Cover Illustration by Eleanor Bennett
a publication of Silver Pen
Issue 15 Sept 2012
The Silver Pen Writers’ Association Presents a Silver Pen, Incorporated Publication
'Magination Magazine Director and Publisher: Sue Babcock Fiction Editor: Kellee Kranendonk Cover Art: by Eleanor Bennett ’Magination Magazine is a publication of Silver Pen, Incorporation, which is a non-profit organization focused on quality writing and reading. Kids’Magination Learning Center is a division of Silver Pen dedicated to children who are eager to write stories about the fantastic flights of their imaginations. Copyright ©2012. All reights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information contact sue@silverpen.org All stories herein have been compiled by Silver Pen, Incorporated under ’Magination Magazine. These are works of fiction. All characters and events protrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are fictitiously used.
www.kidsmagination.com
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About our Cover Illustrator
Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning artist. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. See more of her photography at www. eleanorleonnebennett.zenfolio.com
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Contents Contents
Think of Me Now and Then
1
by Lee Robert Rohe illustration by Eleanor Bennett
Colloidal Romance
10
by Samuel Barnhart illustration by Eleanor Bennett
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Fiction Think of Me Now and Then by Lee Robert Rohe illustration by Eleanor Bennett
If only he could erase that afternoon as easily as erasing a drawing on an Etch-A-Sketch. According to the adults, he should be having a carefree time. But one week into the summer break, Tang’s bliss melted like a snow cone on hot asphalt. He was outside, in the midafternoon tropical heat, when he heard that sound, the rushing sound of a dozen mullet jumping at once, the sight of the canal erupting into a white froth as fish hurled into the air, escaping whatever was chasing them. The sound of so many fish raining down like hailstones always excited him. He ran onto the dock after grabbing his bow and arrows from the shed. He saw breaks and ripples in the still surface. Another school was coming his way. Tang drew back on the bow. Page 1
Aim for the center of the school, he thought, then he’d probably hit one. He knew how light would bend in water so he aimed below the fish to adjust for the distortion. He pulled the feathered end of the arrow all the way back to his cheek. The bow seemed about to break from the strain when the bowstring popped. The arrow clattered on the wooden planks of the dock. Tang bent down to pick up the arrow. He needed stronger line, even if it meant breaking the rule against going into Daddy- O’s tackle box. Daddy-O was inspecting bridges somewhere on the Keys. Mama and his brothers went to the Mainland to buy groceries and see a horror movie matinee, The Creature From The Black Lagoon. Daddy-O’s fishing rods and the shiny aluminum tackle box, with its foldout trays, were in his parents’ bedroom closet. In thickly-callused bare feet he sprinted for the house and bedroom. As a toddler, Tang loved to pull open the trays of lures and play with them; each one colored and marked to mimic a certain bait fish. How stupid a fish must be, he thought, to strike on some of these cheesy lures! Tang liked the Magic Minnow, picking it up with thumb and forefinger, avoiding the dangling hooks. Made of wood, it sported a miniature rubber fin, rubber tail and black eyespots. He’d smile at how it sparkled in the room’s sunlight. A green and white Trigger Lure concealed a hook which sprang outward from its plastic belly upon being struck by a fish. Some of the lures were designed to spin. Another one, designed for trolling in the Gulf Stream, came in an iridescent blue, green and purple resembling a baby squid. The rubber tentacles had tiny suctions cups. Tang removed the lures before reaching for the spool of heavy line in the bottom of the box. But the hooks of one lure snagged the spool and a white envelope, a letter. He sat cross-legged inside the closet reading the outside of the envelope. Addressed to his father, Raymond Warren, the letter inside was imprinted with an embossed silver image of a high-rise hospital. He had already broken the rule against messing with his father’s fishing gear. Now he was confronted with snooping in his father’s mail. He weighed his chances of getting caught and then began reading the letter. He could Page 2
read three grades above his own sixth grade reading level but the medical words in the letter were impossible to pronounce much less understand. His face flushing red, Tang read the whole letter; then again and once more. The letter mentioned a “surgical procedure” for “cardiac patients” that was “still experimental.” The letter was signed by a doctor, a “Cardiologist.” At the end of the letter, a phrase jumped off the page: “. . . otherwise, you risk sudden death . . .” What did he stumble into now? Why did he have to snoop? The walls of the closet bent inward, as if to squeeze him. At one moment, his mind refused to comprehend; at other moments, the meaning of the letter seeped in like a slow drip of water. When the whole meaning finally poured into him he could no longer peek at it. Tang fought off the sudden lightheadedness by putting his head between his knees and concentrating on something empty of meaning, the decorative images on the floor tile. After a minute, he raised his head and read the last part again, hoping to find good news which he might have missed. But it stubbornly said the same thing. The thought of what might happen at any time with Daddy-O’s condition terrorized him. Now he understood. Understood why Daddy-O would sometimes tell him to “pay attention” to what he was saying or teaching him. Re-reading the letter again provided no relief. Outside, the rusty door of a pickup truck squealed open and shut followed by the bang of the screen door. No time to run. Tang slid backwards on his butt back into the closet, drawing the open doors to a closed position. The angled slats of the closet doors let in a zebra light: he could see only downwards. As footsteps approached, Tang held his breath. A pair of khaki trousers and work boots ambled around the room, ghostlike, in a cloud of cigar smoke, coming into view and going out of view. Tang’s heart now thumped in his throat. My heart’s too loud! he feared. It’ll give me away. He deliberately exhaled slowly. Daddy-O emptied his pockets to the jingling of coins and keys on the dresser top. Oh great! Tang thought, already feeling cramped, he’s going to take his Page 3
afternoon nap! I can’t hide in here forever. Through the slats, he could smell the gin distinct from the cigar. He stopped breathing as a very close, broken profile of Daddy-O passed before the slats. His father had bent down to place the boots in front of the closet. Tang stopped breathing. The cigar smoke tickled his nostrils. He was allergic to tobacco --- and pillow feathers. Just the sound of his father fluffing the pillows made his nose itch even more. Veins bulged in his forehead. He repeated to himself, I will not sneeze. I will not sneeze. “Ah-Choo!” The doors flung wide open. He could not look upward at the imposing figure in boxer shorts and bare feet standing over him. “All right, Son,” Daddy-O said, squinting at him like he was an unusual form of marine creature, “you can come out now.” Tang held up the spool of line from the tackle box like it was proof of his innocence. “I needed stronger line . . . for my bow.” “Why are you hiding?” “’Cause you don’t like us messing with your tackle box.” Tipping to one side, he stretched over to push the trays back into the tackle box. A corner of the letter showed from where he was sitting on it. “Stand up, young man.” Tang rubbed his right calf muscle, making a grimace. “I can’t. I got a leg cramp.” “Stand up!” He rubbed his calf muscle harder. “It hurts real bad.” “Stand up!” Tang rose pretending he couldn’t stand on his right leg, exposing the letter on the floor. Page 4
“Hand it to me.” “Hand what?” “You know damn well what!” “This?” Tang pointed at the letter with the toe of his “good” leg. “Hand it to me.” Daddy-O folded the letter. “This is not for you. Not for anyone else. You will forget you ever saw this. Do you read me, Buck!?” Tang tried another grimace, reaching for his leg. “Speak up!” “Okay,” he said, in a plaintive tone, “okay.” Daddy-O shook the letter at him. “I don’t want your mother getting all stirred up about this. Besides, it’s just one quack’s opinion.” Tang’s shame at being caught suddenly melted into sorrow. “Please, Dad, don’t -“Don’t what?” “You know . . . don’t . . . die. Don’t. Please.” Reaching up high on tiptoes, Daddy-O hid the letter on top of the closet. No one would see it without a ladder. “You’re way too young to be worrying about these things. Do not say a word to your mother or your brothers.” “Promise, Dad, you won’t go . . .” “I’ll do my best.” He tousled Tang’s hair. A strange numbness caused his voice to squeak. “It’s not fair.” “Life isn’t fair, son. But something as ordinary and natural as death can’t be bad or wrong. I only hope I have a little more time with you boys.” “If it’s not bad, then I’ll go with you.” “Whoa! You have a whole life ahead of you. You have to carry the Warren name into the future. Promise me you’ll never think like that again.” Tang looked at the floor. “I’ll miss you.” He rubbed out the tears with the Page 5
front of his T-shirt. The drinking, which Tang bitterly resented, he now realized was a way of trying to live with some optimism each day while death sat on his father’s shoulder. Although it meant embarrassment and anger for his family, the gin worked to cheer up Daddy-O. Daddy-O told Mama that gin and tonic was “malaria medicine.” Yeah, right, Tang thought. The public spectacles at school events or Cub Scout meetings, the sloppiness, the bellowing and the slurring of speech, Tang instantly forgave. Daddy-O had to live with a ticking time bomb. He pondered the square tiles of the linoleum floor with their happy, tropical images of pink flamingoes, coconut palm trees and stick figures blowing musical instruments at an island carnival. This moment didn’t seem real. He hoped it was a bad dream but he knew better. He didn’t know what to do with this terrible new information except to keep it a secret. He wanted to escape --- into another world. Like the world of pastel colors and dancing Caribbean elation; free of sorrow, free of the weight he now carried. Gloominess was supposed to be banished by a tropical sun, a sun which even shined through the rain. But he knew it would always be with him now until . . . until that day when. . . Sitting down on the edge of the bed Daddy-O said, “Come here and look me in the eye, son.” Tang shuffled over. He smelled the gin again as Daddy-O lifted his chin upward until their eyes met. “You must give me your word.” Daddy-O said. “You will not say anything about this letter. Not to your mother. Not to your brothers. Not to anyone. Comprendo?” Tang nodded. “Look me straight in the eye and tell me.” Tang choked back an upwelling of feelings. “Yes,” he said. “Yes Sir.” “Yes what?” “Yes, I’ll keep it secret.” Page 6
“Your mother and brothers are not going to be burdened with this. It’s a damn shame you had to find out.” Daddy-O’s eyes chased an escaping thought. “I might as well tell you now. As the oldest son,” he began, “you’ll be the head of the household. You three boys will have to pull together and be a team and ---” Tang cupped his hands over his ears. “Dad, I can’t listen to --- ” Daddy-O pulled the hands away from his son’s ears. “Look at me,” his father said. “Be strong for your mother and brothers.” Tang covered his ears again. “Dad, I can’t listen to this!” “Here,” Daddy-O said, impatiently jerking Tang’s hands away. “Look at me dammit! Do I have your word on this?” The numbness came over him again. “Yes Sir,” he replied. “Not a word. Are you with me, Buck!?” “Yes Sir!” “Aye now, me Laddy!” Daddy-O shifted to his Blackbeard the Pirate voice, “let’s shake on it, Matey!” Putting on a brave face, he grasped his father’s thick fingers. “It’s my siesta time,” Daddy-O said. “Doc says I have to give the ‘ol ticker a rest every day.” He picked up a paperback novel from the nightstand, leaning back against the pillows, and pointed to the box fan on a stand at the foot of the bed. “Do me a favor, son, and turn the fan on to HIGH.” The fan revved into high speed, riffling through the book’s pages. “Go into my golf bag,” he pointed at the closet. “Reach into the side pocket and bring me the bottle of Nitro pills.” Tang found a plastic bottle of pills. “Be very careful,” Daddy-O warned. “Nitro is Nitroglycerin.” “What’s that?” Tang shook the pill bottle to hear the rattle. “No! No! Don’t shake the bottle! Just hand it to me --- nice and easy.” Page 7
Tang handed over the bottle, watching as Daddy-O placed a tablet under his tongue. Then he took back the bottle from his father. “Did I do something wrong?” Tang asked. Daddy-O held up a finger for Tang to wait as the medicine dissolved. His father explained with a straight face. “Nitroglycerin’s an ingredient in dynamite.” Tang backed away. “Dynamite!?” First, the surgeon’s warning about “sudden death” and now a possible sudden explosion! Being around Daddy-O was dangerous. “You mean,” Tang said, “these pills could explode . . . ?” Daddy-O chuckled. “I’m just teasing you, son. You look you so grim.” Tang forced a smile. “Aw, that’s my boy!” Tang replaced the pill bottle in the golf bag where Daddy-O kept it hidden from Mama. Their solemn ceremony of secrecy was over when Daddy-O turned his attention to the paperback. “I guess I’ll go fix my bow,” Tang said. “Uh-huh,” Daddy-O said distractedly, engrossed in the latest adventures of Admiral Hornblower in the West Indies. Then, as if to himself, “Think of me now and then, will you? After I’m gone.” He uttered an “okay” and left the bedroom. Tang held his breath, unknowingly, at the dread of being summoned back by Daddy-O. Hurrying through the house, he burst through the screen door, catching it before it slammed, inhaling deeply like a skin diver returning to the surface. Unable to shake it off, like a net clings to a fish, a new, alien darkness settled over him. A crushing feeling urged him to take deep breaths and then to flee aimlessly down the coral rock road. Running out of breath, he took shelter in the shade of an ancient, sprawling banyan tree. Tang found a hiding place, a nook in one of the tree’s trunks. He sat down and wept as quietly as he could. Page 8
THE END
AUTHOR BIO: Lee Robert Rohe grew up and lives in the Florida Keys where he has a law practice. He is a published short story writer and produced playwright. Two of his plays were staged Off Broadway in New York City. Rohe was awarded an individual artist fellowship grant by the State of Florida in 1996. PHOTOGRAPHER BIO: Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning artist. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. See more of her photography at www.eleanorleonnebennett.zenfolio.com
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Fiction Colloidal Romance by Samuel Barnhart illustration by Eleanor Bennett
“But I’m in love!” Arken the Tempestuous gurgled. At least, I assume he did. A failed experiment that turned him into sentient purple gelatin decades ago made his voice sound like popping soap bubbles. Regardless, I was angry. Crossing the room, past piles of clocks and sundials, and moving around our latest project taking up the center, I picked up a calendar and flipped through it so quickly one might miss the notes scribbled in the margins. “You have to understand,” He curdled, adjusting his waterproof robe. “This is real, it’s true love, Riv.”
we’ll be traveling through time.”
I snapped, throwing down the calendar. “Do you realize how close we are? Within a month
“We might travel through time; there’s no guarantee.” Arken corrected. Page 10
“We certainly won’t find out if you leave.” The Collegium of Mystic Pursuits required me to apprentice under an established sorcerer for a year. Few practiced my chosen field of chronomancy, and Arken seemed like the best choice. He retained a vaguely human shape and could be forgiven his eccentricities, like tossing broken experiments on the floor and immediately moving to the next one, or waking me up at night to test something that suddenly occurred to him. Especially considering we really were close to manipulating time. But this was unforgivable. Weeks into our latest experiment, and he was backing out to get married. I couldn’t finish by myself before the end of the semester, and this was my last chance to pass, as none of the other projects succeeded. Who would marry him, anyway? I wasn’t entirely certain, but they’d probably have to adopt. Arken gave up pleading with me, and flopped down on the floor, sobbing. I stood over him shaking my head. “Postpone the wedding for a month. You could wait until the semester finishes, but I’ll settle for a month.” “A month,” Arken sputtered. “Riv, do you have any idea how long I’ve searched for love? I studied time itself to prolong my life in order to find someone I care about! I can’t wait a month, a week or another hour. I have to get married now.” “And you couldn’t have told me sooner?” “I thought you might get upset.” “Don‘t I have a right to be? In order to become a chronomancer I need to graduate, and that means I need you.” “You know, I didn’t attend some ridiculous collegium,” Arken slurped. “I made it on my own.” “Yes, you’ve told me that a thousand times. But sorcery is different now, and for anyone to take me seriously, I need to be certified. Now stop staining the tiles and get up.” I helped Arken to his squishy feet and followed him out of the laboratory, avoiding the luminous trail he left. He stopped in front of a mirror in the hall and pulled down his hood. Disappointment overwhelmed me, watching him preen. I’d gotten used to Arken’s spherical, slippery head with one narrow slit serving as eyes, mouth, ears and nose, but could a woman? A knock came, the knock we both expected, but only I dreaded. Arken whipped his Page 11
hood back up and opened the door with flourish uncommon for an ooze. She was tall, but you’d only notice that if you were polite. The love of Arken’s life was encased in a green insect carapace with an elongated, spiky head. Her arms were shaped like a human’s, but made of bronze with gears instead of joints. She came in on thousands of tiny, clicking legs that emerged from under the shell. A tan young woman peered from behind her, eyes widening at the sight of Arken who rushed forward to his fiancée. “You look simply wonderful, Fondrath.” Seeing my master gush did answer one question; they would definitely adopt. “Darling, this is my apprentice, Riv Copen.” He gestured to me, and mustering all my manners, I nodded. “Yes, here’s my apprentice, Petris.” With a voice like groaning timber, Fondrath acknowledged the woman hovering in the doorway. Arken shook her hand briefly before she yanked it away and wiped it on her knee. He returned to Fondrath’s side unoffended, and both began talking about how they’d met at a convocation of mages. I remembered my own parents and how they fought constantly, using me to undermine one another before I escaped to the Collegium. Granted, I was still upset about being abandoned by Arken, but I saw how happy he looked and it started to rub off on me. “Guess this is goodbye, Riv.” I jumped at the sound of my name. Arken had his slippery arm around Fondrath and put the other on my shoulder. “You’re welcome to keep this place if you want. I doubt I’ll need it.” The pair exchanged a glance and burst out laughing as they walked to the door. Petris leapt out of their way, and thus ended my apprenticeship under Arken the Tempestuous. “Do you believe them?” Petris asked. I shrugged. “They’re in love.” “And I‘m homeless. They plan on living in her castle after the honeymoon. Whoever heard of a homeless geomancer?” “Geomancy?” I asked, stunned. “You conjure sand?” Grabbing Petris by the shoulders, I pushed her into the laboratory before my final project, the monstrous stone hourglass dominating the room. Petris shoved my hands aside and eyed the rest of the place suspiciously, nudging the fallen calendar with her boot. “You’re a chronomancer,” She remarked flatly. “Well, I’m second in my Page 12
class at the Foundation for Esoteric Wizardry, so I can make more than just sand.” But I was already digging through a pile of tools. ”You can take Arken’s room, but it might need a few days to dry out.” I pulled up a hammer and handed it to Petris, grinning. “For now, let’s get to work. I have a semester to pass.” THE END
AUTHOR BIO: Samuel Barnhart has written stories since graduating high school, occasionally stopping to earn a living by making ice cream, tearing tickets at concerts and tutoring Japanese. He lives in Florida, writing beachside in defiance of the hurricane season. PHOTOGRAPHER BIO: Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning artist. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. See more of her photography at www.eleanorleonnebennett.zenfolio.com
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