to Diva."

"Why don't we hire cleaning help for a few weeks, just to test it out? I'll contact them. They'll manage the house and the yard and you can enjoy yourself."

I can hardly breathe as I hiss, "What exactly does 'enjoy' myself mean?"

Evan sets down the checkbook. His throat makes the swallowing motion that means he's upset. "Read a book, take a nap, calm down and then—"

"Is this all about getting pregnant?" I burst into tears, grab a dinner plate, and shatter it on the kitchen floor.

***

The shards are still there when the Maid Brigade arrives early the next morning. Evan lets them in before he kisses me goodbye as I lie in bed, unmoving. I wait for him to leave, and then pull pen and paper from my bedside drawer.

Dear Aunt Iris,

Thank you for the lovely green box. It holds a place of honor in our living room. Is there a story behind this?

Your original note must have been lost in our move to the new house. Why must the box not be opened? Is there something special about it?

Do you have an email address? Mine is pgermanicos@gmail.com.

Keep in touch,

Patricia

I curse the international mail after I've dropped my letter at the post office. It could take weeks before I hear a reply. When I return, the maids are dusting every horizontal surface in the house with gray feather plumes. There aren't more than three of them, but they're all chattering and laughing in such a rapid exchange, my head spins the moment I walk in. I glance at the mantle. The box is gone.

One of the girls, the youngest of the trio, is holding it, dusting the embellished designs on its surface. As she continues to handle it, I hear a faint scuffling that gradually sharpens to a scratch, like a cat vandalizing the door when it wants to be let in.

The maid notices me and smiles. She puts the box back and the trapped animal noise increases. I venture a glance at the others, but no one else seems to hear it.

I cloister myself in a corner of my bedroom with my iPod.

***

Evan tells me over dinner that his sister, Lynn, will come to visit me the next day. She's taking time off work to care for her two-month-old baby, and although Evan doesn't say it, I know he's talked her into this visit.

That night, after he falls asleep, the scratching thing inside the box starts up again.

I shake my bottle of Prozac and it sounds like a maraca. The rhythm soothes me. I set the bottle down but I still hear the maraca echoing. It's coming from the bathtub. I can hear it clearly because Evan likes to sleep with our bedroom door open and the bathroom is right across the hall.

I sneak out, approach the tub, and crawl in. The knees of my silk pajamas stick to the wet bathtub. Evan took a shower before dinner and the tub hasn't dried yet. It sounds like someone turned the drainpipe into a little speaker system. A South American dance party is jiving right under my bathtub, and I hate salsa music more than just about anything.

Evan stumbles through the door and flips up the toilet lid. I freeze. He'll think I'm nuts. I can't conjure any explanation he'll accept for my actions, and now it's too late to announce I'm here. He finishes. I'm grateful he's too groggy to be observant. The wood floor squeaks as he stops in the doorway to our bedroom. "Patricia?"

Shit. He's seen the empty bed. He flicks on the hall light. He is shambling toward the kitchen now and his footsteps sound like he's waking up.

I run back to bed and yank the covers up to my chin. A minute later he's standing in our doorway again, gawking and blinking. He calls my name like he's not sure I'm really there.

"Honey?" I feign a yawn.

"Were you in bed this whole time?"

I yawn again, as if I don't quite hear him, and Evan swallows the bait. He snuggles up to me, and soon he's asleep with the stubble of his chin pressed gently into the back of my neck. I envy him frequently for this ease in entering the dreamlands.

The familiar scuffling returns a third time. I can neither dream nor run. I'm running out of options.

***

Lynn finally arrives with a mewing baby slung across her chest, and I make my first mistake by plunging into silent contemplation on what's broken about my anatomy. She regales me with stories about baby Stefan's eating and sleeping and pooping habits. I have to bite my tongue twice to make sure I don't say that being kept awake by a cute little crying baby who you can hold, feed, and kiss seems like bliss in comparison with my nighttime noises.

Lynn leaves, promising to invite me over when things are less crazy, and then I'm alone in the spotless house once more. The house gives me this holier-than-thou smile; it no longer needs me to keep it clean. I try playing piano, but the maracas in the bathtub and the animal clawing in the box just get louder.

I take my bottle of pills from the bedroom and sit in front of my computer. I do a few searches using the brand name plus words like "cold turkey" and "withdrawal." I don't know why I think now is a good time to get off my antidepressant meds, but it feels like something I can control. As I scan doctors' warnings about weaning off the drug, I hear Raymond Thatcher's voice reading them to me.

The general precautions catch my attention. Possible severe lung defects in babies when drug is passed on in breast milk. I want to scream and I want to laugh. Finally, an excuse to be rid of these. I've probably outgrown the prescription by now, anyway, and if I start crying in the shower again, I can always pretend I lost my bottle and get a new one.

I stand over the toilet, staring at the sunken purple pills and I press the handle. The water forces them into the sewer where no father can convince his daughter to take them. Then I'm crying and apologizing to my prescription bottle and I'm afraid because I don't want to feel fourteen again, but I promise myself I'm willing to do and be anything to have a baby.

***

I'm wearing the embroidered satin robe from my bridal shower when Evan comes home. He smiles at the candles on the dinner table. He enjoys his cream of broccoli soup with his favorite crusty olive bread and kisses me more than normal. He doesn't even notice that I don't take my dose after dinner. We watch a romantic comedy with my feet in his lap. I feel powerful and even possibly maternal, but I remind myself this is only wishful thinking. We make love. I drift asleep in perfect faith that I will dream a blessed dream, but I wake up, like clockwork, in the world of the damned.

If my insomnia on the antidepressants was bad, this is like insomnia after being pushed off a cliff. I wake up hyperventilating. Evan must be miles deep into his sleep cycle, because I sit straight up and gasp, but he only moans and rolls over.

The house is going crazy. It's as if all the other times I'd heard the box's noises came through a muffled door. Now the door's flung open and my ears are ringing.

Children whisper under the floorboards. Twice before, I've heard someone knock on our front door, but when I got up to answer, I found only my outdoor cat, Tabitha, who loves to sleep on our welcome mat, annoyed for her interrupted beauty sleep. But tonight, someone is pounding on the door like hell is on his heels. I trip down the hall and fling the door open.

Nothing but Tabitha, who hisses. I close the door and lean against it, panting. The mantle light shines like an alien tractor beam. It's illuminating the box as if it's a museum artifact. As I walk closer, my breathing slows.

For a moment the house hangs totally still. I lift the box from the mantle. It feels full of heavy liquid. I place it back on the mantle and the light above me goes out all by itself.

Then, a new sound: I hear my mother call my name, as if her voice is trapped right inside the green box.

***

Evan notices my pills have vanished from beside my dinner plate on the second night. Without a word, he leaves the table, comes back from our bedroom and asks, "Darling, where are your meds?"

I shrug.

"Did you lose them?"

I shake my head and smile.

"Have you stopped taking them?" He says this gravely, as if I've just said I want a divorce.

I think, "Our baby should be healthy," but I say, "I'm cutting down my dose."

Evan sighs, relieved. "I was afraid you were cutting off, cold turkey. That can cause weird side effects, you know."

"Do you know the effects of antidepressants on a pregnancy?"

He takes my hand. "I wouldn't make you cope without them, so I didn't mention it. The risks aren't extremely high."

I shake my head. "You always loved me more than our future children."

"Is that a crime, if they don't exist yet?"

"This house is a shrine; and I'm the captive priestess to the child who doesn't exist." I'm surprised by the bitterness in my voice.

Evan fidgets with his thumb under his chin. "So what do you want to do?"

I almost say, "Let me open the box and everything will be fine," but it doesn't logically follow. I don't even know where those words came from, because I wasn't thinking about the box a second ago.

I go to bed, wake up an hour later, and check my email as if I already know what waits for me.

My dear niece,

I know it is hard to understand, but this box has been in the family for generations. That is the part I know for sure; the rest if just tradition. Now that you're a member of the family this is what you need to know:

It descends from the ancient peoples of the Mediterranean and it is an honor to have it in your house.

I want to snicker at the word "honor," but Evan is sleeping in the other room.

The tradition is that the eldest daughter or the wife of the family's eldest son, in your case, guards this box with her life.

You may display it, touch it, or lock it in a closet. But under no condition are you to open the box, Patricia. It may try to agitate you when it perceives you as weak.

I can't explain the how or why. If I could, I would. I can only ask you to obey this rule and trust me. Get a good pair of earplugs for sleeping. They'll help.

I hope this answers your questions. Give a big kiss to my nephew. Is he still all skin and bones?

Xoxoxo

Auntie Iris

The box literally screams as I close my email. It sounds like a woman who sees a man approaching her in a dark alley with nowhere to run, or a teenager who's just been grounded on the most important night of their life. A cry of fear and frustration. Then I hear human sobbing and my temperature skyrockets. It's a low, coughing, hiccupping weep and there is only one person in the world who cries like that.

"Mom." I am about to call her name more loudly when the door to the office swings open and Evan is standing there, rubbing his eyes.

"Honey what's wrong? Can't sleep?" he says.

I still hear the sobbing, but Evan is staring at me like the only thing that exists in the world is me and him and our queen bed. I follow him back and lay down. He asks if I had a nightmare and rubs my back, which always puts me in a good mood, but this time I'm frightened that he'll feel the tight twitching muscles in my neck and shoulders, so I pull away.

"We can stop," he says after several minutes of silence.

I jump because I'd thought he was asleep. I prop myself on my elbow. He's wide awake and the light through the blinds makes his skin look thin.

"We can stop trying. I know we both want the baby, but if it's too much right now, let's just stop. It's not worth you losing your sleep. I want you happy."

I don't tell him that the creepy box sounds, heightened by the clarity of the withdrawals, are the real things keeping me awake. I have this suspicion that if I can get all the meds out of my bloodstream, things will return to normal, but I can't break the spell just by thinking about it. I have to do something. And the box. I can't let it just keep shrieking at me all night, either.

Evan falls asleep again.

My mother's voice still whimpers, but it's fading, like she's walking away down the hall, rejected and forlorn.

Mom's dead. That isn't her, I tell it.

The maracas under the bathtub strike up the band.

Nothing but a drain pipe.

The harmonica starts a slow croon.

I've checked the roof. Zilch.

I hear again the scuffling of the undead animal that refuses to curl up and die.

Nothing could actually live that long inside a box.

The piano is playing On My Own again and this one almost breaks me.

I blink away tears and mentally weave a sound-proof cocoon. I sleep for the first time in days. When I wake up, I feel like I've just run twenty miles.

Morning in a tropical rainforest: One moment it's silent, and then the sun hits the canopy and the birds are squawking and the monkeys are shrieking and the frogs are croaking and I wake up to the box and the sounds are worse than ever and I am going absolutely out of my mind.

***

For the record, I'm not curious; I'm just totally selfish. I value my comfort and I justify this self-indulgent instinct by arguing that when I'm a happy woman, my husband is happy, my friends are happy, my family is happy, so I must actually be wise and mature when I prioritize care for myself.

After I read Aunt Iris's email, I knew that it was more than just my happiness at stake. There is probably some awful plague inside that box, or maybe a tornado or some Curse of the Pharaoh from Black Lagoon, but if that was the case, they shouldn't have given the care and keeping of it to a depressed insomniac, even if the original diagnosis for depression was mostly ridiculous.

It's only my third day of not taking the pills, and already everything glistens brighter, sharper, more painful, and more exciting. My brain keeps zapping all these different directions, and twice I get so dizzy I almost hit the floor, but I'm saved by a nearby wall.

As soon as Evan leaves, I take the box off its altar and address it. "What do you want?" As I set it on the floor, the maracas, harmonica, piano, children, and my mother crescendo in a dissonant burst. When I jiggle the lock, everything goes quiet. A sigh gushes from my throat, but a second later I'm annoyed. "So now when I want to talk, you ignore me?"

I think of the axe that Evan keeps in the shed. I wonder if the force inside the box would respond to threats. I'm not afraid to make them. As I stand, the voice of the children under the floorboards shouts, "Don't go!" and then hisses with mocking laughter as I sit back down. I cross my legs and stare at it. I can hear only the children, but soon they fade and I'm left with the harmonica on the roof playing Desperado by the Eagles. I put my head in my hands and mumble, "Why don't you come to your senses?" along with the music.

The box speaks in my mother's voice. "You have to do this for me."

My palms are pins and needles. "Mom?"

"Your mother is gone. This is a voice from your memory."

I swallow. "What do you want?"

"Free us."

"Open the box?"

A thousand voices drown out my mother's in a chorus of, "Yes!"

I back away, my temples slick with sweat. "Why?"

"Free us!" the thousand voices yowl in unison. It's freaking me out.

"Repetition doesn't work on me," I stutter.

"Free us. Free us. Free us. Free us..." it chants. The walls of the living room throb. I kick the box and it crashes into the glass panels in front of the fireplace. My mother's voice yelps in pain.

I leap up, shaking. I remember the lighter fluid and matches under the kitchen sink. "If you're not going to play fair—" I begin.

The piano bursts into the introduction for On My Own and the sweet sad tones are beating my ears with manipulative punishment.

I snatch the keys to the garden shed and return with Evan's firewood axe.

The children under the floorboards and the harmonica are humming a song together. It's On My Own, in accompaniment with the piano. Now I'm all alone again nowhere to go no one to turn to...

I heft the axe onto my shoulder and a spell of dizziness hits me. I narrowly miss the granite topped coffee table as I keel over. My elbows feel pulverized and my teeth are ringing in my head. The maracas underneath the bathtub applaud my fall.

I rub my elbows and growl. "You get to choose. I'm going to chop you up or I'm going to burn you."

My mother's voice chides, "Neither. No force of man can destroy our shell. You must open the lock of your own will."

"I don't have a key."

"What a shame."

I think it must feel exactly like this if you're an axe murderer. The axe is flying through the air and connecting with the beautifully carved top of the box before I feel myself swinging it. The blade bounces like a rubber ball. I hear the children laughing under the floor again, the harmonica is playing a see-saw pattern like a croaking donkey, and then my mother says, "I expected more from you, Patricia."

The house falls into a deathly silence and I stare at the axe and the unscathed box between my splayed legs.

***

That evening I go to bed early and Evan comes into the room shaking a paper gift bag in front of my face. Something clunks in the bottom of it. The bag is white with silver ribbon handles. He says, "I found this when I was looking through gift bags for Jeff's birthday present." He tips the bag onto my lap. "This was probably left over from our wedding."

I see a polished brass key, the perfect size and color to match the box's lock.

"Oh, God. No," I say before I can stop myself.

"Have you found a treasure chest under the house?" His lips twist in a playful tease. He doesn't know what this is.

"Not exactly." I roll away.

His breath is on my neck. He says, "I saw Austin and Chrissy today on the bus."

"How are they?" I'm grateful he's changing the subject.

"They're expecting their third. Isn't that crazy? I still remember them hooking up at that Halloween party and now they're talking about kindergarten and—"

I'm crying. Evan strokes my hair and he's making that sound in his throat which means he wants to say something. I know he didn't mean it. He wasn't trying to hurt me. Evan says, "Have you had your reduced dose today?"

I snarl and almost bare my teeth at him. "Is that what I've been reduced to? An organism that just needs maintenance?"

Evan turns totally white. I never yell at him. I can't remember feeling this angry. I'm alive and powerful, but I'm also frightened, because I don't like Evan staring like he doesn't recognize me.

He looks at my bedside table. The pills aren't there. He army-crawls to my side of the bed, opens the drawer, prods at my blank journal, gel pens, and a few condoms that we haven't used for months. He looks at me. "Where are they?"

I can't lie. I'm feeling invincible. "I flushed them."

Evan covers his face. "Honey, you're setting yourself back. If you wanted to get off of them, we could have worked on this. Did you lie when you said you decreased your dose?"

"Not exactly. I just eliminated the dose altogether."

"Okay." Evan's voice is fainter than a whisper. "Let's go to sleep. We'll call Dr. Thatcher in the morning."

"I don't want to see him."

"And I don't want to see you like this."

"I'll get better. I promise."

"Sweetheart, it's not about you trying. This is a condition. You can't do anything about—"

The harmonica and the piano and the voices are chorusing again, peaking with my emotional waves.

"Stop it! Stop it!" I scream.

Evan plummets into a grieved silence. He grabs his cell phone and I know he's calling the 24-hour night nurse in Thatcher's office.

I want to die.

I lie down and stay perfectly still until he's finished the phone call. My skin feels sticky and itches so much I want to claw it off. I imagine that I'm the Lady of Shalott and I am drifting down the river on my flowered bier. Evan has fallen asleep with his hand on his phone.

My sweet silent husband. He works too hard all day to lie awake worrying at night. He lives in the normal world where night is a welcome rest, where food tastes real and lazy weekends without schedules dangle like tempting carrots.

This is my last chance. When Evan says we're going to the doctor, I can't refuse. Everything is related. I'm sure of it now.

Tonight it ends: the sounds, the box, and my mental hell.

***

On a theatrical whim, I retrieve the oblong container with my wedding dress from the upper shelf of our office closet and slip it on. It has a few creases along the bodice, but it gives me the courage I need.

I press the key so hard between my fingers, I bruise my thumb. The box on the mantle is either being courteous or just trying to play its best cards because the only sound tonight is my mother's voice coaxing me with suppressed anticipation across the floor, around the living room furniture, to the brink of the mantle, and then finally into the keyhole. I jam the key in the slot like a toddler learning hand-eye coordination.

I am about to turn it when I remember that there really might be something dangerous inside this thing, so I write Evan a message that I hope looks nothing like a suicide note.

You won't understand this, sweetheart, but I'm just opening our wedding present. Believe me, I'm doing this for both of us. I love you.

I fold the note and leave it under his water glass on the kitchen window sill. I breathe deeply and twist the key. The lock resists, then pops, and the lid flies open.

I'm knocked backward, still holding it, while a hot rushing wind pours over me. I see flaming skyscrapers, clashing swords, oozing sores, wild snarling teeth, and then I hear a deep roaring. It's like a level five hurricane is being born in my hands. The windows of the living room shatter and our picture frames crash to the ground. I hear Evan shouting from the bedroom and I try to close the box, but I can't.

It's wrenched out of my hands, and I'm falling into it.

***

When I wake up, I'm stretched out on our couch, covered with a quilt that I recognize from childhood picnics. I look up into Daddy's face. He and Evan stand over me, speaking in whispers. The shattered windows have been re-glassed. The voices are gone. The house creaks like a normal house. The sounds aren't coming back. I feel the certainty of this in my marrow and I almost cry with happiness.

Evan stands near me and I grab his hand. He squeezes back, hard, and brings his ear to my mouth. "I'm not touching another pill," I say. "I don't care what anyone says, especially Daddy."

Evan stares at me, and I feel him really seeing me and my heart for the first time in months, knowing what I need and loving me beyond the bounds of medical science. He nods.

Daddy begins, as if on cue. "We'll get a prescription to help you stabilize."

Evan puts a hand on Daddy's arm and leads him away.

A woman's voice trembles somewhere behind me. I recognize her from a picture on our fridge: Aunt Iris.

I have been unconscious long enough for someone to fly over from Italy.

"Pah-triss-ee-ah," she coos, trilling the r dramatically. She appraises me and seems pleased.

I say, "I couldn't help it. I opened it." I cough and that's when I notice the pain low in my gut. "What did I do?"

Iris shakes her head. At first I think she's dismayed, but her voice sounds more resigned than anything. "You've unleashed a curse on the world. More death, more disease." She smiles bitterly. "More of the same."

And then I see it. As black horror for my actions presses into me, I see a small flash of my future and something hot prickles deep in my abdomen and then I know for sure, just like I know the sounds are gone for good, no baby will ever survive my womb.

My throat tightens in a violent sob. The box has made sure I'm cursed, along with everyone else.

Evan returns and I grab his hand and crush it again. I must be hurting him, but he doesn't complain. Then I'm crying and they're all staring at me and even in the tsunami of my grief I think, I'd do it all again. For me. For Evan.

Evan says, "I told your dad that you need a rest from medications."

Daddy slouches onto the couch by my feet. He puts a hand on my knee and says, "There was a windstorm, but no one was hurt. Do you remember anything?"

He's going with the rational approach.

I wipe my eyes and look at Iris. We know what really happened. Everyone else will think my behavior was just withdrawal symptoms, that the curse was some natural disaster.

I answer without thinking. "I remember a harmonica, Mom crying, kids talking under the floor," I stop when I realize what I'm saying. Aunt Iris's eyes flicker with understanding. She's heard these things, too.

Evan kisses my forehead. I grab him and kiss him back. He jumps a little, surprised by my strength. As I fall back into the pillows, I feel finally ready to sleep through the night again.

Evan and Dad talk while Iris whispers to me. For all they know, she's telling me I've imagined everything, but she says, "I heard them, too. You're very brave. I almost opened it so many times."

I feel, in an off-kilter sort of way, that she's proud of me.

Iris says, "Do you want to see what was left?"

She sets the box in my lap. Paint curls off in strips and one of the hinges hangs twisted and broken. Long claw marks rake the inside. It smells of smoke and violence. It isn't heavy anymore.

"Look inside," Iris says. "It's empty. Well, almost."

I carefully raise the lid and I'm staring at the wooden floor of the box. Etched in burning letters, in my own handwriting, is a single word: Hope

Elise's latest novel is: "Moonlight and Oranges"

Find more information about Elise at: http://www.EliseStephens.com

Christopher Turkel

I began to write after my father gave me a copy of C.S. Lewis' _A Horse And His Boy_ at age thirteen. My first attempt at writing a story was a six page single spaced rip off of Narnia called Darnia. I was on my way. Writing is my only hobby and something I am either doing or thinking about doing. Interestingly enough the capital of that long lost nation of Darnia was called Xuelition and I used it as the capital of my nation, the Prakani Empire, in my novel _Ouroboros_.

This story began an an exercise for International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, an annual event every April 27th where authors post free short stories in their websites and since I don't write short stories very often I took it a challenge to write one and thus "The Return of the King" was born.

The Return Of the King

by Christopher Turkel

The summer the Catchotochk returned was also the summer Sener came. The Catchotochk had been gone for a couple of years and I had hoped, along with the rest of village, that it was finally gone for good. But one early summer evening, as I lay awake, looking at the moon as it hung above the pines out behind my father 's workshed, I heard it's distinctive call, a high pitched call like that of a rooster but much louder. It seemed to echo through the mountains. As a child, I had been scared of the strange beast but it never came into town. It just seemed to lurk in the forest for months, scaring off the mink and the foxes my father trapped and making the trip to the iron mines more dangerous. Then as suddenly as it came, it would leave.

But my attention, and that of the village, was on Sener. He was a strange one, that Sener. Of course in such a rural village as Holly was, anyone who was not born and raised here was considered strange but Sener was strange even by Holly standards.

I remembered when Sener first showed up, about three months ago, right after the last of the winter's snows had melted away. He had ridden a horse into town, which would have been enough to mark him as a noble or at least, well off, but his clothes, though dirty and stained, were of fine cut. No one had seen anyone like him before. He gave his name simply as "Sener", which pleased me since that was my grandfather's name and confusingly enough, the name of the Holly's mayor.

The mayor had accorded the welcome he would give a noble, though no one was sure exactly what Sener was. It was possible he was a runaway lord with the civil war going on, though the war was far away from Holly. No one bothered with a small village in the foothills of the Grey Mountains. No one in town even knew the name of the duke, or even what duchy we were in; East Midlands? East Essex? Did it really matter?

Sener lived in Hilda's hut on the outskirts of town, presumably helping the old hag with chores but no one asked him. He came into town now and then to get water from the well and seemed nice to everyone but didn't talk too much. Every few weeks he would vanish for a few weeks on his horse before finally returning.

I met Sener down by the well one summer morning. Sener was dressed in plain brown clothes that made him fit in better with the rest of the people though the way he carried himself would set still set him apart. Sener was lowering the bucket down, my own bucket placed at my feet. I came up to him and stood there, waiting my turn.

"Excuse me," Sener said.

"Yes?" I didn't exactly what to say. Maybe Sener was just trying to make small talk. If so, why did it feel so awkward?

"I thought all the men and boys worked in the mines."

"Oh, well, most of them, us, do, yes. Aigefan is a trader and Mayor Sener is a blacksmith. If there is a pot or pan in use, chances are he made or repaired it."

"And you?"

"I am apprenticing to my father. He's a trapper."

"This is Catchotochk. Does your father hunt it?"

I shook my head, "No. Sometimes the mayor will send out hunting parties but they never have been able to catch or kill it."

"Interesting." Sener tapped his pursed lips. The hauled the bucket of water up, "Thank you..."

"Wade."

"Thank you for the information, Wade."

I nodded, "You are welcome."

I watched as Sener took his bucket and walked away. I lowered my bucket down into the darkness. The water in the well came from Lake Hoarfrost, up above in the mines, in the Grey mountains. A stream flowed out of the lake, over a waterfall then a short distance later disappeared underground, flowing right under Holly before reemerging a few miles away down the valley. I had once climbed up to the shores of Lake Hoarfrost with my cousin Jimy, but there was nothing to be seen except the stillness of it. No trolls came down to far shore like grandpa said they used to.

My bucket was full. I pulled it up and returned to the house, wondering what Sener was doing at this moment.

#

"I talked to Sener while getting water." I announced at dinner. My father, a large man of few words raised his head.

"Oh?"

My mom didn't say a word. She just looked at my father.

"He asked about the Catchotochk."

My father grunted and returned his attention to eating. I weighed saying something else.

"He's welcome to it." My father said abruptly, "I don't think the mayor will give him any reward, though."

"Would it be better for business if the Catchotochk were killed?"

My dad shrugged again. "Even if it went away tomorrow, it's not the mink will return the next day. A predator like this scares them away for a while."

My mom frowned. Without being able to sell furs, times would be tough. Last time the Catchotochk came things got so bad my father considered working in the mines and me along with him. Luckily, we had had avoided that fate. Maybe we'll get lucky again.

"You should stay away from Sener." My mom said. "He's...strange."

"I'd say." My dad grunted.

"I will." I lied then resumed eating.

#

That night, I lay awake in my bed. I looked out the window to the moon lit forest beyond the backyard. The tall pines were silent sentinels, rising into the night. Beyond them in the darkness would be the Catchotochk. I could hear it's calls echo in the mountains that surrounded Holly on three sides. Higher up in the mountains lived trolls but I had only seen one at distance when I younger. I couldn't sleep so I just lay there, looking out the window, wondering about the Catchotochk and how long it would stay this time. All summer? One month like three years ago? Before the summer three years ago the Catchotochk hadn't appeared in five years. No one knew where the Catchotochk came from or why it came. To me it was baffling that it was just accepted for what it was.

I drifted off to sleep then woke up abruptly. I may have been a asleep only an hour. The Catchotochk was still out there, calling out. I turned my head and caught movement in our backyard. I got out of bed and looked closer. It was Sener, sword in hand, jogging into the forest. I watched him vanish and waited to see him return. The Catchotochk went silent. Did Sener kill it?

Sener didn't return, at least while I was awake though the sound of the Catchotochk did return before dawn. Maybe Sener had been killed by the Catchotochk. I knew the way rumors spread through Holly and it wouldn't be long before word got out.

#

I tried to find any excuse to go to the well and see if I could find Sener, but my mom and dad kept me busy at the house doing chores. I managed to sneak out but didn't see Sener at the well and I didn't dare ask anyone. At dinner, my parent's didn't mention anything so I just let it go, turning it over and over in my mind.

Three nights later, I got my answer when I spotted Sener once more heading in to the woods behind the house. I watched him vanish, listening to the wind in the trees and the call of the Catchotochk. The calls of the Catchotochk grew distant, as if it was running away from Sener. Then they went silent.

Two days later, I found Sener at the well. He looked more tired than I remembered seeing him. He didn't seem to notice me as he lowered his bucket down into the well. I put my bucket down. It was then he noticed me.

"Hello, Wade."

"Hello, Sener. How goes things?" Did I dare ask him about his late night forays into the forest? Turns out I didn't have to.

"Hello Wade. Mind if I ask you something?"

"No, go ahead."

"I have been trying to track down this Catchotochk but I don't know the woods here at all. Do you think your father would help me?"

"Maybe if you paid him." I said.

Sener tapped his pursed lips then said, "I am low on coin, that's why I work for my food and shelter. But does seems strange that something like this Catchotochk wouldn't be the cause of alarm here."

I shrugged, "I've wondered that too but it seems like the weather. It comes and goes. It is what it is. I once asked what duchy we were in and not even the mayor knew."

Sener thought for a moment, "East Midlands. Holly is too far north for East Essex."

"I never knew that."

I watched Sener pull up the bucket and set it down next to the well, "How about you? Would you willing to help me? I assume you know these woods?"

"I do." I said. "Not as well as my father, though. I don't think he'd let me help you, though. I could ask, if you want." Actually I wouldn't ask. I would just go help him. It wasn't hard to be excited by the prospect of hunting down the Catchotochk. Better than just sitting around waiting for it to leave on it's own.

"Why don't you ask him. It can't hurt matters. Oh by the way, can you use a sword?"

"Every male can. It's been a tradition since the founding of the kingdom."

"I'm surprised the tradition is kept here."

"You are? Why? Do they not keep it where you come from?"

Sener chuckled, "No, no. It's just Holly is so remote..."

"We have troll trouble sometimes." I snapped then caught myself, "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay, Wade. My apologies."

"My great grandfather served along side Harold the Conqueror. He and several of his friends from the army settled here to mine iron. In the past the town has been attacked by trolls but few are ever seen anymore."

"Interesting." Sener said, thinking, "The old hag awaits. Do let me know what your father says, okay?"

"I will."

#

I lay awake, listening as my parents went to bed and the house fell silent. I tied the laces of my shores together and hung them over my shoulder then went to my wardrobe, opening it and pushing aside clothes. Hanging on a peg in the back was my sword. I hadn't touched it a year. It was my very first sword, a short, light weight blade designed for cutting and slashing, more a defensive weapon. I took it out and bucked it on.

I briefly adjusted the sword belt as I crept through the dark house to the small back door and unlatched it, feeling the chill of the night air wash over me. It wasn't cold out but cool, dew already forming on the grass. I put on my shirt then went outside, closing the door behind me. The moon up was up and the sky clear. I could hear the Catchotochk in the distance. I put on my shoes and went to the edge of the woods and waited, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness then I just listened to the sounds of the night and waited. Would Sener show up?

I yawned. Looking back at the house I could see it was still dark, so no one had discovered I was gone. I leaned against the tree, feeling myself relaxing. I yawned again and heard someone coming toward me. I opened my eyes. It was Sener!

"Sener." I whispered.

Sener froze and raised his sword, leveling it at me then a moment later lowered. "Ah, Wade. You startled me. Good thing I paused before gutting you."

"Yes."

"So your father gave you permission to come out here?"

"Not really."

Sener nodded. "Okay then. I assume you know these woods."

"Yes."

"Lead on then, Wade. I'll follow you."

I drew myself and led Sener into the woods. I wasn't sure I liked being in the lead but soon the darkness of the woods enveloped me I concentrated on walking. Not too far away was the stream, a shallow, fast moving stream that had no name. Crossing it was easy, jump from one boulder to the next. Then onto the far shore.

The land on the other side of the stream was steep with large boulders. The pines drew closer but I knew my way. Over there was a deep cave that was home to a large number of bats, over there a pile of boulders I used to play in when I was younger.

The Catchotochk called out again ahead. I was pretty sure it was in a meadow up near the top of the hill, a circular opening the forest. If we continued this way, we'd arrive in a few minutes but going straight ahead wasn't going to work. I paused.

"What is wrong Wade?"

"Nothing. We'll go up Farmon's Gully and come around back of the clearing."

"Okay."

I moved in the darkness once more, around a giant boulder, waited for Sener. Then across a ditch and up a steep hill. The forest seemed to recede away from me. Then before I realized it we were in Farmon's Gully, a steep sided gash in the hill. I have no idea who Farmon was. Maybe I'll ask my father sometime.

Thinking of that reminded me about how angry he would be if found out I was out here. My father wasn't one to spank or beat someone. He had never done either to me my whole life but if I didn't come home before he woke up or worse, came back injured, I'm not sure he would able to check his temper.

I put those thoughts aside as I concentrated on hiking the increasingly steep gully. Somewhere off to the right would be the Catchotochk. My legs had just started to ache when we reached the top of the gully, which was a large flat area before another ridge rose. Sener was right behind me. I paused again.

"We'll go across this ridge then across another stream. This actually an old troll trail."

"Lead on."

I did following the trail. Up here the mink were easy to find, inhabiting the area around the stream. They sometimes came down the stream behind the house but were common up here. This was the first area my father and I hunted mink in the years when the Catchotochk wasn't around.

The call of the Catchotochk was louder now. Goosebumps ran up and down my arms. I shivered. We were getting closer. I slowed down our pace as we reached stream, which was narrow but deep and fast flowing. I looked it over.

"We'll have to jump."

"Okay."

I jumped, briefly panicking as my back feet missed the other side of the stream. Sener grabbed hold of me, steadying. "Thank you."

He nodded in the darkness. I led us on toward the Catchotochk.

#

There it was, the Catchotochk. We knelt behind a fallen log at the edge of the clearing the Catchotochk stood in. Having never seen it before I was struck by how much it looked a chicken, a tall thin house sized chicken. Instead of feathers there were scales which shone in the moon light and when it opened it's mouth I could see sharp fangs.

The Catchotochk just stood there with it's back to us, calling out, it's head swiveling from side to side. It was oddly mesmerizing, so much so I nearly jumped out of my skin when Sener touched my shoulder and gestured for me to follow him back.

"You sense it too, don't you?" He whispered into my ear.

I nodded.

"I think that's why no one in your village seemed to want to come after it. It's like it has some sort of hypnotic spell it radiates."

I nodded again. That perfect sense. It certainly made sense why my father would give up his livelihood waiting out the Catchotochk and why the presence of such a large animal nearby never really seemed to bother anyone until now.

"I have a plan. It is dangerous so if you want out, say so now."

I didn't hesitate in shaking my head.

"Okay. Here's the plan. You'll go back to the log while I circle around to the other side of the clearing. Once you see me, distract the Catchotochk and I'll attack."

"What if the Catchotochk comes after me?"

"I don't think it will but if does, run. I won't have any trouble finding you."

"Okay."

"Good, let do this."

I watched Sener move off to my left. I crept forward to the log, which I knelt behind, watching the Catchotochk. My heart began to race and my palms became sweaty. I wiped my sword hand several times as I scanned the darkness around the clearing, waiting. I saw movement ahead of me and to my left. I couldn't tell if was Sener or not. Maybe it was a deer. I took a deep breath and charged out, sword in hand,

The Catchotochk's head whipped around to me and it opened it's beak, letting out a shriek that was loud enough to wake all of Holly. No matter. I raised my sword, preparing to fend off whatever the giant beast had in store.

I heard someone let out a cry and a moment later the Catchotochk turned and it's head and moved off toward the other end of the clearing, letting out another shriek. I trotted after it, watching it move with surprising speed toward Sener, who swung at it, dodging the Catchotochk's bites. It was all happening so fast!

I reached the vicinity of the Catchotochk just as it kicked out, sending Sener flying backward.

"Sener!"

The Catchotochk whipped around to face me. I raised my sword, feeling hopeless as it moved fluidly toward me. I snapped out of it in time to run out of the way just as a clawed foot slammed into the ground next to me. I could feel it behind me as I ran.

Tripped and landed flat on my face, my sword flying out of my hand. I rolled on my back in time to see the Catchotochk over me, ready to strike the fatal blow with his toothy break. Closed my eyes and waited.

The Catchotochk let out another scream. I opened my eyes. Sener had stabbed it and bright red blood gushed out of a wound in it's side. I crawled forward and grabbed my sword as the Catchotochk whirled to face Sener, kicking out. Sener dodged, then dodged again. I grabbed my sword and got to my feet in time to see Sener dodge again, but not quite in time. The Catchotoch moved in for the final, killing blow.

I ran up behind the Catchotoch and stabbed futility, praying that I distracted the beast long enough for Sener to recover. I felt my sword penetrate between the Catchotoch's scales, cutting into bone and flesh. The Catchotoch shifted and I lost my grip on my sword.

Sener was there. He swung once, dodged the Catchotoch's stabbing beak then stabbed with his sword, driving in deeply into the Catchotoch's chest. The Catchotoch let out an unearthly scream then crumbled to the ground, death, blood pouring out from the wound Sener inflicted on it. I let out a long breath of relief. It was over.

Sener pulled his sword from the Catchotoch and trotted over to me. "Are you alright, Wade?"

I nodded.

Sener wiped sweat from his forehead. "You saved my life back there."

I didn't know what to say. It seemed like a fading dream now. I nodded.

"C'mon, let's get back to town."

#

Two weeks after the Catchotoch was killed, Sener left, probably for good. Summer turned into fall then came the long hard winter. Spring came at last and with it word that the the civil war had ended and there was a new king. Not long after that word spread throughout Holly that the new king was going to visit the town.

No king, no duke or even a housecarl had ever visited Holly. Doubtless no one would bother unless the iron ore stopped flowing, maybe not even then. Holly wasn't the only place in the kingdom that supplied iron. But still, it was exciting, a once in a lifetime event. I dressed in my best green tunic and tights and gathered with the rest of town by the well.

Soon the sound of horses could be heard, coming up the road. People staying point and whispering to each other. I strained to see but couldn't. Mayor Sener stood before the well in his best clothes of purple and gold, hands folded before him. I looked and saw why everyone was pointing and talking.

Atop a large brown warhorse sat Sener, garbed in green and white, the colors of the kingdom, long green cape flowing down his back. Flanking him where two housecarls and behind was a unit of ten men in armor and finally behind them were several wagons but all eyes were on Sener as he rode into town. Sener was the the new king! Words simply escaped me at that point.

Sener, rather King Sener and routine halted before mayor Sener. Sener dismounted as mayor Sener gave a deep bow, "Your majesty! An honor to welcome you to our humble village."

"Lord Mayor." Sener said, His voice loud enough for all gathered to hear, a powerful voice of royal authority. I shivered, "I am honored to return here. I have business to attend to."

"We are at your service, your majesty."

"Lord Mayor, the duke of East Essex perished during the war and left no heirs. I would be honored if you served in his stead as the new Duke of East Essex."

Mayor Sener paled, visibly dumbstruck. Finally he managed to sputter, "Of course, Sener, Sire, I will gladly serve."

"Excellent." King Sener said then turned to me, smiling gently. I bowed to him. "Wade, you saved my life. I cannot possibly repay that debt. However your courage is something that the kingdom should have in it's service. I would like you to return with me to my castle and become a housecarl. You shall ride at my side in battles to come. That is, if your parents say yes."

I looked at my mother who though teary eyed nodded her agreement. My father simply nodded his head once. I turned back to King Sener, "I would be honored!"

King Sener nodded at me then turned away, raising his hands speaking. "People of Holly! You sheltered me while I hid here from my enemies during the civil war. I put your village, your livelihoods and families in grave danger. I beg for your forgiveness! I have brought me food and drink for a great feast!"

There was a then a great cheering from the people around me, which I soon joined in. The cheers seemed to echo through the mountains around Holly for hours after.

Christopher's latest novel is: "Ouroboros"

Find more information about Christopher at: http://cturkel.wordpress.com/

Terry Persun

I have a strong interest in the physical sciences as well as the occult sciences, and have written my thoughts down from about third grade. That early exposure to having to be clear about my thinking helped a lot as I learned to write. After getting my BS, I quickly went into a writing field for technical magazines. I still wrote poetry and short stories—often science fiction or fantasy—but about that time started writing novels as well. The story below came from wondering what it would be like if we were responsible for our own universe. Totally responsible.

# Jeremy's World

by Terry Persun

Jeremy was as happy as the next person when they invented the Gift Box. You had to have some will power, some strong concentration capabilities to get one, but that was fine. It just made it that much more exclusive when you owned one. Being no fool, he had spent weeks building up his concentration levels by playing chess, reading difficult books, and memorizing lists of unrelated items. Hours a day were devoted to advancing his will power and concentration levels.

So, there was hardly any doubt when he took the test that he'd be allowed to buy a Gift Box. It amazed him, the amount of paperwork that had to be filled out and the list of disclaimers. He couldn't get a refund regardless what happened. The Gift Box manufacturer was literally not responsible for anything that happened or didn't happen once the box was sold and handed over to Jeremy. He could have used his life savings to purchase an empty box, and it would be too late.

"You forgot to sign something here." A woman sitting opposite him, behind a well polished, oak desk wouldn't let him miss one thing. "Did you read the warnings we mailed you?"

"Yes." The warnings consisted of about thirty pages of horror stories, many of which he'd heard on television. The lost arms and hands, the heat that delivered third degree burns, the children who had been swallowed up completely. Even missing people, adults. All attributed to the lack of concentration and will power over the box.

But Jeremy knew the benefits were just as grand, just as spectacular. He could have anything, literally anything that could fit through the entrance. The more valuable, the harder to get, but once you started using the box, as long as you didn't slack off on your concentration by getting too cocky, you could work up to anything. The whole idea was almost worth having one arm cut off at the elbow just for the chance.

Jeremy walked out with the Gift Box package inside a cardboard box held closed by heavy-duty tape. There was no turning back now. It had taken all his money and eight months of his time to get one, he had to get out of it what he put into it.

As when he went into the building that morning, protesters lifted their banners when he stepped into the lighted street in front of the Gift Box Company. The banners displayed such things as "Stop The Evil," "Don't Pull Out A Missing Hand," and "The Gruesome Gift Box." Bit it wasn't the signs that bothered Jeremy, it was the people. Most had missing limbs, hands, fingers, arms, some had bandages still wrapped around one hand. One man was missing both hands, completely, and one foot. He must have been desperate. It was a pitiful sight.

"Don't try it," they yelled. "Stop the evil." It preys on your darker side."

Jeremy walked through the crowd trying not to look at anyone. Almost to his car, he felt a stump on his shoulder and a man, a big man in a business suit, pulled him around. Jeremy stared into the man's eyes. Something far off, almost crazy, in the man's eyes slowly became sane.

"Don't try it. It eventually gets you. I had mine a month when it did this." The man stuck his stump in front of Jeremy.

Jeremy pulled back. "Get away. It's your own fault that happened. You made the mistake."

"Did we all make the mistake?" The man pointed to the crowd.

"There are as many or more who have not had problems, who are rich, never hungry," Jeremy yelled back.

The man leaned back and laughed. "All ready you're greedy in what you want. It'll take you piece by piece. It'll pull you apart inside and out."

"Not if I concentrate enough."

"Ha, even in the strongest concentration there is a trace of the mind that wanders."

"No!" Jeremy said. "I've practiced. I can do it." Then he turned and ran the few more feet to his car and got in.

He breathed heavily and locked all the doors. "They're wrong," he said. "That man was mad." He started the car, placed his hand on the Gift Box affectionately, and drove home.

He had sold his house and now rented a small apartment with one bedroom. A half-height counter separated the living room and kitchen. He walked into the apartment and sat the box on the coffee table. With a steak knife from the kitchen, he cut away the tape. Remembering the warning not to put his fingers into the Gift Box opening when he lifted it out of its container, Jeremy peered inside and easily located the open front. The box was one-foot cube and beige colored on all sides except the opening, which was black. The strength of the darkness seemed to suck light from the room.

Jeremy lifted the Gift Box up carefully and set it down facing him. He sat back on the couch and stared into the blackness. The box was hypnotic, calling him to come inside. Jeremy closed his eyes for a moment. The darkness behind his eyelids wasn't as black as the opening in the Gift Box. He started to lose track of time and snapped his eyes open again. The box had called to him, but he wouldn't go. Not yet. First, he wanted to get used to it. There was no rush. It was his now, forever. He'd prove that his will was stronger than its will by waiting, when the box became a normal part of his living, he'd try it. In the mean time, he would continue to practice his concentration. A combination of will power and concentration is what it took, and Jeremy was determined to be one of the winners, not the losers.

For the next month, Jeremy lived as he had before. Each morning and each evening he spent at least an hour looking at the box and being tempted to use it, but held himself back. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he awoke with a strong urge to use the box, and would go into the living room and sit in front of it, willing himself not to reach inside. When finally, it became just another object in his life, Jeremy decided to try it out.

His first attempt was for a small stone, simple enough. Sitting on the couch, Jeremy rubbed his hands together, he closed his eyes and pictured a stone, a sandstone like ones found almost anywhere. He reached inside the box, his eyes still closed. The temperature of his hand, then wrist, then forearm changed noticeably as he reached further inside. He waited, not losing the image of the stone. And he willed it to be placed into his hand. He waited only as long as he felt necessary and pulled his arm slowly from the Gift Box, not losing concentration, keeping the image in his mind.

He sat back and opened his eyes. A stone, just as he'd pictured it, lay in his hand. Jeremy laughed out loud and closed his hand over the stone. "This is perfect," he said.

His next experiment was an apple. He was very low on cash, and food had become short. Apples were expensive since only half the orchards were still in operation compared to five years previous, and each year the shortage grew worse. So, an apple it was. Again, Jeremy completed the image in his mind first, then, slowly reached into the box. He was getting the hang of willing things to become real, and when he pulled his arm clear of the Gift Box, a shiny red apple sat upon his palm.

Jeremy set the apple on the table next to the box and admired it. One more try, he thought. Three was enough for the first day. He was anxious, his palms sweating. Then he thought of his hands. He'd been using his right hand and he was right handed. If he lost a hand, it should be the left one. He reached out towards the box with his left hand, then just short of the entrance, pulled back. Doubt had entered into his mind, doubt of his own ability to will what he wanted. It was too late. The thoughts had entered his mind.

Jeremy stood up and walked away from the box. That was enough. The smallest trace of fear would be too much. The box would read it and use it against him.

Jeremy stood holding his wrist as though the amputation had already taken place. He turned and looked at the box, anger boiling up inside him. He stared at the box and rubbed his wrist. It could have been gone he thought. The merciless box. Jeremy stepped closer and kicked the box off the coffee table. It flew up and rolled along the couch seat, landing over the corner of the end cushion.

Jeremy went over and by grabbing the sides of the box lifted it. The corner of the cushion was gone. Stuffing fell from a severed edge. Jeremy automatically turned the box to look inside, but it was only black, a complete darkness, ominous, and calling to him.

He set the box down and walked away from it. He'd practice again later. But now that he'd seen what the box could do, he'd be more cautious.

In another three months, Jeremy was pulling all his food from the box. He'd grocery shop, pulling one item at a time from the unit. He moved it onto the kitchen table so it'd be more accessible. He became able to recognize when his will power weakened, and would stop. And as he grew confident, he began to pull out complex items such as sandwiches and TV dinners. As long as the things he chose were easy enough to come by anyhow, the box delivered.

As time went on, Jeremy pulled out watches, shoes, clothes, and a rubber seal when his water faucet needed repaired. He was working up to precious stones and one day began with a semiprecious ruby. When it worked, he danced around the room like a crazy man. He would have everything. Nothing was beyond him now. He'd be rich and happy.

But happiness didn't come with the clothes and food and jewels. What Jeremy finally needed was something much more complex in its makeup. People. But he had to get better, first. He had to practice.

Jeremy did practice. Every day, for hours, he sat at the table and pulled item after item from the box. For several days he worked with both hands, plunging them into the darkness, concentrating, willing, and then pulling out hands full of jewelry, food, all sorts of trinkets, each one seen inside his mind, each one just as he'd willed it.

And eventually, he tried a living thing. One evening when he was ready, he tried for a rabbit, a small rabbit with one black and one white ear. He'd remembered seeing one like it once, and it was the easiest to bring to mind.

He reached inside the box. He waited. Suddenly, he felt fur on his hands, and something squirming. Slowly, he removed his hand. The squirming grew noticeably violent. But no animal wants to be picked up, least of all a timid rabbit. Then, suddenly, the movement stopped. Jeremy opened his eyes. He had cleared the box entrance, but the rabbit lay limp in his hands. The rabbit he had created, one black and one white ear, it was dead. He laid it down on the table and tried again. The same thing happened. Inside the box the animal lived, outside, it died.

Jeremy paced the floor thinking. He walked back to the box after a while and tried again with a gerbil. The same thing happened. It confused him. The thing was in there, he felt it. He tried a fourth time, using both hands, so he could feel the size and shape of the animal. Again, he pulled out a limp furry gerbil, freshly dead.

Jeremy threw the corpses away. He sat on the couch and cried. He had killed the animals by willing them into life. He created them only to have them die and he felt guilty for killing them. The experiment also meant that he couldn't bring a living thing into this world from the world of the box.

He went to bed that night wishing he could crawl inside the box himself, just an hour or so a day, so he could play with the animals, talk to some people who didn't intimidate him.

It was 3:30 a.m. when Jeremy sat bolt upright in his bed. The box called to him. He had seen it in his dream, and along with it, the answer to his problem. It was so simple. He jumped from the bed and stumbled as he tried to get his tired legs to respond. He went into the living room and stood for a moment looking into the kitchen at the Gift Box. In the darkness of the apartment, the black entrance of the Gift Box stood out like a beacon to Hell. The thought crossed his mind only for a second, before the answer snapped back in place for him. The answer to his loneliness and his future.

He slowly walked up to the box, then reached up, and flipped on the kitchen light. He sat down, his hands sweating and his lips vibrating with the excitement and thrill of what he was about to do.

Jeremy stood, pushing the chair out of his way, to the side. He bent and reached inside the box with both hands. He backed up, pulling as he stepped. When he was about seven feet away from the box and the table, he opened his eyes. A duplicate box six, feet long and just less than a foot wide was in his hands. He set it on the floor and pushed it against one wall. Then he reached inside, grabbed two handles, and like pulling out a dresser drawer, slid back another seven feet. He now had a Gift Box over six feet wide and over six feet high. He lifted it and leaned it against another wall. He stood back and stared at the black space, calling out to him, now from his dreams and his life. He wanted to step inside, to play with the rabbits and gerbils he'd let die, to recreate them, bring them back to life, but he just stood. His powers of concentration and will had grown so strongly that he was able to fight the pressure of the box, the call of the box, which had grown tenfold along with its size. He could feel it pulling at him, but did not move.

When it became easy to withstand the thought of going inside, then he would go. And only for a short while at first. He was proud of what he'd done. Few others had been able to control themselves well enough to benefit from the Gift Box, and he was positive, although he couldn't have known, that only he found its true measure of power, the power he would use to create his own world. He would become like god, "in his image." When he was ready, he would create Jeremy's world.

The smaller box had lost its ability to create. It was still black inside, but was now empty. The long, skinny box, too, was useless, so Jeremy took both of them and deposited them inside the large box. He began using the large box as he had the smaller one. He stood in front of it and closed his eyes and reached in. He felt a tugging, but by concentrating on willing it away, it stopped and he was able to remove food or jewelry, whatever he wanted, just as he'd done with the smaller box. One time he almost fell inside the box, so after that he sat on a chair and reached inside. He thought of building a railing, but that was ridiculous, because soon he'd be stepping inside.

The time came in a few short weeks where the large box had become the routine for Jeremy. He never left the apartment, which is the way he wanted it. No one could ridicule or harm him. He didn't have to see street people and beggars. He had accomplished one important feat, and that was to isolate himself from all the bad in the world. In his world, Jeremy's world, there would be no bad.

It was time, and he stood in front of the box. He concentrated on a room with one sofa and a woman. He would go inside, talk to the woman for a few minutes, then leave. Tomorrow, the same routine until he got comfortable. Then, little by little, he'd create a perfect, peaceful world.

Jeremy had honed his will power to a fine art, and when he stepped inside, besides feeling an odd stuffiness in the air, everything was as he'd willed. A woman sat across from him on a sofa like the one in his apartment, exposed stuffing and all. "Hi," she said, "do you want to talk?"

"Yes," Jeremy was slightly nervous, he hadn't thought of what they'd talk about and needed to concentrate a little harder on the conversation without losing the room.

The woman opened her mouth when Jeremy sat down. "Glig blah, put norb itsoo."

Jeremy listened, his thoughts weren't clear. He sat back and closed his eyes.

"So, how's the weather today?" she said.

Jeremy opened his eyes. "Fine."

"And do you have plans, or can you stay and talk for a while?" The woman spoke slowly, one word at a time while Jeremy thought of them. Nonetheless, things were going fine until a man opened the door and stepped inside.

The door? Jeremy hadn't made a door.

The man had a drink in his hand and walked over to the two of them sitting on the couch. "Don't look so alarmed," he said slowly to Jeremy. "I'm created too. You're doing this."

"No," Jeremy said.

"Sure, you're talking to yourself. Haven't you ever done that before?"

"Sure I have, but not now. This is my world."

"And a lot goes on inside a man's mind, subconsciously." The man spoke more clearly, faster as he went along. "There you go, let it out. Now that you're here, let's create your world."

"I can't stay," Jeremy said. "I only have a few minutes." He could feel himself tiring. It was time to go. He stood and concentrated for the man, his subconscious self, to vanish. In a flash the man was gone, and the glass he was holding fell to the floor and shattered. The shock jolted Jeremy and when he turned to look at the woman, she lay across the couch, with parts of her face and body gone.

"No!" Jeremy closed his eyes, concentrated, then opened them again. His palms were sweating, sweat beaded up along his brow. When he opened his eyes, she was back to normal, but not moving. He turned; it was time to go. He took a step and the wall moved away from him, another step, and the wall was further away. Jeremy took several steps and was no closer to the wall. He turned around and the woman on the sofa was further from him. The room had expanded in size. He concentrated, willed the wall to stand firm. This time when he stepped, the wall remained. Several steps and he walked through the wall and into his apartment. He went straight to his own sofa and sat down. He didn't feel right, something was still wrong. Jeremy had his face in his hands trying to relax, trying to think, when he realized the kitchen wasn't right. He looked up. The kitchen was only half there, like a still life painting, hazy around the edges. He wasn't home. The kitchen began to disappear. The front door opened. The man from inside the box entered. "So, you're still here." He spoke clearly. Jeremy didn't understand.

"It's easy to explain," the man said. "As you fatigue or relax, your subconscious takes over." The man smiled. "You're getting tired."

"No I'm not. I can get rid of you," Jeremy said.

"Not if I show you this," and the man lifted his one arm. The hand was missing, blood dripped from the stub.

"No," Jeremy closed his eyes.

"Can't concentrate while you're scared?"

"I can." Jeremy thought, relaxed the best he could, and when he opened his eyes, the man was gone.

Jeremy willed away the kitchen and bedroom. He didn't need them and the extra energy it took to keep them there wasn't worth it. He had to get out of the box.

He walked over to the Gift Box still standing against one wall. He hadn't willed it away. Instead of placing his hand inside the box, Jeremy held out his hand and willed an apple. Slowly, it appeared before his eyes. When he had the apple, he let the box disappear. As it faded so did the rest of the furniture until he was back in the plain room with the one sofa. He didn't create the woman. He wanted to think. He could think and maintain the simple room at once. He sat down. He knew where he'd entered, but he couldn't get out there. But the room had expanded. Now, it was back to normal. If he tried now, maybe it would work. Maybe in the expanded room he overshot the box.

Jeremy stood, concentrated, and walked forward. Again, he stepped inside his apartment. He looked around. It was perfect. He willed the kitchen away, and it vanished.

In a split second of self-doubt, Jeremy's subconscious appeared. "There we are again," he said.

When Jeremy got rid of him, he returned to the plain room with one sofa. He was sweating hard. His subconscious walked into the room with a woman. Not the woman Jeremy had created earlier, but another one. "Who's that?"

"Another part of your subconscious," the man said. "Yes," he answered Jeremy's unspoken question, "there are many of us. All aspects of your own personality."

Jeremy sat down. Two other people entered the room. They all seemed to have drinks in their hands. "Why are you drinking?" He was easing up, tiring. More people entered the room.

"We're celebrating."

"About what?"  
"Being let go," one of them said.

"But this is my world." Jeremy stood in defiance. Several of the people, the weaker parts of his personality, and subconscious disappeared.

"You can't do it anymore. You're too weak." They all started laughing. More of him came in.

Jeremy sat back down. He had to conserve his strength. He had to take over again. He put his face in his hands. The room quieted. Cautiously, he lifted his head. Demons, ghouls, animals, even people with grotesque mutations stood around him. He screamed and closed his eyes again.

"We don't have to be human. You're not sometimes." He heard his subconscious say."

"Go away."

"No, Jeremy, we're here now and we're here forever. It's your world Jeremy, your world. Only made up of you." They all started to laugh and grunt and howl.

Jeremy tucked himself into a ball, the fetal position, on the couch. His eyes closed and he relaxed. Let them cackle and scream. He needed rest and maybe, after a long rest, he could will them away, have peace for a little while. Was that his future? To live with himself?

The howling and cackling continued even louder as he tried to rest. There would be no sleep, but maybe enough rest for him to rejuvenate. Maybe not, though, he thought. He had entered the hell of himself, and he could see no chance of escape.

_This story was originally published in "Starsong"_ magazine.

Terry's latest novel is: "Revision 7:DNA"

Find more information about Terry at: www.TerryPersun.com

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If you enjoyed any of these stories, pleas look up the authors and see what else they have available. Here are their sites again:

Field of Yellow Poppies...Nicole J. Persun...http://www.NicoleJPersun.com

The Loneliness of Left Field...alex kimmell... http://www.alexkimmel.weebly.com

Taking Care of Things...Susan Wingate...http://www.SusanWingate.com

As Yet Undecided...Steven Luna...http://www.JoeVampire.Blogspot.com

Pandora...Elise Stephens... http://www.EliseStephens.com

The Return of the King...Christopher Turkel... http://cturkel.wordpress.com/

Jeremy's World...Terry Persun...http://www.TerryPersun.com

