eFiction Magazine No. 017 August 2011

Editor Doug Lance Managing Editors Essie Holton, Stasey Norstrom Readers Ryan Dorill, Robert Turner, Megan Schwark

eFiction is a monthly fiction publication. The editors only accept manuscripts online. To review our guidelines and submit a manuscript, please visit http://eFictionMag.com/Submissions.

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ISBN: 978-1-4659-3279-2 ASIN: B004UD88K2 Copyright Š 2011 eFiction Publishing

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Contents Short Stories The Birthday Party

Alan Jankowski

5

The Hit Bob Kalkreuter

11

Another Twenty Five Minutes

Kevin Fraleigh

15

Storks Have Really Big Bills

AJ Iris

31

Perfect Disguise Mary O’Neil

38

Two’s A Crowd Helen Seymour

46

Special Delivery Lia Fairchild

53

The Happiest Man in Washington Joe Flood 67

Poetry Three Dark Poems

Edward Rodosek

79

Contributors 94

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Serial Fiction Blood Binds Tonya Moore

85

Episode XIV Book Reviews Douchebag Roulette Essie Holton

97

by Marie Simas The Cambridge List

Essie Holton

99

Essie Holton

102

by Robert Clear Tales of Aradia: The Last Witch

by L.A. Jones

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The Birthday Party Alan Jankowski

She did this every year, so the call came as no surprise. In fact, I had been expecting it for the last few days. The only surprise was that it took so long. I was sitting with my wife having our coffee after dinner when the phone rang. As I got up to answer, my wife gave me a knowing glance but did not say a word. It was as if we both knew instinctively.

“Hello.” I started into the phone, “Oh, hi Mom. Yeah, I’d been expecting your call.”

I talked to my mother over the phone for several minutes while my wife Sandra sat quietly at the table staring down and clutching her coffee cup.

“Yes, Mom,” I said into the phone, “Sandra and I will both be there this weekend. Yes, I know it’s Dad’s eightieth birthday.”

I said my goodbyes to my mother and hung the phone back up on the wall. Quietly, I rejoined my wife back at the table. We both sat in silence for a few minutes as we sipped our coffee.

“She wants you to make one of your pistachio cakes, she says it’s Dad’s favorite.”

My wife let out an audible sigh.

“Just do it,” I added. “It’s only once a year.”

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When the weekend arrived, my wife and I got in the car and started the two hour drive. Sandra looked good in her pretty, blue dress as she sat silently in the passenger seat with the plastic cake container on her lap. We were both a bit apprehensive about these yearly birthday parties my mom threw for my dad. We should be used to them by now; yet, you never knew quite what to expect.

When we got to the house, we parked the car and walked up to the door. I rang the doorbell as we both stood motionless outside.

“Coming.” I could hear my mother shout from inside. I could also hear her dog Sammy barking on the other side of the door. I knew my mom would take a while to reach the door as she had been using a cane these last few years.

After what seemed like an eternity, my mother answered. She was dressed in a floral print dress of pastel shades suitable for any party.

Sammy was jumping at her feet barking.

“Oh, you brought the cake,” my mother said with a big smile.

“Your dad will be so happy.”

She led us in to the simply decorated living room and I noticed the same ‘Happy Birthday’ candelabra on the mantle that had been brought out every year at this time and placed carefully next to the framed portrait of my parents. There were also fresh cut flowers in a clear glass vase on the coffee table in the center of the room. My mother instructed us to put the cake in the kitchen and as I walked through the house the distinct smell of my mother’s beef stew wafted

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through the air. I knew it was my father’s favorite.

We all sat in the living room making small talk for a while until my mom announced it was time to eat. Sandra and I followed her into the kitchen and helped her bring the various pots into the small dining room adjacent to the kitchen. As I entered the room, I could not help but notice the four place settings with my mother’s best china placed carefully upon the white table cloth my mother reserved for special occasions. There was a polished silver candlestick holder squarely in the middle. Four chairs were arranged carefully around the old rectangular wooden table, and after Sandra and I finished bringing out the food, I helped seat my mother proudly at the table’s head. Sammy made himself comfortable at her feet.

I helped my wife dish out the stew, and then my mother led us all in prayer as she blessed the food. As dinner got underway, my mom reminisced non-stop about the “good old days” and how she had met my father at one of the dance socials that were popular in her small town at the time. She must have repeated about ten times how meeting my father was “the best thing that happened” in her life.

When dinner was over, I helped Sandra clear the table and we brought out the cake and served it. My mother, again, led us as we all sang “Happy Birthday”. When we were done with the cake, my mother got up and went into the bedroom. I knew this part of the evening was coming as she did it every year, and it always made me uncomfortable, though I knew it was harmless. Sandra and I waited

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in silence as she returned with an old photo album. She sat back down and started slowly turning the tattered pages. As she stopped on every page, she would reminisce, and her reminiscing was accompanied by stories told so vividly you would have thought they were happening at that very moment. Perhaps in her mind they were.

When she was done going through the photo album, my mother turned to me and asked if I would go into the living room and put on the radio. It seemed like an innocent enough request. When I returned, I was a bit taken aback by what she said next.

“Your father and I want to dance,” she said calmly.

“But Mom,” I started somewhat excitedly.

My wife reached over suddenly and put her hand on mine. I thought quickly for a moment.

“But Mom,” I continued, “I really want this dance with you. I’m sure Dad won’t mind.”

The music wafted in softly from the other room as I danced slowly with my mother in the small dining room. As we danced, I wondered what was going on in my mother’s mind these days. She was approaching eighty herself, and her mind was not what it used to be.

She seemed to remember details from the distant past so vividly, and yet, the present often seemed a blur. I wondered sometimes if she even realized my father had been dead almost nine years, and yet, she never once forgot his birthday.

Afterward, my wife and I cleaned up the table and put everything

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away, including the uneaten piece of birthday cake from in front of my father’s empty seat. Sandra and I did the dishes and then joined my mother back in the living room where we made small talk the best we could for another hour or so.

At the end of the night, we said our goodbyes. My mother thanked us repeatedly for coming to the party.

“It means so much that you kids could come by,” she started. “It gets so lonely here for us sometimes.”

As I kissed my mother goodnight and said goodbye; I felt tears forming in my eyes. I told her I’d call her soon and that she should keep in touch. I realized there was nothing else I could do for her.

All I could do for her was keep in touch and show up at my father’s birthday party next year.

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The Hit

Bob Kalkreuter

Joey sat on a white metal chair drinking a bottled beer in the darkened back yard of the man he’d just paid for killing his wife.

“She didn’t suffer, did she?” he asked. “I didn’t want her to suffer.”

High above, fireworks exploded, falling through the night air like neon flowers expelled in natal magic from a black, cloudless sky.

Watching the other man, Joey rubbed his thumb over the label of the sweating bottle starting at the edge and shredding the paper into tiny pellets he herded toward the center. He wore shorts and sandals and a button-down white shirt.

“No, she didn’t suffer,” said Smoky, rising and stretching. “I know how to do my job.” He held up his own bottle of beer, very much empty. “It looks like you’re empty, too. You want another one?”

“Sure,” said Joey. He smiled. “You know, this is the first time I’ve been free of that woman in…” He rolled his eyes up as if the answer might be somewhere above him in the roiling sky. “In eight years, I guess. And…” He looked like he wanted to say something else but decided against it. He looked down and twisted his wrist so his new Tag Heuer watch was less visible.

“And you inherited a bunch of money doing it,” said Smoky,

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chuckling. He stood at the well-tended border of roses that ran along the sidewalk into the back door of his house. He was a tall man, rawboned and sunburned.

Joey glanced up looking nervous. He didn’t make eye contact. His face was flushed and damp.

“That’s all right,” said Smoky, shrugging. “None of my business.

Money is what makes the world turn. I don’t want all of it, just my share.” Beckoning with his head and his hand, he motioned Joey toward the house. “Let’s go inside. Mosquitoes will be out soon.” He slapped his free hand past his ear. “Damn. There’s one already.”

Joey rose.

“It’s been a profitable week for both of us,” said Smoky. “I suggest we celebrate in style.”

Joey nodded. “Sounds good,” he said. “But I need to be going in a few minutes. A date, you know.” He winked, as if this was something he did every week.

In the kitchen, Smoky reached into the refrigerator and took out a bottle of chilled champagne, holding it up. “The glasses are over the sink,” said Smoky, pointing to a cabinet next to the unshaded window.

Joey placed the empty beer bottle on the counter top and took down two fluted glasses. Behind him, the champagne cork popped.

He turned and his jaw dropped.

Standing in the kitchen doorway was his wife. Joey looked from her to Smoky and back again, his eyes flashed panic, and then feigned

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delight. “Carol,” he said, his voice already starting to squeak.

“Sorry,” Smoky said, raising his arm. For the first time, Joey realized that Smoky held an automatic pistol with a long silencer. “It’s her money, and she pays better.”

Through the kitchen window, the fireworks finale raged with thunderous bangs, lighting the glass with throbbing colors.

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Another Twenty Five Minutes Kevin Fraleigh

Another twenty-five minutes, that’s all there was. That’s all there had been when he started. Another twenty-five minutes. If he could just hang on, just hang on and they would be here, like the cavalry charging down the plain towards the box canyon where the wagon train waited valiantly for rescue. They would come for him, the lone survivor, if only to confirm his fate. There was not much time now, a mere twenty-five minutes, his breathing, once robust, was now shallow as he tried to conserve his oxygen. He forced himself to fight the urge to gasp, to suck in deeply the remaining oxygen in his tank. He tried to will the tanks full again, focusing his concentration away from his panic, trying to fill his mind with anything but his situation. In front of him on the control panel were a variety of digital readouts, all blank now, dead. A single dim indicator light gently pulsed, and on this, he decided to focus, to concentrate, to let it draw him in. The dim green luminesce filled his mind, reminding him of—of what? The thought that entered his mind was of the mist because it was dimly luminescent also. The mist wasn’t like fog; it was something more like, well, alive.

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It was a strange thought to have now. He would have preferred to think of other green things like grass or leaves or the blue-green sea, but there it was and he couldn’t release himself from it. It was that mist, that awful mist that set this whole thing in motion. The thought of it, the sudden reality of it, frightened him even out here, almost eight light years from Earth. It frightened him, not because of what the mist had done or what occurred within it, but because he believed the mist had never left him.

All the years that had passed had not diminished this fear. All those years ago, he had been driving on a narrow road in rural Northern Virginia. It was a winding road with a steep wall on one side and a deep gulley on the other. In the winter, it was not unusual to encounter heavy fog trapped in the rifts and valleys. In the darkness of the early morning, the fog often appeared without warning, like a thick, nearly opaque wall slowing a driver’s progress to a crawl. In the winter, before the snows, it was normal and expected. It was part of the cost of living in mountainous,rural, western Fairfax County while working in D.C. But the mist, that was different. It, he was sure, was not the product of moisture, condensation, and other environmental factors. The mist was, well, it just was. How he gained this insight, he was never able to reconcile, he just knew it was true. He hadn’t always known it, though. There was the road on that dark winter morning, slow and treacherous because of the ice and twelve inches of new fallen snow.

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It was foolish to even start out. His ‘77 Toyota Corolla was clearly inappropriate for the conditions, but undaunted with the pride of youth and sense of purpose, he was determined to make it to D.C. He was only twenty-four and a newly minted second lieutenant sure that the Air Force Space Command could not achieve its mission without him. After letting his car heat up for twenty minutes, he slid, more than pulled out, of his driveway at four a.m. As the heater in the little car fought the ten degree cold, he pulled ahead slowly, tenuously, testing for traction. After sliding a little, he found it and began to pull ahead, slowly increasing speed. Halfway down the mountain road was a steep hill followed by a hairpin turn.

As he began the decline, his gloved hands clutched the steering wheel more tightly. Although he decreased power and held his wheels straight, the Corolla began to pull to the left. He tried to correct his path, but it was too late. He was sliding downward towards a turn he could not possibly make. He eyed the gulley along the rightside of the road. He knew it was there but couldn’t determine the depth as it was filled with drifted snow.

An engineer to the end, he was trying to compute his survival probabilities based on his estimated speed and angle of impact. The little car continued to twist and turn as it slid towards the curve at the bottom of the hill. Faster and faster it slid, the snow from the road making an awful metallic scraping sound on the car’s body. Then he saw it for the first time. At the bottom of the hill, obscuring the curve,

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was a heavy greenish mist looking eerie in the Corolla’s headlights. As he flew into the mist, he braced himself for the inevitable fall into the gully that paralleled the road. The expected fall and crash never came.

It was as ifhis flight were arrested by the mist. He hadn’t stopped, yet enough time had passed that he should have been either off the road and in the gulley or around the curve and on his way to I-66. He could not feel the car moving. There was no sound of snow scraping against the car, no hum from the engine, no vibration from the wheels, only absolute silence. Through the windshield, he could see nothing, no snow, no headlights, nothing, yet it was not dark. The mist itself seemed to be strangely luminescent. He sat, still in the driver’s seat, considering the situation, and the only conclusion he could draw was that he was dead and this was some kind of limbo.

That conclusion was challenged almost immediately as the thick luminescent mist began to seep into the passenger compartment through the doors and windows. His consideration and confusion was replaced with terror as the thickening mist inside the vehicle began to rise above the pedals, above his knees, to his chest. He waved his hands wildly as ifthere was some chance of stopping the inevitable progression, some way to swirl the soup-like mist away from him, but there was no stopping it. The cold dampness of it pressed against his skin despite his winter uniform overcoat, dress blouse, shirt, and undershirt. He shivered with the touch of it as it threatened to pull the breath from him.

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Pale and trembling, he felt the mist rise above his shoulders to his lips, which he fought to keep sealed. In his desperation, like man drowning, he unlocked his seatbelt, tilted his head back, and pushed his face against the ceiling of the passenger compartment gasping for free breath. Finally, though, the mist completely filled the compartment engulfing him and, unable to seal himself off from it, with a deep gagging breath, he brought it into him. It filled his nostrils and his lungs; it violated him, seeking entry wherever it could. He choked and gagged and felt it fill him. He wondered for a moment if this was how it felt to drown, He thought he might welcome the darkness of death, the endless nothingness, but as abruptly as the terror had begun, it was over.

The clock on the dashboard showed nine o’clock, and the morning was bright and sunny. I-66 was clear of snow and he was driving east at seventy-five miles per hour. The world was completely normal, except for the fact that it was still in the upper teens outside and he was sweating like he had just finished running the 440. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he couldn’t imagine how he got to this point in his current condition. He couldn’t remember anything about the past thirty miles. What was more, if he left the house at four a.m., how could it have taken him five hours to drive thirty miles? If he made it onto the beltway with all the traffic, he’d have a wreck for sure. He pulled off the interstate and looked for somewhere to park.

Almost immediately, he pulled into an abandoned shopping center.

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After quickly parking, he opened the car door and twisted his body to get his legs out the door. The crisp, cold air slapped him in the face.

He took a deep breath and began to cough. Each time he coughed, he thought he detected a luminescent greenish mist being released from his mouth. But it wasn’t really released. It felt like invisible strings connected the emitted mist to the mist remaining in his lungs. The feeling was uncomfortable. He didn’t like it. It made him feel sick and he began to retch.

He barely made it out of the car before vomiting a sick green and red soup along with some fleshy material he thought might be his lungs. Weak and shaking, he fell back into the driver’s seat and prayed for the strength to make it to, to where? To work? A fat lot of good he’d be there today. To the emergency room? And tell them what, that he’d inhaled a patch of fog? The only other option was to go home, call in sick, and wait for this, whatever it was, to pass. He turned the old Corolla onto I-66 West and headed for home to wait it out. Three decades and light years later, he was still waiting.

The next day he was fine, in fact, he was better than fine. Everything about him was better than fine, and better than fine didn’t go unnoticed. Better than fine was reflected in his performance evaluations.

Better than fine helped him to qualify for the astronaut program.

Better than fine got him on the first manned mission to research the nearest black hole, V404 Cygni. And finally, better than fine got him to be the last human alive on the mission. Better than fine, he

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remembered, was like putting the mind and body on autopilot and just drifting along for the ride. Consciously he enjoyed it, the adulation, the specialness of it. Deep inside, though, he wondered if it was really him that achieved such high scores or qualified with the elites.

He wasn’t better than fine until the mist, until the terror and the pain, until he stopped being himself and became something other.

Now he was here; he had made it into deep space and it had all been a result of its efforts, not his. Now there were only twenty-five minutes left, or so the last working readout said. Twenty-five minutes, but it must have been hours since the ship’s systems shut down and he had donned his extra-vehicular activity (EVA) suit. It didn’t really worry him that the tanks on the EVA suit were only partially full. Why worry? Twenty-five minutes from now it won’t matter. He would simply go to sleep and never wake up, and then drift endlessly in space in the orbit of the black hole or, perhaps, fall into it and be assimilated. Although he hoped for it, in reality there was no hope for rescue. It would take any would-be rescuers years to reach him, and he didn’t have years left, only minutes.

He closed his eyes for a moment, or what seemed like a moment, and when he opened them again something had changed. Although the display still showed twenty-five minutes, the cabin of the command module was perceptively brighter, light pouring in from some outside source. It seemed impossible that the ship changed position so radically in such a short space of time, but there it was. Without

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navigational equipment on-line, it was impossible for him to know for sure, but it seemed like his position, his orientation to the black hole had changed. He was now oriented away from the black hole, towards its companion star. The star was not close enough to pose a danger, but it was close enough to illuminate the cabin’s interior. The gravitational field of the black hole at this point was equal to that of the star, holding the spacecraft in a virtual state of stasis.

It suddenly occurred to him, with a mixture of terror and academic curiosity, why the clock had not changed although it had been hours or even days since all systems had failed. The massively dense black hole warped space and time, creating a rift where neither time progressed, nor space changed. The star’s gravitational pull essentially stopped the ship’s forward course around the black hole. Time would change, but at an infinitesimally slow rate. Someday, perhaps in thousands of years to the rest of the universe, the ship might even escape the pull of the star and continue its progression around the black hole.

Despite the physics of the situation, he believed himself completely capable of thought and motion. Whether he was capable of cognitive thought or he was dreaming, he wasn’t sure, not really. Likewise, he thought himself completely capable of motion, but he wasn’t sure whether he actually moved or just thought he moved. He was incapable of discerning the truth of it. If time was stopped at this strange point, how could he move? How could he think? Thinking, like breathing, was a mechanical process and all other processes had slowed

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radically. Would he be forced to continue for a thousand years, never aging, never having a moment pass, never having a microsecond less than twenty-five minutes of oxygen left? Inherent in that thought,was the terror of being trapped without the natural progression of birth to death, never able to see the Earth, never to hear another voice, never to touch another human being. And he knew that even if he thought himself to be dead, to be ended, to have escaped, it may still be just another delusion as his physical body remained in the same exact place and moment in time.

He shut his eyes again and, after what he perceived to be a moment, opened them. Through the front port window, he could just make out something moving towards him. It was large and he thought it to be a spacecraft, the type and configuration was familiar to him, but he was unable to rationally explain its presence. The ship came within a few hundred yards of his. It sat motionless, maintaining the same heading and orientation as his. Unexpectedly, the command console came to life. The multitude of displays provided wildly divergent readings, and suddenly, the communications console flashed to indicate a received communication. Cautiously,he moved his hand to the button allowing two-way communications. From the speaker, or perhaps it was directly in his mind, a strangely familiar voice spoke.

“You are one?” The question made no logical sense, but without conscious thought he found himself responding.

“I am one with all. I am part of the whole.” He had no idea what

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that meant, no understanding of what he had just responded.

“You wish to rejoin the whole,” said the voice.

“The whole is all. The whole is complete. I wish to rejoin the whole.” He was an observer now.

“Prepare for transfer.” It was just that simple. Prepare for transfer.

Involuntarily, his hands reached up and disconnected the helmet from the EVA suit. His head jerked back violently leaving his mouth wide open. From deep inside him came a luminescent mist. It departed his throat and other points, just as it had entered. It formed as a semisolid mass above the command console waiting for transfer. He gagged harshly and gasped for breath. It felt like his lungs had been left raw.

He clutched his chest as if that might be of some comfort, but it wasn’t.

He doubled over in pain. His tearing eyes were pleading.

“What... What about me? Are you going to just leave me here?” he choked out.

There was silence, whether for consideration, consternation, or laughter, he wasn’t sure.

“Our ship cannot transport you. You would not survive.”

“But... But I was your host I kept you alive,” he argued.

“We reciprocated by improving your existence, increasing your technical knowledge.”

“But it was all to get you here.”

“Perhaps you would prefer that you had never encountered us,” said the voice.

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“Yes, I would have preferred that,” he said.

“Then that is what you shall have as a reward for your care of us.” Unnoticed, a barely discernable wisp of luminescent mist returned to him with his drawn breath.

Before he could consider what the entity said, the mist was gone, the ship was gone, everything was gone. He was alone, sliding more than driving down a steep ice and snow covered hill. White knuckled, he tried to force the wheel of the ‘77 Toyota Corolla to obey his will, but in the end, it would not. He careened sideways onto the edge of the road just before the hairpin turn and, at more than sixty miles an hour, flipped twice before landing upside down in the gulley adjacent to the road.

The driver of the snow plow that cleared the road more than three and a half hours later almost missed seeing his wreckage as the plow blade pushed the snow into the gully. Hours later, at Manassas General Hospital, doctors were surprised that except for some disorientation, bruising, and hypothermia, he was uninjured. The only unusual thing that showed up in his physical examination was musculoskeletal deterioration, a condition typically associated with space flight.

Following the accident and his subsequent recovery, he was fine.

His life and career progressed as it would for one who was fine, but not necessarily better than fine. He applied for, and was chosen for, the astronaut program, but never got to fly, not until the black hole.

He didn’t win a spot as commander on the mission, in fact, he barely

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made the cut for the crew, but that didn’t seem to matter to him. All that seemed to matter, although he didn’t know why, was that he be on that crew, be aboard that ship. As he boarded the spacecraft, found his place, and readied for takeoff, he suddenly felt conflicted. While he was excited about spaceflight and the challenges that lay ahead, an overwhelming, oppressive trepidation suddenly came upon him like a heavy weight he had no strength to release. What oppressed him was an ill-defined memory consisting of vague, shadowy images, darkness and cold, and isolation. He felt the insatiable urge to flee, to run from this and never look back, to hide in the world far from the cold depths of space, but as he grabbed for the harness release to undo the straps that bound him to the seat, he felt it, the first rumblings of the massive engines that would thrust them into deep space. It was too late. Whatever memory had sparked his fear, whatever horrors awaited them in the dark beyond, he was now powerless to escape.

They were committed, they would be the first space pioneers to reach a black hole, study it, and return. He was preternaturally sure they would do none of those things; all they would do is die.

Three years and twenty-seven days later, he again felt the surety of his horror.As they approached the point at which the gravitational fields of the black hole and its nearest neighboring star reached equilibrium, the sensors reported the presence of something unexpected― another spacecraft. When they came within visual range of the ship, the crew were amazed to see that the craft was identical to their own

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right down to the markings and identification numbers.

He was horrified, and suddenly, it was like a projected image gained clear focus; he gained clear focus, sharp definition. He moved quickly towards the command module. As he bolted through the door he overheard the commander communicating with the ship.

“You are one?” asked the commander.

“I am one with all. I am part of the whole,” came the reply.

“You wish to rejoin the whole?” asked the commander.

“The whole is all. The whole is complete. I wish to rejoin the whole,” came the reply.

“Prepare for transfer,” ordered the commander flatly, emotionlessly.

His horror was now tangible. His world, as it was, swam before his eyes, the dizziness of understanding the impossible almost overcame him. He did understand, suddenly, inexplicably, and he moved against them, these alien horrors, these fiends. He saw them as men, but they weren’t. They were something else, something that could overtake and destroy humanity! Gathering his strength and determination, he pushed forward hitting the commander hard against the control console. He hit the commander hard again and again until he stopped resisting. Other officers came ready to attack him. He pulled a knife from the commander’s meal tray and brandished it at them. They backed off. He forced them from the command module and sealed the door. It wouldn’t take long for them to disengage the lock, he had mere moments.

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He quickly reoriented his spacecraft towards the other, gave it full thrust, and locked down the controls. He had only moments. The two spacecraft would collide and this would be over, this nightmare, this anomaly in space and time. His thoughts were broken as the door to the command module suddenly burst open. Men rushed in, then stood dumbfounded, unable to process what they beheld. The two ships were mere yards apart and closing fast. As terrible as the thought of the collision was, there was something else, something that made his heart stop from the sheer terror of it. Clearly visible in the command module of the other ship was an astronaut in an EVA suit, a human astronaut! Then, suddenly, he was not one, but two, like some perverse split screen reality. As he saw his spacecraft about to collide with the other, he could see clearly, through the visor of the EVA suit, a space craft hurtling towards him with only moments before collision. Both men, both him, shared a common scream as their worlds became little more than a debris field in deep space. With the sudden reduction in continuity of the two ships, the debris was slowly attracted by and fell into the dark nothingness of the black hole leaving nothing, nothing, nothing.

That was a close one, he thought, that was really close, but he still had time. Einstein suggested what would happen to a spacecraft moving around and very close to a black hole, how space and time warped, virtually arresting movement and slowing the progression of time. Time on the edge of the black hole was almost infinite. Twenty-

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five minutes was forever. The indicator on his oxygen supply read that he had twenty-five minutes left, that’s all there was, but that’s all there had been when he started. Twenty-five minutes left. If he could just hang on. Just hang on.

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Storks Have Really Big Bills A.J. Iris

Ari awoke to blurred thoughts of Leah’s newborn baby. Leah had led her into the tiny bedroom of her cluttered apartment to show Ari the heavily-worn oak crib tightly tucked into the corner of the room.

Ari hadn’t even been aware that Leah had been pregnant. The baby was unusually dark and very thin but smelled sweet in the warmth of the sun shining through the small, curtainless window. His vulnerability, although typical for an infant, overwhelmed Ari as she felt sorry for him but managed a sympathetic smile. She also felt sorry for Leah. Leah has been with James, a simple man, for over four years, but she didn’t mention him once during the unexpected visit and the bare, cinnamon-scented apartment offered no signs of his existence.

Ari hugged Leah against her yellow fleece hoodie, and Leah hugged her back. Leah smiled girlishly, exposing a small cold sore just inside her lower lip.

“I’m happy,” she told Ari. “I’m happy for you,” Ari responded.

But she wasn’t happy for Leah at all. She couldn’t help but feel that the road ahead would be long and bumpy for Leah.

“I have a lot of support from my friends,” Leah said in a shaking

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voice as though she hoped Leah would agree.

“Yes, you do,” Ari said, but she knew it wasn’t true.

Ari shamefully felt glad that it wasn’t she who had had a baby.

Leah may not have an infant in real life, but she had one in Ari’s vivid dream last night. Stranger than having a dream about Leah’s imaginary baby was having a dream about Leah at all. She is a friend of a friend who Ari met several times but had barely registered in her mind. When she last saw her in October, Leah was at Stella’s house along with some of Stella’s other friends but barely said more than hello to Ari and stayed for less than an hour. “Oh well,” Ari thought, time would tell if it was a dream of premonition.

It was Memorial Day, two days before the new moon would eclipse the sun in Gemini. On their way to Rockport for the holiday, Ari thought about the dream again. It was the visual of the feeble baby that stuck with her and disturbed her the most. She thought about telling Jack about the odd dream, but he looked so content behind the steering wheel on this beautifully sunny Memorial Day. She didn’t dare ruin his light mood with talk of a strange dream created by her random, subconscious musings.

Ari reflected on the unusual dream in between little chats with Jack as they drove peacefully toward the Cape Ann coast. They stopped in Ipswich at Castor & Pollux, a charming old-world antique shop, to look at the African violet stand that had caught her eye on the faded crumbling sidewalk in front of the shop. In the fresh coastal air, they

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loaded the wrought iron plant stand in the back of Jack’s truck and Ari immediately went back to the troubling dream and nervously chewed the inside of her left cheek. She wanted to understand why her mind had created the dream. She worried about what her distressed mind was telling her and if her insecurities were surfacing through her dismal dream.

Ari had never felt the desire to conceive and bear a child. She’d always thought it to be an unusual thing about herself but figured some fine day an orphaned child would benefit from her preference for adoption over conception. She sometimes wondered if it was simply that she did not wish to reproduce herself. “It’s hard to be me,” she thought, “and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, but I guess it’s hard to be anybody.” But now that she was with Jack, she has been regularly stifling thoughts about wanting to reproduce him. “Maybe that’s what love does to people,” she reflected. “Or, maybe it’s the dopamine,” she once speculated. At 38, thoughts of pregnancy risks, newborn-induced sleep deprivation, and the terrible twos usually crept in to her babymaking fantasy to bring it to a screeching halt.

The day before the Gemini solar eclipse, Ari learned that her gratifying and well-paying job, for the last five and half years, would be eliminated in thirty days. Sheryl Phillips, her favorite published astrologer, had written in the monthly forecast that the eclipse would be falling in Ari’s tenth house of career and reputation and this would surely mark a new beginning for her as she rose to new heights. “New

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heights?” she demanded. Ari had never been laid off before. “This layoff marks a new low,” she quipped as she read the astrologer’s forecast. She knew the layoff had been a strong and terrifying possibility given the budget cuts and was only one of many unfortunate souls who were losing their precious sources of income.

Ari had been politely informed that she would receive five weeks of severance pay and her accrued vacation would be cashed out but that she would lose the six weeks of sick time she had accrued over the last five and a half years. She had been carefully saving those sicktime weeks for imagined adoption leave at some special time in the future. They were gone now. “They were wasted on a fantasy,” she grumbled to herself.

A week later, Ari decided to stay home for a melancholy day and do some job searching. As she cracked an egg into the frying pan for her leisurely, day-at-home breakfast, two firm yellow yolks slid out of their shared broken shell. The side by side double yolks were a friendly display, yet they startled Ari. It had never occurred to her that that could happen. “Is this significant?” she probed the Universe.

The twin egg yolks suddenly seemed to have personal existence and she struggled to continue to view them as edible material. She topped them with a slice of melted American cheese and enjoyed her breakfast with warm peach tea.

The impending job loss consumed Ari all day, every day. Her breast tenderness reminded her that she no idea when she last had her period.

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“I am usually so good about keeping track,” she thought, remorsefully.

Her premenstrual symptoms seemed magnified. Her breast tenderness turned to sharp soreness. For the first time ever, Ari’s bra felt tight.

“Could it be?” she asked herself fearfully. She furiously looked back over the past month attempting to recall key dates in her fertility cycle. If her estimation was correct, she had been fertile during the crescendo of the solar eclipse.

She asked her beloved Tarot cards if she were, in fact, pregnant.

They produced the Page of Wands. Her body became still with the exception of her pounding heart which throbbed through her hot ears.

She sometimes suspected that the cards enjoyed frightening her. Ari decided that it would be a game of wait and see for now.

Earlier in the week, Jack had asked Ari to buy firecracker popsicles at her next trip to the grocery store. Tonight, she was sitting on the sofa enjoying the red, white and blue ice pop. “It’s Flag Day!” she suddenly realized and screamed to Jack as he cracked open a beer in the kitchen. Ari hadn’t had a firecracker pop since she was a young girl in front of the ice cream truck at her older brother’s little league game.

As she got close to the end of the Popsicle stick, she noticed something on the Popsicle stick. She read aloud, “Why do storks charge so much?” She turned the stick over to read the answer, “They have really big bills!” Being that firecracker popsicles are intended for children, it seemed harmless to Ari that this joke had been printed

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on the stick. She was mildly amused but could not resist the urge to read into the experience.

The Page of Wands harassed Ari again, two days later, when she asked the Tarot for a straightforward answer. She felt pretty sure that she should have had her period by now. Fast approaching the age of 39, she had made it this far without an unplanned pregnancy and now that she is about to be jobless and no longer a married woman, she faced the possibility of a pregnancy. “The forces of the universe love to mess with me,” she seethed.

At some pivotal point after Flag Day, Ari’s perspective changed from ‘What if I am pregnant?’ to ‘What if I am not pregnant?’ Her fear and anxiety had turned to anticipation and joy. She was now spending hours each day on expectant mothers’ websites. Ari thought about Jack and how much she loved him. She put her hand gently to her belly and felt deeply honored to think she may be carrying his baby.

With a warm smile, her soft-spoken doctor said they would be welcoming the boys in mid-February. Ari thought back to the eclipse in Gemini, the zodiac sign of the twins. She was delighted by the mysterious actions of the universe and the course-correction that had been offered to her. “They will be Aquarians!” she exclaimed to Jack.

Without skipping a beat, Jack suggested that they name the twin boys Darwin and Edison, two of his favorite Aquarians.

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Perfect Disguise Mary O’Neil

She was gasping for air even as she ran in a blind panic down the alley of the apartment complex. Shoeless, her pounding feet made no noise. As she neared the street, she slowed down and stopped, trying to stay close against the building. The fact that it was well past midnight made it unlikely she would encounter anyone walking about, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

She knew she shouldn’t have gone home with him. She’d just met him but he’d been so cute, and they’d just seemed to “click” at the bar. She’d been foolish, she knew, but she’d been mesmerized from the moment the handsome young man with the boyish dimples had made his way to her. She hadn’t meant to kill him.

There weren’t even any cars on the street. The sun would be up soon, and she needed to think. She headed in the direction of home, wondering how much time she would have before the young man’s shirtless body would be found. She smiled in spite of her predicament remembering his chiseled chest. Such a virile young man. What a loss, what a shame. It had been an accident.

The sun was coming up by the time she reached the house she shared with two other young women. She had rented a furnished room

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from them almost six months ago, but nothing was in her own legal name. There was no written lease to worry about, and during her walk, she had decided the best thing for her to do was to leave. Go back home for a while, three states away. She could catch a bus, travel as cheaply as she could. But she needed to think of a disguise first.

Too many people at the bar had seen them together. For all she knew there might have been a video camera at the bar ready to broadcast her image on the first newscast available, once his body was found.

She was too tall a woman not to stand out to begin with, and it was too likely that someone would recognize her if that happened.

Once inside her room, she collapsed on her bed in a mixture of relief and fatigue. From the first day she’d moved in here, she had felt so safe. It would be so hard to leave this city, but she knew it was something she would have to do. Quietly crying into the pillow, she eventually fell into a deep slumber.

It was late morning when she awoke. Grimly determined, she began to set aside the things she would need. Her hands caressed the expensive collection of makeup she had first purchased when she’d arrived here. She felt like an artist painting when she used it, and she had gotten quite good at applying it so that it looked natural. Makeup would never be allowed back home, though, and she fought back the tears as she realized she would have to leave her collection behind.

All of her earrings, too, would not be allowed back home. Nothing of beauty, she thought with dismay. Nothing of who she really was.

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She glanced longingly at the array of dresses and skirts hanging in the open closet. The family uniform was jeans and shirt. Much more practical for farm life.

She hadn’t missed the farm. Never in all the time she’d spent growing up, had she enjoyed breakfast at home like she did here. In the city the eggs came straight from the fridge, and she had loved that simple idea from the first day. Back home she had been the one who got the eggs from the hen house every morning, much to the anger of some of the chickens. From an early age, after being pecked by angry chickens every morning, she had grown to hate them. Breakfast and its preparation on the farm had been a dreaded ordeal. In the city, it was simple and easy.

There was a lot about the farm she didn’t miss, and she hated the thought of going back home, even temporarily. She’d be expected to pull her weight, with tedious chores from sunup to sundown. Farm life was hard, and she’d been so glad to get away from it all. She just had to keep reminding herself that this return home would be a temporary thing. She’d started her life over with nothing when she came here, and she could do it again. She could plot out a new state to move to when she left, when she felt it was safe to do so. Until then, she would have to remind herself, daily, that she would be free of farm life, eventually.

She still had a couple of outfits from her old farm life boxed up on the top shelf of the closet. She took them down, glared at them,

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then packed them into her small suitcase. She changed into the only dress she planned to take with her and applied her treasured makeup for the last time. She then scooped up her toiletries, vitamins, and medications and went out to the kitchen to call a cab. Thank god her roommates were away for the weekend. They’d figure out on their own that she had left for good.

She took a cab to the bus station, buying a one way ticket to Los Angeles, California. She had no intention of actually going there, but wanted a paper trail to give the impression that she had. Buses stopped for breaks and she intended to get off at the next large station. The more people milling about, the more she might be able to blend in.

She was angry, but resolved, as she exited the bus a few hours later in a fairly large city in another state. Though angry at the unfairness of her life, she was resolved to do what was needed to keep her freedom. She’d been wrong to go home with the handsome young man, but she’d only defended herself when his anger had surfaced. She’d been lucky that his collection of sport trophies had been close enough for her to grab one. She’d been so afraid at that moment when she hit him, but she knew in her heart that she had never meant to kill him.

She could only hope that he wouldn’t be found for a while.

There was a small motel just up the street from the bus station, and she walked there in the early evening light. It appeared, to her, to be a place that might be hurting for business. The look on the proprietor’s face confirmed that hunch when she asked if she could rent

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a room for a month. Woman’s intuition, she smiled to herself. Paying in cash, she provided a false name, which the money hungry woman behind the counter seemed uninterested in. Taking the key, she headed despondently toward her room.

This is going to be a long month, she thought as she unlocked the door to the tiny room. The smell of stale cigarette smoke assaulted her as she entered. The bedspread on the twin bed appeared thin and faded from age, a few cigarette holes here and there. There was a small writing desk and chair in one corner and a very old television sitting on a thoroughly scratched dresser. It would have to do.

She closed the door securing every available lock. She was afraid, but she was determined. Whenever his body was discovered, it would likely be local news only. She would stay here until she could make herself unrecognizable as the young woman she was, and then she would head back home to the farm life she so hated. But only temporarily, she chided herself.

It didn’t take long to unpack, so little had she brought with her.

Finished, she sat on the bed, staring at her reflection in the mirror for a long time. She had thought leaving home and starting a new life had been the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she was wrong. That had been exciting and she had loved every minute of it. Leaving it all to go back to her old life was far more difficult.

It was time. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she began to undress to shower. It was the last time she would ever wear this dress,

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and she caressed the soft fabric as she hung it up. Her strapped leather sandals, she placed with care on the closet floor. She knew she would stare at them with longing for the rest of the time she was here, but she had to be strong. They would be all that would remain of her old life when she finally left.

The tears were spilling over now, leaving tracks in her carefully applied makeup. It had been an accident, but the police would never have believed her. She gathered the clothes of her old life and went in to shower and remove the last vestiges of her new life.

It was almost an hour later when she emerged freshly scrubbed, and re-examined herself in the mirror. The old clothes didn’t quite fit her at this point, but she knew within a month they would. She picked up a pair of shears she had brought and began cutting off her long hair. She tried to be as even as possible making each cut about two inches from her scalp. She continued to cry with each snip, reminding herself it would be only a temporary disguise.

Finished, she lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Tears continued to slide quietly out of the corners of her eyes, and she briefly wondered if dehydration was possible from too much crying. Before long, she had fallen into an exhausted slumber.

When morning came, she studied her new reflection carefully.

Though she would no longer (for now) be applying any more makeup, she would still continue the rest of her normal routine. Yoga, meditation, and taking vitamins. She needed to take care of herself physically

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and emotionally.

She took out the bottle of women’s vitamins, as well as the medication she had brought with her. The prescription bottles had been the only things with her real name on them, and they were the only way she could possibly be traced. The doctor’s office had honored her request to hold all mail for her there, so she had never even given them a valid address. It was too bad she would have to find a different doctor at some point in the future; this one had been very understanding and nonjudgmental.

As hard as it was to do it, she dumped the contents of the prescription bottles into the toilet and flushed everything away. She then set the empty bottles on the floor, stepping on them to smash them into little bits. She glanced back up at her reflection wondering how long before the effects of discontinuing her medication would take.

She ran her fingers over the smooth skin of her face, and across her upper lip. Without the hormones she had taken for the past few months, the dark hairs would probably begin to show within a couple of weeks. A month from now she would be totally unrecognizable from the young woman who had accidentally killed an angry young man in a moment of passion. She would purchase the bus ticket home then.

Sitting down on the toilet, head in hands, he began to cry.

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Two’s A Crowd Helen Seymour

SUSAN: I’ve decided to sleep with my boss, Mr. Hannigan, to get promoted. I know it sounds underhand, but if you think about it, it’s no more so than hanging on his every word, making him endless cups of tea, and so on. This is pro-active. Using my skills in a creative way to secure success. Just like they’re always encouraging us to do.

It’s not a pleasurable prospect, I have to say. But he’s not quite as repulsive as my husband, and something good might actually come out of this as opposed to a bad back and two, frankly, regrettable children. Plus, it beats working hard and being diligent, which never really were my cup of tea.

TRACY: So, I’ve decided to shag my boss, right. Just for this promotion thing at work, not cos I fancy him or anything. I need this.

I deserve it so much more than that old bag Susan who’s so old she might as well be dead; I mean she must be like forty or something.

She thinks she can get by just by flirting a bit and wearing a low cut blouse to show her wrinkly boobs, which frankly, make me want to puke. Well she can’t. If you want to get by in a man’s world, you’ve got to go all the way. Wow, I sound like a feminist or something. Is

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that what they’re called? Those ugly women you see marching on the telly? Well, I’m like one of them, only definitely not ugly. I’m well fit, as it happens.

SUSAN: Do you know what Kevin the filing boy said to me today?

“I’m not sure what you’re doing is very ethical or dignified.” I laughed at the poor boy and he almost cried, bless him. He’s what you might call a loser in life. He stays at work until seven nearly every evening.

Can you believe it? When does he find the time to start drinking?

TRACY: Mr. H called me into his office today. It was supposedly to tell me off for forgetting some report, but I knew why it really was.

I leaned over his desk so he could see right down my top; he didn’t look but I could tell he wanted to. All that yelling and getting angry was just sexual tension.

SUSAN: My plan of action is to accomplish three tasks every day in the time up until the interview. Today I: Told him I liked his tie and ran my finger down it. (The tie was in fact vile and resembled the aftermath of a boil bursting down his shirt.)

Said I got lonely in the evenings and could do with some company. (He was perplexed and asked why my husband didn’t keep me company. One thing led to another and I ended up telling him we’d

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separated—I’ll have to be careful what I say around the office from now on.)

Asked him if he’d like to have a drink sometime. (He actually said he’d rather die, but I’m working on it.)

A good day’s work. Kevin did my filing and finished my report, too, so that was good.

TRACY: I’m so much prettier than Susan. It’s actually insulting that she thinks Mr. H would shag her over me. I asked Kevin who was prettier today when he was doing some filing for me. He said, “You do look a bit more like your typical bimbo, but you both have ugly souls so why does it matter?” Not really sure I care what my soul looks like; it’s not like anyone’s going to catch a peek of that when I’m in the shower, is it?

When I told my boyfriend, he was a bit cross at first, but when I asked him what a bimbo was he put his arms round me and said they were blonde, pretty women with big boobs.So now I’m happy.

I told him about the promotion and he was pretty excited when I said I knew I’d get it. He asked how (cheeky bugger) and I said I had the most productive output in the department. Don’t know what the hell that means but he seemed to buy it. He wouldn’t understand why we feminists do these things, best to keep him in the dark.

SUSAN: The interviews took place this morning, so I was up at

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five to select a sufficiently revealing outfit. My husband suggested that I should be using that time to prepare for the interview, which annoyed me no end. What did he think I was doing? Preparing for a round of golf?

By the time the interview came around I was surviving on a wave of caffeine. Kevin went in first (just a formality, he’s only been here two months, plus he’s a dweeb). He came out looking as though the rug had been pulled from underneath him, his eyes wide and slightly teary. Bless him.

When I went in, I pulled out the big guns. First of all, I dropped my pen on the floor and bent down to reach it (nearly putting my back out in the process). I commented on how difficult it must be to choose between his employees and sympathised with him for working such long hours. He actually snapped at me a little; said the interview was meant to be about me. He’s probably conflicted by desire, that’s all.

TRACY: Cocked up a bit in the interview today. It’s a bit of a blur, but I think the words ‘We’ve been dancing round this too long, take me now,’ came out of my mouth. He informed me: Me and Susan are pathetic.

We’re lucky he’s not firing us.

He wouldn’t take me now if I gave him a substantial, life-altering sum of money.

Bit harsh, especially that last one. But he has to promote one of

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us, right? And it’s got to be me over Mrs. Wrinkly Boobs.

TRACY: Kevin? Kevin? He’s promoting the bleeding tea boy?

SUSAN: Mr. Hannigan informed us of his ridiculous decision a short while after the interviews had finished. Kevin had an inane grin which I would have liked to erase with a rubber.

Mr. Hannigan said the following: ‘Kevin’s talents have been overlooked until now. After interviewing him I’m certain he would excel in this role.’ Etc. Etc. And do you know what happened then?

TRACY: Do you know what bleeding well happened then?!

SUSAN: Then Kevin leaned over us in a smug manner and said, ‘I knew I’d get it after the interview went so well. If, that is, you could call the best sex of your life an interview.’

TRACY: He bloody shagged his way to a promotion! How low can you get? No wonder he looked so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after the interview. And that must be why he’s been staying so late at night. Bloody dark horse.

SUSAN: I am outraged that an employee would stoop to such low levels, and I will be making a formal complaint. This is outrageous.

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TRACY: For fuck’s fucking sake are there no fucking morals left!

I QUIT! SUSAN: At this rate I’m going to have to resort to the unthinkable and work hard, which is clearly intolerable. So, I think I’ll just hand my resignation in instead.

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Special Delivery Lia Fairchild

Anticipating the arrival of my monthly flower delivery, I filled a beautiful crystal vase and set it on the counter. Dave from our local florist usually delivered them around six on the first day of every month. Having flowers in my home meant a great deal and the thought of not receiving them any longer saddened me. This order would be my last monthly delivery.

I had won a contest to receive a free bouquet every month for a year. I was thrilled of course, especially since flowers have always been a huge part of my life. Growing up, I used to work in the garden with my grandmother, and we always had fresh-picked flowers for the dinner table. My late husband brought me flowers on many occasions, as well, spending a small fortune at that floral shop. That’s probably the reason I won because I didn’t recall entering any contest.

It was blessing in disguise, really. It was only a few months after Mike died that the first delivery came and I found out that I had won.

Seeing the bouquet for the first time brought back fond memories of Mike surprising me with flowers. The last time was on our fourth wedding anniversary. He died six months later at the age of thirty-nine.

Last month, Dave delivered two dozen long stemmed roses. I

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couldn’t believe it. And they were my favorite color, lavender.

“How am I getting such an expensive bouquet this time?” I asked Dave.

“There was a mistake in ordering,” he responded sweetly. “We had so many extra roses, and I thought you might like them.”

He was right. I appreciated Dave’s thoughtfulness and our little talks when he came up to my apartment. Often times he would stay and chat for a few minutes, give me tips for making the flowers last longer, and even help me with other things. What great customer service, I thought.

Once he caught me as I was carrying some boxes out to my car.

I had finally gone through Mike’s things and decided to donate most of it. I had six huge, and heavy, boxes. Dave carried them all to my car. It was brutally hot that day so I made him some sweet tea when he was done. It was nice having a man around again to help out, even for an independent woman like me.

We had a nice long conversation on that day, talking about everything from our favorite movies to our dreams for the future. We laughed so hard I almost cried. I teased him about liking chick flicks since his masculine appearance would seem otherwise.

“Don’t you have to get back to work?” I asked him.

“This was my last delivery of the day.”

That happened often, and I sometimes wondered if he planned it that way. But Dave was a simple, laid back kind of guy. He was in

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his early forties and had short brown hair and a thick mustache. He sort of reminded me of Tom Selleck. He said he had been married once before, at a very young age. It didn’t work out. He loves the beach and spends his free time with his large family: four brothers, two sisters. I, too, came from a big family and confided in Dave that I wished Mike and I hadn’t put off having kids for our careers. Dave was a good listener and actually helped me get through some of my tougher days. We had exchanged cell numbers early on—in case of any floral emergencies, of course—and we ended up texting about once a week. I found myself texting him whenever I felt down and sometimes for no reason at all.

It suddenly dawned on me that it wasn’t just the flowers that I’d be missing. I would miss seeing Dave’s face. I would miss his sweet smile and especially our talks. And what about our texting? I wondered. Will he still be interested in seeing me and texting with me?

I started to wonder if Dave thought anything more of me than just a nice customer. Could this be why I haven’t gone on a single date since Mike died? I thought to myself. I’m only thirty-nine. My friends and family kept telling me that I “still had it” and needed to get back out there. But what was stopping me? Am I that pathetic that I am pretending to date my delivery man?

I pushed the thoughts out of my head and began to straighten up my apartment for Dave’s arrival. I really will miss those flowers, I couldn’t help thinking. Maybe I’ll just call the shop and see how

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much it would be to continue on with the service. Maybe they’ll give me a discount.

I picked up my phone and dialed the number. A strange uneasiness came over me. What did I have to be nervous about?

“Hello, this is Amy Johnson,” I said when the girl answered the phone.

She asked how she could help me and I started by explaining I was the contest winner.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I’m not familiar with any contest,” she answered politely.

Confused, I paused for a moment. Then I asked for the owner.

The girl explained that the owner was out and the manager was in the back completing an order, but she would go ask her about it. On hold, I checked the time. Dave would be arriving soon. I felt a twinge of excitement and checked my hair in the mirror.

“I’m very sorry,” the woman came back on the line. “The manager said we never run contests. Maybe you have the wrong store.”

“Oh…” I couldn’t think of anything else to say except, “Thank you.”

After I hung up, I just stared out my kitchen window. What? I don’t get it. Could I possibly have had looked up the wrong number?

Or maybe, I had been thinking of a different florist this entire time.

Someone has obviously made a mistake.

Certain that Dave would clear it up when he arrived, I brushed

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the thought from my mind and applied some fresh lipstick. I was wearing my cutest jeans and a red V-neck t-shirt that showed off my toned arms. I had worked hard for those and enjoyed showing them off. About twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang and I raced to the door to greet Dave.

The sight of my gorgeous arrangement took my breath away. My final order was the most beautiful one, yet. And this one came in its own vase, which worked well because I didn’t think the one I selected would have been big enough.

“Hi Amy,” Dave said, barely peeking over the top of the flowers.

I could see his eyes gleaming so I knew he was smiling.

“Come in.” I opened the door wider and watched that he didn’t bang into anything.

Dave walked right over to the dining table where he knew I always put my display. He looked great; he was wearing loose-fitting jeans and a tan button down shirt. I thought it was nice that the shop didn’t make him wear a uniform all the time.

“Wow, I can’t believe this one. It’s so beautiful. Thank-you.”

“Sure, it’s our pleasure.”

“Can I get you something to drink, or do you have to get back?”

“Nope, last delivery of the day.” He shrugged and smiled.

We sat on the couch talking and laughing while he showed me pictures of his new nephew that had been born the weekend before.

Everything seemed so natural, so comfortable. “Wow, he’s a big boy,”

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I said looking over his shoulder. This was the closest we’d ever sat to each other. He smelled fantastic and I was starting to get that little feeling inside my stomach. It wasn’t the first time I had felt it, but before, I always felt guilty. I thought it was too soon and that I’d be betraying Mike. I realized he’d want me to be happy, though. Then, I started to wonder if Dave ever got that little feeling when he was around me.

“Yep,” he replied turning to look at me. “Maybe he’ll be a linebacker.” Dave stared at me with glazed eyes as if he suddenly realized how close I was sitting. At that moment, I couldn’t tell if he was happy with that or feeling uncomfortable. I decided to give him some space and backed away a bit.

“Uh, I wanted to ask you something,” I said, trying to fill the awkward silence. “I’ve really enjoyed having these flowers so much and I decided to call the shop and see if I could continue getting them… maybe with a discount?” I raised my eyebrows in question. I still held out hope that this would all work out.

Dave looked unnerved with where this was going and I wondered if he was worried about me asking for a discount. He stood and walked across the room. “Oh, I—” “But the strange thing is, when I called they didn’t know anything about the contest. Is there another Canyon Flowers?”

“Umm, nope we’re the only one.”

Dave was starting to worry me as he ran his fingers through his

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hair and then jammed his hands into his pockets.

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t the girl know about the contest?”

“Amy, there’s something I have to tell you.” He came over and sat down in the chair next to me.

“What is it?” Now I’m getting a little worried. What could he possibly have to say?

“There’s no contest,” he said looking down at his hands. “There never was.”

“What? I don’t understand. How could there be no contest?” My heart rate suddenly sped up.

Dave looked up into my eyes and grabbed ahold of my hands.

“Amy, I hope you will be able to understand this, but I made the whole thing up.”

Defensively, I pulled my hands from his and stood up. I walked over to my gorgeous flowers and stared at them. Thoughts raced through my mind but nothing made any sense. “What are you saying, Dave? Why would you do something like that?” I was beginning to wonder if he was some kind of psycho that was just using the flowers to get into my home, maybe even my bed. I couldn’t look at him.

I was afraid of what he might say, so I tried to focus on each flower in the vase, tracing its detail with my eyes.

“I did it for you.” Dave got up from the chair and came up behind me. “That first day…the day of the first delivery. I was actually supposed to go to another apartment and came here by mistake.”

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Stunned, I listened to his story and continued working my way around each flower. I gently touched the petals of a lily as he continued to talk.

“When you opened the door, I recognized you. I remembered delivering to you once before. I think it was your anniversary.”

Oh my god. Please tell me it’s not what I think it is. He must have felt bad for me because my husband died. “So what, you felt sorry for me and left the flowers anyway?”

“No, that’s not it. Amy, listen I—” “No!” I turned abruptly and rushed past him to the door. “I really can’t hear any more of this.” I opened the door and looked away.

“Could you please just go? I can’t talk about this right now.” How could he have done this? Just when I was starting to feel good about moving on. I was so confused I couldn’t think straight. “Please,” I begged, when I saw he was still standing there.

Dave walked to the door and brushed his hand down my arm as he past me. “I’m sorry, Amy.” He left without another word. I didn’t even look at him when I closed the door.

*** For the rest of the night I just sat on the couch staring at my final bouquet on the table, running over each and every time Dave had been in my apartment. I cried thinking of Mike and how Dave had

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brought up our anniversary. I’m sorry Mike. What an idiot I must be.

I felt I had disappointed him by letting Dave come into my life and deceive me. I finally fell asleep hours later on the tear soaked pillow of my couch.

When I woke up, the first thing I saw was the bright sunlight beaming through the window, shining on the flowers. My first thought was of Dave. What am I going to do now? I said aloud to myself.

Am I just being too proud and stubborn? Should I have given him a chance to explain himself? None of this makes any sense. I realized that the flood of emotions that came back to me about Mike’s death were so powerful that I just couldn’t stand to talk about it. I had cut Dave off and now I wondered what else he would have told me. I was so mad at him for ruining something that what was turning out to be so nice.

I decided to give myself some time to think it all over. I went for a run in the park to clear my head. When I was too tired to run any longer, I walked. I walked for almost an hour and then sat down on a bench in the park. Exhausting myself felt good, refreshing. A sense of calm fell over me as I watched the children and people interact in the park. I envied the carefree nature of the kids playing with each other and their parents. Suddenly, I felt confused. Something didn’t make sense to me. If Dave wanted to hurt me in any way, why hadn’t he done something by now? He’d been in my apartment a dozen times in the last year and he was nothing but sweet and caring.

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The other thing gnawing at me were the flowers themselves. Those were some pretty pricey bouquets he was bringing. I wondered for a moment if he could have stolen them. There’s no way Dave would do that. I was relieved that I could truly say that. I did feel I knew him, or at least I thought I did. He couldn’t be making that much money as a delivery person, so I wondered how he could afford paying for them.

My feelings of confusion were overriding my frustration, and I wanted some answers. I picked up my cell and sent a text to Dave asking him to meet me at my apartment.

When I arrived, Dave was waiting in the courtyard by the pool.

He gave me a modest closed-mouth smile and I returned just the same.

It was an awkward moment, but I was glad to see him. We sat at a table with an umbrella to protect us from the heat of the day.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Dave said first.

“I’m just so confused by this whole thing. Can you please just tell me, from the beginning, what happened?” I braced myself for whatever was coming.

“Like I said, I had delivered to you once before. I had actually talked with Mike a few times in the store, too.” Dave paused for a moment when he saw my look of surprise. I held back any words and let him continue. “Hearing him talk about you…he would just light up.”

Dave touched my hand on the table. “Now I know why.” I looked at him holding my hand but didn’t move it. “And when I saw you that first time, on your anniversary, you were just beaming to get those

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flowers. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

That made my heart skip a beat, and instinctively, I pulled my hand back. I stood from the table. “Maybe we should walk and talk.”

Dave followed and continued talking, “Anyway, when I came to your apartment by mistake and you answered the door, I just sort of froze. I don’t know, maybe I ended up there subconsciously. But there you were. Only you weren’t beaming. I had heard about Mike.

You looked so unhappy and I just wanted to see you smile. I thought maybe somehow the flowers would help you.”

We reached the stairs to my apartment and stopped. “I guess I can understand that. It was a nice gesture, but why the contest? Why drag this thing out for a whole year?”

Dave took my shoulders in his hands and looked deep into my eyes. There was that feeling again. I prayed whatever he was going to say wouldn’t make me angry or scare me away.

“Amy, don’t you get it. I just wanted to be near you, to talk to you, and see your beautiful smile. I thought Mike had been the luckiest guy around, and when I was standing in your doorway I thought fate had brought me there. I just wanted to have a chance to help you be happy again and hopefully get to know you in the process.”

I was shocked, but a part of me was relieved. I believed him. I believed every word he was saying, but somehow I couldn’t utter a single word.

“I’m sorry, Amy,” Dave continued when I didn’t respond. “But I

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really thought we were getting close. I thought you felt it too.” Dave’s expression was desperate as he wondered what I was thinking. “You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach?”

A tiny smile threatened to peak from my lips as I heard that last part; then suddenly, I found myself reaching around Dave’s waist.

His hands slipped from my shoulders to around my back as he drew me in closer. Finally, our lips met for the first time and I knew that everything was going to be all right.

“Promise me something,” I said when we finally pulled away from each other.

“Anything,” Dave answered still holding me close.

“No more secrets. We need to get to know each other for real this time. Everything out in the open.”

With that, Dave flinched a bit and shrugged his shoulders.

“What?” I said in a demanding tone. I took a step back and put my hand on my hip.

“Well, there’s just one more thing I haven’t told you.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not a delivery driver for Canyon Flowers.”

“What? Are you serious?” Now this is getting ridiculous.

“I’m actually the owner. Sometimes I take orders out on my way home. That’s what happened on that first day.”

“Oh my gosh. This is crazy, Dave.” I grabbed his hand and led him up the stairs. “This is it! No more surprises, right? Promise me.”

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I put the key in the door and turned.

“OK, but how bout after today?”

When I opened the door, I was speechless. The room looked like it was painted in flowers; arrangements were everywhere. Beautiful vases of flowers adorned every table, in the kitchen, in the windows. I was so overwhelmed by it all that the only thing I could do was wrap my arms around Dave as tight as I could.

“Scratch that last part; surprises are just fine!”

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The Happiest Man in Washington Joe Flood

The happiest man in Washington can be found at the corner of 17th and N Streets. You’ll find him leaning against a low brick wall, his face in the sun, a cup jingling of change in one hand. He’ll greet you with a smile, no matter if it’s the first time he’s seen you or if you’ve been walking past his block for years.

He chose this spot well. The sidewalk narrows just a bit as it goes past an embassy, forcing pedestrians to walk past single file. Fasttalking, fast-walking Washingtonians are forced to slow down, if even just for a few yards of broken concrete.

And Skip—that’s his name—is in the way, to be honest. People, absorbed in their iPhones, are forced to look up and make a little loop around him before they can pick up speed once again, driven to make it to their destinations as quickly as possible. Their strides, their rhythm is broken. Sometimes, often in fact, they’re annoyed by this.

Their feet have stopped their constant moving and it’s as if a wrench has been thrown into the machinery of their minds. They stumble past Skip like they’ve forgotten how to walk.

He’s blocking progress, they think, as his smiling face disappears

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past them. Occupying space on a sidewalk, doing nothing, he’s violating a primal rule of the city.

This is offensive on many levels to the people who rush past him every morning with important things to do. His presence is a violation.

But to others, he’s a familiar part of their morning routine—the friendly homeless gentleman with a smile on his face. They’ve marched past him for years. As they’ve grown older, gotten married, had kids, been promoted—Skip has been there. They stop and chat with him, as if he’s an old friend, which he is. Skip remembers their kids’ names and notices if they get a new haircut. He tells them if they look nice or to be careful because the sidewalk is icy.

Skip is familiar to the regular folks in the neighborhood, too, the people who keep the city running. The men who run the parking garage on Rhode Island Avenue, around the corner from Skip, know him well. They’re from Somalia. Busy, impatient people drive up with a screech of tires and hurl their keys at them. The Somalis carefully park their BMWs and Mercedes in the depths of the garage. Like Skip, they’re outside all the time. Sometimes, they need a break to warm up or make a call. Skip will put on a uniform and park cars to help the Somalis out. The drivers who drop their cars off every day don’t seem to notice the change in staff; it’s just another black man in a green vest.

Skip knows the building engineers, large men with keys jangling on their belts. They update each other on walkie-talkies as they fix

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broken lights and adjust office temperatures. He’s chatted in broken Spanish with the cleaning crews. They arrive in rusty Econoline vans at the end of the day when the buildings are empty. They’re proud Salvadoran women with crosses around their necks and tennis shoes on their feet. Dreams fill their heads as they empty trash cans. One day, my children will work here...

And he knows the security guards, the lonely men who watch the buildings long after midnight. Each has his solitary vigil trying to fill the hours before dawn arrives. They sit behind a desk in the lobby of their building, each of them alone.

Over the years, he’s become friends with most of them. While Skip is invisible to many, every guard has noticed him around their building. They’ve seen him on their monitors. There’s that guy who’s always around, they think. Some are suspicious at first, some are not.

They aren’t sure that he’s homeless because though he’s on the street at all hours, but he’s very clean and wearing decent clothes.

Nearly all of the security guards have invited him into the buildings that they’re charged to protect. They’re eager for the company. Skip doesn’t know much about sports or current affairs since he doesn’t have a TV or, well, anything. What he knows of the world he’s picked up from discarded newspapers. But if you want to discuss the vagaries of life, the ups and downs of fate, the role of karma, then Skip is a very interesting fellow to pass the hours with.

When the winds blow cold, Skip has several shelters to choose

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from. But he usually stays at the YMCA at the corner of 17th and Rhode Island. It’s a gym, not a hotel, but there are enough warm corners in the three-story structure for Skip. He beds down on one of the mats in the yoga studio. When morning comes, he takes a shower and heads off into the brisk air. The staff at the YMCA all know him.

They let him pick out clothes from lost and found. People leave all sorts of things lying on the floor of the gym: shirts, shorts, socks, sweat pants, umbrellas, books, phones and snacks. After thirty days, Skip has first choice.

One particularly cold morning, Skip left the YMCA happy because he had a new pair of fleece gloves on his hands, plucked from lost and found, that fit him perfectly. It was December. A few errant golden leaves hung from the trees as if they didn’t know winter had arrived.

It was just barely light at 7:30. The sun was hidden somewhere behind a layer of gray clouds. Skip hoped that sunlight would illuminate the city, but he knew it was foolish to hope for such a thing. He must accept the world as it came.

Skip plucked a cup out of a trash can and took up his post. A smattering of pedestrians hurried past him, eager to get out of the chill.

Julianne gave him a dollar and, even better, a friendly smile.

Thomas dumped some change into his cup and told him to get out of the cold. The little man whose name Skip didn’t know brushed past him, as usual. But he did look up at Skip and seemed to gaze upon him for a moment with sympathy. The Ambassador arrived promptly

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at nine. As he got out of his chauffeured car, he said to Skip, “Good morning, sir.”

Then there was Katie. She came bounding down the sidewalk in a half-sprint a few minutes after nine. He cheeks were red from the wind and her blue eyes were bright.

“You got to get out of this cold!” she shouted, without breaking stride. “Sorry, I’m late!”

At the corner while waiting for the light to change, Katie looked back at him biting her lip.

Skip went to Starbucks to warm up. He took his change and bought a tall coffee. He still had a couple dollars in quarters, so he dropped them into the tip jar. The people behind the counter had mortgages and car payments and heating bills; they needed the money more than he did.

At lunch, he went back to his spot on 17th Street. Katie walked up, a Styrofoam container in hand. He had known her for a couple years, since she had started working at National Geographic.

“It’s ham and green beans. And apple pie,” Katie said, handing the food over to him.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said.

“I felt bad. I was just so late this morning. They’re probably going to fire me.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Skip said, tearing into the ham. Steam rose from the green beans into the cold air.

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“It might be for the best. All I’m doing is selling trinkets. Catalog crap. That’s not helping anyone.”

“You should be thankful for what you have.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I’d like to do something that matters.”

“What’s stopping you?”

The next morning, the Catholic Woman died. Skip knew her; everyone who worked on Rhode Island Avenue did. She loitered on the steps of St. Matthew’s Cathedral, a dour presence in a long black skirt and pulled back hair. She viewed her role to be an unofficial docent for the Cathedral, to encourage recalcitrant tourists to go inside and see the church. Many church goers had tried to help her. But she refused all offers saying that her mission was to lead the fallen to the Cathedral.

Every night she bedded down on the concrete steps of the church flush against its door.

But this December morning, she never got up. An ambulance came and removed her body. Her mission had ended.

At lunchtime, Katie brought him mushroom soup. He spooned it out of a cup while she talked, the two of them in front of the Embassy.

“Skip,” Katie said. “I’ve been doing some research, making some calls instead of doing my silly job. Listen, would you be interested in joining a program?”

People had tried to get him off the street before. Skip had always refused. But in the gray light of a mid-December day, he felt his resolve

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weaken. Did he want to die on the street like the Catholic Woman?

He leaned over to Katie as if he was sharing a secret. “I think I’d like to do that.”

The program Katie got him admitted to was called New Beginnings.

A van picked him up and ferried him to a shelter in Brookland, in the northeast part of the city. The shelter was a brand-new, concrete building surrounded by car repair shops. It was clean, with barely a dozen homeless men in it. Each had their own little carpeted room, complete with a single bed, a dresser, and a reading chair.

Skip presented a problem to New Beginnings. Unlike the other men in the shelter, he wasn’t addicted to drugs or mentally ill. Nothing was really wrong with him. He had used drugs in the past but was beyond all that now. He sat in a group with the other men. A counselor asked him about his past crack addiction.

“Wanting is a disease,” Skip told the man. The counselor thought this was too simple. He moved on to the other men’s tangled stories of drugs and crime.

“You must move beyond want,” Skip said a few minutes later for the counselor clearly didn’t understand. “Think about it. All that stuff you want. What does it get you? Nothing in the end. Better not to want.”

New Beginnings thought it would be best to get Skip started with the work program. He was sent to a recycling plant. Trucks collected green bins full of paper from around the city and dumped them on

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a conveyer belt. Skip and other workers separated white from colors so that the paper could be recycled. It was easy work with a fifteen minute break every two hours. Skip felt his mind go blank as a city’s worth of trash unspooled in front of him.

Paychecks were deposited into a bank account for him. It was a training program, so Skip was only paid a couple bucks an hour. After a month, he could buy select items from the New Beginnings store.

Candy, books, a radio, CDs - all were available to him. He purchased nothing. New Beginnings gave him a bed, clothes, a toothbrush, everything he needed.

The counselor told him that he should buy something with his money. Skip declined.

“You work so that you can buy things,” the man said. “Everyone has things that they really want. Don’t you want anything?”

“No. I don’t.”

The counselor sat quietly with him. “Skip—that’s not your real name.”

“It is for most people.”

A manila folder was in front of him. Inside were documents about Skip, his life reduced to lines on paper. “You were in the Navy—that’s where Skip comes from. Skipper, Skip. Your real name is—” “I know what my damn name is,” Skip said, anger flaring. He let the breath trail out of his mouth.

One morning, Skip opened the drapes on his room and bright

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sunlight poured in. Looking out his window, he noted a couple of new buds on an oak tree growing next to a fence topped with razor wire. It was time to go.

New Beginnings wouldn’t let him take his money out in cash.

They didn’t want him to go.

“We don’t let people leave halfway through the program,” the counselor told him.

“How can you keep me?” Skip asked.

“We’re asking you to do the right thing,” the man said, draping his arm around Skip.

He bought a gym bag and filled it with candy and other items purchased with his money.

“Let me go,” he said. The door was locked. He stood there for an hour while the counselor tried to talk him out of leaving.

“Stay. Let us help you,” the man said, softly.

“You can’t keep me.”

Eventually, they hit the buzzer. The door unlocked and Skip left.

He walked through the wasteland of car repair shops until he ran into the Metro line. He didn’t have cash for the subway so he followed the train tracks. He walked along streets parallel to them until he reached the white dome of the Capitol. Carrying his bag full of treats, he turned right. When he reached the grassy mall, he lay down to rest. The sun warmed his face after months in the cold recycling plant.

Kids played soccer in front of the Natural History Museum.

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Dozens of ten year olds chased an orange ball with book bags as goals. Walking past, he cheered as one of the teams scored.

In front of the White House, he stopped to talk to the antiwar protesters. They had been there since before Skip had come to DC. Their signs were faded and gray lined their hair. He opened up his bag and gave them some M&Ms. At McPherson Square, homeless men were lined up on the worn grass. They were waiting for the church group who came every day at five to feed them. Skip knew several of them, and he stopped to talk. They wondered where he had been. He gave away the rest of his candy and the bag as well. They told him to stay for dinner.

But Skip only had one destination in mind—his block. Office workers had begun pouring out onto the street, rushing to get home.

There were no scarves, no gloves. Men were in short sleeves, women in skirts.

His spot was still there. The sidewalk was empty. The tree in front of the Embassy was now green with leaves. He was home.

As he fished through a trashcan for a paper cup, Katie appeared.

“Skip?” she said, her mouth open.

“Katie,” he said, taking in the girl. Her hair was shorter and a different color. “You look nice.”

“Oh, well, okay, but, umm....” she said, stammering. “I thought you were in a program.”

“I was.”

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“And?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Everything I need is right here,” he said.

But Katie would never understand, and Skip couldn’t explain it to her. She walked home, disappointed, still wanting to make a difference in someone’s life.

The Ambassador gave him a quizzical wave as he got into this car. “We missed you,” he said. Julianne broke into a broad grin as she saw him in his regular spot along the sidewalk. She leaned against the brick wall and told him all about her kids and their adventures.

Thomas, resplendent in a dark Brooks Brothers’ suit, fished a twenty out of his wallet. And the little man whose name Skip didn’t know brushed by him as usual.

Traffic was jammed on Rhode Island and the Somalis were busy retrieving cars from the garage. In a couple hours the cleaning crews would arrive and security guards would take up their lonely posts.

The red brick of St. Matthew’s Cathedral glowed in the late afternoon light. Looking up at the church, Skip imagined that he could feel the heat coming off the old stones. He stared into the infinite blue skies, lost in the wonder of the world.

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Three Dark Poems Edward Rodosek

THE MERCILESS JAIL Wherever I go, a terrible crush, hustling through a crowd, nervous irritation, wrath and cursing, hurrying and pushing.

Come on! Hurry up!

Waste no time! Get a move on!

Give way, damn you!

My life is nothing but a rough-and-tumble fight struggle for success, battling anyone, against everyone.

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Imprisoned in a madhouse which I myself helped to raise and voluntarily locked myself into.

But now I’m sick and tired of this way of life.

I can’t stand it any longer.

I want out – whatever the cost!

But the steel entrance is shut and locked with a bolt; I can’t run away by any means; I am stuck in here for ever and ever.

All of a sudden I hear a mocking voice coming from the jail.

Who might be that sneerer?

I shudder when I realize.

I know that voice for sure; that is – that is my voice, my own laugh...

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THE VERITABLE TRUTH

My faithful TV is waiting for me.

I sit in my armchair and gaze spellbound at the glowing screen.

There all women are glorious as goddesses, long-legged and full-breasted, their eyes are azure like the sky.

There all men are like gladiators, they all drive fast roadsters.

There I get to know how I shall live correctly; there I’m told what is the veritable truth: Which is the proper detergent; how I can lose weight overnight; where must I spend my luxurious holidays at giveaway prices…

I must simply and solely buy this marvellous product;

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this old, ugly thing of mine I have to replace with a new one.

All those splendid new gems are waiting for me, only and solely for me...

What am I waiting for?

I’ll stay here inside Once and for all.

I have no use for the outer world.

Yet – only one thing disturbs me: the light and the noise from the street.

I have to close that damned window and the shutters; the ugly reality outside insolently lies to me, trying to deceive me. Â

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CONFORM OR DIE If you’ve lost everything and haven’t got a brass farthing; if you’re burdened in depth; if your sweetheart left you once and for all and your own children consider you a pest; if you’ve lost all your good friends; and your doctor unaffectedly told you that your cancer wasn’t curable at all, that your lifetime would end at Christmas – then you must be careful.

If then anybody asks you: “How’re you doing?”

You have to answer: “Never better!” with a broad smile on your face.

Or else the gang around you would certainly beat you on the spot or swallow you alive.

What a blowout!

One less rival in a cut-throat competition for survival...

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Then your pickled remnants would be assorted for re-use as absolutely nothing should be wasted – – not even you.

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Blood Binds Tonya R. Moore Episode XIV Wandering Child – Part 3

Love always begins and ends with a kind of death.

Deandra was dead, had been for decades. The sylvan city had been swallowed whole. Its flora. Its fauna. Its very soul. A storm raged there, like some sapient beast bent on barring entry into the barren kingdom.

The only thing left living in the once great city was a single tree.

Its massive limbs bowed over the bones of the stone cathedral that had once been the wizard and the wayfarer’s home. Its copse kissed the endlessly turbulent clouds above. It bloomed magnificently.

The wind was fierce. Pale ash drizzled down from the down from the clouds, robbing Hel of all sense of direction. It was a wonder that she managed to find it, the place to which she needed to return. She wasn’t entirely sure how or why she’d ended in Deandra after Charls turned his magic on her. She just knew that she had to find the place where it had all begun.

She reached out to open the gate--hesitated. Why had Charls sent her here? This was where her son had died, and her marriage had died.

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But Garret... he was alive. So, what was it that had really happened?

What could possibly be waiting in this now desolate place?

She crossed the stone courtyard in haste, feet barely touching the ground. The world tilted when she crossed the shattered earth at the threshold. The memories she left behind here--they poured back in, all at once and with a vengeance.

Whatever Baron communicated to the newcomer was lost on Kyle and Tallow. He seemed to understand her well enough though.

“Why the hell should I?” He demanded aloud.

“Because you’re one of the good guys now,” Baron jabbed at his chest with one finger insistently. “And this is the sort of thi--” “Who the hell do you think you’re kidding?” He grumbled.

“Besides, I’ve always been one of these supposed “good guys” you like to talk about so much. You’re the damned convert.”

Baron made a small, frustrated sound in her throat. She grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him a short distance away.

“You have to...” Kyle heard her say. “For god’s sake, they’re just kids!”

The one called Sasha, shook her off seeming even more displeased now. “So are you, you idiot! Did you happen to forget?” He hissed.

“Do you have any idea what my father will do to me if--” “Oh? Wow. That’s surprising really Sasha.” She chuckled. “I never knew Dominicus Locke made even the likes of you shiver in your--”

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He cold-cocked her.

He scowled down at her prone form. “I really can’t stand you.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Kyle yelled, springing forward.

“I don’t know you,” The newcomer warned lowly. “So, don’t go near her.” A deep growl resonated. The lighting dimmed as the glowing flowers quivered, turning a deep, dark red “Who the hell do you think you are?” Kyle snarled. He advanced but for some reason, Tallow clutched his wrist and wouldn’t let go.

“Kyle, no!” She pleaded. Her arms were suddenly around his waist. She dragged him backward bodily. “Just do what he says.” She was shaking. “Please!” Every inch of her. “He’ll kill you,” she whispered harshly. “This guy will absolutely kill you.”

“What is it?” Kyle asked, alarmed by how shaken she was. “What exactly are you seeing?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on Sasha, who’d stepped between and the night-walker. “What manner of beast might you be?”

Tallow antagonized.

He didn’t seem offended by her question. He cast a bemused glance down at Baron, who was now barely stirring. He aimed a wolfish smile down at the stricken pair.

“The territorial kind.”

He crouched over Baron, ran one finger down the side of her face--where he’d struck her. He frowned, rubbing the sticky substance between his forefinger and thumb. He limbs flopped about wildly.

He contemplated the way she awkwardly struggled to move away.

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He grabbed her by the throat, yanked her forward. A guttural cry burst forth from her lips. His fingers tightened around her throat.

The mechanical screaming started again. The walls were shaking. The incandescent blossoms carpeting the surface became cloudy with the colors of ink and blood.

“Who are you?” He demanded. “Do you have a name?”

“Name?” The one inhabiting Baron’s body wheezed. The eyes opened. Quicksilver and crimson orbs trapped him in their magnetic glare. “Doesn’t matter.”

“A squatter?” Tallow’s voice hitched oddly. “How did you even--” Sasha’s golden eyes glittered fiercely in the semi-dark. “Quiet.”

Her mouth snapped shut.

“I really don’t like this guy,” Kyle grumbled under-breath.

Sasha ignored him. His attention snapped back to the one before him. “What do you want?” he asked softly, yet sharply curious. “What are you doing in there?”

“This child...” Its words were watery. Stilted. “She is interesting.

I... want... her. I... want...”

“Oh?” Sasha mused, still clutching her by throat. “What about those two stupid looking things over there?”

Baron blinked. Time coagulated around them. They could almost hear those dark eyelids creaking back open. The aqueous gaze hardened. Steadied. “Don’t care... about them.”

“You do realize I can put a quick end to this,” he ventured.

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“Not before I kill you,” the eerie voice came again. “And them.”

Sasha grip loosened abruptly. “Well, I don’t want that.” He stood.

“Still, I just got yanked clear across several galaxies for the sake of two pipsqueaks that I don’t even know. I feel I am entitled to some compensation.”

“Would satisfying your curiosity suffice?” The creature seemed oddly desperate to strike a bargain.

Sasha grinned, seemingly content with the arrangement. “It might.”

“Tallow,” Kyle began. “Did he really just...” The witch wasn’t even listening.

“It’s been here beside us,” she murmured. “This whole time.” Her grip on his wrist tightened. “Since when, do you think?”

“You’re still not over that, huh?” Kyle glanced down at her.

“Didn’t you hear what he just--?”

There was a flash of brilliance. Space expanded around the bubble enveloping them. Outside there were stars, more spheres, the distant shadows of behemoths swimming in the fluid space.

Baron was gone.

“No returns. No refunds.” Sasha called out, remarkably unconcerned about what had just happened.

His attention immediately turned to their surroundings. He pressed his palms against the wall. The moss growing there sighed, warmed to a delectable coral pink. He removed his palm. They paled.

“Life support system?” He murmured.

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He pressed his palm against the surface again. “They change their genetic structure at will to suit the needs of the ships inhabitants. So, they’re intelligent? No. Just telepathic, maybe...”

“Hey, asshole.” Kyle tried to shake Tallow’s desperate grip.

He couldn’t seem to get away. On some level he realized that she was magically binding him somehow but that was the least of his concerns right now. He glared at Baron’s supposed friend. “You just pretty much sold our friend up the river for what, exactly?

“How long have you known her?” Sasha asked idly.

“About six months,” Kyle immediately replied.

“I’ve known her about that many years.” The beastly man declared. “So, which of us do you suppose is the expert on that girl’s nature?”

“What does have to do with anything?”

Sasha sighed. “Her body is rejecting the parasite. It’s just a matter of time until it reaches the point of death.”

“I don’t get how that’s a good thing!” Kyle snarled. He scowled.

“Tallow, let go already.”

“Kyle, you just don’t understand.” Tallow let go of his wrist. “She isn’t even a bit human like she claims, is she?” She looked to Sasha for confirmation. “She’s just... wearing that skin.”

The wayfarer’s broken body hummed with energy, she could actually feel it--torn flesh knitting back together, the grisly needlework

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of unseen hands. Her quaking heart kept tripping. She was having a hell of a time remembering how to breathe. The sound of hiccupping sobs drew her focus away from her plight.

Relief settled in. Her eyes widened filled with stinging liquid, sheer horror eclipsing every thought.

Towering above her was the skinny shape of a boy-child. His delicate chest was bare. His arms and torso pitted with slits inflicted by the knife he held in one hand. Blood flowed free. Glassy eyed. He was smiling and weeping all at once. Shaking. He was shaking.

He dropped to his knees, shaking as every ounce of bravado and energy fled. “It worked,” he whispered. “I actually worked.”

Hysteria rose. Hel instinctively swallowed it down. She glanced down, seeing the damage that had been done for the first time. She stared at the bare spot on her abdomen, where her tunic had been hastily cut away.

She knew what that mark--an intricate pattern of swirls meant.

Once again, something terrible had been done, and purely for her sake.

“Oh,” she moaned sickly--bile burning at the back if her throat.

“Garret. What did you do?”

His gaze slipped sideways. He blinked, clearly disappointed by her dismayed tone, but not exactly surprised. “I did what was necessary.”

He’d regained his composure already, and that precocity which on their best days, already unsettled her beyond measure. The son who’d never possessed the sensibility of a child nor ever--not once in all his

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life called her “Mother” had just used the most twisted breed of magic imaginable to save her life. On some level, she’d already long realized how dangerous and unnatural his attachment to her had become.

Only an idiot wouldn’t easily understand the implications of a having a child who possessed all the talent and knowledge of a Selestine wizard. Garret knew what his father knew. Felt what his father felt.

Wanted what his father wanted.

“How many?” She croaked, throat still raw. Bones till throbbing.

“How many--” “All of them,” he declared tightly, ramming the dagger into the ground beside her. To the hilt. “Every last living thing.” He stood.

He turned. “Were you hoping to finally leave us behind?” He asked quietly. “We who are bound to you by blood, for all eternity.”

His words chilling words left her speechless. Fear filled her anew.

Fear for his existence. Fear of what possessing, and actually using this awful ability meant for her child.

Hel blinked, her mind bouncing back to the present as the spell burned out and melted everything back down into blurry bits and pieces “Where were you, Charls?” She wondered aloud achingly. “Where the hell were you on that day?”

Pale blossoms from the towering tree drifted down into the courtyard, each one crumbling to dust as it touched the ground. She turned

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and stopped in her tracks, astonished to discover that she was no longer alone. The pair that stood there, watched quietly as if merely to see what she would do next. How long had they been watching?

They wore dark tunics she vaguely recognized, but couldn’t quite place. There was an intensely frightening hint of immensity to their pointedly benign presence.

“Bringing the dead back to life is a remarkable feat, don’t you think?” The first of them stepped forward. “Should be impossible for a child.”

His face and the hand that held the metal spear he pointed were covered with some arcane pattern. Hel’s chest tightened. Those telltale red irises and that pattern... she recognized them. They were important somehow.

“Who are you people?” She asked.

You don’t remember at all, do you?” A second joined, a rubenesque woman with some sort of jewel embedded in her neck. “You don’t remember any of it. Of course, that in no way mitigates the seriousness of the--” “Hail Nest,” the first ordered abruptly, no small measure of censure there. “Request transport directly to the nexus. Our little fugitive has been recovered.”

“Fugitive?” Hel echoed dumbly. “Who?”

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Contributors Alan W. Jankowski is the author of well over one hundred short stories, plays and poems. His work has been published online on various sites and in e-Zines since 2009. When he is not writing, which is not often, his hobbies include music and camera collecting. He currently resides in New Jersey. He always appreciates feedback of any kind on his work, and can be reached by e-mail at: Exakta66@gmail. com Bob Kalkreuter has had twenty six of his stories accepted by magazines such as Potpourri, Reader’s Break, Denver Syntax, Fairfield Review, Long Story Short, Vintage Northwest, The Dead Mule, Underground Voices, The Stone Hobo, Writes For All, and Enigma.

Two of his stories were nominated for Pushcart Prizes. One story was awarded the Herman Swafford Prize from Potpourri Magazine.

Lia Fairchild is a native Californian who loves reading, writing, movies, and anything else related to the arts. Writing is something she’s thought about all her life, so the completion of her first novel, In Search of Lucy, is truly satisfying. Lia holds a B.A. degree in Journalism and a Multiple Subject Teaching Credential. Her most enjoyable mo-

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ments are spent with her family, traveling, spending time outdoors, or simply laughing and being together. Look for more on Lia and “In Search of Lucy� including sample chapters and reviews at http:// www.liafairchild.com or follow her on Twitter at https://www.twitter. com/#!/liafairchild Kevin Fraleigh, author of Any Tomorrow: The Calling, draws on his experiences as an intelligence analyst, geographer, and technical writer to hone his indie fiction into an form that reflects his deep interest in religion, physics, psychology, and history. Kevin writes primarily in the horror-fantasy genre. Any Tomorrow: The Calling, his first indie eBook, is the cornerstone of a trilogy of eBooks and several short stories that feature the exploits of a reticent fellowship who must assume the mantle of hero in worlds that are all but lost to an ancient and terrible evil. Kevin blogs about the self-publishing experience at http://anytomorrow.wordpress.com/. After retiring from the United States Air Force in 1996, Kevin earned his B.A. from the University of South Carolina and an M.S. in Technical Management from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. He lives with his wife, Malette, in Cocoa, Florida.

Helen Seymor is a 25-year-old clerical assistant from Leeds and who has been writing since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. She has had a small amount of success, including having two plays per-

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formed, and having a short story published in Woman’s Weekly. In her spare time she enjoys running, playing the drums and the usual such as drinking in the pub!

Mary O’Neil grew up in Huntington Beach, CA, stationed at Ft. Lewis, WA during enlistment. She moved back to California with her family, then relocated to Boise, Idaho a few years after spouse’s death.

She finished raising her kids in Boise, and is happy to be here. Excited and optimistic about embarking on new career as indie author, and extremely grateful for every opportunity provided.

Joe Flood is a writer and photographer from Washington, DC. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, Hill Rag, American Literary, Adirondack Review, Smoky Mountain News, InterText, CultureFlux, Pink Line Project, Burst, Thirty First Bird Review, Morpo Review, Washingtonian, DCist, Southern Living and elsewhere. His screenplay, Mount Pleasant, won the Film DC Screenwriting Competition, finished in the top 15% of the Nicholl Fellowships, and made it to the second round of the Austin Film Festival Screenplay Competition. He has also written two short films as part of the 48 Hour Film Project and is a judge for the DC Shorts Film Festival. Read more by Joe, including his new novel, Murder in Ocean Hall, at http://joeflood.com

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Book Reviews Douchebag Roulette by Marie Simas Reviewed by Essie Holton A book of essays. This is not generally my ‘thing’, but I’m starting to find that what I thought of as my ‘thing’ isn’t quite accurate. More specifically, it isn’t broad enough. I’ve agreed to read some novels that I thought I would have to suffer through only to find that I absolutely loved the entire story. Other times, I’m dead on. This was one of those times: dead on. I should have listened to my gut. Fortunately, the book wasn’t very long.

The blurb about Douchebag Roulette said that it was funny. I believe I even read the word hilarious. I found it to be crude. There was potential for funny, but crude won out in the end. I realize that some people like crude and that in itself makes it funny to some, but the stories built up and built up and then just ended.

Most of the stories went something like this. There was this girl/ guy once. She/he did these awful/gross/selfish things. Narrator gives examples. Tension builds. Ugh, what a jerk. The end.

As the reader, I felt let down by the endings of the various stories.

The climax was mostly there, but the story just fizzled after that. I

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realize that writing a good ending can be difficult, but the readers need something so they don’t feel cheated out of closure and satisfaction. I was often left wondering, What the hell? This is not that good kind of wondering that you sometimes do after a book or story. You know, when you mull over what happened, how the characters felt, and how everything fell into place. This was just, Really? That’s it?

I really wanted to like this collection. I tried to. I love short stories.

Short stories have a special place in my heart. But I just couldn’t get into these. Short, flat, crude.

I suppose if crude is your form of funny, this may be a selection worth reading.

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The Cambridge List by Robert Clear Reviewed by Essie Holton James is living a miserable existence. He has a crap job teaching English to mature students rather than the nice, cushy job that should have been his with a degree from Cambridge. He never got this job because he was cheated out of his degree so the college could push through another student, a special student. James’s brilliant paper on Greek gods mysteriously lost pages in a file transfer, and due to this, he was failed.

James went on his way and began to merely exist in a dense fog of depression. When offered experimental antidepressants, he agrees with the assurance of the researcher, and friend, that they will be great.

Soon after he begins these unapproved and untested pills, he starts to hear voices and singing in his head. Finding this pleasant, he keeps taking the pills and never tells his prescriber.

But who do these voices belong to? The Greek gods, of course. They take up occupancy in James’s brain after he begins the antidepressants.

Throughout the book, the gods lead him to exterminate everyone on the Cambridge List, everyone who had a hand in destroying the brilliant paper James had written. The gods do not do this for James, he is merely a vessel to carry out their revenge; they only want justice for themselves. With the creation of the Cambridge List and the demise of all on it, they feel vindicated.

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The fighting that goes on between the gods, specifically Hera and Aphrodite, causes James much discomfort and stress, and often times, pain. He never knows what to expect and has almost no one on his side. Muse is the only god who seems to care what happens to him, but she must be careful to avoid detection of Hera and her wrath.

When I first began reading The Cambridge List, I was a bit disappointed. I felt that the plot was flat and too straightforward. WRONG! As the story grows, there is much more going on than originally expected. A war among gods, fraud, murder; The Cambridge list truly delivered.

My typical complaint about a lot of self-published books applies to The Cambridge List. It needs to be proofed, badly. Commas seemed to be the author’s weakest point, but there were other minor formatting problems. The story was compelling enough that it didn’t stop me from reading it, as this problem has in the past.

I found myself cheering for James despite his serial killer status.

Even though others lost their lives in horrific ways, it was somehow still humorous, even if not laugh-out-loud funny. None of the plans that James concocts happen as expected; his plans tend to unravel rather than unfold. James was a bad guy that didn’t seem so bad, and his victims were far from good guys. It was a case of who was worse.

Obviously the killer, right? I’m not so sure.

Even in the end, you just couldn’t hate James. You couldn’t even dislike him; you wanted to like him. Sometimes there are those bad

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guys that you want to hate but can’t. James just wasn’t that guy. You will find yourself cheering him on until the last sentence.

The ending, while complete, left itself open to a possible second book. A book of revenge. I felt the ending lacked nothing and was very pleased with how the author ended James’s madness. I may have picked a different drug, but that is inconsequential; the ending was good and left the reader feeling completely fulfilled.

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Tales of Aradia: The Last Witch by L.A. Jones Reviewed by Essie Holton If you are a fan of Twilight, you will either love Tales of Aradia: The Last Witch or hate it. If you have strong negative feelings regarding Twilight, steer clear of this one. While the plot line does not follow Twilight, there are some glaring similarities.

An abandoned child is found in a cave by a loving married couple who is unable to have children of their own. They have no explanation for the crazy powers this little child has, but they know that they must protect her and raise her as their own.

Flash forward about 12 years.

Aradia is a powerful witch who has been sent through time to avoid detection of a group of vampires who want her dead. Blissfully unaware of the dangerous life she is narrowly avoiding, Aradia and her parents move from Arizona to Salem so Aradia can have a fresh start after her powers and awkwardness have made her a social outcast.

Surprisingly, Aradia finds that she fits in quite well in her new school except for with a group of people whom she calls the “too perfectly freaky” people. This group of people seem to hang out only with one another and stare at her as she walks through the halls on her first day of school.

Having no idea why “the too perfectly freaky people” stare at her, Aradia decides to simply ignore them. These “perfectly freaky”

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people are a threat, something that Aradia never considered. The master vampire had been waiting centuries to find the last witch, the child who escaped him 300 years before, and exterminate her. Aradia was rumored to be the most powerful witch ever in existence, and she didn’t even know it.

If some of the descriptions and scenarios you come across while reading don’t remind you of Twilight, it’s only because you’ve never read it. The similarities were so frequent and obvious that, when telling my mother about this book, I actually face-palmed myself. Now, I’m going to make an admission here that I will never admit to, again.

I read Twilight. I enjoyed it. That being said, I don’t want to read it again.

The basic plot of the story was good. The book could have been excellent, but the author couldn’t separate her style from other, overly popular styles of writing. The author tries to sound ‘older’ or from another time when narrating the story and when the characters, especially the vampires, are speaking. In the end, she sounds like she is trying too hard. In just a few pages, I noticed the phrase “in such a way that” at least twice. She could have, and should have, simply said “so that” or something similar.

Another problem that I found with this book is over explanation.

A lot of it. The author dedicated an entire ebook page to describing Aradia’s ability to control the elements. First of all, the elements described are: earth, wind, fire, air, light, dark, metal, and wood. I think

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there is some overlap there. The author starts by saying that she can control and create the elements, bend them to her will. She then goes on to give examples of the depth of the powers. She then describes how Aradia could find her way home in her current predicament, finally saying: “This explained Aradia’s assurance of her being in the woods at night and feeling completely safe.” As the reader, I had long since figured that out.

My last complaint (that I will write about) is the use of parentheses in dialogue. I had no idea that a person could talk like this. It seemed silly. A comma would have been the proper way to separate out this text.

I will say this; I was compelled to read the story. I wanted to know what happened. It is a YA book, and if asked by a teenager (who loved the Twilight Saga) I would recommend this book. It wasn’t too bad, just not written to my liking and normal standard of reading.

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If you would like to subscribe to the magazine, please go to http://www.efictionmag.com/subscriptions Thank you for reading!

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