eFiction Magazine Issue No. 005 by eFiction Press

efiction 1

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ÂŠ

August 2010 Issue No. 005

Contents Short Stories Shooting Molly Drew Darnell

Serial Fiction

really BAD Shakespeare

The Lair Calvin Seen

Weeb

Episode 3

Blood Binds Episode 5

Tonya R. Moore

Love Will Tear Us Apart

Jersey Surf

Neil Colquhoun The Life of Martin Krantz

Episode 5

Philip Leslie

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ÂŠ

Glen Binger

Letter From the Editor Dear Reader,

This magazine was made for you, yes you. You are the heart of the magazine. Without you this text you are reading would not exist. Thank you for being awesome. This is the fifth issue. It seems like just yesterday that eFiction was just a tiny fleeting thought. Luckily for you, I didn’t let the idea pass by without second glance. It has grown wildly since and without any hint of slowing. In this issue we have for your reading pleasure an assortment of short stories and serial fiction pieces. Drew Darnell’s “Shooting Molly”, is a strory about a group of troubled teens who decide to test if they’re tougher than the ghost story of their town. A flash fiction piece from second-time contributor Calvin Seen. His story “The Lair” is easily relatable to anyone working in the fastpaced, internet world we find ourselves in. Neil Colquhoun’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart” is a creepy Poe-esque short story about an elderly man obsessed with gardening and his wife who has fallen ill. In “The Life of Martin Krantz” Philip Leslie has skillfully crafted an interesting encyclopedia

entry of a fictitious film director named Martin Krantz. Weeb is back with episode three of “really BAD Shakespeare”. The series is just getting started. Check it out, and make sure to read old issues if you like his creative take on the short story. “Blood Binds” is the fantasy epic that has been wildly popular in the eFiction community. It is a magic adventure through dimensions that feels contemporary, but with timeless style. Will Hel, Charls, and crew escape the keepers with the knowledge they need? Read and find out. Last, but obviously not least, is Glen Binger and his ongoing riot “Jersey Surf”. Glen brings the funny at his fictional Jersey beach club that shares the series’ name. Zach didn’t plan to be a father, but fate has other plans for him. Read more to find out. To talk to me about the magazine, you can tweet with me @DougLance or leave a comment on the blog. To talk to other eFiction readers use the #efiction hashtag on twitter. Thanks for reading, Doug Lance

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

Shooting Molly

and there for over three months. They would go in after midnight and sneak in the back, wearing extra large t-shirts, with their belts loosened, stuff two or three in their waistline and walk out the front doors, never having been spotted once. But now, they were getting cocky. They

Drew Darnell

thought they were ghosts. Tonight, they were going for the big score – fifty cartons, at least. Outside, by the loading dock, Jason was sitting in the driver’s seat of Mike’s Cadillac, listening to rap music filtered statically through the old, stock speakers. Jason was a lanky kid with a buzz cut who always wore these Buddy Holly glasses that made his face look bigger in proportion to the rest of his body. He was drumming his hands nervously on the plastic, wood-grained steering wheel, periodically looking through the rear-view mirror, waiting for a sign.

The clock on the wall at the Pack N’ Save read half past eleven as Danny looked up from behind the counter of the movie rental section, crouched down with his sweat pants stuffed into his boots, wearing a hoodie over his head and a black bandana covering his face. He was a tall kid with short blonde hair and had a scar shaped like a wishbone beneath his right eye. He and his friend Mike had been behind that counter for over three hours, waiting for the right time. Mike was sitting across from Danny with his legs pulled to his chest, biting the skin around his nails and staring impatiently at the tiles on the floor. He was tall, over six feet, slim and had curly brown hair that hung just barely over his dark, deep-set eyes. He was Hollywood handsome. Behind him, enclosed in an unlocked glass case, was their target – cartons of teenage gold packed by the hundreds. The

two boys and their friend, Jason, had been pulling off small snags here

The night before, the three boys sat in Mike’s dim lit bedroom, planning the heist like it was the night before Christmas – three kids stirring, on a mission to find the presents they would never be given. “Crazy punctual those guys,” Mike had said, sitting on the edge of his couch with his hands crossed, his eyes squinting with intent. “At nine, the movie store, where the extra cigarettes are stocked, closes,” he said as he leaned forward and smacked Danny playfully on the knee. “Pay attention to this man, it’s the important part. At ten, we duck under the rope-chain closing off the movie store, get behind the counter, out of sight, and wait. We fucking wait guys,” he said, looking back and forth at his friends, their eyes growing wider with every syllable. “At eleven, the night shift comes, three workers total. Then, at eleven-thirty, after that fine blonde cashier goes to stocking and that fat ass security guard starts making his rounds in the parking lot, we

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

stuff as many cartons as we can into our pants and backpacks, casually

security guard ran for the doors to block them. As they almost reached

walk under the rope-chain, past the registers, out the sliding doors, and

the sliding doors, Danny slipped on the wet linoleum and hit the floor,

off into the fucking night,” he said, as he sat back and folded his hands

his body unbending like a statue. He looked up and saw Mike staring

behind his head, “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.” That

down at him. Mike looked up at the guard, back down at his friend,

was the design for their plot to free those oppressed kids forced to wait

turned, and jogged away as Danny laid there, squirming to get up.

outside convenience stores for someone to buy them smokes, or asking a homeless guy to do it. All that work and constant rejection pretty

were still. He slid them open wide enough to wriggle himself through,

much killed the glamour of it all. But the plan didn’t pan out exactly as

just as the guard reached and grabbed at his shirt. He quickly jerked

they had it figured.

from the grip, fell back and caught himself on a coin machine. The

Behind the counter, Danny held the list of all the different types of cigarettes people had ordered at school that morning, the last day before spring break.

guard pushed the doors wide open with one nudge, but Mike was already gone. Danny slid over to one of the registers, rolled over and pushed

“Come on, what we got?” Mike asked.

himself up, crushing the cartons beneath his knees. He looked up, over

Danny started to whisper off the brands as Mike reached up

the register, and saw that the guard was gone. His hands were shaking

and grabbed them, shoving some into his backpack and tossing some

as he started emptying the cartons out of his pants. He wasn’t scared of

over to Danny, who stuffed them into his pants. He was on his knees,

going to juvie, but of getting caught like that, with his pants stuffed to

tightening up the string on his sweatpants after stuffing down the fif-

the brim, having the security guard pull down his bandana and reveal a

teenth or so carton. His brown eyes peered over the countertop from

pale, scared, lost kid.

above his bandana, his palms as slick as polished wood and his boots

The guard jogged back in gripping his flashlight, sweat drip-

shaking beyond control. The security guard was nowhere in sight,

ping from his forehead. His shirt had come un-tucked and his belly

“Come on man, that’s it. Let’s do it.”

was hanging over his cheap, polyester slacks. He turned in Danny’s

As Mike and Danny were passing the registers – their sweat-

direction, and their eyes met. “Don’t fucking move kid,” he said, wav-

pants bulging out, walking in awkward, penguin-like steps – a loud

ing his flashlight like a baton. He was about to approach Danny when

voice yelled, “Hey, y’all come here.” They looked over and saw an old

he stopped, looked over, and walked towards the phone at the adjacent

man with a beer gut and a Wyatt Earp mustache, his hand on his flash-

light, ready to make a move.

Mike made it to the black, rubber motion sensor, but the doors

“It wasn’t my idea, sir, honest,” Danny said as he looked down at

The two turned and quickly waddled past the registers as the

the cartons lying on the rubber conveyer belt. He looked at the sliding

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doors, and then back at this old man, who was struggling to get a dial tone. He realized the guy couldn’t even catch a bus if he tried. Danny pulled out the last carton and gripped it hard, crushing the cigarettes in his palm. As the guard stood there, nervously poking at different buttons on the receiver, Danny threw the carton at his face and made a run for the door. The carton hit the man in the forehead and he made a yelping noise as he covered his face, letting the phone drop to the floor. He looked up and began jogging after Danny, his legs stiff and straight like stilts. “Hey, you ain’t getting away, you little shit,” he said in short, gasping breaths. Danny sprinted out the open doors, quickly turned and ran down the side of the store. He passed the soda machines and the newspaper dispensers, made it to the loading dock, and saw the Cadillac was gone. “Fucking, shit, fuck,” he screamed as he put his hands on his head and turned and looked in all directions. There was no one in sight. The streets were empty. Danny began jogging to the street, and as he looked behind him at the entry to the Pack ‘N Save, he stopped. He saw the old guard by the side of the doors, leaned up against the pushcarts, bent down with his hands on his knees, heaving for air. Danny felt sorry for the guy, but he didn’t feel sorry for what he had done. He knew he needed the money. Ambivalence was familiar to him. But as he had come to realize, hopes were made to be shattered, like wood was made to burn and ashes made to scatter and be forgotten.

Danny ran a few blocks down the street and found a bus stop

hut to hide out in. He sat there on the wooden bench, pulled down his bandana, and felt a familiar feeling of abandonment. He wasn’t surprised; it wasn’t the first time Mike had left him standing in the rain, looking on from under his umbrella. Even though Danny and Mike were best friends, he knew he could count on the homeless guy, Steve, who bought them beer from the E&J Mart, more than he could Mike.

Mike and Danny had been friends since elementary

school. Mike lived with his aunt next door to Danny’s house – she had taken full custody of Mike after his mother was killed in a car crash by an eighteen-wheeler. Danny never really brought that up though. He really wouldn’t know what to say. But he didn’t have to worry, because Mike never brought it up either. Somebody like Mike, a guy who stares at himself in the mirror half his life, rarely chooses to be vulnerable. Danny’s parents weren’t the Cleaver bunch either. When he was thirteen, his dad was hauled away by the cops after getting caught for theft. He wasn’t doing the petty kind like Danny though. He was the night manager at a Wal-Mart and had, over the course of three years, stolen more than fifteen thousand dollars worth of electronics, furniture and toys for Danny. Danny remembered the day the cops came and seized all the electronics in his house and the bike his dad had given him for Christmas. He was only thirteen, and everything in that house was part of a life that had been pasted together with foreign electronics and plastic toys and TV dinners. He was left that day sitting on his plastic covered couch with his head in his hands, gazing up, watching everything he thought was his family leave in boxes and bags and handcuffs. Danny never got another bike. And he hated his father for that. But he kept

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those feelings hidden. They were black coal, enclosed in a cobweb of

know?” he said, turning to Danny.

shaded resentment and buried hate Danny kept locked inside a trunk – cold, dusty, but not wasted. He was just waiting to figure out what they

“Fuck you man” Danny said as he leaned over. “You were just gonna leave me again, huh, mother fucker?”

all meant.

“Let me see the list,” Jason said as he poked his head over the

After that day, everything changed. Danny’s mom filed for bankruptcy. She no longer brought him soup when he was sick or took

center console. Danny handed it back to him and Jason began dumping the cartons at his feet.

him to the batting cages on Sundays; they barely spoke. She had to worry about her two jobs, sending her husband commissary money,

have shit, would we?” Mike said, waving a carton in front of Danny’s

and trying to keep her seventeen-year-old from ending up in the same

face.

place. Danny felt guilty about it sometimes, because he knew he was following in the same footsteps. So he ended up moving in with Mike’s aunt, just to keep from being around her and having to see the same

“Fuck that shit,” Danny said as he snatched it from his grip and threw it on the dashboard. “Calm down scar-face, the guy wasn’t even going after you.

sunken eyes and drooped head he remembered the day his dad was

Jason saw, he damn near tackled me to the fucking ground trying to

taken away. Maybe he would apologize to her one day, when he found

catch my ass,” he said.

the right words.

“You’re fucking pathetic dude. That fat ass? You fucking left me

As Danny sat there with his head leaned back against

the glass of the bus stop covering, taking a drag from his cigarette, he

man, you were scared, just admit it.” “I ain’t admitting shit. I came back, didn’t I? You should be

saw a car approaching and could tell by the low, rectangular headlights

grateful you got someone to come back for you, man. You’d still be sit-

that it was Mike’s Cadillac. The car came to a slow stop at the curb. Ja-

tin’ at that fucking bus stop, waiting, if it wasn’t for me.”

son got out of the front seat and tossed Mike the keys.

Danny, for a moment, wished he would have stayed at that bus

“Get in the back and start counting,” Mike said as he tossed Ja-

stop. He had been sitting at bus stops all his life, but he was just starting

son his bag of goods. Jason was the pushover of the three, but Mike felt

to realize the comfort he felt in places like that. People sitting at a bus

like he had an obligation not to let him be pushed over by anyone else

stop have a choice, and Danny felt like his options were fading faster

but him.

than old newspaper headlines.

Mike sped down the street, pulled off his Ranger’s cap and started slapping his hand repeatedly against the dashboard, “Robin Hood

“Look man, I had to get out of there. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t

style baby, we got ‘em good. We’re going to be fucking notorious, you

“What we got?” Mike asked. “Thirty cartons,” Jason said. “That’s over a thousand bucks, way more if we sell ‘em by the pack.”

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

“Whoo-wee!” Mike yelled as he took a sharp left on the highway. “Notorious! You know I heard that parents have been talking

a piece of aluminum foil. He had a problem; he wasn’t actually men-

about us, telling their kids to look out for the Marlboro Men. Me, per-

tally handicapped, but pretty close to it. And his dad wasn’t the type to

sonally, I like the Menthol Man, ‘cause I smoke Kools and all.”

get a whole mental health screening on the guy; he probably thought

“Or maybe the Tobacco Three. What’d you think?” Jason said,

problems like that just worked themselves out. So in elementary school,

turning to Danny, who was silent as he stared out the window. “Yeah,

Jason was held back a grade. And then, in high school, he attended

the Tobacco Three, I like that one.”

the classes in the basement with all the other challenged kids. Danny

“Look y’all, this is it,” Danny said. “I’m never doing that shit

thought about it sometimes – how cruel it was to just sweep him under a rug so the other students wouldn’t have to deal with him.

again.” “Are you kidding? We’re set for weeks with this stash. We’re

As Danny sat there taking a drag from his smoke, watching the

gonna make some serious dough off this shit,” Mike said as he ran his

white lines on the road pass him by, he started thinking about the first

fingers through his hair. “Right Jason?”

day he met Jason, because it was that day he started to rethink who his

“Serious dough Danny, for real,” Jason said, pushing his glasses

friends actually were. It was freshman year, and Danny and Mike had just met Jason in gym class that very morning. Jason and Mike were

up with his index finger. Danny put the cartons in his backpack, tossed them back to Jason, and slumped down in his seat. The three teens became silent as the old burgundy Cadillac rode down the interstate, smoke bellowing from

both taggers, so they went to an abandoned warehouse in the alley behind Mike’s house after school. Danny remembered watching Jason spray the can in broad strokes, spelling out ‘J-SIN.’

the tailpipe. “Man, I still can’t believe the look on that stupid pig’s face,” Ja-

He didn’t have a tag name, so when Jason handed him the can,

son said as he peered side to side at Mike and Danny, a cigarette burn-

he made one up on the spot – ‘Danny Boy.” And what happened next

ing between his fingers. “Not even a pig, a fucking rent-a-pig, right

would make that name stick with him for years.

guys? Wheezing and shit trying to catch us. Us? The fucking Tobacco

After they left the alley that day, they walked down the road to a convenience store and Danny went in to buy a pack of cigarettes.

Three? What a joke.” “Would you sit back man, you’re fucking breathing in my ear,”

Jason sat back, bit his lower lip hard and his face crumpled like

Jason and Mike went around the side by the dumpsters. Danny deep-

Danny said, then turned around, “You know that guy’s probably gonna

ened his voice and bought a newspaper to seem mature, and when he

lose his job now? You ever think of that, retard? And Tobacco Three

emerged from the store, packing his smokes, his eyes squinted from the

doesn’t even rhyme or flow right, fucking idiot.”

reflection of a polished blue patrol car. An officer in his thirties with a eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

“Yeah I am. But I don’t get it; I’m not even the one who robbed

protruding belly and a shiny bald head spit tobacco dip on the ground as he exited the vehicle and approached Danny. He grabbed him by the

the fucking place. Why should I feel bad?” “I know man, you shouldn’t, don’t listen to me,” Danny said.

arm, “What’s your name, boy?” “Who you looking for?”

He turned around and looked out the window and saw pasture, real-

“I asked you a question son,” he said, getting within inches of

izing they had made it past the forest, and were miles away from town. “Where are we going, man?”

Danny’s face.

“It’s a secret,” Mike said as he lit a cigarette and slowly blew the

“Name’s Danny.” “Danny Boy?”

smoke out of the cracked window. “Any of y’all ever heard the story of

And in an expression he would quickly come to regret, Danny

‘Shooting Molly’?” “You talking about that house on Willow Lane, right?” Danny

nodded. Danny remembered sitting alone in the back of the patrol car with his legs propped up against the bulletproof glass in front of him.

“The same.”

He was trying to slide his hands under his legs, the tight metal cuffs

“Yeah, I’ve heard it, in different versions and shit,” Danny said.

rubbing his wrist-bone and pinching his skin, when he looked up and

“Tell your version,” Jason said, propelling his head eagerly be-

saw Jason turn the corner, the sun glaring off his glasses. Danny would never forget that moment. He had known Mike since they were little

tween the two front seats. “It was the eighties, I think; my aunt still remembers it. Well,

kids, and that guy wouldn’t confess to spilled milk to save Danny’s life.

old Molly Martin had a nice family – a husband, son, daughter, the

But he had known Jason all of five hours, and the guy was ready to go

whole fucking front porch swing deal. She was an accountant and her

to jail for him. Danny knew loyalty like that was hard to come by.

husband was some type of big shot lawyer. Anyways, Molly ends up

Jason ended up confessing to the whole thing that day, and he asked the cops to let Danny go. But they ended up cuffing him and put-

having this nervous breakdown and going to a psych ward for a few months.”

ting him in the back anyway. They told Danny to, “Cheer up, you got

“What made her go crazy?” Jason asked.

company.”

“I don’t know man, why does anyone go crazy? Fucking life’s

Danny had his hand out the window of the Cadillac, feeling the breeze as he watched the fleeting pine trees. He turned back and smacked Jason on the shoulder, “My bad, man. I didn’t mean that shit.

said.

You’re not retarded, you know that, right?”

crazy. But that’s not the point man,” he said and then paused. “You gonna let me tell the story or not, big guy?” Danny turned and looked at Mike sinisterly. ‘Big guy’ – the way he gave Jason those pet names, like an awkward stepfather, was really

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show up at her cell, and she’s gone man. They searched for years and

starting to piss Danny off. “Where was I?” Mike said, “oh yeah, she gets out, and soon after, the family starts dying in these like strange accidents. The husband

they still hear her shoot off a commencement shot every spring break,

fell down some stairs and broke his neck; the daughter like fell out of a

and play that same record, you know, to mark the time when kids get

tree and sliced her fucking throat on a razor-wire fence; I forgot what

bored and curious and sinful and all.” “That’s an urban legend man, a fable,” Danny said.

happened to the son.”

“Hey, I’m just telling it as I heard it,” he said. “But still, there’s

“What happened to Molly?” Jason asked. “Well, people started to speculate, started calling her ‘Murdering Molly.’ But after everyone was dead, people stopped hearing from her. So one day, these teenagers, about our age, decide to go take a look.

got to be some truth to it.” “Yeah, there’s even a freaking nursery rhyme about her, man” Jason said.

Curious, I guess. Well, they get there and they’re looking around, and

“How does it go?” Mike asked.

after awhile, they hear a record start playing, like a vinyl. I mean a re-

“Something like,

cord player, of all things. Can you believe that shit?”

‘Old Molly sits and waits

“Playing what?” Danny asked.

On a rocking chair with open gates

“I don’t know, some shit from the thirties. Anyways, they search

If you see her, be smart and run,

the whole house and can’t find where the music’s coming from. Well

Behind her chair there’s a loaded gun

it must have been a ballad or something that got them in the mood,

Heed to the warnings and know your folly

because as the story goes, they find a room and start going at it. Soon

Take a look but beware of Shooting Molly’”

enough the old hag finds them fucking, and guess what? On her bed.

“Nice buddy, knew you could do it,” Mike said. “But forget

The girl sees Molly standing there with a shotgun aimed right at her,

about all that. Y’all think about something – how bitchin’ would that

and screams like crazy. Molly shoots the guy in the back, goes right

place be to throw a kegger? I mean, no houses for miles, cops don’t go

through and hits the girl too.”

up there anymore ‘cause it’s abandoned and all, or at least I don’t think they do. Well, what do y’all say? I said I had a surprise.”

“Shooting Molly,” Danny said. “Exactly! But there’s more. When the cops show up, Molly starts

never found her.” He paused as he took a drag of his smoke. “Some say

“Let’s do it, I’ve never seen a haunted house,” Jason said.

shooting at the pigs man, screaming, ‘You’re not taking them away

Danny let out a sigh.

from me,’ or some shit like that. Anyways, she got shot, but didn’t die,

“Huh,” Mike mocked him sarcastically. “Of course buzz-kill’s

got sentenced to like twenty years in the pen. But one day, the guards

gonna have something to say.”

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

“I’m just saying, y’all are asking for it. Even if the story is a fable, fucking crazy ass drug addicts hang out in abandoned houses like that.” “Stop being a pussy. Call the clients up, tell ‘em if they want

“What the fuck man?” Danny said. “What? Just making sure no one’s home.” They walked up to the porch and approached the front door.

their order to meet us at the old house off Willow Lane,” Mike said as

Jason followed behind with an eighteen pack of Lone Star beer they had

he tossed his cigarette out the window, reached for his cell phone and

gotten Steve the bum to buy them on the way. The stained glass on the

handed it to Danny. “And call some girls up too.”

door had been busted out and the handle was missing.

The three drove past the murky fields, only the headlights illuminating the dark road ahead.

“Should we knock?” Mike asked. They entered the front room. It was dusty, humid and smelled of moldy cardboard. There were brown boxes in one corner next to

* * * *

a bike lying on its side. In the other corner was a fireplace with ashes scattered within, the mantle above it barren save for a corroded can of

The hanging tailpipe of the Cadillac scrapped against the dirt road as the three drove up Willow Lane. They continued down until the

The wood creaked loudly underneath Danny’s boots as he

woods opened up into a clearing, revealing a two-story white house.

walked to the corner and picked up the bike. The paint was chipped,

There was a small barn to the right and a white wooden fence enclosing

the chain was rusted and the tires flat. He stood there touching the

it all.

handles, and imagined the bike there on Christmas morning, next to a When they arrived at the gate, Danny got out. There were old,

faded pink notices from the city taped by the gate’s lock. He signaled for Mike, “Give me a tire iron.” Mike popped the trunk and tossed it to

tree, and Molly sitting on the couch with her son in her lap, admiring the new object. “I want to see the murder scene,” Jason said as he put the beer

him. Danny reared back and knocked off the rusty lock, opening the

down and jogged up the flight of stairs in the middle of the room. It

gates to Molly’s Mansion.

was one of those staircases that got narrower as you ascended it, like

They drove up the gravel road about fifty feet before they got a

the one in Cinderella.

good look at the house – chipped off paint, a slanted porch and win-

“Wait up, I want to see,” Mike said, following right behind him.

dows that revealed darkness hidden behind white curtains.

Danny dropped the bike to the floor, looked at the walls and

Danny got out, looked up at the window, and saw a curtain flutter. “Did you see that?”

lighter fluid.

saw they were covered with tag names and other graffiti – on one wall “Beware of Shooting Molly” was written repeatedly in all sizes and di-

“What?” Mike grunted as he hurled a rock through the window.

rections. He walked over to the boxes and opened one up. There were

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

report cards from ten years back, medals for track and field, and a

worked up about man? You just called him that same shit less than an

picture album. Danny grabbed the album and started flipping through

hour ago.”

it. He paused at one Polaroid that looked like it was taken on a family vacation, maybe at a beach – the man was stocky, wearing a Hawaiian

fucking with him.”

shirt and had a cigar hanging out of his mouth; the two sons were in

“Maybe,” Mike said, as he dropped the rock on the hardwood.

matching overalls, holding ice cream cones that were melting and drip-

Danny closed the back door and as the two were walking out

ping down their forearms; and the wife was in a yellow sundress and

of the room, they again heard glass shatter, this time coming from the

black shades, her mouth in a smirk, looking cold, like she was hiding

front of the house. They looked at each other skeptically.

something, and proud of it.

“That’s got to be that fucking retard,” Mike said as he walked out

“Hey man,” Mike said, looking over Danny’s shoulder, out of breath. “That supposed to be Molly or something?”

into the hall. Danny picked up the rock and carried it with him, gripping it

“I guess, but she has two boys, didn’t Molly have a daughter?”

hard as he followed behind Mike. When they walked back out to the

“Yeah, but you know how those things are,” Mike said as the

front room, they saw Jason at the window, staring down at the glass.

two heard glass break in a back room. They looked at each other, and Danny motioned towards a dark doorway.

“What the fuck are you doing just standing there, you hear that?” Mike asked.

The two walked into the back den and Mike pulled out his lighter. There was a stained, decrepit mattress in one corner and old

“I think someone’s outside,” Jason said. “Really how’d you figure that one out?” Mike said as he walked

newspapers and cigarette butts scattered next to it. Underneath the

passed him to the door. He threw it open and looked out on the lawn.

window to the back door they saw a rock lying in a pile of glass.

He could only hear crickets and the sound of the leaves blowing. Danny

“Would you look at this shit,” Mike said, leaning down to pick it up.

walked over and stood in the doorway as Mike went out to the porch and peered in both directions. He walked down the first step and as he

“You think some kids are playing with us?” Danny asked as he went and opened the back door.

turned towards the bushes next to the railing, a voice screamed, “Get out of my house.”

“Yeah, I bet it’s that retard Jason playing games.”

Mike let out a loud cry and fell back, onto the porch. He quickly

“Say man, don’t call him that,” Danny said as he stood in the doorway.

“I’m just saying, the kid ain’t stupid, he knows when you’re

got to his feet and backed up, next to Danny. He put his hands on his knees and as Danny was walking past him, headlights illuminated

Mike looked over at him and smiled. “What are you getting so

Mike’s pale, wide-eyed face.

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

“I ain’t scared of shit, talk to your boyfriend,” he said.

“Who’d you think it was tough guy, Molly? Huh, you scared of Shooting Molly?” a voice yelled from behind the bright lights of a sta-

“Well, you gonna invite us in?” Tracy asked.

tion wagon.

Danny opened the door and extended his hand like a butler as

Danny walked out to the porch, his hand over his eyes, trying to

he bowed, “At your service.” Mike came from behind Keisha and put his arm around her

get a good look. “Tracy, that you?” A girl arose from behind the bushes, giggling and brushing leaves out of her short, dark hair. She was holding a six-pack and wear-

waist as he followed her in the house. She giggled as he whispered in her ear. “You got a light or something?” Keisha asked.

ing a halter-top and cut-off jeans, which exposed her tan legs.

Danny went and grabbed some of the papers from one of the

Danny knew her from Geometry class. Her name was Tracy and he had had a crush on her since the first day of class. He would al-

boxes in the corner, tossed them in the fireplace, doused them with the

ways eye her from an angle. She would eat nacho cheese chips and just

lighter fluid and threw in a match. “That’s better,” he said, as the room

wipe her hands on her jeans or her leg, leaving orange crumb stains.

became gradually brighter. Tracy grabbed a beer and put the rest in a corner, “Like what

That intrigued Danny mad. Every once in a while, he would catch her staring back, jerk his head up and look at the blackboard, feel-

you’ve done with the place.”

ing like she was staring directly at him. He was always too nervous to

“Oh yeah,” Danny said. “Pretty fancy, huh?”

look back. Every time he looked into her eyes he felt like someone was

“Yeah, for a house from the fucking Civil War days,” she said as she looked over and noticed Jason sitting at the foot of the stairs. “Hey.”

reaching inside his stomach and squeezing.

“Hey,” Jason said as he stood up and scratched the back of his

“Hey handsome,” Tracy said between giggles, “you going to in-

neck, looking around like he was expected to do a task, but just didn’t

vite us in?” The lights of the station wagon turned off and a tall, slim girl

know what.

with blonde hair got out of the driver’s seat. Her name was Keisha;

“So, where are the goods?” Tracy asked.

Mike had been dating her on-and-off since freshman year. She was the

Jason tossed Danny the backpack and he unzipped it, “Two car-

type of girl who was under the bleachers before she even hit puberty –

tons, Marlboros,” he said as he handed them to her, “and these are on

an attention fiend. And that’s just how Mike liked them.

me.” Mike already had Keisha over by the fireplace, his hand resting

“Where’s my cigarettes tough guy,” she said as she approached

the steps holding a boom box, smirking, her bright red lipstick gleam-

on the mantle and his fingers in her hair. “When are the others com-

ing in the darkness. “You scared of Molly, Danny Boy?”

ing?” eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

“I talked to a few people on the way who said they might come,” Tracy said. “It’s like an hour drive from town though dude. I don’t know

“What?”

how many are actually gonna show.”

Jason walked over to the wall behind the old bike, and stared

“I heard something in the next room.”

“It’s just the wood, Tracy. And why are we whispering,” he said.

up at the graffiti. “Hey Danny, you really think this is Shooting Molly’s

Tracy put her hand on his cheek and her tongue down his throat. Her

house?”

breath smelled of cigarettes and cinnamon gum. Danny felt invaded

“Man, don’t listen to Mike, he’s just fooling with you,

and he liked it. She pushed him against the wall and started slowly moving her damp hands up his shirt, feeling his chest, when he heard

trying to scare you, I told you the shit’s made up.” “Oh yeah, don’t listen to Mike, huh?” Mike yelled from

glass crack on the floor. He broke from her lips, reached down and

across the room. Keisha was kissing his neck as he lowered his head

picked up a picture frame that had fallen off its shelf – he was king at

and stared up at Danny with a sinister gaze.

ruining the moment.

“I want to check out the room, the one where the kids were

Danny looked at the picture; it was a faded photo of a little boy,

shot. Take me Danny,” Tracy said as she tossed the beer can in the cor-

who couldn’t have been older than five, on a bike, wearing a cowboy hat

ner and went for another.

and a red bandana around his neck. He brushed off the broken glass

“Come on, follow me,” Danny said. As they were walking up,

and put it back on the shelf. Tracy grabbed his waist and their lips met.

Jason started to follow behind. “Hey man, do me a favor and stay down

But again, Danny pulled away. “Hey Tracy, can I ask you a question?”

here, just to keep a look out,” he said as he gave Jason a soft punch on

he said, turning from her. “Why do people put pictures in frames?”

the arm.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Danny could

only see about five feet in front of him. He grabbed Tracy’s hand and

whispered.

She looked at him baffled and annoyed, “I don’t fucking

know Danny, who the fuck cares. You’re asking me this shit now?”

“I don’t get it either, it’s like people want to trap the past

led her down the hall. Her palms were clammy, and so small and

and like surround it by something artificial.” He looked at her like he

delicate he didn’t want to grip them too hard. With his other hand he

expected an answer. “It’s like, why isn’t what’s inside good enough as it

traced the dilapidated wall. After a few feet, he felt a wooden door and

is,” he said, turning from her. He always got philosophical whenever he

pushed it open. The moonlight illuminated a room that was empty ex-

felt trust with a girl, or maybe it was the liquor. The mixture of the al-

cept for a wheelchair and some picture frames that were on a shelf built

cohol and the darkness of the strange house made him feel like he was

into the wall. The wheelchair made Danny quiver.

searching for something more, more than love. “Why do people have to

Tracy gripped his hand hard, “Did you hear that?” she

add gold and silver and other fucking flower designs and shit to make

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

their past look like something it’s not? Doesn’t it make you sick?”

“It’s just a picture frame Danny; people use them to

stand the pictures up, right? Am I wrong?”

“Someone’s down there,” Danny said as he put his hands on his head. His heart pounded and he could barely feel his legs. He felt like

Danny looked at her amazed, “Yeah, you are.” But she

running out of that place as fast he could. He knew what he saw, but he

wasn’t, and he knew it. People who could see things for mere function -

didn’t believe it. As he stood there, the eyes were still in his head, star-

no hidden meanings – just amazed Danny. He grabbed her and kissed

ing right at him.

her long and hard, and forgot about it all.

“You’re just seeing shit, let me take a look,” Tracy said.

“Now I heard something that time, for sure,” Danny

said, breaking from their embrace and looking incredulously at the dark hall beyond the cracked door.

Danny grabbed her arm, “No, let me do it.” Jason walked to Danny’s side and the three stood there deadpan, staring at the white, wooden door. “I got your back, man.”

“Mike, that you?” he yelled, but there was silence. “Come on,

Danny looked at him and smiled. In a moment when he wanted

let’s go check it out,” he said as he grabbed her hand and led her out

to run, wanted to hide from those hidden eyes, Jason was staring right

into the hall.

at them. Danny felt assured. “Be ready to use that thing.” He turned the

As they walked slowly down the staircase, Danny yelled out, “Hey, y’all stop playing games. Jason, where you at man?”

handle slowly, and then quickly threw the door open and backed up against the wall. He stood there breathing heavy, and looked over at his

“What’s up?” Jason said, coming out from the back room with a knife in his hand.

friends. “Take a look, tough guy,” Jason said, motioning at the door with

“I heard something upstairs, I think someone’s here.” He let go of Tracy’s hand and walked to the dark dining room. “Anyone there?” he yelled. It was silent.

the knife. Danny walked slowly to the doorway. As he stared into the darkness, he turned back, “Give me a light.”

He walked to the side of the staircase, where there was a door

Jason’s eyes got wide and Tracy let out a deafening scream as

leading down to a basement. Danny gripped the brass handle and

Danny felt a cold, coarse hand grip his forearm. He jerked his arm away

pushed open the old wooden door. “Hey, get me a light or something,

and could only see dark eyes and long white hair as he impetuously

would you?” Danny said turning to Jason. When he looked back at the

pushed the heavy body in front of him. Danny fell down to the floor

doorway to the basement, he caught a glimpse of eyes in the darkness.

and heard the man barrel down the steps.

“Holy shit,” Danny said, as he slammed the door shut. He backed up against the wall and turned to Jason and Tracy. Jason had a

firm grip on the knife in his hand.

Jason came to his side and helped him up. The two looked at each other and back at the doorway.

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

“Come on,” Danny said, his heart racing and his hands shaking.

and started making their way up the stairs. When they reached the

“Let’s check it out. And give me that,” he said, motioning towards the

front room, they carried him over to the foot of the Cinderella stair-

knife.

case, and sat him down. The two hesitantly walked down the rickety steps, dust rising in

their faces, when at the base of the stairs, they could hear a man groan-

Tracy came in from outside and handed the man a red rag she had found in her purse. “You want a beer?” she asked.

ing. Jason flicked his Zippo lighter and through the dim light, they saw

He nodded and she went and grabbed one from the corner. The

an elderly man with a white beard and a face that looked rough enough

old man sat there, holding the rag on the back of his head, looking lost.

to sharpen a knife on.

Danny went and sat down next to him. Tracy and Jason stood

“I think you might have killed him,” Jason said.

there, drinking their beer.

“Calm down,” Danny said as he walked over and leaned down next to the man. He snapped his fingers. “I think he’s alright, just dazed

“What’re you doing here, man?” Danny asked as he turned towards the old man.

and shit,” he said as the old man leaned up and looked around the room in a daze.

“I live here, name’s Gary, nice to meet you,” he said as he reached over and extended his free hand out to Danny.

“Where’s my shoe?” he asked, as he touched the back of his head. He looked at his hand and it was covered in blood.

“You don’t live here man, no one’s lived here in over ten years, at least.”

“Are you okay?” Danny asked as he sat the knife on the floor.

“Well, if no one else’s taken claim to it, then I guess it’s mine,”

“I didn’t mean to, I mean,” he paused, looking down at the old man.

Gary said as he spit on the wooden floor and smeared it with the bot-

He had a feeling like when you’ve broken something and are not even

tom of his boot.

allowed to help clean it up, a feeling of abandoned obligation. “You’ve hurt your head; we should get a rag on that.”

“Really man, why are you here?” Danny asked and then took a sip of his beer.

Jason felt around and found an old, stained, steel-toe boot and laid it next to the man’s feet.

Gary was quiet as he pulled back the tab on the beer

can. His beard hung down to his stomach, and he periodically brushed

“Danny,” Tracy yelled from the top of the stairs, “are y’all alright? Can I do anything?”

his fingers through it. “Well, truth is, my daughter lives in this town. Came to visit her,” he said, and then paused. “But, I ended up coming

“Yeah, get me a rag or something,” he said and then turned to Jason. “Help me, would you.”

here.” “Why didn’t you see her?” Danny asked, feeling the liquor start

Danny and Jason each took an arm and hoisted the man up,

to kick in. He was always inquisitive, but when he was drunk he could

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

interrogate a statue.

feel sick. There were excuses for everything in the world. People like

“She don’t need me in her life. I ain’t seen her in over twenty

Gary were shadows; they hid from gawking eyes, because they knew

years. Last time she saw me I was broke, addicted to heroin, stealing

they didn’t belong. Danny didn’t know why this man couldn’t forget

from her mother, all that shit, you know.”

and move on, but he knew the choice wasn’t up to him.

“Not really,” Danny said. The room became quiet. Jason was leaning up against the wall, wiping his glasses clean with the bottom of his t-shirt and Tracy was biting her nails as she stared at the man’s beard.

offering Gary a smoke. “I’ve heard about the place before on the rails, the whole ‘Shooting Molly’ incident. Everyone knows it’s just a story, but everyone be-

“Well, you ever think of apologizing?” Danny asked. “To your daughter, I mean? People forgive, you know?”

lieves it, you know? So after I left Mary’s, that’s my daughter, I thought I’d come see for myself. I thought it’d be a good place for me; everyone’s

“That’s what I came back here to do young man. But I showed up to the house and I stood across the street, hidden behind this van.

afraid of it, because they can’t understand it,” he paused as he took a drag. “And they should be.”

I saw her and her little girl come out, my granddaughter. They were

“What? Afraid of this place?” Danny asked.

going for a bike ride,” he said, brushing his beard, looking philosophi-

Gary nodded as he blew smoke slowly out of his nostrils.

cal. “When I saw her lean down and put on that helmet, make sure her

“Why?”

shoes were tied, I knew I had no place there. I didn’t belong.”

“This place is no good. The city won’t come in and tear it down,

“Isn’t that up to her to decide, your daughter, I mean. Shouldn’t she be able to make that choice?” Danny asked.

so it sits here and people just look at the dark windows and make up stories. And then you got people like me, but let me tell you all,

Gary was quiet as he dabbed the back of his head and stared

worse. Truth is, girls younger than you,” he said, pointing to Tracy, “get

at the bloody rag. “Maybe, but when you’ve lived as long as I have,”

brought here and raped for days.” He put his cigarette out on the bot-

he paused as he gripped the rag and looked down at his boot, his eyes

tom of his boot and tried to get up, but gave up and sat back down,

heavy. “I just don’t know anymore, boy. I guess it’s me I’m worried

rubbing his knee.

about. I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“Well, if the city did destroy it, you don’t have a home, where

Tracy lowered her arm and spit fingernail vestiges on the ground. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “A daughter needs a father.”

“So why’d you come here?” Jason asked, opening his pack and

will people like you go?” Jason asked. “People like me,” he said in a way that made him sound of-

“But a father don’t need a daughter.”

fended by the typecast. “I guess I’ll do what I’ve always done, go where

Danny had no clue what Gary meant by that, but it made him

the road takes me. I’ve been doin’ it for over twenty years now, won’t be

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

around much longer.” He laughed, “Just don’t worry about me, boy.” Mike walked in from the back den with his shirt and shoes off, pulling up his zipper. Keisha was right behind him, sweat gleaming

onds until he was able to kick Danny off. The two separated and sat there staring at each other, pant-

from her bust and her hair disheveled. Mike had no respect for women.

ing. There was blood running down Mike’s nose, dripping onto his

He wouldn’t even try to hide it when he just scored; he had to flaunt it

chest; his eyes were puffy and purple. He licked the blood from his lips,

by walking around showing off his six-pack, letting it known to every-

“We’re fucking done, man. All the shit I’ve done for you? I let you live

one what just went down. It made Danny sick.

with me, I take you in mother fucker, and this is how you repay me?”

“Who the hell is this guy?” Mike asked.

Danny was silent as he sat on the floor with his arms wrapped

“He freaking reeks of beer and shit,” Keisha said.

around his knees. He looked up. “You don’t want me in your house?” he

“So do you, what difference does it make,” Danny said.

said, rising to his feet. “Then get the fuck out of mine.” He looked side

Her jaw dropped and she grabbed Mike’s shoulder. “Did you

to side at Jason, Tracy and Gary. “And take your whore with you.”

fucking hear what he said to me?” she said. She whispered in his ear and he looked down at Danny menacingly.

Keisha looked at Danny, and back to Mike. “You’re just gonna let him talk to me like that?”

“Calm down babe, don’t worry about him,” he said with a smirk on his face.

“Whatever,” Mike said, “You’re a fucking nut case man, fucking cry baby. You need to grow the fuck up.” He dusted off his pants and

As Danny made eye contact with him, his teeth clenched and his face reddened – he felt like beating Mike’s face against the brick

walked out to the porch. Keisha followed right behind him, eagerly grabbing at his face trying to see the damage.

fireplace, cutting him down to size. He didn’t trust him, he never had.

“Why did you hit him?” Tracy asked.

Mike ran and asked questions later – his loyalty didn’t extend above the

waist. Mike was fake, faker than Molly. And it made Danny sick. “And look at fucking Peter Pan here,” Mike said, motioning to

“I don’t know,” he said as he walked over and sat down

next to Gary. But Danny knew he had wanted to do it for a long time. Danny could never love himself as much as Mike did. Danny, for the

Jason, who had put the kitchen knife in his belt like it was a holster.

most part, knew what was real. But he just never knew with Mike. They

“You know you shouldn’t let this one have weapons,” he said, turning to

had been best friends for ten years, and in one moment Danny de-

Danny.

stroyed it all, but it felt right to him. Danny got up, walked over to Mike and started hitting him in

bled between breaths. Mike curled up and took the blows for a few sec-

He looked over at Gary, who was brushing his beard and look-

the face repeatedly until he fell on top of him, continuing to swing like

ing down at the floor. Danny knew Gary was the type of person that

a madman. “You fucking son of a bitch, I fucking hate you,” he mum-

took unwanted memories as impediments to the future. They were the

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ©

“Come on babe,” Tracy said, grabbing at the sleeve of his shirt.

clouds and the rain that kept him from seeing the beauty of the light. He was riding with no destination, no real dreams, but no memories to

They walked to the door and Danny took one last look at the bright

kill the dreams he might have.

room, and shut the door on it all forever. As they all stood in the front lawn of the house, watching the

Danny envied Gary, because Danny didn’t want to remember. His dad had shattered everything he thought was pure in the world, but

flames through the windows and the smoke rising from the roof, Dan-

he knew he didn’t have to forget it all. He took a deep breath, and his

ny looked back and saw two cars approaching from the dirt road. Tracy grabbed his hand, “Looks like they missed the party.”

eyes started to water.

“No,” Danny said as he looked into her eyes, “They’re just in

“I’m gonna kill that bitch for good,” he said as he got up from the steps. He went to the corner, picked up the photo album, and

time.”

walked throughout the house shaking it, scattering the pictures across the dusty old wood. He walked to the fireplace, grabbed the can of lighter fluid and emptied it all over the floor, the boxes and the pictures, those violent memories that kept people from seeing the house for what it really was – a weight on everyone’s shoulders, a story people had to hang onto because it was something they could manipulate at their own whim. Danny knew he couldn’t forget it all, but he could at least burn it down. “I’m with you buddy,” Gary said as he pumped his fist in the air. “Burn it to the fucking ground.” “Are you fucking kidding me?” Jason said. “This place is gold. We could have parties here for years.” “Shut up and help him out of here,” Danny said, signaling to Gary. Danny emptied out the last of the fluid, tossed the can in the corner and stood in the middle of the living room with pictures scattered at his feet. He lit a cigarette, took a couple of drags, and dropped

it to the wood, watching the flames ignite and snake across the floor.

Drew Darnell lives in Houston, Texas and works as an administrative intern for the Harris County District Courts. He graduated summa cum laude from the University of Houston in May 2010 with a Bachelor of Arts in English – Creative Writing. While in the Creative Writing program, he worked with such writers as Alex Parsons, Aaron Reynolds and Kathleen Lee. At the end of his senior year, he was nominated by one of his professors to be a Writing Fellow at the 2010 Boldface Writer’s Conference, held at the University of Houston. He is currently waiting to start law school in the fall at St. Mary’s University School of Law in San Antonio. In his free time, he is working on a collection of short stories.

and he was worn out. He fell into a deep sleep and woke up at noon. Glad he did not have work, he opened the newspaper.

The Lair

“Twin suicide bombs in Iraqi subway.” What atrocities. He wanted to join the National Guard, as he believed he would toughen up from it and go on adventures. He called the recruiter to setup an appointment, but he did not show up. His anxiety and depression around people got the best of him again.

Calvin Seen

Weeks go by and there is another knock on the door. Once again, he was anxious and refused to answer the door. This time the knocking did not stop. The knock was going on for ten minutes. He finally had the courage to answer it. First, he looked out the window, he could not see who it was, next he looked out the peephole and it was covered. He took a deep breath and turned the knob. A man told him: “You have been drafted. Report to your local recruiter.” “Yes, sir! He replied. He woke up everyday chained to his computer. Working at home was not as great as it seemed to be. After two years, the Isolation, depression, and anxiety plagued him. He was making good money, owned his own property, and had a car. But these materialistic things didn’t make him happy. He wanted adventure. He wanted to see the world. He wanted to meet people. But gave up because he had a career doing what he knew best. Programming. He is typing code on his computer in the basement he called “The Lair.,” when there is a knock on the door upstairs. His anxiety around people got the best of him and he refused to answer the door. He wondered who it was. As the knocking continued, he got more and more anxious. There are usually no visitors but Jehovah’s Witnesses. The knocking eventually stopped. He is in relief that he did not have to face whoever was at the door and continued working. In his down time, he followed the war, which fascinated him. Suicide bombs. Raids. Deaths.

As days go by, he got more depressed from the isolation. Nine to Seven everyday was driving him crazy. It was finally the weekend

Calvin Seen is from Urbana, MD USA. “The Lair” is loosely based on a true story. Some of his stories can be found here.

Love Will Tear Us Apart Neil Colquhoun

Mr Fredrickson didn’t say anything at first, pain etched on his face. He took a breath. “She’s... she’s not too well.” “Oh... I’m sorry. She’s a sweet old lady. Always cheery and chatty,” the postman said. He adjusted the letters bag on his shoulder, glanced at his watch and looked up the street. “I’ve got to go, Mr Fredrickson. Tell your wife I hope she gets better soon.” Then, with a curt nod, he headed up the street. Mr Fredrickson watched the postman leave and pondered what he had said. He thought to himself: she used to be very chatty but she’s a lot quieter these days. That’s the way it goes sometimes. He shuffled back up the path, making his way to the rear of the house and his greenhouse. With the sun shining he realised he would have to open the vents and the door. The plants have got to breathe and absorb the nutrients, he had read.

“All set for the flower show?” the postman asked as he handed a parcel over the gate. “Oh yes, they’re coming along nicely. I should have a great showing this year,” said Mr Fredrickson proudly. He nodded at the parcel and added, “I’ve been waiting for this to arrive.” He then turned to head back towards the house, giving the postman a wave over his shoulder. He had only taken a few steps when the postman called after him. He half turned, cupping a hand to his ear. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

The postman looked at him, a look of concern on his face. “I was asking how Mrs Fredrickson was keeping. I haven’t seen her in a while. Is she poorly?” he said.

He opened the door, the smells hanging in the air, a mixture of sweet and sour which invaded his nostrils. Flowers were in abundance, the vivid colours assaulting his vision. And the greenery: there was a lot more on each plant, tender young shoots springing up with ease all over the stalks. He nodded to himself, pleased. Obviously his new fertiliser mix was working wonders and he would surely win the flower show this year. He’d come close in previous years but this was his year. His wife would be so proud although she’d not be able to see the fruits of his labours, poor thing. The package which the postman had given him was placed on the wooden bench after he had cleared a space, shifting garden tools and some heavy-duty rope onto the floor. Lifting a knife from the neat row laid on the bench he used it to slit open the sealing tape which held

the flaps of the package shut. The object inside was wrapped in protective cushioning so he lifted it out and unwrapped it. His eyes lit up as he exposed the object. It was just what he imagined it to be. “Hello?” A voice from behind the garden wall. “Are you there, Mr Fredrickson?” He sighed then went to the greenhouse door, staring lovingly at the object in his hand. It felt good, natural. He was glad he had taken the plunge and purchased it. “Yes, Mrs Nixon. I’m here,” he said wearily. A face appeared at the wall where his climbers were slowly creeping towards the top. He wished she wouldn’t use the ladders for the wall was almost eight feet tall. Anything could happen to an old lady. “I was just wondering how your wife is. I haven’t seen her in a few days. Is she alright?” she said. “She’s okay... she’s just a bit under the weather,” he replied. Mrs Nixon looked at him for a few seconds, studying his face. He briefly wondered if she knew but he hadn’t spoken much about his wife’s condition. He relaxed a little... but what she said next made him stiffen. His heart skipped a beat then quickened slightly. “I could come over and keep her company. I’m not busy anyway.” she said.

idea.”

He had to think fast. He shook his head. “Ah, that’s not a good

“Oh?” she replied.

“Well, the doctors advised against her coming into contact with anybody else. In case they get infected too.”

She shrank back a little as if he might have some sort of disease. “What is wrong with her?” she asked. “Oh, it’s just the cold. Maybe flu but you know how it is with old people. We take it far worse than anybody else,” he said and managed a weak smile. “Right,” she said, giving him a hard stare before she disappeared behind the wall. He waited a few moments in case she saw fit to have another look. When she didn’t reappear he returned to the greenhouse. It was then that he realised he had been holding the newly delivered object in his hand the whole time he had been in conversation with Mrs Nixon. A shiver ran through his body and he became a little scared, a little bit worried. He’d better check on his wife. Make sure she was okay. But first, he had to give the plants some more fertiliser. The new shoots would require it to remain healthy. After feeding the plants with the special mixture he went into the house. He locked the door, careful as always. You never knew who might walk in, especially nosy Mrs Nixon. “I’ll be up in a minute dear,” he shouted upstairs before going into the kitchen. From one of the drawers he took out a pair of rubber gloves and a plastic apron. He tied the apron around his waist and pulled the gloves on before he climbed the stairs to their bedroom. He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. The smell was getting bad, he thought. He must try and air the place, get rid of the unpleasant smells she produced. The bedroom door was closed. He knocked gently. “It’s only me,

my dear. I’m coming in. Would that be okay?”

And he needed more meat to put in the fertiliser mix.

There was no response so he quietly twisted the handle and opened the door. The stench was stronger and hit him hard. He almost vomited, the rawness of the sickness catching his throat. He breathed through his nose, trying hard not to draw in too much of the awful stink. “We’ll need to get you cleaned up,” he said as he closed the door. “It’s not the freshest in here.” The curtains were drawn, casting the room in shadow, but he saw enough to make him feel appalled at what she had now become. He could see the shape in the bed, noting how sunken and shrivelled she looked. She was wasting away. Poor thing. “I’ve brought you something. It came in the mail today for me,” he said to the woman in the bed, taking a few steps.

He brought the knife closer to her body. With one hand, he pulled the bed-covers down, exposing her naked torso. He saw she was decaying faster now and there were things in the flesh. Wriggling, horrible things which creeped him out. He avoided the horrible things and thinly sliced some skin from his dead wife. The blade cut through the blackening flesh easily like going through hot butter. He knew it had been a good purchase.

killed.

She would have loved it, he thought. Pity her nagging got her

Then, with a gleam in his eye and an evil smirk on his face he said, “Well, if I tell you the truth, it’s really something for me to use on you.” He bent over the bed, looking down at her, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Her eyes were sunken and glazed over, the eyelids taped open. Lips drawn back, exposing her yellow-stained teeth, were flaky and cracked. Both hands lay above the bed-covers clasped together. He lifted the object and held it in front of her face. It shone and he could clearly see his reflection in the polished surface; gaunt and dark-eyed. He was shocked at how ill he looked, how tired his face was and at how old he felt. Too much worrying about the consequences of her condition had aged him, made him care less about his own health. The polished surface showed far too much, he thought: it was time to take the shine off.

Neil Colquhoun (http://www.neilcolquhoun.com) comes from a small town on the West coast of Scotland in Ayrshire and, when the day job has finished, can be found writing tales which are magical, crazy, fantastical and sometimes brilliant. When not writing, he spends possibly too much time on the internet! Follow him on twitter. Currently developing the “Jimmy and the Black Wind” series, he also completed, “Storm Clouds - The Long Road (Book 1)”, a planned trilogy about good vs evil, with a third faction coming into the mix. He has been writing on and off since age 16 but really hit it hard in the last 3-4 years, trying to get his name noticed. His work has appeared in several magazines: Sept 2009 issue of M-Brane SF magazine, online magazines including Micro100 and MicroHorror, ‘May Monstrosities’ issue of SNM Horror, twit-fic pieces in Thaumatrope magazine. He has upcoming stories to be published in The New Bedlam Project late 2010 & ShadowCast Audio

The Life of Martin Krantz Philip Leslie

Krantz, Martin Film director, born Pasadena 1907, the middle child of seven. From the start he was determined to make a name for himself in the Arts. At the age of eight he held an exhibition of watercolours in his father’s barbershop. His subject was war and the glory of war. His oldest brother Edward had left to fight in Europe and unable to join him, Martin had took it upon himself to inspire others to enlist and defeat the enemy. Popular with the customers was ‘Brave Tommey Shootin a Germun in the Hed’ (his spelling never improved much, possibly because he was undiagnosed dyslexic), while Old Mr Nash paid eighty cents for ‘Ten Bosh Surendrin to One Tommey’ because he said he liked the way the young artist had painted the grass. Martin’s next exhibition went up just a week after the first was taken down. It was not so popular, simply because with his eighty

cents he had bought several extra tubes of paint, including three kinds of vivid red which dripped and geysered from severed limbs and eye sockets in every scene. The most extreme was ‘Trentch Batul’, in which dozens of gun-wielding stick-men floundered in what can best be described as a parting of the Red Sea. His father removed the paintings, the majority of which depicted ever more populous crowd scenes of surrendering Germans, after just one day, having noticed a decline in the number of customers asking for a cut-throat shave. “Mebbe not today, Mr Krantz.” Disappointed with the reception to his work, and the lack of sales, Martin abandoned painting and turned his hand to clay modelling, using material dug out of the stream at the end of the garden. ‘Tommey With Ryful’ occupied him for an entire afternoon. The rifle was realistically carved from a stick, and the modelling was sufficiently detailed as to show boots, uniform details, including a row of medals made from tintacks, and a stick grenade slung from the soldier’s right hip. No one bought the figure, not even when the arms fell off and the stumps were painted red. It ended up back in the stream. Earth to earth. After seeing his first one-reeler at a travelling fair, movie mania overcame the boy. He became so excited that he foamed at the mouth until the viewing experience was repeated. And repeated. When the fair left town he went after it. No one realised he was missing until Nathaniel Crane, who’d lost an ear at Shiloh, told Mr Krantz he’d seen the child wandering past his house that morning. Furious, the barber left Crane in the chair and borrowed a cart. He found his son asleep in the shade six miles along the road. “Gave him a good hidin’ there and then afore returning him to his mother, who gave him a hidin’ of her own for good measure. The kid was so sore he ate his supper stand-

ing up.” Undeterred by these punishments, Martin left home again. This time he sneaked out before daylight to lessen his chances of being spotted and successfully reached the fair at Tujunga. Unfortunately the boy had neglected to stow one thing in his running-away package. Money. When the man in the paying booth asked for his cents, Martin realised his mistake and began to foam at the mouth. “I remember you now,” the man said. “Where’s your folks?” The boy shrugged and stared at his shoes. “Do they even know you’re here?” Martin shook his head solemnly. The man came out of the booth. “Where’d you say you were from?” Martin told him. The man whooped with amazement. “Jumpin’ Joe! You walked all the way here from Pasadena just to see the picture show? Jumpin’ Joe!” He called to young Chloe Ann Parker who worked the coconut shy and told her Martin’s story, adding a couple of extra incidents to spice it up: “A rattler that had him back up against a tree and a crazy drunk Injun with a six shooter firing at ‘maginary devils.” Chloe Ann loved children. Unable to have any of her own since miscarrying at thirteen, she was he fair’s babysitter, big sister and mother rolled into one. She took it upon herself to care for Martin until his parents came for him. After settling him down in the picture show, she fixed up the truckle bed in her caravan and cooked a stew. The boy was skinny. He could do with fattening up. That night, with Martin beside her, snug under the softest, cleanest quilt he’d known, Chloe Ann told him stories about the fair, how she’d fallen in with it six years earlier. “If you can believe it, we didn’t have the picture show then. We had the coconuts (that’s me), and the shootin’ range, and the freaks. There was Jugglin’ and the Tell Your Fortune lady and Test Your Strength and Guess The Weight of the Fat Man. There was the Strong Man, who could walk around with four

girls on him, and the Man Who Knows Everything, and the Storytelling Injun, and the Tattooed Lady, and the Mice Lady.” “What was the Mice Lady?” Martin whispered. It was the first time he’d spoken since supper had made him too full. “She had a tray of mice. She’d trained ‘em up to do all sorts of tricks. There was a min’ture horse’n’cart that took other mice for a ride. There was a mice family: they were all wearin’ clothes the lady had made special for ‘em. And there was a fairground ride like the one we used to have afore it burnt down. And last but not least there was the chariot race.” “What’s a chariot race?” “They had ‘em in ancient times. They were little carts. Horses pulled ‘em round and round a dirt track until every rider had fell off apart from one who was the winner. Of course, mice don’t run races, so the Mice Lady turned a handle to make the scenery go past ‘em. Made it look as thought the mice were racin’, see, when really they weren’t goin’ nowhere.” Martin could picture it without having seen it. That night, while Chloe Ann snored, talked and sobbed in her sleep, Martin lay wide awake imagining not only the racing mice, but the Strong Man and the Storytelling Indian too. He decided he never wanted to go home. He wouldn’t be missed. There were plenty of brothers and sisters already keeping Ma busy. Didn’t she often wish she’d had fewer kids. First thing in the morning, straight after something called breakfast, Chloe Ann stood him under the shower bucket with her and scrubbed him with brush and soap until he was pink as she was. His old clothes had gone. “They weren’t fit to bury a dead skunk in,” he was told. Chloe Ann presented him with pants and a clean shirt. “The

Fortune lady made ‘em special.” She dug him playfully in the soft place below his ribs. “Must’a known you were comin’, see.” Martin asked if it were possible for his fortune to be told. Chloe Ann waggled her head. “Might not be a good thing to know your future, your being so young an’ all. If I’d a known my baby wasn’t to have come into the world alive, then I wouldn’t have made him in the first place.” But Martin was insistent. He wanted to know what life had planned for him. Chloe Ann took him to the Fortune lady’s caravan. It was just like Ma Baker’s store next to his father’s barbershop, the walls lined with shelves and the air a complicated smell of soap and hay and tobacco and a hundred other unknown things. The items on these shelves, however, were not for sale. There were different sizes of glass balls, clear and coloured, some big enough to hold in your hand, some you’d need both hands to carry. There were candles, again, in a range of sizes and colours, and decks of cards, and, most intriguingly of all, a small zoo of stuffed birds and small mammals. An old woman he’d not noticed until now spoke from the far end of the caravan. “Martin, right? Come here and sit yourself down, Martin. Glad to see the pants fitted. I was up half the night stitching those.” Chloe Ann left to make the coconut shy ready. Close to, the Fortune lady turned out to be not much older than Ma. It was the clothes and the shawl that made the illusion of old age.

“You like Chloe Ann?” she asked, fetching down one of the smaller glass balls. “She likes you. Don’t go breaking her heart, now. It’s been broken that many times, sooner or later it won’t be fixable any more.” She set the ball and its wooden stand between them on the table. “I oughtn’t be doing this,” she said. “It can be dangerous, to know

your own future.” She reached behind her for a cord. As she pulled it all the curtains began to close. She whispered: “Sometimes I do this secretly, so that it looks as though someone invisible has drawn them for me.” Martin looked around him. The glass eyes of the stuffed birds and fox had pinpricks of light on them so that they looked alive and ready to move. “Don’t be scared, now.” The Fortune lady spread her hands and held them close to the glass ball. “I’m starting to see something coming out of the mistiness,” she said, staring intently into the ball. “A small boy. It’s you, I should think. Yes, it is. But you’re wearing those old rags. You look awful tired and thirsty.” She glanced up. Martin nodded. “There’s a man. Is your father a big man? Kind of scary looking until you get to know him?” Martin nodded. “He’s talking to some guy who’s wearing a white cloak. Your pa, he’s—it looks as though he’s… Is your pa a barber?” Again Martin nodded. “Mighty good one too,” the Future lady continued. “I reckon he wants you to be a barber too one day, when you’re the right age. I thought so. But you don’t want to stand there day after day cutting hair. You want—you want to work the picture show.” At this point Martin sat up and tried to see what the woman was seeing. She told him to sit down because he was making it all misty again. “There’s a woman now. She’s sitting in a chair, a worm-eaten old rocking chair, on a porch. She’s been there a long time, looking for her son. Say—I think she’s your ma. She’s awful sad.” Tears began to swell in the corners of Martin’s eyes. The Fortune lady passed him a square of cloth that was as insubstantial as a spider’s web and told him to dry his eyes with it. She waved her hands about. “That’s interesting. I’m seeing you again. You’re not so little anymore. In fact, you’re a grown man, as old as Chloe Ann is now.” “What am I doing?”

“Perhaps I oughtn’t say.” “Am I cutting hair? Or am I working the picture show?” “What would you like to be doing in eight years time?”

“Any more?” the Fortune lady inquired.

“Picture show,” Martin said without hesitation.

He shook his head. “Ain’t they there to meet Edward?”

“But your ma, she’s not clapped eyes in you in eight years. And your pa’s so old and stiff, he can’t cut as much hair as he used to. When he doesn’t cut hair, there’s no money. No money, no food.” “Maybe Edward’s back from the war by then,” Martin said. “Your brother?” She waited for Martin to nod. “Ah yes. I see him now. He’s marching up main street in his uniform.”

The woman looked. “Ah yes, I couldn’t see them. Maryellen was walking in front of Maylene,” she said confidently. “Maryellen’s got her legs back?” Martin’s eyes were wide open. Quickly the Fortune lady said, “Perhaps it isn’t Maryellen at all. You say she has no legs?” “Got ‘em but they don’t work.” “Poor child.”

“Has he got a medal?” “There’s something pinned on his uniform, just here, catching the light.” “That’s his medal,” Martin said, imagining it. “Two hundred Germans surrendered to him.” “He’s a fine and brave soldier. The whole town’s cheering.” She frowned. “Not quite the whole town. There’s one person missing. A young man he expected to be here cheering with the rest of them. Edward’s asking for him. Now he’s climbed on top of the water pump to take a good look at the crowd. No. No. The young man’s just not here. Edward’s very disappointed… Dry your eyes again. And wipe that nose... Now the crowd’s breaking up and your brother and your ma and pa are heading back home.” “What about the others?” “The other people?” “My sisters an’ brothers,” Martin said, surprised that she

hadn’t seen them. “Maryellen. And Maylene. And JoBeth and Clyde. And DG—that’s David Goliath.”

“She dirties herself too. All the time. JoBeth cleans her up like a baby. Doctor says she’ll be dead afore she’s old. But if you seen her in there—’ “I told you, I was mistaken. It was another girl. Edward’s girl. He’s going to marry her. Wouldn’t you like to be there to meet Edward’s girl? After all, when he marries her, she’ll be your new sister.” Martin wanted both futures, the one in which his brother came back from the war with a medal and the one in which he was at the fair, running the picture show, choosing which pictures would be showing and putting them on the projector. The way the people came alive on the screen was magic. He said, “I like it here better. With Chloe Ann. Back home, Edward was the only one who liked me, but he’s not there now. JoBeth don’t like me ever since she got boobs. Maybelle won’t talk to me. Maryellen won’t talk to anyone. Clyde says I’m crazy and Ma was expectin’ DG to be a girl, so that’s what he tries to be.”

“I’m curious. How does he do that?” “He wears JoBeth’s old dress and plays dolls with Maybelle.” “Surely your ma likes you.” “She says I’m useless. Pa says I’m useless too but lets me paint.” The Fortune lady asked him to describe what he painted. “An artist could come in mighty useful.” She peered into the ball. “I can see Chloe Ann sitting mighty still. You’re painting her. You’re very good.” “I once sold a picture for eighty cents.” “This one’s not for sale. Chloe Ann has put it in a frame and hung it above her bed so that she can stare at it when she’s going to sleep.” The Fortune lady reached for a floaty veil made from the same sort of cloth at the handkerchief and lay it over the ball. “The future’s all gone now.”

Martin liked the idea of life being a story. As young as he was, he realised that while much of it was written for you, some of it you could write for yourself. He went to find Chloe Ann. She was polishing the military bugle with which she signalled the fair was open. When he told her he was staying, she shouted yippee, and raised the bugle to her lips. But she only pretended to tootle, “In case the whole town comes running before we’re ready for ‘em. Some of us are readier than others.” She grabbed three of her coconuts and lobbed them one at a time to a man who had been sitting on a crate enjoying a cigarette. As he caught each coconut he flung it high into the air above him, caught it and flung it up again, in such a way that all three were on the move. “Clever, huh?” Chloe Ann said, hugging Martin. ‘You’d like to do that?” “Not really,” Martin said. “What would you like to do round here?”

Martin was unclear what to do. “I like it here,” he mused. “Then stay. Stay until someone comes for you. But remember, the longer you stay, the harder it will be for Chloe Ann to let you go. It’s a simple choice between doing what’s right and doing what you want. Can I let you into a secret? When I was a girl—older than you, but younger than Chloe Ann—my ma and pa died suddenly. I faced a choice. To live with my aunt, who didn’t want me, but was prepared to raise me out of duty, or to try and make my own way in the world. That’s never an easy thing, but it was uncommon hard back then. Like most people I headed west. Ended up in San Francisco. Stayed there until it got shaken up and burnt down. Joined this fair and been with it ever since. That’s my story. One day you’ll have your own to tell. Right now your story’s just getting started.”

“Run the picture show.” “Apart from run the picture show.” “I can paint.” “Pictures or fences?” “Both, I guess.” Chloe Ann called to the juggler. He came towards them, the coconuts orbiting his face. “Weren’t you sayin’ just the other day how we could do with a Paint Your Picture man?” He had an odd voice, without any sing-song in it. “Indeed I was.” “I think I’ve just found him.”

“In which case, welcome, Leonardo, to the fraternity that is Redford”s Fair.” He explained that Leonardo had been a great artist. “We’ll find an easel for you and a couple of chairs.” Martin was unsure what a neasle was. “Fret ye not,” the juggler said. “Your guardian will explain everything, and suggest a fee for your handiwork.” “But first,” Chloe Ann said, “we’ll have to see just how much of an artist you are. We wouldn’t want you puttin’ a great big nose on a perty face and makin’ a girl cry.” Martin’s first effort was little more than a picture of the moon with eyes and a mouth. Chloe Ann said he was probably nervous and showed him how she reckoned a face ought to be drawn. “Practise, that’s what you need, and plenty of it. For now, why don’t you go over to the picture show and help out there.” Knowing it was the child’s dream, she had already arranged to have it indulged. And so, as the fair travelled north to San Francisco then slowly east and south and west, Martin perfected his drawing skills. When he wasn’t drawing people for eighty cents a picture, signing each one Leonardo, because that looked more artistic than his own name, he was over at the picture show, learning the ropes. In time the fair returned at Pasadena. He was twelve now. A man, too old to share with Chloe Ann. The place was not at all how he remembered it. It was busier. There were buildings where he couldn’t remember there being any. Naturally he sought out his father’s barbershop. It was still there, and there was his father, looking very much as he used to, though greyer and not so tall. Martin went in and waited his turn. “Last before lunch.” Krantz senior turned the sign on the door to show ‘closed’. He draped the white cloth around Martin and set to

work with scissors and comb, in exactly the same way as he used to. “New in town?” he said. “Just travellin’ through with my folks, sir,” Martin said. He had cultivated a curious accent, a mixture of all the accents he had been exposed to at the fair. “Travellin’ where?” “Cisco, sir. San Fransisco.” “I never went to Cisco. They say it’s mostly rebuilt now, after that fire.” Snip, snip, snip. Beside the mirror there was a photograph of a young man in a uniform. “Is that—is that your son, sir?” Snip, snip. “Sure is my son. That was taken in Europe. Ever been to Europe?” ‘No, sir.” “Only ask, because you sound English. Is your pa or ma English?” The wheels of his imagination started to engage and turn. Using the juggler’s voice he said, “The truth is, sir, my father was born in England. We came over when I was young man.” “That’s interesting.” Martin supposed it would sound interesting to a man who had lived his entire life in a radius of a few miles. Presumably the only time his father had gone further than that was when he came to find him in the cart. “My father is—No, I’m not supposed to say.” “Sounds kinda secret.”

“It is, yes. You see, no one must no who we really are. We’re travelling incognito.” That was how the juggler would have said it, wasn’t it?

he had had a crippled daughter, and that she had died two years ago. Then he said, in a quieter voice: “I had another son who run off. He’d be about your age now.”

“In cog nito,” his father repeated. Snip, snip. “That means in secret, right?”

“Why did he run off, sir?”

“Very secret. It because of who he was in the war. That’s why I was interested in that picture.”

“Did you go after him?”

“Edward fought in Belgium. Have you ever been there?” “Once.” He recalled an early scene in a war picture he’d once shown. “It’s like Kansas.” “It weren’t like Kansas when Edward was there. It was more like—I don’t know where it was more like. Somewhere you don’t ever want to find yourself. Hell on earth.”

“Because he was crazy. He went to join some travelling fair.” “What would I want with another crazy son? I’m not setting up a lunatic asylum.” The barber snipped in silence for a few moments. “I here there’s a fair in town at the moment.” “There is? Will you be going?” “I will not. I don’t even attend the Tournament of Roses no more.” “Maybe your son—”

“Is—Is Edward—?”

‘Maybe. Even if he was, I wouldn’t want to see him.”

Snip, snip, snip, snip.

“Wouldn’t you wonder how he’d grown up?”

“Sir, is your son—?”

Martin averted his eyes from the photograph. Hadn’t the Fortune lady invented some story of a hero’s welcome?

Krantz senior had finished cutting. He put down the comb and scissors and ripped away the cape like a matador and shook the hair off it. “Now that you’ve heard everything you came to hear, I’d like you to get out of my shop. I knew who you was the moment you walked in.”

“Do you have a brother who fought in the trenches?” He resumed snipping.

Martin let go of the juggler’s voice. “But Pa, ain’t you curious as to what I’ve been doing?”

Snip, snip. Krantz senior lifted away the scissors. “He didn’t come back when the war ended, so we’ve been led to believe he’s dead.”

“A sister. My eldest sister was in Belgium,” Martin said. “She was a nurse. My younger sister wanted to be a nurse, only she’s a cripple.” The scissoring changed rhythm. Krantz senior revealed that

“Not remotely, son, now go.” “Is Ma—?” “All things considered, your ma’s fine. She’s a survivor. Same as I am.”

“It’s sure sad about Edward. I liked him.” But his father was pushing him towards the door. As soon as he was outside he heard the bolt slid across and the blinds yanked down. That was the last time he saw his father. Redford’s Fair stayed for a week and moved on. By the time it came back four years later it was half the size it was. The Fortune lady was still telling lies, although these days she was helped along by liquor. The juggler was still juggling, and the fat man still living up to his name, maybe even a few pounds fatter. The Strong Man, however, he’d long ago retired with a spine problem. Martin was sixteen. These days he lived with the juggler, being too old to sleep with Chloe Ann. It wasn’t her choice. She missed his breathing at night. The Fat Man loaned her his dog, but the dog kept her awake licking his balls every hour and so she returned him. To keep herself cheerful she nipped all day at a silver-plated hipflask of liquor. She’d get jealous if she saw Martin talking too much to one of the pretty girls he drew, or if he charged fifty cents instead of the dollar he was supposed to. If she was drunk, she’d blow that bugle of hers to let him know she was watching. “Saw you flirtin’ with that—well I don’t know what she was.” “We was talking, that’s all. Flatrin’ them so they send more business my way.”

and perty ones.” “You talk like we got wed, Chloe Ann. We ain’t wed.” “I know. It’s just that you’ve been the best friend I ever knowed. I’ll never meet another person like you.” “I bet there’s some man out there itching to meet a beautiful woman like you.” She liked it when he called her beautiful. He wasn’t lying. He loved her face. He drew and painted it a lot. And every one of the picture show stories he wrote to pass the time between towns all featured Chloe Ann Parker in some guise or other. She blinked hard a few times to wake herself up. “I’ve been thinking. You know where we are?” “Pasadena, of course.” He’d had already visited the town. The barbershop was still open, though ever since Mr Krantz had died, Clyde had taken over cutting hair. Martin had found out from asking in the ironmongers. Chloe Ann said, “And Pasadena is just along from where they make the motion pictures, ain’t it.” “So?” “I think you should take your stories along. You got nothing to lose if they don’t want ‘em. There’s nothing around here for a young man. The projector’s no good anymore.”

“Wish you spent more time talkin’ to me.”

“Won’t you miss me?”

“We talk all the time, it’s just that you don’t remember.” He pinged the hipflask with his nail.

ture.”

“Everyone needs a tonic. Yours is watching the picture show. Or used to be afore it broke down. The plain truth is, you don’t like me no more. You’re embarr’sed by me. You only like to be around young

Chloe Ann worked on him over the next few days, until the morning came when the fair was packed up. While he was helping dismantle the sideshows, she threw his clothes, drawings and writing

“If I do, I’ll come after you and you can get me a part in a pic-

into a battered suitcase she got from the Fortune lady and left it on the grass. When he saw it waiting for him he didn’t protest. He simply hugged Chloe Ann and kissed her a couple of times and hugged her again for good measure. She said, “Now get going. Don’t want that business where you wave at someone and keep waving at ‘em until they’re just a dot. I’ve been doing that too many times this past coupl’a years.” He picked up the case, weighed his future for a moment and walked confidently off. “Don’t you look back, now,” Chloe Ann called. And he made sure that he didn’t. *** He set himself up in a lodging house as close to the studios as he could find and sent a scenario to the story department of Max Lorne’s Studio, which he’d read about in Photo-Play. A couple of weeks later he was invited to Lorne’s office. In those days Lorne was young and popular, a fry cry from the cantankerous thug he would become. “Great story,” he said, punching the air. “I especially like JoAnn. She’s not afraid of anything. Women will like her. If you could have any actress, who would you like to play her?” “Mary Pickford, Mr Lorne. I like her very much.” “So do I. So does the entire civilised world, but we can’t have Mary Pickford. I thought about Daisy Crane. You know Daisy Crane?” Martin said that he’d read the name in Photo-Play and Variety, though had yet to see her work. “Our projector started to chew up the film, so we can’t show ‘em no more.”

Lorne picked up the telephone. “Dolores? Is Daisy still there? Send her in. For two minutes, that’s all.” To Martin he said in a confidential tone. “Be prepared to fall in love.” The door opened. A dark-haired woman came in. Martin assessed her. She had a kind and likeable face, but wasn’t she too old to play feisty JoAnn? However, this turned out to be Dolores. She had been sent on ahead to deal with the closed door that barred the way of a peroxided young flapper, who slinked into the room after her. She walked with a curious backwards slant, as if she was being supported by invisible helpers. This served to emphasise a regal air she had obviously cultivated. One of Chloe Ann’s bugle fanfares would not have gone amiss. “Max, darling.” Her voice had an unexpectedly gravelly tone. She held out the back of an elegant hand, gloved to the elbow, for him to kiss. “I’d like you to meet Mr Martin Krantz.” Lorne made it sound as though he was a famous scriptwriter already. Even before she acknowledged Martin, the actress opened her sultry lids to their widest extent. “Charmed.” “Same here, ma’am.” Ma’am. Martin smirked. “Mr Krantz has written an excellent scenario for us.” Max Lorne offered her a cigarette from a wooden box. Daisy Crane opened her clutch bag and took out a long holder. Martin had never smoked before. He took one and examined it suspiciously before placing it between his lips. It tasted bitter even before the flame had touched it; acrid when it had. He began to cough and retch. An arm guided him to the window and pushed him into the morning air. A voice in his ear hissed, “For goodness’ sake, do not tell him.”

The coughing fit having passed, Martin contented himself by puffing on the cigarette without inhaling. The acidic saliva that collected under his tongue he ejected discretely into a handkerchief. “It’s a good scenario, you say?” Daisy Crane said to Lorne. “I’m prepared to put my name on it.” “Then I’ll do it. Have a copy sent over. In the meantime, I’m going to get to know the writer.” Barely allowing him to shake hands with Lorne, the actress whisked Martin outside. She took him into a small alleyway along from the office. “DG, what the—?” “Don’t ever call me that.” The actress’s scowl wrinkled her thick make-up. “I’m onto the first good thing in my life. I don’t want that destroyed.” Her accent changed suddenly: “There ain’t no DG any more. If anything, I’m DC now.” “Tell me those ain’t real.” Martin pointed. Daisy knocked his hand away. “Every week these earn me more’n Pa ever did in an entire year. Five years, I should imagine. Is it obvious who I am?” “I recognised you, didn’t I? You look ‘xactly like JoBeth. Is that your own hair?” “It is.” “I was sure sorry to hear about Edward. Not so much about Pa and MayBelle, though. How long you been like this?”

“I fixed my hair for the Celebration of Roses parade two years back. I’ve kept it like it ever since. Since I came to Hollywood eight months ago, I’ve made six pictures already. I’m surprised you ain’t seen

any of ‘em. Men are in love with me. You should read their letters. I coulda been married a hundred times over by now.” “You like men?” “Of course. Now tell me about yourself.” Martin’s first moving picture credit appeared on Wild Flower Wedding, as his scenario became. On the strength of it Lorne hired him as a studio writer, one of thirty who were engaged on various projects, from scenarios to rewrites. Gradually he familiarised himself with every aspect of the business from animal wrangling to camerawork. His directorial debut, The Shy Girl, to his own scenario, came in 1924. DC starred as Hestie, the heroine, a pretty scullery maid who catches the eye of a prominent young businessman who becomes sufficiently infatuated to jettison his fiancé and pursues the maid. Following a freak kayaking accident, he saves her and proposes. The Shy Girl’s Wedding was filmed immediately afterwards and released the following year. It concerned the objections of the businessman’s parents to the intended union and their unsuccessful attempts to prevent it. It was a minor hit. Keen to squeeze every drop of potential from the set-up, Lorne commissioned a third film, which was hastily written and filmed. Unfortunately The Shy Girl Plays Detective was a misfire. To a movie-going public exposed to Ben Hur, The Big Parade, The Gold Rush and Stella Dallas, the unfounded suspicions of marital infidelity proved tedious and attendance was consequently poor. Besides, the title was a misnomer. Hestie, mother of twins, with a housekeeper and maids to order around, could hardly be termed shy. Reviews were sufficiently poor to prompt Martin to pack a bag, steal one of the horses used in Ben Hur and gallop off. Swapping horse for Model T, he searched out Redford’s fair and caught up with it at Phoenix, Arizona. He wished he hadn’t.

The fair had dwindled to a handful of caravans: a Blackjack woman who also doubled as prostitute, a black boy with acrobatic and tap dancing skills, and a flea circus for the kids. They still had the coconut shy, though it was not often set up, Chloe Ann being all but dead. Liquor and tuberculosis had turned her into a skeleton. Martin let himself into her caravan and crept towards the bed at the far end. The figure under the quilt lifted its head. “A’m seeing things,” it croaked. “Lord, is that you, Chloe Ann?” She drew back her lips in a kind of laugh. “Don’t’ya—don’t’ya recognise me no more?” “Lord no, I don’t. I don’t.” He took her bony fingers and wept over them. “Don’t’ya cry over me. Makes me feel as though I’ve left this world already.” “You’re not dying. All you need is to get out of this stinkin’ filthy caravan.” “Why’s that? So you can film my last breath?” She pretended to die for him. It looked so horribly realistic, Martin felt her wrist to make sure she was still with him. Chloe Ann said, “That dancer boy, Waldo, he sees I’m okay.” “When was the last time you ate something?” “I don’t have no ap’tite.” “But you need food, Chloe Ann.” “What for? It don’t stay down.”

Martin got up. The caravan seemed half the size it used to be. Surreptitiously he took a few mouthfuls of bourbon from his hipflask. A picture on the wall had caught his eye. He unpinned it and held it to

the light. “Look how pretty you were, not so long ago.” “Were. Huh.” She squinted at it. “A great artist painted that.” Martin noticed he had signed it with his own name. “If you say so. Personally, I think he was only as great as the people he drew.” The picture went fuzzy until he had blinked a few times. “I should have taken you to Hollywood with me. I still can. I’ve got a Ford now.” “I don’t travel well. They had to drug me for two days before Phoenix.” “Then I’ll drug you to take you home with me.” “This is my home, Marty.” “It’s a chicken coop. It’s no place for a person to—” He stopped himself in time. “Help me to sit up. I need a drink.” Martin slipped his arm under her and lifted her forwards. She weighed about as much as a few sticks and stank of urine and unwashed body. “I thought you said that boy looked after you.” “He does, but he’s been runnin’ err’nds for Blackjack Lilly.” Waldo continued to support her while she took baby sips from the bottle. When she had finished, he took a breath and threw the covers back. As he’d suspected, the nightdress was sodden, stained both sides. He picked her up and carried her outside, laying her on the swishing grass in the shade of the caravan. He went over to Lilly’s caravan and brought her to the stable door. She was wrapped in a shawl, clearly not pleased to have been interrupted. Martin could hear a man with her. “I need hot water, and towels and a clean nightdress,” he demanded.

“And who might you be?” “Leonardo,” he said proudly. “I was the Paint Your Picture artist for some years.” The glower softened. “Chloe Ann’s boy. You come to take her away?” Until then, he hadn’t been sure what he was going to do. Resolutely, he said: “I have, yes. I’m taking her to Hollywood.” Martin cleaned her up himself and put a diaper on her, as JoBeth used to on their youngest sister. He borrowed a clean quilt and a pillow from Lilly and made Chloe Ann comfortable in the back of the Ford. Then he went into the caravan. After picking out a few sentimental trinkets and that portrait, he pulled the rotting mattress, the bedding, even the bed frame to the edge of the camp site and poured petrol over it. Everyone, even Lilly’s john, moseyed over to watch the flames lick the sky. Waldo danced.

her quilt he found himself a full bottle and began to tell her the story of his time in Hollywood. “Now Max Lorne, he’s the swellest guy I ever met, and you’ll think so too. He makes things happen. People love him. They’ll do almost anything for him.” He imagined the sort of question his passenger might ask, had she been awake. “Sure, all the women in Hollywood are beautiful. But not like you, Chloe Ann. I remember the first time I saw you. Lord, you took—you took my breath away. The only pretty girl I’d know afore you was JoBeth, and to be honest, she weren’t pretty at all. DG was prettier than her.” He held the bottle up and swam the moon in the liquor that was left. “Did I tell you about DG? Now that’s a story you’ve got to hear.”

Before the fire had burnt itself out, Martin climbed into his car and drove out of the field, carefully so as not to jiggle his passenger any more than was necessary. “Did you see what I did to your bed? There’s no going back now, Chloe Ann. You’ve got to come with me. Just think, this time next week I’ll be taking you to Grauman’s; show you where Mary Pickford and her husband left their handprints in the cement. Afterwards we’ll go to Sunset Strip and liquor ourselves up. Oh, there are some wild places to see, and I’ll take you to them all.”

When he woke, he was aching from having slept all folded up. It was cold. The windows were steamed up. He wiped them clean and went for a walk. There was an oily smell in the air, not unpleasant, which he traced to some tiny-leaved shrubs. He decided they were a new species and named them the Chloe Ann Plant. Mindful of snakes, he picked his way through the long grasses and wild flowers until he found a stream to wash himself in. After soaking his shirt, he went back to the car and used it to wipe Chloe Ann’s face and hands. Her nappy had a yellow stain at the back so he changed it to make her comfortable. Then he brushed her hair and kissed her on her forehead to show her he loved her, and after filling the empty liquor bottles with stream water, they made their way across the desert.

Lilly warned him that taking Chloe Ann south to Yuma would be like cooking her in a pot, so he drove north, towards Prescott and Kingman, reaching Needles over the California border by nightfall. Chloe Ann was still sleeping when he pulled over for the night. He checked her nappy and found it was still dry. After snuggling her into

Martin took his time. It was early in the year and the midday temperature was tolerable. They saw little evidence of human life. One day they saw no other person. The busiest was when Martin saluted three truck drivers. Finally they reached Bakersfield. Martin found a store for food and by asking around, managed to find a bootlegger

willing to sell him liquor. They spent the night in the Ford on a waste lot out of town. A cop woke him in the morning, arrested him for possession of alcohol and for suspected murder of the young woman decomposing in the back. It seemed she had been dead for several days. Max Lorne saved him from going to jail. When asked how he swung it, he said it was by bribery, plain and simple. He sent Krantz to Santa Barbara on a rest cure. When the young man emerged three months later, he was rested, though not cured. When he wasn’t writing feverishly, or directing, he would draw and paint. Lorne turned up unannounced one evening to find him surrounded by sheets of paper. “I assumed it was a storyboard for a picture, but when I investigated the pictures more closely, I saw they all showed the same young woman engaged in various activities. “That’s Chloe Ann,” he said. “This shows her pegging out her washing. And this one—” (he tossed it aside and picked up another) “—this is her feeding some chickens.” ‘I said, “Did she like keeping chickens?” ‘ “Oh no,” he replied. “But I reckon she will do.” ‘ “Will do?” I said. ‘ “When she’s finished at the fair.” ‘ “You believe this young woman is still working at the fair,” I said. ‘He peered at me through half closed eyes. “No. Course not.” He grinned. “Maybe.” ’

Alcohol and psychosis informed much of Krantz’s work in Hollywood. Though never committed to an institution, he was frequently whisked away on ‘holiday cures’, usually in restful, exotic locations, at Lorne’s expense. The craze for outer space that inspired much

science fiction cinema in the nineteen-fifties passed him by (“That’s yesterday’s news. I saw the saucer crash at Roswell”) and he concentrated instead on writing scenarios for what he termed ‘neo-silent’ pictures. To pacify the director, Lorne provided Krantz with a camera, unlimited black and white film stock and a selection of would-be actors Lorne wished to test for studio roles. Regarded by some later academics as avant-garde, these two- and three-reelers were little more than undisciplined fantasies based on his own paintings. Two North Korean Soldiers Surrendering to Chloe Ann is a typical example. Intertitles tell the story of brave farmer Chloe Ann using her wits to fight her way out of a siege situation. Though ridiculous in terms of story, the lensing and editing (both by Krantz) were masterly, and the young Velma Greenbaum gave a remarkable debut. I’ll Do All The Talking recreated Krantz’s drive across the Mojave Desert and has been regarded as a precursor of Robert Bloch’s Psycho. Drive-in was confiscated by Lorne immediately after its screening, based as it was upon his late wife’s affair with a bit-part actor, usually conducted at drive-in theatres. (“You crossed the goddamned line,” Lorne barked at Krantz. “Cross the goddamned line again and I’ll take the equipment back and have you locked up.”) Krantz’s next project was Chloe Ann Befriending the Indians, set in the early seventeenth century. Though historically inaccurate, and racially offensive by modern standards, the picture is notable for its humanity and for the radiant portrayal of Krantz’s heroine by Lucy Lacey (Lucille Umberger, nee Hovenkamp), later the stalwart of innumerable nineteen-eighties TV movies and soaps. It was with Murder!, a ‘dramatic documenting’, that Krantz broke new ground. Mixing apparently real footage of a presidential assassination with apparently real police interrogations, maps and point of view shots, the picture was clearly inspired by SS Van Dine’s Philo Vance detective novels. Lorne loved it and bought the rights. His proposed big budget ver-

sion, with the working title Who Shot The President?, was shelved when financial difficulties brought about the studio’s near closure in 1959. The original silent short was closely studied in November 1963 by The President’s Commission on the Assassination of President Kennedy, and ever after by conspiracy theory fanatics who believe that Krantz was involved in John F Kennedy’s murder. With Lorne’s studio closed and Lorne sick with terminal cancer, Krantz was obliged to find salaried work. Unfortunately no one was willing to employ such a loose cannon. He lodged with Daisy Crane for a time, but frequent drunken bouts and ‘journeys’, as he termed his mental wanderings, tried her patience and she turned him out. Thereafter he lived as a down and out in Los Angeles, believing it to be Jamestown, Virginia. The exact date of his death is unknown, but soup kitchen workers could not recall seeing him after Christmas 1977.

Philip Leslie has one novel in print with Legend Press, ‘The History of Us’, published in 2009 and runner-up in the fiction section of the East Anglian Book Award of that year, He has two poems in issue 25 of ‘The View From Here’. In 2001 one of his short stories was runner-up in the Bridport Writing competition. A dramatised version of this by the Peter Quince Theatre Company was performed thirteen times at the 2002 Edinburgh Festival. Writing as Philip Hansell, he is also a composer with around forty pieces for amateur players in print. He keeps a not-too-serious blog here.

really BAD Shakespeare

good it would make her feel, she told herself that she did not NEED a cigarette. Oh god, she said to herself, a Virginia Slim would taste so good right about now.

Weeb

Episode 3: Much Ado about Beatrice Meanwhile, many blocks away, in a car loaded with their life’s possessions… **** When the rusted-out, 1980 GMC Pacer rolled to a stop in the middle of Sunrise Highway, Beatrice’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. Her broken and chipped nails pressed deeply into the leather clad wheel, wishing it was the throat of the overweight mechanic who earlier reassured her that the car worked fine. Her expressive, doe-like brown eyes welled with tears as she watched black smoke spiral from under the car’s hood and drift ominously into the dark midsummer’s night. She inhaled deeply (as if inhaling on a cigarette), counted silently to ten, and willed herself to remain calm and, no matter how

**** A rogue wind traveled down the highway. It moved to the left, and then quickly shifted to the right… dancing gleefully in her freedom. Caught in the winds trajectory, various small pieces of garbage followed. An empty plastic grocery bag, one ripped page from the Potter’s Field Daily News, dirt and fallen leaves… even a crumpled, empty Virginia Slims’ box swirled haphazardly in the wind’s movement… When the wind approached the stalled car, it became aware of the woman and five year old boy sitting inside. Amaunet, the Egyptian Goddess of air and wind, could tell that tension hung thickly inside the vehicle. The occupants looked so sad, so defeated. Amaunet howled and whistled a greeting… and, just for the fun of it, tossed the crumpled, empty pack of Virginia Slims at the windshield. **** Beatrice blinked. An empty pack of Virginia Slims, HER favorite brand of cigarette, slapped against the windshield. Her eyes locked on the long sleek white box… hunger, lust, desire… the pack hung there for only a brief second… taunting, teasing… before taking wing again. Unfortunately, the damage was done. After 5 months of sheer torture and hell to stop - Beatrice WAS GOING TO SMOKE AGAIN. This was a sign. The Gods, not quite sure which one actually fell under the title of Smoke Corrupter, had loudly announced that she should take up smoking again… and

immediately! It’s not fair, her mind screamed in a murderous rage. “Fucking assholes,” she accidentally mumbled under her breath. “Did you say something, Mommy?” Aaron, her son, asked as he sat patiently in the passenger seat. Don’t cry in front of the boy, Beatrice cautioned herself. With a forced smile, she spoke in a calm, controlled voice: “Nothing important… I’m sorry about all of this, but I need to ask you a really big favor. Can we sit here quietly for a moment? Mommy needs to think for a few minutes about what we’re going to do. The car’s broke and we’re stranded...” “It’ll be okay, Mommy” Aaron said reassuringly. He looked out the side window and up at the starry sky. The moon was full and filled the night around them with its light. Aaron searched the sky for a moment, as if looking for a sign, before he said: “Besides… it’s not time yet. We still have a few minutes.”

eyes, her once auburn hair now a tired mouse brown… no longer the high school beauty everyone admired and wanted to marry; now, just another statistic – just another single mother doing everything in her power to provide for her child. Even if it meant working three jobs to put a roof over their heads… even if it meant giving up any hope of a personal life… even if it meant going without, just to make sure Aaron had everything… even if it meant a lifetime of loneliness and unspeakable regret… even if… Defeated, Beatrice withdrew from the reflection and ran her hands through her shaggy home-cut hair. Nothing in life was easy. Since the divorce, Beatrice changed from a meek timid country girl to a strong-willed city woman who swore to never rely on another individual again – no matter what. She did not accept handouts, either financial or emotional. She was strong. She could provide for Aaron and herself without help from anyone. Never again would she allow herself to trust.

****

People weren’t worth the price of the pain.

Time, the fundamental structure of the universe, is nothing more than a dimension in which events transpire in sequence. Every dimension exists in its own time, defining its own quantities and velocity in a circular manner. Ever turning, creating new possibilities… Always creating new possibilities and meanings. **** Beatrice glanced at the rearview mirror and, through the darkness, saw the look of defeat masking her round olive-complected face. She appeared much older than 25. Dark rings ran under her

****

Emotional Pain: Pain created by intense emotions and underlying neurological disorders, resulting in physical symptoms… usually a feeling of ripping, of tearing. **** “They all leave in the end,” she said under her breath. Emotionally overloaded, she laid her forehead on the steering wheel and closed her eyes. She was losing it. When will the struggling stop? I’m a good person. I don’t

hurt others. My God, how long does this fight to regain my dignity take? When will life start going right for us? Christ, I can’t take the bullshit anymore. The fighting isn’t worth the struggle... Why should I continue? What do I have to show for all my hard work and pain? “Nothing. I have nothing…” “Mommy,” Aaron replied in a hushed voice. He reached out and placed a small, caring hand on his mother’s leg. Beatrice lifted her head and looked at her son, “Yes, dear.” “I think it’s time.” He leaned forward and looked up at the sky through the windshield. He giggled as a dark cloud passed across the moon. “Yep, it’s time, Mommy. Try to start the car now.” “Aaron, there’s no use. We’ll only run down the battery.” “Please, just one more time.” “One more time it is then.” She pressed slightly on the gas peddle and tuned the key… the car coughed, groaned… more black smoke rose from the engine… the engine turned over… it caught, continued… then started. The motor roared to life. “I’ll be damned, looks like we’re back in business.”

**** If I had to choose one emotion that overpowered the rest, I would have to go with grief and its complex response to loss. In a matter of minutes, while sitting there with Aaron in that car, I experienced every conceivable outdated stage of grief ranging from shock (“Why me? My entire life is a joke. I can’t believe this is happening.”), to emotional release (“Got all the crying and screaming out. Now I can deal with the problem. Feeling better, not so upset

anymore. Breathe deep, calming breaths. Relax and go with the flow. Why don’t I meditate…”), to panic (“I don’t know how to meditate! Why didn’t I ever learn to meditate? My heart is going to explode! My head is going to pop! I have to piss!”), to deep seeded pangs of guilt (“It’s always my fault. What kind of life am I going to be able to provide for Aaron? How could I have brought him into such a world?”), to hostility (“It’s all HIS fault! HE is the one who put us in this situation. If HE was here right now, I would choke the living shit out of HIM.”), and, finally, to misguided hope (“Maybe the car will start…”). Funny, but there was definitely something strange going on that night… I just couldn’t put my thumb on what. **** With the car in gear, Beatrice stepped on the gas. The car lurched and then rolled forward. Slowly, it built speed. The fragile body shimmied and shook as it increased speed. This is going to work, Beatrice thought to herself once the car reached the 35mph speed limit through that section of the highway. Everything was going good. Nothing was in their way – just blocks of open road. That is… until the stoplight. It suddenly changed from green to yellow. “No no no,” Beatrice moaned. Instinctively, she stepped on the brake. The car’s engine sputtered, coughed, and revved down as if wanting to die. She quickly released the brake. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. Just a few seconds… please, just a few more seconds… No one was around – the street was empty.

The light turned red. “Oh no, I have to go through this light.” Beatrice warned Aaron.

“Please,” Aaron laughed. **** I, Shakespeare Williams, stepped into the street. **** The car sailed through the intersection… I turned, headlights blinding me… Beatrice gasped and turned the wheel to the right… too little, too late… Aaron clapped his hands in delight… the right front bumper clipped my hip… and sent me flying into the great big blue yonder… end of episode 3

Blood Binds Tonya R. Moore Episode 5 - The Caste of Blood

“I still can’t walk right,” Kyle complained, inching his way through the narrow passage behind Hel. His bones were still jangly from the effects of Tallow’s reckless little stunt. Back on Mycenae, she’d managed to shift their whole group across coils without leverage and just in time to escape getting burned with the rest of the planet. She’d had the foresight to suspect that it might not be nightfall where they ended up and had tossed a transmogrification spell into the mix. But really? A rabbit was the best she’d been able to come up with? When he turned back to slip her another accusing look she was already frowning at him. “How many more times do you want me to apologize, exactly?” “If you seemed to harbor any real remorse, it might mean something,” he grumbled. “The next time you feel like casting a spell on me, you better the hell make sure you actually know how to undo it

first.”

“Maybe next time, I should just let you burn.” She fumed. “Whatever.” He grunted. Though the possibility wasn’t out of the question, considering her personality. The passageway opened up into a cavernous room populated by a vast array of dome-shaped work-stations. The orb at the center of each dome was the interface for the city’s database. They’d entered Belinda--known as the City of Glass by way of a land crawler from one of the rural villages beyond the mountains. Belinda’s historic archives were an ancient artifact, unmanned but heavily safeguarded. Still, gaining entry by magical means had been a simple matter for Charls. “Impressive but very weird.” Kyle watched Hel fuss over one of the consoles. “This is pretty standard tech though,” she murmured. Her palm hovered over the concave part of the sensor. “In this system, I mean.” There was a hollow harmonic tone. A voice sounding like something being squeezed out of rusty pipes filled the air. “Speak.” It instructed. Hel wasn’t expecting much when she voiced her query. “Display markedly similar cross-dimensional references to a star called down or sent down from heaven.” Kyle’s jaw dropped. A myriad of tiny lights form a cloud in the the air above them. It didn’t just stop there. More and more lights came into view, amassing until they populated the entire room from floor to ceiling. If each light was supposed to represent a single instance...

“Helioselene.” Charls was sounding even more grumpy than usual. “At this rate, we may as well be counting stars in the sky.” Hel modified her query. “Show results for instances of ten thousand or more precisely parallel references.” The cloud became smaller until it condensed into ten points. She pointed at one of the remaining dots. “Bitter star,” She announced after squinting up at the block of text that hovered in the air when she touched it. Then another. “These are references to a Spear from heaven.” The next one was, “Cruel hand of a God--” Kyles brows shot up. “God? Like a GOD... god?” “What?” Hel chuckled. “You think religion only exists on your Earth?” Kyle reached out to touch one of the dots of brilliance. “Now here’s a word I’ve seen before,” he murmured after a moment. “Wormwood. Hel you know, right?” She looked away from her text briefly. “Can’t say I do.” Charls looked over sharply. “That means something to you?” “Old Testament or was it Revelations? There’s a passage about a star falling from heaven and poisoning the waters, making them bitter.” He gave Charls a sheepish look. “Sorry. It really never even crossed my mind until just now.” “I’m just floored by the fact that you even read the bible.” Hel chuckled. Kyle gave her a droll look. “Have I mentioned how bored I was living in the desert?”

Hel’s jumped back on topic. “The Bitter Star and Cruel Hand of God” denotations are the more benign commonalities. Spear from heaven suggests a narrow intent.” She looked to her husband. “Jubal called it Calamity, with your name on it. The one who sent it after you doesn’t seem to care about collateral damage. They don’t care how many other people will die.” He frowned. “We both seem to be targets of some very nasty people, don’t we?” “One very nasty person, perhaps?” Tallow spoke up for the first time. She’d been silent since they entered this room. Kyle had figured she was still sulking about their little back and forth. Apparently not. “What if the blood grudge isn’t a bounty at all?” She ventured. Charls gave her a questioning look. “A spell you mean?” “A spell like this wouldn’t only take a lot of power,” she mused. “To reverberate across so many worlds, it would have needed time to gather momentum. Don’t you think?” Kyle watched the exchange between Charls and Tallow with avid eyes. After they’d escaped Mycenae, it was obvious he’d noticed that Kyle’s collar was gone but he hadn’t commented on it. Kyle had little doubt that the sorcerer was well aware that Tallow had given him her blood. Instead of berating Kyle, he seemed to be studying Tallow with more watchful eyes now. Every nuance of her behavior and words seemed to have become more interesting to the wizard. It made Kyle uneasy, just wondering why. “Something foreseen?” Charls studied the block of text from the

data bubble that Kyle had agitated. “Something sent forward through time.” Kyle pointed at it. “I don’t get how some chunk of religious scripture could be a spell.” “What do you know about prophets?” It was Hel who answered. “Kyle, there were a few famous ones in your worlds history, no?” “A couple of kinds, I guess.” Kyle was still puzzled. “Clairvoyants like Cassandra and geniuses like Nostradamus.” “There are three kinds of prophets though. The two groups you mentioned are most common. The last group is quite rare but they do exist. Spell casters give voice to portents and make them happen.” Hel made a small wave over the console and all of the lights went out. “If the words are never written or spoken by that person, the event never comes to pass. The problem with this type of spell caster is that they usually don’t realize that they have the ability. Those are the ones to watch out for. They tend to wreak the most havoc.” Charls was eying Tallow strangely again. “Have you ever moved forward or backward through time?” He demanded suddenly. “Of course not!” She was obviously flustered by the question though. “That’s impossible isn’t it?” Charls frowned. “Tallow,” His relentless gaze bored into her. “Have you ever tried?” She didn’t answer. Couldn’t--Kyle realized. Her hands were curled into fists at her sides, barely steady. If Charls noticed, he didn’t say anything.

He turned away. “Helioselene--” A shrill, screech filled the air. Kyle yowled, clamping his hands over his ears. The high pitched noise was their warning that the keepers, aware of their presence had already breached on of Charls safeguards. No surprise there. They could only have gone unnoticed for so long. They were supposed to split up and meet back at the edge of town. They had to get out first though. Once of Charls spells was already creating chaos in the distance. He heard the sounds of screams and gunfire. “You know,” Kyle removed his hands from his over his ears when the noise lessened. “It’s wild. A year ago, I wouldn’t haven’t believed that I’d be in a place like this trying to run from librarians with guns.” “They’re anti magical matter destabilizers--really, who cares what kind?” Tallow snapped. “Just get out before they get here. Remember, if they use one of those flash bombs near you, you’re dust.” Who needed to be reminded twice about a thing that? He was ducking into the narrow corridor they’d taken to get to this level when Hel called out. “Kyle!” She pointed to where the noise was coming from. “You should feed before you leave this place if you get a chance.” He balked. “I mean it!” She hissed. “Otherwise you might not be able to do so for a while.” He swallowed hard. How exactly was he supposed to explain his little “problem” that had cropped up recently? Ever since Tallow had given him her blood, he hadn’t been able to feed. At least, not on

anything else. “Nod and smile. Don’t just stand there, you dolt!” Tallow’s harsh whisper snaked into his ear from all the way across the hall. In the dark, he spotted her. She was frowning savagely, the dire threat in her eyes unmistakable. She felt the need to vocalize it anyway. “If you breathe a word about it to them, I will skewer you.” His mouth clamped shut. He nodded briefly, smiling weakly in Hel’s general direction. Well, it’s not like he had a pressing need to confide in her about everything. Tallow, she was watching him from cross the room with that anxious look from before. After a moment, she darted away. Honestly, she was really starting to make him uneasy too. What could she possibly be trying to hide at this point? Kyle sped through the maze-like compound. He held the image of the spot they were all supposed to meet up firmly in his mind. If he didn’t think too hard about it, he could even move in the way of his kind. He could only manage small bursts which were enough to elude his pursuers. He wondered how the others were faring. The passage he’d taken hadn’t worked out so well the second time around, after all. Whichever way he went, they somehow managed to get ahead. How were they tracking him? There were at least a couple of dozen guards concentrated on catching him alone. They kept cutting off his route. He’d already made it across the length and breadth of the grand library. This place hadn’t seemed so freaking huge when they made entry. Architecture and content aside, he was essentially trapped within an elaborate maze. He stopped suddenly, perched on the edge of a metal balcony.

Was it just him having a hard time escaping? He wondered. Hel had pointedly told him to feed on one of the guards before leaving. More importantly, Charls hadn’t objected. That wasn’t because he knew about Kyle and Tallow, was it? His companions were all being so cagey lately. Hiding things from each other. Hiding things from him. A furtive shadow moved directly below him. What was that-two stories down? A slight girl with curly red hair caught in a braided twin-tail, she was armed to the teeth. Her featherlight footsteps made a blurry wind in his ears. She slowed her pace deliberately, stepping out into the open. She spun in a slow, sweeping circle. Her big brown eyes settled on his spot in the shadows. She’d gotten hurt. He couldn’t see her wound but the dense smell of her blood reached him all the way up there. A slow smile spread across his face. She was a sharp, sharp little thing. Too bad. Baiting him like that was a mistake when she was all by her teenie, tiny lonesome, wasn’t it? He pounced. She saw him coming but couldn’t fire her weapon quickly enough to stop him. She went down with a yelp. His palm cupped her chin. His free hand yanked her sidearm away. He tossed it out of reach. Up close, she was weird looking. A small crimson lotus with a black jeweled center drew his attention to her right cheek. Her eyes were wide and wild and she was trembling. She moaned, a low distressed sound but she didn’t try to fight him. His fingers curled around her arms. Her bare arm was dark, slightly red. Tattooed from elbow to the tips of her fingers. “What’s wrong with you?” He demanded. “Why aren’t you fighting me?” “Because there is no need.” A second guard emerged from the

shadows. “She’s the kind of servant who follows orders to the letter.” Kyle didn’t have time to react or wonder why he hadn’t sensed his presence. The man’s weapon fired, five times in rapid succession. The recoil knocked Kyle backwards. He managed to get to his knees. He clutched at his gut. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever felt but it was still excruciating. The metallic scent of his own blood filled the air. His hunger flared. Every cell in his body was suddenly crying out for sustenance. His assailant’s blurry image swam before him. Recognition sent him reeling. “No way...” He ground out. “There just no way.” “Well done, Amelia.” Said the man with the face Kyle once thought he’d never see again for as long as he lived. “Just touching another’s property is a serious offense in Belinda. I’d be well within my rights to kill you just for that.” He continued idly, as if oblivious to Kyle’s plight. “Did you forget or are you just not from around here?” The girl took his hand and he helped her to her feet. She bowed slightly. “Thank you, Sir.” She inclined her head to where Kyle was crouched. “Should I?” “I suppose,” the young master nodded. “At the very least, we should keep him alive.” She went to Kyle where he crouched. She leaned forward. One hand went up gather her braids from her neck. She knelt there, poised and expectant. “What the hell is this?” Kyle was still reeling. Something heavy in his chest thundered. A shudder went

through him. A cold sensation squeezed at his insides, making his body tremble. Panic warred with elation. The utilitarian gray tunic was a far cry from Stefan’s modern goth obsession but everything else was the same. He was still tall, still had that unruly black hair. He had the same curious green eyes. Kyle had watched him die though. Ripped to shreds by the one who’d made him. He’d watched what was left of him quiver and bleed out into the muddy earth. Right before his eyes, his best friend had died. “Stefan...” The name still fell from his lips. He knew how crazy it was. He just couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Feed.” Stefan’s look-alike commanded. “Be civilized about it.”

“Oh.” “Yeah.” “And you’re sure it’s mine? I thought we used a condom?” “I haven’t slept with anyone else, Zach.” “Really? What about that guy on Friday?” “What guy?” “That rich dude from the cabana.” Kim laughed. “No.” She kept chuckling to herself. “He was a tool.” “But you were all over him.” At that very moment Zach decided to grow a beard. If he was old enough to impregnate the opposite gender, he was old enough to stop shaving for an extended period of time. It seemed like the right thing to do. A year sounded appropriate. “But how do you know?”

“Shit.” He didn’t mean to release that last thought; it was just his gut reaction. All his life it had been pushed that pregnancy was the worst possible outcome of sex. Worse than any STD or any hangover regret. But he forgot about all of that when he noticed Kim ignoring his comment. He blinked purposely and continued, “Well when did you find out?”

“Apparently not,” he laughed. For only a moment both sets of eyes stared at the sliver of moon. The only thing occupying their minds was the idea of having a child. “So what do we do?” Zach turned back.

“I just know.” Even Kim’s eyes were blunt.

“A couple of hours ago.”

“Yeah! To get a good tip?” She laughed again. “Clearly you know nothing about being a server at Club Surf.”

“What do you mean?” “What do we do about this… whole… thing?” He pointed to Kim’s stomach. “I dunno. What do you think?” Zach couldn’t answer that. It was unfair of her to even ask that. But she had to. She realized he couldn’t answer and corrected herself

by hugging him. Of course, he kept it awkward and wriggled his hands up and down her waistline, unsure of where to place them.

stiff me on tip.” She tore a sheet of paper towel from the roll sitting on the counter, soaked it under the sink’s faucet, and pressed it against her forehead. “I dunno, he just seems like that kind of douche. You know? The exact kind I don’t feel like dealing with on a Friday.” She paused.

“All I’m sayin, Bubba,” Pete said, laughing in the kitchen, “is that she looked way better in The Hangover then she did in Austin Powers.”

Bubba made brief eye contact, realizing it was a mistake and then went back to the produce.

“Y’all just like her better kuz her titties hangin’ out,” Bubba chuckled deep, echoing in the kitchen. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his enormous forearm, still smiling.

“Like his tab is already at two hundred and fifty bones and the girls are drinking him under the table.”

“Well no shit man!” Pete slapped Bubba’s shoulder. “She’s got a nice rack.” “I do agree.” He paused and finished refilling the hamburger patty tray. “Ain’t she kinda old though?” “I dunno, probably. That just makes her a sexy ass cougar.” Bubba’s laugh echoed again. But before Pete could stretch his humor out anymore, Natalie stormed through the dual swinging doors. “I can’t believe this guy. It’s fucking eight o’clock and he’s already hammered, grabbing my ass. AND he wants another bottle of champagne for his entourage of whores.” She slapped her frustrated hands on the counter. Pete and Bubba exchanged silent goodbyes with simultaneous glances and Pete left the kitchen, wiping the sweat from his neck with a clean dish towel. “What’s he doin’?” asked Bubba, beginning to refill the tray of lettuce. Natalie sighed. “Nothing yet, but I can just tell he’s gonna try to

He nodded. “Well you shouldn’t go judgin’ a book by its cover, Miss Nat. People make mistakes. It’s part of being a human being.” “I know, I know.” She stopped and studied Bubba’s big, meaty, tattooed fingers pawing the lettuce. “Hey I’m sorry for bitchin’ Bubbs.” He glanced up and smiled, perfect teeth. “It’s no problem. Just tryin’ to help a friend.” Natalie smiled and pulled her cell phone out of her apron. A text message from Kim read: running late be there in 30. “Son of a bitch, Kim,” she groaned. Bubba turned to the grill. “What’s wrong?” “She always picks the busy nights to be late.” “Who?” “Kim.” “Yeah. But it’s only eight. Fridays don’t get busy ‘til like nine thirty.” “I know, but still,” she laughed. “Let me bask in my managerial

glory!” He chuckled deep, “Okay, Miss Nats. Gotta start makin’ some burgers for the hungry customers. We talk later?” “Of course,” she smiled. “Try to stay cool tonight. Supposed to get into the upper 90’s.” “You too, girl!” At the main bar, Pete was trying to prank Zach’s filler for the night, Derek, by trying to make him soil his pants. “Listen, you lil’ fucker. Tonight is your big shot. No more barbackin’. Don’t fuck me! I’llhit a bitch in public.” He tried to keep a straight face but the corners of his mouth kept twitching. Besides, by now Derek had grown accustom to Pete’s type of comedy. “You got it boss,” Derek humored him. He raised his hand and saluted the smiling Pete. “You can count on me.” “Good. Now drop to your knees and blow me.” He couldn’t help but start giggling. Derek smirked, shook his head and said, “Go fuck yaself. Seriously, though. What should I do first?” “Get a couple of bottles of the special tonight.” He paused, trying to remember something. “What is it? Coors?”

An hour and quarter past tan later, he decided to call out of work on account of the instability of his mental and physical stamina. His energy was still at an all time low. Plus, Kim was working tonight. Like always. “Hey Chris,” he said over the phone. “Hey Zach, what’s up?” Zach paused to fasten the lid on his newly obtained coffee. He faked a cough as the lid clicked together with the cup. “I don’t think I can come in tonight.” He forced another cough. “I’m not feelin’ too hot.” Chris didn’t respond. Zach heard him breathing heavier into the speaker. “Don’t worry, though. I got coverage” He laughed. Chris chuckled. “Oh, phew. Okay, that’s fine then.”

“Yeah.” “Okay, go grab two boxes of it and then tell whoever is barbackin’ to stock three more.” “You got it.” Derek took off to the storage room.

His surfboard felt as waterlogged and as heavy as his organs. The image of a miniature Zachary Mancini running around weighed his bodily functions down to a slothful pace. That plus all morning catching the shitty waves of Jersey meant Zach’s energy tank was out of fuel. So when he finally checked his phone, the five texts from Natalie, eight texts and one voicemail from Kim didn’t do anything but kick him in the nuts. It was already ten and the sun was starting warm up the sand so he couldn’t help but pass out right there next to his board.

“I’m sorry, Chris.” “Don’t worry about it. We’ll let Linda know later so she doesn’t bitch to me all day.” He laughed. He forced another cough. “Okay.”

“Sounds good.” “Hey, by the way, did you finish the schedule yet? I was supposed to ask you that.” “Yeah, it’s done,” Zach lied. “I’ll get it to you by tomorrow.” And suddenly his day off exploded into a fiery ball of work. Being the bar manager had its ups and downs. “Sounds great,” said Chris. “Alright, we’ll I’ll see you tomorrow night then. Feel better.” He hung up before Zach could respond. He took a sip of his coffee and sighed. “Well that was easy.” The clock on his phone read 11:07.

“Drink some water. Hydrate yourself.” Linda kept circulating the floor to remind everyone to keep drinking water. Even inside, where the air conditioning kept it crowded, she repeated the same words: “Don’t forget to hydrate.” “How is everything? Don’t forget to hydrate.” “You need anything? Don’t forget to hydrate.” It annoyed Kim to the point where she huffed each time Linda bumped into her. It was one thing to be nice; but a completely different thing to pretend to be nice only so your employees won’t sue you.

“Bacon, egg and cheese!” yelled the girl behind the counter.

“I can’t take it, Natalie.” Kim finger-punched an order into the kiosk with excessive force, the screen turning into a rainbow with each connection.

Zach raised his hand and stepped over to pick up his breakfast. “What time is it?” He smiled, trying to make conversation.

“I know, I know,” she replied. “Just try to ignore it. After a while it’ll become white noise.”

She checked her watch. “Eleven fifteen.”

Kim laughed. “True.”

As Zach’s smile melted in the cold response, she turned around and went back into the kitchen of the corner shop. Defeated, he picked up the sandwich and walked back across the street, up to the beach to eat and watch the waves grow with the incoming tide.

Time seeped by as slowly as the sweat soaking everyone’s Club Surf uniform. It was so hot that even standing still, perspiration conquered helpless bodies. The level of disgusting could probably be compared the stickiness to summer in Flagstaff, Arizona. And the worst part: it was dark out. Dark is supposed to mean cool; not hot.

Three nights ago, Kim was telling Zach about their unborn child for the first time. It was chilly that night; about 70 degrees and breezy. Thirty minutes prior to that, Natalie was confessing her desire for Zach and her to go steady. They weren’t sweating either.

Natalie skipped the bullshit. “So what’s up with you and Zach?” “What do you mean?” “I dunno, I just noticed you askin’ Bubba and Chris where he was. And you were checkin’ your phone every few minutes.” Kim still played dumb, unaware of the relationship Natalie desired to gain with Zach. “Oh, well it’s kinda a long story.” “I have some time,” she smiled. “Well,” she paused and thought, looking away from the kiosk. “If

I tell you, will you keep it to yourself? I mean it’s kinda private and I exactly want everyone here hearing about this.” “Yeah, of course!”

Derek shrugged. “Huh. That’s too bad. She’s kinda cute.”

“Okay, well, I mean I look at you as a close friend so it would mean a lot.” “Kim,” she smiled. “My lips are sealed.”

“Whoa rookie! Check yourself,” he laughed. “What? Why?” He smiled and started wiping down the bar counter in front of him.

“Okay.” She looked to the kiosk, then back at Natalie. “I’m pregnant.”

Pete paused before responding, trying to build anxiety but it didn’t work and Derek found it awkward.

The organs of a human being weigh approximately twelve pounds alone. With those two words, Natalie felt twenty-four of them ascend up her esophagus and projectile out her mouth into a nearby trash can.

“Are you ready to be Eskimo brothers?” Pete asked with as straight a face as possible.

Kim filled her tray of drinks rather sluggishly, wishing she could consume one. Opposed to the sweat on her forearms, the beads forming on the drinks looked sexy. She sighed each time she placed a pair of glasses on the thick plastic serving dish. Pete’s smile after filling the last only made it worse. Unfortunately, with bad timing, Pete turned around to Derek and quoted the 2007 film Knocked Up. “I won’t say it but it rhymes with shmashmortion.” He scrunched his face up, trying to imitate the facial expression used in the movie. Derek chuckled and shook his head. Still in earshot distance, Kim felt the words kick her in the uterus. She sighed once more, deeper this time so they could hear it, and shuffled off to VIP with the tray of drinks. Pete shrugged but Derek took notice in the sunken aurora. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I dunno. I think something is up with her and Zach.”

“I guess,” Derek laughed. “Why? Did you bang her?” He nodded. “Nice.” Pete shrugged and placed a sweaty hand on Derek’s sweaty shoulder. “Derek… it would be an honor to be your Eskimo brother.” “Hell yeah!” He yelled, wriggling from the sweaty embrace. “She’s pretty good under the sheets, too.” “Well now you’re just making me curious.” “Good.” Pete laughed and turned to help a MILF. “Go for it! Can I help you?”

“Who? Kim?” Pete turned around.

“What about Zach?”

“Yeah.”

“Kid,” he laughed, “you got a lot to learn around here.” Derek turned to help two college bros. “What do you mean?” he asked, uncapping two Miller Lites. “Zach is in love with Natalie, man.” Pete kept smiling and started reorganizing the bottles of liquor on the top shelf. “He only banged Kim to piss off Natalie.” Derek wiped his hands on the rancid towel hanging from his belt and stroked his young beard. “Interesting…” “Yep,” Pete nodded. He walked over and whipped Derek’s ass with the twisted tail of his filthy towel. “Now get back to work, rookie!”

Zach saved the spread sheet and looked at his phone to check the time. Coincidentally, it vibrated in his palm at the exact same moment. It was only 7:30. Still enough time to relax and get something going. “Hello?”

“Okay,” he finally laughed, easing her tension. “I’ll see you at twothirty.”

Kim already made up her mind. So when Zach ignored her calls at 8:30, 8:45, and 9 o’clock it only reinforced her decision. “It’s like he doesn’t even care what I do.” Bubba nodded his head and flipped two burgers at once. “I just want to tell him what I’ve decided to do. That’s all.” “Give it time, Kimmy. He’ll come around. Snot like he need to know right away. Snot like… time sensitive like the other choice, ya know?” “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Hey, it’s me,” Natalie said.

“And, if I was you, I’d talk to Miss Nats.” He flipped two more burgers. “Sounds like she’s upset bout it, too.”

“Do you have a minute?” “Yeah, actually. I just finished the schedule. What’s up?” She sighed. “I was just wondering if we could hang out tonight? I kinda wanted to talk to you about something.” This surely put a damper on Zach’s evening. The tone of her voice gave it away. She knew. “Uh, sure. When do you get out?” He asked even though he knew the answer.

She chuckled. “Five minutes from now.” She paused waiting for his laugh. “What time do you think?”

“Yeah.” “I wouldun burn dat bridge if I were you. She’s a good person.” “Yeah.” She paused, twirling a curl of blonde hair next to her ear. “Thanks Bubbsie.” Kim smiled, heart warmer. Not because of the intense heat. Bubba flipped one burger then placed several buns on the corner of the grill.

“By the way,” she continued, her indigo eyes exposed wider, “can you do me a favor and keep this between us? I don’t really need all of Club Surf knowing I got knocked up by an immature bartender.”

a teenager starting high school is. I was too cool to hang with my dad.” She laughed. “I kinda regret that now.” She closed her eyes, then turned back to Zach.

The flirty blinking did not affect Bubba but he had already known how to stick by his morals. He smiled, sweat dripping off the wide curvy tip of his nose. “My lips is sealed.”

“Well let’s go out tomorrow morning! The waves are supposed to be knee-high. That’s perfect for beginners!”

“Thanks! I’d hug you but it’s probably a hundred degrees in here.” His massive laugh echoed off the grill and tiled floor. “Same, Kimmy. Same.”

She laughed. “Whoa, whoa. Pump the brakes. I’m no beginner. I just… can’t… stand up.” “Oh, right,” Zach laughed. “I guess that makes you pro. Are you sponsored by Billabong yet?” He paused to sit up. “Seriously, though. Let’s go out tomorrow morning.” “I dunnoooo,” she hesitated.

Though dark and a few blocks from the beach, the waves crashing against the shoreline reminded Natalie of her father. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to surf.”

“Oh, come on!” “Well I don’t have a board.”

It had finally cooled off to the upper 80’s so the porch was comfortable. Zach pulled a bang of dirty-blonde hair from her eyes to behind her ear.”I’ll teach you.” He felt her smile.

“That’s fine, I have a few. You can borrow one of mine.” He smiled.

“Really?” She sat up from the deck love-seat, pulling her head from Zach’s chest.

“What about work? I gotta be in at two tomorrow for the happy hour crowd.” “So? We’ll go early. Like eight or nine.”

He smiled. “Yeah, why not?” “I dunno.” She looked in the direction of the ocean. “I’ve always wanted to. Ever since I was a kid. My parents used to take me and my brother to the beach in the morning and my dad would surf all day long while I watched him from the Jetty or, if it was low tide, the sandbar.” “Yeah? That’s cool!” “And he tried teaching me a few times. But you know how being

“But I gotta work a twelve hour shift. I’m gonna be tired!” it!”

“Oh, stop.” He laughed. “Come on Natalie. This is your life! Live

She paused and thought about her dad. She thought about how much she actually enjoyed being with Zach. How he had the same carpe diem attitude as her dad. Then she sighed, realizing that she actually liked him. She cared more about what he thought of her

eyelids over and over again with purple ink.

instead of Kim; which is what made this so difficult. “Okay,” she grinned. “What time?”

“You need to talk to Kim.”

“Eight thirty.”

He opened his dried out eyes. “I know.”

“Sounds perfect,” she said, placing her head back on his chest. Natalie had taken all night to try to figure out how to phrase her next statement. And it still didn’t sound just right but she said it anyway. “So, Zach, listen. I know what’s up with you and Kim.”

She pulled off him and sat up. “I’m serious, Zach.” “I know. I’ll talk to her.” He was sixteen being lectured by his parents on why not to do drugs. “I’ll figure this out.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he cut her off.

“Okay.”

“She told me at work tonight.”

“I’m sorry.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

He didn’t say anything; only waited to listen. She chuckled. “And I actually threw up when she told me.” “Really?” He laughed, easing the tension again. “Yeah. She came to me and told me like mid-shift. I was totally not ready for that bomb.” Natalie brought the tension back.

The one thing Zach would have done anything to avoid had suddenly become the one obstacle standing in his way to obtaining what he has wanted since the day he started working at Club Surf. And he wouldn’t have realized it without the electric connection of Natalie’s lips to his face. All twelve pounds of his organs sank. And then Natalie said this: “By the way, you really need to shave. It’s kind of prickly.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” “It’s just like. I know you slept with her and I know why you slept with her and I’m over it. I really am. I just… I just don’t know if we can work right now. Like knocking a girl up is a pretty big deal, Zach.” “I know. But-“ “And if she keeps it, then we can’t be like this.” She looked up at the porch ceiling, still resting on Zach’s chest. “You made a mistake and now you have to deal with it.” Zach closed his eyes and painted “FUCK” on the back of his

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eFiction Magazine by DW Lance is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. ÂŠ

eFiction Magazine August 2010 ÂŠ