The Fable Online Issue 13

The Fable Online

Issue 13 March 1, 2016

Sarah Kedar Editor-in-Chief

Š2015-2016, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors Photo used in cover creation by Mark Engelbrecht. CC License.

Table of Contents The Poet Endorses the Services Rendered by Chimera Incorporated

by Chuck Von Nordheim ................................................................................................................5 From the Ashes

by Amethyst Loscocco ....................................................................................................................7 Memory

by Mark Plummer .........................................................................................................................12 The Border Between

by Thalia Solyanik ........................................................................................................................17 The Last Master of the Mantis Shrimp

by Coleman Gailloreto .................................................................................................................20 The Past Catches Up

by William Quincy Belle ................................................................................................................41 The Space between Them

by Christopher Wight ...................................................................................................................47

Poetry

The Poet Endorses the Services Rendered by Chimera Incorporated

by Chuck Von Nordheim we spliced in bestial genes blended bizarre traits our love dictated weird glue primate forms failed it her aggressive ambition my laidback sangfroid needed more than human balance she did the mod first a $12K Chimera fix now at home she purrs now she nestles against me feline need softened our human interactions our spoken squabbles poets like me fought the change spurned trans-species odes claimed the treatments defiled art she debunked my fears proved human genius remained she enhanced our love such moves demanded response my bark answers her my amplified canine links merge with her meow my verse became more fragrant my love more tethered dog nature tamed monkeyshines we trimmed jealousies overwrote anthropoid meanness unblocked caritas some scorn us for our choices call us vile mongrels

we entangle tails and laugh change makes us better

Chuck lives in northeastern Los Angeles country at the geo-biological point where chapparal merges into pure desert. Currently, he poses as an MFA fiction candidate at CSU San Bernardino at Tuesdays and Thursdays. The rest of the week, the scours Mojave Desert garage sales and antique shops for Highway 66 memorabilia that he can sell on EBay to pay his tuition. His fantastic-themed poetry has appeared in Tales of the Talisman, Lorelei Signal, Illumen, Northridge Review, and Imaginarium.

Fiction

From the Ashes

by Amethyst Loscocco The setting sun was pouring shafts of golden light through the open windows. As it fell upon the bird’s long red and orange tail feathers they shimmered like they were about to spark into flame. Again.

When I had come into the airy flat at the top of the old complex on 5th street, Lady Estabarellia had instructed me to hang the gilt birdcage on a hook by the window.

“So you want to know what happened to him?” she asked as she walked in a tight circle around me. She was dressed all in panels of black and red and had a little black hat with hanging feathers tilted at an angle on her head.

“I just want to understand,” I said.

I had found her in an ad at the back of a magazine in some waiting room. “Lady Estabarellia: Mystic for all the things you wish you knew. Mention this ad for a discount on your first consultation!” I had scoffed at the time, but the photo of her stayed in my mind. There was something about her eyes that appealed to me and unsettled me at the same time. After the incident, with David gone, or changed, it was those eyes I remembered. They seemed like they probably held some secret understanding. So I made an appointment.

“Did you bring something of his from before? Something he used a lot...”

“Yes,” I said pulling David’s cell phone from my purse, an old iPhone with a screen so cracked it was nearly impossible to use. I had wanted to bring the piano because that was his life, but that was impossible. And anyway the keys had all melted in the fire.

“This will do nicely,” she said. “I can feel traces of him still coursing through it.”

She set it in the middle of the table and then handed me a hammer. It was the kind you would find in any hardware store, a standard stainless steel head with a black rubber handle.

“What do I...?”

“Smash it!” she said, pointing to David’s cell phone on the table.

The birdcage swayed and creaked slightly as the bird stretched its wings as far as it could

and shifted its position on the bar.

“Go on, just smash it,” she said. Her little black hat slid slightly down the side of her head to reveal a bald spot, and she hurriedly adjusted it.

I decided there was no point in doing this halfway. Besides, David didn’t really need his cell phone, not anymore. I let the hammer fall with a crack. Jagged pieces of glass, plastic and aluminum skittered across the dark surface of the table. The birdcage shuddered.

“Good. This is good,” she said.

She took a deep breath in and turned her head up towards the ceiling for a moment.

Getting in the sibylline mood, I assumed. Then she slowly circled the table, making soft mutterings as her long bony fingers fluttered over the wreckage. Her eyes widened every now and then and she nodded her head. I wondered what had happened to good oldfashioned tea leaves.

“Well it is all very simple really,” she finally said looking up at me.

“What is?” I asked, trying not to notice her hat sliding down her head again.

“It’s completely and totally your fault.”

“What?” I said in a voice that was a much higher pitch than I would have liked.

The bird turned its golden eyes on me, probing and aloof all at the same time.

“You know how they say when you love something set it free? Well, it seems instead you more or less shoved him off a metaphorical cliff.” She carefully moved a feather from her face and adjusted the pin in her hat so that it might have a chance at hanging on to what hair she had left.

“I did no such...what...this...this is absurd,” I said picking up my purse to leave.

“The Tchaikovsky Competition,” she said.

I stopped, my breath knocked from me. The bird nodded its head and there was a crushing fire in his eyes. I had persuaded David to enter the competition because it would have given him the international recognition he deserved. I wanted that for him.

But he never made it to the competition.

“How do you know about that?” I asked.

“Darling, I’m a psychic, or is that not why you came?”

The feathers in her hat rustled like they might be alive.

“I only entered him in the competition because I thought it would be good for him, good for his career.”

“Nonsense, you did it because it would be good for you.”

I thought I saw a tear slide down the bird’s iridescent cheek. I felt my own eyes begin to burn and I hated her for it.

“If he had won that competition, it would have skyrocketed him to the top,” I said. “He would have been immortalized as a pianist and composer.”

She was quiet.

“And he wanted it too,” I continued. “To be on top, to have the respect and the grand parties and the standing ovations. He wanted it as much as I did!”

“Did he?” she asked and she had come so close to me that the feathers water-falling from her hat brushed my cheek. I smelled cloves on her breath and maybe a hint of vodka.

Her eyes were a watery blue, the kind that people drown in if they aren’t careful.

“Did he really?” she asked again.

“He loved music. He said it made his blood scald his insides and lift his soul.” I stepped back from her and looked at the bird as if willing him to agree.

“Well that is true, he did,” she said. She circled the table again, looking at patterns in the shattered wreckage of David’s cell phone.

Memories started to surface in my mind, like the nosebleeds David had been having after practicing, and the night I found him at the top of our apartment building, with his arms spread, playing the air. He was burning up with a fever.

Lady Estabarellia sighed.

“I sense in him...a great frustration, a burning resignation, a binding and bubbling madness.” She ran her long nails across the wires of the birdcage and each metallic clink raked at my heart.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me honestly, when did he say he wanted Carnegie Hall or the

Boston Philharmonic or to take “The Enchantress” to Vienna? He wrote that for you. You knew that, right?”

I shoved my hands in my pockets. He had written “The Enchantress” for our wedding because he said every time I walked into a room he fell in love with me again. He played it later for me privately. And I fell in love with him again. Every time his hands touched the keys I fell in love with him. Again and again and again. We had enchanted each other.

“Everything was for you. He never cared what anyone else thought,” Lady Estabarellia said.

I knew she was right and yet there must have been more. There had to be more.

“No, no, there was a look in his eyes when he was on stage, a fire. He wanted to be there.” I regretted my choice of words immediately.

“He was burning up, smoldering under the pressure, and you, you were basking in the glow.”

“Don’t say that!” I cried remembering the pile of ashes on the piano bench.

He had been composing something for the competition with a fury that I took for passion and even encouraged. I relished it. The mad composer. It sounded romantic. But then there were the fevers that doctors could not cure and the inexplicable burns.

The day before the competition I found flames coming from him, from his eyes, from his mouth, from within, enveloping him. The black and white keys melted, invading each other’s space. The whole room seemed to warp a little as he disappeared and there were just ashes, and then from the ashes, the bird.

“I loved him,” I said. “I love him.”

The feathers in Lady Estabarellia’s hat fluttered slowly about her head as a warm evening breeze came in the open window.

“Yes, I suppose you do, after a fashion,” she said. She sounded tired.

The bird’s golden eyes fell on me and I tried to see some bit of understanding in them and hopefully something like forgiveness. But I just saw flames.

“Just tell me how to get him back,” I said.

“You know how they say, when you love something set it free...” she said. “Well set him free.”

The birdcage blurred as my eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t think I am strong enough to let him go, to really let him go.”

“That is what strength is, doing something you don’t think you can do.”

I picked up the hammer and passed it from hand to hand, feeling the cool weight. Finally, I swung, smashing the lock on the cage. The door swung open. The bird surged out and through the open window, a whirlwind of fiery red and orange and David.

Amethyst Loscocco lives with two giant German shepherds in Oakland, California.

She is a freelance writer and web designer, but will take any spare moments to delve into the limitless magical world of fiction.

Memory

by Mark Plummer The picture had sat on my grandfather’s sideboard since the day of my grandmother’s funeral. A six by four photograph of a street scene. It was nowhere that I recognised, it certainly wasn’t London – the walkway was too wide and there were too many trees. It didn’t seem to fit in with the other pictures around it.

On the day grandfather came out of the hospital, Mum asked me to go and pick him up.

The conversation had run out before we even left the car park.

"I thought your mother was going to pick me up."

"I wanted to come. How do you feel?"

"Fine."

"Is the seatbelt too tight?"

"It’s fine."

I put the radio on.

He turned it off again.

The conversation through the rest of the journey consisted of mumbled apologies for excessive braking and grunted acceptances.

Mum had been nagging me for weeks to talk with him more.

"He’s your grandfather, for goodness sake. I’ve seen the two of you sit next to each other for hours without saying a word."

"I never know what to say to him."

"Ask him about his life, about your grandma, about anything. He’s got lots of interesting stories to tell. I’ve only learnt most of them since Grandma passed away."

"Alright, I’ll try."

"I’m not asking for much, just a bit of a chat. You could learn a lot from him and you know how ill he’s been.’

So when I got him back to his flat I offered to make us both a cup of tea.

"I’m perfectly capable of making a cup of tea. I’m not disabled."

"Well, technically…"

"What?"

"It doesn't matter."

He made the tea and I sat in the lounge. I looked around at the set of ceramic geese flying up the stairs, the falsely glowing logs of the electric fire and the print of an autumnal riverside and despaired at the lack of 'chatting' they inspired. I heard the kettle boil and he turned off the gas. I went over to the frames on the top of the sideboard.

There were photographs of Granddad and Gran sitting on a Ferris wheel, Granddad and Mum as a little girl on a beach somewhere, Granddad amongst a group of other men all in shirts, Mum and Dad on their wedding day, Gran holding me as a baby and then the little street scene. There was a group of people walking along under the trees in the street but it was too far away to see who any of them were.

I went into the kitchen.

"What’s the photograph on your sideboard? The one of the street?"

"It’s New York or Detroit, I think. I don’t really remember."

"When were you in America?"

"It was before I married your grandmother. I used to work for Ford." He put the kettle down and smiled at the memory. "I used to test drive their prototype cars. I drove cars all over the country. I took new cars to shows in every state. Even Alaska."

"Before Gran? But, the picture’s in colour. The cars are modern."

He went red and picked up the milk. He poured it, spilling more over the work surface than into the cups.

"I thought you meant another picture. There was another one, a similar one. I must have put it away in a drawer."

"So what’s this one about?"

"Look, go and wait in the other room will you. This kitchen’s too small for two people.

You’re making me spill everything."

I went back into the lounge and thought about making an excuse and leaving but Mum would expect me to relay a story to her when I got back. He came back in with the tea and put it on the table beside me. It looked like watered down hot milk like he’d forgotten to put the teabag in.

I looked at the barometer on the wall and tried to figure out how to read it and how to get rid of the dishwater he’d put in my cup.

He scratched at something on his trouser leg.

The clock ticked loudly and mockingly slow.

"This is the picture I meant," I said picking up the frame. It sounded like a shout after the silence.

"I think it’s a postcard your mother and father sent me."

"But they’ve never been to America."

"I don’t know then."

"What about this one? Who are these men you’re with?"

"Ah, now, that was the reunion. We were all in the same regiment in the war."

"What war?"

"What do you mean what war? The war."

"But you were only fifteen when the Second World War ended."

"It was a different war. Just stop talking about the bloody photographs, can you?" He sipped noisily at his tea. A dribble of it missed his mouth and ran down his chin. "Stop poking your nose into everything."

I felt the fact sheet in my pocket. I’d picked it up at the hospital, but the list was familiar: memory loss, lapses in concentration, problems with visuospatial skills and difficulty carrying out all the steps of simple tasks. I swirled the tealess tea and wiped the drips from the bottom where he’d missed with the milk.

His eyes darted between the blank television screen and the remote on the other side of the room.

"Shall I put the TV on for you?"

"No, I don’t like it on when there’s visitors. It’s rude."

"Well, sorry if I’m interrupting."

"Don’t be like that," he said. "I’m sorry. I’m just not used to being in a hospital. It upsets me."

"I’ve never known you to be sick until recently.’

"I was very ill when your Gran and I were on our honeymoon."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. I got some sort of tropical fever when we were in Malaysia."

"Malaysia? Gran always said you went to Norfolk for your honeymoon."

"I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t our honeymoon then. But we went there and I got sick."

He pulled at a thread on the arm of his chair then suddenly looked up at me. "Your mother’s never like this. She sits and listens and respects me. She’s interested in the things I’ve done. Why can’t you be more like that? Instead of sitting there picking holes in everything I say."

I stood up to go. "I give up. Look, I’ve been trying my best. I didn’t want to come here and have to drag the conversation out of you. I wanted to chat with you. So, please, why don’t you just tell me about the photograph of the street? Where is it?"

"Forget it."

"Come on; just tell me about your life. I want to know. Mum says you’ve got loads of great stories but all you ever tell me is this nonsense."

"I don’t know. I don’t know where it is."

"Grandad, look; if you’re having problems remembering things, we can probably get you some help."

"What?"

"It’s normal for your age. People can…"

"Go bloody doolally? That’s what you think, is it? Fine." He pulled himself up and went

over to the picture. "You want a story? Here’s a story: your grandmother and I were married for forty years. Forty years. When she died I had to write her eulogy. And, you know, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Not a single interesting thing that we’d done together. We’d led ordinary, bog-standard, boring lives. Forty years of nothing." He tossed the picture into the waste paper basket. "So I lied. I lied." He sat breathlessly in his chair. "That’s the story of your photograph."

"But I don’t understand. Where…"

"I don’t know. It came with the frame."

Mark Plummer is twenty-eight and currently lives in Cornwall, England. He has previously had short stories published in British literary magazines including Prole, Alliterati, Riptide Journal and The Delinquent as well as American and Canadian anthologies including Typewriter Emergencies and Down in the Dirt. He has written and performed in plays for UK arts festivals and is currently working on his first novel.

The Border Between

by Thalia Solyanik Blood stained his hands. Red and murky, it drew his eyes, not in wonder but in a faint delight. The liquid seemed to him like half-melted, red ice cream. It dried and left patches of faded crimson on his palms, yet also dripped from his hands, gathering in deep pools on the grassy sea cliff. No water could ever look like this. Certainly not the pounding ocean below. The ocean had to be free, pure, so that children could play in it.

It entranced him. All of it. The blood, the idea that a woman so small could have so much of it, the ease of the action, the freedom he had now. He felt like dancing for joy! A feeling of independence settled over him, making his heart grow ten times lighter than usual. He could fly, he could soar, he could run, he could hide and be forgotten.

The feeling fled as he again caught sight of the body before him. Slowly, he sighed and crouched at its head. The eyes stood open, blanched in what he read to be shock. Either shocked to be dead or shocked at the unexpected peace that death brought.

He tilted his head. Wonder took over. Wonder at the drowning appeal of life, at the creeping suspicion of death. It didn't matter to him, but the interest still held. These petty humans, without warning or foresight, could so easily have their lives snatched from them. His own humanity seemed like a magic trick, fake and quickly disappearing.

Everyone else looked like leaves on a grapevine, each plucked for the betterment of an overall cause.

And in this case, the leaf met the ground a while before this woman's body fell. He stared at it. Watching, examining, transfixed at the eyes that no longer held life in them. Eyes that had once captivated and imprisoned him. But he did not want to think about their past. Freedom is what he wanted and freedom is what he would have.

He swept a hand through her hair, taking in the bittersweet smell that came off, then letting the strands flow like water through his fingers. Everything about her stayed the same, even after death. Unease crawled into his soul. She couldn't stay the same. She had to be different now. Now that death had taken her. She had to be.

Blood dried on her hair. That had changed. That blonde hair with red stains in dots and lines, spirals and blots, thin and thick. That was different.

The wind picked up around them. It carried her hair off the ground. Sweet, salty wind,

adding to the bitter scent of blood. Everything – the openness of the cliff, the pounding, whooshing waves below, the humming wind - overwhelmed him. And there she lay, unfit for this perfect painting.

Her looks had to represent her, he decided. They had to reflect her current state, not how she had once been. Beautiful, the spitting image of Pandora both inside and out.

The sphinx of the modern world, a woman to be chased and feared: A siren.

His mind raced. Thoughts bled together. They hummed in his head as he kept sweeping her hair to one side, parting it, making her look better in eternal sleep. Better than in life.

Better than any living thing. Yet the wind loathed him. Each time he put a strand perfectly into place, the traitorous gale picked it up and threw it to the side.

Clenching his teeth together, he glared up, as if some mischievous wind spirit toyed with him. Nothing of the sort met his eyes, however. Only a perfectly shaded, hypnotic, grey sky. It taunted his sin. As if he’d had a choice in the matter. She’d trapped him with a ring.

Heart pounding so loudly he thought it would break through his ribs, tear through his skin and be free, he moved to the edge of the cliff. There, there was his beating heart.

Waves hit the cliff face in time with the thrashing in his chest. White foam collected at the place between water and rock, separating the two. Something had to be done. But despite his best efforts, the misty ideas in his mind would not connect.

He frowned. The place felt so lonely. Devoid of life. Not truly belonging to the aquatic life beneath him, nor to the terrestrial community behind. Somewhere between connection and isolation, he stood, unable to go on, so deprived of any certainty. The ideas joined.

She’d always made connections. Maybe now that she, like him, no longer belonged to the earth, he could give her a new, better home.

The unmoving mass of limbs and cloth lay there still. It seemed like a good funeral. A Viking’s send-off to the sea. No one could ask for more. It was honorable. To be allied with so many things through water was like having a giant family.

He did her a kindness now, in closing her eyelids, picking her up, and walking again to the edge of the cliff. He would give her another life. She died by his hand, but the sea could revive her. Life came from the water and to the water, it always returned. He knew that to be true in the depths of his murky soul.

It did not scare him anymore. He knew she would thank him for doing this. One last look

into her face and he knew he could let her go. She did not yet look at peace, with that blood which would soon be washed away. But she would be.

Finally, the sea took her away from him. And again he felt as if he could fly. Soar through the air, weightless. With no morals to hold him down to the earth, he could ascend.

Thalia Solyanik has written fantasy and fiction for over half of her life but only began sending her work into the real world recently. She writes short articles for Psych2Go and enjoys the freedom and creativity of her writing. As a child, she and her mother would read a variety of books together every night before bed, which inspired her to write her own stories. The characters and themes she uses have a common: they explore and express various aspects of the human nature.

The Last Master of the Mantis Shrimp

by Coleman Gailloreto To master the killing arts, a warrior needs three things: solid ground for practice, a land where primal energies converge, and seclusion from annoying brats trying to become your students.

Sadly, I only managed two out of three.

I’d found a cliff nestled between a wind-swept mountain and a wave-carved coastline.

There I crouched in the horseback stance. I breathed in the scent of saltwater and campfire charcoal. The odors mingled in my lungs, becoming Pneuma, the sacred breath.

Warmth fluttered in my chest, slowly soaking into my bones and the marrow beneath, strengthening, hardening---The Roc sleeping nearby raised her massive head and screeched thunderously.

I flinched. The Pneuma in my veins sizzled. I swayed, vision blurring. I tasted warm copper on my lips, the flavor of a day’s training wasted.

The Roc climbed out of her nest of uprooted trees. I followed the bird’s angry gaze, spotting a young man with dark, curly hair and a sheepskin cloak draped from one shoulder. The young man stood very still as the Roc waddled forward and snapped her beak with loud clicks.

“Mind the Roc, child,” I said. “She loves to eat spies.” I wiped the blood from my nose with my finger, flicking droplets to the side. “Are you a spy?” I asked.

The youth fell to one knee. “I am Xan,” he proclaimed. “Quicksilver Witch, make me your student! Teach me the way of the Mantis Shrimp!”

The Roc spread its wings and lunged towards the youth, its beak hinging open.

I breathed and became light. With a single step, I flew forward and landed in front of the youth. I breathed and became heavy, sandals stamping prints in the cliff stone. I seized the Roc’s scalp and slammed the colossal bird to the ground.

“Xan, is it?” I said, leaning down on the Roc’s beak. “You should know Rocs get angry when strangers creep around their eggs.” The huge bird thrashed in my grip, talons carving up the stone, wings thumping the ground. To the Roc, I weighed a mountain.

“Leave,“ I said, glaring at Xan, “or I’ll let her regurgitate you for her young.”

“I--!” Xan said.

“And no,” I continued, shouting over the Roc’s shrieks. “I am not interested in tasty food or avenging your dog. You are not the chosen one and I will not change my mind if you kneel on my doorstep for three days! Whatever you have to say has been said--!”

Xan met my eyes. “I work for the Zeno,” he said calmly. “I want to betray him for you.”

I went still.

“Your hair may have greyed, Quicksilver Witch,” Xan continued, “ but I know your heart still burns to kill him.” His voice was clear. His breath smelled of mountain frost. “The Zeno flees at the sound of your name. He bought a Sky Lily sapling at great expense so he could travel out of your reach. You hear he’s landed in one town, but by the time you arrive he’s soaring back into the clouds.” Xan looked at me with pity. “Have I told it right?”

He asked.

I ground my teeth. “You talk like someone aching to be bird food,” I said.

“I’m the Zeno’s confidant, Chief Enforcer of his Smoke Cult,” Xan said solemnly. “I know his travel route, and where the Sky Lily will land next. Teach me your Mantis Shrimp Style, and I will sneak you aboard and lead you to him. Teach me, and you will be avenged.”

The Roc yelped as my fingers tightened on her feathers. “You’re lying,” I said.

He loosened his cloak and pulled it back; dusty grey ritual scars crept up his shoulder.

“So you had the nerve to mark yourself with Cult symbols,” I accused. “You could still be a fraud--or a lure.”

Xan smiled sadly, “I swear I’m neither,” he said, “But if I was a lure, could you afford to not bite down?”

After fruitless years chasing the Zeno, the thought of cornering him, smashing him to pulp, finally getting to do something new...it was sweet. It was too sweet.

I rolled my eyes in circles, infusing them with Pneuma. The world around me was bathed in new shades of color. Beams of deep violet trickled from the sun above, and dark red glowed from the bodies of Xan and the Roc twitching under my hand.

“Look at me, boy,” I said. Xan obeyed. “Is your offer honest?” I asked.

“Yes,” Xan said. The young man’s dark red body heat glowed steadily, never flickering. He spoke truth…or he was the king of all liars.

“What do you get from this?” I asked. “You learn my Mantis Shrimp style, you go to war against your Smoke Cult fellows, assassinate the man who gave you everything…and gain what?”

“Justice for your–-“ Xan started to say. His body heat flickered.

I lifted my hand. The Roc nearly pecked off Xan’s knee. Xan scurried back on hands and feet, blood draining from his cheeks.

“What do you gain from this?” I repeated, leaning back down on the furious Roc. Xan exhaled with a shudder. “Power,” he said. “I want many things, and I need power to get them.”

“For yourself?” I asked.

“And for others,” Xan said softly. His body did not flicker.

“Better,” I said. I stared deep into the Roc’s eyes and let go.

The Roc saw what lay behind my eyes, She screeched, bathing us in breath smelling of meat-rot and ozone. She flapped back to her nest.

I helped Xan up. “Does powder make the cannon claw?” I said solemnly. “Pierce the Shrimp Eye, see the Mantis Roar.”

“What is that?” Xan asked.

“Your first lesson,” I said roughly.

Xan nodded gravely. “Are there many of these lessons...Teacher?” he asked, frowning.

I sniffed and folded my arms. “Does that matter?”

“Well,” Xan scratched the back of his head. “I need to learn your style in two months.”

I nearly snorted blood again. “That’s no time at all!” I protested.

Xan flinched. “The Zeno arrives at Thessal in two months. If we don’t show up then, he’ll

suspect something!” He paused. “Can you do it?” He asked hopefully. “Teach me everything in two months?”

I thought for a good long while.

A cackle built at the back of my throat, humming down my legs into the earth. The Roc screeched and took off in a cloud of molted feathers. Xan glanced down in awe as pebbles rattled on the ground and the cliff rumbled.

“Ha,” I chortled. “Maybe,” # The western sea is a fury, a beast whose maw grinds pebbles to fine sand and spits flat stones perfect for skipping onto the shore. The undertow can pluck you from your feet in an instant and break your bones against the sand-bed.

It was a good place to toughen up.

I stood knee-deep in the water, chill creeping past my skin. Xan stood waist-deep, his wrists and neck weighted with stone bangles. He breathed deep, shivering as a whitecapped wave rushed towards us.

“Speak your first lesson,” I ordered.

Xan hunched his back, rolling his shoulders forward. He twisted his arms inward beneath his throat, mimicking the Mantis Shrimp’s claws.

“Does powder make the cannon claw?” he recited.

The wave engulfed him. Xan punched forward. The wave split. Spray fountained upward, then fell in prickling droplets that soaked into my grey, frazzled hair. A larger wave thundered in, foam curling over Xan’s head. “Pierce the Shrimp Eye!“ Xan cried, drawing his fist back. “See the Mantis--” The wine-dark water swallowed him and continued toward me. I turned my shoulder and breathed weight into my legs. The wave crashed down, darkness and swirling bubbles yanking at my feet. My heels dug into the seabed sand. The wave broke past and washed up on the shore.

Xan bobbed up, inches from the surface. I plunged my hand beneath the waves and held his head underwater, waiting until his movements turned to wild thrashing. I let go. He

surfaced gasping, dark hair clinging to his scalp like seaweed, ribs bruised, eye darkened with pain.

“Again,” I said calmly. “If you like air, remember to turn your waist this time.” # “Why did you join the Smoke Cult?” I asked Xan. Xan’s fist froze an inch from the clam atop the boulder. “Does it matter?” He asked.

“Your answer may keep me from cutting your tendons while you sleep and feeding you to the Roc,” I remarked. “Does that matter?”

Xan shivered. He lashed down and shattered the clam with a single blow. “Do you know what our country’s oldest tradition is?” He asked.

I sniffed loudly. “You clearly have your own answer,” I said. “Speak up. Don’t be coy.”

“Our tradition is division,” Xan concluded. “Our states feud, while our hero cults duel in tournaments over ancient grudges.” He lifted his hand from the rock, knuckles stained with blood and bits of clam flesh. “The Islanders conquer us city by city,” he spat. “And their neighbors do nothing to help! Even if they’ll be conquered next!”

I rolled Pneuma into my eyes and starred at Xan: his head and heart glowed like furnaces. “You learned that truth first-hand,” I guessed.

Xan shrugged. “There is,” he said, “one organization that transcends our divisions. A fellowship with members from all our tribes and creeds, working towards a common goal.” He set a second clam on the rock and raised his fist. “It’s impossible,” he mused with hazy eyes, “but the Zeno did it! I had to join him and learn his secret…”

“I could have told you his secret,” I said, standing and grabbing Xan’s arm. “Power and fear. Plus addiction.”

Xan let me pull him away. “True,” he murmured with an absent smile.

I led Xan down the beach to a sunlit cove, filled with crystal water, wandering crabs and an old boat’s rotted planks. Xan opened his mouth.

“No talking,” I hissed. “Just watch.”

A crab stepped too close to the boat wreckage. A small, lobster-like creature rushed out,

shell dyed in glistening rainbow hues. It swam towards the crab, legs wriggling, mirrored eyes twitching. Two blunt claws snapped out, striking the crab with a flash and surge of bubbles.

The crab fled, leaving its left pincer floating behind. The Mantis Shrimp daintily seized the limb with its mandibles. It slid back under the boat.

“That is the Mantis Shrimp,” I explained. “Small and tough, with the fiercest punch on earth.”

Xan nodded, eyes glimmering like the sun-dappled waters in front of us.

“That is the perfection you seek, my student,” I said. “Now go eat it.”

Xan stopped nodding. His face scrunched up in disbelief. “Pardon?” He asked.

“Catch that shrimp and eat it,” I explained. “Raw.” Xan frowned and asked, “Shouldn’t we treat it with respect?”

I glared at Xan from the corner of my eye.

Xan flushed. “We learn strength from the Mantis Shrimp,” he insisted, gesturing at the water. “It’s our spiritual guide, our totem--“ “--And it will stay so as meat in your belly!” I barked, stabbing a finger towards the cove.

“Go.” Xan waded into the cove. He looked at his fingers, opening and closing them with a grimace.

“Xan,” I chided. “Your training is nearly done. By devouring that shrimp, you’ll absorb its strength and gain great power!” I snorted with contempt. “But if you’re too weepy to kill a critter, this is pointless!”

“That is not it!” Xan protested, hunching inward like a whipped dog. “I fear breaking my hands,” he confessed. “It’s silly, I know…”

“My mother once lost a finger to a Mantis Shrimp during clam harvest,” I said, folding my arms. “One blow smashed her joints to splinters. Your fear is quite reasonable.”

“Your mother?” Xan said, blinking. “You mean the one that--?“ His mouth snapped shut

“The one that Zeno killed?” I said dryly. “Yes. Obviously.”

“What was she like?” Xan asked. “Your mother, I mean?”

I hesitated. # I leaned on the spade handle with numb hands, pushing until the barrel-sized clam tore free of the seabed.

I ducked under the surf and picked it up with two arms. I waded through the shallows to Mother. “Look!” I shouted. “This one has a hole!”

Mother dropped her nets and looked at my clam. She saw the jagged gap in its shell. She smacked it from my hands, scowling. “Don’t you have eyes, girl?” She cursed. “The Mantis Shrimp’s been at this one! Damn pest!” # “Mother,” I mused, “was a blustery, stupid, snooping, belittling shrew.”

Xan’s eyebrows rose. “Oh,” he said.

“Still,” I said, slowly flexing my fingers, “I wasn’t the best daughter.” I felt the Pneuma in my chest flare. Bright orange embers dripped from my fingers with every joint I popped.

“No one gave us a manual on how to be family,” I mused. “We could have learned in time– and that’s what I hate the Zeno for. Taking our time.”

Xan’s nostrils flared. “Then I won’t waste any more of your time, Teacher,” he declared.

He waded into the pool, leaving a wake of shimmering ripples. “Is that why you chose to mimic the Mantis Shrimp?” He asked, dipping his hands below the surface. “To honor your mother?” # Mother lay on her back, face frozen by dark streaks of venom creeping along her veins.

Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared, her mouth pinched open, silently scolding from beyond the grave.

I swallowed spit and tears. “Zeno!” I shouted. ”I challenge you to a duel!” I pointed at the scars on my shoulder with trembling fingers. “I have the right! You know I have the right–

look at me, damn you!”

Zeno glanced behind at me with sleepy, lidded eyes.

“Why would I do that, traitor thief?” he said, tilting his head in confusion. “Alive, you’re a fine example for the others.”

He sauntered past the Smoke Cult soldiers. “Brothers, sisters?” he called out. “Bloody that pest for me.”

I ran after Zeno. Kallias, Charis and the other soldiers surrounded me, expressions bleak.

“Please,” I pleaded. “I treated you well.”

“Sorry,” Kallias said hollowly, swinging his club into my back. “We can’t fight him.” # “I had reasons,” I told Xan. # Xan caught the Mantis Shrimp and ate it. We trained for two more weeks. Then we set out to kill the Zeno.

I shadowed my eyes with charcoal to look beastly. I donned my Stone Pelt, a pocketlined, threadbare cloak loaded with flat skipping rocks.

Xan donned his sheepskin cloak and tied on a jewel-studded headband.

We left our cliff by the sea. We ran down the coast for two days and nights until we arrived at the walls of Thessal and passed through its gates.

Xan and I squeezed our way through crowds of brightly dressed travelers, their voices merged into a buzzing hum. We ignored the merchants in their stalls, who shoved produce and cloth bolts in our faces.

We walked down streets filled with crisscrossing water ditches, past stacked crates and Geomantic Gears that turned in the ground like water-wheels, giving off sweet-smelling smoke. Wings fluttered above as caravans steered leather-hooded Rocs through the air.

Xan trembled with fury as we passed a Judge Priest from the Islands, preaching to a crowd while balanced on the tip of her staff. A bloodied, broken cutpurse lay at her feet.

Reaching the harbor, we saw no ships in dock or boats trailing wake out to sea. The bay was empty, placid, splattered with color from the evening sun’s rays.

Xan and I bought pies from a stall and ate them off the side of the pier. We bound our hands with leather wraps, twisting the cords as we wound them so their edges would cut flesh.

A round shadow floated towards us across the water. The sun dimmed. “Master,” Xan urged. “Hide.”

I ducked behind three barrels with Xan and looked up.

A dark oval bulb drifted down from the sky, trailing thin roots beneath it like jellyfish tendrils. A brown trunk curved up its flank, thin branches fanning out around the bulb to form a lattice.

I felt searing in my chest, like a burning brand driven into my heart. I made myself breathe slowly, deeply.

The Sky Lily touched down on the water, filling up half the bay. This close, I could see a million palm-like leaves sway in the breeze and a framed glass dome that protruded from the middle of the Lily’s tree trunk.

I saw that porthole and knew he was on the other side, looking down on the world, lips parted in that thin smile.

A brass-studded canvas hatch opened on the Sky Lily’s side. Crewman with Smoke Cult sashes ran a long ramp out to the nearest pier.

“You’ll have to smuggle me aboard,” I told Xan, tapping the barrel next to me. “I can squeeze into this--“ “No,” Xan said, tightening his headband and striding forward. “We walk in.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it and followed. We passed by bare-chested laborers hauling coarse bags and prickly crates and strode up the boarding ramp. A Cult soldier wearing a tan cloak blocked our path.

“Chief Xan,” the soldier rumbled, sparing me a glance. “Who is this?”

I reached into my cloak.

“No one, Cleos,” Xan replied, touching a finger to his lips, obscuring a soft smile.

The Smoke Cultist looked from Xan to me and back to Xan. “Welcome, Chief!” he said breathlessly, taking two hasty steps back.

“I feel welcome, Brother,” Xan replied, walking past Cleos and resting a hand on his shoulder for a moment.

I slid past Cleos and followed Xan through the hatch. “What was that?” I demanded.

“Awe,” Xan replied. “I hope.” # Through the Sky Lily’s hatch was a field of green grass and colorful flowers, growing from soil supported by a springy mat of intertwined roots. Sunbeams leaked through clear gaps in the tree’s delicate membrane, forming a golden web in the air. Small huts ran up the side of the Sky Lily’s trunk, linked together by swaying rope bridges. An iron cylinder creaked and groaned at the heart of the flying tree, glowing red at the riveted seams.

I stood there and drank in the beauty. The laborers dropped their cargo behind us and filed out. Cleos sealed the Sky Lily’s hatch.

A network of pulleys and ropes strung from the Sky Lily’s roof turned and creaked, dragging open a door in the iron cylinder. Red light spilled out. The root floor at our feet bobbed suddenly, splashes sounding beneath as we lifted off from the bay.

“We need to move, Master,” Xan insisted.

I shook my head, banishing the useless feeling of peace. “Who blocks our way to the Zeno?” I asked.

Xan pointed at a large hut, dangling from two chains bolted to one of the Sky Lily’s branches. “Five Peltasts are stationed there,” he said.

“Loyal?” I asked, glancing at the silent Cleos.

“Under contract,” Xan replied.

I grunted. “Javelins?” I asked hopefully.

“Fire Lances,” Xan said.

I hissed and closed my eyes. “Tell me, Xan,” I said. “Are these Peltasts arrogant? Do they strut around like lords of the earth?”

Xan considered. “Somewhat?” He allowed.

I fantasized about Peltasts with smug faces, their grins caving inward with every blow from my fists, falling away with their chipped teeth. I felt awake, light as a feather, scorched within. “Excellent,” I said. # Xan and I climbed up some nautical rigging, strung between the Sky Lily’s branches like webs. We reached the Peltast’s quarters, which swung from a thick branch like a lantern or birdhouse.

We climbed onto the hut’s porch and listened to the voices coming from behind the door.

I drew a skipping stone from my cloak. “Follow my instructions,” I told Xan. “And no questions.”

Xan opened his mouth. I gave him a look. He closed his mouth. # I opened the door and stepped inside. The hut’s walls were lined with folded bunks and niches holding small idols. Fire lances leaned against the walls, green staves tipped with bronze barrels and dangling fuses. The Peltasts, clad in stiffened linen armor, sat around a table, listening as one of them read poetry from a slim book: “Seed is no seed, bloom is no bloom flames be not lit, sit beside gloom–-“ The dark-eyed poet saw me. The book slipped from her hands. “The Quicksilver Witch,” she said numbly.

I kicked the door closed. “Sorry,” I said with cloying sweetness. “I must have taken a wrong turn.”

I threw a stone at the table’s lamp, smashing glass and snuffing out the flame.

The poet and her fellows dove for their fire lances. Outside, Xan draped his cloak over the hut’s sole window. Everything went dark.

I ducked to the side and rolled my eyes in circles, infusing them with sacred breath. I opened my eyes and saw the glowing outline of each Peltast.

“Thoon!” The poet shouted, jabbing at the dark with her weapon. “Get some light!”

One of the Peltasts twitched. I smashed his temple in with one punch. “Oh dear!” I chirped. “Was that Thoon?”

The poet twitched. “Thoon!” She cried.

Soft as a moth, I slipped behind another Peltast and struck the back of his neck. His vertebrae crunched. The floorboards creaked as he fell.

“I’m here, Dia!” One of them shouted, touching a brand to his fire lance’s fuse. “Hit the deck!”

I ducked behind a third Peltast. “So you are Thoon!” I announced cheerfully. “Hello, Thoon!”

Thoon swung his lance towards my voice. I kicked the third Peltast in the back, shoving her towards Thoon. His lance bucked, bathing her in a jet of blinding flame.

“Agrios!” Thoon screamed, as his comrade burned.

“Goodbye, Thoon!” I said. I parted my cloak and flung a skipping stone that dashed Thoon’s scalp open.

Dia sprinted right. She smashed through the window shutters in a spray of splinters and blinding light. I blinked away orange spots and vaulted through the window after her.

Xan leapt off the roof, seized his fallen cloak and rose to follow me.

Dia, the dark-eyed poet, sprinted up the creaking rope bridge, dragging her lance with one hand, barrel clinking against the wooden planks. She ran up towards another hut, which had an iron staircase that spiraled up through its roof towards the tree canopy.

I bounced a skipping stone off Dia’s ankle. The final Peltast fell to one knee, making the bridge bounce and sway.

We approached. Dia crouched and aimed her fire lance at us. She drew her brand, its tip glowing a cherry red.

“I’m curious, Dia,” I remarked, reaching for another skipping stone. “Who did you care for

more? Agrios, or Thoon?”

I watched with fascination as Dia’s face turned red and a tear tracked down one cheek.

“Why are you so cruel, Quicksilver Witch?” She spat.

Feeling a little guilty, I chose to answer honestly. “For practice,” I replied.

Xan stepped forward. “Surrender, Dia,” he said gently. “The Zeno won’t live to complete your contract.”

Dia touched her brand to the fire lance’s fuse. “Forget the Zeno,” She hissed. “How can I greet my friends in the Underworld without bringing you along?”

She aimed her smoldering fire lance at the rope bridge’s supports. Springing forward, I kicked her lance’s barrel aside. The lance fired, flame jet licking the edge of the bridge’s ropes. Charred threads unraveled.

Xan and I attacked. Dia twirled her empty fire lance and forced back us with sinuous, wild swings. She batted aside our leather-wrapped fists, shrieking beautiful war cries.

Then Xan threw his cloak over Dia’s head. While she clawed at the thick sheepskin, Xan hunched his shoulders. “Pierce the Shrimp Eye--” he muttered. He struck Dia, fist driven by every muscle and joint in his body. “--See the Mantis Roar!” A crunching noise like snapping twigs and Dia fell.

We ran past her and leapt onto the hut’s porch. With a loud twang, the bridge tore free, dropping Dia the Peltast to the Sky Lily’s floor.

I stumbled into the hut and sat at the foot of the spiral staircase. I gasped through a dry throat, dewed all over with sweat.

Xan’s brow wrinkled. “Are you--?”

“I’m fine,” I lied, grabbing the staircase railing. “We need to reach the Zeno--” “The Zeno can wait,” Xan said. “Let’s catch our breath.” He rolled his arm in a circle, wincing. “Besides,” he added. “There’s kink in my shoulder I need to loosen.”

I sat. Xan stretched. We listened to the Sky Lily gently creak.

“After slaying the Zeno,” Xan said suddenly, “what will you do, Master?”

“I have no idea,” I admitted.

Xan smiled. “You should come with me,” he proposed. “We could found Mantis Shrimp schools across the land, strengthen the people--“ I silenced Xan with a raised hand. “I can’t think about the future,” I said firmly. “I have to stay focused on one thing.”

“Killing the Zeno,” Xan said, nodding.

I shook my head. “Nothing so noble. I want to wipe the smug smile off his face. I want to see his swagger turn to panic.”

I drew one last soothing breath and stood. “I want to drive him mad," I said. # We climbed the stairs and emerged onto a balcony nestled between two large branches.

Ropes linked the platform to the Sky Lily’s leafy ceiling. Sun and flush red sky shone down through clear patches in the membrane, illuminating a gaggle of Cult soldiers standing by a complex mechanism of gears, pulleys and ropes.

I breathed weight into my legs, grabbed one of them by his tunic and threw him to the ground. “Tell me, friends,” I said fondly, resting a foot on the Cult soldier’s throat, relishing his comrade’s looks of fear. “Would any of you give your life for this man?”

“Quicksilver Witch!” Xan barked, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Stand down!”

I shrugged his hand off but stepped back.

Xan helped the Cult soldier up. “Is everything ready, Cynus?” Xan asked.

“Yes, Chief Xan,” Cynus croaked, clutching his throat and nodding towards the pulley mechanism. “We’ve jammed the furnace controls, as you asked!”

“Well done,” Xan said to Cynus, smiling warmly. Louder, he said, “Well done, everyone!

The time is coming for our Bright Fists to change the world. But first, I have a tyrant to depose!”

“Can you do it?” One of the cult soldiers asked, soft and meek as a child.

Xan winked. “With the Quicksilver Witch at my side,” he said, “and rightness in our hearts, the Zeno will fall.” He raised his fist, bathing it in a golden sunbeam. “And the Bright shall rise!”

The Cult soldiers raised their fists, shouting, “The Bright shall rise!”

I raised my fist. “Yes, the Bright shall rise!” I cheered. “A word in private, Chief Xan?” Xan nodded. “Stand by until I return,” he told his followers.

I took Xan out of earshot, towards a steel hatch embedded in the Sky Lily’s trunk.

“All that talk about empowering the people,” I whispered, “and you just want to rule the Smoke Cult?”

Xan flushed. “After slaying the Zeno,” he said stiffly, “I’ll reform them into a true Hero Cult.”

I glanced back at the hopeful crowd of thugs and drug dealers. “Your followers are cowards,” I said. “Too gutless to face Zeno on their own.”

“True,” Xan agreed. “But they could become greater, with a hero to inspire them.”

“And that hero is you?” I guessed.

Xan nodded.

I put the pieces together. “That why you came to me for training,” I guessed, “instead of smothering the Zeno in his sleep.

Xan nodded again. “I need to beat the Zeno fairly and become a hero in their eyes,” he said. He smiled. “But I also needed your powerful, quick-to-learn Mantis Shrimp Style; once I teach it to my cult–?”

“You’ll teach them my style?” I hissed in shock.

Xan nodded briskly. “–and they will teach the farmers and artisans. Those people will teach other and so on.” He smacked a fist against his thigh. “We’ll turn a land of victims into a land of warriors, and drive the Islanders back into the sea!”

Xan paused. “Teacher, are you alright?” He asked. “You look blue.”

“I am fine,” I said, stilling my face. “How is your arm?”

“Still aching,” Xan said, massaging his elbow. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s only growing pains,” I assured him. “You’re starting to truly master my style.”

Xan brightened. ”Ah,” he said. “Good.”

I opened the hatch, revealing a dark hole like a squirrel burrow. Steps crept down into the tree’s innards. “Well then,” I said. “Let’s go make you a hero, Xan.” # When the Zeno recruited me, back before I foolishly tried to skim from his profits, he was a dashing rogue with dark hair and a bright-toothed grin.

I last saw the Zeno at the battle of Siren Pass, fleeing from me behind a wall of Blood Bravoes. Then, he’d picked up a few wrinkles and grey strands.

I walked down the stairs to the Zeno’s sanctum and saw him drinking wine on a couch.

Wisps of white hair clung to his leathery scalp. His body was skeleton-thin, his skin saggy, his eyes sunken.

He looked so near death, so weak.

It was too good to be true.

A child in a tan tunic stood by the chamber’s glass cockpit dome. He stared out at the blue stretch of ocean, turning a steering wheel back and forth.

“Nothing’s happening, father!” He said. “It’s broken–-!“ The boy turned and saw us. “Oh,” he said, eyes wide.

The Zeno set his wine bowl down on a table and turned his head. “I’m disappointed, Xan,” he said. “You swore your loyalty to me.”

Xan snorted and said, “Why should I be loyal to a dead man?”

The Zeno smiled. His smile had not changed a bit. I saw red without having to call Pneuma to my eyes.

I lunged and seized the Zeno’s child by the hair, embers trailing from my hand like snowfall. The boy squeaked as I dragged him back, smoke rising where my sparks landed on flesh.

“Is this one the only bastard you ever acknowledged?” I asked scornfully.

The Zeno stood, knocking the couch on its side. “RELEASE HIM NOW,” he roared, voice billowing through the chamber, setting my teeth humming. Wine splashed from the bowl

on the table. Cracks spread across the porthole glass. His breath reeked of ash and rot.

“Please,” the Zeno said more softly. “This is between us.”

“I said that once,” I said coldly. The Zeno’s child trembled in my grip. “Right before you poisoned Mother,” I rasped.

I hoped the Zeno would flinch. Instead, he blinked and relaxed. “A fair point,” he said, shrugging helplessly. “Do what you must and we’ll call things even.”

Seething silently, I released his boy. He fled up the stairs, sandals slapping loudly against the steps. “Of course,” I muttered. “Why would you care about him?”

Xan stepped past me. “After you die,” he declared with contempt, “your Cult, your wealth will be mine. After this day, no one will remember your name--“ The Zeno smiled again. “I don’t think so,” he said placidly. “The Cult should fall in line after I toss your meat to the sharks.” He arched a thinned eyebrow at me. “Just like old times.”

I circled the Zeno; Xan stepped around the Zeno from the opposite side. “Whatever we do or say,” I cursed, “always you smile. Always--“ Mid-sentence, I struck at the Zeno’s smile, while Xan kicked at his back.

The Zeno sprang off one foot and flew out from between our fists. Landing in a crouch across the room, he placed a waxy green tablet in his mouth and bit down.

I sent skipping stones whistling from my cloak. The Zeno danced around my projectiles, twisting like an eel. The pill worked on him: his muscles swelled, his veins stood out like river trails on a map. Steam poured from his head and shoulders like a kettle.

The Zeno smiled at Xan, flexing fingers that glistened with dark dew. “Yours was a poor choice,” he said.

There was a rush of wind and a blur: Xan slammed into a wooden wall, black lines of rash creeping across his raised arm.

“Xan, Xan,” the Zeno chided. “Exertion will only make the venom spread.”

Light as feathers, I leapt, hair brushing the ceiling. I plummeted towards the Zeno, heavy as iron, arm trailing a shroud of orange embers. His form twirled, blurring past my fist in a gust of steam. I felt my leather wrappings scrape against him. I felt a sting on my shoulder.

I hit the floor, venom prickling its way down my bicep. I turned to see the Zeno frozen, staring at drops of blood on his tunic, seeping from his torn cheek. I held my breath, heart singing with excitement---the Zeno looked up and smiled.

Keening, I leapt at the Zeno. Xan followed me. We brawled across the chamber, Zeno flowing around our blows like rippling cloth. He leapt, sank, feinted, and parried. He had a technique for every situation---while we had punches.

“Xan,” I hissed. “Does powder make the cannon claw?”

Xan caught on. He hunched his shoulders, tucked his arms under his chin. I whipped my stone-weighted cloak off and tossed it over the Zeno’s head.

“Pierce the Shrimp eye--,” I recited, gathering breath for a vicious, bone-breaking strike.

A seam appeared in my cloak, tearing open with a loud rip, steam billowing out. The Zeno’s poison fingers speared through the foggy gap, driving towards my neck.

“--See the Mantis Roar!” Xan shouted, spitting embers. Every joint and muscle in his body uncoiled. His fist blurred forward, cracking the air like a whip.

Shrugging my cloak away, the Zeno raised his palm and caught Xan’s fist. His wrist snapped backwards with a gristly crunch, and Xan’s fist kept going.

I threw my own strike, uncoiling every joint, tendon and gasp of breath in me.

I hit the Zeno’s breast. Xan hit his shoulder blade. Bone and flesh gave way, turning to something soft as jelly between our knuckles.

The Zeno’s knees buckled. His face blanked with confusion. That wasn’t enough. So I grabbed one of his toxic thumbs and drove it into his eye.

The Zeno fell, groaning as dark tendrils spread across his cheek.

I planted a foot on the Zeno’s chest. “You,” I snarled, trembling head to toe, “are out of time.”

The Zeno looked up at me with his last eye, wheezing. Blackened blood seeped from his socket. His mouth fluttered, then curved up.

I raised my foot, ready to stamp and stamp until that expression changed.

“Teacher,” Xan choked, falling to his knee. His left arm dangled limply. “Something’s wrong!”

I kicked the Zeno’s mangled shoulder once, then knelt by Xan. I ran fingers up and down his limp arm, triggering spasms and yelps of pain.

“Three breaks,” I counted. “One at your elbow. Torn sinews.” I felt his shoulder and drew another whimper. “Naturally, your shoulder’s dislocated too.” I sighed, sad and disgusted, and swung his good arm over my shoulder. “Come, Xan,” I said, lifting him up. “We need to tell your followers you won.”

“I thought I mastered your technique,” Xan muttered, sagging against me. “You said I did.”

“You can moan after we find a bonesetter,” I insisted.

Xan started crying. “You said it was just growing pains,” he whispered. “How can I ever fully heal from this--?” He looked up at me, features drawn with a new agony. “You knew this would happen,” he said.

I said nothing.

“You knew,” Xan said with more conviction. “Why?” “Human aren’t built to fight like Mantis Shrimps,” I explained quietly. “The more you strike with the Mantis Shrimp Style, the more your body breaks down.”

“But your arms are fine,” Xan insisted, voice hoarse.

“After years of bone-hardening exercises,” I said. “Exercises I couldn’t teach you in two months.”

Xan pushed himself off me. “You told me I mastered your style,” he rasped.

“I lied,” I said simply. “So you would take me to the Zeno.”

Xan slumped against a wall, ugliness in his eyes. “If I teach my Cult your style,” he seethed, “their bodies will break. The people they teach will break! Won’t they?”

My silence answered him.

“I trusted you with my hopes,” Xan shouted, “and you stamped on them!” Orange sparks

dripped from Xan’s fingers like melting ice. “You’ll pay for this,” he promised.

I turned away from Xan, heart weighed down. “Probably,” I agreed. “What we want always has a cost--“ I found myself staring right into the Zeno’s face, a curtain of blood parted by a whitetoothed smile.

The Zeno lunged. I seized his hand an inch from my throat. He pushed me toward the framed glass porthole, muscles wriggling beneath his skin as his drugs kept his body going.

Over the Zeno’s shoulder, I saw my student’s nostrils flare. Crying with hate, Xan charged like a bull. He slammed his shoulder into the Zeno’s side, shoving us both back.

We crashed through the cracked porthole, glass spraying everywhere. The Zeno and I fell past the Sky Lily’s green bulk and into the wine-dark waves below. Water and rushing bubbles swallowed us.

I sank. I closed my eyes, rolling them in my sockets. I opened them; I saw the Zeno’s gloving outline above me, thrashing towards the surface. Heat poured off his frame, ebbing and flowing in time with the pulse of a pounding heart.

I felt relief. He was scared. He was out of control. That smile was just a smile, a shell I’d never bothered to smash.

I grabbed the Zeno’s leg and pulled him down. Bubbles spewed from the Zeno’s mouth. I clamped onto his leg with my knees. I punched him in the temple. Once. Twice. Water dripped up my nose, burning my sinuses.

I struck a third time. The water between us sparkled with flashes of light. I felt my elbow snap. I felt his skull cave in.

Red billowed from the Zeno in an inky cloud. I let go. I sank. I felt a current grab me, drag me down.

In that moment before panic, choking and blackness, I did not rejoice. I did not regret.

I wondered if Xan would be alright. I wondered, faintly, who would harvest me from the sea.

Coleman Gailloreto is a writer, translator and fantasy enthusiast. He strives in his work to prepare readers for the next renaissance or apocalypse, whichever comes first. Mr. Gailloreto lives with his dog in Chicago, the city of gangsters and fancy parks.

The Past Catches Up

by William Quincy Belle Lorne looked at the picture of the soldier and furrowed his brow. He turned it over and tried to read the writing on the back. It took a moment to realize it must not be English, but there was no mistaking the name Frederick Schmidt. He brought the picture closer and squinted.

The nondescript box looked as if it once contained shoes. There was a layer of dust on top so it seemed that nobody had looked at this in a long time. And the fact it was tucked so far away in an almost inaccessible corner of the attic made Lorne think he wasn’t supposed to have found it. Was he going to get in trouble? All he was looking for was a model he built with Dad when he was a kid.

He lifted the edge of several pieces of paper before discovering a small booklet labeled Reisepass. There was that odd cross. He remembered seeing it in a history book. Inside there was another photo of the man in uniform. Nobody had ever mentioned anything about this, not Dad, not Mom, and not Grandpa. Was this a distant relative? A family friend?

He looked around the attic. It seemed odd that he had never seen the box before. What to do about it? Put it back and say nothing? This seemed like a mystery he had to solve.

Who was this man? Why did someone save these materials? He put everything back in the box and wiped off the top. His high school buddy Mike would know how to find out.

He was a wiz with computers.

“Do you want more meatloaf, Dad?” Molly had stood up with the dish. “I should wrap things up.”

“I’m fine. At my age, I certainly don’t need as much.” Fred wiped his mouth. “Let me help you.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I just want to fiddle. I can’t sit still too long, you know.”

Lorne stuck his head in the kitchen. “Can I go over to Mike’s?”

“Homework?” She glanced at her son as she pulled out a piece of plastic wrap to cover the dish of meatloaf.

“We didn’t get any today. I’m in the clear.” He grinned.

“Okay. But I expect you home by no later than ten.”

“Ah, Mom.” She held up both hands. “Hey. It’s a school night. Rules are rules.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “Question.”

“Yes?” “What’s the name of that odd looking cross used by the Germans in World War II?” Fred looked at the boy. “Why do you ask?”

He pursed his lips. “No reason.”

Molly gave at her son a curious look. “Did you see this somewhere?”

“TV, I think. An old war movie.”

She opened the refrigerator. “It’s called a swastika.” She moved several items on a shelf then set the dish down and shut the door. “10 o’clock.”

“Yes, Mom.” The sound of Lorne’s footsteps became fainter down the hallway. The front door opened and closed.

She picked up dishes from the table and set them on the kitchen counter. “Sooner or later, he’s going to find out.”

Fred remained quiet. He took a sip of water.

“I’m still surprised you managed to keep this a secret all these years.”

“It was for the best.”

She turned and faced her father. “For the best? For the best? Living a lie all these years?

Living with the threat of being exposed?”

He sighed. “We’ve been over this how many times? Why all of a sudden do you feel compelled to bring it up again?”

“At the last PTA meeting, I ran into Cathy Berkowtiz. She told me her family had a vacation last fall in Europe and one of their stops was Auschwitz. They wanted to pay

tribute to their uncle who died there. I felt guilty. I felt I was somehow responsible.”

“Molly, I had nothing to do with that. I was stationed on the other side of Europe.

Besides, I was a foot soldier. I was following orders.”

“Yes, yes. Everybody was following orders. Nobody was responsible. It just happened.”

“What would you have wanted me to do? Turn myself in? Go to jail? Be executed? I had a family to take care of. I couldn’t risk leaving your mother all alone to raise your brothers.

How could she have survived?”

She sat down and rested her head on one hand. “Oh God, Dad. What a mess. The horrible things that happened. Cathy’s uncle murdered and for what reason? Because of his religion.”

“I know. It was horrible. I had no idea what was going on, what the leadership was doing.

It certainly wasn’t anything I would agree to and I, like most Germans, didn’t find out the truth until the end of the war. Don’t hold me responsible for what Hitler did. I was just your average German trying to make his way in life, interrupted by a world war.”

She looked up. “You know he’s going to find out.”

“How?” “I don’t know. Something will eventually come out.”

“Listen, I’m Fred Smith and I have been Fred Smith for the past sixty odd years. Nobody has any idea of my past and it’s best left buried. What purpose would be served by the truth coming out?”

She stood up and opened the dishwasher. “I know, Dad. You’ve explained it and I’ve accepted it.” She stacked the plates in the lower tray. “It’s just that secrets somehow manage to get out. It’s not just a question about you. What about me? Or more importantly, what about Lorne?”

“I know, daughter. I’ve thought about it. I’ve agonized over it. I’ve gone through every possible scenario wondering what would have been the best thing to do in the long run, but sometimes you start something and you can’t quit. Turning back is impossible. The best thing to do is to try to forget the past.” #

Molly stepped off the stairs and started toward the front door. She smelled coffee. She stopped, yawned, and went to the kitchen. The morning paper was unfolded on the kitchen table. There was half a cup of coffee beside it.

“Dad?” She poured herself a mug and sat down in front of the paper. She sipped her coffee then folded the paper back to page one and glanced at the headlines: trouble in the MiddleEast, an announcement from the Pope, the usual world news. She took another sip. The bottom of page one showed local news items. In the lower right, she read the title Former member of the Nazi SS living among us? Her eyes widened. She read the paragraph and saw the words continued on page eight. She turned to that page and scanned the rest of the article. How was this possible? She stared off into space her mouth agape.

The doorbell rang. She jumped. She set down the paper and pulled the sides of her housecoat closer together and retied the sash. Who could that be at this hour? She walked to the front door and opened it.

“Molly Smith?”

She stared at the young woman dressed in a business suit. The woman raised a microphone toward Molly.

“Your father is Fred Smith, correct?”

Molly glanced across the street. There were several people standing on the sidewalk by a parked van with the letters KFSL-TV. “Would you care to comment on this morning’s article about your father really being Frederick Schmidt, a former member of the Nazi SS?” “What?” She noticed there was a man standing to the left of the woman holding a video camera pointed at her.

“Jason Bender of the Morning Tribune was contacted last night by Cathy Berkowtiz, mother of Mike Berkowitz, a friend of your son. Your son is Lorne Smith, right? It appears your son asked Mike for help in researching some old documents from World War II and those documents apparently show your father to be a former member of the SS. Fred Smith is really Frederick Schmidt.”

Molly looked at the woman then looked at the cameraman.

“Do you have any comment?”

Mr. Henderson, a neighbor, was out walking his dog and glanced several times at the truck and at Molly. More than likely, he had already seen this morning’s paper.

“I have no comment.” She took a step back and closed the door.

A muffled voice came from behind the door. “Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith!”

She looked up the stairs. “Dad?” “What’s the matter, Mom?” Lorne stood at the top of the stairs rubbing his eyes. He yawned.

“Where’s Grandpa?”

“Beats me. He’s not in his room.”

She walked back to the kitchen. She picked up her mug and took a gulp of coffee. She leaned over and read the paper again. Frederick Schmidt, a member of the Nazi SS, was found guilty of war crimes in absentia. His whereabouts had been unknown since the war when it is believed he managed to escape Germany under an assumed name.

She stood up and pursed her lips. It had finally happened. The secret had gotten out.

There was the question about how it got out, but the more important question was what to do about it. She glanced around the kitchen. She needed to talk to her father. And she should probably phone a lawyer right away.

She stared through the kitchen window into the backyard. The morning seemed so peaceful, calm. However, with a TV news crew parked outside, today would probably be anything but calm.

As she stood there looking out the window, she noticed the side door to the garage was partially open. Was Dad already out tinkering in the work area? He loved woodworking and his hobby had turned into a real passion in his old age.

“Did you find Grandpa?” Lorne went straight to the cupboard containing the cereals.

“He must have gotten up early.”

“I thought I heard him talking with somebody out front.”

She turned to her son. “When?”

“I don’t know. Earlier. He sounded angry.”

“Who was he talking to?”

“I was half asleep. A woman, I think.”

She glanced toward the front of the house. “Stay here.”

“I was going to have some cereal.” He looked up to see his mother had gone out the back door.

Lorne and the television crew heard the screaming at the same time. Lorne got there first followed by the woman and the cameraman. They found Molly kneeling at the back of the garage. She was sobbing and repeating the word “no” over and over again. They all turned to one side to see a lifeless body hanging from the rafters.

“Grandpa?” Lorne said.

“Are you getting this?” The woman spoke out of the side of her mouth to the cameraman.

“Yes.” Lorne walked up to his mother never taking his eyes off the body. “Mom? Is that Grandpa?”

Molly continued to sob.

“Jody, get a shot of me,” the woman said.

The cameraman stepped back and pointed the video at her.

“This is Jessica Wilson reporting live for KFSL-TV. We’re at the home of Molly Smith, daughter of one Fred Smith. Last night, evidence was put forward that Fred Smith is, in reality, Frederick Schmidt, an alleged war criminal who has been in hiding for the past sixty plus years. Frederick Schmidt was a member of the Nazi’s notorious SS and is considered responsible for the summary execution of hundreds of innocent Jews and other occupied civilians. This news team confronted Mr. Smith with the story penned by Jason Bender of the Morning Tribune. Mr. Smith vehemently denied the accusation, but now, an hour later has apparently committed suicide by hanging himself.”

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).

The Space between Them

by Christopher Wight "Such a lovely shape, isn't it?" Keiko asked her husband in a soft voice. She kept her gaze locked on the white ceramic plate framed in pink tissue for fear of seeing anything in his eyes but the harmonious connection she craved.

Long seconds of silence ticked by, until the quiet din of the trendy Tokyo cafĂŠ consumed the space between them and screamed for further comment. They could fixate on their phones, but that was defeat. They could fill the space with conversation, but that was risky. Would she talk about her job at the hospital maternity ward? About how she was desperate to be on the delivery table instead of beside it? No. Real conversation risked real disagreement. The plate would suffice.

"Sou da ne," he affirmed, still absorbing the hand-crafted souvenir on the table.

Keiko exhaled, a little too relieved he had spoken first. She gave her hair a half-conscious twirl of approval and reached across the table to lightly touch his hand.

Encouraged, he continued, still focused on the plate: "It would be perfect for sliced melon."

"Yes, indeed," she agreed. The discussion continued like this for some time, both of them staring at the dish until they became blissfully lost in the details and possible uses of it.

A white-haired man wearing a blue suit at the table next to them had been sitting with his face in his hands, as if tired or distraught, but now he sat up, turned their direction, and cleared his throat, old-man cologne becoming invasive.

Keiko struggled to maintain harmony: "What a perfect size for roasted fish."

"Or sushi," her husband followed.

"Or sushi!" The whited-haired man mocked.

The interruption sucked the tranquility from their table like a typhoon ripping the roof from their house. "Such nice, rounded edges..." Her husband persisted, ignoring the white-haired man.

"Oh yes, such a beautiful dish..." Keiko tried to recover.

Without warning, the white-haired man rose to his feet and stood before their table. He grabbed the plate and dropped it to the floor, unleashing an irrevocable explosion of pristine porcelain at her feet. "Idiots!" he added to injury before turning to leave.

Keiko's serene shield of insincerity was shattered along with the plate. She stared at the void of pink tissue paper on the table, too shocked to speak. The collective murmur of cafĂŠ patrons grew louder. A waitress ran over with a tray and began picking up the pieces of Keiko's broken, risk-free intimacy. Somewhere a baby started crying. She had to do something. Keiko slid her hand across the table to touch his, and their eyes met for the first time in an hour.

"It is perfect for sliced melon," her husband said.

"Yes, it certainly is," she agreed, trembling with relief as the space between them filled with love.

C. D. Wight lives with his wife and two sons in the historic beach community of Kamakura, Japan. He likes to surf, even in the winter.

A special gratitude to our readers for making this issue possible.

A year has passed and a new one has begun. We sure do look forward to reading many more great pieces of literature.

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