Dreams and Screams

"An impressive, often unnerving, and always gutsy collection, Beneath the Surface of Things easily marks Kevin Wallis as a writer to Beware of with such stories as Redemption Song and No Monsters Came That Night. Every story showcases Wallis' determination to break through the so-called boundaries of dark fiction and explore disturbing and sometimes even eye-opening new worlds, some without, but most within. You owe it to yourself to look Beneath the Surface of Things."

Gary A. Braunbeck Bram Stoker and World Horror Guild Award winning author of To Each Their Darkness and A Cracked and Broken Path. author of Muscle Memory and Wolves "Kevin Wallis has a voice for days. For Dressed as Men days and weeks. He's somebody I read to ask "How did he do that?" His stories "Kevin Wallis is a rising force in the leave you lost in their construction, in arena of speculative fiction. He writes their technique, in their plain but with an astonishing balance, presenting important ability to suck you in. Mr. characters we care about, thrusts into Wallis is on his way to becoming an situations we would be inhuman to wish important force - catch him now." upon our worst enemy. Highly entertaining!"

Sam W. Anderson, author of Postcards from Purgatory Lee Thompson, author "Kevin Wallis has put together what can best be described as a vivid tapestry of horrific prose. While the stories seem to have an underlying theme of human condition, they are anything but common. This collection runs the gamut of the classic cool creep to the more visceral and gut-wrenching."

Bailey Hunter, Dark Recesses Press "Speaking from personal experience, Kevin Wallis' stories will stick with you for days, months, even years after you read them. This is an eclectic, entertaining, and satistfying collection of stories, packed with unsettling scenarios, emotional resonance, and characters everyone can relate to and can't help but root for."

Steve Lowe,

http://www.bardsandsages.com/kevinwallis

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Liquid Imagination Magazine Presents:

Dreams and Screams Publisher of Silver Blade: Karl Rademacher Publisher of House of Horror: Sam Cox Publisher of Aurorawolf: Michael C. Pennington Liquid Imagination Publishing Staff: Fiction Editors: Kevin Wallis, Sue Babcock and A.J. Brown These are works of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this book are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.

Liquid Imagination Magazine No. 1. Copyright ©2010 by Liquid Imagination Publishing and the publishers listed above. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States and Abroad. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Liquid Imagination Publishing, 5008 Burns Avenue, Bartonville, Il. 61607 www.Liquid-Imagination.com www.liquidimaginationpublishing.com All stories therein have either appeared in those publications listed above, or were selected by those publications listed above.

Cover art by Jack Rogers Liquid Imagination Publishing and Liquid Imagination (ezine) consists of: John “JAM” Arthur Miller: Publisher Kevin Wallis: Sr. Editor (ezine); Fiction Editor (LIM) AJ Brown: Fiction Editor (LIM) Chrissy P. Davis: Poetry Editor (ezine) Sue Babcock: Non-Fiction Editor (LIM); Business Director (ezine); Fiction Editor (LIM)

FIRST EDITION

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Table of Contents Introduction -by Sue Babcock……………………………………………………………………………………..…Page 4 Dream a Little Scream of Me -by Brandon Rucker………………………………………….……………………………....................Page 5 Stories by Liquid Imagination Just One, One Little One -by Kent Alyn…………………………………………………………...……………………………...Page 7 The Song -by Shaun Ryan………………………………………………………………………………………..Page 15 Black Dog Alley -by Michelle Garren Flye……………………………………………………………………………...Page 23 Hands -by Dameion Becknell………………………………………………………………………...………Page 29 Kyra -by Shanna Hale……………………………………………………………………………………….Page 37 Stories by Silver Blade Father’s Sword -by Christine Rains…………………………………………………………...……………………….Page 45 A Nighttime Business Arrangement -by Scott Sandridge……………………………………………………………………………………Page 49 The Dancing Teapot -by Patricia Correll…………………………………………………………………………………….Page 53 The Fading Star -by Scott Toonder……………………………………………...……………………………………...Page 61 The Waiting Seeds -by K. Curran Mayer…………………………………………………………………………………..Page 67 The Red String -by Noeleen Kavanagh……………………………………………………………………………..….Page 73 Stories by Aurorawolf Darvana and Curse of the Scurlot -by Paula Ray………………………………………………………………………………………….Page 79 A Dragon’s Prerogative -by Mark Wolf……………………………………………………...…………………………………Page 91 Life’s Door -by Sue Babcock……………………………………………………………………………………....Page 99 The Cerebral-Man -by Michael H. Hanson………………………………………………………………………………Page 105 These Hands -by Shaun Ryan………………………………………………………………………………………Page 115 Stories by House of Horror Smashing Pumpkins -by Annemarie Bogart………………………………………………………………………………..Page 123 The Waiting Room -by I.E. Lester………………………………………………………...……………………………...Page 127 The Dollhouse -by Jennifer L. Gifford..……………………………………………………………………………...Page 131 Veins -by Amanda C. Davis…………………………………...……………………………………………Page 135

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Dreams and Screams Introduction Liquid Imagination Magazine began as a dream. Imagine neon images of ideas floating, flowing, even flooding a world ready for something new. Imagine ART, capitalized, that combines words with illustrations and sound. Imagine Liquid Imagination Online. And now, for the first time, we are experimenting, expanding, and developing the concept of print. Dreams and Screams is just the beginning.

It started with a simple idea: to take a few excellent stories from four magazines and combine them into one exciting anthology. Liquid Imagination (http://www.iiquid-imagination.com), Silver Blade (http://www.silverblade.net), Aurorawolf (http://aurorawolf.com), and House of Horror (http://www.houseofhorror.org.uk/) all went back to the stories they’d published online and sought out stories that followed the theme of Dreams and Screams.

The stories that showed up in our mailbox from these publishers surprised, delighted, and terrified us, sometimes all at once. We have Shaun Ryan and his mystical forest, an unforgettable creature created by Shanna Hale, the unrelenting story of witches and Halloween by Annemarie Bogart, and many more.

And throughout the magazine, enhancing and enlivening each story, is special artwork by the irrepressible Jack S. Rogers. His unique talent for feeling the nub of a story and creating fun and on-target art pulls the magazine together.

We found these stories and the artwork irresistible. The more we read and saw, the more excited we became. Each story had to complete a gauntlet of three editors and the publisher. The stories had been buffed and polished by the editors of their respective original publications, but we didn’t want to just make them shine, we wanted them to sparkle and glitter.

Can you hear it? It shrieks on the wind. The howls of lost babies and werewolves. But there, between the piercing cries, in that heartbeat of silence, is a boy growing up or an infestation of pixies.

And so we walk the line between laughter and horror, and such a thin line it is. Dreams and Screams is here to haunt you, to entertain you, to stretch the limits of your imagination.

Famous authors are often forgiven for their story sins: illogical plots, lack of conflict, weak tension, awkward sentences, stylistic tics. We mortals would never survive if we presented to publishers some of the stories we see in well known journals and magazines written by what I think of as the uberauthors. And as a magazine, Liquid Imagination must work harder to gather stories better than these uberauthors, to allow our force of AJ Brown and Kevin Wallis to edit as only they can, and to create a publication beyond anything uber-authors and uber-publishers can offer.

With this magazine, with the stories and art here, we believe we have succeeded. And we have more in the works: more stories, more artwork, more issues. We are excited to offer Issue Number 1 of the Liquid Imagination Magazine. #Sue#

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Dream a Little Scream of Me

by Brandon Rucker Dream a little dream of me When you sleep I will creep On your fears and superstitions While you pray I will play I’m the lurker in your closet Boogeyman Yes I can Make you fear what lay in shadows Scaredy cat Insomniac I’m the ghoul beneath your bed I breed fright When there’s no light Fill you up with dread and doubt Am I a lie You decide I’m the monster in your nightmares Sending thrills That give you chills Just scream a big ol’ scream for me Then face the fears That you hold dear

BIO: Brandon L. Rucker is a writer and recording artist from Indiana. Recently his writing has been published by blink|ink, Liquid Imagination and Static Movement. In addition to writing fiction and poetry, he devotes his remaining free time to the reality show of life with his wife, kids and annoying cats. He is one of several co-trustees of Silver Pen Writers Association, a non-profit organization whose mission is to offer publishing assistance to developing writers. His trusty crystal ball reveals that in the very near future he will join the editorial staff of Liquid Imagination literary webzine to publish some of the world’s finest micro-fiction.

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Just One, One Little One Art by Jack Rogers

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Just One, One Little One

by Kent Alyn

Green Lake was serenity in the city. While she loved the busyness of Greenwood Ave—the Thai restaurant, the record store, the German pub, the new library, and all the historic homes on the hill—there was nothing like a stroll around the lake. She breathed easy, pushing the mammoth stroller along the water's edge. Tired, she sat on a bench and watched people. The babies cooed and squealed in glee whenever they saw a duck or a dog. Runners, bikers, walkers and rollerbladers passed by. Some stopped to comment, while others offered a smile in motion. All sorts of people: a spandex-clad marathoner ran, a business type in a casual sport coat moseyed while texting, and a man with a gray ponytail walked a mutt. In the grass, a Japanese girl reclined with an I-Pod in her ears, avoiding eye contact with others.

Then she saw the woman. The hag.

Seattle's parks housed a number of homeless people. Sometimes she saw as many as ten wandering the lake, sometimes none. Depending on the weather and when the Union Gospel Mission handed out food, the transients came and went.

Oh no, here she comes.

The old woman waddled toward her, dragging her body of damp rags around like a corpse.

“Oh, aren't they sweet,” she said with an Irish accent and a toothless grin. “Triplets, I see. Mighty fortunate to have such a blessed batch.”

The woman's breath was like dog feces. Liver spots and moles on her hands and face were like hairy leeches. She had silver eyes framed by goobery lashes and jowls that quivered when she spoke.

“Ya know, I never got t' have kiddies.”

“I'm sorry. This was actually sort of a freak thing. My husband and I never intended on having children at all, and then boom—three.”

“Such a pleasant turn. What'll you trade for one?”

“Not for trade,” Julie said, smiling. “Unless you'll give me all the sleep I've lost.”

“I can.”

Strange reply. Julie stood up as if to go.

“Three's a troop. If I were to choose just one, I think I'd take… ” the old woman said, extending a long bony finger with green muck beneath the nail.

“Please, don't touch,” Julie said, perhaps a bit too aggressive judging by the startled look on the woman's face. “I don't let strangers touch them, that's all.”

The old woman narrowed her eyes. “Stranger danger, eh? I'm no stranger.”

Just another crazy. Julie pushed the stroller past the woman, not looking back. She pushed faster when the woman shouted, “I'm the Lady of the Lake! Everyone knows me!” * Julie's husband, Tim, got home from the law office, drank a couple glasses of red wine, and crashed on the couch with MSNBC on the television. The way his head tilted, and the way his mouth gaped, he looked hanged. The long hours were catching up. His jacket was draped over the back of the easy chair where Julie sat briefly to hunt in the cushions for the remote. She moved to the next chair and stuffed her fingers in the cracks.

A baby cried. Hillary. She could tell by the snorts interspersed between the wails.

Tim opened one eye, rolled over and buried his face in the back of the couch.

Another cry. Laura's muffled, panicked, almost giggling, cry.

Tim stacked a pillow over his head. Julie didn't know if he was trying to kill the noise or himself.

Then the third cry. The trifecta. Eleanor. A signature bloody-murder scream, a bone-chiller only little Ellen could pull off. The scream was loud enough to silence the other two infants for a moment.

“Holy crap,” Tim muttered. “My favorite sound.”

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As Julie walked down the hallway into the madness, she poked her breasts with her fingers to see which one had more milk. Equally full. She would feed two at time. Two breasts and three babies was a problem. One child would have to wait. Most of the time Laura, patient Laura, waited with a quiet whimper. However, Julie decided against feeding Ellen, and took the quieter children into her bedroom.

Ellen had a hysterical leg and arm thrashing episode that lasted until Tim finally got off the couch and comforted her.

Tim knew better than to talk to Julie while she fed the kids. Nothing was more frustrating than having a child unlatch and look around. She just wanted the job done. Drink the milk. Stop the crying.

Relieve the breasts.

The girls on her nipples fell asleep again. Tim brought Julie the hungry one, who, in anticipation of getting her turn, began to fuss and kick. They made the awkward exchange, and Tim left the room with the two satisfied girls.

He returned, saying, “My second favorite sound,” referring sarcastically to the combination of noises that constituted breastfeeding: the gulps, the slurps, and the nose-breathing.

Julie tried not to laugh, but it was too late. Ellen unlatched and looked over at her dad and smiled.

“Thanks a lot,” Julie said.

“Is it my turn?”

She raised her eyebrow.

“Everybody gets to play with your breasts except me,” he joked.

Julie covered her breasts, and then returned Ellen to her crib, on her back with a pacifier. “I'm so tired of having everyone suck my tits,” she said as she stood up and walked over to her husband. Tim cradled her in his arms.

Neither parent was sleeping well. Julie was up at all hours. Tim got up infrequently and usually only after Julie kicked him numerous times in the leg, though she knew he heard every cry. When the first cry broke the silence, Julie and Tim would lie as still as possible—or even fake a snore or deepbreathing. They both wanted the other to think they were sleeping. Though both had their suspicions that the other faked sleep, they never spoke about it. More often than not, Julie violently threw back the covers and huffed out of the room while Tim comfortably rolled over. After all, in his words, he had to get up and go to work, even though Julie, in addition to taking care of the eight-month-old triplets, still maintained a day or more per week at the hospital.

But babies weren't the only sleep-depriving things. Since the births, Julie had suffered numerous nightmares—dark, dangerous dreams. Though unable to recall the evil visions, she often awoke to it. It. Shadows above her, heavy on her chest, strangling her life, muffling her words, lost somewhere between the fantasy of sleep and the reality of consciousness. Intense dread, struggling to breathe, to move, to live.

Julie never told Tim. She feared by naming it, she might actually give it some credibility.

They held each other tighter. Julie smelled his cologne and wanted to pull him down on top of her, but Ellen began to fuss.

Julie tilted her head toward the baby and said, “She's all yours, honey. I need to clean the kitchen.”

Tim deflated.

“Sorry.”

Julie went into the kitchen. She wanted a maid. She wanted a nanny. And, she wanted to stay home with her children. Certainly, Tim wanted all those things, too; however, money was tight. Money had always been tight. First, it was Julie supporting Tim through law school and living in a small apartment on Capital Hill; then, it was a mortgage in Greenwood and paying credit cards; then the triplets and the medical expenses and diapers, diapers, diapers.

Three had cramped their style. There was three of everything, including three highchairs. Below the chairs, and scattered all over the kitchen floor, were Cheerios. Each day, Julie swept Cheerios off the floor. Each morning, one by one, she placed the kids in their seats and gave them handfuls of Cheerios.

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They expected the big yellow box the same way they expected their mom's breasts. Hillary went at the cereal with two fists. Laura ate one at a time. Ellen banged her hands on the tray until the Cheerios vibrated off the tray and peppered the floor. When their trays were empty, they begged like dogs until Julie gave them another handful. The girls put more on the floor than in their mouths, so at the end of each meal the kitchen tile was a landmine of little crunchy O's.

Julie found them everywhere: in the bedrooms, the bathrooms, in front of the television.

Cheerios, like stragglers jumping onto a cargo train, latched onto her socks and caught a ride into other rooms. Somehow, Cheerios found their way into the babies' diapers and, like ticks, into the many fatty, fleshy crevasses of their bodies. Cheerios were everywhere. And Julie swept them day after day.

A few weeks earlier, Julie got curious about the Cheerio consumption.

“Do you know how many Cheerios we waste?” she asked.

Tim put the coffee to his lips and shrugged.

“I bet we throw away a whole box of Cheerios each week. Look at this pile.”

Tim leaned forward from the kitchen table and saw the mound of Cheerios she made with one sweep of the floor.

“Quite a few Cheerios,” he noted.

“Yeah, it's ridiculous. I throw away a pile of Cheerios at least twice a day.”

Tim readjusted the newspaper, as if to show he didn't care.

“You know what, Tim? I'm not throwing these away. I'm going to collect these Cheerios and see just how many we waste.”

“How ethical of you,” Tim said, smirking.

A few weeks later, Julie had amassed a garbage bag full of kitchen floor Cheerios. It had become a strange game she played. Each day she almost hoped the kids would make a bigger mess so she could add new O's to the collection.

Julie finished sweeping the floor, and then took a fresh dust-panned batch of Cheerios out to the garage. She started to dump— Cheerios were scattered across the floor; the garbage bag was ripped. Inside, it looked like half the Cheerios were gone. Rats? What else would eat old cereal?

She hurried inside, scampering on her tip-toes. “Tim!” In the living room, Julie started to yell, started to say, We've gotta rat problem!, but held up when she saw Ellen and Tim asleep. The problem could wait. She eased the blankets over them and turned off the light. * Images from her nightmare: a walk in the park, a stroll by the lake, a moment in the sun. Alone.

Gray clouds rolled in. Rain fell. At the water's edge, she felt the presence come. Faces glimmered beneath the water's surface. She didn’t need to look; she knew. Three faces—the girls. God, no! The old hag was across the water, standing, watching.

“What do you want, old bitch?” she screamed, tears running down her cheeks.

The old woman's eyes turned to fire. Her green flesh glistened. The hag lunged—flying toward her— Awake?

No, lost between.

Dread. Bound. Suffocating.

Mouth opened, gasping for air. Neck stretched, eyes bulging. Leg parted, flailing.

A dark figure hovered. Breath like rotten meat. Metallic eyes glowed. Bonsy fingers extended, pressing down on her full breasts. Pushing.

A whispering voice said, Just one, one little one, and I'll be done.

Julie struggled to speak. “N-n-n-n-ah.”

Leave me alone.

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As if the evil heard the plea of her mind, it vanished.

She awoke from the trance and stifled sobs. Tim already had three other midnight criers—he didn't need her, too. Prying damp sheets from her sweaty legs, she got out of bed. The wood floors were cold on her feet, colder than usual.

A cool breeze brushed against her cheek.

Something wasn't right.

Julie hurried down the hallway to the triplets' room and flipped on the light. Crib one: Laura, sleeping on her stomach. Crib two: Hillary sprawled out on her back. Crib three…

Eleanor…

Where the hell is Eleanor?

Panicked, she ran into her bedroom and turned on the light. Tim sat up and said, “What the hell?”

“Is Ellen in our bed?”

Tim was puzzled, rubbing his eyes.

“Where is she?” Julie yelled, again feeling the breeze.

When he didn't answer, she ran into the front room. Something crunched under her feet, a sound she knew very well: A Cheerio.

Scanning the room, a small figure sat in the darkness.

Crunch, crunch, crunch…

She flipped the nearest light switch.

Ellen crawled on the kitchen floor, picked up a piece of cereal, and chewed.

Julie ran to her, saying, “Oh, baby, how'd you get out of your crib?”

Ellen cried.

“No, you're not in trouble. It's okay. It's… ” A single row of Cheerios lined the floor. O after O after O, she followed the trail. The pounding in her chest, the tears in her eyes, the shaking in her legs increased with each Cheerio. Then, everything ramped up.

The door to the garage was open, and a single file row of Cheerios snaked over the threshold.

“Tim!” He was already there, standing in his underwear, seeing the same bizarre picture. Hurrying to the counter, he grabbed a flashlight from the drawer and a Chef's knife from the sink. Eyes wide open, pissedoff fear in his posture, he said, “Stay here.”

But she didn't stay. Julie, holding baby Ellen, followed Tim into the garage where the row of Cheerios made a line across the concrete and out the open exterior door.

They crept forward, easing toward the threshold. He motioned for her to stay back, and then he peeked out. Left. Right. He stepped through. The moonlight reflected off the knife. The trail of O's stopped. He shivered. “Jule, call the cops.” * The police found nothing. For Julie and Tim, it was another sleepless night. Instead of going back to bed, they sat at the kitchen table and ate English muffins and drank multiple cups of coffee as the morning forced its way through the fog. Tears had already been cried. Cuss words had already been shouted. There was nothing left to do but talk.

“I have something I've wanted to tell you, but I figured you'd think I was crazy.”

Tim squinted. Perhaps offended, perhaps wondering.

Watching the hot coffee in her mug, she said, “I've had some strange episodes at night.

Nightmares. Shit I just want to forget. When I awake, I can’t move, can’t breathe.”

He sipped his coffee, and then nodded. “I know what you're talking about.”

“You've had these?”

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“No, but I've heard about it. It's called sleep paralysis. A person gets stuck between being asleep and awake. The imagination is still running, so people can experience things—usually scary things because you feel like something's holding you down and strangling you.”

“Yes, exactly,” she said, feeling some relief. “That makes sense.”

Another sip, then he added, “Back in the day, before they knew how to categorize it, they called it Old Hag… ” Hag… She choked on her drink.

Tim paused. “Are you okay?”

She raised a hand, waving him off.

“Anyway,” he continued with a smirk, “people just assumed it was something malevolent like an old witch sitting on a person's chest.”

Julie slammed down her cup and stood. Tim's expression changed from a smirk to surprise.

“This isn't funny, Tim. After all the bullshit tonight, you want to joke?”

“I'm not joking,” he said, surrendering his palms to the air.

“You heard me, didn't you? Did I talk in my sleep?”

His face scrunched. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The old hag, Tim. The old bitch that keeps haunting me.”

“Stop, Jule. You think I'm making this up? Go ahead, Google it on the computer.”

She paced. He wasn't lying. Oh, she wished he was.

“Talk to me,” he said, reaching across the table.

Tears brimmed, blurring her vision. She stared through the window that faced the street, but she wasn't looking at anything.

“One time, when I was little, I had this ragdoll named Betsy. I think all dolls were Betsy. I carried that beat-up doll everywhere. At that time, we lived on a river and my dad was always afraid he'd lose me in it, afraid that if I got too close I'd fall in and drown. So, he told me these scary stories. He'd say, 'Julie, don't you get too close to that river, because that old woman will get ya.' I asked, 'What old woman?' He'd say, 'The witch in the river. Ain't you ever heard of the witch?' 'No,' I say. He goes, 'She lives in the river, just below. I've seen her. Green skin and teeth like razors. If you get too close, she'll grab your ankles, pull you in and eat you. She's been waiting in the river for just one, little one, like you.'

I cried and had nightmares after that. But one summer day, my neighbor friend took me to the edge. Dad saw me playing on the bank with my doll. I wasn't even that close—maybe close enough to see if I could see the witch, that's all. Dad stormed down. He cussed me and then snatched the doll away, saying, 'Y'wanna see what'll happen to you if you get in the water?' Then he chucked it in. As Betsy was whisked away, he said, 'You think that silly dolly will make the witch happy? Hell, no, she wanted me when I was a kid, wants you now, will want your babies someday, and won’t be done till she gets jus' one.' ” Tim shook his head. “Asshole.”

“Really? Or, was he trying to protect me?”

“Maybe.”

“I tell you this because I saw a strange old woman at Green Lake the other day. She called herself the 'Lady of the Lake.' Brought back some bad memories. Maybe that's why I've been having nightmares. Maybe seeing that old woman brought back a bunch of repressed fears. I don't know.”

He shrugged.

A baby cried. Another baby cried. Then, another. * A couple days later, Julie was visited by the Old Hag. The stranglehold bound her neck, wrists, and ankles. Most of the weight remained on her chest. The shadowy figure rode her, relentlessly. No mercy this time.

It's just sleep paralysis, she told herself.

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Julie's imagination ran. The shadowy figure took the form of the old woman with the toothless grin, liver spots and silver eyes.

Just one, one little one, and I'll be done…

“N-n-n… ” Julie wondered why she was fighting. Why argue with a dream? If it really was an unconscious illusion, then why allow the dread to overcome me?

“You're not real,” she thought, looking into the hag's eyes. “You have no power.”

Then just one, one little one, and I'll be done…

“If she's not real, then she's not real… ” Then do it, just one, one little one, and I'll be done…

“Fine,” she thought. “Take one and be done, now go!”

As soon as Julie complied, the episode was over. * Julie couldn't sit. She paced the living room.

“What's the matter? So what, you gave away one of our kids in a dream,” Tim said, reclined on the couch and flipping through channels.

“So what? Tim, it's been three months and I haven't experienced anything. No paralysis, no nightmares.”

“That's great, honey. I don't see why you're complaining.”

“Because they stopped the moment I agreed to give a kid away. If it was just some sort of disorder then I'd probably still have it, right? It wouldn't just go away.”

He sat up. “Well, maybe it had more to do with those repressed memories. Maybe you had some sort of breakthrough. Nightmares gone, paralysis gone.”

“Maybe.”

Something was wrong. She could feel it. * That night, Julie dreamt she had only two girls, Laura and Hillary. Ellen was missing, though Julie never felt the urgency to find her. It seemed normal, as if Ellen never existed.

At two-thirty, Julie was awakened by the sound of crying. For a moment, while the dream was still fresh in her mind, she felt a tinge of guilt about Ellen.

She climbed out of bed and walked to the triplets' bedroom. Laura cried, so Julie shushed her to dreamland. Then, she peeked in on snoring Hillary. Finally, she looked down on the lump of blankets that was Ellen. The angels were sound asleep.

She closed the door and walked down the hall. A breeze touched her face. She paused.

Through the living room, through the kitchen, and she saw the open door of the garage.

“Tim!” Back in the triplets' bedroom, she reexamined the cribs. Laura, Hillary, and a lump under the blankets…

Extending her hand, she reached for the blankets, hoping Ellen was beneath. She touched the blankets first, pressing into something squishy, something soft and wet. Oh, God, no! Yanking the blanket aside, she didn't see Ellen, but a wet rag doll with stitched eyes. Betsy.

Julie's scream reverberated off the walls.

Everything blurred. She ran past Tim, through the house, through the open garage door, and down the side of the house into the darkness. Wind was cold on her face and through her pajamas; her breath was rough in her throat. Tears were warm in her eyes, cold on her cheek. In the middle of the car-lined street, she yelled Ellen's name, looking three-sixty. Everything was quiet.

Ellen's signature bone-chilling cry pierced the night.

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Concrete, hard on her bare feet. On the sidewalk, running.

The baby toddled under a singular lamppost. Julie scooped her up.

A trail of Cheerios extended down the block. A shadowy lump waddled down the walk.

“You can't have her!” Julie yelled. * The girls, older now, played at the lake's edge. Julie sat on the bench and watched. She yawned.

She had more sleepless nights now than she ever had. However, she couldn't even imagine the sleeplessness, the true paralysis, she would've endured if Ellen had been lured away forever. That was five years ago. Since then, Julie battled the dreams, the place between, the paralysis of the old hag. Just one, one little one, and I'll be done. Julie always wheezed, fought, and suffered to say, No. Julie sat and stared, unmoving, as the girls called for her again and again.

She snapped awake to hear, “Mommy, I see a face in the water.”

No, no, no…

“Get away! The old woman will get you!” she yelled, running to the bank.

The wide-eyed girls jumped back.

The water reflected the blue sky. She leaned over and looked down.

“See, Mommy,” Hillary said, leaning over beside her. “Two faces. You and me.”

Reflections like a mirror.

Ellen bit her lower lip, fighting the urge to cry. “Who's the woman, Mommy?”

Julie gathered the girls around and knelt in the middle. Tim probably would've disapproved, but Julie had to warn them. Looking into their eyes, their soft innocent eyes, she told them a story.

BIO: Kent Alyn is a fiction writer, husband, and father of three little ones. His stories have appeared in a fistful of anthologies and small press publications; his novels and screenplays are in various slushpiles. He lives in the dank, dark Pacific Northwest.

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The Song Art by Jack Rogers

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The Song

by Shaun Ryan

The woods beckoned, and Andrew heeded their quiet summons. His breath plumed in the air as he made his way along familiar paths toward the towering trees that dominated the landscape for miles around.

The ancient hardwoods stood aloof, casting shadows over the surrounding fields, their proud silhouettes a stark contrast to the crystalline blue November sky. They leaned inward slightly, not quite brooding, but guarding their secrets from the world of men nonetheless.

Those secrets were many. But the greatest mystery was the girl.

He had always known there was something special about the six-hundred or so acres of woods that occupied a hilly square mile at the center of the Raisbeck family farm. The trees were taller there than in the surrounding country, as if they had been spared the axes and saws wielded by the generations of loggers and farmers who had settled the land. A hushed anticipation lingered among them, as well as a sense of timeless wisdom. Though unsettling to some, Andrew found the feeling comforting. He had always gotten the impression that the great oaks and maples and elms were waiting patiently for something.

Or someone.

Maybe they are, he thought, as he made his way among the venerable giants, though what or who it might be he could not guess. All he knew was that when he came here, the cares of his twelve-year-old world vanished, replaced by a soothing calm. Thoughts of school, chores, and whether or not his uncle Wayne knew that it was he who had broken the basement window last year evaporated.

The first time Andrew had set foot in the woods had been in the company of his uncle. The softspoken farmer who had always radiated a solemn, quiet strength had stooped slightly, as though laboring beneath a burden of sorrow, as he led his nephew along the silent paths to the foot of an enormous oak tree. There he had gently taken Andrew’s hand and placed it upon the gnarled trunk, stepping back as the boy gazed into the canopy in wonder, nodding as a lifelong bond was formed.

Though Andrew recalled only vague impressions of that day, the majesty of the place had indelibly marked him. He began coming on a regular basis at an early age, sometimes in the company of one of his three cousins, more often by himself. He alone appreciated the solitude the groves of ancient trees offered. Something about the woods called to him, even after he returned home for the school year.

Not a day passed that he did not find himself gazing out the window and sighing, lost in the memory of this special place and the adventures he enjoyed here. But although he loved the trees and the trails and the wildlife, the biggest attraction was the girl.

She was a mystery, one that haunted him always. He had glimpsed her only once, on a sunny June day, a day on which he had been burdened with sadness at the death of one of his aunts who succumbed to cancer. That day had marked the end of part of his childhood, the first unwilling steps into the world of adults, with its pain and grief and toil.

He had stood weeping beneath the boughs of a massive old oak whose gnarled and fissured trunk half a dozen men could not have encircled with their linked arms. The magnificent tree stood at the very heart of the woods, towering over its brethren, its enormous branches shading what must be acres.

Though he did not know it, this was the very tree his uncle had led him to years before. Andrew stirred from his miserable reverie as tinkling laughter emanated incongruously from above. He lifted his head to see the girl flitting from one great limb to the next, her laughter drifting earthward like cottonwood down.

That momentary sight of her had ensured he would always return.

By doing so, he had discovered the secret lives of the woods and the creatures that called them home, watching raptly as squirrels and cottontails gamboled among the branches and boles, flitting about their daily activities without a care for the human world. He witnessed the birth of bluebirds and cardinals and finches, watched as they were nurtured to maturity by their parents, marveled at their first tentative

17

flights. The deer that bedded in the thickets and brambles became familiar neighbors, paying him no mind unless he startled them. When that happened, they would bound off through the trees with rapid flicks of their white tails, disappearing so quickly that he had to check for their tracks in the duff to make sure they were real and not phantoms. There was a badger that called the woods home as well. Andrew had seen it many times as it lumbered to and fro, snuffling and digging and rooting for rodents and insects. The stories that played out here were without end, and he hungered always for more.

Year by year, Andrew gradually became aware of the intricate symphony of the woods. They spoke to him, not in words, for the voices of men were coarse and lacked the ability to properly convey the message, but in the whisper of the wind through the branches, the twitter of the chickadee, the drumming of grouse, and the yipping chorus of coyotes. He especially loved coming here when he visited the farm in the winter, for it was then that the secret world he had discovered offered the greatest insights into itself. Every new snow offered a blank canvas upon which the denizens of the woods would paint their lives for him to read. He read them with relish, but always teasing the back of his mind was the girl.

He craved her story most of all.

On this day, while his family ate and drank and watched football, exhibiting the boisterous cheer that always marked their holiday gatherings, Andrew followed the tracks of a hare as it wound to and fro beneath the bare canopy of the slumbering hardwoods, trying vainly to puzzle out the aimless meanderings of an itinerary known only to the hare and God. His only companion was a puff of breeze that occasionally rattled the branches overhead.

He doggedly followed the trail to where it ended in the frozen marsh near the eastern boundary of the woods. Trudging across the open ground which, in warmer months, would have been too sodden and overgrown with cattails and reeds to easily traverse, Andrew discovered the tale of an age-old struggle printed upon the crystalline down that blanketed the land. He marveled.

There, not far from the dead hulk of a once proud pine, the faint marks of primary feathers dimpled the snow in mute testament to the battle that had taken place. Andrew could visualize the powerful stroke of wings as some feathered hunter secured its own holiday meal. The thrashings of the hare were also plain to see; its vain attempts to escape blurred the trail it had made through the woods and ultimately marked its end. Spots of blood speckled the snow with crimson, speaking of the raptor’s success. Of the bird there was no sign but a few downy feathers from its proud breast, lost in the struggle for life.

He lifted his face to the depthless sky, struck by a sadness tempered by fierce pride for the hawk he knew called the marsh home. He felt sorrow that the hare’s innocent ramblings had come to an end, sacrificed that another might live. But he also felt joy that, for this day at least, its gift of flesh and blood would sustain another generation of proud hunters.

From somewhere off to the west, the staccato hammering of a woodpecker echoed. He smiled, tilting his head to the side so as not to miss a single note of the eternal song whose discordant melodies merged into a single triumphant chorus conducted by a divine hand. He turned toward the sound, the breeze, carrying a wisp of wood smoke, tickled his nose. Starting forward with an eye on the snowcovered earth, ever vigilant for another trail to follow, another story that would unfold before his eyes, Andrew thought again of the girl. For some reason he could not quite define, some fleeting bit of precognition, he thought he might see her again.

She was beautiful, the girl. Her bronze skin had shone that day, aglow with the sun's energy. Her hair blended with the fresh new leaves of the oak as though one with them. Bare feet made little slapping sounds as she leapt from branch to branch, that musical laughter weaving in and out of the song, completing it somehow. Her lithe figure had been both concealed and accentuated by a short tunic that perfectly matched the subtle shadings of the surrounding bark, appeared in fact, to be made of bark itself.

That glimpse of her, stolen years ago, had lasted for what felt like centuries. Then she was gone, as though she had never been, as if the tree itself had swallowed her up.

How he was able to remember all of this from the seconds in which she had filled his vision like a dream, Andrew did not know. But he had no doubt that she was real, that he had seen her there in the oak.

He had never spoken of her to anyone.

18

Amazingly, his grief had lessened after seeing the girl. He had still mourned his aunt of course, but it was as if he somehow understood that she wasn’t really gone. The music of the girl’s laughter had reached into his soul, soothing him. He longed to hear that laughter again. It spoke of something ancient and beautiful, something lost to the world of men.

Andrew did not understand these things in such terms, only felt them in his soul, knew that they were true without consciously thinking about them. It was as if there was a tide somewhere, tugging at the core of his being in a way that was beyond his comprehension.

He wandered now through the winter woods, at peace with his surroundings, searching for another glimpse into this secret world, some new sign or trail which might lead him closer to the heart of things. The breeze puffed wisps of snow from the ground, twirling it between mischievous fingers before laying it to rest once more. It sighed through a stand of white pines whose majestic limbs spread across the sky, reaching always for the heavens in their quiet way. The melancholy whisper of those soft notes added themselves to the song.

Andrew continued on, stopping here and there to listen. He heard only his own breath keeping time with the subtle wind. He struck the trail of a marten, its large tracks unmistakable. Occasionally, its bushy tail had dragged in the snow as it slunk through the trees, hunting for prey. He followed and the trail eventually disappeared into a burrow at the foot of an oak tree. Heaving a small sigh, Andrew lifted his gaze and discovered that his wanderings had brought him to the very spot where he had seen the girl.

The tree he now stood beneath was the tree. It was mighty even now, though stripped of foliage and dormant, awaiting the coming of spring with solemn patience.

The breeze died away, leaving a calm silence to settle over the woods. Andrew stared for a time into the maze of bare branches, searching. Finally, as he was turning to leave, the delightful sound of feminine laughter tinkled in his ears like tiny bells. He blinked and she was there, different now and yet unchanged. Her golden skin was paler than before, her hair the muted brown of the few remaining leaves that still clung tenaciously to the branches of the oak. She smiled down at him, her laughter lifting his spirits, its tone intimating the coming of spring while also celebrating winter's long slumber. He could smell her as well. Some unidentifiable spice teased his senses, reminding him of chill winter days spent in his mother’s kitchen, his rapt gaze locked upon some tantalizing dessert as she prepared it. He realized now that this was no girl.

Full breasts and generous hips strained the supple fabric of her tunic, belying her childlike beauty.

But her fullness was somehow different than that of other women. She wasn’t like his mother or aunt or the teachers at school. She was different, wild and free, untamed in the way that the tallest mountains and deepest oceans were untamed. Though she oozed sensuality, she also exuded innocence. Something about her matched the timeless wisdom of the tree in which she stood.

Her eyes locked on his and Andrew gasped. The mightiest of men might lose themselves in that emerald gaze. For a boy of twelve, they were like twin whirlpools that sucked at his soul, threatening to devour it. Then she smiled once more and the energy behind her striking eyes softened and filled with what could only be described as tenderness. She leapt nimbly to the frozen ground to stand before him, saw that she was barefoot as before, the snow and cold apparently causing her no discomfort. He thought of his own clumsy feet, encased in thickly insulated boots to ward off the wet cold, and blushed furiously.

Her laughter drifted through the woods and a barely perceptible shudder emanated in every direction from the point at which her flesh contacted the earth. The woods around him shivered with apparent pleasure, the way his dog, Scooter, did when he came home from school and greeted his furry friend.

She approached him, tentatively at first, but gradually emboldened by his unthreatening demeanor. Only inches away now, she stopped and stared into him, seeing only she knew what. Her spicy scent caused his head to momentarily spin. He stood taller than she, his gangly frame rushing toward manhood ahead of schedule. He smiled down at her, gaze unflinching. The wonder in her eyes reflected his own. Something more lurked there as well, something Andrew could not define.

She touched him then, gently placing a hand upon his chest above his heart.

19

Images whirled through his head, confusing at first, but gradually resolving into a wordless question.

Are you He? Andrew did not understand at first. It was only after she had repeated the process, accompanying the question with a wave of her arm that encompassed all the land around them, that comprehension dawned.

He started to speak, thought better of it. The guttural rasping of human speech was so out of place here, so . . . alien. He strove to convey his answer with images as she had, showing her his uncle, his aunt, his cousins. He dredged up every memory of them he could recall, sending her mental movies of his uncle mowing hay in the fields that surrounded the woods, of he and his family in his uncle’s home during one of their holiday celebrations, of himself staring up into the verdant branches of this very oak four summers past.

She understood and offered a shy smile, though her nose wrinkled in distaste at the vision of his uncle making hay.

Then she once more poured images into his head, wondrous visions of an unspoiled, primordial world. He saw the land for miles around covered in dense forest. She showed him a handful of mahogany skinned men and women dressed in soft doe-leather as they hunted game and foraged for acorns and hickory nuts. This was followed by the sight of white men, small bands at first, followed by ever increasing numbers who gradually denuded the land of trees, clearing it for their farms with axes and saws. Their lumbering beasts soon populated the bare fields and the smoke of their burnings darkened the sky.

Through it all, he saw the oak he now stood before, witnessed its metamorphosis from seedling to sapling to mature tree to venerable giant and with it he saw the girl. A tiny wisp of a thing at first, she matured as the tree grew and prospered. He saw others like her as well, saw them whither and die as the great trees with which they shared an inviolable bond, shared life itself, were felled one by one over the long years until only this small haven remained.

The next vision was of another white man, tall, raven-haired, and regal in his bearing. Andrew saw him come to the tree, saw the girl with her hand upon his chest, saw her smile up at him, eyes pleading, saw him nod firmly while tears streaked down his ruddy cheeks. The man bore a striking resemblance to both his mother and uncle, to Andrew himself.

He understood now why this wood was so different than any other he had encountered in his short life, why it occupied such a special place in his heart. It was special, the last vestige of an ancient time when creatures of which he had never even dreamt roamed the land. This place had roots that reached to the very foundations of the earth, to the wellspring of time itself.

Andrew stared at her in awe as she withdrew her hand, his own face wet with salty tears. He had never known anything that touched him so profoundly. The depth of her sorrow was immeasurable, beyond human expression, as was her love for the tree and surrounding woods. This remnant was all that remained of a once mighty forest that had stretched for thousands of miles.

His special place, the place he had come to seek solace and wonder as his childhood began to fall away, was unique beyond description. He knew now why his uncle had never cut a single tree here, why he forbade trespassers with such firm resolve, why he encouraged Andrew to come here instead of cautioning him as he cautioned his own sons. He was bound to this ancient wood the way generations of select Raisbeck men had been bound, the way Andrew was bound. To harm it was to harm himself.

The sad, beautiful, ancient being he had once mistaken for a girl looked into his soul and nodded solemnly at what she saw there. She reached for him, her gentle hands grasping the sides of his head, and pulled his face toward hers. The strength in those hands belied the softness of her skin. Trembling, he bent in compliance and she kissed his forehead with lips softer than the finest velvet. His flesh burned at her touch and a wonderful warmth spread gradually from the point of contact throughout his entire body, filling him with vitality, as though he had just wakened from the most restful sleep and eaten a hearty breakfast of the most virtuous foods. Andrew had never experienced anything like it. He felt superhuman and perhaps, for that moment, he was.

20

She withdrew her lips and stepped back from him, her emerald gaze never leaving his face. He gaped, dumbfounded. She smiled and broke into that wonderful laughter as she spun and raced up the trunk of the oak, disappearing just as she had the first time he had seen her.

Andrew stared into the branches for a long time, the visions she had shown him replaying in his mind. He once more became aware of his surroundings when the cry of a distant coyote greeting the coming night echoed through the woods. He realized that he must have been standing there for hours, mesmerized by what he had experienced.

The slanting light of the sun as it touched the western horizon shone through the bare branches of the surrounding trees, illuminating the spot where he stood, lighting his way home.

As he turned to go, a final vision came to him from the being in the tree. In it, he was a grown man, standing near the eastern edge of the wood in the gray light of dawn, his hand raised as though in salute. Then his perspective shifted as the sun rose directly behind him, bathing the branches of the oak in peach-colored light. The girl stood among the glorious new foliage of spring, her hand raised in answer.

Finally, he saw himself as an old man, leading a young boy to the foot of the oak, standing back as the bond was forged anew.

You are He. Andrew made his way toward his uncle’s rambling farmhouse, where four generations of his family were even now giving thanks for the blessings they shared. He thought of the merriment, the warm glow of the fire, the cheery blush on his mother’s cheeks as she helped her sister-in-law heap platters of food upon the groaning table. He smelled the wonderful aromas and heard the squeal of delighted children and smiled.

Overhead, the hawk voiced its fierce cry as the breeze returned to caress the dormant land with frigid fingers. The coyote chimed in, followed by another, and soon a chorus greeted the rising moon. An owl hooted from somewhere deep within the woods as Andrew stepped from beneath the canopy and into the open.

He paused, looking back to regard his special place with new eyes. His heart swelled as that delicate laughter rang out for an instant before fading into the falling night. The light of the full moon painted the land with a silvery brush, casting dark shadows beneath the trees and causing the snowcovered hills to sparkle.

Turning toward the love and warmth awaiting him, mind and heart swirling with emotions he could not quite define but that filled him with contentment nonetheless, Andrew sighed and resumed his walk, lost in the intertwining melodies of the song.

BIO: Shaun Ryan began life in the usual manner; screaming and kicking and protesting the intrusion of blinding lights and rude people into his sphere of consciousness.

He eventually settled into a semi-normal existence, going to school and eating paste and giving his kindergarten tormentor a bloody nose. He managed to survive a childhood that wasn't exactly Norman Rockwell--but not quite Norman Bates--and entered adolescence unsure of himself and the microscopic chip on his shoulder.

He devoured books, both fiction and non, and did well in school, at least until his favorite teachers were reassigned due to budget constraints and replaced by pod-people doppelgangers with waxy skin.

Bored stiff and broke, he left school and got a job. A few years later he found himself transporting various goods and materials throughout North America, a task at which he makes a fairly comfortable living to this day.

But something was lacking. The voices in his head grew ever more insistent. He finally capitulated to the swirling universes in his mind and began writing fiction.

He lives in a very cold place where the folk have heads made of cheese and Vince Lombardi is considered a god, was kidnapped for matrimonial purposes by a hardheaded, flame-haired, Ozark

21

Amazon who is the best, most honest and loyal and true person he has ever known, and is currently revising his first novel and drafting a second.

His travels have provided him with a wealth of human experience to people his stories with, as well as vast and varied landscapes in which to set them.

He is an unrepentant country-boy, a beer snob, and an avid outdoorsman. A large black dog guards the entrance to his lair.

http://www.houseofhorror.org.uk/

22

23

Black Dog Alley Art by Jack Rogers

24

Black Dog Alley

By Michelle Garren Flye

Dad never wanted me to be here in this big farmhouse at the end of Black Dog Alley. That thought gets me through each day when Child Services drops me off at my uncle’s door.

I stay out in the hallway while Mrs. Perkins, the lady from Child Services, talks to my uncle in the old-fashioned parlor. Looking around, it seems unreal that I’m standing in the house my father grew up in . . . well, until he was 15 years old, anyway. Upstairs, his mother, my grandmother who I’ve never met, lies dying in the bed she once shared with my grandfather - an abusive husband, a neglectful father.

I stand at the bottom of a spiral staircase and listen past the murmur of voices in the parlor.

Silence presses down on me. The silence of a house that’s too big for its inhabitants. The silence of empty rooms. The emptiness of a home without a soul.

The parlor door opens with a squawk, startling me and shattering the emptiness. Mrs. Perkins walks out beside my uncle with a hopeful smile on her face. She’s been kind to me since my father’s death, but I know her hands are tied here. I’m almost seventeen and I have only a year to go before I can leave home one way or another. To college if I can earn enough to supplement my father’s meager savings and life insurance, to the Army if I can’t. Uncle Brian and Grandmother are my last known relatives, and living with them will definitely be better than getting lost in the overcrowded system of the state’s foster homes.

At least that’s the theory.

Uncle Brian smiles. “Welcome, Cathy,” he says. “We’re happy to have you here.” The words are right, the smile is right. If I look just at his mouth, I might be fooled.

Trouble is, I learned a long time ago to look at the eyes when people talk to you. You can tell if they mean what they’re saying by their eyes. Uncle Brian’s eyes disagree with his mouth. His face is so like my father’s, except for the bushy beard and mustache. I want to see my Dad’s sparkling blue eyes beneath the brows but instead, Uncle Brian’s are dark, dark brown. They suck in light instead of reflecting it back at me.

“Everything’s going to be just fine, Cathy,” Mrs. Perkins says. I smile. Mrs. Perkins can’t fool me. Her eyes are lying, too. * By dinnertime, I can find no further reason to remain in the room Uncle Brian showed me earlier.

I’m on the ground floor, in a small room near the kitchen. Uncle Brian and Grandma both sleep upstairs.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Cathy,” Uncle Brian said before. “Your grandmother often wakes at night, so I thought you’d get more rest down here.”

Uncle Brian isn’t in the kitchen, so I start looking through the cabinets. Macaroni and cheese, beanie weenies, Spaghetti-O’s, peanut butter, white bread. Nothing even vaguely resembling an adult meal. I check the refrigerator. Milk, orange juice, soda. Every container is new, unopened, as if it were bought for me.

I open one of the drawers. Raw hamburger. At least eight one-pound packs. It looks fresh, blood oozing between the plastic covering and the Styrofoam platters. “Maybe we’re going to have a cookout,” I say out loud.

“I hope you’re finding something to eat.”

I spin around. Uncle Brian must have moved as quietly as the wolf he vaguely resembles. I should’ve heard him coming down the hall. Maybe he has pads on the bottoms of his feet, I think.

Without meaning to, I glance down. My uncle is, indeed, barefoot. He steps into the kitchen.

“Did you?” he asks.

25

“Sorry?” I say, then realize I heard him. “Oh, yeah. I found that. I mean, the food’s fine. Can I fix you something?”

“I always eat late,” Uncle Brian says. “I’ll keep you company, though.”

“How about Grandma?” I say. “Can I fix her something?”

“Mother doesn’t eat . . . much, anymore.” Uncle Brian meets my eyes with almost too much confidence. “I’ll take her a tray later on.”

I fix a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The jelly lid pops as I open it. The purple surface is smooth and undisturbed. A bit of the grape jelly slides off the knife onto the counter.

“Is your room all right?” Uncle Brian asks.

“It’s fine,” I mutter.

“Tomorrow you may want to go out and explore the neighborhood,” “Neighborhood?” I hadn’t seen any evidence of other houses as Mrs. Perkins drove me down Black Dog Alley.

“We’re not all alone here,” my uncle says. He gestures vaguely. “There are several homes in this area. Quite an active group of young people, too.”

I can’t deny the lift in my spirits at these words. “Young people?” The thought of the summer with only Uncle Brian and my absent grandmother for company was unappealing.

“Oh yes,” Uncle Brian says. “Joey Martin and his sisters live just over that way. I think they have a pool. You might want to get to know them. Joey’s older than you, but one of his sisters is about your age, I think.”

“Sure,” I say. “Yeah, I’ll go for a walk tomorrow. I was planning on it anyway.”

“You do that,” Uncle Brian says. He gets up and heads for the door. Mission accomplished flashes through my mind. He wants me to meet these Martin kids. To get me out of his ample hair?

“Uncle Brian,” I say.

He stops and glances over his shoulder but doesn’t turn. “Yes?” “Why did my dad leave here?” I ask. “Why did he run away?”

Uncle Brian shrugs and turns away. “I don’t know. Your dad and I never saw eye to eye about most things.”

He closes the door behind him. * I wake. The house is quiet. Silent. Empty.

Not empty, I think. Grandmother and Uncle Brian are upstairs. Maybe that was what woke me. I listen for the sound of footsteps.

When I hear it, it’s not where I think it will be. Not upstairs. Not even in the kitchen.

Outside. Right outside my window.

Something about it . . . it doesn’t sound like a human footstep. Each step produces a scuffle that makes me think animal instead of human. I left the window open to the evening breeze. I wish I hadn’t.

Moonlight lights up the window, casting an irregular rectangle across the floor and over my bed.

A shadow passes. I draw back under the covers. Would Uncle Brian hear me if I screamed? In fact, do I want Uncle Brian, with his black-brown eyes, to come to my room at night? I don’t believe I do.

I’ve never felt so alone.

Another shadow. Why can I see the shadows but nothing to cast them? There’s no choice. I slip from the bed and tiptoe to the window. I yank the window closed. As I’m turning, ready to skip back into my bed, something catches my eye.

Outside, the yard is lit with an eerie blue glow. On the other side of the yard, a wolf sits, unabashed, silver fur ruffling lightly in the wind. My heart stops. Is it really a wolf? I’m a city girl.

Maybe it’s a dog, a German Sheppard, or, at worst, a coyote. But even as I tell myself these things and get back into bed and pull the covers up, I know I’m not kidding anyone but myself.

26

I know it’s a wolf. * Uncle Brian doesn’t come down for breakfast the next morning. I can’t hear any sounds of stirring, either, so I figure he’s not a morning person. After my breakfast of toast with grape jelly, I decide to explore the neighborhood. Maybe I can meet some of the kids.

I go out the back door and round the corner of the house in the direction Uncle Brian indicated the Martins live. I stop short. Standing in the backyard, wearing only a pair of dark blue swim trunks, is a young man. He’s sleek and muscular and tan. His eyes are so blue they’re almost silver, and when he looks at me, it’s like he’s touching my bare skin.

“Hi,” he says. “You’re Alicia.”

“I–uh, yeah.” Somehow, the fact that he didn’t say, “You must be Alicia,” makes the statement that much more intimate. You’re Alicia. A statement of fact. He knows who I am. Perhaps he knows much more . . . or wants to.

He smiles. His teeth are as white as chalk. “I came to invite you to our pool.”

“Oh.” Why can’t I think of anything to say? Preferably something with more than one syllable.

“Sure. That’d be great. Just let me change.”

When I come out a few minutes later, he’s still standing in the same spot. I move toward him and I realize he’s standing exactly where the wolf stood last night. Silly, I say to myself. Out loud I say, “It must be nice having a pool.”

“It’s the only way to spend an afternoon in the Southeast,” Joey says as we walk across the backyard and into the forest. I realize he never actually introduced himself.

“So, my uncle says you have sisters,” I say as casually as I can while I race to keep up with his easy cross-country lope.

“I do.” He doesn’t elaborate, but maybe that’s because we’ve emerged from the woods onto what was probably once a neatly manicured lawn. I can still see traces of careful gardening, but now the bushes are overgrown, the lawn is weedy and although there are still some perennials blooming here and there, the clover outnumbers them by far.

The swimming pool, like a blue oasis, is in the middle of the weedy lawn, surrounded by a cracked concrete walkway. Two girls close to my own age recline on a couple of lawn chairs. Both wear bikinis and sunglasses. Neither moves as we approach. I turn to say something to Joey, but my escort has vanished. Turning forward again, I see him leap and dive neatly into the pool. One of the girls sits up at the sound of the splash. She nods and smiles at me, gesturing toward another rusted lawn chair. I shrug.

Whatever. It’s better than going home to a house with an intermittent uncle and an invisible grandmother.

Neither Joey nor his sisters seems disposed to conversation. I lie on the lawn chair feeling the sun soak into my skin. Grasshoppers and crickets chirrup not far away. I wonder if my uncle is awake yet. I wonder if I’ll ever see my grandmother. Wondering if Joey is still in the pool, I raise my head. He is in the pool, his arms propped on the side, silver-blue eyes fixed on me. I’m so startled by his scrutiny that I sit up, then wish I hadn’t. I’m wearing a fairly modest two-piece suit, but I feel naked under his gaze. He smiles, teeth glimmering, and holds out a hand to me. Without thinking, I rise to accept his invitation.

I’m only vaguely aware that Joey’s sisters are sitting up, then standing and moving around us in circles as Joey rises from the pool and draws me into his arms. I feel his lips, his teeth, his hands on my bare skin. My world narrows to the sensation of his body against mine, and I know I can’t pull away.

We’re locked together as if intended for each other.

A snort from behind startles me. It’s a wild animal type of sound, rage and denial mixed together.

A hand closes over my left elbow, wrenching me backward and off balance. “Get away from her,” my uncle snarls.

As I regain my balance, I see Joey, water glistening on his body. His sisters are on their feet behind him. All three radiate animal defiance. Chins thrust out, lips parted, fists clenched.

I want nothing more than to join them.

27

Joey smiles. “She’s mine, old man. It’s what she wants. Your day is over.”

My uncle growls, low in his throat. He yanks me around and starts pulling me back toward the our house. “Hey!” I protest. “What the hell?” But my uncle is strong and before I can do more than throw an apologetic look over my shoulder at Joey, I’m pulled into the woods.

Back at the house, my uncle releases me in the kitchen and starts to pace. Every now and then he casts a look out the window. I can see darkness gathering outside. It’s much later in the day than I’d thought. “Would you like to explain to me exactly what is going on here?” I demand, but the door opens and I see my grandmother for the first time.

She’s beautiful, nothing like what I expected of a grandmother. She has long white hair that moves in the slightest of air currents. Her skin is ageless. Her body is slight but strong. I catch my breath.

Could this be the mother my father ran away from? Even as I gaze at her, my uncle falls on his knees before her. “It’s happened, Mother,” he says. “I’ve lost them. I knew I would when Erica died. It was only a matter of time before they rebelled against me. I can’t hold the pack together like before. Why did you tell me to send the girl to them?”

My grandmother places her hands on my uncle’s head. She looks at him almost tenderly, then turns her gaze out the window. “It was the right thing to do,” she says. “You must fight. It is our way.

Tonight the moon will be full. It is time.”

“And if I die?” my uncle says. “If he wins, what happens to you?”

“I take my place in the pack. I eat last. I survive.”

“And Alicia?” My uncle’s question surprises me. I hadn’t anticipated concern from him.

“We knew she would upset the balance,” my grandmother’s voice is cool. “Perhaps we were foolish to trust Joseph for so long. However, he has bided his time long enough.” Her eyes rake over me, cold as marble. “You are very like your mother,” she says with distaste.

“You knew my mother?” I’d been under the impression that my father had left home long before he met my mother.

“I cast your mother out of the pack,” my grandmother says coldly. “I was foolish. Your father chose to follow. Now you come when my last son is alpha male only by default. His mate is dead. Before, there was a truce. Joseph had no mate and two young sisters as dependents. Brian had only me. Now you come, a mate made to order for Joseph, so he challenges. Tonight your uncle will fight. Perhaps he will die. If he loses, you and Joseph will be the alpha pair. Perhaps that is best.”

Pack? Alpha pair? My mind reels just as it did when Joey kissed me. A whirl of sights and colors, my father outlined in moonlight one night, recognizable to my childhood consciousness even in his lupine form. “You’re a werewolf,” I whisper. “You’re both werewolves.”

My grandmother smiles. “We’re all werewolves, child.” * I run for the pool in the wilderness. Joey and his sisters wait for me. I sense them in the night.

Tree branches scratch my face, my body, but I’m twisting through them at a remarkable speed, falling to all fours when the path narrows. The brambles stop snatching at my skin and I lope on, all four limbs pushing me onward and I wonder why I haven’t always run like this.

I break through and moonlight outlines three wolves standing by the pool. I lunge forward to join them. The male steps forward and touches my nose gently with his. From behind, I hear a deep-throated growl. As Joey moves around me to meet my uncle, his sisters and I lift our snouts in the air and howl.

BIO: Michelle Garren Flye is a mother, writer and editor based in coastal North Carolina. She obtained her degree in Journalism and Mass Communication from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 1992. Not liking the hours required of a journalist, she went on to obtain a Master’s in Library and Information Science from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro in 1997. When her first child was born in 2000, she packed her diplomas away and began a new life as a stay-at-home mom, which fortunately afforded her the opportunity to pursue her writing on a semi-regular basis.

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Michelle has served in various capacities for several on-line and print literary endeavors, including Dark Recesses, edifice WRECKED, Horror Library Volume 1, Horror Library Volume 3, Butcher Shop Quartet, Butcher Shop Quartet II and Tattered Souls.

Michelle’s work can be found online and in print, including a few she’s really proud of in Opium, Smokelong Quarterly, Flashquake, the print anthology Our Shadows Speak and her only zombie story which recently appeared in Sonar4 Publications’ Tooth Decay. Her novel Secrets of the Lotus is available from Lyrical Press, Inc. For more information, visit her blogging efforts at http://michellegflye.wordpress.com/.

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Hands Art by Jack Rogers

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Hands Dameion Becknell

When the bulb is burning, I stare at my hands. While in the uncertainty of darkness, I rub them to make certain they’re still connected at the wrists. I cannot lose them. They are my everything. (later) He routinely injects me with some type of drug. Morphine, I suspect. The high is the only thing that feels real.

The room is the size of a large closet. Brick walls. No windows. A filthy cot reeking of urine.

The greasy light bulb strung to the ceiling is on a timer, I think.

He’s amputated my right foot. It’s gone.

I watched him do it. (later) I’ve no idea what the date is. When my internal clock conjectures that a day has passed I jot a slash down in this notepad. But there’s no real way of knowing. I think I’ve been his amusement for going on three days now. It’s all just guesswork though.

When I was a kid, I once guessed the precise number of jellybeans in one of those ridiculously huge jars, if you can believe that (whoever you are).

My name is Chevy Johansson.

Bring me food.

(Day ?)

Just awhile ago, the door flung open with an abruptness that usually would’ve made me jump, but I’ve grown much too weak for such useless action now. Must save energy. Even now, as I write, my left hand trembles from exhaustion.

Although he visits often, today was the first time he’s stayed long enough for me to scrutinize his condition.

Huge, this guy--as large as fear could ever be permitted to grow--and horrendously scarred. His hands are like raw meat. He wears a burlap sack over his head, and crudely woven into its matting are the flayed portions of a pig’s face. The stench of him, of that mask, forced me to vomit all over myself.

He brought food and water. As I lay there, defeated, he fed me with those raw hands. After several mouthfuls, again I retched. One spoonful had a large chunk in it, you see. It became lodged in my throat. I had no choice.

He glared at me through that miserable mask for a time, then lifted it to reveal a burnt, toothless grin of satisfaction. (later) I’ve been a professional musician all of my adult life, and have always believed that inspiration can and will strike at any given moment. In so thinking, I’ve carried a small notepad and pen in my back pocket since I was nine years old. I’m now thirty-seven. Within twenty-eight years, not a day has passed without my notepads and me.

I don’t think he knows about the notepad.

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(later) Always the screams. They are conveniently muted by the crumbling brick walls, but I hear them just the same.

These walls. This place. So small. So insignificant. Why me? I’ve been here for I don’t know how long. Much too long.

He took my left foot. Did I mention that? I closed my eyes this time.

If not for the drugs he crams into me, I think shock would’ve killed me by now.

My legs are bandaged. Professionally so. I’m convinced he’s medically trained. I’m also convinced he’s mechanically trained, too. The bastard uses a blowtorch to cauterize the wounds.

Why? (later) He brought food and water. Must have slipped it in while I was dozing. Sneaky Pig-fucker.

Something like a bowl full of insipid slop. Porridge? Can’t say with any real certainty.

It’s the high that’s making me write like this.

(Day ?)

I play the guitar. Did I mention that? Classical.

When I’m feeling low, I pluck the blues. I wish I could play them now.

(Day ?)

Earlier, I crawled from this mucky cot for the first time since I’ve been able. I gimped across the floor, inching toward the door, little rocks digging and biting into my starved flesh as I went. The oddest thing, the closer I gained to the door, the louder those screams grew. Just down the way, I think. I would stop and the screams would wane, begin forward again and they would reignite. A legion, by the sounds they make.

How many does he have here in the darkness? (later) Bed sores.

My hands. I rub them.

Have to think of a way to kill him. (later) Bricks. I could crush his skull in with a brick (there are many scattered among my own pathetic shits), but I don’t trust my strength in wielding such a bulky weapon. Greater still, I don’t trust my depth perception. Not to mention that my center of gravity is fucked. I would most likely end up knocking myself out.

Think . . . (later) How could I’ve not thought of it sooner? All this godforsaken time it’s been right here with me.

When he again creeps into this room, I will kill him. Then I’ll free the others.

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(Day ?)

I wait. I daydream.

Must wait for the right time.

A rather brave and good-sized roach dared to crawl across my cot earlier. Think it thought I was asleep. Sneaky cockroach. At least that’s what it looked like. Ate it fast. Nice and juicy. It popped between my teeth. (later) I can still feel my feet.

(Day ?)

I wait, and try with honest conviction not to drift off, but catch myself jerking out of sleep all the time. It’s all so tiring. (later) I must have been asleep when he brought food and water. I ate in the dark. The water tasted clean this time, but the stuff in the bowl tasted like old meat with lots of hot sauce.

I just barely made it back to this room. They beat at the door now. Frantically.

Let me start from the beginning. I’ve got to write it down and be done with it.

I killed him. Did I mention that? The floor was a slop of scarlet dirt by the time I’d finished with him.

I’d readied all for him, you know. My chest heaved with a steady, rhythmical dreamer’s pace, and I even shifted about a bit. You see, I knew he was sneaky and so wanted to give the illusion of complete dreamscape. I even went so far as to roll my eyes behind their lids.

With an abnormal amount of grace, he skulked in, holding a lantern for guidance. I’d almost missed him, you see. It wasn’t until he unzipped his bag of treats that I even knew he was atop me. Yet my breathing did not falter, my lids still danced the dreamer’s dance.

He crouched down to inject me, and I struck! Nailed him in the neck. The jugular vein, I think.

With this pen, I stabbed, stabbed, stabbed at his scarred neck. Blood galore; red everywhere. He tried to straighten himself and flee, but I wrapped my wounded legs around his waist, clamped his neck in my right hand, and pulled myself along. All while my left hand continued the butchery.

He squeezed me in a bear hug. A rib snapped. I pounded at his mutilated neck. And for a moment it was something to watch. The way the blood arced like little fountains from the puncture-wounds.

He hit the floor but I continued to gouge, slash, puncture. With dark red spewing and bubbling, beating its notes in time with his dying heart, it was nothing less than poetry in motion.

Some time later, after the fog of rage had cleared, I gathered my senses and just collapsed atop him. The adrenaline surge left me exhausted, you see. Laying there, heaving and choking, I thought of how I would never lose my hands.

Soon after, I crawled from his corpse. I moved for the syringe and spent the whole of it into my arm.

I searched him for a key that might free the others. Nothing. I looked in his bag and found a large ring of keys and another full syringe. The ring slid easily up my arm to make a snug home around my shoulder.

The door stood wide open, so I pulled myself out of this room for what I thought to be the last time. Just outside the door stood a pristine cart, knives of every fashion littering it. I picked a good-sized one and wedged it under one armpit.

I crawled around the cart. Stretching out before me was what looked to be an endless corridor,

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half-defined by a string of dimly lit bulbs. The screams were tremendous out there, seeming to originate from beyond the fallow throw of light, from somewhere in the outer darkness.

I’d trudged maybe twenty feet before realizing I was crawling through the tiniest pieces of glass.

Shards of it burrowed into my skin, ground into my knees and forearms. The dirty son-of-a-bitch had undoubtedly spread the glass for just this type of an eventuality.

Mindful of my hands, I crawled on.

Something caught in the left of my vision. I stopped, turned to face a door. I tried the first key, and luck must love to tease me into believing that it has anything to do with me, because it was the right key.

Just as the lock clicked over, the sound of shuffling footfalls came from inside. My stomach lurched. I pushed the door and it cursed defiantly on its hinges.

What met me from within that room, so very much like this room, was a sight that almost forced a bark of laughter from me.

Sitting in a rickety wood chair was a young woman; pallid, expressionless, and wearing a soiled dress with sad flowers on it. I believed even then that she was once in full possession of beauty, but was now aged well and beyond her years--just as I must look. As if together we were this great and cruel parody of the other, she was missing her hands, her arms.

I found myself wanting to steal her for my own right then and there. Steal this armless angel and drag her off to my not-so-different room. There we could have made something like love, and then I would have held her while she rubbed my hands with her feet, and together we might have made one beautifully whole human being.

I asked for her name. She said nothing. I told her that her feet were a miracle. She still said nothing. I asked for the date of this year. Nothing. She said nothing for some time, just stared at my precious hands.

“Carmen," she finally admitted. “My name is Carmen Donnelly."

Her voice soothed my throbbing ears. Her face, even though sunken to the bone, still retained a bold edge of beauty. I wanted to touch her. To know her.

“Did you kill him, then?” she wanted to know. And I told her every glorious stroke of it. “There are others,” she said with conviction.

“The screams,” I said, and she followed with the same words.

“Do you have any shoes?” I asked.

“Yes, but I don’t like to wear them. Not after . . .” she trailed off.

I didn’t press the issue, just told her she might reconsider on the way out because Pig-fucker had spread shards of busted glass all over, to which she belted out a shrill laugh. I asked what was so funny, and she said that she too sometimes called him Pig-fucker. We shared an honest laugh at that, and there was a forgotten warmth in it.

We left Carmen’s room and made our way down the corridor, toward the screams. I would’ve held her hand if it were at all possible. We found no more doors except the one that imprisoned what sounded like so many.

We had arrived. The door was grand in size. I looked up at Carmen. She gazed back down at me.

Even while caught in the grinding teeth of confusion, I believe we both knew something rested uneasy behind that door. But they screamed to wake the world, those trapped souls, and just as we had known each other’s pain in a glance, we also felt that these captives, these victims, would be lost without us.

Why could we have not just let them stay lost, Carmen?

Setting the knife to the ground, I fetched the ring of keys from off my shoulder. She continued to look down at me, and I swear she was admiring my hands. I tried Carmen’s key, then the second, the third, fourth. I had come to the fifth and final one.

My hands flexed at the task of inserting the key. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, the screams bowed to complete silence. I looked up at Carmen, she mirrored my expression and gave me a tremulous nod. I turned the key. We pushed open that mammoth door and a hot sour stench punched us in the face. Exaggerated moans came from the gritty recesses of that room like songs from the throats of

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dying men.

Carmen took a few steps back. I hoisted the knife up in arms.

“I don’t like this,” she said in a cracked sort of way.

I was about to tell her I didn’t like this much either, when a series of bulbs began to flicker alive from within. Silhouettes teased the dying darkness. Absurdly hunched backs, deformed heads, and long, gangling limbs convulsed these silhouettes to life.

The lights then found their full, greasy glory.

The things we saw in that stink-hole of a room were beyond all sensible comprehension. Those things that leered at us from a not-so-safe distance. Those things that even now beat at the door.

One, perhaps the eldest of this vile tribe, stepped forward, and hanging from its mangled, purple neck was a self-wrought necklace crafted in bone. I glared hard at the necklace. That thing stared back.

And if it were at all possible, the piss would have frozen in my bladder as I came to the certainty that those were the bones of my foot that clung from its collarbones! The right one, I’m convinced. Another stepped forward, and draped like some obscene scarf across its shoulders were two ivory-white arm bones.

They were nude, save for the bones, with demonic, orange eyes, as if flames found breath there.

We fled that doorframe with the patter of many eager feet filling the air behind us. Carmen ran like she was all legs. I ran faster on two hands and knee-stumps than I ever had on feet; the huge knife clenched between my teeth.

Porky had been feeding us to them, you see. They had tasted us. That’s why their screams had grown so frantic the day I’d crawled toward the door. They could smell me. Sense me, even.

Nearer to Carmen’s room, with cover in sight, one of their numbers had all but gained me, its breath hot on my nape. I unclenched the blade from my teeth and took one hopeless attempt at a backward stroke, losing my balance as I did so. By freak luck, the blade bore into the things head with the sound of a melon being halved. I dared not look back, though.

Carmen looked back. I knew she was going to. Call it split-second premonition, call it psychic ability, call it whatever flips your interest, but I knew. And I tried, oh how I tried to tell her, to warn her of the consequences of such an act. But the stroke of the blade had taken my wind and my balance, you see.

I faltered in speech. It took every puny fiber of my being just to redirect myself after that blind swing.

As I said, she looked back. She stumbled, she fell. I half-reached for her but they had her mounted in one hot instant, like scads of hungry ants to the all-too-slow termite. Each went straight for her legs, victoriously barking as they stripped them dry.

The confusion of that moment--Carmen’s shrieks at losing her flesh coupled with an adrenaline/drug high like no other--caused me to completely pass over Carmen’s open room. But I did not falter. Instead, I put my head forward and moved like there was no end in sight.

Mere feet from my room, her cries died away completely. They were headed for me. I heard them, smelled them; the taste of their stink was thick on my tongue.

With a speed and agility that defied my condition, I shut and locked the door on the fiends. Still they pound at its weakening wood. It’ll give, eventually. Most everything does.

I’m still in possession of another full syringe. (later) I’ve just injected the last of my beloved elixir. Figure if I’m going down brutally, I may as well feel nothing in doing it. Another thing that I figure: I’m going to take a few of those man-eaters down with me. On my way in, by ungainly chance, I ran into the cart-of-knives and rammed it in here with me.

Did I mention that? (later) The wood, it gives. From beyond the fractured door their spoiled flesh grows more excited.

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I’ve accepted my end. I’ve also accepted that I’m going to lose my hands. They’ve never betrayed me, and their dexterity is a thing of elegant grace.

My mother has a pair of my baby shoes, bronzed. I wish she could have my hands bronzed. Then she could place them in Dad’s study, alongside my baby shoes.

I love you Mom, Dad. Tabitha, you are never far from my thoughts, love.

I’ve chosen two of the sharpest blades from the cart. I’ll cut to the best of my ability.

If this notepad is ever found then it will be greater than any jellybean miracle ever guessed.

However, if this notepad should be discovered, if miracles really do grow larger than jellybeans, then you will know of my nightmare. I’ll rest on that. I’ve written all I have to say.

I must go now. The wood, it gives.

Goodbye world.

Goodbye music.

Goodbye hands . . .

BIO: Dameion Becknell lives and works in Kentucky. He is the father of two beautiful brats and the owner of a neurotic Weimaraner dog, all three of which have been known to bite. Dameion’s fiction has appeared, or is forthcoming, in such publications as Brain Harvest Magazine, Dark Recesses Press, End of Days Anthology, and The Journal of Experimental Fiction, among others.

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Kyra Art by Jack Rogers

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Kyra

by Shanna Hale

She enters the world in a rush of liquid, more blood than water, tiny claws rending skin never meant to hold up under such abuse. She opens slitted eyes the color of a Siamese’s orbs and twists her lips, giving the midwife a brief glimpse of teeth capable of even more damage than her claws. After a moment of thundering silence, the midwife, with shaking hands, wraps her in a red velvet blanket and thrusts a nipple into the child’s mouth; she begins to feed, a low sound coming from her throat. The woman on the birthing bed sobs quietly as her daughter purrs. Her father does not wear feathers, but her mother’s name is Leda. * Leland Parks was a businessman. More importantly, he was a good businessman. He knew how and when to make a deal and, unlike many of his competitors, when to let one go. At thirty-six, he had traveled the globe four times over, flushing out the odd and unusual for his collection. For Leland Parks prided himself as a big game man as well, a vicious hunter. Not that his house in Falls Haven reflected this. To the public eye, he was a conservative man with mild tastes and an easy smile. It was hard to imagine his sandy-blond hair matted with blood, lips snarling as he grappled with his prey. Leland believed in hands-on capture; tranquilizer darts were cheating.

He did not collect just anything, however; the big cats bored him, and the exotic wilds of Africa held no challenge. He wanted something special, something not just anyone could claim. The locked door at the foot of the basement stairs concealed a mythologist’s paradise, for Leland Parks collected things sentenced to myth and fairy tale. * She shakes her mane of silver hair so it settles over her shoulders, concealing her ears. As a child, she learned not to flaunt herself; by concealment she can almost pass for normal, and survive.

Claws can be retracted, pointed ears hidden in hair; she is careful not to purr. First a skirt, then hair that tumbles to her waist hides her most noticeable disfigurement. Nothing can be done for her eyes.

She dresses in a cropped tank and a long, flowing wrap-around skirt, both black, her hair falling free and spiraling below her waist. Fabric hugs her body; light glints off the silver down that covers her skin. A red velvet jacket completes the outfit. She smiles, lips closed to cover slightly pointed teeth. Her name is Kyra; her father is not a god, but she is something more than human. * With an almost childish glee, Leland unlocked the door at the foot of the basement stairs. Some might consider the locks over-precautionary, but he was, for the most part, a sensible man; it was a necessity in both his lines of work. Without sense, you were liable to get your throat slit.

Leland opened the door. The lights came on automatically, as they did in every room of his home, for Leland was a firm believer of the credo, “What you can’t see can kill you.” But standing in this room, surrounded by his successful hunts, it was difficult for him to believe that any of these beautiful creatures were once capable of harming him.

His eyes slid over their bodies, the fur, the feathers, the flesh. This room always appeared wrapped in a fog, a dream, and wasn’t that what he collected? He had tried to arrange them as they would have been in life. The flower faerie knelt in a rose-colored bloom; the Sasquatch hunkered down behind artificial snow mounds. He tried very hard to do the creatures justice in their death; they were, after all,

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things of beauty as well as intelligence. Every one of them deserved a place of honor for the battles they had fought.

He wandered the aisles between displays, careful to stay away from the farthest wall. It was there that the poisonous creatures rested. Even dead, some were potent enough to kill a grown man. There was the serpent he had hunted in Africa, praised for its healing abilities--one lick of its tongue cured anything.

Of course, the flip side was that if it touched you with the underside of that same tongue, you died instantly. So many of them were like this, death concealed in absolute beauty.

Finally, he stopped in front of one last display. It was empty, waiting. This would be the crowning glory to his collection; after he had her, Leland planned on retiring this part of his life. He could find no name to call her, but she was beauty itself. And so deadly. He knew where one hunted, but wanted to wait a few more days, until Kale brought him The Book. Leland was hoping to find something with which to subdue her; he knew if such knowledge existed, it would be in The Book. He also hoped she did not move on while he waited, but that was a chance he would have to take. After all, Leland Parks was a sensible man. * She sleeps by day, not out of necessity, but simply because she enjoys the night more. It is also more practical; much can be passed off as shadow that would be a glaring deformity in the light of day.

She has come to this city, haven for the fallen, to bring down another. Tonight, she will play God, and bring one more sinner home. She smiles to herself, imagining his shock; she, too has seen his collection —there has never been a room a cat could not get into—and shuddered before anger stood the hairs of her arms on end.

She knows what he knows—of her kind, but not of her—and recognizes his tragic flaw even if he does not. He is driven not by desire, but by curiosity, and curiosity, as she could tell him but won’t, has been known to kill. * Leland tossed in bed, nightmares prowling through his mind. The only difference between Leland Parks’ nightmares and anyone else’s was that his had teeth.

Familiarity seeped through the visions. And in his mind, Leland traced his steps, relived the hunts. Hunts that had gone wrong. The hunt where he first saw her.

He crouched in a dark alley, a knife in one hand, and a delicate bouquet of lavender flowers in the other. Tonight he sought an odd sort of creature, a thing resembling a large dog, but blessed with the ability to sing. It was called a Sireen, after the enchantingly beautiful sounds that came from its throat. It concealed almost human thumbs in a pocket on the side of its paws. Leland knew of at least two people who had fallen to its teeth; it was not a social creature. The only thing that calmed it lay in Leland’s left hand. The flowers’ fragrance anesthetized the beast. Or so he hoped; if this worked, he could lay claim to the only one of its kind successfully subdued.

He gazed at the landscape, like so many dreams dull and gray, undefined. And then he heard it.

The voice slunk into his ears. His eyes began to close. So lovely . . . a hand touched his cheek, his neck, a hot breath brushed past his ear . . . only the haven of the flowers’ fragrance preserved his life. The books had been wrong; the blossoms did not calm the beast. They simply allowed the hunter enough distraction from the song to strike. And strike he did, sinking the knife up to the hilt in the creature’s midsection.

Another thing the books got wrong--none of them mentioned it walked on two legs. The song changed to a howl, and slid into a snarl. Leland tossed in bed. He once again felt the concrete under his back as the beast fell on him. His hands twisted into claws that eerily mirrored the ones reaching for his throat. Like so many other times, he could not tell how long he fought his prey. But when the myth lay still on top of him, Leland smiled, a sharp grimace that cut through the gore on his face. Once again, success.

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In his sleep, Leland frowned, haunted by a noise from years ago. His dreams all ended like this; no matter what he hunted, she was always there. He lifted his eyes and saw her, crouched on a pile of boxes. Nude; the foggy light of dreams gave her an ethereal glow. Her hair hung in tangled knots, her claws out for balance, her eyes narrowed as she gazed at him. She took his breath away. She was mad, he could see that, but capable of speech.

“What are you?” he breathed in his sleep. And in his dream, she snarled, her tail whipping back and forth. “Your death.” He awoke in a cold sweat, knowing, somehow, that to let her touch him was to lose himself. * She is a hunter, the night her chosen ground, and men her chosen prey. She is not some relic, left over from a more primitive time; she is a highly evolved creature who enjoys the physical sensations of two bodies coming together. She craves sex.

Under normal circumstances, she prowls the city’s seedy side, picking off the men as they stumble from bars; or she might simply allow herself to be seen leaving a club on the ritzy side of town, trailing her fingers along the bar, her eyes sliding up the length of the males jittering on the dance floor.

They always follow. She knows where to lead them, for in this day one must be discreet.

She prefers a bed, although a laid-back seat is enough, and an alleyway will serve in a pinch. It never takes long—she has that effect, she’s been told—but then, endurance is not what she is after.

Commitment is not a word that frequents her vocabulary. Tight muscles, the feel of skin on skin, the pressure of a man inside her—she struggles not to lose control; she remains vigilant, prudent enough not to draw blood.

Men seek her out without knowing why. But tonight she hunts one who knows. Striding down the street, she feels their eyes on her body, sliding over every curve, and the heat builds in her loins. Her purity was lost long ago, but playing the innocent has always been her forte. * Dust puffed into the room. The two men at the table jerked back, coughing and choking on air suddenly too thick to breathe. When breath was again possible, they peered with watery eyes at the tome resting on the table.

“Well, Leland,” the elder of the two commented, pushing his glasses up his nose with an absent gesture, “if you don’t find it in here, you won’t find it.” He gave his younger companion a sharp glance.

“I hope you realize exactly how many favors I had to call in to get this,” he said with a motion toward the book. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. This had better not just be a lark.”

Leland grinned. “Don’t worry, Kale. I know what I’m doing. Have I ever been wrong before?”

Janson Kale peered over his glasses. “That’s what bothers me, Leland; one of these days, it’s going to catch up to you. Your ‘hobby’ is going to turn around and bite you in the ass.”

Leland threw back his head and laughed. “Kale, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you cared.” He clapped the older man on the shoulder. “Like I said before, I know what I’m doing. I’m on the trail of something here that could be the crowning glory to my collection. You don’t think I’d get myself killed when I’m this close, do you? Give me some credit, Kale; look who you’re talking to.”

The other man sighed, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to clean his glasses. “Leland, you’ve led a charmed life. You forget, I’ve seen your collection. And I’ve seen you after you added to it. You’ve always pulled through.” Kale shook his head. “I’ve an idea of what you’re after, Leland; don’t underestimate them, or you may find you’re on the opposite side of the scale. The line between hunter and hunted is a fine one indeed.”

He replaced his glasses and started for the door, where he paused. “Keep in mind, I don’t care if you find it or not; if that book is damaged in any way, shape or form, it’s my skin on the line.” He paused

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with a significant look to the young man. “Which means it’ll be yours I take it out of.” With that dour proclamation, he left.

Leland grinned as Janson Kale let the door shut behind him. Kale was the only man Leland would allow to help with a hunt. It was, after all, Kale who had taught Leland the art and beauty of the chase. Kale had seen the young hunter, recognized both passion and talent, and taken him under the proverbial wing. It was Kale who had shown him what danced under certain moons, and explained how one goes about capturing things such as faeries, werewolves, and griffins. It was Kale who cleaned him up and nursed him back to health after a failed attempt to capture a unicorn; they weren’t as meek as legend portrayed.

It had soon become apparent that the student would eclipse the teacher; Kale enjoyed the hunt, but knew his age would soon be working against him. So he had looked for a protégée willing to help Leland hunt and capture the things that were now beyond him. He tracked down ancient books, like the one now in front of Leland, to identify obscure creatures and give the hunter enough information to come back in one piece.

Leland had long ago decided that the focus of his collection would be the “thinking myths,” the ones with cunning that would fight back not out of instinct, but pleasure. Those were the dangerous ones, the ones that made mankind their playthings. The things that stalked the night--and on rare occasions, the day. Leland rolled his shoulders and sat down to lose himself in the ancient book. The night, after all, had to be made safe again. * She has always enjoyed the thrill of the chase. The hunted always know the hunter; she has made it her business to familiarize herself with those who claim that title. One may only stay hidden as long as one is shrewd; confidence breeds arrogance. Arrogance breeds mistakes.

She has been privy to his hunts, watching from distant perches as he toys with whatever creature has had the misfortune to fall under his scrutiny. She snarls to herself as she strides down the sidewalk.

There are too few of her kind left to let one fall to his obsession, his games. She knows how it works, what he expects--a fight, a desperate plea for life. She throws back her head and laughs, letting the warm air wash over her. For every game, there are rules, but if you know what they are, you can bend them. * Leland sat back, wiping a hand over his brow and leaving a dirty gray streak in its wake. He couldn’t even begin to count the hours he’d been sitting at this table, but he knew the sun had gone down and come up at least once. Kale had delivered some Chinese food, which lay cold and greasy--and uneaten-- in its cardboard containers. He didn’t have time for food when he was on the hunt. He had learned by harsh experience that if you blink, you stand a very good chance of missing what you are after. He had not missed this time.

The page was maybe two-thirds through the book; the picture was almost indecipherable. But there she was: hair thick like a lion’s mane; slit, feline eyes; ears just slightly pointed; tail poised behind her. No one knew where they came from, and there were not that many of them left; they apparently did not breed that easily, even though they were the worst kind of hunter--sexual predators. Those that remained kept to the cities where it was easier to blend in. They weren’t feline, but they weren’t human, either. They were somewhere in the middle. And after ten long years of searching, Leland knew where to find one.

He closed his eyes, remembering the moment. In a crowded, smoky club, as he pushed his way towards the exit, he saw her in a corner, reclining against a young man who, judging by his wide eyes, obviously had no idea what to make of this woman. She looked up once and met Leland’s gaze. In the darkness, her slit pupils took up most of her eyes. She smiled, tongue flicking out to lick her lips, and he

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caught just the hint of her tail waving behind her. Then she dipped her head again, her hands already moving over the young man’s body.

The book held few suggestions for capturing or killing one; he would have to be careful. Their humanoid aspects would be a disadvantage in a crowded place. He would have to let her lure him away, let her think she was in charge. Leland felt excitement building. It was always like this before the hunt, never knowing what would happen.

He grinned, arching back to ease the muscles in his shoulders and neck, and then glanced at his watch. Not quite four in the afternoon. Good. Time for a shower, a change of clothes, a quick beer, and then the games would begin. Whether she realized it or not, the “feline” was about to become the newest addition to Leland’s collection. * She holds her head high as she throws open the door to the bar, daring anyone to stop her even though the sign clearly states the establishment is not open for business. She has watched him long enough to know the rituals--a relaxing beer, a bite to eat, perhaps a round of pool. Then he hunts. The sun has not yet gone down, and the air holds a murky quality that is almost stifling. The sun’s rays hold her for a brief moment before she saunters into the gloom.

He is sitting in the back corner, at his usual table. There are perhaps six other people in the bar, preparing for opening, but she is not concerned with them; tonight, he is her chosen prey. She dips her head, letting her silver hair fall partially over her face, and glides toward him. He sits with his chair tipped back, his feet propped on the table in front of him, not paying attention to anything. A glass of beer is in his right hand, but that does not concern her, either. She must move quickly; he cannot have time to look into her eyes. Before he can react, she is there.

With her right hand, she shoves him gently; with her left, she takes the glass of beer from his hand and sets it on the table. Then, with a deft flick of her wrist, she switches her skirt out of the way and settles herself across his lap. She is not wearing anything underneath the skirt, a fact of which he is soon made aware.

As he opens his mouth to speak--perhaps to utter a snappy line, more probably to ask who the hell she is and what she is doing--she spins her glamour (another thing the books won’t have told him) and reaches down with her free left hand to wrap her fingers around his crotch. His eyes widen as his mouth closes; he is all hers now. Her skirt hangs in folds of fabric around the chair; even if anyone in the bar were able to see her, all they would see was a woman sitting on a man’s lap. Her right hand caresses his hair while her left works the button and fly on his pants and she smiles inwardly. So fierce, so driven.

Here is a man after her own desires. Such a pity, really. She hopes the pain won’t kill him.

The hard part is getting his pants unzipped; the rest is easy. She guides him inside and locks her fingers around the back of his neck. For what must seem the first time in his life, he is not in control.

And he likes it. Even knowing what she knows, she still enjoys this; after all, she could have simply attacked him in an alley--this is so much more fun.

She rocks against him, feels the moan he cannot voice. Wait, wait--this must be timed perfectly.

She feels her own climax building--too soon. His body gives him away; the tension in his limbs and neck increases and his back begins to arch. Now. She wrenches his head toward her, crushing his lips against hers. He is so overcome by the spasms wracking his body that he does not notice the small nip as she bites his lip.

And then it is over. She stands, her skirt falling to cover her again. He sits in a stupor, not quite comprehending what just happened. For the first time, she looks him in the eye and smiles, her tongue darting out to lick his blood from her lower lip. The glamour will hold, she knows, for as long as his blood stays in her body. She snares a drink from the bar as she ambles toward the door, pausing only once to glance back in his direction. Then the night swallows her. *

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Leland blinked his eyes and the fog that seemed to have settled in the bar was gone. So was the woman. He looked up just in time to see her pause in the doorway, framed in streetlight. Then the door shut and she was gone. Wait, he thought, a little wildly, streetlight? The sun had been up when he came in here. How long had she been with him?

Glancing around, he realized the fog had probably been cigarette smoke; the place was packed. A flicker at the window caught his attention and Leland bolted to his feet. “Wait!” he shouted, praying she heard him. He scrambled for the door, fumbling with his pants as he went. The patrons did not seem to notice him. He threw open the doors just in time to see a flash of skirt vanish around a corner. “Wait!

Please!” Leland staggered around the corner to find himself face to face with a dead end. His shoulders sagged. She was here. She was here! But the only living thing in the small alley was a silver and black striped tabby cat. The cat watched him intently for a moment, and then jumped down from the boxes it was sitting on to rub itself against his ankles, purring. He did not notice. Without knowing how, Leland Parks knew he had lost, and turned to trudge back home. * She watches him walk away, dejected. She guesses his books did not tell him what to expect, the process that goes into their creation. Why there are so few of her kind. Females are born; males, however, must be made. And one such as she must be cautious when choosing a mate. He will awake in the morning with a high fever; his mouth will hurt, his tailbone, his ears. By the time the moon rises again, the human race will have lost a member; he will not be dead, but the result will be the same. A fitting justice, she thinks, the hunter now forced to lay with the hunted.

The shadows blur, and she steps onto the street on two legs, only a light glamour surrounding her now. A cool wind blows her silver hair back; she realizes her skirt is ripped, her tail lashing free. It does not matter; she is through hunting for the night. Besides, if anyone should notice her, all they will see is an alley cat. There is no name for what she is, but she will never be a man’s prey.

BIO: Shanna Hale lives in Texas, as she has since the age of four. She has been writing for much of that time. Her stories have appeared on several e-zines, including Mirror Magazine and Liquid Imagination, and been included in the anthology Mausoleum Memories. Her poetry has appeared on the e-zines Mirror Magazine and All Things Girl. She has also received honorable mentions on the Allegory e-zine and the Weatherford College Literary magazine. She has published her own poetry chapbook, and performs her work throughout the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex.

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45

Father’s Sword

Art by Jack Rogers

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Father's Sword

By Christine Rains

Her red-tinged saliva dripped down from her maw onto my father's corpse. The wolf snarled again, standing over her kill.

I pressed my back harder against the rough bark of the tree and clutched my crudely made spear so hard my knuckles turned white. It was a child's toy, but it was all I had to protect myself from the vicious beast. My father had told me to run, but I had not thought a wolf could bring a warrior such as him down. He had fought against the Romans and taken many heads. In my eyes, he had been invincible.

I was his only son. I would not run like a coward.

“Leave him! He's mine. I won't let you take him.” I tried to puff up my body and make my voice more like a threatening growl. I was lucky that I did not whimper.

The wolf darted forward and snapped at me. Her huge head was only an arm's length from mine.

Her silver eyes shone with murder and possession. I knew she would not give up the prey she fought so hard to bring down, but I could not leave my father to become her meal.

“Go away!” I was ashamed that a few tears escaped. “Go away or I'll kill you.”

Her lips quivered with a quiet rumble, but she came no closer to me. She snapped her jaws closed, whipped her head to one side and twitched her ears. She backed up to the far side of the ravaged body and took a hold of my father's neck.

Our eyes met once more before she dragged him away into the trees. I wanted to run after the wolf and take my father's body from her, but my legs failed me. I fell to my knees. “No. Father.”

Something gleamed in the bloodied snow and I dropped my spear. Tears fell as I crawled forward and my hands closed around my father's sword. It was sticky with the wolf's blood, but still sharp with the care he had for it. The blade had known many victories and I would ensure it knew many more. I hugged it to my thin body and wept for a great man. * “For Carden!”

“Carden!” The warriors raised their mugs and toasted me. Their cheers echoed in the long house along with the sloshing of ale.

I stood on the bench and raised my arms. Only when the cheers became deafening did I sit down again and tip back my mug to wash my throat with drink.

Round hips pressed against my shoulder and my mug was filled to the brim again. “Whenever you need ale tonight, Carden, whatever you need tonight, I will see that you have it.”

I looked over my shoulder and grinned at Enys. Beside me, Nyle yanked her down on his lap and wrapped his muscled arms around her. “I'm what you need, woman.”

“And what makes you think that?” Enys squirmed as if to get away, but she only buried herself further into his embrace.

“It's what you screamed out last night when I was buried in you!” Nyle exclaimed and the rest of us burst out into laughter with him, drinking to his manhood.

I knew Enys had long wanted the large man to be hers and I did not kid myself when she had given me her offer. I had the most Roman heads from our last battle. She had wanted only to make him jealous. Though her curves might have tempted me, I had my eyes set on the fiery Aithne. She was five summers younger than my twenty-one, but she was woman enough for me.

We drank and sang songs about our battles. We remembered our fallen comrades and I laid my hand on my father's sword. I was never without it by my side. My only goal in life was to honor my

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father's spirit as I carried his blade into battle. The scars on my young body showed just how many battles I had fought. The fact that I was healthy and had all my limbs showed I had inherited his skill.

It was late into the night before I stumbled away from the table in search of my luscious redhead Aithne. I had seen her serving ale at the far end of the long house. How long ago that was, I couldn't be sure. The night had blurred together and I only knew I needed a woman soon or I would lay down on the furs to sleep by myself.

I thrust my head out of the entrance, but the village was quiet. The tradesmen, druids and women with children would all be asleep. It was a night of celebration for the warriors and women without husbands. The cold wind whipped at my face and I pushed myself back inside. I leaned against the wooden support and searched the shadows along the walls for Aithne’s red hair.

A pair of eyes gleamed and met mine. Her black hair glistened in the dim light. A shiver raced down my body and grasped my heart.

She rose up on her knees and did not break her gaze as she beckoned me to her. She wore a Roman helmet on her head and little else. A helmet I knew I had won because it was the only one with a red crest along the middle signifying it had belonged to an officer. I had left it on the mound behind the long house as an offering to the gods along with the head that had been in it.

I wet my lips and my feet took me forward to crouch down in front of her. “You're either very brave or very stupid to take something that was offered to the gods.” I could not stop my eyes from wandering over her lush figure.

“You won it.” Her voice was low for a woman, and yet I had not heard anything more female in all my years.

“Yes, I won it. The Romans are strong as a group, but they do not fight well individually.

Caesar's troops do have a weakness.” I sought out her eyes again. While my body reacted favorably to hers, my heart skipped a beat as I looked into those silver orbs. “Your eyes--” Leaning in, she ran her hands over my bare arms and chest, tracing my scars. “You will win many more battles.”

“Of course I will.” Her touch was entrancing. All thoughts of Aithne were gone from my mind as I settled down on my knees and moved in closer to her within the shadows. “I don't know you. What's your name?”

“I am a sister.” The dark-haired beauty cocked her head to the side and then ran the flat of her tongue from the hollow of my throat to just under my left ear. “Take me. Warrior. Carden. Son of a champion.”

With her touch and the ale, I could not resist her. Even without her name, I did not want to resist her. “You have heard of my father?”

“I knew him well.” She wrapped her strong arms around me. “Take me.”

I lowered my mouth to hers and kissed her full lips. “How did you know him? He died many summers ago. You are no older than me.” The world spun out of the corner of my periphery. I could only see her lovely face and those possessive eyes.

“He fought in my name and knew glory.” Her teeth tugged on my lower lip. “Be no longer a son of a champion. Carden. Be a champion. Take me.”

It was all I ever wanted. In that moment, she was all I needed.

Afterwards, sleep took me. She rolled against my side and nuzzled my ear with her nose. I felt her warm breath against my skin as she whispered to me just before I fled the waking world.

“I am Morrigan, and you are mine.” * “Father! Wait!”

I turned and grinned down at my son. He had red hair like his mother and it blew in his eyes with the wicked winds. My heart swelled as it always did when I looked at him.

“I found my sword.” Bevyn held up his wooden weapon. “So that means I can come with you.”

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“It's not your sword I was so worried about. I don't think a short one like you can make it through this deep snow.” I teased him about his height, but I had been short as a child, too. Height would come to him later on.

Bevyn puffed up and trudged through the snow ahead of me. It was up past his knees, but he made a good pace. “I'm not short. I can keep up with your old legs.”

I laughed and walked up to hug him to my side. I cared for Aithne, but he was the light of my soul. “Let's go catch some meat for stew then. Nothing can hide in the snow from our keen eyes, can it?”

“Nothing,” he agreed with a cheer and smiled a true smile at me. Bevyn quieted down then and I crept in silence through the snow with him. We found tracks, but no game. We wandered farther than usual, but it seemed there would be no meat for the evening meal.

I was about to tell him to turn around to head back when I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eyes. A streak of gray and white fur.

I put my hand on his shoulder and pressed my fingers to my lips. We both crouched down, listening and watching. There was no sound of animals nearby. No winter birds or rodents burrowing through the snow. The branches did not crack with the cold.

There was no sound when she stepped out from behind a grand tree and bared her teeth at me.

Her silver eyes bore into me, and I remembered them this time.

My sword rang with a challenge as I drew it from its sheath. It knew the wolf's blood.

“Run, Bevyn. Run all the way back home.”

The boy gripped the back of my thick tunic. “It's only a wolf, Father. A lone wolf. You can drive her off.”

She stepped forward and I pushed my son back. “Go, Bevyn. Now!” He yelled out as the wolf lunged at me. I swept at her with my sword and it bit into her flesh.

The wound did not deter her and I tumbled back with her weight. I heard my own scream as her powerful jaws crushed my right forearm. She shook her head, shredding my arm further and making me drop my father's sword.

“Father!”

The boy's cry rattled my heart. I had given my whole self to him when he was born. I did not want him to relive my life, for I had belonged to a cruel mistress until he came along. “Run, Bevyn!

Run!” She was also a jealous one. With a great snarl, she went for my throat. I tried to hit her, kick her off, but she had claimed me. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see Bevyn huddled against a big rock with his wooden sword extended outwards. His tears were my own.

Morrigan jolted me and forced me to look into her eyes. Her canines sunk deeper, piercing my artery. No words were needed. I had once been her champion and she had come to take back what was hers. Just as she had claimed my father.

If only Bevyn had run.

BIO: Christine is a working writer living with her husband in southern Indiana. When she is not writing, she likes to travel and explore. Christine has four short stories published and three forthcoming. She also has two novels published with Mystic Moon Press.

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A Nighttime Business Arrangement Art by Jack Rogers

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A Nighttime Business Arrangement

By Scott Sandridge

A dagger in his right hand, concealed under the silk sheets, Lord Edmund kept his eyes on the one unguarded entrance to his room: the window. If she came from any direction, he reasoned, the window would be the safest route for her.

He realized his assumption was mistaken when he heard the sound of someone falling outside his door. His first instinct was to call for help, but he knew help would not reach him in time. His best bet was to pretend he was asleep. Only the advantage of surprise could save him from Yavar, Mistress of Assassins.

He heard the door open, and then he mentally counted to five while at the same time thankful he had the foresight to send his wife and children to his other estate. On five, he sprang out of bed and jabbed at the shadowed figure with an overhead thrust toward what he hoped was the heart, preparing to scream out at the same moment. Before he could comprehend what happened, his weapon arm was pinned behind his back, and a gloved hand covered his mouth. Pain forced him to drop the dagger, and then his back met the bed, with her on top, her hand still covering his mouth.

“Raise your voice above a whisper, and I will kill you, understand?”

He nodded slowly.

“Good.”

She sniffed his neck. He noticed his dagger in her other hand, its blade glinting in the moonlight.

She asked, “How do you nobles always manage to smell so good?”

What kind of question is that? he thought. “Um, perfume?”

“Ah yes, perfume. So I imagine you now know why I am here?”

Lord Edmund shook his head; although, he had a good idea what she meant.

She clucked her tongue then said, “There’s a certain perfume merchant who seems to have his own retinue of bodyguards, and thus has no need for my brother’s protection anymore. Do you know whose herald was on the guards’ scabbards?”

“Mine?” Suddenly, he wondered if the deal he had made had been worth it. Too late to worry now, he thought.

“Good boy,” she cooed. “The merchant was gracious enough to tell us the deal he offered you.

That’s a lot of perfume, and for such a cheap price. Where are you taking it? Kevon? Rexon?”

He kept silent. She placed the dagger’s tip against his groin then pressed down. He tried to rise but an open-hand thrust against his ribs put him back down. “Remember, whispers only.”

“K-Kevon,” he said, gritting his teeth. She released the pressure. “It’s a shorter distance, thus less costly.”

“Quite profitable, I imagine.” She pulled the dagger back up to a readied position. “But it leaves you and me in a bit of a situation. To allow someone to interfere with our arrangements with Quaz City’s merchants will make us look weak, but to kill a noble will break the . . . agreement . . . between the nobles and my brother.”

She rose off his body and tossed the dagger back to him. “Be glad my brother is merciful and is willing to strike a deal with you. Twenty percent of all profits made in your perfume venture.”

“Or what? Attack my caravans?” Lord Edmund grinned. “Ah, but my caravans are protected by my herald. To attack them is to risk war with the nobles.”

Yavar pulled something out of a pouch that dangled from her belt. She tossed it to him. He looked down at the cold, wet heart that now lay in his lap, and he forced down the bile that threatened to erupt from his throat. She said, “I took that off another assassin. Can you guess where he was heading?”

Unable to take his eyes away from the heart, Lord Edmund cleared his throat. “Here?”

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Yavar nodded and cooed, “Smart boy. Now, unless you wish for us to look the other way the next time one of your competitors decides to kill you, I suggest you agree to our offer. And it’s now at forty percent.”

Slowly, Lord Edmund nodded. He tore his eyes away from the organ. When he looked back, Yavar was already gone.

BIO: Scott M. Sandridge is the managing editor of FEAR AND TREMBLING and a reviewer for THE FIX: SHORT FICTION REVIEW. His works of fiction have appeared in the anthologies, DISTANT PASSAGES, VOLUME 1 and THE BEST OF EVERY DAY FICTION 2008, as well as several online magazines. He is also a Top Ten Finisher in the 2008 P&E Readers Poll for Best Short Story - Horror, and his podcast novel, THE SILVERBLADE PROPHECY, is a nominee for the Parsec awards.

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53

The Dancing Teapot Art by Sue Babcock

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The Dancing Teapot

by Patricia Correll

His mouth agape, Hayashi stared at the fox. It cocked its head to one side, then the other. Its lip lifted slightly, as if it was amused. It was the same fox from two mornings before, Hayashi was certain. He could see the tell-tale ring of bare, blotchy-red skin around its rear right foot, exactly where the fox of two mornings before had been caught in the rabbit snare.

He’d been climbing the hill, shifting the heavy basket of yams from one arm to another, when the fox stepped out of the trees and sat down on the road before him. Hayashi stopped and stared. Foxes were elusive creatures; humans only saw them when they wanted to be seen. It was a small fox, with dark reddish-orange paws and a pointed face. Three bushy, white-tipped tails rose from its backside. Hayashi wondered why the fox had chosen to reveal itself to him. He wasn’t sure how to address a fox.

Grimacing with uncertainty, he bowed— but how low did one bow to a fox?— and nearly dumped his yams into the dirt.

The fox dipped its head and spoke. Its black lips didn’t move, but Hayashi heard it all the same.

Its voice was clear, pitched high like a young girl’s, threaded with a faint unnatural echo. “Hayashi! I am glad to have found you.”

“How do you know my name?” Hayashi winced at his foolishness. He should have greeted the fox formally, as he would any stranger. But the fox didn’t seem offended. Her three tails quivered in delight.

“I know everything, Hayashi! All foxes know everything! I want to help you, Hayashi! Tell me what you want!”

At that moment, Hayashi wanted nothing more than to put down his heavy basket. He shifted the burden to his other arm. “Why . . . why do you want to help me?”

“Are you stupid, Hayashi?” There was no malice in the fox’s tone. “Did you lose your memory?

Hayashi, you saved my life!”

“You give me too much credit,” he mumbled, feeling heat invade his face. “You would have freed yourself eventually. I just thought if I let you go, I might catch a real rabbit sooner.”

“Yes, yes, Hayashi! I would have chewed off my foot to escape your trap. You saved me from a life of lameness, Hayashi! I wish to repay you.”

“That’s not necessary . . .” He shifted the yam basket to his other arm.

“But I wish to help you, Hayashi! If you refuse my help, I will punish you! I will come back and eat your firstborn child! Let me repay your kindness, Hayashi, or I will kill your child!” The fox’s lip rippled, exposing a row of sharp yellow teeth. Hayashi’s hands and feet went cold.

“All . . . all right,” he stammered. “Will you do me the honor of visiting my house while I think?”

They started up the hill. The fox trotted beside Hayashi, docile as a dog. Only the tiniest of limps marred her pace. Hayashi glanced at her as they walked. Foxes were notorious tricksters, capricious and cunning. They often made fools of men, even leading them to their deaths for no reason but their own amusement. But this fox seemed sincere. Hayashi’s thoughts scrambled wildly as he tried to come up with a simple reward.

By the time they reached Hayashi’s house, the sun had disappeared behind the trees. “I’ll make us dinner, and we can talk afterwards.”

“Yes, yes, Hayashi! Dinner is wonderful. I am very hungry, Hayashi.”

The fox looked rather plump to him, but Hayashi thought it best not to argue. She stepped inside before him and settled herself by the fire pit as naturally as any guest. Hayashi built a small fire. In the wavering light, the fox’s eyes glowed red.

Hayashi made rice with yams and sauce. He boiled white tea with honey and brought out two fish cakes he’d been saving for his birthday. The fox gobbled up the food and lapped delicately at the tea.

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When she finished, she sat back on her haunches and regarded him. “Hayashi, what reward do you want?

My powers are great, Hayashi, though I am young— only three hundred years old!”

“Only three hundred? I wouldn’t have believed it,” Hayashi protested politely. “I have an idea.

There is a leak high up on my roof. The tiles are slick and I’m afraid of heights. Will you fix it?”

“A leak in the roof? Hayashi, is that all you want? You insult me! My powers are vast, Hayashi!”

Hayashi set his tea cup down so the fox couldn’t see how he trembled. “Yes, of course. I am sorry . . . perhaps you could dig a well behind the house? The village well is a long walk . . .”

The fox laid her ears back. Her three tails lashed from side to side. “Hayashi, you still insult me?

My powers are limitless!”

Hayashi shuddered. “Well . . . I suppose I could hire men to do those things for me, if I had money. Can you make me a rich man, Fox?” The fox’s ears swiveled around. Her tails became still. “I can do that, Hayashi! I can make you rich! Yes, yes! Hayashi, you will be the richest man in all the world when I am finished!”

“Thank you, Fox.” Hayashi bowed awkwardly. The fox didn’t move. It sat on the other side of the fire, gazing at him. “Is there . . . anything else I can do for you?”

“No, no, Hayashi! Go to sleep. In the morning I will tell my plan to make you rich. I am very wise, Hayashi! Very wise!”

The fox remained by the fire, thinking, Hayashi supposed. He lay down on his mat and rolled over, facing away from the fox. He clenched his fists to resist pulling the blanket over his head. * Hayashi woke. He blinked drowsiness from his eyes and lay still a moment, listening. Birds chirped. A breath of wind shook the shutters. Cautiously he sat up and looked around. Sunlight slanted through the window. He was alone! Hayashi sent a prayer of thanks to the gods.

“Hayashi, Hayashi! You are awake!”

He swallowed a moan and retracted his prayer. The fox’s voice came from near the fire pit.

Hayashi scanned the room. A low table, dresser, tea pot, dirty bowls from last night’s dinner, cups . . .

But Hayashi didn’t have a tea pot; he boiled his tea in the same pot he used to make rice. And he could never own such an exquisite tea pot— an elegant round vessel, glazed a rich, dark red, like the heart of a fire. The hand and spout curved gently, and both were tipped with a splash of creamy white.

“You’re very lazy, Hayashi! Yes, I have been awake all night!” The tea pot quivered with mirth.

“You . . . became a tea pot?” Hayashi scratched his neck.

“Yes, yes! I will make you rich, Hayashi! I can take any shape!”

“A tea pot, Fox? How?” The fox’s laughter rang like wind chimes. “Hayashi, you are so very stupid! You will sell me, Hayashi, and become rich!”

“Oh, I . . . see.”

“Hurry, Hayashi! Get dressed and take me to the road! Oh, you are lazy, Hayashi!”

“Hayashi, it’s hot,” the teapot-fox whined pitifully. Hayashi shifted his position so his shadow fell over it.

“Is that better?”

“No. I am thinking again about helping you, Hayashi.”

“You are?” Hayashi raised his head. The movement dislodged sweat from his brow. It ran in streams down his face. “It is a very quiet road, Fox. We may not see anyone all day. Perhaps you’re not meant to help me.”

The teapot-fox was silent. Hayashi gazed at the dusty strip of road.

“I hear someone, Hayashi! They are coming from the north! Hayashi, stand up! Don’t be so slow!”

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With a deep sigh Hayashi got to his feet. He lifted the teapot-fox in his hands. It felt warmer than a teapot should. A figure appeared at the crest of the hill. Hayashi squinted against the sunlight. A man with shaven head and a plain brown robe appeared.

“It’s a monk,” Hayashi told the fox.

“Stand up, Hayashi! Lift me! Hayashi, hurry! Oh, you are so slow, Hayashi!” The teapot-fox quivered with anger. Hayashi hurriedly held it up.

The monk wasn’t young. He walked with a long staff, and his skin was brown from the sun. He paused as he came abreast of Hayashi. “Good day.”

“Good day, Brother.” Hayashi looked at the monk’s kindly expression and was struck by guilt.

He held the teapot-fox by his waist, hoping the monk wouldn’t notice it.

But the monk’s gaze fell, and he stopped. “What a lovely teapot! Are you offering it for sale?”

Hayashi swallowed. “Yes, Brother.”

“How much do you want for it?” The monk’s eyes took on a strange, possessive glow. Hayashi sensed fox magic, tense as the air before a storm. He cursed to himself.

“A . . . a great deal, Brother.”

“I’m in luck, then! I am carrying a large donation from a patron. But certainly the Shrine Master would much prefer this exquisite piece.” The monk fumbled in his robe and drew out a handful of silver tai coins. “Is this enough?”

The teapot-fox strained against his fingers. Hayashi sighed. “Yes, Brother.”

They exchanged the tai for the teapot-fox. As it left his hands Hayashi felt suddenly lighter, as if a blanket had been lifted from his shoulders. No one is immune to a fox’s trickery, he thought. It’s not my fault. He bade the monk farewell and started back to his house, counting the money. It wasn’t enough to make him rich, but it was more than he’d earn in six months of farming. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the monk hurrying down the hill, clutching the teapot-fox to his chest.

He returned home and hid the monk’s money in his cooking pot. He slept well that night.

The next morning, Hayashi rose at his usual hour and swept the porch before he set out for the fields. As he finished the sweeping, he looked around. Puffs of dust were rising along the road, as if something was running fast along that strip of packed dirt. Puzzled, Hayashi stared as the dust drew closer . . . closer . . . then made a sharp right turn and tore diagonally across the yard in front of his house. His shoulders drooped as the something skidded to a stop before the porch.

The teapot-fox was covered in a film of dust. Four orange legs sprouted from its bottom, ending in four paws. As Hayashi watched, the teapot-fox seemed to waver and melt. He blinked. When he opened his eyes, the teapot had been replaced by the fox.

“Hayashi, Hayashi, Hayashi!” The fox shook herself vigorously. “I have returned!”

Hayashi fought to keep the disappointment from his tone. “What happened, Fox?” “It was horrible, Hayashi! I have suffered much for you!” The fox shook her head in sorrow.

“That monk presented me to the Shrine Master. The Shrine Master was pleased! He was very pleased, Hayashi!”

“But why did you come back?”

“You are not being sympathetic! Hayashi, I have suffered much for you.”

Hayashi cleared his throat. “I am very sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you, Fox.” The fox sat back on her haunches. “You should be sorry, Hayashi! That fat Shrine Master tried to burn me alive!”

“Burn you? Why?” “He filled me up with water. It was cold, Hayashi! And it tickled! Then he hung me over a fire!”

“A . . . a fire? Fox, he tried to make tea in you?”

“Yes, yes, Hayashi!” The fox pressed her ears flat. “It burned! Look, Hasyahi!” She thrust her rear into the air. The creamy underside of her middle tail was singed, the hairs blackened and curling.

“What did you do, Fox?” Hayashi coughed into his fist, trying to disguise his laughter.

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“I ran away! I formed my legs again and ran back here! The Shrine Master’s face was funny, Hayashi! He shouted for all the monks to chase me, but I got here first!” The fox’s tongue lolled out of her mouth.

“They . . . they chased you?” Hayashi’s laughter withered in his throat. He stared at the road. A great cloud of dust was charging toward them from the same direction the fox had come. “Fox, what have you done?”

“Hayashi, I have made you rich! You have the shrine’s money! You are very ungrateful, Hayashi.” The fox lifted one lip in a snarl.

Hayashi hastened to add, “I’m glad for your help, Fox, but . . .” He broke off as the first of the monks turned off the road into his yard.

There were twenty of them, men of all ages, all with shaved heads and brown robes. As they stormed toward Hayashi, the fox hopped up onto the porch steps and hid behind his legs.

“Where is it?” one of the monks demanded. Hayashi recognized him as the one who had bought the teapot-fox.

“Wh . . . what are you looking for?” Hayashi stuttered. The monk wasn’t fooled. He grabbed the front of Hayashi’s robe.

“Our tea pot, you thief! The shrine paid handsomely for it, and now it’s disappeared! What magic have you worked?”

“Nothing—“ Hayashi started to say, but there was a rustling among the monks and they fell silent. The monk who held Hayashi abruptly let him go. The crowd of men parted as someone split their ranks and came toward the house.

Hayashi knew he was the Shrine Master because he wore a red jacket over his brown robe, and he was very fat. The Shrine Master stalked toward him, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. “Where is my teapot?”

“Tea . . . tea pot?”

“The teapot, you wretched cur!” the Shrine Master roared.

“I am here!”

“Fox, be quiet!” Hayashi hissed, but it was too late. The fox had turned back to her teapot form, but with four legs. The handle was gone, replaced by three bushy tails. The teapot-fox darted out from behind Hayashi’s legs.

“There, you liar!” The Shrine Master shook his fist at Hayashi, who winced. The old man’s face was purple. He seemed about to strike Hayashi, when someone laughed. The Shrine Master lowered his fist and turned his eyes to the teapot. Slowly the purple flush faded from his skin. The wrinkles in his forehead smoothed, and the corners of his mouth twitched. To Hayashi’s astonishment, the Shrine Master began to laugh. Hayashi followed his gaze.

The teapot-fox was dancing. It hopped from foot to foot, bounced up and down, capered in circles. It drew its tails over its rounded sides like fans and bobbed its spout up and down. Hayashi smelled the tang of fox magic in the air, but even he couldn’t help chuckling as the teapot-fox spun on its little legs and leaped into the air.

The other monks crowded around to watch. Soon the yard was full of rippling waves of laughter.

The teapot-fox danced on, tireless. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and the monks began to sweat. But they did not leave. Hayashi went inside to cook a yam for lunch. The monks didn’t seem to notice his absence.

In the afternoon, some people passing on the road saw the great crowd of monks outside the house and paused to investigate. When they saw the dancing teapot-fox, they, too, stopped as if roots had suddenly sprung from their feet, laughing until tears ran into their collars. Hayashi sat in the doorway and mended an old robe. It was not until dusk sank to the earth that the Shrine Master shook himself as if he were leaving a state of meditation. He spoke to Hayashi, who was dozing on the porch steps. Hayashi blinked at him drowsily.

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“We have neglected our duties to the gods today. I regret we must go.” The Shrine Master was quite soft-spoken when he wasn’t shouting. “Thank you for a wonderful day. My monks and I haven’t laughed like this in years.”

“But, Brother . . .” Hayashi protested. “The shrine’s money—“ “Never mind the money! The price was cheap. My monks have never had such fun!” With a benevolent smile, the Shrine Master turned and made his way through the crowd. The monks followed, glancing over their shoulders at the teapot-fox, who danced with as much energy as ever. They flowed out of the yard and down the road like a muddy river.

The people who had come off the road stayed a little longer, until it was too dark to see. Then, one by one, they approached the porch. Without a word to Hayashi, they each laid down a coin or two then shuffled into the darkness, their shoulders still quivering with laughter.

As the last of the audience faded into the night, Hayashi went inside to fetch a lantern. When he returned to the porch the fox had transformed again. She lay on her side, panting. She didn’t move when he crouched down next to her, or even when he touched her heaving side. Cautiously Hayashi slipped his hands under her body, but the fox was too exhausted even to raise her head. He carried her inside and laid her on his sleeping mat. That night he slept on the hard boards by the fire pit.

The next morning, when Hayashi went outside, there were several people standing in the yard, gazing hopefully at his door. The teapot-fox appeared soon after, and the crowd gradually grew throughout the day. When all the people finally left, it was dark, and a great pile of coins spilled off Hayashi’s steps. He again carried the exhausted fox to his mat and slept by the fire pit.

Things went on this way for three days. Finally, Hayashi asked, “Why do you dance for these people, Fox?” The fox looked up from the dinner she was devouring. White flakes of fish clung to her muzzle.

“All those people, Hayashi! Looking at me! Admiring me! Hayashi, they love me! They laugh and laugh, Hayashi! Also . . .” The fox’s expression became reproachful. “I am helping you, Hayashi. I am making you rich!”

Hayashi glanced at the blanket where he laid all the coins people had left. The pile nearly reached his elbows. It was more money than he knew how to spend. That night he lay awake on the floor, wondering if his yam fields had been choked by weeds.

On the fourth day, as the sun crawled into the sky, Hayashi threw open the door and trudged outside. He halted on the porch and stared wearily at his feet, waiting for the usual hail of questions about the magic tea pot. He heard nothing but birds calling. Puzzled, Hayashi raised his head and gazed about the yard.

There were no people waiting. The little square of hard-packed dirt was empty but for a small party of foxes sitting before the porch steps. Five of them waited in the dust, two on either side of a larger fox. The fox in the middle was the size of a wolf. Its muzzle was white to its eyes, and when it rose Hayashi counted eight tails. It came to the porch, climbed the steps, and stood regarding him with its head to one side. Eight tails, Hayashi thought. Quickly he bowed.

“Hayashi, Hayashi, Hayashi!” The fox appeared in the doorway behind him. Hayashi turned his head.

“Fox—“ He began, but the fox had already seen. She snapped her mouth shut and pinned her ears tightly to her head. She lay down on the porch, squeezing her eyes shut. Hayashi thought it looked as if the fox wanted to press herself so flat she would disappear.

The eight-tailed fox spoke. “So this is where you’ve been.”

“Yes.” The fox’s voice was tiny.

“Why?” The old fox’s tones were rich and deep. Hayashi felt its voice tremble through his bones.

“This human saved my life. I wished to repay him.”

The eight-tailed fox’s eyes narrowed, and Hayashi cringed with sympathy for his fox. But then the old fox’s lip twitched, and Hayashi realized he was amused. “Do you not think he is well repaid now?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” His fox’s voice was a whisper.

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Hayashi’s jaw fell slack. His visitor was the Fox King? His knees gave way. He sat down hard on the porch step.

The Fox King turned his yellow eyes to Hayashi. Hayashi’s heart stuttered in his chest. But the old fox’s expression was distant, as if Hayashi was merely a faraway tree or hill. “Hayashi, thank you for taking care of our daughter.”

Hayashi gaped like a landed fish. “I . . . Your Majesty . . . she . . . no trouble . . .”

The Fox King went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Our youngest child is willful and often leaves the den without telling her father. Yet we are fond of her.”

Hayashi’s fox sat up. One of her ears swiveled forward cautiously.

“Come, Daughter. You are still too young to interfere in the human world. Next time we will not be so forgiving.”

Hayashi’s fox hopped lightly to her feet. Her tongue flopped over her black lips. “Farewell, Hayashi! Do not forget me! I worked hard to help you, Hayashi! But I am going home now.”

“Farewell, Fox.” Hayashi bowed awkwardly from his sitting position. “I won’t forget you.”

The fox ran down the steps to join her father’s retinue. As they turned to go, something occurred to Hayashi. He was too afraid to address the Fox King directly, so he spoke to his fox. “Wait, Fox . . . what should I do with the money?”

She glanced at her father. The Fox King’s eye narrowed. “Hmmm. We may have need of money in the future. Retrieve it.”

The four foxes that made up his escort turned as one and went into the house. Hayashi scrambled to move out of the way. He stumbled and landed hard in the dust by the steps. The Fox King gazed without concern over Hayashi’s head. Before long the foxes returned. Each carried a corner of Hayashi’s blanket in its mouth. The blanket bulged with coins. The foxes marched past Hayashi to their King and went to the road, the King’s eight tails billowing behind him. The foxes trotted after, Hayashi’s fortune slung between them.

“But . . .” he began.

His fox paused, turning her little pointed face up to his. “Say nothing, Hayashi! My father’s assassins will kill you in your sleep if you protest! Oh, you are very foolish, Hayashi!”

She ran to catch up to the Fox King. The last Hayashi saw of them was a smear of reddish-brown marching down the road. They were at the edge of his vision when they abruptly vanished. There were no footprints in the dusty yard, no trace to show he had ever hosted the Fox King and his daughter.

“I suppose it could have been worse,” he comforted himself.

He went inside and retrieved his basket and straw hat. He slung a hoe over his shoulder and, whistling, started down the road to his yam fields.

BIO: Patricia Correll lives in Kentucky with her husband, their son and their cat-demon. She has been previously published in The Absent Willow Review, A Thousand Faces and Reflection's Edge. She enjoys zombie movies and vanilla malts.

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61

The Fading Star

By Sue Babcock

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The Fading Star

By Scott Toonder

Chief Oris spat at the fire and as his spit landed a coal leapt from the blaze and stuck onto Eduro’s left cheek. Pain swam through Eduro’s body as the coal slowly burnt out, but he did his best to remain still.

“If I had nothing worth listening to,” Chief Oris assured the five young men assembled before him, “I would say nothing at all.”

“The wandering mind means death to friends,” the chief reminded his students as the black ash fell from Eduro’s face. “If you cannot keep your will intact then you are better off left out in the cold.

Let Eduro’s scar be a reminder to all.”

Eduro shivered as he thought about surviving on his own. The world outside the cave was dark and bleak and cruel. Not a place to be without a tribe.

Even as Eduro’s mind wandered from terror to terror, the warrior Pern darted to the back of the cave and leaned close to Chief Oris’s ear. Pern’s furs clung to his body and sweat poured down his pale brow. He spoke soft, but Eduro’s ears were sharp.

“It’s Bestia, Chief,” Pern whispered. “Been spotted less than a day’s run away.”

Eduro pretended he had not heard the great bear’s name, but he could not keep his muscles from tensing with fear.

“Who saw him?” inquired the chief.

“Furca, Chief, just before the teeth of the mountains.”

“Which way is he heading?”

Pern didn’t answer. His mouth looked liked it had been frozen solid by the wind, but there was no need for him to speak. The fear on his face told everyone where the beast headed. Bestia marched toward the cave.

“I will take the boy with me,” Chief Oris announced. “You have done enough this moon, Pern.

Go and rest. The boy and I will leave at once. None of the other warriors need be troubled.”

Chief Oris’s hand aimed right at Eduro’s chest, but it still took Eduro a moment to realize Chief Oris was talking to him. Eduro was the oldest of the young braves in the tribe, but he was still far too young to be called upon. The other young braves stared at him incredulously. Even some of the hardened warriors had never been asked to accompany the Chief.

“Me, Chief?” Eduro inquired, his eyes rooted firmly to the stone in front of him.

“Rise,” Chief Oris commanded impatiently. “I have no time for your doubt.” * His rawhide furs scratched his skin as he threw them over his shoulders. Eduro’s hands shook.

He could barely hold the straps of his belt as he tied it taunt about his waist. Dreams of Bestia had haunted him since he first learned of the great beast. It kept him up at night and the thing he pictured waiting for him in the darkness.

“Chief Oris is waiting,” his father reminded him. His father’s wrinkled hands stoked their tiny fire with a long bone and his solemn stare never left the glowing embers. “You must not keep him from his task.” His father’s voice sounded calm and steady, but Eduro could hear the concern in his voice.

“Yes, Father,” Eduro answered. “I’m ready.”

Eduro lifted his bone-tipped spear from the stone beside him and moved out from his family’s corner of the cave. The cave was unusually quiet. The large fire at the center of the cave provided the heat that kept them all alive, but each family was responsible for maintaining their own flames to cook and clean with. Fuel was hard to come by, but no corner of the cave fell dark on any night. To allow a fire to diminish was a taboo worthy of great scorn. Each family’s fire crackled as they threw their light

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upon walls and the sound seemed to thunder in Eduro’s ears. The eyes of his friends and cousins followed him as he stepped passed the main fire, but none spoke.

“Son,” his father called out behind him. “Do whatever you are asked and hold your spear true.”

“I will,” promised Eduro.

He moved passed the main fire, trying his best to hide his fear. He could see nothing beyond the mouth of the cavern. A shadow cloaked the opening. But he knew Chief Oris waited somewhere outside. * A thick blanket of clouds obscured the stars, but Eduro and Chief Oris did not walk on in total darkness. The river-stone hanging from the chief’s neck glowed like the ember of a dying fire. It cast red light upon their path, revealing little except snow and scattered rock. A steady wind swept across the rolling hills around them, its bite unhindered by the branches of the few gnarled shrubs clinging to the hillsides. The unlikely pair had left the protection of the cave nearly two hours ago, and still the whip of the wind was the only sound that had passed between them.

“Are you going to ask your question?” asked Chief Oris so suddenly it nearly made Eduro stumble over his own feet. “Or should I have left you at home?”

Eduro opened his mouth to talk, but no sound came out.

“If it’s alright with you,” continued Chief Oris, “I’d rather not spend the night listening only to my feet.”

“Why did you choose me to help you?” Eduro managed to say though his voice came out cracked and whiny.

“And what makes you think I need anyone’s help?” Chief Oris asked with a chuckle.

“That’s just it,” Eduro retorted. “I can’t think of any reason why you want me here.”

They had climbed to the sloped summit of one of the taller hills and for the first time that night Chief Oris slowed his steady pace.

“My light is leaving me,” he said, “like the light of our star.” He came to a complete stop and gestured toward the horizon. “Our world wasn’t always as it is. There was a time when Astrum burned yellow in the sky. When great trees were as common as stones and the sky shone blue at midday. This was long ago. The light retreated as each new father was born and died. I have seen many come and go.

My magic has stretched my life as far as it will go. But my light will not fade over centuries. There will be no long twilight for those who surround me to struggle through. I am not like our star. I have only hours left.”

“But you haven’t passed on your magic,” said Eduro nervously. “Father said you wouldn’t die until you taught another your ways. Who would protect us if you died?”

“I have lived many lifetimes of men,” Chief Oris explained solemnly, “and in all that time I have never met anyone else who shared my gift. It is not something I can teach. Believe me I’ve tried. I am the only one. And that is no bad thing.”

“But my father said…”

“Your father and the others believe what they must,” interrupted the chief.

“You have lied to us?”

“No, but I never corrected them,” Chief Oris admitted. “I let them tell their tales as they would.”

“Then, why are you telling me?” asked Eduro with tears turning to ice on his cheeks.

“Because you are strong enough to be brave and foolish enough to do what is right.”

“I do not understand,” pleaded Eduro.

“You will soon enough,” answered Chief Oris. And he would say no more. * The great bear’s nose hovered inches above the ground as it swayed with each tremendous step, flinging large chunks of dirt, rock, and ice aside like so many grains of sand. Its square jaw hid teeth half

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the size of a full-grown man and each of its massive claws extended as long Eduro’s arms. The beast towered twice as tall as Eduro’s worse nightmares told him it could be, and yet its size was not why he couldn’t breathe.

“It’s not alone,” Eduro whispered. “I thought there was only one.”

Eduro’s eyes locked in an unblinking stare. He huddled close to his chief, the small boulders around them offering their only camouflage. They nestled on the highest hill around. He could feel the snow melting beneath his chest, but his heart beat so fast he could not feel the frosty sting. The valley below was crowded with the enormous bodies of five great bears. They seemed larger than the slopes they tread upon. Each of their footfalls shook the ground. Around their massive legs swam of a herd of elk a hundred strong. The elk darted about the valley as if chased by hungry jaws, but none of the bears seemed to notice the herd.

“Why don’t they eat?” asked Eduro. “Those elk could feed the tribe for a year.”

“They do not hunt meat this day,” Chief Oris informed him. “They have not traveled so far to chew on just any kill. They are after me and me alone.”

The Chief sighed and rubbed his hands over his face like he was trying to wash off the past.

“They have hunted me since the day I was born. They are drawn to me like a cold brave to the fire. They come from far and wide, so often bringing with them death for those closest to me. I cannot say why without doubt in my heart, but I think I know the reason.”

“Why would such beasts be after one man?” Eduro asked. He stood frozen with fear.

“They seek the spark that keeps me hunting while others turn to dust. When we eat the elk we steal some of their power and make it our own. We take their fire and use it to fuel our own. I believe the beasts crave my fire.”

“You mean your magic. They’re after your magic. Do they think they can take it? Do they believe they’ll be able to command things as you do?”

“I do not think they believe anything,” admitted Chief Oris. “They are beasts not devils. They come after me because their instincts tell them to. But devils are just what they may become if they claim their prize. Who knows what power they would have if they took my flesh? I have only strength enough to fight them off one more time. After that I will be at their mercy. Others will come and take my flesh and perhaps my magic with it. That must not happen.” Chief Oris smiled knowingly at Eduro. “That is where you must help me.” * Chief Oris moved down the frozen slope at a steady paced, seemingly unconcerned with the giant foes that had so clearly detected his scent. They moved in on him from all sides, two beasts bearing down from the front while the others thundered to his sides and rear.

Eduro shuddered. He knew the chief’s magic well, but he could not imagine a force powerful enough to stop such a tide. Eduro hid safely among the stones of the crest, far away from any danger, but as he watched the beasts charge he could not keep from trembling.

Chief Oris scrambled across the rocky and frozen remains of a river that once wound its way through the valley. He halted halfway across the dry riverbed and drove his spear into the snow at his side.

By now the two bears in front of him had closed the distance and halted their charge. They dug their claws into the frozen ground and let out terrible roars so deep it sounded like the earth itself was calling out in anger. They dashed forward periodically, feigning attacks, but it was clear they only stalled until the rest of the pack was in position.

They did not have to wait long. Soon their companions had Chief Oris surrounded.

Eduro could bear it no longer. He took up his spear and sprinted down the hill. The great bears edged closer and closer to the chief. It would only be a matter of seconds before one of them struck.

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Even as Eduro prayed for a few more moments in which to cover some ground, the first bear pounced. For all its weight, it moved much like a cat, springing across the ground with bulky arms outstretched and claws extended toward Chief Oris’ exposed back.

Chief Oris did not move. No burst of light or whip of the wind. But some unseen force swept the beast away. Its body rolled sideways across the valley, shaking the ground as it crashed over the rocks. It landed limp and lifeless more than thirty feet from Chief Oris’s feet.

The rest of the bears approached more cautiously. They stalked forward slowly, leading with their jaws. However, none of their teeth would find their mark. As they lunged forward in unison, the life stole away from their bodies like blood from a wound. Their heads drooped from their shoulders.

Their legs gave out underneath them. They flopped upon the snow and stone with an ominous tremor and they moved no more.

Chief Oris soon followed them to the ground. His legs caved in and his knees dug into snow.

Eduro reached him soon after and found him a ghost of the man he had once been. His skin was pale.

His shoulders and his eyes drooped. His head slumped onto his chest, his white hair flowing out from his drawn hood and surrounding his face like a shroud.

“Chief?” Eduro cried in alarm as he wove around the sprawled out limbs of the chief’s fallen foes.

At first, there was no answer. Then, Eduro heard a muffled whispered. He held the chief by the shoulders and belt low to his lips.

“Do not waste time,” came the Chief’s struggling voice. “Do as I told you. Strike now and do not miss.”

Tears instantly welled up in Eduro’s eyes. “I can’t,” he cried.

“You must.”

Chief Oris managed to lift his arm high enough to grasp the hilt of the stone ax he had given Eduro. “Do as you as you must.”

“I can’t,” repeated Eduro in a whimper.

“It is all right,” the chief gasped. “Fate will guide your hand.”

Eduro straightened and slipped the ax from his belt. As he did, Chief Oris leaned forward and pulled back his hood, offering his neck.

Eduro took careful aim, but as he struck he closed his eyes. He felt the ax dig through his target.

He heard blood dousing the ice. Then, he felt an intense pain sweep up his arms and into his chest. Fire seared his heart. He couldn’t breathe. His body caved in on itself, as if great hands crushed him from within. He collapsed forward onto the headless body of his chief and his mind fell into darkness. * A scout must have spotted Eduro approach. By the time he reached the slope leading up to the cave the entire tribe had assembled at its mouth. As he drew closer gasps of disbelief rang from the crowd; not only because Eduro walked alone, but also because the river-stone hanging from his neck glowed like a dying star.

BIO: Scott Toonder works as a Literacy Specialist at Marvine Elementary School in Bethlehem, PA where he recently received a System 44 Outstanding Educator Award for his work with struggling readers. Scott divides his time between his schoolwork, his martial arts studies and his writing. He recently completed the first novel in a YA fantasy series titled How Not Doing My Homework Nearly Destroyed The World.

Scott lives with his wife, Rachael, and their two cats in Macungie, Pennsylvania.

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67

The Waiting Seeds Art by Jack Rogers

68

The Waiting Seeds

By K. Curran Mayer

We could re-plant." The words fell as heavily as a clod of dirt from a spade. Bridy looked up at her uncle Aedmund. He looked like a man of stone, with the cold dawn lending a gray tinge to his normally ruddy skin; his hair and eyes were already gray enough in any light.

She wondered again why he had wanted her to come look at the fields with him. They both knew what they would find, and it was nonsense to think that a girl on the brink of womanhood could explain or help what an experienced farmer could not. Except possibly through the strange blood of her mother, but Bridy didn't want to face that.

She asked, "If the seeds aren't coming up, won't planting again just waste what grain we have left?"

He shook his head. "What else are we going to do? Sit here and wait to starve?"

Once the day broke, it was going to be too beautiful for such grimness, Bridy thought wistfully.

The birds were starting to twitter in the hedges, the streams had burst free of ice, and the only white to be seen on the once-snowy hills were the blossoms of apple and thorn trees. But she should be used to such contradictions. The plague that had taken her parents and aunt had flourished at the height of a golden summer.

She bent her head back over the earth cupped in her palm. "It wasn't frost or drought. It's not that they sprouted and died," she said, aware that he knew this. She poked the soil with a gentle finger, seeking out the grain seeds. "They didn't sprout at all. Maybe they're still waiting."

Aedmund kicked at a clump of last year's dead weeds, dry and brittle now, but she could feel his eyes on her as he asked, "Waiting for what?" Bridy's heart contracted at how much he sounded like his small sons, the two boys she was helping raise. Her silence hung between them like a failure.

Aedmund shook his head. "We'll wait a week longer. And then we'll just have to use the reserve seed and hope for the best." He turned and plodded off towards the cowshed.

Bridy followed more slowly. It wasn't a problem with the soil, because the weeds were already starting to thrust green heads into the world. But no crops were coming up in any of the local fields – not the oats, the barley, the peas, or the winter wheat.

Aedmund must think it was the Neighbors, if he was looking to her for help. Did the rest of the village already think the same? Aedmund walked the few miles into the village most days – for gossip, for barter, to give or receive help. But without her parents beside her, Bridy could not face the silence that rippled in front of her or the muttering that followed behind.

Now she wondered what they were saying. How much time did she have before they began hunting for a scapegoat with pitchforks and torches? She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she turned back to her uncle's house. * Bridy cleaned the kitchen after breakfast, then thrust a kitchen knife through her belt and went to find her uncle. He was in the barn, trying to mend the axle of a cart. Giggles and dust drifted down from the hayloft above as the boys romped after the half-grown kittens.

Her uncle didn't look up as she told him, "I'm going after nettles for dinner."

"You'll be taking the boys?" It was hardly a question; ever since snowmelt, the youngsters had been chafing to run wild in the woods. But Aedmund would not allow it unless he or Bridy could go with them. The rest of the village could murmur behind their sleeves all they liked, but Aedmund knew that the children were safer with his niece than anyone else.

But Bridy shook her head. "Not today. I'm going alone."

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He looked up at that, an unasked question filming his gray eyes. Bridy tried to smile. "Keep an eye on them, will you? Don't let them follow me."

"You –" He paused to clear his throat, and Bridy shook her head. "I should be back within a few hours." He would know she didn't need that long just for nettles, but she ducked out of the barn before he could force himself to ask. It was better this way. * Once she reached the cover of the trees, she broke into a run for the Hill. Like the village, this was another place she used to go with her mother, but had avoided these last years.

The woods grew thicker by the Hill. The villagers did not gather firewood or pick blackberries here. Bridy's family was the only one that had dared build a homestead so close.

The sun had climbed high, and was beating down on the dry leaves of the forest floor. The unfurling leaves and swollen buds on the trees glowed golden, pale green, and red in the sunlight, but provided little shade. When Bridy reached the Hill, she stopped to pull off several of her winter petticoats, bundling them under her arm before starting to trudge counterclockwise around the great mound.

She didn't know if the terror swelling in her chest was caused by fear the Neighbors would ignore her, or whether she was becoming susceptible to the panic the Hill inspired among the villagers.

She would not be mastered by fear. She would climb the Hill and stand on its crown before she concluded that the door was closed to her and no appeal was possible. She waded into the ring of blooming thorn bush that circled the Hill like a wall. She paused to disentangle her skirt, hair, and sleeves with almost every step. * Bridy had not realized there would be such a good view of the valley from the summit. She leaned against a birch tree, squinting into the sunlight over the empty fields below, swallowing her growing panic.

Behind her, a voice said, "Well met."

Bridy whirled. It took a moment to find the slim figure leaning against an ash tree a short distance away.

"Good day to you," Bridy offered, trying to keep her voice steady. It wasn't until she walked closer that she recognized Bel, her mother's brother, and tagged on, "Uncle."

He looked her over, his expression oddly detached and thoughtful for his young face. Except for that look, he appeared hardly older than Bridy, though she knew he was more aged than Aedmund. He said, "I have been waiting for you."

"Then perhaps you know my errand." Bridy held her head high, the way her mother had taught her when they walked in the village together and felt the stares and pointing fingers. Her mother had not needed to worry about holding her head up among her own Hill people, but Bridy did not belong here either.

Bel shrugged, not answering. Bridy pressed him. "Is it your people keeping the seeds from growing?"

His eyes shifted away from hers. He stooped to pluck a yellow crocus from the ground by his feet. "If they cannot work the land, they will not stay on it. We should have done something like this years ago."

Bridy squeezed her bundle of petticoats to her chest like a child with a doll. "I know the land was yours, but it is their home now. Where will they go?"

"That is not our concern." Bel twirled the flower in his fingers like a flirtatious girl, but his gaze on Bridy was bitter. "They did not care where we went."

"They have no hills such as yours. They would starve in their houses down there, or go abroad, perhaps to the cities – and like as not starve there."

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Bel smiled. "You underestimate us. Do you think we care about those little boys that you tend like a slave?"

Bridy sighed, thinking of how her other uncle would wish to strike the cruel smile from Bel's face. Aedmund and the rest of the villagers would never understand that Bridy's other people had no thirst for blood. Bel was not rejoicing at the prospect of starvation, he simply did not think it mattered.

And that, to a human, was cruel.

She answered, "No. But what of me? I am blood of your blood." Bridy reached for her long braid, pulling it over her shoulder so he could look at how dark her hair was, almost as dark as his.

He did not appear to notice. "As long as you stand with them, you are not one of us." Bel looked across the barren valley, idly crushing the stem of the crocus between his slender fingers. "I will offer you this much. If you come to us, we will look after you. But not the little boys or the gray man, nor any of the others."

Bridy shook her head without even thinking, as if her small cousins were clinging to her skirt instead of romping in a hayloft down below. "If my kinfolk do not eat, neither shall I." Bel shrugged. "So be it." He dropped the flower and turned to go.

"Wait," Bridy said, though she did not know what else to offer him. She knew better than to plead with a Neighbor.

Bel looked back, shaking his head. His smile on her held a vague kindness now, but still no regret. "I know it is cruel, child. So are we. So were they, when they knew how to find us."

Bridy knew her other uncle, gray Aedmund, would have argued with this, pointing out that his small sons had taken no part in the wrongs done to the people of the Hills so many years ago. But perhaps there was enough of the Hill Folk's cold ways in her to make her accept Bel's statement.

Instead, she said, "There must be some bargain we can make."

"If you think of one, we will consider it," Bel answered with another shrug. Stepping between two tree trunks, he disappeared.

Bridy glanced into the sunlight over the valley again, wishing it were possible to erase a hundred years of blood. * On the way home, Bridy cut tender young nettles, carrying them wrapped in one of her discarded petticoats. She added them to the pea soup she served at mid-day with a loaf of crusty bread.

Aedmund looked at her closely as he sat down, but said only, "You did find your . . . nettles, then?"

Bridy was spared from answering by little Hereward, who announced, "I hate nettles."

Hereward still had straw in his hair from the hayloft, Bridy noticed as she stooped to put his bowl in front of him. The straw blended against his towhead so well, she hadn't seen it until she came so close.

She combed it away with her hand.

Hereward's brother chirped, "If you don't want your soup, can I have it?"

Hereward mumbled something indistinct and shoved a spoonful in his mouth, wincing elaborately at the taste of the bitter greens. Bridy had known he would eat. Food was always tight in springtime, even without the prospect of failed crops.

Bridy considered the stories that the Neighbors stole children. What if they did want a child?

Would Hereward or the even smaller Herold content them? A single child, in exchange for bread to feed all the children of the village? It would not be a bad bargain, no matter how much Bridy quailed at it.

There had to be something else she could offer. They did not want her, or they could have taken her today while she circled the Hill. Cattle? The village also had tales of the Neighbors taking stray cattle. Or milk. Bread.

Bridy started up from the table, almost overturning the bench. Her family stared at her as she grabbed the rest of the loaf from the table.

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"I'll be back." She didn't bother trying to think of an excuse this time. Aedmund didn't ask for one, only reached to grab Hereward's elbow as the child scrambled to follow. * Bridy wasn't going to waste time climbing the Hill again. If they were interested, let them come out. If they didn't want bread, she would find something they did want. She stood facing the fragrant wall of thorns, saying out loud, "I want to make a bargain."

The thorn bushes did not catch on Bel's clothes as he glided out to meet her. "A bargain?" He tilted his head to the side, considering the bread in her hands.

"A tithe. A rent. A gift. Whatever you want to call it. Paid to you by the village for the use of the lands."

Bel's lip curled slightly. "A half-eaten loaf of bread?"

"No, more than that. Gifts from every family in the village," Bridy said. "Bread is valuable to us.

Perhaps I could talk them into offering some silver as well. Those that have any."

Bel looked at her and smiled his merciless smile again, as if he could see into her mind and hear the doubting whispers swelling to the angry roar of a mob. "Child, they will not accept such a bargain."

"I think they will," Bridy said, her eyes fixed on the wall of white flowers behind her uncle.

"They must."

Bel stepped forward, studying the bread again with his head on one side like a thoughtful crow.

"It is not much, compared to the land itself."

"It is bread without the labor of growing it. You have fewer troubles in that hill of yours than you ever did when you worked the land and warred with your neighbors," Bridy said sharply, echoing something she had once heard her mother say.

Bel raised his eyebrows at her. "Still, land is land."

"Uncle. You know as well as I do that my father's people will not hold this land forever.

Someone else will come over the sea, sooner or later, with war in their ships. We will reap what we sowed soon enough. In the meantime, let the dead sleep and the living eat."

Bridy could barely believe it when Bel reached to take the bread from her hands. "Very well.

We will accept this bargain. I speak for the People of the Hill, as you speak for the village."

His smile felt as cold as a meltwater stream, as he added, "Make sure that the village keeps their end of it — or barren fields will be the least of their worries." * For the first time in years, Bridy went to the village alone, holding her head so high that her neck pained her before she even reached the square.

Several women were gossiping over their buckets at the well in the center of the square. She recognized the wife of one of the village elders. They fell silent at her approach, doubtless making the Sign against evil behind their backs.

"The fields can be healed," Bridy said. "But I will need help."

The women exchanged glances, then the elder's wife asked, "How?" "Bread, silver, anything you will miss but can still spare for the Neighbors. Something from every household in the village."

Another pause, before the elder's wife asked, "How do you know this?"

Bridy closed her eyes for a second, hearing the roar of mob and flames. Then she swallowed, saying, "I have spoken with . . . They want the land back, but can content themselves with a tithe."

The women continued to look at her. She could not read their eyes. Finally, a farmer's wife as pale and limp as a linen rag demanded, "How do we know you won't be keeping what we give? That's what I want to know – what you get out of it."

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The other women nodded, even while Bridy replied, "The same as you — crops to feed my family."

Bel's final smile rose up in Bridy's memory, chilling her so that she wished she were still wearing all her winter petticoats. He had known this was what the villagers would say. Already several more people had joined the fringes of the crowd, listening, watching, judging. Bel thought it would end in flames instead of a bargain.

Bridy seized on the one thing that Bel could not have been counting on, because he did not understand it. Only a person who knew both worlds could understand. She bowed her head before the villagers. "Please. It's the best we can do. If the seed is not healed, I starve as well as you. I beg of you, please."

Bridy started as a hand fell on her arm, but as she looked up into the lined face of the elder's wife, the roar of flames died from her ears. "I can spare a little silver." The elder's wife turned to her friends, adding, "Well? Aren't you going to fetch something for the Neighbors?" They scattered like a flock of chickens at sight of a hawk.

The elder's wife tightened her hand on Bridy's arm, now that they were alone, hissing, "You had better be right, girl."

Bridy nodded. If Bel had lied, then she would burn. If the villagers did not keep her bargain, then they would all starve together or worse. Relief still swept over her like the warm spring winds. "It must be from every house in the village," she said. "They might try to get out of it if we miss anybody; they always keep their word very . . . exactly."

The elder's wife nodded. "I'll see to that."

Bridy wanted to slip safely back home now that the village had been set into action, to hide under her uncle's roof once more and cook supper for her little family. But the elder's wife was striding off to gather the village. Bridy followed at her heels.

BIO: When not writing, K. Curran Mayer dabbles in history, folklore, and organic farming. She has about a half-dozen short fiction credits so far, including stories in The First Line, On the Premises, and Silver Blade. She has also recently started to blog at http://goldbirch.livejournal.com/.

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The Red String Art by Sue Babcock

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The Red String

by Noeleen Kavanagh

Move, move! They’re getting away! Are you half-asleep or what?”

The cattle were young and wild. They charged past her in a stream of black and white, tails arched, down to the bottom of the field again.

It was impossible for one person with no dog to round up this many cattle. If that lardarse by the gate would help it’d be done in no time, but there was no chance of that happening.

“Damn,” she said as she picked up her stick and followed the cattle yet again. The stream of invective continued without pause.

“Come on, quisteh, quisteh, pets. Nice fresh grass outside.”

The cattle regarded her with a mild, bovine curiousity. She held the picture of the Hollow’s Field firmly in her mind; plenty of grass, the stream running through it, the red gate at the top of this field leading to it.

Sometimes the nudging worked and sometimes it didn’t. There was no telling with young cattle.

But this time they allowed her to round them up and trotted obediently through the gate.

“Took yeh long enough! As if I don’t have enough to be doing! Drive them down to the Hollow’s Field. Get a move on!”

Jeb’s jowls shook as he shouted, the veins in his neck standing out. She was careful to be more than an arm’s reach away from him as she went through the gate. Within an arm’s reach could be dangerous. The cattle had paused in the lane to look back at her, and she jogged after them.

The milk cows were starting to low softly by the time she got back. Their hayracks were empty, and eight big heads poked out over their feed troughs and regarded her hopefully when she opened the door.

The milk cows were older and calmer; staid, middle-aged matrons compared to the young fools in the field just now. As cattle got older they were more inclined to settle into a herd, and then it was just a matter of nudging the leader, so much easier.

“Hold yer horses. It’s on its way,” she said as she started to ladle out rolled barley.

She was dirty, but there was no particular shame in that; everyone was dirty, it was pointless to try to avoid it. The ring of calluses on her palms and the broken fingernails were the norm. Only Lettie in the dairy had fine, soft, white hands.

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“Where is she? Off asleep somewhere as usual.”

She could hear Gert screeching, but that trouble, whatever it was, would come to her soon enough. No point in looking for it. If she stayed here long enough, Gert might forgot her outrage.

“There yeh are! Are yeh deaf? Could yeh not hear me shouting?”

This was a bad sign. Gert never came to the cowsheds. There was no way out. Gert’s mousey brown hair had come undone in her rage.

“Yeh stupid little bitch. Thought yeh’d get away with it, didn’t yeh?”

Gert’s hand flew out and smacked her across the face. Gert was not a small woman. She was knocked sideways with the force and could feel the left-hand side of her face begin to swell. Then she was being half-carried, half-dragged across the haggard.

“Take it easy there now, Gert.”

“And you keep your nose out of my business, Span Coops, or yeh’ll be cap in hand looking elsewhere for a job!”

Span was only a hired milker; there was nothing he could do.

“Stupid little bitch! Thirty duck eggs broken! Sly enough to hide them too. Useless little bitch!

What yeh’re fed and kept for I don’t know. Idle, useless, good-for-nothing!“ There was no point in trying to get away. When Gert was like this it was best to get it over with.

The litany continued. She’d heard it too many times before.

“Unlucky too. Yeh don’t like that do yeh.” Gert paused for another shake.

“Truth is truth. Why else would all belonged to yeh be dead? And you left here to torment me.

After me taking yeh in out of the goodness of me heart.”

She went to bed that night with a ringing in her ears, blood crusting her nostrils and nothing to eat. The bruises would show up over the next few days.

There was nothing that could have been done. Charl and Bets had broken the eggs in some stupid game and when caught, blamed her. But there was no way Gert would believe her over her own two children. They were her own flesh and blood, squat and stupid as they were, while she was nothing and nobody.

But she’d get her own back. Gert would go on the red string and then it was always only a matter of time. The red string was a piece of thick red wool, about the length of her arm. It had been dropped when the rugs in the parlour were being woven and quick as thought she had picked it up. It was her memory.

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She tied a knot in it each time she had a grievance, one that she wanted to settle. Then, each night before she slept, she would remind herself of what had been done and by whom. The knots were so she wouldn’t forget. And now there was a fine, thick knot for Gert.

Sometimes it took a long time before she could get her own back. Sometimes it took a long time to plan. But while she had the knots in the string, she wouldn’t forget. * Gert’s arm was bandaged and in a sling. Her round, red face was paler than usual and she was subdued. Every time she saw Gert, it gave her a surge of pleasure. But she had to be careful that no one saw the pleasure on her face. She was connected enough with ill luck already.

Gert had slipped and fallen awkwardly on a patch of ice by the back door when she went to collect the food scraps for the pigs. She was fat like a pig herself, so of course she fell awkwardly. But no one knew that she herself had spilled the water there the previous night, just where the kitchen scraps were left out. Nor that she had greased the soles of Gert’s shoes with fat.

Gert’s arm wasn’t broken, just sprained. But the indoor maid told Lettie in the dairy that it was giving her great pain. Neither of them looked upset as they discussed it in the appropriate tones of shock and sympathy. They were pleased, but too spineless to admit it to themselves or each other.

Lettie was giving her hard glances.

“What are you doing in here? Clear off now,” she said. She should never have told Lettie when she was expecting that the fluttering heart beating inside her would be a girl. Nor should she have mentioned four months later that the child had died.

But that was years ago, when she was only a child, herself. She was too young then to realize that the bearer of the news was usually seen as the cause. Lettie had never forgiven her for that lost child. And since then she had learned to keep things to herself.

She moved away, leaving Lettie and the indoor maid to their conversation. Lettie was fearful, no doubt that the milk would turn or that the butter wouldn’t take.

Was Gert’s sprained wrist enough to take the knot out of the red string? She wasn’t sure. She’d think about it and decide later.

* They all looked bored; the Old Lord on his high chair, his grown-up sons and daughters below him, his guards scattered throughout the dim hall. It took her a moment or two to spot the wizard. He was a middle-aged man dressed in unfashionable black, sitting on a stool near the fire in conversation with a guard standing next to him.

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She could see a cluster of people leaving the hall. It was too late; she had missed her chance. She had walked all the way here, taking a short cut across Basclappa Bog, when all the others had taken the roads on pony and cart.

“Is that the last of them, my Lord Wizard?”

“It is, my Lord.”

“As you have seen, this is a humble holding with simple people. Far too simple for a mighty wizard such as you.”

“Great glory can come from humble places, my Lord.”

The Old Lord feared the wizard, that was clear. And well he might. The responsibility for hosting a lord wizard was surely a fearsome one.

It was just like Span had told them all six days ago. He had been the first to know about it.

“They are at the manse. They’ve been there since yesterday around mid day. All unexpected like.

An honour guard and the wizard. And the manse thrown into a flurry for them.”

Span’s married daughter was in service at the manse, so Span was the usual source of information about the doings up there.

“With the new king and things a-changin’ in the east, they’ve come out this way.”

His listeners nodded. They did not like change, new king or no. And a wizard was never a good thing. Everybody knew they could bind a man to do their bidding against his own will, inflict pains like fire and nails, make a man’s heart stop beating in his own chest.

“For why? For why? Who knows the why of wizards? But they say they are seeking children who are touched; gifted they call it. To take back to the city. To be trained in the service of the new king. Or so they say. Who knows what the truth of it is?”

Her head lifted at that. To leave here. To fly away. To return when she was grown and powerful.

Then, she could make them all pay. And pay they would.

“No matter what you say, Lettie, there are some who would send their child off. And who would want to keep a child who is touched anyway?”

“On next Nineday, all children above five year’s turns are to be brought to the manse. Oh whisht, Nan! Do you think that they haven’t thought of that? The wizard has all the names written down on a list from the Old Lord. Oh yes, Lettie, you’d be the one to deny a wizard to his face, would you?”

They all laughed at that. None of them had ever met or even seen a wizard, but they all knew that wizards were quick to anger and vengeful in the extreme.

She could see Gert standing by the door, her hands on Charl’s and Bet’s shoulders, chatting and smiling away. The children were both wearing fine, knitted jumpers and leggings with new boots. Only

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the best was good enough for a visit to the manse. She had tried to wash in the spigot behind the cowsheds but she had no soap, and cold water did not wash away very much of the ground-in dirt.

The wizard stood up from his stool. He shocked her by yawning and stretching like a normal man. There was a restless shifting among the Old Lord’s family and the guards by the walls. He’s leaving, the wizard is leaving. She could see her last chance dwindling before her, the long years of Gert and cattle, muck and cold stretching before her.

Across the hall to the wizard she went, with the torn sole of her boot flapping, her hands curled closed over her dirty, broken nails, her cut-down trousers held up with string.

“My Lord . . . My Lord Wizard,” and again more loudly. They all turned to look at her then, the old lord and his family, the wizard and his guard, all in their cleanliness and their finery.

“Well, well, who do we have here? What’s your name, child? Have you come to be tested?”

“Yes, my Lord Wizard, I have. My name is Sceach, my Lord Wizard, Sceach Bo.” It was surely better to be polite to a wizard, though this one did not look too threatening. He was an ordinary looking middle-aged man, dark-haired but light-eyed, and he gazed at her intently with his head cocked on one side.

“Is this bog rat a boy or a girl?” asked the guard at his side. “It’s hard to tell underneath all that dirt.”

“Hush, Marl. And so, Sceach, you would like to be tested. If you are gifted, or touched as your people call it, you will be brought to the city to be trained in service for the king.”

The wizard spoke slowly as if she was a half-wit and that angered her. She could understand him well enough though his accent was strange, slurring some sounds and clipping others off only halffinished.

“I understand all that, my Lord Wizard.” She had overheard enough conversations to be clear on what was before her. And the wizard, for all his power, knew nothing if he thought anyplace could be worse than here.

“Well, the desire is strong.” The wizard turned his head at a commotion. There was Gert striding across the flagstones towards them, her face set in a rage.

“Beg your pardon, lord wizard. But this girl is a simple-minded good-for-nothing. She should not be here.”

“She does not appear simple to me, Goodwife, and if she asks to be tested, then tested she must be.” He looked to Sceach. “Who is this, child? Your mother? Your aunt?”

“She is nothing to me. My family is dead and she is nothing.” Nothing but a stupid, fat old bitch, with her red face and her piggy eyes. May she die screeching.

“Goodwife, as you are not related to the candidate, there is no need for you to attend the test.

Unless, of course, Sceach here wishes you to do so. Do you want her to attend, Sceach?”

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“No, I don’t.” Gert would not forget being rejected and shamed in public like that. That public rejection would earn her more of a beating than anything that had gone before. But it was worth it now for the look of shock on Gert’s face. She felt a swell of triumph. Did power always taste so sweet?

“So it is, so it is,” said the wizard, ignoring Gert as she marched away, her heavy footsteps signaling her anger. “Sit down here now,” he said, indicating a stool by the fire. The tall guard, Marl, moved closer, too. She did not like him.

“Oh, just ignore Marl. He sticks close to me. It’s his job to ensure that I come to no harm.”

“What could harm a wizard, my Lord?

“Not much,” he replied with a smile. “But Marl here deals with the just-in-cases and the other things that I’m not talented at, eh, Marl?”

The wizard settled himself on the stool opposite her, leaning his elbows on his knees as he faced her.

“Did you bring some possession of yours with you? Something that you’ve owned for a long time?”

She did. She had known enough to do that. She reached into her pocket, drew out her stone and passed it to him. The stone was round and smooth, just the right size to fit comfortably in the palm of her hand. It was heavier than it looked. At first glance it was just another stone; the fields were full of them.

But if you looked at it closely, you could see the shape of a shell, the concentric circles.

It was lucky, and so she kept it well hidden, only taking it out at night, holding it in her hand while she slept. If any of the rest of them saw it, they would covet it, if only for the pleasure of taking it from her.

“A stone, well, well. A stone that was once a shell.” The wizard regarded it closely. “Hold it in your hand, just so.”

The wizard moved his arm suddenly and she flinched away from him. He and Marl exchanged a look.

“No need to worry now, no need at all. Hold your stone just so, where I can see it too. A stone that was once a shell.”

The wizard’s voice was soothing, measured, calming. The noises in the great hall faded into the background. “That’s it, just so, just so . . . So, Sceach, why do you think that you may be gifted?” he asked.

“Touched. It’s touched. There’s no gift to it. Who would be fool enough to accept such a gift as that?” She felt slightly disconnected from her body. A part of her knew that she was in a web of the wizard’s spell, and the rest of her did not care.

“Both my parents died when I was young. I am unlucky. Is that not proof enough for you?”

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“What else, Sceach, what else?”

“I can turn milk and nudge animals, tell weather, know if a creature will be born dead or alive.”

The wizard was interested in the nudging. He had many questions about that; which animals it was easiest with, if it was possible with wild animals, how it was done, if it was common in these parts.

But she had always been able to do it, so could say nothing about the how or why. The wizard was disappointed by that.

“Alright, clear enough then. Take your stone back, Sceach. Yes, put it away in your pocket.

Good, good.”

The noises of the great hall reasserted themselves; sparks flying from the greenwood in the hearth, the Old Lord’s hound scratching himself, the voices.

“So, Marl, for all your complaining I was right! A wild one. And in this forsaken place! It was worth the ride through the bog after all.”

Marl just shrugged and grunted at that. He seemed to have little fear of the wizard.

“Sceach Bo, you are hereby invited to join the Guild of Wizards to serve an apprenticeship of twelve years. For the duration of your apprenticeship food, clothing, education and other incidentals will be provided by the Guild.” The wizard paused in his recitation.

“To accept or not accept is the choice of the individual concerned. Do you understand what I’ve just said, Sceach Bo?” “I do, my Lord Wizard.”

“Do you accept?”

“I do, my Lord Wizard.” And as simply as that she was bound to the wizards, and thus free of Gert.

The wizard smiled at her and continued in a more normal tone of voice. “So, Sceach, you are talented. Untrained, but talented nonetheless. I will ask Lord Hapsfor to release you. Just a courtesy, mind, as he has no real choice in the matter. Do not be afraid, a new world will open up before you. We will be leaving for it tomorrow.”

“My Lord Wizard, I would like to speak to Gert before she leaves.”

She led him over to Gert. The other people edged back, leaving Gert, Charl and Bets standing alone in a huddle. Was this what power meant, having people shrink back before you?

“Goodwife Gert, Apprentice Sceach would like to speak to you.”

She had so much that she wanted to say. She wanted to hurl curses in Gert’s face, spit on the ground in front of her, let her know that she remembered every blow, every insult, and that one day she would return, terrible in her power, and take her payment.

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Gert stepped forward. She was frightened; her normally red face was pale. She pushed her children behind her long skirts to try to protect them from the wizard and his apprentice. Though what good would that do when everyone knew a wizard could burn you up with a single word, like a pine cone in a fire.

Gert cringed before her. Sceach held the power now. No matter how she tried to clutch her rage to her, she felt it dwindling away to contempt. This public acceptance by the wizard had somehow untied all the knots in the red string. With no knots, it was just a piece of string, and could be left behind.

“No, I’m sorry, my Lord Wizard, I have nothing to say to her after all.”

She turned and they walked away, out of the Great Hall, and into the sunlight beyond.

Bio: Noeleen Kavanagh is an Irish writer, currently living and working in Shanghai. I have had poetry and flash fiction published in the Linnet's Wing, The Ranfurly Review, the 13th Warrior Review and Words-Myth.

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Darvana and Curse of the Scurlot Art by Jack Rogers

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Darvana and Curse of the Scurlot

By Paula Ray

They’re here, again. Leather wings beat against the tin roof. Talons scratch metal with a sinister screech.

The hair on Darvana’s arms stands at attention and dread wiggles up her spine like worms. She knew the Scurlots would return. Her father, Kartu, warned her before he was imprisoned. He said it was his fault; he had summoned the beasts by accident. Kartu had a habit of toying with magic and making a mess of things.

“Darvana, take your brother to the cellar!”

“Yes, Mama!”

Seeko grips the wrungs of his crib with such force his tiny knuckles are white. Even now, he does not cry or make a sound; he never has. Darvana places him in a mofi-pouch and slips the straps over her shoulders. He grabs onto her copper braids and buries his plump face in her bosom.

“It’s okay, Seeko. We’re going to the cellar. They can’t get us there. Don’t worry.”

“Darvana, hurry!”

Her Mother, Lonisa, piles fruit and canned food onto a blanket and ties it as Darvana walks past the kitchen. Lonisa wipes her brow with the back of her hand, between shallow breaths she says, “Grab the water-bucket by the stove.”

They haul the food and water into the cellar. Lonisa sprinkles Aldero dust along the edge of the hatch, locks it and hangs a Soranea medallion from the handle. As long as they do not light a fire and the floorboards made of Tunogo wood are above them, they are safe. Darvana knows the dust and medallion serve no other purpose than to appease her mother’s superstition, even the lock is pointless. It is the wood harvested from the hillside where the great sorcerer, Tramone, once lived that provides protection.

A familiar pungent odor filters down through the cracks overhead and burns Darvana’s nostrils.

Lonisa opens a jar of mint oil and rips three long strips from her petticoat. She quickly douses the rags and hands Darvana two. Darvana loosely wraps one around the baby’s nose and mouth and brings the other cloth to her nose and inhales deeply. The mint cools the burning sensation. Darvana ties the cloth and nods thank you toward her mother.

There is no light save the jars of glowing Tunogo sap lined along the top shelf. The luminescent blue creates a strange, eerie haze and time seems to stand still. Huddled closely together, Lonisa and Darvana scan the small space, glancing at one another briefly, avoiding prolonged eye-contact. Fear breeds on fear, Kartu used to say. They know the less they sense the fear welling within each other, the calmer they will remain.

Seeko has just learned to crawl and is squirming in his pouch. He pushes his fists against Darvana’s breasts so hard she’s convinced he’s bruising her.

“Seeko, stop. You’re hurting me. You can’t crawl around right now. Be still.”

The baby arches his back and shoves his hands against her, this time the straps on his pouch tear apart. Darvana gasps and tries to catch him, but he falls to the stone slab floor with a thud and crack.

Blood pools around his petite skull. Lonisa gathers him in her arms and inspects his injuries. Darvana retrieves Aldero leaves from the shelf and hands them to her mother.

“Is he okay, Mama?”

Seeko looks about with eyes wild. Lonisa places the leaves on his wound and kisses his forehead.

“He is stunned. I think he’ll be okay. Prepare a palette with the blanket and bring me the lantern; I need more light.

“Mama, we can’t light the lantern. Red beetles will come.”

“We have no choice, Darvana. The mofi-pouch is thick. It’s difficult for the beetles to bite through and the mofi hide will shade Seeko’s body. I have plenty of Andero leaves to shield the light from his face. Get the lantern and matches. I can’t tell if he needs stitches or not. This must be done. I’ll work quickly. It’ll be all right, love. I promise.” Lonisa reaches over and caresses the back of Darvana’s hand.

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Darvana lowers her head and bats back tears. She notices Seeko’s blood on her hand and sees Lonisa’s hand is coated, red and glistening. Seeko is bleeding profusely. So much blood from such a tiny baby.

“But…Mama....what about you?”

“You heard me.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Seeko closes his eyes and his breathing lulls into a slow rhythm.

“Mama, keep him awake. Don’t let him go to sleep.” Darvana’s voice is shaky and hushed.

Lonisa does not look at her. Instead, she takes the lantern and sets it by the baby’s head and fishes in the matchbox with frantic fingers. Darvana nudges the baby until his eyes open and she lowers her mouth to his ear and clicks her tongue. He usually smiles and wiggles his feet and hands when she does that, but this time, he lolls his head from side to side with eyelids fluttering.

“Something’s wrong.”

Lonisa gives Darvana a hard direct gaze and nods. “Move away now.”

“No. You need help.”

“Move away, I said.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

From a dark corner, Darvana trembles and watches her mother strike the match and light the wick of the lantern. Lonisa washes his wound to assess the extent of his injury. She threads a needle and burns the tip to sterilize it.

The ground vibrates. Glass jars clink against each other and cans rattle. Dust falls from the ceiling like snow and Lonisa pulls a cover over herself and the baby. Darvana stares at the light coming from beneath the thin fabric covering and mumbles a prayer. Stones from the floor crumble and hundreds of red beetles scuttle toward Lonisa and the baby. There is thrashing and whimpers, but no screams. The light goes out and the beetles rescind into their underground boroughs.

“Mama?”

Darvana yanks the covering from Lonisa and Seeko and finds her mother’s dress shredded and arms and back pockmarked with numerous bites. Hair shields Lonisa’s face. The baby is wrapped tightly in his mofi-pouch and Aldero leaves overlap across his face and head. Darvana peels the pouch away from his skin and removes the leaves. He is peppered with small welps, but his skin is not broken. Lonisa collapses face down onto the floor and Seeko kicks and punches the air, as if he is fighting an invisible monster.

“Mama?” Darvana rolls Lonisa onto her back and discovers her eyes have been devoured and her breath is ragged and labored. Lonisa reaches toward Darvana’s face. One long sigh expels from Lonisa’s lungs and she ceases to breathe. Darvana panics. She attempts to resuscitate her mother, but fails.

“Mama!” Shaking Lonisa and crying hysterically, Darvana’s stomach muscles tighten and chest clinches. She looks at Seeko, who coughs up blood and closes his eyes.

“Seeko! No!” Darvana pulls the baby to her chest and clicks her tongue in his ear. She clicks and clicks until the voice of her father rings in her head. Ever since childhood, whenever Darvana experiences extreme trauma, she and her father have been able to telepathetically communicate for brief periods of time.

“Darvana, breathe, child. Long slow breaths.” Kartu’s voice is raspy and quiet, as if it is taking every ounce of strength he has to speak.

“Father, what should I do? Tell me...” Darvana’s throat restricts as tears fill her eyes, “I don’t know…”

“You need to take Seeko to the medicine woman. Remember Shilo? I took you to see her once when you were a young girl.”

“Yes, I remember.” Darvana swallows hard. “She has a cabin hidden by moss near Gya Falls, but I can’t travel now. The Scurlots are here.”

“I know they are, love, but you must carry the baby to Shilo; his wounds are severe. She will help you. Take the Soranea medallion with you. She’ll need it.”

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“Father. Mama is….”

Kartu’s voice shatters with grief. “I know, love, I know” There is a long pause of silence, “Pack food, water, Tunogo sap, and as much Tunogo wood as you can manage.”

“Father…”

A high pitched ring vibrates through her head and Kartu’s voice is no longer audible. She rubs her forehead to ease the pressure building behind her brows and sets to the task of wrapping her mother’s body in a blanket. Darvana weeps as she places a sacred amulet on Lonisa’s chest . There is no time for a proper burial; Seeko’s injuries will not wait.

Darvana loads a sack with the necessary items and tethers four jars of sap around her waist. She mends the mofi-pouch and hangs Seeko from her chest then straps the supplies to her back. The cumbersome weight makes climbing the stairs difficult. She puts her hand on the hatch and hesitates.

There is no sound of talons on the roof. With a deep breath, she pushes the door open and is greeted with blackness so dense she is unable to see into the room. The stench is stronger now. She pauses and applies a few more drops of mint oil to the nose-rags. Seeko tugs her braids and she smiles.

“You are a strong boy, Seeko. You’re going to be okay. Here we go. Hold tight.”

With palms pressed against the floor, Darvana pushes herself up and into the living room of their cottage. The glowing jars cast a dim blue light, but in this home where she has grown into a young woman, she knows her way about and easily makes her way to the front door without stumbling. The door knob is cold against her sweaty palm. She presses her ear to the door and listens closely. Nothing. A gentle turn and the door creaks open.

On the porch, the wind slaps her face and makes whips of her braids. Seeko squirms in his pouch and Darvana clicks in his ear while tying a wide scarf around her head to tame her hair and keep her ears warm. She tucks the hood of the mofi-pouch securely around Seeko’s delicate skull and tries to recall the way to Shilo’s abode.

With arms wrapped around Seeko, she leans into the wind and heads west, toward Gya Falls.

The main road is littered with abandoned transport crafts. There are no signs of bodies, dead or alive. This is the way of the Scurlots. They capture their victims and carry them back to the nest for feeding. She steers clear of the woodland, the most likely place for the nests, but the road is not safe either and she hurries toward the foot trail cleared by her father years ago. It runs parallel the river, straight to Gya Falls.

Her eyes adjust to the dim blue light and as the wind dies down, her hearing grows keen. There are screams in the distance along with sounds of Scurlot screeches and cracking of limbs. Her heart races and she picks up the pace, running toward the trail, head rotating, searching the sky for the hungry beasts.

The sound of water lures her to the trail.

“Seeko, let’s get some fresh water and rest.”

She finds a trickle of fresh spring water along the rock wall of a nearby cave. She has drank from this stream many times. The water is cool and refreshing. She drinks and gives Seeko small sips as she catches her breath. They have far to go and must not stay in one place too long.

Down the trail they continue. The familiar stench grows strong. She senses the presence of a Scurlot and slowly turns to look behind her. The odor of the Tunogo wood usually keeps them from coming too close, but this one seems brave. Darvana grabs a sap jar and holds it out in front of her. The form of a half-breed comes into view. Its mercury eyes glare at her and its human face is marred by metal spikes along its forehead and jawline. The half-breed grins and licks its lips with a green forked tongue.

Half-breeds do not eat humans, but they have been known to mutilate and torture for sport.

Darvana pulls a Tunogo spear from her hip holster and waves it toward the half-breed. It flaps its giant black leather wings and backs away with a series of clucks and coos. Another swoops down and they circle Darvana and the baby, sniffing the air and scratching the ground with their red claw feet.

Seeko kicks in his pouch and she hears his straps rip again. She drops the spear and catches the baby. A half-breed lunges forward and grasps her scarf in its gnarled hand. With a yank the scarf twists around her neck and she struggles to breathe as one of the half-breeds drags her into the woods. The other sniffs the spear and whimpers then follows. Darvana holds Seeko tight and closes her eyes, whispering a magical chant her father taught her as a child. The half-breeds stop and cock their heads from side to side.

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She says the chant louder. They scratch and march in circles. She repeats the chant and hears a woman’s voice call out in the distance.

“Chaka Fay Chaka Fay Noo” The half-breeds look at one other then toward Gya Falls.

Again the voice calls.

“Chaka Fay Chaka Fay Noo” The half-breeds fly away, leaving Darvana trembling on the ground.

“We must hurry, Seeko.”

She pulls herself up and grabs her spear and secures a leather strap around Seeko and her waist.

“Hold on Seeko.”

With skirt lifted to her knees, she runs toward Gya Falls, glass sap jars clink together. Into an hour of nonstop running, her legs shake with fatigue, but she continues until the sound of crashing water brings a smile to her face. Now she must find Shilo’s cabin hidden behind moss.

A drone of night bees buzzes around the base of an Aldero bush. Darvana follows the sound and finds the Aldero’s white blossoms weeping milk. Slowly she lowers her hand between the leaves and catches drops of milk in a jar lid. The bees tickle her wrist and fingers, but do not sting. She lifts the lid to Seeko’s lips and he drinks eagerly.

“There now, you’ll be good as new in no time.” She whispers in his ear and kisses his forehead.

Leaves rustle as if something is walking nearby, something large. She lifts her nose-rag from her face and sniffs, but there is no putrid odor, only a faint sweet scent of bread baking. Her stomach growls and she searches the mossy hillside for a cave that leads to Shilo. The aroma grows stronger as she nears an opening in the rock near the falls. The rustling is closing in on her heels, but she is not afraid. If this thing meant to harm her, it would have made a move already.

Inside the cave, the darkness decreases in the incandescence of light crystals embedded in the stone. There is a worn path that leads to a red door ahead. Darvana spins around and looks behind her.

Something is following her. A shadow ducks behind a boulder. She squints and stares.

“Who’s there?”

No response.

“Come out and show yourself.”

Nothing.

She continues toward the red door and prepares to knock when the door swings open with a loud creak. A rattle sounds behind her. She turns. A shadow slinks out of sight, into a corner.

The scent of baked bread draws her inside the dwelling. There are baskets and baubles hanging from the ceiling. Crates rest atop one another--four and five high on either side of the path and create a clutter that is oddly comforting.

“Shilo?”

Darvana waits, but there is no answer. She calls again.

“Shilo?”

A shuffle comes from behind. She turns and sees a large black dog with grey eyes and silver tag hanging from its neck. It bears its sharp teeth and growls again. Darvana backs away, feeling the edge of the crates with her hands, knocking a few over in her clumsiness. She bumps into something soft and turns around to see Shilo holding a crooked Tunogo staff and wearing a brilliant gold gown. Shilo’s black hair flows in loose ringlets to her waist and she has tattoos about her face in the shape of sacred symbols, but instead of marring her countenance, these tattoos enhance it. Shilo is exotic and alluring, a middleaged woman whose beauty refuses to fade.

With a deep alto voice Shilo speaks, “You call me?”

“Yes. I met you once with my father many years ago.”

“Who your father be?”

“Kartu, the magician.”

“Magician?” She laughs and pulls the mofi-pouch away from Seeko’s face. “This your child?”

“No. No, Ma’am. He’s my brother.”

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“No Ma’am? You peasants and old ways.” She looks Darvana up and down as she circles her, tapping her staff on the floor. The black dog at her heels, follows close behind. The dog sniffs at Darvana’s hem. “Why you come here?”

“Father said you could help my brother, Seeko. He has a head injury and red beetle bites on his body. Also, Father said you may be able to help me lift the curse of the Scurlot.” Darvana digs the Soranea medallion from her pocket and hands it to Shilo. “He said you’d need this.”

Shilo yanks the medallion from Darvana’s hand. “So it was your father who summoned beasts with Tramone’s magic? He not strong enough for magic of sorcerer.” Shilo stomps about raising her hands in the air, speaking in a foreign tongue with rage, she turns and holds the Soranea medallion under Darvana’s chin. “I should curse you. Avenge your father’s plague. Where he? Why he not come with you? He afraid of Shilo? He should be afraid.”

“He is imprisoned in Tambridge Towers. After the last season of the Scurlots, the guards removed him from our home.”

“How they know he do curse? They know not magic.”

“Apparently they do, because he was imprisoned for summoning the beasts.”

Shilo cocks one eyebrow and tilts her head. “They knew, but I did not? Impossible! It was you and you blame your father.”

“No. It wasn’t me. I don’t know magic.”

“Give me baby.”

“You won’t hurt him?”

“No. I hurt not child. Let me look you. Remove pouch.”

Darvana removes the pouch and sack on her back.

“Unbind hair.”

Darvana slips the scarf from her hair. Shilo grabs her braids and laughs. “You child. How old?”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Seventeen, braids like this…dress like this?”

“Undo braids and bodice. Bare shoulders.”

“My shoulders?”

“Yes, I look for markings of magic.”

“I have no markings I assure you and I prefer to leave my hair be.”

“Unbind hair, little girl.”

“I’m NOT a little girl.”

Shilo smiles and Darvana’s fingers frantically unbraid her hair. Waves of copper cascade over her hips. She tugs at her bodice and loosens the laces then slides her blouse over her shoulders. “See, no markings!”

Shilo studies her shoulders and jabs some sort of apparatus three times into Darvana’s left shoulder.

“Ouch! What are you doing?” Darvana looks down and there are three sacred symbol welps on her shoulder.

“Now you have markings of magic. When your birthday?”

Darvana rubs her shoulder and frowns, peering at Shilo through copper strands. “I’ll be eighteen in three weeks, Aut 23rd.”

“Not much time. Come.” Shilo scoops the baby into her arms and heads down the corridor.

The corridor leads to a large room adorned with luminescent crystal carvings and furniture fashioned from Tunogo wood with cushions upholstered in fur. Loaves of fresh baked bread line the hearth alight with a blue flame and the scent of Bantina tea wafts through the air. Shilo takes a seat by the hearth in a gilded throne and motions toward the fire. “Eat, drink. You need be strong.”

Darvana rubs her hands on her skirt and looks down at her dirty palms. A young man brings a bucket of water over and leads her to a comfortable chair. His eyes are gray and hair is black. He is wearing a black tunic and black pants. A silver chain hangs from his neck. He nods for her to sit. She does. He takes her hand in his and lowers it into the water. It is warm and soothing. She sits quietly by the

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fire and watches him, how gently he bathes her hands while avoiding eye contact. Darvana asks, “What is your name?” He looks toward Shilo as if he is unsure if he should answer. Shilo is busy feeding Seeko broth and doesn’t pay the young man any mind. He reaches for Darvana’s foot. She pulls it back.

“What are you doing? What is your name?”

He nods toward her foot and motions. She moves it toward him. He takes her ankle and removes her shoe and lowers her foot into the water. It feels so good she decides to not talk and just relax as he massages and bathes her feet.

Shilo looks up. “Women treasures. This something peasant mothers not teach.”

“You know nothing of my mother.” Memories of Lonisa fill Darvana’s mind and she bursts into tears, sobbing, until she can barely breathe.

“What wrong?” Shilo asks.

“My mother was attacked today by the red beetles and I left her. I left her wrapped in her mother’s quilt, abandoned in the cellar without giving her a proper burial, because…”

“Shhh.” Shilo rests the baby in a fur lined basket and moves toward Darvana, who covers her face with her hands and tries to stifle her cries. The young man moves away and Shilo draws Darvana close and strokes her hair. “You’ve come to right place, everything be okay. Hush now. We’ll bury mother.

First, you eat and rest. I take care of brother.”

Darvana looks into Shilo’s eyes and sees compassion and sincerity. The young man brings a plate of hot stew and bread to Darvana and a tall glass of tea. She reaches for the food and drink and whispers, “thank you,” then wipes tears from her cheek. The food is delicious. She eats hurriedly and soon her eyelids become heavy. Shilo takes her by the hand and leads her to a feathered cot. “Sleep, morrow much you learn.”

Darvana drifts off to sleep. Images of her mother, smiling and singing, lull her to dream.

The next morning, Shilo is fluttering about, waving her hands in the air and chanting some crazy witchcraft. The young man is sitting at the kitchen table soundlessly laughing and quickly straightens himself and looks serious when Darvana enters the room. Shilo stops and faces her.

“Big day. Come. Eat.” She leads Darvana to the kitchen and sits her down at the end of the table and places a big bowl of green porridge in front of her.

Darvana grimaces and pulls back. “What’s this?”

“You need. Eat.” Darvana lifts the spoon to her nose and sniffs. It smells foul. She sticks out her tongue and licks at the porridge on her spoon and shudders. The young man laughs soundlessly and gobbles his mush, eyeing her over the bowl.

She pinches her nose and shovels the porridge in, trying to eat it as quickly as possible then gulps down the water in the pewter goblet beside her.

Shilo watches. She isn’t amused. As soon as Darvana eats her porridge, Shilo ladles more into her bowl.

“No. I couldn’t possibly. I’m stuffed.” Darvana pushes the bowl away.

Shilo moves it back. “Eat all.”

The young man holds his bowl out. Shilo tells him, “This porridge not for you.” He frowns.

Darvana passes her bowl to him. “Here. You can have mine.”

He smiles and looks up at Shilo, who grabs the bowl and sets it in front of Darvana. “YOU eat all.”

She gobbles it up trying get it over with. Suddenly, the walls of the room appear to inhale and exhale. She feels tingly, warm, and weightless. She hovers two feet off the ground. Doing pirouettes midair, she discovers: the faster she spins, the higher she rises. Soon Darvana becomes dizzy, disoriented, and imagines herself in a dark prison cell.

Her father Kartu leans against a grimy stone wall. His wrists are chained and his head hangs like a church bell waiting to ring in a deserted steeple. The room is not Shilo’s kitchen, but a dungeon. Voices growl in the corridor. She hears screams in the distance and has the overwhelming sense that death is

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present. Darvana doesn’t know how she got there, but she knows she is invisible, an observer. Her father is unaware of her presence.

Liquid gushes down her throat and she blinks. Shilo pours water into Darvana’s mouth and begins to wrap a heavy rope around her waist and tie it to an anvil. It prevents Darvana from floating too high or perhaps away. The silent young man reaches for Darvana’s hand and guides her onto a soft fur chair.

“You took easy. You ready.” Shilo grins and kisses Darvana’s cheek.

“Took easy? Wha…” “You have magic blood like brother.”

“Magic blood?”

“Yes. My son like brother. See.” With blurry vision Darvana observes the young man morph into a crow. She shakes her head and blinks again and he becomes a dog and then changes back into a young man.

“This Mezulo. He Shilo son. He be whatever he need be.”

Seeko crawls toward Darvana and as he crawls he turns into a kitten and meows at her feet.

“Seeko?” She picks the kitten up and pets as he purrs. The kitten has a wound on its head just like her brother. Seeko turns back into an infant in her lap and she laughs when he licks his hands and rubs his face with his nose twitching. He smiles with gray eyes twinkling.

Mezulo tickles Seeko under the chin and leans toward him. Darvana feels the warmth radiating from Mezulo’s skin and his closeness makes her a bit woozy and causes her face to become hot. He turns and looks into Darvana’s eyes and gazes for a moment then smiles and stands up straight, gently placing his hand on her shoulder. She squirms in her seat and pretends to not notice he is touching her, but inside she feels an electric current running through her body and she likes it.

Shilo gives Mezulo a furrowed-brow head shake and he removes his hand then she smiles at him, caresses his cheek, and tousles his hair. He pulls away with a grin and shrug and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Turning her attention back toward Darvana, Shilo raises her arms in the air and in loud sing-song voice she proclaims, “Mothers of Aldero root and Sisters of Soranea bloom, permit this daughter of chosen blood to receive her gift full force that she may reverse a curse set forth by her father, Kartu, apprentice of Tramone.”

Apprentice of Tramone? Father was a sorcerer’s apprentice? He never told me that.

A rumble sends tremors through the room and Seeko turns toward Darvana’s chest and hides his face. Shilo looks down at him and scoops him up in her arms and places him in a cradle. She motions for Darvana to stand. She does and the next thing she knows, she is holding hands with two strange women on either side of her. There is a total of six older, cheerful women with wrinkled, expressive faces. They all start walking in a clockwise circle. The women chant and Darvana feels herself become drowsy.

When she awakens, all the other women are gone, but Shilo, who sits, staring at Darvana from across the room. She is holding a black leather-bound book in her hands and is tracing the gold letters on the cover with her fingertips.

Darvana rises to her elbows on the bed, squints and sees Mezulo playing with Seeko then her vision becomes blurry and she blacks out again.

The taste of cherries brings her back to her senses. She licks her lips and opens her eyes. Shilo strokes her hair and touches the tip of her nose. “You strong. Stronger than Shilo your age. You sister now.”

“Sister? Does that mean Mezulo is now my brother?”

With a musical laugh like a tambourine, Shilo smooths her dress and puts her hands on her hips.

“Why you ask?”

Darvana blushes and shrugs.

“No. Mezulo no brother to you, lovely.” Shilo winks at Mezulo and his face turns bright red.

“We go soon. Pack.”

“Go? Where are we going?”

“Scurlot home.”

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“The nest?”

“Nest. Yes.” “Nest. NO!” Darvana jumps to her feet and squares her shoulders with Shilo. The blankets fly across the room and wind knocks Shilo off her feet.

Shilo pulls herself back up and shakes her head.

“We work on that. Tantrum no good for magic. Must learn control. I teach later. Now we pack.

Come. Help.”

Darvana looks toward Mezulo for reassurance. He nods and motions her forward. She steps into the kitchen and helps them pack.

“We not stay long.” Shilo whispers. “You break curse and we return home, blink of eye. Not be scared, lovely; Mezulo protect.” She eyes her son, who stands tall and puffs his chest out.

Seeko, in kitten form, peers from a Tunogo crate. Darvana walks over to him and puts her hand on the crate. He licks her palm and she giggles. “Seeko. Looks like you’re cozy in there. Nothing’s gonna get you, that’s for sure.”

Mezulo, Shilo, and Darvana prepare their sacks and strap them on their backs. Each carry Tunogo wood spears, bow and arrows, and sap. Mezulo totes Seeko’s crate and they close their eyes and huddle together as Shilo chants softly.

When Darvana opens her eyes, she can vaguely make out the shapes of large trees. She recognizes the scent of Aldero blooms and the putrid stench of the Scurlots. They are not far. She hears their screeches and the screams of their prey.

A large branch falls to the ground with a loud thud. Darvana peers in the direction of the noise.

The sound of flapping wings comes from behind. She spins and strains to see. A hiss is near her ankle.

She looks down and a black snack with silver eyes slithers away. Mezulo is nowhere to be found. She hears an eerie cry on her right, close by and then a Scurlot collapses on the ground. Its giant face lands inches away from her feet.

She stares into its lifeless mercury eyes and grimaces at its blood-soaked green tongue lolled out of its beakish mouth. She has never been this close to a Scurlot before. She can’t help but poke it with her Tunogo spear and take great joy at the sizzling sound as the spear penetrates the Scurlots furry swollen belly.

The snake slithers back toward her and transforms into Mezulo. She gives him a smile and he nods, as if to say, “Turn around.”

Shilo disappears into the underbrush and tucks Seeko behind the foliage of an Aldero bush.

Scurlot only crave human flesh; Seeko is safe. As Shilo makes her way back over to Darvana, a Scurlot swoops down and grabs her by the arms. Shilo stabs the beast with her spear and the Scurlot drops Shilo from more than twenty feet in the air. The wind is knocked out of Shilo. She gasps for breath and looks up just in time to spy another flying toward her. Mezulo shoots a Tunogo arrow into the chest of the Scurlot then shoots another arrow at a Scurlot headed toward Darvana.

Darvana ducks as she is sprayed with yellow blood of the beast. She wipes her face and sees Mezulo change into a panther. Her mind is a whirl. Mezulo and Shilo are fighting off Scurlots and she is standing in one spot, watching the terror all around her. Her chin trembles and she feels helpless.

“Darvana. Close your eyes. Do not watch.” Kartu’s voice is strong.

“Close your eyes.”

She obeys. She hears Shilo scream.

“Keep them closed!”

She clenches the spear in her grip and squeezes her eyes shut as tight as she can.

“Repeat after me!”

“Chaka Fay Noo May Dee Lar Tu…” She repeats her father’s chant.

“Chaka Fay Noo May Dee Lar Tu…” She repeats the passage again.

“Don Par Ku Sen.”

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“Don Par Ku Sen.” Her hands shake, but she feels stronger.

“Kichi Tay” “Kichi Tay!” “Kichi Tay…” Darvana lifts her arms above her head and feels the wind beneath her wings. Wings?

“Keep your eyes closed!”

Darvana wants to look. Does she have wings? She feels herself rising, flying, and her throat begins to burn.

“SCUR-LO-BRI-NOOM” “SCUR-LO-BRI-NOOM” “Look! Now! Breathe!”

Darvana eyes open and she sees the nest below. The world is bright. She can see everything for miles. Her body is covered in iridescent scales and her wings are transparent. She exhales and fire plumes from her snout. She circles the nest and Scurlots fly toward her. With one long exhale, she ignites them and watches as they descend with their leather wings disintegrating into ash.

She hears Shilo’s cry from below and dives toward the nest. A Scurlot has Shilo in its claws and a snake in its beak. She doesn’t want to burn Shilo. She looks for Mezulo. He isn’t in sight. She has to make the Scurlot release them before she can torch the beast.

A red hornet flies toward the Scurlot. It stings the beast and flies off and stings it again and again, buzzes around its face and causes the Scurlot to flap its wings and let out a shriek. It drops the snake and then the hornet attacks the talons of the Scurlot and soon Shilo is released.

Seeko. Is that Seeko?

Darvana looks toward the crate in the Aldero bush. He isn’t there. She watches as Shilo opens her hand and the red hornet lands on her palm and changes into Seeko. Shilo snuggles him to her bosom.

Darvana blasts the Scurlot with a massive flame and then turns her attention toward the others, hovering around the giant nest. All the human prey are dead, except for one little girl trying to climb out of the barricade of sticks and moss.

Shilo turns toward the stranded girl in the nest and motions her to duck down. The girl obeys.

Shilo sets Seeko on the ground and waves her spear in the air. The arrows and wood from the crate levitate and move toward the nest and form a roof over the child.

The remaining Scurlots shriek and hiss. They fly toward Darvana. She waits, hovering in one spot until they are close enough and then she blazes them. Two Scurlots dodge the fire and one dives down and seizes Shilo. The other circles behind Darvana and attacks her head with its talons. It rakes its claws across her eyes and she loses her balance and spins as she tries to swat the Scurlot away. She feels herself rapidly heading toward the ground and she flaps her wings, but the weight of the Scurlot keeps her from being able to stay airborn.

Darvana crashes into a patch of Aldero plants and flings her giant snout, causing the Scurlot to lose its grip on her skull. Once she gets the Scurlot in her sights clearly, she fries it in one breath.

Kartu’s voice booms in her head. “Now. You must speak with your dragon tongue and release the curse.”

Unsure what to say or do, Darvana opens her mouth and words pour out. Words she does not recognize. She speaks with a voice louder than thunder. She feels her heart race and her body become frigid and stiff.

Shilo, Mezulo, and Seeko stare with mouths agape. One Scurlot scratches the ground with its talons and sends out a mournful cry. Darvana hesitates when she sees another flock of Scurlots headed her way. She swallows hard then continues to chant. Slowly the Scurlots disappear, vanishing, as if they are simply being erased somehow.

With all the Scurlots gone from sight, Darvana hears Shilo, Mezulo, the little girl, and even Seeko applauding.

Kartu’s voice whispers in her head, “I’m proud of you, love, so proud of you. Now, dragon-girl, how’s about breaking your Pops out of this prison?”

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Darvana smiles and responds, “Yes, Sir. I’m on my way.”

She hears his cheers dissipate into silence as her body returns to normal. When Darvana softly lands among the Aldero blooms. The sun is shining and Shilo embraces her in a warm motherly hug as Seeko claps his hands. Mezulo gazes into her eyes and shyly approaches. The little girl bursts through the Tunogo wood roof of the nest and says, “Don’t forget me!”

Shilo lets go of Darvana, picks Seeko up, and goes to the little girl.

Mezulo and Darvana face one another. He moves closer and plants a soft kiss upon her cheek.

BIO: Paula Ray is a musician from Wilmington, North Carolina who repairs discarded band instruments and donates them to struggling public school band programs in her area. She writes fiction and poetry in the margin of her life. Her work has appeared in: SNM Horror, Everyday Weirdness, Aurora Wolf, and Liquid Imagination, among others. For more information about Paula visit: http//:musicalpencil.blogspot.com/

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Liquid Imagination Magazine Submission Guidelines Liquid Imagination Magazine, where reality and fantasy blur. We are a print magazine publishing three times a year. Fantasy, Science Fiction, Horror, Mainstream, Slipstream – we accept a wide range of fiction, both short stories and poetry.

Payment is based on a royalty system: 15% royalty will be allocated for all contributors, not to exceed $0.05 per word. We expect payment to range between $0.01-$0.05 per word. We claim First English and First World Anthology Rights.

Short Stories, Flash and Poems - We seek literary quality fiction stories, flash and poetry with emotionally charged writing and exceptional crafting. Send us your stories, flash and poems that encompass Fantasy, Horror or Science Fiction.

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Word count for fiction stories should be between 1500 and 5000 words. Submit up to two stories at a time. Single space your stories with an extra space between each paragraph. Each short story must be submitted in its own file. Submit short stories to the fiction editor (see below). Please include the words “Fiction Submission,” “Poetry Submission” or “Flash Submission”, along with the title of your story, in the subject line of your email.

We accept poems, flash and short stories year round. Simultaneous submissions are allowed, but please be courteous let us know immediately if your story, flash or poem has been accepted elsewhere.

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Your submission must include your contact information (including a mailing address, as well as your email address), the name(s) of the story, article or poems and the word count for each story and article, word and line count for each poem, and a short bio (100 words or less). All submissions to Liquid Imagination will be considered for our print magazine Liquid Imagination Magazine, or for our online publication Liquid Imagination Online (www.Liquid-Imagination.com). Both of these are paying markets, but currently at different rates.

Please do not make additional submissions until you have heard from us on concerning your existing submissions.

Give us INTENSITY with high EMOTION in your writing and bring AWE to readers.

Send speculative fiction (fantasy, horror or scifi) to: lqeditor@gmail.com< Send poetry to: liquidpoetry@gmail.com Send literary fiction to: liquidimaginationlit@gmail.com Deadlines: We publish twice a year, on the last day of the following months: January and July Date of Publication / Date submissions must be received to be considered for a specific issue: January 31st / November 15th July 31st / April 15th

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A Dragon's Prerogative Art by Jack Rogers

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A Dragon's Prerogative

by Mark Wolf

The dragon’s egg glowed with a golden hue. This fact amazed the beast that had laid it; so much so, she gave it more attention than she did her other eggs. If those hatched as remarkable a dragon as this one might, it would surprise the mother.

When the egg finally hatched, days after all the others, the mother hovered over the young golden dragonet, breathing hot steamy breath on her for warmth. As soon as their wings dried, the other young drakes had long since flown off to make their way in the world. They would raise havoc in the villages of the humans around the snowy mountains for weeks to come. Most would be killed by human and Elven alike. The few that survived would become crafty and live to fight and die in competition for territory and mates. These survivors would choose their own names if they lived long enough to develop an intellect above their primal instincts.

However, this special dragon telepathically proclaimed herself Mist just a few hours after hatching. The mother dragon’s curiosity drove her to ask, “Why Mist?”

“Why not, Mother?” Mist mentally projected her answer. “It is my first impression. You have kept me warm with your breath.”

“I don't understand why you are so self-aware, my daughter.” The mother cocked her head, puzzling through this unprecedented newness.

“Did you not think me an extraordinary dragon, even while I was in the shell? I remember your thoughts well.”

“That I did . . . wait, you knew about this while you were in the shell?” This ability was unheard of, to learn from the mother before hatching.

“Of course. Don't all dragons know these things?” Mist asked sleepily. She lay down to curl inside her mother's resting forelegs.

“No. Most dragons are only aware of hunger for several days after hatching. You are unusual.”

“I am?” Mist asked, yawning. “When I wake, can you teach me more?”

“Of course, daughter. Sleep well.”

To the mother’s shock, the dragonet turned into a beautiful, golden-haired human girl as soon as she fell asleep. The mother hunched protectively over her in amazement, unsure of what magic was taking place. Could she be the one foretold by legend? * Years later, Mist and her mother watched the human retinue from an overhanging cliff. Far below them, a rider pulled in close to the enclosed cart as the procession entered the narrow canyon. Men at arms cast their heads about and horses bunched up close to the cart.

“Should we attack now?” Mist asked. Her claws gouged the rock beneath her.

“Why? Are you still hungry?”

“No, but isn't that what dragons do? Kill and eat humans?” Mist reached up to scratch her scaly snout and stifled a sneeze. She controlled two more small sneezes, swallowing them inside of her. The next one burst forth in flame with a powerful gust, sending several small boulders over the edge of the cliff.

The riders looked up at the noise as the stones crashed down the cliff face. “Dragons! Make haste!” one cried. The cart’s driver whipped the team of horses as the group fled for their lives. The cart careened from side to side with the last two riders scanning the sky amongst the cloud of dust and debris trailing behind.

Mist backed up to gain room for a flying leap from the edge of the cliff. Her muscles bunched and she gathered her wings in. She launched for the edge.

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Her mother grabbed her by the tail in her talons, halting her so suddenly her snout hit the ground.

“Do not be in such a hurry to give chase. If you aren't hungry, it is better to leave the humans be.

They can be formidable in numbers. Besides, I think you might learn something by observing them,” her mother sent.

Mist champed impatiently. She found it very hard to restrain the desire to chase the fleeing prey.

“Ah, they got away.”

“Yes, they did. But is that such a bad thing?” her mother asked.

Mist raised her head to look at her mother. Her huge horns impressed Mist. She wondered if she might one day have horns nearly as large. “I suppose not. Still, it might have been fun to just chase them a bit.”

Her mother snorted steam in laughter. “It well might have been, but did you happen to mark the last two riders?”

Mist thought carefully. Of the last two riders one had rode on a brown and the other a black horse. In all honesty, she remembered the horses quite well, having a fondness for horseflesh, but she couldn't remember anything about the humans. She hung her head, ashamed.

“I thought not,” her mother admonished. “If you had marked them, you would have noticed that both carried bows. Their arrows are nothing more than an annoyance for the most part.” Her mother leaned over and ran her tongue across Mist's snout before continuing. “If an arrow hits you in the eye, though, it can blind you.”

That brought pause to Mist. Blind? Her mother knew so much and she turned her head up in contemplation. “That is good to know.”

“You’ll do fine in the world, daughter. You just need to take the time and think about your actions.”

Mist bumped her head up under her mother's jaw, returning her affection, and then she leaned up to look her in the eye. “Mother, am I different from other dragons?” * The great dragon regarded her precocious offspring warily. Mist was so much more self-aware and contemplative than a very young drake. Perhaps she was the one. It would not hurt her to tell her the legend.

“There is a story, Mist, a legend and a prophecy among the dragons.” She curled Mist up in one arm and used the other arm to make her lay still while she tongue-washed the blood and gore from their earlier attack of the humans flocks. “The legend is that one day a golden dragon-child would come and make peace with the humans for all dragons.”

“How?” “No one knows how she will do it, but every year there are fewer and fewer dragons as the humans expand their territories and hunt us down,” she answered, a somber expression on her face.

“Then we take the battle to them!” Mist growled in a menacingly small voice while snorting little tendrils of flame from her nostrils.

The dragon chuckled as she soothed her fierce child with her tongue. “I suppose we could. But remember how I told you that in numbers the humans are formidable?”

“Yes, sort of.”

“They have much more powerful bow machines that can easily kill us. Attacking them directly is not wise.”

“Oh, I didn't know that,” Mist said.

“There are many things to learn, Mist.” She turned Mist over and held her still while she washed her stomach. “Even I am still learning, and I am a very ancient dragon.”

Mist squirmed in her mother’s grasp to no avail. “That tickles.”

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“Of course it does. Now hold still and we will be finished all the quicker.” Her mother finished the bath as Mist yawned and fell asleep, changing into the little golden-haired human as she did every night. * The years passed quickly. In time Mist was able to control the change herself. She spent much more time as a human as she aged.

Her mother watched over her carefully when she was in human form. As a dragon, Mist was quite capable of taking care of herself. However, her abnormal curiosity put her in some unpredictable situations.

In her seventeenth year, she decided to visit the closest village to learn more of the humans.

While her mother hunted, she stole off and made her way first by wing, and then as she drew closer to the village, as a human on foot. * Thomas Pinen spotted a stray cow on the boundaries between the villages of Mirth and Farnon.

The villages held little love for one another. Thomas decided to capture the cow and place it into the joint communities’ holding pen before trouble ensued.

Thomas didn't mind his surname nor the task associated with it. When Thomas accepted the task of rounding up stray animals, the two villages gave him his surname and title. Now he was “Thomas the Penner”, or Pinen; the one who caught and penned up stray animals to keep disputes from happening between the two villages.

Thomas moved toward the wild cow and herded it toward the stream. Once there, he could easily get his rope around the neck if it stepped into the deeper water.

The cow, however, was reluctant to go in the water. It fled before Thomas, and only a bend in the stream and his pressing forward spooked the cow into the water. Trying to cross, it was literally in over its head just as Thomas threw the noose that slipped over its neck.

That was when the misadventure started. The cow swam for the other side of the stream, pulling Thomas first into the water, then along with it. Thomas stubbornly clung to the rope.

When he reached the other side, he hoped to tie the cow off to a tree. He intended to let it buck and kick itself into exhaustion while he stayed clear; he would stand more of a chance of getting the cow to follow him meekly. That was the theory anyway.

However, when the cow broke out on the other side of the stream, it nearly ran over a tall goldenhaired and quite naked maiden, who jumped aside in surprise. The cow reared back, and then plunged into the thorny gorse brush, dragging Thomas, who had inadvertently gotten his leg wrapped and caught in his own rope.

Thomas could only watch the wide-eyed maiden as he flew past her, feet first. He suffered grievously as he was dragged through gorse bush after gorse bush. His head finally struck a boulder, knocking him unconscious. * Mist soaked the man's shirt with water from the stream below, then returned and wiped the man's wounds carefully. His injuries looked superficial, all but the nasty bruise on his forehead. He bled freely from the thorns of the barbed brush, but nothing seemed to have penetrated very far.

The cow lay nearby, its entrails ripped asunder. Mist’s ire and hunger had gotten the best of her and she ate half the cow before remembering the man might also be hungry. She decided to save the rest for him.

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The man had a pleasing face and curly dark hair on his head and cheeks, despite the deep scratches and bruising. Mist wondered if he would be considered good looking or ill-favored among the humans. Such did not matter to Mist. She was only curious.

He moaned and his eyelids fluttered as he regained consciousness. Mist backed away in preparation to flee. Instead, the man turned to the side and vomited watery fluid. After heaving himself dry, the man turned his head to regard Mist. His eyes looked bleary, then widened. There was something in his expression.

Mist wasn't sure what it was, having only encountered the expression of stark raving terror on the faces of the few humans she had captured and eaten. It wasn't that.

“Who are ye, lass?” the man asked.

Mist understood the man's question, though the words were meaningless. His thoughts were strong, like her mothers. Mist shaped her name in his thoughts. The man's eyes grew wider, approaching the fear she had encountered before in humans at her mental gesture.

“Are ye a witch, then, to take me own thoughts and make them your own?” the man croaked.

“Witch?” she sent.

The man's thoughts were filled suddenly of women screaming as they were roasted in flames in the fires of revelers.

Mist shuddered in disgust. “No, at least, I do not think me to be,” Mist sent. “Do you then eat the witches after you cook them?”

This time it was the man's turn to exhibit disgust. “No! How foul a thing.”

The man noticed the cow for the first time. “Odin! What happened to the cow?”

Mist almost told him what she'd done, but then thought better of it. “A dragon took part of it. It is gone now.”

The man gave her a look of what Mist realized was disbelief. “I suppose since I've no better way to explain how half a cow goes missing, that will have to do. I'm Thomas by the way. Thomas Pinen.”

The man stretched forth a hand.

Mist kept her distance, but stretched her hand forth also, not quite touching his.

The man, Thomas, frowned. “Ah, I mean no harm to ye, lass. Though ye be comely. I am not one who would take advantage.”

“Take advantage?”

The man turned red as his thoughts showed a man rutting atop a woman. Both of them seemed to be enjoying the activity. She wondered why he would not wish to take advantage of her. Did he not say she was comely?

“You do not wish to mate with me?” Mist questioned. * Thomas sat up and stared at the beautiful girl, dumbfounded. Was she really offering herself to him? Thomas knew he wasn't very good looking. To be an unmarried man in his late twenties was proof enough of that. His occupation did not provide much of an income. He had a small cottage at the edge of Mirth and a smaller stipend to provide him with meals, hardly enough to entice a wife to him. She must be making fun of him.

Mist moved closer to him and knelt down, almost as if she were curious. She extended her hand to his face and painfully withdrew a gorse thorn lodged there, holding it up for Thomas to see.

Thomas continued to wince in pain, but held still as the girl moved her hand carefully over his face, removing more thorns. The girl stared at his face, a question still lingering in her eyes.

Thomas raised his own hand to that of Mist’s, gently touching the back of her fingers, but then quickly removed his as she drew her hand back in alarm.

He waited patiently. After a moment, Mist reached forward, tracing Thomas's veins and scratches on his hand very lightly. Thomas's respirations quickened. He turned his hand and returned the girls light brushes.

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Mist's breathing paced Thomas's own. He ran his hand from hers and onto her arms. She shivered and drew closer, running her hands across Thomas's arms and onto his shoulders and chest.

Now it was Thomas's turn to shiver. His hand caressed her shoulders and neck, eliciting a sigh.

When Thomas traced his way down and lightly brushed across her rigid nipples, she moaned and arched her back. * Mist sighed. After the smallest amount of discomfort, the mating had been very pleasurable indeed. She and he mated twice more in quick succession before both fell asleep.

The day passed quickly and grew dark. Mist hated to go, but she needed to speak with her mother. She extricated herself from Thomas's arms, careful not to wake him, but he was a light sleeper.

His eyes opened. “Where are you going?”

“I must leave now. I would like to be with you again. Can we meet later?” Mist's own desire surprised her.

“Of course,” Thomas said. “But why leave? Why not stay with me?”

The question caught Mist by surprise. Dragons did not stay together after they mated a few times.

The female usually chased the male off, so they would not be around to devour the young hatchlings.

“Do humans stay together after mating?”

“Humans? What do you mean?”

For a moment, Mist thought to continue her deception. After the two of them had been so intimate, she found it impossible. “I am not as I seem to you.”

“What do you mean?”

Mist thought she would try to explain, but then realized that words, even words of thought, would not convey the meaning adequately. She stood up, and then changed into a dragon.

Thomas seemed to alter between fear and awe. Mist continued to speak to him as she loomed over him. “I understand if you do not wish to see me again. I must be really ugly to you?” * Mist was many things, but none of them ugly, Thomas thought. “You are an awesome and beautiful creature, even as a dragon.”

“Really? I do not strike terror in your heart?”

“Fear, yes. You have the power to end my life. But terror? No. I consider you a most beautiful dragon!” Thomas spoke from his heart and without the slightest subterfuge.

Thomas sensed Mist's pleasure in his heartfelt reply as her thoughts mingled with his.

“Then we can meet and mate again?”

“I would be well pleased!” Thomas replied quickly, before thinking.

Mist sprang into the air and executed a joyful loop as she departed, sending back to him, “Then tomorrow, here, at this time of day!”

“Yes, Lover. Tomorrow.” * Her mother listened as Mist talked about the man and the mating. “It was so much fun, Mother! Is it like that for you when you mate?”

Her mother chuckled and sent Mist the mind pictures she remembered from mating with dragons.

They were passionate, yes, and pleasurable. But nothing of the tenderness that Mist had experienced with Thomas.

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Mist could see the difference almost immediately. There was something more in the mating with Thomas than the mating her mother had experienced. Thomas’s element of deep caring and concern for her . . . she wondered what it was called.

“Then you think I should meet him again? Mate again?”

“I do not know if this path is right or not, Mist. I think you must decide for yourself. Keep in mind that there is more that comes from mating than pleasure. What if you bear young?”

That brought Mist up short. What if she did bear young from her joining with Thomas? What would happen then? For that matter, what kind of young would she bear? Dragon or human? She chewed abstractly on a ram’s hind leg as she thought about it. On the one hand, mating was very pleasurable. On the other, she might bear young.

The thought of bearing young dragons did not frighten Mist; in fact, she grew excited thinking about it. But what if her young were human? She didn't know the first thing about raising tiny humans.

What dragon did, for that matter?

She realized that she had already made a decision. She needed to see Thomas again and mate with him if he wanted to. Perhaps afterward, she would share her fears with him.

Mother nodded knowingly as she followed Mist's thoughts. She was very supportive of Mist's decisions and ran her tongue over her snout in affection. * After the fourth mating of the evening, Mist relaxed happily in Thomas's arms while lying atop him. Why do I feel so safe? It didn't make sense that she would feel safer in the arms of this human than she did as a dragon, but it was so.

Thomas caressed her cheek with the back of his hand as his breathing slowed. He would fall asleep soon. She decided to ask the question burning in her mind before he drifted off.

“Thomas?”

“Yes, Love?”

“What will we do if I bear young?”

Thomas stiffened in her arms, but then relaxed. “Get married, I suppose. That is if you will have me?”

“Married? What is this married?”

Thomas chuckled. “I keep forgetting you are a dragon. Perhaps dragons don't marry. It means that a man and a woman decide to live together the rest of their lives. It’s when they love one another and bear and raise children, together.”

“Oh,” She was silent for a few moments. “What is this love you keep calling me and talking about?”

Thomas shifted under her. Mist could sense him organizing his thoughts before he spoke. “Love is more than mating. It is when two humans decide they like one another so much they decide they couldn't live apart from one another.” Thomas stared up into her eyes as he finished his sentence.

Mist pondered his words carefully. She enjoyed Thomas's mating and his tenderness. She certainly had no desire to seek out a male dragon to mate with. Perhaps what she was feeling was love for this Thomas. She wanted to stay with him forever, she knew that. She decided to ask him the question.

“Thomas, do you think we could get married?” * The druid, Merlin, stood before Thomas and Mist. High in the sky above them, safe from the reach of the archers, a great dragon circled.

Merlin took the hands of the couple and placed them together. “Now, Thomas Pinen, I charge you with protecting and nurturing your young bride, Mist . . .”

“Dragon, Merlin. She does not speak.”

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“Yes, Mist Dragon. The two of you will join lives and names today. Your family name from this day forward will now be known as Pendragon.”

Merlin stepped back as the two embraced and kissed. When he had held both of their hands he felt the centuries spread out and expand before him. Kings and kingdoms would arise and fall from the descendants of this union. He would be there to experience it all, and tell the tale.

BIO: Mark rambles about as a logistics gopher at an Eco-tour company in Hawaii when he isn't writing.

In other incarnations he has snared pigs,built houses,worked oversees as a missionary,fought forest fires and built wilderness trails.

His published work has appeared at:69 Flavors of Paranoia,Aurora Wolf, a First Place finish in Liquid Imagination's Beginner Writers Contest (Issue #5), Eclectic Flash Literary Journal, Silver Pen and most recently in Library of the Living Dead's “Letters From the Dead Anthology”.

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Life’s Door Art by Jack Rogers

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Life’s Door

by Sue Babcock

The door stood by itself in a warped frame between two large oak trees, hanging from one broken hinge.

Gray weathered wood showed beneath flaking green paint. A doorknob, tarnished and covered with thick black grime, dangled from a rusty bolt. Red and orange leaves drifted against it, swept by cold winds, burying it in an autumn splendor.

It called to her, a soft whisper beckoning, coaxing. “Sarah, come hither.”

She trembled. A door to nowhere. An echo of her life, cheerless from too many dead babies, old from a marriage withered and dry. Her husband’s image, back bent, face grizzled and gray, haunted her.

A face once dear and sweet, soured by years and death.

She remembered the first time she saw Elijah. A tall man with a powerful chest and shoulders, standing in a pit, pulling on one end of a saw at the local sawmill. Her shadow crossed over the pit beneath the log. He glanced up, never missing a beat, sawdust trickling into his eyes. Shaking his head and blowing the dust away, he continued to keep up his end of the two-man saw as he smiled and winked.

The vision grew faint as she looked around at the first flakes of snow, harbingers of another long winter locked in a single room with a man who resented her, blamed her for the six crosses on the hillside outside their door.

“Sarah, come hither.”

The images of home dispersed like the leaves, scattered by winds and crowded against the broken door. She gathered handfuls, some freshly fallen, others dry brown, but most decomposed from unknown ages. Bugs scurried away as she disturbed their homes, and a mouse, its pink nose sniffing every waft of air, peered up at her from its winter nest. Ground squirrels bustled and scolded as she removed more leaves. The wind whistled around her and she pulled her coat tighter. She gathered and brushed until the door stood naked in front of her.

Her hand, independent and willful, reached out, grasped the stub of the doorknob and pulled.

Nothing. Her husband’s face again filled her mind. His hateful stare, the slammed doors, the eternal silences. Maybe this door would take her away from him forever.

Four years ago, she had been pregnant once more. Five previous babies lay buried under the snows by their cottage.

“Why do you even bother to try to carry it?” Elijah said. “The healer in town can give you something to end it. What’s the point anymore?”

She looked at him, her heart caught in her throat. She had always believed he wanted children as much as she did, but now she wasn’t so sure.

“It’s a baby, Elijah,” she said. “Maybe this one will grow and thrive. How can I throw away this chance?”

“You suffer through eight months of sickness, bedridden, unable to stand, and it’s always the same. Get rid of it now.”

“I can’t.”

It had been as Elijah had predicted. In her eighth month, after five months of lying in bed, nauseated and dizzy every time she stood, horrible cramps racked her body. The baby, a boy this time, had been stillborn. She named him Cionaodh, which meant fire in the lands of her ancestors, and buried him alone, alongside the other five. Elijah would not join her. The day after the burial, he moved a cot into the far corner of their cottage. He worked days, ate his suppers in silence and drowned his evenings in rum.

The memory stirred an anger festering inside. She kicked at the bottom of the door, swollen from winter snows where it stuck in the frame. She tugged again. It opened with a groan and creak. Sarah peered through the doorway. A dark forest spread before her. Gentle breezes, warm and welcoming on her frosty hands and face, murmured among the leaves high above. The warmth drew her through the door, and once she stepped over its cracked and bent threshold, the door closed. It faded away. Vanished.

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She stood in a forest, letting the warm air and soft breezes caress her skin, skin that’d seen too many winters and too much work. Breathing in, sucking the nurturing air deep within, she walked through the dark forest until she reached a road. Her stomach lurched at the sight before her.

The grayness of the road, the blackness of flowers, grasses and rocks, she blamed on the time of day. But the grayness of the people, the dozens of people who walked the road, made her palms sweat and her mouth dry. Stifling a cry, she felt in her waistband for her hunting knife. Its bone handle and long steel blade comforted her.

Throngs of gray people stared. They studied her and glared into her eyes. Her muscles tightened as she kept her knife ready.

They crowded around her, poking and grabbing at her clothes. She beat at their hands, but more came until she could no longer fight. They dragged her along, their eyes glowing white against gray faces.

Frowns and clenched teeth surrounded Sarah. She covered her face with her hands, huddling into a tight ball, but they pulled her hands away. The people spoke strange words. Yelled at her. They ripped her shirt and, their face inches from hers, screamed and shrieked.

“Who are you people? What do you want of me?” She screamed as they tied her hands with a leather thong, hobbled her feet and pushed and tugged her along the road.

A cage in their village became her home. The bars cold against her hot skin, black against the night. The cramped cage, one pace long, one pace wide, and only half her height, did not permit her to stand. It reeked of rotted food.

They watched her late into the night, a torch flickering dim white light just out of her reach. She huddled in the darkness as one-by-one, men and women, gray-skinned, gray-clothed, passed by, poking at her through the bars.

Alone at last, left behind like a vicious dog, the torch extinguished, she’d heard the door again.

“Sarah, come hither. Come hither. Come hither.”

Even as she gripped the bars, the whispers continued, shifting from soft and welcoming to urgent and brash.

“Sarah?” She started. This voice spoke from a few feet away. A thin voice, but it shattered the stillness. She peered through the bars. A slight figure shifted from foot to foot.

“Who are you?” Sarah asked. The figure froze and stared with large eyes blazing in white moonlight.

“Sarah?” it said.

She nodded her head. “Yes, yes, I’m Sarah.”

The small shape stepped closer. It tugged at something. The door to her cage sprung open.

She stepped outside, stretched her back and turned to thank her rescuer, but she was alone.

Whoever or whatever it was had vanished.

She dashed through the blackness, back along the road. The only sound was the crunch of her shoes at they struck the dirt. Black trees towered over her, and blacker shadows shifted beside her.

The skies lightened, glowing white as a brilliant sun rose, chasing dark shadows away. The road remained gray and the trees black. The whiteness revealed her blue dress and red apron, the only color in the landscape of black and gray and white.

The harsh hum surrounded, washed over her.

“Come hither, Sarah, come hither, come hither.”

Two words, repeated until they echoed in her head. She pressed her hands against her mouth, against her ears. The words would not stop. She peered between black trees and gray bushes. The door was invisible among the dull hues of the landscape.

Around her, the gray grass rustled in the wind. Skies darkened as clouds gathered and churned above. Black trees, darker than the sky, concealed her from the glaring eyes of the people from the village.

As the clouds swelled and bloated, she lurched ahead, searching the sides of the road for the door.

The door that would take her back to her husband.

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Did she want to go back? Back to a husband that never spoke, but had also never laid an angry finger on her. They had lived separate lives for over three years, ever since Cionaodh had been buried.

She milked the cows, planted the tomatoes and cucumbers and corn. He walked two miles to town every morning, rain or shine, snow or wind, and climbed into the pit at the sawmill, relentlessly pulling at his end of the saw. She had seen how the people in town avoided him, crossed the street when he approached.

She had watched him, surreptitiously standing behind piles of felled trees. He never said a word to his partner, a lean man working the upper end of the saw; he never stopped for a break except for five minutes to swallow a cold dinner. He would saw alone until his partner returned from his hot dinner with his wife and children.

How had she missed it? The dead babies had squirmed their way into Elijah’s mind. He was burdened with his own guilt for causing her pain and their childless home. Was he happier now that she was gone and he was free from decades of worry and sorrow? Would he even want her back?

A sound from the direction of the road made her turn. Dozens of voices. Sticks beat the ground.

Bushes rustled. Dogs barked.

She ran, ever deeper into the black forest. Gray light filtered through dark canopies of leaves.

Gray plants. Gray berries on gray vines. Her heart hammered against her chest. She panted and gulped air.

A flash of blue caught her eye. Her cloak. She’d taken it off when she’d passed through the door. She pushed her legs harder. It lay on the far side of a ravine. Skidding down the ravine, she slipped into a deep hole. Fingers clawed at the dirt, the steep walls, but she could not climb out. The dogs, louder now. The voices angry.

Sarah pulled her knife out as one of the gray men scrambled down the embankment. He raised his stick. Swung. It smacked across her head. The force threw her backward. The man stepped forward, lifting his club again. She gripped her knife and dodged, moving into his swing. The knife cut through his gray shirt and across his chest. Dark gray liquid flowed from a long gash. She lunged and thrust. It bit into his side. He doubled over and dropped his club.

A rope dangled in front of her. She looked up. The slight figure stood above her. Without hesitating, she grasped the rope and clambered out of the hole. Her cloak lay a few yards further but she still could not see the door.

Even as she spun around, the shape walked away from her.

“Wait, don’t go.”

The figure turned to look at her. A young boy. She stared at his pointed ears, his shaggy hair, a mousy color as if brown had been left too long in the rain, and his faded green cloak, a green threatening to disappear into the grayness around them. Sarah gulped. She wrapped her hands across her chest, trying to control the hammering in her chest.

“What, who are you?”

A gray-blue light shone deep within unblinking eyes. “Fionnlagh. I’m the guardian of the rainbow. But centuries ago, it dried up and the wind blew it under the door. Soon, I will be like the humans here, colorless and angry. I need you to open the door, to let our rainbow back in.”

“What about the world on the other side of the door? Will it become like this?”

“It has its own rainbow. My brother Cionaodh guards it.”

A cry caught in her throat at the mention of the name of her last baby. “Why me?”

“My brother is not your Cionaodh. My brother, like me, has been in your world for decades, ever since the rainbow first appeared. But the name was what made me sure you were the one.”

“I will try,” she said. “Where is the door?”

He pointed and Sarah turned. A rectangle of gray appeared out of the mist of blackness. Tugging at its doorknob, throwing her entire weight against its stubbornness, she swung open the rough wood panel.

Color flooded the doorway, a tidal wave threatening to sweep her away. Sarah jumped back.

Trees turned brown and green, flowers bloomed in yellow and pink and purple. Gray washed from the grasses as greens and yellows spread over the forest floor. As Sarah watched, the color cascaded over the small elf; the brown in his hair intensified, his green cloak glowed with the color of emeralds. The surge

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of color expanded until it touched the sky, scattering gray clouds. A blue so bright it hurt her eyes stretched beyond her sight.

“The door said you’d come, sooner or later.” Fionnlagh walked towards her. “Others have come through the door, but not for a century or more. The grays confused them, drove them mad. They did not survive. The door said you would never survive either, would never return with our rainbow. I knew you were the one, though.”

“Sarah, come hither, come hither.” Each repetition was more urgent than the last.

The elf took Sarah’s hand and led her back to the door, now gleaming the same emerald green as the elf’s cloak in the golden sunlight, as a throng of people approached. Their eyes wide, they stared at her and at the door and the world around them.

She hesitated. The warm air and gorgeous forest charmed her. She no longer feared the pale, tall natives here. With Fionnlagh's help, she could learn their language, live among them. Could she return to Elijah and his silence? She knew the answer before the question finished forming. She could not abandon her babies. She could not give up on Elijah.

She stepped over the threshold and the door shut behind her. Winds howled, the frigid air slammed into her. A voice, this one deep and familiar, resonated through the forest. “Sarah, where are you?”

The wind whipped her long dress around her legs as she stumbled towards the sound.

“Please, Sarah, come home.” His voice sounded far off and raspy, as if from yelling too long and too loud. As if exposed to cold and wind for hours.

Even as she struggled forward, her husband, a thick woolen blanket wrapped around broad shoulders and a straight back, appeared out of the murk. She paused, studying him. A fire burned in his once-faded green eyes, his face glowed pink from cold, worry-lines riddled his brow. He held open the blanket, welcoming her with his warmth.

BIO: Sue Babcock was surprised and delighted when Publisher Michael Pennington of Aurora Wolf decided to included her story in this anthology. Sue spent years and years as an engineer. For decades she researched, constructed, supervised and wrote (dry, technical) reports. Now mostly retired, she delights in writing short stories and occasionally manages to get published. She’s also an editor at SilverBlade.net and Liquid-Imagination.com, both on-line fantasy publications, and a trustee of Silver Pen, a non-profit writing organization.

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Available at Amazon.com Book Review at: http://www.liquid-imagination.com/Issue6/bonded-by-blood.html

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The Cerebral-Man Art by Jack Rogers

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Author Preface: I just wanted to warn the reader (well, not so much warn as explain) that this fun little romp is not in any way my attempt to pawn off a substandard space adventure on you all, but rather, my hopefully “kitschy” attempt to pay tribute to those early pulp Space stories so wonderfully illustrated by the hands of the late great A.E. van Vogt and his wife E. Mayne Hull. Hence, the admittedly “corny dialogue,” and often and intentionally antiquated views on gender roles and interpersonal relationships that I of course do not endorse. The Cerebral-Man is written to reflect an earlier, and more innocent time in science fiction, and acknowledge the influence of those pioneer writers (Heinlein, van Vogt, Blish, Sturgeon, Asimov, etc.) on those of us who put fingers to computer keyboards today. It is all tongue in cheek. Enjoy.

The Cerebral-Man

by Michael H. Hanson [for Alfred and Edna] “I don't recall having any self-awareness about the intricacy of my stories.”

—A.E. van Vogt “Cerebral-Man” — appellation for galactic folk-hero rumored to have the ability to use and access over 75% of his brain's functional synaptic mass.

Born: Unknown Died: Unknown Parents: Unknown Children: Unknown Married: Unknown Considered by many galactic historians to be nothing more than a conglomeration of several legendary freebooters of the second galactic expansion, the accounts of the many adventures, acquisitions, triumphs, and accomplishments of the so-called 'Cerebral-Man' are so outrageous that they surely cannot be attributed to the actions of a single individual.

First person descriptions of this phantom-like figure vary considerably in the telling. Some citizens are recorded as saying he was quite short in stature, others quote he towered above two meters, and even others relate that he was of average height. His complexion ran the gamut of Caucasian, African, and Asian, and his hair color that of blond, redhead, brunette, and even bald.

Rumors abounded that he held an almost supernatural magnetic attraction for individuals of the opposite sex, which is no doubt the basis for the many tall tales of his personal triumphs, as well as the ridiculous but popular notion that his personal staff of secretaries, bodyguards, lawyers, spaceship pilots, engineers, and even scientists was made up entirely of ultra-loyal women.

Though historians still argue to this day about the probable birth date and birthplace of this elusive legend, all agree that the first major source of Cerebral-Man tales occurred during the early colonization of the Wolf 294 System, just 18 light-years from Terra Prime, circa 2451 . . .

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—Encyclopedia Galactica, 2995

Adrian Kondrak walked down the transport ramp, closing his eyes against the unnatural glare and struggling to keep one foot in front of the other. Reading about Clarion's large Sun and 1.2 Earth Gravity, and actually dealing with them, were definitely two very different experiences. Feeling only partially safe within the anonymity of the 1,000-person crowd of colonists that stumbled off the Earth transport vessel FLEDGLING, Adrian scanned the perimeter of the landing field while keeping a firm right hand on his shoulder satchel, a small leather carry-bag that contained everything he had ever owned.

“Move it along, you bloody lead-foot squints!” A burly, mostly toothless security guard yelled.

“No food or water until you get through processing! Quit dawdling!”

Minutes later, the crowd entered a huge hanger filled with electronic-clerks sitting strategically at various tables. The three dozen security guards, more bully-boys than real trained law enforcement personnel, immediately started diverting people into various lines, waving shock-sticks threateningly in the air.

Adrian intuitively scoped the pattern of the different check-in points. One line for families with children. One for single men over the age of 40. A similar one for over-40 women. One line for large muscular men under 40, and a separate line for their weak or puny brethren. Then a final two lines for young women, the more attractive quickly separated and processed out a side entrance.

It was finally Adrian's turn. The large potbellied guard that had greeted them upon landing gave him the once over, scanned Adrian's com-badge into a handheld device, and was clearly unimpressed.

Adrian quickly reviewed his own physical attributes: six feet tall, slender, Caucasian male, square jaw, intense green eyes, dark red hair, medium skin tone, clean-shaven with thick sensuous lips that always looked like they were about to break out into a smile.

Nearing 21, Adrian was still amazed at how disarming his appearance was to women in general, yet simultaneously challenging to lowbrow and primitive men like this guard.

“College boy, eh?” The guard spat. “Ain't much work around here for a soft-hands like you.”

“Clarion's advertisements tell differently.”

The guard leaned back involuntarily, surprised as all men were by the steel in Adrian's voice.

“Yeah, well, line four. Move along. Next!”

Adrian started to walk forward . . .

“No! Help!” …and just as quickly stopped in his tracks. The guard who had just confronted him spun around and raced toward an altercation on the far side of the room. Adrian gritted his teeth to strengthen his resolve and started to walk toward his processing line when another shouted plea froze him once more.

It was a young woman, Felisha Barrens, a fellow passenger barely a day over 18, and she was being dragged from her parents toward one of the single young women lines. No doubt to be transported directly to one of Clarion's infamous bordello training sites.

Cursing the weakness in his psyche, Adrian gritted his teeth and jogged as quick as he could under the damning gravity across the main hanger and put his hand on the shoulder of a mountainous guard who had just slugged Felisha's father, Bill, knocking him to the floor with a bloody lip.

“Enough of that,” Adrian ordered.

The guard spun around in surprise and frowned downwards.

“Mind your own affairs, bud, if you know what's good for you. This is Immigration business.”

Several other guards moved forward, raising their shock-sticks.

“By all means,” Adrian said in a reasonable voice. “If you wish to break Transport-Law and bear the brunt of a troop of peacekeepers, just keep on doing what you're doing.”

The guard, Bruno by the name tag on his breast, frowned mightily and licked his lips.

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“Whatta you talking about? Immy process got its own set of rules! This chicky is over 18. An adult. And that makes her fresh meat for the dance-doxie lodges. Now if you don't . . .”

“She's my wife,” Adrian stated coldly.

The guard's mouth dropped open and Felisha's father and mother stepped forward questioningly.

“Wahh . . .” The guard looked helplessly to his buddies for help. “I don't see no ring on either of you! And her papers said nothing ‘bout . . .”

“We had a summary-betrothal on THE FLEDGLING.” Adrian spoke as if from rote. “A binding promise of marriage witnessed by both her parents. And by Transport Law, Section 534 of the Interstellar Immigration Act, that makes Felisha Barrens my de facto spouse. And in case it never got through that thick forehead of yours, Clarion is a full signatory to all of the Articles of the Joint Planetary Congress.”

Bruno's grip, loosening during Adrian's speech, completely released Felisha.

“So unless you wish to start an interstellar incident, you'd best back off,” Adrian finished.

Bruno spat on the ground and glared at his underlings.

“What are you looking at! Get back to work! We've got another transport coming in ten minutes!”

Felisha and her parents rushed forward to thank Adrian, who rudely brushed aside their gratitude.

“What were you thinking?” Adrian hissed. “Why didn't you hide the fact that Felisha had come of age with forged papers? At the very least you could have disguised her figure with a standard man's coverall!”

“We,” Bill stuttered. “We didn't know…”

“We did everything the ship's training manual told us to do,” Felisha's mother, Tara, said in tears.

“We followed all the rules.”

Adrian shook his head in disgust. The naivety of the average human being never ceased to amaze him. He sincerely doubted this tight-knit family would survive for long …but that was not his problem now. He had a mission to pursue, one that would, if successful, change the very tide of history.

Tara moved forward and shoved something into Adrian's hand. It was a simple man's ring, made of ultra-dense ferracite, a common mineral found in the mines of Mars from where this family had just emigrated.

“A small thank you,” she said.

“I can't…” Adrian began, but just as quickly stopped. He suddenly remembered that Felisha's parents were members of the Church of the Third Planet, and the giving and receiving of gifts was considered a serious moral and ethical ritual. “Uh. Thank you,” he replied, pocketing the trinket and accepting a quick kiss on his cheek from Felisha.

“Look,” Adrian started, “from now own, forget everything you read in the ship's manual. It was all baloney. This is a frontier world, with its own set of rules and way of doing things. Now, you want to protect Felisha? Then you keep her out of sight and covered up, at least until you can marry her off, and the sooner you do that the better.”

Felisha's eyes lit up at this last statement and Adrian steeled himself against the adoration reflected in both her face and her parents.

“We think very highly of you, Adrian, and if . . .” Bill began but was silenced by a curt gesture from Adrian.

“I'm flattered, Bill.” Adrian turned to Felisha. “And in another time and another place I'd be more than willing. But I've got my own destiny to carve out. I wish you all the best of luck.”

And with that, feeling the burden of guilty abandonment and a deep interior loss he could not understand, Adrian Kondrak turned his back on the only people he could call friends on the entire planet of Clarion. * Five months later, Adrian found himself calmly sitting before a large wooden desk in the small Spartan office of “Flame Imports” and staring down the barrel of an illegal blaster-pistol.

The man holding the weapon—short, bald, and sporting a two-day growth of beard and mustache

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—was none other than Frank Illen, Corporate Manager and Owner of Flame Imports, Inc., not to mention the head gang boss of all criminal activity in the burgeoning Earth-colony on Clarion.

Considering the proximity of the weapon, and its probable use, Adrian's mind worked faster than it ever had before. * Mere hours after landing on this hellish rock, Adrian had no trouble finding work as an electronic-clerk for Steel-All, one of the dozens of mining operations that were springing up almost monthly on this frontier world. His excellent memory (with its total recall and photographic abilities, though he always made sure to keep this a secret as to avoid his fellow man's inevitable jealously) and analytical skills, not to mention his natural abilities with a computer, were all the resume he needed.

Within two months Adrian's brilliant extrapolations saved the company over five million debits, and he was rewarded with a promotion to Head Accountant for the entire Platinum Operation.

On his third month on Clarion, Adrian stood self-consciously in the center of a dozen attractive and very interested young women at a cocktail party hosted by the Planet's mayor himself, Cronon Tamshell. Adrian's reputation preceded him; every Company on the planet was making its best effort to lure the wonder-boy accountant away from Steel-All, Inc. This siren's ploy was definitely not lost on Adrian, who charmingly disengaged himself from many an alluring offer until he managed to get a moment alone to catch his breath on a small balcony overlooking the young city.

“All glory is fleeting, you know…”

Kondrak turned to the whispering female voice and smiled.

“And my name is Adrian, not Julius. Miss…”

“Janeen Flowastell.”

Adrian shook the proffered hand and was surprised at its subtle strength.

Janeen joined Adrian, placing both of her elbows on the ornate platinum guardrail, her exquisite shoulder mere millimeters from his own.

Clarion Central, lit up like a million glistening jewels, beckoned to them both.

“I seem to be in demand tonight,” Adrian stated smugly. “So just what is it that you are offering?” He added with a leer.

Janeen, taking the young man's lack of manners in stride, pulled a business card out of her wrist purse and elegantly slid it into his breast pocket.

“If you have to ask,” Janeen said while turning away, “then you're probably not the man we're looking for.”

Adrian stood up straight, shrugging off the false facade of an arrogant drunken wonder-boy, and removed the card from his breast pocket as Janeen strode away, disappearing into the throng of the party.

The card was a simple enough affair. Name and address. Frank Illen. Corporate Manager. Flame Imports, Inc. The Meteor Building. Clarion Central.

“Bingo,” Adrian thought. They'd taken the bait. * Adrian's fourth month on Clarion was spent analyzing the complete inflow, outflow, and inventory of every single transaction in which Flame Imports, Inc. had ever engaged.

After hundreds of backbreaking hours on his computer, Adrian created a cost-benefit analysis that would save Corporate Manager Frank Illen over 100 Million Debits over the next stellar cycle.

Adrian was in.

Over the next thirty days, Adrian's boss paid his new wonder-boy extravagant bonuses to process unbelievably vast sums of currency that would never be reported to the Galactic Revenue Service.

After one particularly intense day of juggling thousands of dummy corporate accounts and even

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thousands of more discrete anonymous money-orders for questionable services rendered by all manner of corrupted government officials, Adrian was summoned to his boss's office.

Adrian flirted with Frank's obviously interested secretary Erin for a whole thirty seconds before the intercom spoke up.

“Adrian!” Frank's gravely voice boomed. “Come in.”

Adrian closed the old-fashioned door behind him and sat down in the simple chair that faced Frank's antique oak desk. Adrian glanced around the microbial office, smiling to himself that there really was a single affectation of Frank's that he could admire.

“You keep a tight ship,” Adrian admitted.

“Thanks,” Frank replied in a dry voice.

“Otherwise, Illen,” Adrian thought to himself, “you're the most despicable human being I have ever met.”

There wasn't a robbery, assault, or murder that occurred on Clarion without Frank Illen's complete approval. Adrian's new boss was the unchallenged head of all criminal activities on the planet, and as such received a 40% cut of all profit made from any and all illegal activities, not to mention the even more lucrative protection racket. There wasn't a legit business in Clarion Central that didn't make monthly under-the-counter payments to Illen.

And with that closing thought, the Corporate Manager of Flame Imports, Inc. reached into the front drawer of his desk and pulled out a blaster pistol that he promptly pointed at Adrian.

“If this is about my quarterly projection,” Adrian stated smoothly, “I can maybe boost it up 2% by the end of the calendar month.”

“Cute,” Frank sneered. “But your quick wit isn't going to get you out of this, Kondrak.”

“And what, pray tell,” Adrian stated with a force of will and resolve which clearly surprised the older criminal, “is this, exactly?”

Frank's eyes closed to a squint. His grip tightened on his blaster.

“I gotta admire your style, boy. You almost had me there.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yeah. And you can cut the innocent act. As I said, you almost had me. Almost. But lucky for me, the planet's Tax Assessor happens to owe a bundle to one of my casinos. And so he's been most helpful in volunteering all kinds of information.”

Adrian felt his insides go cold but managed to maintain a calm demeanor.

“It seems that as a Planetary Congress-appointed Regional GRS Representative, he has singular access to the daily end-transactions of each and every bank, credit union, and loan agency on Clarion … and wouldn't you know he just happened to notice a rather unusual flurry of currency transfers during the last six hours, nearly three-quarters of my assets. Enough to purchase an entire frontier world and then some.”

Adrian remained blank-faced, waiting for Illen to finish.

“So here we are,” Frank continued. “I know you're not the competition. The old wise-guys back on Earth know better than to stick their necks out in the ether. So I figure you're some kind of government agent. Too bad. I was starting to like you.”

And Frank raised the blaster to point it directly between Adrian's eyes.

Adrian, caught completely off guard, chided himself for this seemingly untenable situation. All of his plans had hinged on his monetary manipulations remaining hidden for at least twelve more hours. The planetary tax assessor's gambling problems were one crucial factor in a gigantic calculation that was now falling apart like a gargantuan house of cards. Unaware that his recent activities lay exposed, Adrian had come to work today without any number of concealable weapons he would have otherwise worn on his person.

All that stood between him and imminent doom was his abnormally quick mind.

“You're wrong on both counts,” Adrian drawled with false bravado. “I'm neither a product of organized crime nor the government.”

“Yah?” Frank sneered again. “Well, whatever your game is you're about to become a pile of fried

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atoms.”

Adrian continued undeterred. “I am more popularly known as a rogue cerebral-mutant.”

“Whaaaa...” Frank's eyes widened in surprise. “That's just a bunch of Hollywood Vid bushwah!”

“Is that a fact?” Adrian smiled, placing both of his hands in a fan pattern before his own face, the simple gift ring from the Barrens' family displayed on his right ring finger. “You honestly think I've accomplished all of this because of good accounting?”

“Okay. So you're smart. Really smart. But that don't mean...”

“I possess many neural powers, Frank.” Adrian smiled with unnerving intensity. “Clairvoyance allowed me to see which stocks to avoid and which tax loopholes to manipulate. Electro-neurapathy has allowed me to link my mind with the planetary computer system in such a manner that I could head off each and every electronic investigation into my movements. And Telepathy has allowed me to see how very frightened you are, and that right at this moment you're thinking you should have called in your personal bodyguards before arrogantly confronting me all on your own.”

Frank nervously licked his lips. “A lucky guess. You're no mind-mutant.”

“Then why are you sweating, Frank?”

Frank shoved his blaster forward. Simultaneously, Adrian shoved his right hand forward, pointing it directly at the blaster which was just inches away.

Frank pulled the trigger. A small batch of sparks formed around the open end of the muzzle and quickly transformed into a puff of smoke.

“Whaaaa . . .” Frank's mouth dropped open in shock.

“Electro-Telekinesis, Frank.” Adrian smiled. “I could just as easily have fried your brain.”

“But...” Frank looked back and forth from his blaster to Adrian. “But how …please don't hurt me…”

Just then, both rear doors flew open to reveal Felisha Barrens, dressed as a Street Vendor, and Janeen Flowastel, wearing a provocative and formfitting synthiskin one-piece, both sporting their own blaster pistols.

Frank turned in their direction, completely forgetful of the seemingly useless blaster in his right hand.

“No!” Adrian yelled out. But too late.

Felisha and Janeen both fired simultaneously, the twin flares of their blasters intersecting over Frank's heart, killing him instantly. The former gang boss fell down into his seat and slumped lifeless over his desk.

“That wasn't necessary, ladies,” Adrian said while pocketing Frank's blaster. “He was in the process of surrendering his weapon to me.”

“Oh!” Felisha said. “I …I didn't know. I thought he was going to . . .”

“And I'm rather surprised to see you in cahoots with one of Frank's mistresses.”

“Her?” Janeen shrugged in Felisha's direction as she stood over Frank's corpse. “I don't even know who that kid is. I never laid eyes on her until a minute ago.”

Adrian chuckled. “So you both just happen to break in at the same time? I truly love the gods of coincidence—” Adrian noticed a flicker of light from under the front door of the office. He crossed the room in three large strides and yanked the door open. Erin, who had obviously been spying on all of them through the keyhole, fell forward onto her face. Adrian quickly helped her up.

“Oh!” Erin said. “I so wanted to help you, Mr. Kondrak, but I was scared. Will you forgive me?”

Adrian disentangled himself from the amorous receptionist and took a step back to center himself.

“Explanations?” he said.

“Well,” Felisha started, “I …I couldn't forget you. So I found out where you were working, and got a job nearby. And …and I've been watching your back ever since. I saw a flash of light through the back window and knew something was up and …here I am.”

Adrian's eyes lifted up in surprise before turning to Janeen.

“I knew my boss was bad news,” she admitted reluctantly. “But I couldn't get you out of my mind

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either. One of my clients is Frank's top henchman. He told me what was going to happen an hour ago … and here I am.”

Adrian pursed his lips and looked over the three women who were all hovering around him, waiting for him to talk.

“And so I have three guardian angels.” * Adrian Kondrak, just six months after he had first landed on the frontier world of Clarion, stood near the boarding gate of the Spaceship ST. LAWRENCE. It was due to lift off in thirty minutes, and Adrian had to board within fifteen. All that he possessed was contained in the leather satchel draped over his shoulder, not to mention over 900 million debits which were registered on a computer chip sewn into the collar of his jacket.

Every couple of minutes he would turn around and scan the perimeter of the rocket field.

“Will they join me?” he wondered sadly. Statistically speaking, the odds were against it. * Frank Illen's death was not part of Adrian's original plan, which was designed to leave Frank in the lurch, as it were, surrounded by thousands of employees and associates demanding salaries and a cut of a profit that no longer existed. With Illen's sudden demise, a bloodbath of intra-criminal and cross-citypolitics had to be headed off …at least for a full day, until Adrian could move on.

Adrian had no choice. With Erin's help, he called in all of mob boss Illen's immediate cutthroat subordinates and killed them one at a time with a blaster shot to the backs of their heads as they entered the main office. Adrian, Felisha, Janeen, and Erin spent the rest of the day disposing of the bodies.

He then sat the three ladies down and told his story.

He told them how he had been raised since the age of six as an elite member of the mind-monks, a select group of individuals pulled from society by Earth Government and given intense training to develop their natural intellectual abilities to their fullest.

“And that's how you got your mind-powers, Mr. Kondrak?” Erin blurted.

“No.” Adrian chuckled. “I have no mind-powers, Erin.”

“But you read Mr. Illen's mind!” Erin insisted. “And you made all that money on the computer market, and you stopped his blaster with a wave of your hand.”

“First,” Adrian started, uncomfortable under the looks of awe from Felisha and Janeen, “I did no such thing. I merely told Frank I did. My success on the stock market came from hard work, not to mention a little luck. The same can be said for my evasion techniques on the computer network, though Frank's turning of the planetary tax assessor was a potentially disastrous flaw in my plan. And as for reading Frank's mind, let's just say I have a very advanced intuitive ability which works best when I am under extreme pressure.”

“But,” Erin started, “the blaster. I saw it all through the keyhole.”

“Oh, that.” Adrian chuckled. “I have this to thank.” And Adrian held his hand up, displaying the ferracite ring which Felisha's mother had given him as a gift months earlier.

“What?” Felisha started.

“This ring is made of ferracite. A very common metal on Mars. It is not often used in most machinery, however, because of a very uncontrollable trait it possesses.”

“Of course!” Felicia's eyes opened up. “The atom-collapse!”

“Precisely,” Adrian said. “Ferracite tends to cancel out minute atomic reactions within its immediate sphere. Frank's blaster was an old model that required a micro-static charge to build up within about six inches of the muzzle before it could engage. When I pointed my hand at it I made sure the ring was close to the weapon. Otherwise, I wouldn't be standing here now.”

“Okay,” Janeen said. “So why are you no longer with the mind-monks?”

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“I was a protégé to the head monk, none other than Darian Tron. Darian was not a government puppet like so many supposed over the last few decades. Before his death last year, he opened his heart and mind to me, and me alone. He told me he had been training me differently from all of the other acolytes, to make me a free-thinker, and a more advanced one at that. With planetary colonization in its infancy, Darian and I had mapped out the next 100 years of galactic history, and it was not pretty. Brutal dictatorship and constant war were what we had forseen …and we could see only one way around it.”

“You,” Felisha said with full adoration in her voice. “You were the answer.”

“Correct,” Adrian said with conviction. “It was our supposition that one lone operator, working on the outskirts of the growing Terran Empire, could, through the accumulation of great wealth and the promotion of free trade, act as bulwark to the formation of a non-representative and dictatorial galaxywide government. And so I escaped the prison walls of the mind-monk compound on the island of Rapa Nui, and snuck aboard THE FLEDGLING as just another hopeful colonist. And now, I have started our plan here, on Clarion. The money I've stolen from Illen is just the starting point. In time I hope to become one of several powerful space merchants who are only now beginning to build their reputations in this arm of the known galaxy.”

“And love?” Erin asked plaintively. “Is there any room in your mighty plan for a personal life?”

All three women looked at Adrian expectedly.

“The future of the human race rests on my shoulders. And it would be to their detriment if I selfishly gave over all of my heart and will to just one person.”

Adrian studied the three women for another moment.

“I will need people, dedicated brave individuals who share my vision. It will be a long road, and a dangerous one at that. There are no guarantees that any or all of us will survive this endeavor. But if …if any of you wish to be a part of this, you can join me at the rocket field tomorrow morning. I can promise you nothing more than that.” * And now, a full day later, Adrian handed his electronic-ticket to an androgynous robot-clerk at the embarkation ramp.

“Adrian!” a woman's voice yelled.

Adrian Kondrak turned around and smiled.

Felisha, Erin, and Janeen were sprinting across the tarmac to join him …as deep down in his heart he had hoped and prayed they would.

The great adventure had begun.

BIO: Michael H. Hanson is a writer of fantasy, science fiction, and horror, as well as mainstream poetry.

During the past ten years he has written and published over fifty short stories. He is the Creator and coWriter of the shared-world anthologies SHA'DAA: TALES OF THE APOCALYPSE and SHA'DAA: LAST CALL (Altered Dimensions Press). He has also published two collections of poetry, AUTUMN BLUSH (YaYe Books), and most recently, JUBILANT WHISPERS (Diminuendo Press). A transplanted New Yorker, he acquired dual-citizenship with his name being entered into Ireland's Foreign Births Entry Book. A haunted Sagittarian, he presently resides in New Jersey where he edits engineering society journals for a living, and occasionally dabbles in genealogy research and collecting impressionist and plein air oil paintings. http://www.shadaa.com/

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An Anthology of Never-Before Seen Monstrosities published by Aurorawolf and edited by John “JAM” Arthur Miller, Linda Manning, and Michael C. Pennington

Here there be New Creatures (Novus Creatura) who will become the new Frankenstein Monsters and Draculas. Mirroring society, they reach from within these pages to clutch at your throat, your very soul. Don’t open this collection without first lighting your room and locking your doors, because the new masters of horror and fantasy await within these pages to carve their words into your brain, to share their creatures with you: spider-children and environmental horrors; genespliced monstrosities and black worms; shadow-people and midnight drivers. All these wait beneath the fabric of society to crawl by the tuning of the page.

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Art by Jack Rogers

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These Hands

by Shaun Ryan

I wait in shadows, head bowed. Outside, in the sun’s blessed light, the crowd roars its delight as some man or beast meets its end. Steel clashes against steel, a song that sings in my blood. My heart quickens as brass trumpets blow a glorious fanfare. The prince has arrived.

My nephew, Galen, who serves as my arms bearer, hands me a ribbon of crimson silk. He is my brother’s son, orphaned now, my charge.

Standing, I whisper a final prayer to my grandfathers and tie the fabric around my brow. The crowd loves this minor affectation. It is part of my character, my trademark, but serves a practical purpose as well. When the heat of battle is upon me, it will prevent the sweat of my efforts from blinding me at the worst moment. I check my sword belt and scabbard, making certain they are secure. The battered leather greaves receive the same careful scrutiny, as do my boots. The sword remains sheathed.

I have no doubt as to the weapon’s state of repair. It is a part of me, handed down from father to son since the beginnings of my family’s long, bloody history.

Far down the dim corridor, a gate crashes open, stout oaken planks meeting ancient stone with force. The booming echo rolls past on a breath of hot wind. I turn to face it, inhaling the sweet scent of summer. Orange blossoms dance around the tang of blood and oiled steel, sweat and tears, roasting meat and horse dung. I take these and a myriad other subtle aromas deep into myself, letting them swell my heart with lust; for battle, for life, and, yes, I must admit, for death.

I face my own mortality this day as I have faced it every other. I have looked in death’s eye and spat there, laughing. I bear the scars. My blood has spilled onto the earth, into the water, into the air.

Raising my hands at my sides, I stare at them, contemplating each line, each wrinkle, each callous, and each old wound. These hands have dealt death for three decades. Today is no different. The circumstances have changed these last few years, but the end result remains the same. I will kill all who face me or I will die trying.

The heralds blow their trumpets once more and I step toward the dusty light at the end of the tunnel. Halfway through the familiar walk, the roar of the crowd crystallizes, the incoherent cries of bloodlust resolving into a single, unified chant. Ten thousand souls stand as one and begin stamping their feet in cadence, chanting one word all the while. The word they chant is a name.

The name is mine. * The sun, just reaching its zenith, warms my upturned face as I step from darkness into its golden light. I do not squint against the glare. Many battles in this arena have taught me to linger in the mouth of the tunnel, letting my eyes adjust to the bright world beyond. The crowd’s chant dissolves again into a ceaseless roar, full of excitement and unabashed adoration. It swells to a crescendo, a wave of sound and emotion that is felt more than heard, and then subsides to near silence before the chant resumes.

I stand for a moment, my arms upraised, fists pumping. Then I cross them over my chest and bow. When I straighten again, my sword leaps from the scabbard and gleams in the sun, sending brilliant arcs of reflected light dancing through the air. They subside to murmur, in awe of the famous blade, of me. I turn a full circle, meeting their eyes, showing them my sword. I complete my revolution and face the enclosed balcony where the prince sits among his retainers. I stab the point toward him, once, twice, a third time, and then bow lower than before; a salute to our new liege. The chant begins again as Prince Jadden gives a slight bow in return, acknowledging my show of respect.

I wonder if he knows that I offer it out of custom only, the respect I feel aimed not at him, but the thousands around him. For Jadden I feel nothing but contempt. I will not call him ‘King’, though he is.

To my mind, his father was King. He remains the spoiled little cur who took pleasure in having his servants whipped for the slightest infraction; the thief who has stolen the rightful lands of my former

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brethren, my friends, and my brothers; the usurper who murdered his revered father. He is the key to my great success in the arena, for I see his face on every foe.

The chant begins again, a low thrum that washes over me in waves as the gates on the far side of the killing ground creak open and three men emerge. They fan out as they approach the center of the broad, sandy ring, drawing their swords. I step forward to meet them, concentrating only on them now, the crowd, the prince and his treachery, the gold that will rain down upon the sand at the end of this battle, all forgotten. I fall into my familiar role, once more a soldier in service to my king. Though he has passed from the world of men, they have not forgotten him. I have not forgotten him. I lift my sword to the heavens and salute him.

The crowd stamps their feet in approval.

The three, two of whom I do not know, stop ten yards away and give a slight bow, which I return.

The third man, a tall northerner I once chastised for looting the bodies of the fallen enemy, grins at me.

His arrogance has not faded in the years since I retired from the king’s service and took up the life of the sport-warrior. I meet his eye and stare through him as my breathing slows and deepens. My heart settles into a steady, thumping rhythm. My hands flex with a pop of scarred knuckles. I wait.

The heralds blast a short fanfare and the crowd falls silent. The white-clad Arbitrator steps forward from his place near the western gate and stops between us, facing first me and then the three in turn, meeting our eyes for a moment and nodding. Then he turns to face the prince and bows. When he straightens, silence reigns among the crowd. Far off, beyond the towering walls, a dog barks. Silk pennants rustle and snap in the breeze overhead. Pigeons coo from the shadows beneath the parapets.

Coins clink as they change hands, the wagering already begun.

"MY LIEGE," the Arbitrator bellows, "LORDS AND LADIES, FELLOW FREE MEN, I OFFER YOU THIS DAY, THE CONTEST YOU HAVE ALL AWAITED!" The crowd murmurs approval.

"FROM THE RANKS OF THE KING’S ARMY, RETIRED OFFICER AND BRAVE LEADER OF MEN, WINNER OF UNCOUNTED BATTLES AND CONTESTS OF ARMS…" He turns to me with a sly smile and a wink, which I acknowledge only with the slightest nod. "…KHERON!" The chant begins anew, my name swelling the hearts and minds of those who have come to be entertained by my prowess, those whom I have served in countless battles. I bow to the Arbitrator, my old friend, and thus to them as well.

"ALSO, FROM THE MIGHTY FORCES OF RHUMANON…" He turns to the three men, who bow in turn as he offers their names, which are lost in the roar of the crowd. I smile. It is their way of offering tribute to me before a drop of blood has been spilled. They do not care what names these men answer to, only that they are brave enough to face me in battle.

The noise subsides and the Arbitrator takes our oaths.

"DO YOU SWEAR THAT YOU HAVE COME TODAY AS FREE MEN, OF YOUR OWN WILL, TO FIGHT AND DIE FOR GOLD AND GLORY?" All four of us shout in unison.

"AYE!" The oath is sacred. It is taken so that none may doubt the authenticity of these battles and, more importantly, so that all know and acknowledge that no man is a slave in our country, something our prince has forgotten. He would make slaves of us all.

"THEN FIGHT! WITH HONOR, WITH SKILL, WITH FEROCITY AND VALOR, FIGHT!" On his final word, the crowd roars and the Arbitrator wheels and flees the circle.

My world narrows as the three advance, swords naked in their hands. I already know which will become sport for the crowd. The man I recognized, though I do not recall his name, will pay for his arrogance and brutality with blood and pain. He will please the crowd with his death-dance. But he will be honored as well, though he does not deserve such. The others will die cleanly at the first opportunity, as befits soldiers.

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The first comes in low and fast and I parry the stroke meant to disembowel me. Steel meets steel with a ringing clash and all sense of the crowd, the arena, the world, vanishes from my mind. There is only the battle. Another ringing flurry of steel and I force him back. In the corner of my eye, the tall one leaps forward.

I kick him in the guts as he closes, his blade arcing toward my head. I duck its deadly kiss and slash the point of my own weapon across the throat of the third man. His battle ends there, with his life.

Blood flies from the gaping wound, hanging in the air like a flock of tiny crimson insects before spattering onto the sand. His stroke peels a flap of skin from my back before the sword flies from his lifeless hands and he falls.

Relishing the sting, I grin at my two remaining opponents as they circle. The tall one rushes in and I rebuke him harshly, smashing the pommel of my sword into his jaw as I leap over his arcing blade.

He stumbles back, blood spraying from between broken teeth. The other man draws a dirk from his belt and, from somewhere far away, a hiss escapes the crowd. My smile widens.

I take the battle to him, putting distance between myself and the tall man. Feinting a slash to his head, I step inside the arc of his blade as he brings the sword up to parry and seize his other wrist in my left hand. The dirk plunges toward my heart. Bone snaps as I twist his hand around and stab him with his own weapon. The hilt of his sword pounds my shoulder, but the stroke is weak and ineffectual.

The whistle of steel through air teases my ears and I let my legs go boneless, crumpling as the dying man stumbles from me. The tall one’s blade stirs the hair on my head before crunching into the falling man’s ribs. I roll sideways and come to my feet as the body hits the ground.

One man remains. The sport begins. * Gratitude fills the tall man’s eyes and then the life fades from them. Blood seeps from the gashes in his body. He knows that I have made his dying a game. But he also knows he has been given a place of honor in the eyes of the crowd. He leaves this world a hero; the man who stood against Kheron for nearly half a watch before falling. He dies happy, if that is possible. He dies like a warrior, his blade wetted by my blood. He deserves less.

I do not feel the sting of the wounds I have allowed him to inflict, do not hear the roar of the crowd, do not see the twinkling of gold and silver coins as they rain down onto the bloody sand. I nod slightly to the tall man who once fought under my command and then lift my gaze to the prince, willing my eyes to burn the heart from his body.

Galen rushes from the tunnel and begins collecting the coins that are my due. I put the thought of the prince’s tax collector and his piggish eyes from my mind as I raise my sword to the heavens once more. A bellow of fury escapes me, an animal cry of victory that only those who have survived battles can utter. The crowd bellows back, approving. They stamp their feet and the chant begins anew. Blood runs down my blade and drips from the hands that wield the sword in the name of my grandfathers. I can only hope that I honor them this day.

Victory rings in my ears as I turn and leave the arena. I ignore the slight pain deep in my chest, the way my lungs struggle to capture air. How long I may continue to do so is a question that weighs heavily upon my heart in the depths of the night. * The twelve men seated around the scarred oak table rise as I enter the dim cellar. Sweet tobacco smoke curls into the haze that hangs above their heads. They greet me with the warrior’s salute, sword arms pounding their breasts. I nod to them in turn, meeting their eyes for a moment, acknowledging their loyalty, their friendship, their willingness to risk all for honor and justice.

They resume their seats as I take my place at table’s head. I sit as well. Galen pours a tankard of ale and sets it at my elbow before moving to stand behind me, arms crossed over his thickening chest. He

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has grown into a strapping young lad in the years since his father’s death and serves me well. A pang of sorrow stabs me for the burden he must soon shoulder. But he has learned much under my tutelage and is a valiant warrior in his own right, though he has yet to face true battle. I know that he will make his father and uncle proud when that day comes.

"All is in readiness?" I ask these brave men. Graying heads nod affirmation. I lift my tankard in salute before drinking. The cool ale washes away the dust of the arena, soothing my throat if not my soul.

Every man follows suit. This will be our last gathering around this table. The next time we meet, we will celebrate our victory. Or we will burn in hell. * Adreanna, my beloved wife, great with the child I may never know, stirs as I enter our bedchamber. My heart swells with love for her and our unborn son. I know the child will be male, because I have seen his face in dreams. I pray those dreams may not be my only glimpse of him. His name shall be Korek, in honor of the king whom I served for so long. He shall grow tall and strong and wise.

A smile lights Adreanna’s face as I sit at her side and stroke her golden hair. She takes my hand in hers and places it upon her swollen belly. I feel the life stirring there. I sigh with both delight and regret. This child will be our first and I cannot contain the joy I feel at receiving such a gift. I caress my wife and child, head bowed as I whisper a prayer to my grandfathers.

"Must you do this thing, Husband?" she asks.

"I must. There is no other, as you well know."

"Aye, so I do. So I do." She falls silent then, words a paltry conveyance for the conflicting emotions stirring her heart. We sit in silence, our love a river, wide and deep, flowing from my heart to hers, hers to mine. I am blessed.

After a time, I know not how long for I am lost among the faint heartbeats beneath my scarred hands, Adreanna rises and fetches a bowl of cool, clear water. She removes my sword belt and boots, strips me of my stained breechclout, and rinses away the blood and grime before binding my wounds.

Next, she washes and braids my long, graying hair. My wife kisses my hands, my forehead, and my lips.

Then we lie together for what may be the last time. I hold her in my arms until her breathing settles into the slow pattern of sleep.

I envy her. I will not sleep this night. * When darkness has settled to its greatest depth upon the land, I rise and don my old uniform; the gray and green of Korek’s guard, which has not been seen for many seasons. My King’s colors will be seen this day once more. They will be remembered.

I touch my wife’s cheek, her skin soft and delicate. I marvel at her beauty as I have always done.

She shines from within as well as without and carries my heart in her hand always. Tears trail down my cheek as I bend to kiss her. She smiles in her sleep, grips my hand for a moment and squeezes gently. I smile in turn. Her face will guide me through the chaos and bloodshed to come, a beacon.

"Know that I love thee with all my heart," I whisper as I leave the room. The ancient words ring true and that is more than many men can say. Should I fail, the provisions I have made will keep her from suffering at the hands of my enemies.

Galen meets me in the hall. He too wears his King’s garb and I am proud to see him so. He nods, resolute as he hands me a steaming mug of tea. We speak in low tones of justice, of the rightness of what we are about to do.

The twelve wait in the courtyard, seasoned veterans all. They offer the warrior’s salute once more. They speak a name. It is not my name. It is the name of our fallen king. I nod my approval and open the gates.

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Four-score and six-hundred of Korek’s loyal men snap to attention. Arms rise to breasts as one in salute. I return it with pride. Blades hiss from scabbards and point to the sky, my own among them. We stand thus for a moment, fierce and devoted and free, determined that, if we cannot continue to live so, we shall die so.

The twelve move to the heads of their respective columns and I take my place at their head, Galen at my side. He meets my eye and I see his father in him.

"Should I not live to see the end of this day," I say, "watch over my wife and son for me. All is in readiness for their flight, should the worst come to pass. You must guide them. They are your family now. You are a son to me and I hope that I have been a good uncle, if not a father."

He smiles. "You are the greatest of fathers, Uncle. You are father to us all."

I can only nod, my throat suddenly unable to open for words. We begin our march.

I look back a final time at my home. It is a good home, with good soil and a good well that offers clean, plentiful water. I risk its loss, but that pales in comparison to the loss I have already suffered beneath a tyrant’s hand, that we have all suffered. We go now to end tyranny and if I must die to achieve that goal, so be it. The riches and fame I have earned in the arena mean nothing without freedom; mean nothing when compared to the honor of serving a just king.

I raise my hands at my sides and stare at them as we march. This day, these hands will not fight for gold or silver or the adoration of the crowd. This day, these hands will fight for honor; my own, my king’s, my brothers’, my country’s. My son’s.

These hands will wield my grandfathers’ sword, perhaps for the final time. But I would rather fall in battle for a just cause than wither beneath the weight of age until the day I am finally vanquished for a usurper’s entertainment.

These hands would have it no other way.

BIO: Shaun Ryan has another story called “The Song” in this collection of short stories. He has chosen to use this as his 2nd BIO for this anthology: Biometa I think, therefore I am. I think..

Some thoughts scare me and others make me laugh. There is magic in laughter and fear.

Once in a while, a thought occurs that inspires tears. I try and write those down.

There is magic in tears.

I dream, therefore I scream. Occasionally, some dreams intrude upon reality and force me to channel them and covert them to pixels and bits.

Something is usually lost in translation.

Every so often, I forget, I forget what. Perhaps that I am mortal and mere and thus susceptible and fallible and wee, pondering where and when and why

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to be, and how.

Those are the moments the magic breaks free, pours forth, flies, and I soar and spin and try to cast a net over stars that flicker like me; every star fills its span of time with light and dies.

My purpose and desire; my task is to shelter what fleeting bit of light and wonder I can capture from the shadows.

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Where reality and fantasy blur…

Where your dreams scream to be set free…

www.Liquid-Imagination.com

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Smashing Pumpkins Art by Jack Rogers

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Smashing Pumpkins

by Annemarie Bogart

Hester carved into the pumpkin’s orange shell, wincing while her gnarled, arthritic fingers worked their magic. Making such masterpieces required perseverance. She gr imaced and continued to slice.

The old woman put down the knife and took in her craftsmanship. Hester beamed at her creation.

The pumpkin’s wicked grin smiled back.

Hester turned the pumpkin over and hammered the nail through the bottom. With tenderness, she placed the candle inside the hollowed fruit. She pressed the wax onto the jutting nail.

“We don’t want this candle falling down, now do we?” Hester looked over at her black cat nestled on the counter. It yawned a response.

She lit the candle. Even indoors, the illumination through the meticulous carvings proved magnificent.

Hester placed the top on the pumpkin. Her aching hands picked up the masterpiece, careful not to

extinguish the flame.

She trudged from the kitchen, down the narrow hall to the open front door. The pumpkin’s weight hurt her lower back and aggravated the stiffness in her hands.

The wooden planks of her front porch creaked under her feet. She bent over and placed the glittering Jack-O-lantern on the corner edge of the top step. It joined its five counterparts, all arranged artistically on the staircase. Hester lumbered down the steps, turned and stared at the sight before her. A smile crept across her thin lips. All unique in design, each one r adiated Halloween brilliance.

Satisfied, she made her way back up the stairs and into her old house. Her fingers grazed the overflowing bowl of baked treats and home made candy on the hall table.

Hester plopped into her lounge chair and gazed at the fireplace. Flames lipped through the grating. The crackling sound and the warmth soothed her. There, she waited for t he trick-or-treaters to

arrive. * Hester’s eyes flickered open. The fire burned in front of her. She nestled into the softness of the worn chair. Voices; she heard faint conversation from outside.

Her ears pricked. She sat up, trying to listen, but most of the words were undistinguishable.

“Oh my! Trick-or-treaters!”

Hester struggled from the chair. Every year, it seemed harder and harder to get up. She steadied herself on the coffee table and peered out the window.

A pirate, a clown, a genie, a cowboy, an Indian and a ghost stood on her front pathway. The full moon illuminated their small faces. Hester wondered why they weren’t ringing the bell. She watched the biggest boy, the clown, talk to the pirate. She couldn’t make out all the words. Something about, “I dare you”, and she swore she heard the word “chicken.”

“Oh dear! They must be afraid to knock on the door!”

Hester watched the pirate kick the dirt. He dropped his sword and bag on the ground and approached the house. The other children stayed back.

“Finally, the children came and I almost slept through it!”

Hester decided to meet him at the door, just in case the young boy changed his mind.

She heard a crash from the front porch. She trudged through the living room toward the door, joints stiff from sleep.

“Oh no, I hope he didn’t get hurt!”

Hester tried to move her elderly body faster. She heard several crashes, then laughter from beyond the front door. She flicked on the hallway light.

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“She’s coming!”

The old woman heard one of the children yell. Hester grabbed the bowl of candy and tucked it to her ample breast. With her free hand, she opened her front door. A bright smile plastered across her face.

“Happy . . .”

Hester spotted the children running away. The ghost was the last to turn onto the road, the white sheet billowing over small moving feet. Then, she saw the carnage. Orange and yellow pulp covered the rickety steps. Pieces of thick shell scattered throughout the front of the house. Hester gasped before her lips turned downward. The bowl of treats fell from her grasp, thudding onto the porch. Cookies and chocolate hurdled through the air. Pumpkin guts lined her steps, her porch, the front lawn. Her heart felt heavy. Tears brimmed her eyes, overlooking the masterpieces that lay in shambles.

“How could they?”

Hester walked across the porch to survey the orange slaughter. Her slipper lost its footing on the slick surface. The old woman fell backward. Hester hit the porch hard. Her head thudded against the sticky wood. Throbbing pain shot up her lower back.

Closing her eyes, she let the fury take hold. For years, she had held back her true self. She made a decision long ago to try to fit into regular society, but to no avail. Year after year they denied her, they excluded her. The rage took over and she let it.

Hester’s arm rose from the deck. In the glow of the porch light wrinkled skin smoothed and transformed into soft green pigment. It didn’t bother her like it used to. At this moment, she treasured it.

A wooden broom stood in the corner of the porch. It started to shake. Hester could hear the tap against the house siding. She clenched her eyes tighter; h er powers were a little rusty.

The broom flew into her outstretched hand. Its force lifted her off the grou nd. Hester felt no

more pain.

Voices. She heard them, the culprits. They were close. Hester grinned. The old witch mounted her broom and took off into the night.

The broom rocketed through the air, fuelled by anger and revenge. Hester’s skirt flapped against the wind. Her eyes squinted downward for her prey. The full moon made the hunt easy. Its light brightened the usually dark country roads. She spotted them. The demons were in her sight. They walked the dirt road. Hester heard their laughter echo into the sky. Celebrating a fast getaway, she presumed.

How wrong they were. Hester sneered and turned her broom towards the unsuspecting children.

The genie; Hester focused on her first. The gap between the witch and the little girl diminished by the second. Hester cackled and the group looked up. The girl cowered to the ground. Her hands covered her head. The rest of the group scattered. Their screams resonated through the night. The witch held tight to the struggling girl. She could feel the child’s ribs crushing beneath her vice-like grip. Her young screams turned into gurgled gasps for breath, then silence. Hester let her body drop to the ground. It broke much like one of her dear pumpkins. The old witch laughed a deep cackling sound at the sight.

“Five more to go!”

Hester circled the area. All her prey stayed in her peripheral vision. None would escape her wrath, not on this night.

One by one, Hester snatched the children. One by one, she smashed them to the ground. She relished the sound of bones crunching against the solid earth. Their red pulp stained the road. Each death brought her closer to justice. The last sound any of them heard was her cackling laughter echoing through the moonlit sky. * The doorbell chime sounded through the house. Hester smoothed her black gown and grinned in the gilded mirror. Her delicate green fingers grazed the Jack-o-lantern cookies she baked for this special day. “The Monster Mash” played from the surround-sound speakers. She knew this year would be

different.

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“Trick-Or-Treat!”

Hester beamed when she heard the words. She glanced down at the little blond girl on her threshold. The young girl’s front teeth were missing; it added to her charm. The fairy dress sparkled gold under the porch light. The little girl outstretched her arms and held out her plastic bag. Hester contained her excitement. With poise, she dropped the wrapped iced cookie in the bag.

“You’re my first customer.”

A male voice chimed in, “I’m sure you’ll have a lot more. Half the neighborhood has b een

talking about your house.”

Hester glanced up. A sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties stood behind the sma ll girl. He held

out his hand.

“Hi, I’m Jim Roberts. I live around the block. I meant to come welcome you when you moved in, but you know how things get. I’m sorry I took so long to give you a proper welcome.”

Hester’s unwrinkled hand slid into his. It felt warm.

“Hello, I’m Hester.”

“So, you really take Halloween to a new level. I love your costume. Not everyday you see a witch that goes with the green make-up. Funny thing, it suits you.”

Hester’s cheeks felt hot. It’d been a long time since a man gave her a ny attention.

“Come on, Daddy.”

The little girl pulled on Jim’s hand and he shrugged.

“Duty calls.”

Hester leaned against the doorframe and watched them descend her brick stairs.

“These are great! I just had to tell you.”

Hester's smile widened at the acknowledgemen t of her newest masterpieces.

Six skeletons lined her front pathway, three on each side. Inside the skulls were candles. Light shimmered through the eye sockets. Each one was dressed differently. A pirate, a clown, a genie, a cowboy, an Indian and a ghost stood guard.

“I used to have Jack-o-lanterns, but some naughty children destroyed them. I think these look

much better, don’t you?”

Jim smiled and nodded. The little fairy waved goodbye.

“Happy Halloween!”

Hester walked into her house and waited for the next customer to arrive.

BIO: Annemarie Bogart writes everything from flash fiction to full-length manuscripts. Her work can be found on Liquid Imagination, House of Horror and in anthologies such as Elements of Horror and Feary Tales. Her flash, What’s Your Poison? was made into a short film this year. Her manuscript, AMAZ AND GRACE was a quarter-finalist in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards. She lives in Belle Harbor, NY where she ponders the actual existence of literary agents.

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The Waiting Room Art by Jack Rogers

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The Waiting Room

by I.E. Lester

Welcome, welcome!" a voice says. "Sit yourself down and make yourself comfortable. You may have to wait awhile." The owner of the voice, a vague female, shape indicates a grey couch-shaped object behind you.

You sit.

You realise you have no idea where you are. Your vision is blurry. but it looks like a waiting room; could be anywhere - a hospital, a corporate headquarters? You can't remember.

There's a table. It's too low to be truly useful. There's a pot plant in the corner, next to the . . .?

A coffee machine. Thank heaven for small mercies. Coffee! It might help clear your head. You press a button and the machine issues a plastic cup of brown liquid. It's tepid and bland, slightly bitter.

You look around but there's no sugar. But at least you have a drink. Maybe things are looking up.

You look around the room again, vision beginning to clear. The plant you saw is a yucca; your mother had one. The walls are white. No hang-on cream, but very pale. It must be one of those "hint of colourâ&#x20AC;? off-whites. The carpet tiles are grey, a shade or two darker than the couch.

You sit back down and take another mouthful of the almost-coffee before placing the cup on the table next to a pile of magazines. You take a second look; you hadn't noticed them before. You guess you must have still been a little woolly. The coffee's helping that at least, even if it leaves a stale aftertaste.

You pick up the top four magazines and check the contents. God, someone's got terrible taste in reading material. Narrowboats? Ballroom Dancing? Yachting? Orienteering? God no! You skim through the rest of the pile. It doesn't get any better. Not a menâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mag or sports paper in site. You hope you won't be waiting long.

You drink more coffee, regretting it as soon as you've swallowed. Your focus is returning but you still can't remember what appointment you are waiting for. To be honest, you can't remember how you got here. Last night must have been a good one.

How long have you been here? You've never liked waiting.

You look at the door at the far end. Is that where the woman went? You don't remember. It must have been, there's no other way out - no windows either. Aren't rooms like this illegal now - fire regulations and all that?

They've got one of those fake view posters on the wall opposite - it's showing a beach scene, probably Caribbean. It should be beautiful but you find it insipid and bland.

You stand and walk to the door. There must be a receptionist on the other side. Maybe you can find out where you are. You grab the handle. It turns, but the door doesn't open. The lock must have jammed. You bang your fist against the wood around the door's frosted panel.

"Hey!" you cry. "I'm stuck in here."

No one answers. When you stop shouting and listen, it's quiet. No, there is a noise there - some form of music but too quiet to really tell. It's getting louder now though. You wish it wasn't. It makes the telephone company's hold music sound good.

You bang the door again but still no one answers. You shout for help again - same result. They must be on lunch or in a meeting or something. You're sure someone will come back soon. After all, they must know you're in here. You were shown in by that woman.

You sit down again. Despite your earlier misgivings you pick one of the magazines up and open it at random. Traditional weaving techniques? Christ, do people actually buy these magazines? Or are they created just for waiting rooms? *

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You wake up. You hadn't realised you had fallen asleep. How long have you been here? It must be hours.

You try the door again. Still stuck and there's still no sign of movement through the frosted panel.

You bang the door and shout again. Still nothing! Surely there's someone out there? * You put it off as long as possible, but you're going to need to drink. The coffee sucks. Big time.

But thirst drives you. You aren't hungry though. Odd. You decide to try one of the magazines again. A how-to whittling guide - "Create your own Owl from a block of wood". Oh God. * Okay, this is getting serious now. You've slept twice. You must have been here more than a day.

That's just taking the piss.

You pull the couch onto its back and twist one of the legs. You're going to need some kind of weapon to break through that glass panel and its chicken-wire reinforcing mesh. The couch comes apart easily enough. It was hardly good quality.

You take your new "club" over to the door and bang on the glass. It doesn't break. * You scratch another mark into the cream wall by your bed. It's a cliche you know. You saw it in some movie. The title of it evades you. There are thirty marks on the wall. You've slept thirty days since you got here. And still no one comes.

You look around your prison again. The couch is long gone. The cushions make a serviceable bed with the armrests serving as a pillow for your head. The wood and metal frame piled in the far corner with the shreds of the beach poster. It must be a week or more since you decided you couldn't stand looking at it any more.

The yucca's history, too. Although the soil trod into the carpet did nothing but make it look duller.

The magazines! How you hate the magazines. You must have read them all a dozen times over.

Everything you never wanted to know about the lives of people you never cared about in twenty-three individually bound volumes. How can people be so spiteful to have inflicted such boredom on an unsuspecting world?

The coffee machine still hates you. You would smash it but you know the thirst would be unbearable. Still, you put it off as long as possible. That machine's outpouring is hateful.

And all the time there's that muzak! It cycles through a series of tunes you find familiar but cannot identify - but without any feeling. It feels hollow. So do you.

How much longer? * It's been one hundred days. One hundred days alone.

You know you're never going to see anyone again.

You've torn your shirt and jeans into a serviceable rope. It will suffice - you hope.

The coffee machine has been granted a new purpose. Having climbed on top you can reach the ceiling. You've carved two holes, one on either side of one of the beams holding the roof up. Now to thread your rope through and tie the knot.

You place your head through the noose and ease yourself off the machine. It tightens and you can't breathe. You don't struggle. It will be over now.

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* "Welcome, welcome!" a voice says. "Sit yourself down and make yourself comfortable. You may have to wait awhile." The owner of the voice, a vague female shape, indicates a grey couch-shaped object behind you.

You sit.

You realise you have no idea where you are. Your vision is blurry, but it looks like a waiting room; could be anywhere - a hospital, a corporate headquarters? You can't remember.

And you can't shake this feeling of deja vu.

BIO: A brief guide to me - Lifelong sf/h fan. I've written book reviews and the occasional articlesfor a couple of years. My reviews and articles have been published in a number of magazines and websites including Shroud Magazine, nossa morte, Down in the Cellar, polu texni, Andromeda Spaceways and New Myths. I've had three ultra-short drabbles published in Necrotic Tissue, and one further drabble accepted. I have another story awaiting publication in a new magazine coming out later this year.

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The Dollhouse Art by Jack Rogers

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The Dollhouse

by Jennifer L. Gifford

I'm an artist. I confine myself to one simple medium, but my art is one of a kind. Working in fear and pain, much the way Picasso worked in oils; I utilize whatever tools I have around me to complete my dark masterpieces. I specialize in the macabre, emulating the dark essence of it, capturing it in all its dark, twisted beauty. Death, sweet death, is my greatest creation.

My pieces are never seen by others, and while one day I hope that my creations bring me notoriety, I make them for the sole purpose of my own enjoyment. They are my creations, though they didn't start out that way. At first they belonged to God, but I stole them from Him, and I made them mine own.

My pieces as a novice were rough, choppy, and out of proportion with the form. But over time I learned to correct the broken limbs, the pasty complexion and yellowish skin that had once been a drain on my energies, not to mention the scarcity of my precious resources. Much like any other hobby, it takes practice, dedication, and commitment.

Helena was my first success. She was so breathtaking, and still is, I sometimes sit in awe of my own handiwork. She was handpicked from hundreds of others. It was her face that captivated me, drew me to her. Helena was special.

She had a heart-shaped face, soft and round with the cheeks of a cherub. Her hair flowed around her feminine features like spun corn silk. And the eyes, oh the eyes, so full and round--like her lips--were deep pools of cerulean.

I took her one night, bringing her to my studio, where I do all my work. I prepare them there, before putting them in the dollhouse. It’s old, a three-story brick structure down along the Detroit River, and I own the whole building. It's in a seedy part of town where everyone minds their own business, and no one asks questions. But it’s quiet, and I need quiet when I work.

The dolls always seemed so shocked to find themselves my helpless guests. I believe it's because they have never been in the presence of a true artist before, so I imagine that is where their anxiety comes from.

I gave her a lethal dose of sedatives. It's my own personal blend of prescription painkillers and good old-fashioned laudanum.

It's best to wait until they are fully asleep before inserting the thick embalming needle into the side of their neck, near the carotid artery. Sometimes a doll’s eyes will flutter open, catching sight of the needle sticking out of her neck. It's intoxicating to watch the fear wash over them in their last moments.

The needle is hollow, and with the needle at the neck, it's easier to elevate the doll to let the blood drain. I empty it of blood, but not completely. That small amount of life left in them keeps them warm

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just long enough for me to prepare them. I must also admit, it's here that I get a rush knowing that their last precious drop of divinity is controlled by me.

Starting with her lips, I formed the full oval into a tempting pout. Next I scrubbed her form from head to toe before spraying her with a painting primer that serves as a sealant and top coat.

I use spray paint as a foundation. It's cheap, and it comes in a lovely variety of shades that I can match to any of the dolls' skin tones. After, I painstakingly airbrush on all the subtle lowlights and glowing highlights their natural skin tone had.

While the paint dried, I started on her hair. I always like my dolls’ hair to have loose curls that frame and accent the face. I want to show off the natural beauty of my dolls, not hide it. I think that's what makes them all lifelike. The rest of the embalming process is completed while I finish the hair.

I artfully made up her face. Dramatic eyes, like a movie star. I injected super glue into the eyeballs themselves, at the corners. It keeps the eyes from decomposing, and gives their eyes that glow that seems to gaze at me with longing. Lastly, I put on a single coat of crimson lipstick. The effect was quite remarkable.

After her body dried, I fitted Helena into a rich ivory gown of Italian silk reminiscent of a ball gown of the 1930's. It was such an expensive purchase, but I wanted something special for my first doll. It hugged her curves. While the jewelry I use was just flea market costume jewelry, the glass beads are the finishing touch to my work. I placed a silver and faux pearl-drop necklace on Helena, and kissed her cheek gently; I knew that I was done.

I moved her back to my house, carefully propping her upright in her climate-controlled box in the basement. The rich sheer blue silk draped over her backdrop really compliments her beautiful hair and eyes.

Sure, all of my dolls are blondes, and are tall, and certainly curvy. But those are the type that I like to play with. They are all similar, and though I like all of my dolls, I admit that Helena was my favorite, perhaps because she was the first. Or maybe it's the deep blue of her eyes that reminds me of my own face before the accident. She was my favorite, until I met you.

So you see, you shouldn't be afraid of me. You are being given a unique and wonderful opportunity to be immortalized forever. I'm very particular, and I only select the best dolls for my collection. You will be the gem, and I have something special in mind for you.

BIO: Jennifer Gifford has always had a fascination with the dark and humorous side of fiction. She hates creepy old dolls, spiders, and garden gnomes. The inspiration for her stories strikes her in the oddest of places from an elevator, walking in class, even in the shower. Her story, “The Dollhouse” was previously published in Glutonlumps Chilling Tales, as well as in Erie Tales: Tales of Terror, and Erie Tales: Zombie Chronicles. She’s previously been published by Demonminds Magazine, N.V.F.’s Halloween Anthology And Soon…The Darkness, and well as Mysteryauthors.com. Her short story, “From Embers to Ashes” can be found in M-Brane’s Science Fiction Magazine. Her work has also appeared in Breath and Shadow magazine. She is a proud member of Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers, where she has served as Treasurer for two years. She loves to read, to cook, and loves horror movies. In turn, her nightmares are often the basis for her husband's stories, because she fears that writing her own nightmares

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will make them come true. Jennifer has been writing for almost two decades, and spends her time in three states: Georgia , Michigan , and panicked.

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About Us

The inception of two powerful dreams drove the publisher to create Liquid Imagination Online in September of 2008. After its first year Liquid Imagination Online had 300,000 internet hits. Another year went by and Dzanc Books placed Liquid Imagination Online in the appendix of their “The Best of the Web 2010.” We have interviewed award-winning authors and nationally known artists; published the best in speculative and literary fiction; and pushed digital poetry and micro-fiction of the highest quality. At the center of our goal to reach the world: the significance of those original dreams.

In the first dream, a dream-song woke the publisher with lyrics mentioning “Liquid Imagination.”

In the second dream, the publisher walked down a dark corridor in an art gallery. On the wall hung a painting, but his attention was drawn to the small golden plaque beneath that read “Liquid Imagination.”

The next morning the publisher began working toward Liquid Imagination Online.

Combining artwork and photography with each story and poem, Liquid Imagination Online is here to stay. Our goal is to fill the world with fantasy, horror and literary fiction and poetry, to infuse the wordsmith’s medium with music and audio, as well as our digital works.

After our success on the internet, Liquid Imagination Magazine simply had to happen. You hold the evidence of dreams in your hands. We pray Liquid Imagination Magazine guides you into the emotional truths contained in the fiction of our writers. We desire nothing more than your satisfaction, hoping you find stories that will make you forget your life if only for a while.

However, the words liquid imagination hold more meaning than our publishing endeavors.

Liquid imagination (to us) is pure creativity flowing through every artist. Whether the artist stands before the canvas capturing a landscape, or whether the artist paints within the human mind via the medium of words, the artist’s greatest tool is pure creativity. We believe liquid imagination is a river leading to unexplored worlds of untapped creativity. Our goal is to take you to the abyss and force you to look down. Like those lining up for roller coaster rides to come as close to death as possible in order that they might get their hearts hammering—in order to feel alive!—we hope you, too, will reach that adrenalinpumping feeling that gets your heart racing and your mind thinking by the turning of these pages.

We want to inspire, frighten and fill you with wonder. And we would also like to invite you to visit Liquid Imagination Online at www.Liquid-Imagination.com.

Thanks very much for picking up an issue of Liquid Imagination Magazine. We sincerely hope to see you again.

John “JAM” Arthur Miller Publisher

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Veins Art by Jack Rogers

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Veins

by Amanda C. Davis

In my dream, an acid--or a bacteria or bullet or beast; dreams are pliable that way--had gnawed a hole in my palm so that the light shone through and the veins stretched clean within like water pipes in old walls.

The hole continued down into my wrist along the bone. I could see the structural supports of my right arm, bare of the messier kinds of flesh. My skin hung hollow like wineskin.

I told this to my roommate, Allison, the med student. "Acids wouldn't leave the veins behind," she said. "You're messed up, you know that?"

I flexed my right hand. I was not as messed up as I had dreamed I was.

At work one of the electrical engineers called me over to look at a half-built control panel. Slick bundles of red and yellow wire clung to their connections, cascading into long plastic rows, spilling out to the floor.

I said, "I had a dream that my arm looked like that."

"Like the Terminator?" he said.

"More like a biology-class frog," I said, thinking of high-school afternoons with a tray and scalpel. Its plasticized innards twanged like rubber but were unmistakably organic. I'd been the same, in my dream.

"I dreamed I was back in college and I hadn't been to class all year," he said.

I let him tell me all about his nightmare. I could not tear my eyes from the wires.

That evening Allison and I watched medical dramas. She told me how wrong they were while I stared at the tangle of cords behind the television set. They sprouted like tentacles from the surge protector, all black, many widths, smooth and clean: discrete pipelines surging with electrons.

"If you really ignored that kind of injury for the length of that conversation, they'd have bled out by the time you got back," said Allison, to me and the careless TV writers.

"I wasn't bleeding in my dream," I said. "The bleeding parts were gone. It was just...solids."

A commercial came on so she took the three and a half minutes to lecture me about how bleeding really worked, how you couldn't leave behind a shell of skin and veins no matter how much blood you lost. I clutched my arm to my stomach, pretending to listen. I'd seen the fleshless runs of white and pink from finger to elbow. It could be done.

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If she hadn't gotten up early she wouldn't have found me; I was nearly finished then, far beyond pain. Hot metals had cauterized the hole in my palm so that the light shone through. The arm was harder.

She was right about the bleeding. I had to make an incision down my forearm and scoop and scoop to clear away the bones, the veins, the long solid things I could not name but recognized so clearly as they parted from the red flesh to stretch proudly from wrist to elbow, organic streamers, beautiful and clean.

Last night I dreamed I had my right arm again. But the left hung raw at my side, skin and bones and solids gone, a long lump of flesh with five floppy fingers at the end.

It will be trickier.

BIO: Amanda C. Davis has strange dreams and great nightmares. Her work has appeared across the web and in print, and is scheduled to appear in Shock Totem and Triangulation: End of the Rainbow, among others. Visit her at http://www.amandacdavis.com.

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