 
Dead Key Publishing

Annual Anthology #1

Copyright 2015

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Table of Contents

Becky Bolinger

Pompeii

The Other Earth

About Becky Bolinger

J.R. Hamilton

The Old Dude

Speed Demon

About J.R. Hamilton

Angela Perea

Agitation

Gentle Persuasion

About Angela Perea

Cher Smith

Extinguish

The Swing

About Cher Smith

Stephen W. Smith

A Working Vacation

November's Child

About Stephen W. Smith

Chandré Toye

Welcome to the Dollhouse

Dead Key

About Chandré Toye

Cody Toye

Jimmy

Upon the November Moon

About Cody Toye

About Dead Key Publishing
Pompeii

By Becky Bolinger

Aurora smiled as she looked out her bedroom window. It was going to be a beautiful day. She ran across her room and grabbed her brush, stroking it through her hair hurriedly. She then bounded down the hallway to find her mother in the kitchen.

"Mother," she said, kissing her mother's cheek.

Her mom glanced at her before returning to her preparations of cooking the evening meal. "You're not going to see him again. I forbid it."

Aurora stared at her mother for a moment. Quietly she said, "You forbid it." She nodded, taking a grape from a fruit bowl and repeated, "You forbid it. Well, how would you feel if I told you that I refuse to marry Julius?"

Her mother laughed as she put a loaf of bread in the oven. "It doesn't matter if you refuse. You are promised to the man, and that is the way life is. Besides, Julius is a fine young man. He has much to give—"

Aurora was already gone. She giggled as she ran toward the amphitheater. Today was the day she would help Virgil escape, and they would run away together. Maybe they would even go to Rome. She didn't care what her mother said. She could never be with Julius. The only thing he cared about was his fortune.

She made it to the amphitheater just in time to see Virgil emerge in the center arena. The crowds cheered, and Aurora smiled proudly. Virgil looked up at her and gave her an almost imperceptible smile. But she had seen it. Yes, today was definitely the day.

A huge rumbling sound suddenly emerged from the ominous mountain to the north. Aurora glanced nervously at the mountain. It gave her a shudder. Her friends would always laugh at her for the dark premonitions the mountain gave her. But she knew this was not a mountain of the gods; it was a demonic place.

She turned her attention back to Virgil, who was fighting the fat ugly gladiator, Marcus. She smirked. _The least they could do is give Virgil a challenge_. Virgil was amazing. Blonde hair framed his beautiful face, and he had the body of a god. Who cared if he was a poor slave? To Aurora, he was perfect.

Suddenly, the rumble returned and caused the amphitheater to shake on its foundation. People looked up nervously at the mountain. Virgil and Marcus stopped fighting to watch. The mountain almost seemed to be moving. Aurora sucked in a breath.

The mountain seemed to suddenly explode. People gasped in shock as a black cloud emerged from the mountain and spread throughout the sky, blocking out the sun. It looked a lot like a thundercloud, but to Aurora's horror, it started raining rocks. People started screaming and ran for cover.

Aurora made it to the ground level of the amphitheater and found Virgil. "Virgil!" she screamed, collapsing in his arms.

He hugged her to his side and kissed her on the forehead. "Aurora, are you all right? You're not hurt, are you?"

"She's fine!" replied a firm voice.

Virgil and Aurora turned to see Julius standing behind them. Julius grabbed Aurora by the arm and yanked her away. "Thank you for your concern, _slave_ , but I have control of the situation now."

Aurora turned to give Virgil a longing look as her fiancé dragged her away. As she turned around, she noticed they were heading for the main street.

She jerked to a halt. "Julius, we can't go out there. We'll be pummeled by stones!"

"I should think that would be quite fair. A lot of women who commit adultery are punished by death. You should be grateful." Julius started walking again, dragging Aurora behind him. "And a slave, nonetheless. A slave! You're a spoiled girl, why would you want a slave who has nothing to give you?"

Aurora only half-listened, trying to protect herself from the falling rock. Was Julius even aware of what was going on?

A woman ran out of the bakery, screaming. She crossed in front of Julius and Aurora.

"And what is it with these people?!" Julius said in an exasperated tone. "Haven't they ever seen rocks before?"

The woman almost made it across the street when an unusually large stone struck her in the forehead. She fell to the ground, her face already covered in blood. Aurora shrieked in horror.

"Hmm." Julius yanked Aurora in a different direction. "Better take you to my home, since it's closer."

* * *

Aurora lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the falling rocks. She was desperately worried about Virgil. She just had a bad feeling about the whole situation. _I mean, falling rocks! What does it mean?_

Nobody else seemed that worried about it. They just stayed in their homes, like it was a normal rainfall.

Aurora tried to keep herself from crying. She couldn't get the picture of the woman out of her head. The rock had seemed to come out of nowhere. How many other people had died like that today? When were the rocks going to stop falling? How many more people would die?

Aurora slowly got out of bed and crept out of the room. Julius snored softly in the adjacent room. She didn't know if he was a light sleeper, so she tiptoed as quietly as possible to the front door.

She had to find Virgil. They had to get out of town. She had a creepy feeling. Sure, the rocks were creepy. But, she had a suspicion that something even worse was going to happen.

She frowned as she stepped outside. Two things struck her as odd. The first was how unusually warm it was out here. Well, it was the end of summer, but the heat was almost unbearable, and the sun wasn't even out. That was the other thing that struck her as odd. Her internal clock told her that it was probably after dawn. Yet it was still very dark outside. She looked up. Instead of seeing a starry sky, she saw a huge cloud, hovering close to the ground.

Was she dreaming?

Small rocks still showered from the cloud. She shielded her head with her hands as she ran toward the Gladiator Barracks. She passed the Temple of Isis and hesitated. Maybe she should go inside and say a prayer first. She looked in the direction of the mountain. It seemed to whisper to her that there was not a lot of time. She continued running.

"Virgil!" she hissed, as she reached the barracks.

"Over here, Aurora!"

She ran in the direction of his voice and almost tripped over him. She looked down to see his face bruised and bloody.

"Virgil, what in the gods' names has happened to you?!"

"The rocks," he whispered. "They leave us out here all chained up, and don't bother to give us any sort of shelter."

Aurora smiled devilishly at him. "You won't be here for long," she said in a sing-song voice as she retrieved a key from her clothing.

"Aurora, where did you get that? You could be hanged for stealing that!"

"Never mind the formalities," she hissed, making sure that none of the other slaves had seen her with the key. She couldn't afford to free anyone else. But, the other gladiators were too busy sheltering themselves from the rocks to pay attention to her.

Suddenly a hand clamped down on Aurora's shoulder. "How did I know that I would find you here?!"

Aurora turned to see Julius glaring down at her. "You shall pay dearly this time," he said, in a dangerously low voice. He didn't notice that Virgil had unlocked the chains that bound him.

Virgil grabbed Julius around the throat, pulling him away from Aurora. Julius tried to fight, but was no match against the incredible strength of a gladiator.

Aurora grabbed the chains and quickly locked them around Julius's wrists. Virgil let go of Julius, and laughed as Julius writhed and yelled.

"Woman!" he spat. "When I find you, I will make you regret ever looking at another man. And you, slave, will be put to death...by me!"

Aurora snickered and kicked her fiancé in the side. "See if you can find me first!"

Then Virgil and Aurora were gone. Julius put his head in his hands, not noticing that the mountain to the north had grown quite a bit larger.

* * *

"We can head to the port of Stabiae!" Virgil said. He held Aurora's hand as they ran through the streets. "I know someone there who will take us to Herculaneum. We'll be free after that. Then we can go anywhere you want to go."

"I don't care where I go, as long as I'm with you," Aurora replied.

A large rumble from the mountain caused the earth to shake beneath their feet. Aurora lost her balance and fell to the ground.

Virgil knelt to the ground to help her up. "Are you all right?"

Aurora ignored him. Her eyes grew wide as she stared up at the mountain. Virgil followed her terrified gaze and stared at the trembling mountain.

"What is going on?" he whispered.

The mountain seemed to explode again, just like it had done during the gladiator fight the day before. But this time, it was not a cloud that shot into the sky. Aurora thought dreadfully of the apocalypse as she watched the flames shoot out of the summit.

Virgil finally lifted Aurora off the ground. "I have a feeling that we need to get into the Bay of Naples as fast as we can."

Aurora nodded in agreement. "I knew it. Nobody believed me, but I knew that it was a cursed mountain."

"Who cares?!" Virgil cried. "Let's just get out of here before it sends us to the afterlife!"

The heat that the cloud had given off was still very intense, and Aurora started to sweat. "I don't know if I can run all the way to the port," she said, breathless. The air was almost impossible to breathe

Virgil covered his mouth and nose, trying to keep from coughing. "You can't give up now, Aurora. We can make it."

As red-hot goo started to flow down the side of the mountain, the townspeople started to fear for their lives. People started running frantically down the streets, planning to get out of town. Families were packing up their belongings and heading away from the mountain, or toward the port.

The flames were heading straight for the town. Aurora guessed that they would arrive in only a few minutes. Aurora momentarily thought of her mother and father, wondering if they would make it out of the town alive.

The port of Stabiae was in sight. Virgil and Aurora ran faster, just barely ahead of the rest of the crowd. Screams suddenly ripped through the town. Aurora turned to see the houses covered in ash and fire. People were being engulfed by the flames as they tried to find safety. The fire seemed to flow like a river. It flowed at a rapid speed, faster than anyone could run. The river was now heading toward the port.

Aurora turned back around and ran faster. They were about 20 feet from the boats. Already, there were boats leaving the port. The boats still anchored were filled with people. As she ran, the people waved to her, coaxing her to run faster.

People directly behind her started screaming. She could smell the sulfur in the air. She could feel the heat from the cloud, and from the river of fire. She knew she could not turn around, for it would slow her down.

She made it to the closest boat and jumped on. She hadn't noticed that Virgil was no longer beside her. As the boat floated away from the docks she looked over at the shore. "Virgil!" she cried.

Virgil had tripped and was just getting up. He shot Aurora a panicked look. He saw another boat nearby and tried to reach it. But the flames were faster. The river of fire engulfed the shores and stopped at the water.

"Virgil!" Aurora screamed. She could only see the outline of his body, now covered in ash. His body remained frozen in time, his arms outreached in a futile attempt to save his life.

Aurora couldn't believe it. She was never going to see Virgil again. He was gone. She decided she would go to Rome anyway. She would live her life to the fullest, in the memory of her gladiator.

* * *

"I found another one!" Jim yelled.

The other archaeologists ran to join him.

It was a clear beautiful day in the city of Pompeii. Jim looked around, waiting for his coworkers to pour the liquid into the hollow portion of the ash. When this was finished, they would chip away the ash to reveal a body cavity. It would show how someone died nearly 2000 years ago.

He looked north, to see Mt. Vesuvius leaning over the town. It was amazing to think that the people of Pompeii never even knew it was a volcano. They probably didn't even know what was happening until the last moment.

"Jim, look at this."

Jim turned around trying to contain his excitement. It was almost like a beautiful piece of artwork. The man had been strong, but not strong enough to endure the disaster that had struck. His arms were outstretched. He had almost made it to the boats. He had almost made it out alive. Now, all that remained was a mere shadow, along with 2,000 others who had died on August 24, 79 AD.

The Other Earth

By Becky Bolinger

Monday

Ever since she was a little girl, Lucy believed in fate. Coincidence didn't exist. Everything happened for a reason.

Lucy could look back on her life and see all that fate had given her.

In second grade, on a whim, Lucy had shoved a little first grade boy into the mud. She had been suspended from school for two days and had to miss the class field trip to the zoo. On the way to the zoo, a semi hit the school bus, killing three people and injuring ten.

When Lucy was eleven, her father's company transferred him halfway across the country into Kansas. She didn't talk to her dad for several months after the move. At her new middle school, she met a teacher who shared with her his passion for animals. Fifteen years later she had her degree and worked in a veterinary hospital.

Three years ago Lucy's car ran out of gas. She had been late for work and had decided that she didn't have time to stop at the 7-Eleven on the way there. Four miles later and she was stranded on the highway. The man who stopped to help her, drove her to work, then asked for her phone number. They were married a year later.

Fate had always been with her and had shaped the life that she had.

She always believed this and never had any doubts.

Until the week of her twenty-seventh birthday.

"—due to the accident, traffic on Interstate-70 is very sluggish on this Monday morning. Find another route on your way to work! Back to you, Valerie."

"Thanks, Tom...Well, with the large amounts of traffic we see every morning, you might decide that purchasing land on another planet is an appealing idea. Scientists have discovered that this notion is not as far-fetched as we think."

"That's right, Valerie. I'm here with Dr. Arnold Hughes, an astronomer with NASA. Dr. Hughes, tell us what you and your colleagues have discovered over the past few months."

"For several years, my colleagues and I have been researching stars, located in our galaxy, to find other solar systems and planets similar to ours. We recently discovered a star, similar in size to our sun. We have found that eight planets orbit this star. The solar system is 124 light years from Earth."

"Doctor, how many solar systems have been discovered thus far?"

"Many planets have already been discovered, and we've only recently broadened our research to study entire solar systems."

"What makes the discovery of this solar system so interesting?"

"Through our research, we have found that the third planet is capable of sustaining life. We are unsure as to whether this planet is already inhabited, but that is a possibility. This planet is approximately the size of our Earth, contains water, and is in a habitable zone, being as far away from its star as Earth is away from the sun."

"We'll have more on this story at five o'clock. Valerie?"

"Thanks, Bill. What an amazing discovery. Stocks this morning are—"

Lucy hit the power button on the television and dashed out of the house.

* * *

"This far away planet—capable of sustaining life—do you have any idea of what it really is, Lucy?"

Lucy narrowed her eyes as she stared deep into the ear of Harry Trusker's tabby cat. The cat's tail thumped wildly on the sterile countertop, and Lucy could hear a low rumble of anger coming from the pit of the cat's stomach.

"Harry, turn Mulder toward you. Let him see you. He keeps looking like he's going to bite my hand off."

Harry grabbed the cat and swiveled it around. The cat responded with a vehement hiss.

"So, this planet," Lucy muttered, staring into the other ear. "What is it really?"

Harry leaned forward, so as not to let anyone else in on the top secret information. "That planet _is_ Earth."

Lucy raised her eyebrows. Harry had always seemed to be the paranoid, wacko type. The older he got (65 now) the worse it became. The other doctors in the clinic always complained about him, and so Lucy, being the newest and youngest doctor in the clinic, was stuck with him. "What do you mean?"

Eyes darting around in all directions, he leaned in closer. "My son works for the Jet Propulsion Laboratory out in Pasadena. He was tellin' me what they know about this solar system they've found." His voice lowered. "Third planet has water. Last four planets are gas giants! That's our solar system we're lookin' at out there."

Lucy frowned and took her attention off Mulder the Tabby. "But they said there's only eight planets. Ours has nine."

"There's the kicker!" Harry shouted, clapping his hands together and causing Lucy to jump. "My boy says that the technology they have to search for planets can only find planets that are about the size of Mercury or bigger. _Pluto is smaller than that!_ "

Lucy looked back down at Mulder and began running her fingers along the cat's sides. "What are you saying, Harry?"

Harry smiled, a broad smile that revealed several gold caps and caused hundreds of wrinkles to spring up around his mouth and cheeks. "It's an alternate universe."

Alternate universes. Lucy grinned at the idea. Her grin slowly broadened. Harry nodded his head, as if he knew she had just had her eyes opened to the real future. Lucy nodded back.

"That's pretty amazing, Harry."

"Just think...there could be a-whole-nother you just runnin' around. In a world where JFK was never assassinated...Roswell is some unknown town and instead aliens landed in Ruidoso, New Mexico." Harry's smile transformed into a grimace. "A world without X-Files...Star Trek..." He shuddered.

Lucy finished her exam of Mulder and walked Harry out of the exam room. "Mulder's in as good a shape as ever. We'll see you around, Harry."

Lucy waved happily until the old man was out of sight.

"The guy is a lunatic!" she cried.

"Well, if you'd stop humoring him he wouldn't be coming in every week to have Mulder checked." Dr. Ana Lopez scolded. "It's your fault, you know. You're just too nice."

"And that's such a crime," Lucy shot back.

"So, what was it this time?" Ana asked as she watched Lucy resterilize the counter in the exam room. "Mass hysteria? Little green men? Vampires?"

"Alternate universes."

Ana laughed. "That's a new one." After a pause she asked, "So, how's Brian doing?"

Lucy rolled her eyes. "He's driving me crazy, spending all his time planning this birthday party for me."

"That's so sweet! My husband can't even remember which month my birthday is in."

"Brian just does too much. And he does it even though he knows I hate parties. But at least he remembers my birthday. And he buys me really nice stuff, too. Plus he paid for my sister to fly in for the weekend. I guess it won't be too bad."

"Doctors! We need you!" The cry came from the waiting room.

Ana and Lucy exchanged looks and ran out of the exam room.

Through the doors, Lucy could hear screaming. She pushed open the doors to find a little girl pinned beneath a Rottweiler.

Lucy turned to Ana. "I'll get the dog! You get the tranquilizer."

Ana disappeared behind the doors, and Lucy ran into the waiting room. The little girl screamed, her shiny blonde hair turning red.

"Oh God," Lucy whispered.

It appeared the dog had bit the girl in the face. Lucy was amazed the girl was still conscious, considering the dog's mouth was as big as the girl's face.

Lucy threw a panicked look back at the double doors. She couldn't wait for Ana any longer. She ran over and wrapped both her arms around the dog's neck.

"Get your hands off Buster! You'll hurt him!"

Lucy didn't even have time to feel anger over these ignorant words. One moment she was on top of the dog. The next moment the dog was on top of her.

Two more images flashed in her head.

The dog had opened its wide mouth again. Saliva and blood dripped out, falling onto Lucy's cheeks. The dog leaned in.

She could see Ana running into the waiting room. Why was she running so slowly?

Lucy's mind went blank.

Tuesday

Colors swirled.

Voices echoed.

Lucy awoke with a start. Stark, white walls surrounded her. The white was only interrupted by a window, a small television mounted near the ceiling...and a man sitting in a chair next to her bed.

"How are you feeling?" the man asked. His voice sounded calm and quiet, but his eyes were filled with excitement.

"Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital. I was so worried about you, Lucy. The doctors don't even know what happened to you." The look of happiness spread over his face, and he grabbed Lucy's hand.

Lucy forced a smile in return, but inside all she could feel was terror. She had no idea who this man was. She had never seen him before in her life.

Could she possibly have amnesia?

No, not a chance. She could remember her parents, her friends, her husband. Where was her husband? She could remember her job, her favorite movies—even her license plate number.

And she remembered the dog. She could smell the dog's breath, feel his paws pinning her to the ground. He had leaned in...

Her hands flew to her face and neck. "Was I bitten?"

The man shook his head. "Apparently that dog was going right for your neck. But someone pulled him off you just before that happened. Thank God." He gave a small laugh. "What exactly were you thinking when you grabbed that dog from behind? You know you have a weak heart."

Lucy frowned. "No, I don't."

The man lost his smile. "I better call a nurse. Let them know that you're awake." He pushed a button near her bed.

Lucy studied his face for a moment. The clinic she worked at only had one male vet, and this wasn't him. Maybe he was a janitor, or maybe he worked in administration.

"Do you work at the clinic?" she finally asked him.

All the happiness and excitement that had been in his eyes faded away. His bright blue eyes darkened. "What clinic?"

That had been a mistake. "Nothing. Never mind. I think I'm just a little disoriented."

"Lucy...I work for Skycap Corporations." He paused and looked at her. "In the advertising department. With you."

"Oh, right." That sounded like a very dull job. It didn't make any sense. Lucy had never worked in an office building. She had spent her whole life with animals and couldn't imagine doing anything else.

"Oh good! You're awake."

Thankful for the diversion, Lucy focused her attention on the nurse. The nurse bounced around the room, reading Lucy's chart, checking her blood pressure, appearing as though every single moment was the happiest moment of her life.

"Well, I've got some good news for you, and then some even better news for you." She smiled in between sentences. "The good news is that nothing is wrong with you. We're not really sure what caused you to lose consciousness, but it doesn't matter. You are perfectly ship-shape!" The nurse waited. Perhaps she had hoped that Lucy would jump out of bed and cheer with her over the great news. Lucy raised her eyebrows, waiting for the rest of the news. "Oh. And the great news is...we can't find anything wrong with your heart."

"What?" the man demanded. "That's impossible!"

Lucy didn't know what to make of everything. There was nothing wrong with her heart. Sure, she guessed that was great news. Except for the fact that there had never been anything wrong with her heart, and she really just took that organ for granted. It worked, and she never thought or worried about it.

The nurse shrugged. "I know. We've ran tests. Everything! Her heart is fine."

The man shook his head firmly. "Run your tests again. All those pills and injections. Doctor visits. The surgeries. They weren't all for nothing."

"What surgeries?" Lucy blurted out. "I've never had a surgery before in my life."

The man and nurse looked at her, as if they had forgotten that she was in the room. The nurse no longer looked perky, but worried.

"I'll go get Dr. Woodson."

She disappeared out of the room and returned a few minutes later with a brisk looking woman—a woman who had probably never been perky in her life.

"Please state your full name," Dr. Woodson said, peering over her tiny spectacles at Lucy.

"Lucinda Zoellner."

"Zoellner?" the man said. "That doesn't—"

The tiny spectacles turned to him. "Sir, please let me finish." She scribbled on the chart and pursed her lips. "What year is it?"

"Two thousand four."

"Good job, honey."

Before Lucy could respond to this, Dr. Woodson glared at the man and continued.

"Who is the president of the United States?"

"George Bush."

"Who?" the nurse asked.

"Quiet," the doctor snapped.

The nurse frowned. "But usually they answer with an old president, not someone we've never heard of before."

Dr. Woodson looked at the nurse over her spectacles. The nurse took the hint and hurried out of the room.

Lucy could feel her insides wobbling around. Never heard of George Bush.

"All right, Lucy." Woodson's voice suddenly sounded very gentle and patient, as though talking to a mentally disabled person. "Why don't you rest a bit. I'll be back in a while to check on you again."

Lucy rested her head on the pillow.

"You don't know who I am?" The man's voice shook.

"No," Lucy whispered. "I'm sorry."

He stood up, nearly knocking over the chair. "I'll be back in a little bit. Just need to get some fresh air."

Lucy was glad to see him leave. She just didn't think she could deal with whatever he would say to her. She didn't even know how to deal with everything that had just happened. Apparently she had had a weak heart, her last name wasn't Roberts, and George Bush had never been president. Had she just dreamed of these things? Had her head come up with this elaborate delusion? What exactly in her life was real? Could she remember anything that had actually happened, or were all her memories fictional?

"I brought you some dinner." The cheerful nurse had returned. She set the tray down next to Lucy and grabbed the T.V. remote. "Maybe you'd like to watch something. There's a new episode of _Holly's Home_ on tonight."

"Never heard of it," Lucy muttered.

The nurse's jaw dropped. "Never heard of it? Man, have you been living on a different planet or something? It's only the biggest show on T.V. right now."

Lucy searched her brain, but came up with nothing. "I've seriously never heard of it."

"Well, what shows do you remember?"

"My favorites are _Survivor, Friends,_ and _C.S.I._ "

The nurse gave her a sympathetic look.

"You've never heard of them?" Lucy asked.

"No, sorry."

"I don't really want to watch T.V. I just want to sleep for a while."

The nurse nodded and left the room.

Lucy turned on her side and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep the tears from coming. The doctors had said that there was nothing wrong with her. But everything felt wrong. She just prayed that when she woke up, things would be back to normal.

Wednesday

"I just don't see any reason in keeping you here longer." Dr. Woodson gave Lucy a thin smile, though it didn't appear to be a smile at all. It didn't seem that Woodson's mouth was actually capable of curving up.

"You don't see a reason? How about the fact that I'm not having heart problems that I've never had before. Or that I have no idea who that guy is that keeps coming in here? And no one even bothers to tell me his name." A good night's rest had not brought Lucy's life back to normal. It didn't make her less grumpy either.

"His name's Michael," the nurse called timidly from the doorway. She had seemed to lose all her perkiness. "He's your husband."

Lucy's eyes widened in horror. "So you're releasing me? And I have to go live with a complete stranger?"

"He's really nice!"

Woodson lost her not-really-there smile and glared at the nurse. "Don't you have someone else to annoy?" she barked.

"You probably made her cry," Lucy said as the nurse ran from the room. The thought made her laugh.

Woodson snickered. "I feel my day just isn't complete unless I make someone cry." She took off her spectacles and cleaned them on her shirt. "I know things seem bad. Just try to keep an open mind. You'll start remembering things."

"But it doesn't seem like I have amnesia. How come I remember stuff that's totally different?"

Woodson shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. The brain does some pretty unexplainable things." She got up and walked to the door. "Just give it some time. As soon as you're ready, you can leave."

Lucy had never felt worse in her life. She decided, feeling rather childish, that all she wanted was her mommy. So, she picked up the phone and dialed the number to her parent's house.

After two rings a strange voice said, "Hello?"

Lucy frowned at the phone. "I'm sorry...is this the Mitchell residence?"

"No, this is the Johnson residence."

Lucy dropped the phone into its cradle, feeling slightly worse than she had two minutes ago. Where were her parents?

Michael walked in a moment later. "I brought you some clean clothes from home."

"Thanks," Lucy said, taking them.

"I just have to finish the paperwork downstairs. I'll be up in a few minutes, and we can leave."

Lucy simply nodded, unable to talk over the lump in her throat.

She changed her clothes quickly, nervous that Michael would walk back in on her when she was half naked. It seemed silly since she figured that he had probably seen her naked before. But she just couldn't handle it now.

After a couple of minutes, he had still not returned, so Lucy flipped on the T.V. Every channel she landed on was an unfamiliar show. The lump in her throat grew. She just wanted to see one familiar thing. She landed on a news channel, and that's when she found the one bit of familiarity she was searching for.

"Could you explain the method you used to discover this new solar system?"

"We used what is called the Transit Method. We have a very sensitive telescope that we use to study the brightness of stars. When a planet passes between our field of view and the star, that star's brightness will be affected. That change in brightness can tell us the size of the planet, and the planet's orbit. This is how we discovered all eight planets. We then concentrated our efforts on the planets that were a reasonable distance from the sun, located in the habitable zone where water can be found. This is how we discovered the third planet."

"Do you think that there could be life on this third planet?"

"All of the formulas for life are there, so it is a distinct possibility. However, at this point, it is impossible for us to know for sure. NASA and JPL are currently working on discovery missions that will someday enable us to find other life."

"Are you ready to go?" Michael said from the door.

Lucy turned and gave him an excited look. "I remember that news story!" she cried, pointing at the T.V.

"What story?"

"The new solar system they just found. I watched that story on Monday morning."

"So you're starting to remember things? That's great! Where were you when you saw it?"

Lucy didn't have the heart to tell him that she had remembered it in a house with a different husband and a different life. None of it made sense anyway.

"I don't really remember where I was."

His face fell slightly. He only let his disappointment show for a moment. "Well, it'll come back to you. We just have to be patient. You ready to go home?"

She nodded, and they left the hospital room.

***

"So, who's George Bush?" Michael asked Lucy over dinner that night.

It was the first thing he had said to her since the ride home. She had been confused as to where they were when they got in the car. He told her Salt Lake City, where she had lived for the majority of her life. Not the way Lucy remembered it though. Her father had moved the family from Phoenix to Kansas City. Lucy had never even been to Salt Lake City. All the information depressed her, and so she decided not to talk. Michael had taken the hint.

Until now. He insisted on making conversation.

"No one," she mumbled. "Never mind."

"No," he said, and the firmness of his voice made her jump and drop her fork. "You have to talk to me. I'm your husband. Tell me what the hell is going on with you." He paused. "It's not just amnesia, is it?"

Lucy hesitated. Should she tell him? Finally she shook her head. "Well, it's true that I don't remember anything...well—anything you've told me. I remember things. Just differently."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Tell me anything. Anything about our life—my life. I'll remember it differently."

He didn't answer.

"Go on. I'm serious. Tell me something."

He sighed, but after a moment he said, "Your favorite movie is _Mountain of Sorrow_ with Nicolas Cage."

"Well, I do remember one thing."

"See?"

"Yeah...I remember that Nicolas Cage does exist. And I really can't stand him. Oh, and he's never done a movie called _Mountain of Sorrow_. Here are his movies that I remember. There was this really funny one called _Raising Arizona._ Then he made a bunch of awful ones. Like _Face/Off_ and _The Rock_ and _Conair_. Ever heard of those?"

Michael's frown hung so low, it appeared as if his mouth would drop below his chin. "No, I've never heard of any of them." He continued eating for several minutes. Then, "How can you not remember _Mountain of Sorrow_? We saw the movie like ten times in the theater! You even took your wedding vows from that movie."

Lucy didn't know how to answer.

"Okay, how 'bout this one? It was a long time ago, maybe the amnesia doesn't go back that far. Your parents got a divorce when you were seven years old."

Lucy felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. Her parents were still together. She had just watched them celebrate their thirtieth anniversary. Lucy could still see their smiles, could taste the cake, could hear them renewing their wedding vows. She and her sister, Brianna, had planned the party for weeks. Brianna. And then the true horror of everything struck her. Her little sister had been born when she was eight.

"Where's Brianna?" she whispered.

Michael frowned. "Who?"

Lucy stood up from the table so fast that she knocked over the chair. She didn't care. All she knew was that her whole life had been turned upside-down. Her little sister didn't exist. Her parents weren't together. She had married a complete stranger.

Lucy ran from the room and shut herself in the bathroom. How could she get things back to the way they had been?

"Lucy, let me in! Talk to me. Who's Brianna?"

"My sister!" Lucy wailed. "Just leave me alone. You wouldn't understand."

"Damn it, Lucy. I'm not just any Tom, Dick, or Harry, you know. I'm your husband. You may not believe it, but I won't let you shut me out."

But Lucy had stopped listening after "Tom, Dick, or Harry." Harry. Harry Trusker. The paranoid freak with Mulder the Cat. He had told her all about that mysterious solar system. He had said it was Earth. That it was our solar system. She had worried for his mental stability at the time, but he had whispered the words "alternate universe" to her.

Alternate universe.

And then the next day she wakes up in this strange place. A place where she doesn't remember anything. A place where _Friends_ , and her veterinary job, and even her own sister don't exist.

No, there was no possible way. Harry was probably delusional. He always said crazy things. Alternate universes. It wasn't even rational. Even if such a thing existed, it's not like the astronomers would be able to see it. And even if that solar system was evidence of an alternate universe, it would be impossible to just transport between the two. The whole idea had made her laugh on Monday.

But on Wednesday...

She couldn't explain it any other way. She could try to rationalize. She could tell herself that she just had amnesia. And somehow her brain had just made up all these other memories. But that explanation didn't cut it.

And that solar system. That seemed to be the only constant in the two worlds. The solar system had been discovered in this reality. Harry was right. It was an alternate universe, and she had somehow transported herself into it.

She slowly opened the bathroom door and looked into Michael's worried eyes.

"Brianna's my sister," she told him. "I was eight when she was born. My parents are still together. This is the way I remember things, Michael."

"Why would you remember all these things that had never happened?"

Not wanting to tell him her alternate universe theory, she just shrugged her shoulders.

An awkward silence engulfed them as they stood in the doorway of the bathroom.

"So, why did my parents divorce?" Lucy asked, breaking the silence.

"After your accident, your mom insisted on home schooling you. She wouldn't let you do anything, and your dad fought with her. He said that you shouldn't lead too sheltered of a life. And that your heart wasn't so weak that you couldn't go out and do anything. But your mom wouldn't listen. The fighting got really bad, so your mom left your dad. She took you with her, and that's when you guys moved to Salt Lake City."

"What accident? Why was my heart weak?"

"When you were in second grade, your class took a field trip to the zoo. The bus hit a semi. It killed six people. It almost killed you."

Lucy slumped to the ground, her legs too weak to support her. No. No, she had never gone on that field trip. She had pushed the little boy and been suspended. Why had she not been suspended in this life? Probably because she had decided _not_ to push that boy.

"Six people died?" she whispered.

"Yeah," Michael replied. "It was tragic. Made national news. Your mom has a news clipping of it. You were on the front page of one of the papers."

Six people. She couldn't believe it. She had never gotten on that bus and only three people had died. Was it possible that three more people had died just because she had been on that bus?

So, three more people were dead; she had a weak heart; her parents had divorced, and her sister had never been born; she moved to Salt Lake City, not Kansas City; she was not a vet, but an ad executive; and she had married Michael instead of Brian. All of this because she decided to not knock down a little boy. Perhaps other things had changed because of this miniscule difference. Perhaps _Friends_ had never been a television series because she had not shoved somebody. Who knew how much she had actually changed with one simple decision?

She felt like George Bailey, as if she was watching a life that could have been. But where was her Clarence? Why was there no one here to show her how to fix things? To make her life right again?

"I really don't feel good," she mumbled.

Michael knelt down to her side. "I'm sorry that this has been so hard for you. What can I do to help?"

Lucy's eyes filled with tears. "I can't go to work tomorrow. I don't even know anything about advertising," she whined.

"It's okay," he said, grabbing her hand. "Take off as much time as you need."

"Thank you." At least she had married a decent guy in her alternate life.

He lifted her up off the ground and led her into the bedroom. "Why don't you get some rest? I'll let them know that you're taking some time off, okay?"

Lucy nodded and felt her body relax as she fell into bed.

As she felt herself drift toward sleep she could hear Michael, standing over her and telling her that everything would be okay.

Thursday

Seconds after she heard the front door close, Lucy jumped out of bed and hurried over to the closet. She rifled through the unfamiliar clothes with the distinct feeling of being in a stranger's bedroom and wearing a stranger's clothes. She convinced herself that it was actually her wardrobe and settled on jeans and a t-shirt.

Where would she stash the phone book? she thought as she galloped down the stairs. She spotted the phone and soon found the phone book nearby. After a couple of minutes she found the address and phone number to the public library. She couldn't believe her luck when she looked at the map. The library was only two blocks away. Walking distance.

Without hesitation, Lucy left the house and headed in the direction of the library. She had to find someone who could help her. She wanted to research this solar system on the Internet.

And she wanted to look up Brian.

She couldn't do any of this on a home computer. Michael would be able to trace that kind of stuff. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Michael. So she decided she would just keep all this to herself.

She reached the library in ten minutes and found a computer with Internet access.

She sat in front of the computer for a moment, wondering where to start. Harry had said his son worked for Jet Propulsion Laboratory. She'd start there.

_Jet Propulsion Laboratory,_ she typed into the search engine. She followed the links and soon found herself on a site with pages of information on the new solar system. Most of the information detailed the research mission and how they discovered the planets. Other information, Harry had already told her. Eight planets. Third planet contained water. Four gas giants. Nothing else of importance.

"Damn it."

She didn't even know why she felt so disappointed. What had she been expecting? Did she really think she'd find an article stating how they'd found an alternate universe? They had no reason to believe that that's what it was. She knew the truth. To everyone else, it was just a distant solar system.

Lucy went back to the search engine and typed.

Phone book.

She found a nationwide phone directory and typed Brian Zoellner into the database. Thankfully he had a fairly uncommon last name, so she probably wouldn't have to root through dozens of names, wondering which one was him. A moment later one result popped up. In Kansas City. So, she had never gone to Kansas City, but apparently he still had.

Her heart skipped a beat and her stomach gave a nervous lurch. She had found him. But in this life, he was a complete stranger.

She clicked on his name, and a phone number and address popped up onto the screen.

Along with a woman's name.

Sarah.

Brian had married someone else.

She didn't know why the news devastated her. She was married to someone else anyway. Perhaps she had always thought that she and Brian were soul mates. They were meant to be together. But all it took was for her to live somewhere else. It was just coincidence that she had married him. It had nothing to do with fate, or the fact that they were meant for each other. Just a happy chance, that's all it was.

She leaned back in her chair and stared at the computer screen. Forcing herself not to blink, she let the words on the screen blur and her eyes water. She sat like that until she could take it no more and blinked several times, wiping away the tears.

Maybe she should just accept this life. For some reason, she had come into this world. Whatever the reason, there would probably be no way to get back. What life would she be going back to anyway? A life where her husband only loved her because she happened to be in the right place at the right time. A life where her parents were only married because she hadn't split them up. If she stayed around a while, she would probably start to feel more comfortable in this world. Michael seemed like a nice guy and they seemed to have a nice life.

She stood up from the computer, then sat back down a moment later.

If she stayed here, she'd have to work in some stuffy corporate office. She'd never see her parents together. She'd never see Brianna, her sister, at all. She'd never see Brian again...

_Harry Trusker,_ she typed into the phone directory website.

Her coworkers would point their fingers and laugh if they knew she was looking up the most obnoxious customer they had. But she didn't care. She just wanted to get back. It was the only thing she could think of.

One result came up. Her hands shook as she clicked the name. A Boulder, Colorado address. How far away was Boulder? She clicked for directions to his home from Salt Lake City. Eight hours away. She printed the directions and sprinted out of the library.

When she arrived home, she noted that there was a car in the garage. It must be hers. She searched the kitchen for keys, finally finding her purse in the living room. The keys were in it. She breathed a sigh of relief and ran out to the garage. Then she remembered Michael. Should she really leave and not let him know where she was going? No, it seemed cruel. He had been so nice to her all this time, even when he knew that she didn't know him.

She returned to the kitchen and wrote Michael a note.

Michael,

I'm sorry, but I have to leave for a while. There are just some things that I need to figure out. I won't tell you where I'm going, but I promise you that I'll be safe, and I will come back.

Thank you for being so understanding through all of this.

Love,

Lucy

She didn't think she would be coming back. But she had to hope that if she returned to her original life, the Lucy in this world would return. Michael would have his Lucy back, and Lucy would be back in the world that she understood.

She left the house and drove away, praying that she would find answers. Find a way back.

Friday

At 9 in the morning, Lucy awoke. She had rented a hotel room in Boulder the night before. She had been anxious to find Harry as soon as she got into town but decided it would be better to wait till morning. Sleep had been almost impossible. She had lain awake, watching the digital clock tick away the minutes, then hours. It seemed as if she had only just fallen asleep when the alarm went off.

Groaning, she rolled out of bed and headed into the bathroom. An hour later she stood at the front door, ready to leave. But she stood in front of the door for a few minutes, her hand poised on the knob, unable to turn it. What exactly would she say to Harry? "Hi, I know you from an alternate universe and I was hoping you could tell me how to get back." That sounded insane. If this Harry was anything like the Harry she knew, he'd embrace the idea and be ecstatic to help her. But what if he was different? What if he slammed the door in her face? What would she do then?

She turned the knob, thinking she'd just have to take that risk.

***

But Harry wasn't there.

"Who you lookin' for sweetheart?" a blonde woman in her mid-fifties asked Lucy.

"I was looking for the man who lives in this apartment," she replied, pointing a finger at the door.

"Honey, he's at work."

Lucy frowned. The Harry she knew was retired and living off social security for a disability he sustained while in the army. Harry didn't even strike her as the working type.

"Do you know where he works?"

"'Course...he's a professor in the astronomy department at C.U. He's head professor," the woman said with a proud look on her face. Then she leaned forward and gave Lucy a secretive smile. "He's my boyfriend."

Lucy returned the smile. "Good for you."

"If you see him, tell him I said—" she made a loud smacking sound against her hand and waved, revealing a large print of lipstick on her palm.

"I'll do that."

She left the apartment and headed for the college campus. She couldn't believe her luck. Not only did she know Harry, but he was actually an astronomy professor. Surely he'd give her the answers she needed.

Unfortunately, things didn't turn out to be that easy.

"I think I'm going to have to call campus security," Harry said after Lucy burst into his office exclaiming that she lived in the other solar system.

"No, please!" she shouted placing her hand on the phone before he could. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound like such a lunatic.

It was almost as if their roles had reversed. Harry was the sane one, the smart, successful one. Lucy was the raving maniac making ridiculous observations. She could see in his eyes that it was the same Harry that she knew. But aside from that, she wouldn't have recognized him. He kept his hair well trimmed and his designer suit perfectly pressed. She didn't even know if her Harry, with Mulder the Cat, even owned a suit.

"Harry, you don't know who I am. But I know you."

"Did you take one of my classes?"

Lucy shook her head and sat down in the chair across from his desk. "Can I be totally honest with you? Do you promise not to call campus security? Just keep an open mind, and listen to everything I have to say."

He gave her an inquisitive look and finally nodded his head. "Go ahead."

"On Monday, I first heard the story about the solar system they had just discovered with the planet similar to Earth." She told him everything. She told him how she had had a conversation with another version of him, how he was the one to tell her about alternate universes. She told him of the dog attacking and how she woke up in a different life. She told him all the differences between the two lives, and how something she had done in second grade had changed things. She shared with him how she had researched the solar system and had finally decided to find him. After half an hour, after telling him everything and letting every emotion out, she stopped talking.

Harry sat on the other side of his desk, tapping his fingers together and watching her intently. He didn't say anything for a while, just sat in that manner, occasionally muttering "hmph." Then he leaned forward, looking as if he was prepared to challenge her.

"You're saying I have a son in your world?"

Lucy nodded. "Yes. Every week when you come in, you talk about him and tell me how he works for JPL in California."

"How old is he? What's his name?"

Lucy thought back to the many conversations of the engineer who had done so many phenomenal things and was sure to win the Nobel Prize. "William Trusker. I think he's in his forties. He's got kids of his own and everything."

Harry leaned back again, resuming his thoughtful position and not speaking again for a few more minutes. Then, "There are two things that you have said that make me want to believe you."

Lucy waited.

"First, I don't have a son. But my first wife got pregnant when I was in my twenties. She miscarried, but we had already picked out a name. William—after my grandfather."

"What's the other thing?"

"I never have liked cats or dogs. But a few years ago, dozens of abused pets came into the possession of the university. When I went to see them, I saw this cat. I felt drawn to him and bought him that very moment. I've never done anything like that before. But for some reason, I felt that I had to have this cat. Had him ever since." He paused and took in a slow breath. "I named him Mulder. Funny thing is...I have no idea what that name means or why I would give that name to my cat. It just came to me. Can you explain to me who or what Mulder is?"

"Wow," Lucy said, giving a shaky laugh. "You've never heard of the show _The X-Files_?"

Harry shook his head.

"Well, it was a show about aliens and a bunch of other paranormal ideas. Anyway, the main character's name was Mulder. He was an F.B.I. agent who investigated unexplainable deaths or disappearances." Lucy smiled. "If Mulder were a real person, he would have believed my alternate universe story right away."

"So...the question is why would I name my cat Mulder? And why would I even buy a cat?" He pondered this for a moment. "It's as if I'm connected to this other Harry Trusker."

"Well, of course you are. You're the same person. You just make different decisions."

"Hmmm..." Harry muttered, resuming his finger tapping. "Tell me, what am I like in your world?"

"He's—I guess I'd have to say he's a bit of a nutcase."

Harry frowned at her.

"Oh, but you're nothing like him," Lucy added quickly.

"And yet we're the same person?"

"He may be a bit of a lunatic, and you're definitely not. But, you both seem to be very interested in extra-terrestrial activity. I mean, the Harry I know obsesses over this stuff. And you, you have a degree in it. Is it so hard to believe you're the same person?"

Harry stood up and walked over to his window. Keeping his back to her, he said, "I told you I was in my twenties when my first wife got pregnant. I was in college at the time. In fact, I was preparing to drop out. My old man told me that I better quit dreaming and get a real job, said that I had to support my wife and kid.

"One night, my wife goes out partying with some of her friends. They all get drunk and go on a joyride. Next morning, my wife is in a hospital—miscarried after they crashed into a tree. I filed for a divorce that same week."

Harry turned and looked at Lucy. "My son would have turned 43 this year." He shook his head and muttered, "William." He went back to the window. "Needless to say, after that I didn't drop out of school. Went on to get my doctorate in Astrophysics. Been teaching here ever since."

Lucy closed her eyes, thinking back to other conversations she had had with Harry in the clinic. She could only remember quick snatches here and there. "Wife died two years ago," "Celia loved her nightly Merlot," "William had to miss the launching to go to his mother's funeral," "That dumb woman got lost on her way home the other day," "Died of alcohol poisoning one week before our forty-fifth wedding anniversary."

"What was your wife's name?"

"Celia." He sat back down at the desk and asked, "Why?"

"Well, let's speculate—Celia never gets in that accident and William is born. What then?"

"I guess I would have dropped out of school. Gone into the electrician business with my old man."

"That's the Harry I know. Married when he was nineteen. Dropped out of school to work at a construction company. Taught his boy everything he knew about astronomy. His wife, Celia, died two years ago. One little decision changed your whole life."

Harry reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle of antacid and swallowed several tablets. "I've heard some pretty strange things over my lifetime. But this one takes the cake."

"I know how you feel," Lucy said, feeling more relieved than ever. Just telling someone else all of this and having him believe her had lifted this great weight from her shoulders. One little step closer to being home. "So, how do I get back?"

"The real question is: how did you get here in the first place? The most logical thing to do is to retrace your steps. Go back the way you came."

"But I have no idea how I got here."

"What's the last thing you remember doing in your world?"

Lucy closed her eyes. "I was speaking with one of the other vets. Someone called for help in the waiting room. We went in to find a dog on top of a little girl. I ran over and grabbed the dog from behind. It turned on me and was on top of me. I remember thinking that the dog was going to bite me, and I saw the vet running in with a tranquilizer. That's all I remember.

"You don't remember if the dog bit you?"

Lucy shook her head.

Massaging his temples, Harry asked, "What's the first thing you remember from this world?"

"I woke up in a hospital bed. My...my husband was sitting next to me."

"And why were you in the hospital?"

Lucy gave a sheepish smile. "I guess I didn't ask. I don't know, I just assumed it was for my weak heart. But the doctor said that they couldn't find anything wrong with me, so I could go home."

"Were they prepping you for surgery? Were you going to have surgery related to your heart?"

Something didn't seem right. She remembered back to her first conversation with Michael. She had just woke up and remembered the Rottweiler attack.

"Was I bitten?"

"Apparently that dog was going right for your neck. But someone pulled him off you just before that happened. Thank God. What exactly were you thinking when you grabbed that dog from behind?"

Lucy's eyes widened, and she stared at Harry. "I was attacked by a dog."

Harry nodded impatiently. "I know that already. We've got to figure out—"

"I'm talking about in this world!" Lucy interrupted. She relayed the conversation to Harry, whose eyes went wide with disbelief.

"So, in both lives, you happened to be attacked by a dog at the same instant. Yes! You crossed paths!" Harry leapt up from his chair and crossed the room, pacing back and forth restlessly. "Do you know what this means?"

Lucy looked flabbergasted. It had seemed like important information, but she didn't expect it to be that big of a deal. "No."

"You two switched places. The other Lucy—the one from this world—is in your world right now—living your life!"

Lucy frowned. She had never thought about the other Lucy. She had just thought of herself. The whole idea spooked her. There was another Lucy somewhere. And that other Lucy was living her life, pretending to be a vet when she knew nothing about animals, probably making love to her husband. No, in reality, she was probably just as freaked out by the whole thing as this Lucy was. Lucy could picture her—mortified by all the animals, repulsed by the thought of marrying someone else, shocked to find out that she had a sister. And Lucy could see her trying to get back to this life. Desperately trying to return to normality.

What if she wasn't? What if this other Lucy decided she liked her new life better? Maybe she liked the fact that she had a sister and that her parents weren't divorced. Maybe she liked Brian better than Michael. What if this other Lucy wasn't looking for a way to get back? She shuddered at the thought.

"I know how to get you back," Harry said, whisking her away from her thoughts.

Lucy felt a rush of excitement bubble up. Soon, she'd be back home. "How?"

"You and this other Lucy just have to do what you did the first time. You both must do the exact same thing at the exact same time."

The excitement disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. "That doesn't sound very likely."

"What was the likelihood of it happening the first time? But it did." He saw the doubtful look on Lucy's face. "All we have to do is decide on what action will cause you to cross paths again, and when that will happen."

"But we'd have to assume that the other Lucy is thinking the same thing. That's too small of a probability."

Harry had a strange smile on his face. "Not necessarily."

Lucy stared at him and couldn't help smiling back. "Why are you so sure this will work?"

Harry stopping pacing and sat back down. "You came to me, because you thought I could help you. This was all based on what you knew about the Harry in your world. Well, it's pretty safe to assume that the other Lucy has had interaction with the other Harry, right?"

Lucy thought that sounded like a good assumption. She had talked to Harry all the time. All the other Lucy needed to know was that Harry could help. Lucy could imagine the other Lucy telling her crazy story to the other vets in the clinic. They'd laugh at her and tell her she was starting to sound like Harry. She'd wonder about this Harry. If he could come up with crazy stories like that, maybe he could help her. So, Lucy would have to assume that the other Lucy had contacted the other Harry.

"Once they've realized that the similarity between your two lives is this dog attack, they'll come to the same conclusions that we've come to. Now all we have to do is think of an event and a time for that event. How can we guarantee that we'll all think the same thing, though?"

Lucy nodded slowly. "Well, I've got an idea for the time. My birthday's tomorrow. I think our lives sound similar enough that it's possible she has the same birthday as me."

"Probably."

"So, the event can take place tomorrow at 10:30 p.m. It's a time that we have in common, so I'm sure she'll think of it."

"That sounds brilliant," Harry said, rubbing his chin. "I think I have an idea for the event."

"What?"

"The same event. It's something that's already happened. It only makes sense to use the same event to get you back."

Lucy cringed. "Isn't that a bit dangerous? I don't know if I want to get attacked by a dog again."

"There is a certain risk with the whole thing. Are you willing to take those risks?"

Lucy thought of Brian, Brianna, all her friends at the veterinary clinic. She even thought of the shows she watched, the movies she loved, the books she read. She would risk anything to have it all back. "Let's do it."

Saturday

At 10 that night Lucy met Harry in front of a local pet shop. Harry had dressed all in black for the occasion. When he saw Lucy, he gave an excited chuckle and ducked down behind a bush.

Lucy couldn't help but smiling when she joined him behind the bush. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Immensely," he said, showing her his expensive flashlight. He could hardly contain his excitement as he handed her a walkie-talkie.

"Do you really think the pet shop is that big?"

Harry waved his hand at the question. "Here's the plan. I paid the assistant manager to help us out. In fifteen minutes, he's going to return to the store, pretending he forgot to lock up the cash drawers. He won't lock the door behind him. We wait for ten minutes—that will give him time to turn off the alarm, and also turn off the security cameras. We go in, find the dog, get the dog to attack you, and you're home free."

Lucy gave a nervous giggle. "Are you sure no one can get into trouble?"

"We've got everything covered. After we get the other Lucy, we'll get out of there. Then the manager will set the store's clocks back five minutes and start the cameras again. All the cameras will see is him coming into the store, locking the cash drawers, and leaving. It's foolproof."

Butterflies fluttered frantically around Lucy's stomach. The whole thing seemed so far fetched. She was sure it wouldn't work. "What if the other Lucy wasn't born at exactly 10:30? Then I'll be bitten by a dog, and I'll still be here!" she hissed.

"If that's how the scenario ends, we'll figure something else out. But we've got to try."

Lucy finally nodded. She had to try.

"Oh by the way," Harry said with a grin on his face, "happy birthday."

***

The assistant manager, Phil, showed up fifteen minutes later, exactly as planned. He cast guilty glances all around him before unlocking the door to the pet store. Lucy prayed that the security cameras couldn't see faces clearly, because she was sure Phil's face would give him away.

Lucy and Harry waited behind the bushes for an agonizing ten minutes. Then they scurried to the front door and slipped inside the dark pet store.

"All right guys," Lucy heard Phil hiss. "Let's make this quick. The Rottweiler is over here."

They followed him through the shop and stopped in front of a large cage. A bark emitted, causing the cage to quiver.

Phil made his way around the cage and started to unlock it. "Now this guy's pretty vicious, so it shouldn't be too hard getting him to attack you."

Lucy felt the panic rise up in her throat, tasting a hint of stomach acid. "Maybe we shouldn't do this," she whispered as the dog banged against its cage.

Harry grabbed her by the shoulders, ensuring that she couldn't run away. "Don't get cold feet on me now. Don't worry, it'll all be over in a minute."

Phil unlocked the cage, and for a moment Lucy thought the dog might just trot out and lick their hands. What if they couldn't get him to attack her? The door swung open and the dog leapt out of its prison, flexing its powerful muscles. Out of instinct, Lucy jumped back and spread her legs out, ready for the dog to advance. But the dog bounded for the closest body—Harry's.

The pet shop filled with sounds of barking and yelling, exciting the other animals who called out in response.

"What do we do?" Phil squealed.

Lucy's adrenaline pumped. This was exactly how things had been in the clinic that day. She ran around behind the dog and grabbed him by the neck, pulling with all her might. Unlike the day when she had pulled the dog off the little girl, this dog refused to take his attention off Harry, no matter how hard Lucy pulled. It wasn't going to work. Lucy would be stuck in the other world forever.

She lifted her arm up and brought her elbow down on the dog's head. The dog couldn't ignore Lucy any longer. He turned, and Lucy felt a wave of déjà vu as she smelled the dog's breath. He was on top of her now, and she could see large fangs dripping with saliva coming toward her face.

Everything played in slow motion again. Lucy could see Phil, his pimply face full of horror as he looked down at her. She could see Harry, struggling to stand up. She could see the dog, could almost feel the bite that was sure to come at any moment...

***

"Is she all right?"

"Just give her a minute!"

"Well what's taking so long? Why can't she just wake up?"

"I 'magine it takes a long time to travel a hundred light years." It was Harry's voice.

Lucy knew the plan had worked before she even opened her eyes. The voice was not an educated, sophisticated voice of a professor. It sounded thick, heavy with an accent. This was the Harry that she knew.

Her eyes opened, and she found herself staring back at Harry and her coworker, Ana.

Ana's eyebrows turned up in worry. "Lucy, are you okay?"

Lucy nodded and sat up.

Harry didn't look concerned. His expectant eyes searched hers. "Did it work?" he finally blurted out.

Lucy took in her surroundings. The clinic looked strangely surreal so late at night. But everything seemed to be in its right place.

She turned back to Harry and nodded, her face breaking into a smile. "It worked."

One Week Later

"Are you about ready?"

Lucy fixed her hair in the mirror and glanced at Brian's reflection. "Almost."

Brian rolled his eyes. "You already look perfect."

Lucy inspected herself, making sure that he was right. She wore her prettiest dress and most expensive shoes. It was for her birthday party, which had been postponed by the other Lucy. Not like Lucy could blame her. Why would she want to celebrate her birthday with a bunch of strangers?

Aside from Ana and Harry, the other Lucy had not told anyone else about the alternate universe theory. Brian had spent the week telling her how weird she'd been acting. She was sure that in the other universe, Michael was telling the other Lucy this as well.

But now things were back to normal, and Lucy couldn't be happier.

"I'm ready!" she called, skipping down the stairs and joining Brian in the living room.

He reached for the remote to turn the T.V. off.

"I'm Bill Barkley here with Dr. Arnold Hughes of NASA."

"Wait!" Lucy cried before Brian could hit the power button.

"Doctor, can you tell us what's recently happened with this new solar system you've discovered?"

"Well, Bill, the whole system has actually disappeared. It's really quite an unexplainable phenomenon. While we've continued studying it, we started noticing that the planets were harder and harder to detect. Yesterday, we couldn't locate the star or its planets at all. It has literally disappeared."

"Is it possible that the solar system could have been swallowed by a black hole?"

"Although we cannot yet determine the cause, we have already ruled out the possibility of a black hole. Black holes take years to develop. We can predict when it is about to happen based on the star's characteristics. Number one, this star was about the age of our sun—too young to be close to collapsing. Number two, it was about the size of our sun—stars of that size are generally too small to undergo such a violent death as a black hole."

"How can you explain this then, doctor?"

"We can't at the moment. We will continue studying and hopefully we'll find the answers. Until then, we will also be searching for other solar systems."

"Back to you, Valerie."

Lucy gave a shudder. It was gone. She felt like she had just lost a limb. The alternate universe had disappeared.

"What's wrong with you?" Brian asked, touching her arm.

She forced a smile. "Nothing."

"Why have you been so fascinated with that solar system? You've never cared for astronomy." He turned off the T.V. and walked her to the door.

"I just have some friends who live there."

Brian laughed, and they left for the party.

About Becky Bolinger

Becky Bolinger has her Ph.D. degree in climatology and works on drought research for the Great Lakes Environmental Research Laboratory. While loving weather of all kinds, and being fascinated with natural disasters, she has always had a love of horror novels. She grew up on the writings of Christopher Pike, Dean Koontz and Stephen King and wanted to follow in their footsteps by writing her own young adult horror novel. _Ghost Town_ is her first published novel.

Becky lives in Ypsilanti, Michigan, with her husband and fellow horror fan, Justin.

Find Becky Bolinger's books at Dead Key Publishing

The Old Dude

By J.R. Hamilton

The sunset near Roanoke, Virginia, around the Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway brought to mind the old naval saying, "Red at night, sailor's delight" but that didn't agree with the weather guesser's predictions. I had been on the road for five days after leaving Los Angeles headed for New York, and my back ached so bad I could feel every bump found by the wheels of my new Harley. At that point all I wanted to do was find a place to take a break. I should have stopped at the last rest stop.

I was looking for the rest stop sign that would be my lifesaver. I guess that's why I didn't notice the old Indian until it rolled up next to me. The machine was a perfectly rebuilt 1930s Indian Chief that looked like it had just rolled off the showroom floor. The old dude driving it looked just as vintage as the machine he was driving. He was a crusty looking old guy wearing fringed leathers but no helmet; how was he getting away with that.

He pulled just ahead of me and motioned for me to follow as he rolled the throttle hard. I had to drop a couple of gears to catch up to him and when I did my speedometer was bouncing around 110. We blew through the curves like they were straight and flat. The adrenaline rush brought fresh resolve; I was no longer tired.

I saw his arm go up indicating a left turn, and we pulled into a rest stop I hadn't seen a sign for, but at 110 miles per hour I'm not surprised. I would have missed this rest stop even if I had seen the sign—it was little more than a dirt cut off from the highway, not like the well-lit comfy stops I was used to. As we pulled in, the old dude pulled his bike around behind an old privy next to the trees. I did the same and was immediately struck by the aroma wafting from the old outhouse, which I really needed to use.

I was headed toward the door when the old dude spoke for the first time, "If all you need to do is drain your lizard I would suggest the trees." Once again the aroma hit me and I decided that sounded like a much better idea. When I turned around, the old dude was sitting at a rickety looking picnic table that didn't appear would hold the weight of a child. He pulled some fine cut grass from a cloth pouch and rolled it into a thin joint and fired it up, but it wasn't marijuana, it was just tobacco.

I sat across from him and lit my own cigarette. In the fresh moonlight I could make out his features. I was no longer surprised by the fact there were no lights at this rest stop. His hair was long and light brown, which surprised me—I got the feeling he was much older. His face was almost leathery and his eyes were steel grey but friendly.

"Thanks for finding the rest stop, I was about to bust. My name is Joseph," I said as I stuck out my hand.

"I know," he said as he ignored my hand and concentrated on his home rolled. The comment didn't make much sense but I ignored it.

"That old Indian of yours is pretty sweet. Someone did a lot of work to get it running and looking like that." He didn't even nod.

"Come on, my throat feels like I been swallowin' sand. Let's get a beer," he said as he stepped over to his ride. I got back to my bike and followed the old dude back on the road.

I had always heard Skyline Drive was a busy road along the mountains but I hadn't heard or seen another person for some time now. Once again we were floating through the curves of this narrow two-lane road at over a hundred. On one side were the mountains rising high above us, on the other side, a sheer drop into darkness with the thinnest of wood guardrails to prevent going over.

The scary road didn't bother the old dude. Every time we went into a curve he just twisted the throttle harder. The only light on the road was that provided by our headlights but the old dude sat in the saddle like he was born in it. No lights along this beautiful tourist traveled road? That surprised me; the only thing I could do was watch his taillight and hope he didn't run off the road. The old dude's brake light came on as the lights of an old building shown on the road.

I just about dumped the bike as we rolled into the gravel lot but the old dude rolled in like he was on solid ground. As I kicked the stand down I could see there were no less than thirty bikes in the parking lot, all vintages, all makes. I looked up at the sign above the door—"All Are Welcome" was shining brightly. The doors opened as we approached them, and the blinding brightness of the bar welcomed us.

As the old dude strolled into the bar, every biker in the bar came over and shook hands or hugged the old dude then went back to shooting pool, tossing darts or just talking among themselves. Strange, everybody was talking but I couldn't hear them; it was like the whole room was whispering. We walked toward the back of the room where a table was set with four chairs around it. Without a word being said, two mugs of cold brew appeared from the hands of our lovely waitress.

I took a long draw on my beer; my thirst was immediately quenched by the mellow taste of this wonderful brew. "I told you my name, you never got around to telling me yours."

He smiled. "You know me, but you don't know me. But let's talk about you. Tell me about yourself, Joseph. What brings you to these parts?"

I thought about where to start and how much I wanted to tell the old dude. "I'm not sure where to start, or why it even matters."

The old man ran his hand through his thick beard. "Well, how about telling me about California and what led up to you leaving."

Now there was a story I certainly didn't want to tell, but this old dude was a stranger I would probably never see again. "I got wrapped up with some people I shouldn't have. I had a pretty good job, had a decent home, and I bought that new Harley."

"Nice bike, but I would like to hear the details."

I hung my head. "After I bought the bike I ran into some others who spent a lot of time on the road. Man, what a rush. We ran through the mountains, down to the beaches and even out to Nevada. I rode with them every chance I got and even missed work to ride with them. I didn't care, the rush was worth it. At least for a while."

"For a while? What happened then?"

"I met this woman and we got pretty friendly. One night we were at a party with a bunch of bikers and someone handed me a smoke. Man, that stuff hit me hard. It wasn't long before I just lived to get buzzed. Soon the job was gone, the house and when the money was gone so was the girl. I managed to scrape enough together to get out and try for a new start. I have a shot for a new job, maybe a new life."

"Okay, did you leave out any details?"

I couldn't figure out what the old dude wanted to know. "Hey, I don't even know your name, and I'm not sure what you are asking."

"Joseph, you know who I am, you just don't remember. Something happened in a bar in Fresno, what was it?

So, that's it. "I get it now, you're a cop. I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."

His laugh boomed like thunder. "No, Joseph, I'm not a cop. I have been called many names but I don't remember anyone ever calling me that. Now, tell me about Fresno."

I looked at the old dude. "If you aren't a cop, why won't you tell me your name."

He laughed. "Joseph, you and I have met but it has been a long time. As we talk, as you look at me, there is something that comes to your mind, you think of me in a certain way. What name comes to mind?"

Immediately Old Dude jumped in my head; it was how I had been thinking of him.

He smiled, "Ok, so call me Old Dude."

"I didn't...I just...How did you know?" I was flustered by his response.

"It doesn't matter, now you have a name for me. So, tell me about Fresno."

I sat there a moment, "Ok, but this doesn't go beyond the two of us."

"I will never mention what you tell me to anyone."

The Story

Ok, but to understand what happened at the bar you have to know the whole story. Like I said before, I bought the Harley and immediately fell in love with riding. When I was a kid I had a Cushman Eagle—even that little scooter provided a rush and freedom I hadn't known before. A few years later I graduated to a Triumph, and the rush exploded out of control. I spent every free moment on that bike.

The offer from a major computer data firm in Visalia, California, was a surprise. I had sent my resume to a few dozen firms not really expecting much, even though I had done well developing my computer skills in both IT and programing. The pay was more than I would have imagined, but I hadn't considered the high cost of living in the California valley community.

When the offer was firmed up, I sold my Triumph, tossed everything I didn't need, loaded up a trailer and headed west. Almost immediately I established myself as someone who could get the job done and would stick to it until everything was right. I had forgotten about motorcycles until a group of bikers passed me as I was headed for my place in Visalia one afternoon. I didn't even go home—I headed for a Harley shop with only one thing in mind, buying a sweet ride.

My intent was to buy a Sportster but my eyes fell on a red Lowrider equipped with concho studded leather bags and seat along with a stubby windshield, and I was hooked. I was in love, this was absolutely the most beautiful ride I had ever seen. I put a down payment then headed for home to wait for finance approval. It was around two in the afternoon when the call came in. I was approved and the bike would be ready within the hour. I tried to keep working but it was no use. I told my boss I had something I needed to take care of and headed for home.

That evening I asked a neighbor to take me to the shop and I picked up my new love. I took the long way home by way of Fresno, Lemoore and Hanford before turning the headlights back to Visalia. The next morning I called in; there was just no way I could go to work and leave my new ride sitting in a parking lot.

I didn't like riding with a temporary tag plus my California license wasn't coded for motorcycles, so I headed toward the local to pick up a plate and make myself legal. I got my tag and my license; I was legal and loving it. I hated leaving the bike sitting while I was at work but I didn't want to expose why I had been out.

I took off for the coast at Long Beach. The wind hitting my face was like a drug. The vibration of the engine, the roar of the pipes and the sing of the tires against the pavement spun me into a high like I could never get from drugs. The temperature was cool as I cruised along Ocean Boulevard from the west to the east, and the fresh salt air filled my lungs.

I was not excited about heading home. I just wanted to keep riding but I knew I needed to be back to the old grind in the morning. By the time I turned the big machine east, away from the ocean, the sun had fallen into the ocean.

It was a long weekend and I heard about a gathering in the mountains so Thursday evening I was on the road. That was where I met Cassie. The weekend was crazy and I made a lot of new friends; we admired each other's bikes, partied and rode all weekend. By the time I left that party I was completely hooked on the whole biker experience. The group I was riding with was wearing a club patch, one I hadn't heard of, but I didn't think much about it.

Cassie was pretty much on the fringes of the biker scene. She wasn't a beauty but we discovered we had a lot in common. Like me, she was from out of state, a Nebraska farm girl who left home with stars in her eyes only to discover there were hundreds like her there.

Over the next few weeks I spent a lot of time with the group of riders from the party and as much time as possible with Cassie. One Saturday we rode toward L.A. for a party. I felt like a big deal with Cassie on the seat behind me, her arms wrapped around me as we rode. We stopped at a bar in one of the small towns along the back roads we were riding. There were a couple of bikes in the parking lot so I thought it was just part of the journey. It was a dingy dump but the beer was cold and the inside a cool break from the August California heat. Mike, who seemed something of the group leader, walked to the bartender and they went to the back of the bar.

As we were getting ready to leave, one of the bikers who had been in the bar when we arrived said something to Cassie. I turned and looked at him. "Did you say something?"

"I just told the little lady that when she gets tired of playing with little boys she can come on back and ride with a man."

I hit the big man in the face as hard as I could. I quickly noticed it had no effect so I came around with a roundhouse kick, the heel of my boot landing squarely on the side of his head. This time he went down like an empty sack. I looked at his friends who decided the label on their beers made interesting reading. We took to the bikes and headed for the coast.

When we arrived the party was already in full swing. There were motorcycles of all types and styles, mostly Harleys and Triumphs. Most of the bikers were a lot like me, weekend warriors who work a nine to five job all week and hit the roads on the weekend. Some were even doctors and lawyers, all decked out in leathers and cutoffs. I wanted to laugh at them but I realized I really wasn't any different.

There were also groups of hard core bikers there; I saw a few one percenter patches and some colors I certainly recognized. There were three aromas filling the air; there was wood smoke from the many small camp fires; there was the smell of exhaust fumes from the bikes; and there was the smell of weed that seemed to float above all the rest. I was satisfied with my beer until someone passed me a joint, wow! I was on top of the world, nothing could touch me. I remember racing some other bikes and some guy going down hard.

As the buzz wore off I started looking for the guys I had ridden with. Cassie and I walked around the gathering but weren't having much luck finding them until we walked toward a bunch of people standing in a circle. In the middle of the circle Mike was getting his butt kicked by two other bikers. The other riders we had come with were being held away from the fight. I knocked two people aside and headed for the fight, a regretful move for certain. The first guy went down quickly when the toe of my boot found his groin. Before he could get up, I hit him three more times then someone grabbed me and the lights went out.

By the time my eyes opened there were few people around, my head throbbed, one eye was swollen almost shut, and the taste of blood filled my mouth. When I tried to stand up, my ribs felt like they were still being beaten and my chest couldn't have hurt more if they were still beating on it. Mike looked a lot worse laying on the ground near. The other three riders with us were sitting on the ground just staring.

Mike looked over. "I'm out of here, man," and started sitting up.

"Out of here? What are you talking about? These guys just beat the crap out of you and you're just gonna let it go?" I screamed.

"Joseph, there is nothing we can do, I'm gone," he said as he struggled to his feet and stumbled toward his bike.

"Ok, take Cassie with you. I'll see you cowards after I get back." Cassie tried to argue but in the end she climbed on the back of Mike's bike and they took off.

I didn't know how but I was going to get revenge. I made sure my Harley was okay and parked it away from the rest of the bikes then started thinking about a weapon.

I saw a guy struggling to get the drive chain off his bike; it was worn and a couple of the links looked damaged. I went over and helped him get the new chain on then picked up the old one. "You got any use for this?" I asked.

He looked at my face. "Looks like you have something in mind that might result in your face looking a lot worse."

I touched my swollen eye. "Yeah, I guess I do."

He shook his head. "I saw the fight, if you can call it that. I'm not so sure I would be doing you any favors by giving you a weapon but I got no use for the chain. Go on, take it."

I pulled on my gloves, doubled the chain and felt its heft. "Thanks," I said as I walked away in search of the bikers. I took up a spot next to a tree out of sight and watched them as they talked and laughed with some other bikers. It was almost an hour before one of them walked toward another tree to relieve the pressure from the beer.

I slipped around the trees between us. Just as the man was zipping up his pants I cleared my throat. He turned, looked at me. "You don't look so good. You better just get on out of here."

As I stepped toward him he started to yell to his friends but didn't manage a word before the chain found the side of his head. As he started falling I jumped on top of him and began beating his face with the chain until he stopped moving.

I found a long bladed hunting knife on his belt that I removed then looked toward his friends. It wasn't long before one of his friends started yelling for him and began walking toward where I hid behind a tree. As he stepped over to his friend I stepped out as he looked up. "Well, if it isn't the little puppy."

The chain hung from my left hand, the knife in my right. "Well, when three cowards jump one man it isn't much of a fight. How are you one-on-one?" I dropped the knife and chain. "Can you take this puppy all by yourself?"

Two-hundred-seventy pounds of drunk humanity rushed me. I managed to move enough to take only a glancing blow. As he turned I hit him twice then spun a roundhouse kick toward his head. The kick disoriented him a bit and I waded into him, hitting and kicking as hard as I could. I must have hurt him because I saw him go for the knife on his belt. He rushed me; I sidestepped and kicked at the hand holding the knife. As he fell I jumped him but there was no reason, the knife protruded from his neck. I was certain he was dead so I ran to my bike and left.

I got back to my apartment, grabbed what clothes I could. Monday morning I went to the bank and closed out my accounts...

"... and here I am. I have been on the run ever since."

Another man came and sat at the table, "Joseph, this is my son Joshua."

The man looked at me with eyes I couldn't stop staring into. "Joseph, I heard your story, but in your story I heard pain."

"I was angry. I wanted revenge for the beating I took. Yes, I wanted to hurt them but never wanted to kill anyone," then I thought for a moment, "at least I don't think I wanted to. I wish I could take it back."

"You acted out of anger, out of hate. You say you wish you could go back, how would you change what happened?" Joshua asked.

I thought. I went back in my thoughts, trying to determine how far back I would have to go to stop the event and realized the trip would be a long one.

"Joseph, you have done well, made a good life but are you happy? Did all you have gained make you happy? When were you last really happy?" Joshua asked.

He handed me a glass of water and suddenly I was very thirsty. I drank it down. It was as if I had returned to my childhood; I stood holding my mother's hand standing outside a small white building. I heard someone's voice. "You are free."

When I opened my eyes I was lying next to my motorcycle at the side of the road. I sat up and looked around; I was in an overgrown parking lot behind which stood the skeleton of a building. I looked around for the Old Dude, his son and the other bikers, but I was alone in fog so dense I couldn't see beyond the building just fifteen feet way. Suddenly the fog cleared and the sun shone bright. I blinked in the brightness.

Anger and fear were gone. It took me years to figure out who the Old Dude was and why he kept telling me I knew him. Now I know I always will.

Speed Demon

By J.R. Hamilton

Speedy

You don't know me, most certainly never heard of me and when this is published I will definitely be in a world of hurt...ha-ha-ha, a world of hurt, I kill myself. You see I live in a world of hurt, a world where pain is just another part of the day. Oh, not for me but for the residents who didn't always call it home. Not that I always called it home, but...wait, I think I need to start over.

My name is Speedy. No, not that cute little character who advertises bubbling headache powder—that little creep is disgusting, have you ever listened to his voice? Anyway, I'm getting off track. The Boss is always telling me I need to be more focused, what the Hell does he know? Ha, ha, ha, I am hilarious, I should be on stage. Oh? You don't think that's funny? That's right, you still don't know who I am.

Anyway, Speedy isn't my real name, but I have been called that for so long I can't remember my real name...if I ever had one. Speedy was given to me by some of my pals not long after the Big Guy kicked us out of His place. You see, I was hanging out with this guy up there and he got all full of himself and wanted to be as powerful as the Big Guy and he rebelled. Needless to say my buddy lost the war. As a punishment he and all his friends were sent to this place where air conditioning doesn't exist. If my handwriting is shaky you will have to excuse me; if I stop walking the paper will explode into flames.

Now, where was I? Oh, my name, that's right. You see, not long after I entered this lower realm I was assigned to make a trip to the surface. It was really nice—even on the hottest of days the temperature was so much cooler than my new home. While I was roaming around, looking at all the huge animals, I stumbled across this animal that lived in a hole in the side of a mountain. I later discovered this was an early being called "man." He was just sitting on a rock, not doing anything, just sitting on a rock. I thought he must have been contemplating something genius so I decided to become part of him. Yes, part of him. Oh, I told you my name, I just took for granted you knew I was a demon.

Yes, a demon. Not that stupid thing Fleetwood Mac produced back in 1997; that was a friend of mine though. There are a lot of misconceptions about demons but I don't have time to straighten out humanity, so you will just have to take my word for it. Not all demons are bad, well, I mean none of us are "good," but there are many much worse than me. I have been mistakenly called a poltergeist but that is incorrect. You see, a poltergeist is... No, I'm talking about me, not those little troublemakers. I will tell you this, though; demons are created, not born. You see we were once angels until...he...pissed off the Big Guy. People don't die and become demons, when people...no, stop, I am getting off track again.

Anyway, I was telling you about entering Grok, you know, the guy sitting on a rock. Anyway, he was sitting there and I entered him and to my surprise he was thinking about nothing, just sitting there kind of bouncing a stick off the ground. His head was completely empty, nothing, I mean this guy was breathing but his brain was doing nothing. That is until Gerg, another of his species, and Girk, a female of the species, walked by. Did you notice their names all start with "G"? Maybe it is because they grunt their words.

Anyway, suddenly his eyes opened and brain activity began to spike. I won't go into a description of his thoughts but they definitely wouldn't please the Big Guy. His heart began to race and he jumped up and ran over to Gerg and Girk and said, "Hey babe, what are you doing with this Gerg?" Ok, those weren't his exact words, in fact he just kind of grunted and growled, but I know that was what he meant. To which Gerg responded by hitting Grok on the head with the big stick he was carrying. Grok responded by doing the same and the two kept taking turns at that until Grok fell to the ground.

I really wanted to leave Grok but my curiosity got to me so I hung around for a while. Grok began thinking, something I really wasn't certain he was capable of, and ideas kept bouncing around. As he was strolling around, becoming frustrated, he kicked a log, which rolled down a hill. Grok, being of high intellect, well, maybe he would be a moron in your time but back then he was pretty sharp, anyway, being of high intellect he noted the log got faster as it rolled down the hill.

As he stood there Gerg and Girk came by and I knew it was time for me to act. I convinced Grok he could impress Girk with this new knowledge. Grok said, "Hey babe, watch this." Ok, ok, but that is what he meant. Grok threw himself down the hill rolling over and over...faster and faster. The first thing to happen was his right arm snapped just above the elbow. Just before he reached the bottom he was launched into a tree, instantly breaking his neck. The rush I felt as we sped down that hill was amazing; I knew I had to find ways to repeat that feeling. That is also when I invented the term "breakneck speed."

That night, as one of the local big animals began munching on Grok, Gnat Ging Gole sang "I'll Be Seeing You." Well, my fun was over here and it was time to go. When I got down home and told the story, that is when I got the name Speedy.

Tut, Tut, Tut

I have had many adventures in my few thousand years of existence. Some people believe it was some emperor who began chariot races. Sure, he...what was his name? I don't remember, there have been so many and my memory isn't what it once was. Anyway, he was the one who announced the idea, but I was the one who put the idea in his head. Did you know that demons don't enter just people? We also can enter inanimate objects, like trees, rocks, cars and animals as well. It was great fun the first time I entered a bird but I had to leave the bird quickly as an eagle decided I looked good for lunch.

Man oh man, flying around was great but I wondered what it would be like to be that eagle, so I jumped into her. Yes, I said her, we demons really aren't male or female, since we don't have children it just doesn't matter. Can you imagine a demon giving birth? The screams would be deafening and no demon would ever change a diaper. Wait, we don't have bodies like you might imagine. We are far too good looking to have bodies. Humans would have something more to be envious about. Some people have seen us but they were so impressed they couldn't describe us so they mixed us in with others by calling us disembodied spirits. Disembodied indicates another species all together—they once had physical bodies but don't anymore. Humans can be very irritating.

Anyway, I jumped into that eagle and I couldn't believe it. I convinced the bird to climb higher and higher and then make a screaming streak toward earth. If I had a heart it would have been beating out of the chest I don't have. The earth came rushing toward me, then I saw what the eagle was doing. She was aiming toward a little bunny. I wanted no part of that so I decided to leave and jumped into the nearest animal. It was this emperor on his horse trying to outrun another horse.

Charley was losing the race, no, not his real name but it is the best name I can think of to use. Anyway, Charley was losing the race; the other horse was coming up fast and no matter how Charley beat the horse it just wouldn't go faster so I decided I would help him out. I told him he needed to use the whip on the other rider. Ha, ha, ha, you should have seen the look on the other rider's face when that whip took him off the horse. Poor guy, another victim of breakneck speed. But I helped my new host win the race, that was what was important. I did a very good thing; this was a young boy and he needed guidance.

I decided this young man needed a bit more of my advice. I soon learned his real name, it was Tutankhamun. What a mouthful. Maybe I should go back to calling him Charley but I decided Tut would work just as well. That little decision resulted in a lot of fun; I convinced a punk band Japanther to name an album "Tut Tut, Now Shake Ya Butt" and a concert hall owner in New York to name their place "King Tut's Wah Wah Hut." I can't help it. I just wanna have fun. Hey, that would be a good title for a song.

Ok, back on track again. Sorry this is taking so long to write. Even though I am on the move, Tha Man keeps slipping up behind me getting nosey with what I'm doing. Sooner or later he will find out about it but I'm in no hurry. He may decide to send me to someplace very cold like he did in the 1800s with that British dude named Peary. People use Hell as a comparison to so many things, like saying it is "hotter than hell." There is no place hotter than Hell. Or they say "colder than hell," which is anyplace you want to name but there are some places where the cold is absolutely unbearable. Some people say things like "it stinks like hell in here"; they have no idea how wonderful the aroma of brimstone is. If I was human it could clear my sinuses.

Through my many, many, many years of service, I have had the pleasure of improving the lives of so many people. I consider myself something of a genius but the world hasn't always recognized my genius. That young King Tut was going to be a disaster to his country. I managed to guide him in the improvement of relations with other leaders but his young age just didn't serve him well. He was a sickly little twerp and nothing I could do, even with my great powers, would make him a winner.

The young king loved the races. Now few people know how he died; in fact there is no record of how he died but I can tell you. As I said, he loved the races and during one of those wonderfully destructive chariot races I decided I had done all I could for this young man. No one could understand why he staggered onto the track in the path of that chariot but it was his last day on earth. He is still pretty angry with me for his little accident so I avoid him every chance I get.

Wars

I am a great leader, though my master doesn't seem to recognize it. I get bored rather easily and often seek challenges. My master has allowed me to take part in the leadership of many wars. In the 1200s AD I became involved with the person of Genghis Kahn. Yes, I speak and understand his language along with over a thousand different languages and dialects. I am a lot smarter that my other fellows. Even Old Scratch has to come to me at times to translate; his ego prevents his highness from learning more.

Did you know there are an estimated six thousand different languages? In truth there are many more. People say they have heard strange voices. Hey, those are simply so many people speaking so many different languages. You know, there was a time there was only one language, everyone could understand everyone else. Those were much simpler times but then I convinced a leader in Babylon that it was senseless to do all that God stuff to get to heaven; all he needed was for him to have a tower built to reach heaven. No, that isn't just a Bible story, it really happened.

Well, God, who was still angry with Old Scratch and who was all wrapped up in this "do the God stuff," decided it was a bad idea to have these people knocking on his door. You know, it would have been so much easier to just knock down the structure, but noooo, not the Big Guy, He had to ruin everybody's day. So He made it so every worker had their own language. Old Scratch was pretty pissed at me about that; when all those people started showing up down here, speaking different languages the Boss locked himself in his rooms and didn't come out for two hundred years.

See how easily I get side tracked, but there are so many stories I have to tell. Maybe I need to write a book instead of a letter. What was I talking about...oh yeah, wars. I had some serious point I wanted to make, I just can't remember what it was, I am getting forgetful in my old age...wait, I don't age.

Oh, Kahn, that's right. I had a point to make about him. Well, anyway, I was very much responsible for his victories but, man was he a hard head, still is for that matter. Do you know he wanted to bring those damned elephants with him? His Lowness made it clear to Kahn that wasn't going to happen; brimstone smells fine but their droppings are huge and the aroma is awful. Do you know how many different types of elephants there are...of course you don't and really don't care, but there are a bunch going all the way back to the mammoth.

Kahn has been trying to take over down here ever since he arrived, another reason the Boss isn't too pleased with me. Look, the choice is being up there with that band of angels; why do they call it a band—they don't even have drums. Anyway, the choice is all those boring fluffy clouds, the angelic music and everyone loving everyone else or being here where there is so much color and the music is so much better. I can't understand why everyone wants to go up there. So, Kahn chose to join us—can you blame him?

In the early 1900s I stumbled across this frustrated Austrian. When I got involved with him he was doing menial delivery tasks, but I saw something special there, but he would never be a success on his own. You know, Addie (that's what I call him) is a very intelligent man with some great ideas; he just got a little off track. I was the one who convinced him that it was necessary that there be a ruling class and that ruling class should be perfect in appearance: blond hair and blue eyes. That was really quite a task since he had dark hair, but I am very good at what I do.

The problem arose when another demon entered the picture and convinced his trusted doctor to feed him those drugs. I was the one who coined the term "just say no" but it wasn't meant for the twenty-first century. This man's genius and wonderful oratory ability began to turn into paranoid ramblings. I was getting through to him about the drugs and would have had him making some better decision, but that wasn't the "big picture."

Anyway, ideas I hadn't placed in his head began swimming around and even I became confused. I had such good intentions for this genius of a man but I was recalled by Tha Man for another task. Spike took over in my absence with Addie and made a mess of all my hard work. Spike is such a troublemaker, his work is always evil intent. His work can be seen in the actions of a man named J. W. Booth, Manson and more than a few maniacal beings. He was also involved in the JFK assassination; you know, the truth about JFK is...no, maybe another time. Anyway, you get my point.

I dare not tell you about this new assignment. There are some secrets that must remain hidden in the minds of those involved. Oh, sure, we in Hell know all about it, which means the truths will some day be known, perhaps after the big battle between us and those powers in the clouds. You know, everyone thinks those guys up there are so cute, so pretty; well, I have news for you, they aren't. They are downright ugly and all these pictures of these ogre-like trolls flying around...get real, they don't even have wings. Oh, and just so you know, there are no angels in Hell, that was the work of Dopy Darcy—he is one of the silliest beings you could ever meet, but he has quite the sense of humor.

Later Years

I have had the pleasure of being involved with the lives of many famous people over the years and just to show demons aren't without talent I was the one who convinced Buddy Rich to pick up sticks and beat the skins and taught Gene Krupa to take drums to another level. When Fleetwood Mac was trying to come up with a song for The Dance album, I was there to guide McVie, Buckingham and Nicks in telling a story about me.

So, you see, I am talented beyond your imagination and the idea that we are bad just isn't true; that is what the movie makers have done. If you listen to them you would believe we are red with pointy tails slamming doors, causing people and things to do evil, possessing human beings. I can't say much about possession but I can tell you that seldom do people go against their nature, though entering things like houses, cars, guns, knives—you name it—is another story, but maybe I can give you examples.

In 1954 I was introduced to a young actor by the name of Jimmy. Now Jimmy was a young man who came from simple roots but success caused him to become elaborate. I discovered that, for whatever reason, I couldn't get into him so I worked my way into his Porsche—wow, that was fun! I always liked going fast but this was amazing. Sometimes Jimmy would try to slow down but I would block his brakes and pushed the accelerator further. I know this scared him, and I thought that was great fun. One day I might have taken it a bit too far when I blew past a police officer; he didn't quite believe the story he was being told.

The next day Jimmy took me, that is the car, to his German mechanic who assured Jimmy there was no way that could happen but he would check it out. When Rolf, the mechanic, tried to drive the Porsche into the garage I locked up the brakes causing the engine to stall. When he tried again I caused the accelerator to plunge to the floor sending the car screaming into the garage. I stopped the car before it could hit anything. Rolf worked on that car for a full week, rebuilt the brakes, did everything he could imagine but found nothing wrong.

When Jimmy bought a new Porsche I made the jump to join that one. Jimmy was driving me, the car...whatever, to Salinas where we would be racing. I was excited and couldn't help but push the little car to its limits. The one hundred-plus wind blew through my hair, well it would have if I had hair, or rather if the Porsche...you know what I mean. The speed was amazing and when that Chippy—yes, I gave the California Highway Patrol that nickname—anyway, when we blew past that Chippy another ticket came our way, well, Jimmy's way since I wasn't going to pay it.

Some miles later, away from that ticket crazy officer, we once again kicked speed back up. I wasn't paying any attention as we blew down the highway so when Jimmy tried to slam on the brakes I refused to let the car slow and we crunched into some rube in an old Ford. I immediately left the crumbling car but not before seeing Jimmy's last breath leave his body.

Since that time I have discovered I enjoy car crashes and have been part of almost three hundred. Sometimes it was cars, sometimes motorcycles, sometimes trucks, or maybe a bus or two. Now, here it is 2016 and this guy and his wife are looking for a new car. He just looks like someone I want to scare the crap out of, as well as his big-mouthed wife. Hey, they are looking at that one over there. I'm going over. Why do they have all these men around in black suits?

As they sit in the car, she says, "Won't it be wonderful to ride down the road with the windows open?"

What was it she called him...Bar Rock? He is quite distinguished looking.

About J.R. Hamilton

J.R. Hamilton was raised in Corpus Christi and lived there until he left school to join the Navy. After a time in Viet Nam, he was assigned to Naval Air Station Corpus Christi, where he was also part of the pistol team.

J.R. started working on motorcycles when he was thirteen and discovered the love of his life when he rebuilt a 1959 Panhead. He began riding with clubs at a young age and belonged to one before he left for Viet Nam. He has ridden with clubs in Texas, Virginia, Tennessee, Ohio and Maryland.

Find J.R. Hamilton's books at Dead Key Publishing

J.R. Hamilton's website

J.R. Hamilton's Facebook page
Agitation

By Angela Perea

Nancy stood stiff, her arms crossed tight across her chest, trying not to let her icy-cold pajama pants touch her legs. She'd been in that position long enough that her bare feet were turning a complimentary shade of blue to the cobalt silk.

At first she almost missed it. The chuck of enamel missing from the corner of her dryer. She tried to blink the appliance's wound away, but the dull black metal at the center of the imperfection only came more into focus the faster her eye lids moved.

Had it always been there? She knew this was unequivocally untrue even as she thought it. She not only inspected both the washer and dryer when they had been delivered only months before, but incorporated the machines into her weekly cleaning routine by running a sponge then dusting cloth over the shiny surfaces. She could take a polygraph test (and pass with flying colors) to the fact that the dryer had been in pristine condition when she had placed Dan's shirt in its bulk only 53 minutes before.

She took a step closer to the dryer and bent toward it causing goose pumps to rise on her arms. _Could I have done this when I rested a laundry basket on my hip and then the corner of the dryer? How could this have happened?_

***

After dinner, after dishes, after desert and after _60 Minutes_ she'd gone upstairs to get ready for bed. She opened the closet door, conscious of the fact that the hinge on the left was still squeaking despite liberally applying WD40 previously in the day, and gently pushed it aside to reach for Dan's shirt to set it out along with his blue suit. Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed that the shirt, the shirt with alternating light and dark blue stripes and the starched white collar, the only shirt that looked good with Dan's blue suit, was not in the closet. Dirty. God damn it! She had no choice but to head to the laundry room, weed through a week's worth of dirty clothes, find the shirt and wash it. The next day was Friday and Dan wore the blue suit on Fridays. So, instead of retiring to bed at 8:00, reading until 9:00, and falling asleep by 9:05 as was her custom, she crept down into the laundry room. _God damn him. When had he worn the shirt? Why had he worn it?_

She found the shirt balled up, a spaghetti stain on the breast pocket. She spent several minutes pushing the end of the stain stick into the fabric, releasing liquid. She methodically adjusted the washer's options to reflect a small load, warm water, heavy agitation, and tossed the shirt in. She returned exactly 23 minutes later, confirmed the exoneration of the spaghetti, and tossed the shirt in the dryer.

It was now past nine, and she'd felt Dan's voice before she heard it as she walked into the kitchen on her way to the basement. Her only thought was take the shirt from the dryer and hang it in the closet. Tomorrow is Friday. This had to be done.

"Honey, is that you? What's the matter?"

"Nothing, dear. I forgot something down in the basement." _Shit! Now he's made me a liar._

"Why don't you come and sit for a while?"

She entered the family room and sat on the couch opposite the TV and next to her husband.

Dan looked over and smiled. "Can't sleep?" The glow from the TV made him look ten years older; his nails needed to be groomed.

"I guess." She smiled back and shifted uneasily.

Nancy looked down at her hands. She turned them over and touched the tip of each finger scanning them for prints. The skin was becoming thinner. Gloves made of rice paper. The nails, once long and tapered, now kept neat and short. The light flickered across the tops of each hand; age spots skittered like spiders.

"Dinner was good. Was that the roast beef you got on sale last week?"

"Yes. If you'll excuse me. I need to..." She had scurried out of the family room.

***

She now stood in the freezing cold of the basement, convinced that Dan was playing a terrible trick on her. Perhaps it would just wash off? She extended her hand and touched the spot. The divot was clearly there and clearly made intentionally. She could feel the anger boil up like acid in her stomach.

The dryer's buzzer went off, causing her to jump back, her face becoming a foolish red. She opened the dryer door, hung the shirt with the light blue and dark stripes and white collar on a hanger, buttoning the second button down and turned off the light. She started to climb the basement stairs purposely, determined. She hardly blinked as she noticed Dan standing at the top of the stairs staring at her as if he'd never met her before.

"I could have worn a different shirt."

"Not with the blue suit." She walked up several more stairs then stopped.

"Oh, the tan one would have been okay. Or I could wear the black suit again."

She just looked at him.

"Well, I'm going to bed." A statement of fact, not a trace of guilt or apology in his voice.

"Good. I'll be there in a minute. I forgot something in the garage." _Yes, a liar, that's what I've been reduced to._ She took the remaining steps and waited for him to move aside.

"Can I take that?" He held his hand out for the shirt.

"No. Go on up to bed." She placed a perfect kiss on his stubbled cheek and briefly touched his arm. "Be right up," the metal hanger bending at the pressure of her thumb as her fist tightened.

***

She closed the garage door behind her as she stepped back into the warmth of the kitchen. She felt alive, free. She climbed the stairs to the bedroom, hung the shirt in its place, and slipped into bed.

She pushed close to Dan until her stomach was tight against his back. She wrapped an arm around him and placed cold fingertips on his belly. He responded with an exhalation of contentment and slept until morning.

***

Up at 5:30, breakfast by 6:30, newspaper, orange juice, briefcase. Dan stood in his blue suit at the door between the kitchen and the garage, waiting to catch her eye.

"I'll go out with you this morning. I have to take this out." She held up a plastic grocery bag. "Fat from the roast beef."

"Okay."

She walked past her own car, to the driver's side of her husband's.

He placed a kiss on her cheek. "How about dinner out tonight? Around six?"

"Sounds great. Have a great day, dear."

Dan slipped into the car, placed the briefcase on the passenger seat before closing the door. He took one more look at her and smiled.

Nancy placed a smile on her face, not unlike the deep scratch along the back end of Dan's car, most likely made by accident like the chunk taken out of her dryer. She dropped the bag of fat into the trash and gave a domestic wave as he drove off.

Gentle Persuasion

By Angela Perea

Jacob stood in the doorway waiting for the nurses to finish up. He teetered from one foot to another to alleviate the pain from his new Dr. Martens. At over 6'3" and pushing 300 pounds, any amount of idle standing bothered his feet, but he lied and blamed the new boots.

His finger tapped the iPod on his hip, the volume increased, and he held his breath. Slowly, he let it out and switched the metal cosmetic case from one hand to the other. _Come on, ladies. Move it._

By the looks on their jaded faces, they were talking about him. The older nurse turned her back to him and repositioned the patient in the bed for the third time. Her name was Debra, but she so embodied the spirit of Nurse Ratched that Jacob had to look at her name tag each time he talked to her so he didn't blurt out lines from _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. The other nurse, Ramona, still had a glimmer of beauty about her, but as each week went by, he noticed it less and less.

She was the one he really disliked.

He brought a finger to his mouth and chipped away at the black polish. He knew better than to chew his nails, classes on client hygiene had taught him about fungus and infection, but he'd forgotten himself for a moment and chewed away.

Despite the late hour—almost midnight—the nurses worked together like well-oiled cogs. The rest of the hospital had already slowed down into muted movements of life and death, but these two had just begun their work day. One of them slipped a pale blue hospital gown onto the torso of the patient as the other held the patient's head from the pillow. The practiced nurses had little trouble with the bulk of the patient, something others would have struggled with. Next, a fresh sheet was opened, stretched and allowed to settle down on top of the athletic legs. If it hadn't been for s-shaped scars on each knee, battle wounds from college, Jacob wouldn't have been able to distinguish between the patient's knees and the bleached fabric. Each nurse pulled tightly on the sheet, shoving it expertly under the mattress, and then finished with a cotton blanket. The whole action reminded Jacob of the years watching hotel housekeepers, his mother being one of them, make bed after bed after bed. Only those sheets hadn't been as white and the pillows not as nice.

"Okay. He's all yours."

"Huh?" Jacob popped one of the white earbuds from his ear.

"And don't stay as long as you did last time," Debra said as she flipped her gloves toward the trash can, missing it. Maybe on purpose.

"Why?"

"Just don't." The women looked at each other. "Joto," one of them jibed under her breath.

He waited until both women were gone, grabbed a tissue then walked over to the gloves. Even though he didn't know the exact definition of _joto_ he got the gist of the insult. In fact, at many levels he agreed full-heartedly with them; he was a _joto_. He delicately picked up the latex fingers and placed the gloves and the tissue in the trash.

Jacob walked over to the bed, pulling on a chair, and positioned it next to the hospital bed. He took a deep breath, clearing the cosmic space around him and the patient, and sat down with a smile on his face. "Ohmigod, Tony, you'll never believe what happened last night." He took the other earbud out and placed the cords around his neck. The music, now muffled against his shirt, sounded like men whispering behind closed doors, and he kept it on. He opened the metal case at his feet and took out a towel. "I met this guy, real cute—a little short—okay a lot short, but he had these gorgeous blue eyes that made me want to...well, you know what."

He gently took the hand closest to him and looked at the nails. "He asked me what I did for a living and that was sort of awkward. I mean, how do you tell someone that you take care of the beauty concerns of the sleeping? I told him that I do hair and makeup for celebrities, which isn't a lie really."

He examined the tips of each finger, amazed at the marked increase in nail growth since his last visit only seven days before. Jacob knew that the added vitamins in the feeding tube were doing their job, and he was pleased that it meant that his services were very much needed. He reached down and took a small bottle from the case. The cuticle oil made from jojoba and coconut, had cost him over twenty dollars, but he only used it on his favorites, and he was very judicious in applying a measured drop to each nail.

The fingers, now resting against his own, were warm and smooth, the weight of each validating the blood pumping under the skin to each tip. Jacob knew the difference between life and death, and he knew that Tony's body was strong. What Jacob also knew was that Tony's soul was weak and nearly gone—he could feel it evaporating through the tips of Tony's fingers like the heat from the fresh homemade muffins his grandmother made.

He dropped oil onto each nail and began massaging it into the nail bed. He was careful around the pinkie and ring finger, breaks in the bone now fused together had left the fingers crooked and gnarly; he imagined the fingers to be painful if manipulated.

"I met your parents last week." He continued to massage each finger as he looked up, making eye contact with pale lids, a small crust of eye drops hanging on a lash. "It seems strange that I've known you for almost a year, and I'd never met them before. Your dad seems nice. You look a lot like him. Your mom, though. She's worn down. Maybe even a little tired with the idea of visiting you forever. Who can blame her? You know you are going to have to make a decision soon, right? You're going to have make a decision for her."

Jacob laid the hand on the edge of the bed and grabbed a new cloth, and a thin, wooden stick, called an orange stick for some insane reason. He wiped off the oil, took Tony's hand again, and positioned himself so he could gently push back the cuticles.

"You know I had to make the decision for my mom. A tough one. I picked up the phone and made the decision. I've never told her it was me, but she must have known." He gently pushed back the tough skin into the nail bed. "Even after she left, after they took her away, I never regretted making that call. Sons have to do the tough stuff."

Jacob finished each nail in concentrated silence. He thought about his mom and those decisions that he spoke to Tony about so convincingly. When he thought about that time it made him feel like a man. It was something only a man could do, but he also knew that it had stolen something from him—the consequences were great. Sometimes too great.

"I wish we could have been friends. Of course we never would have been. I am a joto after all." He laughed at hearing the word come out of his mouth. "But seriously, even though I know that we would never have been friends in the real world, but in this world—the one you and I have created now—we are good friends." Jacob placed all of the tools of his trade in his case. His movements reminded him of nineteenth century doctors he'd seen on TV who did the same thing as they packed up their traveling medical bags. Once done, he sat back in the chair, and clasped his paws around his stomach. In that moment he felt like a fraud, or at the very least, unsure of everything he thought to be true.

"Well, Tony. I guess I'll be going. Thank you for listening to me tonight. You know, I've never told anyone about my mom, but I thought you should know. I thought it might help you."

Jacob placed the earbuds in his ears and stood up. The body of the patient remained unmoved as he positioned the chair back to its original spot in the room and came back to the bed. He picked up his case, giving the patient one last pat on the hand, and turned to leave the room.

As he walked through the threshold into the sterile hallway, he nearly ran into an embarrassed nurse.

"Good night, Ramona."

"Yes. Good night." She peered around Jacob's girth and into the room. "Everything okay in there?"

"Of course. He's all finished."

Ramona lifted her eyes and made eye contact with Jacob. There was an apology there, perhaps compassion as well. She allowed herself a smile, and why not, they now shared a secret. Jacob had no choice but to return a smile and let his eyes soften.

"Good night, Ramona." He turned and started down the hallway.

"See you next week."

"I hope not, Ramona, I hope not." Raising his voice a few octaves he sang, "Toodles," as fingers over the shoulder gave a final goodbye.

About Angela Perea

Angela began writing in short stories in junior high, distributing pages of her risqué tale of stolen kisses and heavy breathing set against the backdrop of a high school dance and Madonna's "Crazy for You" to classmates during recess. The cemented her love of the short story and fiction in general. She believes that all great writers were first great readers, and spends much of her reading life studying the masters: Nabokov, Faulkner, Woolf, Lawrence, Updike and Bradbury.

Angela received a Creative Writing degree from Metropolitan State University of Denver where she received several awards for her short fiction and poetry. It was while in college that she developed a love of filmmaking and started Holy Carp! Films.

Find Angela Perea's books at Dead Key Publishing

Angela Perea's Facebook page
Extinguish

By Cher Smith

Samantha stood in front of the burning houses, her blue microfiber blanket shrouding her shoulders but doing little to keep out January's wet chill. Although the 2 a.m. sky showed no light, the flames, the headlamps on the fire trucks and illumination from the gathering neighbors' cell phones provided enough light to make it seem like day.

"You okay, honey?" Her neighbor to the south laid a hand on her shoulder. She seemed solicitous, but Sam could see curiosity dancing in the gaze that darted around her face, her pajamas and eventually back to her house and the house next door.

She wanted to shrug off the hand but didn't want to be rude.

"Did you get anything out?"

She put her hand to her throat, feeling the rawness as she had screamed over and over for Bella, but the cat had remained hidden, and she had screamed until the fireman had physically hauled her out of her home beneath the crashing beams.

"No," she whispered. A single tear slipped down her cheek, eerily catching the reflection of the crackling flames finally being doused. Too late.

* * *

She stood in the foyer of the large older house, looking at the hideous floral sofa—that will have to go—and the bay window that let in gorgeous golden amounts of morning sunlight. Bella would have loved sleeping there—I will get another cat. The dewdrop crystals that hung from the dining room chandelier were partially hidden by shadows, but the table, large enough to seat ten, hinted at dinner parties and gracious, well thought-out meals and silverware housed in velvet-lined boxes.

She had spent a week looking at houses. Scrubbed antiseptically clean atmospheres and modern jangled lines and angles had left her even more depressed until she had crossed the threshold of this house. She knew then what she had been missing. She didn't want new. She wanted a house that had been lived in and loved, something traditional to make up for the family she had lost two years ago when her father had mercifully died and the home she had lost two weeks ago. She stepped into this house and it was like she had released a pent-up breath. Her muscles relaxed, and she felt rather than heard the whisper at the back of her mind—this will all be okay.

The realtor standing beside her was still, almost too still. She was the one with the pent-up breath, and her wrinkled forehead and lifted eyebrows suggested worry. What was she not saying? Sam thought that realtors were obligated to tell prospective buyers everything that was wrong with a property. But Kay Kirpatrick—Let me find your forever home!—had said nothing. There was that worried look, though.

It doesn't matter, she thought. This is where I belong. It is my house. Mine.

"Let's sign the contract."

* * *

She had scrubbed on the house all day. Not that the realtor hadn't made sure everything was as clean as a newly built house. But Samantha liked the feeling of her own cleaning. It felt as though it put her in touch with the house, made it more hers.

As she sank down now into the steaming bath that was already fogging up the ornate mirror over the vanity, she felt the tension of the last month slip from her shoulders even as her sore muscles relaxed. Wine, she thought. How perfect would this picture be if she just added a few bubbles to the water and had a glass of red in her hand. I need a glass of wine. She clamored out of the tub, reached into the cupboard and removed the jar of bruise-colored crystals. She shook a good amount into the water and whipped it around with her hand, creating enough bubbles to give her the illusion of jar's advertisement, if only for a few moments.

She put on her robe and opened the bathroom door. Cold air hit her immediately, making her skin pucker beneath the fluffiness of her winter robe. She hadn't noticed before a draftiness in the old house, but she hadn't been here long and this was her first real night in the house.

The chilled air became colder as she descended the stairs, and she wondered if she would have to go to the basement to check the pilot light on the furnace. A momentary fear gripped her as memories intruded of her house ablaze. Don't be ridiculous, her mind whispered. It wasn't a problem with the furnace. You know that.

She saw the problem when she stepped into the kitchen and pushed the button to turn on the overhead light. The door that led to the tiny backyard and the alleyway beyond stood open. Winter and all its icy accouterments poured in the open door, powdery snow drifting over the threshold.

Feeling the chill on her un-slippered feet, she went to the door and started to close it. It took a little effort due to its weight and solidness, and she realized she must not have closed the door tight when she went upstairs. She closed it then leaned her full weight against it as she turned the latch. She tested it and was satisfied this time it was closed.

Her hand was on the light switch when she heard the distinctive thu-unk of the latch and felt rather than heard the door creak open.

The hair on her neck prickled, but she scolded herself. Of course it gave you chills, you idiot. It's winter!

She turned quickly, refusing to look toward the kitchen window. She closed it, latched it, tested it. And then waited. Cold air swirled lightly at her feet, and she jumped a little because it felt like fingers grasping her ankles.

Convinced the door was going to stay closed, she turned off the light and walked out of the kitchen.

A little girl stood at the base of the stairs.

Her mouth opened in a wordless, soundless cry.

She was wearing a pale blue dress with puffy white sleeves at the shoulders. One of the shoulders was torn a little, and dirt smudged the front of the skirt down to the hem, which swayed as though the wind were playing tag with the material. She wasn't solid, not substantial, and her wispy-fine blonde hair seemed woven with clouds.

Samantha closed her eyes, counted to three, opened them. The girl was gone.

Not enough sleep, too much stress. Of course you're seeing things. But a little ghost girl?

She let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding and laughed. Just a little. It was absurd. She climbed the stairs, feeling the creeping weariness in her legs. Perhaps the best thing would be to drain the bath water and simply go to bed.

She reached the top of the stairs and turned to go to the bathroom but paused. Her neck prickled again. Someone was watching her, she knew it as surely as she knew anything. She put her hand to the doorknob but couldn't make herself turn it. Don't be silly. She's not in there. She's behind you watching.

She whipped her head around, the scream gathering at the back of her throat in anticipation of seeing the ghost girl. But there was nothing there. She let out the breath she knew this time she had been holding and turned to the bathroom door.

She saw the girl out of the corner of her eye. She stood by the bedroom door, the bedroom down the hall from Sam's bedroom. It took every ounce of willpower she had to not look at the girl. The girl didn't move. Sam turned the knob to the bathroom and rushed inside, closing the door behind her, locking it and bracing against it with her back.

With her heart thudding painfully in her chest and sapping energy from her muscles, she argued with herself about what to do. She kept telling herself it wasn't real. Of course not. If she admitted to the possibility of ghosts, she would have to admit to a supernatural world, and that was just so much ridiculousness, wishful thinking by weak-minded people. On the other hand, there was that little girl out there.

Out there? What made her think she was safe in here? The girl hadn't needed to climb the stairs. Wouldn't she be able to just pop in here if she so chose?

That decided her. She couldn't stay in here. It really made no difference.

She let the water out of the tub and crept back to the door. She put her ear close to the door. She didn't hear anything but had an eerie image of the ghost girl standing just on the other side, listening just as intently. She cracked the door open and peered down the hall to where she had seen the girl.

Nothing.

Thank God.

She scurried down the hall to her own room in the opposite direction. Before crossing the threshold, she scanned the room but didn't see anything. She stepped inside and then permitted herself one last look down the hall.

The girl stood on her own threshold looking at Sam. She lifted a ghostly little girl hand and waved.

With ragged breaths that felt as though they would tear her chest apart, Sam waved back.

The girl walked into her room. Sam stood for a moment before retreating into her own room and closing the door.

* * *

At a little before 2 o'clock, Sam came slowly awake to cold air in her room. Her mind landed on the idea of a ghost cold, the ghost sucking the warmth from the air, but she instantly dismissed the thought. No such thing as ghosts. Besides, the ghost had just opened the door again. That was all.

She trudged downstairs, shut the door, locked it, went back upstairs to her room, closed the door—all without looking around her.

At a little after 3, the chilled air woke her again. She trudged downstairs, shut the door, locked it, went back upstairs to her room, closed the door—all without looking around her.

At around 4:30, icy air licked at her cheek. Sam rolled over and pulled the blankets over her head.

* * *

Despite her love of old things—old books, old furniture, old houses and even older neighborhoods—Sam found herself mumbling "Google is a wonderful thing!" under her breath. It didn't seem right to search for information about the ghost girl in the house she was haunting, so Sam had settled in at the Starbucks down the street, venti macchiato on one side of her laptop, notebook and pen on the other.

It hadn't taken long to find the history of the house. The house had been owned by family after family after quickly fleeing family. Some had reported seeing a ghostly phantom ("just like a piece of cloud only it was inside") in the shape of a little girl, others had talked about hearing a child's music box ("I'll never have children after hearing that"). All of them said that the door in the kitchen, the door opening to the alley, kept opening no matter what they did to close it or block it.

It took a little more Google-digging to find information on the small family tragedy. It was at the turn of 20th century, when the house was new and so were the dreams of Oliver and Evelyn Hawthorne. It was perhaps a little more house than the young entrepreneur with a newborn could afford, but he was ambitious and his starry-eyed bride believed in him. Two years later and the stars had disappeared along with the belief that the business would grow. One year after that and little Olivia wore second- and third-hand dresses and Oliver couldn't take the disappointment in Evelyn's eyes. Another year and Oliver couldn't take Evelyn's dead eyes even when she listened over and over to Olivia's music box—a gift from a client who couldn't afford to pay his bill. Oliver packed a bag, kissed Olivia on the forehead and laid his big hand alongside her cheek for a moment before slipping out the kitchen door that led to the alley. He didn't close the door.

For a week, Olivia walked outside to the alley and back into the kitchen. She didn't close the door. Daddy would be back and would need to get in. So she walked outside to the alley—no farther, because Daddy told her to never go into the alley—and back into the kitchen, which remained dark and where Mommy never cooked anymore.

The police were called by neighbors who were worried about the little girl when they stopped seeing her in the backyard and when they had started smelling something coming from the house. They found Evelyn in the dining room. The dining room table had been pushed to the edge of the room, allowing Evelyn enough room to hang herself from the chandelier. The rough rope had done its work, even though Evelyn's weight had brought the chandelier out of the ceiling. Evelyn's corpse had decayed quickly in the unnaturally humid summer, and the smell had escaped through the open door. Olivia hadn't wanted to leave her mother, and the police found the dead little girl curled up by her mother's bloated and decomposing head, her thumb in her mouth and the other hand grasping a lock of her mother's hair.

They took both bodies from the house, and while he didn't tell his fellow officers that day, Officer Johns would swear until his dying day that as they drove away, he saw a little girl standing in the bedroom window, waving goodbye.

* * *

"I know all about it, Olivia," she shouted into the seemingly empty house.

* * *

Nothing changed. The door kept opening. _No, Olivia keeps opening the door. Damn that girl!_ Sleep became less and less frequent as she couldn't get to sleep with the open door, and no matter what she did, the girl kept opening the door.

At last she had had enough. She stood in the middle of the dining room.

"Okay, Olivia! You listen to me! I know you're here, so you just listen. Your daddy isn't coming back. So stop looking for him! Your mommy isn't coming back either. She left you here. Alone. They both left you here alone. All those other families left you here alone. But you know what? I'm not leaving! But I'm going to tell you something, and you better listen closely to this, little girl.

"You want to know what happens when you leave the door open? You keep leaving that door open and thugs will come in here and kill me!"

She slammed her hand down on the big, blond butcher-block table for emphasis, the table Evelyn had single-handedly pushed aside before hanging herself. "And no one cares about me, so no one would even know! I'd lay there on the floor with my blood soaking into the rug—your rug! You think anyone will want this place after that? NO!"

She paced into the spacious yellow and white kitchen, and back out the door into the formal dining room with its tinkling and trembling chandelier and living room with the horrid floral sofa that she was coming to love.

"So let me tell you who will move in after my rotting, smelly carcass is finally hauled out like your mother's was. No one will buy the house because of the stories. People don't like stories about murder in a bad neighborhood. But let me tell you who will move in. The meth users. The meth dealers."

Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the blaze of that night. "People will come and go at all hours. None of their cars will have door handles because all of them have been stolen. The curtains will never be open, if there are curtains. If there are no curtains, the windows will be spray painted black. It looks sinister, let me tell you. Your neighbors will look like something from the zombie apocalypse, and the smells will be awful. The lawn will be neglected, and so will the house, and you would think that maybe the people just couldn't afford it. And yet expensive security cameras will be installed. The poor dog on a chain out in the backyard will go for days without being fed."

The hitch in her voice, that sob that had been held in for so long, made her stop for a moment, and when she continued, she wasn't loud.

"And then someone will make a mistake. Someone will light a cigarette, and the explosion will be huge. And it won't destroy just the meth dealer's house. This house. Oh no. It demolishes the neighbor's house too, the innocent person who didn't do anything wrong except maybe try to feed the dog.

"So if you want this house— _our house_ —to become the domicile of meth dealers and crack heads, of people who don't care about the beauty of that hand-carved bannister or the garden in that atrium, well, you just keep up your little tricks."

She stopped her mad pacing and listened for a moment, but she heard not a sound in the two-story house that she longed to call her forever home.

"This is my house now. Mine! I don't care if you stay, I hope you do actually, but you damn well better start closing the door!"

She stomped over to the stairs and rested her hand on the bannister. It really was a thing of beauty, gleaming like stars beneath her hand. "I'm going to bed," she announced to seemingly no one but herself.

* * *

Samantha sat in the rocking chair facing the front window. The lights were off, and the peacefulness of the snow falling outside in front of a barely visible moon cradled her.

She heard the door swoosh open. It had finally stopped creaking like something out of a B-grade horror movie. Cool air brushed her skin. She waited. And waited.

"Olivia," she warned.

She waited. She felt it before she heard it—the cool breeze stopped and then the distinctive click of the door closing softly.

"Good girl," she whispered.

She lifted her head and waited as the ghost girl kissed her on the cheek. Olivia walked to the stairs and, as usual, turned to look at Samantha. This time she smiled as she waved. Samantha thought she looked happier. _This is her forever home, too_.

"Goodnight."

The Swing

By Cher Smith

The swing. It hung from the tree limb in the front yard, holding a modicum of hope although bereft of child. It had seen one blazing hot summer when its red plastic bottom scorched and the little vinyl pad of red and white stripes had curled at the edges. Fall now leaned toward winter with all the pleasure and promise of a dried-up spinster.

The mother. She watched from the window of the house. Silent. As silent as the dark rooms above. As silent and white-faced as the sliver of moon that crept through the night.

They had bought the house two summers before when her belly had still been swollen huge and ready. Sweat had gathered under her breasts, running down her stomach as they drove the streets looking at houses. None had been right for one reason or another. Until this street. A basketball stand had been erected at the end of the driveway of the house next door. Children of various ages were gathered around it. A man, father of one of them perhaps, held the ball between his arm and hip, holding court as several boys and one small girl with scraggly braids and a scraped knee pleaded their cases. It was a lively, exuberant scene, and when the baby kicked, she knew it was right. She could see in her mind's eye making a home here.

The mother. She watched and waited and yearned.

The father. He watched _her_.

He knew the street was right when the man, father of one of them perhaps, had held the ball up for a tip-off and tossed it higher than necessary so that he could lift the girl with the lopsided braids and skinned knee to give her the advantage. Maybe a boy, he thought, who I can teach to dribble and pass and shoot and dunk. But a girl would be just fine too.

He had watched the mother for days and then weeks and then months. Silent. As silent as the swing had become, the swing he had carefully rigged on the jutting tree limb. As silent as the period at the end of a sentence.

He had tried to make love to her three times in the silence that enveloped them. The first time he had come up behind her as she sat in the chair by the window, and though she was as silent and as pliant as a rag doll, he had kissed her neck and reached around her to touch her breasts. As he massaged them, he felt milk suddenly and horribly in his hands and heard his wife utter a low moan not of pleasure but of animal pain.

He had gone upstairs and in the shower where no one could hear him he cried.

The second time he tried pulling her away from the window. She had gone with him for a few steps until the swing was no longer in view. Then she had flown at him with fists flailing in fury, spittle dotting his chest as she screamed. He had let her go and she returned to the chair by the window as swiftly and surely and silently as though a magnet had drawn her.

The third time he let her stay at the window and he avoided her breasts but when he stroked her thighs and moved his hand up under her skirt, she cried. He didn't know which was worse, the rage or the tears, but he wouldn't try again.

We have to watch she had said. Everything has to be ready. I don't think he's coming back he had said. You don't know that she said and he couldn't face the trembling hope and grief in her voice nor the truth in her words.

The father. He watched her and waited and mourned.

The convergence of two mothers. It happened on a bright fall morning when the leaves had not yet turned but the chill lay underneath the day like the cold sheets of the unused half of the bed. The child had taken advantage of her mother's turned back. She had waited perhaps all summer long to venture into the yard that held such untouched treasures. Her steps had been slow. Not from stealth. Not from caution. Simply from the newness of balance and gravity unexplored.

And then it was before her, this red and white striped marvel that only the wind used. She reached out a tentative but exploring finger.

The mother had waited until the girl's finger touched the curling vinyl. She then flew out the front door, the high-pitched keening wail born of pain and growing horror not anger. The other mother had turned then and rushed over. She had grabbed her girl just as she was taking a huge deep breath in preparation of her own wail born of fear. She clutched at her mother's neck—a new prick of pain for the mother who could only watch and wait and nurture the swing.

We have to watch she had said. Everything has to be ready. It's not like he died she said. They will find him they will bring him back they will be sorry they will bring him back they will bring him back they will bring him they will...

The other mother nodded and hurried away, anxious to be gone, never admitting the horrible yawning bit of human selfishness in her that whispered I'm glad it wasn't me and she gave her adventurous daughter an extra cookie and a hard squeeze of love rather than paddling her behind for not minding mommy.

The swing. It hung from the tree limb in the front yard.

About Cher Smith

Cher Smith began her writing career when she was eight years old, folding over notebook paper to look like a book. While her novel "Lazy Bones" was never finished, she never lost the love of creating characters and placing them in awkward, mysterious, dangerous or romantic situations, sometimes all at once.

Cher has published several novels, articles, movie reviews and magazine feature stories. She is the founder, editor and chief instigator at Dead Key Publishing. It is her desire to bring novels—hers and others—to readers who love books.

Find Cher Smith's books at Dead Key Publishing

Cher Smith's Facebook page

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A Working Vacation

By Stephen W. Smith

His eyes blurred as he read the story. He tapped on the table with his right hand, shaking the half-filled coffee cup. "Damn," he muttered. Simon Hardy rubbed his eyes with a crumpled napkin. "What the hell did you get yourself into, Nicki?" The question hung in the air; no one in the diner heard him, and Nicki would never be able to answer. Nicki Marin was the news story. Murdered and dumped in a wooded area, like some disposable product. He hoped to God it had been quick. She was his ex. But she hadn't exited his life. Until now. But never his heart.

Just a couple months ago, he'd sat in this same diner and read her wedding announcement in the paper. It had been rough. He and Nicki couldn't get along, but he still loved her, and he was resigned to the fact that he always would. They'd been divorced for five years, almost as long as they'd been married. He didn't blame her for moving on. But it still haunted him. His imagination took him to dangerous places. It wasn't pretty when you saw your lover doing things with another man, even if it was only in your own head. So that night, he'd done the only reasonable thing he could. He left the diner, stopped at a liquor store and went home to his apartment. And drank till he passed out. Then he threw himself into his work. Which was typical of a cop. And not just a stereotype. It was much easier to deal with other people's problems than it was to deal with your own.

* * *

Simon had expected the call. The Jonesboro police would like to speak with him. At their station. At his convenience, of course. It was professional courtesy. And more because he was an Atlanta detective, not because he was one of their own. Small town local departments were generally careful when dealing with big city police forces. They might need help sometime. Or a look the other way on a ticket. Though, a rape and murder changed the dynamics. And every cop knew that too many had crossed the line in recent years. He couldn't fathom that. Why would someone go over the line and become a killer? And with cops, they always thought they'd get away with it.

He wasn't worried. He'd never have hurt Nicki. At least not physically. They'd hurt each other emotionally and mentally. But he'd never wanted to kill her. He knew they would push him. Close relatives and exes were always the prime suspects. He thought about getting a lawyer, but he figured that would only make him look guilty, which he wasn't. And he hated lawyers. Nicki's lawyer had cleaned him out pretty good in the divorce. Snakes. Like the devil himself. Simon would have to make sure he didn't sound like that in the interrogation. That could almost sound like a motive. But lots of things sounded like motives when emotions were involved.

He drove to Jonesboro and turned on the street where the police station stood. He'd been here a couple of times before, dropping off and picking up evidence and lab results. Most everything was done online, but occasionally, some of his brethren still preferred the old ways. He understood that. Virtual data didn't always seem as satisfying as real paper. He knew that was silly, but old ways die hard. It felt strange to him to walk in the station with his everyday clothes on, but wearing his uniform seemed a bit pretentious, like wearing a sign saying, "Hey, I'm a cop!"

The officer at the desk was named A. Jones. Simon found that mildly amusing, that Jones was a cop in Jonesboro. Though it made perfect sense, given the commonality of the name. He kept his observation to himself. He was sure the man had heard it too many times to appreciate it at this point.

"What can I do for you?" The man was evidently not from Georgia. He sounded like he might be from the Midwest. Simon, being from Illinois himself, sometimes felt a little odd, not having the Georgia twang. And he sensed a reluctance from some of the natives to talk to him at times because of that. The influx of people from all over the country had started changing that. He'd come here from the force in Effingham, Illinois, because he wanted to be on a big city force. He balked at the idea of being a cop in Chicago. That was way too dangerous a proposition, in his mind. And Atlanta would get him away from the Illinois winters.

"Well?" Jones looked at him like he was under the influence. He'd better stop letting his mind wander and focus. That might make the difference between being hounded for months or quickly taken off the suspect list.

"I'm sorry." He stopped short of explaining himself. Straight and to the point was needed. "I'm Detective Simon Hardy, Atlanta P.D. I am here to see if I can help in the investigation of my ex-wife's murder. I was called by Detective Thatcher." He definitely wanted them to see him as a fellow investigator, not a perp.

Jones looked at him more closely now. He was probably trying to decide if he knew Hardy or not. Simon had never him seen him before. So he'd either been somewhere else or he was new. "I'll advise him that you're here. Have a seat, detective."

He took a seat in one of the three chairs against a plain white concrete wall. There were no tables or furniture in this part of the facility. No magazines. It reminded him that he wasn't in a dentist or doctor's office. Though he felt a little of the same trepidation he felt in those places. Which was odd. He usually felt at home in any station.

Jones called him and led him to the back of the building, into a small office with two chairs. It wasn't an interrogation room, which told him that Thatcher probably wasn't going to try to go heavy on him. At least at this point. Though, he'd have to evaluate what the Jonesboro detective was trying to do when he saw it. A good investigator could suck you in, convince you he was your friend, and slam you just as much as a hard ass one could. You'd just never suspect it was happening. But since he was a detective, Thatcher would probably play it different. He would. It would probably be much more of a chess match.

Thatcher entered his office. "Thanks for coming in, Detective Hardy. I appreciate your help in this matter." He hadn't extended his hand, which told Simon, he was still a suspect at this point. He'd have probably done the same.

"You can call me Hank. Can I get you some coffee or a Coke?" A little cordiality. Simon wondered. _Is he trying to soften me up, or giving me the benefit of the doubt._ He decided it was too early in the match to judge that.

"No, thank you. I just had lunch."

"Well, if you change your mind, let me know." Thatcher sat down behind his desk and pulled a file from his desk drawer. He laid the folder on top of the desk. "You know we have to look at every possible angle and person who could know the victim. And by the way, Detective, I am sorry about the loss of your wife, I mean ex-wife. I don't know how close you two were, but this can't be easy on you."

"Thank you, detective. I appreciate that." Simon actually would have liked to punch the other cop in the nose. He'd noticed the planned slip of the tongue. _Your wife. Oh, I'm sorry. Your ex-wife._ The small town dick knew what he was doing. Try to read the suspect's face for signs of indifference, anger or pain. People were books to the trained mind. Though, not often as easy to read as some cops thought. He'd misjudged at times himself. He'd forgotten about most of those. Till now.

"Well, you of all people know the drill. And this next part is going to be hard."

_But you're going to put me through it anyway, aren't you, asshole?_ He would have loved to say it out loud. But he would have just made himself more of a target.

"Yeah. I know the drill."

Thatcher opened the folder and turned several photos toward Simon. He tried to keep his face from revealing too much. But he felt the corner of his lip quiver, and tears welled in his eyes. He would have chosen to never have seen Nicki in this state. The cold hard ground. The nudity. The bruises and bites. The ugly red slash across her throat. The woman he'd loved for years. The woman he'd held and kissed and cared for.

He didn't focus on the pictures for long. He let his rage carry him through the rest of the interview. He gave what little alibi he had: at home alone, like most people who live alone are. He tried to ignore the veiled insinuations from Thatcher, that he'd feel better if he got it off his chest. "I'm an upholder of the law, not a monster. Just like you, Hank."

Thatcher did recognize that this wasn't going to go anywhere. Hardy was soon walking back to his car. He'd been informed that they would keep in touch. And would he mind having some DNA testing done. He'd said he'd think about it. Though he knew he would. He had nothing to hide. Still, it galled him. Everyone was a suspect now. And everyone was guilty.

His drive back to Atlanta was filled with fits of rage and sadness. He fought to not see the images of Nicki. And he raged to find the killer and bring him to justice. Just what that meant, he wasn't sure. It was personal now. "I'll get him, Nicki," he promised the woman he'd never see again.

* * *

The next several months went by. In Simon's mind, it could have been minutes or years. He was eliminated as a suspect very quickly, as he knew would happen once he consented to the tests. He'd never really thought much about DNA testing until he had it done. It was very intrusive. Oral swabs were taken and hairs were pulled from both his head and his pubic region. He was reminded of a discussion he and Nicki had one time about the procedure. Nicki had said it was over the line and it was a violation of rights, if no other evidence was present. He'd argued that it was necessary, with such a large population. And wouldn't someone want to be eliminated as a suspect as soon and easily as possible? Nicki had countered with what seemed like a weak argument at the time. Why would someone be a suspect, if there was no evidence to suggest it? He remembered her saying that was "cop think." It might have went downhill from there, but she'd left to go somewhere. They'd never talked about it again.

But seeing it now, she'd been right. Why had he automatically been a suspect? And why was the onus of proving one's innocence placed on the "suspect"? What changed him from cop to suspect in an instant? Statistical probability? Great.

He had tried to immerse himself in his own work, but that had not always helped. A few weeks after his visit to Jonesboro, he'd been called to a homicide in east Atlanta. A woman had been killed in her home. He and his partner arrived. It was clear that the victim had been raped and strangled. Marks around her neck and the position of the body made it pretty clear. Fortunately for Simon, they'd been the first detectives to arrive, because of proximity, but Sex Crimes detectives were quickly on the scene to take over the investigation.

He started having nightmares after that. He'd see the victim in Atlanta. The killer would be strangling her with his hands. She was trying to pull his hands away. At that moment in the dream, the woman changed into Nicki. She wrestled out of the grip of the killer's hands. And at that point, he grabbed her hair and cut her throat. Simon woke up screaming, sweating and falling out of bed, trying to lunge into the scene and stop it. He sat on the floor and cried. The dream repeated itself for the next several nights. He dreaded going to bed, and after the dream happened, he rarely got back to sleep.

None of this went unnoticed by his partner. Earle "Ace" Henry had been his partner for seven years, which had been almost the whole time he'd been in Atlanta. On first meeting him, Ace appeared to be a good old boy redneck from the old South. But appearances could be deceptive, and in this case they were. Simon had quickly learned that Ace had been given that name for scoring the best score ever on the police academy exam. He hadn't aced it, but he'd come close. Ace had always gone by Buzz before that, because he liked the astronaut, Buzz Aldrin, and he hated being named Earle. Simon could never tell whether the southern bumpkin persona that Ace projected was an act or not. It was very effective in dealing with many of the people they encountered. But Simon knew Ace as a multifaceted personality. He was quiet, introspective, intelligent and deeply intuitive.

"So, what's goin' on with you?" Ace looked across the table at him. The chatter from the staff and smell of breakfast cooking made him hungry, but the coffee was why they'd stopped. Granny's Southern Diner was known for its coffee and grits. As they'd passed the place, Ace looked at Hardy and said, "You need coffee. Why don't we stop?" Simon knew he must look like hell. But he'd said nothing to Ace about his sleepless nights.

"Nothing that I know of. I'm just a little tired." He took a gulp of coffee.

"You've been tired for a week." Ace stretched the word tired out in his Southern drawl, making the one syllable sound like something you'd do to your car. "He tired a car."

Simon thought about how he should reply. Should he tell Ace about the dreams and lack of sleep? Maybe he owed it to his partner. If he wasn't as sharp as normal, didn't Ace have the right to know? He'd want to know.

"I'm dreaming about Nicki. I'm seeing her being murdered. It's killing me." Their food came and they started eating in silence. Simon had figured this would happen. Ace was not one to blurt out the first thing that came into his head. He'd think through what to say, and if it didn't seem helpful, he'd not say anything. It was one of the reasons Simon trusted him so much, and why Ace was one of his best friends.

Finally, after ten minutes or so, Ace looked at him and said, "So, have you heard anything about how the investigation is going?"

"No. It's not exactly like I'm on good terms with Jonesboro. I held my tongue, as well as I could the last time I saw them. But a few choice words may have slipped out."

"Yeah, I know how you are with those choice words."

Simon laughed at that. "Yeah, I know."

Ace laughed. "I know you do. But I also know that you can be as calm and cool as you want to be. And you can endear yourself to anyone you want to. I've seen you do it with people we're questioning, with suspects, and with other cops. Which is why I think you should get on their good side. I think you need to be in the loop. You need to feel like you're getting justice for Nicki."

Ace was right, of course. Simon had not forgotten his promise to Nicki. That he'd get justice for her. He hadn't really spent a lot of time figuring out what that meant. But if he could help the cops in Jonesboro catch the killer, then that would be a good start. Maybe he could end the dreams and get back to a degree of normalcy.

* * *

Thatcher was cool to the idea of giving him information about the case. Simon wasn't sure why. Was it anger? Or did the other cop feel like his territory was being infringed upon? A few phone calls got him no closer to the case. Then he started getting Thatcher's voice mail, which was not returned. The detective began to not only get angry, but he began to suspect that he was being avoided for a reason.

He decided it was time for a vacation. A working vacation. He had not taken any time off in several years, so he had no trouble with his request. He rented a car and got a motel room a few miles from Jonesboro. The next morning he pulled on to the street next to the police station. He'd never staked out other cops. And he knew he was taking a big risk. But he hadn't felt as alive as he did now in a long time.

Thatcher got out of his car at a little after 9. The chief of police arrived about fifteen minutes later. Simon noted both cars, the time and the plates. A little after 10, he moved his car around the corner, and walked to the coffee shop across from the police station. Before walking in, he thought better of it. If Thatcher happened to walk in, he'd be trapped. And how would he explain being there? _Patience_ , he said to himself.

Several days into Simon's vacation, Thatcher didn't show up at his normal time. Simon drove up the street to a restaurant he'd had dinner at the night before. The place had something he'd not seen in years. A pay phone. He hoped the small town police force would cough up some valuable information.

"Jonesboro police, how may I help you?" The woman's voice was down home and cordial.

"May I speak with Detective Thatcher?"

"Just a moment." A thump on the line led Simon to think the woman laid the phone down. Did they not have a switchboard? Had the woman left to find Thatcher? Several moments later, the woman returned to the line.

"He's off today. Can I take a message?" The woman had told him what he needed.

"No, thank you very much. You have a good day." He hung up the phone and headed to the Jonesboro police station.

* * *

Simon had waited for the Police Chief for an hour. A different cop had taken his request to see the man than the one he'd seen the last time. But he was glad it hadn't been the woman he'd talked to. He didn't think she'd recognize his voice, but now he didn't have to worry about her.

Chief Cox was not inclined to help him anymore than Thatcher was. He could tell that immediately. The man stared at him over the top of his glasses like he was a huge pain in the ass. Simon could definitely be that, but he couldn't understand why he was meeting so much resistance.

"I'd just like to know what kind of progress has been made." He didn't think it was an unreasonable request.

Cox shuffled some papers on his desk and looked back at him. "I already tried to tell ya. It's Thatcher's case. It's up to him if he wants to give you info. I don't care if it's your ex, we don't have to give you anything. Even if you are a big man up in Atlanta. So why don't you just get in your car and head back to the big city, big man."

"Okay. You want to be a son of a bitch about it, I'll go back to Atlanta. I hope you never need anything from our department again."

The chief glared at him. "Don't threaten me. And watch your language. I think you better leave before I have you arrested for interfering with an active case."

Simon left. His fist clenched and unclenched, but he held his tongue till he was in his car. A few choice words erupted. He slowly calmed down on the drive back to the city. Something strange was going on; he didn't know what, but he'd find out.

* * *

Ace was glad to help him. He said he'd try to find out any background he could on Thatcher and Cox. Media and public records would be easy enough to check, without arousing too much interest. He wished he had a connection to the medical examiner's records on the case. He racked his brain, trying to figure out how he could access that information. He finally came up with one option. He called and asked for an old friend of his.

"Hey, Jake, how are you doing?"

"Hey, Hardy, how's it going. I'm fine. What you need?" Jake Jarvis had joined the force the same time Simon had. He'd been in Sex Crimes now for two years. They'd never been partners, but they kept in touch. They'd had coffee together about 6 months ago.

"I don't know if you heard about my ex."

"Of course. I am sorry, Simon. I wish that had been in our case. Because I'm not sure they are ever going to get the perp in that case."

Simon got a hollow feeling in his stomach. "Why do you think they won't?'

"Well, to tell you the truth, I think there might be some incompetence at play." Jake paused and then explained. "I contacted the medical examiner they are working with. You know, to see if any of our cases matched this one. He said they'd had some kind of problem with the evidence. They said something about a theft."

"Didn't they have an M.E. at the scene?"

"I guess not. The detective and cops at the scene must have collected all the evidence."

"Well, thanks, Jake. You take care of yourself. I'll see you soon." A strange case had just gotten a little stranger. A local police force had collected the evidence at a crime scene and had ignored standard procedure for a murder case, and not brought in the M.E. And then the evidence disappeared?

Ace came back to him with a few more bombshells. Chief Cox was married to Thatcher's sister. And they'd all come to Jonesboro from Biloxi, Mississippi. Jim Cox had been the deputy sheriff there. His brother-in-law Thatcher had been questioned in the disappearance of a Biloxi woman, but her body had never been found, and no one was ever charged. Thatcher was a regular patrol cop at the time. He moved on within a few months of the incident. Cox and his wife had come to Jonesboro about a year later. Soon after that, Thatcher had been promoted to detective. It was becoming clear that Nicki was not going to get her justice. At least not without a long, hard battle. And that was fraught with obstacles. Coming up with proof could take a long time. Simon was losing patience.

* * *

The breaking and entering had been easy enough. Simon still had a week of the vacation he was taking. And he used it to keep tabs on Thatcher. He now had an idea of when Thatcher came and went. He'd tailed him and learned that the Jonesboro detective's home was in an ideal place for a burglary. He'd arrived there soon after Thatcher left for work one morning. He'd been careful to not wear anything that might leave fibers, though he wasn't going to take anything, and he knew he could get in without leaving too much evidence. Who knew that burglary techniques he'd learned as a cop would come in so handy? They'd studied how to pick a lock without leaving many clues. And the importance of gloves. He was pretty sure the exercise was to show beginning cops that catching a burglar was not going to be easy. You had to follow whatever was stolen and hope to get a break.

The second thing that Simon was counting on was that Thatcher's ego was as big as it seemed, and that Thatcher felt untouchable. When Simon got in the house, he checked the first level of the house and found nothing of interest. In the basement, Simon got his answers.

Nicki's purse was sitting on the desk in the study. Her driver's license was next to the purse, along with her phone. Simon couldn't remember if these items had been reported missing from the crime scene, but they sure shouldn't be sitting in Thatcher's house. It was evidence. Then Simon opened the desk. Laying there was a folder. He opened it. The pictures he'd been shown by Thatcher at the Jonesboro police station, of Nicki's body at the crime scene, resided in Thatcher's desk. Someone _had_ stolen evidence.

* * *

Before leaving Thatcher's home that day, Simon had found the final piece of the puzzle. It pushed him to a decision. He'd scanned the rest of the basement and found a high quality video camera and tripod. He then checked the videos next to the television. He didn't see any homemade tapes. Thatcher was probably smarter than to have that out in plain sight. He was going to search more of the house when he noticed the tape player was still on, stopped at certain point. He noted the time and turned the television on. The video broke his heart. And it sealed Thatcher's fate. It was film of Nicki's last hour. The bastard had recorded himself raping and killing Nicki.

* * *

Simon formulated a plan. He watched the detective over the last few days of his vacation. He got a break one day when Thatcher left his house and turned down a dirt road. After several miles, he stopped at a secluded fishing spot, next to a swiftly running creek.

* * *

A few months later, Simon had taken more vacation time and driven to the coastline of Georgia. First, he stopped to visit the other detective. He had kept tabs on Thatcher. He knew when the man went fishing. He'd found another road close to the one that led to Thatcher's fishing spot. He'd hiked over to the area and waited. Thatcher arrived later in the afternoon and set up his tent. Then he put on his waders and fishing vest and moved out into the river to start casting. Simon came up from behind, spun him around and forced him on his backside into the water. He yelled at him before his head went under, "This is for Nicki!"

* * *

He drove to the coastline and returned. He checked the local papers and found what he was looking for. **Local Detective Drowns In Fishing Accident.** He knew Chief Cox would have immediately taken charge of the investigation. He would have went to Thatcher's home and seen the evidence. And he would have remembered the photo he had received in the mail. A still photo of Thatcher killing Nicki. Compliments of Simon and the copy he'd made of the video. Case closed. Whatever role Cox had in the events, he'd never take it further. How would he explain the evidence being in Thatcher's home? Plus, Cox knew that someone else knew. He hoped Chief Cox would sweat. Simon intended to keep an eye on the man. This might have been the second time he'd covered for a murderer.

* * *

Why would a cop ever cross the line and murder someone? Simon knew now that it wasn't always a question of why, but of who. Who you loved, who you cared for, and justice being served.

November's Child

By Stephen W. Smith

He was a child of November. It was his birth month, and its randomness and harshness were imprinted on his psyche. The last of the leaves falling to the ground, the occasional mild day, sandwiched between the cold tinged days hinted at the bitterness of winter to come. Often, November _was_ winter. Sometimes he felt as if his soul dwelt on the precipice of fall and winter. Sadly, he longed for summer, but he couldn't escape the cold in his heart.

She had been his summer. They'd married when he was nineteen and she eighteen. The year was 1943. War was in the air. War was everywhere. It permeated the land, even though the battles were far away in distant lands and seas. Even still, it was in the cities and towns and hills and streams of America. Every son and daughter who was laid in the ground brought the conflict to the land. And every parent, child, brother, sister and husband or wife who lay awake in the night, wondering about their loved ones fighting in some unknown place, brought it to the heart of the country.

She called him Teddy. He called her Trish. Though as the years melted by, he would start calling her Pat. But in '43, she was his Trish. They lived day to day, hoping that they would both survive the war, and that their country and the world would survive. They clung to each other like only young lovers do, as if they will always be young, and that life will work out, and everything will be fine.

Teddy had been a natural as a pilot. He took to flying as if he'd been born with wings. He'd had an uncanny ability to make the right decisions in the cockpit, and it almost seemed as if he and airplane were one. It only made sense that he was selected to train pilots. It kept him stateside, and it gave him a certain prestige. He was a legend as a pilot and teacher. But the war was bitter and costly, and in August of 1943, he got orders to go to England. He'd soon be bombing Germany. And he'd be doing it in one of the most dangerous places on earth. The inside of a B-17.

Trish worked in a plant making ammunition for the war while Teddy was in Europe. She was glad to have something to keep her busy and keep her mind from worrying about what might be happening to him. They'd not waited to start a family, but it had worked out that way. They both felt that was for the best. Neither of them wanted their child to not have both of them around from the start.

* * *

"You guys alright back there?" Teddy gripped the yoke tightly. The stick bounced in his hands. And the frame of the plane shuddered.

"I got hit in the leg, but it's not bad." That sounded like Skip, the tail gunner.

Fred, the bombardier just said, "I'm here."

He thought he heard a few more muffled replies, but he wasn't sure. The wiring could be shot up. They'd taken heavy fire. He was pretty sure his co-pilot was dead. He couldn't be sure, but there was a lot of blood, and Tink Tucker wasn't responding to his calls. He couldn't afford to let go of the controls to check for sure. Everyone who was still alive on the crippled bomber was now depending on him to keep them that way.

The crossing of the channel seemed endless on this day. He was scared, which had not happened in his previous 20 missions. He'd been nervous and worried at times. Never scared, though. He felt like he was flying blind, even though the skies above the English Channel were clear and blue, a rare occurrence. His copilot was dead. He could only make contact with two other members of his crew, and they were not able to give him any details about damage to the plane. He didn't know whether he had fuel lines or gas tanks leaking. Too many crews had almost made it back to England, only to run out of fuel and settle into the waters below. Some were rescued, but most were not. The difficulty he was having controlling the plane made him think that there was some damage to the tail or wings. But they were still flying.

His mind crossed over the big body of water to the west of England. He could see Trish in his mind's eye, fixing dinner for herself and sitting at the table reading a newspaper. He imagined her reading the comics, doing the crossword puzzles and maybe laughing at the horoscopes. She would do anything to avoid the war news, not wanting to think about the husband she loved flying a machine that was sometimes referred to as a "flying coffin."

"I'm not dead yet," he said to no one. His focus went back to the cracked wind screen. A bit of hope registered inside him. He could make out land on the horizon. He steeled himself for the remainder of the flight. They wouldn't die because he didn't do his best. He'd be damned if he was going to make a widow of Trish.

* * *

Mechanics marveled at the damage to the plane. They were mystified by how Teddy brought the bomber to the ground at all, let alone onto a runway, with all the damage that had been done by the German shells and flak.

Skip would be alright and Fred seemed dazed, but had no visible wounds. And Teddy himself had no injuries. The other 7 members of his crew were all dead. It had definitely been a "flying coffin" on this return flight.

He might have been uninjured physically, but a small part of his soul died on that mission. The brevity of life, the horrors of war and the realization of how little control humans had over their own destinies, seeped into his mind and anchored itself to his life. He felt the chill of November in his heart.

* * *

Their first child, June, was born in the summer of 1946. Much like her mother, she was a summer child, born in the first week of summer and named after the month of her birth. She was a bright, energetic child, who doted on Teddy, as he did her. Three more children were born over the next 5 years, all in the spring and summer. Teddy remained the only family member born after the autumnal equinox.

Trish and Teddy's family blossomed over the coming years. Two boys and two girls went to grade school, junior high, senior high and beyond. June and her brother Robert went on and graduated college. June was a teacher. Robert became a banker. The youngest, Joe, followed in his father's footsteps and joined the Air Force. He flew missions in Vietnam. He always told Teddy that it wasn't as dangerous as flying over Germany. Teddy pretended to believe him. But the father spent many sleepless nights praying for his son's life. God saw fit to bring him home and he went on to be a commercial pilot. Their other daughter, Cookie, followed in Trish's shadow, marrying at 18 and starting her own family of 6. They were blessed with children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

The freedom he'd helped keep was not wasted on his children. He felt blessed every day by the children they had, and how well they'd all done. And they were good people.

Trish was his ray of sunshine, though. She kept him sane as the years went by with her sunny disposition and optimism. And he needed all of it.

He'd started calling her Pat before they traveled to Europe for their 40th wedding anniversary. She'd went back to using her childhood name, largely due to the time she spent with her sisters while her parents struggled with health issues. They'd always called her Pat. And something about it made her feel connected to family. It anchored her as her parents left this life for the next. Their little "Pat," their first born, was now the family matriarch. And "Pat" sounded that way.

Teddy needed her strength on the trip to Europe. He'd not expected it, but the English countryside brought ghosts out that he'd tried so hard to bury. He'd struggled after the war to not let the memories crowd into his life. And he'd done fairly well, except for those rare times when he'd see his old crew, frozen images in his mind, frozen in death. And that was not all. The sheer enormity of World War II did not register with many people till it was over. The death and destruction were almost beyond comprehension. In those late, dark hours of the night, he began to think of the people he'd killed with the bombs they'd dropped. America had tried to take the high road and do precision bombing, but by the last year of the war, American bombers were bombing to break the will of the Germans. How many people had he killed? How many women and children? What of the old, the crippled and infirm?

He understood in his mind the necessity of what he'd done. But his heart grew weary with guilt. So the natural path of his life led him to the road of depression. He'd been raised to stand on his own feet. To take care of business and to not complain. So most of the struggles happened inside himself, in those still, dark and often long nights of fall and winter. His soul was becoming November. Spring and Summer, always out of sight and out of reach.

* * *

The kids threw a big party for their 50th wedding anniversary. Teddy and Pat were honored by the people who knew them best and loved them the most. The children in a family usually know a lot more about what's going on in a family than the parents realize. And their kids were no different. But Teddy's depression was something the kids never suspected. Only Teddy and Pat knew.

And God knew. Or at least Teddy believed that. Though he wasn't always convinced. But that was why it was called faith. If you knew for sure, how much faith would you need? He grappled with that and tried to wrestle with God. But he wasn't successful at it. He only seemed to wrestle with silence. But deep in his soul, he knew God was his only hope. If he'd killed as many people as he thought he had, or even one for that matter, how would he justify it? He knew he couldn't. And he believed God had done that. It didn't take away the depression though.

Pat always remained cheery and hopeful. Seeing the good side of things had gotten her through the fear and loneliness of the war. She longed for Teddy but always believed he'd returned. The object of her prayers came home one day. She didn't question why so many others didn't. She never dwelt in what might have been, or could have been. That had always seemed like a waste of time to her. If Teddy hadn't come back, maybe she would have felt different. But she didn't think so. She'd have just thought that God wanted it that way. It would have been hard. But for her it would have been worse to not trust God.

They'd had a talk about it once. Teddy had been going through a hard spell and she could tell he was very unhappy and down.

"What's going on, Teddy?"

"Nothing I want to talk about."

"Well, why not?" she asked, thinking this was going to be a short conversation.

"There's not anything you can do about it," he stated as if that was the end of the matter.

She laughed. "I wasn't looking to change anything. I was just going to listen."

"Oh, I hadn't thought about that." He stopped. He seemed to be trying to understand what that might mean. He settled on, "What would that accomplish?"

She giggled in her own little way and said, "Maybe I'd feel closer to you and you wouldn't feel so lonely."

He couldn't argue with her line of reasoning. And it was very direct. He wasn't sure about its effectiveness, but he'd find himself thinking of something she said during his hardest times. He was praying one night and wondering where God was and why he never seemed to answer. Then he remembered one of Pat's comments. "Maybe God just wants to hear our voice sometimes. Maybe it's not that he isn't answering. Maybe he's just listening. I remember when you came back from the war, I just could listen to your voice for hours. Maybe when he doesn't hear from us for a while, he just stops to listen." He clung to that and it helped. She was always doing things like that for him.

* * *

The cycle of life and the circling days went forward, always moving, never stopping and life for them reached a crossroads. Arthritis settled into Teddy's spine and he was confined to a wheelchair. He and Pat moved into a nursing facility. But they were glad they were still together. It's rare to see couples in nursing homes.

Teddy began to feel the cold of November all year long now. His circulation wasn't as good as it had once been, so he usually was covered in a blanket year round. But he would watch the seasons go by and long for summer, even though they rarely went outside anymore. He'd had some spots removed from his skin, so it wasn't a good idea for him to be in the sun. He'd watch the leaves change and the snow fly and Christmas come and go, and inside he began to embrace the marvel of it all. He even wished he could go walk in the snow, and sled or ski. And since he felt cold year round, it didn't seem as bad in the winter as he'd once thought. And Christmas became a beacon in the darkness of winter for him. Their kids would come visit, and sometimes they'd go to their kids' for the holiday. That became more difficult, but Teddy made peace with Fall and Winter. He made peace with November.

* * *

Teddy died in his sleep on the morning of November the 23rd, 2008. It was his 85th birthday. Pat had gotten up and got dressed and went to wake him to go to breakfast. He was already cool to the touch. She whispered in his ear, "Teddy, I love you. Just as much as ever. Wait for me, darling." She kissed his cheek and rang the bell for the nurse. She was sad, but glad that Teddy wouldn't be confined to his chair anymore. And he'd never be depressed again.

* * *

Teddy's family gathered at his graveside three days later. All of their kids and many grandkids and great-grandkids were there. The service was a celebration by his family. He was loved by many. No one could really say he'd had any enemies that they'd known of.

When the service finished and the casket was lowered into the ground, Pat unveiled the headstone that would rest on his grave. It read:

Theodore Albert Brinkley

Born November 23, 1923

Died November 23, 2008

November's Child

He Has Gone Home to the Summer

About Stephen W. Smith

Stephen W. Smith is a musician who lives in Denver, Colorado, with his wife, Cher, and son, Joshua. He has always been a songwriter, but a long time ago, during a brief period of unemployment, he wrote a science fiction novel about a colony on one of Jupiter's moons. That novel disappeared somewhere along the way. (It was in the era of floppy discs. Who knows where it went.)

His love of language and words has never left, and two of his stories appear in this anthology. _A Working Vacation_ is a prequel to a detective series featuring the very human Simon Hardy as he tries to walk the minefield of being a cop and dealing with his own human failings.

Find Stephen W. Smith's books at Dead Key Publishing
Welcome to the Dollhouse

By Chandré Toye

Another terribly embarrassing tantrum was inevitable as Josef watched his thirteen-year-old daughter scrunch up her face, ball her hands into fists and stomp her tiny feet. He utterly adored Cassandra, though, and would do absolutely anything for her. She knew this and took advantage of it as often as possible. She was, after all, Daddy's little girl.

This time she had seen a new party frock. It wasn't that she wanted it for herself, oh no, it was for one of her new life-size dolls. Cassandra loved dolls, and so, Josef had built her a dollhouse in their backyard. Big enough for her to actually play in with all her dolls and even some fancy furniture he himself had made with his own two hands. He couldn't help but feel proud of himself. He had spent a fortune on decorating the dollhouse with everything she had desired. He even went as far as taking a second job in order to afford it all. Anything to make his little girl happy. He loved how her eyes would light up each time he got her something new. He loved how her voice would get excited and high pitched when she thanked him over and over. Making her happy was like a drug to him.

"Daddy! I want it! I want it now!"

"Do you really need it, Cass? All your dollies are so pretty and you've done a wonderful job dressing them. I'm sure you don't need another dress, dear."

Cassandra looked up pleadingly at her dad, shut her eyes as tightly as she could, and started crying. Big crocodile tears rolled down her bright pink cheeks.

"Please, Daddy..."

Her chest was heaving as heavy sobs escaped her. Josef knew out of experience if he didn't agree quickly, her little scene would soon turn into a full-blown tantrum. He watched her for a few more seconds before giving a quick nod in agreement. He couldn't help the corners of his mouth twitching up as he looked down at his daughter.

A wide smile spread over her face and she jumped around and laughed, a bubbly kind of laugh that started from deep within.

"Oh thank you, Daddy. It's perfect. Becky will look just wonderful at the tea party. Thank you, Daddy, I love you."

Back home after their little shopping spree, Cassandra was bursting with excitement as she rummaged through the bags looking for her doll's new dress. She couldn't wait for her Becky doll to try it on. Her dad would have to help of course. Becky was one of her favorite life-sized dolls, with her long curly red hair and bright green eyes. With her new outfit, she would be perfect.

***

The dim streetlight was barely lit in front of her as Sydney walked down the road. It was a good thing she knew the path so well, else she would have gotten lost long ago already. After a long evening, standing the entire time behind the bar, serving beer to mostly drunk and rude men, this walk home seemed like somewhat of a blessing. It was 2 a.m., and there was hardly a soul to be seen. The odd car would speed by, sending beams of light over the tarred road. She saw a homeless man curled up under a pile of newspapers and wondered how anybody could survive on the street in this day and age. Sydney felt truly sorry for the old man; she slipped her hand into the pocket of her coat and withdrew a handful of coins, which she then laid next to the sleeping man before continuing down the road. She enjoyed the quietness and solitude, as her ears were still buzzing with the loud music that she had to endure during her shift.

She let out a soft giggle and blushed slightly as she remembered the handsome man who had made his way into the bar that night. He wasn't drunk like the rest, and they had struck up a fairly decent conversation over the blaring music. He had told her that his name was Josef, that he was an inventor and doll-maker. He was thirty-four years old and lived in the neighborhood. They had exchanged numbers, and he had promised to call her the next day in order to make plans for a coffee date. She was surprised as to why a handsome, smart fellow like him would even consider spending time with her; she was after all nothing but a mere barmaid in a sleazy bar. Well, she wasn't one to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

The flickering of the streetlight behind her, brought her thoughts back to reality. Further down the road, more lights were flickering before they all suddenly at once went out. She was lost in total darkness. Panic filled her. Something was wrong. She could hear someone humming the theme song of the movie Jaws not too far off in the distance, footsteps were drawing nearer, and all the while Sydney just stood there, too afraid to move.

"Hello? Who's there?"

Her voice was trembling and came out in nothing more than a mere whisper. Ahead of her she could see only the darkened silhouette of the stranger. The footsteps echoed in the darkness. The Jaws tune was carried towards her by a soft wind blowing.

Sydney feared for her life. She clenched her eyes shut and prayed. She willed her legs to move but they felt heavy, as if they had been cemented to the pavement. A sudden sharp pain in her abdomen had her bent over in agony, her head spinning. Desperately, she tried to remember whether she had eaten or perhaps drank something.

The footsteps were now only an arm's length or two away. Yet she still could not move. She was too dizzy to focus. She had partaken in a glass of wine while she had been deep in conversation with Josef during her smoke break.

"There there."

A man's voice, a voice she almost recognized. "Josef?"

She felt strong hands wrap around her frame, and a second later she lost consciousness.

***

"Quiet, Quin! You'll wake her."

Sydney's head felt foggy and ached. The sound of whispering had awoken her from her drug-induced slumber.

"Wh-where am I?"

She blinked a few times, allowing her eyes to adjust to the light. Beside her on a frilly decorated bed sat a young girl, about the same age as her. The girl was dressed in a yellow frock and her hair was tied in pigtails, held in place by bright yellow ribbons. On a sofa, matching the decor, sat a young man, about nineteen years of age. Only a few years younger than herself.

The girl looked at her with a soft sweet smile on her painted lips.

"I told Quin to be quiet. I'm sorry if we woke you. I'm Becky, and that over there is Quin. How are you feeling?"

Becky's voice was nothing more than a whisper, yet she seemed sincere. Quin seemed frightened and didn't dare look at Sydney. She watched him for a few seconds as he chewed on his nails before she started asking questions.

"Where am I? What is this place?"

"It's... Well... It's home. For now at least."

A single tear slid down Becky's cheek.

"How did I get here? Why did you bring me here? I was certain I had heard Josef..."

Becky merely nodded, then slid off the bed. She walked up to the door and placed her ear against it, listening intensely for any sounds from beyond the door. She looked back at Sydney and gave a thumbs up before taking her place on the bed beside her again.

"I, too, was brought here by Josef; so was Quin. This is a dollhouse, and I know this might sound absolutely crazy, but we are the dolls. You see, Josef, he's a very twisted man. What's worse, his daughter is even crazier than him."

Sydney could only stare.

"We were brought here to be his daughter's playthings. She buys us clothes and feeds us, we have tea parties, but she also keeps us locked in a dollhouse Josef had built for her. Small piece of advice though, don't try to escape. We've tried. There is no way out, and... Believe me when I say, you don't want to be punished."

Becky's eyes darted towards Quin before she softly continued.

"Last week he tried to get away. He was whipped and locked in an empty room for three days without food or water."

She shook her head sadly.

"There is no way out. This is our life now, so you better get used to it."

Once more she slid off the bed and stood at the foot of it, smiled at Sydney and gave a quick twirl and curtsied.

"Welcome to the Dollhouse."

Dead Key

By Chandré Toye

Early 1900s

A loud banging could be heard all the way down the hall. It was not the sound of someone banging against a wall, or that of a rocking chair banging back and forth as an elderly lady sat knitting what was to be a grandchild's Christmas sweater. No, it was the banging you heard when someone was hard at work, with ideas and words flowing effortlessly as they slammed on the keys of an early 1900s typewriter. Still new at that stage, black with keys that were still stiff and had to be banged on in order for it to actually make an impression on the white paper that had been fed into it.

Charles Whittaker was the city's leading writer on conspiracy theories, though most people thought him to be a crack-pot. His ideas and theories held no proof or even made sense, yet was fun and entertaining to read. Admit it, in the early 1900s people needed to take their minds off what was happening. Life as we know it now in modern times, was not so easy back then.

"I knew it! Now the world will know too."

He banged furiously on the typewriter, in a hurry to get his article done before the newspapers went into print for the next day's top stories.

"I will make front page for this." He muttered to himself under his breath as he lit yet another cigarette, the previous one still burning in the overflowing ashtray on the desk beside him.

He had done it; he had stumbled across the proof he needed to reveal the largest conspiracy the world had ever known, and he was about to blow the lid right off it. Oh he knew that there were going to be people angered and hurt. He knew he was taking a risk, but to him it was nothing, after all, what could they do? Awards and bountiful riches were going to be his. Or so he thought.

The door behind him creaked open, but he was so focused on the words that were appearing on the sheet of paper in front of him as he banged on the typewriter that he didn't even notice the large burly man with a vicious gleam in his eyes standing right behind him. Nor did he notice as the axe came swooshing down, cracking his skull and lodging itself deep as blood sprayed and poured down over his face, into his eyes and over the typewriter. The white paper was now nothing more than a soggy crimson mess.

"I knew it." A mere whisper escaped him as Charles Whittaker took his last breath, slumped over onto the typewriter and died. The intruder grimaced at the sight before him, turned on his heel and left as quietly as he had entered, leaving nothing but death behind him.

The door clicked closed just as the first bang on the typewriters keys could be heard. Over the bloodied soggy page it typed out one sentence. "The world will know."

Present

"Perfect! Absolutely perfect! Baby, you know me so well. I love it, thank you!"

Thoughtful and kind, always supporting his hair-brained schemes, Donovan Reed adored his wife, Ellie. Every so often he would come up with new ideas on how to make money quick, and Ellie always just smiled the same knowing smile and nodded. She adored her husband just as much. She loved how he made her smile and laugh, the way he treated her and doted on her every need. They were, in a word, perfect.

It didn't bother her in the least that she had to be the main breadwinner; she enjoyed her job at the law firm where she had been made partner. She earned enough for them to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle, live in a nice little house in a decent neighborhood and never go without whatever was needed. Donovan had a brilliant mind, he was creative and innovative, even though some of his schemes failed most of the time; Ellie still found it amazing how even after so many failures, her husband would get up and try again.

This time he had decided to try his hand at writing and to her surprise, he was good, really good in fact. He also had a thing for antiques; their house was filled to the brim with them, so when Ellie had seen the old typewriter in the window of a small second-hand store, she absolutely had to get it for him. Yes, they had laptops and tablets and all the modern luxuries most middle-class people owned, but this was different. To actually see the words typed out in black and white was awe inspiring.

Donovan kissed his wife's cheek and carried the heavy typewriter to the little study he had set up for himself at the far end of the house. He was excited about his new venture. All the research had been done on how to get published once his masterpiece was completed, and he already had a few ideas he was going to write about. A full length novel, that was his aim. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he was positive he could do it. Some of his short stories had already been published in a handful of magazines. A copy of each was neatly stacked on his desk beside him and would keep him motivated.

With the typewriter neatly in place, Donovan made himself comfortable and fed the first blank sheet into it, making sure he had it properly aligned. With his index finger, he started pressing down on each individual key, testing to see if they worked and whether or not there was still ink on the antique tape. So far so good.

The very last key he pressed just wouldn't budge. He pressed harder, still nothing. The "period" button was just not responding. Still this didn't deter him. He could always just add it in later with a pen when he was done so he shrugged the significance of it off.

With his test done, he removed the paper, crumpled it up and tossed it in the waste basket next to the desk before feeding yet another paper into the typewriter.

***

Late the same night, when the couple had retired to bed and all was peaceful and silent within the house, a sudden loud banging echoed through the halls. Ellie woke with a start, reached over and shook her husband awake.

"Don... There's someone in the house." Her frightened whisper was barely audible.

With a loud yawn he merely turned over and shooed her hand off his shoulder.

"Go back to sleep, Ellie. There's no one."

Ellie watched and listened in the darkness as Donovan fell back asleep; the only noise she could now hear was that of his rhythmic breathing and soft snores. She lay back down and closed her eyes. She was certain she wouldn't sleep a wink, but only a handful of minutes passed before she too joined her husband back in the dream world, where all was right as rain.

Meanwhile down in the study, anybody close enough to see it, would have been frightened to death. A mist hovered over the seat that Donovan had been occupying just a few hours earlier. Deep within the mist came the voice of a man...

"The world will know."

Slowly, the words started appearing on the blank sheet that had been fed into the typewriter, followed by a long row of the same period, which hadn't previously worked. With a final loud bang on the keys, the mist dissipated.

The next few days the words went unnoticed. Donovan hadn't really started his writing career and, as such, had not been into his study. He was in for a shock when he finally did.

"Ellie!! Ellie!!"

His panicked voice echoed through the house. He sat down at the desk and pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, held it closer to his face and started examining it from all angles.

"What now, Don?" came the voice of an annoyed Ellie. "I'm busy with an important account."

He held the paper up for her to see. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Ellie leaned in closer and saw the words. She saw the confused and irritated look on her husband's face. Not understanding what the big deal was. "Uhm..."

"I came in here and this was typed out. Also, the other day when I tried out all the keys, the period button had refused to work. Dammit, Ellie. What's the deal here?"

"You think I did this? I told you the other night that there was someone in the house. You refused to get up. All you did was blow me off!"

Rage filled her. How dare he accuse her of something this stupid! She had done something nice for him, had wanted him to get ahead in his writing career, and now he was pulling this? She wouldn't have it.

"Just tell me whether this is some kind of joke, Ellie."

His voice was pleading, but she wouldn't have any of it. She merely shook her head and walked off, leaving him alone with the sheet of paper.

Maybe he had done it in his sleep; he'd been known to sleepwalk every so often. Maybe he had done it without realizing it. There had to be a perfectly logical explanation for it. Thus he let it go, shrugged it off and put it out of his mind.

***

His first novel. Excitement filled him as he fed the first blank sheet into the typewriter. This was it. He was going to be a novelist. Images of him standing on a podium, receiving an award for his debut book filled his mind. He would be a best-seller. he knew it.

He inhaled deeply and tried to focus, his fingertips skimming softly over the old worn keys of the antique typewriter.

"Chapter 1"

For hours he sat by his desk, banging away at the keys. It was like something had come over him. He knew exactly what he wanted to write, and the words came to him without hesitation. Inspiration was the word of the day, and he felt he had enough of it to last him a lifetime.

By the time he stopped, the day had passed him by completely. It was pitch black outside. The only light was that of the small desk lamp beside him, which was dim and casting ominous shadows all around his small study. His neck hurt, he was tired, hungry and thirsty, yet he was still in good spirits. He had made progress. More than what he had hoped for, and he felt himself swell with self-pride. This was slowly becoming an addiction, an obsession. He wondered whether all writers felt the same kind of pride wash over them when they achieved as much as he had in one day.

Completed pages stood stacked on the corner of the desk. He knew he didn't even need to go through then, why would he? He was a proficient typist, hardly ever making any mistakes. He knew what each page contained.

With the day drawing to an end, he finally got up and left the typewriter. It was time to face life's responsibilities again.

In the living room of the house, Ellie sighed in relief. The banging had finally stopped. She was grateful that she would be at work the very next day, not having to listen to the infernal banging of the typewriter keys as her husband continued with his masterpiece.

Ellie couldn't help but wonder whether things were OK between her and Donovan as she lay in bed that night. She peered over at her husband with worry etched all over her face. He seemed different somehow. Dark rings were under his eyes; he seemed distant and distracted. All through dinner she had noticed he was off-ish. She had prepared one of his favorite meals, mac and cheese with crispy bacon bits, but instead of gorging himself with second and third helpings, he merely picked at the food with his fork before finally declaring that he wasn't all that hungry and getting up to go make himself comfortable in front of the TV.

She gave herself a mental shake; maybe he was just coming down with the flu, or perhaps it was the effort and stress of trying to be a writer that was getting to him. Either way, she would go to the store the next day and buy him some vitamins. That might help. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep with the sound of her husband's soft snores acting as a lullaby.

***

The banging grew louder and louder, so loud in fact that it was starting to sound like gunshots.

Donovan just kept going. Nothing and no one would stop him. All his focus was on the sheet of paper that had been fed into the typewriter once again. Even when the mailman had knocked on the door for a good fifteen minutes, he had not heard. Off in the distance a lawnmower's engine was humming as it cut the lawn of a neighbor. Within the house, the shrill ring of a land line could be heard, just not by Donovan.

He had hardly slept the previous night, he found food bland, and he couldn't concentrate on anything besides writing, and so, that is just what he did. Hours went by, but there he sat, pouring words onto blank sheets of paper. The stack beside the typewriter grew larger by the hour. He was making immense progress.

A Few Weeks Later

Ellie was worried, genuinely worried. Something had snapped in her husband. He wasn't eating, he wasn't sleeping. All he did was sit in front of that stupid old typewriter and bang at the keys. He wouldn't even allow her into the study anymore, and he himself hardly ever left it. He had become obsessed. When she had asked him if she could read some of his finished chapters, he had refused, more than just refused, he had called her mad, accused her of trying to steal his work, told her to stay away. Now he kept the door to the study permanently locked. He went as far as to install an extra padlock hole into the door and hid the key away.

She was scared, scared of losing him, even more scared of what he might do. He had lost it.

"Frank, it's Ellie... Yes, yes... I'm doing OK, thanks.... The reason I'm calling... Frank, I'm in desperate need of your help.....Don's lost it.... Please could you just get him out the house for a while? He's been stuck in the study for so long now, it's been weeks.... Thank you. Talk soon."

With the phone call over, she went to work on finding a locksmith nearby. She needed to get into that study, she needed to get hold of the typewriter. Something nagged at the back of her mind. A few days earlier she had been doing research on old typewriters and had come across a very old newspaper article. It mentioned a man that had been murdered over his typewriter, it mentioned his job, it also mentioned how even after the man's death, the banging of the typewriter had been heard for days in the apartment he had lived and died in. The picture clipping in the article looked just like the typewriter she had bought her husband, and she could swear it was the same one. She had found out what the serial number had been, and needed to compare them. Only then would she know.

With key in hand, she slid it in the keyhole of the padlock, twisted and waited for it to click open. A deep sense of fear and dread filled her to the core the moment she entered the study. Heaps of papers stood stacked on the desk, crumpled papers littered the floor and even worse, the walls of the study were covered in writing. "The world will know."

The room was cold, and the smell was nauseating. Damp and mold were visible through rips in the wallpaper.

It had only been a week or two since she had last set foot in the study. How this had happened baffled her. Ellie took a deep breath and stepped forward, further into the abnormal room. There it was, the typewriter. The object she now feared more than anything. The cause of her life falling apart. It had taken hold of her husband.

She instinctively knew that it was the same one she had read about. An eerie silence followed her as she reached out to lift the typewriter and turn it over. She shut her eyes for a second before allowing them to fall upon the serial number printed underneath.

The loud bang startled her, she dropped the typewriter back onto the desk. She watched in horror as the keys started typing. How? There was noone. Suddenly Ellie started choking. A thick mist came pouring out of the typewriter. It filled her nostrils and mouth. She couldn't breathe. She flailed her arms and clawed at her chest and throat. Her eyes rolled in their sockets, and for Ellie Reed, the world went dark.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Over and over. The house trembled and shook. The windows rattled and picture frames shattered as they fell and hit the floor.

The once neat study was now a place of ruin and death.

***

Donovan could see the bright blue and red flashing lights of the police vehicle parked in front of his driveway. The lawn was littered with swarms of curious people who were being ushered away by deputies, to no avail. The once peaceful and quiet neighborhood was thrown into chaos. Not often were there police lights and sirens seen or heard. The rumors and gossip had already started.

As the car drew to a halt, he jumped out and sprinted to the front door of his house. He tore the door open and was met with handcuffs as he was read his rights.

"What's the meaning of this? Ellie! Ellie!"

"Mr Reed, please calm yourself. You understand the rights we just read to you, don't you?"

"No! Like hell I do! What is this? Where is Ellie?"

"Mr Reed... You are under arrest for the murder of your wife, Ellie Reed."

He hardly heard what the arresting officer was saying. The study door swung open and as the gurney was pushed out, he clutched his abdomen, doubled over and expelled the contents of his stomach.

There, on the gurney, was his darling beautiful wife, dead. Before he could look away, his eyes caught the state of the study.

That was not how he had left it. He had neatly stacked his papers on the desk, emptied out the trash bin and lit a few sticks of incense. This was... Wrong.

He watched as the officers packed up all his personal items. His papers, the typewriter. All his hard work.

"I didn't do this! I swear! I loved my wife. Please! You have to believe me!"

***

"Choked and tortured to death," that was what the police report said. The room where Ellie Reed had been found by a neighbor who had heard the banging and crashing of furniture had been trashed.

Pictures had been torn, frames lay broken, papers were strewn all over the house, and the study walls had been covered in the words, "The world will know."

The same words had been written all over Ellie in ink. Ink that matched the ink tape in the typewriter.

The rumors and gossip hung thick in the air. Donovan Reed had lost his mind while trying to write a novel. He needed to be committed. He denied killing his wife. He had no recollection of trashing his own home. After a lengthy court case, he was sentenced to fifteen years in prison.

On the day of his sentencing, inside the police station where the arresting officer sat behind his desk, finishing out the paperwork concerning the case, behind the locked doors of the Evidence Room, a soft clicking sound started. At first it was too soft to be heard, till finally it turned into a loud banging, the loud banging of typewriter keys typing out the words "The world will know" one last time.

About Chandré Toye

Truth is, I am just me. I happen to love life as much as I love reading and dabbling in writing. I believe writing should be done from the heart. It is so much better to read a story that you can feel the emotions than reading a story that has none.

Find Chandre Toye's books at Dead Key Publishing

Chandre Toye's blog

Chandre Toye's Facebook page
Jimmy

By Cody Toye

Sometimes, some things are only known by a single individual. Those things then become the sole burden of said person. That is the ultimate truth. So let's talk about truth. Is that the opposite of a lie? I believe truth is merely the perception that something is not false; yet something is only false if you can prove it is not true. That single conundrum is the sole basis of our imperfect justice system. That conundrum is also the very reason Tedd Valentine is currently spending the rest of his life being served terrible food from a tray while watching the world pass him by through the obstructed view of the metal bars of his prison cell.

So now you know Tedd's awful fate. What you don't know is that his fate was sealed by a single moment in time. A moment with his twelve-year-old nephew Jimmy.

***

Jimmy seemed to be a perfect child. He was raised by a middle class Christian family in heaven-sent suburbia Middle-America. He said his prayers before bed and sat as a family talking about his day at school while his loving mother served him mashed potatoes and passed a gravy boat during dinner time. This seemed to be the definition of a great childhood.

Jane Holstead worked downtown as a real estate agent. No! THE real estate agent. Her pretty face was splashed all over park benches and her houses had eggshell white cardboard advertisements showing who had the privilege of selling a newly married couple their very first home. Jim Holstead had no excuse. He simply enjoyed living his middle class life. Every Tuesday and every Thursday, like clockwork, he could be found downtown with his buddies bowling and dreaming of bringing home that shiny gold trophy, proving he was a top condition athlete. Of course, anyone who knew Jim (A.K.A. Big Jim) knew he was simply trying to prove he was not a victim of age or weight. He was just as wonderful as he was in his early twenties, if not more so.

This could only mean one thing though; this meant that the Holstead family was very busy. So busy, in fact, that they had to call Jane's brother to watch Jimmy every Tuesday and every Thursday.

Tedd didn't mind one bit. If anything this was a blessing. Unlike the Holstead family, he had never married, he had born no children, and worked a job he hated. Jimmy was a blessing. A window into a life he would never have.

Yep. Uncle Teddy. The fun uncle. He took his role very seriously and made a real effort to bond with his nephew. He would look upon the smiling face of little Jimmy and see a small pond splash reflection of himself. Jimmy even had the same fiery red hair and constellation patch of freckles he had.

Weeks turned into months and Uncle Teddy was falling into his role just fine. Adjusting. Adjusting to being depended on and loved. It wasn't until his trip to James Madison Park one Friday that he discovered something lurking just below the freckle-faced boy's unusually happy demeanor. Something Awful. Something utterly frightening.

As they walked through the park, talking about whatever random topic that came up, a four legged furry friend seemed to find them appealing. A big slobbery loving Labradoodle. His name was Buddy. Well, that was what his fancy sparkling collar named him anyways.

Buddy must have escaped the chain-linked fence or something because his owner was nowhere to be seen. Jimmy and Buddy seemed to have an immediate bond build between them. The large golden haired pooch jumped straight up on Jimmy's chest, knocking him to the soft lush grass. A flash of pink tongue and a gallon of slobber appeared all over the boy's left cheek.

The more the boy giggled the more Uncle Teddy giggled. It couldn't be helped, even a sour single man like Tedd had to admit, he was utterly adorable. Not wanting to interrupt the two playing so nicely together, Uncle Teddy decided he would step away and track down that hotdog vendor in the sunflower yellow apron they had passed about three baby strollers and a handful of Frisbee golfers ago.

"Stay here and keep Buddy out of trouble, okay? I shall track us down some grub."

Uncle Teddy winked at the boy

"Sir Yes Sir!" He saluted sarcastically before returning to his slobbery friend.

The man walked a slow proud walk. The park was filled with an abundance of wonderful scents and sights. His heart was filled with cotton candy and amusement rides. Life seemed perfect. A large smile crept from one cheek to another as he saw his nephew in the distance.

"The innocence of children," he thought as he watched Jimmy hug Buddy tight.

Whimpering. Loud whimpering turning into harsh yelps of pain. Uncle Teddy dropped the hotdogs, littering the ground with a tie-dye of condiments.

He ran to Jimmy. Ran as fast as his legs could take him. When he got there, what he saw sent shivers as sharp as razor blades radiating up his spine. Jimmy wasn't hugging Buddy. Jimmy was choking Buddy. He had the poor dog in a head lock, squeezing as hard as he could.

When Buddy would struggle to get free, Jimmy swung hard, his knotted tiny fist landing punch after sadistic punch upon the dog's wet nose.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING? LET GO OF THAT DOG RIGHT NOW!"

Tedd tried to peel Jimmy's arm away from the dog's throat but caught an abrupt elbow to the groin. The pain was immediate and immense.

"FUCK YOU!" Jimmy shouted.

It took a good five minutes and a few hard knocks to Tedd's nose and groin before he was able to pry the boy away from the dog. Pinning Jimmy to the ground, he tried his best to calm him. A tantrum. Awful thrashing and cussing came from the little boy as he tried to remove himself from underneath his uncle's strong grasp.

After what seemed like an eternity, Jimmy wore himself out. He lay upon the cool grass gasping for air, and small tears streamed from his eyes. To the left was a carcass.

Tedd hadn't been fast enough. Poor Buddy gave his life because of a chance encounter with a sadistic boy on a warm summer Friday.

* * *

So the truth was exposed. Uncle Teddy spent many days trying to figure out the awful and unusual events from the prior week and came to the conclusion that Jimmy was disturbed.

He was just a boy, he had issues and they were not his fault. This was the thoughts of a loving uncle. For whatever reason, his nephew needed his help.

Hell, for all Tedd knew, this _was_ a cry for help. He didn't seem to get enough attention from his parents. Maybe he was being bullied in school? There are a million reasons why a child would do something like this, but Uncle Teddy was not about to give up. After all, aren't the majority of these reasons never the child's own fault?

For that very reason, Uncle Teddy decided to keep that Friday a secret. Things seemed to get better for a while. He spent more and more time with his nephew. He was now watching Jimmy five days a week while his sister worked due to a sudden and unexpected illness with Jimmy's father.

From Monday to Friday, Uncle Teddy was an active part of Jimmy's life. Jane would work and then spend a few hours at the hospital with her husband. Tedd would cook and clean and make sure Jimmy would complete his homework. He would even spend an hour a day outside playing football with the kid. Life was going well again and that _one_ incident seemed like a distant memory. He was not Uncle Teddy anymore. He felt like he was the child's father.

One thing can be said about a father's love...It is unconditional. They would do whatever it took in the interest of their child's well-being.

* * *

It was Saturday, June 23rd, 2013. This date would _never_ leave Tedd's mind. This was that moment we spoke of earlier. It seems the infamous luck of the Holstead family had run its course and Jim Holstead was fading fast.

Uncle Teddy spent the weekend with Jimmy so his sister could be at the hospital for what seemed could be Big Jim's final days. He did what he always did—he cooked a great meal, helped his nephew with his homework, and then cleaned the house after Jimmy fell asleep.

Everything except the trash. The trash was Jimmy's job. He would pay Jimmy five dollars a week to complete certain chores. This allowance was meant to teach his nephew responsibility. Uncle Teddy remembered fondly doing chores as a child and the wonderful feeling he would get when he saved his money and bought all the expensive toys he wanted. Yes, it took a while, yes, it was hard. Finally, yes, it was worth it. This experience was what gave him the patience to save as an adult. Save until he was able to buy his home outright.

Jimmy deserved this experience. His parents always just gave him money, but not Uncle Teddy. He wanted him to _earn_ it.

Now Tedd had never claimed to be the smartest person in the world, but basic math never eluded him. It is easy to put two and two together. So the next morning when his nephew took out the trash and the bag ripped, that cold shiver up his spine returned once more.

A dead Jack Russel terrier. An empty bottle of rat poison. Research on the effects of rat poison and the human body. Uncle Teddy knew what was going on. Uncle Teddy also knew his sister's husband did not get suddenly and unexpectedly ill.

Anger crept up his blood stream. Fear followed shortly after. A prolonged silence and intense electric eye contact between him and his nephew replaced the need for words. After an eternity the boy spoke a simple calm sentence.

"You can't prove anything."

Finally the words crawled out of his throat in a stumbled gargle. "Y-You need help Jimmy. Let me help you! I need to know the truth and I need to talk to your mother. Did you attempt to kill your father?"

"IF YOU TELL I WILL KILL YOU, YOU MOTHER FUCKER!"

All the man could do was calmly repeat the question, his brain seemed to automatically shut down the steady flow of multiple emotions. "Did you try to kill your father?" he repeated again.

"Yes. I did. If you try to tell I will call you a liar. I will swear you touched me. Who do you think they will believe? I am her son after all, it wouldn't be hard."

Tedd listened in horror as Jimmy's voice went soft and sweet.

"He tried to touch me, Mommy, I told him no, but he wanted to touch me in my private parts."

A sadistic smile overtook the boy's face. "Now what Uncle Teddy? You still think you can tell on me?

He watched the boy slowly curl his hand around the wooden handle of the butcher knife that rested on the counter. He knew what was about to happen. He knew age, gender, and relationship no longer mattered. It was kill or be killed.

Uncle Teddy talked calmly to the boy as he slid his hand deep into his denim pants, resting his fingers on the pocket knife hidden deep in the recesses of the folds.

"I won't tell on you, Jimmy. I just want to help you. Now please...let go of the knife, let us talk about this!"

"FUCK YOU!" came the sharp reply

As if it played out in slow motion, Uncle Teddy drove the tip of his knife deep into the soft flesh of the boy, his blood giving a warm spray upon his face. Hot sharp pain crawled from his own skin when he realized Jimmy managed to get the blade into his own flesh a moment before. Lucky for him, the kid missed. A trickle of blood rolled down his forearm and dripped upon the floor. A deep wound, but a superficial one.

* * *

The good doctor blinked twice.

"Is this a confession, James?"

The man behind the bars stared blankly back at him.

"My name isn't James! I told you this a million times. My name is Teddy."

"I told you a million times. Your name is James 'Jimmy' Holstead. You are here because you killed your mother and father. From the sounds of it, you also know where your missing uncle is as well."

The good doctor shut the door behind him as he exited the cell.

"I will see you in court, Jimmy."

Upon the November Moon

By Cody Toye

Somewhere in the woods of Missouri, 1910

"Mad Man or Savage Beast?" The mayor nervously shoved off from one foot to the other as he looked upon the frightened faces of the townsfolk. He paused for a long moment and cleared his throat, raising his voice to overtake the loud muttering of the crowd. He continued to read from the crumpled newspaper, his fat fist clinging tightly to the edge to sooth his shattered nerves.

"With the death toll reaching sixteen, this reporter wonders what the citizens of Alpine Bluff will do to prepare for the bloodshed of the full moon?"

The mayor slammed the paper to the podium, resonating the room with a large wooden echo, stealing their attention. The townsfolk stared silently at the round man in the black-and-white brimmed hat.

"Well? WELL? WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?"

His voice was steady but frightening, almost as if it was sugar flavored with hot sauce and vinegar.

"Anybody? Anybody at all? Come on, speak up!"

Endless silence, nothing more came from the meeting hall. Mayor Cottonwood closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting it slowly seep past his crooked teeth and out his fat lips.

"I'll tell you what we ain't gonna do. We ain't gonna believe that hogwash that big city reporter is trying to pour down our throats. Monsters? Werewolves? Come on, folks! We didn't get separated from our momma's teet yesterday. We are grown ass men and women! Fact of the matter is, someone among us is hacking up our friends and family and blaming the full moon, trying to make a fool of us. Werewolves, my hairy white ass!"

Mayor Cottonwood rolled his eyes and took another breath, trying to keep his composure and not let out a stream of unintelligent verbal nonsense from his throat.

"NO! I will tell you what we WILL do. We WILL stop this right here and right now. In front of me is a list of the most likely suspects. Now folks, don't go thinking I'm pointing fingers or arresting anyone, cause that ain't the point of this here paper."

The mayor's fat finger flicked the edge of the parchment, reiterating the point for all to see.

"No sir, no one is being blamed at all, and I reckon this will be your choice. You fine folks on this list can say yay or nay. This is simply a list of people with the ability to carry out the brutal happenings of the last month or two, on account of their skills or lifestyle."

His eyes stayed upon the parchment, not daring to look upon the faces of the accused. Accused. Mayor Cottonwood knew deep down that is what they were, but it is a new era, one in which he would never hang a man without at least some shred of proof.

"Will you stand as I speak your name please?"

He took one more deep breath and released. A slow gulp of water helped relieve the sandpaper that had become his throat.

"Adam Johnson, Stephen McDonald, Jessi Credence, Bubba Blake, and finally Victoria Anderson."

He watched each damned soul stand for the crowd to see, their fear and hatred already burning deep into the souls of the accused. Angry muttering among the crowd threatened to turn violent. Mayor Cottonwood watched in horror as a single jagged rock bounced off of Adam's forehead. A small trickle of blood dripped from the man's head as his flesh was parted.

"HOLD ON FOLKS, NOW JUST HOLD ON, ONE COTTON-PICKIN' MOMENT."

The Mayor waited for his townsfolk to simmer to a slow and silent boil before attempting to defuse the situation.

"These here are innocent folks. They ain't done a lick of harm. I chose them for a reason. Let's see, we have here...a blacksmith with access to sharp weapons. The dearly deceased was ripped apart, not shot with a bullet.

"We have the land owner where the bodies were found. We also have a woman who keeps wolves on her property as pets, we have a butcher, and we have the sheriff that first seen the sights of the dearly departed. Once again, these good folks have done nothing wrong; they are just victims of circumstance.

"Now here is what I propose, these folks are kind enough to prove their innocence by allowing us to lock them in their cabins from the outside all night long. Tonight is the full moon and I reckon we run a risk of losing a few more friends. HOWEVER, if all these folks are locked up all night and someone still dies, we know they ain't the murderin' kind.

"Now for the rest of us...Grab your rifles and search the woods by moonlight. If it ain't human and it moves...shoot it! We're gonna nab this sonfabitch before he can strike."

A loud cheer came from the crowd as they emptied out of the town hall and into the cold crisp November night, looking for bloodshed.

* * *

The shadowy figure wears a devious grimace that is illuminated only by the slight kiss of a single candle flame. He sits on his wooden stool in the dusty corner of his cabin, sharping the faux wolf claws. A nasty grinding sound fills the silent void, followed by a tiny spark that can be seen clearly in the reflection of the living room window.

He rubs the file slowly across the metal tips once more before setting it beside him. The soft blade of his forefinger slides to and fro against all ten claws, testing it. Testing its ability to hack and slash through human flesh with ease. A single drop of blood rolls down his index finger as a sharp inhalation of pain escapes him.

"Perfect. Utterly perfect!" he whispers to himself excitedly.

He grabs a tuft of fur penetrating from the makeshift wolf mask. Careful not to cut himself on the rotting skull of the deceased wolf, he slowly pulls the mask over his head and adjusts it for comfort in front of the vanity mirror by candlelight.

The shadowy figure slowly stands, stretching his muscles. His torn leather boots leave a hollow echo upon the wooden floor. Ominous creaks and moans can be heard by all who are still upon the earth on this cold November night.

He wedges the tip of his metal claw just beneath the crevice of his cedar chest. He reaches blindly into it, waving his arm back and forth; feeling for any sign of leftover's from last month's assault.

He pulls a section of forearm from the chest and is delighted to see a hand still attached by an intricate array of tiny bones and greasy muscles. His sharp claw digs deep into the semi-rotten flesh. He laughs maniacally at his own twisted joke before sinking his teeth deep into the last of his food supply. Blood and bits of skin slowly trickle from his mouth in a trail of saliva. He laughs once more as he rakes his teeth against the naked bone of the ring finger.

"I LOVE finger food," he snorts obnoxiously.

Tossing the bones back into the cedar chest, he wipes his mouth with his torn shirt. He stands with pride, for tonight is the full moon and tonight he hunts.

* * *

The pungent sulfur smell of gunpowder filled the night as many hunters fired wildly into the unknown. Creatures large and small fell victim to blind panic. The shadowy figure crept slowly over the pool of thick blood that poured from the raccoon's still carcass.

The moonlight illuminated his way through the woods; his senses seemed heightened. He could hear the chattering of hushed whispers being passed from one hunter to the next. A snap. A twig splintered under the heavy footsteps of a solitary man armed with panic and a single shot from his muzzle loader.

The shadowy figure gently and quietly lowered himself to the ground, the crunching of the leaves barely audible to anyone further than a claw's reach from man beast. He waited patiently. Less than fifty feet now, his victim neared the trap set by the shadowy figure. He hunkered behind the large willow, the reflective dead eyes of his mask radiating the moon's shine, otherwise completely concealed from view.

He shifted his weight to his legs, ready to lunge at the man. Ten feet. Five. He leapt claws first at the man, taking him completely by surprise. His attack was swift, yet his aim was miscalculated. He sunk only two of five claws into the butter of flesh of the man's jugular. A warm spray of blood matted the fur of his mask, and a wet gurgling sound escaped the mouth of the victim.

Death did not come quickly. The shadowy figure swung his other paw, making contact with the cold steel barrel of the man's rifle. A loud boom echoed in his ears, followed by a constant ringing that emanated from deep within his ear canal.

The victim fell, his rifle imprinted in the sticky blood beside his gashed body. The shadowy figure could hear the chaos coming for him, could hear the stampeding of a dozen footsteps. He could hear the sound of vengeance.

He ran. The shadowy figure ducked branches and leapt over the twisted detruding tree roots that littered the dark forest. He could hear the crackling sound and see the mangled debris fly into the air as bullets whizzed by him, scarring the bark of the landscape.

His chest felt heavy. His head felt like it was swimming in a pool of gravy and his throat felt like he swallowed razor-laced tumbleweeds. More chaos. More bullets. He felt a warmth upon the meat of his thigh followed by sharp excruciating pain. He was hit. He was hit and he was going down fast.

He struggled to run with a limp and knew it was only a matter of time before they caught up with him, before fate caught up with him, before the depths of hell called him home.

The shadowy figure found his salvation in the distance. Moonlight reflected from Victoria Anderson's pond, the watering hole for her cattle. Further into the woods and to the left was her cabin. Best of all, poor Victoria was locked in for the night. The shadowy figure had blindly limped into a heap of good luck, a hiding spot and easy prey.

The crowd of men parted as they spread thin to search the acres of land. He heard them coming, felt their relentless pursuing eyes upon him. He saw the edge of the cabin in the distance.

In the window was a large figure pacing back and forth, much larger than himself. He felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine.

A boyfriend? Did Miss Victoria have a boyfriend over?

The thought of making it this far just to be outnumbered frustrated him.

"NO! It was not supposed to be this way! She is supposed to be alone!"

The sound of gunfire in the distance brought him back to the present. His leg felt numb and his breathing highly irregular. He heard his own heartbeat drumming in his ears.

He swallowed hard and placed the metal claws upon the uneven wood barrier that held Victoria prisoner. A loud howl from a lone wolf in the distance reignited the flame of panic in the shadowy figure. Another howl. Yet another.

He flung the board aside and kicked the door hard, ready to pounce. He did not find Victoria. What waited for him inside was death. Death and pain and suffering he so justly deserved.

He heard the menacing growl long before he noticed the madness shining from the creature's eyes. Thick globs of drool slowly careened from the beast's gnarled lips. Before the shadowy figure could react, he felt his feet leave the sanctuary of solid ground. Sharp daggers plunged into his soft midsection, followed by a river of blood. His eyesight started to dim and his body seemed paralyzed.

Claws. This was one of the few thoughts he could muster. Claws, not daggers. A wolf, not Victoria. He struggled to make sense of it all. Like inserting the very last piece to an upside down jigsaw puzzle, he finally understood.

Victoria did not raise wolves. Victoria IS a wolf.

He felt a hard crunch upon his neck and heard a sickly wet suckling sound. Through his smoke screen vision he looked upon the face of awful beast, his very last sight.

* * *

"It seems to be a tragic day for Alpine Bluff folks!"

The sheriff spoke with conviction as he addressed the town hall.

"It seems we found our killer just after dawn this morning. Sadly, it was one of our own. Mayor Cottonwood was found dead in Victoria Anderson's cabin. His body was chewed up by her wolves and Miss Victoria is missing. I am not sure if she was his last victim, or if she escaped into the woods and got lost.

"Folks, it is time to put an end to the horrific events that have plagued us. We will continue to search for Victoria and we will mourn the loss of dear friends for some time to come. I say to you, though, haven't we suffered enough? Breathe easy now, it is over. I will see y'all at the celebration this evening."

A loud cheer rose from the crowd as the sheriff disappeared from sight and wandered deep into the Missouri woods searching for a single lost soul.

2010

The two men rummaged through the cabin, throwing away ancient rubbish from a simpler time in history. They filled the black bag to the top and tied it off before setting it on the porch. Dust filled the air and the musky smell of a damp rug churned their stomachs.

"The ad said it was a fixer-upper. This place looks like it could use a match and gasoline."

Albert propped his rifle against the corner of the cabin and sat on the broken wooden chair.

"Relax, Jeffrey. After all, you only paid a thousand dollars for the place! What did you expect?"

"I guess I expected a hunting cabin like that ad said. I'm not even sure there is wildlife in these desolate woods."

In the distance a vicious howl filled the evening sky. A howl that made their hair stand up and their hearts skip rope within their throats.

"T-There's the wildlife you wanted," Albert quivered.

About Cody Toye

The love of a child's laughter inspired me to write children's books. With every passing day more and more wonderful visions of worlds yet to be created fill my head. After some time I decided to try my hand at adult fiction and short story writing. Though it is unique in its own way, my word-crafting obsession is still children's books.

Find Cody Toye's books at Dead Key Publishing

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