Restless: Issue One

Issue One — June 2010

Restless An Arts Anthology

passion. writing. art. inspiration. reviews. east valley.

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www.RestlessAnthology.com Restless is purely a work of love . If you liked this issue and would like to see it continue, please consider contributing, purchasing advertising space or making a donation.

If you’re done with this issue, pass it along or leave it on a park bench or in a coffee shop somewhere—anywhere awesome people can be found. Maybe even a rest stop bathroom. Awesome people have functions too.

Fonts Used by Restless:

Titles Sloppy Ink by Mortal Turtle Foundry Text Thyromanes by Herman Miller

Cover: Grade D Brains

By David Wiersch

Restless: An Arts Anthology Restless is an arts anthology with the expressed goal of expanding and connecting the Arts community in and around the East Valley. The anthology encourages submissions of exceptional new material from the world over, with a strong emphasis on those located in the East Valley.

Original artwork, fiction, experimental fiction, non-fiction, reviews of artsy-doings, events, comics, well-written opinion, and other creative works that translate well to the printed form are welcome. Submissions can be sent to submissions@restlessanthology.com.

www.RestlessAnthology.com Restless: Issue One was produced by: Her Majesty the Pirate Queen, Amber Brosovich, Duchess of Pretty Things Lord Admiral David Crummey, Vizier of Asking Awkward Questions Special Agent Owen Stupka, Assistant to the Assistant Devil’s Advocate

In This Issue: Welcome

The Restless Team

ii.

Deliverance

Clint Hardison

1

My Stifled Creativity

Obadiah Madsen

5

The Shed

Dale Dahlberg

7

Soap on a Rope

Clint Hardison

8

Andrew’s Bones

Tufik Y. Shayeb

9

Who Am I Really?

Obadiah Madsen

10

The Night Sky in Spring

Charles DeCelles

11

The Bleu Cheese Incident

Henrietta Octomonst

13

Mind Games

Andy Adams

19

East Valley Awesome: Gangplank

Owen Stupka

33

Together We Lay

LisaRose Blanchette

34

Featured Artist: Aleta Welling

David Crummey

35

Recipe for Disaster

Russ Kazmierczak

36

Happy Hour

Russ Kazmierczak

36

Affliction

Matt Mesnard

37

Featuring Artwork By Aleta Welling Individual works remain the sole-property of the author and are used by permission.

This issue is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution / Share Alike License. http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

i.

Greetings and Salutations!

Y

ou hold in your hands the much anticipated and much postponed (largely due to Glee) Issue One.

It is almost time for the inaugural issue of Restless to be sent to the printers (and by almost time, we mean we have approximately an hour and three pages left to fill). And that means it’s time for us to pry open our skulls and pour forth the delicious slice of brain candy that we like to call the introduction.

(Amber likes to call it hors d'œuvres ) We have worked especially hard on this issue, mostly due to the magnitude of scaling in an upwards directional method from our modest and lightweight Issue Zero to the monstrosity you now hold in your hands. (Or flippers, to not disrespect our wonderful readers on Agurlon IV) In the end, we are delighted at the product we’ve come up with.

(Or at least two of us are. Which two is left as an exercise to the reader.)

It has been a great learning experience as usual, and we have been continually impressed by the caliber of all the wonderful people we have met as a part of putting this new issue together, and are eternally grateful to the people who have been with us since Issue Zero (and we state this as if they have been loyal to us for far longer than has actually occurred) and continued to give us their hard work, talent and a little piece of what makes them appetizingly weird.

We hope to make friends (‘Special Friends’, in Owen’s case) with many of you over the next two months (approximately) as we put together Issue Two. Please let us know if you would like to do anything to help out. (We particularly like Snickerdoodle cookies) We hope to be putting together several events, both to raise funds to improve the quality of our product, and to get better connected with the vibrant community of creative people that exists here in the East Valley. Enjoy the stories and emotions inside. We all have.

Here’s Hoping We’re Actually Still Alive For The Release (Twisted Murder/Suicides FTL), The Restless Team

ii.

iii.

Deliverance

By Clint Hardison

A

faint acquaintance approaches from across the high school campus’s courtyard, her arm outstretched in salutation. Wow. She’s awful friendly, I think. I mean, we haven’t ever really talked much or even gotten along all that well, but, shucks, we did have that science class together in ninth grade. I think we may have even been in the same lab group. Actually, I’m sure of it. I remember how little attention she paid to the experiments and how she copied the answers from the rest of us at the very last second. But apparently, she was more attentive than I thought—not to science, but to me.

She’s walking right at me, waving with the concentrated fervor of a New Yorker hailing a cab in a rainstorm. Perhaps the heat of the shared Bunsen burner had fused some connection between us too deep for words, a thing so raw and powerful that it required a few years to sit dormant before manageable enough to warrant mutual and public acknowledgment this way. I can’t believe I was so obtuse to not notice our bond. But she, approaching with a grin and a wave, she didn’t miss it. From the look of things, she’s been waiting for this for a long time. I’d bet that any time she encounters the smell of burnt chloride or happens across the sight of a Petri dish, she can’t help but think of our time together, of me. Of course she wants to talk to me.

So I raise my hand, an olive branch extended, and wave. Not too soft, though. She’s waving pretty adamantly. I wouldn’t want her to feel silly. So I match her enthusiasm. I make eye contact, attempting to establish a trac-

1

tor beam sort of influence that will aid her in her final descent towards the cove of lockers that surround me. But she doesn’t seem to be meeting my eyes. It’s more like she’s fixated on my shoulder.

No, wait, above my shoulder. Holy crap.

This is the moment at which I wish for any number of things to happen. The apocalypse, for one, would be welcome.

Atomic warfare, earthquakes, a school shooting—all would not only serve as adequate distractions from the humiliating corner into which I have painted myself, but also as vastly more pleasant alternatives. Because now I know. And it will only be seconds before she’ll realize too. I wish a disease, one that makes people feel sorry for you, would instantly infect me, rob me of my hair and make me stick thin. No one mocks the diseased the way they would mock a well person in the same situation. It’s not fair.

I’m quite sure of what’s happening, but I’m still waving and so is she. I can’t just stop. I am acutely aware that behind me and out of view stands another student, the intended recipient of her wave.

He or she is probably waving too, but not so unrequitedly as I. I can’t bear to turn and look, but I know it’s the truth. I’m still waving and she’s still approaching. I notice that her gaze has drifted some and is now right upon me, slowly surveying the situation. She cocks her head sideways in bewilderment, causing her ponytail to squirm like a caught fish in its final movements. For one long second, she stays that way—head cocked and eyes curious—and continues to walk forward, except slower, more pensive. I wonder if there’s a chance that she won’t get it, if somehow she won’t perceive me as the imbecile that I am. Crazier things have happened. Gods smile upon the meager inhabitants of this planet intermittently.

People win lotteries, stumble across cures

for diseases, find soul mates amidst billions and billions of incompatible partners.

God flicks his wrist and seas part. Why not for me then? Why not today? Why can’t God extend a finger down into the surface of her brain and scramble things just a little, just enough to keep her from realizing? But suddenly her head snaps back straight and her stride resumes and I know she knows.

She is blond, but not naturally or convincingly so. My eyes are those of a pet on the verge of euthanasia. They whimper.

Please don’t tell everyone. But she has

averted her stare momentarily. It wouldn’t matter anyways. I’ve seen her standing in a circle with all the other unconvincing blonds. They chatter like hyenas, waiting for just such fodder, like the way African children will make a soccer ball from just about anything. Their cackles haunt me already.

I’m still waving. She’s closer, maybe twenty or so yards away. I now recall one conversation we shared over the Bunsen burner all those semesters ago. She had rambled on and on about a Friends episode. About how Rachel’s nose 2

kept changing and how Chandler was so funny and how she thought nothing would be greater than hanging out in a New York coffee shop, drinking from oversized and pastel colored mugs. Oh how she belabored the subject of those mugs, describing in detail the hypothetical flowers that would decorate her designated coffee receptacle. And how I wanted her to shut up. This was the girl to whom I extended an olive branch? One whose life goals revolved primarily around ceramics?

What a fool I am.

My wave is growing tired, flimsy, but persists. I am suddenly incredibly aware of its flapping and how it has cursed me. The bones and flesh and ligaments, typically tools by which I am made able, today work against me. She is looking right at me again, this time fully cognizant and acknowledging with attentive eyes my humiliation. There is no kindness in her stare, no sign of mercy. For one hazy moment, I see myself in third person, as if the real essence of me is levitating in the air above my body, watching the scene unfold. Students, with their backpacks and books and haircuts of which they will be ashamed in fifteen years, scatter in every direction, some engaged in conversation with friends, waiting for 3 the bell to ring. Dozens stand beyond the approaching girl and I

envy them. I envy that they were not standing where I was standing, faced with the same confusing salutation that faced me. Why could I not have been one of the lucky ones, one of the many that stand beyond?

That’s when a synapse fires, maybe two. Grey matter crinkles just so, or does whatever it is that grey matter does when an individual is blessed by the advent of an idea.

Whatever that process entails, that’s what happens to me, on the surface of my brain—an idea. It’s a long shot, certainly, a full-court overhand huck as the buzzer sounds, but it’s all I have.

She is ten or so yards away. I’m still waving. Taking great pains to appear effortless, I shift my gaze from the general area of her make -up covered, faux tanned face to the area and scan the many students walking beyond her. I lock in on a brownhaired, bowl-cutted sophomore I’ve never met before. Spinning a pen in one hand, he cuts across the lawn in front of the administration building half a football field away. I reinvigorate my wave, infuse it with conviction and direction. This she notices. “Hey Greg,” I yell as I begin to walk directly to him. He doesn’t as much as raise an eyebrow at me. Why would he? He’s no Greg. For all I know, he could be deaf since birth or a Latvian foreign

exchange student. But I don’t care. I walk straight at him.

Before passing her, I can see her stride slow some. Her crumpled brow radiates the consternation that has so suddenly befallen her.

She blinks rapidly, straining to grasp newly turned tables which had once seemed so sturdy and immovable. I don’t stop. I walk, aware that within her sunbleached teenage mind the whole situation has been blanketed with a layer of doubt, like fresh snow fallen upon and

having momentarily beautified the ugliest ghetto of the most rundown industrial city.

I feel delivered—as if seas have been parted this day for me as much as ever they were for Moses. So I accelerate my pace towards the one that I dubbed Greg, propelled by the knowledge that behind me is a blonde girl feeling utterly ridiculous to have believed it was she to whom I was waving, when in fact it was someone else entirely.

My Stifled Creativity in the Psychiatric Hospital

by Obadiah Madsen

“

Spread your cheeks”, he tells me. He didn’t mean the cheeks on my face. He meant my other cheeks. Everything in my pockets was already confiscated. They took my belt. They even took my shoelaces. What could I do? I turned around, bent over, and spread.

How embarrassing. But I also felt bad for him. I wouldn’t want to look up there.

The door was secure. The door (actually 2 doors) was locked. I couldn’t walk out. Even though I was here voluntarily, I just couldn’t walk out on my own. I was in a voluntary prison.

Don’t get me wrong. I needed to be here. I am not opposed to psychiatric hospitalizations. However, they are scary for me. I couldn’t function out in the world, so I am in here to stabilize, to re-enter society.

I closed my eyes. Yes, he was still there. Every time I closed my eyes, they would turn inward and look at my brain. Because there is no light coming in, I could not see my brain, but I could see the red jaws. I could see the red fangs. I could see the mouth of the demon that was eating my brain. They told me that the jaws were a hallucination. I protested, “How could it be a hallucination when my eyes are closed?” They said it was a hallucination because I could see the jaws.

I turned to what I always seem to turn to in times of trouble – my journal. My journal is my poetry. My journal is my art. My journal is my

5

diary. My journal is my prayer book. When I pray to GOD, it’s easier to write the prayers, than to speak them.

I asked the attendant for my journals. I was given one of them. I asked for a pen. My request was declined. “I need a pen,” I almost cried, I almost screamed, but I was at least coherent enough to know to never scream in a psychiatric hospital.

“Sorry – security reasons. A pen can be used as a weapon. We can give you the pen, but you have to sit where we can see you.”

I just wanted to escape. I wanted to write about the demon and ask GOD to take it away. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to be watched.

I accepted the conditional pen, but I couldn’t write. My creativity was hindered. I went to the counter and asked for my other journal. Maybe I could write in that one. That one was not my creative journal, but my commentary journal.

“Sorry – security reasons. That journal is spiraled.”

Another weapon. They were concerned that I would kill myself with my pen or the journal spiral.

I didn’t write in that hospitalization. My wife brought me my fuzzy gingerbread man slippers. Maybe I could get the creativity out through them. My slippers brought some joy to myself and other patients as well. I learned that my slippers were not a gingerbread man, but a turd from South

Park. However, the psychiatrist was not amused about my grasp at creativity. I saw him look at my slippers while writing in my chart. I wonder what he said.

Today, I have been out of the hospital for a few years. I do not purchase

any spiral bound journals, in case I ever have to go back to the hospital. I still haven’t figured out to get a pen in there. I know they are going to ask me to spread my cheeks.

6

The Shed

By Dale Dahlberg

I

’ve been holed up in this shack for a week. A week with nothing to do but check the radio, think, and listen to the sounds outside. A week with almost no sleep. How could I sleep with the constant sound of those... things, scratching at the walls, trying to get in here?

To get me. The only rest I get is when I collapse from exhaustion, and that only lasts until the nightmares wake me.

There is still water to drink in here, but I’m almost out of food. I’ve been rationing. Five small meals a day. It’s enough. I don’t have much appetite.

government mind control program. No strange influence from space. They just appeared, and there seem to be more of them everyday.

I have a small radio, and I’ve been scanning the frequencies, searching for another voice out there someplace.

There’s been only radio silence and bursts of static since last night. I might be the only living person left for hundreds of miles.

Scratching side. Always.

out-

I could use a drink.

I’ve tuned the radio to static, and turned the volume all the way up. It helps. A bit. >>>Later<<<

I haven’t heard any sounds of life outside, human life, that is, for three days. The last thing I heard was an agonized shriek. Now there’s just the scratching at the walls. The sounds are getting louder, and I’m pretty sure there are more of them now than there were before.

Not good. Here’s hoping the walls hold out longer than I do.

The radio’s battery is dying, and the roar of static is now a dull hiss. I can hear the scratching as always, and a new sound. A small, regular thump.

No one knows where they came from. No science gone awry. No

A single ray of sunlight is now streaming in through a small hole. I can

7

It’s been 8 hours or so since I turned the radio on.

At some point I fell asleep. I dreamed of home, of my bed, and of dead fingers digging into my eyes.

I woke screaming.

see ragged fingers, just exposed bone and rotten flesh, clawing at it, making it bigger. It won’t be long now. There is nothing to do but wait. I shall eat the last of my food, and perhaps I’ll have the strength, or speed, to slip through them and escape. But it seems unlikely.

If I thought any of my friends or family were still alive, I’d ask you, whoever you may be, to give them my love. Instead, if you find this, might I simply suggest the following: Don’t go into buildings with no back door.

By Clint Hardison

8

Andrew’s Bones

By Tufik Shayeb

Fact: People are born with nearly 350 bones; by adulthood, scientists count 250 remaining.

Where did you go, Andrew?

Nine years have walked by on injured feet, the way we shuffled our torn shoes through the cooling streets of Phoenix, our arms held out, like two zombies, insensitive, pretending we were unable to feel, while exposing our innards, through the rotted holes in our torsos, hanging by sinew and cords, for the world to see how our blood turned colors like a violent mood-ring.

too determined to become something gaudy, a Halloween costume, or a decoration, for the whole city to whisper about your father.

Your father the grocer, the bagger, the sacker, the savage, the short, round brute.

I hated him and everything he did to you.

You look smaller these days, like you’ve been losing weight.

Have you been eating, Andrew?

How long has it been, since we searched for late-night restaurants, buying scraps of food with the loose change we found in dumpster sofas?

Did you ever do it, Andrew?

You promised to unzip your zombie suit and show them what you are inside:

Did you ever go home, Andrew, or did you live in the street?

a stack of empty beer cans your father left behind.

You look like you’ve been losing weight, like you’ve been losing bones.

Where did they go, your bones?

Your father. Your father the barbarian, the numbskull, the bonehead, a pile of chicken bones placed in the trash.

Did you lose them to fusion?

Two becoming one, and so on, giving the illusion of a disappearance.

Your father the Cruel Scientist, and you, the nearly aborted experiment.

He wanted to hide you in a closet, treat you like another skeleton, tell the neighbors you were a bedtime story.

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But you didn’t go away,

I saw you, one day, bury backbone in the ground when he pushed from the stairs of that decomposing apartment.

I saw you rattling, until your body resembled a ransacked grave.

You lay down your wishbone,

a useless weapon on the table, a concession, a peace offering, to that ugly grave-robber, your father.

There was no fusion, no connection nothing romantic or sincere.

It didn’t take a scientist to see you were losing your bones to wandering, to streets, to being homeless.

They fell from your body every day, and we were reading them,

Who Am I Really?

By Obadiah Madsen When I am eccentric or flamboyant, They say I am manic When I discuss my faith, They say I have religious preoccupation When I hear from God

two fortune-tellers predicting bruises, and scrapes, until we staggered the streets, pretending to be the undead, praying like sinners to never go back to the abusive flower beds from which our zombie hands first sprang.

They say I am delusional When I want to change the world, They say I am grandiose When I study and do well in school, They say I am obsessive-compulsive When I do poorly in school,

Where did you go, Andrew?

Things have been rough since you left; a bit jagged, you might say.

They say it’s my learning disability When I am sad, They say it’s my depression

Well I’ve had nothing but sandpaper in my heart for you.

Did you ever do it, Andrew?

You were supposed to show them what you really are inside.

When I don’t meet other’s’ expectations, They say it’s because of my mental illness When I am medicated and have no emotions When I just do what’s expected of me

You were supposed to show them that even smudged aluminum still shines, that every costume has a zipper, and every boy has a wish to enjoy the relief of his father’s love.

When I have no passion When I have no flair When I am boring When I just exist

Did you ever go home, Andrew, or are you still wandering?

They say I am stable

10

The Night Sky in Spring

By Charles DeCelles

J

ohn and Sara sat upon the riverbank, enjoying the comfort of each other’s company and the aftermath of a fine picnic dinner. The crickets and marsh life sang out a melody to the twilight, and all seemed as pleasant as one could imagine for a boy and a girl on a spring night. The stars began to come out, twinkling to the delight of the pair gazing up into the darkening horizon.

“What’s that one over there John?”

Sara’s finger thrust upwards into the sky at a group of stars.

“Oh, that’s Orion, the Greeks say he was some hero or something…” John nonchalantly replied.

“Do you see that over there?” Sara’s finger darted further West on the horizon where a series of irregular flashes of light were blossoming and fading like small blinking fireflies in the distant sky. “What could that be?”

John sat in silence, a gentle breeze playing through tufts of his unkempt hair as he ponders intently at the beautiful anomaly.

The moderate yellow star had almost completely become hidden from view by a small green and blue planet.

At high geosynchronous orbit around the smallish planet sat a decrepit war cruiser. The star’s last fingers of light illuminate the pockmarked and damaged ship as it maintains its course. Glowing red sores of still hot metal surrounded by blackened scorch marks lie scattered about the battered ship’s hull. The wayward vessel looks like a beast wounded, bleeding drops of molten tritanium

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alloy from still festering wounds. The great thundering engines to the cruiser’s rear suddenly sputter and then die, and with them ending any chances of the tired quarry fleeing any further.

Several rapidly moving points of light in the distance close in on the cruiser. Like a pack of dogs chasing a treed mountain lion, the smaller frigates surround and orbit the larger vessel and begin cutting into its hull with lances of bright-hot light. In retaliation, the cruiser launches a salvo of guided missiles into one of the frigates. Twin rockets spiral in flight towards their objective like the exotic mating dance of a pair of avian lovers. One of the frigates explodes in a brief shower of flame and shrapnel, but the rest of the pack continue their assault undaunted.

The captain of the cruiser resigns himself and his crew to their fate; the ship’s hull would not last much longer, but he refuses to embrace annihilation without company. He enters the necessary commands to initiate a self-destruct sequence, and soon becomes part of a large incandescent burst of destruction that encompasses the entirety of the ship and the remaining smaller frigates orbiting it.

As suddenly as the explosion appeared, it was gone, leaving the scattered debris of four war vessels to hurtle off into the serene silence of space.

John watches the scattered flickering of light preceded by a single larger flash, a bloom of red and gold amidst a bouquet of twinklings. His countenance remains thoughtful as he observes the

distant fireworks.

“It’s swamp gas; I heard all about it on the news,” John says, “Methane gets trapped in the ozone and is set off by the Earth’s magnetic poles… uhh, like moths hitting a bug-zapper”.

“Oh,” Sara pauses then smiles coquettishly, “You’ve always got an answer for everything John. You’re so smart.”

She leans close to him as he puts his arm around her shoulder and smiles; it’s such a lovely spring night for a girl and a boy by the riverbank resplendent.

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The Bleu Cheese Incident

By Henrietta Octomonst

I

saw no crumbs or stains on the vest of my school uniform, but my socks and underwear were still damp from my just having washed them in the bathroom sink. I arranged my blouse’s ruffles to hide its stains and straining buttonholes, and tried to suck in what my father referred to as my “spare tires. ” I checked my book bag; I hadn't forgotten my books, so I could do all my homework on the bus. I was very organized and ready to face the adventure of the day. There were only two things missing: breakfast and lunch. If one of the teachers caught me with nothing to eat at noon, they would make me stand in the hot lunch line. If that happened, at the end of the week, my parents would have a bill to pay, and I would have hell to pay. I could anticipate at least an hour of hysterics and stinging sarcasm. I could face having no lunch, but that morning, as I went searching through the cupboards, I realized there was nothing for breakfast, either. My stomach growled. It would be a long day.

In my family, grocery shopping was done on Friday, and every week the family would feast for a few days until the cupboards and fridge were once again empty. My mother would cash her and my father’s paychecks. After that, she would wander through the grocery store in a trance, sometimes needing two carriages for everything she bought for her corpulent crew. She would load up the wagons with Baby Watson cheesecakes, éclairs, fried fish fillets and massive cuts of meat. We would feast on steaks, chicken cooked in sour

13

cream and wine, and gourmet cheeses.

After stopping at the grocery store, she would stock up at Kappy’s Liquors, adding a case of beer, a half gallon of Baccardi and a gallon of pink Catabwa wine to the grocery bonanza. Once the food was in the house, he who hesitated lost out. The bounty would be devoured in about three days, and by that time, the paychecks would have been spent.

Since this was Thursday morning, the fridge was barren, except for a wedge of oily bleu cheese on a Styrofoam tray.

I opened the refrigerator. My selections included: the week old picked bones of a chicken, a jar of moldy applesauce, and on the center shelf, that hunk of oily blue cheese. The cupboards offered a similarly enticing array: an empty corn flakes box, cat food, a box of spaghetti. I was looking through the cabinets for a second time, hoping that perhaps I had missed something when I heard the screech of the bus’s brakes at the stop before mine. I hacked off a chunk of bleu cheese and grabbed my book bag. Cheese in hand, I jogged to the bus, reaching it just before it took off. At two hundred pounds I didn’t jog very fast, or very often.

As I waddled down the aisle to sit with my friend, Kim, I passed all the skinny Catholic school kids. They sat primly in their neat uniforms, with their carefully packed lunches sitting in their new, neat book bags containing their pre -bus-ride finished homework. One boy, in his perfect blue Oxford shirt, made sure I saw his expression of disgust as I made my way through the aisle. He shrank from me as I passed, to avoid

contamination.

As soon as I was settled next to Kim, I opened my spelling workbook, and balanced it on my knees as I started gnawing on my breakfast. Because undiluted bleu cheese is pasty and rank, I could only eat it a bit at a time. Kim watched me with a doubtful look on her face, She made a point of staring down at my cheese.

I felt a little defensive. After all, bleu cheese is a gourmet food, an ac-

quired taste. Not everyone had the sophistication necessary to appreciate it.

“It’s bleu cheese. ” I explained patiently.

“I can see that. ” She answered. Her tone kept me from filling in the vocabulary words.

“There was nothing else for breakfast. ” She stared at it in disgust. I tried to eat a little more of it, but Kim’s eyes were locked on that festering morsel and

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her lip curled up in revulsion, rendering it completely inedible. I lowered my cheese, and lowered my head. I watched the steam rising from my damp socks in the cold morning air.

“I’m being weird again, aren’t I?” I asked.

“People just don’t eat stuff like that.”

I felt crushed. Better to have gone hungry than to have brought such a thing on a bus, to be seen and smelled by others. I stared at the cheese, wishing I had never seen that blue tray in the fridge. We rode on in silence for a few minutes.

On that particular morning, we were riding to school in a newer bus.

The seat backs on the new buses were higher, making it easier to hide from the bus driver’s mirror, with which she monitored the bus denizens, and they, in turn monitored her. But the most important advantage to the new buses had to do with the seat stuffing. The old buses’ seats were stuffed with greasy rubber foam. When it oozed out into the light of day, it hardened into yellow scabby masses. In contrast, the foam from the new seats came out, (with a little encouragement) in neat pieces and handfuls. The innards of the new seats consisted of fresh, spongy foam, which was white with green and blue flecks.

Hence our name for it: blue cheese.

Upon taking one’s seat on the bus, every passenger would inspect the dark green seat skin for breaches that could yield fresh foam. There were some rules: 1. Take advantage of an already existing hole or an open seam. It was considered too destructive to actu-

15

ally make a hole in the seat.

2. Blue cheese mining was a privilege reserved for older kids. No one younger than fifth ever mined cheese.

3. It was best to dig a little into the wounded seat so that the removal of stuffing was less evident, in case the bus driver walked back and confronted one about the hole (The correct response was surprise: “There’s a hole in the seat? Gee, I didn’t see it there.”)

4. Blue cheesing never started until after the bus was in motion.

One exchange that I had witnessed a few days before went something like this: Bus Driver: (Storming up to blue cheese supplier) You’ve been pulling blue cheese out of the seat again!

Sixth Grader: Blue cheese? What’s that?

Driver: (Rolling eyes. ) The stuff from inside the seats.

Sixth Grader: It’s called blue cheese?

Driver: It looks like blue cheese.

Sixth Grader: It does?

And so on, until the driver gave up, and skulked back to the wheel. The above- mentioned sixth grader had violated rule #4: tossing blue cheese before the bus was in motion. While the driver was occupied with avoiding car accidents and pedestrians, she would do little more than glance up and yell. Never, in the history of middle school malfeasance, had a bus driver pulled over because of a blue cheese fight.

On this morning, two supplies of blue cheese were being mined. The bus, for the moment, was quiet in anticipation. In the silence, Kim looked askance

at me and my smelly breakfast. I pondered where to dispose of the offensive morsel: not my book bag, or my pockets, where it would just stink, and leave incriminating grease stains. Everyone would know.

Just then, the first piece of blueflecked foam sailed over our heads. An answering volley was launched from the forward part of the bus. There was a pause as sixty or so eyes monitored the bus driver’s mirror. Her eyes continued to be on the road, so after a moment, the foam continued to fly.

I regarded my chunk of cheese with aversion and shame. What could I do to get rid of it? An answer dawned on me just as more foam flew by. What was the look that Kim shot me: warning or daring? Another piece of seat guts was launched over our heads and then the air was thick with foam. The familiar cry, which brightened many a bus trip, rang out: “Blue cheese fight!”

I glanced over at Kim. Her eyes got big as she regarded the weapon of destruction that I held. I looked at the clammy cheese nugget, and felt a stirring of hope. I lobbed the cheese backwards to coincide with the next volley of foam. A horrified squeal told me that it had found a target. A storm of giggling erupted from the area in which it had landed. The next flight of foam had in its midst, the freshly liberated cheese. There was another squeal from the area in which it landed, and again, it was launched. Kim and I moni-

tored the cheese as it sailed back and forth over our heads. We enjoyed the next few moments, pointing out my freshly liberated breakfast whenever it passed. Being significantly larger than its fellows, with very different aerodynamic properties, it was not difficult to track.

The combatants’ screams: some of delight, some of disgust, built to a crescendo that the bus driver was having difficulty ignoring.

Mr. Blue Oxford shirt turned around to shake his head and sneer at the ruckus.

He then turned his back on the blue cheese fight. That was a mistake. I had a clear view of the back of his neck as the fromage bleu impacted halfway between his perfect haircut and pristine collar. It hit with enough force to spread cheese shrapnel over him and the boy sitting next to him. Blue Oxford reached up, and touched the impact site of the moist missile. He picked crumbs of cheese from his blue collar, while the main body of the cheese rolled onto the floor. It came to rest in the dead center of the aisle.

He looked at his hand in disgust, and smelled it. “Ahhh!” He screamed. “Bleu cheese!”

The blue cheese fight ended. The bus driver’s weary eyes rolled up to scan the quietly seated passengers.

“Of course it’s blue cheese,” She said.

“They ripped the foam out of the seats again. ” “No,” Wailed the cheesing victim, as he held out his stained, trembling hands.

“Real bleu cheese.”

It took a moment for the driver to comprehend. Suddenly, the direc-

16

tional signal ticked, and the bus slowed down. My heart pounded as we rolled to a stop: I, and my cheese were responsible for the bus being pulled over! The driver marched back to where the battle had been waged. Before her sat the offensive dairy product. One corner of the chunk seemed to point accusingly in my direction.

“Who threw that? ” She demanded.

In the silence that followed, a first grader piped up: “It smells like feet. ” A second grader suggested that the blue cheese might have changed form, and become real bleu cheese, like Pinocchio. The driver considered this.

“No,” she reasoned. “There is blue cheese, and then there is…bleu cheese.

It’s not the same thing.” For a moment, her stern expression looked like it might fail her. It was the first time I had ever seen the glimmer of a smile on her face.

But then the glimmer vanished, replaced by an efficient, martial manner.

“Someone had to actually bring this cheese onto my bus. ” She scanned our faces, pausing on those who were known to be trouble makers; her glance skipped right over me.

“I want all of this mess cleaned up!”

The cheese contamination was contained with paper towels, and thrown away in the trash next to her seat.

Meanwhile, Blue Oxford whimpered. The more he tried to dig it out, the deeper the pernicious cheese worked its way into his collar.

Once the cheese ordinance had been disposed of, she lectured us about the repercussions of our destructiveness.

The closing statement was intended to cause some young criminal to renounce evil and beg forgiveness.

17

“And now,” She stabbed her finger

at Blue Oxford. “This poor boy is going to have to smell like old cheese all day long. ” Titters began all over the bus, and a storm of laughter threatened. Those who dared to snicker were silenced by the bus driver’s fierce stare. The need to laugh was perfectly balanced by the fear of her wrath, but the balance was precarious. Kim and I could not look at one another.

Finally, the driver resumed her post.

The bus ride continued on, with much debate over the mystery of the bleu cheese’s appearance. Kim and I spent the rest of the ride to school leaning our foreheads against the seat in front of us, laughing silently till we couldn’t breathe.

I didn’t get my homework done that day, and ended up in the hot lunch line, but it was worth it. Never had so little bleu cheese been enjoyed by so many.

18

Mind Games

T

here I sat in the waiting room, not even bothering to page through the issues of Psychology Today and Highlights—I think there's a metaphor there, or at least something witty— while waiting for the guy to show up. I had a theory that anyone who holds appointments will never actually be on time for them. Doctors, lawyers, cable TV guys, and psychologists all seemed to have their own personal time zones where they existed outside of the clock. Mine was currently twenty-two minutes late.

The waiting room was, well, a waiting room. It had warm colors and semicomfortable chairs—I think another rule was to have furniture that wasn't too comfortable. Abstract art hung on the wall in this one like some kind of preliminary Rorschach test. I was bored. Psychology wasn't my thing, and had little to do with what I did. Unfortunately, I didn't have a choice about being here, and it wasn't the first time.

The door opened to the inner office, and there was the guy, not looking at all like Sigmund Freud. He was young, for one thing, maybe younger than me. He had short brown hair with matching eyes and a warm smile as he showed his other patient out, a young woman in her twenties whose mascara ran a little bit at her blue eyes. Her long black hair was done in a pony tail, which bobbed as she nodded at his whispered instructions. In her hands was clutched a facial tissue with dark marks on it, no doubt from the mascara. I also noticed her ring finger. There was a patch on it that wasn't tanned, left from where a wed19 ding band had been.

By Thomas Sinclair He escorted her out, asking if she was all right to drive, to which she nodded, and then she was gone.

"Thank you for coming Mr. . . . ?" he said to me, hand extended. I rose up from the chair and shook his hand.

"Allen. Matt Allen. Just like the last two times I was here."

"Of course. I apologize. It's been a busy week.

Please give me a few minutes to get organized, and then we can begin."

"Sure thing, Doc. Take your time. Are things on the rocks for her or what?"

"Excuse me?" he said, perplexed.

"The girl. She headed for divorce court or some other marital trouble?"

"Recently divorced. know that?"

How do you

" R i n g f i ng e r h a s n' t t an n e d yet. That's a shame. Well, I'll just wait here for you, Doc." He gave me some kind of look, then went back into his office to do his thing, so I sat back down in the chair.

I was bored. My jaw cracked as I yawned. I'd rather be working a case, even if it was a snowjob. In my pocket, my phone went off. I pulled the vibrating thing out and answered it.

"Allen."

"Matt, it's Jen. I know you're at the thing, but I wanted to tell you that Mrs. Rombova called and says she has your payment ready. I told her she could just send it in or drop it off, but she said she couldn't, so I called you." Jen was my assistant. In the old days of detectives I would have said she was my girl Friday,

but somehow a lot of women thought that was sexist.

"Yeah, angel, it's all right." Mrs. Rombova didn't have much money, but she cooked a lot and well, so I let her pay me with food. I had jars of preserves as well. I didn't keep track of just how much she owed, just let her cook for me whenever she was able. With five kids she still managed to cook for all of them and run her small shop of, what else, home made

foods. She could have dropped it off, but she lived all the way into Shadow Valley and didn't have a car. The bus system wasn't that great, either, so I'd go up there to see her.

"All right, Matt. I just wanted to check in with you. I hope this session goes better than the last."

"Me too, kitten, but somehow I doubt it. At least this is the last one."

"Well, good luck, Matt.

I've

20

gotten a couple of calls that might be cases, but I didn't want to bother you with them right now."

expedite your required counseling, you need to at least participate in the process."

"That's good work, Jen. Just put 'em on my desk and I'll take care of them. Give me something to look forward to after this. I gotta go, the Doc is coming back out."

"Don't see much point to it, Doc. You wouldn't believe me. In fact you'd probably write me up for a bigger evaluation if you didn't send for the guys with the straight jacket."

"Okay, Matt. Bye." "Am I interrupting?" The Doc asked a bit snidely. Several responses came to mind that I could shoot back, mostly about why psychologists charged hourly, but I held off. I needed this guy right now. There was no way around it.

"No, Doc, I'm just finishing up."

"Very well, let's go in," he gestured towards the door, and I somehow felt like I was on a game show.

I went in, and this room was also very unlike the classical image. There was no couch or chaise lounge. There was a whiteboard on an easel with markers stuck to velcro on one side of it. There were some comfortable stuffed chairs, and the lighting was indirect. The room was overlarge, too. The guy's desk sat at one end, where his degree hung above it like some kind of halo, while the chairs were on the extreme other end, a gap big enough to parallel park a car in between. Psychology books dotted end and coffee tables around, all leather-bound and imposing.

I sat down in the chair, and just waited. He sat down almost opposite me, as if expecting me to start, so I didn't. Finally, it became too much for him.

"Why do you come here, Mr. Allen?"

"That a joke, Doc? I'm not exactly here by choice."

21

"Yes, that's true, and in order to

"Now, Mr. Allen, the field of psychology has made great strides. We recognize hundreds of different conditions, and have treatments for all of them."

"Yeah, the thing is, I'm not crazy. You'll just think I am."

"Well, why don't you tell me about it, and let me judge for myself."

"Because once I do, you'll feel obligated to try and 'help' me with my problem, even if it doesn't exist."

"Then we are coming to an impasse, Mr. Allen, and I won't be able to sign off on your evaluation."

"All right, doc, let me see if I can put it to you another way. You psychologists really are scientists."

"Yes, we are. We have struggled for decades to be recognized, but I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Simple. You guys need proof. You won't believe something until it has been replicated in front of you. But there's one big problem with that, kinda like the tree in the forest making sound thing: Michigan J. Frog."

"I don't understand."

"That frog in the Looney Tunes cartoon. A guy finds him and the frog sings and dances, but only for that one guy. The frog never does it around anyone else."

"I think I remember that. Go on."

"Here it is.

Everyone thinks the

guy is crazy because they never see the frog singing despite what the guy is saying. I think in one cartoon he actually does end up in the looney bin because of this. My question to you, though, is he crazy? Just because others don't see the frog singing doesn't mean the frog can't actually sing."

"Well, I would have to say then, that he is not crazy."

"Remember, though, you can't break the wall."

"The wall?"

"The drama thing. You're not part of the audience, so you've never seen the frog sing or dance. You're just like the other guys who see the guy talk about a singing frog, but the frog just croaks for you. Is the guy crazy or not?"

"Well, based on that, I'd have to say that I believe he should have counseling."

"Come on, Doc, don't go waffling on the fence. You're not going to offend me by saying crazy or insane. The guy is obviously nuts, wacko, a few cards short of a deck, right?"

"Well, in my profession, we don'tâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;" "Hey, you want me to open up, then you have to do the same. I'm trying to make a point here, and you're running interference."

"Very well. For the purposes of this hypothetical, then yes, I'd say he is crazy."

"Based on your outside observations."

"Yes, of course."

"But as the audience, do you think he's crazy?"

"Well, no. I have observation that the man really does see and hear the frog. It's fact."

"See, that's where the problem is, though. The facts change.

Before you're thinking the guy is crazy, just because you can't see or hear the frog singing. Now, if I start doing the same thing, you're going to think I'm crazy because what I'm talking about is so preposterous that I have to be off my rocker. With your science and your fancy degree, you can't think that I might be telling the truth and there might be something more out there."

"I see your point, Mr. Allen, but the court recommended that you either get some counseling or you serve some time in jail. The court already determined that you need some sort of counseling, so you see you're already at something of a disadvantage when it comes to me believing things that can't be seen or heard from you."

"Now, I didn't say they couldn't be seen or heard, Doc. That was just an example. The thing is, I can't make them appear for you. I'm your average joe, but I've seen and worked around stuff that's, well, pretty unbelievable."

"So, why don't you tell me what happened, and I promise to at least consider that the unbelievable is true. Will that suffice?"

"No, but I'm not going to get a better deal than that, am I?" He shook his head no. Well, it was time to get to it, then.

"All right, so here's the skinny. This kid, well, this girl, maybe nineteen, comes into my office one day, and asks me to help her sister, who's becoming mixed up in some cult or with a witch or something. The details were all fuzzy."

"That seems a little outside the normal work for a private investigator."

22

"Not for me. Well, it might be a little tame for a legit case, but I've handled weirder. Anyway, so I say sure, and she gives me a deposit of a couple hundred, and I'm on the case. I get some info from her, and then I'm off. Turns out that both things were right, only not in the way I thought. The witch and the cult are real, but it turns out that the sister is in charge of the cult and is the witch. Little details like that irritate me. Now, I'm not saying the girl that hired me knew because her sister was going by another name, and it wasn't Glinda."

"Glinda?"

"Geez, doc. Wizard of Oz? Good witch of the North? Ring any bells?"

"Oh yes, now I get the reference. I don't watch many movies or television."

"That explains something.

You need to get your head out of those psych books, and into what people are doing. Anyway, she's the head of this cult, although it's not really a cult, more like a coven. She's training other girls to be witches."

"Like a sort of school?"

"Yeah, something like that if you consider a group of women who routinely cavort about in their skins under the moon a school."

"I wouldn't normally consider that a school."

"Yeah, good for you, Doc, mind if I get back to this?"

"Please, go ahead."

"Right. So, I'm guessing you don't know much about witches or Wicca or whatever they're calling it these days. Most of them are pretty much harmless. They believe in nature and that they can cast spells that allow 23 them to channel nature, but, and

here's the thing that always cracks me up, they always insist that they only cast spells that are beneficial to people because they're some sort of karma or something that reflects selfish magic back at them three times over."

"That sounds like a rule to enforce moral behavior. I see nothing wrong with that at all, even though the idea of spells or incantations is ridiculous."

"Sure, Doc. Now, that's the party line, really.

Or at least one of them. See, just like politics, there are splinter groups who believe something a little different. Maybe religion is a better example, but anyway. See, what I described is the everyday popular Wicca, but there's more than that. There are people who really get into it, who dig through tomes and find real incantations of spells to cast, but for the most part they toe the party line and are into goodness and nature and all that. But, like anything, there's always the extremists. This girl was one of those. And she was teaching others to be like her."

"And just what was involved in all of that?"

"What do you want to hear, Doc? Black rituals where they fornicate with demons, make pacts with the devil, and engage in murdering men ritualistically to perform their rites?"

"No, that would be ridiculous. I don't think any rational person would do something like that."

"There ya go again, Doc, looking for the rational. What they do doesn't have to make sense to you, just to them. And, as it so happens, they didn't murder guys, just made them subservient to them and used them. There's a line of thought that says sex releases tremendous spiritual energy, especially under the full moon, so they go out and have fun at night a lot of the time. I've

even heard some of the guys are even abducted for this, but I don't think the girls have that much trouble convincing a guy to go out and have a good time if you know what I'm saying."

"If the consumption of drugs and alcohol are part of this, I can readily believe something happening in the woods."

"I don't have any info on that one, Doc, but it wouldn't surprise me. That doesn't have anything to do with the story, though."

"How can the influence of drugs and alcohol not have a bearing on the story? It explains their irrational behavior."

"See, that's what I'm talking about. You think it's irrational. The thing is, though, you're looking at it only from your perspective. Naked people cavorting about in the woods because they want spiritual and natural energy is automatically crazy for you. Now, I'll grant you it's eccentric, but if they believe in it, then it's not crazy."

"I think I understand your point, Mr. Allen, but from an objective point of view, they are irrational."

"Yeah, but who decides on what's objective? You?" "No. Many professionals have determined what constitutes normal rational behavior."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean they aren't crazy. Just because the majority of people decide something doesn't necessarily mean they're on an even keel, but you're interrupting the story again."

"Very well, Mr. Allen, I think you do have an interesting point that can be explored somewhat. Please continue."

"Right, so I go down to talk to this girl, only I don't know what all she's

involved in exactly. I start asking for the girl by name, but no one knows her by that name. It doesn't take me long to start asking for her by description, and bingo! I got her. They identify her as the one leading the coven, which automatically sets me on edge. See, I don't like dealing with witches. I had a bad experience with one a while back, and almost didn't make it out."

"Mr. Allen, I find it hard to believe that there is anything beyond a normal experience here. Perhaps there are some imaginings or some illusions, but nothing actually dangerous."

"Yeah, so much for the open mind. Anyway, I go talk to the girl, all of twenty-three, who's wearing these ceremonial robes of some sort. I don't know why. People like to show off for some reason. Okay, I should amend this, though. I didn't go talk to her so much as when I described her they took me to her. In fact, they wouldn't let me not see her. â&#x20AC;&#x153;See, like I was saying, there's those who are involved in the not nice stuff trying to garner power for themselves. They're usually the ones who have gotten a hold of some kind of real magic. A tome, amulet, scroll or something which tells them the real deal on things. So, they take me in front of her, and she asks what I'm doing there, and I figure my only way out really is to play the sister card, so I play it. I tell her how much her sister is worried about her and that I'm just here to find her, I got no beef with anything she's doing. Really, I don't. There's so many screwed up kids out there doing these sorts of things I'm not responsible for them. I was hired to find the sister, and that's it. I'm not on a personal quest to fix everything that's wrong with the world, especially if I'm not getting

24

paid. I don't like the idea of dying too much, either, so that's another reason not to stick my neck out."

"I can see that, now, what happend?"

"Right. Well, like I said, I had to play the sister card, and she gets this look on her face that's sort of sad and a little angry. She looks at me and 25 says that those around her are her

sisters, and that she didn't leave, her sister left her. Then she begins to tell me that, at first, they were both into this stuff, but when it got interestingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; my words, not hersâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;her sister gets cold feet and backs off, saying they shouldn't be into that stuff. See, this is what I'm talking about when it comes to the details."

"Yes, I can see where that would be

problematic. Go on."

"Well, I nod and do all the understanding stuff, but I tell her that she should at least talk to her sister, what with being family and all, since she did go through all the trouble to hire me, so that should count for something. I thought there was something pretty big going on here, but I wasn't hired to take this coven down. Not that I would take such a case. I just wanted to get the sisters talking to each other, then I felt I would have earned my day's pay. Of course, it ain't that simple. She goes on about how she has shunned the whole world and will not set foot out there again. She goes on like this for a few minutes, about how impure it is, and that behind their enchantments here they are safe. Now, I can see a wind-up well enough, and so I start to back away telling her that I'll tell that to the sister, and thanks for her time. In a perfect world, that would be it. Well, I should say that in a perfect world she would have been reasonable and gone to see her sister, but I would have settled for getting out of there. See, I've noticed that when people start talking about the impure, it can only lead to trouble.

"Sure enough, she says that I must be purified, which I take to mean offed, and there are women coming up all around me. Now, I could have made a break for it in the middle of this remote compound in the wilderness, but I knew that I wouldn't make it to my car before they nabbed me, so I went quietly, hoping to find a good opportunity to get out of there. I didn't think they would be used to taking people prisoner, and I was right. I was kept in a room, and they didn't even bother to pat me down. They shut me in there telling me that the magic will prevent me from leaving. I try the window, and there's something keeping me from going out

it. Not like a force or a barrier, but rather whenever I got close to the window, I felt like I should go back into the middle of the room. Pretty disappointing, I know. There should be a blue sparkly field like in Star Trek or something."

"Well, it would make your story somewhat more interesting, if not any more plausible. What did you do?"

"Well, see, I know something that t h e y d id n' t : f a it h wo rks bo t h ways. They had belief in their scrolls and enchantments, but I have belief in God, and I know that nothing can bar the way of God's power."

"You are clergy?"

"Me? No. Clergy don't have to do this for a living. No, I'm just a guy, but I know a few tidbits. I couldn't preach my way out or nothing, but I carry holy water in my flasks, and I figure that pouring some over me, maybe like a kind of baptism, will do the trick. The water has been blessed, and can go anywhere, so I figure it should help me overcome the thing that keeps me going back into the middle of the room."

"That sounds . . . incredible, really." The Doc frowned and pushed his glasses up on his face.

"Yeah, the logic really isn't there, but I believed it, anyway."

"I expected you to say that you engaged in a battle of wills until you overcame it."

"Nope. See, that doesn't work. I know my will isn't enough. The Man Upstairs, though, he's got it. So, I douse myself with a vial, say a prayer, and then try it. There's a little bit of a pull to try and get me to stay in the room, but I can ignore it now, and I'm out."

"That's it?

I'm sure there must be more, Mr. Allen since the

26

court sent you here."

"Yeah, there's more. See, I slip away easy enough, drive off in my car and back into the city with no problem. The next day I meet with my client and tell her what went down. Of course she gets emotional and teary because she's lost her sister. When it's over, she tells me she wants to go see her. I recommend against it seeing as I was already a captive, and I think I manage to talk her down, but really I know she's going to go out there and she's just humoring me, so I followed her out there."

"Why did you do that?"

"What do you want to hear, Doc, that it was the right thing to do? That even though I claim I won't stick my neck out I will because I'm a warm and fuzzy kind of guy? It's simple; she's my client. No one else is going to stick up for her, so I do."

"I see. What happened next?"

"So I followed her out there, discreetly, and yeah, it's hard to be discreet in the boonies. Well, I guess it's not that bad. It's the outskirts of Shadow Valley, near Mt. Kelly. Lots of the folks in Shadow Valley seem to think that Mt. Kelly has some sort of power to it. They go back and forth on it. Some say it's good, some say it's bad. I just say it's there, and it happened to be where my client was going."

"What did you intend to do?"

"There are no plans, Doc. There's no telling what I would run into, so I just wing it. The only sure thing is that I know it's not going to be anything good."

"In the movies I'm sure you're used to seeing the guy sneak in through the heavily guarded perimeter using 27 stealthy training and such, well,

this place wasn't exactly a military fortress. These were just people doing their thing, even as messed up as it was in the head."

"I think you are hardly qualified to make that assertion, Mr. Allen."

"Sure, Doc; you're the expert. Anyway, I just circled around to the side, hoping to get close to them so I could spy out my client. That's the easy part. I manage to get up higher than them by going up on this little ridge, which gives me a good view of their place with my spyglass. So I'm looking down thereâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;" "Excuse me a moment. say spyglass?"

Did you

"Yeah."

"Wouldn't binoculars work better?"

"Nope. Binoculars are right out."

"And why is that?"

"Simple.

Binoculars have mirrors. A spyglass just has a straight shot of lenses."

"Mirrors.

Are you referring to vampires, Mr. Allen?"

"Among other things, but yeah. I don't figure any of the people in these camps is a vampire, but I don't see any reason to carry two different things that do the same job, so I stick with my spyglass."

"You are aware how all of this sounds, aren't you?"

"Yeah, like I'm a few cards shy of a full deck, but I told you that's what it would be like, Doc. So, I'm looking about, and I think I can sneak in there without causing a fuss, and I was sure that they'd have my client in the main building. That was where they took me, anyway. Only, before I can move down there, I see a line of them start to move out, the sister as high mucky-muck

leader in front with her purple hood on. My client is a few back from the front, surrounded like they want to keep her from running. They all look like they're headed somewhere special, fourteen in all. I don't know what it is exactly, but there's a fascination with a coven having to be thirteen women. Now I figure my odds just went up."

"Why is that?"

"Well, like I said, there's thirteen. There's more than that in the compound, maybe another thirty."

"If there are supposed to be thirteen in a coven then whyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;" "I don't' know, Doc. I'm guessing that others get promoted up so they can handle their own coven, and there's recruitment going on so they don't have all their numbers."

"Yes, I suppose that makes sense."

"So, I'm figuring that luck is turning my way and I've got a chance to grab the girl before they do something to her. I follow them from my position, moving alongside from my ridge until they come up to a clearing where there's a circle of white stones. I figure that this is the place, so I start getting closer. I lose sight of them for a bit, but when I get them back in view, my client is tied to a spike driven into the ground. She can't go more than a couple of feet from the spike because of the rope. One of the girls begins to use chalk dust to make a geogram on the ground."

"I'm sorry. A what?"

"A geometric pattern. The people who use magic think that certain shapes and substances produce certain results. More than a few of them are used for summonings of some sort. I got no idea what shape they're making exactly,

but the curves make me think Celtic. Maybe that was just because they were witches. Just from that I start to get real nervous. I don 't like the idea of things popping in from other places to ruin my day, so I want to grab my client and get out of there on the double."

"A reasonable desire, given your state of mind."

"Yeah. So I get as close as I dare while they're preparing their thing for whatever, and I just wait patiently. When they're done drawing and pulling out herbs and arranging other rocks inside the geogram, they join hands and begin to chant. This ain't no girl scout campfire circle, either. I don't know what language it is, but it isn't English, and it ain't Latin; make sure you remember that, Doc. Magic spells don't use Latin! I don't know why every major book and movie out there seems to think Latin is used for magic. If that was the case, then high school and college students everywhere would shoot out fireballs and turn people into frogs or whatever."

"Duly noted. Continue."

"So, while they're wrapped up in that, I make my move. I head down there and up to my client. By this point she realizes I was right about her sister being off her rocker, and she wants out. So I pull out my knife and start cutting her free. Of course, one of the group sees, but it's not like they can stop their chanting."

"Why is that?"

"Well, bad things can happen if it's not completed like it's supposed to be. Things just kind of short circuit, and there's no telling what can happen. A friend of mine told me that one time she tried to stop a spell mid-way through, and instead of what she

28

was going for, a cloud of gas materialized in the room, stinking up the place. It also worked on her like helium, making her voice high-pitched for about an hour."

"You have a friend who is a witch?"

Damn. I shouldn't have gone mentioning that. Well, I wasn't about to bring Janissia into this. "Yeah. Well, former witch. She's kind of hung up her hat and broomstick since the whole thing didn't pan out. So, anyway, I'm sawing away. In the movies knives can snap through rope pretty quick, but if there's no serrated edge, it can take awhile to saw through a good, thick rope like these women were using.

"You know that while I'm doing this the women aren't exactly doing nothing. They finish their chant just before I cut through the rope, and I hear my client gasp. That was my big clue something bad was about to happen. It was too late to do anything, so I sawed and yanked on the rope, and the rest of it broke, and I told her to run. I turn around in time to catch a kick to my hip instead of a knee to the face. It wasn't the sister, just one of the others. She was just a slip of a girl so I tossed her aside. I wasn't interested in fighting them, I just needed to know if all of them were about to drop on top of me.

"I was lucky, and they weren't, but that was just because there was light pulsing from the circle. You know, most magic doesn't have any kind of effect, but this one did, and it threw me for a minute. Instead of doing the smart thing and running, I stared as a shape came into being. It was hard to tell if it came out of the light or the air. But the next thing I knew, it was there. I wasn't sure what I was looking at. It 29 was big, had a greenish color to it

and no real face that I could tell. No eyes, ears, mouth, or anything. It had a head, and it made noises from someplace. The women drop down to their knees and bow down in worship. The sister begins talking, but I'm too dumbfounded to do anything."

"What was it?"

"Hell if I know. I'd guess some sort of nature spirit or demon, but I didn't exactly ask the thing for ID." "As I recall, you said something similar to the judge."

"Yeah, well, sometimes I've got a problem with doing stuff like that. Anyway, I didn't know what the hell it was, but I generally don't have a problem with things like this as long as they leave me alone. Some of them are pretty harmless, or at least will leave me alone, and that's all I ask. Not everything is about the end of the world. These things take place all the time, and as far as I know, the world hasn't ended. That doesn't mean these critters are nice, either. This one saw all the kneeling women, and at random it backhanded one with a paw the size of your head out of the circle. That's when hell broke loose. The women scattered except for the sister, who kept trying to talk to the thing. It turned, and I knew the thing was going to smack her next; I knew she deserved it, but I just couldn't let my client's sister get killed by this thing, and people who get hit hard enough that they fly fifteen feet through the air don't shrug it off like in the latest action flick."

"As I understand the accepted rules of these things from literature and movies, those circles are supposed to prevent things like this from happening."

"Well, yes and no. Most circles have it built into them, but not all. This

one didn't. I have no idea why, but there it is. I'll have to ask someone about that. So, I get my gun out and I take a couple of shots at the thing, aiming high so I don't hit any fleeing women. I'm not a marksman, but the thing is the size of a barn door, so I plugged it. It roared from somewhere, which is when it noticed me, and it started racing at me. Evidently I didn't slow it down with my bullets, so I needed a new plan. The sister stared in horror at the thing, as if rooted. She wasn't going to be any help to me.

"I had about five steps before this thing would be on top of me, so I looked for something else. In the circle, I saw that the light actually came from the objects at each of the convergence points."

"Convergence points? those?"

What are

"Nothing special, Doc. It's just where the chalk lines meet.

Fancy words for them, I guess. So I see a rock, an old oil lamp, and a couple of other things too small for me to make out. The old oil lamp seemed like my best shot, so I lined up and took it. I squeezed off about four rounds before I knew to stop. I don't know which of my shots hit, but it did, and the lamp went flying out of the circle with flaming oil around it. Now the thing howled and disappeared like it had come. That's pretty much it."

"I think that there would have to be something more or my services would not be necessary, Mr. Allen."

"Yeah, well, the cops showed up right as I took my shots. Turns out that my client had called the cops just before leaving her car as a precaution. Now I know a couple of the uniforms saw the thing, but some lieutenant wasn't having any of it, so me and the whole coven

were under arrest. My client vouched for me that I wasn't part of the cult, but I still got stuck with an illegal discharge of a firearm for shooting while people were around. Not exactly great for me, but it could have been worse, I guess."

"And the judge gave you a suspended sentence if you attended some counseling."

"Yep, that's the size of it. So, that's pretty much the end of the story, Doc. Guess you're free to not believe me, now." I reclined back, ready to hear the inevitable.

"I believe you saw these things, Mr. Allen." He closed his notebook and I sat up, looking at him.

"You're kidding me."

"I'm not. I believe you saw and heard everything you described. I believe you are suffering hallucinations and delusions. You are completely convinced about these things."

"So much for an open mind."

"I have listened quite openly, Mr. Allen, but there is nothing to substantiate what you say."

"Michigan J. Frog," I mumbled.

"Yes, your point is quite clear, yet there must be a standard of proof, or else all of the people in very serious need of help would never receive it. I can help you, Mr. Allen. Once we make a breakthrough in counseling, you'll be able to see that all of this was in your mind."

"No thanks, Doc. I appreciate it, but I'm not going to be telling you about my mother or Randy Stevenson who beat me up in fifth grade. Just sign off that I completed that required counseling, and we'll be square."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Mr. Allen. You see, as part of the

30

required counseling, I must give my honest assessment of you, and I'm afraid that while mostly rational, you are quite deluded, and would constitute a danger to society. I'm certain that the judge would have no problem assigning your jail sentence. You would most certainly find your gun license withdrawn. I think with help you can become a productive member of society. There are certain medications we can try to cut down on the hallucinations."

"I don't do meds, Doc. I can't afford anything that will play with my head. I need my head."

"Only because you believe, in paranoia, that there are people and creatures with magic that will come after you."

"So it's a stalemate. You're convinced I'm nuts, but I know I'm right in the head. You need your Michigan J. Frog in order to realize I'm not going crazy."

"But as you said, the frog is only visible to the audience, not those within the story, and the rules of society mandate that I act for the greater good. And this is not a stalemate since I will report to the judge. Please, Mr. Allen, let me help you. I don't want to see you have to give up your livelihood. You can still be a private investigator, probably more effective than you already are." The guy had me over a barrel. I didn't have any real choice, here. Well, maybe I did, but it meant calling in a favor, and I didn't want to do that. I did know a vampire that could come in and convince the guy that I was on the level, but that was a pretty big favor to call in, and I'd be paying for it for awhile. Still, even if it meant tying myself to her, it was better than having to visit the shrink.

31

"Doc, I would just like to say that you're a Class A jerk."

"I have been called worse things,

Mr. Allen. I have seen people with stories more preposterous than yours, too, and been able to help them."

"Ye should've told th' story better, Matt'ew," a new, but familiar, voice said.

The doc gasped and I turned to see a short man, not a little person, just a short man, wearing green with pouches around his waist. I hadn't seen him in awhile, but he had an annoying habit of popping up at odd times.

"What are you doing here, Michaleen."

"A favor, Matt'ew. Ye don't really want to be calling that siren to help you out, do ye?"

"Now that's funny. I know you can't read thoughts, leprechaun."

"No, 'course not, Matt'ew, but what else would ye be considerin'?"

"What, what is that?! Where did it come from?" The doc said, more than a little freaked out as he tried to back into his chair.

"I'm not a what!" Michaleen said indignantly, "I'm a leprechaun, as Matt'ew has pointed out to ye. This one's not to swift, eh Matt'ew?"

"Yeah, I noticed that. Okay, Doc, here's your proof. One genuine magical creature right before your eyes. What do you think now?"

"I thinkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;I think that I'm imagining things. I'm tired, and your story has put thoughts into my mind, and I'm just imagining things."

Michaleen didn't seem to like that, so he got out of the chair, walked over, and kicked the shrink in the shin. "Can yer imagination do that?"

"Michaleen," heartedly.

I

chided

half-

"Matt'ew, I be tellin' ye that's not

my name before."

"Yeah, but you're not going to tell me your name, so I have to call you something."

"Aye, I did."

"A fair point, lad."

"Not real, not real, not real, not real," the doc chanted.

"For Pete's sake, Doc. Not five minutes ago you tried to get me to see the truth, and now you're acting like a kid. Snap out of it! This is real and you've got to deal with it. Believe me, Doc, you should be glad it's Michaleen instead of someone else. If you insist on treating me, it's going to get ugly as I pull out an ace. Leprechauns are generally just mild trickstersâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;" "Aye, t'is true," Michaleen interjected.

"Believe me when I say you don't want to have an encounter with a vampire or a mystic with a perverse sense of humor."

"Tony's a rare one, that be sure," Michaleen added.

"So you can sign off on my counseling, telling the judge I'm sane, and you won't have to see me or Michaleen again."

Michaleen smiled, and held up his hand with a gold coin. "Fer your trouble."

With a shaking hand, the shrink took the coin and looked at it. "Does this mean there's a pot of gold?"

"Of course there's a pot of gold! But only at the end of the rainbow."

"Let it go, Doc. what you've got."

Just be glad of

The psychiatrist nodded and reached for his notebook and took out the court forms, but just before setting pen to paper, he stopped.

"No,

this

sense. You're just a person dressed as a leprechaun," he addressed Michaleen. "You came in here to convince me he doesn't need counseling."

doesn't

make

"Well, it won't work. So you snuck in here without my seeing, that's hardly proof of the supernatural."

Michaleen held up his hands and a suddenly a rainbow arced from one to the other. On his right hand sat the image of a pot of gold, all the coins gleaming brightly.

The doctor's breath caught, and then he started writing quickly on the form. "Iâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;I'll send this to the court right away."

"I appreciate it, Doc. Now, you might be tempted to start talking about this with others, but then you might end up on someone else's couch seeing your own practice in jeopardy. When you see Michigan J. Frog, keep it to yourself." I grabbed my hat and coat, and headed out. "See you in the funny papers, Doc." "Good day to you, Doctor," Michaleen said with a tip of his hat, then followed me out.

The receptionist goggled at Michaleen, but didn't say anything, and it wasn't until the elevator door closed that I said something to the leprechaun.

"You know that he'll think he can use that coin as proof."

"Aye, lad.

That be the best part. Be seeing you, Matt'ew," and the leprechaun was gone as neatly as Houdini.

32

GANGPLANK

Y

ou can almost smell the excitement in their voices when people talk at Gangplank. Fidgeting with their iPhones and their laptops, people here do talk, and a lot, which is the beauty and the primary draw of the office space. Founded as a collaborative place to work, this uniquely Web 2.0made-flesh venture offers a free space, Monday through Friday to anyone who wants to come in and collaborate during normal business hours. They have wireless internet and desks, but more importantly for people trying to get an internet business or other new venture off the ground, they offer a community of like-minded people and a wide variety of helpful resources. For people trying to open on a skeleton crew, human interaction is essential. Several businesses already make their semipermanent home inside the offices at Gangplank, but those offices are integrated into the open air structure in the lab, and cross-contamination and collaboration is expected.

In addition to the workspace, Gangplank also offers the self-employed or group a lot of the amenities that a standard office would provide, such as a research library, break/relaxation space, and a break room. In addition, there are a wide variety of hosted activities, from start-up brainstorming and critique sessions, to guest speakers on a variety of topics such as increasing creativity, productivity, and opening your perspective to the possibilities of your own ambition.

33

The most important resource in the process, however, is the pas-

By Owen Stupka sion. The people involved in managing and maintaining the space believe fervently in its potential, and their dedication bleeds through to all of the activities hosted there. These are people who have left behind, in one capacity or another, the normal constraints of employment and are working on things they believe and care about. It's refreshing in this economy of desperation to see people working hard and excitedly on things that matter to them. Ask anyone in the office and they'll tell you they feel like they're working on something that will revolutionize that particular process, or fill a void that is desperately needed. In addition, this passion carries with it an incredible spirit of cooperation and charity.

There's a portion of the Gangplank gestalt that is dedicated to helping entrepreneurs find the talent, the leadership, and the start up capital they need to make their dreams a reality.

Beyond this, however, is an ethos that starting innovation and the entrepreneurial spirit as early as possible in the community and the schools will lead to a more competitive, more cooperative economy for the greater Phoenix area. It really does feel like a place that can grow improbable, even impossible dreams into fruition. If you're stuck on a personal project, or are looking to find tools to make that impossible dream a reality, Gangplank offers a stepping stone in the right direction.

http://gangplankhq.com/

Together We Lay

By LisaRose Blanchette Darkness reveals your pain

Believe my hand contains healing,

Your physical brokenness

You quietly moan

You thrash and wail, crying out

My healing hand slides up your side

Scissor suck in breaths

Against your breastbone, we lace fingers

I turn to face you,

I feather kiss your back

You turn away

My cheek brushing down

I listen for your sleep

Place my forehead on your spineâ&#x20AC;Śrelax,

It comes slowly first

You gently shift

Then thunders in

I curve my body into yours

Startling a nearby coyote

Pressing in to absorb your pain

Causing it to whimper,

Willing white light to your healing

You awaken with a jolt

Praying, pleading a silent anguish

My hand against your skin

Inhaling your exhales,

Warm in the darkness

You settle into my comfort

I pray to a god I sometimes believe hears me

And we sleep.

Your pain goes away

34

Featured Artist:

Aleta Welling

By David Crummey

P

ainting ultra-contrast oils that seem to explore the comic-book meeting point of Salvador Dali and H.R. Geiger, Aleta Welling is creating unique, dark, industrial mood pieces for all tastes.

Aleta has found her inspiration in a variety of sources – her years living and working in Germany, Science Fiction, the various great painters and artists she was exposed to in museums in Europe and industrial, electronic, dark-wave and gothic music. Aleta paints primarily with oil on canvas, but also dabbles in paper mache sculptures and air brush along with the occasional acrylic piece.

Bored of the East Coast and having lived around green, lush mountains all of her life, Aleta and her husband were attracted to the Sonoran desert about five years ago and regularly take advantage of the incredible convenience of their proximity to the outdoors by hiking in the striking desert scenery.

Speaking on the arts community in the East Valley, Aleta noted that all of the artists she has met are very supportive and helpful of each other – in her opinion, the way it should be.

For local food, she often finds herself at Nunthaporn’s Thai Cuisine for the convenience of excellent Thai food near her home or sating her love of Mexican food at Rancho de Tia Rosa, although she wishes there were more amazing restaurants nearby.

While she has found it difficult to sell her original works locally, she is seeing some success in the sales of her more affordable giclee prints on canvas, and she has begun to sell a variety of other merchandise such as lighters and dog tags, which are proving to be popular.

You can find Aleta’s work (both originals and prints) locally at Evermore Nevermore.

Aleta also sells her work at First Fridays in Phoenix, Third Fridays in Chandler and occasionally at Second Fridays in Mesa. Discover More at: www.aletawelling.com

35

Recipe for Disaster

Happy Hour

By Russ Kazmierczak, Jr. One part alcohol, one part boredom.

Throw my sorrows a life preserver, because I'm ready to drown them.

A dash of desperation.

Don't worry, I think they have a death wish, anyway; they're always driving recklessly and trying to make toast in the bathtub.

Warning: Do not combine with empty stomach.

Stir.

Heat.

Plenty of heat.

Recommended sides: a room full of tension (cut with a knife), or resentment, brought to a boil.

If used as topping, best spread thin.

Do not remove seeds of doubt.

Do not cool.

What's the opposite of liquid courage?

Solid fear?

Gaseous ambivalence?

Are these the states of does it matter?

Almost midnight now, but on the other side of the world it's high noon, it's a stand-off with a stranger in front of a dusty old saloon, it's an itchy trigger finger away from a victory parade or the grave, if there's a difference.

Serves one.

We're halfway between here and there, in the drink.

What's the opposite of holding my sorrows' head down?

Bottoms up.

36

Affliction

By Matt Mesnard

T

old you so!

Ok, so that didn't help me feel any better about the present situation, but I had to get it out of my system.

On the bright side, I'm still alive. It's funny, but the best way to take my mind off circumstances may be concentrating on my writing. Literary venting gives me some focus to these pictures that keep skipping through my head like a scratched up CD. So I'll put it all down...or as much this pen lets me.

It all rushes at me. Every event pushing through my brain to get onto the page like all the scenes from a movie in my eye at once. Sometimes it feels like trying to pick a grain of sand from a rushing wave. Regardless, I'm tired of staring at blank pages of nothingness, here go my thoughts. Look out, pen.

I wasn't planning for survivalism when I chose to be a registered nurse; it was a simple epiphany gleaned from a daytime television ad. I was, at the time, seen as a case of too little, too late, a selfish gal only acting to benefit myself. I have come so far since then, but I fear of falling back on those old habits amidst this surrealism. Is all of my progress for nothing? I'm trying to be that team player rather than making it all about me. I like to think I learned to care for the right reasons. That it's why I am still here and unaffected.

First, let's get back to however many days ago. It was just over a week by my quick mental tally. I was complaining again: playing the "catch hell blues," defending myself while being chewed out by the head nurse. I 37 had done the right thing and she

knew it, but I had ignored protocol. So here I was feeling like I was twelve and had been caught sneaking out to meet a boy. I haven't been in the profession long, but I know my stuff. This job is literally life and death, and I like my patients alive. I paid lip service to her to get the drama over with.

Go to any hospital and take a look around. There are fundamentally two types of nurses. The first are the active friendly types who men like to envision in those past-midnight movies; and the second are snarly, sedentary owners of ever-expanding rumps. She and I are each of one of those types. I am the one on my feet nonstop, so take a guess about my boss.

Things had been boiling between us for weeks. An odd thing I couldn't put my finger on kept presenting as similar running symptoms, appearing across many of our patients with many different initial presentations.

Something seemed amiss, but she didn't care to look at the cases I pulled for comparison. With location and clientele being seemingly random, I was deeply worried something environmental could be the cause.

This workplace wasn't the hospital you see on the TV dramas. This was an urgent care clinic; a rowdy mix of school nurse's office combined with a 711. Open all the time and not the place you see society's upper crust gathering.

More often than not, lately, people trickled in with odd looking abrasions or peculiar coughs. Spending enough time here, I could see when things were outside the norm: like noticing allergy sea-

son when it hits from the difference of the type of crowd. I probed the physicians for their take, but they obviously didn't see the need to address a lowly nurse's concerns.

I finally got in trouble for it, and was handed a scolding by the director of nursing. For being a pest, she said. She was the equivalent of that uncaring school nurse who handed out a frozen paper towel icepack wrapped in a sandwich bag rather than check whether a leg was sprained or broken. She wasn't concerned with practicing her skill as a nurse, as much as protocol; her main worry was looking bad to someone higher up. Blame always went down the food chain, meaning things inevitably became my fault. I would be written up (the usual threat) if I 'wasted the time' of anyone else with this topic.

Intuition said something wasn't right, but I was chastised. I hoped, internally, that I was simply overworked and being paranoid. It gnawed at my mind, but I kept it to myself for lack of major proof. I couldn't shake the feeling I was that guy in the shark movie who looked at the doomed fools and chuckled out, "You're all going to die."

Our clinic sat at the outskirts of an industrial district; mills, plants, factories - basically anything dangerous or harmful to the environment. Most often we saw chemical burns from the airbag manufacturing plant, but all sorts of disfigurements and maladies came through the doors due to our locale. Beginning with any injury you could sustain in a shop class and beyond, I had seen it... even some extreme enough I wished I hadn't. To date, I had experienced two severed fingers cases; mostly the involved stabilizing the situation until an ambulance could get them somewhere more appropriately equipped. There was a jar at work

where we all used to put our loose change. It was given out at the end of the year to the person on staff who saw the most detached body parts in that year. It was one twisted holiday party tradition, but I wouldn't ever turn down the prize. There had to be some payoff.

Flash back to my reaming from the head nurse. Suddenly I heard a commotion but this stubborn woman had her blinders on and continued her diatribe. My face stared forward, but my ears tuned to the area behind her. Suddenly a nurse shrieked. She and another nurse had been helping a walk-in who suddenly became disgruntled; this was nothing out of the ordinary here. The man got loose, suddenly she got bit - A rookie mistake, this is why nurses need to perform the holds the way they are taught.

Intuition jerked my head around just as it all happened; when that little voice tells me something, I listen to it.

Chomp - his teeth sank right into her wrist. A nasty laceration, I could see even far away as I was. A weirdo tearing out a hand chunk thankfully ended my verbal beatdown. I shouted that she better do something while dashing quickly the opposite direction. Figuring that there were enough cooks in that broth; I went down the corridor, using my talents to help by shouting to call emergency responders. I guess this incident is what they would later call ground zero?

Making a call of my own from the phone in the break room, I got a busy signal. Redialing gave an 'all circuits busy' message with those annoying beeps. It was then I first realized that something bigger must be happening beyond the craziness here.

The rest of the staff began moving towards the front to rub-

38

berneck at whatever freak show was going on there when a loud, weird scream erupted; something like a toddler's temper tantrum but an octave lower.

A chorus of female voices shrieked a reply,in a burst of preservation I clocked out and skedaddled out the back.

Daylight blinded me, my shift having started before dawn. Things outside felt off but I couldn't place it. Some of the people seemed confused or different. Not caring to investigate, I hurried to my car. My ride was a company vehicle for my other nursing job, its affiliation pretty obvious considering it had a garish logo of the company with medical images; but it cut down on my expenses and the taxes were less than overtime in the clinic. Though practically new, this vehicle had been temperamental for the last couple weeks- not wanting to stay running. Doors locked and the windows up, I took my time...until I saw something in the side mirror. It was a man with a strange gait rushing towards the car, holding a cane over his head. It looked like a walk but moved with a sprinter's speed. I was confused, but at any rate, he showed no signs of stopping.

With a cloud of smoke and enough grinding to make any gearhead cringe, the engine wheezed its four-cylindered self awake. Reversing with malicious intentions, I knocked the man away by catching him with a rear corner while pulling out. I may embrace a Hippocratic Oath in my heart, but there are lines, and this was self defense. After jerking into drive and flooring it, I heard a whirring from the air conditioner. I hurriedly slammed the vents closed with my right hand while flicking the off switch on the unit. Whatever was 39 causing this nastiness might be airborne, and I wasn't going down

so easily!

Jerking the steering wheel a hard right, I just missed someone laying motionless on the ground. She must have tried escaping also, but I wasn't stick around to check her vitals. Something was definitely going on. Thankful that I had made it out to the street in one piece, I had a sudden sinking realization. I realized that in my rush, I left my cell behind with my purse.

Breathing, I began trying to think rationally. From my admittedly weak knowledge of disaster movies, I decided it's best to do what others weren't. Most people flee without knowing what move to make next. I decided to dig in and try to figure out what was actually happening.

Not far off was a motel. It had been part of an effort to restore and beautify the downtown area. Old charm but modern conveniences, in theory. Hopefully the restoration included a top of the line air filtration system. The door of the office was wide open. Seeing a rack of keys behind the counter and no staff in sight I decided I'd pay after my stay.

Choosing a number with a two, I told myself it would provide the highest relative safety: not ground level of danger but I had a sporting chance if I had to jump as part of an escape plan. I reparked behind the building and noticed the stillness of my surroundings while sneaking up the staircase with as little noise myself as possible. When unlocking the door, I felt slight relief seeing no window. A run-of-the-mill room...but it had a phone, television, bathroom, and bed. Good enough.

Opening the nightstand's drawers, I took the contents out and set them on the bed. Phone book, stationary set (pad of paper with pen), and standard-

sized hardcover bible. I took the latter for insurance. Not as spiritual solace, but it was the only blunt object I could wield with any heft that I could easily hold. Trying to use the phone, I heard a strange pitch of dial tone and garbled voices behind it. Nothing happened when I dialed. My stress-induced hyperactive senses made me drop the receiver. It may have been nothing, but I

suddenly felt very vulnerable.

The hardwood floors worked to my advantage as I shoved the long dresser across the remarkably sturdy-looking door. The plug for the television was barely long enough to move with the dresser without falling over. No picture when I turned it on though; just a blue screen.

Changing the channels made the screen blink back to 40

the same blue color. An option let me switch to an FM tuner mode but the numbers kept scrolling in a loop. I wondered idly if a station would have worked if I had had satellite radio instead.

I rushed back to the handset I had carelessly left on the floor. No tone at all now, but still some sort of interference in the background. I kept pressing the flash button until the tone finally returned. Dialing fast as I could but it still didn't help. A squelching sound stung my ear. I listened again and heard a voice on the phone. It wasn't a human, but an advertisement: Mexican radio bleeding into the phone from who knows where, despite living in a largely Mexican community, I still have no Spanish skills. Dropping the handset again, I felt something which now I heard. Floorboards creaking and cracking from the weight of footsteps, then dull thud noises on my door. The thin walls rattled while I listened quietly and grabbed all the items on my bed.

“Motel.” The voice was louder than I expected.

“Open door,” it boomed.

“What's the password?” Juvenile, but all I could think of.

“Open d-” Something changed. The voice dropped off and rumbled. I was nervous but couldn't resist reply.

“What,” as I scooted off the bed to buy time.

I heard an otherworldly sound as the door thumped in a slow but dreadful rhythm; continuing to strain the walls.

Slam! A chunk of door splintered and an open palm tore through like one of The Supremes possessed. I leapt backwards into the bathroom and 41 slammed the door- hoping not to

see whatever that hand was attached to. After locking the door, I dropped down to peek underneath it. My view was obscured, but I saw movement. I pulled some pages from the phone book And began to shove it under the bathroom door, forming a wedge.

Sliding out a drawer in the sink's counter, I formed and extra barrier to keep the door closed if the lock failed. I kept the lights off since only a small window kept the bathroom illuminated with its diffused, bumpy-textured glass. The only place I could hide was the chintzy shower; just a tub with a thin curtain surrounding it.

The aluminum curtain rod easily popped from the base, and the rings made a metallic scraping sound while sliding off. Using the hollow rod, I took a swing...but the glass was mightier than the rod. Nothing happened; aside from a loud, reverberating echo that would inevitably attract attention.

Hearing the clomping of footsteps coming closer, I held the plastic curtain with my left hand and pounded the other against the window. I gained sore hand, but still nothing happened.

Whump! An open hand slammed against a wall. I wasn't going to goad this time, since I knew the front door was much stronger than this one. Stretching towards the sink, I grabbed for the bible. Gripping it, I thrust the bible towards the shower curtain and heard the rewarding sound of the window splintering. Another try, and a huge chunk of glass flew free.

Crack! That wasn't the window, but the bathroom door; seemingly mere moments from completely shattering. Using the curtain like a giant glove, I pulled glass chunks out with my protected hand.

Abandoning caution, I used the

windowsill to pull myself up; bible still in hand. The top half of the door exploded into toothpicks with a hundred crunching sounds. By sheer power of adrenaline and momentum, I held the bible outwards and heaved myself through the plastic-covered window. The shower curtain was thick enough to keep from shredding me; I swear a hand brushed across my leg while airborne. By luck, that day of all days was the day I had worn a skirt.

Rational thought dissipated when my shrouded body hit the blacktopped outcropping on the other side. I flailed out of my plastic cocoon and looked over the nearby ledge. The drop seemed steep, but I was without option. I wadded up the curtain and dropped it below. I shimmied myself over the outcropping, gripping tightly, extending my legs as far down as possible. Then I closed my eyes and let go. I landed on my feet, sort of. The plastic worked for and against me; flipping off my feet and onto my back. Endorphins kept me me from thinking of or feeling any injury I had sustained. I sprang up feeling glad I had parked in the back.

There were more engine issues and less drama when I got back onto the road this time. If I'm a gonner, it might as well be while rolling. My tank was practically topped off, and I was used to long stretches without food or drink.

Instinctively I went for my glove box, hoping to find my gun- then I remembered this was my company car. It was loaded with cameras for insurance purposes, and I already had gotten caught packing heat before. Instead of being fired for violating policy, I was given a minor write-up for 'misuse of company property.'

I have a conceal permit, but never figured out how to pack heat comforta-

bly through a double shift with constant action. Eighteen hour bras falter after six for me, but that's probably too much info. Even if I kept one in my purse, it would still be sitting in my locker away from me right now. I did, however, find a pair of sunglasses which I hadn't managed to break yet inside the glove compartment. That's serendipity I think.

All I could think to do was get onto a highway and keep driving. There was less traffic than I thought, but I also was no longer a part of the first wave panic. There were cars, but none still moving; all seemed to be either off the road or broken down with no occupants I could see.

While I made the monotonous drive, my mind wandered and tried to hypothesize. Was this thing airborne or passed by carriers? Were we the point of origin? Could one of my many vaccinations be blocking this thing? Could I be carrying it? No matter what I tried to occupy my mind with, it kept going back to one person. The one I couldn't reach on the phone.

As if my fingers were chanting a mantra, I kept pushing buttons on the radio to find a station, but it was mostly hissing. Occasionally a rumble or crackly like something trying to break through, but It didn't. After a quarter tank of gas, something awakened the little care worker inside me.

My brakes screeched as a car suddenly came into view. Strewn blood followed path the vehicle flipped. Funny enough, it was the first sign of humanity since this ordeal started. As my car slid to a stop, I thought I could see someone inside.

I put my car in neutral, leavingh the engine still running, and reached across for the compart- 42

ment. Fishing around, I found the set of gloves and disposable face covering I kept in case of encountering an emergency situation. Here went nothing.

Opening the car door, I got out, feeling a tad bit safer even with the minimal protective gear. I still wished some steel was at my side.

43

Just a few steps towards the pas-

senger side, and I could see how bad it was. Two suspended upside-down in safety belts.

Behind a cluster of bloodied blonde hair was a female with a bone protruding from her neck. Crimson droplets still rolling off once-yellow strands.

Rushing to the other side, the driver was alive; but not faring much bet-

ter.

Mixed injuries and obvious shock. since I was wearing short sleeves and he could have been affected, I tried to assess him without getting too close.

I hurried to the backseat of my car and retrieved one of our comfort packs. My other job is through a hospice group: medical care focused on peace and happiness towards end-oflife. Comfort packs are slang for kits with various medication.

With no emergency responders, and the extent of injury, it wasn't long until he followed wherever his passenger already went.

Barely conscious; he formed words not reaching my ears. I told him an ambulance was on its way and I had something to help him relax. I doubt he knew I was there when I took his arm. One quick press, and the morphine sulfate was in his system.

My shoes and soul felt heavy. Yes, I lied- and I've done it before with respect for the patient. But it doesn't get easier for me. My eyes scanned the area while wishing there was more I could have done. Silence amongst the blood and safety glass...and a wallet splayed across a flattened patch of grass.

I walked past the wallet to see a cell phone. In truth, the first word in mind was probably â&#x20AC;&#x153;Scoreâ&#x20AC;? when I saw the screen glint from the sunlight. Just past it was a book.

Scooping the items up, I went back to my car, and locked myself in. I figured out how to turn it on- then dialed the same number repetitively.

Still nothing. It registered a signal but no tone. The book was a journal with a cracked spine. I didn't care to read anything inside. Too raw for me.

The name in the journal's front cover matched the driver's license I slid from the wallet. I promised myself to

return it to whoever was closest to him if I ever made it out of this situation.

I gave up on the radio, and decided to use music to break up the monotony. All I seemed to have was an mp3 disc of fifty or so Lisa Loeb songs. Not the best soundtrack for facing a pandemic, but it had strange bouts of appropriateness. I normally used it to help take my mind off my hospice duties: patients faring worse who I actually liked; or awkward times I found out the hard way my services weren't needed any longer for a particular person. Upbeat as her guitar sounds, little Miss Loeb can be rather morose.

Miles and miles of road followed. Still half a tank of gas, but suddenly the car started arguing. Whining and hissing up a heap, maybe from the air intake. The car would sputter then surge, even with steady speed. Last straw came when the vehicle rattled and dropped to a crawl. My foot pressed more, but only the RPM needle increased. UntilVroom! There was a sudden burst of acceleration. Caught off guard, I overcorrected the wheel while stomping the brakes. With a swerve and hard bump, the CD skipped and stuttered as the car whacked into a tree and crumpled the front.

My eyes opened to a field of white. In front of me was the deflated fabric of the airbag. The impact must have knocked me unconscious. With a face caked in powder, I checked the interior. The windows were still up and not shattered. A plus if this was an airborne virus.

The only sound was a ticking of contracting metal. I jiggled the ignition and the dashboard came awake. The radio's clock lit up twelve. My watch had a crack; holding the 44

second hand in place. Clacking it on the steering column got my Seiko working again, but no idea of the actual time. Observing the stillness told me it would be a good time to rest. I closed my eyes and set my mind on high alert.

Something flicked my eyes awake. I had that 'where am I' moment then it all rushed back. I saw motion in the distance through the passenger window. It was a person holding a shotgun.

I slipped down in my seat, but already seen. With no clue what he yelled out, I held my hands up and let him see I was female. was one of the times I don't mind having the 'damsel in distress' card to play. Hollering again; the tone seemed less angry, but more anxious or urgent.

“I can't hear you! Can I roll down the window?” I could hear my voice bounce around the interior like a pingpong ball.

With a cock of his head and a nod with his weapon, “Yeah. Go on.”

One hand still up, I circled the knob slowly on the passenger side; trying to watch the man from the corner of my eye.

Definitely the outdoorsy type. Suede sort of jacket; shorter than the traditional duster. Well-worn sturdy boots similar in color and texture, and an Akubra hat- something of a cross between a Stetson and fedora.

“That your car?”

I didn't even get the window all the way down. Letting go of the handle, I summoned all of my wit with hands in plain sight again. “Yeah. Why?” With full lung power, he retorted.

“You a doctor or something?”

He must have been referring to that giant decal on the vehicle. “I'm a” What the heck. “Yeah. Sort of.”

45

“Ok,” with a diagonal drop to his

weapon. “Get on out of there.”

Just like one of the suspects on Cops, I reached out to open the door from the outside. Stepping out backwards...

“Wait a minute there,” as I obediently came to a standstill – facing away and hands up, with my head looking past my shoulder.

“You're not crazy now, are you?”

“No. Are you?” I flinched back.

“Not that I know of. But I'm willing to take chances. Come on.”

Turning to face him, I saw the weapon pointed at my stomach.

“Wait a minute.” Readjusting his grip, “Don't you carry a doctor bag?”

Scurrying to the backseat, I retrieved a satchel with buckles and zippers. Dark brown, almost black, with a mixed look and texture between patterned pleather and canvas. I secretly call it my uh-oh bag: everything I glommed through my career (mostly legally) in case of emergency; with hopes of never needing to use it.

I held it up briefly for approval, then slung it behind me and followed him through the woods...just as so many cautionary tales and horror movies start.

Our nearly-silent trip was made by foot and withered pickup truck to a ramshackle version of a cabin...just as most cautionary and horror tales also include. His shotgun barrel sometimes working as an arrow to quietly show direction. After making sure we weren't followed, he relaxed his guard just enough to unlock the door.

Inside was darker than I expected. Maybe the wood interior absorbed the light just as it increased the acoustics to an almost surreal level of

reverberation. Each step echoed distance between the planks and ground; even my breathing felt like it was bouncing off the walls. Maybe it was apprehension causing these feelings, or because this was my first time inside anything resembling an actual Lincoln kind of cabin.

My eyes followed the man. After locking the door, he threw his jacket off and rushed towards a fireplace. As he kneeled down, I could see we weren't alone. An old man huddled in a makeshift heavy burlap blanket. Names were never exchanged, but I assumed they were kin. Dropped guard and with a quieter tone, the man who found me stammered how a doctor was here to make him better.

Miracles were expected to be performed with my scant resources. I didn't want to feed a patootie's worth of lies to the worried guy, but I want to keep the man with the gun happy. A bleak prognosis conflicted with my selfpreservation.

I had no idea how long he was in this state, or anything preexisting.

Stooping over, I cracked my bag of medical mystery while making small talk; trying to gage the old man's awareness.

Thankfully, the patient looked like he'd live. The patient suffered a mixtape's worth of issues: anxiety attack, improper heat, and a touch of food poisoning due to improper preparation. I administered antibiotics and something to help with pain. He would be on the mend shortly, but I added some dramatic flair to help seal the deal regarding my worthiness.

After treatment was the waiting. I was rather certain of the outcome, but second guessing was my second nature. He might have been allergic to

something or I missed a tiny detail. Feeling the air was heavy, I kept quiet: playing the day in my head over and over. The man stayed kneeling over the patient throughout, and I tried not to stare. My eyes closed at some point but can't remember when.

A hand gripped my arm and my eyelids flew wide open.

“Missy? Missy.”

It was the one word I hated being called most, but no matter. My adrenaline spike subsiding as I refrained from snark. “Yes?” “Something's happening.”

The patient showed turmoil by flailing on the floor. I gave personal space and observed, but the younger kin stayed close. He didn't know any better and I didn't care to hand out advice.

“Can you hear me? up. You're gonna be fine.”

Wake

The elderly man fluttered his eyes open; mouth poised as if to utter prophetic words.

“Tell me. Have it out.”

Heeded those words, he did. The man yakked onto the hardwood floor.

Thank goodness those floorboards were weather-treated.

These things can happen when antibiotics meet an empty stomach. I assured this was a good sign and said he needed fluids. The man seemed relieved I had cured the fellow. Honestly, so was I. After the floor got scrubbed and 'pops' was replenished with some electrolytes, things started turning around. He was sitting up and speaking in a gravely whisper. The more talkative of the two; even with his stop-andstart pattern after every dozen words. Neither of them spoke by name, nor asked for mine.

Going off their shirt styles, I

46

mentally coined my own names. Stripes for the one in the forties I first met. The older, maybe mid-sixties, garnered the name Plaid. They were close knit; pardon the pun.

full extent from what I could see. Helping dig, I found two sleeping b a g s ne it h er r em em b er ed ha v ing. Stripes insisted Plaid and I use them.

The older's plaid design was brown lines with small traces of orange on a tan canvas. The younger had a black long sleeve, collared shirt with a few narrow lines of metallic longitude.

Laying in the dark reminded me of youthful family trips. Telling scary stories while a kid out camping was one thing, but we were soaking in something too ooky to fathom. The old man's health scare was a distraction from our troubles, but this ordeal would return come sunrise.

Plaid acted as nothing happened; speaking soliloquies of the weather and random peeves. He didn't even ask where I came from, but rather if I was supposed to be one of their girlfriends.

“Not quite,” I said with a hint of saccharine to the old coot.

“Aw, shuck. dream. And so I did.”

A

man

can

“Hey now, old timer...” as Stripes gripped me by the shoulders. My first thought was how fast these Keds could carry me away. “This little angel we got here saved your life. Show a little respect now.”

The stared me down. “I'm sorry, missy. Much obliged for you coming here like a gift from the heavens. If I had a hat on, I'd be tippin' it to you about now.”

“Apology accepted, so long as I'm called anything but missy.”

This marked the start of my time with these two sons of the soil.

The day slid by as I observed Plaid silently measure his progress. His outlook was much rosier by nightfall when we all decided to get some honest shut-eye.

We all hunkered down in the main room. It looked liked a home on the outside, but this was hunting stopover and was designed with minimal privacy. Kitchen, bathroom, storage 47 area, and the main room was the

A scraping sound woke me. Being a light sleeper was suddenly a useful skill. Wisps of smoke came rolling in from the kitchen.

Entering the kitchen, I saw Stripes tending to a griddle. He immediately knew when I was awake since the floorboards couldn't hide a single movement in this structure.

“Hope you like eggs. Figure most everyone does.”

Gramps was having a cup of coffee at a small table, calling me over with his hand. I sat nearby him with a serene view of the woods. Something else was in his coffee, giving off a spicy aroma. Asking about it made Plaid chuckle while taking another sip. I knew it wasn't booze since we had that conversation yesterday. He wanted his own form of medicine and I still insisted that waiting a couple days in case of a bad reaction with the medication was the best move. I felt it would also buy me a couple extra days as caregiver before I needed to figure out my next move.

Stripes used a metal spatula to lift the eggs off his griddle. “You got anything in that wrecked car you'd like to get to?”

After finishing my tiny plate of mostly-scrambled eggs, we exited the

front door. Not before Stripes had the last word.

“Stay out of the hooch.”

“Hand to sky, I'm waitin' on doctor's orders.”

It was a different path than I remembered. Some might call it the scenic route, but there was nothing I was in the mood to see. The truck had no trouble starting or running. Maybe only newer vehicles were affected.

He reached over and popped-open the glove compartment; revealing a holstered handgun. “You can handle one of those things, right?”

“Only if I have to,” not wanting to let on I'm comfortable packing heat like the oven door.

“Guess I'll trust you with it then. But I don't see no other way around it right now.”

While sliding the holster's clip over the skirt's waist, Stripes couldn't help but let his eye wander. I let him gaze a moment before I let my eyes catch his.

He forced the compartment closed with a loud, metallic clack. “You're helping me. So I'm willing to help in return, being I owe you one anyways.”

The truck slowly stopped, and we went by foot. I didn't remember being so far off the road when I hit that tree, but there the vehicle was. It looked untouched: aside from what nature already did to it.

Coming closer, I thought there was movement across the road. Through the car's dusty windows I saw something pixilated.

Soldiers wearing boxy-looking camouflage. They were watching a tank push vehicles and debris off the road. There was no evidence of trouble (or bodies). But if the men in green showed up, I read enough Robin Cook

novels to know something's amiss.

I grabbed all I need by kneeling down and using the passenger side. The tank made enough noise to cover any of my sounds. Blanket, pillow, sundries. I keep these things handy for times scheduling gets wonky.

The ride back was full of romping. I assume Stripes was covering tracks, which I couldn't blame him for. I was feeling paranoid enough myself. He fired up the truck's radio, and I kept turning the knob. The orange needle scrolled and sound crackled in and out with each shake of the chassis. There was a garbled military type of voice a few moments, but nothing else.

Rallying back at the cabin, it felt like the world shrunk down to three. Plaid had most of his strength return; smoking a pipe on the front stoop in a rocking chair. Despite a brown jug away from a walking cliché, he grew on me quickly. He still wanted 'a pull of the good stuff' but I made him wait it out another day, which Stripes agreed on.

Later was an air of rallying and defense. Stripes took charge and I went along with his requests, keeping the burden from Plaid. Fortunately there was a set of coveralls so I had no issues with getting grimy.

I spent time with Plaid while Stripes walked the premises and gathered random supplies we all later sorted through.

Afterwards, Stripes and I started boarding windows up with plywood sheets usually used for constructing hunting platforms.

It felt nothing was accomplished, even though I stayed continuously busy. Past of my amusement was the banter between the two men: most48 ly consisting of 'I don't know' re-

plies when Plaid asked various questions about whatever this event was. A highlight being when Stripes said military was patrolling the road. Plaid let out a silly whistle before putting a pipe back in his mouth before answering, “We might as well plan on hunkering down.”

system to a large antenna Stripes and I fixed to the side of the cabin. It illuminated while making noises from old science fiction movies. Lots of clicking and clacking, but nothing more than ambient humming. Plaid stayed it; periodically making adjustments.

That evening Stripes cooked up a meal and gave a low key 'what's next' lecture while we ate. Conserving our food and waiting things out. Come night, we all took turns winding a “crank” radio in hopes of finding information. Stripes commented the FCC might have knocked out communication.

Stripes and I were finishing coffee from the porch when a shrill chirp came from outside. I quickly recognized it as the older man's whistle.

Eggs didn't wake me the next day, but it otherwise it seemed to repeat. Stripes and I made another trip to my car...this time for its battery. No military presence to be seen, but the same wreckage: albeit neatly pressed against the sides of the road.

We grabbed a second battery from an older Toyota truck. “Just in case,” according to Stripes.

Anxiety comprised the day. A lack of humanity outside the cabin cast a dour shadow over us all. I had the most optimism, but kept it to myself. Diligently working on the crank radio from the night before, a voice finally crackled in. I hurried to the men and upped the volume. It was a generic announcement; playing in a loop and addressing nothing. The men weren't as concerned since they were repairing a CB radio pulled from a rusted-out truck on the property.

It was interesting watching the duo interact. Much of the work Stripes did was undoing a mistake his older kin made. Around dusk, they were ready for a test. Mostly a series of exposed wires and soldering: powered by 49 my car battery; a wire ran from the

“Got something there?” as Stripes stood up.

“The diggity I did,” with a grin noticeable from the dim glow of his nearby lantern.

“From that farmer house. You remember them?”

While taking another sip of coffee, “Yep.” Plaid put his earpiece back in, and Stripes went to join him. I hesitated; nodding off at the table instead.

What was it with these abrupt wake-up calls? A sound I couldn't place shook me awake. I discovered myself in the main room with no clue how I got there.

It felt like a catnap when I bolted awake. Heading towards the kitchen, I saw it was near evening. I instinctively went for the coffee and the cabin rattled mid-pour. A fighter jet's booming wake...which must have been what I felt earlier. It made me realize I haven't heard a single plane since my great escape from the urgent care clinic; somehow making me a tad more gloomy.

After the jet passed, I noticed the absolute silence inside. Nobody was around. Hate to say it, but I felt vulnerable even for that baby bit of time.

Worriedly, I crept to the back porch. Nobody to see, but I heard sounds. I walked to a gate, and found a dirt path. A dozen steps later was an

orange glow; earlier hidden by an incline.

Subtlety in the dark wasn't a skill of mine. I must have provided quite a show from what the giant fire illuminated. They both admitted to sleeping the day away also. Stripes tried laughing at me coming down the hill, but I saw something in his expression.

“Keep an eye on the fire,” Stripes blurted out before walking away. I assume it was slang for keeping an eye on Plaid.

I apologized to Plaid for falling asleep the night before and asked about the radio call. He kept referring to the other end as 'the farmers', which either meant a last name or occupation.

Plaid went on telling a story in his typical stop-and-go pattern. More bits of random information tied to one subject than a traditional story. No beginning or end, but this-and-thats about these farmer people. They lived a couple miles away and stayed in random contact while Plaid had a working CB radio at the cabin. I couldn't tell if they ever met face-to-face. Sort of a long distance neighbor concept, which I guess was common in a valley of random cabins and a forest's worth of hunting.

By the time conversation started dropping off, I heard the clacking of glass. Stripes was holding three jelly jars between his thumb and two fingers, and a hoedown-worthy bottle tucked like a football under his opposite arm.

“Well, doc...” Plaid sounded as if he orchestrated a surprise party for me. “I went an extra day, but I forgot about the time. I can finally have a taste now, don't you think?”

The question must have been a

formality since I heard a cork breaking free of that dark bottle. No shock what as to its contents. Colorless fluid poured into the first jar. Still holding the glasses tightly together, Stripes extended his arm. Plaid took the partially-filled one, then I took an empty jar when offered.

“Don't waste any,” spoke Plaid with as if having the meaning of life, while Stripes splashed a couple jigger's worth into my mason jar. I waited; as the old man; while Stripes gave himself a healthy pour, but I couldn't help from catching a potent whiff. I had never tasted moonshine, but this must be it.

Aroma splattered out like being hit in the face with a water balloon. Wine enthusiasts would call that its bouquet. This smelled like hot Karo Syrup and paint thinner, with another scent I could only compare to leaving a bag of frozen corn in the microwave too long.

Stripes kicked-off the affair with his own version of a toast. “Hopefully this will be all the medicine needed from now on.”

It scored a laugh and “Amen to that” from Stripes. They both drank while staring through their clear jars at me. I gulped half of what they gave me; reminding myself to exhale hard out my nose while drinking. Flashing a girlish wince gave them fodder for a laugh and sustained their expectations. I partied enough in high school to bang 151 or even Everclear with a poker face. A former version of myself, thankfully. Besides, I still wanted to be underestimated.

“What you think of that kind of medicine, doctor?”

I looked at the old guy and played along. “I advise you to take it easy on this stuff. A little goes a long way, am I right?”

50

Like the corniest of westerns, they cackled while concurring generic catchphrases. “Easy does it.” “A little dab'll do ya.”

“Don't suppose he does.

He might,” while Plaid rubbed a smudge from the side of his face.

Hillbilly hilarity aside, this firelight saloon gave me a couple hours of fun and forgetting about the world- Seeming it's all but entirely forgotten about me. Heeding my own advice, I went easy on the prohibition buster: sipping just over a highball's worth that night.

“I have a general idea. But more from chimney smoke than from paying a proper visit.”

We assumed Plaid turned in early, but saw him at the CB setup when Stripes and I stumbled back up to the cabin. He didn't even look our direction; speaking after the gate squeaked open.

“Come see what you think of this.”

Stripes hurried past me and grabbed the earpiece. Amber light from the device flickered while Stripes squinted with his face.

“What's that dialed in on?”

“It's the farmers. We were supposed to swap any news tonight, but that's all I hear.”

“You sure he's not on here?”

“I don't know. Your hearing's better than mine.”

Both men lost any good-natured qualities, and I felt entirely out of place. Stripes pulled out the suddenlysquealing earpiece, and threw it towards the radio. “Something don't sound right there at all,” while powering down the unit altogether.

“If you think there's trouble, what do you reckon we do? We're neighbors.”

Hands placed on hips, “I'd suggest staying here.” Stripes moved his hands to adjust a belt buckle I thought uncomfortable to wear. “He know 51 where we live?”

“How about him to you?”

Stripes broke eye contact. “If that farmer house caught the beast...maybe they're fixing to head our direction- if they can find it.

Or us come to them. Either way, we may be planning for a move-on.”

Hand wrapped around his mouth, Plaid stayed pensive. “It's a barrel I regret getting you into.”

With a cock of his head, “You haven't gotten us into nothing. You and I both know that. I still have you here thanks to our little angel over there, no smerge on ya.” It did make me feel warm inside and imagined an 'aww...' like in eighties sitcoms.

Righting his head, “I'll call it unanimous and hope our lady friend understands. He turned his head towards me and smiled. “If you hear me.”

“As long as we need each other, I'm game.” Not meaning I'd stick my neck out too far for them. They seemed slightly backwards and set in their ways, so I gambled out their chivalry: what's not 'woman's work' so I could comfortably stay along for the short term.

Each venture outside the cabin unearthed something new. This time it was a camouflaged garage.

Stripes opened the wide-swinging door and gave me an 'after you' flourish.

Peeling back a plastic tarp, Stripes revealed a heavily-modified dark pickup. The older truck must have been Plaid's.

The men packed the cab's passen-

ger side with supplies once fully-loading its gun rack. “Be prepared,” Plaid lazily uttered in a shifty way before sliding behind the steering wheel.

Stripes flipped the tailgate down and asked if I could handle myself back there. Obviously rhetorical, I didn't answer. Juvenile as it seemed, I let him get into the bed ahead of me; making sure he wasn't trying to look up my skirt. Taking me by the arm as I climbed in did catch me off-guard though.

“Look here,” with a light tilt of his head again while dropping his voice. “We appreciate all you did up 'til now for us, and coming along like you have.” He turned my hand over while pressing something into it: the holstered gun he previously loaned me.

After slamming the tailgate closed, Stripes yanked on something inside the bed. This was most likely an illegallyfortified hunting vehicle. The bed's modification unfolded into surprisingly comfortable low-slung chairs.

Strapping ourselves in; Plaid turned the engine over. A blast of music hit me, along with the floodlights attached both directions on the roll bar. Looking at my feet were a set of high grade speakers. A pickup with Dolby sound; and the hiss of a cassette deck.

“This thing should be loud enough to keep anyone away,” his voice forced above the music - holding a long range weapon in each hand. “If it's coming at us...

Nature or otherwise, take a shot.” Tucking the pistol between my legs, I took a hunting rifle into my hands. I would have tried a practice aim out my direction, but the terrain was too violent. It didn't keep Stripes from popping shots off. Then again, he was used to this setup.

We romped longer than I cared to

remember; listening to music as I jumble-rumbled my way like a plane in heavy turbulence. Most of the cassette had a country feel. Songs about moonshiners, crushes in elementary school, the last plug of chaw in Tonopah, childhood, one nighters after sloe gin, falling out of windows and into love.

I didn't feel particularly chatty: even after all the time spent together, and assumed admiration from both men. I could have jabbered about the weapons in hand or music flooding the pickup bed, but kept internal. Thoughts on who I loved; what I assured myself would still be there for me on the other side of this ordeal. Promising myself to do it forWhack! An object forced one of the tires against the wheel well; giving the truck a hearty jostle. The brakes slammed and dirt plumed up from all around as I felt the truck swerve while skidding across the unpaved road.

Both of us unbuckled and stood up in the bed of the truck. It wasn't something from nature, unless a bear had gotten anorexic and began dressing like a lumberjack.

“Keep it up,” Stripes said while gingerly adjusting my rifle by the barrel. I chalk his concern up to chivalry. The engine stopped and the taillights collected dust as the music halted with a click from the speakers.

Plaid rolled the window down. “What do you reckon of it?”

Flipping something out of a pouch while resting his rifle on one shoulder, “That's what I'm fixin' ta find out.” Stripes clipped a small flashlight to the weapon like a bayonet, and pointed down towards a person on the ground. The light traveled to the man's face, which was grey. I also real52 ized the lack of blood.

“You run over it or was it walking?”

“Standin' right up. I flipped high beams, and it kept standing there.”

Stripes looked over his shoulder to reply. “If he didn't have enough sense, something must have gotten to him. You think he's one of them farmers?”

“Maybe not. be. No telling.”

Afraid it could

Turning his head forward, Stripes turned his eyes my way. “What you say about it, doc?” His voice barely above a whisper “No movement, no breathing. He looks like he's been dead a lot longer than this collision.”

Crack! A bullet jettisoned, and I swear it blew past me like a hot breeze. It caught the man through his neck- no flinching, no blood. “Looks like a sickness got to it!” Slapping the truck's side, “Round up!” I fell to my knees and crawled into my seat; losing balance as the engine roared and music blasted while making hasty tracks.

Up a hill was an enormous clue we were at the right place. A giant silolooking structure breeched the sky in that 'overcompensating' kind of way. Here's where those farmer folks lived. Bad choice of words?

We geared up and headed in. I chose the handgun over the long barrel from earlier. Just as I assumed, the men wanted to do the heavy lifting. I guarded while they went in the side entrance; nearest to the truck. Plaid went in behind Stripes, but called out to anyone in the vicinity.

Sounds came from inside, but I couldn't make out what it was. Nobody spoke, then a louder crash. What 53 happened next I wished could be

forgotten.

It was less a voice than a noise combination. 'The polyphonic scream' as I inappropriately dubbed it. I heard it from the motel room, and maybe and maybe also in the urgent care facility. Starting as spoken voice, then dipping out: changing into something otherworldly; like a moan coming from inside a brass kettle, or one of those oldtime Victrola metallic cone speakers. It's an utterance I don't wish upon anyone's ears. It cut through every primal nerve when I heard it. Gives me the ickies just thinking of it.

One of the weapons blew a cloud of smoke with a yellowish-orange burst. The keychain remote started the vehicle and Plaid blurred past me, loudly sputtering something unintelligible. Stripes backed himself out and yelled to get behind him and dash for the cab.

Plaid swung the passenger door open for me, and I dove in. I felt a loud thud from Stripes as he landed in the truck's bed. Another rifle burst while the blaring truck made dirt-scraping tracks; shaking back and forth while making its haphazard getaway.

I held my gun in one hand while the other clinched tightly to a handle inside the cab; trying not to rattle myself to death while getting my seatbelt on. I could feel all four wheels swerving at the same time while rocks and debris kicked at the bottom of the truck.

We eventually returned to the cabin, and pulled into the structure I first saw the pickup. The men packed numerous cases and duffel bags into the back of the truck while I was told 'stay put' in the cab. Lastly, Stripes opened the passenger door and handed over my bag and another pack with belongings of mine. I was asked if ok, which I

nodded along to.

Stripes pulled a nozzle out; filling both gas tanks on the truck. Using the sudden privacy, I tried to power the cell phone up - hoping a smidgen of battery was there. Nothing still.

Back together, the truck pulled out cautiously. I noticed Plaid used colored tape to seal the openings of the cabin to detect any intrusions.

Plaid continued to tend the wheel. He spoke intermittently; voice almost blending with the music. I heard every word. How he 'never saw anything like it,' and not knowing 'what to make of that house,' as I stayed in silence. I was unsure if he was speaking to me, or himself under the cover of songs.

The next few days resembled a strange camping trip. We stayed in one place until a given time, moved to another location with the truck. Nerves and stress made it tough to do anything except sleep or contemplate. We talk little, and most of what I heard was caught within earshot of the men. Once I couldn't sleep anymore, and saw all I cared to of nature, I turned to the knapsack of belongings gathered for me.

Flipping the journal upside-down I took from the dead man on the highway, I started writing down all of my encounter with the cheapie motel pen. I figured I may as well write until I'm out of ink: red or black, whichever comes first.

Another version of me wouldn't have made it this far. Not enough fight, or not even flight for that matter. Just staying still and let things happen what may. But now I fight...ever since I had a reason to.

No bones about it: growing up I ran with that crowd of baddies and

troublemakers mom warned you about. Got into and out of a lot of trouble over the years. Then one day I peed out a plus sign. I went in an instant from being a wild child to Preggers McBaby. It didn't totally stop me, though it seriously slowed my row a while. I vowed to make changes, but didn't put the same effort into it as I had into rebellion. Back to proverbial tricks: until my baby's daddy stepped out and family stepped in.

They interceded: finally making good on their promises, nullifying the idle threats. I lost my girl and had no support; figuratively and financial. Way down in the hole, as Tom Waits sang it.

In my cloudy and slightly lesspretty head, I figured things went very Tupac: me against the world. Starting as fuzzy thinking, I cleaned myself up...only to spite my detractors. Then thinking about my long-term, I did what I could to fast-track my mental attributes and aptitude.

I had done well in school until my teens, I knew I could memorize my way through any class dealing with facts or figures. I took the shortcut of financial clout with nursing; luckily entering the field when nurses were still in high demand.

Everything I did to be a better person was ultimately for my daughter. It took losing her to realize it, but I turned around very quickly once I made up my mind. It may sound icky as an aisle of Hallmark cards, but I've thought of her every day since she was born, and twice as much since I've lost her.

Nobody ever told me they saw the change, but I hope they will by the time I'm able to get her back. Best case, it's when she starts remembering things. She'll think her mommy 54

was always there for her, and well taken care of (but not spoiled).

There have been no ugly times, or past acquaintances anywhere around me since I was set straight. But now there's an ugliness I was plunged into when the city took on this infection. I'll fight for my little girl. I'll get to her, and get her back.

Writing all of this down is my insurance now. Things are getting dire, and I may part ways from the men

soon. Our supplies are out and we're making a run for safety. Maybe we'll luck out; all this time was little more than getting back to nature, and this was just a twenty-four hour bug. Or maybe some Outer Limits situation happened, and we're three lone survivors. I can't accept the latter. Selfish or not to say, I know my girl's alive.

Hope to hug you soon.

Mommy.

Love

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Index of Images Clear Now Is the Snow - Aleta Welling

iii

Going Under - Aleta Welling

2

Madam Neaveau - Aleta Welling

6

Zero—Aleta Welling

14

Cold Fusion with a Warm Touch— Aleta Welling

18

Lady of the Woods - Aleta Welling

20

Irritated Dreamer - Aleta Welling

25

On the Brink— Aleta Welling

35

Motion-Aleta Welling

40

Gift-Aleta Welling

43

Grade D Brains-David Wiersch

Cover

Other Images Used: Fountain Pen. US Patent Application. March 19, 1927 Rodolfo Debenedetti Cylinder Printing Press. US Patent Application. June 14, 1881.Edward J. Frost.

Improvement in Toy Velocipedes. US Patent Application. February 7, 1877.John E. Conklin Landing Equipment for Airships. US Patent Application. December, 11 1928. H.R. Liebert, et.

Al. Flying Velocipede. US Patent Application. July 18, 1882. Thomas Wyke & James Bancroft.

Oil Well Derrick. US Patent Application. January 24, 1899. Francis Shaw.

Safety Device for Ink Bottles. US Patent Application. September 12, 1911. Walter Pharr.

Stylographic or Other Fountain Pen. US Patent Application. Nov. 18, 1902. Edward Warriner.

Velocipede. US Patent Application. June 8, 1880. Alfred Vick.

Magnetic Rotatable Gaming Device. US Patent Application. Feb. 15, 1966. Marvin Grass Airship. US Patent Application. Sept. 8, 1931. Julius Ellinger.

Wrapped Container. US Patent Application. Nov. 15, 1931. Harry Replogle, et. Al. Design for a Student’s Chair. US Patent Application. February 11, 1896. Hetter Hunter.

Balloon. US Patent Application. September 11, 1909. Albert von Hoffman.

Sewing Machine. US Patent Application. Oct. 10. 1882. Thomas Macauly.

Velocipede. US Patent Application. January 31, 1888. Emmit Latta.

Semirigid Airship. US Patent Application. June 8, 1927. Wellington B. Wheeler.

Aeroplane. US Patent Application. March 10, 1908. Gustave Whitehead.

56

Restless: Issue One Thomas Sinclair

David Crummey

Thomas Sinclair is a college teacher of English by day and caped crusading author at heart. Currently he is writing detective and urban fantasy novels.

More on him and of his works can be found at http:// findingmysky.blogspot.com . He lives in the scorching hot deserts of Gilbert, AZ.

David Crummey is searching for the nexus of urbanism, culture, food and justice, and exploring our human character in terms of our physical geography. He is always searching for people who are doing amazing things and willing to share their passions. He is one part of the un-holy triumvirate that began Restless. He currently resides in Mesa and wishes he had chickens and goats in his backyard . . . because theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re awesome. He can be reached at david@restlessanthology.com

LisaRose Blanchette An Arizona gypsy, LisaRose Blanchette currently resides in Thatcher, AZ. She finds inspiration in everyday events, creating her observational poetry. When not writing volumes of snot and drivel for her PhD, she removes her egghead, puts on her dancing shoes and wolftracks after Los Lobos. This used to frighten the band, but they have become accustomed to a headless stalker after all these yearsâ&#x20AC;Ś

Amber Brosovich An office drone by day, an internet slave by night, a sporadic writer by disposition, and would rather be watching Bollywood than writing this gorram bio. She once killed a man with the power of her snark. She does not like goats. To receive a portfolio of her collected works, send a bag of Peach-O's and a SASE by courier pigeon. She can be contacted via bat-signal in most metropolitan areas, or at am57 ber@restlessanthology.com

Dale Dahlberg Is a novelist, biker and blacksmith. His blog, The Great Motorcycle Pizza Tour, has been featured in the New York Times, and renowned motorcycle journalist Clement Salvadori says of his yetunpublished novel, Holy Rollers - Immortals, "could give competition to Dan Brown and Sarah Palin." Dale lives in Mesa.

Charles DeCelles Born in 1863 to Alfred Duclos DeCelles of St. Laurent, Quebec and Sarah A. Holmes of Montreal. Mr. DeCelles was later named Chevalier de la Legion d'honneur by the French Government in 1904. His 1985 book The Unbound Spirit explores the history of the Catho-

Contributors and Victims lic Church’s beliefs post-Vatican II regarding non-Christian salvation and presents a positive perspective beyond “invisible ignorance.” When Mr. DeCelles is not busy writing, he works at nurturing his inner misanthrope or is busy escaping reality in one fashion or another.

Clint Hardison Clint Hardison neglected to give us a bio in the ridiculously short and inappropriate amount of time that we gave him, so we are using our Google-Fu to write one for him. Clint relaxes from the stress of selling First Insurance by spending all his hard earned money at Pro Guitar Shop, whose forums he is active on.

Also, we have found pictures of someone named Clint Hardison's house- if this is you, Clint, the RESTLESS team would like you to know that we have the same piano. If it isn't you, then the other Clint Hardison has an awesome piano, and we would like you to know that. Also, we may or may not have found your Goodreads account, and are happy to see that some Clint Hardison somewhere enjoyed The Picture of Dorian Grey. We hope that you (or the other Clint Hardison) finish Cornflakes with

John Lennon: And Other Tales from a Rock 'n' Roll Life in time to give us more awesome stuff for Issue Two. The real Clint is twenty-five and a born-andraised Mesan That’s all we really know, though.

Russ Kazmierczak When Russ Kazmierczak, Jr. isn't writing poems or comics, he's waiting for his turn to sing at a local karaoke bar. His cat Amazo wishes he was home more often. Russ blogs and brags about his latest projects at: http://karaokefanboypress.blogspot.com

Henrietta Octomonst Henrietta Octomonst put aside her days of putting out good food for the snobby masses at Henrietta's Table in Cambridge, MA to get to the bare bones of the heart of the truth of the matter of her childhood which has haunted her since her childhood. The haunted countenance of her eyes inspired the long unknown band, The Fratelli's, to write a song in tribute to her, appropriately named 'Henrietta." Their lyrics are mostly inappropriate for printing, but we think that this snippet really defines our dear Henrietta. "Buy us some shoes and maybe take us for cola, we'll get you there in some filthy big gondola." We're waiting for our cola, Henrietta Octomonst. Ms. Octomonst’s nom de humain resides near Cave Creek.

Obadiah Madsen Obadiah Madsen, a happily married man and father of two beautiful daughters. He is a person, not an illness

58

or stereotype. Obadiah has been diagnosed with a serious mental illness. He writes about his experience to promote hope and erase stigma.

Matt Mesnard Chided for years by Chris Baty and National Public Radio, this writer broke away from his usual path of screenplays and movie production work to venture into the less structured and often uncivilized world of novels and short stories.

Surviving as a writer of freelance: If you have a literary impasse, if nobody else will help; maybe you can find Mesnard. Matt lives in Tempe.

Aleta Welling See Featured Artist: Page 35.

David Wiersch Art saves.

With the drone of the congregation, the church went silent, and my mind wondered to different things.

My art is a distraction. A majority of the work I produce is a direct response to my dreams.

Since I was young I have had very vivid, dark dreams. Generally, these images are the ones that make it out.

I find that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s easier to show people what I saw, rather then explain it.

Tufik 59

Shayeb In addition to appearing in local anthologies, Tufik Shayeb's poetry has found its way into nationally regarded collections.

He has published three chapbooks.

Shayeb has performed poetry at venues both locally and nationally, including the famed Green Mill Jazz Club, the Kimo Theater, Studio 511, the Paper Heart, and the Sedona Center for the Arts.

In 2009, Shayeb completed his first national tour and won the Mesa Grand Slam making him the 16th annual champion and making it his second year on the Mesa Nationals Slam team. He has also represented the Downtown Poetry Slam at the Individual World Poetry Slam in Berkeley, California. Among other shows, he has read poetry in Anthology Inc.'s Valentine's Day Massacre, The Lasers of Sexellence, and the Superstition Springs Review Reading Series.

Tufik currently resides in Phoenix.

Owen Stupka Owen Stupka is a freelancer writer, part -time assassin, and is just happy to be nominated. As one of the editors of RESTLESS, Owen hopes to be able to immanentize the eschaton, or at least rock it like it's never been rocked before. Owen is neutral on the goat subject, but he does like goat cheese, but could be bribed with baked goods. For

contact, hate mail, or naked picture disposal, you can contact him

at owen@restlessanthology.com

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60

150 Word Micro-Fiction Contest!

Tell us your best story in 150 words (exactly)!

All qualifying entries will be printed in the August edition of RESTLESS. Each entry will be scored by popular vote (50%) and by our illustrious judgeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s panel (50%).

Entries must be 150 words long.

No shorter. No longer.

Winners will be announced in our October issue. Prizes to first and second place! www.restlessanthology.com 61

Coming Soon Restless: Issue Two Request for Submissions Restless, Restless a new Arts Anthology, is calling all local writers and artists for submissions. Restless is looking for all types of fiction and non-fiction written in experimental and traditional writing styles. Restless is also accepting event suggestions, reviews, comics and visual-art that translates well into black and white print.

Guidelines for Submissions: Fiction / Creative NonNon-fiction / Experimental Fiction / MicroMicro-fiction No word limit, though generally under 10,000 words. Please attach as a DOC, DOCX, RTF, TXT, ODT or whatever.

Poetry Restless publishes a small amount of poetry per issue. Again, no word limit, but generally under 5,000 words. Please send as an attachment.

Local Restaurant Reviews - Alternatives to the Chain Review an awesome locally-owned restaurant with the view of giving us good alternatives to the standard chain restaurants. 50-400 words.

Comics & Other Visual Art Must translate well into grayscale/black & white. Images must be of high enough quality for translation to print. Raster or Vector images acceptable. JPG, PNG, SVG or AI are acceptable formats. PNG or JPG are preferred.

Unique Contributions Other contributions are considered as well. Stickers, Wood/linocut stamps, inserts of other kinds, etc. Please e-mail with a description / image of the proposed contribution for consideration.

Recipes & Cooking Stories Unique, delicious recipes—stand-alone or with a story attached.

Content: Restless does not have specific content guidelines. In general, content should strive to be no more than a PG-13 or a soft-R. Explicit content is generally frowned upon, but is acceptable when appropriate within the story and handled maturely. We aim to include as many readers as possible, young and old.

We are always accepting submissions of all types of content. Deadlines for particular issues are generally twotwo-weeks before the launch date.

Submissions should be sent to submissions@restlessanthology.com. submissions@restlessanthology.com Please include the type of submission (fiction, non-fiction, review, event, etc...) in the subject line of the e-mail, as well as a short 50-150 word bio. If it’s not included, we’re making it up. Seriously.

62

Restless: An Arts Anthology info@restlessanthology.com

www.restlessanthology.com