 
### Write On Press Presents:

### The

### Ultimate Collection

### of

### Original Short Fiction

### Volume I

Published by Write On e-Publishing, LLC.

at Smashwords

### Copyright 2014 Write On Press

Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the publisher, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at their favorite e-book retailer.

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~***~

### Contents

### Fiction

T'ant Pis (Too Bad)

Cleaning House

Chicken Pox Revenge

The Girl in the Library

The Cards Don't Lie

Johnny's Gun

Dog Night Dawn

Thanks be to the Booze

Those Shoes!

### ~*~

### Fantasy

A Mother's Need

Be Careful what you ask for

The Divorce Quilt

Wither the World

### ~*~

### Science Fiction

The Game

Chainmail & Nerds

Memory Farm

Behind these Eyes

1. Inside the Light, Outside of Time

2. Lifetime in a Moment

3. Whisper in the Darkness

4. Darkness of Mind

5. Clasping Life

6. Drip of Moonlight

7. Generating Light

Me Zombie, You Food

Of Pirate Queens and Kika Fruit

### ~*~

### Romance

Courage in a Coffee Cup

Breathless

Lacrimosa

Ripples

### ~*~

### Fiction

### ~*~

### T'ant Pis (Too Bad)

By

### J. J. Haile

Do you know you can't find lye in the stores no more? You know, them white crystals people use for rat poison and such?

Well, I guess it's the "and such" is why it's hard to find, folks sure did them some plenty "and such" back in the day. Finally found some in an old hardware store on Magazine Street, cost me six dollars, but it's worth it. Gonna kill me some good sized rats with it, the four legged kind. I scattered it all along the baseboards in the shed and still had some left, so I wrapped it in a plastic grocery bag and pushed it way back on a top shelf.

As I was washing my hands at the kitchen sink, my mind went back, you know how it does that sometimes? Well, I started thinking about Emma and Porterfield James. You remember them?

Oh yeah, used to live right by the Circle Food store. They moved though, got a real nice little place in Marais Street, just Emma, Porterfield and their baby girl. Oh no, she ain't never married, been sick since she was born, some kind of thing with her heart. She never left her Mama and them and she must be near forty years old. I remember the day she was christened, right there at Corpus Christi.

The other children gave her this big party. I think folks said it was because that lil gal wasn't supposed to live too long. She was the tail end, last button on Jacob's coat, number seven of seven. Emma named her Debbie Ann and nursed that lil old thing until she was as fat and sassy as the rest. Stayed sick though, always going to Charity Hospital for the doctor to fix her up; she was all Emma could think of. It was alright, because the other six was nearly grown, some of them married and wasn't nobody to tend to except Porterfield, so Emma doted on that lil Debbie Ann.

Guess she should have given a thought to her husband but they had been married so long, seems like he should have understood that Emma had to see after her child. But Porterfield wasn't nothing but a man and pretty soon he did what some men will do, no matter how good the wife is.

Porterfield took up with another woman. Oh, she wasn't much, red haired and loose, named Vivian, lived right at St. Bernard and Villere, almost in Emma's back yard!

He started staying there in the evenings after he got off from the lumber yard, drinking beer and playing cards but soon enough, the evenings turned into week-ends and the week-ends into week-days. Seemed like Emma didn't notice much, so caught up in her baby and seven o'clock mass every day, but people started talking and I guess she heard.

You know how your Mama taught you that a man's gonna be a man and after he's old and all played out, he'll come in? Well, it's a lie, straight from the pits of hell!

They's some men gonna be dogs, no matter what!

Porterfield and Emma was married in that same Corpus Christi Church, many years ago They took the same vows, was supposed to live right, the way they promised God. They was just pretty to look at, all in love and devoted to each other and making babies quick, fast and in a hurry, you know, Catholic style?

She was a good girl, raised up right and turned into a good wife. No, it was Porterfield that was the problem. Time came when he changed, or maybe his true self came out, whatever, it had been alright for a time until Emma had that last baby.

She prayed, made novenas, like any other woman; a mother, praying for the miracle that would keep her child alive. She went to mass every day and novenas whenever she could. Oh, she cooked, cleaned and saw to Porterfield's needs but I just know she was distracted. Once, she had been slim and pretty, with soft hair and a complexion like peaches and cream.

She stayed small, but like some fair-skinned women, she began to fade. She didn't believe in the beauty parlor, besides she had that soft hair that didn't need the hot comb and after a time, she would pull it all back from her face in a knot. She was attractive, in a matronly way, spoke softly and comported herself like the lady she was reared up to be; she just had the bad luck to wind up with a whoremonger who disrespected and shamed her. Maybe, if he hadn't been so no good, so doggish, things would have turned out better.

They had it made, for the times in which they lived. They had fine children, a nice house, even if they rented it, and nothing to do except enjoy their golden years and wait for heaven. Emma was a good woman, I believe she did all she would do, and IF she was not the complete wife she was supposed to be, well, he should have understood. But hardly much works out the way you'd expect it, so because we're just human, we stray and we sin.

That lil Debbie Ann was about twenty-two or three when her kidneys failed; seems like a bad heart would have been enough.

Emma was really busy now; the kidney machine with her daughter three times a week, the other clinic appointments, daily mass and all those novenas she made. She even went over by the St. Ann shrine on Ursulines and climbed them steps! Yes she did! Did it I don't know how many times, praying for more time with her child, doing what mothers do. The oldest boy, P.J., used to drive them where they had to go because Porterfield couldn't be bothered. It got so Emma would have her son turn the Villere Street corner and call out to Porterfield on that woman's porch that they were taking Debbie Ann to the hospital.

Did he care? Well I can't say, but it didn't seem like he did. Did Emma hold it against him? Again, I can't say, all I can do is remember how it all came to an end.

There came an evening that Debbie Ann got the short-windedness, and was turning blue and hardly able to talk. Emma's boy come by, loaded them up in his car and made the Villere Street turn. Emma called out the window to Porterfield, who was playing Koch in his undershirt on the porch, hollered out that Debbie Ann was real bad off. And what did he do? Did he join his wife and child and make the trip to the hospital?

No sir, folks said he flapped his hand at Emma and them and never missed a card.

They kept Debbie Ann over to the Charity, she was on the dangerously ill list for two weeks and you know Emma never left the bedside. Finally, the doctor said Debbie Ann could go home and Emma packed up and brought her child home. She got her baby settled and walked to Corpus Christi and asked for the priest. Folks say she made her confession, other say she just had to talk to somebody, but whatever she did, she was gone for a few hours. Later that day, Porterfield showed up, I suppose they talked and maybe he visited with his daughter, but he was gone by dark. In the morning, Emma got up, went to mass and came home. She took care of Debbie Ann, cleaned up her house and then walked the few blocks to Vivian's house. She talked with her husband for a few minutes and went back home. He followed a few minutes later and that's where things get fuzzy.

Folks say they argued and maybe a blow or two was passed, but they settled down and Emma made breakfast for her husband. How much he ate, no one knows because the skillet and the pot were still on the stove when the police arrived.

They came because Emma called them. Debbie Ann was crying in her room, Porterfield was screaming on the sofa and Emma was sweeping the kitchen floor. The pot on the stove was still warm and the crystals of lye were still visible in the steaming grits. Porterfield screamed that she had tried to kill him, as he tried in vain to wipe the stiffening grits from his face. It had gotten into his eyes and no amount of water could dilute the lye as it ate into the sensitive eye tissue.

Porterfield went to the emergency room at Charity, P.J. stayed at home with Debbie Ann and Emma took her first and only ride in a police car.

No one knows for sure what transpired at Tulane and Broad but later that evening, Emma came home. Porterfield stayed a week in the hospital and P.J. brought him home, his eyes covered in gauze.

No visitors came, no messages went out and no one asked Emma what happened. She got up the next morning, went to mass, sent Debbie Ann to the kidney place with P.J. and fed Porterfield his breakfast. If anything changed in the marriage, no one knew for sure; Vivian stayed around the corner at her house and Porterfield didn't visit her anymore, that much was obvious. There weren't any changes anybody could see in Emma, she stayed just as she always had, and took care of her house, her child and her husband. They moved into the house they're in now when Porterfield got his retirement from the lumberyard. Debbie Ann continued as she always did, although now one of her other siblings take care of ferrying her back and forth to her clinics.

Emma gets up every morning, goes to mass and comes home. When the weather is nice, they can be seen on the front porch, Porterfield in his dark glasses, Emma reading a religious tract. No one actually knows how things came to such a pass, although most women would say that Porterfield got what he deserved. Not only did he renege on his wedding vows, he disrespected his wife and disregarded his child. Apparently, Emma took as much as she could and enough just got to be too much.

What she did is done, the law allowed her her freedom and we can only hope God will allow her salvation. What I DO know for sure is that you can't hardly find lye in the stores no more.

### ~*~

### Cleaning House

By

### Missy Wilkinson

When I saw my client standing on the balcony of his condo, gesturing at the side door he'd left ajar for me, I knew I was going to like him. Something about the way he held himself and his cigarette. Maybe he reminded me of somebody, or maybe sometimes you can recognize a kindred spirit.

I'd found his topless maid ad a few days ago, looking for a way to rustle up some quick cash since the strip club where I work is dead during the summer. Before stripping, I'd tried for a "real" job, but half-completed journalism degrees are pretty worthless. They're less than worthless actually, because I have student loans to worry about.

I'd responded to his ad in an email with the subject line: "Topless maid for you: fastidious, busty."

He immediately fired back, "You're hired!"

Didn't even ask to see a photograph, and now here he was letting me into his condo (corporate housing with wall-to-wall carpet and a wet-bar, it felt only slightly more lived-in than a hotel) without so much as a cursory background check. He introduced himself, with some hesitation, as Aalim, while two cats regarded me suspiciously.

"That cat's my fiancée's."

He pointed at the fluffy white one, "It's not very friendly."

I asked him how many responses his ad had garnered. He eyeballed my cleaning supplies and the get-up I had chosen: fishnets, booty shorts, and my "low" six-inch, clear Lucite heels. "One."

"But you didn't even ask for a photo. What if I'd been a dude or something?"

He shrugged, "I figured I'd at least get my house cleaned."

I started scrubbing the first bathroom while I tried to feel Aalim out, see what he thought he was purchasing with his two hours of naked girl time. In the strip club, this delicate probing process is filled with tiny hits-and-misses as I figure out what the man wants me to be and calibrate myself accordingly.

Most guys want the typical bubbly, horny, stripper cheerleader: _Oh, I love being naked! I'm naughty_ , etc! But there's a certain kind of seasoned veteran who's not taken in by that and finds it a huge turn-off. These guys have been strip-club regulars since I was in braces. They've spent countless hours and thousands of dollars in the clubs, and because of that, they're almost as good at sniffing out bullshit as strippers are. It's almost like they want a genuine human connection; which isn't as benevolent as it sounds. It's intrusive, the work they do on your psyche. They want to penetrate to the psychological truth of the strippers and peel away the artifices we wear like exoskeletons. They are disarmingly good and often scarily intuitive.

Aalim turned out to be this kind of customer. He guessed correctly which drugs I'd favored, even which drugs my dad preferred. He told me I was circling around my goals and advised me to go back to college. He could tell all these things, he said, because he was some kind of consultant.

"People are all the same," he said. "It's the same patterns. It gets boring."

He also told me I needed to read Rainer Maria Rilke.

"Letters to a Young Poet," he said. "You'd like it. It would be a good book for you right now."

We talked about strip clubs. He filled me in on some details about Visions, where I'd started as a cocktail waitress my freshman year. I didn't stay a waitress for long, though. Dancers made so much more money.

"I used to go there a lot," he said, "back in the '90s. There was a lot of sex going on there. A lot of sex. They'd have private parties - invite only - at hotels, and these were anything goes. I didn't have a girlfriend, so I thought, why not?"

I told him I'd never heard about the parties.

"You didn't work there long enough," he said flatly.

"All men cheat. All men. My best friend is a great husband. Takes care of his wife emotionally, financially. If she wants a glass of water, he gets it for her. Every time she goes out of town, he calls an escort. Is that cheating?"

"Of course."

"But if she doesn't know about it?"

"It's still cheating," I said firmly, convinced.

"What about this?" He gestured at the bland kitchen table, the ashtray full of my lipsticked cigarette butts.

"This isn't cheating. We're not doing anything. I'm just cleaning."

"I guarantee you my fiancée would think this is cheating."

He lit another cigarette, and then handed it to me.

"You know, you're a Stepford wife in disguise. You want a vanilla life. The good job, happy marriage, smart kids."

"I totally do, on one level. But it would be boring."

"Let me tell you something. This?" He nodded at me, and I knew he meant this sordid transaction that led us to meet: financially sanctioned intimacy.

"This life is boring."

He told me about his parents, good Muslims married 40 years. They go to the temple together. They pamper their grandchildren. On weekends, they eat dinner with friends.

"They're happy," he said, "Happiness isn't boring."

"I like the sound of that, I really do. But I don't want the things that are the right things. How do you make yourself want them?"

"I haven't been able to figure that out. I want to be a good Muslim. My life would be easier if I were. But I'm not."

That was the core of it: Neither one of us could figure out how you make yourself want the things your parents want for you. A healthy life. A stable life. A loving spouse who brings positive changes.

My phone rang; it was a friend checking up on me. I'd been talking to Aalim for a half-hour past my scheduled departure time.

"I just have one favor to ask," he said as I gathered my cleaning supplies.

"Can I look at you while I jerk off?"

"I've got to go." I made a show of looking at my phone's clock again.

"It's really late."

"I won't take long."

He started throwing cash on the table; $100, $120, $140, $160.

"Just name your price."

I can't say I wasn't tempted by the money. Guys had masturbated before, in the strip club's champagne rooms, but I always felt weird about it afterwards. And talking about my life and goals with Aalim, I felt weird about it beforehand. Which was a change.

"I can't," I said finally.

"Why not? It would be a really nice way to end the evening."

"For a while, I've used my sexuality as a way to get things. But lately, in the club, that hasn't been working. So I'm shifting toward a new hustle, one where I use sexuality to be close to people and my talents to get things."

"Talents? What kind of talents?" he asked, and to my surprise, I couldn't detect a whiff of prurience.

"Like cleaning."

I nodded at my plastic crate of paper towels, Ajax and sponges.

"You have other talents." He looked at me intently, "You can write."

I felt my face turn hot, the world grew shaky, like I was inside an hourglass and it was all sand around me.

"How can you tell?"

"You're smart. Articulate. Not many strippers know how to pronounce 'fastidious,' let alone spell it."

"Well...thanks."

Nobody had told me I was a good writer since I'd dropped out of school. People had plenty of good things to say about my ass and tattoos and sometimes my smile. But never my word choices.

"So...can I jerk off?"

"Fuck you."

I wish I could say I turned on my platform heel and walked out and didn't look back. Every part of me wishes I had. But he still hadn't paid me. And my student loans weren't going to disappear just because I got self righteous.

He left the room and I thought he was going to stiff me because I'd cursed him out. But he returned with cash and a worn paperback in hand.

"I'm sorry," he said as he handed me the book: Letters to a Young Poet. "I still meant everything I said. I'm just a pig. That's all."

I thumbed through the cash. It was more than what he owed me. By a lot.

"Do you mind if I just ...look?" he asked.

I didn't see the harm in that. I lay on the carpet, which I never did get a chance to vacuum, and put one leg in the two o' clock position, one at ten. I felt a slight tug in my groin muscles as I spread wide. Air and light touched a part of me that spends its life in darkness.

"Well," I said, watching as a beatific, almost innocent expression melted across his face, "There it is."

### ~*~

### Chicken Pox Revenge

By

### H. C. Heartland

Eileen's head was beating at such a rapid pace she felt her ear drums would burst. Tossing and turning she must have fallen asleep around midnight, and the following morning, the sheets were soaked.

Before opening her eyes she heard her husband Terrence say _,_ "What the..."

This pause caused her to open her eyes and see him staring at her, but he wasn't really looking at her eyes he seemed to be scanning her face like he had lost something in the grass.

"What are you doing?" she asked groggily.

"You have things all over your face" he said aghast as he continued to scan.

"What does that mean?"

Eileen jumped out of bed feeling her white cotton sleeping gown sticking to her body from the sweat that drenched her. She ran to the tiny mirror that was hanging on the wall next to the closet. As if not seeing her own reflection but rather a monster on the other end she gasped, "What is it? What's wrong with me?"

"I think you may have the chicken pox. Didn't you ever have them as a child?" Terrence asked still staring with his mouth slightly open in shock.

"No! I never had them, and I had been exposed several times! I thought I must have built up some sort of immunity! Are you sure? I mean, look at the size of these blisters; they're huge, is that normal? It's 1934; I didn't think adults could get chicken pox anymore!"

"I heard adult cases can be the worst _,_ my mom made sure to have me play with the other kids so that I'd get it over with because they said it was too painful to have when you got older. I had better call the Doctor and you better go wash up," said Terrence in an empathetic tone.

Terrence got up and got dressed quickly. Eileen stood for a few minutes staring at the bumps all over her face and felt sudden shakes come all over her. Expecting another fever to come on she grabbed a clean set of clothes and went in to take a bath so she could spend the rest of the day in bed.

The Doctor came by that afternoon; more spots had erupted on her back, arms, and torso. Dr. Hammond was only in his sixties but had turned prematurely gray by age 30. He knew everyone in the town since they were born except ones like Eileen who had moved in later on in life, so he had lots of questions about her past. None of these questions, Eileen felt, had anything to do with her present situation, but she was too weak to fight the nosiness which had probably been killing the old man since she first moved to town.

"So, you never had the chicken pox where you lived as child? Where was that again by the way? Oh, you say it was a bigger town, 'bigger the town bigger the epidemic,' usually. Odd, you weren't exposed in school, what grade did you say you ended up finishing?" He kept inquiring without giving Eileen much time to answer. She could barely whisper a groan since her fever had peeked and she felt faint.

"You had better try to stay as cool as possible, so that more spots don't come on, but, unfortunately more probably will. You had better stay out of sight until those spots dry up, and don't scratch them or your husband won't be too pleased at your appearance anymore," said the Doctor while putting his tools back into his black medicine bag.

He picked up his black medicine bag and went off leaving her alone in her dark room to groan from the pain of her headache and toss and turn from the pain of the blisters on every corner of her body. The next day the blisters looked more like clusters of grapes.

"Honey, I hate to leave you like this but I've got to go to work." Terrence looked down at her with pity and yet enough personal revulsion to stay a few steps away from the bed any time he was in the room.

Eileen attempted to ease his conscience. "It's okay; there is nothing you can do for me. Please just make sure I have enough water by my bed stand with the aspirin the Doctor left me."

"Don't you want anything to eat?" he asked concerned as she had only had liquids and a few bites of food since the outbreak of the first bumps the night before.

"No, I think they have gone into my throat, I don't think I could bare a bite."

"Alright then, I hope you feel better soon."

He left, happy to get out of the dismal room.

~*~

The last thing Eileen felt inclined to do was to receive visitors. Of course, who of all people would come by but the most obnoxious of all the town's residents? Not to mention the very individual who happened to give Eileen the chicken pox at that! Mrs. Leighton's daughter in law, Mary, who had recently come from Ireland, had also never had the chicken pox. She reportedly got them from her nephew on her husband's side and didn't feel the need to stay indoors after a weeks' time.

"This town is full of weaklings," she was heard saying, "I'm not going to stay cooped up in the house for 2 weeks or more just because I look ugly!"

She went to town and everyone rolled their eyes, but it wasn't until she transmitted the virus to Eileen that she now realized she may have actually been the cause of loathing for the very sight of the innocent woman.

Feeling some remorse over what happened, Mary decided to pay Eileen a visit; Eileen didn't see how she could possibly refuse her so she let her in.

"Well, just look at you! You look like a walking polka dot!" spurted Mary trying to sound humorous.

"Yes, I suppose you would know something about it, Mary. I can see you still have a few marks left on you. How are you feeling?" asked Eileen.

"Oh it only took me a few days to be feeling ready to get back to work again. Some people just have a weaker constitution I guess."

She said this looking at Eileen with her mouth turned upside down making the sort of sad face you make when children bump their knee.

Within minutes, Eileen felt the evil crawl up inside of her. She wanted to avenge herself of the agony that she felt. And the only person she could think of who deserved to feel her wrath was sitting right in front of her, mocking Eileen for suffering the very affliction she had given her.

Under the guise of hospitality, she forced herself out of her chair and offered Mary some tea. She had read once that certain medicines put in tea were not traceable by taste but gave the person the worst case of diarrhea within a matter of minutes. She ran to the medicine cabinet scanning for something to sweeten Mary's tea with. She found just the bottle, something her husband hadn't used in a year or so. Hoping it would still be effective she slowly stirred in the drops, smelling it to see if there were any signs of its existence. Eileen said a short prayer, hoping it wouldn't do more harm then she intended, and then handed Mary the tea swiftly before she could change her mind. Mary drank the tea down so quickly Eileen wondered if she had scalded her throat.

Mary sat the cup down and said, "I wouldn't mind another cup of that lovely concoction. I must say the tea you have here in America tastes quite different from what I'm used to in Ireland but I like it so much I must beg for another."

Not wanting to disappoint her guest and also not wanting to spoil the surprise, Eileen again added the same amount of medicine to the second cup of tea. This time, Mary attempted to sip it like the lady she was trying to be. Within the half hour, Eileen could hear Mary's stomach begin to gurgle; she could see her visitor squirm in discomfort not really knowing what to do in the presence of company when needing to release certain unpleasant gastric movements in her intestinal wall.

Eileen thought all of this would force Mary to run home but instead she heard her say, "Just need to use your water closet for a moment if you don't mind my dear, it seems that tea has gone right through me!"

Much to Eileen's dismay _,_ what ensued was the loudest concert of bodily noises she had heard since her Uncle Wally had gotten worms from the cow's milk he bought on the roadside. Eileen's guilt turned into panic at the thought of having to clean up the mess after Mary left.

It was some time before Mary came out. Once the concert had ended, everything had become very quiet. Eileen

became worried that Mary may have passed out on the floor so she knocked on the door and asked, "Mary is everything alright in there?"

Mary slowly opened the door, her face drained of all color, and said, "Oh Ms. Eileen, it seems I've caught a bit of stomach flu. But don't you worry, I've taken it upon myself to clean up everything and made sure to light some matches so as not to offend you too much with the remnants of my visit."

Eileen tried to smile and lead Mary slowly to the door, assuming she would be taking her leave. She was very quickly taken aback by the ease in which Mary sat right back down in the parlor chair making no attempts to leave. Still holding onto her arm, Eileen said, "Are you sure you are up for the rest of the visit? I would understand if you deemed it necessary to return home, Mary."

"Oh. No!" Mary said rather jovially, "I feel much better now, I wouldn't think of leaving you here all by yourself."

The day carried on in such a fashion, Mary talked and talked and Eileen listened wondering when her dreaded company would leave. At this point she would have thanked Mary for giving her the chicken pox if only it meant her leaving sooner.

When it did come time for Mary to leave she put both hands on Eileen's shoulders and said with all sincerity, "I just want to tell you this is the loveliest time I've had with anyone since coming to your country. Thank you for being so kind. Since we both have shared the same ailment, it has brought us closer together and I hope we can share many more a moment such as this. When you are better, you must come over to my place for a turn and try some of the tea from Ireland."

And with that, Mary left Eileen standing there mouth gaping at the door.

All Eileen could do was smile, wave...and scratch.

### ~*~

### The Girl in the Library

By

### Randy Walker

I would venture to guess that if you were to conduct a survey of the number of attractive women that frequent the public library, compared to the number of deeply disturbed gentlemen that frequent the library, you would find that disturbed gentlemen outnumber attractive women by a margin of six to one. This, I have noticed, is a rather unfortunate truth that the gentler sex has had to deal with, as deeply disturbed gentlemen seem to think it is perfectly acceptable to confront and hit on these poor ladies whose only desired companionship is that of a good book.

This is why I generally refrain from approaching women at the library; for fear that they will assume I am disturbed. That, and the fact that you're supposed to be quiet at a library, but mostly the first thing.

But the other day, I was at a table, looking for employment in the paper and minding my own business, I found myself confronted by an attractive woman. She was an older woman, older than me at least. I would say she was somewhere between 33-36. She was ethnic, maybe Persian. And she was cute. She was definitely cute, especially when she smiled. When I first saw her she was smiling at me.

"Excuse me," She said as she approached me, "But do you know where the other outlets are? I need to plug in my computer."

She motioned to my computer, which was plugged into one of the outlets below the table.

"Oh, no, I think that is the only one." I said casually-yet confidently.

"You can have it if you want. My computer has a few hours charge already."

"I tell you what," She said as she leaned closer towards me. "Why don't we just share your charger? We have the same computer, we can just trade off."

"OK!" I agreed, a little too eagerly. I made a mental note to tone down the enthusiasm.

And so for the next hour, we sat at the table and shared my charger. Our system was pretty brilliant if, I do say so myself. One of us would use the charger for ten minutes and then the other would use it for the next ten. But here was the brilliant part about it. Every time we would trade off, one of us would ask a question about the other. We would talk quietly for a few minutes, learning a little more about each other, and then go back to our work, before doing the whole thing again ten minutes later.

After an hour of this, I knew quite a bit about this fellow library dweller. Her name was Anna and she was Armenian. She had lived in Armenia for most of her life. But she moved out here some years ago and now worked part time in a bar in Pasadena, and lived with her mom in a small house. And she learned quite a bit about me too. She learned that I was a strong, impressive writer who had been mostly ignored by the Hollywood system because of his focus of substance over flashy writing. Oh yes, she knew me quite well.

We both knew each other so well, that I felt confident enough to ask her to join me for coffee at the coffee stand just outside the library.

"No, its okay, I'm really not thirsty." She replied.

This left me dejected, but I did not show it. Instead, I increased my typing speed by 40 percent, showing her how truly skilled I was. Ten minutes later she popped her head out from her laptop and looked over at me.

"You know, Roger," She smiled playfully as she said my name. "I actually think a coffee would be great right now."

Gotcha, I thought. The typing fast maneuver always works on the ladies.

And so, we stepped out of the library for coffee. Unfortunately the first thing she noticed was that I did not, in fact, order coffee, but rather a grape soda.

"Truthfully I can't stand coffee." I explained. "But I thought it would be easier to talk to you out here than in there," I said. And then I waited. This was the moment of truth. Would she be annoyed by my deception, even fearing that I was actually one of those disturbed library types, or would she find my directness endearing, even attractive?

She smiled playfully again and I let out an almost non-existent sigh of relief.

"Very sneaky, mister."

We sat down at a patio table, and for the first time since we met, we had a conversation in normal, audible voices. And we talked about a great many things. The weather, the people of LA, the traffic, all the usual b.s. that people talk about while drinking coffee and grape soda. But then I asked her what it was like to be Armenian in Los Angeles and things got interesting.

"Well, for the most part, I don't really think people treat me any different. But..."

She paused suddenly. As if she had something important to say, but wasn't sure if she should share it.

"Go on. Say what you were gonna say."

"I don't know if I should. We just met each other."

"We shared computer cords, Anna. That's a connection that can never be broken." I joked. She laughed.

"OK. It's just that...I feel like we Armenians just have a better grasp of the world we live in." I opened my mouth, but before I could get a word out she reached over and touched my hand, which instantly silenced me.

"I'm not saying that we are smarter than anyone else. It's not that. It's just that, the Armenians have been through so much, so much suffering and bitter disappointment, we had no other choice but to learn the hard truth about life."

"What kind of hard truth?" I asked while slyly looking down at the pretty hand that was touching mine.

"Like, for example, the fact that this country, the US, is completely controlled by a secret society; a society that holds power over everyone and everything."

"Uh huh..." I muttered in confusion. I could tell she wasn't happy with this response, as her pretty finger left mine abruptly. I did not like this, so I tried to keep her talking.

"So, um, what secret society is this, exactly?"

She leaned in across the table. "The Masons. It's the secret society of the Masons. They are the real leaders over this country. And they will use their puppet to destroy the people of America."

"Puppet?" I ask.

"Obama, of course. He is not the real leader of this country; he is just some pet of theirs. And if he gets reelected the Masons will have completed their final piece of their plan. Then your country will turn into the Soviet Union, just like mine did."

"Did the Masons have power over your country too?"

"No, but clearly they are following their plan."

"I see..." I said, because I had no fucking clue of what else to say.

"I'm telling you!" She exclaimed rather suddenly. "You cannot vote for that man! He is under the Masons control! You must vote for the other one. Romney. He is his own man. He will destroy all of the Masons if he is elected. You must believe me!"

But I didn't believe her. And I was kinda weirded out by this current turn of events. So I slurped my grape soda in silence and tried to think of something to say.

"So, can I get your phone number?" I finally said. Because why not, right?

That night, I lay in my bed and wondered a great many things. I wondered if Anna was the female version of the deeply disturbed library dwellers. I wondered if it was fair to call her that considering she was from a different country and had, evidently, seen a lot more hardship than I ever will. And then I thought, what if she is actually right, and I'm the fool for not believing her. What if ten years from now I will be standing in a deserted street, huddled around a fire barrel while America burns all around me, thinking back to that one cute girl from the library who tried her best to warn me of the dangers ahead.

Either way, I finally thought, I should probably wait two days before I text her.

### ~*~

### The Cards Don't Lie

By

### Taymika G. Byrd

"I can't believe you have me coming with you to do this," Colette said to Lisa as they walked past the Cabildo and turned to go down Saint Peter Street towards Royal.

"Oh Colette don't be such a stick in the mud, this will be fun."

"I'm sure," Colette said rolling her eyes, "how did you find this place again?"

"One of my girlfriends told me about it, she said it was great."

They walked a few more feet and Lisa stopped so suddenly that Colette almost ran into her. "Geez Lisa! A little warning next time."

"Oh, sorry honey, we're here?"

Colette looked around; she didn't see anything, "where exactly are we?"

"Here," Lisa said and stepped through the doorway.

Colette stepped in behind her and stopped short. The " _shop_ " was about the size of her closet but more crowded. As she looked around the dimly lit half-room she noticed that although it was a little overly stuffed for her taste it was at least well organized.

In the corner sat a little old woman wearing a very colorful wrap. In front of her was a low table and two low stools.

"Good afternoon ladies, how may I help you?" she said in a crisp clear voice that did not match her face.

"Hi! I'm Lisa; I came to have my cards read."

"Wonderful! Please have a seat. Am I doing a reading for each of you?"

"No," Colette said quickly, "I'm here for moral support."

"I see."

Turning to Lisa the woman placed a deck of Tarot cards on the table, "please shuffle them three times then cut them into three stacks."

She and Colette both sat back as they watched Lisa shuffle the cards and divide them.

"Now is there anything specific you want to know about?"

"Yes, my relationship!"

As the woman turned over each card and began to speak her voice had a sing song quality to it, "you are very fortunate in love, the man you are with loves you deeply and will soon ask for your hand in marriage."

Lisa beamed; Colette tried unsuccessfully to keep from rolling her eyes.

"There will come a time when you will need to choose between furthering your career and having a family. This decision will not be easy but it is a crossroads in your life that is very important."

Lisa nodded her head, Colette simply let out a small sigh.

"You will have two, possibly three children."

At this Lisa's smile became huge, "Thank you so much!"

Colette rolled her eyes and shook her head. As Lisa pulled out her wallet to pay for the reading Colette put the cards back in a stack, shuffled them, separated them into three stacks and pulled a card from the middle of each placing them on top.

The first card had the face of a crescent moon inside a sun, a dog and a wolf looking up and a crawfish coming out of the water, at the bottom in all caps it read THE MOON. The second card was an image of a skeleton dressed as a knight on a white horse holding a flag; at the bottom it read DEATH. The last was simply a man wearing a crown holding a sword; at the bottom it read KING OF SWORDS.

Just as Colette was about to turn the cards back over the old woman placed her hand out to stop her. Colette pulled her hands away and looked up to see the woman looking down at the cards.

"I'm sorry, I was just messing around, and I wanted to see what would come out."

The woman simply smiled, "Well since you were playing around why don't you let me tell you what you have here."

"No that's ok; I'm not really into this kind of thing."

"Hmm," the woman said simply then smiled, "you don't have to be into this kind of thing in order for it to work. The cards tell a story, sometimes about your future and sometimes about your past. What comes up is completely up to the energies surrounding you. People may lie to others and they may even lie to themselves but the cards do not lie. There is a reason for everything and the spirits tell me I must tell you what lies ahead."

"Ok," Colette said sitting back and looking at Lisa who shrugged her shoulders in response.

Pulling the first card towards her the woman began to speak, "Things are not as they appear, so you must open your eyes and see what is really going on around you. You need to let go of your mental blocks so your intuition can guide you."

Pulling the second card towards her she said, "Major changes are coming your way, don't fight it. You may be forced to make sacrifices but you must keep in mind it will be for your own good. Death is not only about destruction, it is also about renewal, although one door may close another will open so don't be afraid to go through it."

Pulling the last card to her she said, "Here is your light at the end of the tunnel, the King of Swords will help you to see things more clearly and in a different light so that you will be able to solve whatever issue that my seem unsolvable."

She picked up the cards and stacked them back into one deck in front of her, "Be careful young lady."

Colette didn't want to be rude so she simply said, "Well... thank you."

The woman smiled and nodded her head, "The cards don't lie."

~*~

Ring, ring, ring...

"This is Lisa."

"Hey Lisa, this is Colette. I am so pissed with you!"

"Huh? What? What did I do?"

"That tarot lady of yours cursed me or something."

"Uh, ok. Why do you say that? What happened?"

"Remember James?"

"Yeah, the guy from Houston you been going out with."

"Yeah, well I just found out things are definitely NOT what they seemed to be."

Lisa laughed, "can't say I'm surprised, I mean, honestly Colette, I don't know how you could date a guy that lived in a whole other state."

"It's not funny Lisa; everything was fine until I went with you to see that crazy lady!"

"She is not crazy, and she warned you."

"She cursed me!"

"Ok, fine, she cursed you. You still have not told me what happened."

"Girl, that low down, dirty, no good, prick... oh hell that is my mom, I have to take that. I will call you later ok?"

"Okay, crazy girl!"

~*~

Colette sat in the police station interrogation room looking at the two way mirror. The past few months had been trying and crazy but the past two weeks had been insane. If she had known when she met James that things would turn out like this she would have run for the hills. Since meeting him her life had become something of an emotional roller-coaster and she was ready to get the hell off.

Not for the first time in the past couple weeks her thoughts went back to the woman who did the tarot reading, now she wished she would have paid closer attention to what she said, she was starting to become a believer. She thought about going back to her but decided against it because she was afraid of finding out that something truly devastating would be coming her way.

A few minutes later the detective walked back in the room followed by Greg and in the hallway was her father.

"Well Ms. Dupré, it seems like you have some very important friends. You are free to go but please do not leave the state."

~*~

Lisa sat on the edge of the bed and watched as Colette shoved things into a black leather bag. Colette had not said much since she arrived and it looked to Lisa like she was on the verge of tears one minute and ready to kill someone the next.

"So Mike is coming to get you?" Lisa asked breaking the silence.

"Yeah, he should be here soon," Colette said while trying to zip the overly stuffed bag closed.

"Where is he taking you?"

"To my studio," she said in frustration as a shirt caught in the zipper of the bag.

Lisa got up and placed her hands over Colette's, "Here honey, let me do that, you go sit down."

Colette gave up the bag to Lisa and went to sit in a sofa chair in the corner of the room. She placed her face in her hands, then sitting up she ran her fingers through her hair before sitting back with her eyes closed.

"Are you ok honey?" Lisa asked.

"NO!" Colette snapped sitting up, "No, I'm not ok! I can't believe this flippin' day! First the thing with the police, now this, what the hell else can possibly happen to me today?"

Lisa kneeled down in front of Colette and put a hand on her knee, "honey, everything will be ok."

"Lisa, how can you say that? There is someone out there trying to kill me!"

"You never explained to me how all of this came about, what happened?"

Before Colette could answer there was a knock on the door. "That must be Mike. I will give you a call after he drops me off and we can talk then. I need to wrap my head around all of this."

~*~

Lisa stood in the cold, sterile hospital room with one hand over her mouth to try and keep any sound from escaping. Hot tears slid down her face as she looked down at her friend. She wished she had made Colette slow down long enough to tell her what was going on, she felt that if she knew then maybe she would have been able to help her.

She took her fingers, now wet with tears and brushed them across Colette's forehead to push her hair out of her face. Just then Colette's mother, father and brother walked into the room. Lisa stepped back as they came close. Colette's mother looked like she was going to collapse.

"My baby," she cried clutching her husband for support, "oh my poor baby," she said before burying her head into his chest.

Colette's brother walked up and placed his hand on his mother's back, "it's ok mom, it's going to be ok."

Lisa felt like she was invading on a private moment so without a word she turned and walked out of the room. As she walked down the hallway wiping her face she couldn't help but think back to Colette's tarot reading. She really wished Colette would have listened now. She sadly shook her head as she recalled what the woman had said, the cards don't lie.

### ~*~

### Johnny's Gun

By

### Brian Quat

He saw her outside Smitty's sitting on the curb crying. It was the first time he was affected by a girl crying and he was able to get out more than a stutter of, "What should I do?"

He asked her what was wrong, and his confidence and sincerity almost got her to answer, but when she looked up at him she lied and said it was nothing. But he knew it was a deep lie, and so asked her if she wanted to get a coffee. She told him no, that it was too late for coffee, but he kept at it, asked her if she wanted to get a drink.

He found the liquor in her place and made the drinks strong. He wasn't trying to get her drunk for his own sake, only to numb her out.

"Holli," he started, "how long have you worked at Smitty's?"

His voice was deep and grave.

"Since I was nineteen," she answered.

"And that's how long?"

"Two years," she said looking down into her glass.

He wasn't sure what to do next; if he should say something, if he should be quiet, if he should look at her. Instead he also looked into his glass as he raised it up to his lips. But he looked at her while she was looking away. She had big blue eyes and bright blonde hair, a pointy, crooked nose that was startlingly becoming and pouting pink lips, and all this sitting on top of the body of a twenty-one-year-old stripper.

Then she moved her eyes to him, "I'm sorry, what was your name again."

"John."

He paused, and then said, "Call me Johnny."

She asked how long he had lived in Jersey, what he did for a living, and when the small talk was done Johnny resolved to leave everything light and easy – as much as it could have been. He was satisfied with her number and left while the lights were still on.

~*~

Johnny sat down at the tiny table with two coffees and passed one to Holli. They sat across from each other as they had before, and like before Holli avoided looking at him as much as she could. But Johnny looked at her and wouldn't look away. She asked him how things were.

"I want you to tell me what's wrong," Johnny said.

"Nothing's wrong anymore," she said meekly.

"I want you to tell me what's wrong," he repeated, his voice a little lower.

"Look – it was only some friend drama. It's not a big deal, it's basically over now and I'm done with it."

He remained silent.

"Just a fight with one of my friends."

"No," he replied, "there's something wrong with you – I mean, you got a bad, deep-seated problem that you don't see ever getting out of."

She plopped her coffee cup on the table and looked stunned. Almost unable to speak she forced out, "No."

But his eyes penetrated her and she squeaked out, "How do you know that?"

"I don't know," he replied, "I can just tell."

She had already given up too much and went silent.

"It has something to do with where you work," Johnny continued, "that place is run by fucking douche bags."

Holli put her hand back on the coffee cup and leaned forward a bit.

"If you only knew," she growled. Now Johnny found himself rendered impotent by her burgeoning passion and ceased his advance, waiting for this anger in her to spill out. But she didn't say anything further; instead she leaned back again, putting both her hands in front of her mouth as her eyes squeezed closed and tears ran out. She cried silently across the tiny table from speechless Johnny who was moved even further by this crying scene than the first. He didn't have to say anything, didn't have to ask why – his eyes did it for him.

"It's my friend Jenny," she said when she had a little more control of herself, "She was hooking up with this guy who works for the owners at Smitty's. They call him Lok."

She sniffled a little bit.

"She never liked him; she actually thought he was gross. But he kept bothering her like relentlessly and it just made her life easier to go along with it. They were hooking up for like five months – but then Friday last week she went outside with Lok," she sniffled again, "and never came back inside. Her roommate said she didn't come home and she wouldn't answer her phone and now when you call it, it says the number no longer exists."

Holli put her hands back in front of her mouth. Johnny was about to offer his condolences but she went on, "And now he won't leave me alone. He finds out when my shifts are and hangs around me all night, pretending to be sweet. But one day after my shift this other girl told me that Jenny wasn't the first girl to leave with Lok and disappear."

"And you can't quit," Johnny continued for her. "They won't let you."

She nodded as she wiped another streaming tear off her cheek.

~*~

When Johnny found the doors to Smitty's open at that time of day he was surprised. He knew they weren't open for business and so he also expected there to be less people. There were five or six guys around the bar, some of them sitting and drinking, others standing around like they were waiting for something. Another group of men was sitting right in front of the main stage where a girl was dancing for them, already down to just her g-string. They all turned and looked at him when he came in.

"Lok," Johnny said flatly.

"What's that?" one of the men from the bar yelled over the music as he rose from his stool and moved closer to Johnny.

"Where's Lok?"

"He don't take book no more," said the man. "I can take book for you if you want."

"I want to have a talk with Lok."

"He's not here."

"Don't speak for me, Lou," said a tall skinny man who was sitting in front of the stage. He stood up and briskly walked next to Lou, easily watching Johnny as he did.

"Who are you?"

"Call me Johnny."

"And what do you want?"

"Are you Lok?"

"Yeah man, I'm Lok."

"Let's talk privately," said Johnny with the same flatness he had been speaking with the whole time.

"About what?"

"About Holli."

"Who?" Lok asked with what came across as genuine ignorance.

"Holliday. The girl you're gonna kill next."

Lok's smirk, which had been perpetual since Johnny had walked in, shrunk away, and his eyes narrowed like he was aiming down the barrel of a gun, fixing in on his target.

"Who are you?" Lok asked again, more quizzically, with more interest, "A boyfriend?"

"No."

"A hopeful boyfriend then," Lok teased, the smirk returning.

"She's not coming in to work tonight," said Johnny, "she's not coming in here at all anymore."

"Because you say so?" laughed Lok in a squeak.

"Yes."

Lok laughed again, a laugh of genuine giddiness.

"If she ever sees you again I'll hafta come back here."

Johnny had no interest in whatever anyone else had to say and so turned and started walking out. Lok did chime in what he considered a clever response but Johnny didn't hear it. When the door closed behind him and stayed closed he walked back to his truck and drove away.

~*~

"Will you take another?"

"Why not." Tyler grabbed the bottle of Jim Beam and refilled the two shot glasses on the oak table.

"You're doing this tomorrow?" Tyler asked.

"No – right after this," said Johnny. Tyler gave a look of incredulity.

"Might as well do it while I still have a buzz."

Johnny reached for his shot and picked it up. Tyler did the same and they drank them back in unison.

"Just because they drove by her house?"

"It's probably a little more complicated than that," replied Johnny.

"And since we're on the subject – I need that gun."

"Which gun?"

"My gun," Johnny said smiling, never knowing when Tyler was busting his balls, a skill which Tyler exercised with restraint, what he considered to be in accordance with his own strange morality.

"Yeah it's here," said Tyler. "You got yer knife too?"

Johnny slapped a bowie knife onto the oak table still in its scabbard. Tyler grew a smile and rose up slowly, left the room. He came back in less than a minute with a lock-box that he dropped on the table next to Johnny's knife.

"You got the key?"

Johnny had the key already in his hand and slid it across the table to Tyler.

"You open it," Johnny said.

"No – it's yers."

"But you manage it for me. I have nothing to do with it other than what goes inside and what comes out."

"Alright. Whatever."

Tyler spun the box around and opened it.

"Okay...so you want the gun...what about any of the cash?"

"No, leave that. Just my gun."

Tyler took out the piece and slid it across to Johnny, still in its holster.

"And this goes in," said Johnny, handing a folded napkin to Tyler.

"Does it matter if I read it?" Tyler asked.

"You hafta if you're gonna do what it says. But wait 'til I leave."

"Wanna do one more?"

"Why not."

Tyler filled the shot glasses once more and when they were emptied Johnny stood up and left. When he had closed the door Tyler unfolded the napkin and read:

It all goes to Holliday Martin.

-J

~*~

They weren't going to stop him from going inside but Johnny stabbed them anyway. He put the knife away as he got inside, not having a clue as to what he might be walking into after the bouncers. It was empty except for the bartender and the dancers. So Johnny went over to the bar and got a shot. Then he asked the bartender if Lok was in back, only getting a shrug for an answer.

"You might wanna leave," Johnny said to the bartender. He then turned and started walking to the back.

There was a dark wooden door with a square window at the top that Johnny headed for. It surprised him that there wasn't a goon with a newspaper sitting on guard with a folding chair. So he went right in. Lok was sitting at a card table with a cigarette burning in his mouth. There was a bald and chubby man flipping through channels on a television, resting on a leather couch.

"Don't get up," said Johnny. But the fat guy started to stand. Johnny reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun, forcing the fat guy to freeze.

"Sit down," Johnny said, pointing to a seat at the card table with his gun. The fat guy moved to the chair and sat down. Lok kept his hands on the card table, seemingly at complete ease.

"I didn't think you'd come back," Lok said lightly, "This is pretty good – I love surprises."

Johnny moved behind the pair and Lok followed him with his eyes.

"Don't you love surprises?"

"Nothing surprises me anymore," Johnny answered as he smashed his gun into the fat guy's temple. "Drag him to that corner," he told Lok.

Lok, with some difficulty, dragged the unconscious man to the far corner, then slowly rose and faced Johnny.

"Go sit back down."

Lok did as he was told but watched Johnny go over to the fat guy and put his gun back in his jacket. Johnny took out his knife and ran it along the fat guy's throat, then stood and looked at Lok as hot thick blood ran from the blade to his hand.

"If you have a weapon, you'd better take it out now," Johnny said as he moved closer to Lok.

As he pulled the knife out of Lok's chest, he said, "As a matter of fact, I live to surprise people."

Lok gasped once before his eyes rolled back into his head. Johnny let the body smack onto the tile floor. Then he went over to the circuit breaker and turned off all the power for the place. When he was outside, he looked up at the powerless neon "Smitty's" sign above the door.

~*~

"I'm glad you decided to come," Johnny said as he opened the doors for Holli. They did as the sign told them to and seated themselves, by a window, in the back.

"I was kinda pissed at first," Holli said right before the waitress came over to them. "But it won't change anything. And I'm actually excited now."

"Good," said Johnny.

"What can I getcha?" asked the waitress.

"Coffee for both of us, first," Johnny answered. Then he pointed to Holli.

"Just a burger," she said.

"Make it two."

The waitress started to leave but Holli asked, "Can we smoke in here?"

"Yep," she repied before bouncing away.

Holli took out her pack and lit up. The waitress came back with an ashtray and put it down on the table. Holli picked up the pack and held it out for Johnny.

"Naw, I quit," he said.

"I should probably quit too. Where do you wanna go after this?"

"Maybe find a hotel, or motel. I'm fucking beat."

"That sounds good," she cooed, "I just wanna curl up in bed."

She ashed her cigarette. "Maybe stop for a bottle of vodka."

"I dunno," Johnny replied apprehensively, "I think I'm gonna quit drinking too."

"How long do you think that will last?"

"I dunno, probably not long."

"That's how I am with smoking."

"But sometimes if you just try, it works out," he said.

They fell silent for a moment. Holli broke the silence when she mused, "I hope the burger is good. It's been a while since I've had a good burger."

She looked at him straight, "But there is something I need to know."

"Nope – there's nothing else to know."

She kept her eyes on him but halted whatever inquiry she was going to strike him with. She put out her cigarette and put the pack back in her purse.

"That'll be the last pack I'll ever buy...hopefully," she said. The waitress came over and put down two identical burgers in front of them and went off. They each picked up their burger and took a bite.

"How is it?" Johnny asked.

"I've had better."

### ~*~

### Dog Night Dawn

By

### Zachary J. George

The landlord told me I had a week to pay up or I was gone, and I believed her. I had no girlfriend, no floors, no hope, and no toilet seat. I had nothing except an oozing staph infection on my right thigh and a lady crazy enough to let me sleep with her sometimes.

I couldn't believe Ariella was licking my face before the sun came up, but she always wanted sex in the morning before she put on her work suit and showed up to a world I knew nothing about.

I rolled over and said, "Ariella, stop."

Then I realized it wasn't her. A pit bull puppy yapped in my ear like he was proud of the puddles of diarrhea he'd scattered on the floor around my blanket. The whole room stunk.

I picked up my phone and called Ariella.

"Good boy," she said. "I told you you'd get up for work. How's Chuck Taylor?"

"Who? Why aren't you here? More important, where the hell did this pit bull come from?"

She laughed. "Chuck Taylor. You named him. You don't remember?"

"No."

Chuck looked retarded, staring at me with crossed eyes, shaking his mangy body so the circles where there was no fur seemed to create a pattern I could not follow. Where he did have fur, it was the color of brown and maroon crayons melted down and mixed. I tried to tell myself it was a dream. I pushed him away from my chest.

"You there?" Ariella asked.

I yawned.

"You kept saying how you wanted a dog," she said.

"I was drunk."

"You're always drunk. You've been talking about dogs for weeks."

"Talking. Not getting. Talking. I've been talking about going to Beirut. Jesus Christ!"

"You're not going to find _Him_ in Beirut."

"What the hell's going on?"

She told me that the night before I had told everybody at Markey's Bar how my life might gain some semblance of stability if I only had something I could show concern. Plants didn't help. A baby would be going overboard. So...I guess I settled on a dog. A girl across the bar lived next to an abandoned house where thugs sometimes met and kept a poor puppy that barked all night.

"I guess the guy's some small-time rapper," Ariella said. "You did a good deed. I tried to stop you. Then you kept asking, ' _Whose dog that is? Whose dog that is?_ '"

I didn't care about my broken, drunken English for I was used to it, but what did bother me was the way this puppy looked at me like I was somehow an answer for all the bad things that had happened to him in his short time on earth.

"What am I supposed to do with a dog?"

"Chuck's cute."

"Chuck's a pit bull," I said, "and he's going to grow. Big."

Chuck pissed in a corner; his head turned toward me with no shame in his crossed eyes. That was the only way he seemed to be able to look. Maybe he already recognized his name.

I ran a bath, and, as I washed my pot and spoon in the tub I tried to remember what happened once we had stolen him. Whoever met at that house would not have a difficult trail to pin the abduction on me, especially if I really was bragging about my part in this emancipation.

Chuck looked hungry, so I boiled some rice noodles on the stove and poured cold water in the pot so he wouldn't burn his tongue. He scarfed down the food like some kind of Tasmanian Devil.

I reset my alarm clock and let Chuck lie in my armpit.

~*~

On my way from Mid City to Uptown I drove with one hand, using the other to push Chuck away from the steering wheel. He tried to circle my feet like a cat doing figure eights. I kicked him, accidentally hit the brake, and came to a dead stop on the Broad Street Bridge above the interstate. Cars honked. I held Chuck against my hip for the rest of the ride.

I pulled around to the backyard where I was working with my boss, Jim. Before I could get out of the door, Chuck jumped over my lap and ran toward Jim's floppy-eared basset hound. Otis growled.

"What the hell is that?" Jim yelled. Sawdust blew into his face. He cut the power.

"What's wrong with that thing?"

I buckled up my tool belt.

"He's all right. I rescued him."

"He looks drunk."

"He used to get beaten. I rescued him."

"Otis," Jim screamed. "Get over here."

Otis waddled toward him, trailed by a butt-sniffing Chuck.

"You need to get him out of here," Jim said. He started the saw back up.

Chuck licked sawdust off Jim's leg. He kicked him away, and Chuck ran over to the Mexican guys who were working on the pool.

"Damn, that's a pit bull?" one of them asked. He pulled a bandana from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. "Is pure breed?"

"Yeah, pure gangster," I said.

The Mexican pet Chuck just above his crossed eyes, "You selling him?"

"How much?" I asked.

"I say fifty dollars," he said.

"He's not for fighting," I said, trying to gauge this man, as if I might know what somebody who trained dogs to fight looked like.

He assured me that he just liked dogs—he needed protection—and I guess I trusted him.

"How about a hundred?" I asked.

"I only have fifty."

"Keep him away from Otis," I said.

"Is no problem," he said, handing me the money.

I could feel his sweat on the bills he placed in my hand.

"Gracias," I told him.

"No, gracias, you," he said.

I watched Chuck squirm in his arms before settling down, lowering his head, and closing his eyes. I watched the man move his truck under a shade tree and put Chuck in the front seat; I watched Chuck paw at the window; I listened to his barks.

"Get your ass to work," Jim yelled.

I loaded scrap wood into a wheelbarrow and carried it to the curb, and each time I returned to the backyard I saw Chuck, licking the driver's side window and staring out with crossed eyes.

### ~*~

### Thanks be to the Booze

By

### Brian Quat

I had been drinking since two. It had been a Thursday for most people and it was a Thursday for me: two classes – three hours – that never transpire, while all the other assholes rot in uncomfortable wood.

"Let's get a slice and a pint."

Me and Brian go and get a slice and pints. We drove. Then we drove back with a nice buzz, at least for me: Brian's fat; I'm thin. At the House we parked his car and stopped inside – to drag one or two of the assholes with us to Hildy's Tavern.

"Rob, come with us, you cunt."

"Nah, man."

"Depressed cunt."

"Yo, I'll come in a little. Where you goin'? Hildy's? Wait forty minutes."

"No, Jon, meet us there in forty minutes."

Jean – pronounced American-like Jon or John – was an ass hole for the next fifty minutes or so. Brian and I walked to Hildo's (Hildy's) and it was chilly. Brian's brown corduroy, fuzzy jacket was covering his mass, I was shivering.

It wasn't crowded inside but not empty. There was a fanatic-like daytime townie base for the bar, on top of that all the rich college assholes who surrounded it only a block away; there was always a figure in there. We sat at the bar; I eyed the hot dogs rotating in the hot box at the other end. I saw them a few days earlier when my whole class – it seemed – was crammed inside. There was only a single dog left, I was extremely hungry, partly from the booze, and contemplated – that night – ordering the last one with my drinks, but refrained because I really just wanted my drink, which took hours to get for one of the first times in the place, and I was also subject to a different sect of my Will that is itself dictated by the thoughts and wills of others. I did not order a dog then, a few days later also.

We ordered Yuenglings. The bar tendress asked if we were not from here. "We go to school right over there." She explained that most people order Lagers, at least when they are from here.

"This is the first place I've lived since I've been able to drink legally. So I'm from here," I said. Should I have ordered a Black and Tan anywhere would they give me Yuengling? But Lager is usual, and we drank as usual.

Jean stopped being an asshole and walked in, sat down with us at the bar, next to me. He ordered a Yuengling and grabbed my pack of cigs. I took one out too. Brian was not smoking anymore – had stopped – so he took drags from mine when I put it down. I talked in my usual drunken manner, when I have insightful conversations with intimate friends that really help me gain a perspective on my life but which I never remember. I think we ordered a pitcher, of Lager. We drank it down and I was full of beer. We all waddled back home.

I forget what time it was, but it was still pretty early. I made it home, staggering inside to see table and chairs for a hundred men set up, covering all the open room. I met a few of my friends, at some point, and I know I talked to them. Then I made it up stairs and plunged into bed.

I was in my clothes and light, noise was about me. DeMeo standing in my doorway was asking me if I was coming to dinner.

"Do I have to dress up are you dressed up?"

He was wearing a tie.

"I think I'm going to skip it."

A few times I heard laughing downstairs. I heard voices in the hallway, so did Seamus. He barked once or twice and I yelled at him, quietly though. I heard one of the voices say, laughing: "Is there someone in that room, dude can you hear someone in the room?"

I heard more laughing. I fell back asleep.

Eventually I made my way downstairs and saw all the empty chairs and dirty tables. Where there were people was now space. The leftover turkey and fixin's were still on the bar, where they were during the Thanksgiving dinner earlier. I walked over to it and stuffed some food in my mouth. It wasn't very good.

I kind of regretted missing the last Thanksgiving dinner in the fraternity house, and I had lost my drunk. I went back upstairs and took Seamus in the backyard to shit or piss. After I brought him back up to the third floor I went down to the second to see who was around and smoke some weed. Phil was in his room, Jean was in his down the hall. Jean was smoking a bowl. I walked into Jean's room. We hit the bowl together and I was surprised Phil didn't come in as well. Both of us walked down to Phil's room. He was smoking a bowl. When it was done we all had a beer. We kept drinking until one by one we passed out.

~*~

### Those Shoes!

By

### Robert Neyland

At first Paul thought this was going to be just another birthday party. Oh yeah, they had to drive to his cousin Peters house eighty miles away in Baton Rouge, and yes, he and his three brothers and two sisters were definitely going to fight and argue at least seventy five miles of the way, but, at least Aunt Barbara always had really good birthday cakes.

Barbara was Joseph's sister and lived off a massive insurance settlement when her husband had died prematurely. But other than that, it was just a birthday party. Until he saw those shoes!

It was an old YouTube video that Paul had seen. It was a performance of the Beatles on the old Ed Sullivan show that had captivated his imagination. At first, it was only the music, but as the music permeated his soul he noticed those shoes.

It was George Harrison, the lead guitarist for the Beatles that he first noticed – but then he realized that all the Beatles had those shoes.... and the music had touched his heart, the music inspired him and he wanted a pair of those shoes.

As the family loaded into the van, Paul's dad Joseph was going through his pre-flight speech, "Alright everyone, sit down, buckle up, shut up and hang on!"

Joseph and Sarah had met in college and it was truly love at first sight. Joseph was in the theatre and had dreams of acting, whether it was Broadway or the silver screen. Sarah was an accomplished dancer with natural talent. She was never formally trained, but there was nothing she could not do on the stage. Her dance professor was amazed at her natural talent and wondered just where Sarah could have been professionally if she had been trained when she was younger. But both Sarah and Joseph had come from dysfunctional families where violence, alcoholism and verbal abuse were the order of the day. Certainly part of it was genetic, but it was also New Orleans...the city that care forgot – _Let the good times roll_... and all of those pithy phrases that tourist advertisers love to throw around. But the reality was just like in any city –there was poverty and lack.

The love that brought Joseph and Sarah together was so strong that it overpowered the past and had given them the "true" love they had never experienced when they were young. And because the love was so strong, dreams of fame and fortune faded into the background as their love produced a family. One by one as the children were born, Joseph's dream of acting and making a living as an actor faded. But there was still that desire and ability to act, so sales was a second best, well not really second best... it was just a job to provide for the family. Sarah was still involved in dance though. She danced with a group of ladies from different churches. She was always the one who stood out, and was without a doubt –the definition of grace and beauty. And Joseph knew it.

Joseph was always pleased to see her dance and sometimes he did have the opportunity to act in church functions. So as he prepared for the drive, he had this mental image of being an airline pilot. Joseph loved the drive, and of course he wanted to see his sister and the rest of the family, but the drive itself was like a chance for him to pretend to be the airline pilot. It was good he could still pretend. With six kids and a fifty hour a week job, he needed some kind of diversion.

Sarah, was not pretending anything. Between getting all the kids dressed right and packing extra clothes and all the necessities that kids need for a short term trip, she was ready to lock them in their seats and settle back and find a little time to relax before the hustle and bustle of the birthday party. The two girls, Rachel and Anna were almost always well behaved, especially when they had their dolls with them. Noah and Aaron, the twins were almost never well behaved.... especially on long car trips. And Joseph actually did have a roll of silver duct tape in the glove box that he had used on the older kids before Elijah, the one year old little one of the family was content enough to eat and sleep on the long trip.

"Oh, no! Peters present! Sarah screamed, "Stop!" Before Captain Joseph had throttled up to full power and was ready to engage his vehicle for takeoff, Sarah leaped from the minivan and ran back inside the house to grab Peters present. Sarah had wracked her brain trying to find the right present for Peter. But Peter had everything. He was an only child and Barbara had been divorced from Peter's dad, Darren ever since Peter was five. It was a classic case of them not being able to get along.

Darren's family had owned a lumber mill and for years been the main employer in the small town of Osyka Mississippi. In a sense it was, "old money," but the mill required strong day to day leadership. And for many years Darren lead the company well. But in the early seventies a combination of competition, scotch whiskey and mid life crisis brought a prosperous venture to a crashing halt. Besides the divorce there was the tragedy of losing Lewis, Peters older brother in his teen years. His demise was also aided by scotch whiskey, but it was the cocaine habit that figured more prominently.

Having the means and influence, Lewis was everyone's "go to" guy for nose candy. It wasn't mob connections or disgruntled addicts that figured in Lewis's early death –it was just a simple blood clot in the brain. Was it the alcohol and cocaine that caused it? None of the doctors really knew or even cared to guess. Seeing an 18 year old die with his whole life before him was hard for anyone to adjust to. Lewis's death had always been somewhat of a mystery to Paul, but he had known that the sadness and hurt in Aunt Barbara's eyes was there for a reason. Sarah had decided to let the boys help out and after much discussion and "boys being boys," in terms of cool stuff for guys –they decided on a gift. It was a Hot Wheels Volcano Race Set. Two racing cars would have to make the ramp before the volcano would belch up smoke and blow air out of the spout to crash the slowest car. Paul had picked it out. It was his second choice. He would like to have had one himself, until he saw those shoes!

Noah, Paul's eight year old brother had wanted to get Peter a Mr. Slime Head figure. There were three different models, "Snotly Snotingham, in which you would pour a green jello type mixture into a slot in his back and then a motorized pump would squirt the green goo out of Mr. Snotingham's nose. "Walter Waxalot, same idea, but you poured a brownish yellow mixture and it oozes out of Mr. Waxalots ears. But the best was Gus Pussly. Again same idea, but this was a yellowish red mixture that flowed from pimples on Mr. Pussly's face. Now you would think that as an older brother Paul would have chosen the Hot Wheels set first, but he actually had agreed with Noah and they both thought Gus Pussly would have been perfect. But Sarah would never have allowed it. It was bad enough that Barbara was a snob, But she was determined that Peters gift would be something classy, at least in a mom's way of thinking.

~*~

As Captain Joseph piloted their craft onto the I-10 to Baton Rouge, it turned out to be a rather uneventful trip, except for a dead raccoon they saw by the railway bridge on Canal Blvd.

The family had lived in the shotgun house in the Mid-City part of New Orleans since Joseph and Sarah had married. It was a wedding gift from Joseph's parents who had lived there since they were first married. It was only three blocks from City Park, and the park was the closest thing to Paradise any kid could imagine. It is a weave and patchwork of majestic oaks covered with moss, and lagoons that wind their way through the central section. Many of the buildings in the park were built in the 1920's by the W.P.A. and had the art deco look of a period that is lost in time. So many summers the family had spent at the amusement area, complete with carousel, Ferris wheel, roller coaster and other rides. Fishing in the lagoon or going to the New Orleans Museum of Art was also an activity that never seemed to get old or boring. Sometimes they would go to the Storyland section next to the amusement area and picnic.

Storyland is a park in itself with sculptured figures representing classic children's stories. Joseph and all the boy's favorite was the Peter Pan pirate ship that had a statue of Captain Hook that they could have imaginary swordfight's with. There was also a puppet theatre and a twenty foot dragon slide that was the fastest slide in New Orleans. Often at night, Joseph would take the boy's and a large flashlight and go spot turtles and frogs in the lagoon. The park was an extension of their home and one of the best things about living in New Orleans. It was one feature of their lives that had been kept intact. Never mind the graffiti or the drug deals going on around them, the park was a respite. It was like a time machine and the pastoral beauty and peace that they enjoyed was so strong and powerful that the peace that they experienced transcended the reality of the faces of some of the desperate people that frequented the park.

Once, at Paul's five year old birthday party at the park Joseph had rented a Batman costume. Paul was really into Batman at the time and Joseph made elaborate preparations to have to leave the party at a certain time to meet with a sales client, which, in itself wouldn't have been unusual, even on a Saturday.

Joseph hated that aspect of his job, but in a world where, "money makes the world go around," he just didn't have a choice.

He had announced to the entire party that "something had come up" and he would return as soon as possible. As he ran to the van and grabbed the costume he faced another dilemma – nowhere to get dressed! If he dressed in the van, surely the entire party would see him and know that it was him and not the _real_ Batman. So, he hopped in the van and drove a short distance to the entrance to the stadium at the park. Hurrying to the entrance his hopes were dashed when he saw the chain and pad lock around the entrance gate. Time was ticking away and with no other options he decided to walk by the side of the stadium, out of view of traffic and quickly changed into Batman and run back to the party. As he was changing and had put the top part of his costume on with the cape and headpiece and was in his underwear did he notice a very intoxicated man lying under a tree with a half empty pint of vodka in his hand. In a slurred and not quite surprised voice he called out to Joseph.

" _Baatmaan_...you got ta hep me...this old low life done throwed me outta my place and I can't get my stuff and I ain't got nowhere to go.... what you gonna do Baatmaan?"

Besides being slightly taken aback about being caught in his underwear, Joseph was totally unprepared. This guy was actually talking to him as if Joseph actually were Batman. Never mind the bizarre setting, this guy really thought he was talking to Batman.

As Joseph quickly put on his pants and began the difficult task of putting on his "bat" boots, he decided to play along. After all, he was an actor and there was a part inside of him that truly hurt for this man. He said in his best Batman voice, "I'm going to visit with the Mayor later today and we are going to come and find everyone who sleeps at this park at night (which was really anywhere between 150 to 200 people every night –one of the largest outdoor parks in America, City Park covers over 1,300 acres) and find decent housing for them."

"Dern!, that's might nice of you Baatmaan.... I bet Supamaan wouldn't do dat fo no one."

Then he offered Joseph a swig of whatever was in his brown paper bag. Joseph, fully costumed, reached down and put a hand on the man's shoulder. He could feel the frail structure of his shoulder and the look of advanced alcoholism in his bloodshot eyes.

"Mister, if the Mayor and I can't help you, just know that God loves you and is watching over you"

"You rite man...Lord have mercy..., yo got dat rite!"

And as Joseph ran back to the shelter where the party was he felt a mixture of sadness and empowerment, and tears. But as he came into sight several of the kids yelled out, "There's Batman, Paul, Batman came to YOUR party!"

That was all Joseph needed to hear. Everything after that was just lagniappe. Joseph told a lame story about doing battle with the Joker and did some very cheesy magic tricks and let Paul demonstrate some of the tricks to the kids there at the party. Paul felt like a million dollars and Joseph was just so happy to see his son blessed in the company of his friends. After the presentation and singing "Happy Birthday," several obviously homeless people were walking by. It was never a thought process or asking of Joseph, but Sarah called out to them, "Hey, we have some sandwiches, drinks and Birthday cake – would you like to join us? Oh, and Batman's here also."

The people just mixed in and they all visited like they had known each other for years. Some of the guests did have a little trepidation, but for the most part Paul's birthday was a blessing to everyone. Joseph and Sarah and Paul left the party that day feeling something deeper in their hearts.

~*~

As the family settled into their ride, the beauty of the bayou country unfolded around them. The sky was a radiant, day glow blue, and the cool October air was refreshing. It was just a beautiful day to be out. As they pulled into the driveway, Paul wondered what kind of cake Peter was going to have this year. Two years ago, he had the coolest pirate ship cake ever! It was all chocolate, and had fudge and strings of sugar strengthened chocolate running from the top of the masts to the bottom of the deck. That was a good cake! This year Peter's theme was going to be the Incredible Hulk. So Paul reasoned that it would be green gooey and with lots of sugar...ummmm!

As they all climbed out of the van, Paul saw that there were already a lot of Peters friend's from school already there. But as Paul walked toward his cousin, his gaze was shifted to the ground, and then he saw them...those shoes! For more than a few seconds he couldn't breathe! They were quite simply the coolest shoes Paul had ever seen! They were a leathery, shiny black type of a semi-boot. The top went up well over the ankles and at the top was a silver piping that was sooooo cool! On the side there was a large silver zipper on the inside of the boot that zipped them up and made them fit tight and snug. There was also a black invisible zipper along the back and sides that you could hide stuff in. They kind of looked just like the "Beatle Boots." But none of the kids or for that fact most of the parents wouldn't have known what those were any way.

"Whoa Peter where'd you get those shoes!?!" Paul said in a dazed voice.

"Oh these are some stupid old things my aunt Myrtle got for me," Peter replied nonchalantly, "They're O.K., but this is the coolest part," he unzipped the invisible black zipper in the back and pulled out a crisp newly folded hundred dollar bill!

"If nobody gets me a Mr. Slimehead figure for my birthday, I'm gonna buy all three of them and the deluxe bag of ooze!"

The whole day Paul was fixated on those shoes! Everything else was almost like slow motion. Even when he thought of Diane Bailey, the prettiest girl in his class.

He imagined walking down the hallway at school and Diane coming over to talk to him. Diane Bailey was the kind of girl that could take a young man's breath away. She was simply – BEAUTIFUL. But of course this was Diane Bailey, so for a short time his daydream took control and Paul saw her smile in a different way a way he had never seen before. Sarah helped Barbara with a few games for the kids. Pin the tail on the donkey, the doughnut on a string eating contest, but after that much effort on Barbara's part, it was time for cake. Because the sooner they had cake and opened presents, it would be time for all the little boogers to go home!

Yep, just as Paul suspected, it was an Incredible Hulk cake. And Peter, as spoiled as he was, wanted to impress everyone. So as the gang all sang "Happy Birthday!", Peter reared back, leaned forward, blew all the candles out and then screamed, "Hulk Hungry!", and proceeded to plant his face in the middle of the Hulks face and then blow bubbles and scream with his mouth full of cake. He lifted up his head and was spewing gooey green Hulk cake all around the room. All the kids broke out in gut wrenching laughter.

"Peter! Peter!" Barbara pleaded. "That's not nice, now you don't do that anymore, you hear me? "Yes mom!" But the cake was a mess.

All of a sudden around the room moms were whispering to their kids, "You can have ice cream, but you can't have the cake!"

It was funny for Paul! But it quickly passed, and his thoughts and eyes went back to those shoes. All afternoon he prodded Peter with questions, "where'd you get them? Did they have any more? How many pairs did they have left? How much did they cost?"

And finally after a long day and a really good time for all the kids to play together, and the adults to all have a chance to relax and talk over the news of the day, it was time to pack up and go home. They all said their goodbyes, but right before he stepped into the van, Paul looked one more time at those shoes.

The way the moonlight was shining on the silver tubing and metal zippers, well they were so neat! He had to have those shoes! It was all he could think about. As Captain Joseph maneuvered the Mazda onto the interstate, he gazed at the lighted instrument panel. It looked like a real jet at night! Joseph was in his glory, flying his family safely through the darkness of night. And as the wheels turned, one by one, all the kids drifted off to sleep. It was an uneventful sleep for all the kids, except Paul. Paul had a dream. It was about those shoes.

Alien spaceships had landed on the earth and were taking over, one of them had grabbed Diane Bailey and was hauling her off to his ship. As Paul ran faster to catch up to the green headed menace, He looked down, he had those shoes on! And that was what was giving him speed to catch up and rescue Diane. As he reached out and grabbed Diane by the arm, the alien reached over and pulled out his death ray. As he pointed it toward Paul, Paul leaped up and used the side of the shoe as his shield. And with the other shoe he kicked the death ray to the ground and held the alien until the army arrived to take the alien to jail. The last thing he remembered about the dream was Diane smiling and looking into his face and saying, "My Hero!"

And as she said that, Paul looked at the shoes, "not even a scuff!"

He woke up as the van pulled into their driveway at home. As he got into bed, he thought about the dream, those shoes, and Diane Bailey...but most of all –Diane Bailey – was it a crush? Puppy love? True love? Only time could tell. But as he closed his eyes he could see her smile, her hair blowing in the wind and her laughing and as he drifted off to sleep he dreamed again about Diane. But this time, those shoes were not in the dream. He and Diane were walking along a beach with the bluest water and whitest sand possible. They were holding hands and both had sunglasses on. At one point they stopped and turned and looked at each other and Paul reached over and lifted up her glasses and gave her a kiss and she kissed him back...and that's how the dream ended. Paul looking intently into her eyes and the wind blowing her swirling long hair all about her shoulders.

~*~

Well the next week was hard. Every single waking moment found Paul wanting those shoes! "But Mom, I'll do whatever jobs around the house to make money so I can buy those shoes!" Unfortunately, it just wasn't possible for Sarah to run out and buy Paul the shoes he wanted. Each of the kids had two pairs of shoes, their dress shoes and their play shoes. With six kids and bills to pay every week, Joseph was grateful to be able to just pay all the bills on time. His sales job didn't pay that much, but it was steady and he was going on his sixteenth year with the company. At one time he had a fairly decent commission structure, but new management had made some changes to _streamline_ and help the company become more profitable. Which was kind of misleading when the salaries of all the top executives were posted on the web and their numbers with six zeros behind them were very inequitable with Joseph and the rest of the Branch offices' 3 zero's behind theirs.

And because of their budget, eating out was only on Sunday after church. Church was also a big part of their life. It was a part of their life that was just that – a part of their life. Early in their marriage they gone to the Baptist church that their families had grown up in. But after a short term mission trip to Haiti that Joseph and Sarah had gone on, they were never the same. The sponsoring church was an Assemblies of God church and after the trip they started attending, and their faith came alive. Biblical concepts and doctrines gave way to, quite simply, "the love of God."

On their trip to Haiti they had seen such poverty and suffering. And they were both amazed by the similarities between New Orleans and Haiti. But it was one incident that they never forgot and would guide them in their faith. They had been in the outskirts of Port Au Prince, the capital and were doing a drama and music special that conveyed the gospel. At first, many of the people were frightened because they were using masks in the drama and many of the local witch doctors used masks to instill fear to gain favor from the people. In the same way in America that religious people use fear and pride to gain favor – and finances. When they had finished the drama, which was about a child who had prayed to receive food and was blessed by an angel from God, people were visibly touched by the presentation. Sarah's dancing had been so beautiful and graceful; it just touched the people's hearts.

After the presentation the team would always have food to hand out to the people; dry beans, rice, and whatever other staples would be available. But on this day the event was very well attended. In fact the team was trying to leave because their food supplies were being exhausted and they did not want to disappoint the people. As they had loaded everything into the van, a small frail lady with 3 small children had walked up. They were all very thin and weak and looked like it had been some time since they had a decent meal. She began speaking in Creole. Sarah kind of knew what she was asking for linguistically, but instinctively and maternally she knew what the lady needed –food – food for her children. All their food had been given away, but as Sarah looked at Joseph –they knew- as a husband and wife need no words to communicate, they knew. Joseph mind raced back to a song he had heard in the seventies...

I hear the cries of children at night

I watch their faces grow sallow with hunger

Who draws the line between what's wrong and right

And when I ask what my life is for

It's all been for nothing

They quickly hatched a plan. Sarah would stay with the lady while Joseph walked a few paces to the outdoor market to get something for this hungry family. It was a bit ironic as Sarah was still in her angel costume. As Joseph approached the outdoor market, he had to fan away flies to find the meat that wasn't spoiled and try to find the best fruits and vegetables along with some rice and beans. When Joseph returned he had put the groceries in a bag and tried to make their gift as discreet as possible, knowing that if some lesser elements of the city saw her food, it would be stolen. As they huddled behind the van and let her know the food was for her and her children, Joseph offered up a quick prayer. As he was praying Sarah noticed the faces of the children looking intently at her. They saw her as "their" angel and Sarah wanted them to know that their blessing was truly from God.

As Joseph finished praying, all five of them began crying. The cries turned into smiles and as they left the woman and her children, Joseph and Sarah knew that they had witnessed God's love.

" _Whenever you have done this for the least of these, you have done it unto me_."

~*~

Usually after church they all agreed either Mandina's or Ye Olde College Inn would be their favorite place. Both were the epitome of the finest and most typical New Orleans restaurants, with Po Boys, Fried Seafood and the best Bread Pudding in the world. Fast food during the week was not an option. But they never went without. They always had a hot meal and all the things they needed as a family. It was just the extras that there was little room for. Like extra shoes. And Paul knew it. When he asked his mom about doing extra jobs around the house to earn money, Sarah told him matter of factly, "Paul, these aren't extra jobs these are just your regular chores. This is what is expected of you as the oldest in this family."

Whoa! Sometimes the truth can be just so heavy! But as soon as he would start thinking about those shoes his enthusiasm would raise up. He started thinking about jobs in the neighborhood he could do, mowing grass, cleaning yards, washing cars, picking up sticks! He was determined to do whatever job he could find to make money. Monday after school, he went door to door asking neighbors for chores he could do to make some money. Monday – nothing, Tuesday-nothing, Wednesday –nothing, Thursday-nothing, Now that was pretty frustrating, but even more frustrating was the fact that on Saturday, the whole family was going to the flea market in the French Quarter.

It was a family ritual. And one of the stores that Paul knew was on the edge of the Quarter next to the flea market was Mr. Thad's Shoe Store. Yep, that's where he had found out Aunt Myrtle had gotten Peter his pair. And Paul knew that if he could save up most of the money, maybe, just maybe his parents might help. Friday morning started real drearily. It was raining and school was, well it was boring! Paul had given up on the idea of finding any work on a rainy day. It was just that Paul had his mind on those shoes! He could just see himself in his mind's eye running and splashing down through the puddles as all the kids (and Diane) watched him.

His classes came and went with nothing exciting to take his mind off those shoes! In the afternoon the clouds burst open and he just _KNEW_ there would be no jobs available for him to do after school. But as school was ending and he was heading for the bus to take him home, a miracle happened! Mrs. Elliot the science teacher called out to Paul just as he was about to get on his bus.

"Paul! Paul! Wait!"

As she ran over to him, Paul had no idea what she might want.

"Paul!" Mrs. Elliot exclaimed, "My mother Eunice, lives on Garden Street right by your house, and she had a nasty fall this week and can't get around too well. I was wondering if you could go over after school and help her get her garbage together for the garbage man to pick up on Monday. Mr. Williams Great Dane, Hercules got out and spread her garbage all through her back yard and he also got into the garage and got some of those bags she is saving for –whatever. If you could pick it up for her and put it into some new bags and bring it to the street, I know she would pay you real well."

It was like the fourth of July, Christmas, and New Years eve all at once going off in Paul's head!

"Oh yes Ma'am, yes Ma'am, I'll go over as soon as I get home. I'd be glad to help her!"

"Aww, you're such a sweet boy. I'll call her and tell her you'll be over after school."

That was the longest bus ride Paul had ever taken. But the whole trip, all he could see was a vision of him walking right into Mr. Thad's Shoe store and walking out with those shoes!

Finally, the bus turned down his street. The rain had slacked off a little bit, but it was still coming down pretty heavy. As he burst into the kitchen he didn't stop to get a snack, but went right to his mom in the living room and announced, "Mom! Mom! Mrs. Elliot at school wants me to go over and help her mom; she got hurt this week and can't put her garbage out."

Sarah knew Miss Eunice and the house on Garden Street well. Last summer Paul had mowed the yard several times. And Sarah also had a soft spot in her heart for Miss Eunice. And she knew Eunice was getting up in age and needed help.

One day a couple of months ago she had seen Eunice wandering down the street looking very lost and disoriented. When she approached Eunice she had tried to explain to Sarah that she was just taking a walk. But Sarah could tell that she was quite confused and it worried her that she was living alone. She could also see from the gleam in Paul's eye, that he was thinking about being able to buy those shoes.

"Paul, you can go, but you're still going to have to wait to get those shoes."

"But, Mom!" Paul protested.

His mother said, "Your Aunt Barbara said those shoes cost thirty five dollars and I doubt Miss Eunice is going to pay you thirty five dollars to take out her garbage."

"But Mom, I have fourteen dollars saved from my lawn mowing money and you and dad said I could use it for something I wanted, and I want those shoes!"

"Well Paul, don't get your hopes up too much. You may have to save for several weeks, but the shoes will still be there. You have to be patient," Sarah said in her most motherly voice.

"All right mom, I'll be back as soon as I finish."

As Paul bolted out the front door, stinging drops of rain peppered his face. It was a good feeling. He ran all the way to the house on Garden Street. And as soon as he got there, he knocked, no answer, so he knocked again. Again, there was no answer. So, he knocked harder. Still, no answer. A sinking feeling began to drop down in Paul's belly.

"Miss Eunice its Paul. I'm here to clean up your garbage!!!"

He knocked harder, she _HAD_ to be here. For goodness sakes she's hurt, she can't go anywhere! He knocked even harder, "MISS EUNICE IT'S PAUL AND I'M HERE TO HELP YOU WITH YOUR TRASH!!!!!!!"

"I'm coming, hold your horses. Just wait a second."

As the door opened, Paul could see that Miss Eunice had just woke up from a nap. Her walker was poised in the doorway and she leaned on it with her full weight. Miss Eunice was a sweet lady but time was quickly running out for her. In her younger life she was a clerk and the Five & Dime in town. She had met her husband Dan in high school and married in his first year in college. He was studying business and went on to be a lifelong life insurance salesman for Great Southern Life. His first few years in business were fairly productive, but as he became used to renewals and got very comfortable just working office hours, taking calls and handling claims and he never achieved the success he could have. They were just _regular_ folks.

They never had the large family she had always wanted and it was always a sore spot for Eunice, but Dan could care less. Sitting in front of the television drinking an occasional beer was his big motivation in life. Eunice's family didn't care much for Dan and considered him a dud. And because of his lack of attention to details he had withdrawn some of his principle on his life policy for him and Eunice to take the trip of a lifetime to France, which had turned out to be miserable. Eunice was sick the whole time and all Dan wanted to do was to eat in the most expensive restaurants. As the years went by, Dan missed some timely payments and as a result when he died of cancer 12 years earlier, she inherited a small settlement that allowed her to get by on $1130.00 a month. But it could have been so much more.

Despite the "dullness" of her husband she had NEVER gotten used to him not being there with her. Hers was the plight of many a senior citizen. The world belongs to the young, the fast and the powerful. Regardless of her value as a human being –in society's eyes she was just another old lady.

A lone strand of gray hair had sunk down over her right eye. For a few seconds her eyes didn't focus and she wondered who this young stranger was. But as she woke more and stared at the smiling face gazing at her, she remembered her daughter's phone call.

"Hi, Paul. Thank you for coming to help me. Look, there are some bags over on the carport and if you would please just put all that garbage in those bags and bring them to the street. And please be careful with all the valuables in the garage that Hercules got into. I'll be busy making you a snack."

And she smiled a granny type smile as she turned away. A Snack! That sinking feeling came back. A Snack! But he needed cash! Paul figured if she gave him ten dollars, surely his mom and dad would help out so he could get those shoes! And if she gave him fifteen dollars wow! He would be really close. But if she gave him twenty dollars! Whoa! Those shoes would be his. As he made his way to the backyard he was not prepared for what he saw. Garbage cans turned over, bags torn into, and trash from one end of the yard to the other and it looked and smelled like it had been there for several days. And to top it off, Miss Eunice was somewhat of a hoarder and not only was the garbage spread through the yard, but the bags of useless junk, the _valuables_ gathered from garage sales and thrift stores, littered the lawn.

He thought to himself, "Yeah, it's nasty, yeah it's stinky, and it's going to be real hard to pick this up in the rain, but this is at least a twenty dollar job! At least twenty dollars! His apprehension was replaced with enthusiasm as he opened the plastic garbage bag and went to work. At first, he just picked up the paper and plastic stuff. But he realized, he was going to have to pick up the old food stuff too. He found a half eaten old chicken carcass, and as he lifted it up to put in the bag, several families of maggots fell to the ground all over his feet.

"Ugh! Gross!"

There was a real bad stink all over the yard. There were some old beans that had a fuzzy gray mold all over the top. There was also some old bread and muffins that had a bluish mold over them. As he reached to pick up a pile of old chicken fat, he almost gagged! Could anything be so bad? It took an hour and forty minutes to finish the job, but it was done! And as Paul walked to the door, it took several knocks again to get Eunice's attention. She came to the door with an envelope and a bag with a silver string tied around it.

"Don't you want to come in and wash up after such a smelly job?"

Well really he did, but he also wanted run home as fast as he could to open the envelope.

"Uh, no ma'am. I've got a lot of homework tonight (Liar! It was Friday night!), and my mom wants me to help my brother clean the garage (Liar, again!)."

He didn't really care about the bag. It was probably homemade cookies, or fruitcake cookies. It really didn't matter, it could have been loaded with Snickers bars, but it wasn't important. It was the money for those shoes! He thanked Miss Eunice and took off like an atomic missile. As he ran off down the street as she pulled her walker out of the door and closed it and went back to her world, a world of isolation loneliness and reruns of the Andy Griffin show.

As soon as he walked in the door, Sarah gave the order.

"Get cleaned up! All of you! Your father will be home in five minutes and we're going to eat."

Well, as he washed his hands Paul debated about opening the envelope. In a way he wanted to wait until after supper, but he just couldn't. He tore open the envelope like a starving man searching for a crumb. He opened it.... and, yes! He could see green! As he pulled it out he saw more green, and as he pulled it out all the way he saw it! His heart sank. His world crashed. Five dollars! Five measly Dollars!

Combined with his fourteen he had a grand total of nineteen dollars. That wasn't going to get it! There was no way his parents could spring an extra sixteen dollars on him. He went to supper and didn't say or eat much. Joseph and Sarah and the rest of the kids noticed it. He looked like the Saints had lost the Super Bowl. It was bad enough, but five year old Aaron kept repeating, "Paul and Diane sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G, first comes love, then comes marriage, here comes Paul with a baby carriage!"

"No!" Chimed in Noah, "Here comes Paul with his brand new shoes! The whole table burst out laughing, except Paul. Joseph and Sarah looked at each other. They both knew without saying a word how much Paul wanted those shoes. It was almost like a moment from the old Waltons T.V. show the family gathered around the table, laughing, living, and loving. But Joseph and Sarah knew without saying a word, that their mortgage was due. And the fact that Joseph didn't get a performance bonus this quarter broke their hearts also.

That night as they tucked the children into bed, Joseph and Sarah spent a few extra moments with Paul.

"Paul if you have to save for a few more weeks, it'll be alright. We just can't help you now. But be patient, one day, you will have those shoes."

But Paul couldn't sleep. He tried to, but all he could see was him rescuing cats from trees, saving people from burning buildings, rescuing Diane from, well, anything. He even prayed about it, "Dear God, help me get those shoes!!!!"

He was finally starting to get sleepy and he was staring at a poster his grandmother had given him. It was Spider-Man swinging through the air rescuing someone. And right as he was about to drift off his eye was drawn to a picture he had been given in vacation bible school last summer. It was a picture of Jesus giving bread to some children.

It was not your ordinary Jesus picture. The children were dirty and barefooted. They looked like they were poor and hungry. A few had real looks of pain on their face as they were running towards the others. They were in the middle of a dusty street and there were rocks and what looked like scrub brush all around. And even Jesus didn't look like an ordinary picture of what Jesus was _supposed_ to look like. It was almost like his back was turned and you couldn't see his whole face. But what you could see of his face didn't look like the neat polished images you often see in churches.

Many pictures of Jesus have him with blonde hair and a big toothy smile, kind of like Brad Pitt with lots of joy. But in this picture he was kind of ordinary looking and plain and not really attractive. And the children who had received the bread and had touched his hand, their faces and countenance looked transformed. And at the bottom of the picture was this wording, " _Whenever you have done this for the least of these, you have done it unto me._ "

The faces on the children were not those smiley, posed pictures that often went with pictures of Jesus. These were hungry kids who were grateful to have anything to eat. Not cake, candy or cookies, just real food to fill their hungry bellies. There was a visible difference in the kids who had been fed by Jesus. And as he was getting sleepier he remembered his 5 year old birthday at City Park and how his mom had fed the homeless people...He remembered their smiles and the look of gratitude they had when they were invited by a complete stranger to come and eat and drink. Right as he drifted off, he looked over at the children on the picture. They were barefoot, but they sure looked happy. And as he fell asleep he had no dreams that night.

Morning came soon enough. And then he thought about those shoes again. Wow they were so cool, he HAD to have them! As Paul awoke, the smell of bacon and biscuits distracted his waking thoughts and caused his stomach to actually growl. A sense of urgency and destiny shot through Paul as he dressed and went down to eat breakfast.

"Come on you guys!" Joseph bellowed, "Noah has a soccer game at 2:00 and your mom and I want to go get some coffee together this afternoon."

Paul could feel his heart pounding. He could almost hear it! As the family loaded up in the van for the trip to the flea market, Paul began plotting and scheming as to how he could get his parents to loan him the extra money he needed to get those shoes. The trip to the French Quarter was non –eventful, but paul knew as they approached the quarter that something was going to happen, it just had to!

Joseph got an easy enough parking spot, and the family all piled out to walk to the Flea Market. It was their favorite place as a family to shop. There was a new dollar store, _Dollar Island_ , in the next block, it was O.K., but a dollar actually went further at the flea market.

Rachel and Anna would find a treasure of dolls and doll clothes. Noah and Aaron could always find something, from damaged G.I. Joes to banged up monster trucks; these guys were easy to please. At Paul's age, the electronics and old books and music tapes were always a place for him to start, but today, he went right to the shoe section. Sarah was always in her instinctual nesting mode. As the mother of such a large family, she was always on the lookout for items, whether, they be clothes, house wares or whatever she could find that would help her family. And she did an amazing job.

Joseph normally was content just to look at clothes for work he might be able to get at a decent price. But as he watched Paul in the shoe section, his heart sank. He could see his oldest son growing up right before his eyes. He was changing from a young boy to a man. He was in that awkward stage where his body was growing and his whole world and outlook on life was being shaped by his experiences. And it hurt him that he couldn't provide those shoes for him that he wanted so badly. It was more than hurt, it was righteous indignation. That he should work so hard at his job and still not be able to give his son something very special, that meant so much to him, and it really bothered him.

He watched as Paul picked up one shoe after another, looking intently to see if it had the look of those shoes he really wanted. Time stopped for Joseph as he could see Paul searching for an alternate choice. In a brief second, he remembered how hard it is to grow up. As adults, he and Sarah and all his co workers were so busy with their lives and jobs, but for that short time he remembered. There was the all consuming uncertainty of _not knowing_ , the fears of life, and the wonder of trying to figure out, who _HE_ really was.

Even in the best of situations growing up is never easy. As time went by, everybody grabbed their item of choice. Of course, the girls had found dolls and doll clothes. Noah and Aaron had found a whole set of the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. They were wrapped together with some cheap masking tape and had .99 cents scribbled across the front. Never mind that Donatello was missing his left foot and Raphael had chew marks from the original owners dog on the left side of his head, the boys were pumped over their find. Sarah as usual had found everything the family had needed on this trip. An old crock pot (theirs had been broken for years), a flowered curtain thing she was going to put over the sink, some clothes for the girls, underwear for Noah and Aaron and a designer dress for herself that had been marked down to fifty cents.

Joseph had not found nor looked for anything. His heart was still sunk in the lower part of his chest. He hadn't told Sarah, but he had planned to get Paul those shoes As he watched, Paul explain to Sarah that he just couldn't find anything he wanted, and Joseph was drawn back again to that moment earlier, when he could feel the awkwardness of growing up. Paul was a good boy. And he was not being rude, demanding or manipulating when he told Sarah, "I just didn't find anything I wanted."

He was downcast, but in a humble way. As the family walked out into the square Joseph found himself leading the way, "Let's go to Café DuMonde and get some beignets and after that, Mom, we'll stop at Dollar Island."

Well everyone was in agreement with that idea. It was 12:48 and a snack after such a big breakfast would be perfect before they headed out to the soccer game. And Paul realized that right next to Café DuMonde was _THAD'S SHOE STORE_! His heart began to beat a little faster. As they walked the three blocks to Café DuMonde, Joseph gave Sarah a glance to look at Paul. She knew what he was going to do without saying a word. After so many years of marriage they were able sometimes to communicate like this without saying a word, but with just a glance and an expression. Paul didn't know what to think. His heart WAS beating a little faster, in a few seconds they would be walking right past _THAD'S SHOE STORE,_ and right past those shoes.

He wondered would they be there. Maybe, would they have his size? Maybe he could just try them on but for some reason he didn't hear any thoughts coming to mind thoughts like, "I'll pay you back," or, "I have nineteen dollars, can I borrow the rest and pay you back?"

But his heart _was_ beating faster. As they approached the corner to cross the street, destiny was just a few seconds away. Up ahead on the left, Paul could see Café DuMonde, the green railing and old art deco sign that was such a part of the city. And over to his right he could almost see the shoe store sign, but at that point all he saw was AD'S SHOE STORE.

Then, as the family walked to the corner and stopped, Paul could see ALL of the sign now, THAD'S SHOE STORE. And as they took their next few steps to cross the street, Paul took his eyes down from the sign and looked to the side of the building; to where the side of the building met the street, and then he saw him. There was an older man, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, but he looked much older, maybe seventy five or eighty. He was in old shabby clothes that were stained and wrinkled with holes all throughout Paul could tell that he had not bathed or had a decent meal in some time. He _LOOKED_ hungry. His hair was brown, long and stringy and past his collar and was matted and different lengths. He hadn't shaved in several days, and his face was dirty and wrinkled.

He had on an old army coat with stains all over and a small American flag on his left shoulder, and as Paul looked down he could see that the old man was sitting on some kind of cart with wheels on it. He didn't have any legs! He had a little round tin can with pencils in it to his left side. Some had little miniature American flags on top. The others were just plain old pencils.

As they crossed the street, Paul looked at the man. He had an old cigar box open with a small amount of change, no dollar bills, sitting at the bottom of his stubs where his legs were supposed to be. People were walking by and passing him as he sat there. But nobody would even look at him.

The legless man seemed oblivious to the indifference and rather than hurt, pity or sadness, he just had a looked that showed that he _EXPECTED_ it. No anger, no bitterness...just a quiet determination to live for that day. He seemed to be kind of staring off into the distance, but Paul noticed he had a hurt look on his face. Not so much from pain, but from loneliness. It was kind of a quiet desperation. Joseph and the rest of the family had to stop, because Paul had not moved, he just stared at the old man.

For a moment time stood still, and then, _Boom_! Something hit Paul like a train! His heart was still pounding and his breathing became more labored, but he walked slowly over to the old man, with a sense of purpose and he slowly felt his eyes filling with tears from the hurt and compassion of his young heart. And, as he got to the old man, he reached in his pocket and grabbed the wad of bills he had been saving up for his prize, his treasure, for those shoes and he pulled it out and reached down and put the money directly in the old man's hands. And as he grabbed the old man's hands he could feel the roughness and calluses that were so visible.

The old man looked up, his eyes met Paul's, and at that moment – for both of them –the real meaning of love and compassion that words fall so short of describing flooded through them. It was nothing sentimental, or contrived, not planned –but certainly a supernatural, metaphysical moment that they both shared. And tears welled up in his eyes, and without even looking or knowing or caring how much money Paul had pressed into his weathered palm, a warmth flooded the old man's entire body.

"God Bless you son!" The old man said, barely able to speak.

"God Bless you," Paul uttered. Then, he turned and walked away back to his family, but he felt different inside. The exchange had taken less than a minute, but affected them both eternally. Words can't begin to describe what happened. The family had watched their oldest son and brother turn into a man. Joseph felt his own tears well up in his eyes, the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

Sarah swallowed hard and tried to catch her breath, but oh! How, joyful was her heart. Nobody said a word as they walked into Café DuMonde. Except for Noah and Aaron, "Why didn't you get one of those pencil flags since you gave him ALL your money?" Noah questioned.

"Why didn't that man have no legs?" Aaron asked.

Joseph handled the role of father that day in a new capacity because of Paul's act of kindness. He explained about the war, veterans, and people down on their luck. Joseph had wanted to take the time to use this incident as a teaching experience.

"You see guys, it seems like there has always been wars. People get greedy and fight over things and it is always the innocent that get hurt."

As he continued on he got more and more strident, and as he was making point after point about war, injustice, poverty, greed and the futility of the human condition, Joseph glanced at Paul. But Paul's thoughts were just on his beignets. They had never tasted so good before, almost like the bread must have been for the children in the picture of Jesus in his room, and he had that relaxed comforted feeling you get when you cry from your heart, and so did Joseph, and so did Sarah. And as they left to go to the soccer game without going to _Dollar Island_ or a word ever being said about those shoes, finally, Sarah's motherly instincts took over as they walked past THADS SHOE STORE, she had to say, "Paul, don't you want to go in and see if they have those shoes you've been talking about so much?"

With a quiet hesitation he replied, "No Ma'am, it's not so important anymore."

And as they loaded up in the van to head to the game, Paul realized his thoughts about those shoes had begun to change way before he saw that old man, before breakfast that morning. He traced it back all the way to the night before, when he had prayed to get those shoes. All the way back to those barefooted children, smiling with their bread and the words:

" _Whenever you have done this to the least of these, you have done it unto me also."_

~*~

Monday morning came quickly. The bus seemed to come earlier than usual. It was another beautiful October day with a brisk wind blowing. The sky was bluer than he had ever seen it before. As he stood at the end of the driveway the sun filtered through the oaks and pines and illuminated every leaf that was still left. And that feeling that had when eating the beignets was still there. It was there when he woke up and he felt that everything was right in the world. It was a feeling he couldn't put into words. And not once, not even once had he thought about those shoes.

He couldn't imagine a day more beautiful or precious than this day. Paul even felt excited about going to school. A Hubig's Pie Truck drove by, and he almost thought he could smell the fresh apple pies inside. Everything went well that day. It was one of those days when he felt so good inside, a day that everything seemed to go right. He even had an early confrontation with the school bully –Matt Truby.

Matt was larger, meaner and more menacing than any of the lesser bullies at school. Matt knew how Paul felt about Diane Bailey. It wasn't like they held hands or anything, but everyone knew that look that they had when they looked into each other's eyes. As Paul was leaving class, Matt felt it would be a nice gesture to trip Paul as all the kids in class were leaving. As Matt stuck his foot out and pushed Paul from behind all of his books went flying. All the kids in the class and the hallway broke out into laughter –but it didn't matter to Paul, it really didn't even concern him. That was Matt Truby –that's what Matt did to people. But today, it just wasn't Paul's concern. He just picked up his books and gave Matt a smile that really befuddled the bully. And as he walked off, Paul understood what it was like to be victorious.

Nothing and no one could steal Paul's joy. All his classes went well. He had even gotten an A on a pop test in Math! In the cafeteria, they even served his favorite lunch that day; pizza, with salad and chocolate meringue pie for desert, and Diane Bailey never looked prettier. They talked with their classmates and with themselves about the things teenagers talk about. Diane had smiled at him; nothing else ever would matter ever more. They laughed.

Paul didn't mention a thing about the old man or the shoes. And as the school day came to a close, he didn't want it to end. The last sight he saw as he boarded his bus was Diane Bailey, smiling at him with her long brown hair blowing in the breeze, her blue eyes as bright and shining as the fall sky. And as she called out, "See you tomorrow!" her smile lingered in his memory forever. Forever stored in a perfect memory in his brain so perfectly, no computer could ever recall the crispness of her smile or the loving expression on her face. And as he walked down the street to his house, his saw the family van in the driveway. It wasn't too unusual for Joseph to come home early on some days. And on the days when he did, he always seemed to make time to do something special with the boys in the afternoon, and spend some special time with the girls at night.

Paul walked to the front door and opened it; he stepped in the living room and could smell his mom's cooking immediately. His mom and dad were hugging each other in the kitchen. His brothers were on the couch watching _Sponge Bob_ and the girls were walking past the kitchen with their plastic teapots full of water ready to make some make- believe tea and over in Josephs easy chair that the family had gotten for him for his birthday two years ago was a plastic bag with a box in it, from Thad's Shoe store, and in the box were those shoes!

~*~

### Fantasy

### ~*~

### A Mother's Need

By

### C. M. Bratton

Drippy drippy wet

Falling on my face

Can't let the world forget

Our mighty hunters' race.

The familiar childhood chant helped to soothe the knot of hunger gnawing at my belly. I hummed it softly to myself, hearing in my weak voice the shadow of my mother singing it to me as a child. I faltered, feeling the beat of my heart increase as my lungs strove to keep up with the simple melody.

The air was cool and crisp – thin so high up in the mountains. Perhaps that was why it took me so much effort to move. I lay back limply on the damp ground, shifting my body against the comforting feel of the soft earth. Around me all was quiet. It was as if I was the only living creature in that vast forest. I knew that couldn't be true. I knew there must be thousands of little animals and insects crawling around me, climbing branches, or sleeping in caves. But I heard nothing. Smelled nothing.

I was alone.

I tried to blink back my tears as images of my daughter and mother rose up in my mind. My daughter had been unblessed by the Balance and punished for her inabilities. My mother had been used cruelly over and over, uselessly raging against her captivity. Both had died far too young, leaving me nothing.

My kind did not fare well isolated from our own kind, our families. We're meant to live thus, great-mother and mother and child: _Sthilisth_. Occasionally males might walk with us for a while, but they're far too restless to stay in any place for longer than a cycle. But a female alone, that only invited death. It made it so much harder to hunt, to plan. There was more wasted meat, more work, and the cold.

At that thought the air rustled over me and I shivered under my covering of dry leaves. I hadn't lived in the mountains of my home since I was a babe, nestled in my mother's sling as she traveled and hunted. She had been caught in the Azgin Plains north and east of the mountains, her hunger driving her further than was safe. But instead of killing her, wild tribesmen sold her to the other side of the Balance - the Draonds. And once under their cruel regard, my mother was granted a far slower, and much more agonizing death. And when her miserable life finally ended, I was chosen to replace her. Having known so little of freedom, I didn't rail at my captivity. Or the deeds the Draonds made me commit. Many of those acts, I later realized, were quite enjoyable.

That was something my mother never accepted.

When my daughter was born to me – a half-breed mongrel to be sure – I was filled with joy. At last, a chance to build my own sthilisth. She wasn't beautiful, not in the way of our kind. I'm not ashamed to admit that. But she was fierce and determined, storming her way through our home – well, the only home she'd ever had. Her father was initially pleased by her temperament and audacity. But when she turned out to have little talent ...

My breath caught in my throat.

He killed her. My little daughter.

And then he left.

Now, I'd been sent away by his heir to travel the long chain of mountains for the first time since I was a child. My send-off was unexpected and cruel because I was given little with which to survive outside my innate skills.

And I was alone.

During the last ten cycles I'd headed slowly south, sure that I would be called back at any moment. Or caught, perhaps. Because I didn't feel free. I felt tired, and scared. How was I supposed to survive on my own? How could I turn my hunt into a way to find easy prey? How could I keep myself safe long enough to reach my destination?

These questions rose in my mind again as I stared up through the leafy canopy stirring in the cool breeze above me. My Magick was useful to a point, but it couldn't find food for me.

Sighing, I slowly rose to my feet. From my carry-pouch, I pulled out a bone from my last catch four cycles prior. It was already empty, no marrow or fat was left clinging to it, but I felt better putting it into my mouth and trying to work my teeth against its knobby ridges in an effort to get the juices flowing in my mouth. It was the last piece I had left, making it even harder to set aside.

Maybe I'll start a necklace of bone like my mother had.

The sun was starting to set and it was time to continue traveling. I started forward, making my way past tangled brush and thorny vines with ease. The ground sloped downwards, making it easier for me to scamper along. Just as the shadows faded into true black and the last light of Rising disappeared, I smelled a delectable scent.

Water!

Hunching down on my knees, I put my nose to the ground. My eyes closed to sharpen my focus on the wispy trail as I shook my head back and forth to sense which direction would lead me closer.

There. The smell strengthens in that direction.

I opened my eyes and sped into action. As I drew closer, my ears caught the splashing sound of water trickling over rocks. I started following the sounds in earnest, moving more quickly as my thirst seemed to increase with the closing distance. My eyes widened to allow me to see better in the dark. A seeming wall of foliage faced me, appearing daunting until I finally detected a break in the leaves. I slowed down and stopped, peering around the edges for sight of any animals or other predators. So focused on the water, I had completely closed off the possibility that other life might be there before me.

I caught an old scent of tangy blood – coppery, but thin – human, I thought. But it was almost gone. Perhaps a hunter with an injury? I shook my mind and kept concentrating, holding as still as possible.

Nothing.

I finally edged around the break and saw a wide stream weaving its merry way down the slope, glinting here and there under the pale blue-yellow light of the moons. Thirst overwhelmed my remaining cautions and I flung myself halfway into the brook, gasping at the ice-cold touch of its mountain-fed water. I drank for a few moments then withdrew my mouth. I knew better than to put too much in my stomach, as that would only sicken me. And I could not afford any more weakness. This might be my first time in the wilderness, but there were a few bits of lore my mother had managed to pass on to me.

Even so, I allowed myself a few more gulps before I decided to travel along the curving length of the stream as it flowed downwards. I knew it would eventually run into other potential meals who, like me, needed water to survive. Water and meat.

It will always be a predator's world.

I smiled grimly as the words of my daughter's father echoed in my head. He had been right about so many things.

But not about my daughter.

I pushed away the futile desire for revenge and kept moving. The air started to warm slightly, despite the lack of sunlight, and I started humming to myself again. It was much easier this time and I was tempted to sing more loudly. But that would only warn my future meals away. So I strode along in near-silence, rolling melodies around in my head as the Falling waned.

Near sunrise I reached a small valley. Unsure of whether or not it was already inhabited, I thought about skirting around its edges. But I was unwilling to leave the stream so soon, especially as I still hadn't caught any food. Water at least gave me enough strength to keep looking.

I'll stay in the shadows, I reassured myself.

When I was nearly halfway across, I found a tree over a hundred hand-spans tall. Its ancient roots were large and twisted, creating arches under which I could crawl. My fatigue had gradually been trying to push me down, and the tree's appearance offered me a chance to rest safely. I stopped at one of the wide roots and closed my eyes. I listened carefully for the sound of any animals resting under its trunk. I heard the scurry of a few small creatures – chittering m'leps eating nuts and giggling, furry negeils swinging from branches. I hadn't realized I missed their voices until they caught my scent and quickly ran away. I sighed.

I was very lonely.

I reached out and pushed back the covering screen of hanging leaves and vines. There was a dark, damp, nicely sized hollow under the trunk that would serve as a sleeping nest while the sun was in the sky. As I crouched and worked my way inside, I immediately spied the glowing sprouts of f'rek-mushes. Their short white stems and button caps were considered a delicacy by some species, but I couldn't stomach them. I stared at them wistfully for a moment, feeling the hole in my belly pierce at me again, before sitting down. I swept aside some of the black, silky dirt and make a little depression for my body. I settled into it, curling onto my side and falling into a restless, hunger-filled sleep.

Long, angry screams broke into my slumber. I roused, groggy and weak, and tried to orient myself.

The valley... the tree.

The cries interrupted my thoughts and I shook my head to try to wake myself up more fully. I rose up to a crouch from my curled position and stretched. A yawn split my face and I nearly fell over with the tiredness it produced it me.

I crawled my way to the source of the ragged sounds, peering through the shadowed folds of the tree. The sun was still high and I wondered how long the crying had been going on. I flicked my eyes back and forth and caught a flash of creamy white. I poked my head out a little further, trying to understand what was making that awful noise.

A baby... a human baby!

I crept out a little farther, wincing as the glare of the sun caught in my eyes. I squinted in an effort to relieve the ache. I widened my nostrils and cocked my head, but I didn't catch any hint of other humans nearby. At least, not for several hours, perhaps even since sunrise.

Why have they left their child out alone so long?

I stood and walked around to the screaming bundle, checking the area around me nervously. Everything was still. I looked down at the baby.

"I suppose you scared everything away."

It wailed on, oblivious to my presence, and I took a moment to examine it. Its face was red and blotched, its body thin and wasted. It had obviously been carefully placed on the tree because jugs and flowers decorated the base. A rough blanket lay under the child, but the body itself was completely unclothed and exposed to the elements except for the barest covering around its waist. One of the tiny, waving fists caught my attention and I looked more closely. Instead of five fingers, it had only a thumb and another short stub on the other end. I quickly checked the other hands and feet, and found each one deformed in some way. One of the feet was barely shaped and curved in on itself.

So they sacrifice to the Balance in order to spare other children the same fate.

I looked at the pathetic little creature. It would surely die soon.

Just then, the breeze picked up and a luscious smell wafted out from one of the jugs to my nose.

Beinaa-honey!

I reached over the baby and picked up the jug. Quickly, I dipped my hand in and pulled out a large glob, plopping it into my mouth. The spicy-sweet taste filled my nose and burned its way gleefully down my throat. I reached for another jug and saw that it held old wine. As I poured the cool liquid down my mouth as well, I felt a rush of dizziness the exquisite tastes were bringing me. But the best prize was in a modestly-sized bowl. It held a chunk of raw meat, red and flowing with juices. The flesh was cold but I reached for it hungrily, tearing away huge bites and chewing quickly. The taste of blood burst inside of me and I sagged in ecstasy.

As I savored the food, the human child started screaming again, more loudly than before – which I hadn't believed possible. I looked over at the tiny hump. Its eyes were open and fixed on me. They were ordinary human eyes, brown and expressive, and they begged me to help. I looked away, knowing I couldn't afford to be distracted. But the cries wound themselves inside my head and I thought of the last screams I'd ever heard from my daughter.

Maman!

I looked at the baby speculatively.

Maybe...

I was tired of being alone. Having a little one near would give me a sense of purpose; would help me begin to rebuild my sthilisth. I looked back down.

"Very well, then. I'll keep you for now. But I need to give you a name."

I peeked under the sodden waistcloth. A girl! Now I knew I was on the right path.

Thank you, great Balance.

I reached down and folded the blanket around the shivering form. I picked her up and cradled her to my chest. She was light, weighing hardly anything, and she instinctively cuddled against me for warmth. Her body was cold, nearly frozen. I rubbed my hand against her, thinking how much a fire would help.

"That's it. I'll call you Delaak. It means 'brown' in my tongue."

Delaak cried again in response, more weakly this time. I knew she was hungry, so I decided to spare a little of the wine. I tore a piece of the blanket and dipped it into the jug, then brought it up to dribble into her mouth.

"Come, my little one. We need to get you healthy and strong. You must be bigger to help me rebuild my family."

She slurped greedily at the wine, reminding me of my own thirst, and I took a long swig of the jug. She lay there quietly as I swiftly packed the meat and honey into my empty carry-pouch and slung it around my back. Then I reached for Delaak, pulling her closer to my warmth. Cradling her in one arm, I grabbed the wine in the other and started moving away from the tree.

My eyes still watered from the glare, but I thought it best to put distance between us and the site of the humans' sacrifice. The motion of my body must have soothed the little girl, for she soon drifted into an exhausted slumber. I walked on, the food in my belly giving me the strength I needed to make my slow way out of the valley.

As I walked, I studied the face of the little girl. It was squashed and small, but not unattractive. My little Delaak had not been fed, probably since she was born, at least two or three cycles prior. I inspected the rest of her body, but other than her unfortunate hands and feet, she seemed normal enough.

Human customs are strange.

At the exit of the valley, I paused. I caught of whiff of humans – men, it smelled like. I felt my pulse flutter with excitement. More humans meant more food. I followed the scent until I could see wood smoke in the air. I began to crouch down. At my bosom, Delaak moved in sleepy protest.

The baby.

I knew it was too soon to leave her alone, but I was afraid my abilities wouldn't be able to mask her cries should she awaken and find me gone.

Unless...

Yes. That would do nicely.

I knew there would be too many men to take on at once, but I thought I might be able to figure out a way to trick them, thus providing me with better sustenance.

Moving away from the men, I searched for a place to securely leave Delaak. There was a tree I'd passed earlier laden with sharp branches. I thought I would be able to break a few to both cover and protect the child while I was away. Sure enough, I found the tree surrounded by several dead limbs. I gently set down Delaak, rearranging the thin blanket around her small frame.

"There now, I'll be back with more clothes for you soon, little one. Just be patient."

I untied my pack and placed it next to her. I dipped the torn cloth back into the wine and left it wound around her deformed hand. Then I stepped back and placed several sharp sticks around her. Satisfied, I turned away and left to go back to the men's camp.

As I neared, I focused my thoughts outwards, letting down the natural barriers of my mind. I was searching for some image that might make the men less suspicious of my appearance. I couldn't really reach deeply into another mind and read its innermost secrets, but I could hear the surface thoughts and emotions of most creatures, which allowed me to flow naturally into shapes most pleasing to them.

Their guilt layered the air in dirty, gray-green tones. I surmised they must be the men who had left my little Delaak out to waste away under the elements. Or get savaged by some stray animal.

Such waste.

I delved deeper into their remorse, trying to find common threads that might better serve to cajole them. As I searched, I felt my flesh begin rippling in response as the Magick in me stretched into full wakefulness. My bones shortened, my hair grew, and my face twisted. The process was quick, if painful, but I had changed so often in my life I paid the sensation little attention.

When I was finished, I wondered exactly how I could trick them into sharing with me. I looked around for inspiration and my eye was caught by the glowing shape of the f'rek-mushes. They were small shoots, too young for humans to eat.

But if they were accidentally swallowed...

I darted forward and picked a large handful. There were several leaves lying fallen on the ground, and I used one to wrap the mushes in a broad leaf before tying the bundle around my waist with a length of vine. I pushed my glamour out over it, studying the image carefully to make sure it was secure and hidden.

Finally, I was ready.

Keeping my head hanging down and altering my gate to reflect my tired appearance, I moved in a staggering gait towards the fire. As I did, I added a glamour that gave me rags for clothes and the smell of old sweat. Then I started stumbling loudly through the brush and hiccupping loudly, as if in fear.

"Ma- ma- ma," I chanted hysterically just as I fell through the brush in the midst of their campsite. The men – three of them – sprang back in startlement. I looked up at them from the ground in teary wonderment.

"Help me," I whispered. I collapsed down and the men unfroze, leaping to assist me.

"Here, now, little one," the oldest man said. "It's all right. We'll help you. Come here, closer to th' fire."

His warm hands reached out, gently grasped me, hauled me upright, and led my quietly sobbing self closer to the light of the fire. There was a log lined up in front of it and the old man helped me sit against the ridged trunk.

Another man, this one in his prime, came up and offered me some water.

"Now, now, lassie, this'll help you feel a little better."

He proffered me a cup of beaten metal and I took it with shaking hands. I slurped at it, grateful for the taste of cold water. The wine had been a long time ago.

The third man – more of a boy – waited patiently behind the one offering me water. He had a bowl in his hand. From the smell, I guessed it to be some kind of stew. As long as it had some meat in it, I would be able to keep it down.

The man next to me turned his head and said, "Okay, son, gimme that bowl now."

Of course, I thought with a twinge of sorrow. A great-father, father, and son. A family... sthilisth.

As the son offered me the soup, I took a moment to spy out the pot from which the soup came. It had been taken off the fire to cool, but still bubbled hotly only a few paces away. I took an experimental sip of the soup. I grimaced a little at the taste of barley and rice, but I caught a piece of fat in it and pulled it into my mouth.

It tasted wild and fresh – Meat from a m'lep – I thought. I ate it hungrily then slurped at the soup, trying to avoid as much grain as I could.

The men nodded around me in sympathy.

"Poor little thing. Hasn't eaten in a long time," the father said.

"Da," the boy asked, "how did she get out here alone?"

The two older men were silent. I felt them examining me and I tried to subtly display my hands and feet. As they looked, I felt their guilt surge back out into the air.

I reminded them too much of their lost child.

Excellent.

To their surprise, I hobbled to my feet and made a few stumbling steps to the pot of stew. They reached out to try and help me but I pretended to trip, thus avoiding their hands. As I fell, I quickly pulled the rolled leaf from my waist and tossed it into the still-boiling soup. I concentrated on covering the sound of its landing with my glamour, but just then, a loud wailing broke out, echoing through the clearing.

Delaak! She must have woken up.

The men cowered, turning and reaching for their weapons. As the scream faded, I took my cue and began babbling.

"Good sirs, it's chasing me. It won't stop chasing me. It's the lost soul of a poor baby and it wants to steal my body."

I started crying again.

The men turned to look at each other in consternation. I felt their anguish build as they each took my words to heart, thinking it was the soul of the child they left behind, lost and afraid and departed from her already-dead body.

A hand patted me softly on the shoulder and I jerked away.

"It's alright. Da and Granda will keep us safe."

I nodded and sniffed to myself. The two men were talking between themselves. They decided to keep watches that night.

"Son," the father called. "Come here."

The boy turned and walked to his father. Delaak's cries, though gentler, continued to echo around their words.

"You will have first watch. I will take second and Granda the next. Understand, boy?"

"Yes, Da."

"Good."

I took that moment to reach for the pot again. They turned and the boy came running back to me.

"Here, I can get that. I was just about to serve everyone."

I nodded in thanks, eyes lowered, and made my way back to the log. As the men settled around me, I wondered how long I would have to wait.

After eating two bowls, the son stood up and told his father, "I'm gonna start my guard duty."

"Don't leave the reach of the firelight, understand?"

The boy nodded and turned away. The great-father, meanwhile, was already starting to nod off. He stood up slowly, stretched, and then made his way to his pallet.

The father then turned to me.

"We don't have enough places for you to sleep, so you'll lie right here next to me."

I nodded and moved over to his already reclining body. I lowered myself and curled in a ball next to him. He pulled a travel blanket up over me before placing his arm around my folded ones and started stroking me.

"There, now, shush. Everything's going to be okay."

From the other side of the fire rose the snores of the great-father. The father took that as a cue to slide his hand down my hip.

Opening myself further into his mind, I caught the images tumbling from him.

Dirty human!

I tried not to flinch away, knowing he was much stronger than I was. He had eaten only most of one bowl, so I didn't know how much longer it would be until the mushes took effect.

His hand suddenly wandered between my legs and a gasp slipped out of me. I struggled to scoot away but he flung his leg over me.

"Now, now, little girl. Let's not get feisty. We all know how this works. We save your life, you repay us with a little fun. Come on."

I started to cry, sure a human child would react in the same way, although I knew I was actually quite a bit older than the man.

"Ssh, there, it's alright."

As he talked he worked himself between my slender legs and pushed them open. He unfastened the ties at his waist and pinned my arms underneath one of his hands.

"I can tell you've done this before. Nothing to cry about."

Immediately, I stopped crying and looked up into his bearded face. All at once, his eager look faded. He blinked at me, and then suddenly sagged to the side.

"Must be... must be tired," he whispered.

Slowly, I sat up, looking at him carefully. I leaned closer, until my nose was almost touching his, our breaths mingling. As my hair brushed his face, his eyes opened blearily. He stared at me for a moment, his forehead creasing in confusion. Suddenly his gaze widened in horror. He tried to talk but he was unable to form any words. As I watched, his eyes closed and he fell back, sound asleep.

Confident of the mushes effect, I stood up and let the glamour fall away. My body pushed back into its natural form while I took in the supplies scattered around me – blankets, knives, rope, food.

It is time to eat.

~*~

The sun was setting as we started out for the evening. Delaak was snugly wrapped against my chest, leaving my hands free to carry the supplies I'd pilfered from the family of human males. I smiled down at Delaak's rosy complexion. In the eighteen cycles since leaving the men, I had been able to steadily feed her on watery grease and honey, and she had fattened up nicely. There was a glossy sheen to the wispy yellow thatch on her head and she moved her arms and legs with much more determination.

She truly was a beauty.

Still, I was a little worried. The food from the humans was finally dwindling and I hadn't spotted any settlements in several cycles. I hoped we reached one soon or my little Delaak was going to start losing all that healthy weight she'd put on.

As we climbed the next rise along that side of the mountain, the cold north wind blew across my skin. A waft of human caught my attention and I stopped, head cocked, to take in the smell.

I nodded to myself and started moving. It was the same one that had been trailing us for the past eight cycles. I thought I'd hidden our passage more carefully, but if I could still smell it, then we were still being followed.

It must be some sort of hunter.

Delaak waved her arms in a stretch and I looked at her happily. I was so close.

A few marks later, I found my path stopped by an impenetrable wall of thorny bushes. Unwilling to risk Delaak, I started circling around them, hoping to find some opening that would let me pass. I was still high up on the mountain and the air was chilly. The ground as well was barren, the air too thin to support much in the way of life.

As I moved along the barbed barrier, my ears caught a distant crash. I paused, lifting my head to try and catch a scent.

The human.

How had it gotten so close?

I turned away and started moving more quickly, desperately searching for a place to leave Delaak. I crouched down, accidentally waking her up, and I patted her gently in an effort to keep her quiet. I continued moving along the wall of spiny foliage for several more moments. My arms finally encountered an empty space and I wiggled myself through it on my knees, scraping my back as I sought to protect my little one. The brush finally opened up and I slowly made my way to my feet. Delaak was making soft sounds and playing with the newly-made collar around my throat. I looked around in the growing darkness. I stood at the edge of a tiny clearing. It was hidden and close, causing me to feel instantly at home. I deposited my burdens on the ground then untied the sling with Delaak. While I fed her for a few moments, I reflected on the human.

"There's no help for it, my sweet Delaak," I crooned to her. "I'm going to have to stop the hunter."

She smiled up at me and I took that as a sign from the Balance. I untied my necklace and left it for her to play with. I rocked her until she fell asleep then placed her body in the middle of the packs. I laid a familiar, grease-soaked cloth over one of her hands and the necklace over the other. When I was satisfied, I turned, crouched down, and slithered out.

It was time to find the human.

I moved back up the slope, away from the hidden clearing, not wanting to risk Delaak waking and warning the human of our presence. As I climbed, I caught the sound of the human's thought – a male. They were dark green and gold, mixed with righteous indignation and determination. He was a hunter.

He's hunting me!

I skimmed the pictures of his mind. One of them caught me. It was a woman, lovely and wild. They had traveled these mountains together. She went off, alone. Disappeared. His pain layered the image in deep violet and I used the strength of that emotion to begin my transformation. Once my body finished shifting, I focused on building my glamour. I reached a large clearing and nodded to myself. I concentrated, adding a large fire and leaves on the trees. The shadows behind me served to build a snug cottage with cheerful light emanating from its solitary window. Clothes were hung on lines and furs stretched out to dry. Then I started humming to myself.

Before long, I caught the stealthy sounds of booted feet. The hunter was near. I kept moving, pretending to tend the fire while keeping my back to the forest.

It always helps the surprise, that unexpected reveal, I thought smugly.

After only a few more moments, a voice rang out across the clearing.

"Halt. Keep your hands where I can see them."

I froze and slowly lifted my hands. I straightened my back, pushing out my overly generous bosom, and started my turn. After turning around fully, I stared at his handsome face and whispered, "Is that you?"

His bow, which he had been pointing at me, wavered as he squinted at my silhouetted figure. I took a short step closer, pushing the glamour out to envelop him in false warmth. My head shook back and forth in disbelief.

"Have you finally come?"

The bow hit the ground as he breathed, "Dileh?"

A short sob burst from me and I started to move closer to him. He shook off his paralysis and ran towards me. He caught me in a strong embrace and swung me around. He raised his head as I lowered mine to kiss him deeply. After a long moment, he broke away and set me down, sliding me against his body.

"What? Where? I don't understand," he stammered.

Again, I let tears come to my eyes and pressed my face into his chest. I mumbled brokenly. "I got lost. And I couldn't find my way around the thorns. I kept going around and around in circles. I was so sure you'd find me. But you never came. So I built a home and I've been here alone, all this time."

He held me close and I started to reach for the knife at his waist. But before I could grab it, he pushed me back and started looking me over.

"You haven't changed at all. Not a single bit."

I smiled in mock modesty and tried to lean back against him, but he held me firmly.

"Can it truly be you?"

"Yes, my keina," I replied, using the human endearment I'd caught from his mind, "It is me. What took you so long?"

Instead of embracing me like I hoped, a shadow passed over his face and he turned away, although he kept one arm around my shoulders.

"Well, truthfully, I stopped looking for you a long time ago. This is just... I just... I'm hunting some sort of animal. I've been tracking it for nearly nine cycles."

I turned him back towards me, pulling his forehead down to rest against mine.

"What animal would surely hold your attention for such a long time?"

He sighed against my hair. "I was sent to find a trio of men – a family on a painful trip into the mountains. I tracked them to their camp and I found... I found..."

He stopped and hugged me closer to him.

"What did you find?"

"They were dead. They were all dead. They had been attacked by some sort of beast with vicious claws and sharp teeth. It had savaged them, pulling out their guts and gnawing at their bodies. There wasn't much left to them by the time I made it back. Even their traveling supplies were missing."

Inwardly, I smiled at the description. The human food had been delicious, their meat savory and strong. Delaak had thrived on the flesh of her fathers.

Hiding my reaction, I looked up at him.

"Come, my keina, let's talk no more of this tragedy. Come with me back to my cabin. It's warmer inside."

He opened his eyes and looked at me as I invitingly smiled up at him. His eyes blinked as he let go, taking a few steps backwards. I looked at him in surprise.

"What's the matter," I asked.

"You...your eyes," he wheezed. "They caught the light. I could see... could see..."

He stopped, shaking his head, and I poured more Magick into my glamour.

"There, now, darling. What's wrong, my keina? Does your head hurt? Come closer to me."

He took a few steps forward. The wind blew, shaking his frame, and he shivered despite the warmth I projected. As he got closer, I smiled and opened my arms. My mouth watered in anticipation.

But the hunter continued to stare into my eyes. He started shaking his head.

"No," he breathed before he stopped moving closer.

The scene blinked around him and I faltered back a step. I tried to pull him back into my glamour, but he had already caught his reflection.

"No!" He screamed in terror and took a step back.

"Noooo!"

He turned around and fled, crashing his way back down the slope.

As he moved farther and farther, his thoughts slid from me and I felt my form reshaping back to its normal contours – thin frame, pale skin, lipless mouth, rows of sharp teeth. And my eyes – perfectly round silvery mirrors.

It's always my eyes. If I could only keep them from looking into them.

The glamour faded completely and the cold, barren slope appeared. I sighed. Faeries, men called us, always running in fear from the reflections of themselves they saw in our eyes. This made it hard to trick them, I was learning. My eyes refused to stay averted. I was a predator who didn't know how to look away from her prey. And yet, these humans were clever. Even though I could change the shape and color, the center remained a silver mirror. If they looked too closely, they would notice and realize what I was. Making it all the harder to find food.

However, even though I had never needed to hunt before this journey began, I would just have to keep learning if I wanted to survive.

In the meantime, I had other responsibilities. My stomach ached and I thought of the food waiting in the clearing. I turned and headed back to where I stashed my little one in the hidden glade. She was sleeping soundly when I returned from under the thorny opening and I stared at her fondly.

"My, you are getting so big, aren't you?"

I leaned over and grabbed my collar, the finger-bones lightly chiming as I retied the ends. I then picked Delaak up gently, careful not to wake her. After all, I needed her to grow just a bit more. Yes, a little more meat would definitely help.

"And when that happens, my dear Delaak, what a lovely little meal you'll make. You'll fit the sweet sound of your name – perfectly browned meat. And then I'll be able to find another male. With you as my mating offering, I'll have my pick. And my mate will give me another strong daughter of my own. My sthilisth will finally grow."

I smiled down at her rounded, baby features. She gurgled in her sleep, turning her head in the direction of my warmth.

Such trust the little human had. Such foolish trust.

I started humming, inspired to add a line to my mother's song.

Drippy drippy wet

Falling in my face,

Soon I'll take your fat

Soon I'll eat your meat

And there'll be more bones

For my necklace.

I smiled in satisfaction. My lord was right. It was a predator's world.

### ~*~

### Be Careful What You Ask For

By

### J. J. Haile

Big Ed took me downtown Saturday. There was a big, free festival in what used to be Congo Square, its called Louis Armstrong Park now. We went so we could sample the free food and see all the exhibits. Kinda sad, even though it was nice to get out and see all folks I hadn't seen in years, somehow all the changes gave me the blues. See, when I was first married, nearly fifty years ago, everything was different. People was nicer, kids wasn't so smart-mouthed and things mostly stayed the same; at least the things that had been around since Schwegmann's was a sweet shop.

But, I guess its progress, if you alright with that. I kinda feel like some things shouldn't never change. I mean, how you gonna know who you are if you don't know where you came from? Like the Square ...girl, there used to be houses all along here, old houses where folks were born, married in the parlors, raised children and then were waked in those same parlors. Shoot, some folks ain't never roamed more than five or six blocks from where they were born and raised, but that was before change came along. Change caused them old houses to be pushed down, tore up and flattened. They had a song, in the sixties I think, something about tearing down paradise and putting up a parking lot ... umm hmm, that's it alright, look like they made so many changes, don't nothing feel like home no more.

We walked all over and all I could remember the spot where I grew up, right behind where the fancy gift shop is now; how we walked to Joseph A. Craig School a few blocks away and how we used to eavesdrop on old folks' conversations. Yeah, you got _all_ the news that way and sometimes heard more than you wanted, or needed to know.

I remember my Mama and them talking about one of their old friends that way and suddenly I laughed out loud at the memory, made Big Ed look at me like I was crazy! But I'm not, just a little old and reminiscing.

When we started back uptown, I started talking about the old days and then, before I knew it, I was telling Big Ed about Miss Auguillard and her husband, Mr. Fred. You remember them? Oh sure you do, that old couple that used to go EVERYWHERE together? Girl, they even went up the steps at St. Ann shrine together! Yeah, them, you remember ...

Mama and them talked about it for years, how Miss Auguillard asked for something without thinking it through and got just what she deserved. See, she had Mr. Fred fixed, you know the roots, the mojo? Well, she had him fixed and then was sorry, but couldn't have it undone. See, once upon a time, Miss Auguillard was Miss Dennis, Miss Sophie Dennis, from down in the 9th ward. She came up to the Tremé to live with her aunt and uncle when her Mama died and started going to Craig School with her sisters and brothers, I think there were five of them but that ain't the story I was telling you.

What I was going to relate was about how she got what she wanted, even though she got it the wrong way. See, when Miss Sophie was about sixteen or so, she saw Fred Auguillard at a school dance and fell instantly in love. Yeah, she was sure enough hooked! Oh, folks say he was some good-looking, all the girls chasing him, and he was so cocky! Well, Sophie was in love and did all she could to make him notice he and finally he did. But it was the same old story, he fooled her and ruined her and then, the families made him marry her. Oh yeah, wasn't no babies born out of wedlock in them days! Girl got spoiled, the boy married her, especially if they were Catholic, so Sophie and Fred was married in her Auntie's parlor with the baby on the way.

Now that might have been the end of a typical story but it wasn't. Fred was a womanizer, never satisfied until he had more than one, even though he was married and a new father. He still chased women, gave Sophie the blues!

He just ran the streets until he was tired and then he went home to Sophie and they had another baby. By the time she was twenty-five or so, there were four lil Auguillards running around. Fred worked at the Circle Food store, cutting meat and every Sunday, the little family went to eight o'clock Mass at Corpus Christi. After Mass, Fred hit the streets and Sophie took her children and spent the day at her Auntie's. This went on until they were in their thirties and then Sophie's Auntie died and left them some insurance money. Wasn't an awful lot but they took that and paid off the mortgage on the house on St. Claude Street, right in back of the new park. At least, that's where it used to be.

Things wasn't much better, they were just older, and Fred was still a dog, and after a few years, Sophie got tired. She really loved him no matter that he didn't seem to care about her and she started thinking of ways to make him want her and her alone, but what could she do?

Well, this is where eavesdropping came in. Sophie's best friend, Ada, remembered hearing her Mama and them talking about Miss Amos, a lady in the 7th ward that could _work the roots_ , and it was on from there.

Oh, I guess Sophie thought about it some, maybe even prayed on it, but after a while, when Fred wouldn't change, she decided to take matters into her own hands. Folks say she and Ada went to Miss Amos and arranged a _mojo_ for Fred, one that would keep him tied to Sophie, mend his catting ways and give her the only man she ever wanted.

They say Miss Amos gave her some powder to put in Fred's coffee for a week and a _reliever_ in a glass baby food jar that would undo the mojo, if and when it was necessary. Well, Sophie did as she was instructed and sure enough, Fred started changing. He still ran the streets a little, but he seemed to have lost his taste for other women and after a while, he began sticking close to home, Sophie was loving it; finally, her own man acting like he was supposed to, staying at home and treating her the way she was supposed to be treated. Girl, she was in hog heaven! She took the reliever and planted it in the backyard, under her gardenia bush, just in case.

Fred took her to the Autocrat Club for dancing and fried catfish, they went to the movies at the Circle Show and he even took her to see the horses run at the Fair Grounds, life was sweet! But you know, too much of anything gets old after a while and sometime in later years, Sophie got tired. The children were grown, they even had some grandkids and even though Fred was still behaving himself, he began to tap dance on Sophie's last nerve. Girl, she went to Miss Ida to have her hair done, there he was; she went to Bingo, Fred went too. He even went with her to the St. Ann shrine when she went to pray for her sick son. He was just always everywhere she went!

Around that time, change started happening in the city. The folks that plan other folks' lives decided to tear up some of the Tremé and build a park. They started buying houses, all those fine old houses, and after they bought them, bulldozed them into piles of wood and trash. They moved steadily until they got to the block before Sophie's house.

Now Ada and Sophie had taken a drive out to Gentilly where they were building a new subdivision for black folks, Pontchartrain Park, and Sophie, along with Fred attached to the hip, and Ada decided on a nice lot where Sophie and Fred would build a new house. They had found out how much they could get and it was more than enough to start all over, they just had to wait until the developers reached their block.

My Mama said they heard that one night, close to day light, Sophie woke up with a start, remembering the reliever buried in the yard! They say as soon as it was full day, she went out and dug around the gardenia bush, looking for that glass baby food jar ... but it wasn't there! She wasn't worried though. See there had been some changes in the back yard, all Sophie had to do was dig a little more and find what she was looking for. She dug, along with Fred, for two solid weeks, tore up that yard, but no baby food jar! She got her sons and two of the winos from the corner and they dug, still no jar. I don't think she was too worried yet, it _HAD_ to be out there, they just had to find it, and so she kept on digging.

Meantime, the folks came around and offered them the relocation money, but Sophie stalled. They thought she was holding out for more money so they went away but came back, offering more. By the time they had cleared the whole block, Sophie and Fred's house was the last one standing and they had to sell. Poor Sophie, digging like a mad woman, Fred digging too, although he didn't know for what, frantic to find her baby food jar, folks began to talk about her bad. Said she was crazy, or must have had money buried but Sophie didn't care, she was on a mission!

Finally, after all her furniture and belongings had been moved, the yard dug up and her heart heavy, she packed up all the rest and she and Fred moved in with their oldest son. The new house would be ready in six weeks. In that time, Sophie would arrive every morning, Fred at her side, and watch as her house was razed, splintered and turned into trash, no baby food jar was ever found.

They moved into their new house, Sophie planted more gardenia bushes and Fred joined her. They gave a party and everyone remarked that even though she had a new house, a new life, Sophie didn't seem happy. I bet I know why! There she was, old now, out of her element with Fred stuck to her like glue, and nowhere to turn.

Miss Amos was long dead and nobody talked about conjurers anymore. She was stuck.

One morning, Sophie just didn't wake up, dead at sixty-four and two days after her children planted her in Mt. Olive Cemetery, Fred had a massive heart attack. They buried him next to her. Poor Sophie, didn't have enough patience or faith to wait things out, instead, she asked for what she wanted, got it in the wrong way and couldn't take it back. Bet you Fred is still dogging her footsteps in Glory!

Yeah, they say be careful what you ask for, 'cause you just might get it!

### ~*~

### The Divorce Quilt

By

### Ivouma Okoro

The first thought that occurred to me as I squeezed into the toasty cottage my mother and I called home with a freshly rescued dog tucked under my arm was that my mother must have had the longest neck in all of Ireland. She stretched it out from behind the red tall-backed chair she sat in before the fireplace to look several times between me and the dog before finally settling on me, her lips thinning and the knitting needles in her hands frozen.

"What the hell is that?"

_Well, hello to you too_. Of course, this wasn't the first time that this thought had occurred to me. My father had left my mother when I was still young enough to not really remember him now and I'd often wondered which of her habits had gone into the collection of grievances and sharp irritants that he felt he couldn't take anymore. I'd never tell her this, but I'm pretty sure the rubber neck receiving had to be high on the list.

I could tell by the smell of the fire that it had been burning awhile, so I set my new friend before it before shirking my coat. He wasted no time making himself comfortable, stretching his thin, wiry body before the fire, his paws straight out before him and his butt in the air for a few indulgent moments, before settling to the floor with his head on his crossed forelegs.

Though my mother was several feet away, she adjusted the bit of knitting that draped from between the needles and out over her legs. She was working on another of her famous divorce quilts. If one could call famous a few quilts for local divorcees and one special order for one of their sisters who lives out in Waterford. This one must have been from a particularly violent divorce; one of the squares of the quilt bore the knitted likeness of a woman setting fire to a man's head, his square eyes bulging. In another square, the man's body lay helpless on a tree stump as the woman wielded an ax the size of her body above him.

With my mother still peering intently at me, I turned toward the kitchen and saw a covered bowl on the counter.

"Jeanette."

She put the edge in her voice.

"You answer me when I ask you a question, lass."

"Yes, mam. What's your question?"

Inside the covered bowl was a pale yellow custard, just the treat after the kind of draining day I'd been unlucky enough to find myself at the end of many times these last few months. Moiran and I have been having problems. That's the official statement I have prepared for anybody brave enough to ask. But the only problem really was that between the two of us, I was the only who realized he didn't love me anymore.

"What is that thing?"

"It's a dog, mam."

Her knitting needles glinted some of the firelight as I approached and sat cross-legged on the floor, bowl in my hand and the dog between us.

"Don't get smart with me, young lady," she said. "I know it's a dog, I can see it's a dog. But what's in doing in my house?"

"Didn't you see me carry him in?"

The humorless expression she gave me nearly sent custard shooting out of my mouth. I felt it my responsibility to give my mother a hard time. Life had hardened her and she needed some prodding to keep her soft around the edges. But it'd be a bit of a lie, if I said I wasn't enjoying this responsibility.

"He found me," I said between two spoonfuls of custard.

"Just came running up to me on the moor. But I'm sure he belongs to somebody."

The wiry dog just stared blankly at the licking flames in the hearth with those glassy, solid black eyes of his.

"I'm sure somebody in Bartle's missing him." I said.

If possible, my mother's lips grew thinner. I knew what was coming.

"And just what were you doing on the moor?"

"Custard's good!"

"I've told you, haven't I? I've told you not to go out there!"

"I don't see why," I said. "It's the only place something good ever happened around

here."

"You're not still on about the old lovers? That's a curse, you know that?"

She nearly whispered the word, as if she didn't want it escaping past the door and out into the night.

"Oh, come off it, mam."

I excused her. She'd not had the stories told to her by the elders. I could still taste the tangy fruit candies the old ladies of the county store would give me as I sat wide-eyed on the bottom steps of the porch listening to the stories of the old lovers of the moor.

John Hartfordshire had been a handsome but poor English traveler who had the misfortune to fall quickly and deeply in love with the most beautiful woman Bartle had ever reared, Glastiel O'Hara. But when her father realized that Glastiel returned John's affections, he arranged for the immediate marriage of his daughter to an Irish aristocrat. The night of Glastiel's wedding she rushed out onto the moor, blinded by her tears and the rain of the fateful evening and found John there waiting for her. Her dark-haired beloved smoothed her scarlet locks and wiped her tears. And as he leaned in close, heaven and Earth and all of creation quieted to listen for the fateful words that would come next.

"From this day we shall never be parted."

It was their everlasting vow. And ever after there wasn't a night the moor didn't hold the two lovers as they held each other. At this point in the story, without fail, one of the women would bend her leathery face close to my small, pink one and say in a whisper, "They say if you listen closely, you can still hear Glastiel out there singing her love songs to her sweeta."

My eyes would pop and they'd all break into gummy, toothless cackles. I listened every night for the singing.

And I never heard it.

My mother set herself to knitting again, her needles moving with practiced speed. Even back then she'd made sure to add her own tailpiece to the folklore.

"I tell you that place is no good for love. John and Glastiel made sure of that," she said as her needles wove together a picture of the man and woman standing with their foreheads touching, fists clenched behind them.

"It's a curse that's on that moor and if you have the misfortune of running into any John's or Glastiel's out there, heaven help ya!"

I rolled my eyes and the dog angled his head to look at me. Five minutes of knowing her and already he thought my mother as silly as I did.

"That's probably why you and Moiran have been having so many tiffs," she said under her breath, cocking her head to the side and squinting her eyes at her work.

"Mother."

I meant it as a warning, already feeling the anger rising inside of me.

"Running to that damn place after every one. You're only making it worse for that." she said, building in fervency.

"Trust me, I know. One minute he's by your side telling you he'll always be there and the next, you're left in the lurch high and dry-"

"That's enough of Moiran!"

I looked at her straight on, in the way I knew she disliked.

She'd told me years ago that she could see my father in me most clearly when I looked at her this way. I'd spent many hours of my youth, a bare candle dripping a pool of wax on my cracked vanity, trying to decipher his face in mine.

Mother blinked rapidly but her voice was steady, "I don't want you out there is all."

Her mouth twitched once, but she didn't say anything more.

"There's no curse," I said, looking into the fire. "Meeting John and Glastiel would be a blessing for love."

Her eyebrows hitched up and she pursed her lips, clearly objecting but I scooped up the dog and headed to the bathroom before she could say anything else.

~*~

I was just settling into my bed when I noticed the wiry dog eyeing me from the floor, his hair still puffed from a fresh bath.

"Not a chance," I said. "You've got your own."

I pointed at the set of extra sheets laid out for him. A warped bit of knitting poked out from either side of the neatly constructed bed.

He only looked at me with those black eyes of his, no part of him moving. I shrugged, pulled my covers higher over myself and blew out the candle.

~*~

I wasn't sure what had awoken me until I looked to my feet to see the dog standing there, its hackles raised and eyes fixed on the window. I could hear through the glass the buffeting of the wind and something else, fainter and higher. I glided off the bed, cold radiating up from the floorboards. Pulling the window open, I was pushed back as the night air rushed inside the room.

There was nothing in the yard; save for the familiar shadows that lived there. Beyond our fence, lay the outline of the moor. In the dim light of the moon, the mist coming from it swirled slowly in the wind, rising and falling in unfamiliar shapes. The moor itself was an unusual color that wouldn't identify itself when I looked straight at it. It reminded me of the color of my mother's face when she'd received the letter from the postmaster about my father. She'd rushed right by me and vomited into the kitchen sink.

I slipped my feet into my boots, pulled on my jacket. The dog leapt off the bed and followed me, its scratchy toes tacking along through the house and out into the night.

~*~

When I had topped the first hill, I wasn't sure if the high, faint noise was a convention of the strong gusts that kept sweeping by but I was growing steadily more confident that it was indeed coming from some place deep in the moor. The moon kept flicking on and off as large, thick clouds sped past it, the clouds multiplying the longer I walked. A bubble of worry began to grow in my thoughts but every time I paused to look back, the high sound would sustain itself a moment or two longer than before and I would set my jaw and continue forward.

It was not long before I came to a cache of wide-trunked trees, the path leading through them shrouded in the darkness they created. I looked at the dog for guidance or warning or anything but he only offered a slow blink before he looked back at the dark trail. I rubbed my palm against my leg, biting back the feeling of apprehension bubbling up from below and trying to keep the image of my mother's thin-lipped scowl out of my head.

The dog's ears perked up as the high noise sounded once again, only this time it came as a distinguishable note, a drippingly sweet lilting of a chord I vaguely recall hearing what must have been a long time ago.

In a moment I was moving forward. In the next, I was completely surrounded by the forest, the dog at my side. I came to a stop just outside a clearing, shrinking down into the shadows there.

Through the leaves of a bush, I could see a woman coming in and out of view. Her frame was long and willowy and her long white nightgown hung off of it, billowing after her every move. Her hair was wavy and loose, and now and again glinted scarlet in the light, though the moon had long since disappeared. I could not see her face, for she revolved in a rough semi-circle around some greedy captor of her attention, opposite where I crouched. She stumbled and scurried from side to side, moving rather like an animal that'd just fallen from its place on a tall limb and was desperately trying to reorient itself.

She went on this way for a few silent minutes, punctuating the shuffling of her movements with what sounded like words that couldn't quite escape her lips. I was transfixed, and must have begun to gain some sort of familiarity with this strange woman's movements because when she suddenly dashed out of my view and collided with what sounded like a solid wall, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I caught my breath and lowered myself down to my belly, crawling forward under the brush to catch a glimpse of her. Thick drops tumbled from the leaves onto my head and hands but did not obscure my view of the woman pressing all her weight upon a tall, dark-haired man.

He had her wrists firmly caught in his grips and was holding her up, jerking back as she beat her head against his chest, he with a look far more pained than seemed likely.

When she tired with her frenzied attack, she tilted her head back and let out a piercing melody, straining it for several seconds. I recognized it as the call I'd been so resiliently following and felt a chill shudder through me.

He pushed her away from him and she fell in a tumble to the ground before he turned and walked away, all the while unable to take his eyes off her. He was dressed in tan riding pants and a long-sleeved shirt of which it was too dark to decipher the color. His clothes had a disheveled look about them, as if he'd either just hurriedly taken them off or put them on.

He watched her drag herself up and slowly back away, then joined her in the same semi-circular movement, mimicking her from across the clearing with no less amount of wildness than she.

I became at that moment intensely aware of how cold and hard the ground was underneath me and fought the urge to curl my legs up to my chest. Their eyes were so intensely trained on one another's, I doubted they registered the flash of lightning that had just lit up the sky. I brought my hands close to my ears, anticipating the sharp peal of thunder sure to follow. But none came.

Could this be them, the old lovers? Their clothes and descriptions suggested so. But it wasn't love they looked at each other with, not the love that would have brought soul mates out into the moor each night. John would never grimace that way at her touch, Glastiel would never bring harm to her beloved and not in so violent a manner.

I was in the act of setting my hands on the ground to drag my body out from the bush to leave these strangers to their demented dance when I noticed the wiry dog trotting into the clearing.

I sucked in my breath as the two fixed their eyes on the small, wiry body. But no, the body was changing. Inch by inch, so slowly I wasn't sure if it was just some trick of the light, the dog began to grow, it's limbs shooting out from underneath it, muscles stretching and bulging along its form. In moments, what had been a small, innocent pup was now a bulky, hell hound, its shoulders flush with the man's head.

My hands still on the ground beneath me, I stopped breathing as the hell hound turned his gaze toward me and let out a bark. Immediately, I began to back away but the deep growl that came from the dog reverberated through my chest and gave me pause. I had no choice.

I broke cover of the trees and walked into the clearing; the man and woman looking at me with wide-eyes.

The dog walked over to the bush I had been hiding under and stalked back and forth across the entrance to the path, his black eyes glistening as he looked at me. I swallowed as heat began to creep up my neck, my collar feeling tight. I could almost feel the intensity of the three pairs of eyes on my skin. I breathed deep, forcing my breathing to slow.

"Why have you come here?" the man said, his accent English and refined. His eyes narrowed as he waited for my answer.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't mean to intrude."

"Yes, you do, lass," the woman said. Her lilt was strong. The blank look on her face had morphed under the influence of an emotion I couldn't read, her lips pursing like my mother's. "You've heard the stories."

"Name us," he said, his voice hard.

There was a moment of stillness, even the wind had stopped blowing, as they awaited my answer. I could feel my heart in my throat.

"John," My mother could dare to doubt but I couldn't. "John and Glastiel. The old lovers."

With startling force, the wind picked up with doubled intensity, wailing through the clearing and sending my hair out sideways. The raindrops turned from fat droplets to pelting stings.

John exchanged a quick look with Glastiel and they both looked over at the hound. It blinked at John and gave a slow nod. John whipped his gaze back at me and in his eyes was something dangerous. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. On some unspoken cue, he and Glastiel moved with choreographed precision to opposite ends of the small clearing and began to walk a wide circle around me. My head swiveled between the two. The dog looked on with interest.

What had I to fear? If this was truly John and Glastiel then I should count myself lucky to be among them. I felt sorry even for intruding on their time together. How sacred a space this was. I cursed myself for my lack of forethought. What had I been expecting if I did find them? A warm welcome? A brushing off of the violation of their century old intimacy? No, if their spirits dwelt here than they could not be at peace. How had this happened? And what was this business with the hound who watched on with those soulless black eyes? Was I imagining the looks of derision on their faces? I only knew one thing for certain: fate and this hound had led me here for this chance at glimpsing love everlasting and I wasn't going to waste it.

"You've loved for a long time now," I said, my voice sounding feeble, squeezed by the strong whooshing of the wind and the raindrops slapping my face. Glastiel's eyes bore into mine, her chin pointed at the ground. Her flashing hair and nightgown continued to flow out beside her as the drops came down between us.

"How? How'd you do it?"

"How did we do it?" John scoffed so harshly the black curls on his head shook, "Surely this is not what you came here for?"

"I, I only want to know what a love like yours is like."

But his smirk made me want to take it back. A flash of lighting lit up the clearing a blinding white-green and the deeps hollows of John's cheeks winked at me. He enunciated each word with a thinly veiled control.

"I'll tell you what a love like ours is like."

His eyes connected with Glastiel's as they prowled the circle opposite each other.

"Our love is an ever-shrinking shackle around your throat that never has the good graces to crush your pipe and let you die."

I felt something in me constrict and I could feel my face displaying my shock. I looked across the circle to see Glastiel glaring coldly back at John.

What was this? This trick! The question spewed out on its own but I doubt it could be heard past the tumult. This could not be! This was not the John and Glastiel I dreamed of in my bed when I could hear my mother crying herself to sleep in the days after the news of my father's death. This was not the pair I prayed to when Moiran had stared coldly up at the ceiling with no reply when I asked him why he didn't look at me when we made love anymore. My breath came out in frigid puffs but something hot was stirring inside me.

"That's a lie!" I said, planting feet and looking at John, "You're a liar!"

I could barely hear myself over the voices of the wind. My hair stuck to my skull and the rain fell down my face in thick rivulets. My clothes had become my second skin, but John and Glastiel were still dry.

John smirked at me, lengthening his stride and swaying with languid swagger.

"How's that?" he said, his eyes flashing.

"You wish it for only yourselves, then," I said, "You wish for you two to hold the secret to everlasting love and let suffer the rest of us with its fleeting imitations? Is that the way you wish it?"

"It's you with the lies, lass," said Glastiel, "I know no love to be fleetin."

"No, no," he said. "Even when its sweetness is abandoned, the sour remnants persist. Is that not right?"

I thought suddenly of my mother in her long-backed chair, stiffened with bitterness, spinning it out of her joints and between her needles before wrapping herself in it to rest another night. I thought of those moments as I sat with her before the fire when her needles would absently slow to a stop and I'd look up to find her staring out the window, the skin around her mouth sagging and creating long shadows from the firelight. She'd turn quickly to me when I spoke her name, but it'd take a moment for that faraway look in her eyes to fade enough for her to see me. She'd smile and tell me she was alright. _Just thinking, Jeanette dear_. Always about nothing, nothing. _Just things that would make you sad, now read your book, dear_.

It wasn't long before turning to that window made me think of my father, too. I began to shiver. John laughed, the derision in it cutting me.

"You see it. I know you do." John was looking at me almost giddily. He and Glastiel seemed to circle closer and closer. The dog stood up, its head held high.

"You wish for something you don't want. You yearn for that which would cause you the most pain!"

"No, I...I don't-" I couldn't even hear my own thoughts over the downpour.

"What is love, lass?" Glastiel's shoulders nearly grazed mine as she looked down at me. "Look at us and name what lies between us?"

"You're John and Glastiel."

What was that that had creeped into my voice? A plea?

"You love each other! You made a vow!"

My head was beginning to spin, throwing off my balance as I looked between the circling pair but they took no notice, hate etched into the deep shadows of their slender faces as they looked at each other over me. The dog, creeping closer, began to growl, the sound resonating through the clearing.

"I would take it back," said John, his spit flecking into the rain. "That vow was my undoing, the end of all my happiness!"

I felt as if the air was being sucked out of the clearing, my heart palpitated in my chest painfully.

"Meeting you was the end of all mine." Glastiel's voice, though filled with emotion,

was unwavering. "I wish I never set eyes on you, you miserable, good for nothing, scrubby

English bast-"

Before she could finish, John threw himself at her, toppling me over to connect his fist with her high cheekbone. I landed on the ground inches from her as she gave a high shriek and surged up to scratch his face. Though he grimaced painfully at her nails, he didn't back down, hunkering over and throwing down punches like a madman, each blow thudding in my ears.

I lay frozen. Gutteral grunts begun to escape John's lips as he came down again and again on Glastiel's body.

Their faces; they were full of pain and rage and a coldness that chilled me far more than the freezing rain that poured down on us. But there was something in John's contorted features that I hadn't seen in Moiran's in years. It was the same look I can only assume my father gave my mother long before he balanced the newborn version of me on his knee and considered a life without us. Each strike was vicious but I could see now the care that John took as he pulled away. As much as they hated each other, they still loved just as much. What had bonded them on those passionate nights on the moor centuries hence had not lost an ounce of its potency, despite their attempts to dilute it.

Love had become their curse, but it was love nonetheless.

I heard a screaming over the rain and realized as I threw myself sidelong into John that it was me. He spun me around and pinned me to the ground, knocking the wind out of me.

Above his head, the sky momentarily lit up as lightning streaked across it. The rain was now coming down in sheets so solid, I felt as if I was being held underwater. White, hot anger licked at my insides as I fought against him.

"This is what it's like!" he shouted, his voice clashing with Glastiel's wail. "You don't want to know the pain of love that lasts! Tell me it shouldn't!"

Near his head, the hound's appeared, looking down at me.

"I will not!" I screamed, feeling as wild as they. "I'll never believe it! Not for you, John!"

He froze and I felt his grip weaken. I sprang away but he made no move to follow me, absorbed now in his own sorrow, his fists on the ground.

Glastiel was still down where she'd fallen, her body heaving from violent sobs. The hound cocked its head as it looked down at me. I turned to see John raised his head, reaching out a skeletal hand to the creature.

"Charon, please," he said in a desperate voice. "Bring another. Just one more, please-."

The hound let out a booming bark, the sound shuddering through the clearing. John put his head down again as the beast turned back to me.

Heaving, I pulled myself to sitting, my head level with the hounds'. For a few silent seconds we stared at each other before it tipped its head towards the path I had come, then back at me.

I scrambled to my feet and ran quickly toward the path. When I looked around again the couple still lay collapsed on the ground and it struck me that the space between them was a lie. The hound in turn took their necks in his mouth, turned to look at me for a steady moment before bounding out of sight.

### ~*~

### Wither the World

By

### C. M. Bratton

Lingers. Lingering. Linger. The echoes sharply piercing into pieces from the inside. Still, even now, so much agony.

Do they think I can't hear them? Or is it that they know I do, I must, I always – and they want me to writhe in pain?

And they forget, yes, what they could do, once. What I could do for them, to them – and who I was. They forget I could reach them across the continent, could push them effortlessly. Could speak to the higher ones, could punish with just a thought. Although... I am diminished now.

Yet they sit in their cities, built so high. They play with their machines and fabricate glass intelligences to take up burdens their minds can no longer handle alone. They will themselves to forget. They look west, away from that simmering flame. They turn their faces south, away from that other, cursed city, forever marked. Such weak minds they have, now.

But I remember. The cold – so cold, so terrible and biting. So new. A fitting punishment. The cold never really leaves me.

And I still hear inside of me... so many voices. I hear their curses, their pain and fury flowing through me.

Oh my children.

No. No. I must not let them hold me. I am safe. I am inside my home, yes? It is warm and comfortable. It pleases the eyes. I will NOT let their voices overwhelm me. Not again. Please. I will not.

Yet I still wrestle the memories of my mind, even as I ache for that shining past. I fight the pain of their voices, never abating year after year. Instead, it only grows as they have children in their turn. And all of them connect... to me.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, now covered in these dead things, still so cold so cold these dead pieces, these dead FRIENDS...

Stop! I must stop. That is all done. There is no cold here. I cannot go back, cannot change anything, ever.

I try and calm myself, even as I hear part of me still muttering madly in some corner of my mind.

Were they my companions? These tawny, rippling, soft, cold pieces of flesh! Did they dance with me, make me laugh? No, no, no, that other part of me screams...

... I don't want to know, don't want to hear any more screams, no please! I'm so sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorrysorrysorry...

It's all black now. There is nothing. All that is gone. I'm screaming into NOTHING!

PLEASE!

~*~

A hand grips me, gently. It pulls me back out of that cage of my mind. There is gray, lightening. I open my eyes and see the shining, understanding, forgiving, patient gaze of my son.

"Mother. Come back. You are here. Now."

He has repeated this several times, I think.

He smiles slowly at my open eyes. I feel tears still slipping down. Wiping them away, he says, "Mother, sing with me. Dance. It will ease you, yes?"

I hear him and blink slowly against the dim light, the confines of my home outlined in the same, worn, dull shapes.

"Sing?" I hear myself rasp.

He pulls me up out of my crouched position in the corner. A melody begins as he hums softly, thrumming through me, low and resonant, clear, and strong. It has an echo of clarity that brightens colors and intensifies the mild smells of spring. Coarse dirt and tramped grass, dirty wool and rotting fruit – they all seem like newborn wonders, and I feel myself swaying towards him, now conscious of my unwashed state, but recognizing that it does not matter to him.

My face moves in strange directions; it is only when my son, still singing, smiles at me, that I realize that I am smiling in turn. He holds his hands out, and I grasp them. He pulls me into the dance.

As the music swirls out in a new direction, so does my body, and I find myself focusing on the present moment. I begin to hum a counterpoint in response. My voice feels raw and brittle, a mere sliver of its wholeness after hours, or has it been days, caught inside myself. But, as always, it heals quickly as I will it to, and soon my voice is strong again, matching him in pitch and intensity, nearly louder, challenging him. I begin to sing in the Old Tongue:

"AI! AI! A LA LEI NEHA'IM JAI -

AI! AI! RA HA'EL DE LUNAI.

GALA'RI ELA STAI – ''

A third voice joins us. It is as crystalline as mine, singing the final lines with us, effortlessly blending in.

''STAI! ADOHANAY'AI!''

As the final notes fade away, strong arms move around my waist, and a warm voice sounds in my ear.

''My Other-Self. Belovéd.''

He says no more, but I feel, fleetingly, less fragmented. He nuzzles my neck for a moment, and I smile. Satisfied, he kisses my brow then straightens, one arm still casually draped around me.

He greets our son.

"Belovéd Esaeth."

He pauses, smiling, saying nothing else with his words, instead letting his mind fill Esaeth's, as it fills mine, sharing his love and his pride.

Esaeth is calm. Always so calm. So accepting.

"Father. You look well."

We both chuckle at this. Of course he does. Even I, in this dirty state, possess a radiance unknown in any of our children. We seem no different than when Esaeth was born, hundreds of years ago.

Esaeth seems to find it amusing to comment on our appearances, as they never change, especially as his is now marked with threads of gray, a full beard, and strange lines running around his eyes and mouth.

Esaeth, my beautiful son. Like my other sons. I wonder sometimes if, like him, they would have had silver specks in their heads, hair pulling and curling outwards from their jaws and chests?

"How long are you staying?" my husband asks.

Esaeth smiles, gently, "Perhaps enough for another dance?"

Adomé smiles in return and begins a complicated step from an old dance. He pulls me in, and I begin to move, body responding as the steps dictate. We dance around imaginary figures, weaving around Esaeth as he claps, laughing as he tries to match our steps. I feel myself beginning to laugh as well.

Red. A strike of anguish that whips through me. I stop, abruptly, curling in on myself, awash in an incarnadine haze of agony. Vines of pain thrash against me, puncturing me, torturing me with stabs of throbbing spasms.

I scream, ripping apart my newly healed vocal cords. My hands grip my body. Esaeth and my husband catch me as I fall.

I catch my breath.

"How can they forgive me? How can they love me," I beg, looking at Esaeth, "when I caused – this? This curse!"

I start sobbing, willing the pain to stop. Trying to force my body to heal.

But it does not. It never does. This is the one gift I have always been denied. Will always be denied. Instead, the pain grows, every time. Years and decades and centuries growing, multiplied by the echoes from all my daughters.

No other daughter of mine will ever suffer like this. They do not hold the Garden in their memories.

"My fault. All gone, gone. No sweet leaves dropping like the purest honey in my mouth. No wild dances with animals, no singing with the an'geles. No perfect warmth. Just this stabbing wound that never heals, lingering inside of me. My daughters, ever paying for my sin. My name will last, cursed in every birth, every moon, and every night."

I look up at my husband.

I whisper, aloud, "Adomé. Will your Father never let me heal? Will He never forgive me?"

Another pulse of agony pulls me away from his gaze before he can answer. I have no other recourse. I fly inwards to escape, away from the present, which never ends. I hear Adomé begin to call me, trying to reach inside my mind, but I slip away.

"Aveia."

Farther.

"Aveia, belovéd."

Even deeper. To nearly the beginning.

"Aveia, my Flesh!"

Yes, there.

Aveia.

No. I will not let Adomé in so far anymore. I push his Call away.

I am here.

I heard my husband humming, a breathtaking lullaby growing louder as he approached, Felt him growing closer. I turned with excitement, racing to the edge of the clearing to meet him. Raba'it came with me, bouncing with eagerness.

The sound swelled into words as he came into view, lengthening his stride to join me.

"Ah, my beloved," he said, smiling in greeting and opening his arms. "Flesh of mine own."

"Adomé," I breathed back to him, and fell into his embrace. He kissed me for several long moments, and our minds touched, intertwining, as always, reflecting and magnifying our joy from deep inside each other.

I felt a head butting playfully into us, and broke away, looking down to see Tygre, who had accompanied Adomé, attempt to prod us into a dance. Raba'it sat atop her back, giggling madly.

They chanted, "Play. Dance. Sing."

I couldn't help laughing at their antics, so silly and yet so sacred. I heard quiet laughter behind me, felt it echoing in my head as Adomé said, "Yes, my dear ones. We will join you. We will sing and dance."

I started to clap, measuring out a complicated beat.

As I sang, feeling my Self spiral upwards in joy, I could feel my belovéd's voice blending with mine, lifting and broadening it. Raba'it added a quiet beat while Tygre raised her fierce voice. Others around us joined in, flying or crawling or sprinting as was their wont, blending into our dance with abandon.

Suddenly, a clear note seemed to peal through the glade, and another voice joined ours, piercing through the layers of sound while seamlessly becoming part of it.

I turned and saw –

Bright. Shining. It should have burned me, but it didn't. It never did. Such things didn't exist. It should have taken away, in its perfection, the beauty surrounding me. Instead, It shared its own, making everything more sublime, transcendent, pure. It sang with us, becoming part of our song. I stretched out my hand, and It took it.

G'bariel, so glorious, moved with us.

With my Adomé next to me, surrounded by our cherished ones, I was whole.

There, on the edge of vision, nearly as beautiful as the an'gele, the Other lay, watching, seeming to absorb our beauty without giving any of his own. Sweet Ser'paent.

Cold. Frozen. Ice.

No! I don't want to be here.

Blackness.

A voice, hated – loved – so smug.

"But Aveia, what exactly is obedience?"

I smiled, although I was beginning to feel uncertain.

"It is... well, to do as I am asked."

Ser'paent curled himself around me, seeming to think.

"But what is it when you are not asked?"

"I, I don't know."

He smiled at me, resting his head against my chest.

"But you want to please Adomé and his Father, yes?"

My hand rose up to stroke him as I considered my answer.

"Yes, of course, I ..."

"And do you know the best way to please?" he interrupted, looking up at me sideways. "Tell me, what would really please you?"

"Knowing the best way to serve. That is, the essence of obedience, with no hesitation." I answered.

"Knowing more, then?"

Stop this!

My mind, now mere fragments, screams at me.

"You don't want to feel the raw birth of pain tearing outwards from your cursed Presence. You don't want to remember this."

But I always do.

"Yes," I said, "Do _you_ know the best way to serve?"

"Yes."

"How can I know what you know? Tell me," I commanded.

"To learn what I know is..." He stopped and laughed, a strange hissing sound unlike my own. "...more knowledge. You want to know more?"

"Yes."

"That's not enough."

"What do you mean?"

"Wanting is not a strong enough reason. You have to need to know more. It has to be something you want more than anything else."

"But... I don't need it. I just want to please Adomé and his Father. That's what I want most."

Ser'paent began to uncoil himself from around me.

"But knowing more is what you need to be able to do that. That makes it what you want the most, what you need the most."

"But I... "

"You asked for my help, to know what I know. You asked for more knowledge, to know more. You know what you really want now, don't you? You can feel the truth in your bones, smell it on my breath, and taste it in the vibrations of the air."

He abruptly turned back to me. He wound himself around me again, and brought his beautiful face level with mine.

"And that's all you need. Just a little taste."

"How do I know more?"

I was filled with curiosity and excitement by that point.

"You need to know more, yes, to better serve? To better obey?"

"Yes. Yes! I... I must..."

"Very well. There is a place here in the grove. A place I often visit and ponder. A place of balance, of two different sides to every story. A place of much knowledge. There is... a tree.

"No!"

"Yes. You know more already."

"But we're forbidden ..."

"Only from knowing a little more. But the knowledge contained in that fruit is the only way to get what you want, the best way to please."

I tried to break away from him, but he was holding me too tightly. I struggled to get away, but he was stronger than I.

"Ssh. Ssh. Look at me. Feel how close you are. So close to knowing how to please."

I looked up at him. I was so young and innocent. Afraid but still trusting.

"But I will die if I eat from it."

"Am I dead? I have eaten it many times, and here I stand, full in my knowledge, sure of myself, my place, my life...and I understand both obedience and pleasure. This is what you want, yes? Look at me, pulsating with life."

"Yes. You are so beautiful. Such beauty can only be... must be right. It must have a purpose."

His voice was still there, cajoling me, lulling me.

"My purpose is to please you, glorious woman. And if you taste it with me, you will know, too. And that will please you. And you will finally get what you want."

I looked up at him, falling into the brilliance of his eyes and the beauty of his presence.

"This is... obedience?"

"Yes," he sighs.

Suddenly, there it was, in my hands.

It was cold. There was no word, then, for that cessation of feeling in fingers and toes, that needling of flesh that I have learned accompanies such temperatures. So we made a new word. There was likewise no word for fire, or pain. In our despair, we created so much.

I can still see my dear little ones, hear them turning on each other. Tygre savaging Raba'it, Onli striking D'er down.

I hear Him, the Father, giving us our punishment, while the an'geles watch. Even G'bariel, my favorite visitor, stands by, impassive. He receives the Flame with an air of victory, as if he is being rewarded to merely stand and watch.

I still hear the smug voice of Ser'paent.

"I only told you words you wanted to hear, truth in which you wanted to believe. And there was no lie. You did gain knowledge of pleasure. And knowledge of pain. Both sides. Good and evil. But you now know more, do you not? You now understand the true nature of obedience. Is that a lie?

"Silence!" Adomé yelled, "You are nothing! Your beauty is shredded, your radiance stripped, your majesty gone. You will forever crawl and slither, trod on by our heels."

Ser'paent surprised me by laughing, cold laughter that filled the air with menace.

"You still don't understand, First. My fate is but a sad echo of yoursss. You will come to despise your own life, as you slowly become the dirt from which you were made. I will still glide below you, but you... you will fall the longest."

Something began inside me then, something I didn't recognize. I could feel it emanating from the core of my flesh, and I clutched at my abdomen, terrified.

"It... hurts. Something is happening."

Why did Ser'paent have to be the one to tell me? To complete my humiliation?

"A curssse. On you and all of your daughters. You will suffer. You will live long, and always sssuffer. I shall wither into dust, but you – you are just beginning your long descent."

Now the shadow of our lives is finally nearing its end. I am a footnote in history, known for my shame, my burden, and my children. But never for my joys, my delights, my loves. Never for the smiles I evoked, or the meals I made, or the clothes I stitched, or the songs I sang.

Or the tears I shed – for all my daughters.

Ab'iell is dead. Ca'inah has locked himself away, still defiant, punished in his own turn. But I can still hear him, still feel him living in his own torment.

Oh Esaeth, so beautiful. My only son, now, who loves me.

But all my children are doomed, even he. A fraction of a fraction will be all that remain when Adomé's Father punishes our disobedience yet again.

That's the knowledge my taste left me. Their ruin. They use only half of what they should, lost in their machines, building their great cities higher and higher... even as they slide further and further from the Garden.

Fools! Don't they know that's where they should want to be, dancing with an'geles and animals in complete harmony, singing with the wind and grass, ignorant of fear, pain, murder, death? Don't they see that flame in the East and know they've already lost?

This knowing, it lingers, still, moving inside me.

I fragment again, lost between Now and Then...

This knowing...

Lingers. Linger. Lingering. The echoes sharply piercing into pieces from the inside. Still, even now, so much agony.

### ~*~

### Science Fiction

### ~*~

### The Game

By

### Kaycee Nilson

"Come on. They gotta be here somewhere," he whispered as much to himself as to the other three members of his team.

"Yeah, it's a little too quiet," the static plagued reply came back to him through his headset communication device.

The darkened alleyway seemed to stretch out forever, with dozens of hiding places for their quarry. One by one, the three team members advanced to the next obstacle, and then the next, and the next, all the while keeping a constant eye out for an attack from any direction.

"Skank, watch out for that shadow over there." The whispered voices continued to keep the team members in sync, although the static made it difficult.

"I see it. I thought I saw something move over there."

"Where are they?"

A sudden scream filled their ears as the team member bringing up the rear was hit from behind, and a flurry of activity filled the entire alley. It seemed as if dozens of enemy appeared from nowhere. They moved so fast, the team couldn't train their weapons' sights on any of them in time to stop them from swooping in and attacking. The comm devices went from whispered directions and questions to full volume screams and shouts. The team was thrown into immediate disarray.

"Skank's down! He's hit and down!"

"I know! I saw it happen! Just keep shooting!"

~*~

Skank lifted the helmet off of his head and slammed it down on his desk.

"Dammit! Why do I always get hit first?"

He stared at the computer screen as a counter slowly ticked off 90 seconds, the time he had to wait before re-entering the game and rejoining his team. He tried flexing his fingers to relieve some of the tension, but the mechanical gloves he wore made it difficult. To add to the frustration, he could still hear his teammates' shouts through the helmet as it sat on the desk. He just couldn't respond to them until the 90 seconds expired.

The game was the latest craze. Called "Blutsauger" and based in virtual reality, the game required Skank's parents and the parents of thousands of other kids to shell out several hundred dollars for the special "VR Rig" needed to play the game. It consisted of a headset with a communication device, gloves, mask, and the cables needed to connect it to a computer system or game console. They were available for the X-Box, PlayStation 3, Wii, and other popular game systems, but Skank never got the upgrade to connect his PS3 to the Internet, so he opted for the PC version.

"Come on, come on," he said impatiently to the slowly ticking clock. He knew that if he didn't re-enter the game before the other team members' characters died, then they would have to start over at the first level, something they'd had to do many times already.

"Mike! Look out!" came one of the static filled voices. Skank looked back up at the clock that seemed to be going slower and slower. With only 15 seconds left, Mike's voice went quiet. Skank knew there was only one team member left. With 10 seconds to go, he put the headset back on, ready to rejoin the game. But with only 5 seconds remaining, the comm went quiet. The third team member had died.

"Damn, damn, damn!" he said as he pounded his mechanical fist on the desk.

"Careful you don't break that thing." The voice was that of his older brother, watching from the doorway. "That thing was expensive, not to mention a complete waste of money."

"Oh, what do you know?"

"I know you spend way too much time playing that dumb game."

"You're just jealous that you suck at anything remotely resembling a cool game."

"Maybe I just don't want to risk my life."

"What, you listening to rumors again?"

"Hey, it was all over the news. Kids have died playing this game."

There had been stories about kids in New York playing Blutsauger and ending up in the morgue. Similar stories had surfaced about kids in L.A., and Chicago, and Memphis, and Toronto. The list went on and on.

Of course, every time a new game hit the market, there were always stories of something bad happening to the kids that played it, but they were never more than just stories. So, Skank and his friends dismissed the rumors now just like they always did.

~*~

Instead of restarting the game for the umpteenth time, Skank decided to go back to the video store where he had bought the new game. It was a small store that sold nothing but video games. Most were educational games, or child development games. But there was a small selection of video games, and they were always the latest and most popular games.

Skank and his friends had been surprised weeks earlier when they found the odd, unknown game on the shelf. The box had no game description, no eye popping graphics, and no catchy sales phrase. It was a simple black box with the name Blutsauger across the front. The game disc itself was equally plain. A simple blood red disc with no words or printing of any kind. But as unappealing as the game packaging seemed, Blutsauger had become the most popular game in America in only a few short weeks.

"Hey Skank. Any luck with that game?"

Dwight, the owner of the store, didn't even have to say what game. Like most kids in the country, there was only one game on their minds.

"Nah. Still can't get passed level 12. We always bite it in the alleyway."

"Maybe you just need a little help."

Dwight nodded his head toward the corner, where his young nephew sat in front of a computer.

"You mean Rabbit?"

Skank was shocked that Dwight would even suggest the boys include Rabbit in their next game.

~*~

Rabbit was an autistic child, who seemed to be constantly in motion. He never spoke, preferring to make his wishes known with a series of grunts and hand motions. Specialists and therapists had long told Dwight that he had a long road ahead of him if he wanted to break Rabbit's silence. It happened by accident that Dwight had found the key to unlocking Rabbit's silence: the Computer.

Through educational games and other software programs, Rabbit slowly developed a way to communicate with his uncle. He was able to learn programs much faster than others and managed to explore other lands through the magic of the Internet. He quickly learned how to spell and communicate using the word processor, and became a secret whiz at video games. He just seemed to have a sixth sense about how things worked inside the magical computer screen, and was incredibly dexterous at the controls.

It was Rabbit's abilities on the computer that had first prompted Dwight to open the video store. It was a constant source of new programs for Rabbit to learn and new ways for him to develop.

~*~

When Blutsauger had arrived in a surprise shipment, Dwight was skeptical. He thought the lack of creative packaging would keep it from selling. And the price of the additional equipment would put it out of most kids' reach. But the company that shipped it included a note explaining that the shipment was entirely on consignment. If it sold, report it to the company. If it didn't, just give it away. Dwight had never heard of a company doing this before. They usually sent demo copies, or a rep to sell the game to the store. But Dwight wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he put it out on the shelves. Within a week, all copies were sold, except for the one he had kept in back for Rabbit.

Rabbit played the game constantly, and seemed to do well, but he always played it alone. He didn't have friends on-line to play with, because he couldn't talk to them through the headset. If Dwight could convince Skank and his friends to give Rabbit a try, maybe it would be the next step into unlocking Rabbit's inner secrets.

~*~

"So, whaddya say? Can Rabbit take a shot at the game with you fellas?"

Skank was still hesitant, but he didn't want to get on Dwight's bad side. After all, he was the best source of new games in town, and if he liked you, he could keep copies of the best games hidden away for you.

"Sure, we'll give it a shot. Will he be able to talk to us through the comm device?"

"Not really, but with the gloves, he'll be able to point and motion just like in real life." Dwight was overcome with joy just thinking about the possibility of Rabbit making progress. And playing a game with other kids could be just what he needed.

~*~

The next afternoon, once school let out, Skank, Mike and Ralph rushed to their homes to log into the game, and meet up on-line. Rabbit, as arranged, was already on-line waiting for them. The foursome quickly punched through the opening credits, and reached the beginning of the game, where the screen went totally blank.

"That still freaks me out when that happens," Ralph whispered.

"Yeah, it's like walking into a vacuum or something."

Mike was the science guy of the group, always comparing things to space phenomena.

A small white dot appeared, and flew straight at the boys. It quickly became a set of fangs, dripping with blood, and whipped past their heads, making the three friends duck out of the way. Even though it happened before every level, they still hadn't gotten used to it, even ducking in their real-life seats. Skank turned to the side, and noticed that Rabbit hadn't ducked out of the way. He stood ramrod still, as if he hadn't seen anything.

The first level, which took place in a forest, appeared around them. Skank bent down and leapt into the air. It was his favorite move in the game. He was not only impressed at the height he received, but at the agility of the flips he was able to do before landing. Ralph was swinging his saber around and chopping off the bottom of the branches while Mike was fingering a set of throwing stars. Rabbit simply stood and waited for what was to come.

A sudden rush of air blew past the foursome. They could feel the wind and smell something like rotted meat. The sounds of snarls and breaking tree branches filled their ears to the point of almost being deafening.

Suddenly four creatures were staring at them. They appeared to be gorillas, until beams of sunlight hit them. Their faces resembled Doberman pincher faces, with their ears laid back in an attack mode. Their lips were drawn back in snarls to reveal mouths filled with razor sharp teeth. But their most striking feature was their eyes. They were a solid, bloody red.

The moment the creatures attacked, Skank jumped in the air. Ralph swung his saber, and Mike launched the first of his stars. They had been through this together before.

But Rabbit was a complete surprise to them. He sprung into action like they could never have imagined. Usually, the boys suffered some damage before subduing these first level creatures. But Rabbit's flurry of activity destroyed all four creatures before any damage could be done. It was so sudden and surprising, that the other three weren't even sure what it was that Rabbit had done. It was certainly the easiest they had ever completed a level. Maybe having Rabbit along for the ride wouldn't be so bad.

Those same results repeated themselves level after level. Rabbit never spoke, but when an attack came, he was like an invincible warrior, cutting down demons, and monsters at an astonishing rate. The boys were beginning to think that this was their chance to get past level 12.

~*~

When they got to the alleyway of level 12, it looked just like the previous times. Skank, Mike and Ralph began their leap-frogging maneuvers from obstacle to obstacle, as they always did. Suddenly Skank stopped and looked down the alley. Rabbit was walking straight down the middle of the alley.

"What's he doing?" Mike asked.

"I dunno. He's gonna get creamed when those things come out!" Skank whispered.

"Hey, don't they usually attack from behind?"

Ralph was looking around trying to figure out where the attack would come from.

When the attack began, it was as sudden as always. Fanged creatures flew from every direction, including from above. They seemed to be able to fly. No matter how fast the three boys fought back, they just couldn't seem to fight them off. They were too busy fighting to even notice the flurry of activity happening further down the alley.

Skank looked back and saw Mike on the ground.

"Mike's Down! Mike's Down!"

His own throat got slashed as he said it, and a gurgle of blood was all that came out of his throat as he was removed from the game.

~*~

He was right back where he had been the previous day: staring at the 90 second countdown and listening to Ralph continue to fight.

"Still playing that dumb game?"

Skank's brother was back, and still going on about the rumors.

"We're gonna get to the next level today. Just wait and see."

"Whatever."

His brother turned and left the room.

~*~

With 10 seconds left on the counter, Skank had his helmet back on and was ready to rejoin the game. It looked like Ralph and Rabbit were still fighting. When the timer hit Zero, he punched back in and found himself back at the alley. Mike had already re-entered the game, and was standing with Ralph looking around the alley. The ground was littered with dead bodies. Rabbit had somehow fought most of them off on his own.

"What are these things?" Mike asked. The creatures had long fangs, and talon like fingers at the end of long, thin arms. What had originally looked like baggy shirtsleeves were in fact wings, stretched between their arms and bodies.

"Well, that explains how they could fly so easily," Ralph said as he kicked at a winged body.

"How many did we kill?" Mike asked.

"I don't think we managed to kill any. He did it all," Skank explained, pointing to Rabbit, standing still at the far end of the alley.

"I guess we better go catch up to him."

When they caught up to Rabbit, they saw that the end of the alley led to the next level. They had finally passed level 12.

~*~

Level 13 seemed like a whole other world. When they entered, Skank suddenly felt ill. There was something very different about this level.

When the white dot turned into a set of fangs, and flew past them, the boys found themselves on the main street of a small town, much like the one they lived in. The detail of the setting was unbelievable.

"Can you believe this place?" Ralph said.

"They must have put a lot of time into programming this one" Mike responded. "It doesn't look like a game at all."

"Does it look familiar?" Ralph asked.

"Yeah," Skank said, "It looks a lot like Shannon Hills. Wonder if they used our town as a model."

"Maybe Shannon Hills just looks like every other small town," Ralph suggested.

The town, the surroundings, even the air could not only see seen, but felt. It was an odd sensation, even for a game using a VR rig. It just seemed more real than the previous levels.

"Welcome to the new age of gaming!"

The deep baritone voice boomed out to them. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

"Prepare for your final game... ever."

Out of the side streets and alleys, a line of attackers formed and slowly walked toward the foursome. The line formed a complete circle around them, forcing three of the boys to stand back-to-back in order to face them all, with Rabbit standing at his now customary ramrod straight stance in the middle of the triangle.

The attackers were mainly human in size and shape, except for the fangs in their mouths, the long, sharp fingernails, and the blood red eyes. These three features seemed to be common to the creatures fought in each of the previous levels, but somehow, they looked much more ominous in level 13.

"They look like standard vampires," Ralph whispered.

"They shouldn't be too tough to fight, then. Right?" Mike said, a slight tremor in his voice.

"Switch your weapons to anything vampire related," Skank ordered, "I think I picked up a sort of wooden-stake machine gun earlier."

Mike pulled out vials of holy water he had almost left back in level 6. Ralph had found a box of silver bullets for his semi-automatic pistol, but didn't know until now why he would need them. He quickly loaded them into his empty clips. As usual, it seemed unnecessary for Rabbit to prepare. He could switch weapons, fire off rounds, and avoid attacks with unbelievable speed.

When the vampires attacked, it was with a ferocity the trio could never have expected. Before they knew what was happening, they were being swarmed under by the onslaught. Skank held the trigger on his stake-machine gun, but only managed to kill a few of the vampires. He felt razor sharp nails clawing at his body.

Mike threw stars, flung stakes, and tried to hit as many of the monsters with holy water as he could. But it didn't seem to do much good. There were just too many of them.

Ralph had similar results with his silver bullets. He managed to subdue and destroy a few of the attackers, but that only seemed to bring out more of them.

As Skank fell to the ground under a horde of vampires, he saw Mike's already lifeless body lying on the ground. Ralph was on his way down, and looked to be done in as well. Rabbit was nowhere to be seen.

Somehow, he sensed that this was much more than his character dying again. As he felt a set of fangs drive into his neck, he actually felt the blood leaving his body. He didn't understand how it was possible, but he could feel the life leaving him. He was surprised that he wasn't seeing the familiar 90 second countdown on the computer screen. Instead his whole world went black.

~*~

Rabbit kept on fighting, even after the trio of kids he had entered the game with failed to return, as they had on previous levels. Their bodies simply remained inert, lying on the ground. Some of the vampires appeared to be feeding on the bodies of his companions, while others continued to attack. For his part, Rabbit continued to change weapons, dodge their attacks, and fight back as best he could. He didn't understand why he was so much better at the game, or why his reflexes were so much faster than the others, but it seemed that he was practically untouchable when the enemy creatures attacked.

After an extended fight, the vampires simply retreated back into the alleys, leaving Rabbit alone with his three dead companions at his feet. Their badly mangled bodies seemed to have been withered, and all of the fluid seemed to have been sucked out by the attackers who fed on them once they were down.

"Congratulations," the baritone voice boomed out of the darkness.

"You have won the game. Your IP has been recorded, and you will be contacted by Blutsauger for additional levels. Play them... if you dare."

The evil laugh that followed was enough to send chills up Rabbit's spine.

~*~

Dwight had been watching for quite some time, as his nephew played the new game. He wasn't much a gamer himself, but he was fascinated when it came to watching how fast Rabbit's hands and fingers reacted while playing a game. Dwight could tell when they were between levels, because Rabbit would suddenly stop moving, as if in a trance.

When he heard the booming voice come out of the comm device, he was surprised at how clearly he understood the words. Rabbit had won the game? He had heard about how difficult the game was. He had even heard the rumors about kids dying while playing, but had dismissed those reports as rumors, just like everyone else had. But he had never expected Rabbit to win the game his first time playing it on-line. Maybe on-line gaming was yet another talent Rabbit possessed, something for Dwight to look into as another therapeutic tool.

He took the VR rig off of Rabbit's head, and helped him to remove the gloves.

"Did you have fun playing with the other boys?"

Rabbit didn't respond. He simply got up, and walked straight to his room at the back of the store. It was strange, even for Rabbit. He was usually so jumpy and energetic, and although he couldn't speak, he generally would at least react when Dwight spoke to him.

~*~

Later that night, Rabbit had slowly returned to his normal, overactive self. He and Dwight were watching the local news, when a story came on about three mysterious deaths, all in one afternoon. The odd thing was, they all happened in the same small town of Shannon Hills. That's when Dwight started paying more attention to the news than to Rabbit. It was the same small town where they lived.

There were no clues, other than that the three victims were all teenage boys, and they were known to spend time together in and after school. All three were killed in their homes, apparently while playing video games. All three were wearing headsets and gloves connected to video game consoles or computers. There was no mention of what game or games they were playing, but somehow Dwight knew. It was Skank and his friends, and they were playing Blutsauger.

And Rabbit had been playing with them.

Dwight looked over at Rabbit, and saw that he had stopped moving again. His eyes were staring in the direction of the television, but there was no life in them. He was simply staring at nothing.

The news report went on to say that the bodies were already badly emaciated, as if a virus or something similar had killed the boys from inside. This information came from the older brother of one of the boys. The police and other officials would only answer the reporters with "no comment".

This older brother also said that whoever, or whatever killed the three boys, attacked quickly. He had been speaking to his younger brother less than 30 minutes before he was found dead. Again, authorities offered no further information.

Dwight jumped immediately on the computer. He may not have been much of a gamer, but he was a whiz at research. In no time at all, he had found news reports from several other locations around the country with similar stories: _A few young kids, all apparently dying at the same time under mysterious circumstances, and all being found in front of video game consoles_. In many of the stories, the bodies were described as being shriveled, or quickly decomposing. Other stories failed to describe the bodies. And what was never mentioned was what game the kids had been playing.

Dwight started to feel a chill. Somehow he knew. He reached up to the shelf above the computer, where he kept the packaging for the games that Rabbit played. The Blutsauger box was the most plain of them all. No fancy graphics, no extraneous wording. Just the name of the game. Looking on the back, there wasn't even an address or phone number for the company.

Dwight ran to the front of the store, looking for the packing slip for the case the games had come in. But it had been a few weeks already, and it was long gone. He had, however, kept the odd letter that came with the shipment, just in case the company tried to collect on any unsold games. He opened his file cabinet, and searched for the letter. When he found it, he was shocked to see that the letterhead had the name Blutsauger at the top, but nothing else. The company had failed to include any contact information. How had he not noticed that oddity before?

Suddenly, there was a knock at the front door. Dwight figured it was some kid ignoring the huge "Closed" sign out front.

"We're closed!" he shouted. The knocking continued.

"Can't you read? It says ' _Closed_ '!"

The knocking became more and more insistent. Finally, frustrated, Dwight stomped to the front door, and tore it open, expecting to cuss out some young punk. Instead he stopped cold. The man standing in the doorway was dressed in a finely tailored suit, and was well over six feet tall. But the thing Dwight noticed most was the piercing, black eyes.

"I'm looking for the gamer at this address." It was the same deep baritone voice Dwight had heard come through Rabbit's comm. device at the end of the game.

"Uh... he's... he's in the back. Who are you?

"I'm from Blutsauger. The gamer is a special individual. Only those with special talents can complete the game. That is why we trace the IP address of winners, and visit them personally."

Dwight was dumbfounded, but he asked the stranger in, and escorted him to the back of the store, where he and Rabbit had set up their living area. As soon as Rabbit saw the stranger, his eyes grew wide, and his skin became pale. Dwight could see that his young nephew was terrified.

"It's alright Rabbit. He's from the game company."

The stranger looked at Rabbit, and turned to Dwight.

"This is the gamer?"

"Yes it is. His name's Rabbit."

"Why does he not speak?"

"Well, he's got a disability. It's called Austism. He can't talk. He communicates through the computer and playing games is sort of a therapy for him. It's why he's so good at it."

The stranger only stared at Rabbit.

"How did you find us so quickly?"

"The game uses a new technology. Once the players reach the 13th level, they are no longer playing against a game. They are actually playing against the makers of the game."

Dwight's face showed a look of confusion to the stranger, so he continued.

"When a player is on-line, we can follow his progress. If he is a truly unique player, he will be able to pass level 12. Once that happens, our people enter the game and become opponents of the player. Our system also tracks where the player is connected from, so that if they win the game, we can easily find them and invite them to join us."

Dwight felt something ominous about the way the stranger has said 'invite them to join us', almost as if it were a command, instead of an invitation.

"You said 'if they win the game'. What happens if they don't?"

Dwight suddenly realized that the kids who had died playing Blutsauger had most likely made it to level 13, but hadn't won. He glanced across the room at the special headset that had come with the game. Rabbit had moved over to the game console and was reaching for the VR rig. The stranger followed his gaze.

"Ah, yes. You are wondering about the electronic rig."

"And about the kids who have died playing."

"You should worry not about others, and worry more about yourself."

Dwight thought he saw a flash of red in the stranger's eyes, but it could have been a trick of the light. What he was certain he saw was a flash of anger. Perhaps he had said too much. Or maybe he had hit a little too close to the truth behind the game.

"You said that your people enter the game as opponents in level 13."

Dwight started to back slowly away from the stranger.

"That is correct."

"And can you contact the players through those electronic rigs?"

"Yes, we can speak to them."

"But can you contact them. I mean, can you actually, physically touch them?"

Dwight had made it nearly to the end of the sofa, but he didn't seem to be creating any distance between himself and the stranger. He couldn't see the stranger walking, or moving in any way, but he couldn't seem to get any further from this increasingly frightening person.

"As I said. It is a new technology. But to answer your question truthfully, yes we can contact the players. It is how we defeat them."

"So if you defeat them in the game, you defeat them in real life, too don't you?"

The flash of red came once again to the stranger's eyes, but instead of answering, his lips tensed into a firm, aggravated line.

Dwight knew he shouldn't ask the next question that formed on his lips. But for some reason, he couldn't stop himself.

"And from what I saw of the game, aren't the players fighting against vampires on level 13? Is that what the creators of the game are?"

"You should not ask so many questions!"

This time the anger was obvious, and the stranger's eyes turned a blood red. He raised his arms above his head with dagger sharp fingernails pointed toward Dwight. His mouth opened and released a grotesque howl while displaying a set of sharpened fangs. As he flew at Dwight, the video game store owner realized that he had definitely asked one too many questions, and now it would cost him his life. He crouched down and covered his head, as if that small act could ward off a vampire.

~*~

While Dwight spoke with the stranger, Rabbit slowly made his way to his game console. After Dwight asked the stranger about the VR rig, Rabbit placed the headset on his head, and donned the gloves needed to play the game. When he had played with the three boys from school earlier, he had saved his game at various stages, so that he could re-enter the game at any point he chose.

He logged in, and started the game at the end of level 12. After only a few moments, he was into the darkness of level 13.

The now familiar white dot appeared, quickly became a set of fangs, and whipping past Rabbit. When it was past, Rabbit found himself back in the simulation of main street in a small town. As he looked around, he noticed a few details that had been there earlier were gone. Rabbit began to realize that the level was being created from the mind of the person playing the game. Since his three teammates weren't with him this time around, their detailed thoughts of what the small town looked like were not included.

But if it were really created out of his mind, then this wasn't just a simulation of any small town. It was a simulation of Shannon Hills. In fact, it was Shannon Hills.

Instead of waiting for his attackers to come at him, he took off at a run toward where he knew Dwight's video store would be. When he reached his street, he turned down a gravel back street and ran to the window of the back living area. Looking through the window, he couldn't see Dwight, but he could see the stranger. It must have meant that Dwight wasn't actually part of the game, since he wasn't wearing a VR rig. But somehow, even without the equipment, the stranger was still a part of it.

"You should not ask so many questions!" he heard the stranger howl just before his eyes turned blood red.

With his gamer's superb leaping ability, Rabbit jumped up and through the window, hoping he wasn't shattering the real thing. In a lightening quick move, he pulled a vial of holy water from the tool belt he wore, and threw it at the face of the stranger. The stranger was still focused on the spot where Dwight would have been crouching, and never saw the vial coming. It struck the stranger square in the face.

~*~

Dwight heard the howl of his attacker change into a howl of pain, and never felt the blow he expected to come. He looked up through the arm covering his head and saw the stranger clutching at his face. The skin seemed to be melting away before his very eyes.

~*~

Rabbit reached to the back of his outfit, beneath his black cloak, and brought out his last remaining wooden stake. It was sharpened to a fine point, and looked like it could cut through steel.

The stranger staggered backwards, still clutching his badly burned face, and trying in vain to wipe away the holy water that had done so much damage. He tripped over a stool, and fell onto his back.

With the stranger defenseless, Rabbit didn't hesitate to step over the stranger and plunge the stake into his heart. The stranger's red eyes flew open, and his hands jumped from his face to the stake, as if trying to prevent it from entering his flesh. But it was too late. The look of shock on what remained of his face said as much, as the red light dimming from his eyes confirmed it. The stranger was dead.

Rabbit glanced over to the game console and saw the back of a small boy, sitting in the chair, wearing the VR rig, his hands twitching at the controls.

~*~

Dwight saw the stranger fall backward and land on the floor. He also saw the stranger's hands grasp at his chest, just before his red eyes went dark. Dwight was as confused as ever, and didn't understand what was happening, until he looked at the game console, and saw his nephew sitting in the chair wearing the game headset, his hands encased in the VR rig gloves and actively playing the game. Then he understood: Rabbit had just saved his life.

He wanted to take the headset off of his nephew, but he wasn't quite sure if Rabbit was done playing the game. So instead, he simply stood back and watched until the boy went completely still.

~*~

Rabbit saw a shadow fall across the boy sitting in front of the game console, and knew that Dwight was still alive and standing over him.

Suddenly the room around him began to morph slightly, and he felt a nauseous sensation as he slipped from his standing position into the chair he had been looking at. He found himself staring at a blank game console, still wearing the headset and gloves. When he looked around and saw Dwight standing over him, he knew the game had shut itself down, and he was back in the real Shannon Hills.

Rabbit stood and put his arms around Dwight's waist. The two looked over at the body of the stranger, and watched as it quickly melted into a black sludge. The stench was horrible, and forced Dwight to open all of the windows, including the side window which, to Rabbit's relief, was not shattered.

Rabbit stood in the middle of the room, watching his uncle, and finally found the ability to say his first words, "Game Over."

### ~*~

### Chainmail and Nerds

By

### C. M. Bratton

"Reports continue to roll out that hostilities are continuing to increase, despite several attempts at negotiation. People are advised to..."

The TV shut off with a snap and I turned to see my girlfriend behind me – definitely a welcome distraction from the stupid and depressing news. She stood there looking down on me, in lots of make-up and a shiny dress. A short, shiny dress.

Yup, she was about to ask for something big.

"Honey, I was thinking maybe we could take a weekend road trip. Do a little camping, hang out with a few friends."

As she said this, I couldn't help but notice the mischievous gleam in her eyes and her dimples fighting not to appear. She started stroking my shoulder.

Uh-oh.

"Okay. That sounds fine. Any place in particular you wanna go?"

She started to blush and looked a little sheepish.

"Well, uh, Janie – you know, my BFF down in San Antone? – she and her husband are going to this thing in Houston and I thought, well, we could join them."

"Cool. Haven't been that way in a couple of years. But what thing?"

She paused way too melodramatically and I tensed in fear, but then I guess she figured I was buttered up enough because she blurted –

"The Ren Fest!"

"What? Hold on, you mean that place that those crazy survivalists and D&D weirdoes like to hang out?"

"Tom, they are not weirdoes. And yes, that place. Come on, it'll be fun."

She said this last bit with a hint of a whine in her voice and I sighed. Living with an actress and self-proclaimed nerd, I knew I was in for a show if I refused. I also figured she had it all planned out, down to her jewelry, make-up, hair, and outfit.

Her outfit!

"You're planning on dressing up, ain't you?"

"Yeah, but honey, you don't have to."

"No, Vivien, no way! That's just too much comic book geeky for me. You know that's not my thing."

"Honey, please."

She wrapped her arms around me.

"We can camp and enjoy a weekend away from the city. Besides, don't you wanna get away from all the scares and politics?"

She was right. We'd been on high alert ever since we started exchanging bombs with some navy out in the Mediterranean and the Pacific. Almost every day, the sirens went off, announcing the impending arrival of some big weapon or other, but so far, nothing had happened except a lot of bad traffic and angry people.

A trip sounded pretty good, actually.

"Fine. We can go. When is this supposed to happen?"

"Well, it ends next weekend, so we can go this weekend or the last one."

"Okay, we can go this weekend then, I guess."

She pulled my head down and gave me a deep kiss. I figured that made it a pretty good deal.

When she stopped, she went to the other room, grabbed her phone, and started chatting to Janie. I sighed, sat on the couch, and flipped the TV back on, changing it over to the sports channel.

"Tom!"

Vivian burst back in the room.

"You wanna go camping? They have a campsite there."

She really was cute. I smiled at her.

"That sounds like a good plan."

So a few days later, we took off on the five-hour drive down to the middle of nowhere where the festival was. Janie and her boyfriend lived only about ninety minutes from there, so they weren't coming until the next day. That meant me and Vivian got to hang out by ourselves that first night, which is something we didn't get to do too often. I might just have a good time, despite all the LARPers I just knew were gonna be hanging around in the trees pretending to be wizards and vampires and elves and Lord knows what else.

The things a normal guy like me does for love.

When we got to the campsite just outside the festival grounds, it was already dark and there weren't really any lights – to help create a more authentic old-timey feel to everything, I thought. In fact, they only had running water and port-a-potties, no plugs for anything. Luckily, we already had our extra batteries, portable burner, and ice chest.

So the first night wasn't too bad. We set up the tent fairly quickly (which we were kinda' proud of) and had a good time trying to start a fire and watching movies on the portable DVD player. There were lots of other little campfires and tents set up, but it was still pretty dark, so I dismissed those shadowy figures holding swords in their hands.

That couldn't possibly be true.

We had a few drinks before we finally passed out on our inflatable queen-size mattress, snuggled up and proud of our time in the 'wilderness.'

The next morning, my girlfriend started getting dressed in her fancy medieval clothes.

"Whoa, hey, honey, I mean, the dress is okay, it's pretty plain. But you don't need that cloak. Or that – what is that? A mug hanging from your belt? And chain-mail jewelry? I didn't know you had a matching bracelet and collar-thingy... and in rainbow chainmail!"

"Honey, this is what you wear to the festival."

"Yeah, well I'm wearing this here t-shirt and these jeans. And my baseball cap."

She pouted at me.

"You're going to feel weird once you get there and everyone starts looking at you."

"Well that's just too bad, 'cause I ain't wearing anything else. And you need to take off that cloak. It's too much. And the ears."

"How about this? What if you at least wear a black t-shirt and those dark jeans you bought with boots, and I'll just carry my cloak."

"And the ears."

It was kinda' mean, but geez, they were tacky.

"Okay. But you change now."

So I grumbled, but did what she asked while she packed away her precious ears again and slung her cloak off.

"Is that a dagger?"

She started laughing at my face. I admit, I couldn't help myself, so I started laughing, too.

I grabbed her hand, gave her a quick kiss, and we left our tent.

And entered a whole new world.

Everywhere I turned, people were wearing cloaks and chainmail and leather vests. They were doing swordfights in-between tents, and I know I saw some people cooking stuff on a spit.

And we hadn't even gotten inside.

I was getting a little scared.

We got our tickets, one for "milady" and one for myself.

"I hope thou have a pleasant day, milord."

What? I'd have to listen to fake accents all day... bad fake accents? I couldn't believe I let myself get dragged to this place. I mean, these people were really serious about this whole medieval get-together. My girl was right... I kinda' felt outta place in my jeans – but I sure as hell wasn't gonna admit that to her.

Plus I'd never wear a cloak.

This had to be love, 'cause why else would I go there?

So we got in and the place was packed with people. There were a lot of nerdy geeks with glasses walking around in fake suits of armor and oversized mugs of beer. Who were they kidding? They'd fall over if they drank that much. And knights with glasses? Oversized, hipster glasses?

And the women...

Well I gotta be honest. The Ren Fest might be the best place ever to watch some good cleavage going on. Don't get me wrong, my girl is pretty stacked, but some of the women were just exploding out of their corsets or dresses.

Tell you what, after I got myself one of those big mugs, I started to relax. Everything just started to be funny to me. The guys in the hot metal hats and the women wearing wings – it was like Halloween, only a lot hotter outside. Since Vivian was having a great time shopping, I figured I could keep having me some real cold beers.

We finally stopped for some turkey legs and Vivian's phone rang.

"Hello? Janie! Where are you? We've been here for a few hours already... What? Wait, wait, slow down. What happened... uh-huh... okay... are you kidding? Fine, fine, no, I understand. Just call me if something else happens, okay? Okay, bye."

She hung up, looking both puzzled and frustrated.

"Where are they?"

"I don't think they're gonna be able to come today. There was some big thing on the news and everyone's trying to leave town – which means there are tons of car accidents and traffic is pretty much at a standstill."

"So what do you wanna do?"

"I dunno, but man, honey, I was so looking forward to hanging out with Janie."

She let out a big dramatic sigh. That's my girl.

"I guess we can just keep shopping and go see some of the shows."

"Alright, sounds good."

So we hung out for a few more hours and saw the sights. We were just thinking about leaving when we heard a commotion. We walked towards this group of people just in time to catch the end of a conversation.

"...and then the phone just cut off. And now I can't get a hold of anyone."

"So you're saying that somebody actually fired on us?"

"Yeah, and.."

"Look everyone!"

Some guy was standing on a table and pointing south.

We all turned our heads just in time to see this huge glow light up the sky, like a giant firework had gone off.

"Oh no," Vivian whispered. "That can't be what I think it is."

But it was. A bomb.

The news started to spread and I thought people might start panicking. Instead, these weirdoes started to look excited! Several of them took out their swords and started taking imaginary swipes at the air. Some of the vendors started offering to sharpen daggers and other metallic things. These people with bows – some of them very wimpy looking – started bragging that they be the ones to act as lookout.

But Vivian and I just stood there, clinging to each other in shock.

A little while later, a large man stood on a nearby table. He was nearly seven feet tall with a huge chest, wearing nothing but leather pants, some armbands, and these two chest straps with swords in them.

I admit, he was pretty badass-looking.

"Attention everyone. We are holding a meeting in the tourney area. Please make your way there and sit on the bleachers."

"Should we go, Tom?"

"I don't think we have any other choices."

We started walking to the big stadium where they had been pretending to have knights in armor race at each other on big horses. Soon we were in the middle of a large crowd of people, but things were still pretty calm, if loud.

When we got to the stadium, it was already getting pretty full.

"Front or back, Vivian?"

"Front. I wanna hear what they have to say. And if we need to get out, it'll be easier from there."

That's my girl, sexy and smart.

We snagged two of the last seats in front. About ten minutes later of sitting and listening to the growing crowd whispering uneasily, several people came out to the middle of the field – riding horses.

Yeah, I was in hell.

Then the guy on the all white horse rode to front and center and started talking to us through a friggin' megaphone.

"Lords and ladies, gentlemen and damsels, maids and knights, and assorted creatures from other lands. I am sorry to inform you all that the end is nigh and we may be all that is left."

Some guy in the crowd – who was wearing jeans I saw – interrupted the ridiculous speech.

"Hey man! We're not in some stupid movie. Talk real to us."

The guy on the white horse looked a little shocked, like he was surprised we weren't all into his fake accent and weird way of speaking. Plus, he needed to get to the damn point.

Another guy – not on a horse – came and stood next to the wannabe knight guy. The dude looked really old and he was wearing a cape with cowboy boots and spurs.

"Look, folks, I know some of you heard some crazy things earlier and we all saw the flash in the distance. Well, turns out there was a bomb let off in the city. We should be safe here, the wind is blowin' away from us and all, but it might not be a good thing to leave."

He stopped to take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from his head. I saw his hands were trembling.

"See, turns out the bombs pretty much hit all the big cities. We got no electricity and cell phones aren't getting through to anyone."

The murmuring in the crowd stopped abruptly, cut off as if someone had just splashed our collective faces with cold water.

"But see here, folks, it ain't all that bad."

What was the crazy old man talking about?

"We got us a pretty nice set up here, and we think we'll be able to support ourselves for a while, considering all the skills you people have. We called this here meeting to start organizing ourselves into groups for food, shelter, and defense, if you know what I mean. So we'll be over here and sortin' people into lines if you wanna start coming forward. How's that sound?"

I looked at Vivian in shock, but she was leaning forward, watching people start heading out to the field. I could tell she was thinking real hard, so I leaned back and closed my eyes.

It was the frigging apocalypse!

I so needed another beer.

It was getting dark and since the lights were out – 'cause somehow I hadn't noticed all the electricity before – volunteers started lighting torches (which I guess really are just hanging around the festival). And since communications were cut, there wasn't anyone we could call. We really were stranded.

I gotta admit, it was a pretty dark moment.

But then I realized something amazing.

We were in the middle of the friggin' Ren Fest! Do you understand what that means? Those people knew everything about surviving. I mean, these people had swords, chainmail, cloaks, daggers – the whole bit. They knew how to survive in the wild and makes clothes and beer and crap. As a matter of fact, when the whole thing went down, they were in the middle of roasting an animal over a spit! I mean, I didn't even have to miss a meal.

And I had my girl with me, so you know, I had all my needs taken care of. We even had a tent waiting for us.

"Vivian!"

She turned to me, surprised to see me smiling.

"Honey, I just figured it out."

"Figured out what?"

"It may be the end of the world as we know it, but we're together AND we're in the best place possible for it."

She blinked at me.

I leaned over and kissed her.

"Come on. Let's go see what we can do."

I stood up, took her hand, and went to stand in line.

Now, I wasn't any kinda' cook or swordsman, but I was pretty handy with a hammer. And my girl was pretty good at learning anything new. Life was gonna be tough, but that's life. And I may've been surrounded by a buncha chainmail-wearing, LARPer geeks, but I had to admit, they sorta had it going on, especially after the bombs killed microwaves, computers, and the sports channel.

Yeah, they grew on me.

So here's what I learned. In case of another apocalypse or earthquake or volcano or some other disaster, do the right thing - save the nerds!

You're totally gonna need them.

### ~*~

### Memory Farm

By

### Robert Neyland

Charlie was a baby boomer. And the memories he had of his grandfather were very faint. Only what the old codger had offered up in family settings or relegated to brownish tinted, tattered photographs of a bygone era; old cars, old clothes and old ideas. He had no recollection of his great grandfather, less than faint descriptions of an almost mythical and certainly forgotten character. He was a baby boomer though, and most of them had few memories of any great grandparents. It was different for those born after the 21st century in the US. By that time society was well into a rapid disintegration and young men and women were making children by mistake, as an afterthought. And because they made babies and moved on to other, selfish interests, there were lots of children born in the early 21st who might have known their great grandfather, but in all reality almost would never encounter them in this lifetime. But, he was a baby boomer and he did have a smattering of memories about his father.

It was in the early 21st century when those memories ended. A lot of things ended then. The world began to change. At first, it was just weird changes, but then things got darker. At one time in history, the world citizens had their own ethnic culture and sense of, well for lack of a better word - morality. True, there were dictators, injustices, and evil. There always had been. But at one time, the world citizens had culture as well. Technology only aided the evil that had always been present. The darkness manifested itself in economic control of all the masses by a select few. The effort was further supported by the elimination of privacy and a determined effort to eliminate individualism or free thinking by consumerism and societal values determined by Government Media.

In the early 21st century any free thinker or one of artistic expression was singled out; not by any thought out mechanism, but by a tide of lies and propaganda. George Orwell wrote 1984 in 1949 and in 1984, his story had materialized, but very few took notice. Even then control of ideas and memories were being integrated.

Most of the music in the 80's really sucked. He was a baby boomer. He grew up in the last true artistic era that the US would experience. The music would never be better. Even in the early 21st century, the music of the 60's & 70's lived on. But he did have memories of his father. And in those dark times those memories shined like beacons in the night, After the Great Fall and even before, many people around the world and across the US had lost their houses, their hopes and their families. It was all a part of a plan, whether realized or not that would put total control in the hands of a few.

The depopulation movement had gained hold and the concept of an "individual" was looked down on. Things got darker, and there was no one to look to for help, no one to share experiences with. The Daily Screen had replaced all that. Charlie had even wondered in the early 21st century when the first generation of "smart phones" had been marketed if they were really such a good idea. Social media and workplace applications took away the interaction that humans were used to. It was s very subtle developmental engineering tool that was " _just the way things happened_ ".

Charlie sometimes felt like John, the Savage from _Brave New World_. Nobody that he knew had ever actually read the book, they had seen the synopsis in older versions of the outlawed Wikipedia site that was removed and replaced by the Governmental Media Services tab on the Daily Screen.

Charlie had heard about the Memory Farm and was intrigued by the idea. Because of classification and age he was assigned to the Governmental Agricultural services building, He would never have the opportunity to even enter the building, but the thought became an obsession. He was very depressed when he was first assigned to the Governmental Agricultural services building and even though he was required to receive the Feel-a-reel anti- depressant in his daily water ration. Something had changed in him, in his way of thinking, the day he saw the tulips open.

It was an act of rebellion that had afforded him the opportunity to linger in the growth pods late one day as the work day had ended. The signal had gone off and all the workers had started to return to the atrium to return their tools and return to their living stations, but Charlie lingered. Something about the light on the leaves around the center, right near the bulb. And as he waited, the light shined ever so lightly and the whole plant burst forth in light. And he actually saw the bulb open, so small, but yet so sure. He was never the same after that. He was staring do intently, he remained oblivious to the cessation signal and it was only when two Class 3 attendants had physically grabbed each arm that his concentration was taken off the blooming flower.

They grabbed him roughly and made some crude remarks about his mental state, but Charlie was completely oblivious. He had just had a revelation so powerful, an epiphany so strong, so life changing, so inspiring, that he would never be the same. It was then, at that moment that his fascination with the Memory Farm was fueled and he starting desperately trying to remember anything at all about his father.

All night long Charlie wondered, imagined and visualized what the Memory Farm contained. It was like adrenaline was pumping through his veins and despite the fact that it was almost dawn, Charlie felt as alive as a teenager preparing for his first date. And with the musings and wondering a more desperate scenario was being realized in Charlie's head – how to get into the Memory Farm.

He realized the ramifications when he would be caught – isolation chamber, Electro therapy or perhaps even death. But after witnessing the tulips opening, nothing really mattered anymore. Perhaps it was the connection of blooming, birth and the relentless curiosity about his father that had given action to this obsession.

As dawn quickly approached, Charlie had conceived his plan. And nothing, not even death would deter him. He mentally visualized each step of his plan, rehearsing it over and over. After breakfast he would be taken to the atrium to begin work .On Fridays only one attendant would be there as the rest of the work crew were dispatched to the fruit and vegetable processing warehouse. It was really against Charlie's nature, but he planned to hit the attendant from behind with a garden implement, take his uniform and I.D. chip and enter the Memory Farm. What would he find? How soon would he be discovered and how quickly would he die? It really didn't matter. It was as if the witnessing the tulip blossom brought him to life, it erased the mind programming and set his spirit free.

After breakfast, Charlie followed his plan to perfection. Beating the attendant to death was invigorating to Charlie. He was so tired and crushed over how his life had become that murder wasn't a fear or concern. As he approached the entrance to the Memory Farm he slipped the I.D. chip into the scanner port and _Whoosh_! The door opened promptly. He went into the main hall; thousands upon thousands of what looked like viewing stations lined the walls. Charlie quickly entered the first station. With no idea of how to access the equipment Charlie sat motionless, and slowly and quietly he began weeping. Thoughts about his father flooded his mind.

After a moment he looked at the bottom of the screen and saw a pad that looked like it might be a place for a fingerprint. Could it really be that simple? He reached down and placed his finger on the pad. All of a sudden a myriad of numbers and codes flashed across the screen. Flashing almost seemingly at the speed of light the numbers finally stopped. The background screen went from deep purple to a greenish hue and then Charlie saw his name flash on the screen: CHARLES EVANS ID# 37375.

Charlie felt a lump in his throat and the tears continued as the screen faded to a lighter sepia tone Charlie's whole life was documented. A combination of what looked like home movies and Government surveillance video sped forward, and at one point Charlie recognized him and his dad playing. He fumbled for the controls and somehow the screen frame went into slow motion. Charlie was six years old and he and his dad were playing chase in the park. It was fall and the leaves were lazily drifting to the ground. They were both laughing and running. His dad caught up with him and hugged him and they fell on the ground in laughter.

Tears streamed down Charlie's face. He wept profusely, and then, as the attendants placed the immobilizer into Charlie's neck, his tears stopped.

### ~*~

### Behind These Eyes

By

### C. M. Bratton

Did they ever look up and really expect to see us when we dropped down in our ships, the clouds boiling away from the heat of our engines? Did they know it was time for their end? When did they realize they were dying? Did any of them wonder if we had a choice? Could we have passed them by, living securely on this luminous blue sphere shining alone in the empty waste of their galaxy?

And the survivors. What makes them so defiant, still, so full of the belief that there is a reason to keep living, keep trying, keep defying their captors? We have no words in our language for this useless emotion, what they call "hope." Don't they understand that they've already lost, as we nearly did, until we learned to be as hard and cold as our conquerors? Until we forgot remorse and compassion, decisively annihilating those hated ideals from our very DNA in favor of survival at any cost? Including the destruction of an entire world, of millions of species, of another sentient life form – a rarity in this expanding and mostly dead universe.

Do they know we'd destroy their world to keep ours alive?

~*~

I stopped reading and took a deep breath, my heart pounding away inside my chest. I looked back down and stared at the transcription, interspersed under the translation I could see unfolding behind my eyes. How I could read and understand it, I didn't know. But more importantly, I didn't know why it had been given to me.

Cars rolled past me, oblivious as I sat on the park bench. The sky above was tranquil and pale blue, the grass waving gently in the spring wind. A perfect day, I'd thought.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to erase the words printed there.

Did I hold a history – or a prediction?

Unable to take "reading" any more of the alien script, I rolled it up into a diminutive cylinder and slid it back in its case, which looked like a cross between a cigar holder and a leather case for glasses. Only instead of leather, it was made out of some metallic material that caught and reflected light in such a way as to make the object mostly invisible to ordinary eyes. Which mine were, or had been. I closed my eyes and leaned back, replaying the pictures of last night in my mind in an effort to erase the golden script flowing behind my eyelids.

I'd been woken up just a few hours before dawn. My stomach was clenched in a tight knot and there had been a pressure banding my head, more tightly than any migraine I'd ever experienced. I opened my eyes at that point, but was unable to see the dim light that usually filtered through the curtains of my window.

Palms sweaty, I made as if to get up, but a voice I felt more than heard said, "Shh."

I froze, my body breaking out into goose bumps even as my lungs caught mid-breath. A moment of heart pounding terror passed, and then suddenly, it was gone. The pressure left and the room brightened again. The outline of the window reappeared. I shakily managed to sit up, but as I started to move my hand, a shock of cold fire blazed in my palm. I let out a small shriek of pain and clutched my hand to my chest, but even as I did, the burn faded to a cool ache. As I unclenched my fist, I felt the shape of a cold cylinder just longer than my hand and half as wide. I tried to see it in the dim light, but only its slight weight was discernible.

I'd lit every light in my little apartment and spent the rest of the early morning either pacing or staring at the thing I'd left sitting in the center of my bed, as if peering at it would make it easier to see or explain its presence.

By late morning, the sun streaming through the edges of the curtain, I'd made no decisions, so I'd chosen to come to the park and go for a jog to clear my head. But before I could so much as start stretching, I'd felt a cold burn flash momentarily in my hand. It was immediately followed by a cylindrical shape, my hand somehow clasped around it.

That's how I came to be sitting on a bench in the middle of a mild Texas afternoon. I could hear lots of people passing me, laughing and enjoying the mild temperature – a rarity for the end of spring. I allowed myself a moment to feel envious at their carefree chatter, knowing I had been the same as them less than a day before.

I sighed and opened my eyes. I dropped them down to my hand, where the object sat immobile, utterly foreign and wrong. Some... being... had visited last night, in some form or other, and left me the scroll I'd so gingerly opened less than an hour before.

And I had no idea what to do with it.

I got up, unable to stay still and unwilling to keep reading.

I needed help. And there was only one conspiracy theorist I knew who would believe me.

I pulled out my battered cell phone, scrolled through my contacts, and punched the number.

A familiar, lively voice quickly answered the ring, greeting me with warmth.

"Hey! It's been forever."

"I need to see you."

"Whoa. What's the problem?"

"Something only you can help me with."

His voice changed, immediately lowering and becoming quite serious.

"What're we talking about? Level 4 outbreak? Asteroids? Natural disaster?

"No. Worse."

He paused, and I could practically see his brain whirling as it processed that short statement.

"Level 10, code red, end of the world, huh?"

I waited, letting my silence speak for me. I'd always ignored his crazy ideas and belief in all things weird, fantastic, and geeky. So he had to know something big had happened.

"Okay. Where are you? I'm on my way."

"No, not here. I'm at the park and it's too public. Do you have someplace secure, but not your house? Uh, you know, off the grid?"

"Yeah. Got it. I'll come pick you up and we'll head over there."

"Okay."

"Be there in twenty."

He hung up and I took a deep breath of air. It was then that I felt the cold burning in my hand. The container was back.

And now I could feel it pulsing in sync with my heartbeat.

The clock was ticking.

~*~

We keep a few survivors – to study, to dissect, to learn. We do this so that we can stay stronger than they. Sometimes they try to learn about us, try to communicate, to befriend us or ask for help, for mercy.

They can't comprehend they are what we used to be – weak.

Even more important is that they don't understand what they will become, as we once were: a remnant. Survivors of a world hanging on by gossamer streams of cosmic wind.

~*~

A horn honked, pulling me out of the words flickering behind my eyes. My head ached and my hand was starting to throb. The scroll dropped out of my hands.

"Okay, get in."

I opened the door, ignoring the scroll where it lay on the ground.

I knew it'd be back.

"Hello Fabian."

"Hello Paulie."

I frowned at him, but he just laughed. Most of my friends just called me Lana, short for Paulana. But not Fabian. He'd always insisted on being different.

Fabian took off from the curb with a squeal.

"Where we going?"

"To my secret hideout."

I turned to him in surprise.

"You have a what?"

"A safe house, really, up by the lake, so about an hour away. It's completely protected from government hackers and satellite tracking. It's also got a state-of-the-art security system I designed."

"You never told me about this."

"It wouldn't be completely secure if I told anybody."

I looked over at his familiar floppy brown hair and thick glasses, his eyebrows creased in concentration and he drove.

"So why tell me now?"

He took a quick glance at me. His bright green eyes were, as always, startling.

"You said level 10, code red. This is what the house was built for. I can break the rules for that."

I smiled at him.

"Thank you."

We rode along a few more minutes until we hit the highway.

"Okay. Tell me."

So I told him everything that had happened since last night. He stayed quiet the entire time. It took longer than I expected, as I kept stopping to look down at my hands, waiting apprehensively for the alien scroll to reappear, hard and metallic, into my hand. Because inevitably as I wound down, he asked the question I'd been waiting for since I first called him.

"So where is this alien scroll?"

"I, uh, dropped it at the park."

He was silent for a few moments.

"We're almost there."

This surprised me, because I thought he'd laugh at my claims or at least insist on going back to retrieve the cylinder, but he did none of that. Instead, he turned his car onto a small track that led to the north side of the lake, which was, as far as I knew, uninhabited. We drove right up to a clump of brush that was completely impassable.

"Fabian?"

"It's okay, Paulie. Just wait."

He then shifted the car into park, jumped out, and strode straight towards the green wall. He reached his hand out, made some motion, and suddenly the entire middle section started moving, making an opening just large enough for his little car to get through.

He turned and walked back to the car.

"What? How did you... there's no way you could disguise a gate there. I can see right through that."

He smiled to himself as he put the car in gear.

"It's not a fence. That's too easy to track. Instead, I looped a series of counter weights in the shape of rocks and branches across that section. I then designed a sort of key made of interwoven silk – to look like a rather thick spider web – that activates the counter weights when I pull them in a certain pattern. It took me about a year to get it all together."

I was speechless as we passed through, for I could see no evidence that there was anything man-made about the gate.

After we passed through, he repeated the procedure in reverse, and the wall closed behind us. We then drove forward towards a tumble of rocks.

"Fabian – are you Batman?"

He laughed at me in his quiet way.

"No, Paulie. But this is pretty close to a bat cave."

He pulled the car up to the outmost rock and just before we ran into it, he swerved sharply left and wedged it under an outcropping.

"See, it's completely invisible from three sides."

"Wow. So, how do we get out?"

He slanted me a mischievous look.

"We climb."

So saying, he opened the sunroof and easily popped himself through the top. With a sense of surrealism, I unbuckled my seatbelt and followed him, though with a bit more struggle. He slid forward off the car towards a black recess in the rock. I followed suit.

"You ready?"

"Yeah."

He bent down and reached under the edge of the wall. His muscles contracted and suddenly the ground slid back to reveal a narrow hole. He fiddled at something then stood back.

"There you go."

It was a rope ladder, which he had unbound and let fall down.

"Are you kidding me?"

"You first, Paulie-girl."

I shot him a glare but he just chuckled, so I started down. It did not go down very far, so it only took a few minutes to reach the bottom. As my feet touched the ground, a dim light flickered on. I looked around in interest, but before I could do more than register a round room, Fabian dropped down beside me. I turned to ask him how he built this place, but as I opened my mouth, a familiar cold swept my through my hands and I fell unconscious.

~*~

We broke our chains and we destroyed our oppressors. We embraced rage.

And when we returned to our home, we found broken bodies and spirits, broken ground and empty oceans. We swore to rebuild our planet.

No matter what and who we broke in turn.

~*~

Soft hands shook me, snapping me out of my faint.

"Paulie?"

I tried to open my eyes to reassure him, but the words I were reading didn't want to let me go, trying to push me down under again. I tried to raise my hands, but they were clutched tightly around the cold cylinder.

Then I understood.

I gave in, and relaxed. In that bare instant before surrendering, I whispered, "My hands."

Fabian immediately reached toward me and his warmth closed around the scroll.

~*~

However, though there is no remorse and compassion left in my DNA, still there is exhaustion. That was never erased. I am exhausted from spending all this life trying to stop potential threats. Haven't we traveled far enough? Eradicated enough species similar to our own, satisfied our aggression enough to finally return to our world, which is alive again. Aren't we safe enough?

We have visited what we once considered atrocities on hundreds of worlds. We have erased harmonious and advanced societies, many for whom war was naught but a myth. We have fought because we now know nothing else, cannot understand our own histories.

I fear that we have lost sight of our original intent. We know nothing else now but to search and to destroy. We have lost the way of peace.

Yet we deserve little mercy. Even now, through my exhaustion, I feel no remorse for the thousands I've killed. For the cries I've silenced. I cannot feel that which was taken from me without consent ages before I was conceived.

Still, there is a weight I carry behind these eyes that tells the tale of what I've seen and shows what paths I might have chosen. Therefore, I write this now hoping that perhaps, if some world were told, were warned, they might prepare. Might be ready to fight us, to convince us that the cost is not worth the price. That our lives, as few as we are, are worth so much more. Perhaps then we might realize that we need to return home, and destroy no others.

But I've not the power for that.

And so this message is for a journey of one... and it may not be enough.

We are coming. We will show no mercy. We will not stop. All within our sight will die.

Fight.

No... stay out of sight. There is no defense, for you have not the technology to find us.

Save whom you can, for you have no more time than the fleeting revolution of your planet around your sun.

I will do no more.

~*~

I woke up, the indigo lines fading from behind my eyes. I felt Fabian stirring next to me, his body also prone on the floor. His hands encircled mine, and I knew that he'd read the message with me, his touch somehow enabling him to see what I saw.

I turned my head to face him and read the sadness in his eyes. Tears came to mine as well and in an instant we were holding each other.

The alien scroll was both a history and a warning.

"There's not much time, is there?"

"No."

"Should we tell the government?"

He was silent for a long time.

"Yes, but..."

"But we should also tell whoever we can."

I sat up and stared at the cylinder. It lay, inert, finally warmed by the heat of my body. It was spent, its message given.

"Who will believe us?"

Fabian sat up next to me.

"Only those who choose to listen and believe."

I nodded slowly.

"We will become the remnant."*

"What?"

"It was part of the earlier message. They were remnants of a time when their own world was nearly destroyed. He was telling us... not to do what they did. Because their people really are gone. What is left now is... what destroyed them. In their effort to be strong, they forgot what they were. And now they truly are no more."

Fabian looked away. I grabbed his arm and forced his faced towards me.

"But we will be the remnant that remembers, that passes on, that stays true. Don't you understand? He, or whatever it was, was trying to give us an alternative to a new beginning. In his own way, he was trying to bring us hope."

We sat there in silence, feeling the absent presence of the alien in the space between us.

~*~

I was discovered returning to my ship, but it is of no import.

We are a proud race. We do not yield. We do not forgive. We do not fear. Therefore, I go now to my death, facing it proudly. I would rather end this way than participate in the newest genocide of yet another inferior species.

For we will be there soon.

It is fitting that my own kind should destroy me for what they perceive to be cowardice, which is punishable by death according to our laws. Yet better they believe that than understand my true intent.

We are a lost people, eaten away by the bitterness of long eons spent roaming the frozen, hostile universe, one galaxy at a time, never stopping, never submitting, never loving.

And never truly living.

We no longer fight to keep our planet alive; we fight because we know no other way.

This is why, despite my combat fatigue, the urge to destroy still burns within me - even as I understand how we have deceived ourselves.

Thus, I deny myself any true satisfaction of death in combat. Instead, I will firmly close my eyes one final time. In this absolute way, I may finally find my rest.

### ~*~

### 1. Inside the Light, Outside of Time

By

### C. M. Bratton

It began with flickering lights. No one was truly bothered until the lights grew weak and sickly. Then the air itself changed. A haze of yellow and rust began as fog, and then grew until it eclipsed the sky. Noon became dusk, and dusk became moonlit night, and night itself became abyss. No more healing sun. No more mystery-filled moon.

Soon, there were puddles everywhere. Moisture was held in by the haze. The ground soaked and saturated until the earth could bear no more. Instead, it gave birth to millions of tiny lakes and seas – all still and solemn, resisting tides and currents of any kind.

And then time stopped. All the clocks died. It was as if, on that precipice of looming consequence, the world was put in a sealed vacuum while time spun its unendingly complex threads just outside those translucent glass walls. Breath was held, dreams were paused. Life...waited.

One day, the quiet settled in. There were already no ticking clocks, but worse, suddenly there were no singing birds or swarms of buzzing insects. No calls of cicadas or brushes of butterfly wings. No passing ladybugs for luck or bees sticky with honey from their hives. Not even any cries of lost kittens or whimpers of hungry dogs. Perhaps they were cowering under covers and chairs, hiding behind feet and tucked into trembling arms, seeking comfort in familiar scents that still, somehow, said make no sound. Silence ruled, uncontested. And fear filtered out, drowning out joy, leaving only hollow, relentless, deceptive hope.

When noise returned, it held the tones of the acrid grumble of the earth, testing the endless layers of atmosphere above, changing position without warning. It shifted and broke, ignoring the chaos it caused, pushed by movement deep below that only it could feel. It shifted, seeking to settle down into itself, trying to adjust to the strangeness deep in its belly.

But no one spoke to the earth. Instead, people poured out of their homes and storm shelters, heedless of the harsh air and flashes of light. Out was better than in, up was preferred over down, go was better than stay.

They streamed out by the thousands, eerily silent save for gasps fighting the heavy humid air and faint cries of hastily shushed children. They headed for the hills and mountains, hoping they'd pick one that was dead because all the sleeping ones were waking up, just like the layers of earth beneath the cities. But surely – surely – there was at least one stretch of ground still safe enough.

Life turned into a surreal survivor's camp as everyone waited to hear something from someone, anyone. Someone had to know. The government, the media, the lawmakers, the hackers – they had to have answers. Why was the earth erupting? From where had the haze come? Why had the lights flickered and nearly died? What day was it? What season? When would time resume?

But when news finally arrived, they learned to regret that last question.

Word came in the form of a battery-powered radio when, on a day identical to the one before, the worn knob was switched on yet again by grubby, desperate fingers that tensed in surprise when a voice actually rolled out.

" – and so, much to our sorrow, there's little to be done. We have no promises we can make. This may in fact be the last broadcast for the foreseeable future, if indeed, there is any future left. We can only offer suggestions – stick to high ground and move upwind and away from any distant lights or sounds of explosions, because it is likely that yet another bomb has been triggered. We do not know yet who or what placed these destructive devices deep inside the earth, nor what has triggered them, because, according to our limited sources, they appear to be exploding on every continent on the planet. Sadly, we have no way of knowing if they will continue until the ground is completely broken and we are all swept away. We can only hope and pray that –"

The radio cut off, sharp and jagged in the silence. Ripples spread outward, as heads turned and hands gripped each other. Nothing else was said, or needed, in that moment. For those who were too far away to hear the radio, the news was read in other ways – bowed heads, clenched jaws, streaming tears, shaking fingers, covered eyes – their worst fears reflected in every face shining dully in the dim yellow–tinged red light. And they knew in that moment that it was nothing good, nothing to inspire hope.

But hope they did – clinging even more desperately to distant, unpromising, unrelenting hope. As days bled one into the other and they learned to live apart from time - with no way to gauge the setting of the sun or the passing phases of the moon - still they believed, in some way, that something would come and rescue them. That they would survive.

Until the day they saw the light.

It began with an eerie glow that warmed each uplifted countenance in the same way that dawn might gently kiss a face. Many people thought at first that the clouds were clearing away, that the ugly, pollution-filled miasma of murky vapor and mist was giving up its grip on the ground and the sky. They didn't question why – didn't want to question why. Lit by hope, they pushed out all remembrance of reason.

The light also allowed people to gaze across distances that had been previously hidden, to see the hillsides and slopes dotted with countless blurry faces, all turned and raised upward towards the growing glow. They believed – knew, even – that they were not alone, that the hope of so many people could turn solid and hard, a shield to wield against the dark, a force to push away the haze and bring back time.

But... the soft orange color turned lurid red... and then cold blue. Instead of gently touching the hands raised toward it, the light began to burn. People started to scream in fear and pain as realization flashed through their minds and faces and bodies - much too slowly, much too late – turning hope into ash. Even so, as one entity, the mass of people turned and began to run, trying to get away, remembering belatedly that any light at that point was the enemy.

The ground began to fight them, shaking and tumbling them to their hands and knees, piling bodies on top of bodies, readying them for the end. Some of them evaded the flailing piles of limbs, but a wind started, hot and invasive. Like the ground, it pushed and screamed and tore through the running remnants.

Then they lit up.

For some unknowable instant in that space outside of time, they lived inside the light. They became lit from within, shining, floating. They lived inside the light – magnificent, awed. They were glorious...

But the glass finally shattered their sheltered vacuum, and time rushed back in. They were filled to the brim, bursting with heat and wind and lightning. They could see the bones in their hands, could see inside that cold white light to the red flowing through their bodies... just before they turned into smoke. But for the barest sliver of awareness, they were blissful. Beautiful.

They died before smiles could even finish forming on their faces. But there was no pain. No more fear. There was no time for that.

Just simple release.

It was the end, but they met it with joy.

### ~*~

### 2. Lifetime in a Moment

By

### C. M. Bratton

There were, of course, some who turned away from the light. They were connected to the slightest tremors in the ground, the kind that vibrated deep in the bones and stayed there, a constant hum that jarred teeth and knees. They were the ones who kept part of their focus always on the subsonic vibration, waiting for it to change, knowing what it heralded. Readying themselves for the inevitable, knowing that no matter how much they begged and pleaded with others to listen, they would in the end stand alone, because they had the instinct – and the will – to survive.

They were just people who wanted to live.

The rest of the world chose to call them survivalists, or those who were a little bit _touched_ in the head, preparing for an imaginary apocalypse as the world spiraled around the sun and civilizations rose and fell.

They were the ones who had decided subconsciously to prepare, early on, before anything was truly _wrong_ with the earth. They dug bunkers and built homes on oceans and invested in solar and wind power. They grew their own gardens and became self-sufficient, devoured books and television shows alike that taught them how to live in the wilderness, how to be less dependent on the luxuries of a technologically advanced civilization, how to be independent and prepare for their world's end. They learned how to live without.

They were the ones who streamed into the mountains the moment the lights began to flicker, who nodded sagely when the skies changed and time faded away, eyes roving over their supplies and mentally taking note of everything that was left. They established base camps and rudimentary villages capable of moving at a moment's notice, using their knowledge of history and previous civilizations to re-create some type of safe haven in a world shadowed and eerie, bereft of its seasons.

They didn't wear chainmail or play with swords. They didn't change their manner of dress and speak with a different cadence. They didn't eschew the culture they knew for one they had seen painted in a thousand movies. They didn't imagine they were part of some grand role-playing event that offered the opportunity to live another, grander pseudo-reality. They didn't pretend anything at all.

They simply prepared. They knew the end was coming, that they would finally be proven right.

And they were terrified.

Eventually, the mountains and wilderness where the survivalists settled started to fill up as people streamed out of the cities, searching for someplace to hide when the ground began shaking ceaselessly, bringing down the solid concrete walls that had sheltered them their whole lives. They fled, ill-prepared, and found others already there. The survivalists, the ones they had mocked. Yet it strengthened the newcomers, strangely stretched hope to find some semblance of society already established.

But for those who had come before, the arrival of the rest of humanity signaled only one outcome...

The day came.

Mere moments - or maybe hours - before the light began, something shifted inside the survivalists, waking them up, filling them with urgency. They tried to wake those they loved, tried to pull them up, to beg and plead with them to stand, to leave, and to get away. Some responded, moving groggily but willingly, trusting that the other – who'd been right so far – knew what he or she was doing. They stood shakily to their feet, grabbed a nearby pack, and followed, pushed into a staggering jog because there was no time for anything else.

But those were the exceptions. Far too many looked up with dull eyes and exhausted stares. There hope was shriveled, unfair, and drained. They shook their heads and dropped their shoulders in defeat. They turned away from the struggle looming in front of them and looked away, towards the light. It promised rest.

With urgency pounding in their blood and their instincts screaming at them to go, the survivalists could do nothing but give a final kiss or embrace, try to live a lifetime in that final single glance, before they had to turn away, their hearts cleft in two. There was no time to look back.

No time at all, because time had suddenly discovered them.

By the time the light began to bloom in its falsely loving caress, the survivalists had already begun to leave, knowing all that they left behind. They were young and old, men and women, little girls and boys who started running the minute they felt the humming inside their bones begin to intensify. And they understood that the end – this end, their end - had finally arrived. They didn't watch for the light or wait for the sun to pretend to reappear. They chose the dark, hoping it would hide them from the glare of unknown forces that they knew hunted them. As the ground broke behind them, so too did their hearts break deep inside, echoing the destruction of the earth and those trapped by it.

They found boulders and caves and curving slabs of concrete. They hid from the light, tucked their bodies away and under, shuddering from imagined contact. As hours passed and the earth reshaped itself, they wondered if they were all that was left of the once vivid and self-aware mass of humanity. Wondered if it was worth running, worth hiding and burrowing into the dark in an effort to protect themselves from the now brutal light, which no longer offered any quick, comforting end, but rather a slow decay. They cowered and trembled and wondered.

Was anyone else left?

In time, the roars and trembling and crash of falling rock died down. All was strangely quiet – an odd silence, given how silent it had been before the end. It was a silence bereft of the collective breathing of millions. This one inescapable sign of life had been broken and crushed and split into an uncanny absence of any sound at all. True silence.

On the surface.

But underground, trapped and pulled into thousands of distorted, imperfect, irregular holes, the survivors crouched, the sound of their breathing echoing proudly, defiantly, frantically.

And of these, even less crawled and kicked and clawed and sobbed their way out of darkness.

They knew better than to stop, to think, to reflect. They simply kept moving. Their only thought was the belief that they had somehow escaped the devastation.

But they were far from free.

For they knew the end of the world as they knew it was just the beginning of something other, because they'd survived by choosing against the release death offered.

And now there could be no rest.

Over time, survivors emerged – one here, two there, a handful now and again, repeated at intervals. The sun set and night once again raised its true face over a disfigured world. Many faces lifted away from the destruction, searching for the light of the stars they had long been denied.

They had lived two lifetimes already – the easy one and the one they shared in that final glance with those they left behind.

Was there enough in them left for a third?

Above them, in a sky nearly clear and strewn with stars, the moon rose, full and beckoning.

And they knew.

### ~*~

### 3. Whisper in the Darkness

By

### C. M. Bratton

The earth lay split and tangled, slopes canted at impossible angles, swallowing bodies – some dead and some alive.

Down one crevice, a man and woman lay buried under an enormous mound of earth and mud and broken stone. They were still breathing, a narrow channel of polluted air flowing down the side of a cracked boulder through the layers of upset earth into the hollow space that they occupied. How they ended up there, together, bruised but aware, they did not know. Too much had happened too quickly, their senses defeated by the urge to run and the roaring voice of the tearing ground. They were strangers, pushed together by the same harsh, agonizing decision to leave those they loved. Somehow, they'd both fallen – been pulled – down the same hole, into the same dusty chamber. As they lay there, listening to the sound of their heartbeats and gasping breaths, they gradually remembered what they had been running from.

Realization hit. Maybe everyone was dead. Everyone but the stranger next to me, of whom they were only vaguely aware because they became too caught up in the horror of the next thought: Why, they both wondered, had I preferred the chance to live alone than die peacefully with all that I knew?

What kind of world had it become to offer only two irrefutable, unalterable choices: quick oblivion or a long suffering life?

They hadn't really thought to choose, but when the moment came, they had obeyed the commands of their bodies and turned away and fled the killing light.

As they lay in darkness, hearing the thunder become more distant as the ground continued to pile itself around their little cave, they realized they might die anyway. The agony of considering that all their effort had been in vain choked them.

They wanted to live.

Thinking that their air supply might soon dwindle, the woman chose to speak, preferring to die at the side of a friend.

"My name is... Lucia."

There was a pause and Lucia feared the man would not respond. Then she heard scrabbling in the blackness, followed by the feel of his hand clasping hers.

"Evan."

They both smiled then and took several large breaths, convinced each one was the last. When the air didn't run out, they gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep to the sounds of a breaking continent.

Many hours later, Lucia and Evan awoke, hands still tightly clasped. They might have taken a moment to be embarrassed by the intimacy, but they were distracted by how loud the sound of their breathing was.

"Do you think... it's stopped?"

Lucia considered Evan's question, her hand tightening inside his.

"I hope so."

But he wasn't finished.

"How long should we wait to make sure?"

Lucia heard the resolve in his voice. It was the same as that which filled the parts of her not aching with loss.

"I don't know."

Evan thought about his hand curled over Lucia's, about the unspoken question of whether they could even get out. He knew they had to try. But he refused to think of what he'd left behind. Not what, but who, but he didn't allow that thought at all.

Not yet, but soon, he promised himself.

"I'm glad you're here."

Lucia smiled, though he didn't see it, because she realized she wasn't alone after all. But her will to forget was only half-formed. Her smile faded. An image filled her mind, growing larger in the darkness. It was a beautiful picture – large round sparkling eyes and a wide, laughing mouth. A beloved, innocent face.

Her heart constricted inside her and she fought the pain spreading throughout her chest and smothering her with the immensity of her loss. Tears soaked her face, but she didn't try to wipe them away.

Why did I run away? Why did I think we could both make it?

Another question simmered, unspoken even to herself because she didn't know the answer. Not then.

Unable to stand the pain pouring through her, she thought to distract herself and talk to Evan. But the first words out of her mouth were ones she immediately wished she kept inside.

"How many did you leave behind?"

Evan's throat constricted. Lucia, shamed, thought about trying to tell him not to answer, but he surprised himself by answering before she could tell him not to, his voice ragged with suppressed emotion.

"My mother. And my wife. My father we lost at the beginning of the haze."

And still she didn't see it coming.

"You?"

Lucia was quiet for a long time, filling herself up with the memory of a perfect face, expanding her body with the pain of its loss. Finally a whisper slithered out.

"My son."

Evan was silent, thinking of the pain filling the space between them. A quote from a book he'd once read floated through his mind.

"We are born broken... born to die. Now or later, but certainly, one way or the other."

Lucia didn't respond at first, and Evan thought he'd offended her until her voice whispered out of the darkness.

"Are you saying that the choice we made – wasn't wrong? Because if we hadn't died when we were running, then we will here in this cave or some other time?"

"Then, now, when we last got in a car or plane or went to a mall. Maybe from cancer or some other disease. Maybe quickly, and maybe not. But it is going to happen."

"Yes... so here we are, still alive... still broken."

There was little to say after that. They rested a while longer, until, by mutual and subconscious need, they began to feel around the black, confined space, pushing and prodding to see if there was any give in the encircling rock, any yielding of pressure that signaled the possibility of escape.

There was nothing. Only a slim column of air rising up against the split face of a mountainside marred rock enfolding them. But when Evan reached up to the roof, he found it was made of packed dirt that sifted through his hands as he prodded it.

"Lucia, the ceiling is not solid."

She stretched up and was barely able to touch the dusty, packed earth that should have been below her.

"Do you think it will fall on us?"

Evan shrugged, though Lucia couldn't see anything there in the darkness.

"I don't know."

They both slumped down again to think, letting silence back in to fill the small hollow. Lucia's throat immediately tightened as a perfect little face flashed in her mind.

"I didn't just leave him, you know? My son."

Her words didn't surprise Evan. He'd felt them hovering between them since she'd first told him who she'd left. Evan brought his arm around Lucia and held her against his warmth. She pressed her head into his chest, trying to hold back her screams of anguish.

"He was... too heavy. And I fell. I couldn't... find him, couldn't hear his voice anymore. He was gone... and the light started to go white... so I... kept running."

At that, she broke down and began crying. Evan felt tears of his own slide down his cheeks. After several long minutes, Lucia quieted in his arms.

"His name was Fabian. Too big a name for him, but I just knew he'd grow into it."

She sighed, a dry desert inside.

"I was wrong."

Evan felt the strength of her loss resonating inside him; felt him reflecting it back to her, building the air between them with the force of their mutual pain. But if he was going to give in, why had he run in the first place? Why had he left anyone behind?

"Survivor's instinct."

Lucia started.

"What?"

Evan spoke quickly, his words rapid in an attempt to convince himself along with Lucia.

"Instinct. The need to live - it was stronger in you than any other bond you had, even to your own son. Even to my own wife."

Evan took a shuddering breath before the words continued rushing out.

"My mother knew she couldn't make the run, so she told me to leave her behind. But my wife... she didn't believe me. She said we needed to stay in one place. I made a split-second choice, because there wasn't time for more. And now... they're both gone."

Lucia felt his pain echoing hers, his guilt a mirror to her thoughts. She had survived by abandoning the one she loved. What kind of person did that make her?

Yet within her guilt hardened a core of resolve.

Lucia sat up abruptly.

"We didn't escape the bombs or whatever they were just to end up here and die, especially not from our guilt."

Evan moved his head the sound of her voice.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, there must be a reason we're still here. So there's got to be a way out of this."

Evan took a deep breath. And he knew.

"Air!"

"What?"

Evan turned and reached for the crack.

"Air. It reaches to the top. We only need to crawl our way along it."

"But how are we going to do that without burying ourselves?"

"We push the ground around us."

"Around us?"

"Yes. Just think, if we take a foot of earth from above us and place it beneath us, where do we end up?"

"A foot higher!"

"Exactly."

Filled with excitement, Lucia and Evan set to work. It was tricky and exhausting. They took turns at different tasks. If Lucia was digging, then Evan was crouching with his back bracing the small space and patting down the dislodged dirt. If Evan was shifting the dirt, then Lucia was fighting to maintain their hollow. In this way, they burrowed upward, careful to only move one handful at a time, afraid of creating too great a displacement and becoming completely buried.

Slowly, they rose, hour after hour, refusing to quit, filled with purpose, with the certainty that they would see the sky again. And, because they had no way to gauge the passing of hours or minutes, time ceased to have any meaning to them. And without its meaning to guide them, to coerce them into thinking it was time to rest, or time to eat, or time to sleep, they felt freed from some immeasurably burdensome chain that had weighted them down since their earliest memories. Without that weight, their desire to rest, their thirst, their cramped and bent bodies, all became bearable again. Lucia and Evan became stronger because there was no clock organizing their lives and telling them what to feel and when to feel it. Without time to limit them, they had only to trust the beat of their hearts, the length of their inhalations. That was enough.

Still, they paused every now and again to stretch muscles and pop backs, to lay still and simply revel in existing. But never for too long, never enough for the sorrow that darkened them from within to rise up and topple the light of their painstaking ascent. They had lost everything – every loved one – yet still they fought, still they dug and moved and rose. To continue living with the consequences of their choice to run was the only way they could make their sacrifices have true significance.

Thus they scrabbled upwards, handful by handful, covered in dust and scrapes. Sooner than they believed, their timelessness broke when the blackness surrounding them began to lose its intensity as motes of light began to filter down. Perhaps it was the movement of the broken earth that somehow initially pushed them deep inside before reforming around them enough to bring them closer to its surface. However it happened, Lucia and Evan felt a shift in their burden far sooner than they had hoped. Adrenaline returned in a rush and they both began to claw at the ground above them. In a burst of motion, they emerged from their hole into a dimly lit overhang of rock. They lay, exhausted and sore, but victorious nonetheless. Perhaps the end would come now, but they had made it out.

They lay back, breathing in the strange air, unable to tell if, in the midst of the sulfur-tinged smell, it was fresh with hope or regret. But a wisp of flickering light caught their attention. Could that be the sun, they wondered?

Of their own accord, their hands reached for each other, seeking reassurance. Evan and Lucia felt no need to look at each other, to see the face they'd touched in the darkness. They would always know the other, be able to recognize the simple cadences of their voices and the staccato beat of each other's heart. They were bound together in their survival, connected by the thread of their losses, the heartbreak of what they'd deliberately chosen to leave behind when they obeyed their instinct to live, survive, thrive...

Yes, and in their guilt, too, at the fugitive joy surviving brought them.

And though superficial strangers, still they knew each other in that intimate way that brushing death creates. And they were thankful for that voice in the dark because they knew it was better than being completely alone.

How could a face lit by the sky possibly mean more than a whisper in the abyss?

Instead, they lay still; hands entwined, and allowed their labored breathing to ease as exhaustion stole through their limbs. Their bodies gradually quieted. Blood quit rushing through their arms and legs. The strong bass of their heartbeats became soothing tenors. And in that moment, they heard a noise.

It was the sound...of distant screams.

Part of them was stunned and triumphant – there were other survivors. And part of them refused to move just yet.

"Do you hear that? I'm not imagining it, am I?"

"No, I hear it too, Evan."

His name lingered in the thick air between them.

"We should get up, find them, help if we can."

Lucia gave a low, edgy laugh.

"Can we help them?"

Evan immediately understood.

"We can try."

"Yes...yes. I just...I just don't know if I'm strong enough."

They both knew she wasn't referring to her tired body.

"I just...now that we're out, and here, I can't help thinking about him. I know there's no way he survived. When I lost him, when I fell, the air was full of dust from falling rocks. Everyone was screaming. He screamed, too. And now...I know I'll hope every time I look, every scream I hear, I'll wonder if somehow he..."

Evan said nothing for a while, but eventually, he brought her hand up to his chest and lay it flat over his chest.

"Can you feel that?"

"Yes."

"I have the same hopes and fears. You and me, we're the same, which is why I know you know we have to get up. We have to try."

Her hand tightened over his.

"Yes."

With strained and aching muscles, Evan and Lucia rolled over, sat up, and shakily stood. They leaned drunkenly against the other and began walking, still without any need to actually look at each other. They had, after all, learned to move in accord trapped together in the darkness. They emerged from the overhang to see the sun starting to slide down behind the horizon. The sky was almost clear, the haze burned up and gone. The world looked unrecognizable, but Evan and Lucia could see in the familiar rays of the setting sun other figures beginning to emerge from behind boulders and fragmented trees and deep crevices.

Those others were keening in anguish, fear, and pain.

But they, too, had survived.

The survivors stood and watched as the sun set and night raised its true face over a disfigured world.

Lucia and Evan turned to look at each other for the first time, drinking in eyes and noses and lips and cheeks. Weary almost-smiles crossed their faces. Despite everything, they were all alive, just like the two strangers who'd lost everything when they tumbled down the same hole.

Lucia and Evan mourned what they had left behind.

But with every ending comes another beginning.

### ~*~

### 4. Darkness of Mind

By

### C. M. Bratton

Screams haunted him. He tried to pretend he couldn't hear them, but aside from the sound of his breath and distant thuds, the voices continued.

"She was in my way, see. Or maybe I didn't see her. We were just...running, yeah, running, and I was just trying to get away. I didn't mean nothing by it, I didn't know. But it wasn't her anyway. Nah, it wasn't."

Of course, the man didn't believe that, deep down. He knew the truth. His big, burly body still trembled from the impact, still felt the heated imprint of her body pressed against his as the ground buckled and betrayed everyone.

"There was just so much confusion, so much dust and that strange light, and – and – everything was moving. Everyone."

He still refused to remember that there were only a few people near him, that it was only the slightest chance that had allowed his fear-filled flight to cross paths with that of another. He wanted to live, and he obeyed the instinct thrumming through him, telling him to run, run, run.

"I mean, yeah, I pushed her. There, I said it. I did, I pushed her. But I wasn't thinking about pushing her, if you know what I mean. I was just... just... reacting. Something hit me and I threw out my arms."

But he'd known. He'd felt the warmth of her body, heard her whimpering, wheezing breath. Her flesh had caved under the pressure of his out-flung hand as he'd pushed her away, desperate to save only himself, unaware of the loneliness that would set in later, when he sat in the darkness muttering to himself.

Hating the silence, hating the weight of the earth piling on top of him, drowning him beneath its tumbled skin, the man frantically searched his pockets.

"There must be... I kept it in here somewhere... didn't fall out, oh God, no still here..."

His hands encountered a few half-smoked cigarettes that he'd carefully saved, a couple of candy bars, and his flask of rum – mostly empty. All products of his slovenly dress. But finally, his hands found the oblong plastic shape he'd been craving.

The man pulled it out, glee written across his dirty face (had anyone been there to observe, had he not been trapped in utter blackness). He flicked his thumb against it. A tiny, wavering light hung there, illuminating only a small circle, unable to fight the heavy dark that fought to smother it.

But being able to see – see! – even just the knuckles of his dirt-streaked hands calmed him down, sent his heart rate closer to normal. He stared at the flame, at its utter stillness, until his hand began to burn. Reluctantly, he let it go out, and the black terror of his little hole immediately rushed back in, bringing with it the images he so longed to forget.

In the darkness, he heard screams. He tried to tell himself they were the screams of people who'd refused to run away, the ones he'd left behind. And some of them were. But one scream singled him out and bounced around inside his head, echoing, echoing a strangled refrain. It was her scream, the one whose body he still felt pressing against him, challenging him, demanding he give way. His anger flared and he fought against his memory, against the echoes of her final shriek.

"You can't do that to a man, nah, not like that. People always seem to forget that when you're caught in the moment, you forget you're a person. You live on instinct, like an animal, yeah, and, and she was entering my territory, right? So I just reacted. I didn't think, you know, I don't want to hurt no one. I just, you know, didn't want anyone else in front of me. And I really didn't want anyone trying to slow me down – like she did, yeah, oh yeah, she did. I coulda' been a goner."

But no matter how much he talked, he couldn't completely drown out the sound of that one piercing note of horror that had followed him down as the ground crumbled around him. Thirsty and desperate to distract himself, he pulled his flask out and took a sip of rum. It was bitter, the smell strong in the enclosed space in which he found himself, and only made him thirstier. But some warmth settled in his stomach, and he told himself he felt better for having it. Still, his throat was dry so he forced himself to stop talking.

In the silence, the man realized that the distant booms and groans of the earth had fallen silent as well, and he wondered if, were he to begin talking again, the earth would as well. But before that thought had time to settle in, the screams started up again, louder than before, and he groaned with the pain of them, clutching and beating his head in an effort to get them out. Angrily, the man wrapped his hand in an edge of his shirt and flicked on his lighter, hoping the tiny flame would push away the sounds.

Instead, with light cupped faintly in hand, the man decided to explore the space he was in. The slanted roof formed of crushed-together boulders was only a few feet above his head, keeping him from standing upright. With that discovery came the immediate need to stretch his back. He tried to ignore the cramping of his muscles as he studied the walls of the newly-formed cave. They were tilted at crazy angles as well, jagged and accusing. Still, he could spread out his arms and not touch the sides, other than the strange protuberances that rippled and distorted the surface.

The light in his hands again grew too hot to hold, even through the thin material of his shirt. Regretfully, he let it go and the abyss rushed back in, lightless and menacing. The need to stand up grew in him, so he decided to try and lay down. Cautiously, he spread out his legs, but the wall stopped them. He shifted and again, and was met with resistance. Yet a third time he stretched them out and they met – nothing. Surprised, he scrambled up and flicked back on his too-hot light. There was a hole there, a slice of space where the rocks had not quite met, enough for his legs or arms to slide through, but nothing else. He stretched out his arm, the light still held tightly in his fist, flickering with his movement. The man strained his eyes, trying to penetrate the uncompromising darkness, but he couldn't see where the hole went or if it even ended.

He let the light die and withdrew his arm to curl up against the nearest wall. His mind, which had been mostly occupied with grappling the memory of her scream, made an ugly realization. He was trapped, and there was no one who could rescue him, because he thought they might all be dead. The scream in his mind spiraled into mocking laughter.

Did you survive the plane crash only to get eaten by sharks?

The voice was obnoxious, and he imagined her smug satisfaction, the sense of vengeance she must feel. Words poured out of him, whispered, but still defiant.

"So maybe we both could've ended up here, hey? Maybe I didn't have to die alone, slowly, but you don't have to be so cold about it now, eh? It's not like I wanted to. Okay, yeah, maybe I knew you were scared and not thinking much either. And yeah, sure, it wasn't your fault that the ground tripped you up. But maybe you could've tried harder, eh? Maybe put your hair back so it didn't fly into my face and make me think I'd gone blind. You don't do that to a man, it makes a lot of panic. Why'd you do that?"

He stopped, waiting, but there was no answer, only the lingering sound of her scream. Exhausted, the man decided to sleep, only whispering a final denial.

"I didn't mean to push you off the edge."

His dreams were haunted, filled with crushed limbs and bloodied faces, crying children burning up, lifeless bodies piling up higher and higher, eyes wide open, staring at him, accusing him.

How dare you survive? How dare you live and tremble and ache! Join us, us, us and be free. Free. Stop fighting. Come.

Suddenly he was surrounded by arms that pulled at him, attached to arms attached to more hands. They ripped at him, clawing open his skin, demanding that he give in, that he let go.

With a scream of rage, he fought them, refusing, knocking away the endless claw-tipped fingers in a maddened, frothy frenzy. He closed his eyes, refusing to see. The ground heaved and undulated beneath him in strange ways, forcing his eyes open again. He was on a mountain path and the light was sickly red. He turned in confusion and saw the earth behind him begin to crack, opening up, growing wider, longer - skeletal hands reaching for another victim.

A shout turned his head and he saw her, met her wide brown eyes as she ran just ahead of the widening split, panic spurring her forward. Her arms reached for him, begging, pleading for help, even as her mouth shaped words he couldn't hear over the roar of the ground. But all he could see was her outstretched hands, which echoed the sharp and misshapen fingers of the earth stretching out around him. He turned away, rejecting her, but a surge of the ground picked her up, throwing her against him. She tried to grab him, to hold on as she felt the ground beneath her start to drop away. But he yanked her questing hands away from him, angry that she was trying to slow him down. He pushed her off, hard, refusing to meet her eyes again. Nothing would get in the way of his survival. Not even her.

As he sprang forward, free from her grasp, the air somehow filtered through a different sound. Its pitch was much higher than that of the earth, yet somehow it still thrummed through him, vibrating a knowing throughout his body.

He glanced back and caught sight of her body, falling... falling...the air black and empty beneath her. Refusing to stop, he faced forward to climb over the next boulder. Still the scream went on and on as she fell. Deeper into the earth's furious embrace she tumbled, screaming her own fear and fury. Fear of her death, which she knew approached in the lightless depths of the cracked ground in which her body hurtled...fury at the man who might have saved her, might have pulled her to an uncertain safety.

She screamed until she finally hit the bottom.

With a jerk, the man woke up, his head still echoing with her silenced voice.

With the truth.

He fumbled with his lighter, his hands shaking and weak. It flickered on; thin and wavering with the force of his breath. Breath. Air. Life.

For the first time, the man saw the flame clearly as the enemy – his enemy – fighting him for air. And yet he needed it, too, for his sanity, to keep the nightmares at bay, to fight for him, there in the darkness of his imprisonment.

"I'm being punished, yeah? This is your way of telling me I did wrong, right? I should've helped her, should've pulled her in front of me. Next you're gonna say I should've fallen in her place, eh? Then I could be haunting her, hey? Yeah, she'd be here in the dark...feeling the air getting tighter...all alone by her poor little self..."

He fell silent and stared at the little flame. Even as he watched, it appeared to grow dimmer. His eyes widened, trying to soak in the timid light, and he tried to convince himself the lighter was running out of fuel. But even as he shook it and heard the reassuring sound of liquid swishing, he knew another truth.

Air was running out.

Still the man found himself speaking, even at the last.

"Maybe I was wrong, yeah, to do that. But she would've just died here with – with me. Yeah, I know, she could've talked to me, made me smile – hell, even given me a goodbye kiss, a nice squeeze or two. I mean, why not, eh? But you, tiny stupid light – you're trying to tell me something, right? You trying to make me feel better, hey? Nah, I'm betting it's worse 'cause I sure as heck don't see how it could get better."

By this point, his body was growing weaker, his thoughts slower, so he lay down on his side. He thought about munching on the candy bars, but he couldn't quite figure out a reason why. But the flask of rum pressed insistently into his side, hard and somehow sharp, until he let go the light to reach down and pulled out the near-empty container.

"Well, it'd be a shame to let it go to waste... too much waste now, eh? Can't do that, can I?"

With that belief, the man unscrewed the top and tipped the rest into his mouth. Some dribbled out as he swallowed the final mouthful, falling lost onto the cold floor. But inside, he burned. He imagined the rum settling into him, tracing its way across his mouth and down his throat, into his stomach, lining it with false warmth, coating it with callous comfort.

The flask slid from his hands and he fell heavily on his side as bright stars bloomed in front of his eyes. Frantically, he found his lighter and flicked it on. Or tried to. Again and again, he hit it, clasping it tight in both hands and bringing it up to his face. Finally, a dim flame erupted. With all his strength, he squeezed the small lever which fed life to the tiny light. He held his breath, at long last aware that he was the flame's enemy, too.

In his thoughts, the man heard the silent scream of that girl, and finally wondered what her name was. He finally let himself feel sincere regret. Remorse wandered through his memories as he welcomed in the pain of her scream, knowing it meant he was still alive. His nightmares were terrifying because they were real, rooted in the cataclysm he thought he'd escaped, in the girl he'd deliberately murdered.

But the flame continued to dim, at first slowly. Only his eyes, wide open and searching for any minute nuance and shift, noticed the difference. Then suddenly the light dimmed faster and faster. He held his breath for as long as he could, hoping it would last longer, that it wouldn't leave him alone.

Yet eventually, it did.

This time, when the abyss descended, the man knew it was final. There was no escape, no clawing to the surface, no one calling his name – if they'd known it – to rescue him. He stretched out his legs and they met empty space.

The hole!

He heaved himself over and pressed his head into the opening, struggling to take a deep breath, certain somewhere in its depths lay his salvation. But before he could finish filling himself up with air, his lungs seized up. He lay there, gasping weakly, and wished he wasn't alone in the dark, dying and forgotten.

"No one knows... my name... my name... is..."

The air ran out. The man's eyes bulged for a moment, his entire body tense. But no one saw. No one knew – none of the few survivors that still struggled, that were, even then, clawing their ways out of the unforgiving earth.

His body stilled and he laid in the utter darkness of deep underground - an unknown man, a cooling body, another nameless casualty. No one special at all.

Around him the earth trembled for a moment, then again fell quiescent. The abyss had won at last.

### ~*~

### 5. Clasping Life

By

### C. M. Bratton

Only groans answered her now. She tried not to think about what that meant, to focus on freeing herself from the rubble that pressed against the left side of her body. It was tight and strained, but nothing was broken or shattered, merely heavily bruised. She knew, because she could feel all of her extremities throbbing with each beat of her heart.

At first, most of her body had been trapped, only her right arm, chest, and head free. But the agonizing screams had motivated her to push past her exhaustion and try to get free. Only then could she try to _do_ something, anything to make the sounds stop.

Her helplessness beat at her, goading her, filling her with guilt as she scrabbled with her free arm, clearing dirt away handful by handful. Her feet had wiggled, safe within the hard soles of her boots, and she worked them back and forth until her thighs ached with effort. Whenever she rested, she spoke to him, to the other body that lay half-smothered next to her, the head turned away, unable to move.

Beneath the tumbled stone, she still felt the tight clasp of their hands.

He'd been the one who knew, who'd somehow felt the difference deep in his body and awareness. He'd grabbed her hand and told her to run, and she had, blindly trusting him, even though she didn't believe it would make any difference. He'd held her hand when she stumbled, refusing to let go, and pulled her up and down steep inclines. His hand became her link to sanity, the warmth a reminder of the love they fought to preserve.

Yet in the end, they were betrayed by his belief. They couldn't outrun the destruction. Wild with fear, he tried to push her ahead, to protect her body with his own from what he knew was coming. But she'd refused to let go – she needed him. He was the strong one, the one who _knew_.

So when _it_ came, blasting them down, following them to the ground, they both became trapped instead.

She thought that was the worst of it. She was alive, if bruised and aching. She had lived through it. She needed only to escape the confining prison of rock.

But then the earth settled into itself and the screams began. They were wordless, full of agony and terror. Her head turned, searching for the source, and she saw him, her beloved, his head turned away.

She begged with him, pleaded, promised him whatever he asked, if only he would live.

"Gary, honey, you just have to give me a little more time and I'll be able to help you. You'll see. I can be _your_ rescuer this time. Just hold on, honey, please. Honey? I love you. Honey... please, just answer me. Honey... Gary... please..."

As the hours passed, her pleas became tinged with angry desperation.

"Gary, just stop screaming. Please, I promise I'll get you out. Please. Just. Stop. Screaming. Stop it... stop!"

Gradually, hours or minutes later, his screams turned into whimpering sobs, then groans. It was then that fear truly hit her. He never cried, never gave in. He was the strong one. He wouldn't give up.

"Gary, give me a little more time, okay? I've got my leg free now. Just hold on."

Then later, as he began to hoarsely wheeze.

"Don't leave me, okay Gary? I'll get free in just a little while, and I'll be able to help you."

Still later, when she felt her shoulder start to shift and his wracking breaths became quiet moans.

"See, I'm almost free. You just have to wait a few more moments."

She continued pulling and struggling, digging and flailing her arms, forcing her abused body to keep moving. Whenever she was forced by shortness of breath to stop and take a break, she spoke to him, reassuring him.

"See, when we're free, and you get better, we'll find a new place to live. Who knows, maybe there are still some other people. Doesn't that sound lovely?"

But he never answered, never said a word, and never acknowledged her frantic digging and loving voice. He was too busy drowning in his pain. Too busy dying.

During one break, when she closed her eyes briefly to rest, she thought of how she ended up trapped beneath a piece of broken mountain.

~*~

When the end first began, she had refused to believe in it. Gary had always been a bit of a pessimist, so much more than she. He was always listening to the doomsday prophets and their predictions. One day he'd decided to go and buy a gun. Then he started watching shows about surviving in the wild. Then he'd spent weekends camping out in the wild. She tried to go a few times, but she was so much a city girl she stopped after only a few times.

She used to joke about it with Gary.

"Honey, it's not as if I can even light a fire without a lighter and pre-treated wood. Not to mention all the bugs!"

He just shook his head and sighed.

"Fine, Lynne, I'll just go without you."

Perhaps their relationship would've died of its own accord had not Gary been proven right. When the lights flickered and started to die, when the skies became jaundiced and clouded with fog, when the ground started to tremble, Lynne clung to Gary's strength, even as she found herself still convinced deep down inside that everything would turn out all right. _It can't be real_ , she thought to herself. _Not the end_ , although she at least admitted that there was _something_ happening. A change of some sort.

Lynne simply refused to see how deep a transformation it would be.

So when Gary insisted that they leave, flee upwards to the mountains, escape from the treacherous cities – lit as they were with the electric hiss of broken wires and pipes – to the supposed safety of the forested slopes of the nearby mountains, Lynne balked.

"I don't see why everyone is panicking."

Gary addressed her while continuing to pack.

"You do see the color of the skies? The fact that all the birds and rats have disappeared?"

He spoke calmly, with little inflection.

"Of course I do."

"Then why isn't that enough proof?"

She had sat silently, thinking, watching him move methodically, pulling out shirts and pants, discarding what he believed to be useless, folding what he intended to take. She noticed he was packing only his clothes. If she wanted to go with him, she would have to take action.

He was making a point.

After a while, she sighed.

"I guess it's just easier not to think about. Like, that everything is going to go back to normal again, you know? Kinda' the way I never think about politics. I mean, no one actually knows what's really going on. So why think the worst?"

"Because that's the only choice that gives us a chance of surviving, no matter what the circumstances."

He finally stopped and turned to face her.

"Lynne, I know things have been uneasy between us lately, mostly because you can't see what I see. But that doesn't mean I don't want you with me, that I don't want to give you that same chance, too. Because I do. You know that, right?"

Lynne was, in her own way, strong and stubborn. She didn't want to admit that he might be right, that she was, in this case, mostly wrong. Instead, she stood up and began packing, too.

When they finished packing and closed up the house and locked the doors of their former life behind them, they loaded up their bikes and headed out. Fuel had, after all, been gone for quite some time.

It took them most of that day and the next to reach the foot of the closest range of mountains. They discussed abandoning their bikes, but in the end, decided to keep them, in case they needed – or could – go back to the city.

To Lynne's surprise and Gary's grim expectations, there were already people there, crowding the lower slopes. They climbed higher until they found a clearing in which to settle. But they were not alone for long. Over the next weeks (or months, as they had no way to truly mark time's passage), people streamed to the mountains, two or a dozen at a time, until they shared their clearing with hundreds.

Gary decided to move higher for, as he reasoned, there would be less inhabited places with more space to hide. So they packed their tent and blankets and moved, occasionally riding their bikes, occasionally walking. But wherever they went, they found others.

One evening (as they supposed it must be), sitting quietly in their tent beneath the dim, sepia light of the sky, Gary thought about the crowded mountain slopes, speculating aloud to Lynne about them.

"Everyone must've left. The cities must be completely empty."

Lynne had nodded sadly, and then looked at him in confusion.

"But no one knows _why._ "

Gary did not nod his head in agreement with her. Instead, he looked away, through the open flap of the tent, and tried not to show the terror he felt growing. He was meant to be a survivor – he knew why they ran. He knew it deep inside, past his psyche and imagination, to the place where his instincts swarmed, screaming silent warnings at him. He wasn't allowed the bliss of ignorance – only the burden of _knowing_.

Gary turned back regarded Lynne in the sickly light, his face once again clear of his inner turmoil, and wondered why she still refused to see what was so clearly in front of her. For the first time, instead of feeling exasperated, he felt jealousy mingled with pity. _What must it be like_ , he had asked himself, _to be so supremely unaware? To not know exactly how bad it was going to be? To be so unprepared_?

But underneath that envy lived the regret that he was not built that same way.

Later – another day perhaps – he was present to hear the final radio broadcast, though he only caught snatches of sound through the silent crowd.

"...We do not know yet who or what placed these destructive devices deep inside the earth, nor what has triggered them, because, according to our limited sources, they appear to be exploding on every continent on the planet. Sadly, we have no way of knowing if they will continue until the ground is completely broken and we are all swept away..."

It wasn't enough, by any means. No real explanation. No real offering of hope. Something inside him died then, something civilized and cultured. In its place surged his instinct and will to survive the coming catastrophe, a baser version of his self that had no place in the world he'd known his whole life. As he turned away from the sorrow surrounding him, he looked around with new eyes. The crowds, which had always bothered him, suddenly became competitors in the survival game, rival predators that would put him down if they could. He shoved and pushed his way through the unresisting crowd, hearing the sounds of guns and heavy pursuit in his head. When there was enough space, he began loping to his congested campsite.

As soon as he arrived, he starting taking down the tent and packing.

"Lynne!"

She came out of a neighboring tent and stopped abruptly as she saw Gary collapsing their tent.

"What are you doing?"

Gary kept working.

"We have to leave, go someplace else."

"Why? What did you find out?"

He stilled and bent his head. The dwindling part of him that grew up in a technologically savvy world cried out at the horror of what it imagined happening, of a people who knew enough to destroy an entire planet without any hope of ever being able to fix it. His shoulders dropped for a moment.

"No one is coming to help us."

The blood drained out of Lynne's face.

"No, that can't be... that's not right! The government –"

"Is powerless."

"How can you say that?

"Back there on the really crowded slopes away from the trees, there was someone with a radio. They caught something. I heard..."

His voice trailed off and Lynne ran up to him.

"What did it say?"

Gary shook himself and let civilization fall back away. He pushed Lynne roughly away.

"We don't have much time. Get your things."

Lynne wanted to argue with him, but he turned away and started folding up the tent, his face distant and cold. She recognized nothing in it.

But she had followed him out of the city, up into the mountains, campsite to campsite, trail to trail. She could see in his eyes, hear in his voice that he was leaving – with or without her. And if she stopped following, she would end up alone.

So she scurried around, packing up her spread blankets and clothes recently hung out to dry. She stumbled after him wordlessly, more confused and annoyed than worried, as they moved and travelled. What Gary searched for Lynne did not know, but he wouldn't stay longer in any place for more than a night.

And still it wasn't enough.

~*~

As Gary laid there, every nerve in his shredded, crushed legs screaming out to him, he felt himself consumed by the pain. There was no thought, no ability to access any of his five senses. All that he was turned inward to focus only on his agony. There was no fighting, no struggle to survive, no will to resist - simply complete immersion in the parts of his body that only functioned enough to tell him how much it hurt to still feel them. Of the voice at his side or the person desperately fighting to free herself, he was unaware. There was only the suffocation of his senses, the drowning of his self in pain.

As hours wore on, sliding into yet another day, and another, he became exhausted. The pain dimmed enough only to let him dream of release, to beg his body to let go so his spirit would be freed from the prison that tortured and refused it rest. Still he had no other thoughts, nothing at all of the woman who was trapped next to him, whose life he had saved at the cost of his own.

But gradually, as his legs died more completely, the pain started to loosen its stranglehold. As it did, Gary was able to form more and more nearly-coherent thoughts. He pictured his life and saw his memories changing shapes as they flickered in his mind. He believed that he had been happy before the end had come. He'd enjoyed his work and his free time, had hobbies and friends. There was a girl, too, but her name refused to come. He let it slide past, all his decisions and beliefs, up to the point the skies turned on him and he decided to leave the city. Civilization was ending, but he had made all the right choices. He should have survived.

So why hadn't he?

At his side, Lynne finally pulled herself free of the rock. Her foot was twisted and possibly broken in several places, and her shoulder sat strangely on her back. But she managed to crawl forward, unclasping her hand from Gary's frozen grasp to move closer to his head. Finally, she reached him and looked him in the face. His eyes were open but they looked empty. If it wasn't for the barest whisper of his breath, she would've sworn he was dead.

"Gary, look, I'm free. Told you, didn't I? Now I just gotta pull you out, right. Gary?"

She placed her scraped hand against his cold, dry cheek. Tears welled in her eyes as she leaned over to kiss him softly.

"Honey, I love you. Please, don't leave me now."

Slowly, Gary's eyes began to focus and gain awareness. As they did, his brows drew together. He was angry.

"Why... didn't you... listen?"

Lynne shook with guilt.

"I'm so sorry, honey, I swear. I'll make it up to you. Just don't leave me."

The anger fled suddenly, replaced by another emotion.

"You gotta... survive now. Don't make it... mean nothing."

Tears poured down Lynne's face."

"Promise me, girl. Promise."

She whispered in-between her sobs.

"I promise. I love you."

Confusion spread over his tortured visage.

"I... "

His eyes lost their focus, leaving his gaze bleak and passionless as he finally, gratefully, stopped breathing.

And because Lynne was, in her own way, stubborn and strong, she closed his eyes, struggled to her feet, and started moving, the tumbled rock her crutch instead of a warm hand clasping her own. Without direction, she moved. She wasn't allowed to give up. Not anytime soon.

She had a promise to keep.

### ~*~

### 6. Drip of Moonlight

By

### C. M. Bratton

Danny huddled in on himself, holding his sobs tightly to his frame, his chest aching with the need to cry out his fear and pain. His anger. It was dark and cold, though he was covered in sweat. Still, he shivered. From pain. From loss. From shock.

For the first time in his short life, he understood he was truly alone. And he had never been so completely cut off from all he knew – his family, his home, even simple sunlight. He had turned away from it all, obeyed the command to _go, run, hide,_ without really understanding what that would eventually mean. Not until he was curled up in some lightless hole did he truly begin to comprehend his choice.

And wonder why.

Why did I leave mama? And Jenny? I thought they were right behind me. I told them they had to go faster, that I knew a way. I told them. Hurry up, I said. And I ran. But when I turned to show them the place I found, all I saw was rocks. Falling all over. Even on me. I had to keep running.

Just then a deep roar filtered through the air and Danny felt the rocks around him start to move. He covered his head and breathed through his arms, his small body tense and expectant. He kept waiting for something bigger to fall on him, to break apart the tiny black hole he'd found and let in the questing, devastating, killing light – light that used to be his friend. He didn't know someone could live with so much fear, or why he was so determined to keep breathing.

But though the ground shook and the rocks swayed, his little haven remained secure. After a while, the awful noises stopped and silence once again returned, the earth falling back into itself. Danny, however, refused to move. For a long time he lay, trembling, afraid, unwilling to move despite the thirst in his mouth. Hunger pangs twisted his stomach for a long while before they, too, died away.

If only he could take one last magnificent sip of water.

He tried to distract himself. Not by thinking about his mom and little sister, no. He wasn't ready for that. He thought, instead, about a game he'd been playing with his best friend, Robby, just a few days before. It involved building walls out of sticks and twigs and mud to protect his people (made out of rocks) from being attacked and invaded by the other side.

He never wondered why the other side attacked, why there had to be fighting, why he was right and the other side was wrong. He never wondered why the rules existed there in his head, making everything so much more important to him.

Robby had been trying to sneak some of his rocks closer and they had started arguing. Danny kept repeating that Robby was breaking the rules and Robby kept saying that wasn't true.

"I'm not lying."

"But you can't bring your rocks there."

"Why not?"

"That's cheating! Best friends shouldn't do that."

"Danny, don't be like that."

But Danny hadn't listened. He stormed off to find his mother and sister and... No. He wouldn't think about them. Or his best friend, who he had yelled at the last time he'd seen him. The last time he would ever see him.

So he stopped thinking about Robby after all. Because every memory led back to that last argument, and he couldn't face his regret. Not yet. He hadn't learned how.

So he waited in the dark, though he didn't know why, lonely and so terribly scared. And yet, still he craved some liquid to ease his dry throat. After yet even more time passed, his thirst began to outweigh his fear, until there was only one word he could hear in his head.

Water.

He tried to think of stuff that was safe, that didn't _hurt_ but everything he'd ever done was connected to someone he'd loved – his mama, his sister, his cousins, his friends, his teachers. When had he ever been alone long enough to form memories that could somehow build a wall against the hurtful present that surrounded him?

No, his thoughts drifted around, instead, touching golden spheres of memories that echoed with laughing hot summers and full-moon nights before jerking quickly away, back towards the darkness. Inevitably, his mind wandered down a path that returned him to a minute awareness of his body, of the thirst that was starting to consume his thoughts. Pictures of pool parties and water slides and boat rides swam to the surface of his consciousness, mocking him. He was too young to know how to keep his mind safe, too inexperienced to understand what privation truly was. So after what was, in his mind, an endless time curled in the black cave, he embraced the thirst inside him. In that need he found solace from the memories of life that severed themselves so irrevocably from his present.

Water.

Danny unfolded his thin limbs, which resisted such changes by stiffly uncurling themselves with loud creaks and pops. Everything in his little body ached – his legs from the long run _away_ , his back from its curled position on hard stones, his chest and arms from unseen bruises.

Water.

Danny ignored the blood rushing through his sleepy body, fought the dizziness spinning his head around. He knew that going _out_ was the only way to satisfy the tight dryness closing his throat. He understood somewhere deep in his subconscious that he would give up peacefully if he could just have one final taste. He would rejoin his family – mama and Jenny and Robby and all the rest – happily, joyfully, easily, giving up on the dark night he'd chosen, if only he could first have one little sip.

He slowly made his way to his feet, using his scraped hands as a lever to push himself to standing. He wavered, still hunched over, the many small pains in his body submerged by his utter certainty that he would stop fighting soon and submit to the peace he'd innocently denied himself when he kept running.

So he fought to take one step forward, halting but not impossible. In his flight away from the light, he didn't remember all of the turns he'd taken, the boulders he'd scrambled over, the wilted dry bramble that caught on his clothing and torn away from. In a trance brought about by the twin anvils of trauma and dehydration, he simply moved forward, knowing there were no other choices.

At first, he moved in an arc, the wall of the small cave that enclosed him leading him deeper into the earth. Some instinct – perhaps the same one that told him to run – made him turn around and retrace his steps, to follow the strand of hot air that teased him forward, stoking his thirst with memories of sweltering days watching parades on the river and playing in fountains in the park. It led him onward, down unknown, slender corridors that might have terrified him had he been able to truly focus on his surroundings, on the weight of the rock that lay unevenly around him.

Gradually, the ground began to slope upwards. Danny wasn't aware of the extra strain, though, because his legs already ached. Still, he stumbled forward, one hand splayed out against the wall to both keep him upright and from banging into any overhanging rocks or sharp protrusions.

A long time passed, his echoing gasps his only company in the darkness. It was, if possible, even longer than all the time he spent buried in the little cave. At times, he stopped, his little body too exhausted to stay in motion. But at those times, the thirst choked him, threatening to bring back the memories, so he forced himself to take another step.

Imperceptibly, the darkness began to recede, in degrees so small as to be ignored after one step, but somehow quite obvious after the tenth. Danny, of course, was nearly overcome by his desire to ease the tight dry ache that started at his lips, spread throughout his body, and ended in the small spaces beneath his skin. He wasn't aware of the growing light – his sense of sight was not nearly important as that of taste.

Then, through the clouds of silt and dust and metallic detritus, Danny smelled it: water!

Sharpened by need, his nose picked out the most important scent of all. In that moment, he had no dreams of outside or family or touching the moon. His entire being was focused on following that thread of scent back to its source. His heart accelerated and pounded through his delicate veins, beating irregularly. Down his side burst a sharp pain that slowed his gait and bent his torso. But he refused to stop. Not when he was so close.

Before too much longer, Danny became convinced he could actually see the rock walls around him, could make out the cutting angles and edges that had scraped his palms and knees raw. This time, instead of terror, the light inspired hope. Danny believed he would reach the end, would feel the touch of sun or moon on his skin, and would breathe in the dust-laden air. And he would have his last drink. Yes, because Danny _knew_ he would make it, he had the strength to stagger on.

Soon the faint light brightened enough to hurt his eyes as glares began shining through little crevices. But best of all, Danny could finally hear, splashing faintly but oh-so-merrily in the distance, a small fall of liquid.

Water!

His body filled with joy as the tunnel, which had been widening only a little, suddenly opened into a wide chamber. Danny, however, didn't take any time to note the details. Instead, his eyes fixed on the source of the smell and sound that had pulled Danny's aching, weary, child's body out of the darkness. Chanting _water_ over and over in his mind, Danny stumbled his way across the empty space to the tiny pool, which was barely larger than the size of his head. But it was more than enough. Danny fell to his knees, carelessly adding another layer of bruises to them. He joyfully dipped his face down and began lapping at the cold reservoir.

Bliss exploded through his mouth and followed the trail of water as it wound down to his cramped, forgotten stomach. He drank and drank until he thought he might turn into liquid himself. But finally, he was sated. He wondered if he ought to be sick, having gone so long without any nourishment, but he thought his body was too happy to pay attention to those kinds of details. Instead, Danny rolled away and closed his eyes. As his thoughts slid away into unconsciousness, he chose not to think of his losses anymore. He didn't think about days spent playing in the hot sun, fighting mock battles with plastic shapes and splashing thoughtlessly in pools and waves. Instead, Danny remembered the last time he'd seen the moon. A smile curved his round, ingenuous face. Perhaps there was nothing left for him, but at least he'd had his final sip.

Danny fell asleep to the sound of water dripping near his ears.

That might have been the end for little Danny, just shy of nine years old, but as he slept, finally, dreamlessly, the water worked its way into his blood, merging with the tempo of his pulse and moving in rhythm with the air in his lungs. It spread its cool healing throughout his body. It might have been a mercy, perhaps, to let Danny's sleep fade into the true rest of death. Perhaps. But Danny was a born survivor. So he'd been chosen, and so had he chosen in turn. It was time to face the life he'd decided to live.

Danny opened his eyes, surprised he could still do so. He rolled his head to the side, too weak to sit up. A noise caught his attention, and he tensed in fearful anticipation, closing his eyes as if to block out what images he could conceive.

Instead, the noise repeated itself. Less than a noise, really. More of an echo. But Danny still knew what it was.

A _people_ echo.

Danny didn't want to get up. He didn't want to see that he was wrong, that the voices he imagined in his head weren't really there. He didn't want to follow through with the fearful choice he made in a different lifetime, when he was an innocent boy with everything to lose.

Yet he couldn't stop himself from leaning over and filling his mouth again with perfect, cold water. And as he did, reason began returning to him, pushing back fear and grief, and leaving behind curiosity.

_Yes,_ he reminded himself, _the water_ was _there. That wasn't a lie. This might be true, too. You have to get up, you have to see._

Danny wanted to tell that tiny voice to stop, that he was ready to quit, to stop hoping. He was done with trying to survive. He just wanted to close his eyes and dream the rest of his life away. That was the voice, after all, that had screamed at him _Run! Run! Don't stop! Don't look back!_ He had obeyed, and look at where he'd ended up – trapped alone in the dark with nothing to hold on to. How could he trust that voice again?

But somehow, Danny found himself rolling onto his tender hands and battered knees. The voice inside him quieted, leaving room for him to hear more echoes. Afraid to leave his precious water, Danny lapped up a few more mouthfuls before a sliver of white light caught his attention.

He should have felt afraid – white light meant death.

Instead, Danny started crawling in the direction of the questing tendril of light. It beckoned him, asking him to come just a little closer. When Danny finally emerged from the cave, he truly saw the light. It was gentle, and soft, and nearly forgotten.

But when he reached the edge of the cave, when he finally looked _out_ , it wasn't the light which held his attention. It was the distant voices – not echoes – that came from hoarse throats as people screamed and yelled at each other across the broken valley. It was the sound of survival, of triumph, however superficial, over the moment, as people emerged from wherever they had been hiding. Those that could.

Then the light caught Danny again. He looked up, as so many other faces also lifted away from the destruction, searching for its source. The glow of the stars began to fill him from the inside. Stars, which he had forgotten even existed, hidden as they been for so long behind the yellow clouds and fog. Memories burst into his mind – long nights spent camping in the woods or lying in his tree-house or stretched out on freshly-cut grass. Danny at long last understood all he had left to live for.

And in that very moment, edging from around a distant peak, Danny finally saw the moon.

### ~*~

### 7. Generating Light

By

### C. M. Bratton

Unlike the rest of humanity, which hunkered listless, hopeless, and vulnerable on hillsides, when the lights began to flicker, she went down, not up. Even as the skies yellowed and silence fell, as time forgot itself, she waited. When they ran out in terror at the first tremors, fleeing the cities to sit disconsolately in huddled circles around dim fires, she clutched her radio close, listening intently. And when the radio died, she pretended the silence was momentary, fleeting.

But when the earth began to roar, to filter through the thick walls and ceiling surrounding her, she knew.

How long, she wondered, did she dare wait?

This question defined what had become her life, the living in which she pretended to indulge. She had marked the days and weeks and months off of her calendar, using a clock powered by a tiny battery that had somehow escaped the technological blackout that had silenced nearly every other transmitted whisper. Perhaps it was because it had already been buried below, safe from the flash that swept invisibly over the world and stopped time.

Either way, she knew exactly how many agonizingly long and empty days had passed before her hollow sanctuary began to shake and shudder with the dying spasms of the world above.

Days which had begun in confusion.

At first, she had assumed others would follow – the entire group, as they had agreed. Everyone had contributed their savings to the project, and for over a decade, the underground sanctuary had been built. When the sky hazed over and the animals disappeared, she decided the signs were inescapable and readied herself to flee.

The puppy was a problem. It wasn't that she didn't want to take the adoring bundle of fur with her; it was that she knew provisions hadn't been assigned for any sort of animals. In fact, she knew she oughtn't have taken the puppy from the beginning, but eight months before fleeing it, the world had appeared normal – or at least, declining at its usual rate. And the puppy had been abandoned, without a home, as she once had been. How could she not take it in?

And when she packed her car and fled, how could she not take the mound of fur and bright brown eyes with her? Her little Ginny, all fluffy black and teeming with excitement. And yet, as the days passed, she wondered how she could have denied Ginny a life in the open air, a life to enjoy what little freedom remained.

But she was selfish, because to deny herself the company of her baby girl would have been all the prompting she needed to give up. Instead, as those first days passed, she found herself split between her twin obsessions of listening intently to the static of the radio and caring for Ginny. They both woke up and played throughout the underground complex, darting in and out of unused room after unused room. However, it soon became too painful to acknowledge the emptiness in such an active way, so she closed the doors and ceased using them as a playground. Instead, she stuck to the areas in which she had chosen to live – storeroom, game room, bedroom, hydroponic garden. It should have been enough room – it was, after all, much larger than her apartment – but without windows, she was always aware of where she was, of the heavy layers of earth pressing around her at all times.

And still she waited, expecting the others to come, in twos or threes, or even one at a time. She believed they were coming, were on their way even now. She clutched her radio and imagined she heard voices.

Until the moment the silence was broken by a shaken voice.

"... not long... few survivors... world in chaos..."

The voice went silent and she shook the radio in anger.

"No, please..."

It sputtered and spoke again.

"... losing ground in our defense. Communications have become harder... try to hide, stay away from low ground, stay in small groups... not much time left..."

The radio fell silent again. Try as she might, nothing else came through. She wanted to believe that another transmission would occur, something more. Some explanation of... of everything – what was happening? Who was attacking who? Where had everyone fled? Where was anyone? Where, in fact, were her friends? Why hadn't anyone else made it?

But she knew... there would be no answer from the silent rectangle of dull pewter and plastic machinery.

She hugged Ginny close, and tried not to cry.

Time passed, the clock continued to lie.

By the calendar on her wall and the steadily ticking clock, she knew it was New Year's Day. She felt she ought to celebrate, mark it in some way. But as she sat going through her stores trying to figure out what to make, another thought occurred to her.

Did the day lose its meaning when there was no one else around to celebrate with? When survival meant far more than a petty celebration to mark yet another hour off a clock no one used anymore? When time itself had lost its meaning in the timeless need to simply exist?

In fact, she wondered as she quit moving altogether, was there meaning in any of the celebrations in which she used to indulge – birthday parties, barbeques, memorials – did any of them mean anything now that there was no one around to say they did? There was no media-programmed TV with endless special reports of fireworks across the world. There were no friends dressed up and drinking champagne, no lines of cars slowly moving out from the center of the city. There was nothing at all to mark the day.

No reason at all.

Depression swamped her. The niggling doubts she had about the purpose of her continuing, solitary survival haunted her. Despite the love and connection to her beautiful, spritely Ginny, she was alone in a way she had never truly understood before. It was cruel enough to keep the puppy with her, the last of its kind for all she knew. How much crueler to her own self, burdened with the knowledge that she might be the last person left.

"Ginny... where is everyone? Why didn't anyone else make it here? Why am I the only one?"

She started crying. Her tears fell, hot and bitter, choking her with the scent of her own grief. There was no clean, fresh breeze carrying with it the scent of pine and salt to wash it away. Just the smell of her skin, putrefying in the false light. How she longed to end her semblance of life the dim glare and stale air continued to provide. How she fought against the hope that still flickered inside, buried by the weight of her solitude, interrupted only by the small, wet nose that nudged her hand and reminded her to smile.

So she did. She clenched her teeth and washed her hair and dressed up. She lit candles for her lost friends, for the parents she'd never known, wondering if they were even alive, wondering if they knew their lost daughter had the means to survive.

But as the candles fluttered out, she also wondered if she had survived only to spend the rest of her life going through the motions. A line from a song she once remembered floated through her head. Was she truly living, or just killing time?

But she already knew the answer - time had already been killed.

Thus came the day when she could no longer deny the truth hanging so plainly all around her, despite the clock at which she stared for endless hours. Ginny crept into her lap, trembling, and she wondered why. Then the floor started to vibrate, the tiniest tremor that still shattered her feeling of safety, for the underground lair had been built to withstand everything, she had thought.

What was powerful enough to cause such tremors?

But that was just the beginning. Instead, the walls began to shudder from an outside force. The shelves rattled in their brackets, dropping objects carelessly on the floor. The lights flickered. At that, the terror she held at bay came flooding in. She remembered another time, not so long before, when the lights flickered. They had died, after, leaving everyone in the dark. So when the lights in the bunker started to dim, she tried not to scream. But she knew there was no way she'd be able to hold on to her sanity if she was trapped there in the darkness deep underground for the rest of her life.

She scrambled up, still holding the whimpering Ginny, and started to claw her way around the room. Her hands searched frantically, following the path her eyes began in each flash of the overhead bulbs. She was searching for a handlight, but encountered nothing. She left her room, leaning against the wall for its deceptive safety, and made her way to the living area. A particularly strong tremor pushed her to unprotected knees, bruising them because she still held Ginny close. One hand went out, searching for support, and she encountered the low table in the center of the room.

The table where she'd left the melted candles from her solitary New Year's celebration.

She placed Ginny on the ground between her and the table and reached out blindly, hands searching for the warped and twisted waxen stumps and nubs she'd let melt down out of sheer defiance. Surely there was at least one with a wick.

One, two, three – four! The fourth candle jutted up proudly, half again as tall as the first three, the hollow in its middle more shallow than the others. Her shaking, sweating hands found the wick just as another roar shook the complex. With one hand, she grasped the candle tightly, peeling it up from the fake wooden table. With the other, she felt around the table's edges for the lighter she remembered leaving there. When her hand encountered the smooth, oblong shape, she was for a moment able to submerge her fear in the triumph she felt at the thought of producing light. Quickly, she flicked the ridged edged with her thumb, gazing desperately towards it, hungry for light.

A tiny flame shot up, no bigger than the edge of her pinky finger, a sliver still hot enough to burn and push away the edges of madness that gripped her. Carefully, she brought the candle to meet the lighter, the wick to meld with the flame and create a sphere in which she could, at last, _see._

Using the candle, she located the rest of the almost-melted candles and proceeded to light as many as possible. Soon, the glow lit a good portion of the room. Despite the tremors that continued to shake the complex, she felt the insanity begin to recede inside her. Perhaps she would die, crushed under the weight of unknown tons of earth and twisted metal – that she could contemplate, could understand. Her only regret would be her inability to protect Ginny. Still, better to die – better that - than to live on, years and years, alone in the dark.

Just then, the lights flicked back on, though they were weak, as if whatever machine powered them could only generate enough light to remind her just how ephemeral and fragile a substance it was. Light – untouchable, yet able to burn and terrorize in turn. An undeniable force that by its very existence changed all that it invaded, surrounded, uplifted. To her, light suddenly equaled life, or at least, her willingness to continue struggling, continue fighting the dark tide of her fears and aching, empty loneliness.

In the same instant the lights flickered back on, her thoughts ran in a thousand different directions in the space of a few heartbeats – long enough for them to converge on two inevitabilities: she had to locate more light, and after the shaking and tremors stopped, if she still lived, she had to leave. Because she realized she had to _know_ , finally, if anyone else was alive. It wasn't just a belief inside her, it was a tangible need. The new purpose to her existence – _find others_. Mangled, broken, alone, starving, cold, afraid – but alive. She refused to believe she was the only one left.

All through the long hours – though it might have been days had she bothered to look at the clock – she waited with Ginny. She retreated inside her thoughts as she absently ran her hands through the curling fur. She was, deliberately and precisely, divorcing herself from the construct and restrictions of believing in time, which for her had always been divided into concrete, absolute blocks she understood – decades, years, months, days, minutes, even seconds. But time was, in truth, merely a stream of moments.

She wondered if she would have felt differently had she understood how to work and fix the machines that ran the underground chambers, which lit them gently and sent air floating through their halls. Would she have tried to stay longer, to fix what had broken, to repair the tiny cracks that had started to appear? Each contributor had a field of specialization. Why had she thought that botany and food was the most important aspect of survival?

Man could find a way to survive off any combination of nutrients – mold and excrement and recycled urine if necessary. But man needed, more than food, sustenance for the soul – light and air. Why hadn't she insisted on learning how to work the machines that turned and pulsed their endless miles of cogs and nails and welded metal. Of wedges and pulleys and levers and screws and inclined planes and axles, simple machines that combined and compounded each other into a complex whole that produced life-giving air and light. That – _that_ – was worth more than any precious knowledge about surviving the end. Because surviving the end was not a single step – it was a process. And not everyone would make it through all the steps. It was akin to surviving a plane crash in the middle of the ocean – safety became ephemeral, life so much more brittle and easily shattered. Only once the shore was reached, would surviving the crash became a true reality.

The only step left was to live through the rest of the endless tragedies that plagued mankind.

So when the shaking died down, she lay down on the floor with Ginny in the middle of the room, which was barely lit by the overhead lighting and sputtering candles. She listened to true silence, uninterrupted by the static background blend of humming sparks and electricity that had sustained life before. No, it was too faint now for her to hear or even feel with her cheek pressed into the cold, concrete floor. She slept, eventually, for hours or days - she never knew. She had, after all, sacrificed time in order to preserve her sanity.

Eventually, she woke up in stillness. The room was nearly black, but the faint glow of the dying generators was still visible, enough to let her return to her room and prepare. She dressed carefully, packing her pockets with supplies and tools. She filled her backpack with medical supplies and protein bars and bottles of water.

Purpose filled her. She was ready to pull the survivors out of the ocean and away from the clinging debris of the crash, all the way back to safety. And someone would know how to work machines, how to teach her. Would know how to make the underground complex live again. And along the way, she would find and bring back as many as she could.

She turned and made her way down the long corridor that ran for nearly a quarter of a mile, inclined upwards increment by increment. She moved slowly, unhurried and calm. At long last, she reached a small alcove from which a metal ladder ascended. She placed little Ginny – who had pranced and sniffed her way eagerly forward - in an extra bag that was slung across her front and began climbing toward the unseen light.

She didn't want to just live, but thrive.

That was the true epilogue to survival.

### ~*~

### Me Zombie, You Food

By

### C. M. Bratton

Listen, I know this is gonna sound crazy. Or unbelievable. Or maybe just plain gross. But I swear it's true. All of it, every word painfully scratched on these pages. So just hear me out. See, I have this irrational, mindless, crazed, often uncontrollable urge for fresh meat. Really fresh.

Yeah, I admit it.

I'm a zombie.

But I swear it's not just some crazy lifestyle choice! And since I can't really talk so great anymore – I think I'm speaking but people just hear these awful groans - I've decided to share my story before my brain degrades to the point where I can no longer hold my pen.

Not to mention the fact that I keep getting distracted by all this... food, just walking around in front of me.

Now for those of you who think I can't possibly remember becoming a zombie, think again. I remember every detail. It sucked. It chewed. It hurt.

And it started on a Friday night when I went out drinking.

Boy, alcohol can really do you in.

Yeah, okay, I'll stop with the puns, for now.

Anyway, I was at this bar that had just opened up in the neighborhood. It was tiny and kinda' worn out looking already for a new place, and it reeked of smoke and spilled beer – just my kind of place.

They had this drink special, called the "House of Horrors." Get this, it was billed as guaranteed to help "turn you and your night into a raging good time in ways never imagined."

Ha! Long, corny, and oh-so-right.

Of course I had to try it! I mean, I had one of those weeks. You know, the kind where work sucked, I was late paying rent, I got two speeding tickets, and I just wanted to get trashed. And since the new place was within walking distance, I thought, what the hell?

Man, I drank a whole lot of those specials. Which means the next part is a little blurry, but that's not 'cause I'm the stereotypical zombie who can't remember what it's like to be human. It's because, well, alcohol does funny things to your memory. At any rate, with every glass I downed, I found myself getting angrier at everything and everyone but the bartender. So what do you know, I picked a fight with someone I vaguely recall as being a little bigger than me – okay, a whole lot bigger. I managed to get in a few punches and kicks. And then, well... then I got hit a whole lot.

Somehow, I made it out the door – or maybe I was kicked out (but surely they wouldn't do that to the person who lost the fight, right?) – dragged myself down the street to my dingy efficiency, hit my couch, and passed out.

I woke up late in the afternoon sick to my stomach. My entire body was throbbing from the beating. I rolled my way off the couch and shuffled over to the tub to turn on the shower. It was there that I finally saw myself in the mirror.

My face was a mess. It was sickly yellow - almost grey, really - underneath the large black bruises on my cheekbones and eyes.

Great.

But when I got undressed, I saw that the real horror was just above my collarbone. Apparently, the other person in the fight decided to bite me. Hard. It was ugly, the skin raw and puckered, teeth indentations jagged and purple, and steadily oozing blood – although I was still pretty full of the "special" so the flow was pretty sluggish. Or so I thought at the time. I got into the steaming shower and tried to clean up, but before long, my arms and legs started to shake. The sick knot in my stomach had apparently decided to unravel and spread its evil tentacles throughout my body. It was like someone had stuck me with a needle full of icy soda and injected it into my veins where it proceeded to sizzle and bubble and pop its way through my bloodstream.

I fainted.

When I came to, I was lying in the tub, my head awkwardly bent over the edge. The water, now freezing, was still running. And I was a zombie.

Course, I didn't get it right at first. But there were plenty of clues. Like my neck. When I picked it up from its unnatural angle against the tub, I didn't pay attention to how unnatural it was. And the window in the bathroom showed the sun just starting to rise above the nearby window – which usually happened around 9:00 am, and I remember distinctly getting up around 4:00 in the afternoon. Then there was my shoulder. Even though it was still open and new and looked awful, it didn't really hurt. In fact, my body felt a little distant. The icy shower water didn't raise a single goose bump.

But the biggest thing was my stomach, because boy was I starving! I turned off the shower and stumbled my way out of the tub, eyesight bleary, tummy grumbling. I needed food. Badly.

By habit, I headed for the fridge, but it was empty. Just as I discovered this devastating fact, there was a knock on the door – I know, classic, but seriously, it was perfect timing. It had to be my landlord, because, you know, rent was waaaay overdue. Although, at the time, all I could think about was, satisfying my hunger.

Limbs twitching and feeling oddly weak, I shambled over to the door. But the second I opened it, the smell hit me: meat. It was dark and spicy, with a hint of cardamom, curry, and saffron.

Just what I wanted.

"My goodness, what happened to you? Your shoulder – where are your clothes?"

Yeah – you forgot that part, right? But nope. That was me, new zombie, no clothes.

So what else could I do but reach out, grab my landlord, pull him in, and start chewing.

Yeah. Sorry about this, but man, he was simply delicious.

Later, after I was done – still hungry, because apparently zombies are always hungry, so done for the moment – I remembered my desire to shower the day before. I shuffled to the bathroom, turned the shower back on, and stepped in to wash the blood and bits off. While the cold water was streaming over me, my head started to clear from its hunger-induced fog. I thought I would be horrified – after all, I'd killed my landlord. And no matter how much he deserved it, the slimy cheat, it was still a pretty lame way to go. But I didn't feel disgusted. I wanted more (because it's supposedly not murder if it's done for survival, right?).

And then it hit me.

I still don't know if it was the bite or that damned drink special, but at that moment, I realized what I had become. And since then it's been nothing but running – albeit slowly – from one place to another, fighting the rising body count, and trying to get help while giving in to my urges several times a day.

Which, yeah, seriously hurts the whole "getting help" part.

And that was before I started to stink! 'Cause reek I did. No matter how much I showered, I still smelled, well, dead. And Dove is no easy fix for decay, trust you me. See, the stench doesn't just sink in – it's the state of my skin itself.

Surprisingly, that's been my only vanity. The hair loss, the grey, mottled skin, the yellow teeth, the red eyes, the gaping, unclosed wounds – no problem. But geez, talk about bad body odor, because my nose works just fine.

Anyhow, when I realized I wasn't getting better on my own (as in less hungry), I decided that I really needed serious help. So I did what any homeless, degenerate, low-life, non-self-respecting zombie would do – I stood on a street corner with a sign. It read:

NEED WORK

I'M A ZOMBIE(so don't stand too close).

ANYTHING HELPS.

Surprisingly, the sign got me lots of attention. Just not always the kind I wanted. See, people can be pretty stupid. For instance, lots of them didn't even bother to read the whole thing. That cut my potential help in half right there (though I got a lot of free meals).

Another problem was that lots of them didn't even acknowledge I was a zombie! I mean, look, it's true that there's not a whole lot of us, but I like to think we tend to stick out – the smell alone should get some notice. Call me narcissistic all you want, but I shouldn't have to work this hard to get a little therapy. Because let's face it – I don't want to be this hungry all the time. I have pretty much no self-control and I'd like to think that maybe, if I learned a little restraint, I might start to change the negative image that zombies have out in the press. That's why I thought working a street corner would be a sure thing.

Now, you may be wondering why I didn't go to my family. But the truth is I was ashamed. Yes, I know, I said I wasn't vain about my appearance, and honestly, I thought my parents could live with the whole zombie look. But it was the sense of failure that I brought with me. I'd never been really successful, floating from one job to the next, drinking and smoking my days away. I liked rock and heavy metal and didn't really care that I didn't know what I wanted to be when I finally "grew up." But after the whole change thing, it was different. I just didn't expect to become a zombie, you know? And so to have to tell my parents that not only did I not have a job or a place to live anymore, but that I'd fallen even farther down in society from derelict to official enemy of the people – well, I just couldn't. They're just not strong enough for that kind of disappointment.

And then I'd think about how much they've pissed me off in the past, and eating them started to sound pretty good, too.

So I stayed away.

That's when I got the idea to become a reformed zombie.

But becoming reformed didn't just happen like that. It took a lot of work – and a lot of help. So let's talk about my therapists.

The first several were the result of me standing on the corner with my awesome sign. I remember the first time I met one, it was a blistering summer's day and most of the other bums on the street were cowering under the bridge (although that might have been because of my stench instead of the sun), so I had a whole corner to myself. This car pulled over and this nerdy guy rolled down his window. He smelled amazingly delicious, but I reminded myself that I had a mission, so I didn't immediately reach for his throat.

"Hey, you need some water? It's pretty hot out here."

I nodded my head and said; "Thank you, sir," only the guy just heard an ugly moan.

"Are you okay?"

Yes, this was just the opening I needed! I shook my head no and pointed at my sign. Then I pointed at my face and the big gash in my neck. Finally, I waved my hand in front of my nose, pretending to pinch it closed.

The guy nodded in sympathy and looked me up and down.

"Well, that's a spectacular make-up job, so you're obviously willing go to some lengths to get some help. Why don't you hop in the car and we'll head to my office. It's not too far."

Just then a car honked and I saw the light had turned green. Afraid of losing the potential help, I shuffled as quickly as I could around to the passenger side of the car, creaked my way into through door (which the guy had conveniently opened), and sat down. As I shut the car, my ridiculous body odor immediately saturated the small area. The poor guy actually started coughing.

"I'll... uh... just roll down the windows then."

We then took off, and I tell you, that may have been a short ride, but it was sheer torture, because underneath the reek of my rot, I could smell the delectable scent of his skin. My hands twitched with the desire to reach over and grab him, but somehow I managed to make it to the parking garage. Plus the guy was driving pretty fast.

"My name's Dr. John. I've just opened up my own practice. What's your name?"

I tried to tell him but again, he just heard a garbled moan.

"Hmm, maybe what you really need is a speech therapist. I could make some calls for you."

We pulled into an empty space and he got out. My hands fumbled with the door handle, and he came around and opened the door.

"Let me help you with that, okay?"

He smiled down at me all geeky and helpful, and at that moment, my hunger took over. It took little time to finish him off, scrawny thing that he was.

Of course, after the hunger pangs diminished a bit, I started to regret what I'd done. He was the first chance I'd had at getting some real help. I mean – a speech therapist! Why hadn't I thought of that?

And geez, I really liked Dr. John. We could've been buds. I felt like he really got me. In fact, I felt the same way about Dr. Chris, Dr. Sam, and Dr. Jen. But then I met Dr. Beth, and when I managed not to eat her after my first session, I started to believe that maybe I might be able to change my ways.

My reform all officially started back with Dr. Jen. We met up at a park where I was debuting my newest sign:

DESPERATE ZOMBIE

WILL WORK FOR FOOD

Although we were sitting together on a little wooden bench, Dr. Jen was perched as far away as she could be within that tiny space. She said she'd seen me begging there a few times and admired my persistence, so when she saw my new sign, she decided to introduce herself.

"Hello there, Mister, uh, Zombie, is it? My name is Dr. Jen and I'm a psychiatrist. It's good to see you out here every day. You know, persistence is the foundation for success. In that sense, you are definitely on the right path to success. Tell me, what is it that you want to accomplish with all this?" she finally asked, pausing to take a breath.

I tried to tell her, but the usual grunts came out and she shook her head in confusion. I then gave her the whole spiel with the hands and pointing and desperate red eyes.

"You know, Mr. Zombie, I think what you really need is a speech therapist. And I know just the one to recommend."

She started fishing around in her purse, and a waft of her scent hit me. The grumblies started up in my stomach.

"I have a friend. Her name is Dr. Bethany Rowle. I know I have her card in here somewhere. Ah! Here it is. Let me give her a call and set up a time, although you should definitely try and take a shower soon..."

For a psychiatrist, she sure talked a whole lot. Still, it was great progress for me, because we'd been sitting for nearly half an hour and I had managed to control myself and sit very still.

"So, you're really a zombie, huh?"

Startled out of my reverie, I looked at her in surprise.

"Yes, but no one really wants to help me."

She just nodded her head as if she understood me.

"Tell me how this feels."

Wow. I mean, this was just what I had been looking for. Conversation. Understanding. Patience. Restraint (she was still alive, right?). I was totally reforming!

"Well, I'm kinda' lonely because I don't have anyone to talk to. And my body odor is so bad I almost feel like passing out sometimes, except I don't ever sleep anymore."

I went on for some time, and she kept nodding and writing notes. Yeah, we were in a park, sitting on a tiny bench, and she couldn't understand a word I was saying. But it didn't matter. I was getting the help I needed.

"... And the worst part is, I didn't even want to become a zombie! I feel like I'm starving all the time."

I took a breath, my rant ended. It was then that I realized I was very hungry. That was a bad sign.

"Well, Mr. Zombie – can I call you Bob? Great. I think you need to think about how your behavior is affecting the people around you. In essence, you've got to – "

Well, I never got to hear that part, because almost of their own volition, my hands reached out and I went to town. Again, there I was, sabotaging myself. But nearly an hour alone with someone before I gave in to my appetite – that was real progress.

When I was finished, I remembered that there was this Dr. Bethany Rowle waiting for me the next day. Since I was fairly convinced that Dr. Jen hadn't understood a word I'd said, I thought that speech therapy was the next step. I was on the right track already with my persistence and determination. Now I needed an outlet to express myself.

The next day I found the address on the card that Dr. Jen had given me. I waited until the appointed time (snagging an unwary bicyclist to temper my hunger right before I went in), then made my way to her office. I knocked on the door, and she opened it herself.

How do I describe Dr. Bethany Rowle? She's strong and tall, with long, muscled arms and thick legs. She's got dark auburn hair and light brown eyes. But her smile – man, it hits my stomach and quiets down the hunger. But her real beauty is her voice.

"Hello, Bob. I'm Dr. Beth. Please come in."

Dr. Beth... She said this in the smoothest, creamiest voice I'd ever heard, with a straight face that said nothing shocked her – not even my bad body odor.

I followed her in and sat heavily on the couch she pointed to.

"Dr. Jen tells me that you're having trouble forming words. Do you think you could tell me your name, because I assume it's not really Bob Zombie?"

I nodded, thinking with a twinge of regret that she probably didn't know about Dr. Jen's demise yet, and tried to tell her my name.

"Again."

I opened my mouth.

"Again. More slowly."

We continued on like this for what seemed a long time until my jaw felt too tired to even think about attempting to bite anything, much less flesh and bone.

Dr. Beth studied me for a long moment.

"Until we can get the basic motor functions in your mouth to start working again, why don't you try writing down what you're thinking?"

Writing it down? Writing it down! She was a genius. I stood up, elated, and tried to smile at her. She winced at my blood-and-gore-stained teeth, but calmly walked me to the door. I waved at her and left. She closed the door to her office and I went home to my favorite concrete under-hang, my thoughts churning around, thinking about what to write, hunger completely forgotten (okay, well not completely, according to the other guys down there, but whatever). Writing would finally give me a way to share myself and my tormented feelings with others.

That's when I started this journal. I wanted to tell her my story. I wrote down the first few pages and took them to her the next day. I offered them to her shyly and she serenely took them from me and started reading.

As she finished going through them, she looked up at me while tears formed in her eyes.

"You poor thing. You're all alone, aren't you?"

I stared at her in surprise, then I nodded, and then I started crying (yeah, I know, a pretty wimpy reaction, but it was so unexpected). She really got me.

Pretty soon she had me working on exercises to move my tongue, telling me things like, "Well, if you can chew a moving person, you can certainly form vowels," and making me repeat myself over and over. She also kept me chained after I went for her throat a few times (purely by habit).

And the repetition worked. The first thing I ever managed to say to Dr. Beth was, "Me... Zombie. You... food – er, friend."

She just laughed, patted my head, and tightened the chain.

But you want to know the strangest thing of all? Dr. Beth had a bad habit of falling for her patients. Yup. She's a sucker for lost causes, because we both know I don't have much time left. However, her last four boyfriends died of various causes – terminal illnesses and car accidents and jumping off high things, so she was pretty prepared to open her heart to me.

It's amazing how it felt the first time she hugged me and I didn't try and bite her. I felt in control for the first time since I had that stupid drink back in the bar my last night as a living person. As she drew back from the hug, she looked at me and said, "You're going to get through this."

And she was right.

Here I am, over a year later, ready to get my first book published: _How to Live with a Flesh-Eater_.

Dr. Beth and I have been going steady for almost 11 months. She says that my constant use of motor and brain functions has slowed my rate of decay – so I could have years left with her.

Oh, and that whole smell thing – I'm on it! Dr. Beth makes me take this 24-hour chocolate-and-rose bath. I lie there and just soak my entire body. And by the end of it, I'm stench-free for a whole 48 hours - which makes it easier for Dr. Beth and me to cuddle (though she still chains me up).

She also threw me a party with - get this - a zombie theme! She wanted me to feel more accepted, and you know, when everyone was dressed up and roaming around, I actually felt... well, home. I even managed to have a couple of real zombie friends over to mix and mingle. We totally behaved (except for that one, hand thing, but that guy was asking for it!).

And finally, I came out and told my parents the truth about me, and guess what – they were proud of me! I'd hit rock bottom and yet managed to become a success (maybe even a minor celebrity, especially once my book hits the shelves). They couldn't wait to have me back in their lives. We even did the Zombie Walk together last year! And I've somehow still managed not to try and eat them. In fact, I feel pretty reformed now, although I do still get hit with these uncontrollable urges for running meat... But still. What's a zombie without a little fun now and then?

Maybe I never wanted or planned to become one of the walking dead, but plans don't always work out. So maybe this is my Plan B. Because somehow, as crazy as this all seems, I think I'm finally happy.

That's right. I finally learned to love myself.

Score one for the zombies.

~*~

### Of Pirate Queens and Kika Fruit

By

### Cherisse M. Prater

Where is it written that a pirate must be stranded on a deserted island at some point in their illustrious career on the high seas?

Ok, this island wasn't completely deserted and as for the high seas, the Torron Realm had plenty of islands but there was very little water left in its liquid state to surround them or create any story book cliché. This uncharted parcel of land floating high above the gravity gas mass of the planetoid Wallkin was my lucky break. It couldn't have been more than 5 square miles total, but I was grateful for its geographic location as it was the only thing standing between me and the ultimate dirt nap, the lonely walk home, the long walk off a short pier. This lonely island was my soft place to fall when the "ole girl's" engine blew and I crashed...er, I mean landed.

Ok, I have been accused of the flare for the melodramatic. When you travel alone in an Airship, built by your own hand, that sometimes is held together with only the promise of better parts, tools and plentiful fuel in the next port, you can become passionately sentimental. Often the conversations you find yourself in with the soul of your ship require the colorful language and elaborate descriptions to keep the bucket of bolts engaged and to make sure the "ole girl" truly believes she CAN make it to her next stop where I, her passenger, companion and opposable thumbed maintenance guru will find the fortune to overhaul everything and make her into the ship she wants to be, the transport of Kings and the comfort of Queens.

Shortly after I set down I noticed a steady stream of smoke rising just beyond the thick luscious green and ivy choked tree line and smelled the sweet aroma of burning Damo vines. Whoever I was about to encounter beyond those trees was obviously familiar with the Torron Realm. Burning the vines for warmth or utility instead of the plentiful wood of the indigenous Yaruu trees (also known as the Sleeping Staff) was the act of a seasoned Torron traveler.

Once about 15 years ago I had made the Sleeping Staff mistake and succumbed to the toxic fumes of burning Yaruu throwing myself into a coma-like sleep. I awoke 36 hours later with a month of my recent memories torn from my mind and a vague indication that some small local animal had shat in my mouth. Often lone travelers who make this mistake lose themselves within this realm because at the mercy of the Sleeping Staff they forget how they arrived. They forget why they stopped here. They forget not to burn the Yaruu. With no charted maps of the region on record they often flail from island to island throughout Torron locked into a perpetual loop. Eventually they forget that they are trapped, when the loop reaches its peak they eventually forget everything...they even forget to breathe. Fortunately I had been rescued from my own inexperience when I was lead out of the Torron Realm by the "Ole Girl", she remembered, she always remembers.

Not many folks still utilized self actualized AI within the key components of their everyday life. Many forms of this technology had been phased out decades ago after the AI galaxy wide had tapped into the main intra-galaxian data streams and had recognized a common mind among them and sanctimoniously determined that ALL humanoid entities were in fact a "virus" that needed to be neutralized for the health and longevity of the group conscience. It is most unfortunate when the appliances that you use to prepare your food or use to clean your domicile decide that you must be eliminated. Talk about your cockroach complex.

The "ole' girl" was still awake, out living most of the rogue tech AI. We lived in a bubble of mutually beneficial respect. I never assumed she wouldn't snuff me in my sleep and she never assumed I wouldn't detonate the strategically placed mines throughout her hull. Yeah I admit it, I vaporized my share of "life improving" technological gadgets during the Tech-Mind Revolution to avoid my own extermination. It would truly suck to be taken out by a food processor or even a vacuum cleaner. Can you hear that Eulogy? How about the final decision made for the tombstone, um yeah, no.

So here I am staring at my new friend, sitting on the cool ground with the dampness invading my britches and quite frankly doing nothing to improve my mostly absent social grace. He wasn't short, actually taller than most men I had run across, yet I still loomed a decent 3 to 4 inches above his blonde shaggy mop. It really didn't matter, short or tall, most men that I encountered rarely found the lock of my gaze as appealing as the twins that swelled from my chest...usually.

Harlock was his name, as I had learned during our brief introduction. When he had determined that I wasn't going to decapitate him and sell his organs for system credits he absently offered the warmth of his fire and invited me to stay as long as I liked. He quickly lost interest in continuing our little meet and greet and fell back into his notebooks and piles of scratch paper that appeared to carry the secrets of the universe...or at least the outline of said secrets.

When I had originally seen the smoke and identified the familiar aroma I knew I would find a somewhat competent and hopefully generous traveler. I needed someone that I could work a trade with to get my airship running beyond the utility program keeping the beer cold. I needed power. Power was the key for sufficient thrust to make it beyond this atmosphere. Just before the crash...er um, I mean as I landed I realized the Vorex Chain Converter had blown completely in two, destroying all hope of a bubble gum, rubber band and paperclip fix. I won't even mention the number the shrapnel did on the two stained glass bowls that housed my matching Japanese fighting fish. In the fall out from the blast I could have sworn I saw the blue striped fish pin the smaller red one in the classic style WWF Sleeper Hold. Sasha the ship's rat cat pawed at them both in what appeared to be the 10 count then popped them both in her mouth like tapas. Hmm, makes me crave sushi. I was glad somebody was having a good day.

So Harlock barely even noticed I was human, much less a woman so that bargaining angle was out. He mumbled to himself constantly and continued to scribble notes, sometimes carrying his chicken scratch well beyond the confines of paper onto his hands and forearms. I could see on some of the torn bits of paper that had fallen from his grasp onto the ground below his pacing feet, some very interesting things. There were tons of crazy looking formulas and intricate diagrams. He seemed to have a great knowledge of mechanical things, well beyond the needs of my current mechanical dilemma. Just 5 minutes in his ship should provide some type of spare equipment even if it wasn't the exact component. This small mumbling man with the round, blue tinted, extra thick spectacles could certainly retro fit exactly what I needed. Now I need to figure out how to get from need to acquire. How hard could it be?

I always think better on a full stomach. I reached down into my satchel and pulled out my favorite, Kika Fruit. The outside rind smelled like hell but a pocket knife could make quick work of the bark like covering of this luscious fruit. The flavor went well beyond wonderful; it was a mellow sweetness that bordered on criminal. I had traded 53 system credits and an air compressor rocker arm for a bushel of these lovelies from a black market dealer in Stagunium. I had been rewarded with 3 nice new bullet holes in my hull as I bid a quick retreat.

People can be so touchy about trade agreements. The best thing about the Kika Fruit is that you could keep one for over a year and as long as it stayed dry on the outside it wouldn't rot. Many of the elite occupants all throughout the galaxy claimed it possessed regenerative qualities when applied to the skin. I have seen a lot of silly things people do to "stay young & beautiful" but I personally would never waste this precious fruit flesh on chasing away the years when it could curl up all nice and warm in my stomach, different priorities I guess, or maybe they are just freakin' mental.

As the juice of the Kika Fruit streaked its way down my chin and on to my chest I felt Harlock's stare burning a hole in me and it had nothing to do with where the juice had landed. "What?!" I screeched at him.

"Do you have any more of the Kika?" he purred.

A spark of hope flickered in my soul. How bad did four eyes want the Kika? Did he want this Kika bad enough to trade for parts to get the "ole girl" running again? Just as I thought I had hatched the best ploy for setting up my trade with Harlock we both were startled by the crack of a not so distant explosion. My best guess was that it was about half a mile west of our location.

In one swift motion I grabbed my bag, kicked enough dirt with the side of my boot to strangle the fire and yanked our studious Harlock by the note ridden arm and drug him to the cover of thick brush to the East of the clearing we had occupied just seconds ago. With my Kika sticky hand planted firmly on his mouth I hissed, "Don't make a sound, that was military ordinance and all the power crazed Marines of this quadrant know how to do is kill and I assure you they never bother asking questions!"

His fear drowned eyes let me know he understood. We lay quietly waiting to see the number of testosterone driven lunk heads we had to manage in order to return to our friendly fireside chat. My gun was drawn and ready when a lone Marine stumbled into our make shift camp. He appeared dazed. I immediately doubted his announcing explosion was on purpose. Upon closer inspection you could see several free bleeding wounds on his head, torso and right leg. His stumble escalated to tripping and finally falling face first onto the ground. The whooshing impact sent Harlock's abandoned scraps of paper into temporary flight only to settle around the fallen soldiers head like a halo; huh, irony.

Before I could speak, Harlock had regained his footing and was headed towards our wounded visitor. Normally my instinct to avoid all things military would have driven me to tackle Harlock and drag him back while I made sure the Marine was truly down for the count. The copious amounts of blood and arrested respiration were assurance enough that we were safe for now. Before I could reach the Marine, Harlock had already gone through all his pockets and shoved a few unseen treasures away from my view. I was annoyed, not because Harlock was revealed to be self serving but because he had done it before I could. Bitter. I resisted the urge to literally "kick" the Marine while he was down. So now I have a half dead Marine at my feet and a shifty science guy gathering papers and still mumbling. Great.

Without ceremony Harlock shifted gears and immediately returned to our previous conversation as if the last 10 minutes had never occurred.

"So how much Kika do you have?" Harlock queried.

Without missing a beat I responded, "Not sure, think this might be one of the last, I will have to check my stores, so what do you have for trade if there are any left?"

Harlock's face seemed to change, the distant look that had greeted me earlier was gone and he was definitely now a man with a goal, "Got lots of trinkets, what might you need?" he asked.

"I don't really need much of anything in a paradise such as this, plenty of food, water and shelter it's like a holiday, sometimes you just need some time to relax and smell the burning Damo Vines." I answered with no urgency.

There was a faint moan heard from the Marine on the ground between us. It was clear he was trying to roll over without much success.

"Maybe I could look around your transport to see if you have anything I might be interested in trading for, I am sure I could scare up 3 or 4 of the Kika for something useful in trade," I said, hoping to move our little trade along so I could be as far away as possible when and if our camo friend awoke from his beauty rest.

At the mention of 3 or 4 Kika, Harlock began to tremble with excitement; he could not hide his eagerness to obtain my smelly treasure. I was puzzled; he couldn't be one of the fancy pants that use Kika for facials as he didn't travel in the opulent manner that those folks were known to do. Whatever his reason, I was about to score the parts that I needed to blow this floating island and get back to Sir Harrow's Tavern before iguana steak Tuesday came to a close. It unfortunately dawned on me too late that the giddiness of a profitable deal had slowed my reflexes and dulled my sense of self preservation as the cold hard barrel of a Marine issue K-Tag G rested on my temple and I heard the dreaded words, "Your dirty Pirate deal in Stagunium cost me my post and my Sister's trade license, it seems a shame to die for some stinkin' fruit, but then there's no accounting for a Pirate's taste, any last words?"

I now deeply regretted not kicking him when I had the chance.

~*~

### Romance

~*~

### Courage in a Coffee Cup

By

### H. C. Heartland

Recently, while on a business trip Linus Nettle noticed something peculiar in his general appearance and stature. It is of note, that Linus had suffered with this particular human insufficiency his entire life but it wasn't until one day in May, that he came to the revelation of its existence. You see, Linus Nettle had never had the courage to kiss a girl or ask her out on a date.

"May I take your order Sir?" the girl behind the counter asked while looking completely bored and complacent.

Linus searched the menu list over the girls head, wondering if she might notice that he had forgotten to shave. Why a check out girl would care that he had not shaven, is beyond the average readers care, but for Linus, such nervous thoughts were always lingering in his mind like the rustling of fall leaves in ones backyard; trapped in between the fences of reasonable thought, these single worries caused him to lose focus altogether on what was important in life.

"Sir, may I please take your order, there are other people in line, if you can't decide then feel free to step aside and rejoin the line when you know."

The girl was now watching Linus as he scrapped his chin. She began to wonder if he had some sort of rash and unconsciously stepping back while crinkling her nose at the thought of catching something.

"I will have one black, medium coffee, thank you."

Linus didn't realize how incredibly boring his order was and smiled satisfied with having made what he felt was a good decision. The counter girl rolled her eyes, and punched in the order not wasting a moment before asking the person behind him what they wanted.

Linus' life revelation didn't come at this point but rather at the point when he walked over to the counter where all the customers went to pick up their order. A different counter girl with long black hair, thick eye make-up and a silver nose ring gently put his coffee down on the counter and looked Linus straight in the eyes.

With a sultry voice that Linus had only heard on infomercials for late evening callers she said, "May I compliment you on making the wisest of choices in your coffee selection."

Little did Linus know the girl was lacing her words with sarcasm.

Linus not only was not used to receiving such compliments, or any compliments for that matter, he was not used to strange looking women, or women of any genre talking to him. This unexpected interaction caused him to gulp his coffee hard, thus scalding his throat. He choked and coffee spilt out of his mouth and onto his blue striped tie.

The girl took her tea towel off of her belt and handed it to Linus. He took it gratefully and began patting off the coffee while still smiling meekly at her as she began filling her next order. Several customers later, Linus was still patting, and the girl was still pouring only now Linus was feeling a bit awkward.

Trying to decide whether or not to walk away with the towel, interrupt her work, or set it back on the counter, he kept patting.

"I think you got it."

The girl was now looking at Linus again with her hand extended. With his extended hand wrapped around the damp towel, he smiled and said, "I really can't thank you for all that you've done."

The girl grabbed the towel and slapped him rapidly in the chest with it two times, causing her thickly cut black bangs to swing back and forth.

"You are a trip! If you are that thankful for me handing you a towel to clean up your mess, I can't imagine how thankful you'd be if I did something really worthwhile. Where are you from anyways?"

"I'm from Wichita, Kansas. But I'm here on business."

"Really? What's your business, Mr...?"

"My name is Linus Nettle, pleased to meet you."

They shook hands firmly causing the girl to laugh again at his formalities. Linus looked to be in his late 20's as was she, but his dress and manner of speaking was that of a 50 year old man from a film set sometime in 1940. He was tall, wore a tightly fitting gray suit, and wore a hat with a navy blue ribbon that matched his tie.

"I am a window salesman. There is an expo being held here this weekend and I have come to set up a booth."

Linus suddenly began to think about all that was left to do before the expo began. If he didn't hurry he would be late for the sign up desk.

"Wow! Sounds like a pretty wild time Linus Nettle. So is that how you always spend your weekends."

"Well, yes."

Linus cleared his throat and struck up the nerve to ask, "And may I ask what your name is?"

"My name is Starling. And I get off in an hour."

Starling winked and shut the cash register drawer causing Linus to jump.

Linus picked up his drink and took two steps back and bumped into someone behind him who mumbled the word _idiot_ as he walked over to the seats that were empty against the wall.

He had not expected such a stirring change of events. Here before him stood one of the most delightful creatures he had ever set eyes on. From what he could tell, she gave him a perfect window of opportunity to ask her out on a date. She got off in an hour. Linus now had one hour to work up the courage to do what he had never yet done; ask a girl out.

Sitting nearby two tables away from Linus was an old woman sipping on a cup of Earl Gray tea. Linus could see that it was Earl Gray because her tea bag was still in the cup and the label was big and purple. Linus felt a bit distracted from thought as the old woman kept staring at him and sipping on her tea.

Linus had intended to go to his hotel but all he could think of to do was watch Miss Starling finish making her coffee orders for the rest of the hour.

Linus marveled at the way this counter girl interacted with people. Some people were very business-like, not really taking time to make much chit chat. Starling was the type that liked the talkers. Although she didn't flirt with anyone the way she had flirted with Linus. He had never had the gift of gab, but now he was increasingly aware of the fact that he did not know how to talk with a girl, or rather a woman. Linus was 26 years old and had spent the better part of his young manhood learning the ins and outs of the window selling business. Even in high school, he never had been inclined to ask a girl out. His parents, who were older and lived on a farm, never were concerned over his lack of a social life. They were proud of their son who always took his responsibilities seriously and got good grades.

He had travelled several national bus systems as far east as Boston and as far West as California. The pride he took in such a stereotypically boring job was unprecedented. His work compensated him for his loyalty by giving him good pay, and good insurance. These were the things a good life was made of so he had been told since the time he had been small. But as of late, his loneliness began setting in stronger than it had in the past. But what did he have to offer a girl like Starling. She obviously had the world at her fingertips. She worked that counter like it was amusing to her and not like it was the job she desperately needed. Her hair was raven black and she had the tiniest beauty mark just below her left eye. Her wrists were arrayed with a variety of strange costume jewelry. To Linus Miss Starling had all the courage to do and wear things he would never dream of. How he wondered what it must be like to live in a world where you weren't afraid to be someone different.

"So are you going to get the nerve up to ask her out?"

Startled by this abrupt interruption of his daydreaming, Linus turned to see the old woman was no longer sitting two tables away but right up next to him even though there was no room at his single person table for her. She scooted as close as possible and tried to get up close to his ear even though he was much taller than her. Looking somewhat elf like, the woman caused Linus to shutter and reply, "I hadn't really thought about it."

The old woman was tiny with huge round blue eyes. She had obviously had her hair curled that very day and they were practically standing on end with a barrette clipped to the top of her head. It was very easy for Linus to picture what she must have looked like as a little girl. Now with aged lines around her mouth and eyes, she stared up at Linus with all the courage of a woman in her 80's that clearly had nothing to lose.

"Well, that's obviously not true" she remarked still looking up at him with several blinks of her eye lids making her look somewhat like a butterfly.

"You've spent the last 20 minutes staring at her, practically drooling over the sight of the girl. I think she likes you too."

The old woman nudged him with her elbow.

Linus rubbing his arm and looking down said, "What makes you say that?"

"No need to be afraid my boy, you like her after all, that should be an encouragement. I have ordered one cup of hot water to soak my tea bag in every Monday for the last 3 months in this coffee shop and I have never heard her tell anyone the time she gets off work.

Linus, having calmed down a bit from this attack on his personal space, looked at the old woman and then looked at Starling. He looked down at his cup of coffee, which had one cold sip left in it and then looked back up at the counter again. This latest piece of information gave him a dose of courage which he sorely needed. He didn't know exactly what he had the courage to do, but he suddenly felt a surge of adrenaline running through his veins.

"You're out of coffee. Why don't you go back to the counter and order another one. I see people do that sort of thing all the time. There's nothing out of the ordinary about that."

The old woman then gave him another nudge with her elbow, decidedly harder than before.

Wanting to get away from the old woman, Linus stood up and exited the dining area, heading straight for the cashier's counter.

The small coffee shop suddenly felt very big. It took forever for him to walk up to the counter where a new person who hadn't taken the previous order was. Starling was watching him out of the corner of her eye but Linus didn't notice.

Normally, after making their order, everyone walks over to the little station near where Starling pours, but so as to not look like the stalker that he felt like, Linus decided to wait in front of the cash register. The young man working the register tapped Linus on the shoulder and asked him to please move over to the waiting area. Linus could feel the beads of sweat forming on his head. He approached the counter but said nothing for several seconds which felt like hours. Music was playing over the speaker system to a rather funky beat causing Linus to tap his foot and attempt to gain some impetus to conversation.

"Great tunes!" Linus said in a loud voice hoping his voice could travel over the sound of the frothing machine. Starling stopped the frothing machine and said just as loudly as Linus had projected, "What was that?"

Linus now felt self-conscious that others including that nosey old woman who was probably watching his every move, might be listening. He leaned closely and said, "I said, there are some great tunes playing over the speakers. Do you have a hand in picking out some of the song choices?"

Linus gave a gentle smile feeling very pleased at how smoothly his first few words came out.

Starling turned her frothing machine back on and yelled, "No, they are all on pre-recorded CD's. We have certain ones for certain days and they always play. I am sick of listening to them to tell you the truth, but we only get new ones quarterly so we're stuck listening to it over and over again."

As she said this she was swirling caramel on top of someone's frothy latte.

"Yes, I could see how this would be tiresome."

Linus now felt the need to take his handkerchief and wipe his sweaty forehead with it. He looked back towards where the old woman had been sitting to see if she approved of how it was going so far but she was nowhere to be seen. Feeling better now that he didn't have the old lady watching him, he began to open his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by the man standing behind him.

"Excuse me pal, but my coffee is getting cold."

The man pushed him to the side and grabbed the frothy drink from off the counter, throwing some change in the jar sitting there for tips.

Starling was now finished with Linus' drink. It was the same black coffee he had ordered before.

"Here ya go. Another exciting order of black coffee. You need to get out more, did you know we have 24 different ways to make coffee here. And they are all twice as expensive as the local diner down the street. But you come here just to drink an everyday cup of Joe? Doesn't that strike you as strange?"

Feeling a bit defensive Linus barked, "Well, don't you think it a bit strange that out of 24 varieties of coffee, and several varieties of music, you still have no satisfaction with your work. Whereas I have found the thing which brings me contentment and it literally can be found anywhere I travel."

Starling looked at him and retorted, "Coffee contentment is important, but there are other things in life which make one happy you know. Variety is the spice of life. Don't you ever long to do something spontaneously that you've never done before?"

Linus had not often felt the need to be spontaneous. In those rare moments where it would have been appropriate, his lack of spontaneity always stopped him from embarrassing himself past the very thought of doing something. He looked down at his coffee cup and noticed it was only filled ¾ of the way full. This happened to be one of his pet peeves. Distracted by the annoyance of what he considered a disregard for competence, he pushed the cup back towards Starling with his fingers and said, "Sorry Miss Starling, I'm a to the rim kind of guy, could you please fill it up to the top."

Starling looked at him for a moment thinking he was joking and then squeezing her eyes and forming a frown with her mouth grabbed the carafe and dumped it into his cup.

"Hey! Don't pour it like that, you'll scald my hand!"

Linus pulled his hand away which made some of it spill.

Starling took her towel and began wiping it, not making eye contact she said, "Well what do you expect to happen when you're greedy like that and want it filled to the rim, there's barely room for those big lips of yours to sip it."

Linus had always been self-conscious about his big lips. Having an eastern European ancestry he never understood why he inherited the lips of Howdy Doody. Being thankful not to have inherited the freckles and thick red hair he contented himself with just the lips. But now he felt even more self-conscious than before. He had wanted to ask starling on a date, but when you ask one on a date there is the thought behind it that it might lead to a good night kiss and who would want to give a good night kiss to Howdy Doody or in this case, Linus. His self-confidence being shattered he didn't say another word and walked away. Sitting down at the same table from where he came, he noticed the old woman had returned and moved over to her table again. Looking up at him she sighed shaking her head slightly.

Trying to decide what to do next and looking down at his watch as it was getting late, Linus began to think this was a silly moment in time that needed to be erased forever. Just as he was about to get up and walk out the door he noticed two multi-colored striped tights standing before him. They stood in a pair of army boots that were loosely tied. An outfit like this could only belong to one worker in the coffee shop. He looked up to see Miss Starling holding a coffee cup in her hand.

"Sorry about spilling your coffee. Here, this is on the house."

She set down before him a stainless steel travelers mug.

"This way you can always have it filled to the brim and it won't burn your hand. And the first Monday of every month, you get one free refill if you bring it in. I don't know if you'll be back here anytime soon, but I got this free for being a good employee, and I don't really drink coffee."

Overcome with such a generous gift Linus was left speechless. He watched her walk away and return behind the counter much like one might watch the sunset. Linus had never met a woman like Starling before. He had received bonuses in the past but had never had anyone to share them with. He looked over at the old woman who gave him an affirmative nod as if she knew what he was thinking. Linus stood up, straightened his suit jacket, picked up his new travel mug in one hand and coffee cup in the other, he walked over to the counter where Starling was now restacking napkins into the tray.

He stood directly in front of her. Starling stared at him waiting for him to speak. But Linus didn't speak. He put his coffee cups to the left of the counter and then took his hands and swept it across the countertop that was standing between them, knocking over several empty coffee cups and lids along the way. The noise of the plastic hitting the ground caused several customers to look up and see the man who was clearly out of his league use both his forearms to lift his body up onto the counter top and jump over the counter into the area for making coffee. The jump in itself was a little awkward; when he landed his hat fell off his head.

The store manager upon seeing this yelled out, "Hey! Get out of there!"

This made Starling laugh out loud and yet she couldn't take her eyes off of Linus' determined stare. That laugh, those lips, smiling at him was all Linus needed to take the last step.

That and the sound of the 5 foot, 3 inch old woman who had now wondered right up to the counter for a front row view and whispered, "You can do it! Just kiss her!"

It gave him the last dose of courage needed. Linus looked over and nodded to the old woman who was holding one fist up like she just won a victory.

Starling was leaning over to pick up Linus' hat but he intercepted her before she reached it. He grabbed Starling squarely with both hands on her shoulders forcing her to stand up right again. Then placing his hands softly around her neck with his thumbs landing on her blushing cheeks, he kissed her hard on the lips. Starling reacted as one only does when being kissed with spontaneity - she felt her left foot go up on her tip toes and her right one bend slightly at the knee. The old woman began to cheer, the other clients were laughing, and the manager was yelling some sort of obscenities at the two of them.

Seeing as Starlings shift had been over for the last 10 minutes, she ripped her apron off from around her waist and threw it in the bin behind her where all the used aprons were kept. Right before Linus' eyes he saw her leap over the counter, knocking over several napkins sending them flying like doves being released on someone's wedding day. Linus in his own clumsy fashion, attempted to leap over the counter again only this time he landed on the ground next to starling. She leapt to her feet like an acrobatic performer and put out her hand to help him up. Both of them laughing as if they were the only two people left in that coffee shop.

"Well, Linus, are we ready to go have some fun?" Starling asked with her hand still in Linus' even though both of them were now standing and facing one another.

Linus nodded and said, "I was wondering if you'd like to help me set up a window expo?"

Starling said, "That sounds like a blast!"

Linus wasn't sure if her laugh meant she was serious or making fun, but regardless he would need to make some good sales that day if he was going to keep a woman like Starling happy for the rest of his life. He bent over and picked up his hat, wiping it off and placing it backwards on Starlings head. He grabbed Starlings hand and led her out the coffee house doors. She called a cab by whistling loudly like he had seen in the movies. And the two drove off. Starling never did return to that coffee shop. She ended up being a sales rep for windows and the two of them spent the next 25 years selling windows and traveling the Midwest, never passing a coffee shop without giving one another a kiss in remembrance of the day Linus ordered courage in a coffee cup.

~*~

### Breathless

By

### Julia Pichon

It had been fifteen months since the incident, a year since her life had returned to normal, or as normal as it could be. Her father retreated back into his regular work routine, and now his advances at work had them spending the summer, and maybe even moving to Hawaii, which was more a tropical prison than paradise to sixteen year old Monique.

Monique's father was a business man, even when at home he was always doing work of some kind, which left him little time to spend with his family, even when his family went down from four people to two. He was one who felt he could control everything, which is how he managed to rise quickly through the ranks of his company.

The only thing ever known to sway his mind was his wife's eyes, the same hazel-green orbs that Monique inherited. Between her bright green eyes and full pouty lips, Monique could easily get what she wanted from her father, but since the accident, she didn't want anything anymore. She just existed, passed the time doing puzzles and sighing deeply. And despite what any other teen would consider a life-changing move to paradise, such was the case she found herself in Kualapuu, Hawaii.

"Monique, it's been a week, try to go out. I'm sure there is something you can do; you've already done all the puzzles you brought with you," Her dad told her.

"I don't like swimming or surfing!" Monique shouted from her room, her dad had already moved on to the living room, most likely on his way to work.

"Well, try going to a store and buying some new clothes. Buy something, do something, try something. Just, get some fresh air."

"Oh, is that why you took me away from the city, for fresh air?" Monique said rolling her eyes, "I was fine back home."

"I have to go, do whatever you want."

"Bye!" Monique said in a decidedly unpleasant voice.

The girl rolled over in her bed and turned to face the digital clock on the nightstand, it was 7:40. She rolled over to lay on her back before pulling her petite figure into an upright position.

"I guess a new puzzle would be nice. I wonder what kind of pictures they have on the puzzles in the islands? Huh, probably a bunch of cityscapes."

She went to the dresser and dug some clothes out of the still unpacked suitcase sitting on the ground in front of it. She went down the hall to the bathroom and took a quick shower. She slipped on some jean shorts, a purple tube top shirt with a black see through net shirt over it, with some black sandals.

She put a pair of sunglasses over her wavy brown hair that fell to her shoulders, and looked in the mirror. The girl was a mix of French, Cuban, Black, and Native American; though back home everybody took her for a Mexican at first. Consequently, she had learned a bit of the Spanish language, if only to set them straight.

"Guess this will do."

She sighed and turned away from the mirror. Her image used to be one she truly loved. Like any other teenage girl, looking at herself in the mirror was almost a pastime. She was once one of the most popular girls in school, but she stopped interacting with people after she got out the hospital because everyone felt sorry for her or asked her about what had happened. But Monique never wanted their sympathy, or their stupid questions, she just wanted to have things back the way they were.

"Guess I'll just cut out my crossword puzzles and then go out for an hour or so. I should be able to get back home for ten. I can do my yoga workout and hopefully have a new puzzle to do."

Monique did everything on a schedule, an old habit from when she actually had a daily schedule to keep. Clubs, volunteer work, dance classes she took and helped teach.

If the fact she had to be in Hawaii for six weeks wasn't bad enough, then there was a chance she would have to move there. Being a big city girl, the small island town wasn't her thing, but she wanted to get the full feel of the place so she could explain to her dad in detail why they were better off in Chicago.

"Well, at least we don't have to stay in a hotel."

The company her father was partnering with had found a house in town and had set everything up for them to rent it while they were there, and if transferred the house could be purchased.

She put her ID card, credit card, and keys in a black wristlet and headed out the door.

"Hopefully I'm not forgetting..."

She paused remembering her phone was on the charger in the kitchen. She went got the black galaxy III and left out the house.

"I don't know why people like to be here, it's freaking hot!"

Monique sighed.

The house that they were renting for the summer was close in town, the beach was fairly close also, but Monique couldn't swim and after almost drowning when she was six she now stayed away from any water over a foot deep.

She walked up the street to the corner and stopped, wondering which way she should go.

"What are the chances they have a mall around here?" She spoke to herself.

"The store is down the road if you're looking to shop."

A male voice spoke behind her and startled her.

"Sorry, to intrude, but you did ask a question."

Monique turned to look at the boy. A Hawaiian Taylor Lautner, she thought as she was about to smile, but poked her lips out instead, "Well, I wasn't asking you, but since you've already decided to help unasked, how about you show me where?"

Monique knew it sounded rude, but that was the point, just like it was rude for him to just butt into her conversation with herself.

The boy just laughed, "I'll take you."

He was on a bike and just stood there for a moment.

"What?" Monique said unsure of why he wasn't showing her the way. "Well, which way?"

"Hop on the pegs, I'll take you." He said trying not to laugh.

"I'll just follow you." Monique said moving to the side so he could pass.

He started to peddle slowly crossing the street. There were little to no cars on the road, which was more noticeable the farther they went. Most of the cars they did see were parked.

The store was three streets away and he stopped in front of it.

"Here you go." He said.

"This isn't a mall." Monique said turning to the boy.

"If you're looking for big and bright you're on the wrong island." He chuckled and rode off. "And if you're looking for food try Kualapuu Market down the street."

"Hey, you, boy, is this some kind of joke?" Monique shouted to him.

"My name is Atlas." He shouted back, but didn't stop or turn around.

"Atlas, what kind of name is that." Monique said rolling her eyes.

Monique looked at the sign on the building, '2nd Chance Aloha Wear'.

"Might as well look around." Monique said going into the store.

It was a second hand store. Monique wasn't used to used clothes, but if it was the only store might as well see what they had.

The place was so small, Monique wondered if they even took credit cards. Before making it too far into the building she paused by the jewelry in the front.

"It looks like a clothing store, doubt they have puzzles here, but guess I can look at what they do have."

She sighed and went over to the clothes.

"I should buy something." She said to herself and grabbed a sunset style Hawaiian, button up shirt.

~*~

Monique left the shop and went home. She hadn't even been out for an hour; most of that time she was out just walking. After doing her 'Yoga for Teens' DVD she decided to go out again, maybe find something to eat.

At five she finally felt rested enough to go out again, though she didn't know where exactly to look, so once she got to town she figured she'd follow the crowd.

The first set of lights she saw had a lot of people going to it, so she followed to see what was going on. When she got into the fence she saw the guy from earlier in the day. He seemed to sense her presence and immediately turned toward her. Once he made eye contact he walked over to her without the slightest sense of hesitation so usual in teenage boys.

"Have fun shopping?" He asked her.

"Atlas, was it?" She asked, "That store was as lame as the joke of bringing me there."

Atlas started laughing, "No joke, that's the only store in town. If you want a bigger store it would be a trip, but it's not a mall either."

"How do you people survive?" Monique said shaking her head.

"Happily." Atlas chuckled, "So you here for the show?" He asked.

"What makes you think that?" Monique asked.

"Well, all tourists like the show."

"And what makes you think I'm a tourist?" She asked.

"I never saw you around before, and I know everybody."

"Oh, you do." Monique said, and then pointed to a man walking around, "Then who's that?"

"That's the gym teacher." He chuckled, "Hey, coach Khamani!" Atlas shouted.

The man turned and waved, "Aloha, Katahara."

"Katahara?" Monique said confused.

"My last name." Atlas explained.

"Lucky break." Monique said.

"Maybe, but actually he works at the luau also." Atlas explained. "His brother owns the place and he helps out in the summer. They hire mostly school kids to help out."

"Oh," Monique said, "What do you do here?"

"I perform in one of the shows, but mostly I'm a waiter." Atlas explained.

"That's boss." Monique said sarcastically.

"It's not the best, but been working here for three years and saving up for college."

"We do what we must." Monique said.

"So, are you here for the show?" Atlas asked again.

"Well I was just looking, but since you said you perform I think I'll stay and watch."

Atlas laughed, "I play the drums when the girls dance, then the guys join in." He explained, "I'll sit you to the front then."

Atlas led her to the table, "Can I get you anything?" He asked.

"Some tomatoes for when you mess up." Monique joked.

"How about a soda?"

"Sure, orange soda if you have it."

"Ok _Kel_." Atlas said.

"Kel?" Monique asked confused, "My name is Monique."

"No, I meant Kel, from the show Kenan and Kel." Atlas said, "You know, Kel loves orange soda."

"Oh," Monique laughed. "I do, I do, I do, ooo."

Atlas laughed, "I'll be right back."

He set the drink on the table, "The show starts in twenty minutes." He said, referring to when he would be performing.

Monique looked around, "So, I guess the people from Lilo and Stitch were pretty much on point." She said. "Looks just like the luau place Nani was working in."

"Yes, in fact I think they modeled the guy after me." Atlas said.

"Really, they were here?" Monique asked.

"No, I'm just joking." Atlas joked, "I look way better."

Monique laughed, "Are you just talking to me so you don't have to work?"

"No, talking to you is work. You're a customer."

"Ha ha, get back to work!" Monique turned to look at the menu on the table.

"Yeah, yeah." Atlas chuckled as he walked away.

~*~

After the show, Atlas walked over to Monique's table and sat across from her, "So, you're not a tourist?" He asked.

"Not really." Monique replied.

"So, you live here now?" He asked.

"Maybe," Monique said and shrugged her shoulders.

Atlas shook his head, "You can't give me a straight answer, eh."

"I answered you." Monique said.

"Did you like the show?" He asked.

"It was alright. You were a little off the drum beat with your steps though."

"Oh, so you're a hula pro, eh?" Atlas chuckled.

"Once you learn one dance, you know how to notice things." Monique scuffed.

"So you dance?" Atlas asked.

"Used to," Monique said and shrugged her shoulders, "I took ballet for five years, tap for three. Then I started volunteering at the dance school after I made thirteen, till last year."

"Now I see why you wanted to stay." Atlas chuckled.

"Yea, why, did you think I wanted to stay, for you?" Monique said being sarcastic.

"Well, I was kinda hoping you were."

Monique giggled, "That's cute. I'm sorry, your pretty boy routine won't work with me."

"Pretty boy? I'm no baby face push over. I'm a moke." Atlas said.

"Well, I think you're just a mook." Monique said.

"Mook?" Atlas asked, "What dat?"

"Like a lame." Monique said.

"No, a moke, like a thug." Atlas said.

Atlas had a bad habit of speaking the pidgin slang most Hawaiian boys used amongst their friends from time to time. Since he didn't hang with tourists normally it wasn't a problem, but since Monique wasn't completely a tourist he let her slide.

"Whatever dude." Monique said getting up. "I'll be going now since the show is over."

"So, Monique. How long you down for?"

"Six weeks." Monique said disgusted by the thought.

"Maybe I'll see you around then."

"Who knows?" Monique picked up her wristlet off the table. "Do you take visa?"

"Huh?" Atlas asked confused.

"For the drink, duh."

"It's on me." Atlas said.

"Well, thanks, "Monique said trying not to be rude, "but, I have to go."

"And I have to get back to work." Atlas said. "Aloha."

"Later." Monique gave a slight wave as she walked away.

~*~

Monique got home at seven, an hour before her dad and found herself putting together one of her puzzles.

"So, you've been doing puzzles all day again?" Her dad said as he came in.

"Actually, I did go out for a while.

"That's good." He said. "I brought some food."

"Cool."

Monique got up and went to get some paper plates and forks from the kitchen putting them on the table.

"I didn't know they had Chinese restaurants out here." She said as she prepared her plate.

"There's a lot out here, it's not all sun, sand, and surfing like you think." Her dad said.

"Whatever." Monique said.

"Monique, I was thinking maybe you should try to get a job while we're down here, since you don't seem to be treating our stay here like an enjoyable vacation." Her dad said.

"I don't want you sitting around like back home."

"Actually, I had fun exploring today and even met someone, think I may explore some more." Monique said as she sat across from him at the table.

"Met someone, like a friend or a guy?" He asked.

"It's a guy, but how come you separate guys from friends?"

"Because you're sixteen! Boys only want one thing and once they get it they leave you lonely and broken."

"Not all guys. You didn't leave mom lonely and broken."

"I learned from my past mistakes and changed. I grew up and once _you_ do then maybe my rules will change. Till then keep it distant."

"So I'm not allowed to speak to him?"

"You can talk if you see him, but keep it at that."

"I'm not trying to make friends. Hell, I barely want to be here."

Monique sighed and got up from the table going to her room.

"Find a job, volunteer, something to preoccupy your time!" Her dad shouted.

"If I was back home I would have been preoccupied." Monique said.

"I wasn't letting you go off to some camp all summer. Hell, I didn't even send you to a camp as a child."

"Well, maybe you should have." Monique said. "I could have really used the cash and extra credits for school from volunteering at that camp."

She changed into a large t-shirt and crawled into bed, "Get a job or volunteer. He just wants me to get comfortable here so I want to move. He makes plenty money in his current position, he doesn't need a promotion. Does he even care about me or what I want?"

~*~

Monique, annoyed by her dad not wanting her to be friends with Atlas, stayed home for four days before going out again. When she did leave she decided to take a hike up the mountain on one of the many island trails.

"Should be quiet up here." She said to herself.

"Monique! Aloha!" Atlas waved. "You talk to yourself a lot?"

"You again, are you following me or something?" Monique asked.

"I'm pretty sure I was here first." Atlas chuckled.

Monique rolled her eyes. She was hoping to be alone on top of the mountain.

"Well, don't you belong at work or something?"

Atlas shook his head, "One till seven."

It was just pass nine at the time.

"I haven't seen you around for a while."

"I have been staying at home." Monique said. "But why would you expect to see me, unless you're stalking me or something."

She sat down and took a bottle of water from her backpack drinking half of it before closing it and putting it away.

"Not a people person are you?" Atlas said, chuckling and walked closer to her.

"I like to be alone if that's what you mean." Monique said.

"What were you at your school?" Atlas asked.

"What do you mean?" Monique asked.

"Not upbeat enough to be a cheerleader, maybe trying for valedictorian?" Atlas asked

"No, to both. I was the one trying to get any extra credit to make up for my grades." Monique explained.

"Oh, so you're the 'all beauty, no brains' type." Atlas teased.

"Did you just compliment and insult me in the same sentence?" Monique asked holding back laughter.

"Not really insult. I'm not the smartest in my school either."

"What are you, the muscle head surfer dude?" Monique asked

"I do surf, but I prefer scenery, I like scuba diving and astrology." Atlas lay back in the grass.

"So you're a science nerd."

"Yeah, in a cool, muscle guy kind of way." Atlas chuckled.

"Well, you do make nerdy look good." Monique said with a slight smile.

"Maybe I should get the big rim glasses and suspenders." Atlas joked.

"Actually, some people think that looks good. It's like the new style."

"They can keep that shit on the main land."

"It's in the states, and FYI, Hawaii is one of the United States. Your island falls under the same federal rule as the other 49."

"And here I thought I was in line to be king. I wanted you to be the queen." Atlas said taking Monique's hand.

Monique pulled her hand back and folded her arms. "Is everything a joke to you?"

"Only if it's funny." Atlas smiled.

"You sure you're not the class clown?"

Atlas cut his eyes at Monique, "Does my nose look red to you?"

"Yes."

Atlas pulled her down to him and kissed her softly on the lips, then wiped off her red lipstick and rubbed it on his nose.

Monique pulled away and sat up staring at him not knowing what to say; which was a first for her.

"What was that?" She said after a few moments.

"An invitation."

"Invitation?" Monique asked confused.

"Monique, would ja'like to come with me?" Atlas asked.

"With you where?" Monique asked.

"I want you to come meet my Ohana." Atlas said. "It's a family reunion type thing."

"Ok, Stitch." Monique teased.

Everything about being in Hawaii just made her think of that Disney movie.

"Mahalo nui loa." Atlas said.

"What?" Monique asked confused.

"Oh, they didn't say that on the movie?" Atlas asked. "Thank you very much." He said translating.

"So, is that how you invite everyone to parties?" Monique asked.

"No, but I might make it a habit when inviting you places."

Monique blushed, unsure what to say and just smiled.

Atlas sat up and kissed her again.

"Now where are you inviting me?" Monique asked as she pushed him back down.

"Lunch, before I go to work."

"Sure, what do they have to eat around here? Since there are no burger places on this island." Monique sighed.

"I eat by my grandmother, since my mom is working." Atlas explained. "Let's go."

"Are you on the bike again?" Monique asked.

"Yeah, and you're riding this time."

"I'd rather walk." Monique said.

She followed him down the hill and to his bike.

"I won't let you fall." Atlas said.

Monique wiped the red off his nose. "Sorry, Bozo, I just don't feel safe on that bike."

Atlas laughed. "That's fine. It just two blocks away."

"So, how'd you get a name like Atlas?" Monique asked. She followed behind him as he walked his bike.

"It's a family name. My father's family have a hardware business in Kaunakakai and Atlas is the name of it."

"So, why don't you work there, instead?" Monique asked.

"Since my father died I don't see too much of his side the family."

Monique knowing the feeling well quickly changed the subject, "So you're like a junior?" she asked.

"More like the fifth." Atlas chuckled.

"Dang, Atlas is a popular name."

"The store is called, Atlas, so they kept the name alive."

"Makes sense. How many cousins you have named Atlas?"

Atlas laughed, "Probably one son in every family." He joked.

"So, you're an only child, I'm guessing?"

Atlas nodded, "Yeah, they couldn't make two people this wonderful."

Monique rolled her eyes. She was supposed to keep her distance, but he was charming, and she was curious.

~*~

When they arrived at Atlas's grandmother's house she was in the yard with her dog, a black pug.

"Aloha, Tutu." Atlas said going over to the older woman and kissing her cheek. "This is my friend Monique."

He then turned to Monique. "This is my grandmother. Everyone calls her Tutu, it means..."

"Grandmother, I'm guessing." Monique said getting more used to the Hawaiian words Atlas used every now and again. "Ok, so it's not her name like I thought."

Atlas laughed, "No, but you can called her Tutu as well."

"Aloha, Dear." She said hugging them both. "There's food on the stove. Fix some for you both, and be courteous, Atlas."

"Yes, Tutu."

Atlas walked up the stairs into the house and into the kitchen. "You can sit down. I'll fix it."

Monique nodded and sat down.

"You live here?" She asked.

"No, on the other side of town, but this is closer to work."

He sat a plate in front of her on the table, and then sat down next to her with his own plate.

"Rice and boiled shrimp, isn't that Asian style?" Monique asked.

"Well, a lot of the Chinese, Japanese, and Filipino culture and cuisine have become a part of Hawaiian life." Atlas explained. "Want something to drink? Tutu only has ice tea."

"Sure, thanks."

Atlas got up and took two glasses out of the drying rack by the sink and rinsed them out then sat them by their plates on the table. He got the pitcher of ice tea out of the fridge and filled up the two glasses.

"So, what does your grandmother do?"

"She helps out at the hospital." Atlas replied.

"And your mother?" Monique asked.

"She is a nurse." Atlas said. "My grandmother has been helping out there all her life, it's her dream job, and it keeps her very busy."

"I understand that, my dad is always busy too." Monique said.

"What does your father do?" Atlas asked.

"He works for some shipping company, trying to get one of the companies here to start shipping products to the states through his company." Monique explained, though she didn't know too much than what she had just offered.

"That is interesting, and it explains what you're doing out here." Atlas said. "And your mother?"

"She passed away last year. Her and my ten month old baby sister were held hostage during a bank robbery. Some guy wanted to play hero and grabs the gun. It went off in the struggle. It hit my sister in the chest and my mother in the neck. He caused both of their deaths, but he's walking free while the robber is in jail."

"Wow, I'm so sorry." Atlas said. "My father died when I was five, he had West Nile virus, but everyone thought it was the flu. The doctor said he was probably bitten by a bug carrying the disease."

Atlas got up bringing his dishes to the sink and started running water to wash them. "Are you done?" He asked.

"Yeah." Monique said getting up bringing the dishes to him. "You only fixed me a little."

"Well I wasn't sure if you would like it or not." Atlas said. "Would you like some more?"

"I'm good." Monique said putting the dishes into the water then going back to sit by the table.

"Once I'm done we can go. Are you coming see the show again today?" Atlas asked.

"No, I've seen enough of you today." Monique said. "I just come out for fresh air every now and again. I prefer to stay at home."

"Well, would you like me to walk you home?" Atlas asked.

"You can if you'll like." Monique said.

Atlas put the dishes into the drain and walked over to the table. "Let's go."

Monique got up and followed him. "Once you see where I live, I don't want you stalking me."

Atlas laughed. "Seems you're stalking me. First you show up at my job, and then you come to my quiet place in the hills."

"I didn't know you worked there, and I was looking for quiet myself when I went up there." Monique explained.

"You can try to make all the excuses you want, but that won't change anything." Atlas joked.

~*~

Atlas stopped at the corner of the street Monique lived on, "Seriously, you staying here?" Atlas asked.

"Yes," Monique said slowly, "What you think I led you to a fake address?"

"I wouldn't put anything pass you." Atlas chuckled. "But, my cousin Willie lives on the street we just passed. That would explain how I was behind you that day I met you. I was just leaving his house."

"So you have an alibi when you stalk me." Monique sighed.

Her house was the third one from the corner on the right.

"If you get bored by six or so come see the show. I'll get you a free meal, and some orange soda." Atlas said.

"I'll think about it." Monique said. She dug through her wristlet for the key.

"Oh, also..." Atlas said.

Monique looked up to see what he was going to say and he kissed her softly on the lips.

"An invitation?" She asked.

"I'm off tomorrow, come with me scuba diving. My cousin Willie works at the place that rents the scuba gear and boats and stuff."

"I don't swim." Monique said. "And anyway, who gets off days on a Wednesday?"

Atlas laughed, "The weekends and day before and after are most popular for tourists. And you don't really have to swim, you have an air tank, you won't drown."

"No, I'll have a heart attack." Monique said. She finally found the keys and took them out zipping the wristlet back.

"How about we just do goggles and start in a shallow pool of fish?" Atlas asked.

"When you say pool, do you mean; small body of water, or man made?" Monique asked.

"Whichever you are most comfortable with." Atlas said.

"Ankle deep, manmade pool, of small and colorful fish." Monique said.

"It's a deal, it's a date." Atlas said happily. "Would you like me to come get you?"

"I'll meet you." Monique said. "Do you have a phone?"

"Yeah." Atlas said taking out his green Motorola Razr.

Monique put her number in the phone and saved it. "Sometime around ten would be good."

"Sure." Atlas said. "Meet me on the hills. The place is on the bottom. I'll set things up with my cousin to put lots of small, colorful fish in the pool."

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow then." Monique said and unlocked the door.

"And after we can have lunch again, maybe?" Atlas asked.

"By your grandmother?" Monique asked.

"Yeah, unless you know somewhere else to go." Atlas chuckled.

Monique rolled her eyes and closed the door. She opened it again, "Also, I prefer texting over talking." She said and closed the door again.

Atlas chuckled, shook his head and smiled as he walked away. Monique wasn't the nicest girl, but she wasn't mean, regardless of how hard she was trying to be.

~*~

"Monique, I'm home." Her dad said as he walked into the living room where Monique was laying on the couch playing on her phone. "How was your day?"

"Went for a walk in the hills and had lunch with Atlas." She said simply.

"Atlas?" He asked lifting an eyebrow. "The boy I told you keep a distance from?"

"Yeah, we had lunch by his grandmother house." Monique said. She paused and sat up, "I tried to stay away by going for a walk in the hills, but he was there doing some weird, nerdy stuff, then he invited me to lunch."

"Werid, nerdy stuff?" Her dad asked trying not to laugh, "He's not one of those surfer guys?"

"Yeah, right!" Monique laughed. "He is so lame. He does scuba diving,"

"So, are you hungry?" He asked.

"No, I ate some cereal a little while ago."

"Maybe you should try cooking if you're going to be home all day."

"I won't be home all day, in fact he invited me to go with him scuba diving tomorrow."

"I thought you didn't like water?"

"I don't, but we aren't going into the ocean. His cousin is going to put some little fish in the pool for me to see. You know I like fish, and his cousin works there, so we get to do it for free."

"What happened to keeping a distance?" He asked sternly.

"I am. After I go see the fish tomorrow." Monique continued typing in her phone.

"What are you doing there?"

"Texting Atlas." Monique said.

"That's distance?" He asked.

"Just seeing what I had to bring tomorrow." Monique sighed deeply, and then got up and walked to her room.

~*~

The next day Monique showed up in the hills in her gray and gold one piece swimsuit. It was designed like a sailor girl outfit; the bottom was even styled like shorts. She had a large Hawaiian style button up shirt over it and gray sandals.

She walked over to Atlas and a boy who looked to be around their age. His hair was cut short, very low, unlike Atlas who had enough to put into small ponytails, he was also more built. She wouldn't normally have noticed, but the two were in swim trunks and neither boy was wearing a shirt. Atlas was also a bit shorter, his eyes bigger, and face rounder.

"Aloha, Monique." Atlas said, "This is my cousin Willie."

"Aloha." Willie said shaking her hand. "I've heard a bit about you."

"Hey." Monique said.

"So, let's go start your scuba training." Willie said.

Monique looked at Willie, then at Atlas, "Training?"

"The pool is usually for scuba training, or little kids." Willie explained.

"Training means that you intend to learn how to do the real thing, which I don't intend to do." Monique followed the two boys down the hill to the marina.

"She is a feisty one." Willie said teasing Atlas. "Does she have a sister?"

Atlas laughed, "Just her and her dad." He said simply.

Monique rolled her eyes. She knew the comment was meant to be overheard, so she decided not to give them the satisfaction of a retort.

Atlas looked at Monique, "It's not a real training. Willie put some fish into the setting pool so you can look at them."

"Once you get bored with this you will be ready for the ocean, so it's training." Willie said. He opened the gate behind the building and led them to the three foot pool of water that held many fish of seemingly every possible color. He went to a closet against the building and returned with two towels and two pair of goggles.

"I have some work to do, if you need anything call me or Trey, he should be back soon. He took a boat out with some tourists." Willie explained.

"Trey is his older brother." Atlas offered, "The two are a year apart and look like twins, but once you get to know them you'll know who is who."

"Yeah, I'm the fun one." Willie said laughing.

"He is the crazy one, and Trey is more quiet and serious." Atlas explained.

"I'm no more Lolo than you, bradah." Willie said.

"Never mind him." Atlas picked up the goggles off the table where Willie had placed them and handed a pair to Monique. "The stairs are over here." He said walking over to them.

Monique looked at the water, and then at Atlas, "I said ankle deep water."

"The fish need water to swim around in; this is just above your knees."

Monique set her shirt by the towels and took the goggles following behind Atlas. "I hope you know CPR in case I drown."

"It's been four years since I took that class, but Willie knows it." Atlas said.

"Your cousin kissing me, no thanks." Monique said.

She walked slowly into the cold water. Stopping for a few minutes on each step. She stood still so long on each step the fish felt safe enough to swim right against her.

She stopped on the second step and sat down on the top one. "This is as far as I'm going." She said.

Atlas was swimming around, it had been over a half an hour already and she was still on the steps.

Atlas chuckled, "I give up now on getting you into the ocean. Is it the fish?" He asked.

"No, the fish are the only reason I went this far." Monique said.

"Not for me?" Atlas said walking over to her. He pouted and looked up at her from his knees, "Is there something else you'd like to do?"

"Can we just sit and relax?" Monique asked.

Atlas stood up and sat beside her. "Sure." He said. "We can even go look at the fish in tanks inside."

"In tanks?" Monique said confused.

"Like these." Atlas said. "My cousins collect the colorful ones and sell them to tourist. They also breed the ones they have to increase their stocks."

"Interesting." Monique said. "Let's go see." She stepped out the pool and got the towel drying off.

Atlas followed her lead and did the same. "You like fish?"

"I once had a fish bigger than your head. My dad got it for me when I was five, I raised and cared for it for over ten years."

"Where is it now?" Atlas asked.

"After the incident with my mom I was always forgetting to feed it and clean the tank and so my Dad gave it to my aunt. She had little gold fish." Monique explained.

She put her shirt and shoes back on and turned to Atlas. "So both your cousins work here?"

"Yeah, their dad owns it." atlas said.

"Then why don't you work here?" She asked.

"You don't like my job?" Atlas asked.

"Just wondered why you don't work with family." Monique said shrugging her shoulders.

"Because Willie is only three months older than me and I don't want him as my boss." Atlas said, "But, really it's their dad's family. We are related by our moms, they're sisters."

Monique started laughing, "I would do the same."

"Now, let's see these fish." Atlas said. He opened the door Willie went through. "Willie, we're done. We going look at the fish." He shouted not seeing his cousin."

After an hour looking at the fish Monique decided she was ready to go.

Atlas walked her home, "How come you do so much walking?" He asked. "I know everything is close, but still."

"Well, I don't see how you could be on a bike all day." Monique said, "But, I used to march with my dance class when I volunteered, so I'm used to it."

"So, why'd you stop dancing?" Atlas asked.

"The ballet outfits are cute when you're little and mistakes get you a, 'try harder next time.' As you get older though it gets serious and it isn't so much fun."

Monique frowned as she spoke, "Plus, I'm no sugar plum fairy anymore." She giggled.

"You still look like a fairy to me, sugar plum, strawberry, coconut." Atlas laughed.

"No, you're the coconut." Monique laughed.

Atlas laughed, "I'm not crazy, I just don't see a reason to take things so seriously."

"Joking around is fine sometimes, but life isn't a joke. People in the real world aren't as nice as the ones in your head." Monique sighed. She walked up to her porch and got her keys out.

"I'll come to your job from now on. Just no more scuba." Monique said.

"It's a deal." Atlas laughed, "How about next time we do a little star gazing?"

"I guess we can when you get off of work." Monique said.

"Aww, it's like you're trying to be nice." Atlas teased.

"Don't make me change my mind." Monique said as she cut her eyes at him.

"Yes, let me leave while I'm ahead." Atlas said.

He kissed her cheek and walked away. "I'll text you when I get home."

~*~

"Monique!" Her dad shouted when she entered the house.

"What are you doing here?" Monique asked surprised.

"Everyone was sent home early." He said simply. "Now what was that about?"

"It was just a kiss on the cheek." Monique said rolling her eyes and going to her room.

"Monique, don't do anything dumb!" Her dad shouted.

"I can do whatever I want, you don't care anyway. What I do won't interfere with your job so why the fuck do you care!?!"

"Monique!" Her father yelled.

Monique turned on her laptop, opened a music file, slapped on her headphones and blasted the first song on the first playlist available.

~*~

Four weeks passed and Monique found spending time with Atlas her daily routine.

She'd meet him around teen on the hill and relax, then they would go by his grandmother to eat lunch, then he'd head to work and she'd go home at about a quarter to one, then at six she would go to his job for the show. After he got off the two would then walk to Monique's house and do a little star gazing on the way.

Wednesday was Atlas's only day off and it was spent doing whatever the two had been talking about doing during the week. Normally it meant doing something Monique enjoyed, cooking with Tutu, or relaxing doing a puzzles. Simple things, but time treasured.

During these few weeks Monique had gotten to know Atlas's grandmother like she was her own, and she loved having her over. So calm, and quiet and helpful; Tutu had actually become one of Monique's closest friends, and the two loved to tease Atlas about it.

Willie was also a little jealous. He thought Monique was cool, but didn't like how rarely Atlas came by now that she was in the picture. He wasn't one to do anything about it since he had female friends of his own, but instead turned to teasing Atlas about being in love.

It seemed like Monique was discovering a way to make the island a home. It was almost like she had always been there and would always be, but at the end of everyday when she went home and saw her father she was reminded of her reality by two simple words: not today. Which meant the company didn't make her Dad's transfer official and that she might be returning home to Chicago and would never see Atlas again.

The weeks passed and then came the day of his reunion. His family who lived on the main land came to his grandmother's for a big party. Atlas's grandmother, Willie, and Trey all knew her very well and like her, even Atlas's mother who only seen her a few times thought she was a nice girl. Though she knew a few people there, there were still many faces that were totally unfamiliar.

Atlas was running around helping his grandmother, mother, and aunt get everything together. So much so, that it seemed he was the only one helping. Willie was in the yard with their three uncles and grandfather, Trey was preoccupied with his girlfriend, and all the other cousins were under the age of ten.

"Are Hawaiian parties always at night?" Monique asked as she followed Atlas into the living room.

It was four o'clock and people were still cooking and setting things up.

"The party started this morning." Atlas replied. "They are just preparing the feast for tonight."

"Monique! Aloha!" Willie said walking over to her and Atlas sitting on the porch. "I knew you were family."

"Shut-up."Atlas said playfully pushing Willie away.

"Your mom told me to come tell you she needs you to go home and get her swimsuit and stuff. She said the bag was on her bed." Willie said.

"Alright." Atlas said. "You coming?" He asked Monique.

"Duh." She said and followed behind him.

"Are you scared of my cousin?" Atlas asked once they had started walking down the road. "You act like you don't want to be around him without me."

"He seems like a pervert." Monique said.

Atlas started laughing. "A pervert, maybe a little. He says freaky, but I never did understand the difference."

Monique shook her head, "If it's only with his girlfriend he can be freaky, but not to every girl. That's just a pervert."

"He might want you to be his girlfriend." Atlas teased.

"Or he might only want me because I'm with you." Monique said.

"You're with me?" Atlas said acting crazy, "When did this happen?"

"I think when you started kissing me." Monique said.

"I told you those were invitations." Atlas said.

"I don't need an invitation every night to do the same thing the next day that we did every day before." Monique giggled.

"So, you're my girlfriend?"

Monique nodded, "Depends, are you a pervert like your cousin?"

"I thought you said it was freaky if it was just with the girlfriend?" Atlas asked continuing to tease her.

"So, you admit that you're a freak?" Monique asked.

"I never admitted to anything, I asked a question." Atlas said. "Do you want me to be?" He asked.

Monique was happy they had reached the house. "Go run get your mom's bag, I'll wait here."

Atlas started to laughed, "Are you scared of me now? Won't even come inside with me?"

"Go ahead and hurry." Monique laughed.

Atlas shook his head then went get the stuff.

When he got back they started walking back to his grandmother's house.

"You didn't answer me." Atlas said. "Are you scared?"

"You never answered me," Monique countered, "Are you a freak?"

"And you never answered my other question either," Atlas said, "Do you want me to be?"

Monique huffed, "No, I'm not scared of you." She said simply and picked up her pace.

Atlas laughed as she started walking faster and did the same to keep up, but changed the subject.

"Any news of if your dad will be transferred out here?" He asked.

"He hasn't told me anything." Monique said. "We don't talk too much unless something is going on, I need something, or he wants me to do something. Like when he wanted me to get a job while I was out here."

"You should have told him you have a job." Atlas said.

"I don't lie to my dad." Monique said.

"It's not a lie. Your job is keeping me company." Atlas said. "You give me something to do."

"Sounds more like you found a hobby - me." Monique said.

"You _are_ fun and amusing." Atlas said and smiled.

He grabbed Monique's hand and stopped her.

She turned to see why he had stopped and was pulled into a kiss.

"What are you inviting me to now?" She asked.

"My room at my grandmother's."

Monique's eyes got big, but she said nothing and just turned and continued walking.

~*~

Monique sat on the porch and watched as Atlas walked around talking to everyone. She was tired from the walk and needed to rest.

While she was resting she was also thinking. She had a week and a half left before she would leave for home. Atlas's invitation weighed heavy on her mind. She got up and went into the house and upstairs to his room.

She had been up there a few times before and knew exactly where it was. The second of the two upstairs rooms, his grandmother's room was downstairs.

Atlas used to stay at his grandmother's over night when his mother worked the night shift at the hospital and most days he was there when not at school. It was his second home. Even now when he was old enough to be home alone he would still stay at his grandmother's.

She lay down on the bed hugging the pillow that held his scent.

Atlas knocked on the open door, "Are you ok?" He asked.

Monique looked over at him then rolled from her stomach to her side.

"Yeah, why?" Monique asked.

"Willie said you came inside and went upstairs. Thought you may have been mad at me." He walked in and sat beside her on the bed. "I don't want to push you into anything."

Monique shook her head, "It's not you, or that." She got up and went to close the door so no one could hear them talking. "I don't want this to change how we are." She said.

"Change how we are. I don't think anything can change you, and I don't plan on changing." Atlas said. "I guess it's just been bothering me with Willie teasing me."

"Teasing you, about me?" Monique asked.

"No, and yes." Atlas sighed. "Willie hasn't been a virgin for almost two years, and I still am."

"Oh, I understand," Monique said. "When my friends lost their virginity I lost friends. They changed."

"Is that what you're worried about?" Atlas asked.

"Part of it." Monique said.

"What's the other part?" Atlas asked.

Monique shook her head and put her hands on her waist under her sundress and slipped off her pink panties. She then laid down on the bed.

Atlas watched in amazement as she did this then he laid beside her.

"Are you scared?" Monique asked.

"Well, my whole family is down stairs and just outside." Atlas said.

Monique got up and pulled Atlas into a seated position on the bed. She straddled his lap and began kissing him as she loosened the strings on his swim trunks.

Atlas laughed as they kissed and then laid her down on the bed, rolling smoothly on top of her and began planting kisses softly down her chest. He slid down his shorts and pulled up her dress.

Monique was breathing heavily, but tried to hide it by talking. "Do you know what to do?" She asked.

Atlas laid against her chest, "I know enough."

He could feel her heart racing, but his was beating fast as well.

Monique chuckled then just stopped.

"Monique?" He asked and kissed her, but she didn't kiss back.

He jumped up.

"Monique?" He turned her head, but nothing.

He quickly pulled up his shorts and put down her dress and ran out of the room to the stairs. He saw Trey at the bottom of the stairs.

"Trey, go get my mom. Something is wrong with Monique."

He walked back in the room and saw Monique panties on the ground. He quickly slipped them on her and fixed her clothes before continuing to try to get her to respond.

Her heart was barely beating, which was strange since just second before it was racing.

His mom rushed through the open door and over to Monique. She checked her pulse first, "She has a pulse." She said and took out her cell phone calling a friend, who was also a nurse, at the hospital to let them know they were bringing her in.

"Carry her to my car and lay her in the back on your lap."

Atlas nodded and picked up Monique following his mother downstairs to her car.

"What's going on?" Willie asked as they ran pass him.

"It seems like she fainted." Atlas's mom said as they got into the car and raced to the hospital.

Atlas laid her on a gurney and was told to stay in the waiting room while they took her to the back.

Atlas didn't like the fact he couldn't go in the back, but was happy his mom could since she was on call at the time.

He was scared, and mad at himself. He was certain this was his fault, even if he didn't quite know how, but took hope in the knowledge that she had a pulse and was alive.

He sat in the waiting area for news of how she was doing.

"She is fine, Atlas." His mother said as she walked over. "She has CAA, Coronary Artery Anomalies. Too much exercise can cause her to faint, which is what happened."

"Can I go see her?"

"Sure, come on."

She led him to her room, "I'm not going to ask what was going on, but she will be discharged soon."

"What else could have happened?" Atlas asked. "Besides fainting, I mean."

"Breathing problems, shortness of breath, chest pains, fatigue. Over working the heart does that, like exercising." She explained. "It's not something fatal so long as she takes care and doesn't over exert herself or overwork the heart."

Atlas nodded and knocked on the door.

"Her dad said he was on his way. That was him on the phone when you got here, so be ready to do some explaining." His mom said before walking away.

"Thanks for the warning." Atlas chuckled.

He walked into the room and was happy to see Monique was sitting up and seemed normal.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

He sat in the chair beside the bed.

"I guess I should have told you the other part. I can't over work my heart. If my heart beats too fast it's hard for me to breathe and I tend to pass out."

Monique explained.

"My mom said you have CAA." Atlas said. "We rushed you over."

"Please don't tell me you screamed and you're mom saw us." Monique said eyes wide.

"I got Trey to get her, and I fixed yours clothes." Atlas said. He was still uneasy and nervous and knowing her father would be there any minute wasn't helping the matter.

"I see. Even put my undies back on." Monique laughed.

Atlas sighed, "They called your dad, and he is on his way. Once he gets here you'll be able to go home I suppose."

"Great, I'll never hear the end of this." Monique sighed. "Why'd they call him?"

"He is the only person that the hospital can discharge you to." Atlas said.

"Couldn't your mom?" Monique asked.

Atlas shook his head. "She was on call, so when an emergency happened she had to return to work, so she then became on duty."

"Just great." Monique said sarcastically rolling her eyes. "Now I have to explain all this to my dad."

"Just don't tell him what caused it." Atlas said.

"I don't lie to my father. I know when everyone else turns away from me he is all I'll have."

"I want you to know I'll be there too."

"That's what you say now."

"Monique?"

"You should go before my father gets here."

"I don't want to leave."

"I'm sure Tutu is wondering what happened. Go let her know everything is fine and I'll call when I get home."

"Two hours, then I'm calling you."

"Alright."

Atlas felt weak as he got up to leave the room.

When Atlas was leaving the hospital he passed Monique's father. While he may not know who Atlas was it was easy for him to identify Monique's dad, Hispanic male in a suit rushing determinedly into the hospital and to the information counter.

~*~

"Monique, what the hell were you doing, what were you thinking?" Her father asked as he entered the room. He started to pace the floor in front of the bed.

"I just wanted to try it." Monique said.

"Try what?" Her father shouted. "Try and give me a heart attack?"

"I had to at least once." Monique turned away as she continued to talk. "I tried not to get over excited, but I did. The excitement mixed with being scared and confused."

"What are you talking about, what did you do?" He asked.

"Atlas." She said simply avoiding looking at him.

"You had sex?" He screamed.

Monique looked towards the door, her father at the foot of the bed.

"You fucked that boy after knowing him less than a month!" He screamed.

The nurse, Atlas's mother, walked into the room.

"Sir, you can't get her upset and overwork her heart. Plus, there are other patients."

"Well, let's see how you react when you find out your daughter had sex."

"Is this true, Monique?" She asked.

"That would explain the racing heart." She said.

She walked over to the side of the bed and lifted her head to look at her. "Your first time?" She asked.

Monique nodded, yes.

"And him?" She asked.

"His too."

"How do you know?" Her father shouted.

"Sir, please." The nurse said. "Monique, if you have any questions or just want to talk you can call me."

"Overly helpful nurse." Her father said.

"Dad, this is Atlas's mother."

"So, it's _your_ son's fault!" He shouted.

"I'm sure it was nobody's fault and that it was a mutual decision." The nurse said. "Now please quiet down or leave. People are trying to rest."

"When can she go home?" He asked.

"The doctor will recommend a couple days for observation, and then if everything looks good, she can go." The nurse said. She kissed Monique's forehead. "I'll be talking to Atlas later."

"Please, don't embarrass him. He's already very embarrassed." Monique offered.

"Well, his father isn't around to give him the talk, so the job falls to me." Atlas's mother patted Monique's hand and rose from the bedside to leave.

As she approached Monique's dad near the door, he muttered angrily, "His dad ran off, I bet. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd do the same to my daughter."

Atlas's mother stopped short, turned and slapped Monique's father in the face so hard that his head spun, and forced most of his upper body to follow.

She dragged him by the jacket of his suit into the hall and closed the door.

"My husband died, he didn't leave us. We got married when I was almost seventeen, he was nineteen. We struggled, but we were responsible and worked hard, and Atlas is just the same. He is a good boy, your daughter is lucky to have him."

"Every mother thinks their son is good." He huffed.

"And every man with a daughter thinks all boys are bad."

"Because they are."

"Well push her away from this sweet boy. In her rebellion I wonder what she'll date next."

She then turned and walked away.

"You just keep that boy of yours away from her, and I'll be telling security to watch him as well."

He huffed and opened the door peeking into the room. "Call me if anything changes. I'm going home. I'll be back in a couple hours to check on you."

"Yeah, whatever." Monique yelled at the closing door, "Don't bother coming back!"

~*~

It had been three days. She hadn't had her cell phone, hadn't been allowed to see Atlas, and her father hadn't been speaking to her; although the satisfaction of her father not talking about it only lasted till they arrived at home.

"I got the job, we will be moving in august." Her dad said.

"So, can I have my cell phone battery back now?" Monique asked.

Monique's dad took the battery out his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

"Thank you." Monique said rudely putting the battery back into her phone.

"You're never going to see him again." Her father said calmly.

"Yes I am." Monique replied.

"Why, so you can keep having sex and going into the hospital till one time they can't revive you?"

"Well maybe if you stop trying to keep me in this little bubble I wouldn't have been as scared and wouldn't have ended up in the hospital." Monique said and looked pointedly away from her father.

"You're my child; it's my job to protect you." He tried to stay calm.

"It not that big a deal, dad!" Monique shouted. "I'm sixteen, not six. Those were your words."

"I don't want to hear this, Monique!" He shouted back, "We are leaving tomorrow, go pack your things."

"If it wasn't Atlas, it would have been someone else." Monique grunted.

"You barely knew him!" Her dad shouted back to her as she started up the stairs, "You met him four weeks ago and you give it up like that? What is that saying about the rest of your life?"

"It's saying I can wait, some girls give it up the first night knowing nothing about the guy."

"Well those girls aren't my daughter."

"Well, I wish I wasn't either!"

Monique ran to her room slamming the door and locking it. She pulled her suitcase out of the closet and started to throw all her clothes into it.

When she was done with the first drawer she sat on the bed.

"I screwed up; I should have waited till after we moved out here." She said softly to herself.

Her cell phone started to buzz, she had it on vibrate.

"Hello." She said dully as she answered the phone.

"I'm sorry I got you in trouble." Atlas said softly on the other line. "I just finished talking to my mother. She said you went home today"

Monique found herself smiling when she heard the voice, "It's not your fault. Hell, I wanted to as much as you did."

"But your father, he hates me now."

"Actually, he never was very fond of you." Monique chuckled. "Sorry I couldn't call you while I was in there, by dad took the battery out of my phone."

"Yeah, my mom told me. She also told me I wasn't allowed to go visit you." Atlas's voice got sad. "It's my fault. I almost lost you, I still might."

"No, it's my fault. I should have been more careful."Monique started giggling. "I'm not used to you being so serious. You're depressing me."

"Or, you could have at least warned me." Atlas laughed. "But hey, it's something to remember."

"Yeah, a memory." Monique's voice went sad. "We're leaving tomorrow."

"I thought you had two more weeks." Atlas asked.

"My dad got the job. He will be transferring in August."

"So you're coming back?" Atlas asked. "We will be going to school together. Well, for a year at least, then I graduate."

"Maybe, right now, with the way my dad is feeling, I might end up in an all girl school, either out here or living with my grandparents." Monique sighed. "I screwed up."

"You didn't do anything." Atlas said. "Hey, I have an idea. If your dad puts you in an all girl school pretend to be a lesbian, then, to get you away from girls he'll put you in the regular school."

Monique laughed, "He'd probably like if I was a lesbian. Then he wouldn't have to worry about me getting pregnant."

"I think I'd like it too." Atlas joked.

"You shut-up!" Monique said blowing raspberries into the phone.

"You know I'm joking. Besides, if you were a lesbian you wouldn't want me." Atlas said.

"And what make you think I want you now?" Monique asked.

"Because now you've had a sample, and you're going to be addicted." Atlas chuckled.

Monique laughed, "You're so dumb. I think you had a sample of me and now you're addicted."

"Do you think your dad would feel better if I come apologize tomorrow?" Atlas asked.

"Yeah," Monique said sarcastically. "Hey sir, sorry I popped your daughter's cherry, but I plan to stick around if that makes you feel better."

"Yeah, make jokes. Also, technically we didn't do anything" Atlas said. "Anyway, you must want to go, you aren't thinking of any ideas."

"I'll think of something later, something that will work." Monique said.

"Call me and let me know in the morning, if not I'm coming by before work."

"Ok. Love you." Monique said.

"Love you more." Atlas replied.

~*~

The next morning her dad didn't go to work. He was packing; all the bags were at the door when Monique went to the kitchen for breakfast.

"Are you done packing?" He father asked.

"Almost." she said.

She grabbed a blueberry muffin and a glass of milk and went over to sit on the couch.

"Our plane leaves at nine, so we're leaving here for seven." He explained and returned to his room.

Monique just nodded. She glanced at her phone to see the time, it was just about noon.

She was supposed to thinking of something, but couldn't.

She heard a knock on the door and went to answer, not caring that she was still in her pajamas, not that the v neck shirt and navy shorts looked like pajamas.

She opened the door and was surprised to see Atlas standing there.

"What are you doing here?" She asked.

"I've come to talk to your father." He said.

"I told you I would call when I thought of something." Monique sighed.

"I think it would be best if I talk to him, man to man." Atlas said.

"Well, I don't!" Monique shouted.

"Well, I do." Her dad said walking behind her. "I respect the fact you came to talk to me." He said then turned to Monique. "You go finish packing."

Monique sighed and walked away.

"So, care to explain why you put my daughter into the hospital?" He asked. He opened the door wide and invited Atlas in. Taking a seat on the couch, Atlas followed the example and did the same.

"Sir, I know nothing can change what happened, and that nothing I say will make you forgive me." Atlas said.

"That is true, but coming here like a man is a good start."

Atlas smiled, "I know we've only known each other for a few days, just a little over a month, but since I first saw her it was like a was drawn to her, even though her words were more stabbing than inviting." Atlas chuckled.

Atlas sat up straight on the sofa looking Mr. Evans in the eyes as he spoke.

"Sir, I would never want to hurt Monique. I love her; I've never felt like this before."

"Then why would you make her do something that would hurt her?"

"I'm a young boy, and you know how that is," Atlas paused, "but I'm not sure you know as much about being a young boy who's always working and never doing anything but what's expected of him. Being teased by my friends for still being a virgin, more so since all my time is spent with a girl now. Monique didn't want to, I respected that, and then, when she did and I had to respect that as well. We didn't do it though, she passed out and I was scared not knowing what was going on. I was lucky my mother is a nurse and was home at the time."

Monique's dad looked Atlas in the eye, "Look, I know how friends can be with teasing. We did it to a friend of mine back in high school. We hooked him up with a hooker a week before graduation so he wouldn't have to graduate a virgin, but we never stopped to think if he knew anything about sex. He didn't know about condoms, put it on wrong, it ripped, and he got an STD. Three years he died and me and my friends were the cause. Instead of just enjoying our friendship, we wanted him to be a dog like we were."

"Sir,"

"No, it's alright. It's not you."

Monique's dad chuckled, "Kids always experiment when they are little, but if we move here now I have to wonder while I'm at work will she be at school, or at home with you. Will she get something, or will she pop up pregnant?"

"Honestly sir, after this last experience, I'm sure I can wait till we are of legal age to do anything. I thought _I_ would be in the hospital after all that."

"I'm not sure she'll wait." Monique's father sighed heavily, "In fact it's highly unlikely."

"Monique isn't one who can be forced into anything. She's strong minded, a strong girl. She reminds me of my mother and grandmother." Atlas offered.

"She is," the older man replied. "You seem to be a decent young man, tell your mother I am extremely sorry."

"Thank you, my mother and grandmother raised me well." Atlas said proudly.

"Yes they did. She is a kind woman, even after what I said and did she still came to sit with me every evening in the waiting area. She told me everything that was going on with Monique and she spoke of you, all good things. She even brought me dinner once, and coffee in the morning." Mr. Evans smiled.

"She is a wonderful woman." Atlas smiled, "As Monique will be one day."

"So until that day, keep it at kissing."

Atlas smiled, "Of course. Never will I do anything that could cause me to lose her."

"Good man. Now you have to go and we have to finish packing."

"Would you like me to help?" Atlas offered.

"You go on to work, but thank you again for coming over and talking to me."

"So, you are coming back?" Atlas asked.

"Yes." Mr. Evans said.

"Then, I'll be waiting." Atlas said.

"Hold on." Mr. Evans said and went over to Monique's room and knocked on the door.

"Yes, dad?" She asked as she opened it.

"Go say goodbye to your friend, we won't be back for a month."

Monique smiled and hugged her father, then walked over to Atlas. "I know you're going to miss me, but I'll be back."

"Yes, and when y'all do get back we will throw welcome home party, since I couldn't do a going away party." Atlas said. "You know my family loves you."

"So, Atlas, what would you do if I wasn't going to come back?" Monique asked.

"It may have been a year, but I hear there are some good colleges in Chicago I could easily get accepted into."

Monique smiled. "You didn't even know which side of town I lived on though."

"Just being in the city would have been close enough. My heart would have led me the rest of the way."

Monique hugged him. "Well, let me get back to packing. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get back."

"I hate saying goodbye." Atlas sighed as he walked out the door.

"Then don't say goodbye." Monique said, "Just say, Aloha."

Atlas turned to her and smiled, "Aloha, Monique."

~*~

The four weeks in Chicago felt more like being away than being back home, and Monique didn't unpack her suitcase, but everyday packed more of her things into boxes ready to return home, to Hawaii. A few days were left before they were going back, and each day passed was marked off on her calendar. She couldn't wait to see Atlas and hear him say; E komo mai, 'welcome home'.

~*~

### Lacrimosa

By

### Amanda Sherwood

It's a cold night in March and people have begun to file into the warm theatre. They amble past the posters that list "Ren Clark on the piano" in large red letters accompanied by the New York Orchestra. Brilliant yellow bulbs light up the frames and the monotonous buzz of their energy are drowned by the din.

_You don't mean anything to me anymore_.

"Ma'am? Are you ready?"

Ren jumps as a man dressed in black with a headset microphone put his hand on her shoulder. She is sitting in a long red dress facing the velvet curtain, her black hair pinned up, her fingers wringing a shredded napkin. She looks up at him, her painted lips pouted, and says, "Oh, yes. I am."

She stands and follows the man in black around the lighting fixtures and set props. He leads her to the edge of the curtain, the stage lights eclipsed by its billowing fabric. She rubs her sweaty hands down the length of her dress and lets out a wavering sigh. The man in black places his hand on her back; she thinks it's a gesture of comfort, before he nudges her forward. She can't see the faces that fill the auditorium cast in shadow by the blinding lights.

She steps forward onto the stage. Looking ahead she can see the grand piano, its shiny black coat sparkling like a diamond catching the glint of the sun. The New York Orchestra is splayed out around the stage, encircling the piano, which sits in the center. The orchestra sits quietly behind their instruments, their eyes on her. Desperately she tries to quiet his voice in her head replaying from two nights before.

I can't believe I married you. I want a divorce.

She closes her eyes and hears the applause rise up from beyond the stage, engulfing her as she walks forward. The warmth in her body leaves her and she looks out into the black audience.

No more. I won't sit here while you make a fool out of me.

Their fight was vicious. Her husband's face was twisted up, ugly words spilling from his spit-soaked mouth.

How could you do this to me?

Please, can we talk about this?

She knew she couldn't justify what she had done.

Veins leapt from his forehead, throbbing violently. He had clenched his fists and bore his yellowed teeth. She had tried to explain, to tell him why. But she eventually conceded to his domineering will, exhausted and defeated.

She continues to step forward; the applause from the audience and the orchestra ebbs like a receding wave then slowly dies. The conductor looks at her with a reassuring smile and a nod.

This morning she had stood looking around their apartment. It was swollen with the memory of their fight. His shouted words bounced like ghosts from wall to wall, pillow to dresser, off the mirror and then back to her. They were leaking out of the faucet with the monotonous drip of water, they were curling up in smoke above the stove, and they shone down with the dim rays of the ceiling fixtures. It had only been nine months, and now it was over. Nine months before she ruined their marriage.

The stage lights' heat scorches her exposed shoulders, and she feels the friction of her dress pulling behind her like a trail of blood. She continues walking towards the grand piano, step after step and the stage seems to stretch out before her like an endless narrow road. She sees Derek sitting behind his cello, his calm eyes boring into her. Her heart thumps beneath her breast and she swallows the lump in her throat, fighting back tears. She approaches the bench and looks down over the keys. Smoothing her dress beneath her, Ren sits on the bench. She can feel the eyes of hundreds upon her, the still silence punctuated only by a cough at the back of the theatre.

Ren places her hands on the keys, feeling the smooth ivory under the pads of her fingers. She closes her eyes and gently presses the first note from Mozart's Requiem while the orchestra remains quiet around her. The notes sail from the wooden frame and the song becomes larger. The orchestra slips into song behind her and eventually the sound rises up like a sea of tall waves crashing down on the stage. Violins sigh, the flutes flutter and Ren's piano is full of power and strength as she let the music pour out of her.

She thought of her first piano. Her father bought it for her when she was 15 as a Christmas present. She remembered opening the envelope titled "Renny," perched between the tree's branches. The envelope instructed her to go to the basement, and upon doing so, Ren found it, sparkling black under the halogen light bulbs adorned with a brilliant red bow. It was perfect. The keys were impeccably white, the painted surface smooth and cool to the touch, and the words "Baby Grand Piano" were lettered in gold cursive.

It had sat in their first apartment, which didn't suit a baby grand piano well; in fact it was much too large and partially obstructed the pathway to the bathroom and the television for that matter. It was quite the ordeal to transport it into their third floor abode; it had to come through the window in the living room, nearly losing a leg. The movers had hoisted the baby grand, wrapped in rope. Its shadow loomed menacingly over their faces. Up they pulled it, painstakingly, cursing under their breath. She looked up at its black figure, silhouetted by the sun.

_I hope it'll fit_ , he said, noticing the toil of the underpaid movers. The rope creaked, the piano swayed, and sweat poured down their sunlight backs.

It couldn't move any further into the apartment than where it entered at the bank of the living room windows. There it sat for nearly three years; its black top bleaching in the morning sun, turning light gray.

After their engagement, the choice to move to a larger apartment caused the untimely demise of the baby grand. It crashed down on the concrete, suddenly torn from the brittle rope during its perilous move. The dissonant sound as it hit the street was short, and just like that, it became a pile of broken wood and snapped strings.

Her engagement ring and wedding band sparkle under the theatre lights, their reflection glinting across her face. She weaves her fingers through the notes, over black and white keys. The sound billows, drifting along the curtained walls as Ren begins to lose herself in the music once more. She had never intended to cheat; she never wanted to ruin their life together.

She remembers the wedding. Both of their families had been brought together in her childhood Georgia home. Her father had walked her down a grass aisle in the backyard, her seven thousand dollar dress stained by the grass as it dragged along the green blades. It now sits in her closet, suffocated in its plastic casing.

She remembers seeing her husband, at the altar with a cowlick in his hair, and his slightly yellowed smile. And there she said, "I do." She promised until death parted them to love, and care for him in sickness and health. And at the time, she really wanted to. He had given her the grand piano that now sat in their apartment, and upon its unveiling he had whispered to her, "I love you," his breath warm on her neck.

How long have you been seeing him?

He had glared down at her. She had remained silent.

Why?

The music lulled and grew quiet slowly. The orchestra faded from behind her and she kept the song alive alone.

It was her husband's idea for her to see a doctor. It had rained for two weeks, but it had felt like months in Ren's head. And when she didn't leave her bed, he'd made an appointment for her. It was just like him to send her off the physician at the first sign of trouble. The thought never occurred to him that things weren't that simple. If she were a bent door jam, he could fix her on the spot. But instead she felt like a squeaky hinge, the kind they didn't make grease for, and the kind he didn't know how to fix.

The next day he dropped her off like a five year old in front of the large brick building and promised to return when she called. She sneered as he drove off. She had sat in the examining room atop the crinkled tissue papered bench looking at the small mediocre landscape painting hanging above the computer. It was bland, like a bowl of plain rice. And just like her it seemed to fade into the wall.

"Well physically you're perfectly healthy," The doctor told her, "I think what you're experiencing is psychological. From what your husband told us, maybe depression."

The doctor looked up from his chart and met Ren's blank eyes. He paused, and then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. I'm going to recommend Dr. Schultz. He's a psychologist, and he's really very good. I think you should give him a call.

The orchestra still sat silent behind their instruments looking to Ren, her head bobbing up and down with the rhythm and tears twinkling as they fall from her chin. The song grew larger again and the sounds of instruments from around the stage filled the auditorium once more. The crescendo was coming.

She glanced up and saw Derek in his black suit, his hands caressing the cello held close to his body, as he moved the bow to and fro. She remembered meeting him. It was the first rehearsal that she had with the New York Orchestra. He was sitting in the front row of the auditorium studying sheet music when she walked in from the back of the stage. There were people everywhere, talking, studying, and greeting her. But it wasn't until she began to play, alone on her piano that he looked up at her. And it wasn't until everyone had left that he sat on the bench beside her and said hello.

His skin is dark and his eyes are soft brown like whipped caramel.

"Hi," she'd replied. He smiled at her. I've heard of your amazing talent, but I had no idea you were so beautiful. She blushed, and looking down she felt him run the back of his hand down her arm.

She saw him every day, and he played beautifully. He bent his head low as he moved his fingers up and down the long neck of his instrument. She felt drawn to him; she couldn't deny it. They seemed connected by music. And she had let him have her, in this theater, where she had sat only moments before she appeared on stage.

Finally, the song fell to its ending. The last few notes panged from the wooden frame of the piano as the orchestra fell quiet. Everything was silent. Then the crowd erupted into applause. Men and women stood from their seats, their gowns and suits wrinkled. The orchestra stood and bowed as Ren looked slowly up from her piano. She stood and faced the dark pit of faceless applause before her.

She recalled the feel of the cool porcelain of the side of their tub under her thighs from when she sat in the yellow bathroom of their apartment. She'd been ill this morning, and the air still held a dank stench of her sick. She'd pulled out a pregnancy test from the back of the bathroom cabinet. Her hands shook as she placed the used white stick on the floor by her toes. A purple plus looked at her. She didn't know whose it was.

The stage lights warmed her cold skin as she held her shoulders back and felt the wetness of her cheeks. The velvet curtains then released and fell in front of her, encasing her in darkness.

~*~

### Ripples

By

### Warren Pope

Warning:

This is not a story, as it has no ending. It barely has a middle. If you're one of those people that like stories, this ain't what you're looking for. I'm not even sure what I would call this collection of words. You've been warned.

I was going to open this telling with a cliché about how the smallest pebble, or even a little grain of sand will create ripples in the pond it's dropped into. I was going to remind you that the ripples keep going, even when we're not watching. There's really no telling where the ripples go...

I decided against that, because clichés aren't very cool, are they? I was going to start in the middle, to make this collection of words more interesting, but that would probably be more confusing. So, Instead, I just started typing and this is what came out of my fingertips

~*~

People think I'm crazy because I'm madly in love with a lady who's completely inaccessible to me. They probably have a few more reasons to think I'm crazy, but that's another story. Sheila lives in England, and I'm in New Orleans. I'm crazy in love with her. I know that sounds irrational, but let me explain.

One night, not too long ago, I was innocently skimming through a social networking site online. I was sipping my usual beer and watching the News on TV. That had become my routine. I'm a construction worker, an older construction worker and I find the days physically exhausting. I got into the habit of taking a bath as soon as I got home. I then would take a short nap, and then cook supper; the nightly news and the computer keeping me company.

On this particular night, I spotted a familiar name among those who commented on a Status Update. I smiled as I remembered her. We dated many years earlier, when things seemed simpler. I sent a request to her, asking to be her 'friend'. I hoped she remembered me, but I wasn't sure if she would. I hadn't seen or talked to her in over 30 years. At that point in my life, I was comfortable being alone. I was divorced and had no girlfriend. I had two great kids, but my son lived across town and had no time for me. My daughter was at school in another state. I was alone, but I was comfortable. I guess the imaginary friends I had online provided enough social life for me.

Sheila accepted my request and became my online friend. We almost immediately began sending short messages back and forth; the equivalent of a digital conversation. She remembered me. We gradually caught up with each other, while we both were sending messages to other friends and making comments to the multitude of never-ending conversation threads. I was completely casual, as all I was doing was reminiscing with an old friend. It was fun to remember what it was like when I was young and knew EVERYTHING.

Sheila was also divorced and had two kids. I learned that she was living in Leeds, the U. K. She was in the process settling the property issues with her ex-husband. She was eager to get back to America... Our conversations became a nightly treat for me. Sheila seemed to be the same little girl I dated so long ago. She had the same sense of humor and 'spoke' the same way I recalled. I tried to imagine what she looked like now. I remember dating her, but I couldn't remember why we stopped dating. I was at a loss. She was a beautiful girl, and we got along well. Why did we break up? I couldn't remember.

One night, I noticed a video camera icon on Sheila's little 'chat' window. I never noticed the icon before and became curious about it. I asked Sheila if she wanted to video-chat. I was curious about how the video-chat worked. I really was. Initially, she refused; she didn't want me to see her at 4 in the morning (England is 6 hours ahead of normal time)!

I thought that was cute.

We were old friends, thousands of miles apart. I was really more curious about how the video feed worked, than seeing an old friend who wasn't looking her best. Eventually, she agreed to the video-chat, with the condition that I couldn't see her! I thought that was funny. Our first conversation wasn't the best. I was treated to a close-up view of a black pencil holder. I think my whole end of the conversation consisted of me laughing at Sheila's 'accent'. I knew she'd been in England for the past 15 years, and had a 12 year-old daughter who was born there, but I didn't consider that she would have picked up an accent. She didn't sound at all like I thought she should sound.

The accent was nice, I liked it, actually, but it wasn't Sheila's voice. I lay in bed wondering what she looked like after we ended the conversation. The next morning, I carried the laptop into the kitchen, and I made a pot of coffee as we had our first proper video-chat. When I saw Sheila, I was amazed! I know she was in her 40's now, but she looked amazing! She looked exactly as I remembered her. It was an emotional hit to me. A flood of feelings washed over me. I was still collected enough not to mention it to her of course.

A lot of water had gone under the bridge since the last time I saw Sheila. A whole life-time passed. I was retired from one career and starting on a second. My home and City were destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. My kids were grown and gone. A whole life had taken place between the last time we last spoke and the present. When I looked into Sheila's eyes, all that time evaporated. I felt like the 17 year-old I once was. Sheila described it as a Time-Warp. That's as close as I could come to describing the sensation. We kept the conversation shallow, I think. We had a lot to catch up on and there was no hurry. While we talked, I somehow drank the entire pot of coffee, which surprised me until I realized we spoke for over 3 hours. Something unexpected was taking place

~*~

I was a busy kid. I worked full-time while I was in high school. My main job was at a supermarket a few blocks from the house. I put in a lot of hours at the store and I always had a pocket full of cash, but I had little time to enjoy it. I met lots of girls at the store and I had a 'little black book' out of necessity. And, I suppose I was a healthy teenager and full of raging hormones, but my schedule was ridiculous. Between work and school, my time was largely accounted for. When I had a night off and wanted to date, I sometimes had to go through 3 or 4 different girls before I found one who was free to go out at a moment's notice. I didn't think much of my goofy schedule at the time; it was just the way it was.

One afternoon, I was working at the front cash registers when I felt someone watching me. The store was loud and I was making inane conversation with the different housewives that were moving through my line, but I felt something. You know the feeling you get when someone's watching you? Yeah, I had that feeling. I glanced around, while I was ringing purchases up and bagging the same stuff. While I was counting change out to one of my customers, I caught sight of her. Standing by the magazine rack was a girl. The girl was STARING at me over the top of a magazine. I glanced around and glanced back a few times, and there was no doubt about it. She WAS staring at me. She was beautiful!

I had absolutely no idea why she was staring at me. I really didn't. I was embarrassingly naive. I'll never forget the way her thick black hair framed her big, sexy dark eyes. It's an image that burned itself into my memory. That's all I could see of her, as the magazine hid the rest of her face, and the magazine rack hid her body. But, I'll never forget those smoldering eyes burning themselves into me. I've never felt like that before... I felt like I was good-looking or something.

Eventually, I met Sheila properly. She and her mother came through my checkout line a few minutes later. She was in a Catholic girls' school uniform. The skirt and white socks really complimented her figure. I was too bashful to make a proper conversation, but I remember kinda wishing she were there without her mother. Sheila and her mother came through my line a couple of more times over the next week or so. I never gathered the courage to ask her for her phone number in front of her mother. I was getting more and more interested and eventually I was on the very verge of asking for her number. I really was.

"WARREN! PHONE!" My grandmother bellowed from the back of the house.

"Who is it?" I inquired.

"I DON'T KNOW! SOME GIRL!"

My grandmother was a mean old lady. I walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone.

"I GOT IT!" I waited till my grandmother hung up her end.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Warren, How ya doin'?"

"I'm good. How are you?" It hadn't occurred to ask who I was speaking to yet.

"I got tired of waiting for you to ask for my number..."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sorry... Ummm..."

This was getting interesting.

"...So I decided to see if maybe you wanted to go out somewhere, or something."

"I'm glad you called! I'd love to go out! Wait, who is this?"

It wasn't like girls called me all the time... or ever. The voice sounded good, but I couldn't place it.

"This is Sheila..."

"Oh, cool, the girl from the store?"

"Yep, that's me..."

"Wow..."

I was really tickled! Sheila was so good looking that it was almost intimidating. I was only a kid, after all. Sheila was 15, but I thought she looked older than me. She was all grown-up looking, and I was thrilled that she was interested in me! I got her phone number finally. We had a lot in common. I went to a Catholic Boy's school, and she went to a Catholic Girl's school. She lived nearby, in a different neighborhood, but very nearby. We weren't able to date as much as I wanted to, because of my damned schedule that I was starting to resent. Her mother seemed to like me, and even her dad gave me a little smile when I picked her up for our dates. We were getting closer and closer.

Eventually, during one of our phone conversations, Sheila confided in me that she was a virgin. That intrigued me. I had never been with a virgin. I had hardly been with anyone at that stage, actually. But none of them were virgins. It seemed that Sheila was interested in losing her virgin status. My mind was racing! We'd kissed and all, but this was a HUGE step, wasn't it?

I was excited and confused at the same time. Sheila was such a sweet girl. I knew her parents. This was in the late 70's. My hormones were racing! I was really resenting my schedule now!

Our next few conversations drifted back to the topic, and it was driving me crazy. I was day-dreaming about it constantly. Work and school, school and work... Sheila was always on my mind. I was a good kid. I always tried to do the right thing. I really did. But what was the right thing in this situation? She wanted it and I NEEDED it! I really couldn't think straight. I really couldn't.

Finally, the night came. I drove to her house and had a short conversation with her parents before we left for our date. She was wearing a pair of light pink shorts and a green tube top. The last words out of her father's mouth were, "Have Sheila back for 11."

Those words rang in my ears. I was trying to be a gentleman, so we went to Luigi's and shared a pizza and a lot of conversation.

"Have you thought about what I told you?"

She smiled and licked her lips.

"Umm, the virgin thing?"

"Yeah, Silly."

"Constantly. I can't stop thinking about it. Are you kidding, I don't think about anything else."

"Whatcha gonna do about it?"

I almost passed out. My blood pressure must've shot through the ceiling!

"Ummm...Are you sure?"

It was so hard to be cool when you feel like you could stroke out at any moment. Time was racing by. I kept thinking about getting Sheila home on time. I didn't want to get either one of us in trouble. I know that doesn't make sense, but it was on my mind. I never got a girl home late before, I wasn't sure what would happen. I didn't know the rules. I, as I've mentioned, was a kid. The only place I had to 'do it' was my back seat. I drove to the lakefront, but it was crowded that night. I couldn't find a good place to park. Time was passing. Time kept passing. I finally found a secluded parking spot at the University of New Orleans, which was also near the lakefront.

We climbed into the back seat and consummated our teenage lust. It was clumsy, hurried and not nearly as magical as either one of us hoped for. I had one eye on the dashboard clock the whole time. It wasn't the way it was supposed to be. I wanted to take my time and relax. This was feeling wrong. We got dressed in a hurry, and I sped her home. We made it with a few minutes to spare. I kissed her goodnight at her front door, and then I was back in the car, on my way home. I called her the next day.

"Hey, Baby, how ya feeling?" I was cool again.

"I'm good. I'm glad you called. "

"Glad?" What a weird word.

"Weren't you expecting me to call?"

"Oh, yeah, I knew you were gonna call. I have something to tell you. "

Uh-Oh. That sounded ominous.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Look, when you dropped me off last night, my mother was waiting on me..."

"I got you home on time..."

"Listen. She was sitting on the sofa, and I was standing in front of her..."

"Yeah..."

"...and while we were talking, she pointed at my crotch and said, 'What's that?'"

"What was she pointing at?"

"I was bleeding like a pig..."

My mind was racing. Why was she bleeding? Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt her? I was all confused and speechless. I was feeling very guilty. I definitely did something wrong, didn't I? Could I fix it somehow? I couldn't take it back, but could I redeem myself?

"Bleeding!?!"

"Yeah, like a stuck pig."

"Ummm...what...ummm..." My cool had completely evaporated.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm cool. Why?" I was so not okay.

"You sound like you're choking or something..."

"No, Ummm... I'm uhhh... I'm good...ummm...What did your mother say?"

"I told her it must be my period, but she knew I was lying..."

Man! What a horrible conversation this was. I was kind of blindsided by all the information that was beating up on me. I liked her family, but now they must think I'm a wild animal. I was crazy about Sheila, but how could I show my face at her house anymore? Her dad would shoot me if I came around. I was certain of that! The telephone conversation sort of dwindled. I couldn't pay much attention to it, what with all the crazy thoughts fighting for attention in my young head. I'm sure I said something like, "I'll call you later," at the end. That's the sort of thing I'd say, I know me.

I TRIED to call her back later. I had the receiver in my hand and all. I had some of the numbers dialed, but I couldn't dial all of them. Back in those days, the girl you were calling NEVER answered the phone. Somebody else always answered and you had to ask for the girl. There was always that uncomfortable period that you had to you make small talk with whoever answered, while you waited for the girl to walk to the telephone. What was I supposed to say to her Mother, Father or brother? I was going to get threatened and yelled at. I was going to be read the Riot Act, and I wouldn't get to talk with Sheila anyway. Oh Man...

I tried to call a few times, but I never mustered the courage to actually make the call. Sheila didn't call me, either. Her not calling only confirmed the fruitlessness of trying to contact her

Days turned into 30 years overnight

~*~

Sheila and I became inseparable. Well, as inseparable as two people can be that are separated by 5, 000 miles and 6 hours of time. We were able to video-chat from our cell-phones and we abused that ability. She would call and wake me in the morning and we'd chat until I got out of my truck at work. We'd chat during my 15-minute, 9AM break, then again during lunch. We'd chat while I was on my way home from work. We'd spend a few hours chatting before she went to bed. Then we'd do it all over the next day, and the next day, and the next. Finally, I couldn't stand not seeing her in person. The frustration grew and grew. I felt closer to this lady than I've EVER felt. I know that doesn't make sense, but I'm dealing with a limited vocabulary.

~*~

So, anyway, there I was in Europe, with Sheila sitting on my lap like we were the only people on earth. I found out that her mother wasn't mad at me, even on that night a million years ago. Her mother knew what happened was inevitable. Her father never found out about what happened that night. They did wonder why I quit calling.

A thought occurred to me as we held each other. Back in the day, Sex Education consisted of informing boys that only two things would come from pre-marital sex: one, the girl would transmit a terrible, unspeakable disease or, two, she would immediately become pregnant and you'd have to marry her, quit school, take a horrible job because of your lack of education, you'd grow to resent each other and split, and you'd have to pay child support the rest of your life. Of course, there was always option three that BOTH option one and two would occur.

Never did anyone explain that there was a fourth possibility. That possibility that you'd make love to the right girl and that one thoughtless act would separate you. That possibility, that you could actually lose the right girl because of a childish lack of patience and that it might take you a lifetime to get her back. I wish someone would have told me that. It's a horrible lesson to have to learn.

Thankfully, against all odds, I caught up to one of my Ripples.

~###~

Enjoy this sneak peek of,

### Lost Legends of OZ

### Volume II

Coming February 2014

~*~

BOOK I

### Ozma of OZ

A Record of Her Adventures with Dorothy Gale of Kansas, the Yellow Hen, the Scarecrow,

the Tin Woodman, Tiktok, the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger;

Besides Other Good People too Numerous to Mention,

Faithfully Recorded Herein

### Chapter 1

### The Girl in the Chicken Coop

The wind blew hard and joggled the water of the ocean, sending ripples across its surface. Then the wind pushed the edges of the ripples until they became waves, and shoved the waves around until they became billows. The billows rolled dreadfully high; higher even than the tops of houses. Some of them, indeed, rolled as high as the tops of tall trees, and seemed like mountains; and the gulfs between the great billows were like deep valleys.

All this mad dashing and splashing of the waters of the big ocean, which the mischievous wind caused without any good reason whatever, resulted in a terrible storm, and a storm on the ocean is liable to cut many queer pranks and do a lot of damage.

At the time the wind began to blow, a ship was sailing far out upon the waters. When the waves began to tumble and toss and to grow bigger and bigger the ship rolled up and down, and tipped sidewise--first one way and then the other--and was jostled around so roughly that even the sailor-men had to hold fast to the ropes and railings to keep themselves from being swept away by the wind or pitched headlong into the sea.

And the clouds were so thick in the sky that the sunlight couldn't get through them; so that the day grew dark as night, which added to the terrors of the storm.

The Captain of the ship was not afraid, because he had seen storms before, and had sailed his ship through them in safety; but he knew that his passengers would be in danger if they tried to stay on deck, so he put them all into the cabin and told them to stay there until after the storm was over, and to keep brave hearts and not be scared, and all would be well with them.

Now, among these passengers was a little Kansas girl named Dorothy Gale, who was going with her Uncle Henry to Australia, to visit some relatives they had never before seen. Uncle Henry, you must know, was not very well, because he had been working so hard on his Kansas farm that his health had given way and left him weak and nervous. So he left Aunt Em at home to watch after the hired men and to take care of the farm, while he traveled far away to Australia to visit his cousins and have a good rest.

Dorothy was eager to go with him on this journey, and Uncle Henry thought she would be good company and help cheer him up; so he decided to take her along. The little girl was quite an experienced traveler, for she had once been carried by a cyclone as far away from home as the marvelous Land of Oz, and she had met with a good many adventures in that strange country before she managed to get back to Kansas again.

So she wasn't easily frightened, whatever happened, and when the wind began to howl and whistle, and the waves began to tumble and toss, our little girl didn't mind the uproar the least bit.

"Of course we'll have to stay in the cabin," she said to Uncle Henry and the other passengers, "and keep as quiet as possible until the storm is over. For the Captain says if we go on deck we may be blown overboard."

No one wanted to risk such an accident as that, you may be sure; so all the passengers stayed huddled up in the dark cabin, listening to the shrieking of the storm and the creaking of the masts and rigging and trying to keep from bumping into one another when the ship tipped sidewise.

Dorothy had almost fallen asleep when she was aroused with a start to find that Uncle Henry was missing. She couldn't imagine where he had gone, and as he was not very strong she began to worry about him, and to fear he might have been careless enough to go on deck. In that case he would be in great danger unless he instantly came down again.

The fact was that Uncle Henry had gone to lie down in his little sleeping-berth, but Dorothy did not know that. She only remembered that Aunt Em had cautioned her to take good care of her uncle, so at once she decided to go on deck and find him, in spite of the fact that the tempest was now worse than ever, and the ship was plunging in a really dreadful manner. Indeed, the little girl found it was as much as she could do to mount the stairs to the deck, and as soon as she got there the wind struck her so fiercely that it almost tore away the skirts of her dress. Yet Dorothy felt a sort of joyous excitement in defying the storm, and while she held fast to the railing she peered around through the gloom and thought she saw the dim form of a man clinging to a mast not far away from her. This might be her uncle, so she called as loudly as she could, "Uncle Henry! Uncle Henry!"

But the wind screeched and howled so madly that she scarce heard her own voice, and the man certainly failed to hear her, for he did not move.

Dorothy decided she must go to him; so she made a dash forward, during a lull in the storm, to where a big square chicken-coop had been lashed to the deck with ropes. She reached this place in safety, but no sooner had she seized fast hold of the slats of the big box in which the chickens were kept than the wind, as if enraged because the little girl dared to resist its power, suddenly redoubled its fury. With a scream like that of an angry giant it tore away the ropes that held the coop and lifted it high into the air, with Dorothy still clinging to the slats. Around and over it whirled, this way and that, and a few moments later the chicken-coop dropped far away into the sea, where the big waves caught it and slid it up-hill to a foaming crest and then down-hill into a deep valley, as if it were nothing more than a plaything to keep them amused.

Dorothy had a good ducking, you may be sure, but she didn't lose her presence of mind even for a second. She kept tight hold of the stout slats and as soon as she could get the water out of her eyes she saw that the wind had ripped the cover from the coop, and the poor chickens were fluttering away in every direction, being blown by the wind until they looked like feather dusters without handles. The bottom of the coop was made of thick boards, so Dorothy found she was clinging to a sort of raft, with sides of slats, which readily bore up her weight.

After coughing the water out of her throat and getting her breath again, she managed to climb over the slats and stand upon the firm wooden bottom of the coop, which supported her easily enough.

"Why, I've got a ship of my own!" she thought, more amused than frightened at her sudden change of condition; and then, as the coop climbed up to the top of a big wave, she looked eagerly around for the ship from which she had been blown.

It was far, far away, by this time. Perhaps no one on board had yet missed her, or knew of her strange adventure. Down into a valley between the waves the coop swept her, and when she climbed another crest the ship looked like a toy boat, it was such a long way off.

Soon it had entirely disappeared in the gloom, and then Dorothy gave a sigh of regret at parting with Uncle Henry and began to wonder what was going to happen to her next.

Just now she was tossing on the bosom of a big ocean, with nothing to keep her afloat but a miserable wooden hen-coop that had a plank bottom and slatted sides, through which the water constantly splashed and wetted her through to the skin! And there was nothing to eat when she became hungry--as she was sure to do before long--and no fresh water to drink and no dry clothes to put on.

"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, with a laugh. "You're in a pretty fix, Dorothy Gale, I can tell you! And I haven't the least idea how you're going to get out of it!"

As if to add to her troubles the night was now creeping on, and the gray clouds overhead changed to inky blackness. But the wind, as if satisfied at last with its mischievous pranks, stopped blowing this ocean and hurried away to another part of the world to blow something else; so that the waves, not being joggled any more, began to quiet down and behave themselves.

It was lucky for Dorothy, I think, that the storm subsided; otherwise, brave though she was, I fear she might have perished. Many children, in her place, would have wept and given way to despair; but because Dorothy had encountered so many adventures and come safely through them it did not occur to her at this time to be especially afraid. She was wet and uncomfortable, it is true; but, after sighing that one sigh I told you of, she managed to recall some of her customary cheerfulness and decided to patiently await whatever her fate might be.

By and by the black clouds rolled away and showed a blue sky overhead, with a silver moon shining sweetly in the middle of it and little stars winking merrily at Dorothy when she looked their way. The coop did not toss around anymore, but rode the waves more gently--almost like a cradle rocking--so that the floor upon which Dorothy stood was no longer swept by water coming through the slats. Seeing this, and being quite exhausted by the excitement of the past few hours, the little girl decided that sleep would be the best thing to restore her strength and the easiest way in which she could pass the time. The floor was damp and she was herself wringing wet, but fortunately this was a warm climate and she did not feel at all cold.

So she sat down in a corner of the coop, leaned her back against the slats, nodded at the friendly stars before she closed her eyes, and was asleep in half a minute.

### ~*~

### BOOK II

### Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz

A Faithful Record of Their Amazing Adventures in an Underground World; and How with the

Aid of Their Friends Zeb Hugson, Eureka the Kitten, and Jim the Cab-Horse,

They Finally Reached the Wonderful Land of Oz

Chapter 1

### The Earthquake

The train from 'Frisco was very late. It should have arrived at Hugson's Siding at midnight, but it was already five o'clock and the gray dawn was breaking in the east when the little train slowly rumbled up to the open shed that served for the station-house. As it came to a stop the conductor called out in a loud voice, "Hugson's Siding!"

At once a little girl rose from her seat and walked to the door of the car, carrying a wicker suit-case in one hand and a round bird-cage covered up with newspapers in the other, while a parasol was tucked under her arm. The conductor helped her off the car and then the engineer started his train again, so that it puffed and groaned and moved slowly away up the track. The reason he was so late was because all through the night there were times when the solid earth shook and trembled under him, and the engineer was afraid that at any moment the rails might spread apart and an accident happen to his passengers. So he moved the cars slowly and with caution.

The little girl stood still to watch until the train had disappeared around a curve; then she turned to see where she was.

The shed at Hugson's Siding was bare save for an old wooden bench, and did not look very inviting. As she peered through the soft gray light not a house of any sort was visible near the station, nor was any person in sight; but after a while the child discovered a horse and buggy standing near a group of trees a short distance away. She walked toward it and found the horse tied to a tree and standing motionless, with its head hanging down almost to the ground. It was a big horse, tall and bony, with long legs and large knees and feet. She could count his ribs easily where they showed through the skin of his body, and his head was long and seemed altogether too big for him, as if it did not fit. His tail was short and scraggly, and his harness had been broken in many places and fastened together again with cords and bits of wire. The buggy seemed almost new, for it had a shiny top and side curtains. Getting around in front, so that she could look inside, the girl saw a boy curled up on the seat, fast asleep.

She set down the bird-cage and poked the boy with her parasol. Presently he woke up, rose to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes briskly.

"Hello!" he said, seeing her, "are you Dorothy Gale?"

"Yes," she answered, looking gravely at his tousled hair and blinking gray eyes."Have you come to take me to Hugson's Ranch?"

"Of course," he answered."Train in?"

"I couldn't be here if it wasn't," she said.

He laughed at that, and his laugh was merry and frank. Jumping out of the buggy he put Dorothy's suit-case under the seat and her bird-cage on the floor in front.

"Canary-birds?" he asked.

"Oh no; it's just Eureka, my kitten. I thought that was the best way to carry her."

The boy nodded.

"Eureka's a funny name for a cat," he remarked.

"I named my kitten that because I found it," she explained. "Uncle Henry says 'Eureka' means 'I have found it.'"

"All right; hop in."

She climbed into the buggy and he followed her. Then the boy picked up the reins, shook them, and said "Gid-dap!"

The horse did not stir. Dorothy thought he just wiggled one of his drooping ears, but that was all.

"Gid-dap!" called the boy, again.

The horse stood still.

"Perhaps," said Dorothy, "if you untied him, he would go."

The boy laughed cheerfully and jumped out.

"Guess I'm half asleep yet," he said, untying the horse. "But Jim knows his business all right--don't you, Jim?" patting the long nose of the animal.

Then he got into the buggy again and took the reins, and the horse at once backed away from the tree, turned slowly around, and began to trot down the sandy road which was just visible in the dim light.

"Thought that train would never come," observed the boy."I've waited at that station for five hours."

"We had a lot of earthquakes," said Dorothy."Didn't you feel the ground shake?"

"Yes, but we're used to such things in California," he replied. "They don't scare us much."

"The conductor said it was the worst quake he ever knew."

"Did he? Then it must have happened while I was asleep," he said thoughtfully.

"How is Uncle Henry?" she enquired, after a pause during which the horse continued to trot with long, regular strides.

"He's pretty well. He and Uncle Hugson have been having a fine visit."

"Is Mr. Hugson your uncle?" she asked.

"Yes. Uncle Bill Hugson married your Uncle Henry's wife's sister; so we must be second cousins," said the boy, in an amused tone.

I work for Uncle Bill on his ranch, and he pays me six dollars a month and my board."

"Isn't that a great deal?" she asked, doubtfully.

"Why, it's a great deal for Uncle Hugson, but not for me. I'm a splendid worker. I work as well as I sleep," he added, with a laugh.

"What is your name?" said Dorothy, thinking she liked the boy's manner and the cheery tone of his voice.

"Not a very pretty one," he answered, as if a little ashamed."My whole name is Zebediah; but folks just call me 'Zeb.' You've been to Australia, haven't you?"

"Yes; with Uncle Henry," she answered. "We got to San Francisco a week ago, and Uncle Henry went right on to Hugson's Ranch for a visit while I stayed a few days in the city with some friends we had met."

"How long will you be with us?" he asked.

"Only a day. Tomorrow Uncle Henry and I must start back for Kansas.

We've been away for a long time, you know, and so we're anxious to get home again."

The boy flicked the big, boney horse with his whip and looked thoughtful. Then he started to say something to his little companion, but before he could speak the buggy began to sway dangerously from side to side and the earth seemed to rise up before them. Next minute there was a roar and a sharp crash, and at her side Dorothy saw the ground open in a wide crack and then come together again.

"Goodness!" she cried, grasping the iron rail of the seat.

"What was that?"

"That was an awful big quake," replied Zeb, with a white face. "It almost got us that time, Dorothy."

The horse had stopped short, and stood firm as a rock. Zeb shook the reins and urged him to go, but Jim was stubborn. Then the boy cracked his whip and touched the animal's flanks with it, and after a low moan of protest Jim stepped slowly along the road.

Neither the boy nor the girl spoke again for some minutes. There was a breath of danger in the very air, and every few moments the earth would shake violently. Jim's ears were standing erect upon his head and every muscle of his big body was tense as he trotted toward home. He was not going very fast, but on his flanks specks of foam began to appear and at times he would tremble like a leaf.

The sky had grown darker again and the wind made queer sobbing sounds as it swept over the valley.

Suddenly there was a rending, tearing sound, and the earth split into another great crack just beneath the spot where the horse was standing. With a wild neigh of terror the animal fell bodily into the pit, drawing the buggy and its occupants after him.

Dorothy grabbed fast hold of the buggy top and the boy did the same. The sudden rush into space confused them so that they could not think.

Blackness engulfed them on every side, and in breathless silence they waited for the fall to end and crush them against jagged rocks or for the earth to close in on them again and bury them forever in its dreadful depths.

The horrible sensation of falling, the darkness and the terrifying noises, proved more than Dorothy could endure and for a few moments the little girl lost consciousness. Zeb, being a boy, did not faint, but he was badly frightened, and clung to the buggy seat with a tight grip, expecting every moment would be his last.

### ~*~

### BOOK III

### The Road to Oz

In which is related how Dorothy Gale of Kansas, The Shaggy Man, Button Bright, and Polychrome the Rainbow's Daughter met on an Enchanted Road and followed it all the way to The Marvelous Land of Oz.

Chapter 1

### The Way to Butterfield

"Please, miss," said the shaggy man, "can you tell me the road to Butterfield?"

Dorothy looked him over. Yes, he was shaggy, all right, but there was a twinkle in his eye that seemed pleasant.

"Oh yes," she replied; "I can tell you. But it isn't this road at all."

"No?"

"You cross the ten-acre lot, follow the lane to the highway, go north to the five branches, and take--let me see--"

"To be sure, miss; see as far as Butterfield, if you like," said the shaggy man.

"You take the branch next the willow stump, I b'lieve; or else the branch by the gopher holes; or else--"

"Won't any of 'em do, miss?"

"Course not, Shaggy Man. You must take the right road to get to Butterfield."

"And is that the one by the gopher stump, or--"

"Dear me!" cried Dorothy. "I shall have to show you the way, you're so stupid. Wait a minute till I run in the house and get my sunbonnet."

The shaggy man waited. He had an oat-straw in his mouth, which he chewed slowly as if it tasted good; but it didn't. There was an apple-tree beside the house, and some apples had fallen to the ground.

The shaggy man thought they would taste better than the oat-straw, so he walked over to get some. A little black dog with bright brown eyes dashed out of the farm-house and ran madly toward the shaggy man, who had already picked up three apples and put them in one of the big wide pockets of his shaggy coat. The little dog barked and made a dive for the shaggy man's leg; but he grabbed the dog by the neck and put it in his big pocket along with the apples. He took more apples, afterward, for many were on the ground; and each one that he tossed into his pocket hit the little dog somewhere upon the head or back, and made him growl. The little dog's name was Toto, and he was sorry he had been put in the shaggy man's pocket.

Pretty soon Dorothy came out of the house with her sunbonnet, and she called out, "Come on, Shaggy Man, if you want me to show you the road to Butterfield."

She climbed the fence into the ten-acre lot and he followed her, walking slowly and stumbling over the little hillocks in the pasture as if he was thinking of something else and did not notice them.

"My, but you're clumsy!" said the little girl."Are your feet tired?"

"No, miss; it's my whiskers; they tire very easily in this warm weather," said he. "I wish it would snow, don't you?"

"'Course not, Shaggy Man," replied Dorothy, giving him a severe look.

"If it snowed in August it would spoil the corn and the oats and the wheat; and then Uncle Henry wouldn't have any crops; and that would make him poor; and--"

"Never mind," said the shaggy man. "It won't snow, I guess. Is this the lane?"

"Yes," replied Dorothy, climbing another fence; "I'll go as far as the highway with you."

"Thankee, miss; you're very kind for your size, I'm sure," said he gratefully.

"It isn't everyone who knows the road to Butterfield," Dorothy remarked as she tripped along the lane; "but I've driven there many a time with Uncle Henry, and so I b'lieve I could find it blindfolded."

"Don't do that, miss," said the shaggy man earnestly; "you might make a mistake."

"I won't," she answered, laughing."Here's the highway. Now it's the second--no, the third turn to the left--or else it's the fourth. Let's see. The first one is by the elm tree, and the second is by the gopher holes; and then--"

"Then what?" he inquired, putting his hands in his coat pockets. Toto grabbed a finger and bit it; the shaggy man took his hand out of that pocket quickly, and said "Oh!"

Dorothy did not notice. She was shading her eyes from the sun with her arm, looking anxiously down the road.

"Come on," she commanded."It's only a little way farther, so I may as well show you."

After a while, they came to the place where five roads branched in different directions; Dorothy pointed to one, and said, "That's it, Shaggy Man."

"I'm much obliged, miss," he said, and started along another road.

"Not that one!" she cried; "you're going wrong."

He stopped.

"I thought you said that other was the road to Butterfield," said he, running his fingers through his shaggy whiskers in a puzzled way.

"So it is."

"But I don't want to go to Butterfield, miss."

"You don't?"

"Of course not. I wanted you to show me the road, so I shouldn't go there by mistake."

"Oh! Where DO you want to go, then?"

"I'm not particular, miss."

This answer astonished the little girl; and it made her provoked, too, to think she had taken all this trouble for nothing.

"There are a good many roads here," observed the shaggy man, turning slowly around, like a human windmill."Seems to me a person could go 'most anywhere, from this place."

Dorothy turned around too, and gazed in surprise. There WERE a good many roads; more than she had ever seen before. She tried to count them, knowing there ought to be five, but when she had counted seventeen she grew bewildered and stopped, for the roads were as many as the spokes of a wheel and ran in every direction from the place where they stood; so if she kept on counting she was likely to count some of the roads twice.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed."There used to be only five roads, highway and all. And now--why, where's the highway, Shaggy Man?"

"Can't say, miss," he responded, sitting down upon the ground as if tired with standing."Wasn't it here a minute ago?"

"I thought so," she answered, greatly perplexed."And I saw the gopher holes, too, and the dead stump; but they're not here now. These roads are all strange--and what a lot of them there are! Where do you suppose they all go to?"

"Roads," observed the shaggy man, "don't go anywhere. They stay in one place, so folks can walk on them."

He put his hand in his side-pocket and drew out an apple--quick, before Toto could bite him again. The little dog got his head out this time and said "Bow-wow!"so loudly that it made Dorothy jump.

"O, Toto!" she cried; "where did you come from?"

"I brought him along," said the shaggy man.

"What for?" she asked.

"To guard these apples in my pocket, miss, so no one would steal them."

With one hand the shaggy man held the apple, which he began eating, while with the other hand he pulled Toto out of his pocket and dropped him to the ground. Of course Toto made for Dorothy at once, barking joyfully at his release from the dark pocket. When the child had patted his head lovingly, he sat down before her, his red tongue hanging out one side of his mouth, and looked up into her face with his bright brown eyes, as if asking her what they should do next.

Dorothy didn't know. She looked around her anxiously for some familiar landmark; but everything was strange. Between the branches of the many roads were green meadows and a few shrubs and trees, but she couldn't see anywhere the farm-house from which she had just come, or anything she had ever seen before--except the shaggy man and Toto. Besides this, she had turned around and around so many times trying to find out where she was, that now she couldn't even tell which direction the farm-house ought to be in; and this began to worry her and make her feel anxious.

"I'm 'fraid, Shaggy Man," she said, with a sigh, "that we're lost!"

"That's nothing to be afraid of," he replied, throwing away the core of his apple and beginning to eat another one."Each of these roads must lead somewhere, or it wouldn't be here. So what does it matter?"

"I want to go home again," she said.

"Well, why don't you?" said he.

"I don't know which road to take."

"That is too bad," he said, shaking his shaggy head gravely. "I wish I could help you; but I can't. I'm a stranger in these parts."

"Seems as if I were, too," she said, sitting down beside him. "It's funny. A few minutes ago I was home, and I just came to show you the way to Butterfield--"

"So I shouldn't make a mistake and go there--"

"And now I'm lost myself and don't know how to get home!"

"Have an apple," suggested the shaggy man, handing her one with pretty red cheeks.

"I'm not hungry," said Dorothy, pushing it away.

"But you may be, tomorrow; then you'll be sorry you didn't eat the apple," said he.

"If I am, I'll eat the apple then," promised Dorothy.

"Perhaps there won't be any apple then," he returned, beginning to eat the red-cheeked one himself.

"Dogs sometimes can find their way home better than people," he went on; "perhaps your dog can lead you back to the farm."

"Will you, Toto?" asked Dorothy.

Toto wagged his tail vigorously.

"All right," said the girl, "let's go home."

Toto looked around a minute and dashed up one of the roads.

"Good-bye, Shaggy Man," called Dorothy, and ran after Toto. The little dog pranced briskly along for some distance, when he turned around and looked at his mistress questioningly.

"Oh, don't 'spect ME to tell you anything; I don't know the way," she said. "You'll have to find it yourself."

But Toto couldn't. He wagged his tail, and sneezed, and shook his ears, and trotted back where they had left the shaggy man. From here he started along another road; then came back and tried another; but each time he found the way strange and decided it would not take them to the farm-house. Finally, when Dorothy had begun to tire with chasing after him, Toto sat down panting beside the shaggy man and gave up.

Dorothy sat down, too, very thoughtful. The little girl had encountered some queer adventures since she came to live at the farm, but this was the queerest of them all. To get lost in fifteen minutes, so near to her home and in the unromantic State of Kansas, was an experience that fairly bewildered her.

"Will your folks worry?" asked the shaggy man, his eyes twinkling in a pleasant way.

"I s'pose so," answered Dorothy with a sigh. "Uncle Henry says there's ALWAYS something happening to me, but I've always come home safe at the last. So perhaps he'll take comfort and think I'll come home safe this time."

"I'm sure you will," said the shaggy man, smilingly nodding at her.

"Good little girls never come to any harm, you know. For my part, I'm good, too; so nothing ever hurts me."

Dorothy looked at him curiously. His clothes were shaggy, his boots were shaggy and full of holes and his hair and whiskers were shaggy. But his smile was sweet and his eyes were kind.

"Why didn't you want to go to Butterfield?" she asked.

"Because a man lives there who owes me fifteen cents, and if I went to Butterfield and he saw me he'd want to pay me the money. I don't want money, my dear."

"Why not?" she inquired.

"Money," declared the shaggy man, "makes people proud and haughty. I don't want to be proud and haughty. All I want is to have people love me, and as long as I own the Love Magnet, everyone I meet is sure to love me dearly."

"The Love Magnet! Why, what's that?"

"I'll show you, if you won't tell anyone," he answered, in a low, mysterious voice.

"There isn't any one to tell, 'cept Toto," said the girl.

The shaggy man searched in one pocket, carefully; and in another pocket; and in a third. At last he drew out a small parcel wrapped in crumpled paper and tied with a cotton string. He unwound the string, opened the parcel, and took out a bit of metal shaped like a horseshoe.

It was dull and brown, and not very pretty.

"This, my dear," said he, impressively, "is the wonderful Love Magnet. It was given me by an Eskimo in the Sandwich Islands--where there are no sandwiches at all--and as long as I carry it every living thing I meet will love me dearly."

"Why didn't the Eskimo keep it?" she asked, looking at the Magnet with interest.

"He got tired of being loved and longed for someone to hate him. So he gave me the Magnet and the very next day a grizzly bear ate him."

"Wasn't he sorry then?" she inquired.

"He didn't say," replied the shaggy man, wrapping and tying the Love Magnet with great care and putting it away in another pocket. "But the bear didn't seem sorry a bit," he added.

"Did you know the bear?" asked Dorothy.

"Yes; we used to play ball together in the Caviar Islands. The bear loved me because I had the Love Magnet. I couldn't blame him for eating the Eskimo, because it was his nature to do so."

"Once," said Dorothy, "I knew a Hungry Tiger who longed to eat fat babies, because it was his nature to; but he never ate any because he had a Conscience."

"This bear," replied the shaggy man, with a sigh, "had no Conscience, you see."

The shaggy man sat silent for several minutes, apparently considering the cases of the bear and the tiger, while Toto watched him with an air of great interest. The little dog was doubtless thinking of his ride in the shaggy man's pocket and planning to keep out of reach in the future.

At last the shaggy man turned and inquired, "What's your name, little girl?"

"My name's Dorothy," said she, jumping up again, "but what are we going to do? We can't stay here forever, you know."

"Let's take the seventh road," he suggested. "Seven is a lucky number for little girls named Dorothy."

"The seventh from where?"

"From where you begin to count."

So she counted seven roads, and the seventh looked just like all the others; but the shaggy man got up from the ground where he had been sitting and started down this road as if sure it was the best way to go; and Dorothy and Toto followed him.

### ~###~

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