Khimairal Ink

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Khimairal Ink

Stories by members of the Lesbian Fiction Forum

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Publisher Claudia Wilde Managing Editor Carrie Tierney Assistant Editor C.A. Casey Layout/Story Art T.J. Mindancer

ISSN 1939-3393 Khimairal Ink Magazine is published January, April, July, and October.

Khimairal Ink

In This Issue

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Claudia Wilde

4 Assimilated HH Carrie Tierney 6 Silent Journey HH DeJay 9 Iz‛s Story HH Doreen Perrine 20 Communion HH Fran Walker 22 Games With Chance HH Andi Marquette 31 Backup Plan HH Jess Sandoval 36 Bridgework HH Darby O‛Neil 43 Who‛s In Charge? HH DeJay 46 Water Rites HH Mary Douglas 50 Contributors

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IJACKED!!!!

I’m not sure how it happened, but our October issue has been assimilated by an entity of the Internet. One minute I’m reading submissions for upcoming issues and then the next thing I know, all the accepted stories are by writers from a collective called the Lesbian Fiction Forum. To paraphrase Wikipedia, “They operate towards a singleminded purpose: to incorporate biological and technological distinctiveness to their own work, in pursuit of perfection.” Their home world is “A Meeting Place for Lovers of LesFic.” Here’s where you can find their cube: http://lesbianfiction.17.forumer.com/index.php but don’t tell Species 8472!

“Silent Journey” by DeJay will soften every Borg’s heart and bring a tear to any humanoid.

“Iz’s Story” by Doreen Perrine questions the prime directive on whether valuable things are worth waiting for.

Fran Walker’s “Communion” offers a paradox to family values.

“Games With Chance” by Andi Marquette takes us to a distant quadrant filled with strange new worlds, deceit and old friends.

“Backup Plan” by Jess Sandoval shows even the best laid plans require assistance.

Darby O’Neil explores new frontiers in her tale, “Bridgework.”

More softening of the nanoprobes in DeJay’s “Who’s In Charge?”

Starfleet rules and festival contests deserve a second look in “Water Rights” by Mary Douglas.

And the Borg queen, L-J Baker has a new book coming out this fall called Adijan and Her Genie from Mindancer Press.

Enjoy! Resistance is futile!!

Claudia

Join us for the January 2009 issue featuring . . .

Life of Anais Brigitte Green Does the Butch Come With the Recipe? Cheri Crystal The Worst of It Bryn Greenwood In the Morning Amelia Beamer In Every Port Geonn Cannon Blackbirds and Blossoms S.V. Green

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fficer, I’d like to report a crime . . . We’ve been assimilated. Yes, a-ssi-mi-la-ted by a group called the Lesbian Fiction Forum but they’re really a Borg collective . . . No. I haven’t been drinking . . . Much . . .”

By the time I figured out this heinous crime, it was too late. Under their mind control, I invited other members of the collecive, uh, forum to submit a story for this issue. Before I knew it, we had a double-sized issue on our hands.

I have a confession to make. I was already a member of the forum, and our artist-typesetterWebmaster-assistant editor and general bottle washer C.A. Casey was soon after assimilated.

Besides that pesky mind-controlling assimilation stuff, it’s a joy to chat and work with such a fun group of women who are serious about the craft of writing. There’s a lot of talent there . . . So much talent, that we’ve also signed books by several forum members.

With the exception of Claudia’s column, everything in this issue—writing, editing, layout, typesetting, HTML-ing, artwork—was done by members of the LFF. All the ads are for books by members of the forum.

So please don’t resist and enjoy and don’t forget to pay respect to the Borg Queen, L-J Baker.

Carrie

Upcoming books from members of the Lesbian Fiction Forum In Keisha’s Shadow by Sandra Barret Bases Loaded by Barbara L. Clanton Adijan and Her Genie by L-J Baker Lavender Ink by Fran Walker Friends in High Places by Andi Marquette Past Echoes by T. J. Mindancer Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company http://www.bedazzledink.com

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Adijan, a poor messenger girl in an Arabian Nights fantasy world, wishes she could

build a world-spanning business empire . . . Shalimar, her wife, wishes Adijan could spend more time at home . . . Their landlord wishes Adijan would pay the rent . . .

Adijan’s brother-in-law wishes she would get trampled by a herd of camels so that he could marry his sister Shalimar to someone affluent and influential . . . And of all the wishes in the world, Adijan wishes the genie she’s saddled with would fix her problems instead of treating her with disdain.

Be careful what you wish for in a world of genies, sorcerers, and flying carpets.

Watch for it late 2008 Mindancer Press http://mindancerpress.wordpress.com/books/adijan-and-her-genie/

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lean forward and whisper in your ear. “It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

We’re in the car for what seems like hours.

You’re reluctantly driving to our special place.

It is a journey of the heart as well as the lonely highway we travel upon. I remember our trips of long ago, as if it were yesterday—the long winding road under a canopy of trees. Sunlight filtering through the leaves lighting the way here and there, the greenery swallowing up the views at every turn. The road leading to our imagined sovereignty. It’s cool today, in the fifties and you’re prepared for it. You’re wearing my favorite long sleeve t-shirt, the one we found together in P-town. It’s old and faded now but you refuse to part with it. You have on your black jeans, the ones that hug your form so well, your black motorcycle boots and the leather jacket I gave you for our first Christmas. “Remember?”

“It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

We had only been together six months when we went to Provincetown for vacation. We had hoped to feel a part of it, had been too afraid to dare believe it possible. Incredibly it was, we laughed and frolicked like kids. That’s what it felt like the first time we didn’t have to be on guard. The first time we were “out” together and no one cared. No one stared, frowned, or judged. “Remember?”

You made it so special. I didn’t think I could love you more. We went to dinner that first night at Ross’s Grill, a little place you had found down by the water on Commercial Street. You took my hand from across the table and whispered, “I love you.” Then you took a breath and asked, “Do you love me?” My heart swelled, for this was the one public place you dared ask that question

and I could show you my answer freely. Tears streaked down my cheeks as I leaned over and kissed you. “Yes, always and all ways.” You looked into my eyes and murmured, “Will you marry me?” I kissed you again, unable to utter the words. My heart was bursting with joy. I had never dreamed it could be like this. We ordered dinner, but neither of us ate, instead opting to take the food back to our room. I know—you remember.

“It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

That night we made love into the wee hours, joyful and sure that no one had ever been as happy as we. You wanted to sleep. I wanted to walk on the beach and celebrate life.

You insisted that we take jackets. You were right. The moon was fading in the distance, the breezes off the water brisk. I was so happy, you were tolerant. “Remember?”

We walked out to the cove by the lighthouse.

Dawn was just breaking, the sun barely lighting the water’s edge. I always loved that time of the day, just as you always hated it. We climbed over the barrier of driftwood separating the two shorelines. You feared we were trespassing. I assured you we were just walking, what could it hurt? The sun started to rise in the sky, brilliant reds and oranges illuminating the clouds. White caps danced off the surface of the ocean. We walked along the water’s edge holding hands.

Content and peaceful. Liberated.

“It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

The waves rushed to shore, splashing over our feet as we strolled together, side by side.

You pulled me into your arms and kissed me for all the world to see. We felt so free, so happy.

We were invincible. “Remember?”

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We explored along the dunes, just enjoying being together, being free, to openly be. You found the starfish so pretty and so delicate, remember? We took it home and you built a shadow box for it out of the wreckage we had recovered. We hung it in the bedroom. You put your arm around me as we gazed at it, smiling.

“We’ll look at this and always remember.” That’s what you said. “Do you—remember?”

“It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

We married later that fall. You were so beautiful in your tux. Tall and handsome. Your hand, damp with nerves, shook as we said our vows.

Sweat beaded on your brow, and you looked so scared. I didn’t think I could love you more, but I did. Each and every day of our lives, my love grew.

“Remember?” For my birthday you brought home Daisy, a small bundle of fur no bigger than your hands. You hid her inside your jacket and when I went to kiss you, you put your hands up.

“Whoa there.” You smiled then slowly pulled the zipper down. A head popped out from between the leather folds. Her small black face against your crisp white shirt was so precious. Her little pink tongue stretched out long as she yawned, waking from her nap.

“It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

Years later, and a lifetime of memories amassed, we were still together, still happy.

“Remember?” We had our home, a dream you made happen. We rebuilt that place from the studs out--new walls, new kitchen and a new bath. You lovingly sanded the banisters down to the raw wood, then spent days staining and varnishing them. Five coats later, the wood satiny smooth, you were finally satisfied. We wallpapered the back room. The baby’s room, remember? You painted clouds on the ceiling and a rainbow on one wall. A child was due, a girl of our own. You were so proud. You said, “Our baby will be the luckiest kid in the world, ’cause she’ll have you as a mom.” I broke down in tears. I was so hormonal, but you didn’t care, you held me on your lap and rocked me. We sat there and lovingly planned for the future, hers and ours.

“It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

Ahhh, we’re here now. I see you struggle.

Hesitant, you pause. You don’t want to get out

of the car. You turn to your companion, “I’ll be right back.” She nods sadly, frightened. Why not? Her future depends on you, this trip, the outcome. I place my hand on her shoulder and whisper. “It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

Your memories are painful, they’re tearing you apart inside, but I’m here, I’ll help you. I love you more today than every day before. Can’t you feel it, me? I’m here with you, always and all ways. You walk along the sand, the sky filled with dark, angry clouds. They perfectly reflect you and your pain. You’re struggling. You’ve come here to keep your promise. It’s time after all. I’ve been hinting, whispering to you for three years, but never sure until today that you heard me. You stoop and pick up a sea shell. It’s small and intricate, so fragile. Tears are running down your face as you crush the shell in your closed hand. Closed—just as your heart is. I kiss your cheek, just a brush of my lips.

“Remember!” I love you so. I want to help you.

Let me, please, I implore you.

You scream and cry, your anger on the verge of overwhelming you. I whisper, “Remember.”

Then you do. You stop fighting me, and the memories flow. The wonder of it all, the happy times, our love. They wash over you and I see the change as you open your mind and your heart.

“It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

Just as quickly the remorse starts. The self incrimination. You close yourself to me. I can’t reach you to tell you it’s okay. The guilt follows as you run down to the water, waves crashing to shore. Washing away the sand, as I want to wash your pain away. Please listen. I’m here. I love you. You don’t hear me though. Your anger is like a vice crushing you. “Why—why did this happen?” You scream out, but no one’s there to answer you. You fall to your knees sobbing.

Wailing as if it were yesterday. I wrap my arms around you, holding you tight, willing you to feel me, to know I’m here always and all ways. You blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault. How could we know he was heading right for us? How could we have seen him around the bend? It was an accident. He didn’t know the deer would be standing in the middle of the road. He didn’t know when he swerved that he would hit us head on. He lives with the guilt every day, just

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like you. He hates himself just as you do. I ache for you both. A soft breeze blows and your tears dry upon your cheeks. You don’t understand it’s me. The sun peaks from between the dark clouds, smiling on you and your place in the sand. I want you to feel its warmth, to know I’m here, that I love you. I want you to realize I’ll always be here, watching, guiding, loving you.

Always and all ways.

You stand up, scrub at your tears, and glance back toward the car. That’s your future, and I am your past. It’s time. “It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

You pull the canister out from inside your jacket. Your hand trembles as you open the lid. You go to the waters edge, unmindful of the cold washing over your feet, just as it’s washed over your heart. I’m here, I love you. “Please remember.”

You tilt the urn and my ashes blow in the wind.

I’m free at last, my pain no more. Now it’s your turn. I whisper softly in your ear. You tilt your face up to the sky, eyes closed and finally . . . finally you remember. The warmth spreads over you, and you let it embrace you down to your tortured soul. The tension drains away as you expose your heart. The good times, the wonderful memories, the loving all vie for attention in your consciousness. Your anger eases, the hatred slips, it okay. I want you to feel good

again. I want you to remember it all. Focus on the happy times. Remember me with love in your heart, not pain or guilt. You gave me so much, and I would never change a moment of it. Finally, you are open to me. I know you sense me, my presence. I kiss your lips once more.

You raise your hand, your fingertips caress the spot. I know you know. I love you but concede this is good bye. We stand together one last moment, as I wrap in you in my arms for all eternity. You smile and I release you. Now is her time. Mine is no more.

My heart aches as I watch you close your jacket against the cold, against me and turn to walk away. You glance backward, searching, tears shimmering. I pray you can see me, feel me. I smile and wave as the dark clouds cover the sky once more. I know you remember— finally. I know you’ll heal now. I remain where I am accepting this is farewell. For she waits patiently on the other side of the bridge, standing in the shadows, hoping you’ll come to her. Praying you’re free to love her. She’s there holding our daughter, our wonder of a creation.

They are your future and I am the past. “It’s okay.

She loves you both. She’ll be good for you both.

Go to her, be happy. Just please remember, I love you always and all ways.”

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laire decided to attend the opening. She would go toward the end, wish her well, then leave. Iz would be surrounded by friends or, at least, admirers. There’d be no time to rehash the past or ask what the blank postcard should have said.

She considered inviting Kristen. But, no, that would be too high school. She hardly knew her.

And what if Iz might consider Claire more than a friend? After a year with no word, the notion seemed pathetic. Still, she clung to the hope.

She found a parking spot on the Lower East Side gallery. With her long stride, she stepped down Broadway, her heels tapping the sidewalk.

A spring breeze off the East River rustled her hair and checkered skirt.

Claire clutched the postcard in her hand. She flipped it over and noted the gallery’s address.

She walked down Allen Street to the storefront space. It wasn’t as upscale as the uptown gallery where Claire had worked—where she and Iz had met. But what one gallery could contain a dynamic artist like Isabelle Spera?

The room was packed. Did Iz know all these people? Maybe the gallery had brought them in.

As far as Claire knew, this was her second trip to New York. Clearly, people were drawn to Iz wherever she went.

Claire braced herself as she stood in the doorway. A slight breeze whisked her neck-length hair. She was tempted to lose herself in the anonymous street. Instead, she peered around the crowded room. This time, she couldn’t hear Iz’s laugh bouncing off the walls. Maybe she wasn’t there. Claire felt both relief and sorrow at the thought.

She made her way to a side table and poured a cup of wine. No matter what, she told herself, I won’t be bitter—or spiteful. She still hadn’t gotten her period, but more than PMS filled her with tension. She felt self-conscious about her body. Besides bloating, she had put on some weight. That could only be from lonely nights, stuffing her face in front of the tube.

Just then, the crowd seemed to miraculously part. “Clara?” Iz stood in the center of the room.

She’d changed. Slightly heavier, her black hair was disheveled. She had the look of a heavy burden. Her black clothing, slacks and a linen shirt, covered her like a shroud. Had she gone through another breakup? Or maybe she’d gotten back with her callous ex-lover? Claire didn’t want to know.

She froze as if suspended in the moment.

Should she walk into the room or wait for Iz? How could she reveal her sinking heart? She held out her hand—and waited.

“Scusi.” Iz spoke to a man who crossed her path. She walked slowly. Was she limping? Finally, they stood face to face. “Clara!” Iz embraced her, then kissed her cheeks. “You came!”

“Of course.” Claire did her best to smile.

Iz pressed her hand. “I didn’t know . . .” she looked like she was about to cry, “if you might have moved.”

“I sent you my address.” Claire stared at her drink.

“Yes, you did.” Iz’s black eyes, which had once seemed so alert, were still.

“How was your flight?” Claire resorted to small talk.

“My . . . yes, fine.”

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“And your grandmother? I hope she’s well.”

Iz trembled, then examined her watch. “This is almost ended,” she said. “I must . . . forgive me.

I must go.”

Claire summoned the strength to speak. “I have to go myself.”

“No, please!” Iz clutched her sleeve. “I must talk to you.”

Claire could no longer contain her feelings.

“Isabelle,” she pressed her shoulder, “you never called or wrote. I thought—” “Ah, Clara!” Iz buried her face in her hands.

“Please, just wait here.”

Claire let her arms fall to her side. “Here?” She smirked at the floor.

“Right here on this very spot,” Iz touched her cheek, “so I don’t lose you again.” She stepped back into the chatting crowd.

“Still giving me orders,” Claire muttered. Did Iz expect her to wait like an obedient child?

Her green eyes flashed with anger. I won’t, she thought, I’ll leave now and never see her again!

But she could only wander around the gallery.

She gazed up at Iz’s lively paintings. In their vibrant color, she recognized the blue-green hills of Tuscany. The idyllic scenes came back to her like a happy dream. Had it been one short year since her trip to Italy?

She looked over her shoulder. Iz held a cup of red wine in her hand. Barely sipping, she didn’t speak much. She just stood bobbing her head in a mechanical way—how unlike the spunky girl Claire had met five years before.

Claire wondered how long she’d be in town.

Had she just come to attend the opening? Now that they’d reunited, would Iz be swallowed up in her own life—again? Claire was crushed to think this reconnection would abruptly end. Iz might leave and break her heart—again.

Just then, Iz turned from where she stood beside a talking woman. She gazed at Claire.

Her smile was quick and light. However brief, it was the same sweet smile Claire recalled.

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he crowd filtered out of the gallery. Claire felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you for waiting.” Iz’s voice was hoarse.

“I didn’t stay in your spot.” Claire arched a brow.

“It’s all right.” She twirled her fingers in Claire’s hair.

She thought back to when Iz had called her hair “red-like.” She hadn’t known the English for “auburn.”

“Whatever you do is all right,” Iz murmured.

Claire eyed her, puzzled. Could she still be charming her like a silly girl? But, no, Iz was hardly silly. In fact, she appeared more serious than Claire had ever known. But then, had she ever known her?

“My car is outside,” Claire said, “would you like me to drive you somewhere?”

“Can we get a drink?” Iz waved to a couple calling “Ciao Isabelle!” at the door.

“Sure.” Claire forced a smile.

“Somewhere quiet.” Iz’s shoulders were slumped.

“No, dance clubs?” Claire thought of how they’d danced through the night.

“Not this time.”

Their conversation was flat. It feels like a funeral, Claire thought as they walked in silence.

They found a bar around the block.

“Nothing exciting going on here.” Claire held the door.

Iz staggered over the threshold. Had she drank too much? “I don’t care.” She walked to a dark table in the corner and took a seat.

Claire followed. “Why are we sitting in the dark?”

“I prefer it.” Iz looked down, then spoke after a long pause. “I hope you don’t mind.” Her words mingled with a thumping juke box.

“It’s fine.” Claire glanced at the bar. “I’ll get our drinks. What—?”

“Nothing . . . anything.” Iz spun her head as if deciding on a drink was an impossible task.

“I’ll just get a couple of beers.” Claire went up to the bar and ordered beer on tap. A husky man grinned eerily at her. She went back to the table with the foaming mugs.

Iz was staring at the wall.

“Why are you so . . . solemn?”

“I . . . I’m sorry, Clara.” Her eyes seemed to pierce the shadowy corner. “I am so sorry I never contacted you.”

“I did wonder.” Claire shrugged. Of course, she

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played down her emotions. She felt them brewing like an internal storm.

Iz gripped her hands across the table.

Claire was startled by the intensity of her grasp.

“Isabelle, what is it?”

Her face was clouded. “I tried . . . I didn’t want to involve you . . .” she stammered.

“Involve me in what?”

“Oh, Clara!” She sunk her face in her palms.

Claire broke the heavy silence. “What’s wrong?”

“After you left Italy,” she began, “my whole world fell apart.”

She lifted her head, her eyes whirling. “Why is that?”

“What do you mean? What happened?” Iz told her everything. Her grandmother had died. “And if that wasn’t painful enough, my uncle insisted I marry to claim my inheritance.”

“What?”

“My grandmother didn’t change her will since I was a child.” Iz gazed up like she was speaking to the ceiling. “My inheritance was left in trust to him.”

Claire slapped her hand to her mouth.

“Then I . . . it was my fault, I know.” She stared at the wall again. “I got into an accident.”

“On the motorcycle?”

Iz nodded.

“Are you all right?”

“My leg,” she pointed to her right thigh, “they had to pin it up. It’s fine now. I can walk. I just . . . I was in the hospital a long time.”

“And where was your uncle?”

“We don’t speak any more.” Iz waved her hands as if to push away the bad memory.

“That’s terrible!”

C

laire pondered Iz’s story as she drove.

Could she be making it up? That she was imaginative, there was no doubt. But why would she lie? Maybe she needed a plausible excuse for having blown Claire off. Why would she have contacted her then? Maybe she’d been with her ex all along and just wanted a fling. But wouldn’t she have to be a sociopath to be that deceptive?

Questions sped like a roller coaster through Claire’s head.

They stopped at a traffic light. Iz stared out of

the window with a deadpan look. Claire bit her lip guiltily. Why couldn’t she believe Iz? Would she always be filled with nagging doubts? Could she feel that unworthy of Iz’s affection? Another question. Take a number. Claire rolled her eyes at the thought.

“You’re staying here?” Claire squinted at a lopsided brownstone. Iz had directed her to the YWCA. “Yes, you see why I couldn’t speak at the opening.” Iz faced her. “I need to sell my work.”

Claire watched her in the dark. “Did you forget me, Iz?” Her tone was like the plaintive cry of a lone bird.

“Clara, please.” She sighed. “I told you that was not possible. Didn’t you believe me?”

“I have . . . trouble believing.” Claire started to cry. “I know you had a lot going on but . . .”

“I lost everything and . . . and I was too ashamed.” Iz buried her head on Claire‘s lap.

“Look at me,” she cried, “I’m destroyed!”

“Nonsense.” Claire wiped her eyes on her palm. Then she squeezed Iz’s shoulder. “Get your things. You’re coming home with me.”

“I can’t . . .”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t burden you with this.”

“Stop being silly.” Claire fluttered her long lashes. “I’m not going to tell you twice!”

Iz half-smiled. “You are still so . . . feisty.”

“Mmm, don’t make me come in there and get you.” Claire wagged her finger at Iz. If anything, they were friends. Hadn’t Iz declared it when they’d parted at the airport.

Whatever Iz’s feelings—romantic or not—Claire would honor that.

“Dear Clara!” Iz threw her arms around her neck. “You are too kind.”

Claire longed to kiss her, but she just stroked her head. “Go get your luggage.” She gently nudged her.

Iz shook her head. “I cannot go with you.”

Claire’s heart sank. “Why?” Was Iz afraid to be near her? Was she that repulsive?

“You must forgive me.” Iz’s words grew faint. “ . . . once more.”

Claire blinked back her tears. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

“Si! Of course, Clara.” Iz hugged her. “You

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cannot know how . . .” She waved her hands like she was shooing an insect. “Aah, my English has gotten so badly!”

“Well,” Claire said, “I can help you as a friend.

You don’t need to feel . . . obliged.”

Iz brushed her hand over Claire’s cheek. “But I am obliged to you,” she whispered. “You, who brought so much to my life.” She kissed Claire’s hand.

Claire pressed her hands to her eyelids. She wouldn‘t cry again. “So why won’t you come with me?” she asked. “I’ll sleep on the couch . . . if you like.” She was all but throwing herself at the woman.

Iz took Claire‘s chin in her hand. “My grandmother was right about one thing. Es bella, Clara. You are beautiful. But this,” she swept her arm toward the building, “this is too shameful. I cannot come to you like this.”

Claire squinted at Iz’s silhouette in the street light. Claire recalled her as a twenty-year-old.

She had once stood under a street lamp like she was in a spotlight.

“Hey,” Claire’s voice softened, “everyone falls on bad times, Iz. Believe me, my life . . .” Should she share her own struggle with a year of unemployment?

“Yes, and this is my . . . cross to bear.” Iz shrugged.

“So now you’re Jesus Christ?” Claire raised her brows.

Iz laughed. “Yes,” she blew Claire a kiss, “and as soon as I resurrect, I will come for you.” She stepped from the car into the street.

Claire sighed as she watched Iz climb the steps. Her heart pounding, she ran after her.

Then she stopped and turned. She hadn’t locked the car. The keys were dangling in the ignition.

She didn’t care. “Iz!” she called.

Iz turned at the door.

“What will you do?” Claire opened her bag.

“I must give you something.” She rummaged for her wallet. She felt like her controlling mother doling out money to keep her children in check.

Iz thrust out her hand like a stop sign. “I cannot accept your charity!”

“Think of it as my paying you back for—” “For?” “My trip. I stayed in your home.”

“My grandmother’s home.” The grief was all over Iz’s pained expression.

“Well, the gas then for your motorcycle—” “Clara, please.” Iz reached out to her. “It’s all right. I have some money. It won’t be easy, but I’m not on the street.” Her stark hair glistened beneath the door lamp.

“Here then.” Claire scribbled her number on the back of a business card for someone—she’d forgotten who—and handed it to Iz. “If you need anything . . .” Claire stopped herself from making another offer.

“Listen, “ she leaned toward Iz, “I understand enough Italian to know your name, ‘Spera,’ means hope.” Claire could make out her thin smile.

Iz took the business card. “I will call you, Clara.” She gripped her shoulder. “I promise.”

She glanced down the steps. “But I understand enough about your city to know you shouldn’t leave your car like that.” She smiled one last time, then vanished behind the door.

Who needed charity here? Claire wondered.

She’d all but thrown herself at Iz. She walked down to her car. This was hardly charity. Hadn’t people done much more for love?

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laire had waited a year since she’d come back from Italy. But the next two weeks of waiting to hear from Iz were unbearable.

Beyond that, her savings were almost depleted.

She called her father. “I might take you up on that job offer at the bank.”

She wasn’t having any luck with want ads and online listings. She hadn’t researched much outside of arts administration—the only field she was interested in. She needed something, if only for the time being. Still, a job was the last thing on her mind.

“Of course,” her father said, “I would say, I’ll speak to the manager, but since I am the manager . . .”

“A little nepotism never hurt anyone,” Claire teased. “Seriously. Thanks, Dad.” She wasn’t expecting anything exciting. “I’m not . . . very focused these days,” she had to admit.

“I know. You’re distracted.”

“Yes.” She felt the usual heartache. What if Iz

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Khimairal Ink her spirits. Where her mother picked apart her never called? What if she left without a word? every choice, his concern was obvious. With Claire’s doubts never seemed to end. cutting remarks, her mother had stirred Claire’s “She’s in town, isn’t she?” Had her father read doubts of finding a lasting love; her father, on her mind? the other hand, offered her hope.

“Grapevine leaks?” Claire smirked. Her Just then, she heard a rustling on the other end brother must have told him and Lloyd about Iz’s of the line. “Dad?” She pressed the cell phone opening. to her ear.

“Like wildfire!” He laughed. “Are you okay?”

“Give me that phone!” Lloyd was shouting.

She had never discussed her romantic life with “I am having a private conversation with my her father. What the hell? Maybe she should dau—” vent her frustration. “I don’t know. I may not hear “Listen to me, princess.” Lloyd had wrestled from her again. Or maybe, we’re just friends. the phone from her father.

Who knows?”

“Lloyd!” Her father was yelling in the back“You know, Claire,” her father said, “relationground. There was more rustling. Claire couldn’t ships take time. There’s a process involved.” help but laugh. Her father and Lloyd reminded “I’ll be in my grave by the time that process her of vaudeville comedians. takes place.” Claire rolled her eyes.

“I was listening to this whole conversation,” “Please!” He tssked. “You’re still young.”

Lloyd said.

“Not that young.” Her thirty-first birthday had She heard her father‘s voice. “It’s called eavesjust past. “You have someone.” Although they dropping.” sometimes bickered, her father and Lloyd were “With good cause!” Lloyd called away from the a solid couple. “I feel like I’m going to wind up receiver.

“I certainly agree with this business old and bitter . . . like Mother.” She sobbed into about you’re being ‘a treasure.’” the receiver.

“Thank you, Lloyd.” Claire was cheering up.

“Perish the thought!” Her father gasped.

“But enough of this relationship process “At least you’re not defending her.” bullshit!” He huffed. “Do you love her?”

How unlike Mother he is, Claire thought. Of “Yes,” Claire murmured. course, his being gay had something to do “Of course, you do.” His tone softened. “You’re with that. But did her parents have anything nuts about her, aren’t you, love?” in common? No wonder they’d divorced when “I am.” She couldn’t argue the point?

Claire was a little girl.

“Then,” his pitch rose, “get your ass in gear “My grandfather had an odd but interesting and go after that girl already!” saying.” Her father’s steady voice was calming. “‘Life doesn’t come in a plastic bottle.’”

Claire creased her brow. “What does that ou’re living in a tenement.” She looked mean?” around the studio apartment.

“My grandfather was kind of grumpy; good“Yes, but the culture is close.” Iz shrugged. “I hearted, but I think,” he paused, “modern life mean, they are foreign here like me.” distressed him. He was in the grocery store Claire had taken the subway. She didn’t know when he came out with that line. He picked up a Spanish Harlem or where she should park her bottle of shampoo. I thought it was a goofy statecar. She handed Iz the flowers she’d bought at ment when I was a kid. Now, I see it clearly. We a deli in Brooklyn. have instant everything, food, money, romance “Grazie!” Iz took them and arched a brow. “I at our fingertips.” see you are still a gentleman.”

Claire took a tissue from the night table and Claire blushed, then rapped her shoulder. dried her cheeks. What was her father getting “Women buy flowers.” at?

“Sure, Clara.” Iz seemed happy to see her.

“Valuable things are worth waiting for,” he said.

“And you defy stereotypes.” She ran her finger “And you, my dear, are a treasure!” around Claire‘s mouth.

Claire smiled. Her father’s encouragement lifted

“Y

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Claire closed her eyes. Iz’s touch brought up a fierce longing.

Iz went into the narrow kitchen where she took a glass from the dish drain.

Claire sat in a stiff chair. “They’re a housewarming gift.”

“Mmm?” Iz turned from the sink.

“For your new place.” Claire jerked her chin at the flowers.

“Ah, yes.” Iz filled the glass and set it on the counter. She unwrapped the waxy paper from the flowers.

“Too long for that glass,” Claire said. The stems stuck over its rim.

“I think I have . . . a knife somewhere.” Iz rummaged through a utensil drawer. “They have all these stores here. I got so much for very little.”

“Ninety nine cents stores.” Claire suppressed a laugh.

Observant as ever, Iz turned from the drawer.

“You think this is funny?”

“I’m sorry.” Claire looked down. She hadn’t meant to embarrass her.

“It’s all right.” Iz tilted her head to peer at Claire.

“But I want to know what’s funny.”

Claire pursed her lips. “It’s nothing.” She examined the peeling linoleum between her shoes.

“Come on, Clara.” Iz seemed less burdened than when they’d met at the gallery. Still, Claire knew—grieving the grandmother that had raised her must be intense.

“Don’t force me to make you tell me.” Iz waved a knife at her.

“You went to a ninety nine cents store to decorate your apartment.” Claire started to giggle, then covered her mouth.

“Oh, I see.” Iz jiggled with laughter. “Wait!” She dropped the knife in the sink, then went into the other room. She returned with a vase. It was covered with shiny, star-like patterns. “Just look at this.”

Claire covered her face with her palms. She couldn’t speak for laughing.

Iz held up the gaudy vase. “Is this not incredible?”

“No.” Tears of laughter formed in Claire’s eyes.

“It’s awful!”

“Now you listen to me, Miss Clara.” Iz grinned.

“This,” she pointed to the vase, “was no ninetynine cents—” “Plus tax.”

“Oh, I’m going to hit you!” Iz shook the vase.

“This extraordinary piece o—” “Crap!” Claire was doubled over in the chair.

Iz held her belly with her free hand. “This one costs three dollars.”

Claire lifted her head. “You got ripped off!”

They broke into a fit of laughter.

Claire widened her eyes. “Iz, why don’t you put the flowers in that?”

Iz glanced at the flowers. “Ah, yes,” she said.

“It makes good sense, no? You are so practical, Clara.”

Claire rolled her eyes as Iz went to the sink.

Was her leg dragging?

“I know it’s all hideous. But I had to have something here.” She smirked. “I mean, here I am.”

“You’re making the best of things.” Claire nodded. She looked at the blank wall above the table. “I see you didn’t buy any art at that store.”

“Aye, Madonna!” Iz slapped her hand to her forehead. “God forbid!”

Claire giggled.

“I don’t know.” Iz brought the vase to the table.

“When you think of my . . .”

“What?”

A look of sadness flashed in her eyes. “My home . . .”

Claire stood and hugged her. “I know Iz. I mean, I can’t know . . .” The words stuck like glue in her mouth. She recalled how affectionate Iz and her doting Nona had been.

“It’s the past, Clara.” Iz blinked against her shoulder. “I must move ahead now.”

“You will.” Claire held her at arms length. “But the life you had with your grandmother will always be a part of you.”

She sighed.

“Iz,” Claire gazed in her eyes. “I see you’re getting settled here, but . . .”

“I don’t know what else to do now.” She arranged the flowers in the vase.

“And your teaching assistant job in Rome?”

Claire gazed up from the chair.

“Ah!” She huffed with disgust. “I lost that, too.

I was in the hospital so long. They had to get someone else.”

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Claire reached for her hand. “You know our economy hasn’t been great since 9/11. I’ve been looking for work myself.”

“You have nothing yet?”

“I have something.” Claire thought of the dreary banking job she’d have to accept.

“But it’s not what I want. I just have to . . . survive.”

“I can understand.” Iz nodded. “This gallery.

They liked my work.”

“Well, that’s something.” Claire smiled.

“I sold three paintings.” Her voice perked up.

“Really? That’s good.” Claire patted her shoulder. She wondered how one show in a downtown gallery could have brought Iz here— to stay. “I‘m sorry to say things are dismal in the arts now. Worse than most fields.” She’d heard a number of galleries had folded; arts teachers had been cut from schools. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

“Mmm, but maybe no worse than Italy.” She set the flowers on the table between them.

“Iz,” Claire leaned toward her, “are you staying?”

She dropped into the other chair. “I don’t know Clara. For a little while, at least.”

“Did you lose everything?” Claire couldn’t have broached the subject the night of the opening. The moment had been too raw. Now, she felt able to voice some—if not all—of her questions.

“Not quite everything. I paid for my trip and this apartment. A lot though . . .” She covered her face. “My home is gone! My grandmother . . .

How could she have done this?” She shook her head in her palms. “She knew what my uncle’s wife is like. She all but gave that creature my inheritance!”

“Isabelle,” Claire gasped, “don’t you dare blame your grandmother!” Then she added in a calm tone, “You know she adored you.”

“But Clara . . . how could she not change her will?” She spun her head.

Claire rubbed her arm. “You were still a child to her. You said so yourself. How could she imagine they’d do such a vicious thing?”

“Yes, you’re right.” She gripped Claire’s hand.

“Thank you for helping me see that. You see what a state I‘m in. I am too confused by my emotions.”

I know the feeling, Claire thought of her anguish over Iz. As hard as the thought of losing her again was, Claire had to encourage her. She sat down and held Iz’s hand across the table. “You should go back and fight for what’s yours.”

“My uncle is a lawyer, Clara.” Iz gripped her forehead. “How can I fight that?”

“Even lawyers need to abide by the law.”

Iz smirked. “I would lose the little I have left on legal fees—and think of the time. I have to make a new life for myself . . . somehow.”

“You can . . . you will.”

They were silent. Claire shifted her chair and massaged Iz’s hunched back. Claire wondered again. Was she being codependent? Maybe she should be in a twelve-step program. So much of her life seemed to revolve around solving other people’s crises. Somehow, in Iz’s case, she didn’t mind.

“You have a visa?” Claire didn’t want to probe too much, but she had to wonder again? What could Iz be running from?

“For ninety days. After that, I must decide.

Do I get an extension or no?” Iz took a deep breath. “Are you hungry?” She changed the subject.

“We can go out to eat . . . if you like.”

“No, no, I can cook something. Did I not say I would?” She had.

“Either way.”

“Yes? No?” Iz bulged her eyes.

Claire grinned. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Certo! Of course.” Her smile seemed to flow through Claire like a soothing stream. What wouldn’t I do for that smile? she thought.

“You know, I’m an okay cook.” Iz flipped up her thumb.

“I’m not.” Claire watched as Iz reached into an overhead cabinet.

Iz took a thin pot out of the stove. She ran water into it, then clanked it on the back burner. “Ah, matches!” She snapped her fingers, then went into the other room.

Claire fought an urge to run after her. They’d been apart so long she could barely control herself. She pressed her eyelids shut. “Just calm down,” she murmured.

She opened her eyes. Her mouth dropped. A small, dark creature poked its head out of the

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cabinet. It was waving its antennae at her. She clutched her churning stomach.

Iz came back with a box of matches. “Clara?”

Claire fell back on the vinyl cushion of the chair. Iz squatted beside her, watching her face.

“Are you not well?”

“I . . . I . . .” Claire jumped to her feet. “Let’s eat out!”

“But why?” Iz took her hand. “You’re my guest.

Look, I already started—” Claire thrust her finger at the cabinet as if a gruesome phantom had appeared.

Iz swerved. “Clara?” She grimaced. “Did you see a bug?”

Claire shuddered. Iz looked away. Was she grinning?

Claire scratched her arms. The thought of roaches and their spindly limbs filled her with horror. She clenched her fists. “Can’t you kill it?”

“It’s a problem.” Iz patted her on the back.

Claire twitched.

“Clara, honestly!” Iz gaped.

“You won’t kill it?”

“It’s not like . . . killing a dragon.”

Claire narrowed her eyes. “Did you just call me a princess?” Only Lloyd had ever teased her like that.

“I’m sorry!” Iz fluttered her hands. “But, Clara, it’s only a little bug—” “I won’t eat near it.” She reached for her bag beneath the table.

“You can’t leave me for this!” Iz laughed into her hand.

Claire crossed her arms. “Are you finished?”

“Si, si.” Iz nodded. “It’s just . . . with everything that’s happened, I’ve been rethinking my life.”

“What?”

“I’m thinking of becoming a Buddhist.”

“Oh, well . . . that’s nice.” Claire squinted at the cabinet. Thankfully, the roach had crawled off. “But what does that have to do with . . . bugs?”

“Every creature on this planet has some purpose.”

“Whoever said that never met my mother.”

Iz smiled. “Clara,” she arched her black eyebrows, “Buddhists don’t kill—anything.”

“Are you a Buddhist yet?”

“No!” Iz laughed out loud.

“Well, then . . .” Claire placed her hands on her hips.

“Listen, Bella,” Iz led her back to the chair, “relax, ah?”

“All right.” Claire inhaled in an effort to calm herself. “I’ll try.”

Iz went to the counter. “I have a good wine.” She turned, holding up a dark bottle. “No ninety-nine cents wine for you!”

Claire smiled.

I

z asked her to spend the night. She shrugged sadly. “I understand if you‘re not . . . interested anymore. I‘m not so attractive these days.”

“You‘re gorgeous, sweetie,” Claire said.

True, Iz had changed since they’d last met in Rome. She was somehow less girlish. But her manner was as charming as ever. Hadn’t her charm attracted Claire like a magnet?

“Hey, I‘m no kid either.” Claire lifted a strand of her bangs. “I think I noticed some gray the other day.” She recalled her mother’s brusque comment that she “wasn’t getting any younger.”

“No, you did not!” Iz tssked. “You’re as perfect as ever.” She kissed Claire’s hands in turns. “Now stay with me, mmm?”

“Can we go to my place?” Claire wrinkled her nose.

“Please, Bella,” Iz lifted her hands, “it’s late and we’re already here.” She walked backwards, leading Claire toward the bed. “Stay.” Her voice was soft.

How could Claire resist? “All right.” She stopped.

“But if a bug crawls on me I’m going to scream bloody murder!”

Iz’s eyes widened. “Now I’m frightened.”

Claire sat on the mattress and looked around.

Opposite the bed, was an open suitcase filled with crumpled clothes. Other than the thin mattress and one broken-legged chair, there was no furniture.

“Shh.” Iz stood over Claire, pushing her hair behind her ears. “Don’t think of anything bad now.”

She leaned over and kissed her.

Her kiss was as warm as Claire remembered.

“I could say the same to you.” She couldn’t bring herself to meet Iz’s steady gaze.

“How sweet of you to think of me.”

“You thought of me.” Claire opened her arms.

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Iz knelt and fell against her chest. She sighed as if she was releasing a deep ache.

They stripped to their underwear, then clung to each other in the dark. Iz stroked Claire’s face and arms. Claire peered into her big, sad eyes.

She could feel her grief. Although Iz didn’t cry, it was clear—she needed to be held.

Street light filtered through the blinds. The traffic noise seemed endless. Cars honked, a nearby elevated subway rattled, and an ambulance screeched by. It was quiet for a while, then a garbage truck roared below the window. Do you live on an interstate highway, Claire wanted to ask, but held her tongue. Soon, she felt as if there was no sound as they lay, side by side.

Iz covered them with a sheet. They snuggled in a tight embrace. Finally, their eyes closed.

“I did think of you . . .” Her breath tickled Claire’s ear.

“W

hat happened to your leg?” Claire shrieked.

She squinted in the streaming day light. The sheet was twisted on the end of the mattress. Iz had rolled over in her sleep. There was a thick, reddish scar along her right thigh.

“Hmm?“ Iz lifted her head and turned. The scar extended down the length of her thigh.

“Mmm.” Iz grit her teeth. “That looks bad, eh?”

“Isabelle!” Claire gasped.

“My accident, Clara.” She leaned against the wall and yawned. “I told you about it in that bar.

Remember?”

“Yes but . . .” Claire gripped her forehead. “You told me it was fine.” She shifted across the mattress to Iz’s side.

Iz blinked. “It is . . . now.” She stretched her arm across Claire’s shoulders.

Claire met her eyes. “It’s much worse than I imagined.”

“Yes, well, this modern technology, you know.”

Iz half-shrugged. “They do some amazing things.”

“You had surgery.” She stated the obvious.

“Yes, those doctors in Rome,” Iz rubbed Claire’s scalp, “they operated through the night to save this leg. It‘s a miracle I can walk.”

“What a nightmare!”

Iz took Claire’s hand. “When I opened my eyes,

they asked if I wished to contact my family.” Her face grew angry. “‘All my family is dead!’ I told them.”

“How did this happen?” She remembered that Nona had scolded Iz about her driving. Claire knew rapido meant fast. She wasn’t about to lecture Iz. From the sight of the bulging scar, she had paid for her lousy driving.

“It was after my grandmother’s funeral. Her body was not cold in the ground.” Iz’s stare was blank. “We were in the kitchen. My aunt was shouting at me while my uncle just stood like a statue.”

“In Fiesole?”

Iz went on as if she hadn’t heard. “She said I had hidden behind my grandmother’s,” she paused, “something like protection for too long.

It was time for me to become responsible.” Iz narrowed her eyes. “Then my uncle said, ‘You are twenty-five now. Until you marry your inheritance will remain in trust.’”

Claire couldn’t envision them shouting in Nona’s cheerful kitchen. “‘Marry a man!’ my aunt screamed in my face.”

Iz’s face bristled as she spoke. “‘I’ll never marry a man! That I promise!’ Then that bitch said, ‘You disgrace your family.’ I looked at my uncle. He just stood with his head down. Even he wouldn’t say a thing like that!” Iz nearly spat the words.

“It’s you who disgrace me!” Iz flicked her hand from under her chin.

“What does that mean?” Claire asked.

“Nothing nice. It means I throw you up.”

Claire bit her lower lip. “‘How can I disgrace my family?’ I shouted back.” Iz shook her fist at the wall. “‘My grandmother’s dying words were that she knew I loved women. It was all right so long as I was happy.’”

“Did she really say that?” Claire beamed.

“Mmm.” Iz smiled affectionately. “My sweet Nona. She said people didn’t see why she loved her cats so much. ‘Never mind what people think,’ she shook her chubby finger at me. ‘It’s love just the same!’”

“Sure it is,” Claire agreed.

“Naturally, they couldn’t spare the time to be there when she died.” Iz raised her brows. “My aunt accused me of lying. ‘Your grandmother was deeply religious. She would never say the

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way you live is all right!’” Her nostrils flared. “I told them, ‘Perhaps my grandmother believed that the heart of religion is love.’”

“What did they say to that?”

She rolled her eyes. “They had a very confused look. It was too philosophical for them.”

Claire tried not to laugh. “‘You don’t think sensibly, Isabella!’ Now my uncle was shouting. ‘How can you go on living in this childish way?’ That was enough.

Her screaming at me was one thing—she’s not my blood. But for my uncle to say . . .” She dropped her head to her chest.

Claire wiped the tear streaming down Iz’s cheek with her fingertip.

Iz took a breath. “Then I ran out of the house and got on my motorcycle. It was hardly raining when I left. By the time I got outside Rome it was pouring hard. But I couldn’t stop.” She turned with an innocent look. “You saw what a careful driver I am.”

“Huh?” Claire‘s mouth dropped. She had clutched Iz’s waist in fear on their motorcycle ride from Venice.

“All right—not so careful. I’m Italian, no?” Iz half-smiled. “Still, I would never drive at that speed in a storm.”

“Why did you?” Claire asked.

“That night I was just . . . crazy in my head.”

Her face grew solemn. “I didn’t care. I only knew I had to run . . . escape.” She nuzzled her cheek on Claire’s shoulder.

“Where did you go?” Claire raked her fingers through Iz‘s hair.

“I spun around, then crashed on the roadside.

I flew off my motorcycle and landed against a gate. There was sharp metal . . .” She covered her ears. “I can still hear that shredding sound in my head!”

“Ugh!” Claire covered her mouth.

“I didn’t realize that awful noise was coming from my body. Then nothing!” Iz clapped her hands. “I woke up in the hospital.”

Claire buried her head in Iz’s lap. “I had no idea!” she cried out. “You were completely alone—if only I’d known!” She flushed to think she’d imagined Iz had forgotten her.

“Clara, I was never alone.” Iz’s eyes lit like the sunlight through the blinds, “I have amazing friends.”

“Yes,” Claire ran her index finger around Iz’s upturned mouth, “I’m not the only one who can’t resist you, am I?” Iz grinned, then rose and stretched. “It’s a long story, there’s more . . .”

“Tell me whatever you want.” Claire rolled over.

“Mmm . . .” Iz jerked her thumb toward the kitchen. “But first coffee!”

Claire could hear her bustling in the kitchen. It was certainly plausible, she thought. The scar was proof enough. If anything, Iz could weave an intriguing tale.

Still, it wasn’t clear why she hadn’t been in touch in all that time. Her doubts resurfaced.

Iz came back with two cups. “Black, okay? I can go for milk and sugar if you like.”

“No, that‘s fine.” Claire took the cup. She didn’t like her coffee black. But it was early and she wasn’t about to ask Iz to dress.

They sat on the mattress sipping. Her head resting on the wall, Iz stared at the ceiling.

“So what happened after that?” Claire asked.

Then she paused. “If you want to tell me . . .”

“There’s nothing much to tell.” Iz held the steaming cup to her lips. “Three friends and I went up and cleared out the house. We worked for three days.”

“Three friends in three days.” Claire touched Iz’s face as if the solid feel would bolster the reality—she was actually here. “Sounds like a movie.”

“A very bad one.” Iz snickered. “We were exhausted and we stunk! My grandmother had years of shit in that basement. Finally, a truck came and took it all away. My friends left. I lived in the empty house until the buyers came. They seemed more interested in the garden.”

“It was something.” Claire thought of the blossoming yard overlooking Florence. Weren’t Iz’s paintings at the gallery reminiscent of the lush view?

Iz nodded with a sad look. “That mad woman, my aunt, threw all my grandmother’s papers away. My address book was in there. No telephone. Then, like an angel from heaven, your letter arrived. I had your address!” Her face brightened. “I begged the gallery to give me another show. When I told them about my accident, they said it was all right.”

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“That was some good news then.” Claire sipped lightly on the strong coffee.

“I no longer had my motorcycle, of course.” Iz went on. “And my uncle sold Nona’s crazy car.”

Claire chuckled to think of Iz‘s grandmother driving her antiquated car.

“Anyway, I had to go back to the hospital in Rome for this.” She tapped her thigh. “The pain was severe and I didn’t have a moment—not one—to get international postage. But,” she wagged her finger, “I told that gallery to be sure and send you a postcard!”

Claire looked away. It was an extraordinary story, for sure. But then, she had to ask herself, was there anything ordinary about Iz? “And so, Miss Clara,” Iz squeezed her tightly, “here we are!”

Claire turned and kissed her lips. Then she ran her fingers through Iz’s thick, unkempt hair. “Do you need a haircut?” she asked.

Iz shrugged and smiled. “I could use one, eh?”

“We’ll talk to Lloyd,” Claire laughed, “he knows a lot of hairdressers.”

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he empty house still smelled of her grandmother, a mixture of lavender, denture rinse and yellowed linen. The scent propelled Sharon back thirty years. Memories leached from the walls: the rustle of Bible pages, the coolness of the holy water font at the front door, the honeyed flesh beneath the furred skin of home-grown peaches, the antiseptic odor of alcohol from Gran’s bedroom.

A second-hand shop specializing in estate sales had finished removing Gran’s furniture and clothing yesterday. Sharon had found few valuables worth keeping. Photographs and letters and medals, meant to be treasured and passed down to successive generations, would only collect dust in Sharon’s house, to be discarded in the end by some uncaring stranger.

Who would she save heirlooms for? She was the only child of an only child of an only child, a closeted lesbian who had never had a sexual relationship and was now past the age of childbearing.

A calendar lay on the kitchen floor. Sharon picked it up and traced a finger across the red crosses Gran used to mark each time she’d taken Communion. Take this, all of you, and eat of it: this is My body. Sharon shivered, remembering her childhood revulsion at seeing her grandmother eat the white wafers containing the two thousand year old dead God’s flesh.

The Mass’s jumbled litany of sit, stand, kneel, stand, kneel had instilled no reverence, just the false hope that if Sharon prayed hard enough, Gran’s God would send her a sister or brother.

Sharon shook her head. For Gran’s sake she hoped there was a heaven. Some after-life

ought to reward a widow who, despite her dislike of children, had cared for a miserable little girl during the summer her father pursued a sinful divorce and her mother, as Sharon learned later, engaged in a series of even more sinful affairs.

The kitchen cupboards were empty. The hall closet held nothing but a few clothes hangers.

Sharon chucked into a trash bin the hangers, a Sacred Heart statue, the half-used calendar, a wooden crucifix with its embedded vial of Lourdes water, and a paint-by-numbers Madonna picture signed with Sharon’s girlish scrawl.

Gran’s treasures, now unwanted rubbish. But whose fault was that? Had Sharon’s mother not been an only child, perhaps she would have been more maternal. She might have cared more for Sharon, borne more children.

Sharon closed her eyes and tried to imagine this house filled with sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, and uncles all helping her sort through Gran’s belongings. Family celebrations.

Relatives gathered around a dinner table at Thanksgiving.

She shook her head at the foolish fantasy. The women in her family were cursed, destined to live alone and die alone.

In Gran’s bedroom, Sharon checked a closet.

Empty. She opened the second closet. Atop a stack of cardboard boxes sat several empty bottles of gin. Sharon picked one up, unscrewed the dusty lid, and inhaled the scent of Gran before church. Sharon had never questioned it as a child; when she grew older, she’d wondered if Gran was an alcoholic. Odd, that such a devoutly Catholic woman had needed to resort to drink before going to Mass.

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She dumped the empty liquor bottles in the rubbish bin, then returned to the closet. The top box held empty Ball jars that a younger, ablebodied Gran used to fill with fruits and chutneys.

Sharon set them aside to be stored in the garage. Perhaps the house’s new owner would use the jars. She lifted the lid off the second cardboard box. Old water and electric bills, Christmas cards, tax returns. She put the box in the rubbish.

The bottom box looked as if it had been sealed and unsealed dozens of times. Sharon peeled back ancient fragments of tape and opened the box. It held a handful of rusty wire coat hangers and some more Ball jars, these ones full. Peaches, perhaps, or pears. She lifted one out.

The jar was full of a clear liquid in which floated some odd creature about four inches long.

White, squishy-looking, with a bulging head and belly, and stubby limbs that ended in long, tiny fingers and toes.

A human fetus.

Sharon’s hand trembled. A handwritten label tied to the mouth of the jar read Christopher Paul, 7 June 1943. Sharon examined the other jars, dated from 1942 to 1948. Each held a fetus, some just a few inches long, floating in their jars of what was probably the same cheap gin Gran had smelled of every Sunday. Two

boys, three girls, and two designated only as Angel.

Sharon counted seven matching wire coat hangers, their handles partially straightened and coated with rust—or, probably, dried blood. She touched the twisted wires, then the jars. They must represent seven self-induced abortions, starting the year that Grandpa had returned from the war with his body intact but his wits gone. Poor Gran. An uneducated woman with a young daughter, and no income other than her mentally retarded husband’s war pension—she must have been desperate when she found herself repeatedly pregnant.

The jars gleamed in the sunlight. They contained the family of Sharon’s dreams—the flamboyantly gay uncle who would have helped decorate her house, the aunt who would have taught her to bake bread, the black-sheep uncle with a heart of gold and a secret stash of marijuana. Had Gran realized she’d deprived Sharon of the family she wanted, needed, deserved?

Sharon put the coat hangers into the rubbish, then carefully wrapped each jar and placed Gran’s children in the trunk of her car. Christopher Paul, Katherine Mary, Teresa Germaine, John Gregory, Patricia Anne, and the two Angels were coming home with her. Sharon would live alone no longer.

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orri waited as Bultor talked briefly into his link, verifying the delivery. She spoke little Salmi, but from his satisfied grunts, he approved.

She scanned the crowded room, glad he always chose this bar. Dark, noisy, and situated close to the docking bays, it provided a perfect place to conduct her business.

They sat in a corner near the front door but not in its line of sight. She watched the closest patrons, automatically checking for anything out of the ordinary. And maybe something extraordinary. Every time she came to Hallifin Port, Torri hoped that she might run into a particular bit of her past. Bultor interrupted her reconnaissance and addressed her in standard Empire, perpetuating the illusion that he was just another merchant consolidating a deal.

“I am most pleased with the condition of the cargo. You have outdone yourself. My regards to your supplier.” He grinned, reptilian lips pulling back from myriad pointed teeth.

She smiled with him at the joke. He knew damn well she’d lifted the jackprobes from a Coalition freighter. He removed a palm-sized credit disk from a pocket on the inside of his jerkin and ran his taloned finger over it, programming it with the amount he and Torri had contracted thirty days prior. He placed it on the luminescent tabletop.

“I have need of medical items,” he said amiably in his gravel-scraped baritone. “Tirius, in Endor Quadrant. Sixty days.”

Torri calculated her options. She knew the trade routes better in Zeta Quadrant, which was a haul to Endor through Coalition territory. That

would require some maneuvering, given her outlaw status in that area. “How much?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

“Done.” Money like that was well worth the extra effort.

He leaned back and scratched a spot on his scaled neck. “It is most fortunate that you have visited us during Amanza. Truly the best festival in this quadrant. I recommend Shimba’s for a meat pie.” He drained his beverage and set the tall cylindrical container on the table then maneuvered his bulk out of the booth.

Torri watched him as he pushed through the crowd toward the entrance. She picked up the disk he’d left and pressed her thumb to its indentation. A tiny light glowed green, activating one of the many accounts she used. Once she cleared this city, she’d transfer it to yet another account. She slid the disk into a pocket on the inside of her left boot. Just as she finished, a group of five Coalition soldiers entered, all wearing their implacable black helmets, faceplates down. Not here for fun, then. No officers with them. These were rankand-file, dressed in standard Coalition black.

She surreptitiously kept an eye on them as they moved through the crowd. One approached her table. She nodded as he passed. He ignored her, perhaps assuming she was a local. Her dark complexion and darker hair helped her pass as a member of some of the Wanderer tribes on this planet. She took a drink from her glass, let the heat of the liquid sit in her mouth for a moment before she swallowed. They were in no hurry. Probably just reminding Amanza-goers who held the balls of the city leadership.

Torri regarded the service symbol lights on the

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tabletop, toyed with calling for companionship. It’d been a long time since she’d enjoyed a bit of physical release with anyone. She opted against it. Payments could be traced. If she required such a thing, she’d find it in the crowd outside. Or here. She scanned the upper level, which overlooked her table, a force field ensuring no one visited the lower level via any way but the stairs. One form standing with her back toward her caught Torri’s attention. She studied the figure, who turned, offering a view of her profile. Pleasantly stunned, Torri pressed the service button and within seconds a hoverdroid appeared, awaiting her order.

“A bottle of Ryzin Solstice for this table. And an empty glass to that human female there—” Torri pointed at the white-shirted figure she’d noticed at the upper-level bar. She slid her ID stick into the droid’s slot and it whisked away, just over the heads of the patrons. A minute later the droid delivered her bottle along with an empty glass. It left and Torri poured herself a serving before turning to observe the upper level. The droid stopped at the appropriate woman’s side, a second empty glass on its tray. Torri smiled and lifted the bottle, a question on her face when the droid’s target turned and looked down at her table, puzzled. Upon seeing Torri, she started, visibly shocked, then smiled wryly and shook her head in a “you have got to be kidding” motion. But she took the glass and left the bar.

Torri waited until the white-shirted woman stood at her table. “Captain,” Torri greeted her.

“Care to join me in an aperitif?” She motioned toward the bottle, hoping her voice didn’t betray the turbulence within.

“I’m not on duty,” she said stiffly, though a current of surprise colored her tone.

Torri raised one shoulder in a shrug. “Just recognizing your accomplishments. Have a sitdown with me, Kai. It’s been a long time.” Far too long. She gestured at the empty booth on either side of her.

With an expression that said this was clearly against her better judgment, Kai slid into the seat to Torri’s left. She set her glass on the table and Torri filled it. “To old friends,” Torri toasted, raising an eyebrow as a strange but welcome warmth filled her gut.

“To the past,” Kai retorted softly, acknowledging the toast before taking a sip. She made an appreciative noise. “You always did have good taste in liquor.”

“My many travels,” she said, a metaphor for the distances between them. “How are you?”

She regarded Kai over the rim of her glass, noting the new crescent-shaped scar along her right cheekbone. It added more character to Kai’s face, lean and serious. She still kept her sandy hair clipped short, like she had when they trained together at the Academy on Earth.

“Promoted, as you know. How did you find out?”

“My vast network of spies.” Torri offered her a smile. She’d followed Kai’s career since their Academy days, though she’d never tell her that.

“I know you didn’t come to Hallifin to look me up.” Kai set her glass on the table. “What, then?”

“Amanza. Best festival in this quadrant.”

Kai snorted her disbelief.

Torri chose to ignore it. “Why hasn’t the Coalition stationed you somewhere more amenable? Is the pay that good in this shit hole of a city?” She raised an eyebrow, studying Kai’s reactions to her, hoping they’d changed, hoping the four years since their last conversation had closed at least one wound between them.

“Because I seem to be very good at breaking up smuggling rings.” Kai held Torri’s gaze then took a swallow from her glass.

Torri ignored that, as well. “Is Hallifin so riddled with vice?” She asked innocently. “There goes my relocation plan.”

Kai rolled her eyes though her expression softened. “How have you been?” She spoke in Empire, and the emphasis she used carried a hint of accusation as well as concern.

“Good.” Torri swirled the liquid in her glass, allowing the past a foothold. “Busy.” Torri’s inflection recognized and accepted the undercurrent in Kai’s question, and let her know that had circumstances been different, so too might the situation between them.

“Avoiding Coalition, most likely.” Kai pushed her glass around aimlessly on the table, her eyes harboring questions, the nuances of the language inviting explanation.

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Torri didn’t take the bait. “I avoid anyone who threatens my livelihood,” she said noncommittally, though her statement carried a barb.

Kai shook her head, maybe a little sad.

“I know we still don’t agree on some things,” Torri said with a sigh, battling a familiar ache in her chest. “And I won’t talk about them if you won’t. Catch me up with your family instead. And your life. It’s been nearly six years since graduation. A lot has happened. Some of which you know.” Most of which you don’t. She flashed Kai her most disarming grin. “Truce?” She raised an eyebrow, hoping to recapture the easy comradeship they’d shared in the past, and to move beyond what had happened in the collapse of the Empire. “Alliances can be forged even in the unlikeliest of circumstances,” droned Instructor Hani’s voice through Torri’s skull, from a seminar she’d had a decade ago. “Enemies are made, not born. And trust is not something to give. It is earned.” She locked her gaze with Kai’s. Funny, the things you remember.

“Damn you,” Kai said, but she smiled. “Agreed.”

She pushed her glass to Torri for a refill and relaxed into the Kai who Torri remembered from their training days, the quiet but welcoming colleague, a foil to her own prickly and often fiery demeanor. They chatted amiably and shared laughter to the bottom of the bottle and when the last was poured and their glasses empty, Kai exhaled, a sound laden with what might have been regret. It lanced through Torri’s heart, leaving a hole she wished she could fill. Wished she had filled years ago, before war and uncertainty came between them.

“This has been fun. Thanks.” Kai sat back, her tone warm with honesty and a hint of what might have been relief.

“Care to indulge me further?” Torri coaxed.

“Something to eat? You can show me the sights of Amanza.”

Kai ran her fingers along the rim of her glass, a crease in her brow. “Probably not a good idea to be seen in your company on the streets,” she said, though with less conviction than Torri expected.

She nodded, taking no offense. Kai’s position as a Coalition soldier prevented her from willingly consorting with known criminal elements, should someone recognize Torri as

such. “Perhaps another time, then. In a system less hostile to my career.” Or yours.

“Is there such a place?” Kai teased.

Torri grinned. “I’m sure of it. And I’ll let you know.” She regarded Kai for a moment. “My thanks for taking the time,” she said, injecting the phrase with an extra layer of meaning she wanted Kai to hear, to interpret as she wished.

“I’m glad I did.” Kai pushed her empty glass aside and for a moment, she looked like she might want to add something more. The moment passed.

“Long life to you.” Torri offered the Cadet salutation and held her palm up.

“And you.” Kai met Torri’s palm briefly with her own. Something rippled in the air between them but Kai was already on her feet and working her way through the crowd before Torri addressed it. She sat in the din for a while, thoughts roiling, before taking her leave. Other patrons occupied the table as soon as she cleared the booth, erasing her presence as effectively as if she’d never been there at all.

Torri pushed through the crowded bar to the narrow dirt streets beyond, bumping against revelers, ignoring the vendors who pulled at her sleeve and trousers for attention. Twice Escorts propositioned her, but Torri only smiled and continued on her way, accompanied by thoughts of Kai and all matter of music couched in the heavy, earthy odor of Wallowee incense. It stung her nostrils and she fought an urge to sneeze. She turned down a foulsmelling alley, littered with trash and offal, and emerged onto the adjoining street right next to Shimba’s. She got in line behind a tall, wispy Shordin wearing traditional Wanderer dress and was soon engaged in conversation with a half-drunk fighter-class mechanic behind her, who amused her with tales of his ingenuity.

Once inside at the counter, a heavyset female denizen of the city waited for her order.

“I have it on expert authority that Shimba’s has the best meat pies.” Torri leaned against the counter, exuding nothing more than interest in a culinary experience.

“We do.”

“I’d like to try your personal favorite, though I’m sure my uncle would be pleased regardless of the choice.”

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The other woman offered a snaggle-toothed smile. “The bistekin, then. Half a credit.”

Torri slid her ID stick into the payslot and waited for her meal, which appeared wrapped in flimsy parchment that Torri eyed dubiously as the vendor handed it to her. She accepted it and left, merging once again with the sea of festivalgoers outside. Her link purred in her ear. She recognized the frequency.

“Jann,” she acknowledged.

“We’re fueled and ready. Cyr’s itching for a brainjack and I could use a drink. Saryl’s agreed to stay at dock as long as we bring her Amanza cheer.” His soft tenor exuded fatigue but also humor.

“What do the comms say?”

“Nothing about us.”

“Then indulge. We’ll leave in the morning unless something comes up.” Torri broke the line with a thought and took a bite of the pie.

Bultor was right about Shimba’s. She chewed slowly, savoring the explosion of spices and the tenderness of the meat as it melted in her mouth.

She dodged a street performer dancing with a holograph and carefully took another bite, working the meat around in her mouth until she felt the minicomm with her tongue and reached up to wipe her lips, removing Bultor’s instructions with the same motion. Leaning against a nearby wall, she reached into her left boot, scratching her leg, and deposited the tiny flat rectangle into the pocket therein next to the credit disk.

She continued walking and finished the pie, the wrapper already disintegrating. Torri wiped her hands on her trousers.

Time, perhaps, to find a bit of entertainment for herself. Seeing Kai had brought up some longings that she’d managed to bury in the years since they’d graduated, and since Torri broke her Academy ties in protest of Coalition policies.

Why Kai continued to buy Coalition propaganda escaped her, but even that hitch between them didn’t quell the connection Torri felt for her still.

And in Kai’s eyes, Torri saw she’d felt it, too.

She stopped at a street vendor and purchased a beverage, thinking about the first time she’d met Kai, her first day at the Academy. They couldn’t have been more different. And the fates as well as the Academy Instructors charged with making bunkmate assignments paired them, for

the duration of their training. “Your bunkmate is your soulmate. You will come to know her better in some ways than you know yourself. You may not like her. You may even hate her on some levels. But you will come to trust her with your life.”

Did that still hold, in the collapse of Empire and the ascent of a new, even more corrupt power?

Can I still trust you, Kai? Torri stared into the crowd, eyes drawn to three black-clad Coalition soldiers who passed, visors on their helmets down. Can I trust you? Or did Kai’s uniform dispense with history, with the bond they’d created in the years of their shared training?

Did Kai still exist, beyond the gray fabric of her higher rank and her Coalition obligations?

Torri’s hand clutched the bottle so hard that her body heat accelerated its decomposition and some of the liquid leaked out over her fingers.

Kai was a damn fine pilot, but the Coalition kept her street-bound. The finest pilot the Academy had seen in three generations. Only one other had been better, and if Torri had to cast her lot with either of them, she’d pick Kai, no hesitation.

But Kai put up with the Coalition’s ineptitude and absurd assignments, probably because of the money she was able to send home. Paying tithe to Coalition colonization and familial duties, trapped in the chains of responsibility and legacy.

Except the Coalition took what it wanted first and then demanded payment for its protection.

Why couldn’t Kai see that?

Torri grimaced and drank half the contents of the container. The liquid tasted florid. She finished it and set the empty on a vendor’s counter as she passed, not wanting to carry it until it completely dissolved. She wiped her hand on her shirt and followed the sound of drumming and chanting to an impromptu dance, where she linked herself arm-in-arm with various participants, trying to escape thoughts of Kai in physical exertion.

When she finally took a break, a thin Talesian promptly offered a brainjack, already halfskitted herself. Torri declined politely and extricated her arm from the other’s grip three times until the Talesian raised her voice, pleading, and clamped both hands on Torri’s forearm.

Torri forcibly jerked her arm away, catching the attention of two Coalition soldiers who stood

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on the edge of the dancing frenzy, faceplates u p , r e vealing them as human males. Torri pretended she didn’t know they were interested in her and she moved nonchalantly up the street, scanning the rough mud-hewn walls for an alley.

“You there,” came the brusque command in the clipped cadence of standard Coalition. Several revelers around her stopped and turned toward them. Torri did the same, knowing she’d draw even more attention if she didn’t. When the others saw the soldiers weren’t interested in them, they all continued on their way.

“Yes, sirs?” Torri inquired, keeping her tone level and looking from one to the other. Young.

Probably fresh out of training and stationed at the seething ass-end of this quadrant. Resentful, itching for some action. Which made them dangerous. Torri opened her link as they approached, ensuring a broadcast to Saryl. Just in case.

“ID?” The taller one held out his hand.

Torri complied and he slid it into the reader strapped to his wrist.

“Antara lo Vora,” he said. “Hastor.” He looked up from the image on his reader, suspicious.

“That’s an agro-colony. What brings you to Hallifin?”

“A cargo of torset fresh from the harvest . . .” She let her voice trail off then offered him a conspiratorial smile. “And Amanza.” She recognized an understanding glimmer in the shorter one’s eyes. Good. She might be able to talk her way out of this if it went further.

The taller one ran another check, probably on her ship. “How long in Hastor?” he asked, not looking at her.

“Three turns.”

“Originally from?” He glanced at her.

“Baltene, Vector Quadrant.”

“Not conducive to farming.”

“No. My parents shifted us to Cordith, then Tauren.”

The shorter one glanced around, bored, but the taller wasn’t ready to end the game yet. “Tauren . . . I have kin from the San Colony.” He handed her ID back.

She pretended confusion. “Sir? Isn’t that on Mora?” She named Tauren’s largest moon. “I’m willing to be incorrect, but—”

He opened his mouth to say something more when another voice joined the conversation.

“Antara! Did our little festival lure you from the farm?” Kai stepped between the two soldiers, who immediately jerked to attention, eyes staring straight ahead.

“That and a load of torset. How are you, Captain?”

“Well, thanks. At ease,” she said to the men, who relaxed. “Did you check?” She looked at the taller man.

He nodded once.

“And does anything seem amiss?”

He shook his head.

“How long left on your shifts?”

“All night, Captain,” said the shorter man. Torri heard the irritation in his tone, though he masked it with the obvious deference he held for Kai. Torri had seen flashes of Kai’s leadership capabilities when they were Cadets. The intervening years had obviously nurtured them.

“We’re over-staffed,” Kai said. “Your shifts end in two hours. It is, after all, Amanza.”

He looked at her gratefully. “Two hours, Captain,” he repeated with formality. Even the taller one’s demeanor changed.

“Dismissed. Good work.” Kai waited until the crowd swallowed them before turning her attention back to Torri and switching to Empire. “I cross-checked docking permits,” she explained apologetically. “So I know the name you’re—” She broke off and offered a thin smile instead.

Torri shrugged and closed the link to Saryl. “I would expect nothing less. It’s your job, after all.”

Kai ran a hand through her hair, a gesture Torri remembered with affection. “I’m off-duty,” she said, and Torri saw conflicting emotions in the gray of her eyes. “Any other time . . .” Her tone held an apology.

“And there’d no doubt be a different outcome here.” Torri smiled, though disappointment settled along the bottom of her heart. “I don’t expect favors from you. But I appreciate this one and I won’t forget it. To Amanza, then.” She winked and moved back into the crowds, not wanting to push her luck. Not about this. But ten steps later she turned around, narrowly avoiding bumping into a Miridian, whose feline features creased into a snarl as Torri quickly side-stepped and

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craned her neck. She caught sight of Kai’s shirt through the throngs. Not understanding her reasons, Torri followed her, using the crowd to her advantage.

Kai led her through the heart of Hallifin, through the great square surrounded by decaying minarets that glinted gold and copper in the setting suns, tired testaments to an era before Coalition shills infiltrated and corrupted a onceproud dynasty of Tindor rulers. Torri had been through here many times before, and each time she found it less welcoming and more indicative of subterfuge and corruption. False gods. Like every other promise the Coalition made and broke. How strange that politics constructed the divide between her and Kai, that something like that could diminish the connection they’d built at the Academy.

Past the city center the crowds thinned like clouds in a wind until Torri was forced to hang back even farther in the shadows of the narrow streets, though Kai never once looked behind her, something out of character. Or maybe Kai had settled into herself and her routines so much during the last few years that she’d gotten complacent. “Once a habit is established, it can’t be broken without effort.” More words from a past seminar. Kai was too good a Cadet to lapse like that. More likely, she was all too aware of Torri following her. Or perhaps the uniform had clothed Kai in carelessness, even when she wasn’t wearing it. The set of Kai’s shoulders and her brusque stride indicated purpose, not presence, and more disappointment made Torri hang back a little farther. Had Kai forgotten her Academy days? Had Torri somehow made Kai someone she wasn’t, somehow created someone from idealized memories?

They passed through another courtyard, the celebration here decidedly tamer than near the docking bays. Groups of residents sitting at tables, laughing and chatting. A musician picked a tune from his sitarri, a gentle melody that hovered above the strings. Torri fell in with two men and a woman headed in the same direction as Kai. She watched as Kai crossed the courtyard, walked beneath the arched entranceway on the opposite side, and stopped at a wide wooden door in a multi-storied stone building not fifteen paces from Torri’s group. Kai pressed her

thumb to the doorpad, waited, then pushed the door open, disappearing within. Probably living quarters.

Torri detached from her temporary companions and made it to the door before it closed. She placed the toe of her boot against the doorjamb.

The door came to rest on the other side of her boot and Torri made a show of pretending to press her own thumb on the doorpad, suspecting surveillance pods hung on neighboring structures. She set her shoulder against the door and pushed, hoping its magnetic field hadn’t yet fully engaged. It opened only a bit more so Torri increased her efforts, maintaining a steady pressure. The door relented enough for her to slide inside but before she could get her bearings in the dim interior, a hand closed on the collar of her shirt, whirled her around, and slammed her against a wall, knocking the breath momentarily from her lungs.

“I didn’t take you for a common thief.” Kai’s words slid between her teeth like knives.

“Good,” Torri managed, regaining her breath and equilibrium. “Because I’m not.” She relaxed and Kai’s grip loosened. Torri brought her left forearm up, knocking Kai’s hand off her shirt though she felt the fabric tear. She reached with both hands before Kai recovered and gripped the front of Kai’s shirt. She jerked Kai close and kissed her, a bruising, rough joining of mouths that lasted mere seconds because Kai braced both hands on the wall behind Torri’s head and pushed herself back, away from Torri’s lips.

Shock and uncertainty flickered across her face, visible even in the gloom of the foyer.

“What in Cyllea’s name are you doing?” Kai whispered, keeping her hands on the wall.

“Do you really need me to answer that?”

Torri braced her back against the wall and moved her right hand to Kai’s neck. She wanted Kai’s lips again, wanted to feel what she wished she’d expressed five years ago but hadn’t. Torri tried again to pull Kai closer. This time she met resistance, as she had with the door, but Kai’s eyes reflected something else that was clearly at odds with her actions.

“Do you remember our last training flight before we graduated?” Torri kept her hand on the back of Kai’s neck while her other maintained its grip on her shirt.

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Kai nodded slowly, wary. “Magellan. Vector Quadrant.”

“We had to shake off four drones,” Torri said in a low voice, keeping her eyes on Kai’s. “We picked up those other two after Vani and Jossell retreated.”

“Our portside engine took a direct hit.” Kai’s voice softened and the muscles of her neck relaxed beneath Torri’s fingers.

“You flew us back to base with one engine and six damaged thrusters, in the middle of a firefight. And then you landed without bellying.”

Torri unwound her left hand from Kai’s shirt, let it fall to Kai’s waist, where it lingered on the webbing of her belt.

“And you shot all those drones with our last working cannon. Even the Academy Council couldn’t believe we pulled it off.” Kai moved closer, no longer fighting, a slight smile on her lips.

“You were the best pilot in a century of Cadets.”

Torri’s left hand worked its way to the small of Kai’s back. “I’d stake my family’s holding that you still are.”

Kai took a small step forward, her right leg now between Torri’s thighs and everything Torri had wanted to say years before expressed itself in the exhalation that escaped her throat.

“You were an amazing shot,” Kai whispered, easing forward, her hips now against Torri’s. “I had hoped we got assigned to the same post after graduation.” Kai’s hands dropped from the wall to Torri’s waist and Torri felt their heat even through her shirt. “But we weren’t.” “And many other things happened, as well, that I couldn’t have foreseen,” her tone conveyed.

They shared a silence, Torri seeing in Kai’s eyes the Cadets they’d been and the women they’d become. “I’ve missed you,” Torri said simply and this time, Kai initiated the kiss, which evolved into many more, raw-edged but somehow tender, until Kai stopped, breathing hard against Torri’s neck, arms wrapped around her.

Torri relaxed into her, sank into the weight of years and unspoken emotions. Long minutes later Kai finally pulled away, but she held onto Torri’s hands, and her eyes asked what she had never voiced. Torri smiled assent, heart pounding, and she let Kai lead her up the marble steps to her quarters, let the boundaries between the

past they’d endured and the choices they’d made blur until there was only sweat and heat and a slick merging of muscle and skin, the completion of a connection that ignited beneath their lips and hands that flared far into the night, fusing past with present and leaving them tangled and spent in new memories.

And Torri fought sleep, fought the pleasant fatigue that infused her limbs in Kai’s arms, strove to remain awake and cognizant of what had happened here, what might yet happen.

Whether ending or beginning, she needed the reality of Kai’s skin beneath her hands, of Kai’s lips and her touch and the way change might feel between them. But in Kai’s embrace, Torri’s body overruled her mind and succumbed to the warmth and safety she felt there and she slipped into sleep, Kai’s lips on her neck.

A Hallifin dawn entered the room and expanded to fill the high, domed ceilings, coaxing Torri from a doze. She pulled Kai closer, breathing her scent, now mingled with her own, and watched over Kai’s shoulder as the chronometer on the granite windowsill marked the inevitable. She dreaded what was coming, but knew, too, that this was the order of things.

Kai stirred against her. “I’ve missed you, too,” she whispered. Her fingertips drew patterns on Torri’s chest that somehow leaked through her skin to the surface layers of her heart.

Torri smiled, hope lighting the years between them and she brushed her lips against Kai’s forehead, willing the chronometer to stop, willing the previous night to somehow bind them closer, if only for now. She studied Kai’s eyes, not bothering to hide the regret in her own. Kai kissed it away and ran her hands the length of Torri’s body, stirring the night’s ashes into embers then flames until the chronometer announced the unavoidable and Kai reluctantly entered the shower while Torri dressed.

They lingered at the door, both leaving possibility unspoken, and their last kiss might have been a promise though Torri knew better than to expect it. She left first, but at the bottom of the steps she turned. Kai stood at the top of the staircase, watching her, the gray of her Coalition uniform reiterating a chasm between them but she raised her right hand in a Cadet salutation, and Torri accepted it as a bridge,

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however tenuous. She raised her own hand then left, before her impulses overrode her intuition, and she retraced her steps to the dock, her quick, easy strides carrying her through the bleary-eyed city, and back to the gulf that separated them.

She nodded politely at an obviously hungover dock agent, who waved her through the forceshield with only a cursory check of her ID. Two Coalition soldiers lolled against a nearby wall, talking in low tones. They barely glanced at her as she passed. Their wrinkled uniforms and the dust on their boots and equipment said more than their actions. Not part of Kai’s troops, Torri thought as she passed, and a perverse sense of pride about Kai and her abilities made her smile to herself, at the incongruity of her pride for Kai but her distaste at what Kai represented. What’s next? Recruiting for the Coalition?

Torri commed Jann as she approached the ship and the hatch opened, extending into a ramp that she ascended.

“And how was your night?” Saryl asked with a smirk as Torri boarded, her tall frame filling the cramped entryway.

“One I won’t soon forget,” she responded with a grin. “I think I rather like Amanza.”

Saryl raised her eyebrows. “Glad to hear it. It’s about time you had a little fun.”

It was much more than that. Torri shrugged.

“Are we ready to go?”

“Of course. That’s why you hired me.” Saryl moved so Torri could get around her in the narrow corridor to the bridge.

“Oh, is that it? I thought it was your charming personality.”

“There’s always that.” She followed Torri to the bridge.

Jann turned his red-rimmed eyes to Torri as she entered. “And did Amanza treat you well?”

His throat sounded as if it had treated him well.

As it had Cyr, who kept his head down.

“Very. We might make this festival a habit,” Torri said as she slid into the right-hand seat at the control panel, punching in coordinates for Zeta Quadrant before she opened a link to docking authorities and switched into Coalition.

“Cargo Vessel Far Seek requesting departure clearance.”

“Declaration?” came the response in a guttural monotone.

“Off-loaded one full shipment of torset from Hastor.”

“One moment. Checking voucher.”

Torri made an adjustment on the control panel, waiting for the authorities to compare arrival and departure weights of her ship. She glanced at Jann, concentrating as he made appropriate calibrations for lift-off.

“Voucher received, Antara lo Vora. Cleared for departure in sixty seconds. Out.” Torri broke the link and Jann’s fingers flew over the controls from his station. She clicked her seat harness into place around her torso and glanced at the controls, checking readings on her crew. Everybody was strapped in and ready to go.

“Fifteen seconds,” Jann intoned as Torri felt the ship’s thrusters engage, a subtle shift in the power currents through the walls of the vessel.

“And five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . and lift-off.” The ship jerked slightly as the magnetic docklock released. Torri took the controls and guided them to proper altitude above the bays before she accelerated. Fifteen minutes later they orbited Hallifin and Jann prepared the ship for a jump.

“I take it you’ve lined up more work.” Saryl turned in her seat to look at Torri.

“Of course,” Torri said. “Tirius needs medical supplies and I know a Coalition supplier—” Jann snorted with amusement and Cyr groaned softly.

“You do like testing your luck,” Saryl said with a laugh.

“Not luck. Options.” Torri flashed her a grin then turned to watch the stars lengthen into lances of light in their hyperjump. She thought about Kai, in her Coalition uniform, preparing for another day. She knew that by now Kai had found the commdisk she’d left, might even have played it on her reader, and found her message. Torri quoted it in her head. “I hope when you’re offduty again, you might think of me.” And maybe Kai would even use it one day to contact her.

Maybe.

They emerged from the jump and slowed to cruising speed. A weakness, Torri knew. That’s what Kai was for her. And one day, that might

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prove her undoing. But oh, how she knew she’d enjoy it, no matter the outcome.

Torri reached into her boot and removed both the credit disk and Bultor’s instructions. “Cyr, bring up the trade routes and find me the best ones that put us in range of Endor Quadrant with as little Coalition interference as possible.

We’ve got thirty days.”

Cyr muttered something about her synapses lacking proper impulses, and Torri smiled mischievously. “And if we’re lucky, we’ll find another festival.”

He groaned again.

Read about the further adventures of Torri and Kai. Look for Friends in High Place the first book of the Far Seek Chronicles Late 2008.

Mindancer Press

http://mindancerpress.wordpress.com/books/friends-in-high-places/

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Day 1 I zip up my rain jacket and grab my keys from the hook on the wall. I can feel Elaina behind me, waiting. I turn to her and stumble over a packed bag. The living room is utter chaos. Her backpack is full of clothes and the coffee table holds her passport, wallet, and of all things, rolled toilet paper.

I hold a breath in as my throat closes. Elaina catches my eyes and her expression softens.

She pulls me to her in a tight embrace. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I know. I just wish I could take you to the airport. I don’t want to work today.” I sound petulant.

“Look at it this way, love, you’ll have plenty of time to write something.” She kisses the side of my neck and I swallow hard.

It’s a good idea, and one I fully intend to take her up on. I kiss her lightly then release her to open the front door. The spring air still holds the bite of winter, but birds are chirping in the trees.

My eyes sting. I tell myself it’s the wind.

“Ange, do you have your tea?” she calls after me.

I clear my throat and answer, “Uh . . . No, it’s on the kitchen table.”

I start the car and meet her on the front porch.

She hands me my tea and leans down to kiss me goodbye. She tastes like coffee. Rich and creamy. I imagine putting this goodbye into a story and resolve to not only write it, but submit it while she’s gone. It would be a first for me, just like her trip abroad.

Day 2 The clock reads 4:23 am. I turn my head in the other direction and shove the pillow into a more comfortable position. The cat grunts her discomfort as I shift again. She settles down as I rub the soft fur on her belly. I close my eyes and focus on the loud rumble running through my pillow, determined to sleep. Her tail thwaps me in the face, my calf muscle twitches, and I groan in discomfort.

“This is ridiculous, kitty.” She agrees with me by walking across the top of my pillow and jumping off the bed. “No need to be mean about it,” I call after her.

I sit up, push back the covers, and walk across the cold wood floor to the studio, where I pick up my laptop so I can take it back to bed with me.

Snippets of scenes, conversation, and music filter through my thoughts. In my state of halfsleep I type out the first sentence. The rest of the scene comes quickly. A café, the smell of rich coffee, and a guitar player. Her voice as voluptuous as her body. My fingers fly across the keyboard and short clipped taps fill the empty room.

My eyes burn. I can feel the weight of my head as I nod sleepily. One more yawn, one more sentence, and I feel I can sleep. I put the laptop on the floor and tuck the soft down blanket up to my chin. This is going to be easy. How could it not, with an opener like that?

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Day 5 Ceramic mugs clink dully against each other in the hot soapy water. I push my hair back from my eyes, avoiding the bubbles on my hands. I slow my pace, since I don’t really need to do the few dishes I had accumulated, but after reading the finished draft of my nameless story I’d grown restless. Something wasn’t clicking. It should flow smoothly, like soap on glass.

A familiar ping echoes through the house, snapping me out of my thoughts. I dry my hands on my pants as I race through the kitchen, turn right into the living room, and take another right into the studio. I plop down on the high-backed chair in front of the computer, push my glasses onto my face, and type, “Hello.” into the blinking orange chat box. Come on, answer. She can’t be gone already.

The chat box lights up. “I miss you.”

My heart melts and I type back, “I miss you too, love.”

“Three weeks is too long to be away.”

She sounds lonely. At least I’m not the only one.

“Tell me about it. What’re you doing? What time is it there?”

She responds, “8 am. I got your letter.”

“You weren’t supposed to open that ‘til your birthday, cheater.” Typical.

“I couldn’t resist. So, what’s this goal that you can’t tell me about?”

She would ask. I roll my eyes. “You’ll find out when you get home.”

The orange box lights again in demand. “Just tell me, Ange.”

“No.” My thoughts run ahead of me. At this rate there was no way I was going to be able to submit my story. I was going to have to come up with a back-up plan and give up on the writing.

“Do it.” I knew that tone. I was betting her eyebrow was raised.

“No, because if I do and I don’t finish it, then you’ll be disappointed in me. I don’t want that.”

“No fair.”

No, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that my characters had abandoned me and left me sputtering.

It wasn’t fair that everything I wrote was crap. It wasn’t fair. I typed out, “I’ll tell you when you get home, promise. It’s something I need to do on my own. Just like your trip. Deal?”

She gives in. “Oh, all right. So, how’s the writing going?”

Day 8 I reach across the white porcelain tub from the outside. The linoleum grinds into my knees but I ignore the twinges of pain and focus on scrubbing the far wall. I wish writing came as easy. I focus on scrubbing the faucets and think of my week ahead. A streak of panic courses through my system. I was never going to get the kitchen clean before the rest of my family descended on me.

I call out, “Hey, brat.” The sound echos in the space around me.

I don’t hear Max until she’s in the doorway.

“Aren’t you done with that yet? You’ve been in here for, like, hours.”

Miazaki pushes his head around her legs, forcing her to move over. His little black face is hopeful that I’ve called him. Max scratches the top of his head mindlessly.

I push a strand of hair from my face with the back of my hand. “I’ll pay you twenty bucks in groceries if you do the dishes.”

She crosses her arms. “You say that every time I’m here.”

I stand and stretch my legs out before I reach to turn on the faucet. Luke warm water sprays out. “Yeah, well I’m never going to finish all of this before Dad and Tara get here. Come on,” I hedge, “that’s what sisters are supposed to do.”

I start to rinse the bleach from the tub.

She laughs sharply. “Riiiight, I’ll remember that next time I need to mow the lawn.” She pauses a moment. “Fine, but you have to convince Dad to buy pizza and ice cream for dinner. Chill?”

I roll my eyes at her word of the week and echo it back to her, mockingly. “Chill.”

She stands in the doorway, watching me put the finishing touches on the tub.

“You miss her, don’t you?” She hands me the bottle of shampoo and I set it on the shelf as she reaches for the next one.

“In ten years, we’ve never been apart this long.

Yeah, I miss her.” I turn the bottles so all the labels face the same direction.

“At least you have some time to write, right?”

Her lips quirk up at her joke.

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I smile back, then scowl at her question. “I wanted to write something and submit it before she got home.” I sit on the edge of the tub, defeated. The dog puts his head in my lap. I scratch behind his ears. His tail wags at an increased pace. “With you lot here, I don’t know how I’m going to get the time to write a whole new piece.”

She sits next to me. “Why do you have to write a new piece? What’s wrong with the one you wrote?”

“Oh, it’s awful.”

She nudges me hard with her shoulder. “Let me read it and I’ll tell you if it’s worth salvaging.

If it’s bad, I’ll tell you that, too.”

I punch her in the thigh. “I was thinking instead of submitting something I’d paint the studio for her. That way at least I don’t look like a total slacker.”

“That’s a bit of a cop out, don’t’cha think?”

I shrug.

“Well, my offer stands. Come on, they should be here in an hour or so.” We both stand. I’m quiet as she leaves the room. I should take her up on her offer, but her “cop out” comment sticks in my throat. I don’t know whether to be mad or just accept that she’s right.

Day 13 I knew what I had to do. I had to prove Max wrong. The studio was not going to be a cop out, it was just a back-up plan, just in case. Yeah, right. Focus. Focus on the café. The premise was solid and I liked my characters. It just lacked . . . something. I pull up a clean page on the computer and close my eyes. I need to paint it out, in thick bold strokes of umber and crimson.

I want the readers to smell the coffee, the fresh pastries. I want them to hear the strum of the guitar and the sound of her voice.

Ping.

I jump slightly and click over to the chat box to see who’s interrupting me. Elaina. I smile and the tension in my face releases.

I type, “Hey you. Happy Birthday!!!!”

“Thanks, hon. I was hoping you were on.”

“I was waiting for you. Did you open my present?” She’d probably opened it days ago, not that she’d tell me.

“Yes, I love it. I especially love the photo of you. Did you make it?” she asks.

“Yes, I thought you’d like to take us with you, and it was light weight so you could take it anywhere.”

“Is the family still there?”

“No. Dad ate all of our blueberry jam, and they managed to work their way through most of the remaining firewood. I told them to put on sweaters, but NOOOO!” Hmm, a cup of tea sounds good. I will make a cup.

“Sounds like I missed all the fun. What are you doing?”

I type out, “Just tinkering around. Why? Did you have a special b-day request?”

“I wish. Someone just asked for the computer.

I have to go, love.”

Damn. Back to re-writes.

Day 17 I position my hands around the shelving unit in front of me. My arms are bent close to my body and I press my body against the unit and shove. GGGRRRRRRUUUUHHH!!! The damn story can’t be submitted. It’s unfit to see the light of day. I adjust my hip against the wood, and push again. It moves, my hope lifts, then falls as the unit slides back into place. Max was right, painting is just a cop out. I give up on trying to move the unit and start to unload the multitude of books, photo albums, and art supplies to the floor. Once empty I try shifting one side then the other. It moves. At least something is working right.

Elaina will love the grey-green color I chose for the room. My stomach flutters at the thought.

She’ll be so surprised. Why didn’t I feel better about it? I take her new snowboard from the corner. A high-gloss varnish covers the bamboo base. An image of Mt. Fuji is at the bottom and sakura blossoms are screen printed in white over the top. It’s a beautiful board and so far, unused. It’s slick against my hands as I lean it against the door. I then clear the multitude of stretcher bars and tools off the adjacent bike hangers.

The paint is thick and viscous as I roll it onto the wall. I restrain myself from dunking my hand into the bucket, just so I can see how it feels to

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have it slowly suck me under. I move in long, broad strokes. Muscles in my back stretch taut and relax. It feels good to be moving instead of sitting in front of the computer. I can do this.

Even if it’s not submitted right away, I could still write it. I just had to have faith in myself.

I set the roller against the table and move to the far end of the room. The high-backed corner chair is easy to slide across the floor. Behind me I hear the extension on the roller slip against the table. I turn just in time to see it careen into the snowboard. Abandoning the chair, I grab a rag and pick the paint-sodden roller up from the floor. There’s a three-inch long streak of paint over the top of Mt. Fuji. Maybe I should leave it, since it looked like a bank of clouds. Nah, better not. I use the soft rag and clean it off carefully.

The door and carpet are blotted with paint, too. I ignore them. The carpet needed to be replaced and the door could use some paint anyway.

Day 18 “Ow!” I touch the top of my head. “Move over, dog.” Miazaki paws at the cords I have in my hands. “Out. I know you want to help, but not much can help me now. Go lie down.” I point out from under the glass-top desk I’m huddling under to a makeshift bed lying two feet away.

I dodge a lick to my face and scratch behind his ears before he leaves. I need to look at this whole thing in a different light. After a deep breath I continue to unplug the computer. I need to finish the studio now that I’d started it. And the rest . . . I’d figure something out. I scoot out from under the desk and clear all the leftover items from the top. The problem was motivation. I crank up the stereo and let Brandi Carlile’s cover of “Folsum Prison Blues” soar in me.

“Almost there, boy.” Miazaki looks at me with big brown eyes, patience everlasting at my muttering of curses and bouts of singing out of tune.

I set the roller against the table, this time cradling it in a cloth so it won’t slide. I move a small step ladder under the glass light fixture, climb up, and unscrew the base. Carefully, I step off the ladder and place the fixture on the desk near by. Now, for the smoke alarm. I wasn’t quite sure how these things came off. I read the directions and turn it a quarter turn to the right. It feels stuck.

I pull at it. It doesn’t budge. I turn it the other direction and pull again. With a startling pop it comes off in my hand, teeters, and promptly falls face-down in the paint. “Shit.” That can’t be good. I climb back down the ladder. As I reach to retrieve the alarm, I notice on the underside, in bold letters, “Do Not Paint.” A laugh escapes my lips. I go in search of the camera.

With a few succinct strokes I finish the ceiling.

“What do you think?” I ask the dog. He raises his head from his paws and wags the tip of his tail.

“Yeah, I think so too. It looks damn fine.” Elaina will love it. The clean-up is quick, and when I finish, I yawn and reach up with my arms, straining with my fingertips. It feels good to stretch my back, and now, finally, I’m ready to stretch my writing skills, too. If my final re-write goes as good as the paint job, I’d have both my goals done.

Day 21 The house is quiet around me. I want to sleep but I want this moment more. I trail my fingers lightly down the side of Elaina’s face as she sleeps. Her body is warm next to me, almost hot. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how she gets cold so easily. She shifts slightly, her head angled toward me. I can’t resist and kiss her gently. Ten years and I still can’t get enough.

Her eyes flutter open. I want to feel guilty for waking her but I don’t. I kiss her again, and get a small sigh from her.

She clears her throat. “Do that again.”

I lean in for a gentle kiss. “I’m glad you went, but I’m happier that you’re home.” I pause briefly, then continue, “You needed this trip, and I needed some time alone.” I push her hair back behind her ear.

She smiles broadly. “I’m gonna leave you alone more often if you keep finishing house projects.”

Now was my opening. I took it. “Actually, painting the studio wasn’t my goal.”

Her right eyebrow quirks up. “Oh?” I take a shallow breath and tell her, “I wanted to write and submit a story before you got home.” I push back the covers and walk over to the bookshelf. I pull out a small, white, three ring binder and hand it to her before climbing back into the

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bed. She’s re-adjusted herself and is propped up against the headboard. I adjust my pillow and sit next to her.

“This is it?” she asks, looking at me.

I nod once.

A look of triumph crosses her face. “Yes! I knew you could do it.” She excitedly flips it open and reads the title. “The Groggy Nun Cafe.” Ha. So did it get accepted?”

“I don’t know yet, but it doesn’t matter anyway. I just wanted to submit it. And I did.” I knew I had a goofy grin on my face, but I didn’t care.

Handing it back to me she says, “So, will you read it to me?”

“If you’re good.” I close the cover and lean over to set it on the nightstand.

She hooks her hand into the pocket of my hip and pulls me toward her. “I missed you,” she whispers.

“You just missed my red chile,” I retort.

I feel chills ride up my back when she groans.

“Oh, hell yeah I missed your chile.” She pushes me onto my back. “But I also missed this.”

“Tell me exactly what you missed,” I insist.

“A clean house, a new studio.” She motions outwards with her hands. “Three cups of tea in the fridge.”

“UGH!” I try to push her off me.

She giggles as I tickle her sides. We tussle until the sheets are tangled around us and we’re breathing hard from laughing.

My breath catches in my throat when I see the look in her eyes.

“I love you,” she says.

Ten years. Never enough.

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S

hawn’s eyes flew open, her heart was pounding in the dark. She tried to hold on to the fleeing bits of her dream as they raced for the nether. For once, it had not been a nightmare and she wanted to remember this dream. There was something about a woman, a woman she loved. The rest was gone already. But Shawn remembered that she had been happy in the dream. Awareness set in like an electrical shock, and Shawn’s heart ached for the dream she had lost. The dream had changed nothing, she still had to face the reunion in the morning, her dead end job on Monday, and the overdue bills. She pulled a pillow over her face and tried to quiet her sobs. Shawn felt Stinker, her mangy ginger cat jump onto the bed and drape himself over her leg.

She tried to find the happy dream again, but only the old ghosts came to visit.

S

hawn looked at her watch and shook her head. She was late. She felt the anger rise hot in her cheeks, unsure if she was angrier about being late, or about being almost at the reunion. She took a deep breath as she pushed her custom motorcycle a little bit faster.

She didn’t need anymore tickets, but cops were scarce this far out of the city. Her eyes scanned the rolling landscape from behind her tinted visor. Half grown corn stalks stretched away in both directions. In another month, the woods on the right would be all but invisible from the road.

A gas station appeared on the horizon. Shawn checked the gauge and decided to fill up. It

would only get more expensive farther down the road.

She pulled up to a pump. She was attempting to retrieve her wallet from the back pocket of her jeans when a truck pulled up to the other side of Shawn’s pump. The big black dog in the truck bed stopped pacing circles and locked eyes with Shawn. For a moment, Shawn was a child again, locked in the shed with her brother’s German Shepherd while he watched through a window.

Shawn shook her head and felt the sweat starting on her upper lip. The black dog barked aggressively. She kicked the bike to life and left tire marks in front of the pump. Back on the road, she rationalized the price difference at the next station would only be a few cents anyway.

She tried to recall the good memories from her childhood. The bad ones choked them out like weeds. She regretted promising her mother she would make an appearance at the reunion.

Shawn never could say no to her mother. She wondered what she would talk about with relatives she had nothing in common with. Church going farmers and lesbian mechanics did not mix well.

On the doorstep of thirty, Shawn had very little to show for the years since she’d left home. It seemed like everything she tried to do turned out badly. She drifted from place to place and went through jobs at the same speed she rode her bike. The list of women she had dated and then lost touch with was nearly as endless as the corn fields. Stinker had even died in his sleep sprawled across Shawn’s leg that morning. Her small apartment on the edge of the

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slums would never feel like home again without him.

Her bike was the one exception to the transience of her life. She built it herself. Every weekend, she washed it and inspected it from front tire to tail pipe. That was her religion.

Four hours should make her mother happy.

Some of that time she could spend in the bathroom and in the kitchen. Four hours to discharge a vague sense of obligation to a mother who discussed the weather with her once a month.

Then she would be back on the road headed in the opposite direction.

She pulled her gaze away from the hypnotic rows of corn back to the two lane road and immediately slammed on her breaks. She turned the bike sideways to avoid the rusty tractor.

Shawn cursed as she bailed and let the bike skid away onto the shoulder. She heard the gravel ripping across the chrome. It would take her weeks to repair the damage. Shawn ignored her own scrapes and bruises. Pain was an old friend of hers. The blood dribbling down her left arm hardly registered in her awareness.

At least she missed the tractor. Shawn dusted herself off and silently thanked the law that made safety classes a requirement for a motorcycle license. When she took the class, she never imagined she would have to use any of the bail outs they practiced. She lifted the black helmet from her head and dropped it near the bike.

Shawn balled her perpetually stained hands into fists ready to unleash her anger at the careless tractor driver. A shirtless boy sat behind the wheel looking completely unruffled by the accident he nearly caused. Shawn judged him too young to legally drive the tractor. His silent knowing stare raised the hair on the back of her neck.

“Hello,” she offered levelly as she tried to master her anger.

“Hi,” he chirped.

“Look what you did to my bike! What are you doing with that tractor in the middle of the road?”

“Waiting for you.” He wiped sweat from his brow with a tanned bony arm.

Shawn shook her head in irritation and considered her next question. She wondered if the boy was malicious or just a little simple. “For me?”

“Yes, you’re Shawn.”

Shawn shivered in spite of the heat. Something was definitely not right.

“How do you know my name?” she fired back.

She noticed that his ribs stood out in his chest and his jeans were starting to tear at the knees.

“She told me.”

“Who told you?”

“The lady by the river, I’ll take you to her,” he offered.

Shawn closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She was already late, a little bit longer wouldn’t matter. She wanted very much to know how this strange child knew her name. If this woman had arranged the accident, perhaps she would pay for the damage to the bike.

“Fine,” she agreed.

She retrieved the motorcycle from the corn field and tried not to look at its mangled body or the pieces of corn stalks jammed into various places. The boy started the engine and turned the tractor off the road. It crawled toward the woods on a narrow track between fields. Shawn marveled that the engine even turned over. The ancient tractor should have been sold for scrap years ago. Shawn pushed her bike after it.

“Where are your parents?” she called over the straining of the laboring engine.

“They always go to town on Saturdays.” He spoke as if Shawn should have known his family’s routines. His calmness was metal splinters under her nails. She noticed the skin on his bare back was unevenly tanned. He had white stripes of scar tissue criss-crossing each other from his neck to below his belted jeans.

Some of them looked fresh. Her anger suddenly drained away as she realized what this child’s life must be like. She absently gripped her arm just below the wrist. Sometimes she thought she could feel the calcium deposits over the healed fracture.

“Hey, what’s your name?” She jogged the bike up along side of him.

“Brandon, I think,” he said quietly. “But that’s not what they call me.”

“Brandon, I’m not going to hurt you. You can tell me.” Shawn looked up at him and saw the sadness in his gray eyes.

“They call me Little Shit mostly.”

“Have you told anyone at school?” she asked

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hoping there was some way to make things better for him.

“I don’t go to school. I’m home schooled because I need to be punished when I’m bad.

Sometimes I don’t do my school work right or I take too long with my chores.”

Shawn didn’t know what to say. She was thinking furiously about how to help Brandon. She couldn’t change her own past, but maybe she could make Brandon’s future easier somehow.

The abrupt lack of noise from the tractor startled Shawn out of her thoughts. Brandon had parked the rusting beast at the edge of the woods.

“You’ll need to leave your motorcycle here. I’m sorry it got all messed up.” He hung his head.

Shawn tried the kickstand. It no longer extended all the way. She slowly leaned the motorcycle against a tree. She looked at the bike and then looked back at Brandon. She raised a hand to tousle his thin brown hair. He shied away.

“I’m not going to hit you,” she apologized. She felt her cheeks start to burn with embarrassment.

When had she lost her own vigilance about other people’s hands? “You know what? Don’t worry about the bike. I can fix it up good as new.”

“Really? You mean you won’t tell anyone about it? I knew I’d get in trouble for it, but she said it was the most important thing I’d ever do in my whole life. I figured if she said it was that important then it would be worth my punishment when Papa found out. I’m used to it anyways.”

He looked up at Shawn with hope shining in his eyes. She was willing to bet that it had been a long time since Brandon had believed in something good happening to him.

“Yeah, just like it never happened. Now tell me about this woman who told you my name.” She firmly pushed all thoughts of the damaged bike to the back of her mind. Brandon turned and headed into the trees as he talked. Shawn followed him.

“She lives in the woods, just across the old bridge. I found her one day when I was . . . well, when I was running from Papa. I know he was only doing what’s best for me, but I was so scared! Anyway, she’s nice. She has this leaf thing that she lets me taste, but it’s not like other vegetables. It tastes like bubble gum. She only lets me have a little bit. And then we talk a little and I usually fall asleep. I have the best

dreams ever when I’m there! But she can’t leave the woods, she can’t even go past the bridge. I think she’s lonely, so I visit her sometimes, on Saturdays mostly.”

Shawn studied Brandon as he spoke. He seemed to have no idea that his story sounded like a child’s fantasy. Although, it didn’t account for how he knew her name.

“There’s the bridge.” He took off at a run.

The rotting timbers spanned halfway across a swiftly flowing river. The other end was gone and Brandon was heading straight for it.

“Brandon, wait!”

“You have to run as fast as you can!” he yelled back and ran even faster.

Shawn would never catch him in time. She closed her eyes as he went over the edge. She skidded to a halt near the end and peered over.

There was no sign of Brandon. The water was barely high enough to flow over some very nasty looking rocks. Shawn bit down on a finger to keep the tears back. Why was she always too late or not quite good enough?

“No, you have to try it again.” It sounded like Brandon was just beyond the end of the bridge.

Now she was hearing things as well, could this day get any worse? He’s dead she told herself and stumbled back to the path.

Shawn paused as she heard someone coming up the trail.

“Where are you, you Little Shit?” The man slurred his words. Shawn heard dog tags jingling. She was trapped between Brandon’s father and the end of the bridge. Shawn knew what the headlines would read if he found her here with Brandon dead somewhere below: “Local Lesbian Trouble Maker Brutally Murders Innocent Boy.” The dogs began barking as they picked up her scent. They came up the trail at a run, two German Shepherds with snarling faces. Maybe she could make it to the other bank. As the dogs closed the distance, Shawn decided to take her chances. She ran.

Birds rose from the trees when she let loose with a scream. She hurtled herself at full speed towards the broken end of the bridge. She shut her eyes tight as her foot stretched out over nothing. Shawn felt suspended in both space and time. Suddenly, she remembered every

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moment of her life in vivid detail. She even remembered her perfect dream from earlier that morning. In that instant, she saw clearly the path of her life. For once, she felt confident. She knew her purpose.

Her foot touched down on more wooden planks. Surprised, she stumbled and went down hard. Her clarity shattered and skittered away from her like grains of dried corn on a barn floor.

She rolled a few times. A tear leaked out of her eye. She was uncertain if it was from the shock of falling or for the losing the dream a second time.

Brandon giggled. Shawn looked up to see him standing unharmed on the bridge. His laughter cut off as she looked up at him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. I’m a bad boy.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and studied his worn sneakers.

Shawn sat up. She laughed as the tension drained away. “It’s ok, just a few bruises,” she assured him.

He looked at her uncertainly.

“I guess I probably did look pretty funny back there.”

One small laugh escaped his tightly pressed lips. He risked a glance up at her. She leaned back against the railing and smiled warmly at him. He let loose with his laughter. The sound eased the sting of her landing.

Shawn looked past his giggling form. The bridge ended abruptly behind him now.

“We’re almost there. Come on.” He started off down a path leading into the woods. Shawn sighed as she rose to follow him. It was time to meet this mysterious woman. She had better be able to pay for the repairs to the bike after all the trouble she was going through, she thought.

A breeze stirred Shawn’s shaggy dark hair and called her attention to the relative coolness on this side of the bridge. Some of the vegetation around her looked vaguely familiar, but most of it was unlike anything she had ever seen. Instead of greens and browns, this forest was as bright and colorful as a crayon box. Shawn considered a plant with thick green and pink leaves. She could imagine it tasting like bubble gum as Brandon mentioned earlier. Bright colors in nature were supposed to indicate danger, she thought.

The path curved back around toward the river

and seemed to be heading for its bank. Shawn caught up with Brandon as he was balancing on a log.

“Isn’t this place neat? It took me a little while to get used to it at first. It all seemed so strange.

But I’m used to it now. And I’m not even bad here!”

“It certainly is unique,” she replied dryly. “Now that we’re here, show me this woman.” Shawn tried to estimate the repair costs for the motorcycle.

“Okay, she’s just up here by the water.” He led the way to the end of the path.

This was not the same river the bridge spanned.

This river flowed at a more moderate pace and with an ambling sound rather than a roar. A mist rose from the surface and swirled in and out of mossy stone walls. The walls suggested a long corridor with small, roofless rooms lining either side, but they only rose about two feet above the water.

“Hello.” Shawn heard the voice in her head instead of out loud.

“Here she comes.” Brandon must have heard it too. He hurried to the bank and knelt. He reached his hand out and a slim dark hand rose up from the water to take his small tanned one.

A woman emerged, her long white hair streaming down her narrow back. She wore a loose yellow tunic and dark green leggings. Shawn watched the water disappear from her clothes as if by magic. The woman was not at all what Shawn had expected. There was nothing ominous about her.

The woman smiled at Brandon. “Thank you.”

She wasn’t much taller than he was.

“You’re welcome. She was there, just like you said she’d be and I brought her here for you,” he reported happily.

“I see. You’ve done well. Shawn is very important to us.” The woman broke off a small piece of one of the green and pink plants and passed it to Brandon. “Why don’t you have some makau leaf and let me speak with her for a moment?”

Brandon accepted the treat with a smile and took himself a few feet away to enjoy it.

The woman turned her attention to Shawn.

“You have questions.” It was a statement not an inquiry.

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“How do you know my name?” Shawn blurted out.

“I know many things about you. I know who you have been and who you are supposed to be. However, I do not yet know who you will be.”

She had that same knowing look that Brandon wore when he caused the accident. Shawn shivered.

“Why did you set up the accident? I hope you plan on paying for the repairs to my bike!”

Shawn’s hands planted themselves on her hips.

The woman shook her head. “That is not how you die. Money does not exist here, it is of no consequence to me.”

“Well, that’s just great. Do you know how long it will take me to save up enough money to buy the parts? And what about Brandon?

He could’ve been hurt if I hit the tractor! Look at him, hasn’t he been through enough? If you know everything about me, you must know his life story too. He doesn’t need you getting him in more trouble, I can see that much.” The woman appeared undisturbed by the accusation in Shawn’s voice.

“That’s not how he dies. He was in no danger. Since he has succeeded in his task here, he may be able to move on and become who he is supposed to be. But that depends on you. If you had not come, he would have put the tractor back and spent the day here with me, dreaming in other worlds.”

“What do you mean it depends on me?”

Frustration laced her question. Shawn glanced at her watch and realized she would have some explaining to do when she finally arrived at the reunion. How had so much time slipped by unnoticed? This maddeningly calm woman managed to lure her here just as she lured Brandon and was now wasting her time with fortune telling nonsense.

The woman smiled patiently at Shawn. “That will not help you here. This place is outside of time. We are in a bubble that touches all the worlds, but is not a part of any of them. You entered when you ran off the end of the bridge.

The world that you came from is not the one you are supposed to be in. It happens sometimes, mistakes are made and what was supposed to be, is not. You are out of place in that world, it is

not where you belong. You know this, you feel it.

Nothing is permanent for you there. This bubble allows me to help make things right. The choice will be up to you.”

Shawn held her silence for a moment. She broke eye contact with the woman and noticed that Brandon was still savoring the bit of leaf while he played with some sticks by the river bank. It was true, she had never really belonged. The only place she felt completely comfortable was on her motorcycle with the wind whipping her clothes against her skin. The bike would never be the same after the beating it took earlier. She heaved a sigh and conceded to herself that if a place like this existed, with plants in all colors of the rainbow, perhaps there was some truth in the woman’s words.

“What do you mean the choice will be up to me?” Shawn stepped closer to the woman and lowered her voice. Brandon may not be watching, but she could feel him listening.

The woman reached out and placed her fingertips on Shawn’s cheek. Shawn felt her cheek start to sting. The woman placed her hand over Shawn’s heart. Shawn felt it start to race. Then she felt it break, like when she woke up from her dream. Her eyes started to water. The woman moved her hand to the back of Shawn’s head. Her fingers touched the small, hairless spot on her scalp where the hair had been pulled out by the roots and never grown back. Shawn ground her teeth against the pain. When the woman reached for Shawn’s healed wrist, Shawn yanked her arm back. The woman met Shawn’s angry stare with a smile.

“How dare you?” Shawn hissed.

“When you belong to a place, these things do not happen. It is a sign that you are out of place.

You are needed where you are supposed to be.

So very many things there depend on you.” She looked over at Brandon. “He is needed there as well. But without you, he is lost there. So he remains here for now.”

Shawn followed the woman’s gaze. She couldn’t believe she was taking this even a little seriously. Brandon seemed to flicker before her eyes. For a moment, Shawn saw a fragile young woman embraced by light blue robes.

The young woman turned to look at Shawn with

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Brandon’s eyes. Shawn shook her head and the young woman became Brandon again.

“What is it like there?”

The mysterious woman waved her fingers in front of Shawn’s eyes. Shawn saw in her mind’s eye a brief glimpse of the woman from her dream this morning. All the feelings of having lost a perfect moment came back to her as vivid as before.

“It is like your world and it is not like your world. You have seen some of where you are supposed to be when you dream, but you will not remember more than a vague impression of those dreams without eating the makau leaf before the dream.”

“That’s why you give it to Brandon, so he can remember what he dreams here! You give him fantasies . . .” Shawn trailed off. Her stomach churned uncomfortably as the weight of her decision settled on her.

Shawn walked away from the woman. She crossed the distance to Brandon and squatted on her heels next to him.

“Tell me what you dream about,” she requested softly.

“I dream about good things. Like, that I’m an orphan, and that I help people who are sick, and when they get better they fight the bad people.”

He continued playing with his sticks as he spoke.

“The best part is that I grow up to be a woman.

Women don’t hurt people like men do.”

Shawn bit her trembling lower lip. “If you could, would you dream forever?”

She was surprised when he looked her in the eye without any shyness. He nodded.

Shawn stood up and shoved her hands into her pockets. She stared out over the river. Hadn’t she always wanted to be the hero? What was there left for her in this world?

She returned to where the small, dark woman waited patiently.

“What would I have to do?” she asked, not yet fully committed to her choice.

“The water will take you both. It will feel like you are dying, but that is not how you die. You will remember the world you came from, but it will forget you. What you choose today, you will not be able to change later.”

Shawn squeezed her eyes shut. If she was honest with herself, she really did not want to

go to the reunion at all. It had been a long time since she wanted to see any of her family. She enjoyed working on cars and motorcycles, but it paid very little and she had no friends at the shop. All the guys there constantly tried to out do her. The boss kept her because he said it made them all work harder and that was good for business. She had no one to go home to, not even her cat. She thought about her motorcycle.

It needed a lot of work. Even so, she would regret having to leave it behind.

When Shawn opened her eyes a few moments later, the woman was still awaiting her decision.

She half expected to wake up with a bad hangover on the day after the reunion. She looked back up the path towards the bridge.

“All right,” she agreed.

“Very well.” The woman offered her hand to Shawn. She accepted it slowly. Brandon joined them as the woman followed the river bank upstream a short way. She stopped by one of the room-like sections of the mossy wall that looked exactly like all the others to Shawn.

“This is where the two of you are supposed to be.” She sat down on the wall. Brandon settled himself next to her. “Brandon, I need you to do something that will hurt. But when it is over, you can stay where you dream.”

“I won’t have to go home anymore?” He studied his feet dangling above the ground. The woman shook her head.

“Shawn’s coming too, isn’t she?”

“Shawn has agreed to go with you, yes.” The woman looked up at Shawn. Shawn nodded, confirming her decision.

“Will I still get to see you?” His voice quavered a little as he studied the woman’s face intently, trying to memorize it.

“No, I must stay here. But I will know that you are happy.”

“I’ll miss you,” he whispered. He flung his arms around her awkwardly as if he had never given a hug before. Tears threatened to spill from his watery eyes. He wiped his dirty hands across them.

“I’m ready.” He stood up and faced the woman.

She grabbed him under the armpits and lifted him over the wall. She lowered him through the swirling mist and into the water. She held him down. Shawn reflexively stepped forward

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intending to stop the woman from drowning Brandon. She stopped herself when she heard the woman chanting alien words under her breath. Brandon struggled briefly and then disappeared.

“I suppose I’m next,” Shawn chattered nervously. She climbed over the wall and let herself into the water. It was not as cold as she had expected.

The woman took Shawn’s head in both of her hands and kissed her gently on the forehead.

“Thank you, Shawn,” she murmured.

The water closed in over her head and Shawn watched the woman’s face grow dark and blurry as the light faded.

S

at least the normal greens and browns. Shawn looked behind her, expecting to see part of a bridge. The trees were silent and unmoving in the heat. Someone tugged at her shirt.

Brandon.

“I know this place, the people are up that path.”

Brandon pointed.

Shawn felt different. The precise cause eluded her. Fragile roots threaded into the eroded edges of her awareness. The tenuous connections shocked her, she had not known they had been absent until they were suddenly present.

She held out her hand to Brandon. She accepted it. Together, they set off for the town, on the path the white haired woman saw for them.

hawn found herself in the woods again.

The plants were unfamiliar, but they were

There’s only one World of Emoria and only one place to find it . . .

Future Dreams

Present Paths Past Echoes Emoria Campfire Tales T.J. Mindancer Mindancer Press http://mindancerpress.wordpress.com/books/

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awake curled up behind you—my arm draped across your side, my hand cupping your breast, my leg slipped between yours. The early morning sunlight pouring through the windows wakes me. I lean up and kiss your cheek like always. You moan quietly but don’t stir. I slip out of bed silently and put the dogs out. Then I make a dash for the bathroom for my morning ritual. It’s not like you to sleep in. You haven’t been feeling well of late. The flu, you say. I bring the dogs back in and tell them to be quiet. Momma’s still asleep. I feed them, then barricade them in the den so they won’t jump on the bed and disturb you. I prepare your favorite brew, French vanilla. Then flip the switch to turn the coffee pot on. It will be brewed by the time you awake.

I slip into my running clothes, then quietly let myself out of the house. I head down the steep drive, trying to pace my run. The incline and forward momentum usually throw my stride off. I wave to our elderly neighbor, Helen, but keep going. I have no time for chit chat today. I round the corner and hit the flat of the cool macadam. Now my pace is even, my stride full out. I check my pulse. Everything is good. The doctor put me on this damn regimen a year ago.

“You have to take care of yourself if you want to live to enjoy your retirement.” Why she thinks dieting and jogging are fun is beyond me but, for the most part I am feeling better. My last checkup was good. Blood pressure down, weight down, cholesterol down. Too bad about the inoperable tumor growing in my throat.

I run along the road, taking in the beauty surrounding me. The lake is calm after last

night’s vicious storm. Thunder rattled the rafters and lightning lit the skies. You claimed it’s just God’s way of letting us know who’s in charge. I told you he must have had a lot to say, ’cause the storm lasted for hours. The boats float on the glass-like surface of the water that now laps gently upon the shoreline. The winds have died down, barely ruffling the leaves. There’s a family of ducks wading into land. I pause and throw them the stale bread from my pocket. The mother duckling shoos her little ones away until I depart.

Now I must gather my momentum and start the climb up my first hill. The ascent winds back into the woods for almost a mile. The dew from the trees makes the ground damp, the roadway slippery, and the air chilly. The sun doesn’t breach the canopy of the trees here, so the temperature dips. It’s fall after all. The temps are dropping each and every day. You say God is making room for new life, new beginnings, but first the old has to die away. You love the seasons equally, but fall and winter are your favorite. You find joy in every thing but especially in the holidays. I smile recalling our first Christmas together. I had never had a tree, never exchanged gifts. I didn’t know how. You were patient. You taught me. You’ve taught me so much over the years, I don’t know how to tell you.

I reach the summit of the first hill and turn left, back toward town. Sweat runs down my face and my back, but I push on. “I hate jogging, I hate jogging, I really hate jogging.” I repeat the mantra to help get me through. My voice rising with each verse. I often wonder what

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the four-legged creatures think when they hear me, see me. “Just another crazy human torturing herself.” I smile at that thought and push on.

My legs ache, my lungs burn, and I’m not even half-way through. I growl and push myself even harder. I decide I’ll stop at Dutch’s Market midway through my run and pick up some Danish for you. You do love your sweets. Maybe it will make you feel better. Remember feed a cold, feed a fever. You always say this, even though it’s wrong. As I swing around the bend, I’m startled by the deer standing in the middle of the roadway. I stop dead in my tracks, shocked as she is. My heart thumps in my chest, my thigh muscles twitch. I lean over to catch my breath.

The doe takes off into the woods, and I need to continue.

I do some of my best thinking out here each morning. Planning my day, recalling what needs to be attended to. Lists. I’ve always been good with lists. Write it down and you can accomplish almost anything. Make a plan and stick to it. Have your goal in sight at all times. That’s what I’ve done our entire lives, that’s what I’ve arranged for today. I’ve made an appointment with our lawyer. I want to be sure all is in order.

I worry that I might have forgotten something.

Tammy assures me I haven’t. She’s agreed to go over everything one more time just to ease my concerns. We have reciprocating Durable Powers of Attorneys, Living Wills, Wills and a Codicil with emergency instructions. Mine are very specific, there is to be no equipment of any kind used to prolong my life. We talked about it. You cried but finally conceded. I don’t want to rely on a machine for life. For me that is no life. Tammy has given her word my DNR will be obeyed.

I arrive at the next hill and increase my stride.

I’m feeling good this morning. My breathing is a little labored, but my pace is fine. My legs are holding, not bad for a fifty-six year old.

I manage to do four miles a day—two out, two back. It took me a while to get there. Initially I ended up walking. Now I can jog the entire trip.

I’m secretly pleased about that. Though I’ll never admit it to you. You nag me when I don’t want to get up. You cajole me until I’m out here gasping and sweating like a fool, all because I love you.

Want to stay with you for as long as my body can

manage. The doctors all say I can lead a normal life. Normal for me is not having a machine breathe for me. Normal is not making you take care of me. Normal is not having the medical bills eat up everything we’ve worked for, only to have it be for naught.

I remember the first night we met. You entered the classroom and smiled as you walked past me. I swore we’d had a power surge. We became friends immediately. Not much choice—there were only three women in the class. Your smile hooked me, but it was your humor that reeled me in. You have the most incredible green eyes, and when you smile, they actually sparkle. I’ll always remember the first time you smiled at me. It’s like a snap shot in time, imprinted on my memory. I love remembering it and I love you.

I blink back my nostalgic tears and increase my speed. My shins are aching, I can barely breathe, my limbs all protesting. More importantly, according to my watch, I’m lagging behind time. You’re probably having your first cup of coffee by now, spoiling the dogs while you read the paper. I turn the bend and see the store in front of me. I’m half way through my run.

Amen. I trot inside and pick out two iced blueberry whatevers. I never remember the names of the damn things. I just point because I know you love them. I stand holding my sides, gasping while I wait. Clara laughs as she bags them for me. “Tell her I said good morning, and you enjoy your run.” I pay on the way out and shove my purchase inside my pocket. I tie my shoelace and take off. I need to make up some lost time.

This part of the run is the easiest. It’s all flat for the next half mile. I let my mind wander to those first days of loving you. I smile as I recall your words, “I’m not your ordinary everyday girl.” Truer words were never spoken.

I certainly had never met anyone like you.

I always tell you it was love at first sight. You always claim it was lust. Whatever it was, here we are all these years later. I think I’ll mention to Tammy I want to turn the house over to you now, avoid the inheritance taxes. I hate that you will be penalized on our savings. We earned it together, we sacrificed together. But the government doesn’t recognize that. After all, we’re gay, we have no rights. We’ve discussed

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moving. You refuse to leave the States, this is your home you say. Part of me agrees—then I question why I care. My own country thinks of me as less than a second-class citizen. Christ, even prisoners can get married.

I get to the last hill, the killer one. I need to really push here. I rarely make it up without struggling, but I do make it up and that’s what’s important. At least you think so. I start my climb, so far my pace is even. My stride could be a little stronger, but my breathing is already heavily labored. I go over the details in my head. I make a note to check the safety deposit box for cash. Any monies hidden there will be confiscated and assessed taxes if found. I know you hate this side of me, the strategizer—the one that makes plans—but it’s just how I am. You don’t want to think about it, so I have to. You want to talk. There’s really nothing to say.

The high point is looming, my breathing is ragged, my leg muscles screaming. I’m in so much pain I’m having trouble thinking. Then I come upon the peak. I’ve almost made it. It’s going to be a good day after all. I’m panting hard now and my vision is blurred by the sweat dripping down my face. Maybe later if you’re feeling up to it, I’ll take you to dinner. It’s our thirtieth anniversary, definitely worth celebrating.

I’ve breached the top. Finally. Now it’s a half mile on a slight incline to the driveway and then a quarter mile up and in. Then I’ll be home. I hate running, absolutely abhor it, but I hate the thought of leaving you more. Our life together has been a good one, more than I ever hoped for. We’ve had our ups and downs, our bumps if you will, but you still make my heart skip a beat when you smile. You still send ripples throughout my system when you kiss me. My chest literally tumbles every time I see you after being apart—even if it’s only for an hour or so. We must have done something right. I know loving

you has been the best part of my life. At last, the driveway. Amen. I’m coming and I’ve got a sweet surprise for you.

I enter the house through the basement, take off my wet sneakers and climb the stairs. I call out to you, warning you I’m home. I vividly recall the morning I snuck in and grabbed you from behind, wanting to surprise you. I still cringe at the way you gasped. I had frightened you, you said. You’ve never forgotten it. After I get my morning kiss, I’ll hop in the shower. There’s lots to do today. I open the door to the kitchen and pause. The dogs are still penned. My heart starts to thump in my chest, my legs begin shaking. I walk to the bedroom doorway and look in. I slowly take in the evidence before me. You don’t seem to have moved. I ease into the room.

“Honey?” I call, but there’s no response. Dread ices my veins. I walk around the bed and take your hand in mine. Yours is cold. My mind is screaming, my heart hammering against my ribcage. I nudge your shoulder. Nothing. And even though I know deep down you won’t answer, I start to plead, “Sweety, get up, it’s time for breakfast now.” My very life is shattering. “Baby, please don’t do this. Get up.” I press you harder.

“Please, honey, you have to get up now.” I touch my fingers to your throat, tears blurring my vision. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. There is no pulse. “No, God dammit. I was supposed to go first. You promised you’d never leave me.” I roll you onto your back and pull you into my arms. “Please, honey, I need you.” I rock you gently. “Sweetie, don’t leave me. Don’t you know how much I need you?”

Tears run down my cheeks. All my planning, all my running, how did I miss this? I rock you in my arms murmuring to you, but you don’t hear me anymore. “I love you. I love you, please I love you.”

http://lesbianfiction.17.forumer.com/

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t was a simple dream, light filtered through the trees dancing in patterns as a breeze blew through. She lay, stretched out on her back, moisture slowly leaking through her shirt, as her nose took in the damp earthy smell. She hadn’t discovered bugs, worms, spiders or a need to be cleanly, so the experience was worry free.

Unfortunately, each dream ended with the mechanical screech of her alarm and the sterile white walls of her room.

Her mother had been smart, letting her lay in that forest for hours as a child. The memory was one of her most cherished possessions.

A knock at the door brought a grin to her creased face. “Come in, you know I’m awake.

I swear you sit outside my door waiting for my alarm to go off.”

A wrinkled, smiling face answered, “Who says I don’t?”

Their relationship wasn’t exactly tolerated or acknowledged. Tamika was, however, the last Elder and so certain allowances were made.

She sat up slowly. She did everything slowly these days.

“Here, let me help.” Ellie moved quickly to Tamika’s side and put a supportive hand behind her back.

“Always the butch one, you know you’re almost as old as me? You should be creaking just as much.”

Ellie smiled. “Same age, bah, you’re ten years my senior. Besides, if we both creaked as much as you, we’d never get anywhere. Where’s your purple dress?”

Tamika waved a boney finger at the rear of the closet. “It’s sad I only get to wear that dress once

a year. They didn’t consider how awful those damn white jumpers make my elderly black ass look.”

“They probably hoped no one was looking at your ass, old as it is.”

“Don’t be sassin’ me, girl, I caught you looking yesterday.”

It was a routine they went through every morning. Tamika couldn’t help but smile. Ellie finally found the dress, and she wriggled it on. It always amazed her when it fit. It was purple with orange flower petals on a green vine design. It had been her mother’s and passed to her when she took up judging duty. Sixty years of botany contests had been judged in that dress by dark haired, brown, Smith women.

“You know, I’m glad they’ve finally changed the rules. With all the water restrictions these past two decades, the contest was becoming a farce.

Families don’t have enough water for their children much less their contest plant.”

Ellie was right. Last year’s contest had been pathetic. Only two of the sixty plants competing had more then two green leaves. Tamika remembered when she was young, people’s plants had bloomed. The contest evolved over the years. It had been the best blooming plant, then heartiest growth, then the best looking plant. Now, they simply wanted her to pick the plant that most looked like those from her childhood, when humanity still lived above ground. Last year’s plants were so pathetic and dried out that they decided to have each district put forth one plant. Twenty to thirty families would work together and share their water rations to generate one specimen.

Tamika shook her head. It was too much to think about the degeneration of their lives.

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She reached for her cane. “Whew, it’s a good thing I had Jas do my hair last night. It took her three hours to get it braided right. She kept complaining about my gray frizzy hair.”

“And let me guess, you told her you earned every one of them gray hairs and she should just stop her whining.”

“Well, it’s true.”

She stood proudly even with her slightly stooped posture and slowly walked out of her room with the assistance of a cane. It was going to be a long walk to the festival chambers, but it would take her through her favorite place, the bio-dome.

Ellie chatted as they walked. “Did ya hear about the Cruise installation?” Tamika had stopped paying attention to the old news feeds, it was always the same thing. “Junior blew the place up, kept talking about aliens.”

Well, that was a new one, Tamika thought.

There had been zombie rumors before, but never aliens.

“I ran into our good ol’ mayor yesterday. I told that waste of water, Reggie, that he should let us share living quarters.” Tamika knew all the old arguments and was only listening with half an ear.

Ellie chattered on. “ . . . didn’t want us being bad examples for the youth . . . “ They had gone through this all before. “ . . . told him they’re smart they know we’re dykes.”

Tamika was more worried about the contest. “ . . . said it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t put up with that kind of behavior while he was mayor ...“ Some things never changed. “ . . . I’ll stuff that stupid crest up his nose. Are you even listening to me?”

“You don’t want to do that, dear,” Tamika absently patted her arm, “they’d put you on pit duty.”

Pit duty was no joke. The hard labor and harsh chemicals would kill an old lady like Ellie within a week.

Tamika didn’t hear Ellie’s response; they had arrived at the bio-dome. It was the only place in the whole complex where water ran freely. The stream was enclosed by a plastic shield to prevent evaporation. They played a cheesy CD that had to be reset every hour, to augment the

sound of the stream. In Tamika’s mind, these things did not detract from the free flowing water. It was a treat, a rare extravagance of the complex, and one of the few things that reminded her of surface life. A mossy old fish ladder from a failed breeding experiment sat in the stream. Sometimes the inside of the enclosure steamed up so that you couldn’t see anything, but this did not bother her. The simple existence of the stream brightened her soul.

As water resources dwindled, the bio-dome had been converted from a tropical design to a desert environment. All plants were watered through subsoil methods that minimized water loss and maximized root absorption. Over time, they had engineered a complex mechanical system with the agricultural crops that recycled almost every drop of the precious liquid.

“We’re going to be late, you can water gaze after the ceremony.”

Tamika turned to Ellie feigning an innocent, vacant look.

Ellie laughed. “Don’t give me that senile old lady bit, I know better.”

Tamika hobbled on, letting out a sigh. They were almost there, might as well get it over quick. Her mother had trained her as a botanist, but it was fast becoming a dead profession.

The Council was more interested in glorifying her pre-apocalyptic memories than her professional knowledge.

Entering the great hall, Tamika was overwhelmed by color and music. It always amazed her that these off white people found enough tinted fabric to look bright, even cheery. The everyday wear was a pasty off white, the walls of the complex were a dirty white, but here on festival day, everything was transformed. Every last child ran around with at least some pink or orange or blue wrapped around their head or waist. The music and dancing hushed as people noticed her.

“Don’t stop on my account.” She waved her cane at them and edged around the room toward the plant stands. The primary contestants were fussing about, doing last minute primping and watering.

“Looks like this year is going to be excellent,” Tamika whispered to Ellie, catching a glimpse of the plants. Indeed, it was going to be a fine

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contest. The leaves were the greenest, most luscious ones she’d seen in decades. “Reminds me of the last good contest back in ‘82.”

“You’ve brought up ‘82 every year since. Now, act the proper elder and start judging, woman!”

Tamika’s steps became lighter as she approached the plants. She carefully tuned out the group of gawkers and officials following her.

This was her contest not theirs. The first specimen was a magnolia. She smiled at it, making polite comments to the anxious gardeners. The plant just wasn’t the same without its russet blooms.

The second was a surprise. No one had tried lavender since ‘75 when the Thompson’s entry stunk up the entire complex for weeks. She leaned in close, catching the faintest whiff of its intoxicating aroma. Nodding, she moved down to the next one. The lavender was a possibility.

She stumbled into Ellie at the next plant, purposely burying her face in Ellie’s shoulder.

It was all she could do not to laugh. One contestant was busily injecting the soil with a water-filled syringe while also fluffing the leaves of her dandelion! A bloom stalk rose up with a burgeoning flower bud. Tamika found it hilarious that she might have to declare this weed the winner. No one had produced a bloom in decades.

Ellie, having learned much about plants over the years from Tamika, also had a difficult time holding in the laughter. Tamika put on a solemn face and greeted the contestant from district 3, praising her warmly for her accomplishment.

She shuffled her way through the five tables, pausing before the last one to address her entourage. “Yes, this new format seems to work nicely.

Only two wilted leaves in the whole bunch.”

They beamed at Tamika’s praise. As the contest’s official sponsors, they would take all the credit.

“And I don’t have to drag my old bones through two hundred contestants either,” Tamika added.

They chuckled politely at her wit, as they always did.

At the last table, two youngsters were fighting over a water syringe. “I get to do it, it’s my turn.”

“But papa said I get to do it on competition day.”

Back and forth they swayed until one of them

accidentally compressed the end. Water squirted out raining down on their plant, Tamika, and the entire committee. The children looked horrified. Their parents cringed behind the table, waiting to be reprimanded. Water wasting was a crime and dealt with harshly.

Tamika wiped her eyes—she had been squirted right in the face—and blearily looked down at their plant. It was some odd variety of hosta, lush with variegated green, pink, and purple leaves. She blinked again, and there, on the leaf, sat three tiny water droplets. She watched transfixed, as gravity slowly pulled the drops into the soil.

“This plant is the winner,” she quietly declared, as the entourage raged over the wastefulness of the children.

Reggie, the mayor, stared at her. “What did you say?” he sputtered.

“This plant is the winner,” she affirmed, louder and with determination.

Silence greeted her. They had been arguing about whether or not the children’s parents should be thrown into the Pit for a month for the foolishness of their children, and she had declared them the winner?

“In my thirty years as judge, and twenty of observing my mother, I have never seen a plant so resemble a surface plant.”

Their expressions changed from outrage to astonishment.

“While you were bickering, I witnessed water droplets collect and fall down the leaf of a healthy plant. Do you gentlemen even know what rain was? I declare this plant the winner.” She handed the first place ribbon to the children and admonished them. “Now don’t fight over that.”

Leaning heavily on Ellie, Tamika walked over to a side bench and beckoned Reggie over.

He came grudgingly, and she waved a finger in front of his protests. “I’m not going to talk to you about the contest, it’s already done. I’ll have Ellie here affix the rest of the awards. I wanted to tell you that she’s moving in with me tomorrow.”

He tried to break in. “B-but . . .”

“No, I won’t hear any arguments. I’m informing you of what we’re going to do. You know nothing of plants, rain, children, or the needs of

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this old lady, and I am not going to let you push me around anymore.”

Reggie gaped at her as she continued. “Now, run along and enjoy your festival.” Tamika waved a hand, in clear dismissal. Reggie slunk away, unable to respond.

“I love you,” Ellie whispered squeezing her hand.

Tamika, a twinkle in her eye, responded, “And you thought I wasn’t listening.”

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DeJay I’m 56 years of age. I’m retired after working in Corporate America at various management positions and levels for the past thirty one years. I’ve loved and been married to the same woman for twenty nine years. She and I share a log cabin on five acres in the backwoods of Pennsylvania. We have two labs, Maggi and Molly who rule our roost.

My wife and I travel six months of the year in an RV throughout the US. I’m thrilled at this first sale, it will always be special to me.

Doreen Perrine Doreen Perrine has been published in numerous anthologies and literary e-zines including The Copperfield Review, GayFlashFiction, Harrington Lesbian Literary Quarterly, The Queer Collection, Sapphic Voices, Queer and Catholic, Raving Dove, Sinister Wisdom, and Lesbian Connection. Her novella, Phendar of the Avila, a lesbian fantasy has recently been released in on Freya’s Bower. Doreen’s plays have been performed at Here Arts Center, WOW, Under St. Marks Theatres, and Manhattan Theatre Source in New York City. A member of the Golden Crown Literary Society, she coordinates a writer’s opportunity where she resides in Catskill, New York. Doreen’s website address is http://doreenperrine.tripod.com/

Fran Walker Fran Walker has held the usual odd assortment of jobs: office receptionist, fast food restaurant worker, horse-drawn carriage driver, show groom, and lab technician. She lives in New Zealand with her wife, cats, and various farm animals who are, respectively, wonderful, spoilt, and entertaining. Her short fiction is due to appear in the anthologies Read These Lips (volume 2) and Chilling Tales (P. D. Publishing, editor Patty Henderson). When she’s not writing or slogging at the day job, she can be found pottering around the garden, baking and cooking (well), or quilting (badly). She can be contacted at franwalker@ihug.co.nz

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Andi Marquette Andi Marquette was born in New Mexico, grew up in Colorado, then ended up back in New Mexico where she completed a Ph.D. in history after two other degrees in anthropology. Around 1993, she became a professional editor and has been obsessed with words ever since, which may or may not be a good thing. She wandered east and spent three years on the other side of the Mississippi, but couldn’t shake the West off her boots or out of her soul, so she returned to her homelands and is currently based in Colorado where she edits, writes, and spends lots of time running around in the surrounding mountains.

Jess Sandoval Jess lives in Portland, Oregon with her partner, two cats and a dog. When she’s not slaving over her laptop writing and re-writing, she’s managing a frame shop, reading, experimenting with southwestern recipes, and figuring out what it is about the rain that calls to her.

Darby O’Neil As for a bio, let’s see: Darby currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with her partner and 3 cats. Although she has been writing sporadically for many years, both fiction and poetry, this is her first officially, for real, actually published piece. She also works as a photographer and social worker. Her favorite hobbies include hiking, waterfall hunting, and playing ice hockey.

Mary Douglas Mary resides in the Pacific Northwest with her partner. She is an assistant photographer, full time student, social worker, fencer, forester, avid hiker, hockey player, and co-mom to three cats. This is her first real publication. You can reach her at sassydendron@yahoo. com.