The Fable Online Issue 11 January, 2016
Editor-in-Chief Sarah Kedar
Associate Editor Cassiopeia Lancaster
Š2015, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors Photo used in cover creation by Jimmy Brown. CC License
Table of Contents So You've Decided to Invest in a Religion by William Squirell .......................................................................................................................... 4 The Freebie by Denny E. Marshall ...................................................................................................................... 6 Win at All Costs by Gary Hewitt ................................................................................................................................ 7 Galaxy Tree by Phil Temples ............................................................................................................................ 10 Green Eyes by Angela Campbell ...................................................................................................................... 16 High Road by Charles Hayes .......................................................................................................................... 23 Inn of the Dead by Fred Miller ................................................................................................................................ 28 No Way Out by William Quincy Belle ................................................................................................................ 33
So You've Decided to Invest in a Religion by William Squirrell The Vatican is not the blue-chip prospect it once was. Jon Stumpf, the guy who in the summer of 2001 told everyone to buy Al Qaeda, describes Rome’s recent buoyancy as a “Pastoral Bounce.” Everyone is excited about the new guy to be sure, but Good Pope-Bad Pope routines are not enough to keep this leaky tub afloat. If some asset-stripping heretic can arrange a leveraged buy-out and dumps all the deadweight then go ahead and take a flyer, otherwise jump ship. Old school Confessionalism of the National Church sort is in even worse shape. The Catholics still move a lot of product on the strength of their commitment to homophobia and misogyny, but the Lutherans and the Anglicans are peddling gender-neutral Kum bah yah banalities to dwindling congregations of bemused blue-haired conservatives. So long as the old dears keep filling up the cemeteries there is a little value to be extracted from these institutions but really, the smart Protestant money is on the Pentecostals. Jihadists are strictly for daytrippers. You have to get in and get out fast. Sure Stumpf made millions off his hunch, but he dumped the lot before Tora Bora. Religious corporations that depend on oppositional hysteria for publicity and belong to schismatic ideological traditions will always, always, always crash and burn. Think Jim Jones: sure the People’s Temple stock got white hot when Congressman Ryan was in the air but it only took a little Kool Aid to put out that fire. Big money can be made on the lunatic fringe, just make sure your shot of them before the shit hits the fan and the brows in D.C start to furrow. Those Securities and Exchange Commission investigations can drag on for years. The word on Ecumenical Funds: Boring. Oh God. So boring. Diasporic religions are popular with those investors who like to pretend minority groups don’t rely on the same oppressive cultural institutions for their survival as do the rest of us. Plus that Rivers-of-Babylon nostalgia they perpetrate is soothing to lonely, alienated agnostics. If a diaspora is persecuted by unsavory ideologies or the bureaucrats of some foreign government and is championed by a white rapper or an actor who once did something edgy they can get hip with the craft beer and recumbent bicycle crowd and
start to really gush cash. But beware: not all diaspora are welcome in all investment communities. For instance, the Bob Marley Bubble aside, Afro-American religions are just a touch too pushy about “justice” issues to ever attract serious venture capital. Whither the East?: Yoga is the new Zen; crypto-Confucianism is a safe bet so long as little girls everywhere need their hopes and dreams crushed; Hindu Nationalist stock continues to inflate like the corpse of a cow under the Bengal sun; Taoism is up one day, down the next. A profitable niche to explore is holiday secularization, but bear in mind that for every Easter, Chinese New Year, or Day of the Dead, there is a Kwanza or a Purim just waiting to bankrupt you. And the Great Boxing Day Massacre of 1987 is not going to happen again – transactions on or near holy days are now tightly regulated by the Commodity Futures Trading Commission. Liberal or Fundamentalist?: Stupid question. An investment in a religious corporation that identifies as liberal is worse than a donation. If you can’t stomach the idea of getting fat on the back of philistine zealotry just keep socking your surplus away in low-risk mutual funds and leave religion to the professionals. Finally, never take advice from your minister, priest, rabbi, guru, or imam. In fact, don’t take advice from anyone who confuses truth content with market value. That includes true believers, serial church-swappers, and faithless conformists, as well as scientific and Marxist atheists, oedipal God haters, conspiracy freaks, espresso nihilists, and smug sandal-wearing rationalists. The only people you can ever really trust are licensed stockbrokers.
William Squirrell is a writer living and working western Pennsylvania. His work has appeared in AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review, Bastion Science Fiction, Blue Monday Review, Bewildering Stories and others.
The Freebie by Denny E. Marshall Dave is on the couch watching his favorite show. He hears a noise. Dave turns his head and sees a figure standing there in a white shiny robe. It is a woman with long flowing blonde hair and light seems to emit from here body. Her face wrinkle-free, eyes blue and bright. With a smile that is friendly and inviting. “Are you an angel, are you here to get your wings?” Dave asks. “Yes I am an angel, my name is Lorraine, and no I am not here to get my wings. I have had my wings since the mountains formed.” She replies. “Are you going to take me to heaven then?” Said Dave. “No, you are not going to heaven.” Lorraine answers. “Why are you here then?” Dave continues. Lorraine replies, “In the next fifty years lots of people will die. We do not want a jamb up at heaven's gate so others and I have come down to give the dying swipe cards that will speed up the process. You are scheduled to die March 4, 2062, at 12:26.33 p.m., eight hours from now. I am here to make sure all the information is correct. Your swipe card will automatically appear when you die and will be bonded on your palm, which can only be removed at heaven's gate.” Then Lorraine disappears. About an hour before Dave is scheduled to die, Lorraine reappears. “Dave I made a mistake, it is a different David J. Smithin. Forget everything that has happened in the last seven hours. You do not die for another sixteen and a half months.” Lorraine states and then vanishes. She could have left out the last part Dave thought. And how could he forget this. The next day Dave goes to church and continues to go. While most of us have to rely on blind faith, Dave got a freebie. Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, and fiction published. One recent credit for cover art is Disturbed Digest June 2015; the other half of the drawing is on the back cover. One recent credit for interior art is Bards And Sages Quarterly October 2015. One recent credit for poetry is the Literary Hatchet #12. One recent credit for fiction is Night To Dawn #28 October 2015. See more at www.dennymarshall.com.
Win at All Costs by Gary Hewitt I want one. In fact, I’ll grab both of them. I overfeed the slot and pennies drop. I’m breathing fast. The copper slides behind my prize. I sigh. The cursed coin rises onto the one in front. My mischievous pony glares in defiance. His partner lies perched on the edge of the other side of the machine. Another coin invades the game. I’ve got three onto to the lower section. They’re going right at the prize. He must go this time. A shower of coins rain into the winner’s tray yet the pony refuses to ride for me. My reward goes straight back. I try the machine gun approach. One after the other the copper rain falls. There must be at least ten into the bottom tray. One of those ponies will be mine. I can’t believe it. Still they remain with their bushy pink tails tucked into the coin stable. Five coins left. One has to strike. I try the one by one approach. The first rides on the top shelf and nothing falls. The second and third do the same. My fourth hits and one of my ponies almost falls. I think about pushing the machine yet the attendant is looking straight at me. One left. One hit to get a pony prize. My lucky coin lays flat. The trail to the horse is on. Yes, two drop and they’re bang on target. I’ve got a tidal tummy of nerves. Nothing falls. “Can I have a go?” I give way to a tiny girl. She can barely reach the top. She tries the machine gun angle and six coins storm the lower shelf. She cheers. This is so not fair. I shove her aside. I seize two ponies and run. I don’t take her coins, though. I hear
‘Mummy, that girl stole my ponies' reverberate in the arcade. They won’t stop me. I’m galloping all the way home. I wonder if Dad will buy me a stable.
Gary Hewitt is a raconteur who lives in a quaint little village in Kent. He has written two novels which he will edit one day. His writing does tend to veer away from what you might expect. He has had over 70 short stories and poems published and has performed to several live audiences. He enjoys both writing prose and poetry. His style of writing tends to feature edgy characters and is often extremely dark. He is also preparing his novel Shadowfruit for release in 2016. He is also a proud member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre Writers group in Maidstone which features an eclectic group of very talented writers. He has a website featuring his published works here: http://kingsraconteurswork.blogspot.co.uk/
Short Story
Galaxy Tree by Phil Temples
It’s a glorious late summer afternoon. The forest vegetation is lush and green. It shades my two children and me from the bright sun. I see a cacophony of vegetation: oak, sycamore, and assorted conifer trees tower around us. Piedmont-Indigo bushes and Gray Dogwood dot the path. Blue jays and robins flitter to and fro. All seems right with the world. “Mommy, are we there yet?” My ten-year-old, Jenny, is once again growing impatient with our trek through the forest. Surprisingly, my younger son, Alexander, is the content one. I glance over and see what he’s fixated on: he’s playing with a wooly bear caterpillar. He gently prods it with a stick. “Don’t hurt it, honey,” I implore him. “I won’t.” Alexander sighs. True to his word, he drops the stick and proceeds to gently stroke the creature while admiring his alternating black and reddish-brown segments. “When I was your age, my grandmother told me that people predicted how bad the winter would be based on how thick a wooly bear’s coat was.” “Really?” “Yep. And you know what? When it grows up, that wooly bear will turn into a beautiful Isabella tiger moth.” “What’s that?” Alexander asks. “Can we go now?” Jenny interrupts. “Yes, dear. It’s time to move on. Alexander, Jenny: grab your packs, and stay close to mommy. We’re headed…” I pause in mid-sentence to check the position of the sun in the
sky, consult the map, and then my compass. “That way. We have some ground to cover before nightfall, so hurry.” When I was Alexander’s age, my mother and father took me on this a late summer pilgrimage to this exact forest to see one. It is a coming-of-age tradition that many families observe. I reflect for a moment about how, last year, Jake and I talked about the four of us taking this trip. I miss Jake terribly! It makes me teary-eyed to think about it. But I don’t want Alexander and Jenny to see me sad on what should be a happy occasion. I wipe the moisture from my eyes, clear my throat, and put my happy mommy face back on. *** We walk. Sometimes we walk in silence, but usually not. At this particular moment, we’re making so much noise that the wildlife undoubtedly has been scared away for miles around. Jenny and Alexander take turns babbling in a singsong manner, the kind of which I and any other adult have only distant memories. To be that young again! I envy them so. Right now, Alexander is the tired and cranky one, while Jenny is energetic and upbeat. Ten minutes ago, their roles were reversed. At any rate, I hope they’re excited to be on this trek with me. A half-mile up the path, we encounter another family--a mother, father, and three children about the same age as mine. We stop for a few minutes to exchange pleasantries. They tell me that they, too, live in the city--in fact, not far from our flat. They arrived yesterday to look for one. “Any luck?” “We found a small grove of them over that way a couple of miles.” He motions to the east. “All immature, though. None of them were ready to bloom.” The kids shed their backpacks and play with one another while we adults share Trail Mix
and exchange information. I break out my map and show them which sections we’ve covered. I point to where we’re headed. “Yes, that may be a good place to look. We haven’t been there yet.” They tell me they’re headed further west and north. “Well, good luck!” The husband adds with a chuckle, “Is your husband sitting this one out?” His wife shoots him a disapproving glance. “My husband passed away six months ago.” I manage a weak smile. “It sounds silly but… I feel that Jake’s here with us now.” “I don’t think that’s silly at all.” The woman gives me a hug. Her husband tells me he’s sorry. He shakes my hand. They both give me their business cards and invite me to look them up when we’re back in the city. Already, our respective kids seem to be lifelong friends. They get their gear on, and then we both part ways and head in different directions. *** “What’s it like, mommy?” asks Alexander. Before I have a chance to reply, Jenny responds. “It’s the most fantasticredible thing in the whole wide world!” She waves her hands in a big arc over her head. Her enthusiasm is contagious. Alexander thrusts his hands up over his head and yells, “Pssssshhhh!!” as if he’s exploding. “Yes,” I say, enthusiastically. “It’s going to be fantastic-able… incredible, ah, ‘supercalifragilisticexpiaidocious-able!’” They both giggle at my new adjective. “I sure hope we find one.”
“We’re certainly going to try. No guarantees. But I’ve got a good feeling about this. Come on, let’s go.” *** We walk another hour. The sun is getting low in the sky. Soon it will be time to think about setting up camp. I’m a little disappointed that I haven’t spotted any yet. Not even an immature one. I see a clearing up ahead that will serve as our camp. I turn my head to tell the kids of our plans. That’s when I catch a glimpse of something crimson and yellow towering above the tree line. There! I spot one. It’s no more than five hundred feet away. Bingo! I tell them of our find, and the kids get wildly excited and begin to shriek with delight. They go racing towards it. “Wait! STOP!” I want to examine it first to make sure it’s safe. This is an exceptionally big one; it’s over a hundred feet tall. Judging by its behavior, it’s probably within an hour or two of blooming. As we get closer, I can see it swaying and pulsating in a rhythmic manner. It resembles a gigantic phallus on the verge of ejaculating. I giggle. “What, mommy, what?” They both demand to know what’s so funny. “Oh, nothing.” I remember the first words I blurted out upon seeing one in this forest when I was their age. I asked my parents if it was “like my doggie’s ‘wee-wee’ only bigger.” My father smiled; my mother pretended as though she didn’t hear the question. “Okay, kids. It’s not safe to be close for long because it’s going to bloom very soon. We’ll
just hug it for a moment, okay? Then we’ll go back and unpack, and have a quick bite to eat.” “Then what?” demanded Jenny. “After that, we’ll wait. It won’t be long now.” The three of us hug the structure, and then we return to camp. I make a small fire, pitch the pup tent, and set up the kids’ sleeping bags. The last of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cookies have been consumed. We snuggle together. I pat their heads and rub their tummies. They look at me quizzically. “That’s for good luck,” I tell them. They giggle in response. I’m silent, lost in my thoughts. Trying to think of my wish. “When you see a Galaxy Tree bloom, you make a wish and your wish will come true.” “Really?” “… Like this one?” “Yes. Exactly! Now, think about what you want to wish for because very soon now…” Just then, we hear loud popping, cracking noises followed by a rumbling sound. This is it. The Galaxy Tree is blooming! My kids and I watch breathlessly from our tent, as the living tree-rocket ship breaks free from its root ball and blasts off. It easily defeats earth’s gravity and soars high in the sky. It’s beginning a trek that will last for many millennia, taking it into the far reaches of space until it finds another world to call home. “Wow!” cried Alexander. “Wow,” I say, too. Words simply cannot do justice to the wonderful spectacle we’ve just witnessed.
“Wow.” “… Double wow!” “What did you wish for, Jenny?” “That daddy hugs this Galaxy Tree when it gets to heaven.”
Phil Temples lives in Watertown, Massachusetts, USA and works as a computer systems administrator at a university. He has published over ninety works of short fiction in print and online journals. Blue Mustang Press published Phil's murdermystery novel, “The Winship Affair" in 2014. And his new paranormal-horror novel, "Helltown Chronicles," has just been accepted by Eternal Press.
Green Eyes by Angela Campbell
Roar. Ahem. Roar. Ahem. Ahem. Roar. It is a jungle out there, and I have to defend my territory. Against those alligators, those elephants, those enormous bear-eating rabbits. They exist, I promise. They exist right here in this jungle where I live. Don’t even get me started on the furry, pink cows and The Hungry Caterpillar. I am scared of him. They say he’s hungry, and I don’t even want to get close enough to know what that means. But I am King of the jungle, so they need to be scared of me. I can’t show them my fear. I know they say that the Lion is the king of the jungle. But that is not true. I am the king here of this place, and I am a bear. But I have one weakness. Bet you are dying to know what that is, but don’t tell the others. They will just try and take my kingdom from me. I am in love with a beautiful green-eyed princess. We used to be lovers. Her and I. We were inseparable. We would roll around in the jungle. Have fancy feasts in big tents, have tea with all the animal rulers of the world. And we’d discuss politics over tea. Yes, just her and I. And underneath the green, glowing stars we would lay on the fat clouds and cuddle. And her green eyes would batter at me, and she would tuck me into the soft, lavender-scented clouds. And we would lay there, side-by-side, her and I. And I would stare all night at her eyelids where her beautiful green eyes were snuggled under. Oh, there she is. I bet she is here for me. She has missed me, I know. But I don’t think it is as much as I have missed her. Look at your eyes, look at her big green eyes. They never change. Nope. She is here for that beepy thing. Good, it was starting to annoy me. That beep
beep beep and every now and then it would shake and make a funny sound on the jungle’s wooden floor. It was trying to challenge my kingdom and me. All of my kingdom cowered in fear, but I held my place. I said I would not give up without a fight, and it threatened me with those beeps and shakes – but I didn’t give into fear. No, not me. He’s trying to take my woman. Maybe the Shaker was using a defense mechanism. Natural selection really is not doing its thing nowadays. I don’t remember any of my friends ever beeping or shaking. But the jungle is a big place, so I guess I have not seen everything. She is still here. She is looking around our kingdom. She is talking to the Shaker. My insides are heated – they are glowing. My fur is turning into sharp edges. How dare he touch my woman? How dare he beep against her? But I can’t do anything. I can't leave my place on my throne as king; I can’t run to her in front of the other animals. They will know my weakness; they will overthrow me. Look at her holding the Shaker, giggling with it, what does it have that I do not? It’s small, hard; you can’t even sleep with it. Maybe the beeping is a plus. Maybe that is the new thing people want to love nowadays. They are all lovers of that beep. Look at him. He is smirking at me, I can tell. I just want to tear him apart. Roar. Roar. But look at her big bright green eyes. I can’t be angry when I look at those eyes. I can’t feel anything at all. I am numb. Pinch me. I merely stare into them. She puts all this paint around them nowadays. I do not like it. I do not like the paint. It makes her eyes look darker, but I know they are not. I know that behind all that paint, are my bright, beautiful green eyes. Oh, she is coming back. Everyone hold still. Look your best. I am going to straighten up my tie. Hopefully, she will see I am trying. I will plead her with my eyes. She will like that. What is she looking for? Oof. That was a long fall. She did not mean to, though. She did not mean to push me over – to shove me onto the wooden floor of the jungle. Look at the animals strewn
about next to me. It was definitely an accident. The Hungry Caterpillar is a little too close to me; it is making me nervous. I hope he doesn’t get any ideas. I need to defend my territory. But I can still see your eyes and they are searching. For me? I am here princess, here in the midst of the jungle. I am straining my mind. I am pleading with her. I am trying to show you images of you and I in the clouds. No, she grabbed Mr. C. She loves Mr. C nowadays; she slings him over her arm and puts the Shaker in him. I am not sure what kind of animal he is, he never told me. He has a weird pattern all over his body; it looks just like a bunch of letter Cs. I am sure he and the Shaker are good friends. They are plotting to take her away from me. But they don’t know how much I need her. I need all of her. Every single bit of her, especially those green eyes. With her, I am always in heaven; I am always floating amidst the clouds. She will never know how much I love her. She is gone. She has left the entrance of the jungle open, and now sunlight is pouring in from square in the side of my kingdom. I let out a long breath. Hopefully, I will see those eyes again tonight. Hopefully. I love you, princess. I see you and me on the clouds again. You are giggling and holding me tight and pressing my paw. And I whisper sweet nothings into your ear on the grass outside next to that swing. We used to swing together, remember? I sat on your lap. And we were happy and you laughed. And I did not care about the wild grass stains that were smeared against my fur. I was king of the world then, not just of the jungle. With those big green eyes, I could do anything. Hours go past. The jungle is dark now. No sunlight falls in. I hear giggling, laughing, shouting, screaming. It is coming outside of my square jungle. I am still on the jungle floor. I hear footsteps. Wobbly footsteps. Stumbling footsteps. Footsteps that do not have the rhythmic pat pat pat to them... instead its pat, god dammit, thud, ugh. I can hear dragging across the floor. I know it is you, princess. I can tell. I can always tell, because I
am in love with your footsteps, I am in love with your god dammit and your pat pat and your ugh. I am in love with all of you and I can see you stumbling in the darkness. You seem disoriented. You can’t see where the clouds are. I want to run over to you and pick you up and lay you on the clouds so we can stare at the stars together again. But I can’t. My paws are too small and I am too weak. I wish my love could carry you because my love is stronger than all the animals in the world, even stronger than a lion. My love could lift you. If only love had paws – it would have strong, furry paws. Gentle paws, but strong. You stumble into the room, holding onto the door – holding it tightly and clinging onto it. You are falling. I want to catch you. I strain my mind to move my fuzzy hind legs but I can’t. I am trying, Love, I am trying. Please don’t fall. When you hurt, I hurt. When I see your face hit the jungle floor, I scream out in my mind. My fur is standing on end. I scream out to you. ROAR. ROAR. I am trying to move my legs. I am trying, princess. I am trying with all my might. I am pushing and kicking and screaming and tearing at myself in my mind. ROAR. ROAR How could I let you fall? Why can’t I pick you up? But on the floor of the jungle, you lift your head. You’re not dead, my princess. Thank the glowing, green stars you are not dead. But the paint around your beautiful, bright green eyes is melting away, down your face. It’s melting away onto the floor. You lift your head up from the ground, and you turn, and… you stare at me. Thanks all the stars in the heavens. Thank all the lords of the green starry skies. You’re staring at me with those eyes. And it’s at me, no one else. Not the Shaker, not Mr. C, who are lying strewn across the floor. What have they done to you?
But it doesn’t matter now because you’re looking at me. I see you crawl over to me on your hands and knees, and you push the Hungry Caterpillar out of the way (thank goodness) and you reach for me. Your fingers close around my paw, and you squeeze. I love you, I say. And you smile and hug me. You press me against you. I feel your long hair brush against my fur. We’re together again; we’re in love again. I knew it. I had never given up hope on you, my love. This is my place right here, against you. My place is cradled against your warm neck. I am being lifted up, and you set me on the clouds, next to you. It’s like I am in a dream. An amazing, beautiful dream, but if it is a dream, I never want to wake up. Don’t pinch me, love, let me stay, staring at your green eyes. I see you next to me, your arms wrapped around me, water falling from those green eyes. Your paint melting away, forming dark spots on my fur. But I don’t care; you’re the most beautiful in this moment, with me. You’re all I have and all I need. I can be forever happy like this with you. I hope you know that, love. You tuck me into the clouds and we are tangled. You snuggle your eyelids over your eyes. And I watch you, melted paint and all, lie beautifully next to me. I love watching you, princess. I keep watching you, I don’t know how many seconds have passed, or minutes, or perhaps hours, but I don’t care. Time doesn’t matter right now. It never has when it came to you, love. But there is a beeping in the distance. It grows louder and louder. Shut up beeps. Shut up. I think of the Shaker, but he’s on the jungle floor next to the clouds; he’s too close. There are no beeps coming from him. It’s from farther away. I hear them, like angry demons coming to take you away. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Please stop. Please, don’t end this moment. Please Love. Don’t wake up. Let the beeps go. To my relief, you don’t wake up. You snuggle me closer and my eyes smile. Beep. Beep. Beep. But the beeps have grown louder. They are coming for her. They are coming to steal her away in the night. Why won’t they stop? Please stop. Beep. Beep. Beep. There is yelling now in addition to the beeps. Yelling from the entrance of the jungle. I see a black mist floating in our jungle, in our kingdom. We are in danger. I can sense it. You are in danger. You must run. Wake up, my Love. Wake up. You’re bright green eyes flutter open. You stare at me, confused, scared. It will be okay Love, go, and leave now. I will meet up with you later. The kingdom is in danger and you must flee. Go to a different place where you will be safe. Your eyes are big and growing bigger. Go now, Love. You get up off of the clouds. The black mist has grown in the room. It is covering up our glowing, green stars. But there is no time. Yells come from outside the jungle. You run to the entrance of the jungle, but before you leave, you turn back and look at me. It will be okay, Love, just go. You are frozen against the entrance way. I love you, I say. You stare at me. And I stare back. I am tracing those green eyes in my mind.
Go, Love. And you’re gone. The black mist sets in around me. It grows denser and denser. Whispering to me, telling me that they will take you. But their words don’t hurt me. Nothing can, all I can see are those green eyes, and they are etched in my mind and my fur and my insides, like my tattoo of your initials on my paw. Nothing can tear our kingdom apart. I will stand here and guard it; I have no fear anymore, no weakness. Your love has become my strength; your green eyes, my breath. And as the yellow, red, and orange armies crowd around me, I pay them no heed. I can see you out of the square of the jungle. I can see you next to our swing. I can see you staring at me. I can see your green eyes through the black mist. And that’s all I need.
Angela Campbell is a 2012 graduate of the University of Notre Dame and is currently attending American University for her Masters Degree in Foreign Policy. During the hours she should be studying, she spends most of her time writing short stories and forever placing the "finishing touches" on her novel. If she is not writing, you can find her consuming copious amounts of Cabernet Sauvignon at a local Virginia Winery. Her short stories have featured in several publications including Bookends Review and Caravel Literary Arts Journal.
High Road by Charles Hayes
Like the center stage of a sprung gallows, my insides quickly seem less when I discover my former wife’s obituary on the internet. Despite all this time apart I am snapped back to that time we knew together. Wholly unprepared for this discovery, I quickly learn just how deep some things can run. Things that lie mostly dormant yet are a part of the main, always there just waiting for the right synapse. I thought that I had a much better handle on my past and what it makes of me. Thought that I would not be so taken unawares in my years. Memories of her flood my mind. And a lump in my throat tells me that it is not just in my head. Suddenly, out of the past, I am touched. Young and new, Southern Appalachian boy and Northern New Jersey girl, a mutual bloom along a common route, we were. Plates of drippy spaghetti held beneath our chins while our eyes smiled across the room at one another, Julie and I were oblivious to the others scattered around the austere offcampus apartment. I knew that she wanted me. She had told others. And she knew that I was looking for a steady girl. All my friends knew that. In the small underground social groups of that time, word of such things got out no less than in society at large. Perhaps even more so. That is one way that I knew that Julie was not promiscuous as many other hippies were. Another was from my own interactions with her on a more intimate level. We were alike that way. Still I wanted to bring our relationship to the bed but Julie didn’t want to go that far that fast. Our impasse was well known among our immediate early 70’s counterculture. The others, most well into their own relationships, simply were socially aware. Situations like mine and Julie’s were things to keep track of. It made for a smoother trip through those times. Like two rare birds, Julie the colorful art student, and me a drab military veteran back in school, we flashed our young wares. It seemed only natural that evening, among the community, spaghetti, and warmth, that I should try to make it with her again. And it seemed that Julie wanted that as well. Moving to her side along the arm of the large chair where she sat, I searched her face and said, “Is it true that you really like me?” Not surprised by my candor since we already had more than a casual knowledge of each
other, Julie smiles and nods. “I feel the same way about you,” I said. “But I want us to start with a commitment all the way. Can you do that?” Her eyes suddenly a little anxious, Julie slowly looked down and said, “Yes.” My one room apartment was only across the alley in the next building, so we set our plates aside and, hand in hand quietly left the gathering and went there. The creaky old steps provided the only sounds along the climb to my place atop the old off-campus house known as “The Ghetto.” Without saying a word or even turning on the lights we committed together and never looked back. *** Poor but fresh and continuing to blossom, we passed through our studies and graduation and began our travels along the same roads as most of the rest of the country--jobs, real living expenses to pay, and a crash course in after school life. Much different from the freedom of academia, there were struggles and disappointments to begin with but we pulled together and found that, though times could be unpleasant, we were indeed young and stronger for the effort. We developed a rhythm to our ways, be they capital bound in Julie’s New York or excursions back to my Appalachians and the nurture of spirit that they could provide. Eventually, times became less arduous and more relaxed. Perhaps it was then that our bond began to flex and grow less tight. Some of the principles of our former counterculture began to yield to the pressures of a money driven society. Avenues and uncommon roads took on a different light and seemed to beckon our growing confidence and changing priorities. We began to explore things that might have seemed too mainstream before. But not always together. Because of her natural beauty, Julie was frequently hit on by the customers of the Soho Arts Cooperative of lower Manhattan where she worked as a buyer. She would tell me of those encounters and laugh them off leaving me unconcerned about it. But the one that would do the damage she never mentioned until it was probably too late to gain a foothold in my priorities. I had recently lucked out with a new and better paying job in the Behavior Sciences Department of Bellevue Hospital. And, being involved with the switch from the gofer class to the gofer for class, I neglected our relationship and perhaps set the stage for Julie’s excursion into nude modeling for one of the major shareholders of the arts
cooperative. In other words, for one of her bosses. Since all the work was done in the cooperative studio and Julie was well paid for it, she felt it unnecessary to tell me about it. That’s what she later said anyway. But when the paintings of her became so well known for the lovely model that appeared in them, it all came out. She became so sought after that she began doing it full time, making a lot more money than I did. Involved in my work, I simply chalked it up to the Southern boy, Yankee girl thing. Just different styles but likes in the heart. And I helped spend the money on higher living along the path to wherever we ex-hippies were going. Too much my thoughts were about not checking the teeth of a gift horse and not enough about there is no free lunch. Julie’s New York was lining our road with sugar plumbs while the beautiful colors and hardwood forests of my Appalachians received none of our once popular zen visits. We were happening…..and we were still young. One late afternoon I needed Julie’s signature immediately on an investment document. Quickly, I made the short trip from Bellevue across Manhattan to the cooperative. From the Canal Street Subway exit I hustled a couple of blocks North on West Broadway only to find a sign in the cooperative front door saying, “Closed.” However when I tried the latch the door opened into a dark shop but there was light coming from the walled off back studio where her work usually took place. I was a little surprised to find that the shop was closed during her sitting or standing or whatever it was called but I had no time to ruminate about that if I was to meet the investment deadline. I hurried through the shop to the connecting door and, without thinking, pushed it open. There, my beautiful naked Julie was, her arms gripping the hind quarters of a bronze pony while one of her bosses pummeled her from behind. "Nooooooo!” I screamed. A primal cry like none other. From a park bench in Washington Square, I first noticed the large statue and where I was. It was very late. Though I had not eaten nor drank anything, I didn’t know how I got there. It was much later still after I walked the many blocks up to what only hours before had been my midtown home. For a good while after that, I was not all present. Just so much tissue going along by rote. Julie and I never spoke much after that. It wasn’t long until I left for the somber blue evenings and smoky mornings of my mountains. Julie and her driver gave me a ride to LaGuardia and before I got out of the car at the drop point Julie laid a hand on my arm. “I never would have made it without you, Richard. You know that don’t you?”
“Yes, I know that,” I replied while getting out of the car. I was about to shut the car door when Julie suddenly slid across the seat, raised her beautiful eyes, and said, “Thank you for all your help.” Feeling like a cracked and empty vessel headed for the scrap heap, I managed to reply without a hint of irony, “No problem, babe.” As I turned and walked toward the terminal I heard her car door close. And then in my mind, I heard that scream that haunts me still. Landing at the Roanoke Regional Airport, I rented a car for the long drive to a property that I had bought while in New York. I needed the drive to defuse if it were possible. At needful times, I had always been able to bet on the Appalachians for that. The scenery along the way was magnificent and I felt myself begin to ground a bit by the time I reached my new home. A small but sturdy structure atop the Blue Ridge chain with a view across the valley to its parent Appalachians, my place would be plenty enough. It was nothing like where I was coming from when it came to material resources but I had provided it with all the ways necessary to keep up with my investments. And it was thoroughly stocked for new beginnings. A short hike away was my familiar Appalachian Trail and the spot where I had scattered my Mother’s ashes not so long ago. A place where silence was familiar, cherished. One day, from there, I would continue my journey down life’s highway. But right then it was a wonderful rest stop. *** I have come many a ways since then and I have learned that most things will pass. I have new loved ones now and the peace that comes from that. But I can’t help but wonder if Julie had that blessing as well…….on that other high road. And I grieve, trying to hide it from my wife. She thinks all my nightmares are about the war. I don’t ever want to try to put into words that which is better left alone. That’s the thing about growing old as the scars of travel are sported more clearly. More baggage, good and bad. The scream is not good certainly, worse than any I have heard. But I loved Julie, and that is more the constant. Her trip is over and I have to believe it was a good and kind exit. Our travels often befool us in many ways but if mine ever take me by the place where the obituary says she is, I will leave a Rhododendron bloom to pay my respects.
Charles Hayes is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. His writing interests center on the stripped down stories of those recognized as on the fringe of their culture. Asian culture, its unique facets, and its intersection with general American culture is of particular interest. As are the mountain cultures of Appalachia.
Inn of the Dead by Fred Miller
His eyes opened at the sound of the bells, his first moments filled with the smell of the dew-laden grasses. A new day. And for a while, he lay still and listened to the birds, their melody akin to a sonata he'd once known. But how he'd made this connection he could not say. Most of his past remained hidden in the recesses of his mind. He blinked and looked up at the sky and tried to clear his mind. He had routines to follow, people to meet, and some to avoid. Yet the ground was soft and he was tempted to linger. Then Mickey licked his face with glee, and he stood and stretched and looked around at what he now called home. He'd once considered the alcoves behind the stone beasts that guard the library and the benches by the steps of the museum near the fountains. But the lights and sounds and men in blue who patrolled these places had convinced him to come here to the quiet shadows of the church, a place he'd named the Inn of the Dead. Distorted faces loomed in the eaves of the cathedral and warded off unwanted spirits. And nearby, an iron fence defended this hallowed ground where he and Mickey chose to sleep. Soon the sun would peek down through the steel canyons of the city, and wash over the stones nearby, and confront the two of them with the duties of the day. He paused and scratched his head. What obligations? Only the emptiness that gripped the pit of his stomach gave him a clue. Filled with his belongings and Mickey at the helm, his cart squeaked through the gate and east toward Delmonico's where, in the alley behind the restaurant, he'd find dimpled cans stuffed with the largess of last night's fare. His approach was greeted by dank odors and a host of bottle flies busy with the tasks at hand. But here their needs would be satisfied. Now focused, he rummaged for gems of sustenance while Mickey stood upright against the receptacle of interest, his nose pointing the way to the treasures below. Soon they'd be sated with the best of the cuts, and sesame crusts, and potato crisps, and perhaps a rare sip from a bottle buried deep in the pile. Once content with their finds, they'd turn up the avenue toward the museum in hopes their arrival would precede the curious eyes of security. Timing is everything, he
whispered. And around the entrance, the fountains came to life as if he had willed it. With one quick plunge he was refreshed, ablutions and laundry complete in a trice. Once Mickey had slaked his thirst, the cart turned toward the park, a trek for a steam in the sun and a brief respite before the start of the day. With patience he sat on a bench in the sun, his damp clothes puckered tight to his skin. And Mickey sat beside him, eyeing butterflies in stately pavanes and mothers who paraded by with their recent gifts to mankind. Lento was the term he used for this time, a musical notation for slow movement. But how he'd acquired this knowledge he'd no idea. From the sounds in the streets, he knew it was time to be off, off to a nook in the wall between ATMs and a coffee shop where aromas tempted commuters to tarry. What had brought him here, he wondered? Once in a vision, a dream, he was close to an answer: lime green blips on a screen. Meds on the hour. And tubes and needles and a shiver, then, black. Later he'd see fingers in his face and he'd promise to get refills. And he'd hear whispers that coaxed him to walk. You can do it, they said, if you try. Then darkness again. What did it mean? From a tattered pocket, a harmonica emerged and a song filled the air. And a search for a connection followed a smile and a nod, and a clank of coins filled the hat. Mickey barked for the good of the order and the day was underway. The traffic eased and the sun rose higher and he looked down for a count of the take. A trifle more would produce a quart for the evening. And if deft enough, he could cop a snack from the aisle for the dog. From the corner, he espied a man in blue with his hand on his grip, and a chill danced along his spine. Some days offered extras, two bottles in the sack. Yet the risks of wealth to mankind were all too clear. First he'd swear an oath to keep the spare in the cart for the following day, a plan that'd bode well and bring well-deserved rest. But he knew his weaknesses and more likely than not, he'd drink both and be late the following day. And this would bring trouble. The sexton would oust them from their nest. And refuse trucks would steal their repast. Security would stand between them and the bath. All bad, he concluded. Never hoard, he repeated to himself. One day's haul and quit for the day, that's the score. Leave some for the others; it's the fair way to play. And who were the others? James and Millie, Sam and Rayford were a few he could remember. James and Sam could be trusted. Millie, too, on occasion. But not Rayford.
Best to stay clear of him. He'd cut you for sure. Every morning on the street he'd see Sam hawk his nonexistent wares. "Fan belts, sixcylinder engines, tickets for two," he'd say. Sam had none of these things, yet he could be trusted. Sam never extended a palm for donations near the ATMs. He knew the rules of the game. Wingtips and sandals and heels dodging grates passed by in a rush. And on highrises up the street, he could see reflections of taxis in a blur and hear echoes of beeps and chirps and squeaks. And soot-coated buses that paused to expel numb-faced souls in a dash toward tasks that amass fortunes for others. When the stir had ebbed and coins had been counted, he'd turn to weightier matters of the day. In those happy dreams, whose fingers had been in his face? And what had to be refilled with such urgency? In the past, no ideas had come to light. But no matter, in the hours to come, he'd continue the search. He glanced up in time to see James round the corner down the street, a one-eyed man who'd sworn he'd been named for the savior. Though certain it couldn't be true, he'd never tell James. Never spoil it for a friend. Let him bask in his chosen role. Besides, James had shared a cold swig or two in the past, or was it a handful of nuts, or both? He couldn't be sure. But he remained confident that James could be trusted. "Mornin', Ed." "James." "Any luck today?" "Three dimes and a quarter." "It'll come." "Yep, it'll come." "Blessings, my friend, keep the faith." "Yeah, James, keep the faith." Whatever, he mused. Millie held that James's one good eye strayed and was evil, but he knew better. James is cool. Treat him with respect, he thought, chits for the future. Between coffees and noon, opportunities would recede. No mad race to watch now. And after the pause, a hustle he called con brio would ensue. And this term was as familiar as the hole in his shoe, but would soon vanish beyond the edges of his mind.
Like brushes on a drum, debris skittered about around bus stop ads that promised fashion prominence to come. Soon echoes of street hammers would cease, a signal of the midday break. A staccato of heels and movable carts with hot dogs and chips, mustard, and sodas. Aromas and hurry, hurry, hurry. Fresh lipstick and phone calls on the run. He'd seen it all. And Mickey, too. Mickey's eyes were keen in seducing passersby to see the state of their condition. He'd miss little, good Mickey. And he'd taught the dog to sit up and beg for a coin, yet few other than children cared to linger. Dropped coins sang out in the hat, but he knew better than to take his eyes off the crowd. He'd just have to guess how much had come their way. An old rule came to mind: the faster the movement, the smaller the take. Steady paces bring results—no peaks and valleys to work through. Late afternoon hours brought new crescendos and codas—moments to reflect, what had worked and what had not. The heat from above began to bear down and he heard the voices again admonishing him over refills. He shook his head and counted the take, almost enough for the day, he thought. He peered out toward the curb and saw a Caddie with dude wheels ease to a stop. Rayford. He and Mickey looked down in silence. The dog whined and the car moved on, a relief before the coming onslaught. In a wink, he moved the cart to the shade by the curb. Now arm's length from the buses and the foot traffic in a hurry to board, he felt confident the coins would come. Five o'clock chimes rang out and tower doors opened to leather portfolios and briefs for tomorrow's court dates. And smart suits with double "C" purses scrambled to taxis for cocktails in the east sixties and dinner at eight. Buses rumbled and spit and yawned wide for glazed eyes to embark. And with a growl and a belch they moved on, leaving clouds of stench in their wakes. In minutes, the hat had filled with an assortment of coins. And up the block, two blues appeared with batons at the ready. And he heard a voice in his head whisper, What's the difference between more and enough? Time to withdraw, he decided in a flash. Turning west, he espied a curbside truck by an open air café. With care, burly men grunted and eased a shiny piano from the truck and into the bar. And by the curb, an old upright stood alone by a stool. He paused and stared. And lifted Mickey down and sat, his eyes on the keyboard. His
hands spread and soon the air was filled with strains of Rhapsody in Blue. And before long he was surrounded by regulars from the bar and passersby who'd decided to linger for more. A round of applause and a deep breath and An American in Paris followed. The movers had returned but waited with patience for the performance to end. Then shouts and invitations abounded. He bowed, picked up his faithful companion, and eased back into the street. On the way home there was a skip in his step. Even Mickey knew something was up. Twilight yielded to districts of neon and sounds of the night as they made their way into the deep shadows that inch up in silence like ladies of the night. Soon they approached the Inn of the Dead where he succumbed to the soft grasses with Mickey at his side. His pockets felt heavy, but his mind could handle only so much. The barkeep had offered him an encore…or had he? He gazed up at the cosmos for answers, but none came forth. Mickey nuzzled up close to his shoulder and the two of them settled in for the night.
Fred Miller is a California writer who has more than twenty short stories in publications. His published works may be found on his blog: http://pookah1943.wordpress.com
No Way Out by William Quincy Belle
Murray ran around the corner of the house into the darkened backyard. He frantically looked for a way out. A chain-link fence enclosed the area and there didn’t seem to be a gate, so he put the toe of one shoe in the links and thrust himself up and over the fence. The edge of his coat got caught on something and threw him off-balance. He stumbled to the ground. He puffed at the exertion, but his fright was pushing him to the limits. One minute, he was having a peaceful dinner, and the next, he was running for his life. The men were dangerous. The men were violent. And he had no doubt they were there to kill him. He had to escape. It was the only thing to do. Murray stood up and peered into the twilight. This yard looked to have no fence, so he jogged to the back and continued to the next house. He now had a plan to move away from his home street by street. The more distance he put between himself and those men, the less likely it was they would find him. He stood behind the corner of the building and peeked up and down the street. Just as he was about to step out, he saw a car turning down the street. He waited and stared at the headlights coming closer. He had no idea if it was the men, but he wouldn’t take any chances. He stepped behind a bush and listened carefully. He heard the crackle of a radio. It could be a taxi. Or it could be the men communicating between groups. The car idled by his position. Murray glanced around some branches and saw the taillights continuing down the street. Why were the men coming after him? He hadn’t done anything to them. He was minding his own business. He sighed. Then again, wasn’t it inevitable? Sooner or later somebody was going to come after him. Wasn’t it fate that everybody got mugged or beat up? You get picked on by the bully in school, then later in life, you become a target for those who are bigger and stronger than you. Life wasn’t fair. He stuck his head out from behind the bush. The car turned. He took a breath then ran across the street and continued in between two houses. He stopped toward the back and stared into the semi-darkness trying to see the best route to take. Something moved in the darkness and a shape came toward him. A large dog leapt up and barked. A chain stopped the dog short of reaching him, nevertheless, Murray jumped back surprised. The dog tugged at his leash as it furiously barked at him.
He stared at the dog as he carefully moved into the adjacent backyard. A back porch light at the other house came on. A man opened the door and put his head out. “What’s the matter Ralphy?” The man looked into the darkness. Murray turned and sprinted down the back lawn. Behind him, he heard the man yell, “Hey! You!” When he got to the edge of the next house, Murray once again glanced up and down the street but saw no cars. He headed to the far side of the street. As he stepped onto the asphalt, he saw a couple walking on the opposite side. He was now visible in a streetlamp. The couple saw him and stopped. As he got closer, they took a step back. Murray nodded and said, “Good evening.” He continued up a driveway and didn’t look back. He could hear the couple talking between themselves. Murray walked in between two houses and broke into a run. He was sweating and his hands were trembling. He was scared, truly scared. Now he knew what a cornered animal felt like. There was no doubt in his mind that it was merely a matter of time. They were going to get him. And there was nothing he could possibly do to stop them. He was trapped and this was it. A wave of panic washed over him. He was desperate. He didn’t know what to do. He only knew he had to escape. But where? How? He went down the length of a backyard and found himself in an open area. He stopped and looked around. It was a small park with a single lamppost in the middle. The surrounding yards lined the perimeter with two walkways going off in opposite directions to provide access from the nearby streets. Murray took a deep breath. For the moment, he seemed to be safe. He walked to one end of the park and sat down on a bench in the semi-darkness. He wanted to catch his breath and collect his thoughts. Indistinct voices came from behind him and he turned to see two teenage boys turn in from the street. They were passing a glowing ember back and forth between them. When they got to the bench, the one boy took a long drag and coughed. “Ow,” he said. “Damn, I dropped it.” “No sweat. I’ve got more.” The second boy plopped himself down on the opposite end of the bench and opened a small satchel slung over his shoulder. He stuck his hand in and withdrew something. After zipping up the satchel, the boy stood up and pulled a lighter out of a pocket. He lit the joint and took a drag. He turned to Murray. “Want a toke?” “No thanks,” Murray said. A light flashed across them. The three of them turned to look at the opposite end of the park. A car on the street was shining a light into the area.
“Shit,” one of the boys said. The two of them ran down the path and disappeared. Murray got up and hurried into a backyard toward the next street. He didn’t bother to check for anybody but blindly ran out from between the houses. He heard a voice off to his left. “There he is!” Murray ran harder. There was now the sound of several pairs of feet behind him. The inevitable was getting closer. He burst into a backyard and ran full tilt into several garbage cans. With a loud crash, he pitched forward and tumbled onto the grass. A voice behind him said, “Stop.” Murray peered into the twilight and saw baseball equipment. He half-stood up and seized a baseball bat. He spun around into a standing position and raised it. He charged the man and wildly swung. The tip of the bat connected with the man’s upper left arm and knocked him off his feet. The man cried out as he rolled on the grass. Murray took a step forward. The man said, “Stop.” Murray raised the bat and a huge force struck him in the chest. He half spun around and collapsed against the side of a raised flower bed. He found himself lying down with his upper torso propped up by some rocks. He reached up and touched his chest. It felt wet. He looked up at the man not understanding what had happened. The man moved closer pointing at him. Why was he pointing? *** Detective Baker ran into the backyard. “Hicks, are you all right?” Officer Hicks held out his gun toward the man on the ground. His hand shook. “Jesus, I thought he was going to kill me.” Baker ran over and squatted beside the man. Hicks holstered his gun. “He hit me with a baseball bat and was going to hit me again when I fired.” He touched his left arm. “God, did he break my arm?” The detective half turned. “He’s dead.” “I didn’t mean to kill him. But in the commotion, I didn’t have time to think. I just wanted to stop him.” “He isn’t going anywhere now.” The detective had pulled out a pocket flashlight and was looking at the chest wound. Hicks fidgeted. “Is that the guy?”
“Yep.” Baker moved the flashlight around the body. “Barry Olsen aka Jerry Morrison aka Alan MacLean, etc. Serial killer extraordinaire.” “Wow.” “Wow is right. By our count, this guy has murdered over a dozen people in three different states. If he hadn’t made a mistake this last time, we never would have found him. But thank God, we did. Imagine him living here in your typical neighborhood like your average citizen. Not too many people who spend their weekends trolling for innocent victims to kill then to cut up into little pieces.” Baker stood up and got out his cellphone. “This is one animal who didn’t escape.”
William Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over-evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following which so far he hasn't been able to attribute to anyone: "A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem." You will find Mr. Belle's unbridled stream of consciousness here (http://wqebelle.blogspot.ca) or @here (https://twitter.com/wqbelle).
Thanks a lot for reading our Issue 11. We've come a long way. Thanks a lot to our contributors and readers. Till next time! Follow on Twitter @FableOnline