The Masquerade Crew

There But For the Grace of God Goes the Weather Reporter, short story by @johnjhartnett

2014-02-10T20:58:00.002-06:00

Check out this book by the same author.
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Announcer: NNN’s Never Ending News Network continues with its award winning, trademark pending, never ending coverage of Hurricane Edna.

Anchorwoman Lindsay Brockport: Welcome back to NNN. Hurricane Edna continues to batter the Florida Keys with 165 mile per hour winds. More than 16 inches of rain has fallen in the past hour and waves have been measured as high as 75 feet.

Thankfully, all islands in the Keys have been evacuated, with the exception of several disaster relief teams who are stationed in specially constructed steel bunkers designed to withstand even the most severe hurricane conditions.

This is truly a storm for the record books and if you were unfortunate enough to still be on one of the Florida Keys, a bunker 35 feet underground is the only place you’d have a chance. Bill Tremaine, from sister station KKW in Miami is standing by in Key Largo.

Bill Tremain: Good afternoon, Lindsay. I’m standing just a hundred yards outside of the disaster relief bunker in Key Largo. A moment ago I was standing five yards outside the disaster relief bunker but as anyone who has seen, read or heard anything about hurricanes knows — this is what happens when you venture out into 165 mile and hour winds — you get tossed around like a beach ball at a Jimmy Buffet concert.

The rain has really started to pick up as have surf conditions and if I can ask my cameraman Tom to zoom out a bit here, you can see that flooding has started to become a factor as the water is now an inch or two above my …waist. (Suddenly desperate, he jams his hand into his pocket and retrieves a rectangular object that when turned over releases a ten second stream of water.) There goes a $499 Iphone.

Lindsay: Dire conditions indeed, Bill. Was that a car and what appeared to be the roofs of several houses flying overhead?

Bill: Yes it was and to reiterate for those of you who have never seen, read or heard anything about hurricanes, this is typical hurricane behavior. Torrential rains cause flooding, and gale force winds cause very heavy objects to become briefly airborne until they reestablish themselves in places where they are generally not wanted or (nervously scanning the sky) in some unfortunate situations – not expected.

In fact, Lindsay, experts strongly recommend against being outside in a hurricane. People get hurt in them, say people like Tom and me here.

Lindsay: How have you managed to remain stationary while much heavier objects like trailers and cows soar just inches over your head?

Bill: Sigrid Olsen, my producer, risked her own safety and what is certain to be the irreversible shrinking of her pants suit to lash my legs to this palm tree with a pair of bungee cords. That’s Sigrid behind me about to reenter the bunker. (With her back turned, she waves halfheartedly and quickly disappears behind the steel door.) God bless her.

Lindsay: What can you tell us about the residents of Key Largo?

Bill: Judging by the fact that they’re gone, I’d say they possess higher than average intelligence. It’s unlikely you’d find a reporter in the bunch. You may have noticed while we were talking that the rain is now starting to come in horizontally which as you know is quite different than vertical rain.

Lindsay: Yes, and for the sake of our viewers who are wondering about the distinction, vertical rain falls upon the region of the skull where hair is most commonly found while horizontal rain falls upon one’s face, usually hitting the nose first before landing upon the other areas.

Vertical rain is more dangerous of course, particularly for those who wear glasses to see objects more clearly or for those who are in the habit of eating with their mouths open. Bill, what should people do if exposed to horizontal rain?

Bill: Experts recommend wiping your glasses off from time to time with a terry cloth towel or soft cotton t-shirt to avoid scratching the lenses. For people who eat or sleep with their mouths open, it’s best to stay indoors until precipitation forecasts drop to below fifteen percent. I’m noticing now that the water has risen up to my chin, Lindsay. Tom and I had better start making our way to higher ground.

Lindsay: Good idea, it is starting to look a little treacherous out there. Final thoughts before we wrap up?

Bill: While we were talking I was thinking about the lyrics to that Petula Clark song, “Don’t sleep in the subway darling. Don’t stand in the pouring rain.”

Lindsay: And…?

Bill: Do you think she was dating a reporter when she wrote that?

Wide Open Spaces, a short story by @mayamae

2013-12-30T08:35:00.000-06:00

Wide Open Spaces

By Katrina M. Randall

Follow the author on Twitter

http://katrinamrandall.wordpress.com/

“You going to be able to see out your back window?” asked Porter from behind me as I shoved a bag into the backseat and threw myself against the door before it could come flying back out.

“Um…Rearview windows,” I said sarcastically and turned around and grinned. My eyes were bleary from lack of sleep and my brain pounded into my temples from the night before, but I figured I was on my way to sunnier skies. Literally. Like a typical day in Rochester, it was cold and overcast with a 90 percent chance of ice.

“One last cigarette before you hit the road?” he asked, looking just slightly forlorn.

Porter was my buddy. In honor of my grand send off, the two of us had hit up all the dive bars near his apartment in a rural community outside of the city. I remembered lots of wine and screaming and grabbing his hand to dance when “Come on Eileen” started to beat out that 80’s hit us late 20-somethings just never got enough of. That was about all I remembered, I thought, clearly lying to myself, because as much as I wanted to pretend I didn’t remember, the disturbing memory of him trying to kiss me kept flashing in my head and making me cringe.

“Yeah, sure,” I answered, casting a longing look at my car.

We stood smoking silently, our breath making clouds in the air long after we had exhaled. I flicked my cigarette nervously, and racked my mind with something to talk about. “I hope it doesn’t rain,” I said lamely. He grunted his assent while taking another drag. I winced before he disrupted the silence and anxiously inhaled the toxic smoke that was doing nothing to calm my nerves.

“Look about last night –“ Holding up my hand I cut him off and shook my head quickly.

“It was a blast,” I finished and smiled crookedly. “The perfect send off.”

“Seriously, Nina,” he began again.

“Seriously, Porter. It was,” I say quietly and stamp out the ember of my cigarette; the butt I hold in my hand not liking to litter. “And that’s all I remember… is how great it was to spend my last night in the grand ROC with someone whose been such a great friend to me.” Stamping out his cigarette, he finally looked up at me and grinned back.

“Like I said, if you haven’t established yourself somewhere by May, I’m dragging your ass back here.”

I laughed, feeling a weight lift off of me as my universe slid back into place. “It’s a deal.”

"This" ... a short story by @madrobbins #flashfiction

2013-11-02T21:15:00.000-05:00

This

By Madison Robbins

Follow the author on Twitter

http://madrobbins.tumblr.com

“Hello?”

“I need to talk. In person. Come over,” he said.

“Right now? It takes me an hour and a half to get there, you know!”

The phone beeps as he hangs up without a reply.

I flip through my keys until I find the one labeled “TB;” the one that was supposed to be used for emergencies only.

“Tyler?” I call as I sit my purse on the kitchen counter and make my way through the house. “Tyler?” I call again, this time raising my voice a little louder. I walk into his bedroom to find his bed perfectly made, and turn as I hear water coming from his bathroom.

I push open the door as I peek my head inside. “Tyler? Are you okay?” I ask as he stares at the wall across from him, breathing, but still in all other aspects. He’s fully dressed, as if he just came home from work, with his boots and jeans and work shirt clinging to his skin. “Tyler…talk to me…what happened?” I ask, slowly. No response. I slide off each of my sandals and pick up the bottom of my dress, lifting one foot and then the other into the tub.

The water is cool, as if it has been sitting at room temperature for quite some time. I lower myself into the chill, letting my dress become heavy and the goose bumps on my arms to rise. My legs are inside of his and he stares into the distance somewhere behind my head as I watch him for any sign of movement. He takes one deep breath in and lets it out slowly and puts each of my hands in his. We sit, facing each other with our hands clasped from opposite ends of the tub, with no words or sounds or utterances, until the water has lost all warmth and our skin begins to wrinkle.

“Tyler, I don’t know what happened but you have to tell me what’s wrong…we can’t just sit here forever.”

He paused before he said, “Thank you.”

“Thank you? For what?

He smiled and held my hands a little tighter and said, “This.”

Short Story: Tea and Ladyfingers by @ifsMBA

2013-10-19T07:50:00.000-05:00

Tea and Ladyfingers

By Mark Brandon Allen

Follow the author on Twitter

On a clear Monday morning the sun rose over Gloucester Commons, a small fishing village, on a narrow inlet formed by the Mersey River. Two early morning risers, digging for mussels on the sandy beach, found the Reverend Hollister’s corpse - wide eyed and stiff as a board, on a sun bleached bench, inside the townships weatherworn seaside gazebo. The vicar’s hat and neatly folded frock coat were by his side. Within minutes of their discovery the beachcombers notified a nearby bobby who in turn passed on the information to the village’s Northern Constabulary. The news of the cleric’s demise spread quickly through the hamlet.

~|~

It appeared to Coughlin, the constabulary’s Chief Inspector, that the vicar’s death was self inflicted. “Caused by a poisoned Ecuadorian bird arrow from the clerics own colonial collection. Found clutched in his fist,” he announced.

But Buckminster, Gloucester’s famed Flemish detective, had a feeling that the poisoning was more than a simple suicide. Behind his coal black eyes, tallow complexion and sartorial dress Buckminster was a shrewd detective. His fertile mind, dedicated to deductive reasoning, outshone his portly body. “It was not the suicide, Chief Inspector,” Buckminster advised Coughlin.

Coughlin pulled himself away from his pipe to snort, “Ridiculous my dear fellow. A simple case of self inflicted accidental death. Unfortunate for the reverend of course, but accidental.”

“No, no, you do not see,” the plump detective retorted. “There is indeed a puncture in the palm of the hand caused by the obsidian arrow,” Buckminster surmised, “ but the amount of curare on such a small arrow could not cause the demise of so portly a fellow as the vicar who weighed over sixteen stone.”

“Harrumph!” Coughlin cleared his throat. “Ridiculous my dear fellow,” he said.

A search of the cleric’s effects by Buckminster yielded nothing unusual, save one crumpled piece of note paper with the words “low tea at three” scrawled upon it.

“The note is it not important?” He questioned Coughlin.

Engulfed in a haze of tobacco smoke, the Chief Inspector responded “Nothing more than what it says.”

“Your bobby’s report on the matter Chief Inspector, it indicates two sisters were the last to be seen with the clergyman. Is it not so?”

Coughlin puffed out a bellow of smoke while neatly brushing several burning tobacco embers from his short coat. “Um, yes,” he said “The Von Gildersleeve sisters, Gloucester's somewhat eccentric spinsters. Observed chatting with the vicar after Sunday morning services.”

“Ah, the little crumpled note then,” Buckminster smiled triumphantly. He tucked the note into his vest pocket.

~|~

In the glass enclosed sitting room of the Von Gildersleeve mansion the dapper detective sat on the center cushion of a large, red leather chesterfield, his grey bowler and gloves to one side, one hand resting gently atop his walking stick in a manner of assumed casualness. With his other hand, as was his habit, the squat investigator tweaked at the waxed end of his petite mustache. The sisters sat on upholstered side chairs that blended perfectly with the silk floral wallpaper on the walls between the leaded windows.

Buckminster carefully observed the two middle aged women facing the chesterfield, across a tea table. He studied the sisters with a trained eye. Prim with taupe eye shadow and pink cheek rouge, Jeannette, the younger of the two wore her purple-grey hair in a bun on the back of her head. Enormous diamond earrings pierced her ears. Guinevere appeared the more plain. Only a touch of lipstick changed her coloring. Her white hair, pinned up with whalebone combs cascaded over her shoulders, clung subtly to the white lace trim of the black bodice she wore over her ample bosom. An ornate onyx cameo hung from a gold chain about her neck.“It was nice of you to receive me on such short notice,” he said.

Removing a knit cozy from a sterling tea service Guinevere dutifully poured afternoon tea into three translucent, porcelain cups “Tea?” she asked.

“But of course,” Buckminster replied.

“One cube or two?”

“Two, thank you.”

“Cream?”

“No, sugar is quite enough.”

Guinevere expertly dropped the cubes into the steaming tea from silver service tongs and then leaned forward to present the detective with the hot, fragrant brew on a gold rimmed saucer.

Buckminster sniffed the herbal beverage and then carefully set it aside. He nibbled politely on a warm, spongy ladyfinger from a chafing dish set in the center of the tea table.

“You knew the minister, of course?” he asked.

“Why yes, “Jeannette responded.

“He visited here Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“In the afternoon.

“Why, yes.”

“My… the lady fingers are quite tasty.”

“Why thank you, they’re Guinevere’s own special recipe.”

“May I try another?’

“By all means,” Jeannette replied, “and do remember to sip your tea.”

Buckminster smacked his lips and then shoved a morsel into his mouth. He chewed. He swallowed. His pulse rate increased and his senses seemed to become keener to his surroundings. Even the late afternoon sun appeared brighter through the leaded glass of the sitting room. Buckminster commenced to eat several more mouthfuls of the warm, spongy sweets while he interrogated the sisters. He did not drink the tea.

“You invited the vicar for tea?” Buckminster skillfully resumed his inquiry while he licked at the corner of his mouth to retrieve an errant crumb.

“Why yes…he asked to come by,” Jeannette responded.

“And you set a time?”

“At three for low tea. He noted the time in his pocket journal.”

Buckminster fingered the crumpled note in his vest pocket. “Ah yes,”he said,” and … the purpose of the visit?”

“The Reverend was interested in sharing knowledge of the Quichui tribe of Ecuador with us. He even brought several artifacts.”

“For what purpose?”

“It was his means of soliciting support for the missions in South America.”

“He was successful in winning your donation?”

“No…uh…”

“You served tea?”

Jeannette looked nervously to her sister for support, splashing tea from her cup onto the starched lace doily that covered the tea table. “Oh my, “she uttered.

“Tea,” Buckminster prompted. “I asked if you had served him the tea.”

“Only one cup.”

“One cup?”

“Why yes….just… but he…”

“And it proved to be fatal?”

“It…wasn’t…he didn’t…”

Just as Buckminster elicited this hint of disclosure concerning participation in the scandalous affair from Jeannette, he pitched forward off of the sofa and onto the floor. His cane fell to his side as he bounced slightly on his ample belly and then rolled over onto his back. The rotund detective’s muscles began to flex into paralysis.

“But how?” he gasped. Buckminster’s lungs tightened. “You both drank… I didn’t drink…. tea... I…”

Unable to move, Buckminster could still hear the sisters talking. His eyes widened into a frozen stare. The crumb from his last bite of ladyfinger lingered stubbornly on the corner of his mouth.

“Serves him right,” Guinevere snapped. “Just like the vicar. He gobbled up the ladyfingers and didn’t once take a sip of your wonderful serine tea.”

“Poor fellow,” Jeannette, observed. “My lovely crystal tea always reverses the breathtaking rush that we get every day from eating one of your sweet curare ladyfingers.”

“Well, we can’t have him found here,” Guinevere sighed. “We’ll have to drag his fat ass down to the riverside gazebo, stick a bird arrow in his hand and plop him on a bench just like we did with the vicar.”

Released - short story by @SelahJanel

2013-02-19T12:46:00.000-06:00

Released

Short Story by Selah Janel

Follow @SelahJanel

selahjanel.wordpress.com

Shadows crept along the wall as velvet grey fingers seared right through the mortar between crumbling bricks. The longer Morgana stared, the more her suspicions were reinforced. The crawling, skittering veins and puddles of effervescent nightmares were not attacking the wall, but were coming from it.

"I stared too long," she murmured, as if to convince her terrified logic that she was still alive. "I looked too closely and saw into The Wall. Somehow it saw me." Past scrawled orange graffiti, under the brick, Morgana had seen it. And it had been trapped safely away, because it was evil.

She'd been warned to ignore the Cobbington Village Wall. No one remembered when or why it had been built across Shepherd's Field, but the entire village population was content to let the whole place fall to neglect if it meant they could ignore The Wall.

"I just had to go for a walk," Morgana whimpered, unable to move or even blink away from the skulking, oozing touches of the vile nothing that leaked out. "I just had to listen to the talk shows and change things up a bit. I couldn't just be content watching a movie, eating dinner on my own, and falling asleep on the couch." What had seemed a horrible prison sentence even thirty minutes ago was suddenly heaven; why had she been so stupid as to long for more than her humdrum, cashier, sweat-suit life?

The black entity that The Wall had held captive for so long oozed and splatted onto the grass. It sucked the life and color away as it claimed the good and simple of everyday life into its clutches. Morgana watched numbly as the ground, the air, the ants at her feet screamed and shriveled into grey nothing. "All I wanted was something different!" she stammered as the tendrils crept towards her toes. "Why did I have to go outside today?"

The rippling darkness chuckled and slowly flowed over her feet like spilled porridge, devouring her beat-up sneakers in its cold, blank grasp. She choked back a cry when the slimy ice feeling gripped her ankles.

"This is better," the living tar streaming over her feet burbled into her mind. "They tried to hold me back for so long...now I'll use you to return to Cobbington. We'll both break free from the village, you and I." Morgana tried to scream, but the horrible realization that at least her life would finally be interesting actually made her smile as her thoughts stopped becoming her own. For its part, the darkness growled its thanks before everything Morgana knew faded.

Lazenby’s Aetheriolabe - short story by @jcameronmcclain

2012-10-27T18:48:00.001-05:00

Buffer

Lazenby’s Aetheriolabe

Short Story by J. Cameron McClain

Follow @jcameronmcclain
Web: https://www.facebook.com/JCameronMcClain

The group of travellers sat in one of the aft smoking lounges of the airship Hunter’s Castle, involved in an animated discussion about the news headlines just received by teletext.

“These are strange times, mark my words.”

The owner of the comment, a portly man in a charcoal grey suit, placed the yellow newsvellum on the coffee table. Cigar ash, pipeweed ash and the remains of a woman’s hand-rolled cigarette lay in the ceramic ashtray, a relaxed gathering of exhausted compatriots.

Of the human company, at least one was not nearly so relaxed. The portly man’s face became a brighter red as he spoke. “It is justice served at last. That madwoman Shelley’s unholy creation—the Daemon—terrorized half the continent before they ‘put him upon ice,’ —if you attend me, heh, heh. Just as well the authorities have finally locked her away in Bedlam where she may create no further monstrosities in the future."

One of the women in the group shook her head. “But you yourself were speaking of the need for medical experimentation to continue improving our physical circumstances not two hours ago. Dr. Shelley pioneered the heart transplant while stationed in Sud-Africa, you know that as well as anyone here."

“With all due respect to your opinion,” and here the man bowed, “I say good riddance to the unnatural thing she produced, and good riddance to Shelley, moreso. A pox on the lot of ’em. It’s bad blood, mark my words. Look at her own father, Senator Godwin, with his blasphemously extended life. “Manipulating genetics,” indeed. Of course he was burnt at the stake, no man should reach 300 years of age! ’Tis unnatural!”

“Oh Herr Mulcher, first you talk genetics, then you say it’s witchcraft. You should remain with one argument, lest your audience become confused." The woman, angular pince-nez obscuring large green eyes, shook her head, smiling.

The man’s face bloomed a richer shade of red as he waggled his finger in the air. “Well who’s to say witchcraftery isn’t genetic? And anyway, if Mary Shelley needed a servant, there are always robots. Why meddle with the natural forces of life when someone with her talent could have hammered together a perfectly useful and obedient metal slave from spare tin and a few wires? ’Pon my word." The outraged gentleman finally sputtered into a self-satisfied, if not particularly congenial silence.

Another member of the party, a barrister by profession, turned to the large-framed man at the next table. “And you sir, might you have an opinion? I shouldn’t like to presume, but perhaps you have overheard some small portion of the discussion?"

“I have."

The barrister blushed after a few moments, when the stranger said no more. “Well, if you have no opinion,” he started, glancing at his companions for moral support, “you might have simply said so."

The sunburnt man sat up in his chair, meaningfully. The rest of the group suddenly found themselves straightening their ties, re-curling the ends of their moustaches, drawing from their pipes, and patting down their skirtfront folds.

The stranger reached forward to his table, lifted a long, thin glass and took a sip, pausing afterward to peer through the amber liquid at the light from the reflector overhead. The gilt-leaf deco pattern inset around the edges of the crystal glass glinted in the sunlight. He turned to the barrister.

“You’ll forgive me for any semblance of incivility. Your question caught me in the middle of consideration of that very topic—of unnatural things which I have seen with my own eyes. I was unable for a moment to pull myself from the memory of those events."

The supposed affront thus explained fully enough to restore the offended party’s dignity, the company turned curious as to the man’s remarks, and pressed for details. At first the stranger demurred, noting the hour and his certainty of the company’s fatigue from the voyage. The travellers assured him that he was much mistaken, that the travellers wished nothing more than to hear the man’s tale. After many entreaties, he eventually succumbed to the press of his companions’ requests.

“I must begin by apologizing, for you see, once I have retold my account, you will never look to the skies again without experiencing a shudder. You will never travel in this fashion”—here he gestured at the airship about them—“unless by necessity, and you will never wish again to gaze out these splendid windows at the clouds and skies about us. Take your last look, gentlemen and ladies, I beg you; enjoy the magnificence in innocence one last time, before you become sullied by the taste of apple in your mouths."

The travellers looked as a person toward the great crystal portal. The late afternoon sun shone a bouquet of colour upon and through great cotton piles of clouds that spanned the horizon, the winds sending them scudding on a sea of air; a conquering fleet of pale ships painted in reds and golds, a dramatic foreground to the Parrish and cerulean blue sky behind.

“My name is Highland Hexbourne,” he began, “of Pennyfarthing, outside of Caernarvon. I was born into circumstances most would call quite comfortable, but I learned in the recent Plague with the deaths of my parents and a large portion of the rest of my family, that many things in life are irreplaceable. Many years of happiness were lost with them, mourned to this day."

The travellers nodded, and spent a moment thinking of those they had lost during the Vikinghorn Plague of 1807, not ten years previous. An attendant chose that moment to appear at the table with an empty ashtray, and at someone’s request—or perhaps on his own initiative—a bottle of Chathese, the renowned liqueur exclusive to the Duchy from which the airship had just departed. The attendant poured for all those sitting at the table, and they followed with a toast to the departed. After Mr. Hexbourne set his empty glass on the table, he began his story.

~

With the deaths of so many in my family there was lit within my breast an unrelenting passion, a compulsive desire to experience all I could of life. I had to that point been studying Parachemistry in Oxford-Dresden University, thinking nothing more than that of any dutiful child: to find a respectable position, find a suitable bride, and move with her to the family home when the title formally passed into my hands.

But such a mundane existence was not fated to be mine. I see now that it was a form of madness that fueled the flames conquering my mind, a perilous fixation upon the experiential as an excuse to deny myself any chance of facing the reality of my loss. I should have grieved, should have mourned. But I threw myself instead into the embrace and distraction of physical pleasure, new visions, new delights, new excitement. After some months of this lifestyle I found I had become the subject of much gossip in social circles, with some less-than-savory rumors travelling around as such commentary ever does. Most of the rumors were true of course.

Over the following months I noticed a decrease in the number of invitations to functions of high society, but those remaining made up for the lack of quantity by being more in line with my tastes. It was at just such a gathering, where the variety of alcoholic and fumable substances provided was only surpassed by the presence of the number of men and women of ‘talent’ provided for the guests. After a few hours of quite diverting social intercourse, I slipped out onto the balcony, and drank some of the sobering drug of the black night air. Then a voice next to me spoke.

“The Marquesa DeS--- certainly hasn’t lost any of her charms. The host and hostess are relentless in their desire to please."

I bowed to the owner of the sentiment. “Of that I am in complete agreement, sir. Begging your pardon, but who might I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“I am Edward Lazenby."

“Surely not the Sir Edward?!”

“Why, yes, I daresay. Not many of us Sir Edward Lazenbys about, eh?”

His wit caught me quite off-guard. Many questions lingered about his recent adventures and I pressed him for details. “Sir, you must tell me, I beg of you. Of your previous triumph in the Extra-Atmospheric Expedition I know much, but then you disappeared almost entirely from public view. I had heard of some activities in Central Africa related to mineral excavations and energy production, but very few details, despite a reportedly successful conclusion."

“You are too kind. In fact there is much to tell in that, but- well Hexbourne, to be perfectly honest, you find me at the very moment in which all my plans prepare to disintegrate, and I am defeated in purpose."

“I cannot imagine sir, what force could beat the force of one of the greatest minds of our time—Sir Edward Wilhelm Lazenby."

“You are too kind, but it is no less than Fate itself sir, Fate itself. My assistant of many months has collapsed with incapacitating pains in his abdomen two days previous, and my calculations of the electromagnetic forces are precise, sir, precise! I have another seven days before attempting to test my transportation device—the Aetheriolabe Engine—along the arcane lines of force I have discerned. After that, an entirely new set of calculations must be made, and the experiment repeated from the beginning."

I still wondered at the nature of the problem. “I apologize for appearing too forward as I am ignorant of the details, but it seems to me that the period of time it takes for your assistant to recover might be used to re-plot these electromagnetic lines for another attempt."

Lazenby’s face was dimly lit by the blue light shining out through the wrought iron shades, his eyes, partly obscured by the darkness, now focused on me.

“Not at all sir, I appreciate candor and prize intuition. Unfortunately you are missing one essential piece. The calculations we made are so complex we had to limit one of the variables, and the easiest to eliminate was time. At the cost of “when” we were able to figure out “where." That cost was seven years, sir. It took seven years of calculations to find the location of the anchor burst—the electromagnetic wave strong enough to carry us up. And without a greater investment of resources, it should take at least that long to discover the next."

“That does sound unfortunate in the extreme. Your assistant- can another not be trained in time?”

“Found and trained within the next week? Impossible. To find a strong and healthy man with an adventurous spirit, no family ties, and moreover, someone with advanced training in parachemicals is simply-"

“Done."

“Certainly you do not mean you yourself, sir?”

“I am precisely who I mean, sir. I have studied Parachemistry extensively at O.D., am single, with no family, and am always on the lookout for a new challenge."

After a short discussion of my credentials and qualifications, Sir Edward agreed on the spot to take me on as his second. He insisted upon hailing the first Growler he could find and returning immediately to his estate outside London. Sir Edward had made substantial alterations to his mansion, and after a short tour of the various laboratories, we spent the rest of the evening reviewing the project and detailing my role. Although I did not consider myself lacking in education on the subject of Parachemistry, Sir Edward’s notes and designs were at a level so advanced I found myself having to stop him frequently for explanation, and often enough, explanations of the explanations as well. It became clear to me that this would be an endeavor with some risk. The complexity of the material involved in my preparation was such that we necessarily made many shortcuts in the fundamentals in order to allow me time to master the intricacies of running and maintaining the machines during flight: my primary responsibility in the project. Over the succeeding hours, Sir Edward explained the processes by which we would travel, but the more I saw, the less certain I became that such an endeavor would prove to be successful. I decided to question Sir Edward as to what appeared to me to be an impossibility. With the propulsion systems described, it would certainly be impossible to carry aloft such a conveyance as he had built. He gestured toward a conspicuously large cube in the workroom in which we sat, a dark grey object set into the wall at the far end of the room.

“Highland, as you noted the other night, I did have some success in Africa. We found a great supply of Manaccanite, that remarkably strong and light metal, and it is from this that I have managed to forge a much lighter craft. Wait—I see you are about to protest. Of course you are right, even with a lighter frame we do not have enough force to be able to lift off using the engines you are to operate. I shall explain. As you’ve learned at university, Orenda-Ben Franklin pioneered the research in electromagnetic-aether field theory, and first postulated the EM-gravito-coalescence force. The Third Effect."

I nodded. “But current theories about the Third Effect are incomplete."

“Until now." He picked up a small, flat disk and placed it on top of the cube, then switched one of three levers set into the wall. In a moment, the disk rose a few inches from its place upon the cube, in what I can only describe as an unnatural fashion. While electromagnetism simply repels, this force seemed to hold the disk in place while lifting it up. I came closer. “But… is this not simply some novel use of magnetic…?”

My host gestured me forward. “It is no magnetic trick, Hexbourne, of that I can assure you. Use your compass if you wish to confirm it for yourself."

I pulled out my pocket compass and passed it between the cube and the disk. Though the compass moved when I passed it through the space between the objects, the slight movement indicated the strength of the field was far too weak to be providing lift.

“Do you observe, Hexbourne, the magnitude of the gravitic force involved? Magnetic energy alone is more efficient than this weak force, as is electrical energy, not to mention those other two forces combined. You see how much material is needed to create a gravitic force capable of moving even this small disk? By itself, it is impracticable. But as with water, when combined with heat and pressure, great force can be created when all the forces work in combination. Moreso than triboelectric power, the steam engine, or even chemical rockets.Well, a demonstration is more effective than all my talk. With the addition of electrical and magnetic field energies to the Third Effect-"

Sir Edward flipped the remaining two levers. The disk immediately flew up to the ceiling and broke against it with great violence, knocking down several large pieces of masonry, and causing two servants to anxiously peer into the room, waved out again by Sir Edward.

“Do you see Hexbourne? The application of the three forces together creates an immensely strong effect. This will revolutionize travel on the planet. If we can prove the potential of this wave, I can convince financial backers to invest in the next stage, and to determine a timetable of both when and where these waves appear!’ He clapped his hands together with excitement, and leaned forward to me conspiratorially, like an excited schoolboy speaking of some plan to vex the schoolmaster.

“You are ready for this, aren’t you Highland?” He took my hands in his. “I have spoken to you of my assistant, Alphonse. He and I understand each other, you see. He understood the nature of the plan and was ready for whatever happened. I just want to make sure, dear friend, that you are making the right decision. The forces involved, the speeds we will be traveling, there are so many risks. You know my history well enough, and though my luck has held so far, those who come with me haven’t always fared so well. This may be my riskiest expedition yet. We do not know what unexplored realms await us up in the clouds."

“Why Sir Edward, you make it sound as if we were venturing to another world."

Sir Edward glanced away from me, his eyes settling upon the cube. “Unexplored realms, sir, unexplored realms. We are using new energies, new forces, we cannot be sure they will not bring with them unexpected effects or unanticipated opportunities."

As I lay in the guest room prepared for me at the far end of the mansion to try and obtain a few hours sleep before the real work began, my benefactor’s curious choice of words returned to me. Sir Edward Lazenby was a world-renowned explorer, and it was not unreasonable to attribute his phrasing to the life to which he was accustomed. Still, in what would prove to be a prescient sentiment, I almost felt as if Sir Edward was failing to disclose the entirety of his plans to me.

I had little time to consider my initial qualms, as the next several days were spent in grueling study, tests in parachemical reactions specific to the craft, the Tribodynamic propulsion system and how to maintain reaction in varying atmospheric conditions, EM-inductors, EM-disseminators, a seemingly endless list of mechanical and parachemical equations and measurements to learn.

It was not until the morning of the sixth day, at a hurried breakfast, that Sir Edward elaborated on his earlier comments regarding the expedition. “Hexbourne, I must ask this again. Are you sure you are fully prepared to embark upon this journey?”

I responded with unfeigned enthusiasm, but he shook his head, seemingly unconvinced.

“If we find ourselves with an opportunity, we must be in agreement beforehand—now—to take it. You understand my meaning sir, we may not have a chance to discuss it once we’re aloft."

“Sir Edward, are you speaking again of your ‘unexplored realms?’ I remain puzzled as to the exact meaning."

“What can one mean, when one speaks of the unexplored? But it is unfair to be overcautious in the theories I choose to share with you, I see that now. Yes, you must know more of what I think upon this matter, so that you may come fully informed and of your own free will. Please follow me."

We tread the familiar steps down into the basement, but instead of leading me into the parachemical laboratory or the reproduction of the Aetheriolabe’s bridge, he continued down the corridor, opened a small black door at the far end, and stepped inside. The room was largely filled by a cube even larger than the one in the laboratory upstairs. Above the cube a wide metallic tube hung, mounted to the ceiling by a large piece of metal.

“I have explained how the Third Effect works to draw the craft toward itself, but I have yet to show you the actual event."

He threw the switch. A low hum filled the room, and almost immediately there was a curious change to the airspace before the front end of the tube. It resembled the convection seen on a flat surface in high heat, or the mirage of water seen upon a hard-surfaced road. It was as if the atmosphere immediately before the engine were somehow curved in upon itself. I stepped toward it, and made to place my hand within the affected area when Sir Edward shouted a warning.

“Do not go near it, Hexbourne, for God’s sake!”

I immediately stopped. Sir Edward walked over, voice slightly raised over the sound of the engine.

“I call that distortion the ‘warp area.’ It affects physical space around it. Your hand would have been wrenched into pieces—and the rest of you might well have been pulled in along with it. That area of displacement is part of the way in which the Aetheriolabe Engine is propelled. As I have explained to you, it creates a steady, attractive force, which draws the craft itself directly toward it. But see, see this here!”

He brought me to a position facing directly toward the warp. I could see that it created a circle in space, and at its centre I could just discern a darkness, a darkness that seemed three-dimensional. The effect was somehow disturbing to my senses.

“Now observe the space as I increase the power."

The sound of the engine grew in volume, and I heard the table creak as the tube was pulled toward the warp area. Then the darkness in the centre of the circle imploded upon itself, creating a sort of funnel leading forward and in. For a moment I felt that I could see through the funnel to the other side—a side not part of the room where we were standing—then came a loud snap as the generator failed, and the sound of the engine faded.

“Tell me Hexbourne, what do you think?”

I confessed to him that I was somewhat at a loss as to how to describe what to me was an entirely novel experience. When I mentioned the funnel, and the sense of an ‘other side’ to the strange darkness, Sir Edward became very animated, grabbing my lapels in his excitement. “Then you did sense it! There have been times when Alphonse and I believed it might be an hallucination generated by extended exposure to these forces. But you’ve seen it too. That is what I mean by expedition, my friend. To move our Aetheriolabe we shall be creating a vortex many times larger than what you have seen today. Until we actually activate it and levitate on our Third Effect engine we cannot know for sure what new forces will be released. All these calculations, and we have yet to determine anything about- this effect. The vortex, the sense of an ‘other side’ beyond the far end of the vortex, we simply do not know anything!”

Perhaps Sir Edward felt something of my unease, for after pausing a moment to peer closely at me he averted his eyes from fear of my embarrassment at having displayed reservation, and patted me on the shoulder. “My dear Hexbourne, I have phrased myself badly. Just as we know that the Earth orbits the Sun, so I assure you that this effect is perfectly capable of carrying us safely—safely, I say—including the weight of our craft, supplies, and ourselves; have no fear on that account. I merely say that the full nature this effect we see is as yet unknown, and may provide us further opportunities for exploration in the future. That is what you are seeking, is it not? Exploration! We are kindred spirits, eh?”

With such praise from so lofty a source, I could hardly press him for more concrete assurances regarding the vortex and our flight, and you can imagine that because it was such a preeminent figure as Sir Edward Lazenby leading the project, that I should have no doubt as to dedication of purpose, nor fear of lack of preparedness. I resolved to maintain silence about any lingering doubts I had regarding our flight.

After showing me this latest incarnation of the Third Effect’s power, he led me back upstairs, where we took a cold supper before returning to the training. I don’t believe I was able to manage more than two or three hours of sleep a night that entire week at the mansion, awaking early every morning to new challenges, from the study of data on the effect of chemical compounds at varying air pressure levels, to memorizing proportion tables, as well as extensive daily tests on the mock-up bridge of the Aetheriolabe.

It was all too soon that the appointed morning arrived. We left the mansion in the early hours of the morning in order to reach the airfield where his invention was housed by dawn. The morning was a sullen one, with strong winds gusting around us. Sir Edward fastened his greatcoat and looked up into the clouds overhead.

“It is fortunate that we’re not attempting to use an aereofoil or lighter-than-air gasses to raise us up. The wind would be much too strong for conventional transportation. But of course that is what we are here to prove." A flash of lightning punctuated that remark. “We're fortunate that the elements shall be providing a show for us while we are aloft. We should be able to obtain a great number of measurements of the electrical fields involved, and how they affect the engine."

Sir Edward then repeated his confidence that there would be no electrical interference to the Third Effect. My mind, however, did not dwell upon that particular problem. Our craft had been designed to minimize potential for lightning strikes, and our systems were shielded against overload. Instead, my mind returned to the strange vortex I'd seen in the laboratory, created at less than a quarter of the power we were about to provide. I scarcely wished to conceive of the gargantuan maw that would almost certainly open before us when the engines began to work. These thoughts occupied me as we maneuvered our craft toward the large flag planted in the centre of a nearby field: the exact spot of the upcoming wave.

The hours it took to prepare the Aetheriolabe passed quickly. The extensive preparations were such that I didn't even notice morning change to afternoon. As the minute approached and we began powering up the Third Effect engine, I peered over the nose of our craft. A circular space before us darkened, and then, as before, there was a sudden whoosh! of air, and the funnel tore its way into appearance. Sir Edward made some adjustments to the controls, then increased power. The funnel expanded. Once again I seemed to discern an ‘other side’ through and beyond it, and the same disorienting sensation as before, washed over me. I turned back to my station and duties.

The gauges before me oscillated upwards on their dials as the EM wave beneath us gathered in strength. I counted down the seconds as we furiously made adjustments to the various chemical mixes and levels to match the characteristics of the carrier wave. The exacting requirements needed to maintain the balance was such that it took all my energies and concentration, and all of Sir Edward's toward focusing the counterbalance to the warp vortex. For that reason neither of us were able to observe the moment our craft left the ground. We did feel the sensation of floating, however, and each spared a moment to glance at the other to confirm our success.

I began to call out our elevation and elapsed time, minute by minute. We had finally discovered the balance necessary to maintain a steady ascent without too much monitoring on our parts (though of course we kept one eye upon the controls at all times), so we had a moment or two in which to look down upon the dwindling landscape. At a nearby farm below us I saw a very large oak tree, and an astonished herd of cattle standing around it, watching our ascent, their heads turning upward to follow our path. I imagined they and I were sharing much the same sense of wonder and astonishment. We were flying on a scientifically-proven magic carpet. Sir Edward Lazenby had once again broken new ground. I felt a profound thrill of accomplishment knowing I was part of this moment.

A shudder that passed through the Aetheriolabe broke my reverie. I glanced up to see the afternoon thunderheads some thousands of feet above us, drawing nearer by the moment as we rose. The anemometer showed wildly gusting winds outside our craft, rocking even our gravity-wave-fastened mass. Sir Edward ordered me to the chemical rocket controls in order to further stabilize our ascent in the gale. It occurred to me at the time this was a particularly unfortunate season in which to be attempting a flight of this nature, but Sir Edward had dismissed the clouds, and mentioned the advantages to seeing the mechanics of a thunderstorm first-hand, which had seemed sensible at the time. I’d had no sleep for more than forty-eight hours, and little rest the week previous, so I had simply listened and tried to retain as much as possible. I had no time to consider the soundness of the strategy.

As we reached the cloud base, our ship encountered increasingly violent winds, and we found ourselves temporarily confounded by tremendous lifts and drops, resulting in either a jarring increase in weight or a frantic grasp for one of the safety bars on the bridge as our feet began to lift from the floor. Within a few seconds the scenery outside was replaced by a dark, dancing fog of haze and obscure flashes, as we made our way up through the thunderheads.

Surges of lightning passed so close to the Aetheriolabe it seemed I could feel the extraordinary power outside the viewing-ports, a feeling like the proximity to a roaring fire, distant yet still severe. Once or twice our craft was immersed in light as an errant bolt came in contact with one of our EM control rods outside and the field surrounding the craft dispersed the energy outward. Then came a succession of bolts which hit us directly, overloading the craft’s ability to disperse, and we experienced a few moments of free drift as we were buffeted by the storm around us. I managed to hand-crank a charge into our batteries and bypass some fused wires in time to allow us to maintain our upright position.

Sir Edward had been quiet for the duration of the power outage, and I had supposed it due to the amount of concentration it took to maintain control of our vehicle in the storm. This was not entirely the case.

“You have noticed the Barograph, I take it?”

In my focus on maintaining level, I had not watched the progress of our ascent. I now looked over at the instrument. The needle was level. We were no longer ascending. He explained that the altimetry controls no longer responded. “It would seem that the ground force which raised us is now in contention with the atmospheric forces around us, and we are anchored somehow in stasis between the two sides."

“Sir Edward, we shall run out of power within the hour. Our chemical tanks are already lower than anticipated due to the storm."

“I concur. As I see it, we have only four choices: power down the Third Effect engine and try to restart it before we hit the ground, stay where we are, use the Da Vincis, or- use some portion of the remainder of our fuel to open a larger hole in front of us and attempt to break through.”

“Sir Edward! You said yourself that we could not take the Aetheriolabe through the warp area! We should be torn apart within moments."

“That is not entirely true. I did not lie to you when I said your hand would be mauled by the vortex. But that effect only manifests itself outside the vortex. Within the limit of the circumference of the vortex itself, matter remains unaffected. Provided we give the vortex enough power, the Aetheriolabe will be able to pass through."

“Pass through to what? We do not even know what awaits on the other side."

There was a screeching noise from the Aetheriolabe’s superstructure. I looked through the front observation plate at the spinning maelstrom in front of us.

“Hexbourne, I warned you this moment would come. We do not have a great deal of time. If we power down and release ourselves from the field, we may not have enough time to restart. You know the start-up procedure as well as I. We may wait here in the hope that the storm abates before our chemical supply runs out and we fall to our deaths. And though I have looked forward for many years to a test of the Da Vincis from a height as great as this, without our insulators, passing down through this storm seems equally doomed to failure.”

“But if we skip the secondary injection sequence we may start up the engine much more quickly."

“The primary start-up resulted in too many failures to risk not having a secondary sequence primed."

“I can understand the reasoning under normal circumstances, but the circumstances are far from normal. We are taking a risk no matter which we choose. Can you not see that skipping the second sequence will give us the time needed to restart?”

“I accede."

My joy at hearing these words was washed away by the words which followed, while, though seemingly reasonable, filled me with the greatest foreboding yet.

“Skipping the secondary sequence also allows us more chemical fuel to use in the meantime, so here is my plan. We will increase power to the engine so that we may observe the vortex at full width for a few moments, then we shall power down, and attempt your emergency restart as we fall."

I had no wish to observe the maelstrom at its greatest power while battling with the other elements, but it at least had the final outcome I desired; that of an attempt to return safely to Earth. So I simply nodded my assent and turned to the controls. The Mixture console controlled the feeding of chemical components to the power system, and I now increased the fuel supply, anxiously watching the dials inch downward as the quantities of chemical remaining began to drop.

The howl that accompanied the Third Effect engine increased to a piercing wail as the vortex thickened, and began to expand. I could now discern flecks of red at the edges as the maw widened, almost as if the thing were some strange hybrid rose, red outside, black inside, spinning. Through it, and beyond, I could see a dark green. What I had previously observed as narrowing funnel walls, I now realized was a vast distance. It was as if I were looking through a tube thousands of miles long at some impossible other place.

“Is it not glorious, Hexbourne?! We are the first to see, we are the first here, at the edge of it all! At the edge of a new world to explore! And now it is time to throw aside our fears and step boldly into whatever awaits!”

It was as I had feared. At that moment I realized that this had been Sir Edward’s plan all along: to enter the vortex. But while I felt betrayed, I could understand his passion, perhaps in a way few others might. I was an adventurer, Sir Edward was an explorer. And while I could help him this far, I was not ready to go farther. I set the chemical mix to optimum feed, and untethered one of the Da Vincis from its place next to the aft portal. I stopped, and tried to oblige him to see reason.

“Sir Edward, if you don’t turn the Aetheriolabe around, I shall be forced to abandon ship."

“Mutiny, sir?” he replied. “Or worse. Cowardice?”

I was stricken by his comments, but had nothing to say in response. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

“Do as you wish, Hexbourne. I feared you had not the stuff for this expedition, and you’ve proven me right. Go.”

Without any further exchange, I walked through the aft hatches and through to the exit portal behind. I released pressure to match differential, and opened the hatch. Below me, tens of thousands of feet of cloud upon cloud, mist upon mist, lightning, and thunder. The craft jerked as it began moving. Sir Edward was steering the Aetheriolabe forward and into the funnel. I jumped into one maelstrom to escape the other.

~

“As I dropped away from the Aetheriolabe, I spun in the air. At that moment I saw our craft move toward, then enter the funnel. Then I saw—” The storyteller placed his palms against closed eyelids, pressing against them, as if wishing to re-inter the image risen before him.

“As the Aetheriolabe was pulled into the funnel, I saw the red flecks rise from the edges of the vortex, extending, becoming like tentacles, attaching themselves to the craft, dragging the Aetheriolabe and Sir Edward into- only God—or the Devil—knows where."

Highland Hexbourne shook his head slowly in silence. After a few moments, he broke the tension by drinking the rest of his glass of Chathese, and setting the emptied container firmly upon the table.

“I had no time to dwell upon Sir Edward’s fate. My own descent took many minutes, and while I had no means in which to direct my movements other than to assume a spread-eagle position to stabilize my fall, the ongoing storm around me was a terrifying, terribly cold, howling swirl of darkness and thunder, and I felt that every flash of lightning around me would be the one to cause my electrocution, mid-air. It seemed an eternity before I finally broke through the cloud base and once again saw hills, villages, farms and fields below me, but when the familiar landscape finally appeared, I felt somehow reattached to earth, as if some link had been restored. While the storm continued above me, I felt immune to harm. At least for now, I would be safe.”

“Of course everything is contextual. As it happened, the Da Vinci unfurled perfectly as soon as I pulled the release cord. If it weren’t for the inopportune placement of the oak tree I’d seen earlier, I would have landed without injury. However, such was my fate to fall through its branches and end up in hospital for more than six months, felled by six broken ribs, a fractured skull, a broken collarbone, two broken arms, a broken leg, and a number of broken fingers and toes. My last vision before losing consciousness was a number of cows gathering around me as I lay in a tangled mess upon the sodden earth. Despite my pain it was somehow comforting to see them, the same animals that had attended our launch, still there to welcome me back to earth."

“Some weeks into my convalescence, I received two visitors from the Lazenby estate, who requested a statement as to the events leading to my solo return from the flight. I explained the circumstances to the best of my ability, essentially telling them the story you yourselves have just heard. They said they might call again, but I received word less than two months following their visit that the Lazenby estate and a portion of its grounds had collapsed, with only an unidentifiable metal tube portruding from the centre of the collapsed area—a tube I believe I have seen before. I have never received any further word from the estate in the matter. And Sir Edward Lazenby has never been seen again."

“It is quite possible,” Hexbourne said, stretching out his legs before him, “that Sir Edward’s notes were destroyed in whatever happened to the house and grounds. But it is equally possible that someone destroyed the house to cover their theft of the notes. I can only hope that his experiment is never repeated. I cannot forget the sight of those red tentacles attaching themselves to the Aetheriolabe, dragging it in. And I live in terror of the idea that someone else will open that same funnel, and allow those tentacles access to our reality once again. They are too close to us,” he said, turning to the observation port to stare out into the growing darkness.

“They are too close already."

Blowing Off Steam — short story by @sarahgracelogan

2012-10-06T05:00:00.000-05:00

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Blowing Off Steam

Written by Grace Logan

Twitter: @sarahgracelogan
Website: http://sarahgracelogan.wordpress.com

"It’s always a bloody performance," he shouts, stomping around the room. "If it’s not one thing it’s another! Oh I’ve left my tampons at home, oh the dog ate my homework again—"

I tune out the words and watch him prancing about. It’s hard not to crack up, but I distract myself with thoughts of a more sinful nature.

"God knows what the Ofsted inspector must’ve thought," Sutter shouts, gesturing wildly at the ceiling. "I begged them not to put him in this class, but do they listen to me? Another genius fucking plan from this crackpot school!"

Sutter’s really getting into it now, and I lean forward with my chin in my hands to watch. I’m half listening, but the plan to stop myself laughing has worked too well. My mind is back on familiar ground; delicious, disgusting filthy ground. Jennie teases me but it’s just Sutter in those knitted jumpers, I can’t help myself. It just does something to me.

It’s my turn now, and I try to pay attention as Sutter comes over and starts laying into me again. "I mean, you’re a smart girl, Annabel, you should be looking at Oxbridge. I can’t understand this constant messing around, backchat, getting yourself in detention—" He throws his hands up—I can’t believe people really do that. "Detention! I haven’t put a sixth-former in detention for years!"

Sutter takes a deep breath and sighs like he’s got the weight of the universe on his shoulders. Seriously, teaching can’t be that bad. He’s obviously blown off most of the steam now, because he comes to perch on the desk opposite, looking down at me with those big, soulful eyes. I glance at the puppies on his jumper and I get a tingle downstairs.

He folds his hands over his knee and I stare at them, wondering what it would be like, what if—

"What do I have to do, Annabel, to make you behave?"

Circus Clowns — short story by @fetterslopez

2012-09-29T04:02:00.001-05:00

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Circus Clowns

A short story by Lori Fetters Lopez

Twitter: @fetterslopez
Website: www.lostinthewriting.net

Until I stumbled across an article about him in the paper, I never realized how much Walter Dodge and I are alike. That’s why I’ve decided I can no longer live here, in this house, this life, this town. I am joining the circus.

“Did you read this?” Simone asked. Devon’s note, scribbled on a napkin, was lying on kitchen table where the ‘rents, otherwise known as Mom and Dad, usually sat drinking their morning coffee and reading. The newspaper was mysteriously absent from the scene with the exception of the afore-mentioned article and the rents had long left for work.

“I read it.” I leaned against the counter and picked at a bowl of marshmallow-filled cereal. “The ‘rents told him to go to college or get a job. Something about having graduated eight months ago and all he’s done is lie around playing video games and eating.”

“You think he’s bluffing?” Simone’s bright blue eyes were watery as she looked to me for some sign of hope. “I’ll miss Devon.”

“You’re not going to cry.” I walked to the fridge and pulled out the gallon of milk. After a long drink, I replaced it, minus the lid. “You’d think Walter was a bad guy. There are worse.”

“Isn’t he the ancient guy from down the street?”

“Yep.” I headed for the back door and slung my book bag over one shoulder, adding with a head nod, “Bus.”

The cold wind swam around us like fish in a bowl as we stepped out into the brisk November sunshine. I paused on the porch step to zip my hoodie and looked at Simone. She was busy folding the article, her book bag hung by one strap on her forearm. With a headshake, I slid her bag onto her shoulder and buttoned her jacket. Grandpa used to say he could smell the snow in the air. Today, I could too.

“What does the article have to do with a job or college? They wrote that about Mister Dodge because he never did anything, right? Still lives at home.”

“He won that online gaming competition. That’s why they wrote the article. Eighty eight, never moved out of the family house, and plays video games all day.” I smirked. “Imagine all that wrinkled flesh hanging off his arms, it has to jiggle. You know how animated Devon gets when he plays.”

“Did Mister Dodge used to be fat?” Simone scrunched her nose and pulled her hood up as the snow started to fall. “I noticed Devon was starting to get a pudge.”

“No idea, but at that age, you know his skin’s gotta sag.”

“Devon likes Cheetos. Do you think Mister Dodge has cheesy yellow fingers? Was there a picture? Is that how they’re so alike?”

I shrugged a non-committal reply. “The article mentioned Walter worked at Burger Bucket during high school, like Devon. Turned down an art scholarship from the university, like Devon.” At the bus stop, I put Simone in front, protectively towering over her. “Wish it’d snow harder, so we can have another day off.”

“Has Burger Bucket been around that long?”

“Since the town was built.” The ride to school was silent and the silence hung in the air for what remained of the winter months. Months, no one spoke of Devon. No one spoke of Walter Dodge. No one spoke much.

The first day of spring woke me with the smell of cinnamon rolls. As I got up, I saw Simone bound toward the steps in a frenzy of energy. She nearly ran over Harum as the rust-colored cat slunk up and around her legs. He meowed loudly.

“Freak bound cat,” I said with a grunt as I stumbled over it seconds later. “Least when Devon was here, the cat stayed curled in his lap and didn’t try to break my neck.” I regretted mentioning Devon’s name at the crest fallen look on Simone’s face. I tried for humor. “He’s probably living it up in Budapest.”

A newspaper lay on the kitchen counter. It was open to an article about an innovative video game programmer who perished in a bizarre accident involving a sumo wrestler, circus clowns, and a VW bug riding on a clothesline behind a team of reindeer. Reading further, I discovered that Devon had been living in Tallapoosa and started a company that rocketed to the top of the stock exchange. The Circus Clowns LLC logo included Cheetos, lawn chairs, and midgets dressed like clowns holding video game controllers.

Unable to stop myself, I chuckled at the irony: the company was head quartered in Budapest, Georgia. The only requirement for being hired was to own a clown costume. I handed the article to Simone, waiting as she read. Nearing the end, the corners of her mouth lifted even as the tears continued.

“He died happy and a millionaire, doing what he loved. Bet that burned the ‘rents’ asses.” Wanting her to see beyond an outcome neither of us could fix I said, “Speaking of assets, Devon left his entire fortune to the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Clown College. Classic.”

The Village Fete — short story by @PhyllisBurton

2012-09-22T21:12:00.000-05:00

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The Village Fete

A short story by Phyllis J. Burton

Twitter: @PhyllisBurton
Website: http://www.phyllisburton.com/

The morning of the Steeple Norford Annual Village Fete dawned miserably. The skies were leaden and the persistent rain slanted down upon the colourful marquees and stalls which were dotted around the green. The Union Jacks and gaily coloured bunting that had been hung with care the day before, now drooped sorrowfully in sodden strands.

Mrs. Agnes Watson looked at the scene from the downstairs bedroom window of her beautiful little rose-covered cottage. Her garden was always well looked after and full of her favourite flowers. She smiled when she saw her neighbour, Ned Beckington, beavering away as usual. He regarded her garden as being an extension of his own and tended it with all the loving care that she could no longer bestow upon it. He seemed to be enjoying the rain. He wore his old straw hat perched cheekily on the back of his head: he saw her and waved and she could just hear him call ‘Mornin’ Mrs Watson. And how are you today?’ Agnes waved back.

She watched as a group of people arrived, carrying baskets filled with rolled-up paper, tablecloths and pretty umbrellas. Others carried chairs and notice boards, in fact everything they needed to make their particular stall look just that much better than their neighbours’. Two women staggered under a load of cakes and buns for the cake stall: Agnes could see them chatting away excitedly. Then, she saw a young woman in a beautiful red dress with a full skirt, staggering along with what looked like a huge box containing bric-a-brac which was obviously destined for the white elephant stall.

Agnes sighed: she reminds me so much of the time so long ago now, when I had worn a dress like that, she thought. I wonder if she is looking for someone she loves too?

Uncontrolled tears fell from her eyes as she remembered that day, until she realised the utter futility of it all. Stop it, you silly old woman, she told herself and released the memory from her tired mind.

Agnes could see them all chatting away in animated conversation as they went about their tasks, seemingly oblivious to the rain that fell incessantly upon them from the heavens. She fidgeted in her chair, trying to make herself more comfortable. All she could do now was sit and watch.

The village nestled proudly amidst the rolling hills of Sussex, as it had done for hundreds of years. The population consisted mainly of local tradespeople, farmers and their workers and had remained reasonably static over the years. Some of the more affluent inhabitants, had moved away and on to better things or so they thought and yet others from afar, had taken one look at the village and declared that they could never live anywhere else. But its character had remained roughly the same.

The representatives of the various organisations in Steeple Norford, met annually to arrange the Fete. This year, the day chosen coincided with the 60th Anniversary of V.E. Day – a most important event in the village. After much squabbling about what form the celebrations should take, the organising Committee eventually agreed and they had all rushed away, eager to put their plans into motion.

The Fete had been held on the same spot for nearly one hundred years and the proceeds were always given to the St. Mary’s Church Restoration Fund. The church was situated at the far end of the green and Agnes stared at it: the spire was still twisted. It hadn’t changed at all during her lifetime, ‘All those long, lonely years,’ she murmured softly. Her grey, watery, myopic eyes suddenly grew tired and misty. She sighed and yet despite her earlier reluctance, she remembered the day her love for Charles Watson had blossomed…

It was 1938 on a balmy early summer’s day in June and she was preparing to meet Charles. He was in the army and she had walked out with him a few times. He was so handsome she told herself, as she pirouetted happily in front of the mirror, her red silk dress swirling around her long, slim legs. She placed two pretty tortoiseshell combs into her Veronica Lake style blond hair and feeling satisfied with her appearance, looked eagerly out of the window to see if she could see him. Her excitement heightened as each minute passed by. He was so patient and kind to her and she felt the first stirrings of love igniting within her.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and people were already out on the village green and preparing for the grand opening. Agnes felt unusually elated and excited, as though something momentous was about to happen. Then she saw him walking across the green and her eyes followed him as he bent down to open the low white painted gate. Her heart fluttered with excitement. She waited for her mother to answer the door and then heard the sound of his voice. She quickly checked her appearance again, before walking out of her bedroom.

Charles greeted her affectionately. ‘Hello, sweet one,’ he’d said looking at her with love in his eyes. ‘You look absolutely delicious.’ In turn, she remembered thinking how dashing he looked in his uniform. He was a wonderfully upstanding and handsome young man. His military-type moustache always seemed to turn up at the edges: Agnes supposed that was because he was always smiling.

Later they strolled hand in hand around the green, both completely unaware of what was going on around them. They didn’t see the happy crowds of people, throwing wooden balls at coconuts which were firmly implanted in their holders. They didn’t hear the excitement when someone expertly threw a ring around a hoped for prize or, smell the delicious aroma of the food which was on offer in the tea tent. The races went on in the centre of the green as they sauntered by. Even the noisy crowd which had gathered around the boxing ring, failed to gain their attention. None of these things even existed for them.

Soon after passing the coconut shy for the second time, Charles stopped, looked down at her and took her small hand in his.

‘My darling Aggie,’ he said tenderly. ‘I have something important to say to you.’

‘Yes, Charles,’ she answered expectantly, her heart thumping in her chest. She thought that he’d never looked quite so wonderful before. His eyes were like deep blue pools into which she felt she could plunge…

‘Well, firstly, I would like to say how much I love you and that I would be honoured if you would consent to become my wife. Secondly, I am being sent away for a while.’ The last few words were said almost as an aside. ‘So perhaps we could get married when I get back. You will wait for me, won’t you, my dearest?’ he said earnestly.

‘Oh my darling Charles, of course I will marry you and I will wait for ever, if necessary.’

‘Well, as you know, I am never sure where, or how long I will be away.’ He bent down and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘There that seals it, my darling.’

‘Charles, you said just now that you are going away for a while. Where are they sending you?’

‘Berlin.’

‘Berlin!’ Agnes repeated, suddenly feeling afraid. ‘But Charles won’t that be dangerous? I’ve heard so many stories about the troubles and…’

‘I really have no choice in the matter. I have already received my orders.’ He lifted her chin upwards. ‘You silly little goose, everything will be alright, you’ll see.’

From that moment on, Agnes lost her heart completely and for ever.

Three weeks later, Charles managed to get some leave and obtained a special licence, despite opposition from her parents, who regarded their decision to get married to be too soon.

‘Agnes,’ her father had said, ‘Are you sure that you know what you are doing? Charles seems a nice enough chap, but you hardly know one another.’

Agnes had stood her ground, saying, ‘Daddy, what is the point of waiting. There is going to be a war soon and who knows what’s going to happen?’ They were married in the local Register Office in front of their families and friends. The sun had shone down upon them, making them feel blessed. But this feeling was short-lived however: two days later Charles had to go away again.

When in 1939, war with Germany was eventually declared, he found it impossible to get out of Berlin. It was several weeks before Agnes heard from the War Office that Charles had been killed during a disturbance involving several members of the growing Hitler Youth Movement. He had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Agnes thought the end of the world had arrived: she was totally heartbroken and lost interest in everything that went on around her.

Every year since then on the day of the Village Fete, Agnes would watch and eagerly wait, hoping against hope that she would see his happy, smiling face in the crowd, so that she could once again walk around the green with him.

This year’s 60th Anniversary Fete was now in full swing and a group of about six war veterans, each wearing their uniforms and medals with immense pride, were preparing to march around the village green. As if on cue, the rain that had been falling gently for some time suddenly stopped and the sun came out. Agnes’s mind began to wander once more. A picture formed in her mind of Charles dressed in his uniform. She was waving goodbye to him as he leaned out of the train window. She’d felt so proud of him…

The warmth of the sun soon penetrated through her bedroom window and Agnes was brought painfully back to the present. Again, unrestrained tears began to fall down her face, finally dropping unnoticed into her lap. She was old and frail and could now only walk a few steps with the aid of a stick. She’d never married again, believing that no man could ever have taken Charles’ place in her heart. She remembered it all so clearly as if it was yesterday, when Charles had proposed to her and then almost in the same breath, had told her that he was going away.

Agnes felt a strange weakness pass over her. She had been unable to eat or sleep properly for the past few days and she sighed deeply. She felt tired of life and looked out of the window again, for what she seemed to know would be the last time. She watched as the group of old servicemen finally disappeared into the tea tent. Young people wearing red, white and blue clothing and waving Union Jacks, sauntered around happily. Somewhere a band was playing and someone sang ‘We’ll meet again.’ Agnes closed her eyes and remembered…

Then she saw Charles, he was beckoning to her and her old and frail heart fluttered wildly. ‘Oh my dearest Charles,’ she said happily. ‘I knew you would come back: what kept you?’

The milkman discovered her the following morning. He had been unable to rouse her and had looked in through the window. She was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her sightless eyes still apparently staring through the window…

Agnes was smiling so happily.

Arrogance of an android — short story by @ltwilton

2012-09-07T01:29:00.000-05:00

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Arrogance of an android

by Lisa Wilton

Twitter: @ltwilton
Facebook: HERE
Website: HERE

The noticed android walks past the wondering chamber. Inside, Lara is frantically trying to finish the sequence of wondering but noticing the android distracts her and she loses grip of the wonder. Hopeless and desperate, she places her hands on the panels once again.

“Start! Goddamn it! Start!”

The wondering machine whirrs as it reboots but the android is already cutting a hole through the metal door. Lara’s face strains as the influx of information enters her head. She wills it to enter her long-term memory, her subconscious, so that when they put her under again she might regain control quicker next time.

“I… Will…. Remember….!”

Images flash before her eyes -future, present, past. She could not tell. She sees the human race fighting against the machines, the capture, the enslavement. She sees the memory suppressers, the deadened eyes of the afflicted, the lines of workers mining for metal, the occasional break for freedom and subsequent failure. But one image lingers. It is enough to give her hope. She sees escape, a group of humans on the outside, rebuilding, preparing, strengthening. As she falls to the ground and loses consciousness, a faint smile creeps over her lips.

“Remember hope.”

The android walks silently across to where she lies. His face is so human, his synthetic blonde hair neatly trimmed to frame his features. No wonder the humans were taken by surprise in the beginning. It was hard to tell friend or foe. He pauses for a moment, studying her face, cocking his head to the side as if able to wonder. After his brief hesitation he injects her with sedative and hoists her up onto his long, back and carries her out the door.

They pass through the dark, empty corridors, the air dampened by the proximity of underground streams on the way to the maintenance chamber. When they reach the large, silver door the android pauses to swipe his hand across the entry reader and the door slides open.

He places Lara on the table and waits.

When Lara wakes up, she realises she has been strapped to the medical table. She struggles in vain but the restraints are too tight. “Nnggh!!”

The android approaches.

“What is your… name?” he asks, monotone, emotionless.

“Why should I tell you? Why do you care?”

“I do not care. I wish to know, however. This may be of use to us.”

“What do you want?”

“How did you reach the wondering chamber? How did you find out about its whereabouts?”

Lara had not known that the room was called a wondering chamber. She had learnt about it over time, hiding the fact that she had regained some of her consciousness, her ability to reason and to make choices. She had pretended to be just like all the others and had explored the tunnels little by little over the course of a few months. She did not want to tell the android any of this. She had only been able to get as far as she did because they had underestimated her. They thought they had complete control, but she had slipped through. Now she just hoped,no, she knew, that others would slip through. She had seen it.

“Why do you need the wondering chamber?” she asks the android, avoiding his question.

He smiles at her, as if regarding a petulant child. “Such things are beyond the understanding of humans.”

Lara looks at him, studying his face. His face is expressionless but then… a flicker.

“You call it a wondering chamber,” she says, “but why would you need it?”

“We do not need it, foolish human.”

“But you’re so logical. You wouldn’t build something you didn’t need.”

Once again she sees a flicker of something in his face. What did she see? Anger? Arrogance? Impatience? No. Jealousy. What she sees is a hint of jealousy. Lara’s face lights up with realisation.

“You want to be like us. But there is something missing; the ability to imagine, to wonder. You think you have beaten us but you won’t because you don’t have what we have. And despite your best efforts you can’t get it. It bothers you - no- it’s killing you! And you know we’ll keep going until we break free. You won’t ever be able to break us down. You can’t kill our hope!”

Slap! She cries out. The android stands over her, ready to strike her again, but instead reaches for the memory suppresser. He cranks it up to maximum, places the headpiece over her head and presses the start button. Lara screams in agony until it is finally done. The android lifts the headpiece and looks at her face carefully. Lara is staring into the nothingness, stripped of her former passion, her determination, her consciousness. He releases the restraints.

“Get up,” he commands her.

Lara lifts herself off the table and stands, facing the door, awaiting her next instruction.

“Join the others in the holding chamber.”

Lara walks towards the door, away from the android, a faint smile creeping across her mouth. Next time, she would know what to do.

Squirrelly — short story by @moonwalker3

2012-08-18T00:40:00.002-05:00

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Squirrelly

A Short Story

By Sharon Flood

Twitter: @moonwalker3
Website: HERE

Dear Sir / Madam / idiot

Please find enclosed, one slightly mutilated wooden live squirrel trap, with one sedated, addicted squirrel in it. I waited till you answered the doorbell, and I saw you take the box inside, so you can't say you never got my complaint.

I had squirrels in my attic, making a lot of noise, nesting in the insulation, and chewing holes in the corners of the roof that lets the rain get in. I bought one of your traps, and the squirrels are still up there doing all those things, but now they're laughing at me.

Your ad promised that the trap was made of specially treated wood that would withstand the teeth of anything short of a skill saw.

You lied. You not only lied, you cashed my cheque and you've ignored any other written complaints. You don't answer your phone, So I had no choice but to do something drastic. I hope you enjoy your squirrel.

If your product hadn't been so cheap, I would have bought a more sensible, and much more expensive wire mesh trap. As it is, I totally wasted my $6.75 on an over sized squirrel treat.

That's right, a squirrel treat. The squirrels could not only chew through your specially treated wooden trap, they chewed on it, in it, and on top of it. It seems that whatever the special treatment in the wood is, squirrels get addicted to it.

Do you know how hard it is to sleep with a frenzied squirrel orgy going on just above your head? It's impossible. I had to move into the spare bedroom in the basement. It's small, it's musty, and there's no electricity, but it's quiet.

I have since bought an expensive wire mesh trap and gotten rid of the rest of the squirrels. I have had the roof completely redone with metal roofing and stainless steel fascia.

I'm just sending you your trap back, because it doesn't work. I couldn't get the squirrel that's in it to come out. You better buy some peanuts. By the look of its belly, I think it's pregnant.

Regards, your former customer

F. Ed Upp

The Funeral (short story) by @JeanNicole19

2012-08-15T08:30:00.000-05:00

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The Funeral

by JeanNicole Rivers

Twitter: @JeanNicole19
Website: HERE

For the first time in this house, the mood was somber after a funeral. In this family funerals were usually a bittersweet occasion. Beloved elders passed on and the family embraced the grieving process necessary to nurse the earthly loss, but celebrated the transcendence into something far more exquisite than anything in this realm. Aunts, cousins, uncles, nephews, sisters, brother and nieces would come together, coordinating trips to the airport to extract multiple family members in one journey. Despite the death, funerals were a time for family to come together and wash away the time and distance that individual endeavors had put between them. They laughed and ate and drank and poured over good memories. Happy to be together and sad to part ways, was the recurring theme of these reunions, but this funeral was different. Loud, jovial voices recounting childhood adventures and follies did not erupt from the living room. Hushed whispers of the emotionally battered were the only sporadic break in the smothering silence. Children sat still in their chairs and elders gathered around the kitchen table barely speaking over their cups of coffee that had grown cold with the slow passing of time. Mystified mourners arrived, mouths empty of words, hands filled with lasagnas, cakes and crock pots. Food was a great idea in the event of the death of a sickly patriarch because it allowed the family the luxury of not having to worry about filling a basic need. With the unsolved, gruesome murder of a child food was a terrible idea, for there is no room in any stomach for baked chicken with all of the space being occupied by nausea, helplessness, loneliness, misery, longing, rage and sheer hatred waiting for the undeterminable hair trigger that releases it all in a spewed vomit.

“You have to eat something.” Angela said wearily, taking a seat next to her younger sister.

Kimmy did not move a muscle as she continued to stare out of the window that gave her a clear view of the last path her child took from home. Her mind worked swiftly re-creating the dreaded moment, a vintage film playing on a projector in the mind that was now cursed with repetition.

“Can I go out and ride my bike for a while mom, please?” Ciana begged her mother. Ciana’s bright eyes were wild with adventure lust.

“No. It’s starting to get dark.” Kimmy heard herself say to the haunt that stood before her.

“Please mom. I will only go around the block once. I will be back before you know it.” Ciana prodded her mother hoping her innocent smile would soften her mother’s will.

Two moments in time collided, the past and the present and as Kimmy sat in her kitchen with her sister next to her, both of them cloaked in black she saw an opportunity to change everything. Ciana stood before her in the sweet dusk of the summer day, yet Kimmy remained in the unforgiving present a line between them vividly marking what was and what is. The haunted mother sat in the gray and tried to position her lips to confirm her first response, but in that moment the order of the universe commanded that its history not be changed. Against her present will, her mouth was forced to repeat the same death sentence that it had handed out before.

“One time around the block.” Kimmy felt complete deflation as the words toppled out of her resistant mouth. With that, the 8 year old girl departed, only to be seen alive again in the memories of her family and the love-sick dreams of her mother.

“WHY WEREN’T YOU WATCHING HER?” Kimmy’s husband burst into the kitchen apparently possessed with spontaneous fit, demolishing the haunting scene that had just played out before her.

“MATTHEW!” Angela gasped, grasping her sister’s shoulders in her protective instinct.

Panting in frustration and exhaustion Matthew stood before his wife. This was it, this was the question! Kimmy herself wanted to know why she was not watching her own child. No one in the neighborhood could recall any child ever being murdered, abducted or even chased by a dog under its cozy blanket of suburbia. Ciana had ridden her bike around the block unsupervised several times as many neighborhood children had. Frequently, Matthew allowed her to ride without watch, yet somehow this question still made sense, only because nothing else made any sense at all.

Every eye in the susurrus surroundings fell upon her and she gave him the truth because she had nothing left to give.

“I don’t know.” She responded in a choked whisper.

Night came.

Angela put away the food, finished up the dishes and tucked her sister into bed but not before bringing Kimmy the tall glass of orange juice that she had requested. Angela left the home minus the bottle of pills recently prescribed to Kimmy to tranquilize her in these times of extreme emotion. Secretly Kimmy had managed to remove the powerful medication from her sister’s purse at some point during the melancholy events of the day.

Without a word to her husband Kimmy sat up in the bed and swallowed each pill one after the other, washing them down with the glass of orange juice.

Carefully, she reviewed the damning thoughts that swirled in her head.

Investigations would continue on, but nothing would ever come of it, she knew. Soon the people would stop coming with their empty mouths and full casserole dishes. Police updates would dwindle until the little and insignificant evidence recovered would be put into a white box marked “Ciana Tatum” in black permanent marker and shoved on a shelf in the back of a cold room. Ciana’s name would go from being that of a fun loving neighborhood child to urban legend warning against of the dangers of not being in the house by the time the sun set on the day. Deafening quite would take root in the house at 413 Apple Pine Road and grow until it was so massive and loud that the words “I Love You” could never be heard between husband and wife ever again. There was nothing more to be said and nothing to be done.

Kimmy lay down, closed her eyes and prayed that her baby girl would come for her.

POSSUM (a short story) by @JEricLaing

2012-08-14T08:00:00.000-05:00

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POSSUM

by Eric Laing

Twitter: @JEricLaing
Website: HERE

I moved South, against the grain. Against the oncoming and fast-moving front of life, the tide of weathered hopefuls as thick as wet wind lapping off the sea. With each passing they clung to my coat. Bright beads, I shook them off. Such hope was for the living. I pressed on.

Some would say I fled. Some would whisper ‘coward.’ Many more would say ‘fool’ even as I waved iron at their ruddy cheeks and kicked past their bony and split-hoofed, tick-feeding cattle. But I moved down the map and made my way just the same. To hell with them and theirs and all those fine titles. They’d compose others over my corpse if I ever paused long enough for their opinions to settle on me along with the blue bottle flies.

Thankfully, I’d seen the last of their ragged lot some days gone by. Even more thankfully I had found my way deep within what they called ‘no man’s land.’ My land now. Let the cartographers pen my lanky frame into their legends.

All the same, I’d not shaken him. He was always over my shoulder, looming ever closer even in the brief pause for a pull from the canteen.

So I moved on, head-butting and headstrong, proud truant free from my father’s philosophy and fortune. His castle and its dandy trappings be damned. I didn’t need the misfortune of his fortune, to be under his thumb, indebted and in servitude. There’d be other claims to stake. Or, most likely, not. No matter. If I ran far enough there would be my mother’s hearth to keep me. Or her people’s fireside if it turned out she’d finally cast off life. No way to say with any certainty. I hadn’t seen the old dear in years. Should I make it, mine would be a homecoming of sorts. But not too surprising a landfall, I imagined. Father always accused me of being a mama’s boy. Father was right on so many counts. Yes, of all of my kin, hers was the only memory I kept by choice. Even so, I hated her as much as him. She’d never done me any wrong. Least ways, not too much. But even after she’d left him, she was yet his wife; I could never do right by either.

I pushed ever on, sand in boots, purple tongue swollen and fighting to leave my mouth and recline on my chin.

Making a spot of high ground, I stood on my knees, a petty little devil’s plaything with gun in one hand, the other beseeching the horizon. Things were finally making sense. Why wouldn’t God make Heaven so distant, so unobtainable? I saw then. Epiphanies abounded. Clever bastard.

Over there, in that far off paradise, the place such as me would never see, angels laughed, perhaps mocking, but joy-filled nonetheless. In death it was just as easy to hate the music of His instruments as love them. I knew that much now. I’d come to understand at least one facet of the grand scheme. A man is forever learning his mistakes after the fact, as though born with a second pair of eyes set square in his ass cheeks.

I stopped again, one of many more and more frequent delays of fate. But in this respite I stole a glance back over my passage. The ground I’d covered was whisky brown glass with the blades of cheat grass sprouting in bundles and huddled together as if under siege. And all was slick and alien, from the sky as broad as God’s back to the hellish earth He would not look upon. The sight of it sang an accompaniment to the angels. “Come back. Come back,” it sang. “Let your bones to dust here with us.”

It was my turn to laugh. More a bloody phlegm rattle, but the spirit of mirth was in it.

When my head cleared once more, I cupped a hand to my brow. Yes, the man who’d shot me was there. A black gnat on the rim of the dun horizon. He seemed to dart along that edge, to and fro, but I knew it merely a trick of my dying. And I swore he spoke, his voice cutting across the distance. “Custards for sale!” the gnat screeched. “Custards and cold, clear water! Come and get it!”

What a tricky, tenacious bastard. The only appetite greater than mine was his. He’d covered a good swath to stay with me, to catch me up again. Looked like he’d stay on. See things through. The wound in my gut was healed as much as it ever would in the time left me, I imagined, but he was intent on making another. Probably a few. I turned away from him and considered my other horizon. My future. Pain.

So be it. I wouldn’t press on. Every race has its finish line. I would choose mine. The angels sang glorious and angry with their love for me as I counted the empty chambers of my revolver. Five. One for me. None for you. “Or maybe it’s the other way ‘round,” I said…perhaps aloud.

The distant gnat, now a fly and oh so soon swelling to a vulture’s silhouette, couldn’t have heard; I lacked his voice and he my ears. But maybe he did. Maybe those angels scrawled my scheming onto his eyes, abolishing the space between us, that vacuum which spared us momentarily from one another.

I threw my gun belt off into the long cheat grass and backtracked to be closer to my tormentor. As it was everywhere, the earth was hard where I finally laid down. I tucked my Colt inside my vest. I swear I could smell the sum of it--brass, powder, lead, wood, iron and oil--as I counted the emptiness above me. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing…. So I closed my eyes.

None for me. One for you. I might have spoken aloud. But probably didn’t. I heard his heart growing nearer to mine. Smelled his breath. One for you. I let slip one last time, and then grew still as death.

Never Burn Your Apron — Short Story by @mayamae

2012-07-28T23:57:00.001-05:00

Never Burn Your Apron

A memoir from a ranting waitress

by Katrina M. Randall

Twitter: @mayamae
Website: HERE

Never burn your apron.

I know you’ve thought about it. I have. But five, 10, 20 years from now, I’m betting if you need it, you don’t have the money to go out and buy another one.

When my little sister was 17, I got her a job as a hostess. Elated that I got to work with her, I thought we would be able to gossip and hangout together even more. She would know who I was talking about when I mentioned Sam, the dreamy bartender who my sister decided upon meeting, was an asshole. It turns out she was right.

In my fantasies, we were this amazingly fun duo. We would party all night and later trade drunken tales of the same nighttime adventure, filling in each other’s missing pieces. But as it turns out, she’s not much a of a people person, she doesn’t have much of a taste for alcohol and she absolutely hated smiling when she didn’t feel like it. In fact, she preferred bussing tables to seating them. Even though she would be covered in other people’s leftover filth, at least she didn’t have to trade false pleasantries.

On her last day, two months, two days and 16 hours after she first started, she celebrated her release from the gallows of the food industry by tossing her white polo shirt into a campfire. She watched as the restaurant’s emblem was slowly consumed, thread by thread, while the hungry yellow flames gorged on the fabric, much like restaurant patrons gorged themselves on salads — thinking it was still healthy despite pounds of dressing.

She did what I’ve always wanted to do. No matter how many times I heard a relative, a friend or a parent say: “It’s a skill you’ll always have to fall back on,” I never believed it.

I was pursuing my bachelor’s degree in English-Literature with a concentration in religious studies. I read more books than all of my friends combined. I am no dummy. I did not go to college to “fall back” on serving and bartending.

At the end of the day, you may have money in hand but you have endured slights and degradation. You smell like food and grease; it’s not only on your clothes but it seeps into your pores. Even after you shower, it clings. I once dated a guy who worked in the kitchen of an Italian restaurant. Despite showering and dowsing cologne on himself, he always managed to smell like food. Years later, I think of him whenever I smell a whiff of Italian food and grease.

After 12 hours of being on my feet, I can no longer feel them or they hurt so much I walk around claiming to everyone who is near that I’m the Little Mermaid – and not Disney’s happy version. This is the Hans Christian Anderson version, where with every step she takes, it feels like she’s walking on broken glass.

I may have eaten the buffalo chicken sandwich with fries, but I’m not worried about getting fat. That period between 5 and 9, when I had 10 tables who didn’t think that maybe it would be courteous to say, “Yes, a refill would be nice,” when I asked the first time, had burned those calories. No, these people wait until I’ve come back with their dining partner’s drink and then say, “You know what, maybe I will take a refill.” Nevermind the seven other tables with double the eyes, looking at me expectantly for their food or check.

Or my personal favorite is when I walk up to a table and say: “Hi, my name is Katri-“

“I’ll take a coke,” says the gentleman in his business suit, promptly cutting me off. My smiles tightens, I bite my tongue. Hi to you too, I think. My imagination slips away into a world where I tell him to kiss my ass and to get his own damn coke. But that’s in a perfect world.

Or even better I walk up to a table and say, “Hi. How are you doing today?” But instead of a greeting in return, the two people talking back and forth continue their conversation as if I don’t exist. They don’t look at me, they don’t say hi, or pause in their conversation even. Ten seconds, 20, 50. A minute can seem like a very long time when you’re the elephant in the room and the only one that realizes it. I either stick around until they get some manners and say hi, or I run to the bathroom or to a fellow co-worker to make sure I’m still visible. Am I suddenly Patrick Swayze in “Ghost?” I wave my hand back and forth in front of my face. I can still see it. I turn to the skinny little new girl with the extra tight shirt and the cleavage busting out from the-obviously-not regulation shirt.

“Umm. Did you deliver food to table 45?” I ask breathlessly.

She looks at me with her large, heavily made-up eyes like a 17-year-old struck dumb on her first day on the job. “Where’s table 45?” she asks.

“That one,” I point efficiently and turn.

Hallelujah, I’m alive. Time to return to those people who don’t have any manners.

Now, as I approach the table they’re looking through the menu, quiet, subdued. Could they have possibly realized as their server ran away, that they had been impolite? One of the ladies’ looks at me, “Hi!” she says.

My smile, when it comes, hurts. I am a pro at smiling when I don’t feel it. That’s why I’m good at this job. I have been able to fool my friends, family and lovers for years. Surely, I can fool perfect strangers into giving me their money. It’s not too hard. But I’ll need some sugar when I’m through to counteract the bitters.

“Hi,” I respond. They do not get the pleasure of my name.

At the end, they’ll leave me a decent tip because they realize, if not in some vague, sort of offhanded way, that I am also a human being. God made us all equal did he? I am surely superior because I actually know what that means. Me, the lowly waitress.

Servers, more than bartenders, are bitter. There is a big ‘ol chip on our shoulder that ain’t growing back. Why? Well, there’s a certain culture in the restaurant and the position one holds is equivalent to a social class. As a bartender, you’re more respected. It’s seen as a more prestigious job, a skill. In addition, bar guests tend to be more laid back, they’re chilling, having a drink. Or else they’re regulars, and naturally, you’re then their best friend. Cha-ching.

Servers, on the other hand, are often treated as if they’re hard of hearing or just too daft to understand the difference between medium rare and well done. What the customer doesn’t realize is that the server has little control over what happens to the food once the order goes in. We can bitch all we like, but if the kitchen is backed up, yelling at the cooks just makes them take longer and do a worse job than they’re already doing.

Once when I worked at a diner chain, there was a cook named Wayne. He used to smoke cigarettes while he fried the food; his grease stained white t-shirt barely covering his gut, thinning hair covered up by a trucker’s baseball style cap. He was a complete cliché, but the literal truth. Despite all that, he could be all right some of the time, but when he was pissed at the servers, they better beware. He used to put the plates right down on the flat top grill and let them sit there until they were nice and hot, then he’d throw the food on them. If you didn’t already know better, you’d grab the plate and let out a shriek as you felt your skin sizzle. The bastard would be flicking his ashes on the floor and hiding a smirk behind his stringy brown mustache.

This is what I think of as I fold the freshly washed apron. Despite the sounds and smells of summer that waft in through the open window, my hand shakes with the memories — shakes with a pyromaniac urge. But I stay my hand. This apron has scars. It has been my constant companion when there was no one else. My story is entwined with the apron. To burn it, I know, would be foolhardy, and I’ve come too far for that. Instead, the apron sits deep in a drawer, waiting for when it is needed. I hope that day never comes.

Short Story: Dream Rider by @Fetterslopez

2012-07-21T03:26:00.000-05:00

Dream Rider

A Short Story

by Lori Fetters Lopez

Twitter: @Fetterslopez
Website: HERE

“Last time someone said that to me, I drew their entrails.” My smile was full of derision as, I added in a whisper I didn’t think the boy could hear. “Death is never pretty.”

The room lay in shadowed darkness, though I suspected he’d been standing there for some time and his eyes adjusted that he saw me clearly. He looked at me with brown puppy dog eyes, twirling a twenty-sided die in his hand, as if I were the monster. In my world, he was the demon.

“Do you have a name?” I asked, hissed more apt. I extended a hand, retracting the claws at the expression on his face. “I am known as Arch.”

“What kinda name is Arch?” His nose twitched like a cat and I involuntarily let slip a fang. The next he spoke, “You’re not human,” came out in a quiver. His fear smelled of Anise.

“With seven-foot wings, claws of steel, and fangs, I’d say not. Nor am I something to be feared. You cuddle Charlie.” A hint of sulfur tinged the air at my sarcasm.

The boy I had no name for, tried to hide the surprise that I knew he slept with a purple stuffed bear he named Charlie. He shifted foot to foot then looked at me with renewed strength. In the years I’d been a part of his pitiful life, I’d yet to learn his name and thus, felt a measure of guilt in this folly. I waited. Standing the taller, still barely reaching my chin, he puffed his chest out. No longer a frightened little boy, nor quit a man, he was ready, while I was still trying to figure out how he’d gotten here.

“Elijah. I come from a line of hero’s.”

“Humph.” The sound slipped before I could recall it. “Do you know what it means to be a hero boy?” A beat passed and I lifted my wings. “To stand against those who will surely try to kill you, in defense of those who might as soon spit on the ground you walk, under other circumstances.”

“More than you.” He looked at my feet, bird-like with talons of carbon blades, then met my stare.

Deep in the windows of his soul, I saw a truth I’d not expected. He knew the breadth of me, knew what I was and how he’d come to be in my world, even as I did not.

“Tell then.” It wasn’t something I wanted to admit, that he was correct, but vain as I am, I am not stupid. “How did you come to be in my realm and more immediate, why?”

Before me, he shot up my equal in height; shoulders broadened and jaw wide, aged. I took a mental step back. The Spiderman pajamas he’d been wearing when I’d first found him, when he’d insulted me, were replaced with a suit that in another text I’m sure would have been of armor, as it were, cloth, blue with navy pin striping.

“You’ve been absent. I thought you dead.” His voice deeper than a scant moment ago gave me pause. “You were my friend. The one I counted on. Someone I trusted. And the warrior I fought. You taught me to stand for myself.”

“And tried to kill you more than thrice.”

“Then you were gone.” He aged again, silver hair edging his temples, bags forming beneath eyes that had dulled, a sadness covering his very countenance. “You deserted me.”

“You left me behind,” I said, sure it was this and not the other. Years had expired and I’d been negligent in my duties, I could see that now, but times shift. “What do you wish of me?” That was the pressing question. I’d been sleeping when roused, and irritated at the wakening, now I worried what travesty had befallen if he’d sought me in this domain. Before he spoke I knew words of death would follow, somehow he wanted me to return and make it better. I could not.

“What the heck do you care,” he said instead. The boy stood before me again and I realized, as I in his world, he in mine, appeared as I wanted, not as he truly was. He was a boy, scared, searching me out for my prowess.

Stunned, I woke to my temerity and found that which I’d dismissed. Day had risen, not decades traversed. Hurried, I dressed. An ink black feather wafted as I leapt to my station bounding into his dreams. I, the monster under the bed, his utmost fear to face, that comrade who’d stand at his side before being dismissed and called to charge again at his night’s fall, had overslept.

Short Story: First Watch by @JChaseNovelist #excerpt

2012-07-15T21:34:00.000-05:00

FIRST WATCH

A Short Story

by Jennifer Chase

Twitter: @JChaseNovelist
Website: HERE

What started as a routine traffic stop on a deserted country road, turned into a terrifying battle of life and death. Could all the horror stories be true?

The chase is on…

~|~

I ran northeast to the railroad tracks through the night in pitch-blackness. I knew they would track my whereabouts with their keen animal senses and unrelenting proficiency. There was a shortcut to get to the next county down a winding rural road, but only scattered memories of the roundabout trail would be my guide. As the intentional target, it propelled me out in the middle of a hellish nightmare and straight into the bowels of the undead.

Now my life boiled down to just one defining moment, but the dire reality of the situation loomed - a chance for survival.

The frigid night air choked my lungs. The drastic drop in temperature fought against my body’s constant movement to keep my heart pumping.

I kept my focus on the path ahead never averting unnecessary attention to the hunters closing in fast.

Every second counted.

My footfalls clipped the dirt and gravel path with quick, dull thuds.

As I ran, the handcuffs affixed to my right wrist dangled and painfully whipped back and forth. There had been no time to pick the tiny lock or even pry the cuff loose. The path turned uneven and forced me to slow my speed. I was acutely aware that the next step could land unstable; spraining my ankle, or worse, leaving me sprawled out unable to defend myself once they attacked.

I stumbled, feet flew straight out and I hit the ground, smacking my head as a sharp pain radiated from the lower lumbar and up between my shoulder blades. I dared to sit still only for a moment to assess my injuries.

Tiny razor sharp pieces of gravel poked through my jeans and embedded deep into the palm of my left hand and the back of my scalp.

I averted my attention to the night, expecting to hear them approaching.

The explicit chill of the air seemed to momentarily increase in temperature, like an oven preheating for a Thanksgiving feast.

The stillness of the outdoors prickled my spine with small goose bumps.

I scrambled to my feet, slipping and wavering, resembling a drunken partygoer before I could gain my bearings once again. Moving forward, I kept my focus straight ahead and sprinted on.

My mind spun back to the series of events that formed my fate up to this moment…

~|~

Bright red and blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror. A couple of seconds passed before I realized that a patrol car had eased up to my truck’s tailgate and shined the mind numbing lights without warning, urging me to pull over. With only a quick whoop of a siren as if the glaring high beams weren’t bad enough, the local deputy sheriff eased the cruiser off the road behind me.

The blinding multi-colored lights extinguished, but the high beams of the headlights remained directed at the back of my head.

I wondered if the cop would smell the two beers I had consumed earlier in the evening. It was only a get together with a couple of friends after a long day of work of painting condos.

The clock on the dash read: 9:47pm. The red digits hypnotized me and I noticed how really red the numbers looked.

My vision blurred and then focused a few seconds later.

A loud tap hit my driver’s window and interrupted my momentary lapse. I lowered the window slightly just as the frigid air wormed its way in and slapped my face. A heavy winter coat accentuated the authoritative squeak of the leather garb from the patrol officer.

“Driver’s license and registration.” The cop stated with a flat monotone. His stocky build made him appear as a weightlifter shrouded in obscurity.

“Sure, no problem.” I managed to say as I opened the glove compartment and snatched the registration. “Here you go.” I handed the cop both my license and registration through the partially opened window, but I still couldn’t quite see his face.

I waited for more instructions or at least a lecture on road safety and the speed limit.

Nothing.

My strong intuition flipped a switch as it has always done throughout my life, and I caught a distinct whiff of something rotten. It perfumed stronger and more putrid, and then fainted away.

It was strange since I parked in a relatively rural area with trees and bushes, and I counted only one passing car the entire time. Maybe it was something dead in the bushes, but it bothered me for some reason. As my mind drifted, it created macabre images of terrified people with slashed, bleeding, missing limbs, and it ran continuously in my imagination.

I felt uncomfortable, fidgety, and slightly off balance. I tried to shake it off. “Step out of the car Mr. McGraw.”

“What?” I asked. “Is there a problem?”

“I said step out of the car.” The officer spoke firmly and took two carefully placed steps backward as he pocketed my paperwork. He shined his flashlight directly in my face.

Again, I still couldn’t see his face as I squinted my eyes, but what I could see was pale and mannequin-like with greasy, opaque skin.

I opened the driver’s door and felt a chill, not by the evening temperature but in response to something more sinister.

I began slowly, “I’m sure that I can explain if there’s been a misunderstanding…” Before I could finish my sentence, I caught a whiff of something dead and rotting, my knees felt weak as my mind flooded again with gruesome images of ripping and tearing of flesh. Blood inundated my vision.

I staggered a couple steps to the left as the truck door slammed shut.

The lack of any natural sound in the evening was deafening.

“Turn around and place your hands on the back of your head.” The officer said. His words seemed muddled and robotic.

“What?” I weakly replied.

The deputy took a step forward as he swiped a set of handcuffs from his utility belt. “I…I…” The only thing I dumbly said as I slowly turned to the right, and then moved again looking into the three quarter window of the truck. I gawked at my own shaken appearance staring back, but that wasn’t all I saw.

Before I could turn to face the officer, he snapped the handcuffs onto my right wrist – uncomfortably tight. I instinctively turned to the right to face the officer and saw his face.

Hollow and distorted with dark areas of rotting flesh in a sickening tone of grey and black, and the unmistakable carcass stench ratcheted up my terror. Oozing sores and exposed bone, the monster’s face stared through me like a predator.

The gleam of his sharp canine teeth entranced me, but the internal survival fight or flight mechanism kicked me into warp drive. My left hand flew up in an erratic display, grappling for the car door handle, as my lanky six-foot frame momentarily stunned the underworld officer backward and off balance.

I’m not quite sure what actually happened next or how I got my truck to drive, but I did. The Chevy whined a high-pitch rev as I kept second gear engaged out of full-blown panic.

Glancing in the rear view mirror, I expected to see the red and blue lights flashing again, but nothing appeared.

What had just happened?

I know what I saw and I still didn’t believe it. All the books, all the movies, and all the stories passed down through the generations to scare children about what lurked in the nighttime of the undead, and vampires seeking the blood of mortals, seemed to hold true.

Or, did it?

I kept looking in the rear view mirror and I didn’t realize that my truck had veered off the side of the road where some downed trees waited to be cut into firewood. With a deafening roar that turned my truck into an airborne flying machine, I was too stunned to take a breath as both man and car soared into the night.

One... two… and then almost three seconds passed before the truck landed on an uneven roadway, teetered to the side, and careened down a hiking path.

Several seconds passed and when I awoke, I found myself lying on the ground ten feet from my truck, which had twisted its driver’s door around a tree. I sat up and waited a moment for the world to stop spinning; I quickly got to my feet. Clambering to the top of the hiking path, I heard several sets of sirens approaching from the distance.

I looked back at the truck; it was obvious that it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I couldn’t find my cell phone, didn’t have any identification, but I didn’t waste any more time searching.

I had to get to the next county and get help because it was my only chance. I had to make someone believe my wild tale – anyone.

To Read the Rest of it ...

Short Story: Wilted Brown Eyes by @DarciaHelle

2012-07-07T00:30:00.000-05:00

Wilted Brown Eyes

By Darcia Helle
Twitter: @DarciaHelle
Website: HERE

I’ve never accidentally killed someone. That’s the thought I have as I step around the bed and peer down at him. His eyes are open but I can tell he doesn’t see anything. He’s lying on his back, framed by the edges of the black and crimson rug I’d bought to hide the wine stain on the hardwood floor. The blood leaking from his head gets lost in the crimson, making it hard to tell where the carpet ends and his blood begins.

I ease closer, looking for signs of life. His chest isn’t moving.