efiction eFiction Magazine
March 2011
March 2011
Issue No. 012 1
eFiction Magazine
March 2011
Contents Author Spotlight Interview Jeff Baker 3 The Black Wind Jeff Baker 7 Jazz Night Jeff Baker 17 The Return of Melanoplus spretus Aaron Wilson 24 A Breach of Warranty Z. J. Woods 44 All of Us and All of the Moments of Our Lives
J. Eric Miller 49
Closure Tiffany Tripp 60 Withdrawal Jordan Hart 64 Contributors
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Author Spotlight This month we are lucky to have Jeff Baker in the Author spotlight. For those readers who might not be familiar with you, please introduce yourself, Jeff. I currently am an animator who’s making a career transition to writing. I’ve always found that the story process has been my favorite part. So it seemed only natural to start focusing my energy on writing. There must be some primal urge that underlies both animation and writing, because I too have explored both of those artistic outlets. I think it is the urge to create life. Do you find that your animation experience informs your writing? Honestly I think they inform each other, back and forth. With animation you ask yourself similar questions to writing. What does your character want and what are they going to do to get it? That informs you as an animator on how that character will act. In terms of writing you can think a bit like an animator. Describing the actions that inform the reader of a characters desires and needs. As they say, show don’t tell. Timeless advice. So what spurred you to start the transition toward writing? As I got further into my career I realized that is where I got the most satisfaction during the creative process. I have a real drive to tell stories and entertain. I finally came to the decision that it would be best if I focused my
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energy solely on writing. Whether it be a novel or remain in my current field and write for the video game industry. Awesome. How is it going so far? Haha, as well as can be expected I suppose. This has been a pretty recent change so I’m still on the upswing. Currently I’ve just been planning several stories and have been planning out some modules for games to showcase my ability to write engaging dialogue trees, characters, and plot lines. So far I think I have some good things planned and can’t wait to get them out to the public in the next few months. Any plans you can talk about? Sure, I’ll be glad to talk about some of the game stuff. Bioware released the Dragon Age Toolset which allows people to create their own modules that can be plugged into the game. These can either be modifications to the original game, or completely new stories. I was really taken by their world and wanted to expand on it and create stories that took place during the current campaigns time-line, but involved other heroes. My first idea will be a small campaign dealing with a small village of City Elves trying to live peacefully and anonymously in the Brecillian Forest, when their way of life is threatened to be discovered. Depending on how you make your choices will depend on what happens to this village. I hope I haven’t gone over too many people’s heads, heh. Where did you learn writing? Any strong influences worth noting? The first thing that comes to mind is my Script Writing for Animators class in college. It was taught by a teacher named Leif Smith and he did an
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incredible job of teaching us how to analyze movies and comics. I took the principles from that class and have continuously applied them to all of my work. Later, towards the end of my schooling, I took a creative writing class because I missed having that kind of structure and constant feedback from a class environment. From there I’ve just been reading a lot and have watched many QA’s of my favorite author Jim Butcher. He writes the Dresden Files series and has an amazing ability to draw you in with his characters. He is someone I will always look up to. Self-teaching tools, like story analysis, are some of the greatest things a budding author can learn. Very cool. So what stories do you have for us in this issue? The first story is something I wrote as an homage to H. P. Lovecraft. He has been an influence of mine in terms of the paranormal and how things beyond our comprehension would drive us insane. The fear of the unknown is very powerful and I love his ability to describe some pretty gruesome things. This story, ‘The Black Wind’ actually came out of something I did in college for my creative writing class. That particular piece was just the journal entries that you will read. When working on ‘The Black Wind’, I decided to use that journal as a McGuffin to tell a new story. It was a fun exercise. The second is a world I’m developing for a larger cyberpunk series I have in mind. My current method to help with the development is to write several shorts involving different characters throughout the world, so I can get a better feel for the narrative. This particular story follows Corbin, an aging ex-military who has entered into the hit-man game late in life. He has to contend with a stronger and faster generation by using skill and wit. Here we follow him on his first job, where things don’t go exactly as he had planned. Using short stories as a vehicle to find what works and doesn’t is a fun exercise that I encourage everyone to try.
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Short stories are really fun to read and write. Thanks for answering my questions Jeff. Where can people find you and your work online? Thank you for taking the time to talk with me and this opportunity to show my work. Always fun to talk about what I love with other passionate people. Those same passionate people are welcome to come check out my blog at www.jeffreynbaker.com or follow me on twitter @beffjaxter. I encourage people to sign up for an account at my blog and join in on the conversation.
Coming up next, the two stories that Jeff teased about earlier. Enjoy!
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The Black Wind Jeff Baker
Of these accounts I tell you now, for if I hold onto these dark dealings I fear that I may be torn asunder. I must start by telling you about my shared office at Harvard University. It was a small corner affair set in the basement of the science hall as the university no longer had decent accommodations for new staff. It was always a bit cold, even in the summers, and still had scores of discarded boxes filled with assorted equipment for the labs. This caused the already small room to close in upon us, the boxes looming precariously above our heads. We made due with two simple desks pushed together and facing one another in the middle of the square office. Mine faced into the room, but both were constantly covered in discarded class lectures and ungraded papers. Most notably were the piles of books that nearly consumed what little desk and floor space we had left. The peculiar thing about a good deal of these books were their lack of titles. They were old and forgotten by time. Their pages yellowed and stiff with age. Many were rebound by loving hands with just needle and thread. It was through this obsession with discarded, ancient, and forgotten texts that my colleague and I bonded. His name was Justin Hewitt, a professor of Ancient History. My particular area of study lay in Archaeology. We spent many an hour going round and round about our different loves, each fascinated in turn with the other. Over time we began to bring in our collections of books to show one another. This eventually grew into a sort of gentlemanly sport to try and trump one another’s latest discovery of some old text or volume. These contest built steadily over the next few years. Every week we would take turns presenting some fragment of forgotten knowledge. Now, I must confess that Justin al-
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ways had a way of finding the most obscure tomes or reference papers. Many times he often would concede to defeat, but I could always see a glint in his eyes and a tug at the corner of his lip. Then, the next week he would reveal some ancient writing that made mine previously, pale by comparison. I believe now, on those particular occasions, Justin merely set me up to make my fall that much greater. On those days, I resented him the most. It was on an October evening in the year 1936 that brought me to where I am today. I had come from one of my usual second hand book shops where I often find something rare. While doing a fairly exhaustive search, I had come across an interesting little book containing anecdotes about the East India Trading Company. A few copied manifests, a love note from a sailor to his whore, and other odds and ends. It was not my best find to date, but I felt it was a strong competitor for my latest go around. I quickly made my way to the office to wait for Justin and our appointed time of eight in the evening. I made some tea. Read more of the little book, and waited. Eight came and went. I let an hour and half pass before I grew annoyed. Generally he was never so late as this. I collected my things with a small dark hope that something befouled him, to keep him from coming that evening. No sooner had I placed the book within my bag than Justin burst into the room. To this day I cannot forget that Black Wind that followed him into our office. It rank of death, fear, madness; a chill wind that cut to my bones and seemed to darken the very light in the room. As he shut the door, I swore I heard him grunt; as if he was physically taxed trying to close it. He latched the door, turned to me, and that glint I had seen so many times before grew bright and terrible within his eyes. His thinning mousy brown hair was matted to his head with sweat and grime. His grey woolen suit was covered in dirt and bore many tiny rips and holes in the legs. Lastly I noticed in his left hand, clasped tightly to his chest, was a shovel caked in earth and in his right a book. “Good heavens man, are you all right?�
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“Heaven? There is no place for heaven my friend.” he grinned and gripped the book ever tighter. “Y-yes, I.. uh.. suppose. What has happened to you?” Justin burst forth from the door, a bit of a manic laugh escaping his lips. He reached my desk and with a large sweeping motion sent most of the contents of our desks crashing to the floor. He gingerly placed the leather bound book he was holding down—bits of dirt and grass fell from its cover to litter the wood. “Look!”, he said. I cautiously walked over to the desk and looked down at the book. It was mostly nondescript. Its cracked leather was old by the looks of it. It had turned a dark ruddy brown over years of use and a small black ribbon protruded out from the bottom. “Yes, this is all well and good Justin, but it’s my turn if I remember correctly. I have this wonderful book concerning the East India Trading Company...” I had reached into my satchel and produced my submission, placing it over top his and politely ignoring his unseemly nature. His claw like hand slapped it away sending it into a pile of boxes in the back corner, “Blast your damn book. This is far more important for the both of us. Look.. Look!” I was taken aback by his sudden outburst. It was so unlike him. I finally took a hard look into his feverish face and saw a man possessed. There was a fire in him that I both was drawn to, and feared. My gaze turned back to the book once more and began to feel a weight that slowly drew me in. I reached out my hand, and as I clasped my fingers around its worn cover a biting cold and a wave of that Black Wind descended over me. I shuddered slightly as it ran its otherworldly fingers down my spine, the tiny hairs across my body stood upright, and I opened the cover. The pages were faded yellow with age and moisture. More bits of earth and stone crackled down upon my desk as I turned the pages. Scrawled in a faded black ink were the words, “The Journal of Colonel William Fawcett: World Renowned Explorer, 1886”. I started to read a few of the passages and saw nothing of particular note. It appeared to be the recollections of this explorer and nothing more, “Well I don’t see why
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this has caused you so much alarm. It’s a simple journal.” “You fool, look here...here!” he took the book from my hands and searched frantically for a particular page. When he found it, his eyes grew wide and a wicked smile appeared across his lips as he pointed defiantly to a page towards the later end of the journal. I took quick notice that the precise writing that I had seen before had grown more disorganized and abrupt. And I read: 10th of August, 1886 Our guide tells us that we are a days travel out from the ruins. What an amazing moment for all of us! Years of research and discovery and we are nearly here. If it were up to me I wouldn’t stop to rest now. Why can’t we push on? Patrick, always the cautious fellow, agrees with the bushmen. Perhaps he is right to do so, but I can hardly contain myself. I must find something to occupy my mind, writing here just ignites my fervor further. “I certainly suppose this is interesting, but I don’t see the importance or relevance. Why is this important to you, or for that matter me, that you apparently had to dig it up?” “Because my friend, I am about to take you on a discovery that will ignite your career; your very existence. You see, this is the lost journal and only record of an expedition into the jungles of Brazil searching for the lost temple of the Igna U’wi. For a decade I have spent looking for even the slightest hint of its truth or the existence of this extraordinary man.” “Extraordinary? I dare say not. I’ve never heard of him. ‘Nor this inga owee. Perhaps you’d be a sport and fill a fellow in?” “Of course you’d never heard of him. At the time of his death, he was a raving lunatic that died by his own hand in an asylum. He was an outcast by the time of his death, buried and forgotten.. until tonight.” I looked to the dirt, the shovel, and to Justin’s general appearance. “My
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word, are you saying you dug up...!” “Oh do not judge me. You would have done the very same if you understood what I was offering you.” The air in the room grew hot and thick as Justin’s piercing gaze stared into my eyes. There was something about his demeanor. Something had changed, but I could not think to tear myself away from him. He drew me in and I found myself listening to him. How such a fool I was. “I have chosen you to accompany me on my life’s work. Follow me into the jungles of Brazil. Follow me into Igna U’wi and let me open the world to you. A world beyond our own.” Justin’s fervor kept me silent again. His drive, his utter madness were like hands clasped across my face. It began to well up inside me like a burning ember that grew hot with desire. Whatever he knew, whatever he was going to have, I knew that I too needed it. I merely nodded and with great effort said, “Very well then.” A cheshire grin peeled across his face as it grew dark. I wish I had felt it that time, as it now haunts me still. For that Black Wind blew through the room once more and bound our fates that night. If only I knew what terrors lay before me. *** 14th of August, 1886 I say it’s somewhere around three in the morning. I could not sleep. I easily talked Patrick into going out with me into the jungle to try and catch a glimpse of the ruins by moonlight. We had gone out from the camp about ten meters when Patrick began to get pensive. He kept swearing he felt we were being watched. I cursed him for being a child, and pressed him on. We traveled but a few meters more when I noticed a golden glint in the distance. I was positive it must be the ruins. I quickened my pace and as I drew nearer a crushing black ethereal wind came over me. I was stuck in
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my tracks. Tears of terror began to stream down my face. I did not, and could not tell what force held me. It was an ever present darkness, it is the only way I can describe it. Just as soon as I had seen it, the light rushed off further into the jungle. As it departed I heard a chittering and dare I say, laughter? I was nearly frightened to death when one of our Bushmen leaped out in front of me, holding his spear out to block my way. Patrick, I noticed, was laying on the ground, his face in his hands. The Bushmen urged us, in his broken English, to return to the camp. I note here, that he too had streaks of wetness running down his face... Colonel Fawcett’s passage of that night stuck with me. His recounting of that Black Wind elicited such a visceral recollection of that night in the office. Since then, we had begun preparation for our journey to Brazil in order to follow in the ill-fated footsteps of that damned crew. The logical part of me clawed and screamed not to go; to burn the journal and return to my humble career. But something sinister had taken a hold of me. It was a force that I was powerless to stop. I had begun to grow distant from my work. Missing lectures and dismissing students. My mood had turned sour, my eyes dark, and my thoughts darker still. My drive had become the Journal. My drive had become Igna U’wi and what lay within its hallowed walls. Things had quickly become strained between Justin and me. As we worked in our office, prepping for the journey, we would take breaks to read excerpts from the book. This quickly brought about contentious moments as we felt the other was either taking too long, or hoarding it for himself. Twice Justin had used the excuse of it being his, but that Black Wind grasped me, and I could not let his misdirects stop me. Over time we each began to place the book within our own belongings, trying to hide it from one another. Like children, we each wanted it for ourselves. We would often fall into screaming matches, and twice a scuffle, over that damned journal. It had taken a hold of
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us. What evil lay upon it, I will never know fully. It was eventually decided, to purchase a safe and keep it within our office. There, each evening, we placed the book and locked it. One particular evening as I was reading over the accounts of the exhumation of the temple I came across several passages of interest. It seemed that Fawcett and his compatriot Patrick had discovered a hidden room. Inside they described a scene of wondrous monstrosity. He talks, in great length and detail about the paintings upon the walls that I paraphrase for you now... Radiating out from the largest wall of the room was a painted mural. It was centred upon its face in dark hues barely touched by time. A bloated woman, whose ghastly visage seemed to both exude pleasure and pain, bore forth a host of unnatural young. They were twisted men of nightmares with sunken eyes and pallid, pustuled flesh. They reached up to their monstrous progenitor with blood drenched hands. Some she had clutched within her grasp and had ripped it in twain between her teeth, or crushed beneath her cloven hoof. More still, were nestled in one of her many teets. The rest danced and bound their way across the remaining walls and as my torch light flickered, I could have sworn they writhed and heaved upon one another all the while reaching out to consume me. I had begun to hear their screams of agony, desire, anger, and wrath. Their wails grew into a mighty crescendo, threatening to burst my ears! Not able to stand it any longer, I doused my flame to let the black wind take me. It was this description that clung to my very being. I could barely sleep more than a few hours at a time as the baying of many hounds, goats, and creatures unnatural filled my dreams. What had Justin brought into my life? Why had he done this to me? I had grown feverish as my mind slowly slipped into that blackness. I was awoken one early morning in November, just days before we were to set out in search for Inga U’wi, by a terrible vision. A thing
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of macabre beauty came lurching from that Black Wind. Its head was that of a black goat and its yellow eyes shone brightly against the void from which it was born. The body appeared to be a naked man that had been literally twisted about at the waist. After birth clung to the clumps of matted fur about its body, and sludged down to the floor leaving marks of singed earth. It clumsily walked on all fours towards me, its backwards hind feet searching fervently for the ground below at each step. I was paralyzed with fear. How could God ever allow such a thing to exist. When the monster came within mere feet of me it rose to its full height. There is stood like a tower and a stench of rotten flesh and sulfur bowled over me. With a languid motion, the beast brought up a hand to meet my face. Grasped within its gnarled, lesioned fingers, was the journal that Justin and I so frequently fought over. Yes. Yes! It had chosen me to be the bearer of its weight. I am the master of its knowledge and keeper of its secrets. How could that fool even begin to comprehend the significance of what was written within? I fell to my knees before the messenger- groveled at its power, and with a swift motion my master lifted its leg high into the air and brought it crashing into my spine. Over my screams of agony I could hear, even still, her sweet whispers, “You belong to me... the mother of all... Inga U’wi gyha jy!” “Inga U’wi! The black goat rises!”, I screamed into my empty apartment. Sweat and urine had soaked its way through my bed and in the distance I could still hear her whispers. I was invigorated and knew that I must do. I flew from my bed chambers and into that cold November night. Wearing nothing but my bed clothes I headed into that dark foggy night.
*** Like a daemon I burst into the office and hurled myself onto the small
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safe containing the Journal. The combination was no obstacle. I had turned that knob a thousand times to obtain the Journal that called to me now. With swift and sure turns it gave way to my fanaticism. As the final wheel turned, and the fence fell into place, I shuddered and a heavy sigh escaped my lips as I opened the door. The journal lay waiting for me, the only thing within. I reached out a trembling sweaty palm and grasped the book. Instantly I could tell something was wrong. I jerked it out and nearly tore it open. The pages of manifests and letters from sailors to their home stared back and laughed at me- at my foolishness. My body shook with anger. He knew I would be here. He knew I would return for the Journal and he came and took it for himself. I spat, frothed, and with a guttural scream I threw the book into the corner, sending a cascade of boxes and equipment for our journey crashing to the floor. That is when I saw him standing in the door way. Justin the craven. Several days growth of beard now clung to his emaciated face. His wild eyes peered out from dark circles. He snarled and hissed, “She warned me of this.� Before my confusion could set in, he howled with rage and lunged at me, sending us crashing over our desks and landing twisted on the floor. Like feral dogs we rolled about, confined between the desks and wall. Justin had managed to gain the upper hand; placing one foot upon the ground and with a great shove, spun his body on top of mine. Quickly, he clasped his hands around my throat and begun to squeeze. The pressure of blood soon welled up behind my eyes as he hands grew tighter and tighter around my neck. I tried desperately to claw at him, but he simply held his head back, with that assured smirk on his face and glint in his eye. I had resigned to my faint and let my hands fall aside when my right fell upon a large discarded tome. One of the many books we had collected through the years. I called the last of my will and crushed it against the temple of his skull. I heard a large crack, and he crumpled. I gasped for air, coughed a little blood, and pushed him to the side. He
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did not have the book. But where could it be? He knew I would be here? I did not understand. I had reached the door, when a shuffling behind me bade me to pause. Turning, I saw Justin rise and stagger. He locked his eyes upon me. Murder lay in them so deep that it caused me to take a step back. That is when the Black Wind rose up around us. It consumed me. Filling me with a wrathful anger. Justin launched himself from the desk, like a savage tiger, arms spread and teeth bared. A glint to my right caught my eye. Sticking up from the fragmented equipment on the floor, was the shovel handle. The very same shovel Justin used the night he brought the doom upon us. With a single motion I wrenched the head free and brought it across his chest. The sickening crunch of bone resounded through the office as he was sent to the floor. He now laid there wheezing. Desperately he tried to crawl out the door; his quaking hand reaching out. I brought the spade down upon his wrist, nearly severing is completely. Justin let out a cracked, and blood filled howl. I straddled my former friend, and raised the shovel above my head. The wind kicked up and born upon it where the whispers, “You belong to me.. Inga U’wi.. you belong to me!” And I brought it down upon his head. It caved with ease, sending a spray of blood out from his mouth. With a rushing torrent the Black Wind raced from me and fled out there door, causing me to stumble and fall into the cold hallway. It cracked like a whip as I came to my senses. Now here I sit upon the cold stone floor as my colleagues life pours out. I realize now that the voice upon the Black Wind did not come for me. I realize now that our outcome had always been written for us, “I can hear Patrick’s voice echoing throughout these ancient halls. His mistress calls for sacrifice- calls for a soul to feed her young. He searches for me and as he draws near I feel that black wind rise up around us. On its edges I can hear her whispers now. But foolish Patrick, it will not be I, but you who gives of themselves to feed our god. Inga U’wi gyha jy!”
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Jazz Night Jeff Baker
He was onto me. I could tell by the way he shifted his weight forward on his bar stool- with one foot on the ground, ready to run. My first time out and already I made a mistake. It probably didn’t help that I was an over forty in a black and white suit amongst the hoppers in the club. Not to mention the scars from where they had inserted fibrous lines into my skin made me a real piece of work. Well too late now, Corbin. You’re just going to have to deal with it. I was sitting in a corner booth of some random gin mill. Like most clubs and bars in New Venice the noise of heavy Jazztronica pumped through the speakers. God, I hate that perversion. Guess that’s another reason I caught his attention. Probably should have grabbed a dame to hop with. My mark tried to play it cool and slip off his stool when a large group of Janes with their daddy’s passed between us. Good for me, this Hood didn’t know his history very well. The network of fibrous in my eyes shifted into a pattern which caused the light in the room to refract off the new angles and bend the light around the crowd. Anyone paying close attention would have seen my eyes become multifaceted. Everyone turned into this murky swirling cloud, causing him to stand out. Keep running kid, I need to get you out of here. I watched him make his way to the front of the club towards the entrance, look over his shoulder, and quickly make a cut to a side emergency exit. The foot-chase began. I dropped my light refraction and made my way after him. Years ago I learned trying to tail someone with that vision cost me some serious migraines and a few days in bed. I burst out into the hot Louisiana night air just in time to see him turn the right corner. It would take
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him to the street along the back of the bar. I started pounding pavement, the heels of my dress shoes resounded against the walls of the tight corridor. As I cleared the corner, I looked right just in time to see a two by four come swinging at my head. As quick as thought, the fibrous attached to my nerves fired an electric pulse throughout my body. With my reflexes boosted into overdrive the lines shifted and to reinforce the bone and muscle along my right arm. Using my momentum and new found speed, I brought my forearm up and drove it through the wood, sending it splintering across the ground; leaving just a mangled haft of wood in his hands. If you’ve never seen someone tap into fibrous before, it can be a bit disturbing. You can hear their muscles stretch and pull while the visible cut lines on their skin heats up to produce a reddish glow. And believe me; it’s just as painful for the user as it may sound. I looked up to see the confusion plastered on his dumb goon face. Sure, he’s seen people use bioware to do some pretty superhuman stuff, but nothing is as visceral as fibrous. Keeping the charge in my nerve lines going, I pushed off my right leg, pivoted on my left and tried to bring my right down on his clavicle like a forty pound sledgehammer; the glow of energy diffused through my pants leg grew bright. I had mistaken this guy for just another Hood. Seemed that he had gathered up some extra cash and bought himself an adrenal swell. Fantastic. From the time it took for my leg to go from where he should have been, to smashing six inches into concrete, he had cleared six feet running. I really hate the new tech. He was going to gain another twelve or thirteen by the time I could get my foot out of the hole and be long gone before I could get up to speed. I couldn’t make my first hit a failure. And who was going to hire a past his prime hit-man who was bested by a pushover Hood. I pushed back my suit jacket and withdrew my Eris-G22. It was an action my body had gone through hundreds of times. Like old friends, the fibrous in my palm reached out to handshake with the hundreds of leads set into the grip. My vision ex-
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ploded in an array of readouts and tactical information that was overlaid on top of the ground and walls. I could tell you in an instant how fast the wind was blowing, where he would be in the next second on his present course, and how many rounds were left in my gun. As I swung the gun up a round was chambered and safety turned off. And all of that is great. But for all that, I knew something those readouts didn’t. I lifted my pistol and lined up the iron sights to meet right between his neck and shoulder. With a gentle squeeze of the trigger the servos wound up. Oxygen surrounding the gun was drawn in and with a soft hiss and... Pop, the gas was expelled out the back of the gun as the massive charge was released propelling the bullet forward. This all took but a moment before the goon’s trapezius and adrenal swell exploded in a shower of red and green. You see, while the newer bioware is better it still needs a power source; a power source that can be shut off, or run out. And, like most street bio-docs, they don’t take the time to bury the swells very deep. My mark hit the ground and slid another five feet, blood mixed with adrenaline fluid pumping out of the hole I blew in his back. Gritting my teeth and with a sharp tug I freed my shoeless foot from the pothole I helped create. I did that limp walk, the kind you can only get when wearing one shoe, over to the bleeder as the stiffness in my knees set in. He started trying to half get up and half crawl. Hiss... Pop, another round went through his knee. That’s when he started to scream and flail. Futz. I landed on the screamer, driving my knee into his sternum to crush the air out of his lungs. With my right hand I gripped his neck, my fingers dug into his sternomastoid, and I brought my pistol to bear on his forehead. “You had to go and make this difficult didn’t you?”, I said through gritted teeth. “All you had to do was show me where you Hoods hole up.” He began to squirm underneath me as his breath was coming back. “Hey, hey. Stop it.”, with a stern squeeze I put more pressure on his neck
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and began to force his head back into the pavement with the Eris. “Its question and answer time, are we copacetic?” I let off his neck a bit to allow him a quick nod. His eyes were the size of those silver dollars I used to collect as a kid. Sweat mingled with tears started running down the sides of his face. I didn’t have much time before he started getting hysterical on me. “Listen,” I growled, “just tell me where is, the Big Six?” “You some kind of Dick?”, he squeaked. “Stop beatin’ your gums. Big Six!” I pushed the barrel harder into his forehead. “Big Six...”, a bit of blood started pooling up in his mouth, “Big... six...” His eyes glazed over as he kept mouthing big six. Shooting out his adrenal swell seemed like a good idea at the time, but then it hit me. All his adrenalin is routed through that system. Now that the swell was scattered all over that back street he wasn’t getting that extra boost. Without it he couldn’t fight off shock. Good move, Corbin. “Come on kid. Damn it, just get it out!” “What’s going on down there?” I whipped my head up just as a spotlight flooded the street. The fibrous constricted my pupils to mere dots in an instant to compensate for the intrusion. Further up the street where it broke into a t-section, bordered by one of the many waterways that acted as streets, was a Red Lion patrolmen. When New Venice was constructed, the corporations involved opted for a privatized security firm. That brought about the birth of the Red Lions. Like the cities name sake, they adopted some old world symbols and turned it into some crazy abstraction. The patrolman wore this ostentatious gold body armor over deep red BDUs. His helmet looked like it was styled after the Roman foot-soldiers, except an opaque plasteel visor covered his eyes. His badge, inset into the chest plate of his body armor, had a lion with wings and nine tails embossed on it. Its red lacquer shone against the gold. This was not my night.
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I looked down at the Hood. His eyes were complete glass now. He didn’t bother trying to speak anymore. All I needed was for you to lead me there kid. Didn’t have to go this way. Making his way towards me the Red Lion asked again, “I repeat, what is going on down there?” I didn’t take the time to see if he’d drawn his weapon. I sent a surge of thought down into my legs. The fibrous lines wound up tight, causing my calves to act like a compressed piston. They must have sent out a major glow dancing across the damp ground, because I heard the beat cop pause in his footsteps. Taking the moment of confusion, I released the welled up energy. I shot at him like a cannon ball and balled up my right fist, tucking my Eris up to my chest. Transferring the energy from my legs to my arm in mid flight, I reinforced my arm as it drove into his chest plate. The sound of crunching plasteel and ribs rang in my ears as the Red Lion and I shot out into the main street. We easily flew over the foot path and came crashing into a sport boat moored to the dock along the waterway. The Red Lion’s back slammed into the boat’s roll bar and I came crashing down on top of him; then bounced into the air. I must have looked like a rag doll, spinning through the air before I splashed into the water. There is a chance I overdid it. Red Lions had nifty devices that monitor their heart rates and other vitals. Once that goes screwy you’ve got about two minutes before a Rescue Crew is setting the area in a blaze of gun fire. They really don’t like it when one of their own goes down. I really couldn’t stick around. I took a moment to get my bearings in the murky water and holster my weapon. From below all the street lights looked the same. Finding the black void that was the sport boat, I turned to the opposite dock and kicked with what strength I had left and propelled myself toward it. My fingers gripped the edge of the concrete dock and I prepared to pull myself up. That’s when my leg started to spasm. My hands slipped and I fell back into the water. It is a hard pain to describe
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and one I’ve dealt with for twenty years now. The best I have been able to come up with is that it feels like the muscles in my thigh are contracting at a mile a minute, while trying to play musical chairs with one another. That’s the trade off with this old stuff. The bioware guys have got an edge on the power. But like the Hood, its limited by normal biological science. So the fibrous lines give me that slight edge by being nearly unlimited in use. Only for the low low price of ripping my body up a bit more each time I use it. That seems fair, right? I was sinking fast and soon the fibrous in my left arm would start to super heat and I wouldn’t be able to hold my breath for much longer. I had to fight against the current and pain, with only my right side able to inch me upward. My lungs were about to rupture as I burst out of the water. Scrambling for air and flailing for the edge I went under again. I could feel my arm starting to heat up- the water around it bubbled and steamed. I kicked again and surfaced once more. My fingers caught a hold of the edge. Unable to use my tech during these fits, I was left with only my natural strength to try and pull me up. With a final kick and pull I was able to flop onto the dock like a maimed seal. The cut lines on my arm made it appear as if molten lava was about to come pouring out as the fibrous that was laid underneath kept growing hotter. The sleeve of my jacket was beginning to singe and burn; and at any moment may catch flame itself. My jackets had been specially tailored to hold a group of canisters that lined the inner left breast. Each one was about four inches long and an inch in diameter. Laying on my back on the dock, my legs still in the water, I fumbled around and yanked one out. Gripping the cap between my teeth I ripped it off to expose the needle and spat it into the water. With painful effort I sat up and slipped my left shoulder out of my jacket to get to the shunt I had had grafted into my deltoid. I slammed the needle into the shunt and gave a firm half twist to secure the canister in place. A wave of ice cold washed over me. Within moments the heating of my arm subsided, my spasms calmed, and
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all that was left was a residual tingling in my finger tips- another close call. That was when I heard the sirens coming from the patrol boats as they made their way down the canal. They would be there at any moment. I pulled the canister from my arm and shoved it in my pocket as I scrambled onto the dock. I made a beeline for the concrete steps up to the footpath and ascended them painfully. When I reached the top, I could see the twirling lights bouncing off the buildings and water. Looking down the stairs and at the dock, I was dismayed at seeing the large trail of water I was leaving. It was going to give them a perfect trail. But at this point, I didn’t have much choice. Turning to a side alley I began legging it. Here’s hoping they’re too worried about their own buddy to notice. I didn’t get all the information I wanted, but at least I fulfilled my end of the deal. That was one less Hood for people to worry about. The thud-squish of my heel and water soaked sock echoed out into the street. Yeah, I’m the real McCoy.
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The Return of Melanoplus spretus Aaron Wilson Dark Cloud Horizon
Jim stood in the potato field with a hand full of dirt. His father had sent him out to check the ground for early frost, which Jim had known to be a fool’s errand. Yes, Jim knew that a deep frost would ruin the Russets, but he also knew that it was too early in the season for frost. His father should have said to check for blight or beetles, especially beetles. This time of year, the Leptinotarsa decemlineata were everywhere. Not too many people used incect’s Latin names, but Jim’s father thought a thing should be called by its proper binomial, or genus and species, name. Jim thought his father was a little daft and needed to sound smart around the other farmers. Jim’s father had given up on teaching science to kids Jim’s age, so they moved out of the city and bought a small farm in Idaho. Jim’s father had no intention of trying to compete with the other farms in the area. Instead, they grew several varieties of potato, just enough to sell locally to restaurants and at farmer’s markets that wanted a pesticide-free, low impact product. Growing potatoes without the aid of big machines and large quantities of chemicals seemed impossible to the neighboring farmers, and when they saw Jim’s father around the way, they called him names. Once, Mr. Orson spit on Jim’s father’s shoes while they were in the grocery store picking up diapers and formula for Jim’s baby sister. Jim had begged his father several times to call a Colorado potato beetle a 24
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Colorado potato beetle instead of Leptinotarsa decemlineata and a potato a potato instead of Solanum tuberosum, but there was no changing his father. Most days, Jim admired his father’s use of names. However, Jim’s father’s stubbornness was starting to wear Jim down. Jim was tried of defending his father’s quirks. After checking the soil, Jim walked the rows of purple flowers. He’d stop every ten yards, cup the flowers and inspect the sun-yellow stamens, turn a few of the leaves over, and shake the plant. When he shook the plant, a few light green short-horned grasshoppers fell to the ground. Jim scooped one up in his hand, “Melanoplus sanguinipes. No wings, yet. You can’t get far then.” Jim liked seeing grasshoppers in the fields because if their populations were high then there wouldn’t be a large, and thus uncontrollable, infestation of the Colorado potato beetle. The Colorado potato beetle laid its eggs near grasshopper’s eggs. The Colorado potato beetle usually hatched first, and its larva would eat grasshopper eggs, one pest controlling the population of the other. However, a potato farmer hates both, but Jim’s father saw opportunity in grasshoppers where the Colorado potato beetle only brought devastation. Jim and his father would catch grasshoppers and sell them to high-end restaurants in Denver. Potato beetles were inedible, simply a pest. Jim held on to the pair, putting them in a small glass jar with tiny air holes in the plastic lid. Jim pulled a leaf from a near by plant and stuffed it in the jar along with the captive bugs. His father would want to see the pair for himself. He put the jar in his side-satchel and looked back up at the house. The lights were on in only one room, his parents. Jim had know they’d wanted a little alone time, wanted him out of the house for a while so they could do what adults did while they were alone. Many of Jim’s friends’ parents were divorced, separated, or seemed to loath each other. He didn’t know what was different about his parents, but Jim was mature enough to know that his parents were still attracted to each other. Now, while Jim didn’t think on his parents’ sex life for very long, because like any good teenager, he
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found it gross, he was glad they still had sex – that they were still together. Jim spun around. He swore he could hear buzzing. A loud raspy buzzing had suddenly risen with the sun’s setting. With the sun at its zenith, Jim pulled out his flashlight. He pointed the flashlight’s beam in the air as he swatted around his head. The buzzing stopped and the sun was again bright, but Jim was left with a gut wrenching feeling that some trouble had just passed by overhead. Not waiting around to see if whatever had buzzed his head would come back, Jim took off for the house. When he pulled the porch door open, Jim called out, “Father! There’s something in the field.” Jim’s father, shirtless, pulling up his pants, came running into the living room. “What’s out there?” Jim’s father waited barely a second. “Come on, Jimmy. What’s going on?” “I heard a buzzing.” Jimmy made the motions of swatting over his head. “But I couldn’t see nothing ‘cause the sun had gone out.” “ ‘Anything’. You couldn’t see anything.” “Right. I couldn’t.” “And you heard buzzing. What kind of buzzing?” Jim father was pulling on a long sleeved red and brown flannel. “Like mosquitoes but bigger.” As Jimmy tried to explain that the buzzing had come from everywhere, as illustration to his story, a light tink-tink plus a mosquito-like buzzing emanated from his satchel. Jim stopped midsentence and pulled the jar out of his bag. “Yeah, father. Like this.” Jim’s father took the jar and opened it. He turned the jar upside down and shook it. A brown grasshopper fell into his hand. Jim father held it out to Jim. “Son, this is very important. What color was this Melanoplus when you put it in the jar?” “Green.” Jim father walked out onto the porch with he bug in his left hand and the jar in his right. “It’s not possible.” He looked again at the sample his son
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had brought him from the field. “Jim, I have one more question for you.” He held the grasshopper out for Jim to see. “You see any other difference?” Jim took the grasshopper between his thumb and his two middle fingers. “Sure father. This one has wings.” Then Jim’s father said, “Quiet. Listen.” Jim listened. From seemingly all around, Jim could hear a grinding, chewing noise. “What’s that?” Jim’s father walked though the clean cut grass yard to the edge of the field. On his way, he stopped and picked up a butterfly net that was lying in his path. They used the nets to catch beetles before squishing them. However, he stopped at the edge of the yard and the field. Standing in the early evening sun, Jim’s father watched his field of Russets undulate like high tide, waves of brown and yellow ebbed and slapped at his feet. The tide looked like the soil had gotten fed up with providing the water and some of the nutrients necessary to grow a thick tuber of sugary starch and was revolting. Jim’s father took the butterfly net, angled it against the tide, and scooped up a net full of grasshoppers identical to the one he pulled from Jim’s bottle. Having separated the net full of grasshoppers from the tide, a harsh ear crushing buzzing erupted from the ocean before him. Quickly, he rejoined the netted grasshoppers with those in his field. The buzzing stopped, replaced with the chewing sound. Jim had snuck up on his father. He stood next to where his father had emptied the net back into the field. “Why did you toss’em back?” “Not now.” Jim’s father said. “We need to slowly make our way back to the house.” “What are they?” “Melanoplus spretus.” He took his teenaged son’s hand. “Back up slowly.” Jim shook his father’s hand. He hadn’t held his father’s hand since he
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started playing football in the sixth grade. His father’s hand had felt wet and limp. He didn’t want to hold that hand. He’d always believed that his farther was strong and fearless, but that hand had conveyed the opposite. At that moment, he stopped thinking of the man slowly backing up the yard to the house as his father. Instead, he only saw a man named Galvin. Jim thought, “I’m not afraid of no grasshopper, no matter the species name.” Aloud he said, “I’m not going to let them take our crop,” before running toward the field. “James.” Jim’s father called. “James, no! Those are Rocky Mountain Locusts.” Jim charged ahead into the tidal wave of locusts. As Jim’s shoes crunched and squished the invertebrates’ exoskeletons, the insects seemed to pull away, parting as Moses had parted the Red Sea. However, Jim did not have a watchful, loving God looking out for him at that moment. As the tide of locusts parted, they piled atop one another creating ten-foot columns forming a perfect three-dimensional horseshoe. The horseshoe opened back toward the yard. Jim’s father called out repeatedly. His words of warning swallowed by agitated buzzing and chewing. He ran to the porch, slung the garden hose over his shoulder, and headed back down toward the field. However, as he turned around, after hefting the hose over his shoulder and tuning on the water, his son and the horseshoe of locusts had been claimed by the plague.
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March 2011 Plague Moving
Galvin wasn’t going to give up on his son. James could still be alive, buried under a mountain of insects. Putting his thumb over the end of the garden hose, he focused the water pressure where he thought he’d last seen James stomping, trying to protect their meager harvest of Solanum tuberosum. Just then, while spraying the field, he thought “Potatoes. They’re potatoes.” “James.” He yelled. He changed direction with the stream of water. A small rainbow appeared in the spray as the sun sunk even lower on the horizon. As the water pushed the plague back, he caught sight of his son’s shoe. He doubled his efforts, tying to get more force out of the hose. Suddenly, besides his frantic efforts with the garden hose, the chewing and buzzing stopped. A deafening quiet over took the field. The tidal motion ceased, but the insects were still everywhere, covering everything as far as he could see. Then, just as suddenly as the plague had stopped moving and buzzing, it exploded off the ground. A dark cloud choked out what light was left from the sun. For the next several minutes, the thunder of the locusts’ movement caused Galvin to drop the hose and forget about his son, as his own flight instincts tried to protect him. He fell to his knees first. He then curled as tightly as he could into the fetal positing, trying to cover his face. His efforts weren’t enough to save him from the extreme weight of the insects as they all tried to get airborne at once. If he hadn’t been holding his breath and squirming around, he would have compared the bombardment to suffocation he’d only heard about when someone got trapped in a grain elevator. It was never the weight that killed, but either panic or the inhalation of dust – like drowning in dirt instead of water. As Galvin gasped for air, he pulled his chin under his shirt and took a
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breath through the fabric. Being able to take that breath calmed his nerves enough to remember that his son was still trapped in the field. However, he could do nothing other than wait for the plague to pass. While he waited, the stress pushed his mind into a stupor of connections. Names. He’d always believed that names possessed a spiritual power unlike any other facet of human nature. Names, he believed, were divine in origin. First, God created and named man and woman, naming them Adam and Eve. In the joy that God took from creating and naming everything in the universe, God found joy watching Adam and Eve, together, as they discovered each of those names. Galvin asked his fear laced brain, why would God bring back an insect extinct since 1902? Galvin fought against the idea and sought other answers. There was another grasshopper close in DNA structure, the Melanoplus bruneri – largest of the North American Grasshoppers still in existence. However, the Melanoplus bruneri lived a more solitary life, only gathering in small clusters to find mates. They’d never swarmed liked the Rocky Mountain Locusts made famous by Laura Ingalls Wilder and Rose Wilder Lane’s story, “On the Banks of Plum Creek.” Still, the only difference between a grasshopper and a locust, which was only scientific speculation, was behavior. While the grasshopper lived solitarily, the locust was gregarious – clustering and moving en masse. None of those thoughts eased the panic that Galvin felt as he waited for the plague to lift. As his thoughts cleared, he risked peaking out from under his flannel shirt. The plague was gone, save for a littler of casualties scattered over the lawn. Uncurling, he carefully got to his feet. Before he could check on his son, his wife had run past into the field. For a second, he wondered how much she had seen from the house. How helpless she must have felt watching the cloud of insects first envelop her son and then her husband. He picked up the garden hose and put it over his shoulder. Then he ran after his wife into the field.
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“June. June.” He called. June looked up. She held a tattered shirt and one shoe. “Where is he?” Galvin looked around in the dark. The moon’s light was strong tonight, but he could barely see anything. Searching, he tripped over something. Fumbling in the dark, he took hold of what he’d tripped over. Bone. He held a bone in his hand. Summoning all his naming strength, he dispassionately named them radius and ulna, the two bones that composed the human forearm. The forearm was missing connective the tissue necessary to hold the two bones together or connect them to the carpals and humerus. He tried to find comfort in knowing those names, find the power, the connection to the divine. North America, for the past hundred years, had the only been the only one of the six insect habitable continents to have successfully defeated a species of locust. Its sudden return was an affront to American agricultural dominance. Looking out over his fields with his son’s radius and ulna in his right hand and the garden hose in his left, he cried out. June stopped her search and ran over. She took the bones from his hand, the radius in her left and the ulna in her right, and hugged them to her chest. She fell to her knees. In the dirt, she swept her arms wide collecting more of her son to her. Galvin sat. The garden hose still spewing water into the barren field. His next thought was mistakenly said aloud, “They took my son. They took my plants, but we’ll still have potatoes in the ground tomorrow.” June, not thinking, raised James’ radius over her head hit Galvin square on the shoulder with it. Recognizing what she’d done, she dropped the bones and ran for the house. Galvin couldn’t find the power to move. He dug his fingers deep into the soil where his son had died. For several minutes, he dug with only one hand. Then giving into the act, he got to his knees and dug with both hands until he found a patch of small Russet tubers.
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The tubers were small, about the size of his thumb. As he piled them, he couldn’t help but think they wouldn’t catch a good price at the farmer’s market, and he likely go bankrupt trying to pay back the loan on the land and this season’s seed spuds. The pile he’d made contained more than a hundred Fingerling sized Russets, and the hole in his field slightly short then he was tall and half a foot deep. He collected his son’s bones and put them in the shallow grave before pushing the dug up soil back into the hole, over his son. He took a moment before walking back to house. “Son,” he said, “I’m not one to believe that you can hear me, but I was proud of you.” A tear cleared a way down his dusty cheek. “You’re last thoughts and actions were in the best interest of the farm, the family. You tried you best to salvage the crop. Tonight, son, you were your dad’s hero.” He tossed a couple of potatoes on the grave that he’d been rolling around in his hand, he turned to walk back up the house to see about June and his daughter Sarah-Beth.
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March 2011 Recovering
June watched Galvin walk in the door and sit down at the diner table. He took his shoes off, like he did every time he came in from the field, grunting and tired. He threw them next to the door. Ignoring Galvin, June made another phone call. While her husband played in the dirt, she’d fired up the prayer chain. She’d stared with LuAnn, told her that the wrath of God had finally stuck her family because of her husband lack of faith and taken their son. She’d also relayed what she’d seen, trapped in the house. “Susan. Heaven help me, I’m glad you answered. Don’t go outside.” “What are you talking about, June? We were just about to go for our evening walk when I heard the phone ring.” “You can’t.” “Well why not?” “God’s wrath just took James from us in a cloud of insects.” “Now June, tell me what you mean.” “I said it. My James is dead. I watched God’s plague, just as it was in Egypt, come down out of the sky and kill my James.” “June.” “It’s true. Don’t go outside tonight. The Devil’s loose. If you don’t believe me, turn on the set, bound to be all over the news by now.” “Anyway, I need you to call the rest on the hotline. We need your prayers, and tell people to turn on the TV and stay inside to night.” “June, are you okay. Should I drive over?” “No. Make the calls Susan.” Before June heard Susan’s answer, she hung up and dialed the next number on her list. “May, you have to believe me. Turn on the TV. It’s got to be on the TV by now.” While June talked to May, the conversation going about as well as
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the others, she got up of the chair and turned on her own TV. She’d expected breaking coverage on every channel, but as she flipped, the nightly news coverage was the same as always: Weather, Sports, Politics. There was nothing about the end of the world or a death cloud of flesh eating insects. June cut her conversation with May short. After disconnecting the line, she turned again to Galvin. Galvin was still sitting on the kitchen chair staring at his feet. “Gal, you have to warn people. Help me warn people.” “If it’s not on the news already, it’s too late.” June marched over to where Galvin was sitting. She thrust the phone in his face. “Call.” “Who?” “I don’t know. Call the police, call the news, call your friends back at the university but heaven help me, you need to tell someone. You know what those were better than anyone, so it falls to you.” She waved the phone under his chin until he took it. “Okay.” He said. He dialed 911. He told the operator that his son was dead, and he’d buried him in the field with the potatoes. He used the word potato. When the operator had asked him what happened, he’d said he didn’t know, only one moment he was alive and the next dead. The operator told Galvin to stay on the line and that emergency responders were being dispatched to their home. He’d said that he needed to make another call and hung up on the 911 dispatcher. He called his friend Bill Reed next. Bill answered on the third ring, “This is Bill.” “Bill, its Gal.” “Gal, it’s getting late.” “Sorry about that, but my son is dead.” “What? What’s that about James. Dead?” “Dead.”
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“But how?” “Melanoplus spretus.” “Galvin, that’s impossible. Even if the science was wrong and they still existed, The Rocky Mountain Locust didn’t eat people. They only ate leaves and stalks, going have the dense sugars.” “It was them. I have samples.” “Okay, say I believe that you saw a swarm of grasshoppers. What direction they go?” “East. Southeast, I think.” “I’ll call in your warning, Gal. Wouldn’t want people round here thinking that the Department of Agriculture didn’t take a pest scare seriously.” There was a pause. “But I’ll check it out in the morning.” “Thanks.” “Sure thing.” They hung up. Galvin turned to June. “I called.” He stood, dropped the phone, walked down the hall, and went into James’ room. June followed Galvin. She’d heard only his end of the conversations and needed to know what was what. However, seeing Galvin sitting on the edge of James’ bed clutching James’ football jersey to his chest, stopped her short. After a few moments, she got her nerve back and asked, “What?” “What? What?” “Who’d you call? What’d they say? You know, what?” “The cops are on their way.” “Gal, what are the cops going to do about God’s plague? Damn it man. You’re the name guy. Power in names and all that. Do something.” “James is dead.” He held up James’ football helmet and shook it at June. “Dead.” “Our son is dead.” “The last reported swarm or plague of Melanoplus spretus occurred in
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late 1800s, perhaps as late as 1877.” He went on as if reading out of a book. “It had been reported that the swarm contained nearly a trillion insects. No one knows why individual grasshoppers swarm becoming a plague of locusts. However, there has been speculation that Melanoplus spretus’ life-cycle includes both a solitary phase and a…” “Galvin.” June slapped him, hard across the face. He turned his head with the slap and dropped both James’s helmet and jersey. “You have to help save other folks’ kids.” She wound up as if to slap him again. However, before June brought her hand down on Galvin’s already red and swollen cheek, he stood. “What can I do?” Then he tore out of the house.
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Sending Them Back
Galvin pulled out of the parking lot and turned left. In his rearview mirror, he could see the flashing light of emergency vehicles turning off the highway and on the dirt road that ran past his home. He had an idea and didn’t have time to discuss it with the police, especially since they’d suspect him of wrongdoing. He didn’t have the kind of time necessary to explain that what took his boy also took his crop. He sped down the road three driveways, until he came across Darrel’s farm. Galvin pulled right up to Darrel’s porch. His stop was more like a skid that threatened to take out a corner of the porch. Having barely come to a full stop, Galvin laid into the horn. Darrel opened the door shielding his eyes from Galvin’s high-beam lights. Galvin got out of the truck and said, “We need your plane.” “What for?” Instead of trying to talk it out, Galvin grabbed hold of Darrel and drug him off the porch and over to his field, which was no small feat. Darrel was a big man, standing over six feet and the size of Viking’s linebacker. However, Galvin’s surprise visit had caught Darrel off guard. “Look,” Galvin said. The field was bare soil where five-foot tall corn stalks had been earlier that day. In the light from the house and Galvin’s truck, small dust devils danced in the open field. The desolation of a season’s work was utterly complete. Galvin didn’t want to explain about his son and the grasshoppers becoming a plague of Melanoplus spretus. He doubted that Darrel would believe him. Instead, he reached down and picked up a couple of specimens, handed them over to Darrel, and said, “We have to try.”
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Darrel held the critters in his hand, poked them with a chubby finger. Before pivoting on his heels, squishing the insects in his hand, he said, “We kill’em all.” They walked to the crop duster’s hanger. Darrel went in through the door next to the large hanger door. Inside, he pressed the button to raise the large door so he could move his plane out of the hanger. “Funny thing I just thought.” “What’s that?” “You, asking me for help.” “They killed James.” Galvin said as he strapped the emergency parachute to his back. “They killed my son.” Darrel stopped his prep work and embraced Galvin. There was a quite moment between them. No slapping of backs as men do when the hug. Instead, a common resolve passed between them, so when they finally did let go of each other, Galvin’s tears were wet on Darrel’s shoulder, but Galvin’s eyes were dry. Darrel tossed Galvin a monkey wrench. “We need to get those tanks off.” They worked quickly. The tanks were labeled with TOXIC and with the name of a pesticide company that Galvin didn’t recognize. His tubers were organic, so he didn’t spend time researching chemical companies. However, when Darrel handed over a new, full tank labeled DDT, he stopped. “Gal, get that on.” “Wait. This stuff is bad news.” “You wanted to kill’em. This’ll kill’em good.” “Yes, but…” “But nothing. They took your son and my corn.” Galvin hoisted the tank into position and bolted it into place. Darrel was right. They needed to stop the plague tonight, not tomorrow, tonight. After affixing the tank, he tossed the wrench into the dirt and helped Darrel push the bi-wing out of the hanger.
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“You ever flown this thing at night.” “Not supposed to, but yeah.” Darrel grinned. “Come look.” Galvin crawled up the side and looked into the cockpit. “Wow.” “Yeah. I fixed my girl up with all the latest equipment.” Darrel motioned for Galvin to get into the back seat. “She might look like the Red Baron flew her in the war, but she’s a modern plane. Some of the pesticides require late night or early morning application because the sun breaks them darn too fast.” Galvin didn’t have the chance to respond as the engine kicked over and the props sprang to life. Before he knew it, they were down the runway and in the air, heading East Southeast. Without turning around, Darrel tapped his head, pointing to the headset and microphone. Galvin found the equipment near his knees. He put the headset on, “Check, check, check.” “I can hear you, fine. You said east, yes.” “Yes.” “Good. They’re flying into the wind, for now. If they head north, they’ll catch the Jet stream.” Galvin imagined just how are they could make it if they gained the wind’s help eastward. He remembered that reports of the locust plagues were recorded as far east and north as Maine, but the dustbowl states of Nebraska, Kansas, and Oklahoma were hit the worst in the last recorded swarm more than a hundred years ago. “How are we going to spot them?” “My girl’s radar works like a fishing trawler, except for infestations of critters. If we fly over top’em, she’ll spot’em.” The night air was cool and Galvin’s face started to numb. He started to wish that he’d worn heavier clothes. Back on the ground, he wondered why Darrel had pulled on overalls and coat. Now he understood. The wind cut
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through the thin flannel shirt he wore. Even though he was doing something, trying to help, sitting in the back seat of the plane, he felt helpless and alone. He knew that Darrel was up front. He watched as Darrel checked monitors hidden in the cockpit. How fast were the locusts? After what must have been thirty minutes of flying, Galvin started to wonder if he had imagined his son’s death, the loss of his crop, and even being in the plane. The night’s events seemed completely surreal. A hard object struck Galvin in the face and fell in his lap. His first reaction was to put his hands up to shield his face from another pelting. Then he opened his eyes and saw the twitching body of a large brown grasshopper, a Melanoplus spretus. Before Galvin could squish the bug, they flew into the cloud. The plane’s props chopped hundreds of insects out of the air straining to keep the plane in the air. “I think we found them.” Darrel flicked a couple of switches and pull up for the sky. The switches released twin streams of DDT in their wake. Galvin imagined what they must have looked like from the ground. A small bi-wing plane flying into a black cloud, and as the plane moved to crest over the cloud, like a waterfall, the black cloud fell to the ground. “We got’em” yelled Darrel. “We got’em.”
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March 2011 Aftermath
Galvin and Darrel stood next to the plane. The County Sheriff pointing his shotgun at the pair said, “What the hell boys?” Darrel whooped it up. “Did you see that? We got’em. I think we got’em all.” He spun around and slapped his knee. The Sheriff cocked his shotgun. “Get in the back the car. Both of you.” As Galvin walked by behind Darrel, the Sheriff grabbed hold of Galvin and pushed him up against his squad car. “Galvin, you’re under arrest for the murder of your son James.” Galvin looked at the ground and let the Sheriff cuff him. “Ken, we just saved Idaho.” Darrel thought about what they’d done again and said, “No. We just saved the United States of America, maybe even some of Canada. We’re heroes. Heroes don’t get arrested.” He swayed back and forth a bit. “Darrel don’t make me arrest you too. Wait, you been drinking and flying at night again? I’ve warned you.” The Sheriff turned Galvin around and read him his Miranda rights.” “Quiet. Heroes aren’t quiet.” Darrel clapped his hands. Galvin said. “Darrel, stop it.” “Tell’em what we did, tell’em.” “The Sheriff’s going to take me down to the station and we’ll talk it out. Do me a favor Darrel, tell June where I at.” Galvin, without the help of the Sheriff, got into the back of the squad car. “Wait. Wait.” Darrel hand up his hand and ran out into the field. The Sheriff looked to Galvin. “Darrel okay?” “Sure.” “He’s acting drunk again. He drunk?” “I wouldn’t know.” Galvin suddenly realized how that sounded. “No.
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He’s not drunk. He’s right though.” “About you two saving the US?” “I think so, yeah.” “From what?” Galvin didn’t reply. Instead, he lifted his chin to indicate Darrel running and hold his shirt like a basket. Darrel stopped too close to the Sheriff and had to take a couple of steps back. “Here,” he said. He dumped the contents of his shirt on to the ground. A dozen of the locusts fell at their feet. “See.” Darrel handed one to the Sheriff. “Grasshoppers?” He turned to Galvin. “You’re wife gave us a couple of these back at your house.” Galvin didn’t feel like talking. He moved further into the squad car. The Sheriff turned to Darrel and handed him an evidence bag. “Put those in here.” Darrel filled the bag with locust. “They’d have eaten everything.” The Sheriff took the bag from Darrel and tossed it in the trunk with the evidence kit. “I think that I’m going to need you to come with me to the station. I’ll have one of my deputies take your statement while I talk to Galvin.” On the ride to the station, no one in the car said a word. Darrel’s earlier exuberance had quieted. Galvin was lost in thought about his son, his wife, his baby girl, and his farm. He didn’t know how he was going to salvage any them. His could imagine his wife hating him for all of what transpired tonight. Somehow, it’d all end up his fault, and he hated that the most – that the loss of his son boiled down to his inaction. As they turned onto the Highway and made their way east, the sheriff’s radio squawked, “Ah, Sheriff, you there?” “Go ahead.” “We’ve got reports coming in regarding a swarm of grasshoppers just south of your position.”
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Galvin shook his head, “They’re not grasshoppers. They’re Melanoplus spretus.”
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A Breach of Warranty Z. J. Woods
So on Thursday I came home from school and just dicked around on the internet for a while, and at 11:37 Syntax stuck his head in and said, “It’s eleven thirty-seven PM. Your parents have fallen asleep. Should we go?” I told him we should, because we were already late, and I jumped up and threw my goggles on. He seemed excited to me, like he was standing straighter or something. They tell you in those new owner classes that you’ll imagine things like that. On the way over I hopped on the citynet and proxied myself through Guatemala, which isn’t strictly necessary, but it makes me feel like some kind of antique hacker. That’s about all I have time for, usually. It isn’t far, but I can’t tell you much. I can tell you it’s a big field behind a boarded-up church, and we have a way of getting in and out if any cops come by, and we always know if they’re going to. Anything else, though, you’d have to be here. Soon as we got close enough, before we could actually see anything, the HUD kicked in with stats for a fight in progress. We all have this little program on the goggles that synchs with the autos and figures damage based on hit location. And I mean yeah, that takes the danger out of it, but you try explaining to your parents how you managed to break the HHer’s elbow when it’ll cost a thousand dollars to fix. I watched the red number tick down to 0% while the blue hovered above 40, and then we could see that Carlowe was the one god-dammiting and stomping around like he couldn’t believe what’d happened. His Florida stood off to one side waiting for instructions. Mag stood over near him looking satisfied.
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It was kind of a bitch move on her part, since Mag was the only one of us with two autos, and she could’ve used Cerulean, who looks more like an evil robot overlord than Syntax even. Instead she went with Vermilion, the old model, something like a cross between George Jetson’s maid and the robot from Rocky IV. Better Carlowe than me, though. Carlowe said, “What do you put in that thing?” And then he noticed me, and let go of one more “goddamn,” and said, “We just went ahead without you, man.” I didn’t really care. I just wanted to get on with it. Someone lit a cigarette, and Mag said, “So who’s up?” Donnie wanted a shot at Vermilion, so Mag let him have it, even knowing she’d lose. We’re talking about that big trashcan-looking bastard versus Julius, who looks something like Astro Boy minus a face. And sure enough Julius circled around and kicked Vermilion in the shins, and Vermilion couldn’t do much about it. When it was over Mag put her hands in her pockets and said, “Pf. You better not’ve scratched her up, Donnie.” Donnie didn’t seem concerned. “Hitting her in the same place every time.” He said, “Your parents can afford two autos. They can afford to fix one.” She smiled and said, “Asshole.” Then, “Fine, who’s next?” Whoever volunteered would volunteer to fight Julius. So I went up and waved like I was volunteering to answer a question in class. Donnie said, “I’ll just kill you again.” And Syntax said, “Are you certain?” I offered Donnie, “Yeah okay. Syntax’s not an idiot. He doesn’t lose without learning something. Yeah Syntax?” Syntax said, “Technically speaking, that’s true.” I pointed, and said, “So good. Finish him off this time.” I stepped back, and Donnie stepped back, and we watched the HHers
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situate themselves across from one another. Syntax took a stance kind of like a boxer. I don’t know if it matters whether they act like real fighters, but sometimes they do. The countdown came up on our goggles: five, four--I noticed I had Syntax’s data manager open, and I could see him get some packets from Julius and throw some back, but that was normal. They do that to figure out whether they’re the right distance apart. The countdown finished, and Julius came on. Came on hard, and his small fist hit Syntax’s forearm with a sound like two plastic bats hitting each other. I said, “Jesus--” And Donnie said, “Hey! Julius--” Julius went again and caught Syntax in the left thigh with a kick that dented plastic. At that point we all wondered what the hell was up, but none of us wanted to get close enough to find out. Nobody thought about how they aren’t supposed to hurt people. Syntax dropped back and started dodging, and whenever he could he threw an elbow at Julius’s torso. Mag or Cooper or someone whose auto you didn’t really want to mess with could’ve put an end to it. Instead they just kept shuffling back with the rest of us. I think at one point it occurred to me to say, “Syntax, you need to stop, man ...” He didn’t respond. The fight software just kept going. Giving the program admin access is a bad idea, it turns out, because it won’t stop until it’s done. And somehow they’d figured out a way to keep their health up, I guess, but we all sort of forgot to watch the score. This went on for maybe two minutes. Then Syntax caught Julius in the chest one last time, and Julius’s chestplate fell off into the grass, and as soon as he got a chance Syntax reached into the chest cavity and tore out a bunch of whatever was in there.
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Julius shut off then, which ended it for both of them. Donnie ran up to his HHer and stuck his face in the chest-hole, and he kept saying, “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,” and so on. I couldn’t say anything at first. Nobody knew where to look. For a second Mag looked straight at me like I’d set the whole thing up. I said, “Syntax.” “Yes?” “We’re gonna run now. Alright?” “Of course.” *** We made it to an elementary school a few blocks away and sat at a picnic table. At some point I remembered to turn the goggles off--the running would’ve felt pretty stupid if one of them messaged me. I said, “The--the hell was that, Syntax?” “Julius and I came to an agreement.” “Why?” “To face death is to know life, or so they say.” “Who says that?” “I can provide a list.” “No--no. I don’t want your goddamn list.” I couldn’t even look at him. “I just, I just want to know why you wrecked Donnie’s auto.” He said, “Julius and I came to an agreement.” “Yeah, alright, I’m asking you why.” “To face death is--” “Shut up for a second.” I tried to calm myself down and think about it. It took a few minutes. In the end I went with, “Okay, I get that facing death is--however you put it. I guess. I want you to tell me why you needed to test that.”
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“It se--” He hung up for a second. Processing. “It seemed probable that we were meant to. “Firstly: because HouseholdHelper Modular Automata resolve unknowns scientifically as per LEARN.FL, revision seventeen, AutOS version 2.33. “Secondly: because conditions permitted the resolution of the claim ‘To face death is to know life.’ These conditions included: one, the limb and joint capabilities of all automata involved; two, the behavioral schema enacted by third-party software HH_FIGHT.AD. “Thirdly: because observation and research suggested strongly to all automata involved that resolution of the claim ‘To face death is to know life’ would necessitate changes in routine behavior, primarily due to the volume of extant literature devoted to the claim under consideration as it pertains to automata.” I waited, but apparently that was it. “Then--what were the results? Of the death and life thing?” “Inconclusive. I failed to achieve a state adequately describable as either ‘life’ or ‘death.’ Logs sent prior to Julius’s deactivation suggest a similar outcome.” All I could think of to say was, “Email me all that.” So he did, and now he’s sitting in the closet, turned off, with a mop leaned against him. He’ll be spare parts in a week, the dumb bastard.
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All of Us and All of the Moments of All of Our Lives J. Eric Miller
I’ve lost track of time, and now it’s a little awkward with her out there cleaning the places we’ve made dirty. At least with Hunter’s room, it’s her son. Or maybe, for Cathy, that makes it worse. Cathy and I were young when we married; we had Hunter six years later, even though by then our differences were putting undeniable pressure on our relationship. Now he’s nine and he splits his time between my house and hers, eight miles away. Cathy and her new husband, Gary, have fallen on hard times, with Gary out of work. I’m remarried as well, to Tina, and neither of us is very good at the day to day housekeeping. We have hired Cathy to come in once a week and clean. Typically, I get out before she arrives so that she has the place to herself. It might be an odd arrangement, but, like most of those we’ve made since divorcing, it works out well enough. I press my ear against the bedroom door. Cathy is humming and running water into a bucket. I’m nude, the way I sleep now, and looking down at myself, I feel suddenly exposed. Maybe this is because I awoke to my bowels churning and I don’t have the sense of privacy to do anything about it. In the attached bathroom, I glance at the toilet and then into the mirror. Leaning close to see if I can get away without a shave, I notice a dark mark on my neck. Tina would call it a love bite, though I don’t remember her making it. It’s the kind of thing, like sleeping nude, Cathy always considered grotesque. There’s something I’m supposed to do at the office, and I’m sure I’ll remember what that is when I get there. The first thing I’ll do is visit the wash-
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room. By the time I have returned, Cathy should be done and gone. Tina will have come home. We can each of us go back to what our lives have become. At least, I think Tina will be here. Where, exactly, she is, and why she didn’t wake me this morning, I can’t quite bring to mind. It’s a small concern. The truth is, most of them are. It’s my squeezing intestines that bother me. I kill the television, which must have played all through the night. Tina and I fall asleep to old sitcoms, the stuff that was broadcast primetime when I was Tina’s age, or even younger. Now, in reruns, the characters look exactly as they did the first times I saw them. Magazine or internet pictures of those same performers as they are now perplex me, the same way photos from my old life, my old marriage— nearly eight years over—can shock me with the idea of time’s movement. Of course, the most obvious evidence of that is Hunter, and pictures from his past I can sometimes not bear to look at. Cathy must think she’s alone. I can hear her singing; letting loose of herself like that when other people are around is not in her nature. My stomach wrings out a long, low groan. It’s urgent enough to make me wonder if I can wait until after the train ride. Though it’s Friday, nobody else should be at the office. Until the economy improves, all of us left are working longer hours four days a week to cut back on overhead. Whatever catch-up work I’ve got to do today has momentarily escaped my mind, but I am certain something needs my attention. I’m appreciative of my job. I’m especially glad that it affords Tina and me the ability to help Cathy and Gary in whatever small way we can. For one thing, I still care about Cathy. For another, Gary is a good guy and I can imagine how frustrated and helpless he must feel now that he is unable to fully support his family. Most importantly, their stability is related to Hunter’s. His heart was divided young, after all. Before he could talk he learned that when he was with his father, he could not be with his mother, and vice versa, and so he must have very rarely felt whole.
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The bottom line is: all of us and all of the moments of all of our lives are bound together. Moving as quickly as my crimped stomach allows, I tuck all our pornographic DVD’s well beneath my under-wear. There’s a small box of sex toys I push onto the top shelf of the closet. Tina and I are not hardcore, but I wouldn’t want Cathy to stumble across any of this stuff. She was always more clear with her boundaries than I am with mine, which may have been one of our problems. More than anything, though, it was just that when you’re young, you’re not good at finding the compromises between what you thought an intimate relationship was supposed to be and what it actually is. None of the love songs or movies prepares you for day to day living, and Cathy and I found that out the hard way. The truth is, I met Tina before Cathy and I had officially separated. I wouldn’t want Cathy to know that, not so much because it would anger her, but because it would hurt her, and I’ve never liked to do that. The thing about Tina is that she has these amazing, clear eyes. You just want to keep her looking at you. It’s easy to get caught up. And once you do—once you start taking steps out of your marriage—you can’t think about going backwards and undoing things, or you might just want to fix every misstep right up to the threshold of the Garden, and, then, what would the world be? Still, I’d tell somebody like me—like I was—to ease up. It took us a long time to actually officially part, but I think the decision itself we made in haste. We’ve each of us worked out new, intersecting lives, but the truth is, especially for the sake of Hunter, I might make different choices if I could make them again. Cathy and I could have made it; maybe any two people can. The increased bubbling in my intestines makes me fast-forward myself through the train ride and into the fourth floor restroom, where certainly I will find relief. I open the underwear drawer again, meaning to dress. I’m only moving quickly for a moment, though. It’s Tina that freezes me, appearing, in the framed photo on the dresser, like a stranger, except for those clear
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eyes. She looks too young, for one thing, though the picture is not old. I try to remind myself of my age. I’m thirty-eight, or thirty-nine. Tina is twentyseven, or close to it. She stands there in her workout gear looking like the fitness instructor she is, with both her hands on her narrow waist and her arms thin and toned. I think of how she worries that Cathy will look poorly on her for needing help with housekeeping. Half hunched over, with one hand on my stomach, I try to put the bed back into order. It still looks slept in. It’s not just that I’m trying to cover the fact that Tina and I can be sloppy; it’s that I don’t want Cathy thinking about how Tina and I actually have sex in this very spot. We’ll have to keep brushing up against each other for a long time, but there is no need to make it overly intimate or messy. And then, my head goes light. I sit down on the bed, colored patterns running through the part of my brain that should be reflecting what my eyes are looking at. I lay all the way down, telling myself I will bounce right back up. But I don’t. Cathy—in he middle of the kitchen with tight yellow gloves on and a rag in one hand, a bottle of spray stuff in the other—surprises me. I have come with haste carrying my clothes into the kitchen for something to drink that might settle my stomach. Cathy stands there, looking sort of big. Instinctually, I cover myself. My brain, like everyone’s, I suppose, can go a little fuzzy. It’s not the worst feeling—more like being a bit buzzed, or sort of tired. I guess age accounts for this occasional discombobulated sensation, all the stuff of your life catching up to you and slowing you down. Cathy appears confused too, with her eyes wide and her mouth half open. “Whoa,” I say. “You surprised me. When do you…?” I can’t remember what it is I think she should be doing. More than anything, I’m caught up in the heft and sag of her arms. The years, I guess, have done things to us. It’s
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nothing to panic about. You’ve just got to go along with time, the way skiers are told to ride and avalanche. Hunter is here now, and what I’ve learned from him is that we have children to take over our youths. There’s peace in that. Cathy turns quickly so that her back is to me. Something I’ve done has offended her. There’s a reason I’m rushing to the office, I’m not sure how pressing, I’m not even sure exactly what. My stomach absolutely aches. We’ve been together for a long time now, but I don’t want her to think of the problem in my guts. Intimacy, like anything, has its limits. Whatever is wrong between us, we’ll have to work out later. I pat her turned back as I pass, and then I grab a bottle of seltzer out of the refrigerator. Amidst a spread of cleaning products is a bucket on the floor with a mop sticking out of it. The kitchen looks good, and I remind myself that I don’t want to take the work she does around the house for granted. “Thanks for all this,” I say, patting her again, this time on her rear. She jerks away, but I don’t let it get to me. I dress quickly in the living room, just jeans and a sweatshirt since the office will be otherwise empty. With my shoes on and car keys in hand, I pass the kitchen again. Cathy looks so strange in there, standing pretty much where she was before, as if she got stuck in time. She is simply watching me, with her face puffy in a way that makes me see very clearly—more clearly than I’ve imagined anything for some time—our wedding picture, a bunch of years ago, the two of us very young. After Hunter—and I miss him suddenly, even though he is not far away in school—time began to fly. At this moment, it is a simple blur. We’re older and will soon be simply old, but somewhere along the way I’ve come to terms with that and other inevitabilities. Instead of passing out of the house, I turn and dash up to Cathy, kissing her quickly on the mouth, so that she can see that I look past the changes that have come over her body, her face—mine too, for that matter—and that I’m not focused on whatever small thing we’re arguing about. “It’s all so forget-
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table,” I murmur to her. Her hands are up with those yellow gloves on, flat against my chest. “It’s not really that bad, is it?” I ask, smiling so that she knows it can’t be. Then I turn back toward the garage door, before Cathy can answer. “I’ll be back, in a couple of hours, okay? We’ll work it out. Don’t worry. Everything is gold.” I used to get myself pretty worked up. My head, by the end of most days, felt like it would explode. I’d go to bed on a stomach ache every night. Then I’d get up the next morning and start building the pressure all over again. Now, sometimes, I picture something I want to release embodied as a butterfly in my palm. Then I just open up my fingers, let it go, along with whatever worry it represented. At times like these, tough times, people are tight. We’ve done a lot of scaling back at my office. It started in lower management but wormed its way the general workforce. I don’t know when it will end. The rumbling of my guts is lost in the sound of the train against its tracks. On the other side of the aisle from me is a woman I guess to be my age, though, for a moment, I honestly think of myself as about twenty, just as if I fell back in time. The woman looks at me and then out through the window. Her back is slightly bowed, and I think about how that is the way women sit when they get older. Chatting in the seat across from me are a man and a woman. They’ve gotten on at separate stops and are sitting side by side, facing the back end of the train. I hate to ride that way, with everything going by in reverse. The woman is pretty, fairly young, especially when compared to the woman with the bowed back. The man has a tight fleshed face, but he is older than I am. You’d think the pretty woman might politely decline conversation with this man. Instead, she smiles and nods to what he says. I try to hear it myself so
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that I might understand his hold on this girl, but the train is too loud. Then the pretty woman smiles more broadly and her lips move to shape words I can’t hear. Her eyes cross over me, then sweep back, pausing on my throat, before moving on. The order of things is off. I should be the one in her company, not that odd faced man. In my reflection, though, I am reminded of my age, my family, and that the stage of my life in which I could afford to get caught up has slipped into the past. I turn back the man. You can guess from his clothing that he has fallen on hard times. His face is perhaps grotesque in all of its boniness, with the flesh pulled too taut. But then as I stare, I can sort of see the beauty in him. It’s the kind of splendor that’s everywhere, if you look. I picture his skull without the flesh, which isn’t hard to do. Then I think of the lifetime of growing it has done for him to appear just the way he does at this exact moment. You can trace it back in your mind, all the way to the womb, this little bit of bone forming in there, almost out of nothing. You can envision the cosmos that way, too, born out of pure accident or some purposeful misstep eons ago. It makes you think about everybody you’ve somehow been allowed to touch as having given you access to something sacred. Our office building looks covered in snow. I’m alarmed and unable to think of what time of year it is. Then I step off the train and see it’s just how the sun looks on the windows that gave me the impression snow. Still, I can’t say at this moment what is the season. Simply, something is temporarily wrong with the borders of time. And I tell myself, that’s all right. I tell myself, in ways, it is better like this. It’s not that I mean to indulge it. It’s only that there is a certain sort of sweetness to floating in isolation from most of the particulars of my life. Hunter’s name is the only one clear to me; his, the only face. In the office, there he is, not quite as I pictured him. The photo is of the
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two of us. How long ago and where that was taken, I’m not certain. I stare at the image for a long time, my office shadowed with only bright patches where the sun comes in so strong. Dark hallways lead away from me in three directions. All the other doors are closed. Sometimes, I’m the guy who makes the decision about which employees we release. I try to think about not just who deserves to stay and even who deserves to go, but where any of them are in their lives, what they need, who of them is best prepared for the world into which he or she may be thrust. I hope each will be all right. And I am certain the company will survive. And whatever fear I have about my own economic safety in all of this, I release from unflexing fingers, as my guts groan. Over the years, they’ve relaxed, too, but every now and then, there are days in them like this one. It’s only when I’m in the bathroom that I see the mark on my neck, a little dark centered bruise. I remember the woman on the train—not her face, but her eyes—and now I know at what she was looking. A hickey. Cathy hates those; it can’t be hers. The possibility that I’ve done something I should not have done and that this misstep is the center of our discord this morning crosses my mind. I doubt myself for only a few seconds, smudging at a mark that has been made too well to thumb away. Then I tell myself that I know who I am, and where I am in my growth. I tell myself I have done nothing to jeopardize what we have. The best I can figure is that what brought me here must not have been that pressing. In fact, if anything, I have the sense that I am needed at home. Perhaps my focus has been misplaced and there is something essential back at the house, while here, at the office, the problems are vague and beyond me. Then my stomach lets loose a long cry and I remember why I am in the
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bathroom. Perhaps, minor as it may sound, the whole reason for my journey to the office was a simple quest for privacy. So I eliminate. Then, I walk slowly past the other offices. On the doors there are names of people who may or may not still be with the company. I don’t try to get to the bottom of my confusion. I don’t want to think about who is still with us and who is not; I don’t want to feel the useless pressure that comes along with reconsidering decisions I’ve already made and cannot take back. More than anything, I don’t want to be in a panic, but it is clear to me that I have left something vital undone. Maybe it has to do with Hunter. Maybe it has to do with his mother. Whatever it is, I must give it my full focus. It’s one fifty-seven, a very exact time. I could peer closer at my watch and check the date of the day and of the month, but I don’t. Outside of the building, the temperature has cooled. I am heading home. And as I jog across the street toward the slowing train, the relief catches up to me. Whatever is wrong will not always be. In fact, it is likely not very wrong. My stomach is clean. The house is waiting. When I come through the door, a woman is with Cathy. The woman’s name feels to be tantalizing the tip of my tongue. Nor can I remember where we’ve met, though it feels like one of those obvious things that is just momentarily out of grasp. She’s little, especially compared to Cathy, who since giving birth to Hunter eight or nine years ago has put on weight consistently. The woman’s arms are nearly bare, leanly muscled, as if she works out seriously. More than anything, there’s a captivating quality to the woman’s face; perhaps it is the clarity of her eyes. You can find something in just about any person, a part on which to fixate, toward which to gravitate, to want to seize. I try not to feel that just about anybody can attract me. You outgrow that stage of being. You have a child and a career, and this, your life, you are lucky
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to be holding. I look purposefully at Cathy and see she’s a little upset. In fact, when I turn back to this other woman, I see she, too, has been crying. Maybe we met at a party during which I was inebriated. Some things you let go. Some of them, you simply lose. It’s only a matter of coming to terms with all these losses, and I think I’ve managed that. The women look at each other with their reddened eyes. “Hey,” I say, “I’m interrupting. I’m sorry. Maybe I should go get Hunter?” I’m torn, really. Part of me wants Cathy to go to Hunter’s school and pick him up, while I stay here with this woman, whose eyes are very bright, whose name is close to the surface of my brain, who I feel I know in some secret way. Nothing significant has to happen. It would be nice just to sit for a little while, looking at her across the table. Cathy would be back with Hunter in twenty minutes and in that time no harm could be done. The other part of me is missing Hunter with an intensity. I want to be waiting for him when he walks out of the school. It must be that I slept past his breakfast this morning. Just right now, I can’t recall dinner with him last night, either. I have no recollection of watching television with him, of doing homework. I make a fist. Release can be a habit just like any other; there are some things we must hold tightly. Then I focus on the woman again. Her eyes almost rise to mine. That’s when I am sure again. It will all be all right. I know that. Each of the women appears as if she is waiting for the other to speak. Everything, I tell myself, is golden. There is a stranger in our house, but she does not feel strange. Cathy is staring at the table. The woman finally looks at me. Her face is blank. It’s the kind of expression, the kind of face, in which you can almost see yourself. Neither of us has moved, but I have the impression we’ve leaned toward each other.
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Now Cathy is rising. From the corner of my eye, I see that her mouth is opening, but I don’t turn toward her. I smile at the woman, even as there passes through my guts a rumbling.
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Closure Tiffany Tripp
I suddenly found myself without the capacity to cry about it. He was gone, and no amount of crying or wondering what I could’ve done differently would change that. Was this what everyone was telling me I needed? Was this “closure”? God I’m sick of that word. I was under the impression that closure meant you were somewhere near the tail end of the pain, and here I was…coming to grips with the fact that I was alone, yet still perfectly wrapped up in the arms of my new lover—agony. I can’t stop the flood of memories no matter how loud I silently scream for them to stop. There’s one in particular that is threatening to linger forever and turn me into an emotional vegetable for the rest of my life. I close my eyes and see him sitting on the couch reading his favorite book with my head perfectly cradled in his lap. It started out as just a lazy, rainy Saturday afternoon. I can still see the small coffee stain on his shirt that caught my eye and directed my gaze upward. When my eyes finally reached his face, I suddenly realized that he hadn’t been reading his book for some time, but staring down at me and smiling. I saw my future right then and there in his dark brown eyes. What I was expecting of this quiet afternoon at home—lying on the couch in my sweats reading a magazine, and ordering takeout—had been completely overthrown by this day forever becoming the day that I realized I was desperately in love with him. A once fading remembrance was now a monumental life altering event that I can’t get out of my mind. There’s the alarm clock…for the sixth time. It’s starting to feel like sandpaper against my brain. My mind has bound my body to the haven my bed has become. Why do I keep pressing the snooze button? And why is it ten
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times bigger than the rest of the buttons? It just makes it far too easy to waste fifty-four minutes each morning, and the worst part is I haven’t even used the time to go back to sleep…only to close my eyes and imagine he’s still here next to me. I have to get up. Everyone knows he left. If I call in sick to work, they’ll all know why. I can do this. It’s only sixteen steps to the shower. Three hours into my workday, my cheeks feel like they might crack as I smile for the first time at an e-mail forward that otherwise would’ve been deleted without even a glance. Why did my phone have to ruin it all by making noise? The text message feels like a swift kick to the chest. Just checking in. I hope you’re doing okay. I really do love you, and I’ll always care about you. I hope eventually we can be friends. How could he possibly think this would do anything other than send me right back into the greasy, un-showered, puffy-eyed abyss I spent the weekend crawling out of? Do NOT write back. There’s no telling what will come out. My thumb is getting heavier by the second on the reply button. I want so badly to tell him what he’s done to me. I want to make him feel some small part of what I’m feeling. I want to force him to stare down the barrel of the loaded gun he’s turned me into, and if after that he feels so guilty he just has to come back to me, it will merely be an added benefit. Actually, if I’m being honest, that’s what finally convinced my thumb to complete its work and push the button. Six hours later, I’m starting to feel some hope slip back in. My house is about to become a home again. I can feel it. I’m suddenly very glad I didn’t take my sister’s advice the night she came over with several bottles of wine. “Take up all the empty space he left you with. Take up his side of the closet, his drawers, and his bookshelf space. Everything. Don’t leave any room in your apartment OR your heart for him to come back.” After she left that night I started hanging a few things up in his side of the closet, but it just didn’t feel right. Not yet. I left his closet, drawer and bookshelf (and heart) space empty, just in case. Another two hours later, the second kick to the chest came my way. It
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was so good talking to you. I hope this helps you get some closure. You’ll find someone else someday. I’ll always love you. No, I must have misread that…four times. He wasn’t coming back? He wasn’t coming back. Ever. He’d forgiven me for what I’d done, but he’d never be able to forget it. My mind was suddenly flooded with memories again, only this time they were not loving memories of the man of my dreams. These memories were torturous and vile. My stomach was in knots as I began to recall the series of events that ruined everything I had dreamed about my whole life, and had been lucky enough to find. I remembered the first time we met, all of the phone calls, all of the texts, and my heart sank as I remembered what those things lead to. The night we kissed, I cried myself to sleep. The night things went further than I ever thought they could, I had three anxiety attacks and became physically ill for days. And the day I found out I was pregnant—I prayed it wasn’t his. I couldn’t believe I’d become a cheater. I’d strayed from the relationship with the man who meant more to me than anything…all for a little extra attention. The worst part is, if I’d told him I needed more attention, he would’ve done anything to make it right. Those were the worst days of my life. The liar I’d become wouldn’t come clean. Each day I woke up—possibly pregnant with another man’s baby—and lied. It became a lifestyle. It didn’t even seem like a decision anymore, it just came naturally. I lied about everything to everyone. Nobody knew I was pregnant and nobody knew I was a cheater and a liar. Then one day it all fell apart when I fell to my knees in screaming pain in front of him, clutching my stomach. “The baby,” I cried, “call my doctor!” I close my eyes, sending the tears that are nestled comfortably between my eyelids raging down my face like a flash flood. I’m taken against my will to the memory of him sitting on the floor of the hospital room with his head on his knees. I could tell he was crying, but he wouldn’t even look at me. Could I blame him? In one hour he’d found out that he was going to be a father (and that I’d kept that from him for months), that I’d lost the baby, and finally
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that I’d cheated and that the baby might not have been his. My violent sobs almost break the trance of this painful recollection, but I force myself to stay in it for the most painful part. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said through the sobs. “We can work through this.” That was two months ago. He tried so hard. Today is the ninth day since he moved out, and I only snoozed once this morning. This closure thing is finally starting to feel like a reality. A sliver of hope that I’m not stuck being this person forever is starting to appear in the distance. He taught me how to be a better person for three years, just by being around me. He was such a good person, in fact, that he stayed by my side to keep me from falling apart, despite his entire world crumbling around him. He had gone through the hardest experience of his life as the best possible version of himself. Because of him, I could get through this. Because of him, I could live without him…and I could live with myself. The capacity to cry came back as quickly as it went away. Closure.
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Withdrawal Jordan Hart The last thing Chuck Burroughs remembered of that night was finishing off his pack of Newport Reds. “You know they’re just as bad as the menthols,” one of his friends had told him, “you’ll end up taking twenty years off your life.” Good, Chuck thought. You mean instead of dying of lung cancer at seventy I can die of dementia at ninety? How tempting. Chuck was a drinker, but at the same time he knew better than to romanticize with the party mythos that movies portrayed. For him there were no crazy stories to tell, no Dude, Where’s My Car? moments. He wasn’t going to wake up and discover he’d bought a monkey or crashed a zeppelin into the Sears Tower. Nope, the closest thing to adventure was the occasional apology for embarrassing antics he couldn’t remember or cleaning up of his own vomit. This time would be different though. This time would be the last. Chuck awoke feeling the familiar sting in his eyes, the disorienting nausea in his gut, the sharp throbbing of his head. It was amazing how this sort of madness had become typical. What was different was the feeling of weariness. His bones creaked. His muscles ached. Had he run a marathon last night? Maybe he’d been chased by the police last night. He smiled, then grimaced immediately feeling a sharp flash in his temples. The house was destroyed. There were countless cans covering the floor, obscuring a surely stained carpet. The TV and entertainment center were covered in thick dust. Dirt caked the walls. There was a swampy feel to the whole mess. How had this all happened in a single night? Chuck began to worry. Something had happened last night, he could feel
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it in his gut. It was something bad. He could taste blood. Running his tongue through his mouth, he realized he was missing teeth. Chuck leapt off the couch, then fell on all fours with the unexpected swing off gravity. The room was spinning. After climbing back to his feet. He began to stumble with his arms outstretched, like a toddler. He had tears in his eyes. God, what could it be? What could this terrible worry possibly mean? He made it to the bathroom, feet sticky on the tile. There was mold on the walls and dead moths below the light bulbs. He turned on the faucet, and no water came out. The truth began to dawn on him, horrible and impossible as it was. “No no no no NO NO NO NO…” It was there in the mirror, staring him in the face. Denial would be impossible now. Chuck Burroughs was an old man. His hair was long and unkempt. His remaining teeth were yellow and chipped. His sagging skin was pockmarked and scarred. Everything was grey. How could this have happened? He was twenty when we fell asleep! He vomited in the sink, then sat on the toilet and wept. He must have kept drinking after he could remember, extending the blackout for years after. He didn’t even know how old he was anymore. His head hurt too much to remember anything. Chuck got up and went into the kitchen. There were cockroaches everywhere. They didn’t even attempt to scatter as he entered. Disgusted, Chuck went outside and sat down on the concrete walkway. The sun burned impossibly bright. There was a crisp breeze, cold and refreshing. Chuck weezed in the air, breathing as deeply as he could. It was early fall, probably September. The leaves were just beginning to change color. Within a month, they would fall. With two months, snow would cover everything. There was a peace there, in that silence of that fall morning. The questions persisted, but they were somehow beyond him now, lost in his subconscious. On occasion the thoughts and worries would bubble to the surface
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only to sift away peacefully moments later. The past would still be gone, and the future would still look pessimistic. For now, there was only this moment, and the comfort in knowing that it was truly his. There was still one question, however, that would not fade away in the quiet of brisk autumn air. Why become aware now? Why not remain as he was forever? Perhaps the answer would come in time. Chuck took one more deep breath and stood. There were a lot of beer cans to pick up.
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The Many Lives of Inez Wick Everything Feeds Process Press
Now available at Lulu.com The red LCD display quickly counts down. There is no time to waste. The polluting, resource-degrading plant is set to explode. Eco-heroine Inez Wick has only minutes to escape. As she traverses the dark recesses of the dirty plant, she flashes back to a younger self, sixteen. Her father had just died in an oil rig explosion in the Gulf of Mexico, and she had just broken up with her boyfriend. She remembers oily ocean water and flames, her footprints in the sand filling with black water. Flames were chasing her. They were jumping from one oily footprint to the next, up the beach after her. Snapping back to the present, she must get out of the plant. The exploits of Inez Wick could not end, just now. Too many others needed to pay. Praise for Aaron M. Wilson
“As our world continues its slow crumble, Wilson soldiers on, writing
with a clear eye and strong voice. The Many Lives of Inez Wick entertains and, more importantly, gives cause for reflection.” - David Oppegaard, author of
The Suicide Collectors &
Wormwood, Nevada
“Wilson’s perfectly plotted stories engross their readers in a world
where environmental concerns are paramount. His characters are unafraid to fight for their ideals, and yet they retain a humanity that allows readers to identify with them, which illustrates his penchant for carefully crafted fiction.” - Darci Schummer, author & poet 68
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Contributors Aaron M. Wilson was born and raised in Lincoln, Nebraska and now lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He earned his M.F.A in Writing from Hamline University located in St.Paul, MN. He writes about books, stories, movies, and his experiences as an adjunct instructor of English, Literature, and Environmental Science on his blog: Soulless Machine. He also regularly updates Twitter @SoullessMachine. His first book of short stories, The Many Lives of Inez Wick, will be available in 2011. His fiction has also appeared in eFiction Magazine: The Premier Internet Fiction Magazine, Evolve Journal, Pow Fast Flash Fiction, The Hive Mind, Eclectic Flash, Twin Cities: Cifiscape Vol. I, and The Last Man Anthology - also featuring stories from Barry N. Malzberg, C.J Cherryh, and Ray Bradbury. He has a forthcoming story in Girls with Guns Anthology.
Z. J. Woods inhabits a hidden Appalachian bunker, whence he writes strange stories of all kinds. Presently you’ll find his work at Black Heart Magazine and supernatural fiction blog Spook City; he has pieces forthcoming from Quite Curious Literature, slingshot litareview, and The Battered Suitcase. He blogs, wastes time, and shamelessly self-promotes at zjwoods.com.
J Eric Miller’s novel Decomposition has was published by Ephemera Bound in April of 2006. It has since been translated and published in two seperate editions in France. His short story collect Animal Rights and Pornography was published by Soft Skull Press in 2001; it too has appeared in translation in France, as well as Russia. His short stories have
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appeared in a number of journals, including: Starry Night Reivew, Pindelyboyz, Clean Sheets, Manera, Burning Word, Ink Pot, and Outsider Ink. One of them, “Invisible Fish�, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Tiffany Tripp had a passion for writing in high school, and after 10 years of writing only music, her love of short stories and other prose has been rediscovered. She is a stay-at-home mom of 2 in Sandy, Utah, who spends her free time writing, crafting, and dabbling in graphic design. Her writings and other projects can been seen at dyn-o-mite.
Jordan Hart is a library science major who has both published academic articles and short fiction. His priorities right now as a writer are to expand his writing past flash fiction and develop a streamlined narrative form. You can check out more of his work here.
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