2025 Next Generation Short Story Anthology

“Emilio raced down the field, his eyes fixed on the black and white soccer ball.”

—Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt, Three Cheers for Emilio!

2nd Grand Prize Winner “The inky skyline stretched from the rooftop garden like yards of beaded silk.”

—Anne Freeman, Honeybee and the Sting of Love 3rd Grand Prize Winner “‘Let me tell you about the Alphabet of Predators,’ Ava said, her delicate flip-flopped feet smacking the decaying boardwalk below us.”

—Stephania Jean, Sweetwater, LGBTQ+ Winner “As I drifted into this vast darkness that engulfed my body, I knew that this was the end of me.”

—Travis A. Seabrook, Stolen By The Sea, Fairy Tales/Fantasy Winner

2025 NEXT GENERATION

“Intense light from the midday tropical sun burned straight down without mercy.”

—Robert Wright, Grooves and Blisters, Grand Prize Winner

SHORT STORY AWARDS

The Next Generation Short Story Awards brought exceptional writing from a plethora of writers around the globe. The competition was tough and the judges had difficult decisions to make. The winners have now been named and they are celebrated in this single volume of excellence.

2025 Next Generation

Short Story Awards Anthology of Winners

Next Generation Short Story Awards Terra Alta, West Virginia, USA - ANDCalgary, Alberta, Canada

2025 Next Generation Short Story Awards Anthology of Winners copyright ©2025 Next Generation Short Story Awards All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from the Next Generation Short Story Awards.

Next Generation Short Story Awards P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV. 26764 USA 167 Midland Place S.E. Calgary, Alberta T2X 1N1 Canada www.ShortStoryAwards.com Info@ShortStoryAwards.com ISBN 13: 9781958914793 Library of Congress Control Number: 2025939670

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A

Contents GRAND PRIZE WINNERS 1st: Grooves and Blisters by Robert Wright................................ 1 2nd: Three Cheers for Emilio! by Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt..... 6 3rd: Honeybee and the Sting of Love by Anne Freeman......... 11 CATEGORY WINNERS African American Spare a Little Change by Kimberly E. Banks............................ 22 Animals/Pets Luce by John Paul Godges........................................................... 36 Soul of a Griffin by Shilo Creed.................................................. 49 BIPOC Neighbours by Sanchana Venkatesh.......................................... 64 Children's/Juvenile The Anywhere Home by Amy E. Whitman.............................. 79 College/University Students Julie by Eva Carignan.................................................................. 92 Fairy Tales/Fantasy Stolen By The Sea by Travis A. Seabrook................................ 104 Family/Parenting Caller ID by Terri Friedlander.................................................. 118 General Fiction (2,500 to 5,000 words) Eleanor by Tom Ball................................................................... 124 Heartland Terror by C.W. Lewandowski................................. 139

General Fiction (Under 2,500 words) Her hand in mine by Amelia Booth........................................ 155 High School Students Rain by Clare Mullins................................................................ 160 Historical The Name by Judy Campbell.................................................... 167 Horror/Scary Stories/Paranormal Panspermian Dreams by Cain Alexander Stepaniuk............ 176 Humor A Tail of Two Dogs by Rocky Leplin....................................... 189 Galaxia and the Supreme Destroyers by Rakel Rae............... 194 Inspirational Home Away from Home by Success Aifuwa.......................... 208 Herding Pigs by Amber Swan................................................... 213 LGBTQ+ Sweetwater by Stephania Jean................................................... 221 Middle School Students The Last Conversation by Aarav Trivedi................................. 233 Mystery The Riddle Inheritance by Michelle Corbier.......................... 239 Poetry Antares: A Life At Sea by Gary Westphalen........................... 260 Relationships Cassandra by Gerard Marconi................................................. 265 Science Fiction Invisible Ink by Liza Fables....................................................... 273 Seniors (60 to 69 years) Fishing for Atonement by Don Carter.................................... 281 Seniors (70 years and above) Welcome the Wrong Turns: a true travel story

by Mike Day............................................................................. 289 Social Change/COVID 19 Pandemic The Cure by Helen Jennings..................................................... 298

Spiritual/Religious A Doll of Hope by Vanessa Caraveo (unpublished)...............302 Survival/Overcoming Adversity Smoke Screen by Faith Anderson............................................ 303 Suspense/Thriller The Blood Stone of Shiva by A.K. McCutcheon..................... 307 Travel My Brief Career As a Laundress

by Zelda Leah Gatuskin......................................................... 319 The Wizard of East Jesus by Laurie McAndish King............. 328 Wild Card Sandpiper Feet by Don Carter.................................................. 336

Introduction The Next Generation Short Story Awards is an esteemed not-for-profit international awards program for authors of short stories. It is brought to you by the Next Generation Indie Book Awards (the largest book awards program in the world for self-published authors and independent publishers) and the Independent Book Publishing Professionals Group.

This program is designed to celebrate the best short story writing and the creative minds behind the words. This is year two for the Short Story Awards and entries were excellent. We look forward to many more of these authors being published in the coming years!

This Anthology of Winners includes the stories of the Grand Prize Winners and category Winners for the 2025 Next Generation Short Story Awards. Congratulations to all Winners and Finalists! Happy reading.

For information visit www.ShortStoryAwards.com.

General Non-Fiction

First Grand Prize

Grooves and Blisters

by Robert Wright

1st Grand Prize Winner Intense light from the midday tropical sun burned straight down without mercy. From the water’s cool edge, the lieutenant gingerly skipped back barefoot on searing hot sand to the rusted metal-roofed shack in the shade of the palms. A doorless entry and glassless windows framed the floor of bare wood planks dusted by grains of sand. A man stood behind a wide board set on upended crates. Wrested from fields of cane, bottles of island rum rested on the shelf. The shack was almost a sacred place for the villagers who labored on the sea for their livelihoods. Once a fisherman, the face of the aging man had been weathered by the wind, wrinkled by the rays of the sun, and embedded by the wisdom of the sea.

Bright-faced naivete entered. The young gringo from America had taken a break from the demands of the nuclear bombers that awaited Armageddon on the base above the bluff of the beach.

An honest greeting reached out to this stranger.

“Bienvenido. Ron?” The lieutenant had studied economics. Linguistically challenged, he asked, “Rum?” “Si.” “Yes...er...si.”

1

The old man unfolded his calloused hand wide and reached for a bottle. Revealed deep grooves told his life story: hooked on the jaws of running big tunas, fishing lines had burned through that clenched hand for years, for decades, since his youth. As he poured the shot of rum, the other hand told the same story, amplified by the wrinkles on his face.

The lieutenant sipped clear rum and gazed out at the simmering sand, saw and absorbed the brightly painted wooden fishing boats resting away from the reach of the breakers. Bow to stern, their flat bottoms curved gracefully upward. Other boats were out on the water. At one with the sea, they floated, sunbaked fishermen on wind-driven white-capped waves.

A fisherman approached from the horizon and returned through the surf. His boat met the shore in the shallow white froth. With help, he slid it up next to the other boats, then lugged his heavy catch barefoot across the same burning sand.

A creaking scale hung from a nail in the palm tree next to the rum shack. The two big tuna were weighed and purchased by the wholesale merchant from the neighboring town. Proud, the tired fisherman entered the shack and firmly slapped money down on the board, “Ron, por favor.”

“Si.” Eyes met across the cultural and economic divide. Hesitation, then another order, “Y una para la yanqui (And one for the Yankee).”

“Si.” In English, for the lieutenant, the fisherman wove words into the tapestry of sun, sand, surf, and sea. The lieutenant asked if he owned the boat.

“Si.” Then his history was woven into the fabric that hung on the day. The lieutenant nodded slowly and smiled at this expected confirmation: the boat had been purchased from its builder in the nearby town had been used by the fisherman to labor and catch fish sold to the merchant at local market prices. Capitalism 2

was at work in the small fishing village and in the rum shack.

Rum was sold at a small profit for tending the board.

The day waned and cooled. The fisherman bade adios and left the shack for his small house and family among the palms.

There was time for a third shot of rum to watch the sunset from the entryway. The lieutenant saw excited silhouettes against the darkening sky at the end of the long pier. Boys, still naked from their play in the water, pointed and shouted, “Pescado! Pescado!

Pescado!”

The village heard their alerting announcement: fish were schooling near the pier and just beyond the beach. Men and women, young and old, flowed out through the palms from their humble houses for the evening ballet of the net, even the fisherman who had worked hard on the water that day. The villagers divided naturally in two. One group gathered by a decrepit boat. Peeled paint and cracked planks, it had seen better days when it had been used by the old tender of the rum shack.

The other group went farther along the water’s edge to the base of the pier.

The old boat was ready; the village crew had been on alert.

Instead of bombs, a long fishing net lay neatly folded in the boat; instead of eight jet engines, a pair of oars were set inside. They slid and launched the boat onto the water. One held the end of the net. In synchrony with the launch, two young men jumped in; one sat and pulled at the oars, the other stood and let out the net over the stern. Wood floats were attached to one edge, lead weights along the other. The boat was rowed in a wide semicircle to those waiting by the pier, leaving a water-borne fence to entrap their target, the unsuspecting school of evening pescado.

The boat slid to a stop on the wet sand; the young men jumped out. The waiting group scrambled quickly to grasp the two ropes at the end of the net. Down the beach, the other group had done the same. Motivated by the activities and three shots of rum, the lieutenant ran across cool sand to assist the group by 3

the pier. His soft, tender hands grasped a salty, bristly rope that was being pulled by others. The old graying fisherman from the shack joined in. Too feeble to help, he encouraged all with a slow coxswain-like beat, “Jalar...Jalar...Jalar” – when to lean back, handover-hand, and pull...pull ...pull.

All worked as one. In the twilight, hands passed over floats and lead weights and gripped bare rope. The two laboring groups moved towards each other. Pulled-in net trailed on the sand.

The floating remainder constricted around the hapless school of small silver fish. Corralled closely together, a few leapt in panic over the net. Finally, the fish were dragged out of the water into a heap. Their fluttering death throes flung sand into the air. A grain lodged in the lieutenant’s eye.

The others knew to look away until the mass twitching stopped. He went to splash and rinse it out. Salt water stung sharply. Overzealous, caught up in the moment, blisters had formed on the tender skin of his palms, had broken, and now exposed raw flesh.

Pails and pots were brought to the pile. The fish were divided up. The lieutenant just watched and winced from his pain. Some took more than others without arguments. He asked a man standing next to him: the old ones and widows needed more. A child ran up and tapped his leg, “Señor.” He turned and saw a smiling face. She handed up a blue plastic toy bucket which her mother had filled with a few fish. It wasn’t much, but for the lieutenant, the gesture was enormous.

Back in the rum shack, a single electric light bulb hung on its cord from the bare beams of the roof, pushing away the darkness.

The old man had returned. The villager who had pulled on the rope right next to the lieutenant and had answered his quiet questions purchased a shot of rum for him with a welcoming pat on his back, “Bienvenido, señor, bienvenido.” The old man behind the board glanced at the lieutenant’s hands, then his own, poured 4

the rum, and nodded his approval.

In the dim light and the camaraderie of the day, the lieutenant struggled to balance conflicting images. He had been part of a collective effort: each had contributed according to their abilities, from young children to working fishermen to the old man who had called the cadence; each had received according to their needs. He counted three fish in his plastic blue bucket; that seemed about right. Communism was at work in the village, right alongside capitalism, in apparent harmony.

The lieutenant bade his new amigos farewell and drove back up to the base; his broken blisters stung on the steering wheel, the little blue bucket by his side. He gave a salute at the gate, entered, and wondered, ‘Could the economic balance he had just observed be achieved among nations?’ From across the runway, the silent answer came from nuclear bombers on hard alert with the means to do more than groove hands and blister skin.

About the Author Robert Wright was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. He spent 27 years in the United States Air Force, retired in the rank of colonel, and worked for a decade in Washington D.C. Writing in retirement, he self-published: You’ve Got Rocks (non-fiction, anthology of memoirs); The Brass (non-fiction, world-famous pub in Portland, Oregon); 3FTx – Timed Terror (fiction, suspense/ terror); Nudging Nyame (hard science fiction, suspense/terror); as described at https://www.wrightstuffpress.com. Robert’s short stories have been published in online magazines; opinion pieces and essays in the local newspaper; and won second place grand prize in the 2024 Next Generation Short Story Awards.

General Non-Fiction Finalists The Monster in my Mouth by Iqbal Hussain My Love Language is Ping Pong by Tara Prakash The "Quill" is Mightier Than the Sword by Gail E. Wind 5

Children’s/Juvenile

Secon Grandd Prize

Three Cheers for Emilio!

by Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt 2nd Grand Prize Winner

Emilio raced down the field, his eyes fixed on the black and white soccer ball. Over and over it turned as he dribbled in perfect control. Left foot . . . right foot . . . left foot . . . right foot . . . Emilio and the ball flew toward the goal.

The score was tied, 2-2. Time was running out. Emilio could already feel the triumph, see everyone crowding around, cheering him for scoring the winning goal. Just a few more seconds and he’d have it.

Oh no! Three players in bright red shirts ran between him and the goal, blocking his shot. Emilio slowed down, still protecting the ball with his feet. He ran to the left, looking for a space to make the goal. But there was no opening.

“Emilio! Over here!” Emilio looked to his right. His teammate Sean, in a white Eagles jersey like his own, was shouting and waving his arms. Emilio could see that Sean had a clear shot at the goal.

Fast as a rocket, Emilio passed the ball to Sean. Sean trapped it, then shot it toward the goal. The goalie dived for the ball but couldn’t reach it. Score! And just in time. The referee’s whistle ended the game. The Eagles had won!

Sean waved at Emilio. “Great pass!” he shouted.

6

Seconds later, a crowd of white shirts surrounded Sean. “Way to go!”

“What a kick!”

“Three cheers for Sean!”

The words drifted across the field to Emilio. He stood alone.

No one even knew he was there. He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes and kicked the ground.

Another teammate, Tony, raced by. “Great ball work, Emilio,” he yelled over his shoulder. Then he joined the cheering crowd around Sean. Emilio looked up and forced a smile. But he stayed where he was.

He was glad they won the game, but just once he wanted to be the hero. Just once, he wanted to go home and tell his Mami and Papi that he had scored the winning goal. He could see the pride in Mami’s eyes and hear Papi say, “See, Emilio, I told you.

America is a good country for us.”

But it didn’t happen. It never happened. Nothing had been right since his family left Costa Rica to come to the United States.

The winter had been so cold, and English was so hard.

This morning in school the teacher had returned yesterday’s spelling test. He failed again. How could anyone spell English?

He had spelled “throw” right. How could he know that cookie “dough” was spelled differently? They sounded the same. He longed for his beloved Spanish . . . soft, like music . . . where you spelled words the way you said them.

Only when he played fútbol, or soccer as they called it here, did he feel at home. In Costa Rica, all the boys dribbled fútbols on the way to and from school. Emilio felt that the ball was part of him.

“No one can handle the ball the way you can,” said Coach Steve.

Other teams saw it, too. They guarded Emilio carefully.

Whenever he got close to scoring, their defense double- and triple-teamed him. Emilio had to pass and watch someone else 7

get the goal. And getting the goal was all the Americanos saw.

Now there was only one more game, one more chance.

The morning of the last game was sunny and warm. The field had been freshly mowed. The damp cut grass smelled as sweet as the field behind their house in Costa Rica. It was a Saturday, and Mami and Papi had come to watch.

“Hi, Emilio,” said Sean, making room for him on the bench.

“We’re gonna cream ‘em, I can tell.”

Emilio frowned. “Cream ‘em?”

Sean laughed, but in a friendly way. “It means beat them, win the game.”

Emilio nodded, but he thought again what a strange language English was. The Eagles lost the opening toss. The blue team had first possession. Down they advanced toward the goal. But the Eagles’ goalie stopped the shot and threw the ball to Emilio.

Emilio dribbled it back up the field. He tried to score, but the goalie blocked his shot. Now the blue team had the ball again.

They all raced back down the field.

Another kick, another block. Back and forth they flew. Once, Emilio got the ball away from a player who was dribbling toward the goal.

“Great tackle!” yelled Sean. But still, Emilio couldn’t score.

Finally, the game was almost over, and the score was still 0-0.

Emilio breathed hard as he dribbled the ball down the field. Time was running out. The ball moved fast between his feet.

Finally, his chance came. He charged toward the goal. Not again! Two blue shirted players came in from the side to block his kick. Emilio looked around. Sean was clear. But he wanted that goal for himself. Should he try?

Emilio took a deep breath and kicked the ball . . . right to Sean’s waiting foot. Sean shot the rolling ball. Goal!

The final score was 1-0. Once again, Emilio watched his teammates surround Sean with cheers and congratulations. He was standing by himself when Papi came onto the field.

8

“You are a great team player, my son,” Papi said, putting an arm around Emilio. “I am proud of you.”

Emilio shrugged. Papi won’t be so proud at the banquet tonight, he thought, when Sean wins all the prizes.

That night, happy sounds filled the school cafeteria. Voices shouted. Chairs scraped. Knives and forks clattered. But when Coach Steve stood up, the room quieted.

“We had a great season,” he said. “We’re proud of all the boys.”

He called up each team member. Everyone received a team picture and a patch for his jacket. Next came the special awards.

Finally, Coach Steve announced the trophy for best offensive player. Emilio wanted this award so much, he could almost hear his name. Please, please, he begged silently.

But the coach said, “Best offensive player is Sean Mallory.

Sean broke the record for the number of goals scored in one season.”

Emilio applauded with the others, but inside he fought back tears. Fútbol was the only thing he could do in this country—and even that wasn’t good enough.

Coach Steve continued. “There’s one more award, Most Valuable Player. It’s extra special because the boys vote on it themselves. This award goes to the person who helped the team the most.”

He paused. Emilio looked around the room. Sean, he thought.

He had voted for Sean. Sean would get that too.

Coach Steve went on. “This year the award goes to someone who can handle the ball better than anyone. He always got the ball into scoring position and made most of our goals this year possible. He’s a great team player and a new American—Emilio Martinez.”

Emilio stared at the coach. Me? Most Valuable Player? “But I thought” . . . He felt Papi’s hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a proud smile light up Mami’s face.

9

Then everyone crowded around him. “I voted for you,” said Tony.

“Me too,” Sean said. “You set me up to score all the time.”

Then he yelled, “Three cheers for Emilio!”

Emilio grinned. The cheers sounded wonderful—even in English.

THE END About the Author Elizabeth Vollstadt has worked as a writer, editor, and teacher. Her favorite job was producing an award-winning magazine for a children’s hospital, where she wrote stories of hope. Today, she concentrates on writing for children.

Elizabeth’s stories have been published in magazines such as Highlights for Children, Children’s Digest, and several anthologies.

She also co-authored a short story collection, Young Patriots: Inspiring Stories of the American Revolution. Her latest books are preteen novels, Pairs on Ice and Pairs at Nationals, inspired by her love of skating. Pairs on Ice received a Royal Palms Literary Award from the Florida Writers Association. www.amazon.com/author/elizabethvollstadt

Children’s/Juvenile Finalists Princess Maggie & the Singing Fairies by Sophia Alexander The Boy and the Brush by Suzy Shepherd Cloud and Rain by Julie Stielstra

10

Romance

Thir Grand d Prize

Honeybee and the Sting of Love

by Anne Freeman

3rd Grand Prize Winner The inky skyline stretched from the rooftop garden like yards of beaded silk. Melissa Martin wrapped her pea coat tighter. In the distance, the cluster of buildings forming Melbourne’s CBD seemed to huddle together against the cold.

Melissa exhaled a steamy breath as her tension unfurled.

Strung fairy lights overhead shimmered in unison with the city lights and the stars above, and Melissa marveled at how many spiky natives were in bloom at this time of year. Grevillea bushes heavy with loopy lemon flowers, and epacris with their white-tipped crimson tubes, sprang from raised planter boxes fashioned from timber pallets. Synthetic turf carpeted the ground while a border of tea trees ran around three sides of the perimeter. Choosing an apartment based solely on its rooftop garden may seem foolhardy to some, but Melissa knew it was the right decision. Who had created this tranquil haven?

Melissa thought of the cardboard boxes begging to be unpacked in her new apartment. She pictured her father alone for the first time since her mother died all those years ago.

Guilt panged, but she snuffed it. What was the point of putting her twenties on hold when her father remained unreachable?

Inhabiting an island of grief that not even she could sail to.

11

Melissa’s memories of her mother were faded now—as curled and discoloured as the family photographs she’d spent her childhood poring over. Perhaps if her mother’s memory had been kept alive, Melissa would have more than an echo chamber of unanswered questions to remember her by. She fingered her shoulder-length dark curls—identical to her mother’s—twirling the coils and conjuring her image. She imagined Eleni fussing over her new apartment, bringing over big batches of food from her Greek homeland recipes and tsking over her housekeeping. Melissa turned to rest against the railing, imagining the rooftop garden in summer. Clusters of colourful milk crates were strewn around and hope of new friends crackled in her chest like a sparkler.

Beyond them, behind raised garden beds, she noticed a series of white towers about the size of filing cabinets. She cocked her head. Was this some cool inner-city art installation? She walked towards them. Close up, Melissa was no clearer as to what they were. She placed her hands atop one and listened. A low buzz like an electrical current emanated from the box and she wondered if it was a power generator. The rooftop door clicked open loudly and she jumped, knocking the top of the tower off kilter. A sharp, searing pain pierced the mound of flesh at the base of her thumb.

She noticed bees buzzing around her.

“Hey!” Melissa’s head whipped towards the sound. A dark figure ran towards her.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

Hot, prickly pain throbbed from her hand and she cradled it as though it were a wounded finch.

“I’m sorry I...” Melissa began.

The man pushed past and repositioned the lid on the structure. “What were you thinking, disturbing the hive? They’re hibernating!”

He said this as though it was common knowledge and Melissa almost laughed at the absurdity.

12

“Do you have any idea how rapid the decline in bee populations has been—what it would mean if they weren’t around to pollinate?”

Did she know that? Melissa opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t shoe-horn anything into his tirade.

“You can’t open the hive in winter. You’re lucky you didn’t get stung!”

His eyes landed on her injured hand and he groaned.

“It’s fine. I’m okay. I just need to pull out the—” “Stop!” He thrust his hands out. “If you squeeze the venom sac, it will release into the wound.” He pulled a Swiss army knife from his pocket, flicked out the blade and took her hand in his. For one terrifying moment, before logic returned, Melissa imagined this Bear Grylls wannabe carving out the stinger like a potato eye. His hand was warm and strong as it cupped her smaller, freezing one, and for the first time, she allowed herself to take in his appearance. He was tall and broad-shouldered while still possessing the last vestiges of boyish lankiness. Hornrimmed glasses framed soulful eyes, and dark hair curled around his plaid collar.

Running the back of his knife along her skin, he evicted the stinger in one fluid movement.

She smiled gratefully, poised to thank him, but he dropped her hand like an ember and scowled.

“Didn’t you read the sign?” he demanded, stabbing a hand towards a hand-painted plaque that read, Warning Bee Hives Do Not Approach!

Melissa blinked rapidly, taking in the yellow sign in the low light. “I didn’t, I’m sorry. I just moved into 604—today, in fact— and I was just ...”

“You were just messing with things you don’t understand.”

Melissa’s hand pulsed with pain, and she wondered why she was apologizing. Rage filled her chest. “Look! I’m sorry I knocked the lid off the hive, but some maniac burst onto the roof 13

and startled me as I was trying to figure out what the hell it was.

Maybe if you want people to read your cute little sign, you should position it somewhere it can be seen.”

He recoiled.

“Bees aren’t the only pricks around here!”

She stormed away.

Still seething, Melissa pulled a fitted sheet across her mattress with her good hand. The base of her thumb had swelled hotly where the kamikaze bee had staged its last stand. It itched like crazy. She thought of the first aid kit that her father meticulously maintained and made a mental note to create one. She fell into bed to doom scroll. Knocking filled her apartment and sensation prickled her spine as she sat bolt upright. Surely axe murderers don’t knock. Creeping to the door, she peered through the peephole to discover him on her threshold.

“Who is it?”

“It’s, ah, Adrian. We met on the roof. I came to apologize.”

Melissa eased her features into resting scorn and opened the door.

“Oh, were you sleeping?” asked Adrian, taking in her floral pajamas.

Melissa stood straighter. “Can I help you with something?”

He held a paper bag, which he moved from hand to hand. “I wanted to check on you.”

Melissa tucked her hand behind her back. “I’m fine.”

Adrian pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded, but didn’t leave. He held her gaze and, after a few beats, said, “It’s just that if you don’t dress the sting properly, it can become infected.”

Melissa’s hand throbbed harder as if trying to get Adrian’s attention, and she brought it forward to show him. ‘It’s quite red.”

Adrian winced before squaring his shoulders and smoothing his brow. “What is your name?” “Melissa Martin.”

14

“Well, Melissa Martin, with your permission, I’d like to come in and bandage your hand.”

Melissa blinked a few times at his formality and made way for him to enter.

Her apartment was a series of small white cubes, all visible from the entryway. Regarding her cream boucle sofa, still wrapped in plastic, she turned towards the compact square of the kitchenette instead. She led him to the Formica table and chairs that she’d rescued from her father’s garage and sat.

Placing his phone and keys on the table, he unpacked from the bag a Mason jar of honey, a roll of gauze, and two blister packs of caplets. He strode to the sink, washed his hands, and filled a glass with water. Sitting beside her, he handed her the glass and popped two white tablets and one pink from their packaging.

“These are ibuprofen for the pain, and this is an antihistamine— it’ll help with the swelling and itching.”

Melissa accepted the pills and swallowed them with a draft of water as Adrian unscrewed the lid of the Mason jar. A sweet, floral scent wafted around them as he pressed his ring finger onto a honey drop on the lid and swiped it gently across the sting.

“What the?”

“It’ll prevent infection and help with healing,” he said, unspooling a length of gauze and beginning to wrap her hand.

“It will?”

She looked at his bent head and imagined running her fingers through his glossy chocolate waves.

“It’s Leptospermum honey,” he muttered.

When she looked blankly, he elaborated. “It’s produced by bees that pollinate the Leptospermum flower—tea tree. It gives it antibacterial properties.”

Melissa thought of the tea tree border around the rooftop garden. “This honey is from your bees?”

He nodded and tied off the gauze.

“So you’re, like, an urban farmer or something?”

15

He smirked and a dimple popped in his cheek, beside his right eye. “A hobbyist. The bees—the garden—are my passion project.”

She resisted the urge to fill the silence and waited for more.

“I have a real job as a systems architect.”

Melissa laughed before she could sensor herself and Adrian smirked again. “I did not see that coming,” she said.

“My job involves designing, maintaining, and optimising complex systems.” He paused, “Just like bees.”

She nodded, letting the concept seep in.

“And you? I’m guessing you’re not an interior designer,” he said, thick eyebrows indicating her unkempt apartment mischievously.

She resisted the urge to bat him playfully. “I’m a social media marketer.”

“Is that when you take selfies and make people buy stuff they don’t need?”

“That’s an influencer. I create online strategies for small businesses to help them connect with customers. Take your bees, for instance. You’re clearly committed to boosting the population.

Do you have a social media presence to connect you with other enthusiasts? Recruit new people to the cause?”

Adrian shook his head.

“Social media isn’t all about posers and consumerism, you know. It can be a powerful tool for activism and social and environmental change.”

His dark eyes sparkled at her before he took her hand again and tucked the loose edges of gauze beneath the wrapping. “I’m sorry about earlier—I overreacted—and, you’re right, the sign needs moving.”

Melissa wasn’t sure she’d ever heard a man admit to being wrong—her father certainly hadn’t.

“I wasn’t trying to mess with your bees. I honestly didn’t know ...”

16

Melissa had trouble finishing the thought with Adrian holding her hand, his dark eyes locked intently on her. He smelled like botanical body wash and the powder scent of freshly laundered clothes. She had an urge to sit on his lap. What was happening?

His phone buzzed on the tabletop and Melissa spied the selfie on his screen—Adrian grinning, his golden cheek pressed against the pouting face of a blonde balayage beauty. Adrian pulled his hand away and stood.

“Answer it if you want,” said Melissa.

“It’s okay. I can call back. I should go.” His phone rang out and he pocketed it, making for the door.

Melissa rolled her eyes at his retreating back. Just another player. His poor girlfriend was probably in their apartment wondering where he’d scurried to.

Melissa stood and shoved everything into the bag. “Don’t forget your stuff.”

He turned back. “That’s for you. Take another pink one in 24 hours and the white ones are up to every six hours if it’s hurting.”

“And the honey?” she said, holding out the jar.

He smirked, making his dimple pop. “It’s great on toast.”

Melissa had avoided Adrian all week. Now, weighed down by the cumbersome spoils from her Saturday morning trip to IKEA, she waited for the elevator, half expecting to run into him and his girlfriend. In addition to the bursting blue carrier bag on her shoulder, Melissa held a ridiculously large monstera that she regretted purchasing. The glossy abundance of leaves blocked the view no matter how she held the pot. The lift arrived and she hiked the bag higher on her shoulder and rested the teetering pot on a raised knee to jab at the button for her floor. Exhaling hard, the leaves blew forward before slapping her in the face like a rebuke.

Arriving on level six, Melissa stepped from the lift, caught her toe on the lip of the landing, and was propelled into the air. The 17

plastic pot flew from her grasp to crash into the apartment door opposite. She lay there a moment on the musty carpet, befuddled by the floor’s ability to rise up and meet her so swiftly. Her left knee bent before her while her right leg stretched behind her like the Nike swoosh. Pushing onto her elbows, she inwardly groaned when the door opened to reveal Adrian staring down at her.

“Melissa? Are you okay?”

Adrian scooped her up by the armpits as though she weighed nothing and her body swooned at his lithe strength. Still holding on, he surveyed her face and body as if looking for signs of injury.

The blonde beauty of the phone selfie appeared over his shoulder, along with a sea of others shrieking and gesticulating wildly.

They poured out the door to retrieve her scattered belongings as he pulled her inside.

As Adrian led her to large twin sofas and sat opposite her, Melissa took in his expansive apartment and the large dining table bearing the detritus of an elaborate lunch. The half-dozen guests bustled back in, clutching her belongings, and set them by the front door while an older woman retrieved a hand-held vacuum and sucked up the spilled potting mix from the corridor.

Adrian leaned in conspiratorially and said, “If you wanted to see me again, you could have just knocked.”

The blonde woman sat beside him and Melissa’s cheeks flushed guiltily.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb your celebration.”

The blonde shooed away her apology, smiling.

“Katerina, this is my new neighbour, Melissa. Melissa, my sister, Katerina.”

Sister?

“N-nice to meet you, Katerina. I’m sorry I burst in on your gathering. I’ll leave you to it.”

Melissa made to stand, but she was halted by the stream of people coming to join them. The woman who’d vacuumed the mess placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her back to sit, 18

and squeezed in beside her. “I’m Soula, Adrianos’ mother.” She offered a prim hand, which Melissa shook.

Adrian indicated the rest of the group with an outstretched palm. “These are my cousins, Nick, Sophie and Vicky, my dad, Denis, and my aunt, Vaso.”

Melissa smiled.

“Everyone, this is Melissa Martin, my new neighbour. She’s the one who got into a fight with a bee the other night.”

Melissa’s cheeks heated. He’d talked about her?

Vaso said, “I’ll make coffee,” and rose.

“It’s lovely to meet you all, but I must be going. I don’t want to interrupt.”

Adrian’s mother, Soula, touched a hand to her knee. “It’s Adrianos’ name day.”

Melissa scanned her knowledge for what that meant. She had a vague idea that Greeks celebrated not birthdays but the feast day of the saints they were named after. Soula leaned towards her, squinting. “You look Greek.”

“Mum! Not everyone is Greek,” Adrian complained.

Vaso returned carrying a tray of tiny coffee cups and a plate piled high with golden, oval biscuits covered in chopped walnuts.

She set it down and nodded. “She looks Greek.”

“Her name is Melissa Martin, Mum,” said Katerina.

“Actually, my mother was Greek, but I suppose my father named me because Melissa is the most Aussie name you can think of,” she said and laughed apologetically and accepted a cup from Vaso.

Adrian’s father, Denis, cleared his throat and everyone fell silent. “No. Melissa comes from the Greek word meli—honey— it’s mean honeybee.”

Her mother had named her honeybee?

Amidst the frenetic bustle of Adrian’s family diving for coffee and biscuits, Melissa discovered Adrian’s dark eyes magnetized to her. She pressed her lips to the cup to disguise the emotion 19

humming through her body and was surprised by the velvety richness of the thick coffee.

Adrian leaned forward, handing her a biscuit on a small plate. “Melomakarona. I used the honey from our bees.”

Melissa’s skin hummed pleasantly. “You made these?”

Adrian nodded.

Denis grunted at his wife. “You made him soft.”

“Shush,” said Soula, swatting at him. The word came out as soos within the folds of her accent and Melissa smiled. She wondered if, like many Greeks, her own mother was unable to make the sh sound. The thought made Melissa feel closer to her.

Melissa picked up the plump biscuit, surprised by its cakey softness and bit. The aromatic flavour of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg flooded her palate along with the liquid sunshine of honey.

She closed her eyes and exhaled pleasurably. She’d tasted these before. Had her mother made them? Dormant memory flickered to life like string lights in her brain. She opened her eyes to find everyone’s attention on her.

“I think my mother used to make these for me,” she said, her voice thick.

Adrian leaned towards her.

Soula looked between them and then glared meaningfully at Vaso. “Okay! Time to clean up.”

Everyone sprang to action, gathering crockery and heading for the kitchen. Denis remained seated, fists resting on his splayed knees like a king. Soula moved towards him and slapped the back of his head. “You too.”

Adrian moved to sit beside Melissa, his eyes never leaving her and she squared her body towards him.

“You have a little...” He lifted his hand, tentatively, indicating her face and Melissa raised her chin towards him. He swiped gently at crumbs on her lower lip and the intimacy of the gesture flooded her belly with warmth.

20

“Honeybee?” Adrian began.

Melissa grinned at the nickname and his dimple popped.

“Can I cook you dinner later?”

Melissa placed a hand on his muscular thigh. “I’d love that.”

They gazed at each other, their faces inching closer. Before their lips met, they looked towards the kitchen, which had fallen suspiciously silent. Adrian’s family sprang into action, resuming their hive of activity.

“Tonight,” he whispered.

About the Author Anne Freeman writes contemporary fiction about women who are stuck in life and the extraordinary ways they shake themselves loose. Her stories are always engaging and sometimes funny with reluctant adventures, sexy escapades, and friendships that uplift. Anne’s novels and short stories have been recognised in many literary competitions, including the prestigious Romance Writers of Australia Valerie Parv Award, the Hawkeye Publishing Manuscript Development Prize, the Grindstone Literary International Novel Prize, and the Queensland Writers’ Centre Adaptable Program. You can learn more about Anne and her work here: www.annefreeman.com.au Romance Finalists My first love by Sibora Huda Mr. Macaron by Merrell Palmer, Love law by Andrew Snook

21

African American

Spare a Little Change

by Kimberly E. Banks DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! The clock strikes 5:00 p.m. and Atlanta’s downtown streets swell with traffic. Despite the frigid December air, none of the travelers seem to waver from their paths. A peculiar, yet soothing energy hovers in the atmosphere, counterbalanced by the ominous clouds gathering on the horizon. Nature’s gray hint at impending snowfall is palpable, but the cold does little to deter the crowd moving through the rush-hour ballet. At the heart of this chaos stands Rick Power, a six-foot-one man in middle age whose weary appearance reveals hardship. Yet, a faint shimmer of resilience envelops him, hinting at a story far beyond his visible struggle. Though his rugged exterior masks it, features once striking—thick eyebrows, a prominent nose, high cheekbones, and a chiseled jawline—imply a past marked by grace and strength.

Strangely, Rick sticks out like a sore thumb, standing apart from the throng of hurried souls, their only intention to make it home for the evening. After a time, he blinks as if jolting himself back to reality, bracing against the sharp, 40-degree wind. Deliberately, he tightens the worn trench coat, its fabric weathered from years of use, secured by a frayed rope doubling as a belt. He reaches for a brand-new beanie, identical to the one his father wore, and pulls it over his ears. The wool stretches to fit his 22

head, while his fingers trace the embroidered Lakers logo above the fold. The beanie’s rough texture offers a familiar comfort, and a fleeting smile tugs at his lips— not from warmth, but again, from the memories stitched into the cherished emblem. His eyes remain fixed, indifferent to the relentless surge of traffic and the hurried footsteps of pedestrians flowing past.

Instinctively, Rick replaces his snaggletooth grin for an urgent look, honed by necessity. The weary facade he wears, shaped by countless days on the street, hides his true self while skillfully drawing the sympathy he requires. When an eight-month stint of unemployment became unbearable, he turned to this path and these skills, finding a semblance of stability through a group of seasoned beggars who took him in. With each lesson learned, he perfected the art of appearing destitute, adjusting the slouch of his shoulders to complete the illusion.

As Rick shifts from foot to foot, trying to stave off the cold, a quiet chuckle escapes him. He glances down at his tattered Adidas, caked with Atlanta’s red clay, peeking out from beneath his frayed, bell-bottomed pants. Shaking his head, he sinks into deep reflection and allows his thoughts to trace the contours of his journey, and what he’d neglected along the way.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda...

Mere regret couldn’t erase the damage inflicted on the many women who had been hurt by his actions. With a chilling indifference, he was even more likely to push away, dismiss, and discard those who resisted being treated like yesterday’s refuse.

Women who were closest to him—his daughter, sister, and exwife—had borne the brunt of his frustrations throughout his recklessness. The self-loathing that arose when he recalled how he used to reduce women to mere objects of gratification now overwhelmed him with unbearable shame. It is only in hindsight that he realizes his abusive behavior stemmed from a deep resentment, unrelated to his sexual entanglements or the women he professed to love. The root of his actions lay in his failure to 23

attain the rewards he believed he deserved. His inflated sense of entitlement had blinded him to his own role in the unraveling of his life.

For years, Rick repressed the shame he harbored consequent to his deplorable habit of taking the presence of his loved ones for granted. Haunted every day by the memory, it has been hard to release the guilt that led him to push away his daughter and his sister, Laiya—the two women he once saw as the most beautiful in the world. While they were both innocent casualties of his inner turmoil, he couldn’t escape the painful truth that his daughter, Karma, was the light of his life, his heart, his soul, his everything.

And, for a while, he was hers. Yet, slowly her sentiments began to deteriorate as his womanizing and self-centered dream-chasing grew more intense as the years progressed. Too often she’d witnessed the hair-raising disputes and physical altercations he’d had with her mother, many from which her mother walked away bruised and swollen. After she came to her senses, his wife demanded a divorce, took their daughter, and walked out, leaving him clutching the shattered pieces of his heart and shutting the door on any chance of reconciliation. From that moment, Rick had carried the burden of losing the chance to watch his daughter blossom into the remarkable woman he always knew she would be.

Lord, you know how much I miss her. Please grant me another chance to be a better father.

Rick spent much of his life chasing a vision of success that always seemed just beyond his reach; one he hoped would allow him to reconnect with his daughter and love her the way she deserved. Reaching rock bottom was the catalyst that finally forced him to face the elusive forces that had kept his dreams just beyond his grasp, despite countless close calls. Before reaching his lowest point, the possibility that karma had been a factor in the way his life kept unfolding never crossed his mind.

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On the fateful night of October 30th, the ground beneath him gave way, as the promise of recording his first album was cruelly swept from his grasp. He’d been cruising unsuspectingly along the serpentine curves of Mulholland Drive, handling an errand as a favor for a music producer – a woman, his mind set on the gift of complimentary studio time. Enchanted by the promise of opportunity, he paid a heavy price for failing to heed the significance of both himself and the contents of the bag he carried inside the car he’d been driving—black skin, black rims, black tinted windows, and black guns, unregistered and unconcealed.

Most prominent, a large black bag containing narcotics in the trunk of a black BMW with jet-black tinted windows. Though none of the possessions, including the vehicle, belonged to Rick, they wound up being random pieces of his jig-sawed journey that altered the trajectory of his Black reality, all in a matter of seven minutes.

Stay focused.

In hindsight, it was easier to see how the bars that confined him all those years were forged from the same iron that had once shackled his ancestors, and the labor he had given was just a tiny part of the vast restitution still owed. Because of this, Rick no longer sought validation from a system that had always relegated him to the margins. The job market, with its alluring promises of progress and its shackles of meager wages, provided no escape from the relentless boot pressing on his neck—and likely never would. He knew well that a polished resume or a tailored suit could never span the gulf between his present plight and the executive roles he was destined to claim. Even if he stepped into a corporate opportunity, he knew that executives—often lacking both skills and insight—would remain blind to his true worth, forever fixated on a past that obscured his potential.

Shake it off. Keep a smile on your face.

He steps back from the corner, retreating from the shadows, and pulls an empty, rusted tin can from his pocket. The tin’s 25

metallic clink whispers its emptiness as he lowers it beside a weathered sign –a plea for support, in the open guitar case resting on the bench.

The deafening sound of a car alarm pierces the evening chaos in the distance, breaking the spell of his turbulent memories and bringing him back to the present moment. The storm of his rage dissipates, replaced by a quiet gratitude. The tumult of his internal struggle gives way to a newfound focus—his purpose. Despite his efforts to escape it, the dream dwelling deep within his heart and soul insists on emerging, its allure undeniable. The vision of stepping into the legacy of legendary artists—Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Aretha Franklin—whispers softly, drawing him toward a potential he once dreaded might remain forever out of reach. He smiles, a genuine and relieved expression. Somewhere in the cosmos, he feels his father’s—also a legendary performer— approving gaze. Tilting his face toward the sky, he offers a silent acknowledgement to the sun descending behind the clouds, feeling a connection that transcends time and space.

“I hear you, Pops. Two dreams for the price of one. Let’s let our light shine,” Rick whispers with enthusiasm, placing his fingers to his lips, tapping his heart, and releasing the kiss toward the sky.

Summoning the echoes of his father, his kinfolk, and ten thousand ancestors, Rick’s hand sweeps down, seizing the guitar that rests against a rugged ledge. His fingers graze the strings with deliberate grace, coaxing out a slow, contemplative melody that merges with the song unfurling in his mind. He draws in a deep, measured breath, savoring its cool embrace, then exhales with a gradual release, a ritual repeated thrice.

Propped against a whitewashed wall, he pours his flawless pitch and melody into the vibrant pulse of the city.

The moment I been waiting on, and my soul is over flowing With anxieties and expectations, I’m full of desires I just want it so bad, you know 26

And it just seems so real, it’s right there I just want to reach out and touch it, before it all disappears Cone St. and Marietta, one of Atlanta’s most coveted corners for performers and panderers alike, didn’t fall into Rick’s hands easily. After months of tireless searching, he finally stumbled upon and claimed a space he now considered a refuge—a stage where his music could flow uninterrupted. Many sacrifices were made to acquire such prime real estate, and he would go to great lengths to protect it from encroachers. The city’s streets were a battleground where beggars fiercely contended for the most lucrative spots, each one vying for their share of prime real estate.

Still deeply entranced inside his dream, Rick remains oblivious to the reverence expressed by those who pass him.

Nor is he aware of the admirers who have gathered to relish in the heartfelt rendition, many of whom have pulled out their cell phones to capture video. Only the sound of applause at the end of his performance is powerful enough to pull Rick out of his dreamland. Smiling from ear to ear, he offers a bow of humility, equally grateful for both ration and ovation.

“Thank you. Thank you!” he exclaims, a hand over his heart, offering his best expression of humility. “You are far too kind.

God bless you.” Ching. Ting. Ping.

“Spare a little change...” he harmonizes, more as a divine reminder than a dire solicitation.

Rick glides over to a nearby bench and sinks into it with ease, his fingers still dancing over the guitar strings as his soul leads him effortlessly into another beautiful ballad.

DONG. DONG. DONG...

Rick lifts his gaze to the gray clouds, silently counting with the distant chimes of the bell. He waits for the final three dongs before quickly hopping to his feet.

“Almost time to get out of this cold,” he whispers. “Just a few more minutes.” His performance had yielded more money than 27

Rick had ever gathered in the past. “...spaaaaaare a liiiiiiiittttle chaaaaange...”

Rick’s savings over the past few months were nothing short of astounding. In recent weeks, his earnings had surged to nearly three hundred thousand dollars—a figure that shattered his earliest expectations. What had started as a humble street hustle had transformed into an unforeseen success, exceeding even his wildest dreams. After more than a year of working tirelessly whenever the weather permitted, earning between five and eight hundred dollars a day, his dedication had finally paid off in a way he hadn’t imagined.

For the first time in years, the future didn’t seem like an endless maze of uncertainty, but a landscape of possibilities waiting to unfold. The first milestone was clear: Karma Records, a label dedicated to giving a platform to the unheard, the voices that traditional industries had long ignored. Yet, Rick’s dream reached further than just music. He envisioned a haven for creativity— a space where music, art, and mentorship could intersect, where his gifts could flourish while sowing seeds of hope and empowerment in the very community that shaped him.

Naming the studio Hitsville 2.0 was more than a nod to the legendary Detroit hub that had launched so many Black artists into stardom. It was a dream long cherished by Rick, inspired by his admiration for pioneers like Barry Gordy and Quincy Jones.

From the moment he first heard their stories, he envisioned a space where Atlanta’s diverse musical landscape could thrive.

Hitsville 2.0 would honor Motown’s storied legacy by offering free, intensive music education to underserved youth, creating a vibrant sanctuary for emerging talent.

The studio would be more than a business. Just imagining the reunion with old friends from LA to record new music ignited a fire in Rick’s soul, filling him with a greater sense of connection, purpose, and fulfillment.

28

One of the first projects he eagerly anticipated was “Heaven on Earth,” a piece that had occupied a sacred place in his heart for nearly twenty years. The song, composed by his father on the day Rick’s daughter entered the world, wove together a tribute to the past, a reflection on the present, and a promise of a brighter future. Rick envisioned a deeply moving collaboration with Babyface, where each chord struck and every lyric sung would resonate with his journey. The song would become a legendary anthem, echoing the hopes of men like him who strive to heal, make amends for past mistakes, and create positive change in their lives.

A deep, resonant hum rises from his solar plexus, a profound vibration that affirms the vision is more than a mere figment of his imagination. With a smile spreading across his face, he feels a divine touch guiding him, and his body sways gently, lost in the embrace of this revelation. As he immerses himself in the moment, his mind drifts back to the tender memory of cradling his baby daughter against his chest, just after her birth.

The unforgettable sensation of holding her fills him with warmth and hope, stirring a deep, primal connection. The weight of past struggles and the promise of redemption intertwine in his heart, fueling an overwhelming surge of emotion. Just as this tidal wave of feeling reaches its peak, he opens his mouth and bellows his father’s lyrics from memory, drawing them up from the very depths of his being, where they have rested, waiting for this moment to emerge.

Heaven on Earth That’s what you’re worth It’s the twinkle in your eyes Where I find paradise Karma, such a beauty, spiritually Your hair, your fingers, and precious smile A joy, a treasure, you are to me...

29

As Rick launches into the first chorus, an unexpected urge stirs within him, compelling him to open his eyes.

A silver Lincoln Town Car glides to a halt at the curb in front of him. Rick stops strumming, his attention drawn as the back right passenger window slides down smoothly. Moments later, a pale arm extends from the window, revealing a platinum link nestled in a crisp white shirt cuff. The diamond-studded Rolex on the man’s hairy wrist catches Rick’s eye. Intrigued, he leans forward, trying to glimpse the face hidden in the shadow. A pair of manicured fingers flicks twice, silently beckoning him to approach the vehicle.

“Thank you,” Rick beams, his gratitude evident as he accepts the generous offering with sincere appreciation.

I reached my daily goal already.

Stepping back onto the curb, Rick eagerly slips the folded bills into his pocket. As he settles onto the bench, his attention is drawn to an impeccably dressed woman gliding toward him. Her arrival ignited an immediate spark of curiosity, unmistakably revealed by the bulge that began to rise in his pants.

Drawn to her magnetic presence, Rick takes a moment to absorb the sprightly energy she exudes, noticeable even from a distance. Her bold, luminous aura captivates him, making his small smile grow into a wide grin, showcasing his uneven, stained teeth. When she is several feet away, he nervously steps aside, clearing a path for the woman, struggling to find the right words as she approaches. The primal urge to pursue her grows stronger, his heartbeat quickening with each passing moment.

Despite the surge of desire throbbing in his groin, he battles the impulse to act, doing everything in his power to keep his composure. Intriguingly, he senses that his attraction to her runs deeper than mere appearance, though he is incapable of grasping why.

Instead of approaching and potentially intruding on her personal space, he breathes deeply, savoring the familiar, sweet 30

scent of Egyptian Musk as she passes. She moves with grace, her 5’10” frame swathed in a camel-colored tweed trench coat, complemented by knee-high riding boots and a matching purse.

A Burberry scarf, its distinctive pattern peeking from her coat’s collar, drapes elegantly over her neck and bosom. Oversized glasses perch atop her nose, obscuring much of her face but revealing her finely chiseled chin, lips, and brow. While the glasses seem an unconventional choice for an evening out, they add a unique touch to her refined appearance. Her perfect posture and confident stride enhance her elegance, and the evening breeze playfully tousles the sandy brown curls cascading over her shoulders. A soft shade of cotton-candy polish highlights the diamond-studded band on her right ring finger.

Jackpot.

He shifts his feet, then follows her with a smooth, deliberate pace, rubbing his hands together with eager anticipation.

“Excuse me, Sista. Any chance you could spare a little change?” he pleads gently as she continues her sophisticated stride.

Her splendor was undeniably captivating, yet it couldn’t overshadow the dollar signs flashing in his mind. Given that his appearance often made him a target for ridicule and rejection, Rick decided to focus on securing another offering before ending his evening.

The woman sharply shook her head and clutched her purse tighter against her hip. Such a reaction from a white woman was expected. Like any other Black man in America, Rick had grown used to fearful glances and evasive behavior fueled by deepseated biases. However, being dismissed by one of his own ignited a deeper anger within him. Rejection from someone who didn’t share his interest was one thing. But to be rebuffed by a Black person—regardless of gender—due to prejudices, perceptions, and assumptions made about his race, education, or economic status cut much deeper.

31

If only she knew...

Rick steps back, taking slow, deliberate breaths to calm the surge of emotions coursing through him. He searches his mind for the reason behind his stubborn curiosity that made him incapable of shaking off his attraction, even despite her cold response. As he reflects on his feelings, he probes why rejection from his own community hurts so much more deeply. Once the tension subsides, he gathers his belongings and heads toward the parking structure a mile from Philips Arena.

Outside the garage, Rick pauses to scan the street, checking for any onlookers before slipping into the shadows. With the coast clear, he grants himself a satisfied nod, the relief evident in his movement. Memories of the evening’s plans guide him with a rhythm almost like dancing, as if he were gliding across a floor. To the beat of music only he can hear, he sheds his coat and retrieves a set of keys from its pocket. He makes his way to his brand-new, candy-red Range Rover, the sleek vehicle waiting in the night’s embrace.

The vehicle and several thousand dollars in cash were given to Rick as a token of restitution from the music producer—a gesture of gratitude for keeping quiet about the illegal dealings that had put Rick in prison but spared the producer from facing the same fate. The producer had promised more substantial rewards if he returned to the studio and pursued his aspirations of becoming a producer under her mentorship. He politely declined.

Rick presses the button on his remote key fob to unlock the doors and raise the hatch in the back. Chirp. Chirp. Click.

Rick bends slightly and glances into the side mirror, removing his false snaggle teeth to reveal a perfect set of his own. He quickly peels off the artificial beard and the matted wig from his freshly faded head. Settling gently into the back of the truck, he leans forward to remove the soiled shoes and wool socks from his perfectly manicured feet. As he stuffs the sneakers into a duffle bag, he examines the neatly arranged assortment of 32

clothing hanging on the window hook above his left shoulder.

Though a mix of mauve, olive green, rust, and royal blue suits with matching shirts and ties might seem trivial to many, each piece has been tailored specifically for his muscular build.

Despite its modest size, the wardrobe, thoughtfully paired with two watches, belts, cuff links, and shoes, each allows him to avoid repeating an outfit for an entire month.

Rick selects a suit to match his mood and carefully lays the mauve ensemble beside him, considering it a perfect choice for the evening ahead. He then picks a pair of hazelnut and burgundy Italian leather boots, hand-stitched to perfection, and complementing his burgundy tie and belt. Satisfied with his choice, he inspects the parking lot once more. Finding himself still alone, he quickly discards the remainder of his clothing, exposing his chiseled body to the chill. Clutching his clothes and shoes, he retrieves a jug of water and closes the hatch with his elbow. Sliding into the car, he slams the door, cranks up the heater, and places the suit in the passenger seat.

He retrieves a black insulated tote from the back seat, filled with a warm towel, washcloth, and bar of soap. Setting the tote on the passenger seat, he unfolds the towel and drapes it over his lap, creating a makeshift cleaning station. With practiced efficiency, he wets the washcloth, lathers it with soap, and scrubs away the day’s grime. Using a separate hand towel, he methodically cleans his groin and backside, recalling his grandmother’s advice on hitting all the “hot spots” during a “bird bath.”

Transformed from peddler to prince, Rick exits the garage with inflated pride, casting a glance at his reflection in the rearview mirror. With a confident smile, he lightly presses the gas pedal and smoothly merges into Marietta Street traffic.

A few minutes after blending in with the cadence of traffic, Rick notices the same woman he’d seen moments earlier strolling on the sidewalk beside him. His heartbeat quickens, both relieved by the distraction and intrigued by the serendipitous encounter.

33

Torn between the sting of her recent rejection and his fascination with her beauty, he quickly swipes away the tears lingering at the edges of his eyelids. After a moment of reflection, he decides to follow his impulse.

After trailing the woman for nearly a mile, Rick decides it’s time to park his vehicle. Given the unlikelihood of finding parking on 10th Street on a Friday evening, he opts to park a few blocks away and jog back toward her. As Rick draws closer, the woman makes a sudden turn off the main street and disappears down a narrow pathway. He follows, emerging into the presence of a large brick house with a sweeping wraparound porch. The towering structure stands in stark contrast to its surroundings—a row of strip malls, a liquor store, fast-food joints, a library, and, intriguingly, a Buddhist temple. The cracked pavement leading to the house seems almost insignificant compared to the impeccably maintained grounds. A manicured lawn stretches for an acre, dotted with towering magnolia trees, while soft lighting illuminates the area, adding an air of serenity.

Hidden partially by one of the magnolia trees, Rick spots a sign that reads “Village of Refuge Women’s Shelter.” The blend of curiosity and confusion causes Rick to come to an abrupt halt, grappling with the dissonance between this new revelation and his previous assumptions about the woman. Her polished appearance had suggested sophistication, confidence, and wealth— traits seemingly incompatible with the need for a shelter, especially one reserved for women seeking refuge from domestic violence. Despite a strong impulse to judge and walk away, Rick feels an undeniable compulsion to unravel the mystery. An ache in his soul urged him to uncover the truth, yet he knew he had to tread carefully, ensuring he didn’t startle her.

When the woman reaches the foot of the stairs, she pauses, bowing her head as her fingers move deliberately—forehead to chest, left shoulder to right shoulder—tracing an invisible cross.

She glances upward toward the dim sky, affirms the arrival of 34

silent communion, and takes a deep breath before ascending a few steps. Turning on her heels to face the street, she sets her pocketbook down beside her feet. With an unsettling calm, she loosens the belt of her trench coat, unwinds the scarf from her neck, and removes the sunglasses that shield her from the world.

Her coat flutters open just enough to expose a dingy, wrinkled Winnie the Pooh t-shirt.

Rick’s heart shatters at the sight of her blackened eye, swollen cheek, and bruised neck, each telling a story too harrowing to ignore. The facade of elegance collapses under the burden of her visible pain. A soft breeze parts her coat, revealing the tattered shirt and sweatpants tucked into expensive leather boots—a stark contrast of affluence and exhaustion. Stunned by the sudden exposure of her vulnerability, she quickly wraps her coat tighter around herself, shivering from the evening chill and the revelation of her true state. As she sits on the step, her face reveals a distant, resigned look, grappling with the harsh reality of her circumstances.

After several lingering moments, the woman reaches into her bag, retrieving a cigarette and lighter, her movements slow and deliberate. She closes her eyes, flicks the lighter, and draws in a deep breath, watching as the cigarette’s brown tip transforms into a glowing ember of burnt orange. The first drag she takes seems to steady her. Resting her head back, she holds the smoke in her lungs, lingering in the brief solace it offers, before releasing it in a long, heavy exhale. Halfway through her cigarette, she flicks the ashes onto the concrete and begins to sing softly. Her cracked, fragile voice carries a mournful melody that reflects the depth of her pain.

That’s what you’re worth It’s the twinkle in your eyes Where I find paradise The rich, velvety lyrics spilling from the woman’s lips were so hauntingly beautiful they nearly knocked the wind out of Rick.

35

Paralyzed by indecision, he was torn between fleeing from his hiding spot and rushing toward her. Ultimately, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the enveloping beauty of her familiar, majestic harmony.

There’s just no way...

As the woman continues to sing a few more lines of her lullaby, Rick is stunned to realize that the song is his own, Heaven on Earth.

That’s impossible...unless...

Driven by a sudden urge, Rick sets aside his apprehension and strides toward the porch where the woman sits. The brisk sound of his footsteps startles her from her trance. As she rises slowly, her jaw tightens and her brows furrow in alarm, taking in the imposing figure of the six-foot-plus man approaching her.

“You don’t work here. Who are you and what do you want?” she snaps, her hand diving into her purse. “I have pepper spray, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Speechless and disoriented, he moves closer, resolute not to let this chance for reunion slip through his fingers. Not now, not ever again.

“It’s—I... I am,” he stammers, grappling for an explanation, but the shock tangles his words, leaving him unable to express himself clearly.

“Hey, man, if you’re just gonna stand there stuttering like an idiot, at least reach into your pockets and spare a little change.

I’m starving,” she snaps, a trace of irritation cutting through her voice.

Eyes lock—one pair squinting, the other streaming with tears—two souls bound by an unspoken connection that only one can name. Rick’s breath catches, his throat tightens, but he knows the moment has come. Swallowing hard, he prepares to speak, the weight of lost years pressing against him.

“Karma,” Rick breathes out, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and desperation. “It’s me.”

36

She tilts her head, confusion etched deeply on her face. His voice, resonating with a familiar echo from her past, is the first hint of clarity. Her eyes trace his features, slowly piecing together the fragments of his identity. Rick stands still with his hands raised, heart racing, and breath catching as he waits for the realization to dawn.

Her initial disbelief gradually melts into astonishment as she begins to descend the stairs, each step bringing her closer to the truth.

“Dad?” she whispers, her voice wavering between uncertainty and joy.

Rick stretches out his arms, his voice breaking as he repeats, “Yes, it’s me, Baby.”

About the Author Kimberly E. Banks is a writer, artist, and advocate for storytelling’s transformative power. Passionate about culture and identity, her work explores the Black experience, focusing on race, gender, and culture. Inspired by Ta-Nehisi Coates, she sheds light on marginalized communities, particularly Black women. Her debut, Risen: A Literary Mixtape, blends stories and essays on self-liberation and healing. As Naje Badu Love, she writes inspirational works on empowerment. Drawing from Toni Morrison and James Baldwin, Kimberly aims to inspire social change through art and writing.

Learn more at www.NajeLove.com.

African American Finalists The Reunion by Nick Haskins I didn't want to turn into a "House Negro"!!! by Melissa Owens Endless Descent by Theresa Seabrook

37

Animals/Pets-Tie

Luce

by John Paul Godges On a radiant Sunday morning in May of 1901, the bell of San Nicola di Bari Church rang across the ancient Italian hill town of Farindola. A burly bellringer, pulling the rope from below, strove to strike the soprano chime in a precise metronomic rhythm, once per second from side to side. Sporadically, halfsecond delays broke his tempo. But even then, the frequency and persistence of his ringing signaled an urgent and important occasion.

From the rocky clifftop on which the church had been erected in 1080, the bell’s call reached beyond the medieval fortress walls that encircled the town center, with its warrens of three-story buildings at least 500 years old. The bell’s call reverberated over the cascading houses that were built into the cliffside beneath the church, atop one another, having been carved out of what had once been paleolithic caves. The bell’s call spanned the gorge of the Tavo River far below, extended across the rolling valleys rich in natural springs, and echoed off the eastern slopes of the Gran Sasso massif, home to the highest of the Apennine Mountains.

The bell’s call resounded within the goat stable of Maria Baccanale, who was eight years old. The goat stable abutted the wheat fields of the Baccanale farm, which sat on a plateau overlooking the center of town. Though a young girl, Maria had already begun to acquire the facial features of a mother: deep38

set dark brown eyes that could thwart foolishness at a glance, a prominent brow ridge that projected a sense of protection far beyond her arm’s reach, and curvy, agile lips that had been shaped and sculpted by the continuous calisthenics of eliciting, imitating, accentuating, and celebrating the attempts of infants to express humor, playfulness, and joy.

Inside the goat stable, Maria scampered barefoot in response to her favorite doe’s pleading bleats: “Mii-ii-ii-iilk me! Mii-ii-iiiilk me!”

Maria squatted beside the doe’s belly and commenced the pull-pinch-squeeze cadence of squirting milk from the udders into a steel pail. Maria synchronized the thuds of the goat squirts with the clangs of the church bell. She chuckled at the music of the milking, and she swayed with the three-beat cadence so that she and the doe were waltzing. As Maria finished, the doe’s bleats softened into exhalations of relief, and Maria felt her neck being nuzzled by the doe’s nose.

Maria had named the doe Luce—or Light—because of the luminous whiteness of the doe’s eyes surrounding her black, horizontally elongated pupils. When Maria’s brown eyes peered into Luce’s white eyes, Maria reveled in the connection between them. “Ah, sweet Luce,” Maria hugged the doe and hummed in contentment. “What better friendship could there be than that between a girl and a goat? All you want is a good milking. And in return, you give us the best cheese in the whole wide world.

Yes, it’s true! I love you!”

Maria knew that the best goat cheese came from the best love a goat received. Everyone in Farindola knew that.

“Maria!” the shout cut like a scythe through the reverie. It was Carolina Camelia Baccanale, Maria’s mother. “Maria, dove sei? Where are you?” Carolina ran from the house to the stable, carrying a pair of small shoes in one hand and a set of clothes in the other, including the white lace dress that Carolina had crocheted for the occasion and the flaxen veil that Maria had 39

woven for herself on a handloom. “Maria, we’ll be late for your First Holy Communion!” Maria’s eyes widened and froze. She had completely forgotten about her First Holy Communion because she was too busy milking her goat!

Carolina burst into the stable and started changing Maria out of her dingy frock and into her delicate dress. There was no time to wash Maria’s milky hands or dusty feet or to rinse away the goat’s earthy smell. “A bit of Luce will have to go into church with you,” Carolina winced.

Maria smiled thinly and kept her mouth shut. Her shoes, however, felt painful and frivolous. She wished she could go to church barefoot but knew better than to push her luck.

Maria, her parents, and her five brothers scrambled down the path toward town but at different speeds and trajectories. Maria’s five brothers ranged in age from five years down to five weeks.

The oldest three—Francesco, Paolo, and Ettore—were five, four, and three. They chased one another in circles, hid behind beech trees, made slashing motions with their arms, and fired imaginary muskets with their trigger fingers. The trio called themselves i tre moschettieri (the three musketeers). They fancied themselves as swashbuckling swordsmen fighting for chivalry and justice all the way to church.

Maria’s fourth brother, Guirino, was two. He rode astride the shoulders of his father, Raffaele Baccanale, whose sunbaked face and balding crown glistened in beads of sweat. Guirino clasped his father’s ears as if they were reins, kicked his father’s arms as if they were the sides of a horse, and whinnied unbridled. Raffaele had neither the heart nor the energy to object. “Poor papà,” Carolina commiserated.

“As if you don’t already work like a horse in the fields.”

Maria’s fifth brother, Leandro, floated in the arms of Carolina, whose soft eyes and stout chin displayed a tender soul girded by a tenacious will. As she cradled the baby and shaded his face from the sun, she tiptoed down the rocky terrain leading to town 40

and then glided along the smoother paths and pavers leading to church, sustaining a stalwart posture no matter the surface.

As for Maria, she tried to just not stumble over herself in those clunky shoes.

Normally, Carolina would ask Maria to take turns carrying the baby, but not today, not with Maria in her immaculate white lace dress and veil. “Don’t you worry about me,” Carolina swiveled her hips to show off her strength to Maria. “I’ll handle Leandro today. Now, I want you to focus on what today means to you, not on your work in the stable or anywhere else.”

Maria squinted toward her mother, unsure what kind of meaning she meant.

As the family approached the church, Maria craned her neck toward a relief carving of San Nicola di Bari high above the central circular window—a carving of his bearded face, dipped forehead, and two raised right fingers making the gesture for the sign of the cross. The church bell slowed as the bellringer rested, and the ringing stopped just as the family arrived.

They sat in the back pew, the only one with room for the eight of them. Maria scanned the families in front of her. All the children her age from Farindola were there. The most important people in their lives were all there. For these children of this secluded mountain town, their whole world was there for them.

Some of them could hardly contain their excitement. Their highpitched chatter pervaded the sanctuary. Several of Maria’s friends, who were much cleaner and fresher than she was, appeared to be glowing in anticipation of their imminent saintliness.

The opening hymn and readings muted the childish chitchat but not the childish antics. As Father Emanuele led the liturgy in Latin, Leandro squirmed in Carolina’s bosom and threatened to cry whenever she stopped rocking him, so she kept rocking him. Guirino kept climbing out of Raffaele’s lap and trying to saddle up onto his shoulders, so Raffaele kept bucking the boy.

41

Sensing an opportunity to disrupt the established order, the three musketeers swung their legs, struck the pew in front of them, stuck out their tongues at each other, contorted their faces, and heaved in suppressed laughter by trying so hard not to laugh, which made them laugh even harder through their eyes and noses, complete with tears flooding their flushed faces.

Maria saw that her parents had their arms full and needed help to quell the musketeers, but the most she could do was shoot them stone-faced expressions right in their eyes. Alas, the trio had six eyes to her two, and she couldn’t deny the gushing humor in theirs. She cracked a smile and stifled a snicker, which delighted and emboldened the boys. Carolina and Raffaele, with only their legs free, resorted to playing footsie with the boys, tapping their dangling ankles. That maneuver had the triple benefit of reminding the boys to behave, distracting them with an inconspicuous form of play, and producing a tangle of silent tangos beneath the back pew.

When it came time for the sermon, Father Emanuele switched from Latin to the vernacular. In that remote region of what was then called Abruzzi, the vernacular was a clipped Italian—chopping off the final vowels of many words—sprinkled with bits of Neapolitan. The bespectacled young priest with wavy black hair and deep olive skin addressed Maria and her peers first, making the standard declaration that most people in the pews had heard many times on this annual occasion: “You are invited to the table of the Lord to receive his body. In receiving his physical body, we come into closer spiritual Communion with God.” Maria caught further glimpses of her friends: their blissful sighs, beatific smiles, cherubic cheeks, and angelic auras. Her friends seemed all but enhaloed by the notion of communing with God. Maria knew this day was important, but she didn’t seem to feel the same sense of holiness that her friends seemed to feel. She wondered if something was wrong with her.

42

Father Emanuele turned his attention toward the adults. He knew he had to keep it short. Not because these people were unintelligent. If anything, he believed these hardy mountain peasants were grounded more firmly in their wisdom than were many of the privileged men he’d met in the seminary. He had to keep it short because of how much work these people had to do. Juggling their fidgety families in the pews. Hosting big celebrations after the Mass. Sowing crops of wheat, tomatoes, peppers, grapes, potatoes, and flax. Herding goats and sheep for weeks on end high up among the tender mountain grasses of spring. These people did not have the luxury of spare words, even if they could read, which most could not. He got right to the point.

“First Holy Communion reminds us of what Communion should mean throughout our lives. Yes, it is Communion with God. But it is also Communion with the people of God.” Maria cocked her head. She had not heard this message before. In Farindola at the time, girls did not go to school, and boys went for only a few years. Religious orders were required to educate children free of tuition in Italy, but attendance was optional, and rural parents viewed formal education as less important than working the land to feed the family—and especially less important for girls. Maria’s only formal education consisted of Mass every Sunday and holy day. Her only regular teacher, other than her parents, was the local priest. She paid his words heed when she thought he could teach her something new and meaningful. Like now.

He concluded, “When we share in Christ’s body, we become part of the same body. A body needs all its parts to work together. Living in Communion means taking responsibility for one another. Forever. There is no Communion with God without Communion with one another.”

Maria gasped. It meant much more! The communal meaning of Communion rang instinctively true for an eight-year-old girl 43

who already felt like a second mom to five feisty younger boys.

In her mind, she boiled the communal meaning of Communion down to ten little words: “Non è solo quello che ricevo. È così che viviamo.” (“It’s not just what I receive. It’s how we live.”) Unlike the unearthly notion of Communion with God, the notion of Communion with one another came as naturally to Maria as breathing the crystalline Apennine air.

As Maria joined the Communion line and stepped toward the altar, she looked around and imagined herself and the other kids from Farindola growing up, taking responsibility for one another and working as one body. It inspired her that they were all in it together. Her hopes for the future swelled as she knelt at the altar rail and prayed: “May we always stay together, God. Forever!” The forever gave her goose bumps, from the nape of her neck to the tips of her elbows.

“The body of Christ,” Father Emanuele intoned upon reaching her.

“Amen,” she opened her eyes and extended her tongue. He placed the host there and moved along as she crossed herself.

Maria strode back to her pew with an easy gait and her head held high, viewing the people around her and folding her hands before her. When she reached the back pew, she flashed a beatific smile of her own toward her mother, who cranked her chin upward in salute.

Just one thing troubled Maria. As the priest and his acolytes receded from the altar down the center aisle toward the back of the church and out to the plaza at the end of the Mass, and as the congregation followed in a choreographed succession, pew by pew from front to back, Maria struggled to find the words for her misgivings. She was glad her family was in the back pew because they would be among the last to bid the priest farewell, and she wanted to talk with him.

44

Upon stepping outside, Raffaele and Carolina shook the priest’s hand, the three musketeers scurried home, Guirino nodded off on Raffaele’s shoulders, and Leandro awoke screaming in Carolina’s arms. Conspicuously, Maria just stood there, steady as a statue.

Carolina looked Maria in the eyes, then looked Father Emanuele in the eyes, and then looked at her immovable daughter once again. “Don’t be long, Maria. Everyone will be waiting for you.” Carolina steered everyone else away. The girl and the priest stood alone in front of the church beneath the watchful eyes of San Nicola di Bari, the patron saint of children.

“Father,” Maria bowed her head in humility. “Can I ask a question?”

“Of course, my child.”

“Father, it’s what you said about the people of God. About Communion with one another.”

He was taken aback. He often wondered if his messages got through to the adults, let alone the children. “I’m flattered it meant something to you, Maria.”

“Oh, it really did, Father,” she continued, facing down, toeing a paver. She then conjured up the nerve and raised her anxious eyes toward his. “Father, what about our animals?”

His eyes popped. “What about them, Maria?”

“I know they’re not people of God,” her shoulders slumped forward. “But can they be in Communion with us, too?”

“Ah, Maria. When did you become such a discerning little intellectual?” he stalled for time. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning, shall we? You know the story of Noah’s ark, yes?”

“Yes!” her shoulders rose. “I love that story!”

“And you know how Jesus was born in a manger, where the animals went for nourishment, and how we recreate that nativity scene on the altar every Christmas, yes?”

“Oh, yes, Father!” she jumped up and down.

45

“Animals are not people of God, but they are still part of God’s family.” Father Emanuele was surprised where her questions were leading him. “I don’t know about their spiritual lives, or if they have spiritual lives. But if animals are part of God’s family, part of God’s creation, then some part of them must live with God forever, too.”

Maria almost went to heaven right then and there. She had an inkling of the spiritual life of Luce. But she stuck to her question.

“Can our animals be with us in Holy Communion?”

“The sacrament of Communion is reserved for people,” he asserted flatly and firmly.

“But we must take responsibility for our animals, too. We must feed them and nourish them. They need us, and we need them. We need to be with them in a Communion of a different kind.”

Maria breathed in deeply. Her spirit was so elevated that she could no longer feel the pavers beneath her feet.

At the risk of knocking her back down to Earth, Father Emanuele thought he better practice what he preached and take responsibility for what he was telling her. “You know, Maria.

Sometimes, we must make difficult decisions about our animals.”

“Oh, I know, Father.” She’d seen what happens to pigs when they become pork and to goats and sheep when they become mutton and lamb. She’d seen what happens at the river when there are too many kittens to feed in town. She knew that Luce’s days were numbered, too. Maria and Luce were born on almost the same day. They had shared their entire lives together since.

Luce was like the sister that Maria never had. Maria knew that each day with Luce was sacred now. Maria was preparing for the inevitable. “Mama told me it’s dangerous to become too attached.

She says if we take care of them, then they take care of us. She says that includes eating them, but only after giving them good lives until their natural times come.”

46

“Your mama is a wise woman,” Father Emanuele nodded slowly and emphatically.

“Thank you, Father.”

“I should be thanking you, Maria.”

“For what, Father?”

“For making this day a Holy Communion for me, too.”

Maria looked up at him in awe as though she had been transported to a time and place beyond time and space. Never in her wildest dreams had she dared to imagine that someone like her, an illiterate peasant girl, could be paid such respect from the most respected man in town. She pressed her palms together and bowed her head before him, this time in reverence.

He made the sign of the cross above her forehead. “You should run along home now.”

“Yes, Father. Thank you, Father. God bless you, Father.”

She flew up the hill toward home, taking wing with that veil on the breeze. She came so close to the house that she heard the voices of her aunts, uncles, and cousins—dozens of them— and smelled the aromas of her mother’s savory pork sausage and zesty homegrown tomato sauce that would soon engulf her fluffy polenta. But instead of following the temptations into the house, Maria made a sharp turn toward the goat stable. “I have to tell her before it’s too late!”

Maria beseeched herself between breaths. “Today and every day we have left together.”

As soon as Maria dashed into the stable, Luce cantered out of her pen to cavort with her two-legged sister: “Maa-aa-aa-ria!

Maa-aa-aa-ria!”

They danced in mirror-image circles on the hard-packed soil, ecstatic symbiotic souls. They whirled and twirled with the exuberance of an accordion-pumped ballo liscio, spinning twice to Maria’s right and twice to her left and twice to her right again, until they stopped to catch their breaths. Maria then crouched to Luce’s level and gazed into the black pupils framed by those 47

shimmering, incandescent irises. Maria enfolded Luce’s pointy face, floppy ears, and fleecy body into the contours of the nolonger immaculate Communion dress. But that was the whole point of the dress, as far as Maria was concerned. Communion with one another. Forever.

“Luce,” Maria searched the doe’s eyes and assured her in a lyrical, ebullient, clipped Italian: “Tu sei il mi’ angelo su quattro zoccol’!” (“You are my angel on four hooves!”)

About the Author John Paul Godges is the author of the family memoir Oh, Beautiful: An American Family in the 20th Century, which was awarded the Kirkus star. “Luce” is Chapter One of his forthcoming novel Hail Maria: The Wisdom of an Illiterate, Immigrant, Peasant Woman. His author website is www.johnpaulgodges.com

48

Animals/pets-Tie

Soul of a Griffin

by Shilo Creed The crooked city broods in the smog below. Nothing is straight, not even the castle, six stories tall, sitting cockeyed with its magical blue glow, proving the Empress’s power. The island of Lufnis Nettor is barren, and every year is worse, the dirt dry and cracked, just like my soul. The sea is our greatest terror and our only hope. If only we could get a boat to stay afloat.

But water doesn’t lie, like the rest of us. Misshapen boards leak, guaranteeing a sinking and a future as sea monster chow.

But straight is outlawed, just like me.

It’s disturbing, not just because we’re trapped here, dying slowly, but because no matter how many people say straight is evil, the water proves them wrong. What if straight means life?

The Empress would kill for such words, bending a bolt of her blue magic straight to my heart.

The muffled thunder of another fall-in rumbles through the smoke clinging to the warped roofs.

The rising cloud of dust and shrieks of suffering make me grip my stomach.

Memories lash harder than Duke Viktor’s evil whip last week. Early morning killed my family, too, just the same way, as if Lufnis Nettor shifted on purpose in order to make our shack fall in.

49

The frosty sunrise bites my skin, and it’s my pinched stomach alone, drawing me into the city. “Sirion.”

The whisper-ish voice calling my name makes me turn; my half-grown griffin crouches low, wings tucked close, her extralong tail sweeping side to side, a single sharp talon on the inside of each front lion’s paw tapping on the uneven cobblestone with a nervous beat. I call her Scythe because those talons came out first when she hatched five months ago. Her front half eagle and the rear half lion she’s a perfect mixture of each, with both lion’s paws and eagle’s talons, beak and fangs, a lion’s tail with eagle feathers on its tip.

She’s both the only reason I’m still alive and the most likely cause of my demise. She eats more than three men put together, and she’s still thin, her ribs showing where the blue-tinted copper feathers on her head and neck fade into tawny fur. Everyone is terrified of her. It’s laughable because she’s afraid of everything.

Keeping her hidden didn’t last long, she’s like my shadow now as her huge golden eyes catch the purple light of dawn.

“What?” I hiss back, nerves frayed at the edge of the crooked city, with the neon glow of the castle turning my stomach.

She flinches, her curved upper beak clacking twice against the lion fangs of her lower jaw. “We should wait for night.”

I frown at her. “I might be comatose by then. We haven’t eaten in three days.”

The worry in her gaze makes me reach up, smoothing the thick feathers. Her egg was in the rubble of a duke’s fall-in before Empress Jezebel’s soldiers cleared us scavengers away. I didn’t know what it was then, but as soon as it touched my skin, golden veins appeared on the dull gray shell.

On Lufnis Nettor, it’s every man for himself, but with the strange egg warming against me, a surge of protectiveness grew.

It felt wrong. How can a person survive unless they put themself first? But every heartbeat makes me love her more. Her massive 50

shadow wavers in the dark, rimmed by the castle’s evil blue glow; she doesn’t help me blend in, that’s for sure.

Crooked is the god of Lufnis Nettor, but Scythe is different because she knows things that people don’t.

She hatched on the precipice, nearest to the stars, my only safe place, where no one else dares to go. Eyes wide, I held her in two hands, damp and shivering, with her tail curved around her body as if still in the egg. Now, she keeps me warm.

She’s the one who told me about a new word... truth. I’m not sure it really exists. Still, Scythe loathes anything dishonest.

Honesty is something I can grasp, at least. Truth, not so much.

A lie leaps to my tongue, but she always catches them. Honesty.

“I’m afraid, too, but we have to eat. No one’s killed a megalodon in a long time.” The last bits of rancid meat are almost gone, as scarce as a smile in the city. There used to be fish to catch if someone dared to venture that close to shore, but they’re extinct now, just like trees and plants, leaving us and the monsters. The good thing about killing a megalodon is there are so many fewer people to feed after the battle.

Luring one to shore requires bait. The word makes me shudder.

We can never be sure Empress Jezebel’s army will actually kill one, but one thing’s certain; the bait will never surface again.

Fear’s icy fingers wrap around my heart as Scythe creeps closer.

“Viktor’s the only one with food left outside the castle. Come on.” I creep forward, locking down heaving breaths at the thought of the hulking man who holds a special hatred for Scythe and me.

A long talon locks around my ankle, stopping me mid-stride.

Scythe’s sharp-pointed ears prick at a whispered conversation around the corner just ahead.

“There’s meat on the corner of Nettle and Poison,” a velvety voice says.

51

I grimace—that’s the fastest path to Viktor’s, and there’s no way we can take that route now; there’s sure to be an ambush of some sort set up.

“Right,” a second voice responds, trying to cover its doubtful tone. “Thanks for the tip.”

The worst part about lies is that they come in layers. Which leaves me to decipher why the velvety voice would suggest going that way. She knew no one would believe such a tip, so is she planning for them to take Jetsom instead? I jam one fist into my scrawny thigh.

I turn to Scythe. She clacks her beak twice, worry in her eyes.

Maybe she’s right, the night would be safer. But I’m right, too: by then, what strength I have might be gone.

“We’ll take Royal to Pain Street,” I whisper Scythe’s feathers fluff at the words. “Near the castle?”

“Do you see any other options?” My whisper is harsh as I waver in the breeze.

She stares down at me. Night.

I sigh. “Come on.”

We backtrack, edging closer to the crooked castle, a heavy sense of dread growing with every step closer to the magic she wields.

I ease one eye past the listing corner of a building and flinch back to press against the wall.

Scythe crouches, ears flicking at the sound of hobnailed boots.

My chest heaves, straining to hear. “They turned south.”

I force myself into the street, streaking along on burning muscles. Scythe’s talons clack behind as we skid into an alleyway.

The castle scolds right ahead, turning my guts to liquid as the light bathes us in its eerie blue. I’ve got to keep Scythe safe and fed, but they’re opposing tasks.

We charge forward, desperate to escape the castle’s eye, Scythe’s long tail snapping back and forth, proving how nervous 52

she is. Viktor’s house is around the bend, its tilted roof rising higher than most. A pile of rubble from a fall-in lends a place to catch our breath.

Scythe and I found the secret entrance to Viktor’s by accident weeks ago. Her eagle eyes search the dim back alley. “We’re clear.”

A section of wood groans as I pull on it, revealing a tunnel, its dark mouth waiting to swallow me. Musty air wafts out as I look up at Scythe. “Are you going to fit?”

She’s grown since the first time we went in. Her feathers slick down tight and her unused wings clamp against her sides. It’s useless to chide her for not flying. I would be terrified, too.

Slime slurps against my arms as I crawl in. Scythe scrambles, claws scraping as she forces herself through the tight opening. It’s pitch black now, and she won’t fit in another week, which means I’ll have to come alone. A shiver of dread saps my strength.

I grit my teeth; there’s only right now and surviving till the next dawn. We creep farther, easing into a dank basement. The uneven gaps in the floor above afford a decent view of Victor’s kitchen one strip at a time. The lingering scent of rotting meat makes my stomach clench with hunger.

A board creaks. My fingers clutch a fistful of slimy feathers, breath bated.

“The basket’s empty.” The sharp voice of a woman pricks my skin. There is no food to steal. The knowledge makes me sag against Scythe.

Viktor’s grating voice is like a curse in the air. “We need bait for a hunt. I know just the one. Sirion.”

A hiss of air escapes my lungs. Scythe’s tail whips around, the wide feathers at the end covering my mouth as ice pumps through my veins.

The woman laughs. “His beast will eat you first.”

Viktor grunts as the tilting floorboards sag under his weight.

“It’s time to be rid of that creature.”

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The woman’s voice is even more cutting. “Ha! Only a golden arrow with a silver tip through the heart can do it, otherwise, you’ll be torn to shreds, you know the stories.”

I stare up through the strips of light, wishing I knew the old stories. Something above rustles.

“Like this?” A cruel delight echoes in Viktor’s tone.

The woman cries, stumbling back over the uneven floor.

Scythe’s tail falls to the ground. I lean left, shifting my view.

My mouth hangs open. In Viktor’s hand is a golden arrow flashing in the sunrise. The silver tip has a razor edge that’s the straightest thing I’ve ever seen.

Scythe’s beak clacks twice, and I can smell the fear emanating from her fur.

“Put that away!” the woman screeches. “Where did you get it?”

Victor wraps the arrow in cloth, but I can’t unsee it. My fists clench, soul burning as knowledge sparks inside. It’s straight.

The universe spins, and I grip Scythe for balance. Straight exists!

“The Empress commissioned me to exterminate the beast with it.

Then I’ll use the wretch as bait, and we’ll have meat again.”

It feels like I swallowed a stone. Scythe eases backward, and the soft rustle of her feathers against the tight tunnel spurs me into action. We burst from the darkness and run like mad. By the time we climb the precipice, two thoughts are in my mind.

We’re as good as dead.

Straight is.

The sun shines, lending no heat to the chill air. Scythe tucks me close with one wide paw, claws retracted, her talon gentle, and her tail curls around us, the warm feathers at the end settling over my chest. We stare over Lufnis Nettor, watching dust rise from another fall-in. Dread settles deep; the city is starving, and I am their chosen bait. A wretch and a griffin who’s afraid to fly.

She’s never even spread her wings, maybe she never will.

Maybe death is our destiny.

54

A shiver racks my exhausted frame, and Scythe tucks me closer.

“Did you see it?” My voice seems too loud in this sacred place between rock and sky.

She clacks her beak twice.

“It was...” I can’t get my mouth to form the word.

“Straight,” she says, the wind stealing the sound away. Then, softer, she adds, “And deadly.” Now, she’s the one to shiver.

I blink fast, the cold drawing tears to my eyes as I scowl.

“Why... why would the Empress have something like that after she outlawed it?”

Nobody’s allowed to even see straight. I glare at the crooked castle tower glowing below. What else is she hiding? A hot flare of anger sears inside. Exterminate Scythe?

My fists clamp against the swirling emotions and the magic that lends her unlimited power. The day passes, each moment sludging past. We’re both too tired to move, chained by our death sentences.

As night falls, a thought strikes me. Why not die on purpose?

Anything is better than the agony of being bait. I shift, studying Scythe. Her feathers rustle as she stares at the slow-emerging stars.

She was meant to be among them. Instead, there’s a silvertipped arrow destined for her heart.

The thought boils, running over like lava. I’d do anything to make us both disappear. But there’s just Lufnis Nettor and the sea, one bitter existence in the center of an endless blue death.

I flinch. If the Empress was hiding the arrow all these years, she might have something else I can use to change our fate. Is she the only one who can wield the magic?

My skin crawls as the thought spreads; protecting Scythe is my singular heartbeat. The only fragment of success lives in the dark recesses of the crooked tower.

55

I shoot to my feet, staring into Scythe’s liquid eye. “I’m going to pay the Empress a visit.”

Her beak clacks twice. “Have you lost your mind?”

I lied to her once, told her there were three pieces of meat when there were only two. She ate them both. When she found out, her feathers bristled up, and she ran down the mountain. It was the worst three days of my life, her being gone. We haven’t separated since then. I dare not lie to her now, but honesty is infinitely harder.

“Possibly. You stay here where it’s safe.”

I step back, off balance from the intense hunger and the giddy feeling that by morning, nothing will be the same.

“You can barely stand up.” Scythe’s wide paw keeps me from the edge.

“Exactly. Right now is all we have.” My stomach heaves. That’s why I don’t like the truth. It’s so heavy. I lock her noble silhouette against the stars deep inside my heart. It might be the last time I ever see her.

Hot tears burn in the darkness. “Scythe... I... I love you.”

Her golden eyes widen, and she cocks her head. “Is that the truth?”

Inside, there’s no hesitation. After all, straight exists. “Yes. It is.”

Her feathers stand on end, making her look twice as big.

“Sirion, I love you too.”

Then she tugs me against her chest with one paw. I cling to her neck, breathing in her soft scent.

I step back and turn, rushing down the narrow trail before fear grips any harder.

My heart breaks, just like my stride, as I stumble over a stone in the dark. But a light shines deep within my soul. Its warm glow fills me more than meat ever has. Love exists, too.

By the time the cobblestones are underfoot, I’m panting hard.

The scuffle of footfalls close by forces me to hold my breath long 56

after my lungs demand air. This is for Scythe; any price is worth saving her.

The way ahead is clear now. I creep along, ducking into alleyways, just another shadow in the night. The rumbling crash of a fall-in makes me freeze. I press against the wall, letting the scavengers pass as they slip toward the devastation like rats.

If straight exists, then every single fall-in in the history of Lufnis Nettor is the Empress’s fault, and everyone who believes her is a fool. I grit my teeth, lowering my head as I creep ever closer to the castle. But fools are easy to rule with magic.

Without Scythe, I feel like a crab who’s lost its shell. At least she’s safe on the mountain, for now. Gritting my teeth, I hurry under the glowering height of Jezebel Tower, slinking between the awful blue beams of light that tell me I’m dead wrong for coming here.

Something brushes my shoulder. I shoot skyward, stifling a scream. Two clacks echo in the dark.

“Scythe!” I scold. “You were supposed to stay in the cliffs.”

“I never agreed to that,” her whisper-ish voice tickles my ear.

It soothes my tattered nerves. I sigh, so glad she’s here and terrified too.

“I thought of another word.” Her voice seems to ward off the heaviness as we hide in the shadows.

“Like truth?” I sink my fingers deep into her feathers, needing the connection.

“Yes. This one is... brave.”

It sends a shiver down my spine. But somehow, I know it’s just right. “It feels a lot like fear.”

She nuzzles her beak against my neck. “But there’s starlight inside it, too.”

My heart won’t let me turn back, not when straight exists.

Death looms no matter our path, but I force it away with... brave.

“Let’s go.” My fingers brush the rough wood of the castle, making me shudder at the touch. “Our safe place is the precipice.

57

The Empress must keep her important things up high, too. Sure would be easier if you could fly.” I jab my scrawny elbow into her ribs.

She clacks her beak twice.

We slip into the courtyard, flitting from cover to cover.

Strong bars of blue light spill through slanted windows. It seems so wrong; firelight wavers and dances, but this glow seems malignant. Rowdy voices echo inside.

“Platoon one, set up the harpoon at Knife Point. Two, get the bait bin over there. Viktor will have the wretch by first light.”

My stomach heaves. Victor’s hunting me right now, commanded to bring bait by morning, with the silver-tipped arrow clenched in his fist.

I slink around the corner, hands before me in the dark. A crooked door blasts open just a yard ahead. We freeze as a servant girl mutters, stubbing the doorframe as she passes through. She swears, hopping on one foot as she fades into the night. The metal knob is cold under my fingers before I even tell my feet to move.

“Brave,” Scythe breathes behind me.

I nod. It squeaks when I force it inward, sending ice through my veins. The blue light comes from a ball hovering in the ceiling.

A wave of weakness makes me stumble, gripping a table that lists to one side. My vision blurs, hunger and fear stealing everything.

Scythe’s talon hooks around my gaunt frame, holding me until it eases. I point to the far door, moving on willpower alone.

When I pull it open, we both shrink back. Lifesize griffins line the winding hallway. Some crouch, low and menacing, and others rear high on their hind legs with wings spread wide.

Scythe hisses, but everything remains eerily still.

“S... statues.” Chest heaving, I step forward, glancing over my shoulder to be sure she’s following. Her belly scrapes the floor as she creeps along, every feather standing on end, her luminous eyes seeing her own kind for the first time.

Why would the Empress surround herself with griffins then 58

order the only living one’s execution? She’s as slimy as seaweed, and my skin crawls, longing to be far from her lair.

Halfway down the hall, a door ahead creaks open. Scythe and I smack into each other, flailing with frantic motion in the dimness. Blue light spills in, casting fierce shadows.

Scythe leaps into the line of griffins, sweeping me behind her with a deft swipe of her paw. I hit the wall, rolling to my knees as Scythe rears high, spreading her wings wide over two statues.

Everything else fades, even the soldier stomping past, holding a torch of unwavering blue light. Her wings are massive, perfect! Awe reverberates in my chest as my eyes run over the sleek feathered arches.

The soldier pauses right under Scythe, stealing my breath.

Her hind legs tremble, holding her outstretched weight. He cocks his head; Scythe’s ribs expand, ready. He shrugs and continues on; the soft click of the door shutting is pure life.

She drops to the ground, tucking her wings as soon as he disappears, but she can’t stay still now, circling in the hall, her eyes glowing brighter than ever.

“Your wings,” I say, mouth hanging open. “They’re incredible!”

But she doesn’t hear me, something has changed; a spark of life is burning deep inside her wild heart.

More voices echo, sending a jolt down my spine. I leap out and force her from the circle she’s pacing.

“Go!” I hiss.

She shakes her head, present again, and we rush down the hall, then up a set of uneven stairs. We wind higher and higher until we step into an alcove. A gilded door stands at one end, offset to the left and cockeyed. Starlight glints through a narrow window.

This is it, the Empress’s tower!

Movement makes me flinch. A soldier unfolds from the floor, looming like a part of the night as the singing sound of his sword turns my knees to jelly.

59

Brave deserts me.

But Scythe strides forward, and her hiss fills the room, ears sleek against her head, giving her a new, dangerous air. The soldier’s sword rattles against his breastplate.

All at once, Scythe’s blue-tinged feathers stand on end; the soldier squeaks, flinching back. Her next paw slams down, making the uneven floor shudder.

The man breaks forward and I brace for the attack, but he veers to the left, leaping out the narrow window. His shriek of terror fades as he falls into the night. No one in Lufnis Nettor will find it out of place.

I turn to Scythe; she’s never protected me before.

“Hurry.” She’s herself again, crouching low behind me like a puppy. The carved door handle is a rearing griffin, and my hand trembles as I reach for it. There’s not a second to waste, no time to explore the changes deep within Scythe.

The room is wide with narrow windows all around like crooked teeth bared at the city. A throne, as black as sin, sits in the center of the room. I turn away, picking up a scepter topped with a griffin head from the table. The Empress is obsessed with Griffins, yet she hates Scythe. Why? My gaze falls on a gilded chest. It’s perfect. Straight.

“Square,” Scythe whispers.

Each corner is crisp and solid. Drawn forward, I run my hands over the lid with a shiver. Jaw tight, I struggle with its weight as light pours from the box. A scent hits me, curling deep into my lungs. It’s like nothing I’ve ever smelled before, but with an aura of lightning.

We lean in, breathless. In the center of the chest is a gilded silver griffin with wings outstretched, but its chest is a glowing blue orb that reflects off my skin, and a series of markings line its base.

Scythe reaches in, hesitates. When her talon closes around it, the lights on the walls flicker.

60

“Scythe,” I warn, but she’s focusing hard, head cocking, as she studies the medallion.

“It’s not magic, its... electricity.”

This word sends a tingle across my chest that sizzles in my fingertips.

The wooden floor behind us creaks. We freeze. Terror fills my heart, and I turn, trapped in time that slows down so I won’t miss a second of agony.

Viktor crouches in the doorway, the golden arrow drawn, its silver tip aimed right at Scythe’s chest. A grin spreads on his heavy features. It sends a spear of pain through me. He draws the bow a hair tighter.

“Scythe!” I scream. “Run!” She leaps for the window, claws ripping up the wooden floor, shards flinging slowly upward in the strange warp of time, the medallion still clutched in one paw.

Viktor’s fingers release the string; the arrow launches straight toward her heart.

A bellow rips my throat as I whip the scepter, muscles screaming. It spins higher as Scythe’s fur brushes my arm.

They meet in midair; the arrow sparking as it deviates, twisting away to skitter across the floor. Scythe leaps onto the windowsill, the medallion bearing all her weight. A soft click echoes, and the entire castle falls dark. Her claws scrape loudly as she climbs the tower roof, shingles raining down.

Pain explodes inside my head until the darkness is complete. * My eyes flutter with one hand on the bloody knot on my forehead. I jerk up, expecting cold waves and massive jaws.

But sharp rocks jab my legs as I fight a surge of dizziness. I’m not bait yet.

Or maybe I am.

Viktor crouches behind me, the vile arrow cocked, his dark eyes focused on the tight opening just ahead. We’re in a box 61

canyon, with three steep cliffs surrounding us. I clench my fists.

Don’t come, Scythe!

Morning’s first flare reaches over the horizon as my heart slams a desperate rhythm.

“Stop moving, wretch, until your worthless bird crawls down the valley,” Viktor growls. “It still couldn’t fly, not even with the medallion.” What’s the medallion got to do with it?

“You’ll both pay for this.” I failed.

Now, I am the reason Scythe will die. A hot tear burns its course down my cheek. She’ll come for me, straight into his trap.

The scene blurs as cold bites my skin. Not like this.

A gust of wind blasts my hair, knocking me forward on hands and knees. Viktor roars, twisting the bow high, centering in on the shadow sweeping down. I roll. Scythe rends the air with a wild eagle’s scream as she swoops over the ledge. Her wings tuck in, diving like a comet, straight for the arrow.

Her talon grips the perfect shank before it launches from the bow. Blood spews as Viktor falls to his knees, clutching his ruined hand. The arrow glints in Scythe’s clutch.

I stagger to my feet, but she’s there, claws sinking into my shirt. She yanks me off my feet, her wings pumping hard as I scream. Struggling with my sudden weight, she scrapes the cliff ’s edge. I slam into it like a rag doll, leaving bits of skin behind, but her grip doesn’t fail, and every wing stroke draws us higher.

Frigid air rushes over me, freezing my voice as the nothing beyond my legs turns my stomach green. The precipice is just ahead, but her wings falter, every beat slower than the last. We slam into the unforgiving rock, my lower half not making it. Her momentum drags me forward, and we skid along, piling up a hair’s breadth from the far drop-off. I scramble to my feet as she untangles her wings and tail, wrapping my arms around her as she nestles into my neck.

“You flew.”

She clacks her beak, just once, her feathers ruffling on end.

62

“I soared.” She looks up at the sky, where the stars and the sunshine share the space for an instant in the sunrise as I store the word away. “I was almost among the stars.”

The fresh scent of heaven still clings to her. She looks down at me, eyes flashing golden.

“I saw mountains, Sirion. Far off, beyond the sea.”

Her words knock me back as I clutch my chest. “Th... there’s more land?” The knowledge bursts inside. “More to the world than Lufnis Nettor?”

Scythe’s talons tap on the stone as she gazes north, the wind caressing her feathers. I sink my fingers deep into their warmth and blink away tears.

“My wings aren’t strong enough to fly that far, yet,” she whispers into the morning.

But for the first time, hope springs up inside. That’s a new word, too, one I hear within myself.

Truth exists. Anything is possible now.

“Scythe, you are brave, and that’s the truth.”

“And you showed me the way, Sirion.”

About the Author Shilo Creed is an American author, but probably not for long.

The world is too big a place to be limited to a single country. Plus, quantum physics and adventure can be found in many places.

While writing under multiple pen names, Shilo has received multiple gold medals, been a best-seller many times, and sold over 1.4 million books! www.shilocreed.com Animals/Pets Finalists Another Brick in the Wall by Lisa Lahey Who's A Good Girl by Lufrancia Oh Poop! My Pet Died by Andrea Rudolph

63

BIPOC

Neighbours

by Sanchana Venkatesh The first time I met Shirley, she scolded me. The removal truck with all my furniture was blocking the driveway to the russet-coloured apartment block as the two movers and I tried our best to decipher how to fit my couch in the elevator.

“You were supposed to give us five days notice before moving in or out,” said Shirley, one bony hand on her hip, the other holding on to a cane for support. “And you’re blocking the entrance. All moves are through the basement, not the lobby.”

She glared at me, and I found myself cowering.

I tried to grovel for forgiveness; I’d had no idea. The real estate agent hadn’t mentioned it when I picked up my keys. I’d read the terms and conditions of my lease thoroughly, unlike other documents such as software updates, and there was nothing in it about informing someone.

“I dropped a pamphlet about the strata rules in your mailbox,” said Shirley, refusing to listen to my excuses.

So now I was meant to check my mail before moving in? And how did she know which unit I was moving into?

As if reading my mind, Shirley said, “I’ve lived here for thirtyseven years. The longest resident and on the body corporate.” She beamed at me. Was I meant to congratulate her? I smiled politely.

Shirley walked me to the basement entrance at the back of the building, ranting about the real estate agency, telling me she 64

was in Unit 3 and how the views were similar from both our apartments. At the entrance, she taught me how to use the fob, as if thirty-somethings working in office blocks for years couldn’t possibly know how fobs functioned. While I demonstrated my fob-swiping skills, she told me the name of her dog (Harvey), her morning schedules (we walk every morning at 9 for an hour, it’s Harvey’s favourite time of the day), and her preferred grocery store (Woolies is better than Coles, here). There were no breaks for me to ask or comment. So, I nodded and smiled, nodded and smiled.

I directed the movers to the basement and handed them a fob while Shirley watched. Maybe she’d been a teacher in a previous life because I felt like a pupil under her intense gaze.

“I’ll go unlock the apartment for them,” I said to her, seeing my opportunity for escape.

“Apologies again for the misunderstanding.”

“I’ll join you,” she said, following me into the elevator before I could say anything. There was no awkward silence because she filled it by reminding me she’d left the strata rules in my letterbox with her phone number and that I shouldn’t hesitate to reach out if I had any questions. At the second floor, she half-stepped out, blocking the lift from closing while she advised me to flatten my moving boxes before recycling them. I nodded and assured her I would. When the door finally shut, I sighed. Hopefully, I wouldn’t bump into her again, but in a block with sixteen units and one elevator, I didn’t like my chances.

Shirley bumped into me at the mailbox a week later.

“All moved in, are we?” she asked, glancing at the envelopes in my hand.

I plastered a smile, waiting for a reprimand. What had I forgotten this time? Had I accidentally put rubbish in the recycling bin? Were the boxes not flat enough?

“Yes, yes. All moved in.”

65

“Do you have any pets?” she asked. Then, without waiting for my responses, she continued. “The previous tenants there had a Labrador. Big, beautiful dog. I can’t remember his name, but they would sometimes walk with my Harvey and me.”

I shrugged apologetically. There was something about Shirley that triggered my need to.apologize. “I have a cat,” I said. “Penny.”

“Oh.” Shirley’s voice dripped with judgment. “Anyway,” she continued, “the previous tenants were also Indian like you. Or are you Sri Lankan?” There was no malice in her question, just curiosity.

“Indian,” I replied, preferring to keep my replies short, hoping she’d get the hint.

“I love Indian food,” she said. “The previous tenants would always share some kormas or rogan joshs with me. And paneer.

Even better than what you get at some restaurants here!”

I resisted rolling my eyes. “I don’t cook much Indian food.

Sorry.” Another apology. “I got to go,” I said, waving the envelopes in front of her.

“Is there any mail for the previous tenants?” she asked.

I felt my shoulders stiffen. “No. But, if there is, I’ll just drop it off in the post and return to sender.”

“Oh, don’t do that! Hand it over to me and I’ll forward it to them.”

Who were these previous tenants who gave Shirley their forwarding address? They must’ve been saints! Then again, Indian culture has always dictated respecting your elders regardless of if they piss you off and that’s probably what they were doing.

I estimated Shirley to be my grandmother’s age. Maybe older.

Unlike my grandma, though, she seemed more independent. My grandma would die before living on her own. For her, the idea of her thirty-three-year-old granddaughter living alone with a cat was also a cause for shame. I should’ve sucked it up and stayed with my ex-husband. It didn’t matter that he was sleeping with 66

another woman or constantly told me I was fat and ugly. No, I was the one at fault; I should’ve lost the weight.

I agreed to hand over any mail that arrived for the previous tenants and made my escape.

Three weeks later, a knock on my door in the evening jolted me from my endless scrolling.

7:20. Who the hell could it be? I set aside my almost-empty wine glass and padded towards the door. Penny was already pawing at the door. I opened it just enough to be able to peer outside, my leg blocking Penny from any attempts to escape.

Shirley. Wrapped in a pink, fluffy dressing gown, Tupperware container in one hand.

“Hi Shirley,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the surprise in my voice.

“I baked today,” she said. “It’s a lot of cookies for one person to eat, though, so I thought you might like some.”

I opened the door wider and took the container from her outstretched hand. A warm feeling came over me that wasn’t just from holding the freshly baked cookies. Penny chose that moment to practice a high jump and leave the confines of the apartment. To my surprise, she rubbed herself against Shirley’s legs. Penny was never affectionate with strangers; she usually watched warily from a distance until she knew them better. Two minutes at the door was a record.

Shirley crouched to scratch Penny behind the ears as my cat claimed her. “She’s a lovely cat,” she said. “I was going to bring Harvey, but I didn’t know how your cat would be with dogs.”

She pulled herself upright with her cane for support. “I hope you enjoy the cookies.”

It felt rude not to invite her in. “Would you like to come in?”

I hadn’t had any visitors yet and there were boxes still waiting to be unpacked. Maybe she’d decline because of Harvey. But no, her wrinkled face lit up. “Oh, that would be lovely.”

67

Penny led the way to the lounge room and Shirley followed, with me in the rear. I showed her the couch and asked if she’d like anything to drink.

“Peppermint or chamomile tea, please. If I have any chai tea at this hour, I’ll be awake all night.”

I clenched my jaw, refrained from telling her off for saying ‘tea tea,’ and assuming I drank chai. In the kitchen, while the kettle boiled, I placed two cups next to it with peppermint tea bags. Did I need to offer cookies, too? I had no snacks in my pantry and my fridge held milk and a block of cheese. Definitely scoring points for being an adult.

The two minutes in the kitchen gave me time to gather my thoughts and plan to keep this brief. I added some tepid tap water to the cups, mortifying the tea gods for sure. Shirley wouldn’t stay long; she had a dog in the house.

With two cups of nearly-steaming tea in each hand, I made my way back to the lounge room. I’d barely set them on the coffee table when Shirley piped up. “You’ve arranged the furniture differently to the previous tenants.”

Sticky beak. No wonder she brought over cookies. She wanted to have a look at what I’d done to the place.

“Their couch faced the balcony, and they had armchairs underneath the window. They didn’t have a television either. Oh, and their dining area was against that wall,” she said, pointing to the other end of the room where my bookcase stood.

I shrugged, not knowing what to say and took a sip of tea, burning the tip of my tongue. I should’ve added more tepid water.

Would she like to comment on what I’d done with the bedroom next?

As though reading my mind, she said, “How have you organized the bedroom?”

“Umm,” I took another sip. “It’s a bedroom. It has my bed and bedside table. A cat tree for Penny.” I tried to remember if I’d left my bra on the bed in case Shirley asked to see the room.

68

But, mercifully, she didn’t. She was curious about which side my bed faced. Turned out, my feng shui was all wrong. The previous tenants were the ones who’d gotten it right, their bed facing the window as opposed to against the window like mine.

“I’ve had my quota of bad luck this year,” I joked. “I doubt there’s any more in store.”

Shirley didn’t laugh. At the same time, Penny sidled up to her, entwined herself around Shirley’s feet before jumping onto the couch and pawing Shirley’s lap. Traitor!

“Oh!” croaked Shirley, placing the cup back on the table.

She made room for Penny, who settled comfortably on her lap and then began cleaning herself. My cat was a good judge of character; she’d hated my ex-husband, refusing to go near him and scratching him more than once. Did this mean she thought Shirley was okay? Or was her feng shui off because of our move?

“She’s a very beautiful cat,” said Shirley, stroking Penny with her wrinkled hands.

“She’s not usually this friendly with new people,” I said.

“What’s Harvey like?”

“You should come meet him,” said Shirley. Crap. I didn’t realize I was garnering an invite by mentioning her dog. I thought pets would be a safe topic till Shirley finished her tea and left.

“Sure,” I smiled, then gulped more tea. This was like being on a bad date except I couldn’t escape as it was at my house.

“So, no boyfriend or husband?” asked Shirley. I felt my annoyance rise. What if I had a female partner? Why would she just assume I was attracted to men? Also, why did a woman’s marital status matter so much? She was no different from my own grandmother and parents despite all the cultural differences.

I could’ve asked her the same, but I was being polite. Plus, I was afraid I’d hear a sob story of her husband’s or female life partner’s death. I mentally congratulated myself for being open-minded.

I gritted my teeth and said, “No. No partner currently.”

69

“That must be hard in your community. Isn’t it important to be married early?”

“Well, yes. But It’s not an issue.” I didn’t tell her how it was just as hard to be divorced in the community even today. People looked at you like there was something wrong with you. They never blamed the husband. What did you do, they asked. They thought like my grandmother did, that it was something the wife could have, should have fixed.

The day I told my parents I left Sumeet, they were aghast.

“Why would you throw away five good years of marriage to such a wonderful man?”

They wouldn’t hear a word against him even after I highlighted a list of valid reasons: an affair, emotional abuse, gambling, the fact that I couldn’t stand to be in the same space as him, let alone share the same bed. Did they need more?

They told me I was being too sensitive, that he didn’t mean things that way. They glossed over the affair. “Men have needs.”

“So do I,” I’d said.

I knew I couldn’t live with them because then I would hear endlessly about getting back together with Sumeet and how I was throwing my life away. My professional status meant nothing to them if I wasn’t a married woman as well. Fortunately, my friend Christina took me in. She held me while I broke, helped me find a new place to live, and fed me on days I didn’t feel like it.

Shirley didn’t need to know that my marital status wasn’t an issue because I refused to speak to my family. She didn’t need to know they lived less than an hour away. I took in the woman sitting across from me on the sofa, my cat on her lap. She seemed smaller, less formidable than the first time I met her. The day I’d moved in, she’d made me feel like my grandmother did if she caught me sneaking in a Tim Tam after dinner. But up close, I could see her hand tremble when it wasn’t resting on Penny.

Her white hair was short and closely cropped, her face etched with lines. Did she have children of her own? Did they ever visit?

70

Maybe they didn’t. Maybe that’s why she ingratiated herself with unsuspecting neighbours.

“Do you have any family?” I heard myself ask, breaking the silence.

What was I doing? I was encouraging this woman to tell me more about herself. Is this how she managed to lure people in?

“Just Harvey,” she said.

My chest felt tight, the room warmer. What must that feel like to not have any family? Could this be me one day? Telling some unsuspecting stranger that Penny was my only family? Would Penny even be around when I reached Shirley’s age? But wait, I had friends. Really good friends.

Maybe Shirley had none.

“Speaking of Harvey, I best get going,” she said and fidgeted.

Penny jumped off her and settled under the coffee table instead.

“Thank you for the tea.”

“Thank you for the cookies,” I said, walking her to the door.

“You should come over sometime.”

“I will,” I said, not making any promises.

A month went by, and I didn’t see Shirley. I worked long hours or stayed out late with friends. I told them about Shirley; everyone was aghast that she’d practically invited herself in. Who does that these days, they asked, sipping their wines. We don’t even call each other without texting first. I felt a twinge of betrayal as I laughed along; maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.

One Saturday morning, I was tidying my kitchen when I saw Shirley’s empty Tupperware container. I needed to return it but that meant cooking something. Or worse, baking. In the end, my apathy won, and I ducked down to the local patisserie and bought some pastries. Shirley would probably judge my lack of initiative for cooking and baking, but since she’d already judged my living standards, I was beyond caring. I wanted to return her container and be rid of any reason to have to see her beyond a mere hello in the lift or near the mailboxes.

71

I took the stairs to the second floor and knocked on her door.

A dog began barking inside.

Harvey. I smoothed my t-shirt, stuck one hand into my pocket. I knocked again, tapped my feet.

Shirley was old, but she wasn’t a slow walker. I’d seen her get around quite easily with her cane.

Harvey kept barking. Maybe she wasn’t home. It was Saturday; she could be at the shops. Or maybe she went to one of the markets in the city. Was she a market kind of person? I turned away to leave, deciding I’d try in the evening, when I heard the door start to open.

Shirley’s face peeked through the gap, the apartment dark behind her. She looked pale and drawn, but her face lit up on seeing me.

“Anu!” she croaked.

Who the hell was Anu? “Hi, Shirley, it’s me. From unit 11.” It struck me I’d never told her my name. “Shilpa,” I added. “Penny’s owner.”

“Oh yes. Sorry, I had you confused for someone else. Come in.” She pulled the door open wider, and this time, Harvey – a white and tan Jack Russell terrier – made his way out and began barking at me. I wasn’t used to barking dogs and took a step back.

“He won’t hurt you,” said Shirley. “He greets everyone that way.”

It didn’t look like much of a greeting, but Harvey finally settled near my feet and looked up at me, tongue hanging out. I must’ve passed his test. I bent over to pet him, a bit wary he’d go nuts again, but he didn’t.

I stood up straight again and held out the box of pastries to Shirley. “I brought back your container with a little something.”

She squealed like a child, and I hid a smile.

“Well, isn’t this just lovely! You must come in and share one with me.”

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Shit. I tried to think of an excuse, but seeing her face a bit brighter than when she first opened the door filled me with guilt.

I could spare twenty minutes to have a cuppa with an old lady. I followed Shirley, Harvey close to my heels. Penny was going to judge me on my return for fraternizing with the enemy. There was a musty smell in the apartment like the windows hadn’t been opened for weeks.

“Would you like an English breakfast tea?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

She showed me to the couch and went to her kitchen. Her apartment was sparsely furnished with two flowery sofas, a round coffee table atop a shaggy rug, and floral curtains instead of blinds. There were no photos anywhere, no indication this woman had anyone else in her life. What was her deal? If she was a widow, there would at least be a photo of a late partner.

Or maybe she was also divorced when younger? And what about children? Was she unable to have them? I didn’t know many childfree-by-choice older women. There were no signs of any friends either. But then, I didn’t have photos of friends on my walls either; we saved that for social media.

The floor in Shirley’s apartment was spotless, unlike mine, which was littered with cat toys.

Harvey was probably a well-mannered dog who put away his toys after playing.

“Here you go,” said Shirley, placing a cup of tea and a plate with the pastries in front of me.

She sank into the sofa across from me. “I haven’t seen you for a while,” she said. “Is everything okay?”

I could’ve asked her that. Up close, Shirley looked paler than I remembered. Her face was more drawn, and she seemed to have developed more lines these past few weeks. She looked fragile, ready to keel over.

“Yes, I’ve been fine. Just busy. You know, with work, life, all that.” But would she know that?

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I had no idea what she did with her life when she was younger.

“Ah yes, it must be hard juggling everything alone.”

I felt a prickle of annoyance. Was she pitying me? “It’s not that bad,” I said, wanting her to see me as a capable adult. “How have you been?” I asked, shifting the focus.

She cackled. “Other than my usual aches and pains, I have nothing to complain about.”

How did Shirley spend her days? Other than walks with Harvey which she’d told me about, and maybe watching television, there was no indication of any other interests. No books. No music stereo. Not even signs of knitting or crocheting. Maybe she slept for hours. My grandmother used to do that. It was thanks to her, I vowed never to turn into someone with no interests because I couldn’t imagine just eating, sleeping, and watching trashy television in my old age.

My grandmother and Shirley would probably get along, I mused. They both had the same sharp tongue and nosey nature.

They’d have a field day people-watching in the park, commenting on people’s outfits and appearances.

“Have your family visited you yet?” asked Shirley.

“Umm, no. It’s fine, though.”

“The previous tenants didn’t have any family here,” she said.

“They were from India. Delhi, I think. And it seemed like they really missed home. Do you miss home?”

Should I tell her that home was Strathfield, a mere thirty minutes from where we were? “No,” I said. “I mean, Sydney is home, and I haven’t lived with my parents for a few years now.”

“Anu said Indian women don’t leave home until they’re married, though. Is that true?”

I was liking Anu less and less. But if they were fresh off the boat, it made sense why they took to Shirley and made her family.

Their sense of duty to respect elders must be deeply entrenched 74

where I hadn’t been back to India since my adolescent years and was ‘too Australian,’ much to the disappointment of my family.

“Not always,” I said. “I guess they wouldn’t move out in India, but here, I’m pretty sure a lot of Indians move out of home here.”

Like I would know, I had a total of two Indian girlfriends, and they only moved out once they got married. And I hadn’t either.

This was the first time I was living by myself, having moved from living with my parents and grandparents to living with my husband.

“Have you always lived by yourself?” I asked Shirley. If she could pry, so could I. She closed her eyes. Stayed silent. I thought she’d fallen asleep. Old people did that sometimes, didn’t they? Should I say something? Should I leave?

“Thirty-seven years,” she said, her voice so soft I could barely hear. I did hear the wobble, though.

Oh no. I was making an old lady cry. I hastened to say something, anything, to make her feel better. But before I could, she continued.

“It’s fine, though. You get used to it. The first few months were the hardest, but I kept busy with work. The nights were difficult, but over time, it got easier. And, of course, I have Harvey and before him, I had Teddy.”

I wanted to believe Shirley, but her shaky hands and lack of eye contact didn’t instill me with confidence. Should I have sucked it up and stayed with Sumeet? Is this what my parents were trying to protect me from? A future as a cat lady? I’d always hated the insinuation, but seeing Shirley, sans cats, was almost sad.

“But you know what was worse?” she said, looking straight at me this time. “Walking on eggshells around someone. Trying to always make sure you say and do the right thing. Feeling lonely even with someone.”

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It felt like she was describing my marriage. How many times had I caught myself apologizing to Sumeet? Oh, sorry darling, I didn’t mean to make scrambled eggs when you wanted an omelet.

Sorry for humming while I cook. Sorry for wearing jeans when a summer dress would be more feminine. Sorry for existing. I’d tried to make myself smaller and smaller to please him; I became so small that I was a shadow of myself. And he went on to have an affair anyway.

“That must have been hard,” I said.

“It was,” she said. “But it’s in the past. No point dwelling on it.” She smiled at me, then bit into the pastry. “Oh dear! This is too doughy. I must teach you how to bake these.”

Despite the criticism, I laughed. How did she go from being vulnerable to critical in an instant? “Sure,” I said to appease her.

I gulped the rest of my tea and placed the cup back on the coaster. I needed to get going and said as much. Did I just imagine it, or did her face fall? The guilt stabbed me in the chest again.

“Do you need anything from the shops?”

“No. I’ll be fine. But do visit.”

I promised her I would. That was three weeks ago. I had every intention of visiting Shirley, but life got in the way, as it usually does. On Thursday, I returned home to an ambulance in the driveway of our apartment block. I wondered if Shirley would scold them, too.

As I was checking the mailbox, I heard muffled barking.

Harvey. I looked around, but Shirley was nowhere to be seen.

Were there other dogs in the building I hadn’t encountered? The lift doors opened, and Harvey backed out, tail first, still barking.

“Harvey!” He stopped barking and made his way to me. That was a first.

A woman dressed in a blue paramedic’s uniform stepped out, the lift after him. Shit.

“Do you know this dog?” she asked.

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“Yes, it’s Harvey. He belongs to Shirley in Unit 3. Is everything okay?” That was a stupid question. She was a paramedic. There was an ambulance outside. Everything was not okay.

“So, you know Shirley, then,” she said. Her voice was gentle.

The kind one uses when preparing to deliver bad news.

I nodded. She told me then that Shirley had died. That her body was in the ambulance. My eyes prickled. I’d walked past the ambulance without a care in the world. I’d told Shirley I would visit and I hadn’t seen her since she generously shared a titbit of her past with me. Had she waited for me?

Wanted to share more?

“Can you keep the dog? We can’t find any family and might have to call the RSPCA to take him.” She grinned. “He doesn’t seem to like us much.”

“I’ll take him,” I said, crouching to pat the scruffy dog.

I looked up at her. “How?” She understood. “Heart attack.” She paused. “I don’t think she suffered. She passed away peacefully in her sleep. The dog was barking when the next-door neighbour left in the morning.

They didn’t think much of it, but then he was barking when they got home this evening, which apparently never happens. So they called the cops, who then called us.”

“Did they know her well?”

“No. Just met her in passing in the elevator or down here.

They’re a bit shook.”

I stood back up. Harry needed a walk.

The paramedic handed me a key. “Not sure who to give this to, but I guess the cops will want to talk to you. Plus, this guy’s food and bowls will be in her house.”

I took the key. There was no way I was entering Shirley’s house anytime soon. I’d rather walk to Woolworths and buy a new bag of dog food. But what kind of food did Harvey eat? Did he have dietary restrictions? He was an old dog, probably set in his ways. Just like Penny. Shit. Penny. She was not going to be 77

happy sharing with a dog. Oh well, I’d figure it out. I thanked the paramedic who went back in the lift.

“Come on, boy,” I said to Harvey. He followed me outside the lobby at my heels. I watched the orange glow of the sky as Harvey raised his left hind leg next to a bush, oblivious his life had changed.

About the Author Sanchana Venkatesh is a psychologist and writer. She was shortlisted for the 2021 Peter Carey Short Story Award and longlisted for the 2023/24 Local Word Writing Prize. Her writing appears in the 2018 Newcastle Short Story Award Anthology, the 2020 Better Read than Dead Writing Anthology, Kindling & Sage magazine, and the 2023 Short Stories Unlimited anthology, Leaving Home and Other Stories. Originally from India, she lives on Cammeraygal land in Sydney with her two rescue cats & her partner. In her spare time, Sanchana enjoys reading, preferably at the beach, sourcing new craft beers, and deadlifting. You can find her on sanchwrites.com BIPOC Finalists Fritland by Melis Aker A Doll of Hope by Vanessa Caraveo The Peace Sign by Lynda Smith Hoggan

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Children's/Juvenile

The Anywhere Home

by Amy E. Whitman The News It always hits the same.

HHHHH AAAA RRRR DDDDD!!!!

From my ears it falls heavy.

Very HEEEEAAAVVVVVYYYYY! The words, “We are moving…”

Each word a weighted rock fff aaaa llll iiinnnggg down one by one, all the way ddddd ooooo www nnnnnn.

Landing like sandbags in the pit of my stomach.

I hate my dad’s military job!

I want a home that becomes MY PLACE. Tired of homes being TEMPORARY SPACE! Trees, Branches, World, and Country (How I Want to Understand It) My dad is in the Coast Guard, a branch of the United States Military.

I wish it were a real branch on a real tree because then we would have real roots.

When I tell my dad, I feel like he serves his country more than his family.

He says to me, “Michaela, you and Mom are my whole world! A world is much bigger and 79

much more important than just one country.”

Then I tell my dad, “I want to live in a big and beautiful treehouse! Then I can have roots in your world that’s bigger than the country you serve?”

He answers back, “Mich, you are too smart for your own good.”

Polar Opposites We are moving from San Diego, California, to Anchorage, Alaska.

I won’t have to worry about adjusting…I’ll be frozen.

Frozen shut from getting hurt again.

I’ll be like an ice block, don’t warm up to making friends.

Don’t warm up to playing sports, don’t warm up to trying out for the school plays, don’t warm up to joining a club, or playing an instrument or taking dance classes, OR ANNN YYYYY THINNN GGGG! Rule number one ALWAYS… Don’t warm up.

Don’t let your guard DOWN! (I guess I’ll be trading Yellow-billed Magpies for polar bears.)

Polar Opposites.

The Packing One of the few perks about being a family in the military is they do all of your packing.

I wouldn’t be surprised if they are using the exact same boxes from four years ago, when we moved from New Jersey. And the move before that from Ohio to New Jersey, and the move before that from Pennsylvania.

Yep, I bet our name, “Peters,” is still marked on all the boxes.

The military packs you up pretty good, but sometimes…

Track Record: five shattered dishes, one broken chair, a ripped lamp shade and my dad’s prized autograph football got lost.

Deserves him right for taking a job that moves us around like chess pieces.

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My Survival System I pack some of my more personal things like special picture frames, stuffed animals, and fragile souvenirs.

I have a special “memory” box full of small, silly things that mean everything to me.

Packing makes me prepare physically.

But to prepare mentally, I make a list of the “goodbyes.”

Goodbyes not just to people but also to places.

Eating for the last time at my favorite restaurant, getting a last time ice cream cone at Cream Castle Ice Cream shop.

Last time rollerblading on the boardwalk, picnicking on the beach, swimming in our pool, and last looks at the palm trees.

Next step in my survival system is listing the people I need to say goodbye to.

Starting with the least important then to the most important.

Once I’m moved from here the people and places will only be visited in my memory.

Goodbye isn’t a noun.

It’s a feeling named SAD. Throw Up the Night Before #1 Same feeling.

It doesn’t change.

It doesn’t get better or easier or smoother.

It just doesn’t.

The night before we move and we leave EVVVERRRRYYYYTHINNNNGGG Behind.

How Moving Really Feels Instead of shattered dishes I have shattered dreams.

Instead of a broken chair I have broken friendships.

Instead of a ripped lamp shade I have ripped emotions.

Instead of a lost prized football 81

I have a lost me.

Lost in a sea of drifting.

Drifting further and further aaawwwaaayyyy from the old familiar to the new unknown.

The Unpacking Updated Track Record: the count is now seven shattered dishes.

(I think we should use paper plates for the rest of our lives.)

Moving In…Number One Billion (Not Really) My room is smaller than at my old house.

My mom had it specially painted blue with a sand beige trim.

It’s her way of bringing some California seaside with us.

(This may develop into a long-term case of homesickness.)

There’s a built-in bookcase at each end of a little window seat.

Thick, beige carpet softly warms the room as my pretend sand.

Slowly, I put my clothes in my dresser.

Slowly, I hang my clothes up in the closet.

What comes last…always last…is hanging up my posters.

(Hanging up posters means I’m staying.)

There’s a very cool thing I‘ve never had before at any of our other homes.

I have my very own skylight.

It’s in the shape of a diamond.

Sunlight invades by day.

Moonlight invades by night.

These are two invaders I don’t mind.

The invader I do mind is the COLD! I mean COOOLLLLLDDD! The air is sooooooooo cooooolllldddd.

But when people talk to you the air around you gets a bit warmer.

Throw Up the Night Before #2 Every possible nerve in my ENTIRE body 82

is wound up so tight.

Like a spring trap planted in my core ready to snap on all my emotions creating a HUGE explosion erupting from the bottom of my soul!

The night before my first day of school.

(At the new school to be EXACT!) New teachers, new students (who may or may not become my friends) new cafeteria food, new gym class rules (mandatory gym uniforms or not?) new school building to learn my way around, new lockers, new school secretaries, (a little trick, always make friends with the office secretaries… they can be very helpful.)

There’s a new school nurse, new custodians, new girls’ bathroom…seriously some bathrooms could use some updating.

New this.

New that.

Too much newness for one ME to handle.

I’m sooooooo homesick for California.

(Maybe, I can be absent from now until the last day of school.)

Night School It’s way too dark to be getting up for school.

Are they sure I’m not going to night school?

Maybe it will be dark for the rest of the day.

Too dark for me to be noticed.

(I can only wish.)

New School Outfit To help me be a bit less stressed I always get a new school outfit to wear on the first day of school.

Back at my old school, I’d be wearing a jumper with loose pant legs, 83

a short-sleeved top, and sandals. (Always sandals, never shoes.)

Maybe a jean jacket to top it off with some style. (Never a heavy coat.)

This new school outfit is a pair of thick pants without loose pant legs.

A long, thick sweater with an artistic design worn under a heavy coat.

And on my feet are heavy clumsy boots!

(To be honest I don’t think I’m walking in them the right way????)

The Bus Ride Getting on the bus, all the kids’ faces are looking at me, staring at me, maybe snickering at me as I walk by their seat.

EVERYBODY knows I’m new. EVERYBODY knows I’ve come from somewhere else to be part of their place here.

They can see it in me. Like I have a sign on my chest.

“Military brat.”

Though it is an honorable title it doesn’t mean the same to kids as it does to adults.

“Military brat.”

(Good luck to me trying to fit in.)

Homeroom Students surge into the school lobby like candy spilling from a jar.

Every which way they go.

Unlike me, they know where they’re going.

This is their familiar territory.

Wish that was the case for me.

I find the way to my homeroom and it’s the same old drill.

The teacher has me stand in front of the class to introduce me.

Looking out at all the kids is more terrifying than the faces on the bus.

At least no one laughs.

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(Not that I can tell anyway.)

My seat is next to a window.

(Maybe an escape window?)

Rest of the School Day The school seems cozy.

The hallways are a lily pad green.

It’s warm inside but I’m soooooo coolllddd!

By lunchtime time I’m just starting to warm up.

Some grilled fish with rice and a funky breaded dessert.

Thank goodness for Chocolate milk.

I think I’m going to enjoy my English teacher, Miss Robinson.

She has a pleasant smile.

And I think she winked at me as I was leaving her classroom.

My favorite is the library.

It’s the size of half the school. It has big windows with soft white curtains hanging from ceiling to floor.

Day one is done.

Reporting Back to the Homefront Mom and Dad want to know every detail about my first day.

They want to know if I made any friends, are the teachers nice, is the school food good, did the bus driver get lost on the way, and when is the first Open House so they can check it out?

I answer, “No, too early to tell, for the most part, no, and I don’t know.”

I enjoy my snack of hot chocolate and ginger snap cookies.

Then I go to my room to crash.

Speaking of the Homefront: My dad stands tall like a board sturdy, straight and very broad.

Everything about him is broad.

He has broad hands feet 85

hips shoulders chest even his thinking is broad.

His broadness gives me security.

In a phrase, my dad is My Shelter.

As for my mom, she’s gentle. Everything she does is done gently.

I mean everything… cleaning the house braiding my hair doing the laundry helping me with my homework keeping us organized even washing dishes.

Her gentleness gives me calm.

In a phrase my mom is My Comfort.

A Transplanted Palm Tree in the Tundra.

I stick out.

I don’t belong.

I’m taller than everyone else.

I have sun-dipped freckles on my cheeks.

My nose is red from permanent sunburn.

(Well, at least my nose fits in, being red from the cold.)

My wheat blonde hair still smells of sea salt.

My wavy arms are tanned.

My gangly legs are tanned.

My painted toenails are bold and bright.

I will never give up painting my toenails. But the looks I get when I change my socks for gym class.

(Oh, how my feet miss wearing sandals!)

Now, my toes live like trolls hidden deep inside snow boots.

I don’t fit in.

I’m a transplanted palm tree in the tundra.

86

Worry Warriors At dinner time, my dad was still at work.

So, Mom and I ate without him.

After dinner still no dad.

After we cleaned up still no dad.

Homework time and still my dad wasn’t home.

Finally, my mom calls his cell and leaves a message.

I’m done taking my shower and still no dad.

My mom calls all the possible numbers and still no answer.

She just leaves messages.

Then it kicks in we become Worry Warriors.

Over cups of tea we pray into the rising steam camouflaging our stinging tears.

This isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last my dad may be in danger and all we can do is wait.

You would think he is in the safest place on earth… a military base.

But it can be the most dangerous.

Any enemy may see a military base as a target to BLOW UP! My mom has shown me in times like this you keep your emotions in check by protecting them behind your logic until it’s time for the feelings to be released.

As Mom puts it, “There is no reason to become concerned until the facts put you there.”

Mom and I snuggle together in their bed.

We go from Worry Warriors to Waiting Warriors.

Please keep my dad safe.

My Dad a Bit of a Hero My dad came home really late last night with burns on his arms 87

and scratches on his face.

He looked pretty rough.

Mom was all concerned. Insisted he get checked out by the medics on base.

He said it was nothing to worry about.

Physically, my dad is in pretty good shape. He isn’t Mr. Muscle Man by any stretch.

But physically speaking, he is a strong man, making him a strong soldier.

Mentally, he is very level-headed. It takes a lot to shake him up.

I mean A LOT! So, yeah, this was nothing… yet it was something.

He didn’t give us lots of details, but enough for us to know what has happened.

Apparently, (one of my dad’s favorite words) a routine “drill” goes wrong.

Something malfunctions and my dad steps in to help three fellow soldiers from getting seriously hurt.

He downplays it, but the higher-ups are very grateful to him as well as the soldiers he helped.

So, yeah, talk is my dad is a bit of a hero.

This is what soldiers do. They have each other’s backs no matter the cost.

Go Dad!!!!!

Get a Bit of Attention Because of Dad’s Bit of Heroism So the next day, Dad’s bit of heroism news starts stirring around town.

As I’m climbing the steps to get on the bus the bus driver asks me, “Is your dad the guy who saved those soldiers at the base?”

I answer shy as a sheep, “Yeah, that’s my dad.”

“Well, tell him thank you for his service.”

As I’m walking back to my seat, kids are smiling at me.

Some are nodding their heads, acknowledging me— you know, displaying an unannounced kind of respect.

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I get to homeroom and there is all kinds of buzz.

Again, kids smile at me, nod their heads and one kid even salutes me. (I totally didn’t know what to do with that one.)

Then at lunch, it gets really crazy.

I’m sitting at my table eating my lunch and this super skinny boy comes up to me.

He tosses his thick hair out of his face and says, “Your dad saved my dad from getting really hurt. Would you tell him thank you for us?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell him,” I respond with a proud heart.

And he walks away.

This is all a win-win for me. My dad is okay. He saved other kids’ dads from getting hurt.

He deserves to shine a little like a local hero.

Works for me cause at the end of the day, I finally get noticed!

I have crossed the line from being dismissed on the outside to becoming welcomed on the inside.

My Mother’s Yellow Kitchen My mother has always wanted a yellow kitchen.

I hear her complaining to my dad, “Patrick, we move from house to house and I still haven’t gotten my yellow kitchen. I want a bright, warm yellow kitchen.”

“Liz, honey, it will happen, I promise.”

My mom and I look at each other.

“Pat, I’m calling the painters.”

I’m Going Vegetarian I’m sitting at the table with my mom and dad eating my most favorite meal—tacos with all the toppings.

THEN my dad asks my mom this most horrible question which keeps playing over and over in my head.

“Did you use moose or caribou to make the taco meat?”

I scream, “WHHAATTT are you TTTAAAALLLKKKING about?

89

Moose or caribou meat? Dad, are you delusional?”

“Michaela, you’ve been eating meat since we moved here.

You love the meatballs I make, the meatloaf, the hamburgers, and your favorite the tacos.” My mom sympathetically explains.

“Correction, it isn’t hamburgers because there isn’t any “ham” in the hamburger.

It’s mooseburger. And from now on I’m going vegetarian!”

“Good luck with that,” my dad says, “Alaska is known for cabbage.”

“Ugh! I hate cabbage.”

I’m Not New Anymore My school day starts off as normal.

But when I get to homeroom there’s a NEW GIRL!!!!!

She sits two rows over from my seat.

She has very long, straight, dark hair.

She is very nice. (Well, I haven’t actually talked to her yet.)

Her name is Gloria.

How WONDERFUL it feels not to be the NEW ONE ANYMORE!!!!!

(I totally love this feeeelinggg!)

Glorious Day Now that I’m not the new girl anymore I’m showing Gloria the ropes of the school and basic stuff like that.

I show her the nurse’s office, the shortcut to the cafeteria, which bathroom to use cause it’s cleaner, and the best spot to sit and read in the library.

I tell her about which office secretary is the nicest and which one is grumpy.

We walk about the halls as if we have known each other forever!

Gloria doesn’t ride on my bus. But that’s okay cause she’s in my homeroom and most of my classes.

Meeting Gloria makes for a GLORIOUS DAY!!!!

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As It Is My life as it is.

Gloria and I, along with some other girls, sing in the school chorus.

Sometimes at practice we laugh more than sing.

I tried piano lessons, but got too overwhelmed.

On Tuesday and Thursday nights I play basketball.

I may even try out a dance class.

Mom has changed her cooking style.

We’re all hooked on Alaskan seafood.

Dad calls it “the seefood diet.” He sees the food and eats it!

Mom finally has her bright, warm yellow kitchen even in the midst of the dark, cold white outside.

I’m a military brat.

I have a title most kids don’t have.

But it’s more than that…

I’m a soldier in my own way.

So next time we have to move (and there will be a next time, and a next time after that.)

I can make it home because Me in a phrase Necessary Adapter I can make “anywhere” my home.

About the Author Amy E. Whitman has a degree in English writing and literature with two diplomas from The Institute of Children’s Literature. Her book, “Half on Tuesdays,” was published in 2019 and placed as a finalist in the Next Generation INDIE Book Awards in 2021. She placed second in the PNWA Picture Book Contest for “Captain Barlow’s Pirate Ship” slated for publication in 2025. Also, slated for publication in 2025 is her book, “The Colors of Jesus.”

When Amy isn’t writing, she enjoys reading, swimming, and family time. Amy’s home away from home is the children’s section of any library or bookstore.

Visit Amy online at www.amyewhitman.com.

91

College/University Students

Julie

by Eva Carignan Our alarm rings again. It’s still dark, but it always is when he gets ready for work. We live too damn close for him to be getting up at dawn. I swear. We’re right next to the school, our kitchen window opens onto the parking lot. Soon, the stretch of concrete will flood with yellow buses and at noon, I’ll hear rubber soles scratch the pavement with boundless energy. But for now... for now, I shall hide my sore eyes from the premature light peeking through the blinds. Clutching desperately at my pillow, I can hear him shuffling down the hallway that connects our bedroom to the kitchen. His soft steps attempt to lull me back to sleep. His hesitancy apologizes like a kid creeping into their parent’s room in the middle of the night.

The cracking of a fourth egg into the whirring blades of our mixer tells me that a glass full of protein-rich viscosity will wait for me in the fridge. Attached to it will be a shorthand note, impossible to decipher, probably “I love you” or something sweet to rot, crumpled up in the trash. Coming back to our bedroom for the jacket he left perched over the clothes chair, he tops off his routine with a gentle kiss that persuades me to keep asleep.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” it says. Finally, the latch shuts in all its coppery delicacy, cueing my limbs to exhale and imbibe the vast landscape of our full bed. I stretch to each edge. “Mine, all mine,” I think to myself, or perhaps, relieved, I say it out loud. I 92

indulge in free-flowing dialogue between myself and the ceiling fan, “The new flooring is coming in today. Who will install it?”

A bubbling laughter ejects from my breath. I’m joking, of course.

I will be the one on my hands and knees, carefully placing the vinyl over the concrete. I should really hire an assistant or an unpaid intern, one of those college students with high GPAs and poor resumes. I can see the call now. It flashes before me like a hologram infomercial: Looking for a young and bright-minded dancer with teaching experience. THIS IS AN UNPAID POSITION. Tasks include setting up a new floor, slate by slate, with no space in between and minimal air pockets—preferably none. Start immediately.

You’re mine.

Okay, maybe not that last bit, but please come quick. I need you.

Rain taps at my window, letting me know that the children won’t go outside this lunch. Too elated to get out of bed, I slowly stretch to open the curtains as though the silence would pierce into our room like bursting rays of sun. Sprawled between the caked sheets of our bed, I hesitate to slip back into sleep just to dampen the cacophony of my stomach. I swear I stuffed it to the brim with saltines last night. I’ll grab food at the studio. I can’t miss the shipment guys again. Women my age should flee gluttony any way they can. It’s not supposed to be easy.

Before leaving, I pour his leftover protein shake down the drain where it belongs. Gray clumps stick to the sink. I would upchuck if this weren’t routine by now. The smell has already spread through the fridge; I bet it seeped into the bolognese he made last night. Maybe he’ll heat some up for me tonight when I crawl back from work, depleted, to rest in his exhausted arms.

I’ll ask him for food while indulging in the ritual of complaining about one of my girls who could be better if she just tried.

“She needs to want it more,” I’ll say. “I give them everything.

I’m their biggest—no, their only fan—and they can barely muster 93

the strength to suck in their guts at the barre. A few hours at a desk eyeing a pimply boy who doesn’t know their name, and they’ve lost the mental capacity to remember the combination.”

He’ll try to calm me, but I’ll just be getting warmed up. “I see them more than their mothers!” I’ll say. “I am their mother!” I’ll scream. And he’ll know, and he’ll hold me against my resistance until I am a speck of dust, immobile and calm.

My cheeks flush in anticipation as a deep breath resets me, smothering the embarrassment stuck in my chest. I smooth out my nerves with the habitual French twist. Who says gray streaks can’t be sexy? Once my hair is up and my skin is taut with tension, I reach for a floral skirt because I’m happy today. I can’t forget my black zip-up, of course, the one with my name as a suffix to ‘Professor,’ all in teal embroidery. I got a few made for my eldest girls; they all wear them before class, brandishing their aquamarine name tags with pride.

I again struggle with the lock I’ve promised myself to fix, which delays my departure. That’s what I’ll tell the floor guys.

Out the door I go and into the stale air that weighs on our neighborhood and only lets up between August and September, before school starts, when the atmosphere is swollen—ripe with anticipation. The flooring will have to wait until tomorrow; I am in no shape to get on my knees before the girls arrive.

I wish I could say my girls remind me of myself at their age.

Only I knew what it took to become something, to show up every day and work harder than the day before. At nineteen, I was on track to becoming a soloist at the National Swiss Ballet. I can still feel the zeal that burned inside me, the way the spotlight hit my left side first, and the slight slant on the stage that every dancer knew to avoid. Looking at pictures from those days, he often tells me he wishes he knew me then, before the injury, as though my potential shielded me from my own cynicism. But there was never really a ‘me’ before. There was only an until. A 94

distinctive frown that knew her fate. I’ve had the same stern face since my youth, doomed to eternal maturity. Today, stained with signs of wear, I am destined to repeat the same corrections to kids who will eventually quit dance. I fear my time shall amount to nothing but vestiges of patience lost.

Before this moment of distress could tighten its grip, the telephone yelled out from my makeshift office, previously known as the closet next to the bathroom. The first tinkering he did when we bought the place was to replace my closet-office door with a curtain to ‘let the space breathe.’ A third ring is followed by a click.

“This is she,” I say, answering to a woman who “wants the ballet school.”

“My daughter Evelyn has been practicing—” She wants to enroll her little prodigy in my strip mall studio, which she is more than welcome to.

Putting on my customer service voice, I answer, “She will start with the level 2s, kids her age. Then, if she excels, I’ll move her up after the New Year.”

“No, no, listen, she wants to be a level three.”

“I am sure she does.” I pause to contain my annoyance.

“Which school was she previously attending?”

At that instant, I almost set her in for level one. Never trust hippies who think ballet can be self-taught.

“She’s gifted.”

“As everyone’s child is, ma’am.”

The receiver clicks.

I would have fought for longer, but class was about to start.

I say this next remark with a speck of cruelty, I admit, but the thought of little Evelyn, crushed by the pressure of her mother’s expectations... I bet she doesn’t even like to dance. The idea of this little girl leaving a level three class in tears, bearing an insurmountable feeling of incompetence that she can’t explain, sounds like a well-merited lesson. And besides, level three classes 95

are upcharge by $20, so I guess she’s worth a shot.

I emerge from my enclave just in time to round up the baby ballet girls, which I call them factually and without affection. I urge them to stop running around before they splatter against the walls. Convincing them to stand at the barre, I send a quick prayer up to the Virgin Mary and brace for my descent into the first circle of hell. The youngests of my pupils form a group of barely conscious humans whose parents don’t have the heart to leave at daycare for a couple more hours. They pull and probe at me relentlessly. Jesus, if they call me ‘Momma’ one more time, I’ll have to kick one of them to scare the others into compliance. Not hard. My shoes are soft-toed.

The following group’s maturity finally allows us the courtesy of dancing. My level twos can hold a straight spine at the barre and integrate half my comments on the first listen. Next week we’ll start adagios, and they will go home with a list of anklestrengthening exercises to do every night if they wish to start pointe work at a reasonable age.

I have a 45-minute break before my level threes, and he knows this. I grab a Granny Smith apple and one of those organic energy drinks that taste bland enough to feel healthy before picking up the line.

“Hi, honey,” he’s tired, his voice is sagging. “How are you?

Did the flooring come?”

“Yes,” I lied. “I’m good. There’s a new girl joining my threes.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about it. I’m almost home and—” He’s cut off by the sound of the chime above the studio door.

It’s the flooring! Thank God! “Yes, love you, bye,” I say before hurrying to the door.

A dark-eyed child stands solemnly in front of me. She has the look of one of those dogs whose bellies hang too low to the ground. She says nothing, and neither do I. She stares a little longer—she wins—and so I break: 96

“You must be Evelyn, or do you go by Evie?”

She refuses to give me a nod of approval.

“Your mom called,” I add. “You’re early.”

Finally, the corners of her mouth crease in agreement, but her eyes stay fixed on a spot on the ground. I fear another comment would trouble her, so I end by telling her that she can pick a spot on the floor and stretch if she needs to.

From the sheer curtain separating my office from the timid girl, I watch as she sits, then stands, then sits again. Pristine ballet slippers make their way out of their plastic wrapper and onto her feet, which she examines curiously in the mirror. I can’t help but wince in anticipation. Standing, her gaze works its way up from her tights to the clasp on her magenta leotard, which fastens at the base of her neck. She grips the barre, measuring its circumference between her index finger and thumb. Every move is hesitant; she breathes through them. The unfamiliar chime shakes her out of her reverie and a stout girl, usually first in the studio, stares at her, stunned at the clean-shoed magenta girl on the floor.

Miriam is in all her states in front of the newbie; she feels her standing is threatened even before class has begun. She wonders what hidden talent may lie beneath Evelyn’s unworldly punctuality. As Miriam flows through her sequence of stretches— overkill—she notices Evelyn imitating her movements with slight variations so as not to be perceived, which flatters her, making her overstretch until the pain eats at her ligaments. Before long, eleven pupils find their way to their places at the barre. Uniformly distributed lemon leotards stare and whisper ‘hi’ to the black sheep at the extremity, whose body contrasts sharply with her thin, pale legs.

I clear my throat. “Class is beginning,” a familiar veil of silence falls over us. “Evelyn, in this studio, we don’t wear skirts; leave that for the company dancers. I, however, would appreciate seeing your placement.” She blushes and unfastens the strings, 97

making faces of disgust at her mistake. She also removes her shrug, which I insist is fine, but the other girls have bare shoulders, and so she must as well. She had already started undressing when I told her and would be more embarrassed to change her course of action, showing signs of panic to the onlooking girls, than to stay steadfast in her decision.

She speaks for the first time in a voice graver than anticipated: “I’m just hot.”

“Alright,” I shift the attention away from the duckling.

“Let’s do one grand plié followed by two demis.” I can sense her nervousness. Nonetheless, she keeps a natural tempo in line with the others. Her technique is an amalgam of flaws, but her fingertips are dipped in joy.

“Evelyn, elongate your spine.” She corrects herself. “Good.” I continue my rounds. It is no secret that she is the weakest of the bunch; she knows it, and so does Miriam, relieved to be keeping her spot at the top of the technical pyramid. Today is too late; still, Evelyn sweats, drenched in effort.

“Turn out your supporting leg. Do you know where your weight is supposed to be? Show me a third port de bras.” She fails.

“No, I said third. Are you deaf?”

She shakes her head no, and I feel her cracking under the weight of my demands. I need her to be stronger.

“Balance. Straight leg. Don’t hold the barre. Let go of the barre. Let go of the barre!” I yell. “Let go!”

She does. It’s only the two of us. I’m fed up with girls who think they deserve to improve; their frustration is distracting.

Regardless, my focus shall not leave Evelyn, but I will give her a moment to rest.

As we begin center, I stray to Miriam’s side. She’s a turner, front and center. Such confidence in art is arrogance.

“Evelyn, lift up! Stabilize your hips.” She doesn’t know how to adjust. She wobbles and steps out of every pirouette. It’s embarrassing.

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“Can you hear me, dear? Is my voice not reaching you?” Void eyes stare back. “You can answer me, you know.”

I guide the class into diagonals across the floor. Her jumps gleam with potential.Our car’s dim lights reach my office. I’m starving, as usual, and he expects it. He greets me with the gentleness of a zookeeper locked in a lion’s den.

“How are you feeling?” Looking at my stomach, he insinuates more than he openly speaks.

I don’t answer.

“And how was class,” he asks without making it a question.

“I think we got ourselves a winner,” I try to hold back a smile.

“What?”

“I can make something out of this newbie.”

“Relax,” he says, not understanding.

He didn’t see what I saw, the will to push past the pearling sweat that stung her eyes. I know what I saw, and it had nothing to do with the mundane level threes who sit comfortably in their known. She wants it. I know it.

At home, he prepares a couple of plates of tepid leftovers that we scoff down, omitting any futile attempt at conversing.

Washing the dishes and cursing our lack of machinery, I lie: “I feel good about this one.”

He smiles, dreaming about the school in our backyard. I withhold that I got my period this morning, late last night. He was already asleep. We still pay rent on the studio, and I sew all the costumes for the end-of-year recital. And we never take hot showers.

He hugs me from behind, his hands on my hips, working their way around the bony narrowness of my shape. I can’t help but sigh.

“I’ll take a test tonight.” I can feel his excitement work its way through his muscles, tensing them up.

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Why do I have to be the one to disappoint? The evil witch that I am wants to see him suffer, to never get what he dreams of because I never got mine. Maybe it would be better to leave him, to give him a chance at a baby with some other woman, one who functions. I’ll wake up tomorrow and pick a fight, irreconcilable this time. I’ll argue so hard, I promise. My poor love, he will never have to see my devastated face again. My love is to spare. How could he lay against the backdrop of a barren woman? He should replace me with a girl. Love fades, but children are forever. It’s my own damn fault, for which I shall stay unforgiven and alone on my knees.

I stand at a stark five feet, ten inches, but today, pressed up against the frosty window of an overcrowded bus, my verticality is challenged by the mass that protrudes out of the clean lines of my abdominals. My eyes catch those of a frail woman, hers locking with my navel. As I shift uncomfortably under her observation, her palm gropes my stomach.

“Is it your first?” she asks, excitedly inhaling all the remaining air in the bus.

I don’t know what to say to this intrusive hag.

“No,” I respond, as she nods in disappointment.

Are strangers entitled to honesty? The thought escapes me as my focus pivots to my approaching stop. The walkway to the studio is slick with ice, a misleading layer of snow hiding the danger, but I know better. Bags of salt are slashed and sprinkled on the pavement to protect my pretty dancers.

I exist for a moment in a guilt-ridden fantasy: the torture I would put myself through if I slipped, hitting the ground with a thud, my stomach absorbing most of the shock. I would call him and cry, and exhale.

A scream breaks through the glass window panes, filling the stretch of space between me and the entrance as I bolt towards it.

I open it and waves of pain slam it shut behind me. My baby’s on 100

the floor, and she doesn’t know where to put her hands. The pain is radiating outwards from the new flooring. Her tibia crosses over the axis formed between her ankle and her knee.

She wants to hold it, but out flows what seems to be all the blood in her little body, and in mine.

She’ll never dance again.

The studio is lifeless and chilly, its mirrored walls surrounding me. They magnify my bulging body, mocking me. I’m drowning in fat, and I don’t think I’ll ever bounce back. Who am I kidding?

Of course I will, but I want to be thin now.

Distracting myself, I grab the barre to warm up for my level fours. We’re flick-flacking for the first time today. The barre starts to crack before I can hoist my leg up to a reasonable 90 degrees.

Front arabesque. Maybe it’s still too cold.

My girls flood in early to stretch. Their suppleness is still vivacious enough to be unbothered by negative temperatures.

They work so hard, my girls. They’re the only ones who haven’t gone soft on me—my level fours. No, my girls don’t pity me; they respect me. Even when my size prevents me from marking the combination, they pardon me. Puddles of sweat make the floor tacky, and all I can do is sit. Evelyn’s face contorts in a mix of pain and forced stillness. I tell her to relax her mouth, almost triggering the cramp that made its way from her glutes to her hips as she attempted to smile through a back attitude on pointe.

“Keep your supporting leg turned out,” I think to myself.

I don’t have to vocalize it, but she knows this is what is meant when I twist her thigh.

“Get over your box,” I say aloud for all the girls. Evie nods but falls off pointe.

“Sorry,” she says in an angry voice meant only for herself.

“Do it again.” Her leg trembles as it brushes off the ground.

“How was your leg strong a moment ago but weak now?” I ask her.

“I don’t know.”

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“You don’t know?” My eyes are beaming.

I hold her leg outstretched toward the sky.

“Look at this. This is your potential. Do you see this?”

“Yes,” she confirms, struggling as the weight of her leg lessens in my hands, yet not enough for me to let go.

“Come on, push a little harder,” I insist.

She fails, and I drop her leg so she can see that the height struggled to achieve was still outside her reach.

The pace of class soon picks up, except for Evelyn, who slugs along, staying hidden in the back row among the insecure girls during the entirety of center. Perhaps she’s a bit sore, but by morning the soft hurt will disperse. She knows this. Inescapable, it seems, the battle transpiring in her determined mind— disgruntled because she fears she failed me with her exhausted leg, thinking I demand too much of her. It’s quite the opposite.

She makes me proud, leaving pieces of herself in the studio every night, never letting fatigue limit her efforts, never complaining.

All that is left is for her to crave the discomfort with even more rigor. Now, she tries to love it. This is her mistake. It is better to strive for it than to bask in it.

I peek out the window as I prepare to head out for the night.

My gaze follows her as she enters the passenger seat of her mother’s car. Before she can pull the seatbelt across her chest, tears begin to flow uninterrupted. I try to read their lips, but nobody says anything. It must be routine. Reversing the car, her mother keeps a clean expression as she passes a tissue box to the girl—her girl. Her spotlights, gone away, have left in their absence a single lamp post that dimly illuminates the studio lot—just enough for me to lock up.

I tilt my head up to the sky to see the few constellations that have been spared by light pollution. I close my eyes and wish upon the stars that line Orion’s Belt. I say hi to my baby boy. He’s among the suns, even though I still carry what’s left of him. I wonder what will become of his memory. I’ve already forgotten 102

the feeling of his movement, his limbs excited by the classical music of class. They’ve scheduled me for next Friday, to birth his death. It’s what’s most convenient for everyone.

We haven’t settled on a name. I don’t know if we have to or if it matters. I have not cried. I’ll kiss him goodbye, and I’ll let my husband sob for us both onto the steering wheel. We’ll park crooked in the driveway and stumble into bed. He’ll hold my emptiness, and maybe then I will sleep.

About the Author Eva Carignan is a writer and filmmaker studying cognitive science at Columbia University. Raised in Montréal in a bilingual, biracial household, she draws on Québécois sensibilities to explore themes of restraint, interiority, and the things left unsaid.

She also writes and performs for her self-produced sketch comedy series The Sunday Evening Show, and recently retired from competitive skiing. evacarignan.com College/University Students Finalists In The Rearview by Hailey Jones Plot by Yimiao Wang The Land of Ultimate Bliss by Yimiao Wang

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Fairy Tales/Fantasy

Stolen By The Sea

by Travis A. Seabrook As I drifted into this vast darkness that engulfed my body, I knew that this was the end of me. The only light was from the moon, which sat on the water like a spotlight on its leading character in a play. However, as I sank deeper into the depths of the water, the light slowly diminished, and the ocean invited me into its realm. Instinct demanded I hold my breath for as long as it took for someone to save me. Even though I knew that no one would come, at this moment, I was alone—helpless, vulnerable, and slowly dying. I was internally screaming to let go and breathe in the water I once loved—water I swam in, surfed in, and everything in between. As a small child, water was my entire life. Growing up and living on the coast of the Atlantic was nothing short of an adventure. Every weekend, if not every day, was a five-minute trip to the beach with friends. It was a trip where the only worry was a debate over whether we were taking the boat out or jet skis—adventures where we would find remote islands—build fires, drink, and dance the night away. I loved the water so much that I wanted to be closer. So, I bought a house right off the ocean’s coast.

And now, a freak accident—that’s what they’d call it. I relived the moment over and over as I sank deeper into the water’s depths. I had been on the dock, a simple misstep sending me over the edge. I could have just swum back to the surface if only 104

it had been that easy. Unfortunately, the sharp impact to my head before I hit the water left me disoriented, my body sluggish and unresponsive. The world around me blurred, the shimmering light above growing fainter as the current pulled me farther down. What a weird feeling, watching yourself sink slowly and being unable to save yourself.

However, before the last breath escaped me, there was a webbed-like hand that reached out and grabbed me. In a moment when I should have been terrified, I was relieved. Even though this mysterious hand was foreign and unbelievable, I felt saved.

Her face—a beacon of refuge, the savior that I hoped for and yelled out through the inner parts of my mind. She was beautiful— her colors bright, even in the darkness of my surroundings.

Could this be a dream? Am I dying?

In these brief moments, I questioned my sanity. Her arms had scaled-like fins that sat perfectly manicured off her arms.

They were colorful, with different green, purple, and blue hues.

She looked more human than what I would think a mermaid was. However, her toes webbed like her fingers, so I secondguessed her as a mermaid. Her composure was unsure—her glance looked at me and then up above us as if calculating her next move. I knew we were too far from the surface, and I was running out of time. She had to know as well.

Her mouth opened as if trying to communicate with me, but vibrations were the only sound escaping her lips. Low, soft vibrations hummed through my ears like a smooth melody of another language I could not understand.

Suddenly, she pressed her lips into mine and breathed life into me. She didn’t stop there. For minutes, she embraced me and continued to breathe into my mouth. My lungs, once on the brink of collapsing, were full. Once she let go of me, she gave me a nod.

“Breathe,” she said calmly, her voice breaking through the density of the water. It startled me that I was once unable to 105

understand her, but now I could. Breathe? Was she crazy? I was still what seemed like hundreds of feet below the surface.

So I held my breath.

She took her hand and slowly pressed it up against my chest, then rubbed it gently.

“Breathe,” she whispered again.

I didn’t listen. Instead, I continued to hold my breath until I started to feel faint and couldn’t hold it any longer. My head started feeling light-headed, and my lungs shriveled up again.

She backed away from me and held my hands as we floated in the darkness.

I was drowning all over again.

Even though this body of water surrounded me, I could feel a tear fall from my eyes. I was finally ready to stop holding my breath.

I nodded at her, then said, “Thank you,” back. It was my final peace offering before I inhaled a mouthful of water.

I could feel the water go into my mouth and through my neck. I swiftly pulled my hands to my neck to feel gills on each side. My eyes widened as I looked at her, and a smile formed on her face.

“Keep breathing,” she demanded as she swam around me.

I breathed in deep, in a panic. Gulping in the water around me as it oxidized through my bloodstream.

“I’m breathing underwater!” I screamed in excitement.

“Yes, you are,” she replied as she floated before me. “My name is Salara, the Gaian of life. What is your name?”

As I focused on breathing, my attention gradually shifted to my hands. Before my eyes, they began to change—delicate membranes stretched between my fingers, transforming them into webbed appendages. A shimmering layer of scales hardened across my skin, creeping up my arms like an intricate, living armor. As the transformation settled, the colors deepened, 106

radiating with an iridescent glow that pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat.

As I waved my hands around in the water, the force was impeccable, moving me with ease through the water with every movement. I was amazed.

“My name is Charlie,” I responded, holding my hand out.

Salara looks at my hand and then back at me as if unaware of what a handshake is.

Suddenly, a tidal wave of emotions surged through me, crashing against my chest with an intensity I couldn’t contain.

Salara reached out, her grip firm yet oddly gentle. I barely registered the warmth of her touch before the last sliver of my vision faded into darkness. The world slipped away, and I surrendered to the void.

Slowly, my eyes opened—my vision hazy and blurred as I came to. It was much brighter than before, so I assumed it was morning. I looked around and noticed I was in a caved room, lying on a makeshift rock bed. Then I remembered my fall into the water. I lifted my hands to my neck and felt the gills. I looked around and saw the bubbles rippling from the ocean floor, escaping through a hole at the top of the cave. It was colorful in the room—filled with plant life, anemones, and seashells. There were various items, like a mirror and a brush, on a nearby ledge.

I got up from the bed and swam around the room. A dark shadow swam across the top of the cave as I swam around. I backed up and watched as Salara entered the cave.

“Hello,” she greets me.

I pause and stare at her. “Where am I?” She tilts her head and then swims to her mirror, her locs flowing gracefully behind her as she shifts through the water.

“Well, I brought you to Esthers Cavern. It’s about a hundred miles out from where I found you.” She explains as she carefully looks at herself in the mirror. She clips a seashell to her hair and then smiles at her reflection.

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“Am I dead?” I asked hesitantly, almost scared to hear the answer.

Salara chuckles, then looks at me through the mirror. “Far from it,” I had more questions and asked, “How is this possible?”

Salara breaks her gaze from the mirror and swims up to me.

She grabs my hand and pulls me towards the hole at the top of the cave. We both swim out of the hole and into the openness of the ocean. Vibrant aquatic plants swayed gently with the currents, weaving between schools of shimmering fish that darted through the water. Among the natural beauty, intricately carved housing structures blended seamlessly into the environment, their designs reflecting the harmony between the aquatic life and the ocean depths they called home. It was an exquisite scene to witness.

All kinds of creatures like Salara filled the space—ancient ones with wisdom etched into their luminous scales, mothers cradling their young with protective hums, and playful children weaving between them, their laughter echoing like a melody through the water. Each one carried a unique aura, a presence that added to their kind’s vast and mesmerizing world. I was in awe of it all—a truly breathtaking, picturesque village of life beyond the realms of what I knew to be true.

“Welcome to Esthers Cavern,” Salara welcomes me as I follow her, taking everything in.

We swam deeper into the ocean’s depths, towards the sea floor. Down below had the same amount of character, but still very different and unique. It reminded me of a market in the city.

Creatures were cutting up fish and cracking oysters, and various items were bartered and traded.

Salara took me to one vendor and smiled at the guy selling oysters.

“Two, please,” she says to him, then hands him a small seashell.

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He takes it from her and then grabs two oysters, cracking them open and handing them to her. Salara takes them and hands me one as she smiles at me. She holds the seashell up, then presses it against mine before pressing the half-shelled seashell to her lips and slurping in the oyster. I followed and ate the oyster.

To my surprise, the taste was different than what I remembered.

It didn’t have a slimy fishy texture but a meaty salted delicacy.

“Oh wow, that was delicious!” I say with pure excitement in my voice.

I noticed a glow in Salara when I critiqued the food. She grabbed my hand, and we moved to the next vendor, which was much different than the one before. This vendor was selling seashell bracelets. Salara looked around as I observed her. There was something about her presence that was irresistible but also familiar. I followed her as if I knew her, as if I trusted her. She didn’t frighten me or make me question my situation’s reality. I felt comfortable and at home with her.

Her face lit up, and then she reached forward and grabbed two bracelets from the far back of the vendor’s stand. Both bracelets were beautiful—one was black and the other purple, both with small cowrie shells. I could already tell she loved cowrie shells because they were the same ones she clipped to her hair before we left. Salara swam to me, grabbed my wrist, and wrapped the bracelet around it. She then handed me her purple bracelet so I could put it on her. I smile at her as I delicately take her dainty wrist and tie the bracelet around it. We both glance at each other, our eyes locked. She breaks our gaze and then hands more seashells to the vendor owner from her bag.

We both swam away and continued on the tour. She took me around the community, and there was an array of things to explore. Nearby was what she called the current transport—an underwater transportation system that helped you get around the tavern quicker and more efficiently. As we got closer, I noticed how intricate the system was. It was powered by a 109

naturally occurring current that Salara said was ancient. It’s been a live current for centuries, dating back to when the Gaia Larkins first settled on these grounds. They discovered the current and carefully crafted it into a continuous, broader spectrum of travel—weaving and opening its portals to create a metro system to the most populated spots.

We took the current transport to another section of Esthers Cavern. Salara wanted to show me the Kingdom’s Palace.

“So, what exactly is a Gaia Larkin?” I asked curiously. “I’ve never heard of such creatures. I mean, we have books about sirens and mermaids, but none about Gaia Larkin’s.”

We swam through the grand entrance of the Kingdom’s Palace, and I marveled at the breathtaking, more refined area of Esther’s Cavern. If Atlantis were real, I wouldn’t need any convincing—this reminded me of it. Towering structures and caves stretched as far as the eye could see, seamlessly woven into the ocean’s depths, a masterpiece sculpted by the Gaia Larkin themselves. The entire underwater ecosystem pulsed with color, and the bioluminescent glow cast an ethereal light that made the water and fish shimmer.

“Mermaids are vicious and ugly creatures. Sirens are even worse. You don’t want to cross over into the dark realm where they live. If you do, you are never to return.” Salara warns me, then continues, “Gaia Larkin are the more carefree creatures of the waters. We are crafted in beauty, and some of us are born into this world with a special ability.”

Salara goes on to explain that there are many different types of special abilities that a Gaia Larkin can have, and these abilities are called links. Salara’s link is to create Gaia Larkins with a simple breath, which is how she saved me from drowning. Salara explained that, while there weren’t many people with links and she was unsure how many links there were, there were five that she knew of for sure—hers, which was the Gaian of Life. Then there was the Gaian of 110

Summoning, who wielded the power to control the minds of humans, bending them to their will. The Gaian of Destiny possessed the rare gift of seeing the future through vivid, prophetic dreams. The Gaian of Regeneration was a healer, able to mend their wounds and the injuries of others with astonishing speed.

Finally, there was the Shifting Gaian, a master of transformation capable of assuming the form of any aquatic creature, blending seamlessly into the ocean’s depths.

“I can’t believe Sirens and Mermaids are real. Then Gaia Larkins comes and blows my mind completely out of the water.

No pun intended.” I say as we swim back toward her cave after spending an hour exploring the Kingdom’s Palace.

Salara laughs at what I say and then looks at me.

Once we get closer to her place, I notice we are going in a different direction from her cave.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Salara continued to swim without saying a word, and I followed closely behind her. I could still see her cave as she swam into another cave, so we weren’t that far away. I dived into the cave after her, and it was empty. We both swim around the cave in silence, then come to a halt.

“It’s not much, but you can make it your own,” Salara says hesitantly.

I look at her, confused, and tilt my head. “Make it my own?

Salara, I have to get back to the surface. I have to go home.”

Salara gets quiet and looks away from me. Tension filled the cave, unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It cut between us, jagged and rough, piercing through without mercy. The water around us was impeccably quiet as I waited for her to say anything, but she remained silent.

I swam up to her and touched her shoulder to turn back around and face me. Her eyes, glistening and full of sorrow, gazed upon me.

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Finally, she breaks her silence, “You can’t go back, Charlie.”

Her words stormed through me, crashing like waves against jagged rocks, leaving me breathless and disoriented as if each syllable was a force that shook the very core of my being.

Hesitantly, I respond, “What do you mean, Salara? What do you mean I can’t go back?”

Salara sighed and then closed her eyes as she continued to speak, “Once the breath of life has flowed through you, you become a Gaia Larkin. You cannot return to the surface. We call it the kiss of fate.”

“You mean the kiss of death,” I respond rudely.

Salara’s eyes widened before reverting to a sorrowful expression. Her eyebrows arched low, her face woven with regret.

“But I saved you. A kiss of death is hurtful, Charlie. You were going to die. I couldn’t just let you die.” Salara explained as she fidgeted with her hands.

“There’s gotta be a way to get me back home, Salara.” I pace back and forth in deep thought, then continue speaking out loud to myself, “Maybe if I just go back to the surface, I’ll shift back into my human form, and everything will be—” “—That won’t work! We’ve tried this before, and it doesn’t work.” Salara interrupted. “If you try to resurface, you will die!”

“How many times have you done this, Salara?” I asked her, my voice now unsteady and shaking with every word spoken.

Salara looks around the cave and answers, “You’re the third time.”

“And what happened to the first two people?” I continued to question her relentlessly. Once again, Salara was quiet. Tears began to roll down her face, a fascinating blue trail of tears.

“They tried to resurface,” Salara explained, her voice low and body language defeated.

I sighed deeply, shaking my head in disbelief as I processed Salara’s words. The weight of the decision settled heavily on my chest. What am I supposed to do now? The world I had come 112

to know, the people I had loved, everything I had worked for seemed to be slipping through my fingers. To become a Gaia Larkin meant abandoning that world for something far beyond my comprehension. The thought made my heart race, the anxiety crawling up my throat.

“I need to be alone,” I say sternly to Salara.

Salara, without question, swims out of the cave and disappears.

I sit in the middle of the cave and question my entire existence.

Could this be real, or was this all a dream? If so, why can’t I wake up? I wanted this not to be true. I wanted to wake up and be back in my bed, in the confines of my own room, in the peaceful suburbia I lived in. The world I once knew felt so far away, and I felt as though somewhere along the lines, I took it for granted.

Now, this was my karma.

Esthers Cavern was a beautiful place, and the Gaia Larkin were an incredible species, but they weren’t home—they weren’t me.

However, as I sat there wallowing away at my unfortunate circumstance, I also questioned if this could possibly be for me. This world was beautifully unique and free—there were no worries about everyday human struggles. Everything seemed a lot less stressful down here. The Gaia Larkin were welcoming, friendly, and happy life forms, willing to share their space with newcomers.

While stuck in a brief moment of defeat, I always stayed in the present and took things as they were. I sat in the middle of the cave for hours and processed what happened to me. I thought about possibly attempting to go back home to see if what Salara said would happen was true.

Eventually, I succumbed to the inevitable—there was no way back to the surface.

I accepted my fate and attempted to hype myself up about all the adventures I’d have under the sea. Soon, I felt a sense of clarity and excitement with each thought that crossed my mind.

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As I sat there, my mood shifted, and I became happy. I felt at peace.

Suddenly, a weird feeling came over my body, and I looked down at my translucent hands.

“Whoa, what the—” I said out loud as they became more and more see-through. Eventually, the invisibility crept up my arm, slowly taking over my entire body.

I was completely invisible.

I quickly swam out of the cave and to Salara’s home. I dove into the top hole, and Salara nervously paced around her cave.

She didn’t see me enter.

“Salara!” I yelled out and startled her.

Salara looks around in a panic, and her eyes focus past me.

“Charlie?” She calls out, confused. “Where are you?”

Salara stood before me. However, her eyes danced around the room, looking for me.

“I’m right in front of you, Salara,” I tell her, slowly controlling my breathing to see if I could shift out of this invisible state. “I’m invisible.”

Salara’s eyes widened, and then, gradually, I started to reappear.

“Oh, my—” Salara pauses, then continues, “The Sea Phantom Gaian.”

I look at Salara, puzzled, “The who?”

Salara stumbles over her words, then continues, “I’ve only ever heard rumors that it was possible, but nobody has ever seen one. They say that only a special Gaian can create one. If one disappears through the power of emotion, it is he who can conquer all. It was a profit from one of the Gaian of Destiny. It means that you can possess every link that is Gaia Larkin. I can’t believe I created a Sea Phantom!”

Salara’s face lit up with excitement, and she swam enthusiastically around.

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“This is all so overwhelming,” I say, not as enthusiastic as Salara was.

However, that was soon to change. Salara took my hand, and we left the cave to go to some of the oldest and wisest of the Gaia Larkin of the Esther Cavern community. There was a celebration like I’ve never seen before. Gaia Larkins came from different parts of the ocean in celebration of the newest link discovered— one that I possessed.

More Gaia Larkin graced us with their presence, bringing their links to showcase an epic display of power and wisdom.

My favorite moment was when the Gaian of Regeneration of the Kardain Clan arrived. They embodied an ancient healing energy that radiated through the water with the essence of ethereal water. Their presence was fierce, and imprinted on them were tribal tattoo-like spirals encompassing their bodies.

The prophecy said that harmony would sweep across the realms of the Earth, beginning in the sea when a Sea Phantom Gaian was born. This prophecy, whispered through the currents and etched into the ancient coral scriptures, foretold the arrival of a being unlike any other—a Gaian whose very existence would bridge the unseen rift between the ocean’s depths and the lands above. With the birth of the Sea Phantom Gaian, the chaos that had long plagued the seas— storms fueled by imbalance, warring factions of sirens and deep-sea dwellers, and the growing intrusion of humans—would unravel.

Harmony would stretch from the deepest, darkest crevices of the ocean to the land of the free. As the weeks passed, I believed it. Not only was the celebration a powerful testament to an unveiled prophet, but it also gave me a sense of peace.

I was more than just your average Joe, but a balance to all— the land and the sea. I now had a reason, a purpose of being more than Charlie. I gave Gaia Larkin’s hope. They believed in me more than I did.

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I didn’t even have to do anything but exist in a world beyond my own realms and set balance to nature. By the word of the Sea Phantom Gaian alone, every being, whether land or sea, got in line, and I soon forgot that yearning to get back to the surface.

The shift soon came—there were fewer storms, less pollution in the ocean, and peace and harmony were a song and dance around the world. The mighty ocean demanded respect, and it earned it.

I soon adapted to the customs of the Gaia Larkin. Others looked up to me and showered me with gifts. I responded by giving back to the community with those same sentiments. Salara and I received an upgrade to more luxury caves in the Kingdom’s Palace, where we became part of the elders of the Gaia Larkin.

A few years passed, and Salara finally took me back to where I had first fallen into the water on the anniversary of that night.

To my surprise, my boat was still there in the same spot. We both rose to the surface momentarily, as I understood I could not breathe outside the water. It was a strange feeling as if I were holding my breath while being above water. I observed my home, sitting on the edge where the grass met the sand.

Suddenly, a car pulled in and exited was a familiar face—my mother. She was an older lady, short, and a powerhouse to her family and loved ones. She had flowers in her hand and slowly made her way to the dock. Before she came to the end, Salara and I swam underneath the pier and popped our heads out of the water again.

“Three years, and I still miss you, my son. My love for you grows stronger each and every day. However, even in my sorrow, I cannot deny the peace in the world, and I know it is because of you. You were always the quiet in the storm—your strength unwavering even in those fleeting moments of uncertainty.

Continue being resilient and happy wherever you are. I know you are out there, Charlie, and are doing great things.” My mom carefully and seamlessly articulated every word as if she knew I 116

was listening from afar. Soon after, she leaves, not before setting a bouquet of our favorite flowers that we used to grow together down on the dock.

I swim around to the front of the pier and see a headstone with my name on it.

“Charlie Jones, a beloved son. He who has finally gained his fins will swim away into the sea and become the anchor to us all.”

Salara and I submerged ourselves once more, gliding effortlessly through the water as we made our way back to Esther’s Cavern.

Those words were etched not only into my headstone but also into my soul. For I knew that I was not truly gone but simply something new, something that would save us all.

I was Charlie Jones, the Sea Phantom, Gaia Larkin.

About the Author Travis A. Seabrook is an aspiring author currently working on the publication of his debut novel, A Broken Mind. Specializing in fiction, he has a particular love for the romance fantasy genre.

His passion for storytelling began at a young age, fueled by a deep immersion in books and imaginative worlds. Travis’s writing journey was first recognized when he received the Langston Hughes Award in high school for his poetry. Now, with The Next Generation Short Story Awards marking his first competitive accolade, he is eager to embark on a promising literary career dedicated to bringing fantasy to life.

Fairy Tales/Fantasy Finalists The Pillowcase Wings of a Fairy by Sophia Cukras Goldilocks and the Wicked Frog; or, a Modern Love Story by Saskia Hirst Sorrowthief by Renae Silc

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Family/Parenting

Caller-ID Terri Friedlander The Psychology Today article about the gift of gratitude made me pause. Lately, the world has been so divided. Time to put the newspaper aside. Detach from social media. Regroup.

List one thing for which you are grateful.

Caller-ID. Rewind twenty years before caller-ID became the ubiquitous aspect of digital life it is today. Truthfully, back then, I initially prayed for In-Vitro Fertilization to be my miracle. When IVF Number One didn’t produce the desired bouncing baby miracle, I prayed IVF Number Two would.

Then IVF Number Three. A third and even more weepy roller coaster ride.

Faith began to dwindle in the draining, surgery-driven, and hormonal tsunami with a paltry seventeen-percent success rate.

0 for 3 seemed like enough of a tear-filled record.

Sixty thousand dollars seemed like enough of a futile investment.

Which led to a different path. Installing a separate phone number (read ‘landline’) in our family room (ironically named) and placing ads in local newspapers around the country announcing: ‘Loving, stable, financially secure couple looking to adopt a newborn.’

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And soon the aptly nicknamed ‘baby phone’ rang. Not too often. And not always with truthful callers.

After twelve months of random pranksters, some heartbreaking messages and two dead end journeys, I felt exhausted and ready to accept life as it was - Childless.

Until the baby phone rang at one o’clock in the morning, reverberating louder than a smoke alarm in the silent darkness.

Depleted and wary from the false starts, I bolted upright in bed with goosebumps but didn’t make the usual mad sprint to answer. It stopped after three rings. Of course, the caller hung up without leaving a message.

Quietly, I asked my drowsy husband if he heard the phone ring. In his usual ‘Men are from Mars’ tone, he rolled over, clearly annoyed, and told me to let it go. If the person wanted to speak to us, he said they’d call back at a normal hour. Besides, he had already vowed to disconnect the baby phone that week.

But I couldn’t let it go. Falling asleep again was impossible.

Who calls at that time? My curiosity peaked. I was wide awake, fantasizing about the late caller being as sleep-deprived and as desperate as me.

And then, I remembered the caller-ID feature. In those days, pressing *69 gave the last numbers called. I jotted down those beautiful, promising ten digits on a ripped off piece of an envelope in a rush to get to work that morning. The clandestine numbers felt heaven-sent.

On the commuter train, I stared at the paper again, mystified by the strange area code. Where was this caller from? Was it just another wrong number? Or one of the many relentless telemarketers and automated scammers trolling through randomly?

At work, I obsessively carried the little slip of paper around in my skirt pocket, turning it over with my hand, trying to figure out what to say if I dialed the phone number and a live person answered.

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“Hello. Did you happen to call my house at one o’clock in the morning?”

Or “Hi. My phone rang last night and I was wondering the reason for your early-hours call.”

Better but still not great. Maybe my husband was right. Let it go. Since chasing the string of cryptic calls to that baby phone, we had begun to disagree on almost everything. He accused me of being too emotionally attached to each of the prospective situations. That I only heard what I wanted to hear. Guilty on both counts.

Finally, after hours of mental gymnastics about what to do, I dialed the number, hands trembling and heart racing.

A woman answered right away. “Hello.”

Politely, I asked if she called last night further explaining how I had checked my caller-ID feature to get her number. I will never forget what she said next.

“I knew you would find us!” The woman sounded breathless.

Intrigued and captivated, my body still quivering, I closed my office door for privacy.

“Excuse me... Find you? I’m not sure what you mean. How did you get this unlisted number?”

“From the ad in the newspaper. Aren’t you the loving, stable, financially secure couple?”

Her voice sounded melodic.

Reeling from shock, now it was my turn to be breathless. I felt my face glowing. After negligible results and significant expense, we canceled that advertisement idea a while ago.

“Yes. Yes... We put that ad in several newspapers a few months ago. Wow! That’s us. My husband and I. Stable, financially secure...” I stopped mumbling, unable to find the right words to pry if the woman was possibly pregnant. Or if she knew someone having a baby.

Awkward.

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“I knew you would find us!” she repeated louder over voices in the background, striving for her attention.

“Really? How cool. Is that why you called?” I didn’t want to mention the ‘one in the morning’ thing when she sounded so overjoyed about the ‘being found’ thing.

“My daughter... My teenage daughter is pregnant. Seven months... She’s a good kid...

Stubborn, though. You know... It’s the age... But she’s made up her mind. We told her we’d help her if she decided to keep it.

But she’s determined to place the baby for adoption. Isn’t that the reason for your newspaper ad? Oh, by the way, she’s listening and says she wants to meet you... I knew you would find us!”

The implausible words continued flowing out of the woman’s mouth like a runaway train. She couldn’t stop talking. I could sense her waves of emotion and felt certain she could sense mine.

I guessed that we both had a million questions for each other. As she spoke slowly revealing the heart rendering personal details of her family drama, I felt a growing bond for this conflicted mother desperate to do the right thing.

But I could also read between the lines. The family tension was undeniable. The caring woman said her daughter wanted to meet us. Since we were pushing forty, the deal breaker might depend on whether we could somehow make a connection and bond with a fragile pregnant teenager. Can you say generation gap? Nevertheless, I shuddered at the thought of what this girl must be feeling at such a delicate age. “What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Her name is Sarah... This has been a difficult time for her...

For all of us... When can you come here to visit and win us over?”

I hung up the phone, their home address in my hand and my head spinning with the endless possibilities.

An invitation. A new reality. A new situation.

Or another disappointment in the past steady stream of setbacks.

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Impulsive Me wanted to call my travel agent and get on a plane that evening.

Guarded Me wanted to tell my lawyer to contact the woman and her daughter about the required invasive paperwork, medical records, red tape, and formalities.

And Rational Me wanted to calmly explain this newfound scenario to my husband without his immediate rejection of the whole crazy situation.

Reluctantly, he agreed to one weekend. Dreamily, I believed those two days would change everything. When my husband and I flew to meet a cast of complex characters, they studied us like we were both from Mars. In the first five seconds, we learned not everyone shared the caller’s unwavering enthusiasm and open arms.

Starting with the girl’s father, who barely spoke two words.

When he finally spoke, he seemed more interested in our fertility issues than our stability.

Next to enter what felt like the Inquisition came the boy’s mother, the only person to match me in the demonstrative category. One minute laughing, the next minute crying, the woman clearly wanted what was best for her only son while holding little regard for his pregnant girlfriend. As the woman bulleted through a list of personal questions, she managed to make me blush and my husband bristle.

From that day forward, I walked the tightrope of every emotion in the universe. At each turn, I worried about sweet Sarah changing her mind. I dreamed about the teenager’s father changing their number and disconnecting all contact with us. I cringed about the news from a social worker that the boy’s mother insisted on a DNA test. I stewed over our attorney’s advice not to get my hopes up or make them any promises.

Two months later, sitting again in their family room, I held my baby girl for the first time.

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Life is strange with its twists and turns.

But I’ll always have something to be thankful for.

Caller-ID. About the Author Terri Friedlander, a native New Yorker, has held several notable job titles, including writer, college professor, teacher, and MIS Director of a global law firm, inspiration for her next novel, Diamonds and Drugs.

Terri authored The Dorm, Chasing Her Destiny and Work Hard Play Hard as well as the column, In Front of the Classroom.

Her latest venture is two children’s book series, The Adventures of Percy the Siberian Cat and No More Bullies, which won First Prize in Rocky’s Children’s Book Award.

When not traveling the world, she can be found loving life in Florida. Visit her at www.terrifriedlander.com.

Tied Winner A Doll of Hope by Vanessa Caraveo (not appearing in this anthology.)

Family/Parenting Finalists Eleanor by Tom Ball Scars on the Bottom of My Feet by Michele Dambeck Always Remember to Brush by Kelvin Ko

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General Fiction (2,500 to 5,000 words)-Tie

Eleanor

by Tom Ball I’m afraid my mother, Eleanor, is becoming a bit paranoid in her old age. A couple months ago, she called from the Westwood Senior Retirement Home (a place she affectionately refers to as either “The Vegetable Market” or “The Grayboy Mansion”) to warn me that in just a few weeks, when the dates change from 12/31/1999 to 1/1/2000, the stock market will most certainly crash and burn due to global computer glitches.

“Everyone in the Wrinkle Room is going loony-macaroony over this, Pete, and ripping their frizz-locks out,” she shrieked.

“You have to get me out of the market!”

Mother is pushing ninety but still whip-smart and ordinarily doesn’t fall for these kinds of nonsensical rumors. This time, though, it took me half the afternoon to dissuade her of the impending catastrophe, whereupon she rang me again later in the evening with a different worrisome concern.

“I just got the oddest phone call,” she told me. “I think it may be a scam -- you know how they love to rip off us crusty old fossils. Anyhow, it was some Hollywood slicko saying he was with PBS Television and they wanted to discuss making a documentary about my father.”

“Your father? Luka Tanéva?” I asked suspiciously, “You mean Grandpa Luka, the silent film guy who ran off and ditched your family when you were a little kid?”

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“That’s the one. How many fathers you think I got?”

“Well, that is pretty odd,” I agreed, a bit bewildered. “Why do you think anybody’d want to do a documentary about that guy?

I mean, it’s not like he was a big star or anything. He barely gets a mention as a silent comic, and I think his final flick was a short one-reeler back in about 1920…”

“1917 actually,” she said. “He skipped out on us in 1915 when I was five, made a few more short films that nobody saw, then ran his fat ass back to Europe where he came from. I never saw the bastid again.”

My mother almost never swore, but her father was a subject she was pretty passionate about.

I was still dubious. “So, did this so-called TV guy have a Nigerian accent, or what? Did he try to hit you up for any money?”

“No. In fact, that’s the weird part. He claims PBS would pay me to be a consultant and for the loan and usage of any old photos or posters or memorabilia that I might have.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“I told him I’d think about it. He gave me his name and number.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “Well it still could be a scam, but maybe it’s legit. Do me a favor though, and please don’t make any commitments yet, okay? Let me have a chance to look into this guy’s credentials. Don’t forget I know a few folks over at PBS.” “Okay, I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Nighty night, Dollface.”

Jeez, I thought, here I am 56 years old and my mother still calls me “Dollface…” * I suppose at this point I should fill you in a bit about our family. My mother was born Eleanor Tanéva, daughter of a Macedonian immigrant named Luka Tanéva and his wife, a local girl named Mary Crockett -- a Yankee who could trace her roots all the way back to the Mayflower.

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Luka Tanéva’s father had been a doctor in the old country and for a while it appeared his son would follow in those footsteps, but after a couple years of medical school, Luka got bit by the Hollywood Bug and shifted his interests toward the fledgling silent film industry. His efforts were met with only mixed success, which led to money problems, especially with the arrival of baby Eleanor. My grandmother, Mary, demanded he give up his movie dreams and get a real job but Luka refused. Finally he abandoned the family, made a final few films and then went back to Europe.

My grandmother never remarried, choosing to raise my mother alone in Santa Monica. It was a tough existence for them both.

Eleanor then grew up to marry my father, Jim Cafferty, a wealthy young Irish-American stud from Rustic Canyon, who promptly fathered one child (yours truly) before dropping dead of a heart attack at age forty-four. Sadly, I barely remember him.

My mother didn’t remarry -- she was able to live a middle-class existence off the proceeds of his estate.

So I grew up on the west side of L.A. and became a marginally successful composer of film and television music, which explains how I got to know a few folks over there at Public Broadcasting. * I didn’t hear from her the next day so I phoned her at the Vegetable Market. No answer, so I dialed the receptionist. “May I please speak to Eleanor Cafferty? Is she out on the floor? She’s not in her room. This is her son, Pete.”

“I’m sorry, but she and some of the other girls have gone out in a field trip to the Art Museum,” the receptionist politely replied.

This was VeggieSpeak for the Poker Room down in Venice, where the old dears played in a weekly Texas Hold ‘Em tournament and sipped brandy all day. My mother frequently won.

I finally got a call back a couple days later. “So, how was your card game?” I asked her. “Win any money?”

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“Naw,” she said. “Another old biddy bluffed my ass off. I did get a compliment on my alligator shoes though.”

“Did you?”

“Only thing is, I was barefoot.”

I smiled. Good old mom. Then she gave me the name of the filmmaker who’d contacted her about her father -- someone named Sidney Golson, Jr. It didn’t ring any bells. I got on the horn with a couple folks I’d worked with at PBS, both of whom confirmed that Sid Golson was indeed legit, and had a lengthy track record as a documentarian.

So now the wheels were turning in my head: if, for some unfathomable reason, they actually wanted to do a documentary on a small-time silent-film comic named Luka Tanéva, what could possibly be more appropriate than to have his only grandson compose the musical score? I was drooling, preparing my sales pitch and counting my paycheck even before I called the Golson guy.

He was out playing golf at Riviera with Ken Burns and Fred Rogers, but his secretary explained that indeed they were interested in pursuing the project.

Despite the fact that I was Luka Tanéva’s grandson and had worked with PBS in the past, she claimed to be unable to share any further info with anyone other than my mother or her attorney. She also mentioned that no original score would be necessary since they were going with period and ethnic music.

Okay. Fair enough. * Long story short, PBS actually did want to do the documentary, and time was of the essence; after all, most of the people involved – including my mother – were quite elderly, so Golson saw no reason to drag his feet.

It was to be a sixty-minute film. My mother was happy with the terms of the deal and began digging up old photos, newspaper clippings, and small posters. She also located some 127

ancient postcards her father had written to her after he fled back to Europe.

She was quite tight-lipped about the whole process, but she happily spent the majority of the next eight weeks in preproduction, interviews, location scouting, and shoot days. I would visit her at the retirement home (she had now began to call it “The Blue Hair Hilton”) and I’d ask her endless questions, but she would only give mysterious and cryptic answers. “You’ll see it all when it’s finished, Dollface.” Then she’d wink.

But it all must have brought back a bundle of memories for her – both positive and negative. Some days, she would seem slightly off-kilter and very emotional, but she was ever the trooper, and I lost little sleep in worry about my mother. And the new millennium came and went with no appreciable effect on the stock market. * There followed a period in which I became busy doing a project that I am earnestly hopeful will not define my career – background music for a show about Larry the Cable Guy. After that abuse was finished, I felt I owed myself a brief vacation, so I invited my on-again-off-again girlfriend Betsy to a week in Tahoe where I lost a lot of money and she spent the whole time in the bathroom with what my mother would call “Rolling Thunder.” The entire experience did little for my love life, and I was ready for my return to relative normalcy.

And so a few more weeks went by until one day, my mother called with the news that production was finished, editing was underway, and the project would be ready to view shortly, at least in private. She had been so secretive about the whole thing that I was eager to see the result, but when the time came for the “Cast and Crew View,” she was unable to include me – no family members were permitted.

This pissed me off, so I called Golson to either beg for inclusion or chew his ass out, but I was soon placated when he 128

announced that the documentary had already been successfully marketed and would be nationally televised five weeks hence. My mother and I were ecstatic because this meant royalty income for her, but I still couldn’t help wondering why anyone was even interested in a story about a relatively talentless comic.

Then I remembered I’d just worked on a show about Larry the Cable Guy. * And so eventually the date came for the “Cast and Crew View.” My mother was picked up in the afternoon by limo at what she was now calling “Bed Pan Alley.” I made arrangements to meet her at her place after the showing.

At about eight PM, she returned, decked out in her finest attire – an elegant pastel gown that had probably been collecting dust in her closet since the 1950s -- and accompanied by an equally dignified-looking elderly dowager wearing pearls, a mink stole, and enough lipstick that it should have been renamed ‘facestick.’

Seeing this, I was a little bit miffed – so family members were precluded from attending the screening, and yet her nursing home neighbor got to come along?

We sat down at a wicker table and ordered tea while my mother made formal introductions. “Claudine? I’d like you to meet my son, Pete Cafferty. He’s Luka’s grandson. And Pete? This is my new friend, Miss Claudine Corbin.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” I said. “May I address you as Claudine?”

“Please do,” she answered through a mouthful of crimson sludge.

“So I take it you’re a fellow resident here?”

She smiled. “No, I have a small apartment in West Hollywood, but I must admit that lately, I’ve been considering a move to an arrangement like this. I’m not getting any younger, y’know.

How’s the food here, Eleanor?”

My mother shrugged. “So fresh you can still taste the chef ’s 129

fingers. You don’t by chance play cards, do you?”

“Only poker, I’m afraid.”

My mother laughed. “You’d fit right in.”

But I was still a little unclear on just how she fit in.

“So were you affiliated with the project, Claudine? Were you a writer?”

“No, actually I’m in the film. Very briefly, though. Your mother and I met on the set. In fact our first meeting was captured on camera and is in the actual documentary.”

I looked at Eleanor. “You never tell me anything, do you?” I weakly complained. “BUT -- more importantly, mother, how was the film? Are you happy with it? Did you like the way they edited it? Did they make you look nice? What did they say about your father? Tell me all about it, for Christ sakes!”

“Yes, we all liked it, but you’ll have to wait till you see it next month and then we can talk all about it, Dollface.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “The old bastard was my grandpa and you’re not gonna even tell me about him?”

She shrugged. “Well, I really can’t until it’s publicly aired. We all had to sign NDAs. You know, those Nondisclosure Agreement thingies. It’s routine.”

“You did?” I was surprised. “You never told me that, either.”

“Well – I figured it would be breaking the Nondisclosure Agreement to disclose there was a Nondisclosure Agreement.”

This made Claudine giggle. I frowned and ordered a double Scotch.

An hour later, I headed home. By then, Claudine and my mother had bonded like old sorority sisters, gone through a few snifters of brandy and were laughing like Canada geese. God love ‘em both. * So a week later, I hit minor pay dirt with a gig scoring a TV commercial for Orkin Pest Control. Yep, the Music Business is just that glamorous. And a week after that, the phone rang.

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I suppose it’s inevitable, but nevertheless we are all unprepared when it really happens. The voice on the phone told me my mother had suffered a massive stroke and was in critical condition in the ER at UCLA Medical Center. I sped like lightning across town and found her unconscious and hooked up to more tubes and machines than I’d ever thought remotely possible.

Her heartbeat appeared steady, but her brainwaves were barely active. The doctors kindly told me it was just a matter of time. I sat with her all night until she departed this life at about dawn, then I numbly made my way home, where I stumbled into bed for the next twenty-four hours. * The following couple of weeks were busy ones. As her only relative, I was designated trustee of her estate, and there were cremation arrangements, the sorting out of her Trust, death certificates, financial adjustments, her personal property, etc. Her friends at the retirement home were deeply saddened, of course, as was her new friend Claudine. My mother had never wanted a funeral per se, but the folks at the retirement home planned to have a “Celebration of Life” anyway. I thought it would be most appropriate to wait until after the documentary on her father had aired on PBS, and they all agreed. Most of her friends were as interested in watching it as I was. And before we knew it, that night was upon us. * I felt like a little kid at the Bijou – I even made popcorn. I set up my DVD recorder to make a copy and unplugged my phone so I couldn’t be disturbed. The PBS broadcasters ran through their usual series of “thank yous,” and then the lights went dim.

“One Man’s Journey into Silent Films and more.” Then below that, “The Luka Tanéva Story. Produced by Sidney Golson, Jr. Narration by Peter Coyote.” I was already properly impressed.

It started off with some old daguerreotype photos and a 131

brief history of Macedonia, from which I learned a great deal. I didn’t realize that Macedonia had only become an official nation just recently – way back in the day it was part of the AustroHungarian Empire and largely ruled by Bulgaria.

Somehow, the PBS researchers had come up with written documentation of my family’s U.S. entry through Ellis Island back in 1894 when Luka was a child. His father had been a doctor, but because he was unlicensed here he ended up as a mere Medical Assistant in New York. The family was not the poorest of immigrants, but neither were they prosperous by any definition. They were nonpolitical and pious members of the Eastern Orthodox Christian Church.

From there, the narration followed Luka’s childhood, using many of the photos my mother had provided. They discussed his flirtation with medical school and then his enamorment with the local movie houses, followed by his train travel cross-country to Hollywood, his breaking into films as an extra, his marriage to my grandmother and the eventual birth of my mother in 1910.

Several short clips from his early films were shown. On screen, he was a short, heavy-set man who usually appeared with a painted-on mustache, fake eyebrows, a dark hat and a spotted bow tie. His roles were nearly always comedic and although he was no Buster Keaton, he did all his own stunts. Some of the film titles included “Saps at Sea,” “The Girl on the Bus,” and “Too Much Mush.”

At this point in the story, Peter Coyote diverted into a discussion about the sad state of silent-era films. I was shocked to learn that up to 75% of all silent films were now permanently lost, either due to the sensitive nature of the nitrate film stock, or because of intentional destruction. The rise of talkies hastened the demise of “worthless” silent films, and there were also two serious fires -- caused by spontaneous combustion – that destroyed the vaults of all the silent films at both 20th Century Fox and MGM. 132

Some of those films included my grandfather’s other modest works – titles like “Be Quiet Please,” “Broadway Ballet,” and “Night Light” have never been located, and far superior gems by Chaplin, Laurel & Hardy, Ben Turpin, and Harry Langdon met the same fate.

Then the story covered my grandfather’s later career, his friendship with Chaplin, his marriage difficulties, abandonment of his family, and his final few films. This section featured photos of my grandmother and mother that I’d never seen -- and found very poignant. Some other details were fascinating: Whether true or not, rumor was that Mabel Normand was quite in love with my grandfather, but he refused her advances, supposedly due to her heavy use of cocaine.

Also it was mentioned that Chaplin – already anticipating the eventual rise of talking films – had suggested that Luka Tanéva find himself another line of work soon, as his “European accent was far too strong” to have much success in the talkies. * The station chose this juncture, as PBS is prone to do, to cut away and try to raise some money. The Muppets bounced out, sang “Mahna, Mahna” and squeaked for $50 subscriptions “from viewers like YOU!” I got up to wash my face and pour a tall single-malt Scotch. When I got back, the time was one month later and the globe was aflame.

World War I had broken out in Europe in 1914, but the U.S. had stayed neutral for three years. By 1917 it was apparent we would be joining the war on the side of our longtime allies, Britain, France, Russia, Italy, and Japan, against what was known then as The Central Powers – Germany, the Ottoman Empire, and the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Once we officially joined the war in April, conscription became the law and my grandfather was then subject to the draft. In 1917, the Selective Service Act drafted 2.8 million American men.

Naturally enough, he had mixed emotions about this – now 133

his birthplace and ancestral homeland of Macedonia was at war with his adopted homeland of the United States. His solution – he felt – was to try and stop the fighting – or at least try to help the wounded and suffering on both sides. Many countries jailed those who spoke out against the conflict -- including Eugene Debs in the U.S. and Bertrand Russell in Britain. But coincidentally, in 1917, a young organization was mobilizing and experiencing phenomenal growth – something called the Red Cross. Within weeks of the U.S. war involvement, they had dispatched a ship to Europe loaded with medical personnel and supplies.

Named the SS Red Cross, it was better known as “The Mercy Ship” and carried 170 surgeons and nurses sent to Europe to provide medical relief to combat casualties on both sides of the war. Part-time comedic actor Luka Tanéva tried to use his limited medical training to get on board, but was put off at the time and told to reapply. Three months later, he was accepted onto another ship, and the SS Goodwill left port from Boston Harbor in November of 1917.

Transatlantic shipping at that point was not without substantial hazard. Although attacks by German U-boats had lessened somewhat by 1917, it was estimated that over 5,000 Allied troop and merchant ships were sunk by U-boats during the war. Overseas trade was also paralyzed as ships were reluctant to put to sea.

According to Peter Coyote’s narration, on November 15, just off the coast of Queenstown, Ireland (now called Cobh,) the SS Goodwill was struck on its bow by a German torpedo. There were no immediate casualties, and at first, it appeared as though the damage was light, but as the ship began to take on water, a fire broke out in the engine room. Sprinklers were activated, but an explosion was feared so orders were given to abandon ship.

The results were chaotic – no one seemed to be in charge.

Luka and the others had no idea how to evacuate a ship, nor how to launch the lifeboats, which hung high above the deck along 134

each of the ship’s sides.

One by one, he and a couple other men began lowering the starboard side lifeboats down to the deck. As the big ship began to list, the lifeboats slid off the deck until they were hanging directly over the water by cables. There seemed to be no organization and the passengers didn’t know how to keep the boats steady as people got into them, so my grandfather improvised by standing with one leg on the deck of the ship and the other on the small edge of each dangling lifeboat, and helping people board. Meanwhile, there was a storm brewing and the winds were howling.

No one from the crew could even be found, and nobody else aboard was willing to take the risks Luka Tanéva was taking. He was nearly blown to sea several times, but stayed with the difficult and dangerous rescue for four hours, straddling five lifeboats like a contortionist. He somehow figured out the cable system and lowered each heaving lifeboat, now with as many as forty people, down into the sea. Meanwhile, the storm was raging, and the ship itself was afire and slowly sinking.

Luckily they were close enough to the Irish mainland that other ships came to the rescue of the lifeboats and of those left on the Goodwill. Although the ship eventually sank, there were only four deaths and seven injuries total. My grandfather was credited with saving perhaps a hundred lives.

The sinking made headlines, especially in Boston newspapers, given the number of men and women on board from that city -but my grandfather was never mentioned in the American press.

In Ireland, however, he was celebrated for his heroism.

Ireland was then officially part of the U.K., and during WWI, some 40,000 Irish soldiers died, although, in 1916, Irish Republicans took the opportunity of the ongoing war to proclaim an independent Irish Republic. They launched an armed rebellion against British rule – which Germany attempted to aid – so things became considerably complicated on the Emerald Isle.

Nevertheless, Luka Tanéva found friends and comfort there.

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Eventually, he took up Irish residency, survived both the War of Independence and Irish Civil War and lived out the rest of his life in Galway. He never became either a doctor or an actor, but instead opened a small grocery store/newsstand, married a ScotsIrish girl from Derry, and raised litters of beagles. Occasionally, he would send my mother a postcard, to which she admittedly never responded. He did not have any other children and died of pneumonia in 1947, just after his beloved Macedonia had become part of Yugoslavia. * I couldn’t help but wonder whether my mother had been aware of any of this prior to the film. She certainly never mentioned any of it, and given her vocal disdain for her father, I suspected all of it was news to her. I hoped she had finally taken some pride in him, and oh, how I wished she had lived just a couple months longer so we could have discussed it!

The documentary then summed things up by running my grandfather’s final American film, a twelve-minute short called “Gas Town.” Shot in early 1917, it was more tragedy than comedy. This was after he had left our family, and there was a gaunt sadness to his face.

There was one memorable scene where he accidentally spilled a scorching hot pot of coffee onto a little girl of about eight-years-old. He was immediately remorseful and covered the poor girl with kisses and apologies.

At that point, Peter Coyote broke away and introduced the now-ninety-year-old woman who had played that little girl. She was Claudine Corbin -- the woman I had just met the previous month through my mother.

The scene then shifted to a first-time modern-day meeting between Claudine and my own mother, shot about eight weeks ago. It was breathtaking. They were about the same age. In the clip from 1917, the child immediately bursts into real-looking tears, and my mother, looking back at that film, complimented 136

Claudine on her performance ability.

“Your acting there was simply amazing for a little girl,” my mother said. “And I must say my father looks genuinely remorseful.”

“That’s because it actually happened,” Claudine said, laughing.

“That was a real pot of boiling hot coffee! I still have the scar.” She then rolled her collar down to show off a large, wrinkled white spot. “Accidents and injuries happened a lot in the silents back then,” she said. “People broke arms and legs almost every day, especially in the early westerns. Your father was so apologetic and loving that I could hardly be mad at him. Have you ever looked really closely at that clip?”

“Oh honey, that’s just awful!” My mother seemed appalled.

“And I’ve never seen that clip before, so I guess I’d need to see it again to look closely.”

“Please take a good, long look at it,” Claudine whispered. “I know it’s a silent film, but you can read his lips. I’ll never forget it. All he kept saying was, ‘I’m so sorry, Eleanor. I’m sorry to have hurt you. I love you so much, Eleanor, I never ever, ever meant to harm you, Eleanor. I will love you forever.’”

My mother turned ashen-white as Claudine continued.

“I could never understand why he kept calling me ‘Eleanor’ when my name was ‘Claudine,’” she said. “And it’s only now – some eighty-odd years later – that I know who he was actually apologizing to...” * She always told me that grown men weren’t supposed to weep, but at that point there was no holding back the wetness in my eyes. And suddenly I was aware of just why Golson wanted to tell the story.

Within fifteen minutes, my phone machine had six messages, but I was in no condition to even listen to them. Instead, I went outside for a long walk and stared at the moon, listened to the crickets and wondered about the meaning of life itself.

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* A few weeks passed, and by then things had reverted back to “normal,” whatever that is. The folks at the retirement home had set up a Celebration of Life for the following Saturday and I was looking forward to it. Then the phone rang.

“Is this Pete?” a woman asked. “Pete Cafferty?”

I was feeling like a smartass. “That depends on whether or not you’re from the IRS.” “Well, this is Claudine Corbin. Your mother’s friend. How are you?”

“Oh, hi! I’m just fine, Claudine. How nice to hear your voice!

I’ve wanted to talk to you ever since I saw the film, but your number’s not listed and I didn’t know how to get ahold of you.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t talk very long right now – I’m in the middle of moving – but I wanted to make sure you’d be at your mother’s Celebration of Life.”

“Of course, I’ll be there – will you? I have so many questions…”

“Oh yes, I’ll be there. In fact, I’m moving into Catheter Flats as we speak. They even gave me your mother’s old room – 619 – so you’ll know where to find me. I hope you will please come visit whenever you like?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Of course -- I’ll visit you often, I promise. Good luck with the move, bye for now, and see you Saturday, Claudine.”

“See you then. Nighty night, Dollface.”

About the Author Tom Ball is a professional musician (harmonica, guitar, and vocal) and writer, living in Santa Barbara, CA. As a musician he has nearly 300 CD credits and over 100 TV and film credits; as a writer he has authored five music instructional books and two novels (the latest of which is entitled “Backstraw.") Please feel free to peruse his website at www.tomball.us 138

General Fiction (2,500 to 5,000 words)-Tie

Heartland Terror

by C.W. Lewandowski Frank thought, I know Len has his heart set on working the harvest, and he won’t like me wanting him to take over the farm.

Somehow, I’ve got to get him to understand. Well, here goes.

“Son, you know I want you—” Len thought, Oh, not again.

“—to take over the management of the farm now that you’ve got your degree.”

“I want to take a couple of years to work with Bob’s harvest crew”—The Grainger Custom Harvesters—“to get some experience before I take over the farm.”

“I’ve not been feeling like myself this season—” I wonder, should I tell him I think I’ll need to see a doctor… no. “It’s been getting harder and harder to get going. Even though I expect to be around for many years, the past few weeks I’ve felt my age.”

“You’re not old.”—I don’t need the guilt trip. I’m not ready to take on the farm—“You were at least five years older than I am now when you took over from Grandpa.”

“Technically, I took full control when I was five years older than you, but Grandpa had me handling most everything while teaching me what I needed to know for several years before.

Please think about it.”

“I’ll think about it, but no promises.”

“Bob called me last night to make sure we’re ready for them 139

to arrive today, and we discussed them needing enough space to stage their equipment. I told him the equipment yard was ready for him to use for prepping the combines and grain carts. I’ll have them start on the oats west of the yard so the field can serve as their storage area for their trailers while they’re threshing. I’ll need to finish the gate expansion to make getting the combines in and out easier. They can then move on to the barley south of the oats.”

“Okay, I’ll keep the yard clear for them. Do you need my help with the gate?”

“Nope, I only have to finish cutting out the old post to make way for the removable center post.”

Frank had purchased neighboring farms as they became available, expanding the farmstead from 9,000 to 13,100 acres over the past twenty years, giving them 10,600 acres of cropland and another 2,500 acres only suitable for grazing livestock.

Frank headed out to complete the widening of the gate leading to the southwest fields. In the time he had been running the farm, combine headers had gone from being 25 footers to some of them being as wide as 40 feet. Since the second gate was already in, all he needed to do was replace the center post with a removable one. Shortly after Frank began cutting with the torch, he experienced severe chest pain, which radiated down his left arm. He dropped the torch and headed for the house.

Oh God, I need Sarah…my wife! He made it within sight of those in the equipment yard before doing a face plant.

Sarah was cleaning in the kitchen when she saw Frank staggering toward the house before falling. In a flash, she tore out of the house, making a beeline for Frank. No Olympian could have run faster. Although conscious, he was struggling to breathe. She yelled, “Len, Dad needs help! Call 911.” * The advance team for the harvest crew arrived just before Frank’s collapse. Several men in the yard helped move him to a lawn chair in the shade near the house.

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Len said, “I’ll go to the hospital with you.” This must be why Dad was so insistent I take over.

“No, Son, it’s—up to you to take care of—the farm now. And, Bob, you will—take your directions—from Len.” Bob said, “You got it, Frank, just get better. We’ve got this.

We’ll get the grain harvested.”

Len said, “I’ll do my best.”

“I know—you will, and you’ll do—fine. If you need—some help, you can—ask Grandpa.”

Len and Bob headed back to the equipment yard to direct the crew to where they would prepare their equipment. Len directed the new arrivals to their setup area. The arrivals were coming one right after another. The equipment yard became a flurry of activity as the crew prepared the equipment to thresh the crops.

Only three of the machines were ready to go. It would take a couple of hours before the remaining 17 would be field-ready. * The sheriff was close to the farm when he heard the call for emergency services. He headed to the farm, knowing he could help. He then called to have the life-flight helicopter placed on standby in case Frank needed urgent transport to the hospital.

The sheriff knew the paramedics were already en route.

Five or ten minutes after the 911 call, the sheriff arrived at the farm home. He made a quick assessment of Frank’s condition and found he needed life-flight. While the sheriff was making the radio call for life-flight, the ambulance arrived. The paramedics quickly grabbed their packs before hustling to where he was reclining in the lawn chair.

The paramedics assessed Frank’s current condition and gathered his medical history while hooking up their equipment to monitor his vitals. It was determined that he suffered a moderate-to-severe heart attack. They worked to stabilize him for the flight to the hospital, knowing he needed to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.

The sheriff had determined that the highway would be the 141

best place for life-flight to land. He had already prepared the roadway and let them know they had blocked it off for them. In addition, he communicated with the pilot, pointing out where all entanglements were located.

Upon landing, the life-flight team took a backboard to where Frank was being monitored. After strapping him to the backboard, they moved him to the helicopter on the gurney. The crew efficiently prepared Frank and Sarah for the flight to the hospital. * When life-flight lifted off, the sheriff reopened the highway.

Not that there was much traffic on the rural road. Then he helped the paramedics pack up and get back into service.

Everyone helping with Frank got back to setting-up harvest equipment with the rest of the crew, hustling to get the headers attached and performing necessary maintenance. They needed to hurry due to stormy weather headed their way. Depending upon the amount of rain they got, it could delay the harvest several hours or even days.

Rob, the crew mechanic, was the last of the crew to arrive at the Tennison Farmstead. He skidded to a stop in the equipment yard and flew from his truck almost before it had stopped. He yelled, “Fire, Fire, Fire, behind the bins!”

Len instantly made a beeline to the tractor his dad kept ready for situations such as this. He had it started and headed out to battle the fire, desperate to disc a firebreak and save the crops.

Bob barked, “Loren, Pete, get into the field, and keep your header on the ground. Leave nothing to burn.”

Len tried to keep part of the 30-foot disc tilling the leading edge of the fire as best he could, ignoring anything other than what could damage the equipment, just like his dad taught him.

Unfortunately, the fire jumped the firebreak many times because of the wind and the embers carried in the smoke. Flames engulfed the tractor several times, but Len didn’t relent. He knew there was always a possibility the tractor could catch fire and burn, 142

but he couldn’t stop. He had to keep going as fast as he could, constantly adjusting to changes in the fire.

Two hours later and numerous times crisscrossing harvestready fields, Len got the upper hand. He only needed to quell the hotspots to put the fire out. Rural fire services arriving on scene made it go much quicker.

When it was out, Len parked the equipment where it had been. He inspected the tractor and found the damage was minimal. A few parts melted and would need to be replaced when time allowed, he thought. It could’ve been worse, but thank God it wasn’t. * Len parked the tractor and began refueling it—I wonder how Dad is? I can’t think about him now. I’ve got to inspect the tractor and get it ready in case we need it later.—I hope he’s okay.—I wonder if Mom called and I just missed her call.—I’d better call her. He finally tried to call his mom, but it just rolled over to voicemail. He left her a message asking her to call him with an update.

Roughly 30 minutes later, Len’s phone rang. Seeing his Mom’s number on the Caller-Id, he answered, “Hi, Mom.” “Hi, Son, your father is resting. He came through surgery fine. Unfortunately, he needed double bypass surgery due to blockages. They told us he can expect a full recovery, but it will take time, several weeks. He will need to start slow and work his way back to normal.”

“Okay. We got the fire out about 45 minutes ago.”

“What fire?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot, you didn’t know. Dad was using the cutting torch when his heart attack happened, and he didn’t turn it off. Some grass caught fire, which spread to the oats, and it was off. I’m guessing we lost 50 acres of the oats and another 80 to 90 acres of wheat north of the oats.”

“I’m not telling Dad, at least not right away; otherwise, is everything okay?”

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“Everyone is fine. The tractor got a bit singed in places, but it is still serviceable, and the damage is easily fixable. Do we know when we can expect dad to get back home?”

“They say that, if all goes as expected, he can go home in a week to 10 days. After that, he won’t be doing anything, not even going up or down the stairs. We will need to make a bed on the main floor. I’ll stay at the hospital for a few days until we are sure he is out of the woods.”

“Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow, Mom.” Well, now what do I do? Dad can’t do the farming. Maybe Kevin and Randy can handle things for Dad once the harvest is done. Oh, Randy is probably still too young. Dad will not be happy with me leaving with the harvest crew. How can Kevin handle it if I don’t think I can? He’s six years younger than I am. I guess I have to tell Bob I can’t join the crew. * Len said, “Bob, since it rained yesterday after we got the fire out, I’d like to have you harvest the fields south of what burned.

Finish the field you’re in, then move to the oats.”

“You got it.”

“Put the oats in bin 5, the barley in bins 3 and 4, fill bins 1 and 2 with the wheat. The remaining wheat is to be taken to the co-op’s elevator. I’ve informed them to expect you.”

“I’m assuming the account is Tennison.”

“Just tell them it’s from the Tennison Farmstead. Oh, before I forget it, I want you to know I’ll not be joining the crew since Dad is now in recovery mode. I’ll need to stay here.”

“I figured as much. We were looking forward to you joining the crew, but you need to take care of the farm. We should have your bins full well before the end of the day.”

Len said, “Great! When would you like dinner?”

“How about 6:30 this evening? We intend on working as long as possible. We’ll only stop if the moisture level rises above 25%.

I expect it to stop us fairly early due to the rain last night.”

“I’ll let the ladies know to be ready by 6 o’clock. You know 144

they are predicting severe weather for this afternoon.”

“Hopefully, it doesn’t materialize, so we can get more of your grain harvested.” Len said, “I agree! We’ve had enough excitement for this year.” * The afternoon’s predicted severe weather missed The Tennison Farmstead. Harvest crew members started arriving at the bunkhouse’s dining area for their evening meal at 6:30 PM. The men dished up their plates and found a seat to devour the delicious meal. Grandma Tennison quieted the bunch when all the crew, including the Tennison’s, took their seats.

She said, “Can I have your attention, please? I have news about Frank. The latest on his condition. He is doing okay now, but earlier today, he suffered a setback. They had to go back in to fix a leak in one of his bypasses. It’ll delay his coming home by a day or so. I wanted to let you all know his status.”

Len stood up and said, “It looks like we dodged a bullet today, but they are predicting severe weather again late tomorrow afternoon into the evening.”

With the new information, Bob said, “Guys, when you have finished eating, please get back to threshing. We’ll run until the moisture levels stop us. The more we get harvested, the better.” * Around midnight, rain put an end to the overnight harvesting.

The team headed to the bunkhouse to get some much-needed rest.

In the morning the crew waited impatiently to get back into the fields, but it was approaching noon before the grain was dry enough to thresh again. When the crew got word to thresh, they scrambled to their machines, knowing the importance of getting as much grain harvested and into storage as possible with the predicted severe weather likely that afternoon. * It was nearly lunchtime, and they were just beginning to harvest. There would be no lunch today. They needed to thresh as 145

much grain as possible before the weather turned severe. Storm clouds were building to the southwest and the smell of ozone was in the air.

After only a couple of hours in the field, Len informed Bob, “Our area just went under a tornado watch. It looks like we are at the center of the bullseye.”

“—Did you say a warning or watch? I always get them confused.”

“It’s just a watch. A watch means we should watch for tornados. A warning means there is a tornado—Unfortunately, it’s looking bad.”

“The team is listening to their radios. We’ll listen for updates from you. I’ve got the buses ready to pick up the team and get them to safety. We are going to use the weather shelter under the bunkhouse, right?”

“Yes, it’s big enough for everyone with room to spare.”

Bob got on the radio to perform a roll-call. He said, “This is Bob. We’re under a tornado watch, and things appear to be getting worse. I want each of you to acknowledge this call.

Please give me your status, moisture content if you’re running a combine, and your equipment ID. Let’s start with Combine 1.”

“Combine 1, threshing with 23 percent moisture.”

“Combine 2, threshing at 25 percent.”

“Combine 3, threshing at 25 percent.”

The roll-call continued until all had reported.

“Combine 19 to Bob. I’ve stopped threshing because of the light rain causing a moisture content of 26 percent. I need to dump my grain.”

“Dump tractor 3, pulling up to Combine 19 now.”

“This is Bob. All combines stop threshing. All dump tractors get to the combines so they can dump their grain. Cover the dumps. Crew buses pick up those ready for transport. Secure your equipment, let the buses know you are ready for pickup.”

Len sat in his truck, watching the weather app on his laptop.

He informed the crew and family to get to the bunkhouse. The 146

last crew bus pulled up with the remainder of the crew. Len got them into the bunkhouse. The sky outside became as dark as midnight, rather than 3 in the afternoon.

Len said, “Everyone, get into the storm shelter right away. I think I saw a tornado coming.”

Everyone got quiet in the storm shelter except for the sounds coming from outside. It was hailing. It sounded like thousands of hammers beating the building to bits.

Grandma asked, “Does anyone see Tessie? Are you here, Tessie? Oh, God, where is she?” No answer. * The sounds went from hammers to sledgehammers to battering rams hitting the building.

Len said, “The radar is showing a hook echo directly over us right now. What we are hearing is probably a tornado.”

Grandma said, “I sure hope Tessie’s okay.”

The noise slowly died down, and it was soon eerily quiet.

Everyone waited for Len to make the first move, but he appeared to be in shock—Nearly lost the crop, don’t know where Tessie is, and now a hail/tornado, on my watch—He slowly looked around—”Why is everyone looking at me?”—before moving to the stairs leading up into the bunkhouse. Then, opening the sliding hatch, he peered out to discover minimal damage to the building. * There’s something wrong here. From what I heard, there’s got to be more damage than what I’m seeing. Then Len saw what looked like construction debris strewn across the equipment yard and the field to the northwest. Upon closer examination, he saw the tornado had scattered the farmhouse across the yard and the field beyond. Oh, my God, it looks like only Dad’s office remains in the basement. It probably wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t a safe room. He saw even the basement stairs were gone. Len sat down on the bunkhouse steps and put his head in his hands.

Bob stood near Len but let him have the time he needed to 147

grieve, keeping everyone away. He stopped those wanting to speak to Len, saying he needed a few minutes. Bob even told his team to wait with their questions.

Len slowly pulled himself together as the crew and the Tennison family members milled around the farmstead, viewing the damage and marveling at the undamaged items. It was amazing the quantity of hail on the ground. In places, it was up to a foot deep, maybe more.

Some hailstones were the size of softballs, or maybe grapefruits. * Len asked, “Grandma, is Tessie with Nan?” “I already checked, and she’s not.”

A deputy sheriff, seeing the damage, pulled into the yard for a welfare check. He asked who was in charge. They told him to see Len. The deputy asked, “Are you Len?” “Yes, can I help you?”

“I’m here to see if you need assistance or medical attention.”

“We’ve accounted for everyone except for my little sister, Tessie. She’s missing.”

“Okay, I’ll get some help to locate her. Tessie, right?”

“Yes.” “Her age and any identifying features?”

“She’s seven, almost 4 feet tall, has blond hair, and blue eyes.”

The deputy called in her description. He told Len a search and rescue team was en route to start a search. He also mentioned the sheriff was sending the helicopter.

Bob said, “Gentlemen, my crew is beginning a line search of the tornado debris path. If she’s out there, we’ll find her.”

The deputy nodded and Len said, “Thanks, Bob.” It wasn’t long before the search and rescue team arrived, followed shortly by the chopper. * When Grandpa and Grandma got back from checking on 148

their home, the old Morton Farm, Grandpa informed Len that their house sustained minimal hail damage, but the crops looked to be nearly a complete wipeout.

Len said, “Grandpa, I’m going to use the drone to check on the crops.”

“Where is it?”

“I think Dad keeps it in his office. I’ll get the ladder and check.”

Len found it on the top shelf where he thought it was the last time they needed it. He launched the drone to fly over each field, making a recording of their condition for later viewing.

Len said, “Bob, Grandpa, let’s view the video, but I can tell you there is nothing left to harvest, and there are several badly damaged machines.”

Bob said, “Are you sure?”

“The fields look like freshly plowed fields. There is only an occasional straw sticking up. You’ll see.”

“That’s a shame. It looked like this year’s crop was your best ever.” * Len said, “We can watch it in the bunkhouse. I will cast my laptop up on to the big screen TV.” Bob said, “I want to get Rob in here to see this as well.”

Len said, “I can back the video up if necessary. Let me know.

It began at the equipment yard and progresses to the field farthest away. I circled the damaged equipment to give you a good look.”

Rob said, “Whoa, back it up. I want to get the combine’s number.”

“Sure thing.”

“Bob, can you read the number?”

“Rob, I think there were two numbers. I think I saw a one and maybe a three. What do you think?”

“Len, back it up again, and step it through one frame at a time if you can, stopping on the numbers.”

“You got it.”

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Rob said, “Oh, look, it’s a one for sure. Wait a minute, I think it’s two combines? That’s thirteen. Len, let’s move on.

They viewed the video several times, counting and marking down each piece of equipment. In the end, combines one and thirteen proved to be tangled together in a heap. Nineteen sat in a pile destroyed, and numbers fifteen and twenty would require considerable work to be put back into service. * How do I tell Dad about Tessie since he’s recovering from a heart attack? We lost the crops, and the house is gone. What else can go wrong? I’m out of my league. Nothing prepared me for any of this. I don’t know how or where to go from here.

Bob said, “Len, Len, Earth to Len!” Len said, “Oh, yes, Bob, what do you need?”

“We need you to pull it together. Can we use your tractor with the bucket to move the destroyed combines out of the fields? It’s okay for us to bring them into the yard, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, go ahead.”

How is Bob so upbeat? He just lost a quarter of his machines.

It’s surely a problem for his business.

Just then, the deputy sheriff arrived and headed to talk with Len. “Do you have news for me, Deputy?”

“Yes, two young girls turned up yesterday. Both are unconscious. One is being transported from the hospital your dad’s at to a children’s hospital in Kansas City as we speak. The other appears to be younger than your sister.” * The morning following the tornado, a deputy was the first to arrive at the farmstead. He informed Len there was a lead on Tessie, but since she was unconscious, they’re not sure it’s Tessie.

He also told Len they were limiting access to the area to reduce outside interference.

The Garrison’s, the neighboring farm owners, stopped by to help with possible housing. Since moving into assisted living, 150

their house was empty. The Tennison’s Farm Bureau insurance agent and their adjuster stopped in while making their rounds in the tornado affected area. Bob called his Farm Bureau agent to start his claim on the equipment damages. The insurance adjuster would handle both The Tennison Farmstead and The Grainger Custom Harvesters’ claims.

Bob approached Len and said, “Here’s the invoice for this year.”

Before he looked at the invoice. Len said, “Thanks for all your help. I couldn’t have made it this far without it.”

“Len, you are more resourceful than you think. First, look at the invoice.”

“Oh, Bob, you don’t have to do this. We can pay you.”

“I know you can, but you don’t have to because your account is paid-in-full. We’ll see you next year. Remember one thing from your experience this year. Farmers and farm workers stick together through thick and thin.”

“Thank you, Bob, thanks so much. I’m at a loss for words.”

“You just said all that’s necessary, Bud. You’ll be fine. I’ll talk to you later about getting my damaged gear off your land. Got to go.”

Several neighbor farm women started arriving with food to feed the Tennison family and the remaining harvest crew before they began moving on to their next job.

Mr. Garrison approached Len and said, “Do you have time now, or is there a better time? I have something to show you.”

“I’ve got a few minutes.”

“Good, please follow me.”

“Okay, where are we going?”

“You’ll see, it’s not far.”

The Garrison’s drove south and turned into where their farmhouse stood. They headed up to the house. Mr. Garrison said, “Son, you have taken a harder hit than any other farmer I’ve known, and you are still standing. You should be proud of yourself. I’ve decided—” 151

Len said, “I’m just going through the motions, Sir.” “I know, Son, but you are doing it like a man, and I’m proud to know you. Now, check out the house to see if it’ll do for your family until construction is complete on your home.”

After looking throughout the house, Len said, “Sir, it’ll do nicely.”

“Okay, here’s my deal. Since we’re getting up there in years and now live in assisted living, your family can live here.”

“Oh, thank you—” “There’s more. None of our kids are interested in the farm.

We’d like to make you a deal we hope you can’t refuse.”

“Sir, I don’t want—” “I’ll deal with them on this matter, and I’ll pay my attorney to be in your corner if they complain. But, Son, please hold your tongue until I’m finished.”

Len said, “Okay.”

“Here’s the deal. You make a down-payment towards the purchase of the farm into a trust fund that we’ll draw a set amount from every month. You’ll then continue paying the amount you choose into the account to cover the amount we withdraw annually. Then when we have both passed, the trust reverts to you, and you’ll receive free and clear ownership of the farm, making your acreage nearly double what it is now. Is this deal okay with you?”

“Sir, I would feel like I was stealing your farm.”

“No, Son, it would guarantee quality ownership of the farm.

What do you think? Is it a deal?”

“Yes, Sir, I can’t pay the down payment until after I’ve received the insurance settlement.”

“That’s fine, Son.” * Wow, what a day and all this help from people I don’t even know. If only—oh, it’s Abby. “Hi, Abby, what’s up?”

“Guess who’s here at the hospital on my floor?”

“Ahh, I don’t have a clue. Is it someone I know?”

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Abby said, “It’s someone you know well.”

“—I really don’t have time to play 20 questions—“Who is it?”

“Your little sister.”

“Really, you’re kidding, Tessie there. Is she okay?”

“No, I’m not kidding. She’s pretty banged up and hurting, but she’s okay. I’m going to put Tessie on the phone.”

“Hello.”

“Hi Tessie, how are you?”

“I hurt all over, and I’m scared. I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know anyone here, either. Will you come get me?”

Len said, “How about I get Mom to come get you? Would that be okay?”

“Yes, I want Mom and Dad to come.”

“Dad got sick and had to go to the hospital, but he’s getting better. Do you remember he got sick?”

Tessie said, “I don’t know. I want Dad and you. Do you know where I am?”

“I know where you are, Tessie. You are with my girlfriend, Abby, in the hospital in Kansas City, where she works.”

“Tell Mom where I am so she can come get me. I want her to hold me.”

“I will, Tessie, I will. Let me talk to Abby, now.”

“Okay.”

Abby said, “Len, she now has a death grip on my hand. They say she will make a full recovery.”

“Take care of her for us, Abby. Things were tough here not knowing what happened to her, but we’ll be okay now that we know she’s okay.”

“I will. Love you. Tessie, I will hold you if you would like me to.”

“Oh yes, hold me.”

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About the Author C.W. Lewandowski, living and growing up in the northwestern portion of the US on farms in Washington and Idaho gave Calvin vast and diverse areas of experience early in life. He has added to those experiences throughout the years while spending time in the US Air Force, working in manufacturing, and in his career as a computer programmer. His programming career took him into project management and computer operations. He is fond of saying that working with computers is like raising two-yearold's.

General Fiction (2,500 to 5,000 words) Finalists Fritland by Melis Aker Birds of Tersmasside by Leslie Cunningham The Harvest by Pauline McAndrew Memento Mori by Pauline Milner Meet Me in Aisle 4 by Alexis Vance

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General Fiction (Under 2,500 words)

Her Hand in Mine

by Amelia Booth A single golden beam of light split through the darkness of the room. Tiny specks of dust swirled and danced within it, like tiny dreams caught for a moment in reality.

I reached for the stitch of light among the dark fabric of shadows. It dripped like hot honey over my hands. I closed my eyes for a moment, and I could feel its tendrils of warmth dripping over my frozen fingers.

A soft murmur sounds in my ear, breaking the spell, a tiny bundle of warmth clings to me, tiny fingers digging into my arms.

“I’m hungry.” Serafina’s dark eyes stared up at me as she clambered up into my lap, pulling at my clothes as she went as if I was hiding sustenance somewhere on my thin frame.

I hug her closer, still staring at the thread of sun. “I know baby, I know.”

“I want Mama. Where’s Mama?” I set her down on the floor and picked up a small bowl of water from the dusty ground. The water was warm and filthy, dregs of dirt and sludge sloshing around the bowl’s uneven edges, but it was all we had. I dragged my mouth into a smile. “Drink up, baby.” She ignored the water.

“I want my bread. Mama said she would bring me bread.”

I stand up, wincing as my head hits the low ceiling.

“Jasper went to get her. They’ll be back soon.” That’s not true. Mama left two weeks ago to get food and Jasper is dead.

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I heard the gunshots, ten minutes after he left to find her. I saw his body, looted and ravaged, and I did nothing. Mama warned him. She said not to go outside and now Seraphina will starve.

The thread light is misleading. There is no light outside anymore, only starving children and dead brothers.

Seraphina starts to step towards me, but her bones can’t seem to carry the weight of her skin and when she falls, she cries. Loud and piercing.

I quickly cradle her, murmuring frantically, “Shhh, baby, don’t cry.”

She continues to wail, the sound breaking through the sounds of engines and gunshots from above. I smother her shouts with my hand and hug her tighter to my chest. She kicks and struggles, tiny fists pounding at my arms and chest.

“I’m sorry darling, but you need to be quiet for me.” She continues to screech and kick. She doesn’t understand what will happen if they hear her, just like she doesn’t understand why Mama and Jasper are gone.

I begin to stroke her hair and rock back and forth, waiting for her to tire. She had knocked over the bowl of water in her struggle; its dregs are now branching off as they leak across the floor. I don’t have the energy to be angry or worried. All that has been stripped away to a dull sort of melancholy that aches in every corner of my torn heart.

It’s a kind of grief, I suppose, only vaguely connected to the grief I feel for my family who are already gone. This grief is swirled with hopelessness and guilt.

I close my eyes, just for a moment. I can hear the boots thumping above my head, shouts, and cries ricochet from building to building.

I can still remember the music that used to curl throughout those same streets when Father was still only a shout away and Mama still smiled. We had an apartment on the very top floor of a bright building. Sunlight would stream through its wide 156

windows. We would sit in that beautiful sitting room, Mama would rock Seraphina, crooning softly to her as Jasper and Father sat at the table, brows furrowed over the small chess board that had sat on that table since long before I was born, and then as the Seminary advanced deeper into our county, towards our city, imaginary battles were traded for ones that were far too real.

I remember the first day they came. Darts of rain flew past us before shattering onto the ground. We are like those raindrops in a way. Born to die, to disappear completely after we’ve fallen alongside a thousand others who lived and died just as we had.

Mama had wrapped all the pretty blue china in scraps of fabric and covered all the furniture with table clothes, she even boarded up those wide windows, until no light could slip through the nails and wood.

I had cried, and Mama snapped at me. I suppose that was when I knew something was wrong. This was not the woman who had raised me, that woman was kind and soft and sure, the one who had stood before me then, in the dark shadows and dust of our home, was just afraid.

Later we walked twenty minutes into the city center, alongside a thousand others hefting their homes along on their backs or in their hands. I held Seraphina, who was fast asleep in my arms, as Jasper bore crates of food covered in sheets. Mama walked a few steps ahead of us, eyes glazed slightly, she started every time a car drove past, and her knuckles were stained white from where she clutched a piece of paper close to her chest. She had led us to a tall building, and for a moment, I imagined another apartment with wider windows and powder-pink walls. I was foolish then.

A man led us down to a dirt cellar, there were no windows to speak of and the walls were dark, packed dirt, with three pegs nailed into them for our coats. I have not left that cellar for three years. It’s where I sit now. From the moment my family set foot in this hell, our days have not been measured by clocks or sunrises, we know when night falls because that’s when hunger is greatest.

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Seraphina is quiet now, her breathing is so shallow, and even in her sleep, she looks agonized.

I lift her up and set her down on the thin pallet and pull a thread bare blanket over her bony little shoulders. She’s so much frailer than she was a week ago, her bones are so brittle, every time I hold her I fear she might snap.

She needs something to eat. I look across the chamber to that ray of light, fainter now. There will be no light for either of us if we starve. This way, this way I will feel the sun on my face before I pass. I look at Seraphina one last time.

I bend and kiss her forehead. “I love you, Sera. I will do everything I can to return to you.”

She stirs slightly and I back away. I cast a prayer to my mother, my father, and my brother.

Protect her, and when we both return to you, let it be gentle.

If I pass before her, let her know that I never left her without the intention of returning. Please above all, let her live.

My legs wobble slightly as I stand. If nothing else, I will have tried. And with my heart in my mouth and my sister’s life in my hands, I step out into the sunlight.

About the Author Amelia Booth is a young writer, who lives in Wicklow, Ireland with her family. She was introduced to writing by Sarah Webb, and attended her online classes for many years.

When she isn’t being trundled around in shopping carts or doing something she shouldn’t be, she can be found in some far-fetched dream-scape, where she much prefers to spend her time. Her accomplishments include, winning a short story competition run by her school and judged by the author Dave Rudden, consistently winning prizes in the Green schools marine creative writing competition and recently learning how to spell accomplishments.

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General Fiction (Under 2,500 words) Finalists A Raging Storm by Alice Barry The Figs and the Fireflies, by Léa Hachem I Trust My Clients, by Melissa Owens Mr. Macaron, by Merrell Palmer The Mass of War, by Robert Russin Where It Is, There Is Life, by Kaden Sitrin

159

High School Students

Rain

by Clare Mullins Rain. Splattering, dripping, dribbling. It hammered against the telephone booth. Mariana didn’t have a call to make. She just needed shelter. Shelter from what she assumed would be half an hour, perhaps an hour, of rain. It had been three hours. There were no signs of the downpour stopping. She leaned against the wall of the cramped booth. She could feel the cool metal on her shoulders through the plastic of her rain jacket. Mariana’s eyes drooped. Her legs and arms felt stiff. Through the dark forest, she glimpsed a flash of headlights on the road. With a burst of energy, Mariana sprinted out of the booth and waved frantically.

A rusty truck flew down the road, sputtering clouds of black, pungent exhaust. It passed her without even slowing.

Mariana watched the headlights grow distant and more distant, still. As the light faded, she was left alone in the dark.

Mariana sighed. She had been planning to hitchhike her way all the way to the border, what with the insurgencies, the aggression from Franco-Louisiana, and the conspicuous lack of jobs. The problem was that everyone else was also in a rush to leave the country, and no one was in the mood to help out a stranger.

Warm droplets of rain streamed down the plastic hood of her jacket, dripping onto her nose and down her lip. A snake’s tongue of light flicked across the sky. For a brief moment, the forest was illuminated with light.

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Thunder. The boom rocked Mariana’s bones. The noise rippled through the woods, then dissipated, and the forest relaxed. Mariana turned with a muddy squelch, slogging her way back to the telephone booth. She froze. A three-hundred-pound black bear peered into the phone booth curiously. Her cub rolled around, clearly enjoying himself. The mother bear grunted, unable to even fit inside. Mariana backed up slowly, crossing over the road and holding her breath. By the time the bears noticed her, she had managed to get a good distance away from them.

The mother bear eyed her warily as Mariana retreated.

Mariana stumbled back into a steep wall of mud. She turned and scrambled up. Her boots slipped up and down as she frantically fought her way upwards. Mariana grabbed onto a tree for balance. It bent and groaned. Mariana fumbled around in her backpack and retrieved her flashlight. She turned it on and directed its beam upward. The hill was at a very sheer incline.

There was no way she’d be able to climb up.

Then why not around? She wondered. Mariana put the flashlight between her teeth and began to work her way across the edge of the slippery hill. She fumbled her way through the darkness, trying not to fall and crack her skull against a rock.

Eventually, the ground began to even out. Mariana shimmied underneath a fallen log, brushing off the slug who had made himself comfortable on the brim of her baseball cap. Mariana noticed with curiosity that there were fewer trees here than there should be. With a scan of her flashlight, she spotted some rotting stumps. From each stump, a fresh sapling was bursting from the surface. Mariana followed the partially cleared path as it cut through the forest and curved around the hill.

The flashlight shone on a small, wooden gate. There used to be a brick wall on either side of it, but they had long crumbled to pieces on the ground. Mariana pushed the gate open, revealing a path of cobblestones. Lightning flashed again. She saw in the brief second of light that the path curled sharply in the distance, 161

leading up onto the flatter crest of the hill. Mariana picked up her pace, following the cobblestones hurriedly. At the end of the path was a mound of kudzu. She stepped closer, wondering if it was some kind of weird shrine. Then, she saw the glisten of wet wooden planks underneath the layers of green. Mariana stepped back and realized there was a building underneath all the choking plant life.

She rounded the building and looked down at the hill where, twenty minutes ago, she had been standing. She could see the road and the phone booth from above. The bears had apparently grown bored and lumbered off. Mariana considered backtracking, but paused. She looked at the building. Her curiosity got the better of her. She pawed around the kudzu leaves blindly. Her hand found a doorknob and turned it. The knob squealed, the door refusing to open. Mariana jostled it. And prodded it. And kicked it. She backed up, tensed her legs, and charged. Mariana crashed through the door with a bam. The door swung back and forth, shuddering and hanging off of one hinge.

She stumbled inside, eager to get out of the muck and rain.

It was a surprisingly spacious interior. Mariana flashed her light from wall to wall, object to object. The room had huge windows on every side, which were impossible to see from the kudzu-covered exterior. A couple of tables and chairs populated the busted floor.

A bar surrounded by stools sat in the middle, empty. Past the bar was a compact kitchen with dusty appliances. Mariana walked further into the room, inspecting her dilapidated surroundings.

On the right wall was a gigantic hearth, big enough to fit a bed. She noticed a stairway leading both up and down. As she approached it, her boot splashed into a puddle. She looked up.

The roof had sprung a leak, allowing rainwater to steadily trickle inside. Mariana stepped past the puddle and peered down the staircase, which ended at a rickety door. The way leading up stretched on into yawning darkness. Mariana elected to stay on the first floor.

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She backtracked to the bar and sat down on one of the stools.

With weary hands, she undid her hiking boots and set them on the floor. She pulled off her soaked socks and tucked them inside of her shoes for safe-keeping. Next, Mariana pulled off her raincoat and set it on the bar. Finally, she removed her ball cap, stuffed it in her backpack, and undid her ponytail. Mariana massaged her scalp and leaned against the edge of the bar, breathing deeply.

Eyes still closed, she slung her backpack onto the bar and lazily fished through it with her hand. Her fingers traced across the slick surface of her handheld radio. Mariana took it out. She opened her eyes just a crack to stare at it. Small, cute, powder blue. It was a little damp, but, thankfully, not soaked. Mariana hesitated. Maybe she could walk outside and chuck it into the woods, let it sink into the mud and die.

She turned it on. Explosions. A rattling, tinny noise. The high-pitched whine of a siren.

The chata-chata-chata of helicopter blades. A woman’s voice.

“I’m here on the scene of a heated battle.” She spoke loudly, but with a fearful quaver to her voice. “The enemy is currently assaulting the city. The scene is brutal. Thousands of civilians–” Mariana turned the dial.

“–Absolute brutality,” said a man’s voice. “Evacuation attempts are underway–” Dial.

“–Reports say casualties are rising with no sign of sto–” Dial.

“Devastating. Highways jam as people scramble to–” Dial.

“–Carnage unlike–” Dial.

“–Rumors of closing borders have begun to surface, as thousands flee–” Dial.

“Ooh (Ahh-ahh) my baby loves me (Ooh-ooh), oh yes he does, he does, he does.”

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Mariana’s teeth unclenched. It was music, some kind of old-fashioned swing song. It didn’t matter. She stood up. The floorboards were rough, splintery, and not the kind of surface one would walk over barefoot, but there was no way she was putting wet socks back on. Mariana skirted her way around the clumps of mouse droppings as she made her way to the fireplace.

Whoever lived here last kept a fully-stocked firewood rack.

Thankfully, a leak had not sprung right above it, and the wood was still dry. With a grunt, Mariana tossed a few hunks of wood on the ancient hearth.

“And one day soon (Ooh) he’ll call me miss-us, and I’ll shower him (Ah) with a buncha kiss-us (Oooh-oooh-oooh-ahh!) And oh, my baby, my baby...”

Mariana retrieved her lighter from the bottom of her backpack. She had long depleted her box of Winstons, but she had a feeling that a lighter would come in handy. She was glad she’d trusted that gut instinct. They were usually right, like the instinct she had to skip town. Bombs started dropping the morning after.

By the time Mariana got a small fire started, the song was over.

She dragged a stool over to the fire and brought her feet as close as she could to the flickering warmth. Though the rainwater had been warm, she still found herself shivering. The fire crackled and sputtered. She listened to the squeaky trumpet solo fade into static. Mariana sighed, stood up, and turned off the radio. She returned to the fireplace and lay on the floor. She listened to the rattling of rain hurl down onto the roof and the heaps of burning logs shift underneath their own weight.

Mariana slept.

Something brushed against Mariana’s foot. Small, warm, and quick. It was the briefest sensation, but enough to startle her awake. She sprang to her feet, trying not to step on the mouse that had been inspecting her. It darted away. Mariana shuddered.

She put on her shoes and socks, though they were still damp.

She kicked herself for not putting them out to dry in front of the 164

fire. The fire was, to Mariana’s glee, still smoldering. She tossed another log on top and grabbed her backpack. Mariana pushed her way through the half-hinged door and emerged outside. The storm must have passed, leaving a peaceful and green aftermath.

The shine of dew on the grass was bright enough to blind her.

Now that it was clear daylight, Mariana could spy a large object lying on its side in the building’s front yard.

She cautiously made her way closer to it, mindful to not slip in the slick grass and go skidding down the hillside. It was a thick, wooden post with a sign hanging on rusty chains. Mariana grabbed it and hauled it right side-up. Worms, suddenly exposed, writhed in the open dirt. Mariana brushed the filth off of the sign.

In big, swooping letters that were perhaps once white read: Moggy’s. Underneath was the crudely-painted silhouette of a dog, or perhaps a cat. The paint was too chipped and smeared for Mariana to tell. At the bottom of the sign, in smaller letters, was a phrase that Mariana could only tell included the words roadside and lodge. On the sign’s edge was a small, metal circle where she guessed a lantern should have hung. Mariana scrounged around in the overgrown brush, eventually finding a small divot in the ground.

“Here you are.” Mariana drove the signpost back into place with all her might. She stepped back, brushing her hands proudly. The sign tilted. Mariana frowned. It tilted further, leaning dangerously close to the hillside. “Oh, no–” Mariana started to reach out, but she was too late. The sign slipped from its divot with a loud squelch. The signpost went cartwheeling down the hillside at Mach 10. Its descent eventually slowed to a halt, colliding into a small tree in front of the road. The signpost stopped, leaning heavily against the tree for balance.

“Huh.” Said Mariana. “Okay, then, I guess that works.” There was absolutely no way that she was going to go back down and haul it back up. “Might be better, actually.” She said to herself.

“This old place might get more attention that way.” Mariana 165

snorted. As if anyone would come to this place willingly other than her.

Hm. Mariana paused. She slowly sized up the wreck. Every inch of it, even the chimney, was actively being strangled by kudzu. But it was pretty big. Maybe it even had running water.

She closed her eyes. She pictured it in her mind, but restored. No kudzu. A fresh coat of paint. A clean kitchen, a patched roof... hm, indeed. Hm. I guess I’m safe in the middle of nowhere. A random patch of road and wilderness won’t get bombed. But why should I stay? But... why should I...not? She paused. Bears. Bears, that’s why. Mariana shivered, remembering the intimidating bear she’d encountered last night. Who knows how many of those are wandering around?

But...I guess it would be fine if I stayed inside? And...well, I don’t really have a home anymore. Mariana inspected her grimy hands, stained shoes, and mud-caked pants.

Oh, what the hell. Why not. I always wanted a house.

About the Author Clare Mullins is a writer based in Virginia who creates fantastical, immersive short stories and novellas. Her numerous works are scattered across the web, including her Scholastic Art & Writing Competition national award-winning novella, Glais de Sancto. Clare loves experimenting with her writing style and dabbles in many genres. She hopes to one day become a published author or work in the book publishing industry. Clare is an incoming student of James Madison University and is excited to major in English and Creative Writing.

High School Students Finalists Sweet and Rotten by India Komasinski Beast in the Forest by Zizhi (Andrew) Lin The Back of the Mountain by Pauline McAndrew

166

Historical

The Name

by Judy Campbell The Slave Wharf, Chandpalghat, West Bengal, 1696 “Her name is Anarghya. It means priceless, Sir, which perfectly describes a woman of such beauty, wouldn’t you say? Now, for a noble gentleman such as yourself, Sir, I will make a very good price.”

Cornelis Keleman shifts his gaze from the fawning slave trader to the young woman’s face. Inscrutable. A beauty, though not quite in a conventional, European way. Still, Keleman has bought slaves for the Dutch East India Company before; this one has a certain bearing about her he likes.

“Does she speak Dutch?”

“Not much, Sir, but Bengali girls are known for their quickness of mind. They speak many dialects, and you’ll see, she will learn quickly. She will serve you well, Sir. She’ll anticipate your every need.”

“Has she had previous masters?”

“Oh no, Sir. She is pure...flawless. An empty page for you to write upon.”

The sea captain sighs and tries again for a direct answer.

“Did you acquire her by force?”

“Sir, we are honest men, my partner and I. We deal only with reputable families of good blood who have fallen on hard times and have a few daughters too many. This girl had a good 167

upbringing, a charmed life really, but, given the changed fortunes of her family,” he says. He draws close, and with the sotto voce tone of a conspirator, says, “We have saved her from a far worse fate than that of a slave.” Almost comical melodrama plays out on the trader’s face, with widened eyes and lifted eyebrows.

“But we are in business, Sir, and need to cover the enormous costs of maintaining our ships, and ...”

“Yes, yes, alright. What of the mark on her forehead?”

Anarghya flinches as Cornelis extends his hand toward her face. He gently lifts her chin, but her eyes remain fixed to a spot on his belt.

“Tell her to look at me.”

When she finally looks up, Keleman sees a wall behind which a soul cowers. A charmed life? There is no way of knowing. She looks down again after a few seconds.

Some sea captains are known for terrible brutality; Cornelis Keleman is not one of them. He is a good captain. He is ready to mete out severe punishment if the situation demands it, but is respected for his fairness and compassion, in addition to his seafaring prowess. He has heard stories of how some slaves are acquired and treated, not only by the traders, but by his own employer.

“The mark?”

“Branding is standard for slaves from this region, Sir. They also have it here.” He motions toward her left breast, and Anarghya flinches again. “We can’t have our investments running away, can we now?” His chuckle fades when he turns back to Keleman’s stony face. “Not that a girl like this, from such a good family, would ever misbehave.”

“Branding? I’ve not encountered that before. Still...I’ve not had a slave from this region before.”

“You won’t be sorry. A strong and beautiful virgin with skills in cooking and housework. She’s a bargain, Sir.” 168

She looks up at him again, of her own accord this time.

Something wells in him.

Sympathy? The girl catches it in his eyes, and hope rises over the wall in hers.

“I’ll take her,” Cornelis says.

En route from Batavia to the Cape of Good Hope, 5 June 1698 The Spiegel is a sturdy, 144-foot pinas from the shipyards of Amsterdam. There is no doubt the schooner can withstand the journey from Batavia to Africa, but none aboard underestimate the seas closer to their destination, known for good reason as ‘The Cape of Storms’.

Since the colony was founded some forty-six years earlier, many ships have met their doom on the merciless rocks at the southern tip of Africa. Stories abound of sailors drowning within sight of the shore, in boiling seas whipped by a devil wind.

On this particular voyage to the Cape, Captain Keleman has been instructed by the Dutch East India Company, the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie, the VOC, to host one Gerrit Meijer. Kelerman knows nothing about his guest, nor the deal Meijer and the VOC have transacted: a voyage to Batavia in return for a creative interpretation of certain ships’ inventories of wine barrels.

Meijer, an early migrant to the colony in service of the VOC, was not much of a soldier. He was released from service and one of many given lands to become a ‘free burgher’ and grow crops to supplement what could be harvested from the Company Gardens.

But Gerrit was not cut out for farming, either. Nor was he comfortable with VOC rules, which tightly controlled prices and quotas for VOC ships sailing to and from the East Indies.

By 1698, he found his purpose at the Cape. Liquor, he realised, was a more lucrative and negotiable currency than 169

fruit and vegetables. Some deals took place beyond the gaze of the VOC. And some involved the very officials responsible for policing the regulations.

“Cornelis, how do you think you’re going to settle back into life in Amsterdam?”

Meijer asks over dinner, “After all this time, crisscrossing the oceans?”

The VOC ships are not primarily passenger vessels. But they do convey personnel to and from Batavia in relative comfort.

Nonetheless, the fleshy Gerrit Meijer finds the cuisine barely edible. Deploying impeccable manners, he wins an invitation to dine in the captain’s quarters. Cornelis enjoys the company and they now dine together nightly.

“It’s one of several questions that plague me,” Cornelis says.

“Merely the thought of the climate fills me with dread. Some complain of the heat and humidity of the East, but I...well, I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve kept one of my sarongs. But truth is, there’ll be little use for it in Amsterdam.”

The soft, colourful drapes of cloth worn as a skirt have been Keleman’s favourite garb these past two years in Batavia. He wore them only in the privacy of his home, where, as he and Anarghya drew closer, his love of freedom and simplicity grew.

His fingers recall the smoothness of her skin, his neck the touch of her cool lips; his tortured thoughts, the impossibility of his situation. Dear God. What am I to do?

Anarghya enters the creaking cabin with another flagon of wine. “Master, you mentioned bad weather ahead? This might help you sleep.”

“Ah, thank you, Anarghya. You are ever considerate. We won’t need any further attention tonight, so you may retire to your quarters. I hope you are well prepared for the discomforts of this night.”

She bows and leaves, smiling, her bare feet making no sound.

Under present circumstances, she cannot leave a kiss along with 170

the wine. Cornelis, his smile strained, watches until the cabin door closes behind her.

Gerrit’s look poses a question.

“What?” Cornelis feels obliged to ask.

“I know you have no wife, Cornelis, and from what I’ve seen, you have some affection for your slave. I don’t need to tell you that slavery is no longer accepted in Holland. Do you plan to free and marry this girl?”

“It’s true, Gerrit, I’ve developed a great affection for her over the past two years.

She has served me well. Even advised me on occasion.”

“You treat her very well.”

“It’s the least I can do. Some of her earlier experiences, inflicted by officials of our very own company, are...those men should be prohibited from owning slaves. Never been touched, the trader said. Never believe a slave trader. Anarghya doesn’t have formal education, but she’s extremely intelligent, capable, and loyal.

“And so?”

Cornelis sighs. “First of all, I’m old enough to be her father.”

“What of it?”

“I’ve not made this public during my term of office in Batavia, but I do have a wife and two grown daughters at home.

The girls are both married and older than Anarghya. I have two grandchildren I’ve met only in letters.”

“You’ve been apart from your wife and family for over two years?”

“My wife refused to undertake the voyage. In any event, we thought it’d be six months, not a year, and definitely not two.”

“So, you can’t take this girl home as a wife, nor as a slave.”

Keleman shakes his head; the pain in his eyes clear to Gerrit Meijer.

“Sell her to me.”

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“No, no, that wouldn’t ...”

“Yes, it would. You care for the girl, that’s plain. Yet, I see no choice for you but to leave her at the Cape. Sell her to me. That way, at least she’ll serve someone you know. We can record the transaction this very night.”

“But the rest of the voyage ...”

“She can continue to serve you. Even until you journey on to Amsterdam, if you like. Then she will come and serve me. I have a busy inn to run and there’s always a great deal of work to be done.” Meijer leans forward to study Keleman’s reaction and continues. “We are on the brink of a new century, my friend, and opportunities abound to make money at the Cape. Who knows – perhaps there’ll be opportunities of freedom for slaves one day.”

Keleman looks up at his companion’s smiling face. “I’ll never see her again.”

“Probably not, but I see no way around that, whatever her path. At least you’ll know where she is, and that she’s safe. How old is she?”

“Just turned twenty-two.”

The captain will not find a workable explanation when he gets home for his attachment to his one remaining sarong. The brightly coloured cloth – a reminder of his withered dreams — will, at the hands of his practical and thrifty wife — become a stack of kitchen rags. No more will he glimpse the vivid hues in his wardrobe beside the sombre uniforms.

But he won’t have to endure the sight of paradise reduced to cleaning cloths too often, confined as they will be to the women’s domain of the kitchen. When he does, occasionally, see one looped over a housemaid’s sash, it will send him into a pit of gloom understood by no one.

The Cape of Good Hope, August 1698 The usual commotion of a ship’s departure surrounds The Spiegel, about to set sail on her final leg to Holland. Her captain 172

paces the decks with uncharacteristic agitation, barking an order here, asking a question there, as he oversees the restocking of his ship with meat, fresh produce from the Company Gardens, and wine bought from Gerrit Meijer. His distress reaches a pinnacle when the two figures he’s been waiting for appear on the wharf.

Anarghya, dressed in a heavy colonial gown, waits on the dock while Gerrit discreetly checks the loading of the wine.

Cornelis’s stomach is knotted as he descends the gangplank.

He had delivered ‘his’ Anarghya to Gerrit’s tavern the day before.

Leaving her there had been bad.

Still, it wasn’t quite goodbye.

Now, the moment has arrived.

In a reprise of their meeting on a wharf, two years earlier, she cannot look at him. Once again, he extends his hand and lifts her chin. This time, she doesn’t flinch. Her face is wet. Keleman, with his crew looking on, can hardly allow himself the same release and clenches his jaw to contain it. Later, in the dark privacy of his cabin, he will bury his face in his pillow.

“Master ...”

“I am no longer your master, Anarghya. Call me Cornelis.

You look like a colonial lady in that dress. You are beautiful.”

She ignores his attempt to lighten the dead weight of this parting.

“I cannot imagine a life that does not contain you,” she says.

“And yet this,” Keleman says, and strokes her cheek, “this is what it will be for us. You will not only survive, but succeed here, my dear. Apply your excellent wits, your strength of character, and nothing can stop you.” He takes her gloved hand, kisses it.

“Perhaps we will meet again someday.”

“I fear not. Cornelis...your name so gentle on my lips .... I can now risk speaking the truth: that my heart is full of love for you.”

Cornelis can hardly draw breath.

“And mine for you, darling Anarghya,” he murmurs. “The truth holds no risk now. I wish you happiness, even freedom one 173

day, a family of your own. I want to put my arms around you, kiss you, but our world does not permit it.”

“Captain,” the first mate shouts, “it’s time to cast off.”

“I must go. I will think of you every day.”

Two connected souls, one barely standing, the other walking away. Each is carried by sheer force of will. Crew members exchange sympathetic glances.

Gerrit Meijer has allowed the pair their moment of suffering on the wharf. But that will be all. When Cornelis reaches the top of the gangplank, he receives Gerrit’s hearty slap on the back. The men exchange brief words of farewell, and Gerrit strides down to Anarghya.

“Come. You have work to do. Dry your face.”

She wipes the tears with her shawl, but more spill down to take their place.

“Master, could we not stay to see them cast off?”

“I said you have work to do. Don’t make me punish you here in front of everyone. Do you want another mark on your pretty forehead? For God’s sake, stop snivelling.”

He grabs her arm and yanks her away. Her eyes strain back towards the ship, towards its watching captain. Cornelis’ heart breaks as he beholds the true nature of the man who charmed his way to the captain’s table. He shrivels with shame. He should leap down the gangplank and thrash the corpulent swine, forsake his own VOC post and faded family, and remain forever in the arms of Africa and his woman. Instead, he stands, a wax effigy fused to the deck of The Spiegel, as much enslaved as his beloved Bengali.

“Come on,” Gerrit snaps. “Faster, Anag...Anayaga...Pah! From now on you will be Anna.”

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About the Author Judy Campbell left her day job in 2001 for the arts, full-time.

She led choirs, world jazz group MOSAIC on tours and albums, co-wrote a musical, founded a nonprofit arts organization and, finally, started writing.

She was accepted to a 2014 writers’ retreat with bestselling author Joanne Fedler, whose mentoring, together with research, blossomed into The Silver Tea Service, a memoir about a centuryold family mystery. A writers’ residency in the USA followed, then publication in 2019 by the kind press. Judy’s research yielded an intriguing ancestor – a Bengali slave, whose story led Judy to explore themes of racism and change. www.judycampbell.com.au Historical Finalists I am a Berliner - Remembering Berlin during the Cold War

by Bibi LeBlanc Shadows of Requiem by Mannat Markan Robb's by Brendan Murray

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Horror/Scary Stories/ Paranormal

Panspermian Dreams

by Cain Alexander Stepaniuk where are you going?

I slammed the door, rainwater streaming from my coat. I sagged there for several moments as my heart tried to beat free from my chest, as breath forced itself free of my lips. I seemed to be alone, but…I pressed my ear to the door, listening. I needed to make sure- needed to be sure.

Rain on the window, a distant screech of tires.

Nothing.

Only when satisfied, did I turn to see where it was I’d actually fled to. I seemed to be in some kind of foyer, a large chamber made even larger for sparse furnishings and dim light. Heavy iron chandeliers swayed slightly in a nonexistent breeze, bulbs flickering fitfully as they tried to hold back an oppressive gloom pressing in from all sides. I could barely make out the ceiling, and the room’s fireplace was just a vague impression- a darker smudge against dark walls. Twin staircases curled possessively at opposite corners at the far end, banisters marred by scratches and age, leading to lit hallways that pinned me ‘neath their glares. Faded, sagging love seats were turned to face the doorto face me- framing an invisible path to a heavy oaken counter dominating the center.

There was no other movement, no one to see me enter, but that was likely for the best. After all; who would believe me?

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I crept across the marble floor, boots squelching, rolling my shoulders as I tried to ignore the silent watchers. Maybe it was just the hour getting to me, but the shadows here seemed to… writhe. When I looked, truly looked, everything was normal.

Just a regular lobby, albeit one with bad lighting. Old wires, older bulbs: an easy explanation. But no matter where I turned I could see them in my periphery, growing ever larger even as they folded inwards, horrifying in their incoherence.

I made for the counter. It seemed more… solid than the rest of the room.

A giant grandfather clock tic-tic-ticed away behind the desk, blending time seamlessly with rain pattering on unseen windows. It was squatter and wider than most clocks I’d seen, with a pendulum that was more weight than rod. Its face was polished to a mirror-like sheen, revealing my reflection as I drew close. Am I really so pale? So bedraggled? I look so…. thin.

My reflection blinked back at me.

I flinched, breaking eye contact and looking about for something to ground me. The countertop was almost bare, just a couple books and a phone. No pamphlets, no proprietary logos emblazoned where I might read them, nothing to tell me where I was. A plaque read Henry Molaison, suggesting that someone was in the building, but his seat was empty.

There was a bell, though.

It was a tiny, tarnished little thing, dented and bruised. I hesitated as I reached for it- who would answer if I called? - but gave it a sharp rap anyway. Its metallic cry shattered the stillness, somehow too loud and too tiny at the same time. Silence was sent to cower among the dancing shadows, if only for a second.

No one answered the call.

Quiet returned, furtively settling against my psyche. Just rain and time, ever ticking away. I looked around, considering, and it was then that I spotted a bowl of grapes.

I didn’t know how I’d missed it before. A little thing with frosted glass patterned after roses set out like complimentary thin mints. I snagged a couple absently, tilting my head back as 177

juice exploded between my teeth, gushed across my tongue-grapes they’re not grapes those aren’t grapes they’re-

-eyes appeared briefly over the banister, light reflecting against the smooth pate of a hairless head before its owner pulled away again. “Just a moment!” a voice called. “A moment- I’ll be right down!”

I jumped, swallowing, and composed myself as I listened to the clattering of their boots half-running, half-falling down the stairs. I waited until the head reappeared- this time attached to the rest of its body. Henry, it seemed, was a dusty little man with pinched features reminiscent of a sparrow. He slowed when he saw me, favoring me with an unreadable expression before he hopped across the floor and slipped behind the counter. Then his face split into a wide, empty grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good evening, good sir, and welcome to the Dwunnich. The name’s Henry, of course.” One hand produced a steel-nibbed pen that he twirled between slender fingers while the other started turning the pages of a heavy leatherbound registry.

I blinked. It was as if he produced them from space, like they weren’t there until he started using them. I shook my head, tried to focus.

Just the one night, then?” he asked, already writing a notation in the guestbook.

I stared at him for a moment before my brain clicked and put the pieces together. I’m in a hotel. This is a hotel.

I made a snap decision, nodding wordlessly and scrawling my Hancock with one hand while the other patted at pockets looking for money. I found a wad of bills- and a damp, crumpled letter. Conscious of Henry watching me, I peeled off a couple dollars and slid them across. With my other hand, I unfolded the note and tried to read it below the counter as he counted out change.

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I’m sorry to hear of your plight, good sir. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a case of anterograde hypomnesia as advanced as your own.

I will be staying at the Dwunnich Hotel for the next few months while attending a conference in the city.

Following this, I will be flying to the Americas- and I do not know when I’ll return. I encourage you to meet me here as soon as you can, for time is short.

- Hermann Ebbinghaus, MSc, PhD, MD The last words written so strongly their author had almost torn through the page. I looked up, meeting Henry’s glittering, beady little eyes. They seemed all too knowing above that unwavering smile.

“I, uh.” I cleared my throat. “Actually, I’m looking for someone who’s supposed to be staying here. A doctor- name of Ebbinghaus…?”

But Henry was shaking his head almost before the words finished leaving my mouth. “We used to have one. Was a bit of a regular not too long ago, but we haven’t seen him in a while.” His grin held mirth this time, as if he were laughing at his own private joke. Shadows cackled in my periphery, soundlessly giving voice to his humor.

“What about a conference? Is anything happening here? Or in the city?” I asked, ignoring them as best I could.

“Couldn’t say, really. Not been any events at the Dwunnich for a while. Could be one coming down the road, but there’s nothing in the book.” He spoke languidly, lazily, watching me with pupils that seemed too large, too dark for his face. He fished a heavy key from under the desk and slid it across the counter as 179

he spoke. “For you. Room 200, top of the stairs to the left: end of the hall. You won’t miss it.”

His fingers felt paper-thin and cold on my skin as I took the key. I shivered. “200?”

“200,” he confirmed, popping a grape into his mouth. He produced a cloth (from somewhere) and swept it across the countertop as if to wipe away the merest contact of my flesh. His eyes never left my own.

I was the first to look away, trying not to shudder. Not as helpful as he could have been, but still better than nothing. I turned the key over in my hands. No events here, yet. That means there might still be time-oh yes there’s only ever time we have you for all the time we need-

I looked up, but before I could open my mouth I spotted movement in the clock’s mirror-like face. I squinted.

Impossible.

I turned, eyes widening, to see the reflection made real: a cocktail party in full swing. As if the hotel itself was exhaling a long-held breath, swirling silks and satins filled the faded space with light, life, and energy. The fireplace roared with sudden vigor; a band filled the air with flashing brass and trilling song.

Silence and shadows were banished; the watchers fled and in their absence the foyer became a sea of dancers. I staggered, losing my distressed wail in the sudden tide of music and laughter.

“I thought you said there was nothing scheduled?” I cried, catching myself on the counter. But Henry was gone; guestbook and bell the desk’s only occupants. Grapes glistened, watching me from their bowl. But before I could look for the man someone else was at my elbow, clearing their throat. A server, bowing slightly and peering at me with beady eyes through the holes of a gold-scaled mask, wearing a uniform so similar to Henry’s that they might have been twins. They held a tray towards me, offering thin flutes of champagne.

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I accepted one automatically as I struggled out of my sodden coat. “What is all this?” I asked, draping the garment over my arm. “A celebration of some sort? A gala? Wh-” My words died in my throat as I realized I was talking to no one, the server having vanished as quickly as they’d arrived. The Dwunnich, it seemed, gave only when it wanted to.

It was too much. My breath started coming in shallow and fast; my head was spinning. I didn’t know where I was, where I was going, didn’t know what was happening. I leaned against the reception desk as my knees almost buckled; my chest was a vice constricting my lungs. I tried to loosen my white-knuckled grip on my coat but my fingers refused to obey, trembling as they clutched ever tighter. I looked about wildly, tried to steady myself, find some sense of stability. I watched the dancers, nauseating swirls of cloth becoming patterns of color that made me dizzy just to see them.

I felt crumpled paper through my coat. Herman Ebbinghaus.

A name. A lead. A doctor? If he was at the Dwunnich, maybe he’d be here; maybe he’d have answers. I clung to the thought as a drowning man clings to flotsam, filling myself with its purpose. I stiffened my knees, focused on my breathing. The doctor will know. My heart began to settle. He’ll help. He will help.

I straightened my back, swallowed. He must help.

I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath.

It was something.

It would have to be enough.

One song ended to smattering applause before another picked up in its place, dithering trumpets serenading their sea back into motion. I began a dance of my own, boots leaving wet footprints between glittering and polished shoes alike as I wove through bright colors and clinking glasses, melodic laughter, and raucous music. Faces passed in a blur: long faces, drawn faces, masks of all shapes and sizes. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, having a good time, and yet…

A couple dancers slowed as they passed, heads turning to follow my passage. A woman in rhinestones and silks seemed to 181

be staring, but she turned away just as I noticed her attentions. A man in a powder-blue suit smiled at me and raised his glass before returning to his conversation- but his eyes kept flicking back in my direction. I shrugged my shoulders and tried to ignore them, but the more I tried to focus ahead the more I became aware of people’s faces turning to follow my steps.

The watchers never left. They’re just hiding behind peoples’ faces. I don’t know where the thought came from, but at the edges of my vision, they seemed to grow more waxen and pale, skin sagging and eyes growing darker-eyes? they have no eyes no one has eyes how can they see they have no-

I forced myself to move, inserting myself into a conversation to ask after Ebbinghaus. Three men turned to face me (I hastily looked away), and although they responded pleasantly enough they had nothing helpful to offer. I thanked them and was two steps away before I realized I hadn’t actually understood anything they’d said. I frowned, replaying the exchange in my head. It was English, I was sure of it, but… I shook myself. Moved on.

Three laughing women barely slowed their chattering to answer my questions, but when they did their voices washed over me, leaving nothing behind.

I flagged a passing server and leaned in close, almost shouting to be heard over the song and dance. I watched their mouth move, and though I knew their words… nothing registered.

I kept moving, jumping from one conversation to another, asking after the doctor, always the doctor. People responded pleasantly, then politely, then warily as I grew more erratic, jostling others in my haste. I grew more frantic: everyone’s words were clear enough, but meaning was just… out of reach.

-strangers’ voices they taste so sweet they taste so fine they gave you grapes and now-

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I stopped, letting the party press in around me. I reached for snippets of speech - a joke here, an exchange there, polite banter all around - I watched peoples’ mouths move; sherberts and champagne. Dancers were forced to swerve around my sudden stone in their sea of silks, but I ignored their grumbles and reproach as I strained to listen. I recognized the shapes they made with their lips, the cadence, the familiar rhythm, all of it, but I began to realize with growing horror that none of it made any sense. It all swirled around me, meaningless. There was nothing but the noise, nothing but the overwhelming, disorienting sense that I was the only one not understanding.

I fled.

People called after me as I bumped into them, slick coat sliding across damp skin in my haste to get away to get away, ascending the stairs with all the grace of a drowning man. I stopped at the top, panting more than I should for the exertion, and looked down upon the revelers. For an instant just one instant, they all seemed to be moving in unison, puppets with slack limbs moving just so as they danced to strings they could not see. Every face was turned in my direction, every mouth gaping and dark-they scream with silent mouths with tongues like so many strings they play such music they-

I closed my eyes, unable to bear the sight for a moment longer, and turned, only opening them again when I was sure I wouldn’t see that thing, that approximation of revelry that the Dwunnich dangled so enticingly before me. I stumbled away, down the waiting hall and past doors that slammed closed in my wake. I didn’t turn to see what was in the rooms. I didn’t dare.

Those shadows those shadows, they writhed just out of sight, dark as the stars and endless as space. I felt brass in my pocket and had to hold the key before my eyes for several seconds until I could decipher its number. It then took three tries before I could open the door.

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I slammed it, sinking to the floor. I’m shaking. I can’t stop shaking. I tasted iron on my tongue as I clenched my teeth, but I just bit down harder. The pain was sharp, the pain hurt, but the pain was real. I sagged there for several moments as my heart tried to beat free from my chest, as breath forced itself free of my lips. I seemed to be alone but…I pressed my ear to the door, listening. I needed to make sure, needed to be sure…

Nothing. Just faint creaking as the Dwunnich settled.

Only when satisfied, did I turn to see where it was I’d actually fled. Room 200 was lit by a single, naked bulb glaring down from a stuccoed ceiling. Muted wallpaper showed flowers in bloom, and a wardrobe loomed over a decrepit bed that tried to hold its own in the center. A scuffed chair faced me from one corner, its watcher silently feeding off my panic.

The carpet felt slick to my fingers, like silk just before it rots. I pulled my hands away in revulsion, pressing them instead against my face as I tried to focus on one stale lungful of air at a timeBut when I closed my eyes, I could see them again- the crowd of puppets, mouths yawning open, too wide, too dark, too empty, gaping like blind, searching eyes set in pallid, waxen faces, all breathing in unison. Behind my eyes, they reached for me, glistening like damp clay as they grasped-they ooze how they ooze the eyes those empty eyes that taste like memories they-

A sound. A noise that was not quite speech, something I could feel more than hear. My eyes snapped open and at first I felt panic as I still couldn’t see- but then the room returned as the bulb flicked back to light.

See? Everything’s fine. Just old wires, older lights.

The thought didn’t stop my flash of fear as it went dark again.

In and out, the bulb gainfully struggling to hold on to life.

Darkness.

Light.

Darkness.

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Light.

Each time I caught a glimpse of the room, frozen like a still life freeze-frame in life’s film. Time played out with stop-motion jerkiness. The wallpaper’s vines and flowers seemed to writhe before me, bright petals curling and rotting and falling away; stems grew brown and twisted until nothing was left but fetid ropes tangled across the walls. The wardrobe was open, closed, open, now its doors hung from ruined hinges, now it was leaning at a horrible angle, slashes gouged across the walls to tell of its violent end. The bed grew more disheveled with every passing frame, sheets growing darker, growing danker, reeking of fever and grease and something unnameable. And still, the light went in and out, and the Dwunnich’s film flashed past my eyes and I realized that the horrifying keening at the edge of hearing was coming from my own mouth-feel the hollow spaces between skin and thought oh how it whispers as they gnash their teeth such teeth as they tear through marrow and dreams and reach past to -

I was crying and I couldn’t help it, tears streaming as I struggled with the doorknob behind me but the door was locked it was locked- it opened and I was free and I rushed back into the hallwayThe door closed behind me with a satisfied click.

It was well and truly dark now, with only night streaming through curtained windows. The Dwunnich purred contentedly as its radiators kicked in along the walls. Pools of capricious blackness forced apart light emanating from irregularly hung lamps, but at least the light here was steady and it stayed.

Film’s run out, movie’s over, no after-credits for this one, folks, time to go home. I felt the edge of mania touch my thoughts, but I clung to them anyway.

Time to go home.

I left damp footprints behind as I hurried away, down a set of curving stairs into a shadowed, empty, open foyer. I glanced 185

over my shoulder to the room’s solitary light: a lamp over a heavy oaken desk that turned a mirrored clock’s face into a baleful moon. Turning away, it was easy to ignore the light, easy to pretend I was somewhere else. My steps echoed flatly off of walls I could not see; the ceiling vanished somewhere past dim shapes, spreading their twitching, spider-like limbs across the gloom, crystal eyes watching my progress.

Oddly, it felt reassuring. For a moment, just one moment, I could see beyond. The watchers gave me infinity and opened their arms so I could step between their stars. I imagined myself swimming across space itself; free from fear, free from terror, free from the world so far behind. I didn’t know where I was or where I was going but that was ok now because I was one with the sky. My spirit sank deeper as my heart soared higher and I felt… welcome. I understood the impossible shapes made by the shadows; I was one of them. A sense of safety settled about my shoulders like a shroud; a honey-sweet, amber-thick scent of belladonna tickled at my nostrils-so sweet so sweet the taste of tears nestle close and feed with us as we suckle at dying dreams and-

-gone between one step and the next, leaving me standing once more in a dimly lit foyer in the small hours of the morning.

I stared at the sagging, faded love seats that faced me, framing my shadow as it stretched across the floor towards the door. They waited, watching. The exit. So close, yet so far away. All I had to do was walk forward, leave the Dwunnich behind and step back into the night. But instead, I turned, feeling myself inextricably drawn to the lamplight, that intruder, that invader that laid bare the soothing lies my mind sought to conjure.

-slowly unravelling and becoming undone it was never empty we know you feel without fingers and reach without skin we’ve waited for so long186

A nameplate on the desk read Reception is closed for the night. The Dwunnich team will return at 7 am. Thank you for your patience. Grapes watched me from their frosted bowl, turning to follow my progress as I stepped ‘round the back of the counter.

I reached for the lamp’s switch, meaning to turn it off and set myself free again- but I stopped, looking down at the still-open guestbook.

Heavy-handed ink on old paper.

A name nestled in among so many others.

Hermann Ebbinghaus ------------ One night, room 200, cash I ran my fingers across the words as though I could reach through them to the man himself. That name. Where had I seen that name before?

And there it was again. Six or seven times on these two pages alone. Each time the same room, the same visit. My fingers trembled as I turned the page back, looking for my own signature.

But it wasn’t there. Just his name. Time and again.

And again.

Pages flying, weeks rolling back, months before I stopped my frantic scrambling, too afraid to see whether it would stretch back years.

-have another grape and line your mind the eyes are there right there drink deep of our voices and step beyond stay with us with us with us forever-

I leaped as the Dwunnich dolefully called out the hour. Once, twice its clock cried; I imagined I could hear crooning in the fading notes. I dragged my eyes to its face and stared, transfixed, 187

at the hands that did not move, the seconds that did not pass.

There was no time to blend with rain on unseen windows.

I didn’t recognize the eyes looking back at me.

About the Author Cain Alexander Stepaniuk thinks he’s hilarious, his friends think he’s exasperating, and strangers probably assume he knows what he’s doing most of the time. He thinks it’s a tragedy when people forget how to have fun as they age, and so fills his spare time with little side adventures ranging across mosaic-making, pan-flute playing, swing-dancing, and Dungeons and Dragons.

When he’s not writing, he’s editing, and when he’s not editing, he’s trying to find something new to experience.

Horror/Scary Stories/Paranormal Finalists The Stranger by Andie Casey The Death of Marcella Phillips by Layla DiSalvo Be Not by Charles D. Virgil

188

Humor-Tie

A Tail of Two Dogs

by Rocky Leplin (This story is written in “dog-speak.”)

Chapter Woof “Doggone it!” said Freckles. He sat down on the curb and tried to bite a flea. “Mixed again!” he said, then stood up and shook himsmellf.

Freckles was a street dog without a home. Somehowl, he had gotten separated from his mastiff.

Freckles was a mutt.

Swank was a classy Collie who lived in an uptown abarkment.

Once a day, the maid brushed his hair. Every day he had a delickcious meal, and somewhines he even got scraps from the table.

Freckles usually found his food in someone’s garbitch can.

Some days he didn’t get anything to eat atail, and he went houndry.

Swank’s mastiff was Fred Dangernose. Fred was a good mastiff, but he spent very litter time with Swank. Swank only saw him after he’d had a hard day at burp. Swank wanted to play with Fred more, but usually, he just got a plate on the head. He was mostly taken care of by the maid, Britchet.

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Once every afternoon, a young man named Smelldon came by to take him for a walk in the bark. Swank sat down and waited for Smelldon to put on his leap and awoof they would go.

As well-behaired as Swank was, sometails he wished he didn’t have to be on a leap. This was particularfly true when he went to the bark. Some dogs in the bark were not on leaps, he nosesniffed.

In fact, many of them didn’t even have a Smelldon to keep them from running where they wished. Even though Swank seemed to have everyrump a dog could whine, sometails he envied the flea-running dogs.

One day, in the bark, a dog on a leap with no Smelldon attached to itch ran over to Swank and started to play.

“Heel!” yelped Smelldon, but it was heelpless. Pretty soon, the leaps got all tangled rub.

“Pup-oh,” said Smelldon. He lost his grrrp on Swank’s leap, and in a flash, Swank was awoof.

The other dog’s mane was Butch. He was bigger than Swank and not as well burped-up. He led Swank on a mangy chase.

Suddenly, he saw a hot dog on the ground and instinctly ate it.

“That’s disgustink,” said Swank.

“You should try some,” said Butch. “It’s facety.”

“Thanks anywoof,” said Swank. “I’d biter be going.” He went off to look for Smelldon and get a real meat.

“Soak yourself,” said Butch.

Swank ran this way and that, bark and forth, but he was now off the pawth, and he couldn’t find Smelldon anywoof. He ran all over the bark, but it was big, and Smelldon was small.

For the furst whine in his life, Swank was hungry and feisty.

“Woof ’s the matter, bud?” came a voice. “It looks like you just lost your best Fred.

Why are you going around with no one atwitched to your leap?”

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“Smelldon lost his grrrp,” said Swank. “I don’t nose twitch way he went.”

“You don’t lope like you nose your way around very woof atail,” said the other dog. It was Freckles.

“That’s the tooth,” said Swank. “I’ve never been off my leap before. Howl I ever get home?”

“Stick with me,” said Freckles, “and yowl be okay.” “Do you have anything to meat?” Swank asked.

“This is a big barf,” said Freckles. “We should fido something.”

The two dogs sat off together in search of droold. No sooner were they underwag than Swank’s leap got caught in a brush.

“Don’t woofy,” said Freckles. “I can fix that.”

With his canines, Freckles smellfully chewed off Swank’s leap where it was atwitched to his collar.

“Flea at last!” yelped Swank, and the two dogs bounded a stray across the feed.

Chapter Tooth At the very same whine, Arfur Dribble, the Dogscratcher, was driving his van into the bark. He hadn’t caught a dog all day, and he was shedding apprehensile. His boss didn’t like it when he regurgitated dumptyfooted to the Shelter.

“Gee whiskers,” Arfur said to himsmellf. “If I don’t bring back at least one dog, the paws won’t give me any bonuts. I’ll be licky if he lets me have a pup of tail coughup. But woof ’s this?”

From across the feed, Arfur had spotted Freckles and Swank.

“Doo-be-doo-be-doo!” said Arfur. “I’m in lick!”

“Watch out!” pawtioned Freckles. “Itch the Dogscratcher!”

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But it was too leg. Arfur was holding a brrgrr in one hand and a spayk in the neuter.

Swank went straight for the spayk, and Arfur grabbed him.

He had to drop the spayk to do so. Freckles knew at pounce this chance might never come agrin. He leaked for the spayk.

Unfurchinitchly, Swank hadn’t nosesniffed that the spayk bone was atwitched to a cord. As Freckles pulled at the spayk, Arfur wrapped the cord around his head and held on bite.

Before Freckles knew what had happened, he and Swank were both in the Dogscratcher’s van.

Chapter Flea Freckles couldn’t believe he had allowed himself to be caught so sneezily. “Where are wean?” Swank asked.

“The Doghouse,” answered Freckles. “This is where they take the spays.”

“What happens heel?”

“If you have a mastiff, he’ll come and wet you.”

“What if you bon’t?”

“Nobody nose. They take you awoof and you’re never seen agone. Don’t worry,” said Freckles. “Your mastiff will come and wet you.”

“What about chew?” asked Swank.

“I don’t nose,” Freckles said, and he lay down, looking very defrisked.

Swank was very alegged by the change in Freckles’ mooch.

He didn’t want anything to happen to his new friend, but what Freckles had said was the tooth: dogs were taken awoof and never seen agone.

The mixed day, just as Freckles had prelickted, Swank’s mastiff appeared at their cage.

This time, it wasn’t Smelldon, but his real mastiff, Fred Dangernose.

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“Swank, old smell, it’s good to see you,” said Fred. “Come on, boy, it’s whine to go bone.”

But Swank wouldn’t go. He couldn’t leave his friend Freckles to an unnosed face.

“Go on, Swank,” said Freckles, hounding very dejawcted.

Swank put his nose against Freckles’ back and started to push.

“What’s this, Swank? What are you chewing?” arfsked Fred, but it was dogvious what Swank was chewing.

“Whine do we need another dog?” arfsked Fred. He looked into Swank’s eyes and spaw in them something he’d never seen befur. He spaw that without his new friend, Swank would not be snappy.

Fred realized that he did not nose his bone dog as well as he pawed he did.

“Swank,” said Fred, “from now on, I’m going to take you for stalks. You and our new dog Freckles. We don’t need Smelldon any more.” Freckles couldn’t help itch—he jumped for jaw.

The End

About the Author Rocky Leplin is a second-generation San Franciscan. He graduated from the UCLA film Division and has a master’s in music composition from Oregon State. He’s written 500 songs, two musicals, and ten books, including a 412-page novel in rhymed verse about a lost whale. He has won awards for a book, a poem, and two short stories. He has been an elementary music teacher, a middle school English teacher, a classical music reviewer for SF East Bay newspapers, and a word processing specialist at Universal, Disney, and Paramount Studios. He boards dogs at Rocky’s Rover Roadhouse. His website is www. lostwhalepress.com.

193

Humor-Tie

Galaxia and The Supreme Destroyers

by Rakel Rae The year was 1984. Galaxia Starbeam rode down the summer streets of Pasadena, California on her white moped. Her hair whiplashed across her face, but it was totally worth it. Her hair was so poofy that everyone in Motley Crüe would have been totally jealous. Galaxia had her Walkman tucked in her pocket, singing along to Kenny Loggins’ Footloose. While most people her age were partying the summer away, she was on her usual route to her summer job at the totally radical arcade, Game-Over Goobers.

Today, on her way to work, a cherry-red Pontiac drove up beside her. An acne-ridden boy rolled down the window, causing his mullet to fly in the breeze.

“Yo, airhead! We ordered our pizza from Cowabunga Crust fifteen minutes ago!”

Galaxia didn’t even bother to look at him as she replied: “Bite me.”

The teenager’s voice then went into a blur of squeaks and cracks like a mouse on helium. Galaxia laughed to herself as she took the exit that led to Game-Over Goobers. She pulled into the parking lot, parked her moped, and strolled towards the neon-lit arcade building. Clear-glass windows displayed all the wonderful

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8-bit wonders that lay inside, and as Galaxia approached the door, the upbeat beeps and bops of video games greeted her.

Galaxia caught a glimpse of herself in the clear glass before stepping inside. She wore a neon-blue oversized shirt with mom jeans accentuated with red high-top Converse. All of this was completed with bright pink lipstick. Galaxia, pleased with her appearance, then stepped inside the arcade.

The floor was speckled with multicolored shapes and swirls; the ceiling had lights that looked like fluorescent purple and blue slithering snakes. Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley blared over the speakers. It was so loud that Galaxia had to turn off her Walkman. She went to the Employees Only room, grabbed a highlighter-yellow vest with the Game-Over Goobers logo on it, and put it on, along with her nametag. A blend of body odor and pizza permeated through the vest.

Then, she walked over to flip on the “We’re Open, Goobers” sign when she saw an all-too-familiar cherry-red Pontiac pull up to the parking lot. She let out a massive sigh. It was going to be a long day.

Galaxia’s forehead dripped with sweat as she cleaned the arcade during her closing shift, reflecting on her day. Galaxia chomped on her now solid piece of bubblegum. It was from some weird kid. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old, but he had decided that he found the girl of his dreams because Foreigners, I Want to Know What Love Is, came on right when he looked at her. So, the kid strolled on up to her in his backward hat and offered her a piece of bubblegum as though it were solid gold. He gave her a wink and said, “You’re a bodacious babe.”

After taking the piece of bubblegum from the kid’s sweaty hand, Galaxia replied with, “Why don’t you Marty McFly–away from me, you Goober.”

And at ten years old, the kid experienced his first love and 195

his first heartbreak. He let out his anger while playing Pac-Man. Because Game-Over Goobers was so busy, Galaxia hardly had any time for lunch. As Galaxia walked to an empty booth, she saw the un-eaten pizza crusts lying on the metal tray like an array of discarded bones. Galaxia was beyond caring at this point, so she took all of the leftover crusts and ate them. She accidentally swallowed her bubblegum while doing so, but oh well.

“What am I doing with my life?” Galaxia thought suddenly to herself. Although she was thankful for a job, she did feel as though she was missing out on the experience of being young.

While Galaxia did well at appearing stone-faced on the outside, secretly, she did wish she was out with a big group of friends, wearing some guy’s letterman jacket and driving in a red Pontiac on the way to the beach like everybody else seemed to be doing this summer. Instead, she was eating leftover pizza crust, picking up discarded drink cups, and having an existential crisis. With a name like Galaxia Starbeam, truly, she was called for something big, right?

Galaxia’s last task was to clean the arcade games. Galaga was the last one on the list. Galaxia normally didn’t have the chance to play the arcade games because she was always too exhausted after a long day of work. But today, something felt different. The white spaceship zipped around the screen, shooting down all of the enemy aircraft and aliens that crossed its path. All was well until there was a red alien spaceship that the white spaceship didn’t see in time. With one shot, the white spaceship exploded, and the red alien ship twirled and spun around the wreck like a happy ballerina. The sad sounds of the Game Over screen echoed throughout the arcade. That red alien ship still flew unharmed in the background. To Galaxia, that red spaceship morphed into a red Pontiac. Soon, all of the ships morphed into different colored Pontiacs. And they all taunted her. There was no way Galaxia Starbeam could let the Pontiacs get the best of her now!

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“Oh, I don’t think so!” she declared. Galaxia popped a quarter into the slot and began to play. She shot down those Pontiacs– er–spaceships one-by-one until there was none left. The final enemy ship came into view, and Galaxia Starbeam demolished it within seconds.

“RADICAL!” Galaxia yelled triumphantly. She did the Breakfast Club fist in the air.

But instead of being put on the new High Score list, something bizarre happened. The screen to Galaga went black except for a string of white words that said, “You are the chosen one.”

“What the–” Galaxia started. Then, the screen burst into a blinding white light that was enough to send Galaxia reeling back in shock. A hologram that looked straight out of Star Wars appeared, revealing a bearded, old man wearing a long robe. The holographic man stood before Galaxia and pointed at her with a wrinkled, bony finger.

“I am the Great Space-Wizard, Ferniculus. You have beaten this game and, therefore, are the Chosen One to save the galaxy!” the wizard announced.

“YOU’RE CRAZY!” Galaxia screamed. She was about ready to leave Game-Over Goobers and never return!

“Heed my words–you are the only one who can save the galaxy from the evil space dragon, Darkiroth and his evil army of Supreme Destroyers. I know this seems like a task too great to bear, but with a name like Galaxia Starbeam, it seems as though you were made for this moment!” Ferniculus foretold.

Galaxia shook her head. “I DON’T–wait...how did you know my name?”

The Great Space-Wizard Ferniculus pointed to Galaxia’s name tag. “It says so right there.”

“Oh.” “Please–you’re the galaxy’s only hope. You will have the sword of Milkie-Wae and the spaceship, Galadoria, to aid you.”

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Galaxia almost said “no” again, but the thought of coming back to work tomorrow was unbearable. Plus, she could tell her boss that saving the entire galaxy from an evil space-dragon was a valid excuse to leave work.

After taking a deep breath, Galaxia answered, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Ferniculus then held out both of his hands as though he wanted a hug. Materializing between his hands soon came a gleaming sword that sparkled like the stars. The sword’s guard had hot pink angel wings sprouting out from both sides, united by a purple gem at the center.

“You, Galaxia Starbeam, are chosen to save the galaxy. I bestow upon you the magical sword of Milkie-Wae. Take it, and be blessed with powers that are out of this world!” Ferniculus’ voice boomed.

The space sword then headed straight towards Galaxia, and she took it.

“Now, repeat after me. Say, ‘By the power that’s out of this world!’” Ferniculus instructed.

“By the power that’s out of this world?” Galaxia echoed in disbelief.

“Close enough!”

Galaxia’s body soon became engulfed with magical space sparkles. She spun around in a circle and went through an 80s spin transformation sequence where her old outfit was replaced with hot-pink armor that reminded her of the dude from Metroid. A golden star was emblazoned across her chest, and Galaxia could have sworn she heard a tiger roaring in the background when her transformation sequence finished.

“You are ready,” Ferniculus nodded in approval.

“But...but how do I know I’ll make it back home? What if I don’t save the galaxy?”

Galaxia asked.

Ferniculus smiled reassuringly. “You will.”

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Galaxia took another deep breath and gathered all the courage she could muster before saying, “I’m ready to defeat Darkiroth and the Supreme Destroyers.”

“Good. Save us, Galaxia. You’re our only hope.” Ferniculus bowed his head.

“I knew you were from Star Wars!” Was the last thing Galaxia said before the Great Space Wizard Ferniculus snapped his fingers, teleporting Galaxia from the Game-Over Goobers arcade on planet Earth to the high-tech spaceship, Galadoria soaring through the depths of outer space.

Galaxia Starbeam flew the spaceship Galadoria towards the evil, purple planet, Valroth. She knew it was where Darkiroth was because this planet had rings circling around it, and lightning storms were scattered across the planet’s surface. Instead of having beautiful rings made out of ice and rock like Saturn, Valroth had rings made of bones of all the unfortunate souls who came across the evil dragon Darkiroth’s path. Galaxia’s stomach instantly felt queasy at the thought. Nonetheless, this was her destiny! She was the chosen one! Besides, anybody’s stomach would be feeling sick after only eating leftover pizza crust and stale bubblegum!

And with that, Galaxia Starbeam went full-throttle on the speed boosters and hurtled the Galadoria through the ring of femurs and skulls. Soon, she entered the atmosphere of Valroth.

The Galadoria smoothly landed on Valroth, and the spaceship’s front hatch opened with a hiss. Galaxia gazed at the landscape before her through her visor. Valroth’s surface was a desert as far as the eye could see. Purple skies and black storm clouds coated the horizon, and a howling wind blew up torrents of dust and sand. It didn’t take long for Galaxia to guess where Darkiroth’s lair was, for in the distance lay a large fortress that rested on the top of a mountain. The fortress was a massive cobblestone castle with many winged creatures flying around it like vultures.

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Galaxia gulped. “Those flying menaces must be a part of the Supreme Destroyers that the wizard was talking about,” she thought to herself. Galaxia slowly put one armored foot in front of the other as she descended down the lowered hatch door of the Galadoria. Each step she took meant she was getting closer and closer to her destiny. And that thought was...exhilarating!

She was Galaxia Starbeam, and she was going to save the galaxy!

Galaxia finally stepped onto the blood-red sands of Valroth, and the spaceship’s door slowly shut with another hiss. Galaxia held the sword of Milki-Wae in her right hand and raised it towards the sky.

“I have the pooooower!” she declared. A lightning bolt flashed across the sky in added effect. Galaxia grinned. “I always wanted to do that.” (she was a He-Man and She-Ra fan). Now all she needed was some sort of animal side-kick and she would be complete– “Ssssssstop right there!” came a cranky voice.

Galaxia nearly jumped out of Valroth’s atmosphere, she was so startled!

“Who goes there? I have power that’s out of this world!” she declared, still holding the sword of Milkie-Wae. “If you would jussssst turn around and use your bright eyesssss, you’d ssssee me,” the voice said again.

Galaxia slowly turned around, hoping not to fall apart if she saw a Supreme Destroyer. Instead of an evil dragon, Galaxia saw an old, reptilian-like creature who wore a plain brown robe.

Galaxia’s mind went back to depictions of what scientists claimed Velociraptors looked like in her science textbooks because this lizard creature definitely looked like one of those. Except he was actually talking to her and not trying to kill her like a normal Velociraptor probably would have.

“S-sorry,” Galaxia stammered. “Who are you?”

The reptilian lowered his head as he answered, “I am Krunkles, the last of the Krools. I have been waiting for you.”

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Galaxia bit back laughter. “Krunkles? Krunkles the Krool?

What a name.”

“Look who’ssss talking,” Krunkles murmured.

“What?”

“What?”

“Look,” Galaxia huffed. “I am here to save the galaxy against Darkiroth and his army of Supreme Destroyers. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must head over towards that evil-looking castle.”

“Not sssso fassst.”

Krunkles slowly walked over to Galaxia with his clawed feet.

His tail left a slithering trail behind him as he approached her.

“You do not know what dangerssss await you on thisss planet.

I will be your guide, for no one knowsss about the Ssssupreme Dessstroyersss better than me.”

“What exactly are the Supreme Destroyers? How do you know about them?” Galaxia asked.

Krunkles the Krool sighed. “Becuasssse I wasss one of them until I became an outcassst.

I have been roaming acrosssss thissss planet, waiting to sssserve as a guide for the Chosen One. Now let’ssss go. We haven’t got a moment to losssse!”

Krunkles then quickly got on all fours and skidded across the sands like a lizard with surprising speed.

“Woah! Wait for me!” Galaxia called out.

And soon, the dynamic duo was traversing across the desert of Valroth, encountering many dangerous Supreme Destroyers along the way. The first group were FuzzleWuzzles. They sound cute, but they are terrifying. They burrow themselves in the sands until they suddenly pop out and latch onto your body. If you make skin-to-skin contact with them, you die. Many unfortunate souls have tried to pet them, and once their skin touched the fuzzy fur, it was too late. Fuzzle Wuzzles look like cute chinchillas, but have razor-sharp teeth. However, they were easily defeated by the sword of Milkie-Wae. 201

The second group of Supreme Destroyers were called Grothbogs. They are creatures made out of a tar-like substance that had bubbles which oozed and popped across their bodies like a middle-schooler’s acne. These were slow creatures, but if they caught up to you, they would drag you down slowly into a pit of quicksand in a death that would seem to last forever.

However, Krunkles would slap them across the face with his spiky tail, and the Grothbogs would literally turn into a puddle of shame. Galaxia would then jump over the puddles with ease.

At last, Galaxia and Krunkles arrived at Darkiroth’s castle!

However, there was a group of Supreme Destroyers that were just totally wicked (and not in a good way) there. They were the Flying Menaces. They looked like gargoyles and had large, batlike wings. These were the last group of Supreme Destroyers; they circled around the perimeter of Darkiroth’s fortress, but there were more of them than before! Suddenly, more and more Flying Menaces swarmed around the castle like an angry horde of bees around a hive.

“There’s too many of them for us to take by ourselves!”

Galaxia exclaimed.

Krunkles was silent for a moment–his reptilian head hung low. When Krunkles the Krool finally raised his head back up, his eyes shone with determination.

“I know my dessssstiny,” he said softly.

“Krunkles, what do you mean?” Galaxia asked. Worry was laced in her voice.

The Krool looked at her with those determined eyes. “I will distract them. When I do, run towards Darkiroth’s lair and don’t look back.”

Galaxia gasped. “Krunkles, no! I can’t leave you! And don’t you dare leave me! I can save us both!” She moved towards her friend, reaching out to stop the reptile from leaving.

But Krunkles the Krool held up his scaly hand, stopping Galaxia in her tracks.

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“No. This is me repaying my debt for all the lives I took while being a Supreme Destroyer.”

Galaxia’s lip trembled and her eyes watered. She threw off her helmet and it fell to the desert sands with a loud thump.

“But Krunkles...you’ve already paid your debt by helping me.

We’ve made it this far–we can make it even further together.”

Krunkles tilted his head. “But Galaxia Starbeam, it is not I who was prophesied to save the galaxy, but you. Use my death to lead you to your destiny.”

Galaxia’s tears began to stream down her cheeks. She threw her arms around Krunkles and wrapped him in a fierce hug.

Krunkles the Krool didn’t reciprocate the hug right away, but soon, he, too, had Galaxia in an embrace. Finally, the reptile pulled away and gently wiped a tear away from Galaxia’s cheek.

“No more tears. Pick up your sword and helmet. Save the galaxy with power that is out of this world.”

With that, Krunkles stepped towards the fortress full of Flying Menaces and shouted, “Heeeey you guuuuuys!

And one-by-one, the Flying Menaces screeched and shrieked shrill cries as they headed towards Krunkles the Krool. The reptile lunged at a pace that no man had seen before as he, once again, skittered away on all fours. Barreling after him was a horde of Flying Menaces, not even seeming to notice the young woman with the sword and hot-pink battle armor.

Soon, all of the Flying Menaces had abandoned their post.

They may be Supreme Destroyers, but they were also all supremely stupid. Galaxia looked at the looming, ominous fortress one last time. The sword of Milkie-Wae was held in her right hand, and it glimmered and sparkled like the stars. Even the gem shone.

“Time to get tubular,” Galaxia grinned. She picked up her helmet, put it on, and stepped inside Darkiroth’s castle.

Galaxia Starbeam found herself encompassed in total darkness, save for the gleaming light of the Milkie-Wae sword 203

and the glowing star in the center of her chest. It wasn’t until a stream of purple fire blazed across her vision, illuminating horrific, red reptilian eyes and a yellow-fanged smile.

Galaxia screamed and nearly rolled out of the way of the fire just in time! The purple flames burned brightly in the corner, revealing Darkiroth’s body bit by bit. It reminded her of a cut scene in video games where the final boss was dramatically shown. It was also revealed Galaxia was in a chamber full of boiling, bubbling lava, save for a single strand of cobblestone in the center. It was just like Mario going up against Bowser!

Speaking of Bowser, Galaxia fully took in her “final boss,” her gaze roaming up his body. The dragon was massive–purple scales coated his body, and red eyes gleamed evilly at her. His teeth were yellow and razor-sharp. Gnarly horns twisted upwards from the dragon’s skull. He flared his wings, and they were a purple-ish red that looked like dried, old blood.

“I see you’re here to defeat me,” Darkiroth’s voice was so low Galaxia felt it in her bones. “Many have tried, but all have failed.

What makes you so different?”

Galaxia threw her shoulders back and held her head up high.

She drew her sword and pointed it towards Darkiroth.

“Because I have power that is out of this world!”

The sword of Milkie-Wae began to give off a neon-pink glow, and soon, a giant beam of pink lightning shot forward from the sword, heading straight towards Darkiroth. It struck the dragon square in the chest, and he roared in pain. This made him very angry. Smoke billowed from his nostrils as he opened his massive jaws wide to let out another stream of fire. Galaxia dove out of the way, but landed dangerously close to the edge of the platform! Orange lava boiled and bubbled nearly inches away from Galaxia’s face.

Darkiroth growled and lunged at Galaxia. His tail came crashing down and it nearly drove her into the lava! Galaxia rolled out of the way, and the dragon’s tail slammed onto the 204

cobblestone instead. Just then, Galaxia had an idea–she latched onto his tail like a parasite and repeatedly stabbed it with her sword.

“You heinous fungus! Get off!” Darkiroth bellowed.

When the space dragon flicked his tail upwards to try and throw her off, Galaxia was launched into the air. She twirled around and swung the sword of Milkie-Wae at his wings, permanently injuring them! The dragon screamed in agony.

“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” Darkiroth snatched Galaxia in his claws. Galaxia squirmed as she tried to get out of the dragon’s grasp. The dragon grinned in sick delight as he tightened his grip around Galaxia’s body. Galaxia’s ribs felt as though they were about to individually crack; her throat was closing as air was being blocked from reaching her lungs. Each of the dragon’s fingers felt like individual pythons constricting around her body.

For the first time, Galaxia thought she was really going to die.

Suddenly, the Great Space-Wizard Ferniculus and Krunkles the Krool appeared in her mind’s eye. Both of them appeared in the form of a hologram.

“Do not give up, Galaxia Starbeam! You have power that is out of this world!” Ferniculus declared.

“B-but I can’t breathe! I can’t reach the sword!” Galaxia gasped.

Darkiroth blinked in confusion. “Who are you talking to?”

Krunkles the Krool gave Galaxia a slight smile. “The sword doesn’t have the power. You do. You always did. Now go and save the galaxy.”

Galaxia’s whole world changed as the revelation struck true.

She didn’t need a magical weapon to be strong; she didn’t need special armor in order to be powerful; she didn’t need a spaceship to be out of this world! And with each new thought, Galaxia felt an increase in strength. Her body began to feel as though she were on fire, but in a totally radical way!

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“I DO have power that is out of this world!” she exclaimed.

With that, the star that was emblazoned across Galaxia’s chest lit up with pure energy that seemed to rival the sun.

“What the–” Darkiroth couldn’t even finish his sentence before the star sent out a mega laser beam that struck the space dragon square in the face. The evil dragon reeled back in pain, dropping Galaxia in the process.

“My eyes! My eyes!” he screamed. The dragon teetered back and forth across the platform, covering his eyes with his scaly talons. But because Darkiroth wasn’t looking, he didn’t see that he was on the edge of the cobblestone platform until it was too late. The dragon’s foot slipped, and the evil monster roared in shock as he fell into the brewing, bubbling, deadly pool of molten lava. His wings flared in and out and his jaws opened wide as he kept roaring.

But soon, Darkiroth slowly slipped under the pool of lava, never to be seen again.

“You did it! The galaxy is saved!” Ferniculus cheered.

“Thank you, Galaxia Starbeam. You saved us all. You can now return home.” Krunkles smiled.

Galaxia did the Breakfast Club fist in the air. “Sick! I, Galaxia Starbeam, saved the galaxy!” She raised the sword of Milkie-Wae, and it gave off a luminous display of red and blue light, vibrant enough to consume her vision. Strangely enough, Galaxia heard the sounds of sirens as the evil fortress, The Great Sapce Wizard Ferniculus, and Krunkles the Krool, vanished as though they were made of smoke.

An EMT wheeled an unconscious young woman on a stretcher into the ambulance. She was murmuring something weird about saving the galaxy. A middle-aged man stood at the entrance of the Game-Over Goobers arcade with his arms folded,

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and head shaking slowly in disappointment. “She should have known better than to eat expired bubblegum and moldy pizza crusts.”

About the Author Rakel Rae is currently a grad student pursuing a Masters in English. She has written stories her whole life, one of which was published in her university’s school journal, The Image. At age fifteen, her novel, Don’t Judge a Thief by Her Dragon, was published as well. She thinks fantasy, dragons, heroes, and epic battle sequences are totally tubular and absolutely loves reading and writing about them!

Humor Finalists "Oh, Fred!" by Sarah Cannon Scars on the Bottom of My Feet by Michele Dambeck Something by Katelyn Dean The Last Kong Remake by Bruce Graham Birdbrain of Amazon by Rocky Leplin The "Quill" is Mightier Than the Sword by Gail E. Wind

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Inspirational-Tie

Home Away from Home

by Success Aifuwa Flight AC670 heading to Winnipeg is now boarding at Gate 21.

My face felt heavy. I tried to take a deep breath, but that didn’t work either. I readjusted my sitting position, but I was sitting on one of those uncomfortable chairs at the gate–that people manage to sleep on. I don’t know how they do it.

“These planes are as safe as they come.” I’m interrupted by a sweet lady beside me. I nodded in agreement, but the plane was not what I was scared of. I was scared of something much worse.

Earlier today, I was looking for my mum’s cute sweater to steal. As I searched, I looked underneath her dresser. To my surprise, I found a box with baby pictures of me and a letter from a woman. Things collided in my head and I discovered that the letter was written for me.

From my birth mother.

At the top, it had an address. I was in utter disbelief and a million times angry at my parents for keeping such a huge secret from me. With anger in my veins, I packed a bag and booked the next flight to Winnipeg–using my mother’s credit card, of course–before my parents came back.

I have known about my adoption since I was seven years old.

In my opinion, it was quite obvious to figure out, as I looked nothing like my parents. It was a wonder I didn’t discover it sooner. My parents did a good job sitting me down and 208

explaining what adoption meant, as best as you could explain it to a seven-year-old. I adored them for that parenting, but what I didn’t expect from them was hiding information they had on my birth parents.

As I boarded the plane, I contemplated if this was the brightest idea a sixteen-year-old could have–probably not, but there was no turning back now. After the flight attendant finished her safety demonstration, I put my headphones on and played Noah Kahan’s new album. I was calmed down for about three songs in until my brain started playing a very risky game called “worst case scenario.” I was not a big fan of this game, as I normally got heart palpitations.

Scenario 1: You can’t find your birth mother and get stuck in an unknown city with no food or money, then you get eaten by some wild animals in the middle of downtown.

Scenario 2: You find your birth mother, but she tells you you’re the worst thing that ever happened to her, so she had to get rid of you.

Scenario 3: You do find your birth mother, but your parents never forgive you for leaving like that.

I was able to call bluffs on all scenarios except scenario 2. It was possible. My birth mother could reject me. But I reminded myself that she could also be happy to see me. Who knows, she might have been looking for me all this time, too. By thinking positive thoughts until the plane landed, I was able to catch some sleep while we flew into Winnipeg. But as soon as I got cell reception, I received a hundred messages from my mum and dad. This was expected. Although I was very mad at them, I didn’t want them filing a missing child report; so I messaged them saying I found the letters, I was with a friend, and I just needed some time alone.

As the wind blew my face, I realized I was standing in an unknown city, yet I took my first breaths here. With the letter in my hand, it appeared to read “232 Browler Street,” or maybe 209

333 Browler Street. Considering this letter was sixteen years old, it had probably gone through its own fair share of trauma. I decided to go with 232 and hope for the best. My Uber arrived– and for what felt like the shortest twenty minutes of my life–I was standing in front of the house. My heart was racing, the air felt warm, although the weather was 0 degrees, smack dab in the middle of March. I performed my breathing exercises to calm myself down. I took ten steps forward and arrived at the front door. I took a couple more breaths in and pressed the doorbell.

A minute went by and I received no answer. I raised my finger to press the doorbell again, and as I was milliseconds away from pushing it, a woman unlocked the door. I immediately looked up and stared at her.

This black lady was petite in stature and had eyes that looked like mine. Something must have overcome me because I immediately blurted out, “Mum?” She was taken aback by that word and had a confused look on her face. “Excuse me?” she said.

“Hi! I’m so sorry, I apologize. That came out wrong,” I explained while looking into her eyes. Could this be my mother?

I started to wonder? We shared the same eyes, the same skin color, and she was petite like me. “My name’s Sasha, and I think you are my mum.”

“Well, I–” she said.

“I found this letter,” I handed her the letter, “in my adoptive mother’s closet with this address written on it. I guess the question I should have started with is, ‘Did you happen to have a child sixteen years ago on December 4th?’”

She took a deep breath, paused, and read the letter. She stepped aside and smiled. “Come in.” If I thought I had nerves before pressing the doorbell, I had something else entirely at that moment. I gave her a smile but deep down, I was still very confused because she never answered my question. I dropped my backpack on the floor and took a seat on her couch.

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“Tea or coffee?” she asked.

“Water’s fine, please.”

She brought a cup of water for me and set it on the table. An awkward silence lingered for a minute before I tried to eradicate it. “So you never answe–” “I’m not your mother,” the strange woman said to me. At that moment, I felt like my whole world shattered and I was back to square one. For a couple of moments, I allowed myself to believe that I finally found the missing piece to the mystery I called my life.

Until she said, “But I know your mother,” I was dumbfounded.

I forgot how to breathe.

I cleared my throat with tears in my eyes and asked, “What do you mean you know her?”

She breathed in and then smiled in a nostalgic way. “Well, Adele is my sister”–she immediately corrected herself–“was, I guess is more correct.”

My mother’s name is Adele, what a beautiful name.

“Wait a second...is she dead??” I asked.

Monique, my aunt’s name as I came to realize, had tears in her eyes as she answered yes to my question. “Adele died just over two years ago,” Monique looked up at a framed picture of two little girls. “She had a long battle with cancer before passing away. When Adele found out she had cancer, she tried searching for you, but the agency said it was a closed adoption.”

I nodded and had a million and one questions to ask my newfound Aunt. But the first question that came out was, “What was she like?”

Monique found that question to be very open-ended, so she pulled out my birth mother’s baby pictures and yearbook photos and then proceeded to tell me every possible story she could remember of her sister. From her stories, I realized we both shared a love of dance; we both played the piano, and she had dimples like me.

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Monique mentioned Adele had me at 18 and she gave me up for adoption because she couldn’t give me the life I deserved.

After hearing many stories of my birth mother, even though I had never met her. I felt like I knew her.

“Do you know anything about my birth father?” I asked Monique.

“Unfortunately, I do not”–she sighed–“Adele had a one-night stand and when she found out she was pregnant with you, she couldn’t find him.” I was sad not finding any information relating to my birth father, but I was happy I knew about my birth mother.

I slept the night at my Aunt’s place and decided to book a flight back to Halifax.

Morning came and I had some breakfast with my Aunt. She drove me to the airport and as we got to the departure terminal, we exchanged numbers. She hugged me and whispered, “She never stopped loving you.” As if the tears I had cried yesterday weren’t enough, waterworks came flooding down. “Please come visit,” Aunt Monique said. “Your cousins would love to see you.”

“I have cousins?!” I asked excitedly. She nodded and proceeded to tell me they were at their dad’s place. We hugged a bit more and said some goodbyes.

I will never see my birth mother and I might never find my birth father, but I left Winnipeg with a sense of belonging I never knew I needed and an appreciation for the life I had with the two parents that loved me so dearly.

With that in mind, I texted my parents, “I’m coming home.”

About the Author Success Aifuwa is a writer and engineer. Although born in Nigeria, she currently resides in Nova Scotia, Canada. She spent her teenage years studying engineering and only took up writing in her early 20s. When she’s not trying to elicit a good cry from her readers, she enjoys travelling, crocheting, and reading romance novels.

212

Inspirational-Tie

Herding Pigs

by Amber Swan I am not a truly great writer. Probably that is not the best introductory statement. Admittedly, why would any reader wish to continue along now? Please bear with me for a bit longer. I am not good at many things, but I still hope that there is value to be found in my weaknesses and challenges. If I had to start life over again, instead of building up my successes, I would start to honor the difficult times. Perhaps cliché, however, the missteps along the way always teach me the most, eventually helping me navigate life a bit better. With that in mind, I am going to highlight a messy challenge I encountered in the past while doing my best to compensate for my lack of writing prowess. Indeed, I hope that a weak writer can still be a wonderful storyteller and, to be truthful, any story is likely to be entertaining if it involves pigs...

Sometimes, goals in life can outwardly seem simple, and this was the case when my husband and I determined that we needed to move our sow from the barn to her summer residence in the woods. The frigid Canadian winter was dissipating as the weather was turning warmer, and we knew that the sow would now flourish in the pig stye at the border of the forest behind our garden shed. We sized up our perceived challenges in accomplishing this goal. The current location of the barn containing the sow was about 300 meters away from the target pig stye. Certainly, it was a walkable distance. However, being 213

inherently cautious individuals, we wondered whether it may be most prudent to put the pig in the horse trailer and drive her to the desired destination. Typical of most plans that are perceived to be the most efficient, there were significant barriers. For starters, not all pigs are terribly keen to walk right onto a trailer.

It often takes weeks of coaxing and coercion with food to entice pigs to walk up a ramp into a dark, enclosed space. Although it was game day; clearly, neither of us (nor the pig) had adequately trained for this. For any brave readers with suggestions that we should have just “muscled” the pig onto the trailer, we need to draw to your attention simple science. With our current limited human statures, physics prevents us from being able to successfully shove a 500-pound creature with a low center of gravity and a high amount of stubbornness. Simply stated, if the pig decides that it won’t move....it won’t move.

There was yet another significant barrier that we were facing.

Since the temperature was warming, we had progressed into mud season and it only took a cursory surveillance of the scene to realize that, even if, by some stroke of luck, we managed to get the pig into the trailer, driving said horse trailer through the field, turning around and backing up to the pig stye was only going to achieve the goal of getting truck, trailer and all occupants stuck fast in mud well beyond the wheel bearings at least 100 meters away from the target. Then, we would be stuck there until the ground dried out in mid-summer - probably two months later.

The riskiest option to consider was to simply let the sow loose and see if we could encourage her to follow us to the desired location. This was a huge gamble. If she chose to take off in any alternative direction, she could be wandering in the forest for many months, even years. We envisioned a scenario where local news channels would be running stories about a wild pig roaming unpredictably and popping out occasionally to wreak havoc for neighbors. Or our sow could take off down the road and induce more immediate chaos with dramatic car accidents.

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Alas, to approach a task like this was going to require some planning and creativity.

Since we had already visualized many problems and were naive but ridiculously ambitious individuals, we decided that we should construct some sort of portable enclosure within which the pig could walk. The device would be like a box with an open bottom. The pig would walk into the box, and then we would slide down a door behind its bum so that it could not back out.

The box would have large wooden handles ejecting from each side of the front. We would hold the handles and guide the pig along. In theory, if the pig could not see where it was going, we believed that it would simply walk along as the box moved around it. This would prevent escape and yet allow us to direct the pig to the desired location.

We enlisted the help of my father-in-law (AKA “Papa”) to build this pig box. While his white head was bent over his workbench, much mumbling and deep thought occurred.

Eventually, the contraption was built. Moving attempt number one failed right out of the gate. Literally, the pig walked out of the gate in the barn, walked up to the front of the box placed directly in front of it, and then promptly backed right out of the box. Time and time again, we tried to slam the posterior wooden slab down to prevent the sow from backing out, but we quickly realized that there was a major problem. You see, the sow had grown even since Papa had started his wooden masterpiece, and now, the pig simply didn’t fit in the box. She was too long, so Papa headed back to the drawing table. More mumbling ensued and a few more days passed. By now, other family members were becoming curious about the events that were about to unfold.

My mother-in-law, brother-in-law, and nephew decided to witness another attempt, and we secretly wondered if having more personnel around would give us an advantage.

Attempt number two went only slightly better than attempt number one. This time, we were able to close the hatch behind 215

the pig in the box. She tried to shuffle around, but we held fast, and she only had enough space to stay pointed in one direction. By now, my husband, brother-in-law, and nephew were all alongside the pig box. We slowly started to guide the box forward. However, instead of walking along with us, the sow simply decided to buckle her legs and hold fast. She refused to move an inch. As we tugged and shoved, she dug her hocks deep into the mud, locked her knees and left big grooves in the ground.

Panting and heaving, we wracked our brains about what to do next and eventually, frustrated and defeated, we released the sow back in the barn. Then, Papa had a theory. The way he figured it, if we could put something underneath the sow in the box, perhaps we could slide her to the pig stye. We randomly started pitching ideas. We ran for toboggans, crazy mats, yoga mats, and eventually, after a few more failed experiments, we determined that we needed something more solid. We found an old crudely made firewood hauling sled with wooden runners. The box was placed on the runners and once again, the pig entered the box.

We anticipated this would be a difficult slide and indeed, even with our extra manpower, there wasn’t much progress. This led to the next big idea. We would attach our sliding pig-containing box to Papa’s four-wheeler! Papa would drive ahead and pull the box while the other men walked along the sides and guided it.

There was a lot of fidgeting with ropes and chains and finally, we were ready.

Admittedly, any casual observer would have been awestricken by the monstrosity of the final invention we created. It was game time! Papa jumped on the four-wheeler.

Now, to this day, we aren’t sure why Papa decided to give the accelerator so much gas...

The four-wheeler lunged ahead, the chains held, and the pig in the sliding box took off at record speed. With many whoops and yells, the men alongside started running. Papa momentarily glanced back and, finally reveling in some success, he only 216

became more excited and gained further speed. With the roar of the engine coupled with his seventy-year-old ears, he was oblivious to the shouts of the men tearing alongside. The runners slid as if in an Olympic luge event. Mud spewed backward from the four-wheeler tires, coating my husband and brother-in-law as they clumsily attempted to plod along at breakneck speed in their coveralls and rubber boots. In a moment of either exhilaration, desperation from trying to keep up, or too many Twisted Teas, my nephew took a giant leap onto the top of the wooden pig box. Straddling the box, he whipped off his straw hat, swinging it in the air while yelling “Yippee” at the top of his lungs. The locomotion of chaos flew down the driveway, passed the corner of the house, almost ran over my motherin-law, and headed through the garden. More clods of mud and dirt flew as they headed directly for the pig sty. I am happy to report that they made it close enough and the brakes were applied. After a few concluding curse words for Papa, ultimately, it was determined that the pig could disembark, and my husband would try to direct her into the enclosure. The box was opened and (probably needless to say by this point in time), the pig was quite happy to leave. She eventually made it into the designated area, but not without some sporadic, jerky movements required by my husband to entice her to head in the correct direction.

Performing sporadic, speedy movement in a pig stye with your rubber boots held fast in mud and excrement is a challenging act. My husband has never been noted for his coordination and dexterity. He stumbled, lost his balance, and ultimately never regained it. A collective gasp escaped from the on-lookers as he took a face plant into the depths of slime and grime. It was a fitting culmination for moving day. He slowly arose, resembling a swamp creature from vintage “Scooby-Doo” cartoon episodes.

All we could basically see were his eyes.

So, aside from granting myself the privilege of remembering that fine, hilarious moment...why would I bother to tell this 217

story? Probably, most individuals who read this will never have to finesse the fine art of moving pigs. But remember, at the start of this story, I pleaded with you to bear with me. I am coming round to an important point. I believe that many of us are faced with “herding pig” challenges routinely. We are all trying to find ways to achieve desirable goals. When we are trying to be clever, we strive to achieve these goals in an efficient and safe manner but are often juggling factors that are out of our control, such as individual personality characteristics, environmental factors, and limited access to resources. I believe everyone relates to this. I am highlighting this particular story to show how many times we failed in this pig moving circumstance and then had to reassess our plan. In truth, even when we achieved the desired goal, it really wasn’t pretty. It serves as a reminder that, in life, you must keep improvising and sometimes just endure. In all honesty, occasionally you may face plant into some poop on your way to the goal.

I have had to move pigs again many times since that incident and, ironically enough, with time and more experience, we eventually realized that the easiest way to move most of our pigs involved the least effort of all. We simply place a few barricades on the driveway in attempts to prevent a drastic escape, and then let the pig walk on its own accord. We walk or jog alongside and, if the pig is heading in a terribly bad direction, I purposefully wear a long skirt and flap the material to redirect the pig. I have read that pigs apparently have weak vision, but the rustling and flapping of my skirt seems to gain their attention. My husband uses a broom.

Maybe we have been lucky using the “less is more” strategy, but I often wonder if I am guilty of attempting to overmanipulate other situations in life. How many times am I perceiving that I am controlling something, but in reality, the evolution of a particular chain of events may have had very little to do with me at all? On one level, it can be very disheartening to think 218

in this way. After all, I put a lot of time and effort into doing my best to make clever decisions that will hopefully benefit the greater good. I don’t want my hard work to always be for naught.

And most times, hard work and a bit of ingenuity pays off. But at other times, particularly times when I am stuck or unable to see any clear path out of a difficult situation, I try to remember that continuously forcing issues may occasionally be running me in circles. I try to remember what it is like to herd pigs, and I am challenging others to think of this as well.

There are important issues and many problems we are experiencing throughout the world today. We are seeing repercussions from limitations in cognition, consequences from poor mental and physical health, the toxic potential of too much power, and the outcomes of some decisions fueled primarily by greed. Honestly, with some global problems, I struggle to see clear, immediate solutions. It may be tempting to throw in the towel, become indifferent and stop seeking true meaning within life. But we must try to learn from previous experiences, even filthy pig adventures. In very dark moments, maybe, just maybe, things occasionally find a way to move to a better place on their own. But we need to be tough to endure the journey. We need to force ourselves to keep attentive, be caring, refuse to give up, and simply keep jogging alongside for now. The desired destination may still manifest on the horizon...and when it does, we will be ready to see it.

About the Author Amber Swan (BSc, MD, CCFP, FCFP) is a General Practitioner in Oncology who writes narratives in medicine, poetry, and comedic stories. She is a member of the Writer’s Federation of NB, Canada. Her poetry has been published in the medical journal Current Oncology. Dr. Swan is noted for her ability to multitask. By day, she manages the care of cancer 219

patients receiving therapy and in the evenings, she shovels manure. She runs ‘Swan Bevy Farm’ with help from her husband and son. Although she is an amateur writer, she likes to pride herself on her ability to handle crap.

Inspirational Finalists Cliffside by Amelia Augustine Better World Blues by Hank Leo Yesterday I Was a Different Me by Susan Shetler

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LGBTQ+

Sweetwater

by Stephania Jean “Let me tell you about the Alphabet of Predators,” Ava said, her delicate flip-flopped feet smacking the decaying boardwalk below us.

“Okay,” I replied, but what I wanted to tell her was focus.

On us: toting a heavy double kayak like tightrope walkers on a narrow stretch of planks spanning a swamp in Florida. On what was on either side of us: murky marshland waters punctuated by unseen creatures blowing bubbles at us from below. I wished she’d take our situation more seriously. But I shouldn’t have been surprised, since Ava was known for being a cultured savage at our university. It made sense that she was at ease here in an untamed place, outfitted in ripped denim shorts and a sports bra for whatever bizarre excursion she had in mind for us.

But I was still too travel-dizzy from our pre-dawn flight from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Miami, Florida to voice my opinion. My Canadian complexion was curdling under a smear of sunscreen in the heat, my ridiculous Barbie-pink bikini pinching at my side like a warning. Meanwhile, a wall of humid tropical air was pressing my body from all sides, making it hard to breathe.

“Since it’s your first time visiting Florida, it’s important to know what can kill you here,” Ava said.

“Sorry, what?”

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“It’s something most parents teach their kids when they’re little because there are so many dangerous critters here on land, in lakes, and in the ocean. I mean, I’m guessing you probably saw some crazy stuff while growing up on your grandfather’s fishing boat on the South Shore in Nova Scotia, but it’s a different ballgame here in the South of the USA.” “Um, sure,” I confirmed. “He raised me to respect the sea. And down in our village, we do have to watch out for the occasional bear or coyote.”

“We’ve got a lot more down here that you’ll have to worry about, so I’ll give you the list just in case,” Ava countered.

“That makes sense,” I replied and tightened my grip on the kayak.

But really, none of it made sense. Ava had started behaving uncharacteristically from the moment we’d stepped off the plane.

Back at school, I admired her raw American self-confidence and how she consumed guys and girls (sometimes, at the same time) in an endless stream of casual affairs. She selected people for her “adventures,” and everyone who participated walked away with a newfound shine and social cache.

I’d never seen Ava with a dedicated group of friends, but since I had few myself, I couldn’t judge her. After all, she was infamous, and I was invisible. So when she’d told me she was homesick and invited me to come down here for a long weekend, I didn’t hesitate. Finally, it was my turn with her, to step into her glamorous life.

Yet after landing at the airport, we’d bypassed the sherbertcolored Art Deco buildings on South Beach, where all the chic parties blossomed. Instead, we drove east onto a hurricane bridge, which soared high into the sky before rollercoastering the car down below to this island. A few posh hotels flashed by our car as the scenery turned rural and residential until we arrived at the 222

end of the island, where Ava’s vacant family cottage sat in a grove of dark Australian pines.

Once inside, Ava quickly stepped out of her luxe designer clothes. She left them in a pile on the floor and threw on the most basic outfit I’d ever seen her in. I’d changed into an impractical bikini I’d bought for this trip, expecting that we’d be at some trendy beach club. I’d dared to hope that later, she and I would be lying on a hammock, feeding each other mangos with our legs tangled together. Instead, we were here, hauling a kayak through seagrass and a bog on the edge of a state park that bordered her property because Ava had told me she wanted to show me her parents’ old house. Meanwhile, the small doubts about our trip were starting to nibble away at me.

“A is for Alligator,” she began, interrupting my thoughts.

“They get up to 11 ft long here, but don’t be fooled by their size.

Gators can reach a speed of 35 mph on land. So if one chases you, don’t run straight, zig-zag instead. You don’t want them to catch you and get in the water ‘cause they’ll clamp down with their teeth and do a “death roll” turning you underwater until you drown.”

“Oh god,” I said, horrified. “But wait, aren’t they usually only in freshwater? Isn’t this an island in the ocean?”

Ava shook her dark maple hair, the ends of her short, jagged bob swinging. She was a small autumn leaf of a girl, but she exuded the same sense of authority here as she did when giving presentations at school.

“This is sweetwater—it’s mixed salt water with fresh water.

There’s a lake over there that is flooded by the ocean at high tide,” she said, pointing with her chin to the left. “So sometimes the gators wander over. See? There’s one lying on the sandbank sunning itself.”

And sure enough, an alligator the size of our kayak was just 3 meters away, staring right at me with its slitted yellow eyes. I had never been so close to a real-life monster such as this. A jolt of 223

fear zapped me from my head down to my toes, and a mouse-like noise escaped me.

Ava chuckled. “Aw, don’t worry. They usually hunt from dusk till dawn. It’s noon, so they’re sleepy right now,” she said and had the audacity to turn around and wink.

“Ha!” I said bravely, but as she turned forward again, a fullbody shudder overtook me. “I still don’t understand, though.

How did they get on this island?”

“Pets. Someone probably got them when they were small and then released them when they became too big.” She snorted and added softly, “You shouldn’t try to keep wild things.”

“You could put that advice on a t-shirt,” I added weakly. I was trying to focus on placing one rubber flip-flopped foot in front of the other to stay on the slim and rickety boardwalk we were on. I was now hyper-aware of the water beside me, where more alligators might be lurking underneath. This was challenging because it was so bright out that I was squinting. And the sunlight here seemed to have an ominous sound. As we walked through the mangroves there was a crackling screech that seemed to rise and fall with the blinding light around us.

“What is that noise?” I asked.

“Cicadas,” Ava replied. “They’re insects you don’t have in Nova Scotia. I miss them when I’m away from here.” Then she pointed at the water to our left, where a different kind of reptile was gliding across the water like it was glass. “S is for snake. Gotta watch out for the water moccasins like this one ‘cause they’re super-bitey and mean. But the worst are the escaped pythons.

They get huge– there was one they found in the Everglades that made the news because it died while trying to eat an alligator.”

At this stage, all I could muster for a reply was OMG, while I simultaneously contemplated telling her I was giving up and going back to her house to hide under a bed in the air conditioning.

But I couldn’t because this was my chance to finally have a story to tell back at school. It was almost the end of my freshman year, 224

and I’d done nothing of note. I wanted to be able to go back to my labmates in Chemistry class on Monday and casually say, “I just got back from a trip to Florida with Ava...” I craved this so desperately that I was willing to wade through alligators to get it.

Blessedly, at that moment, the boardwalk ended and deposited us on a soft, sugar-sand beach while the ocean unfurled in front of us in a shade of emerald green. We both set the kayak down, and I collapsed onto the sand, weak with relief.

“Wow,” I said. This was more what I’d had in mind.

“You look wilted,” Ava said. “C’mon, cool off.” As she ran into the sea, I reached for my belt bag, pulled out my phone, and hit the camera button. With her back turned, I took a shot.

Ava and the Sea, I’d title the photo on Instagram. #MiamiLife, or something like that. It was my first trophy from this weekend.

I stashed my phone quickly and plowed into the ocean.

The water was almost as warm as bathwater but still a welcome change from our walk. As I paddled towards Ava, my long hair finally unstuck itself from my sweaty back and floated away from my body like seaweed.

“Hey, hang on,” Ava said, swimming behind me, and hooked her arm around my neck. I yelped in surprise, bucking her off my back in the process.

She laughed and splashed water at me, saying, “It’s okay, baby gay. I’m not putting a move on you right now. Just here to help with your hair.” Ava grabbed my back, placing her right hand on my hip bone to move me into position in front of her. Then she gently pulled my hair back, teasing, “Skittish, huh? I heard you’re only a lesbian in theory,” and I could have sunk to the ocean floor in shame and frustration.

Embarrassingly, she was right. I’d come from a tiny fishing village in the South Shore to the big city of Halifax hoping to step out of the closet while at university. I’d confessed this to another classmate after I’d gotten drunk at a party, and clearly, she’d passed this tidbit on until it’d reached Ava. It made me wonder 225

now what she was playing at. From the moment we’d arrived in Florida, I plotted to capture Ava somehow, take her by the tongue until she was mine. It’s easy to be brave while daydreaming. But the longer I was here, the more I realized how out of my depth I was, like hunting a lioness with a kid’s squirt gun.

Meanwhile, Ava continued picking up the tendrils of my hair, her fingers dancing down my back as she coaxed my tangled locks into a braid. Her touch was as light as dragonfly wings on my skin, but it felt like she was burning a mark into me. It was excruciating.

“This should help keep it out of your face as we paddle,” she said as she finished the braid.

I realized I’d been holding my breath and exhaled. “Thanks.”

I turned towards her but she had already moved on from the moment and was scanning the horizon to our east, a serious look on her face. “What is it?”

Ava shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand and said, “I’m checking the clouds and the wind. The sky looks okay for now. Thunderstorms should be on the list of things that kill you here. Or, lighting, rather. We get big storms that roll in fast.”

“But won’t we be indoors? Didn’t you say that we’re going to see your parent’s old house?”

“Yes,” Ava said, “But it doesn’t have all its walls anymore.

Not that it matters if you have walls, even. Ever heard of ball lighting? It can ricochet through open windows into the house.”

She paused, grinning. I could feel her getting ready to weigh and measure my reaction.

Thump, thump, thump, warned my heart. Run back to the cottage. Instead, I warbled, “Florida is a bit extra, eh?”

Ava volleyed back with, “Yeah. Oh, and we’ve got to get there in this,” she said, gesturing towards the kayak. “Look there, about a mile offshore.”

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I squinted and could see what looked like a triangle hovering over the water in the distance, with some other dark structures nearby. It didn’t look like anything to me. Was this a trick?

“Let’s go!” Ava said, with such unexpected child-like glee I couldn’t protest. She dragged the kayak into the shallows, holding the sides steady as I rolled ungracefully into it. She joined me, liberating two paddles that were tethered inside and handed me one. Luckily, the ocean was calm and flat like a lake, and inexplicably, the further we paddled, the lighter the color of the water became. It shifted from emerald to a shade of turquoise, so blue it was almost transparent and I could see fish swimming below.

“What is this place?” I asked as we paddled closer to the structures. I could start to make out about six houses in various stages of decay hovering above the water on piers.

“Stiltsville. It was created around 100 years ago. My greatgrandfather built one as a speakeasy and had illegal parties there serving alcohol during Prohibition. Then, it was passed down to my grandfather and father, and they used it as a vacation house. Later my dad ran away with my mom here before they were married and lived here for a time like sea hippies,” she said wistfully.

Of course, I thought. Of course, Ava had descended from a wild family who tried to live outside the law. Out loud, I said, “What happened to this place? It looks like a ghost town on the sea.”

“Well, it’s a long story and I can’t remember the specifics. I think Dad said that after a time, Stiltsville was folded into the state park here. The house owners were required to “lease” their location like a camp spot. Mom had died by then, and Dad had remarried my stepmom and went back to his regularly scheduled life in Miami as a stockbroker. But something still called him back here, so we’d stay in the cottage on weekends and summer vacations. But he never asked my stepmom to come out here 227

to the Stiltsville house. Just me. We’d spend the day fishing and walking between houses when the tide was low to visit with the other neighbours here. It was a unique community. But then he passed away the lease expired, or something. It went that way for a lot of the original owners. I think there’s only a few left. But it must have been amazing 100 years ago, with people jetting out here in their boats and fancy gowns to party in the middle of the ocean,” Ava said, her expression naked and free of the schadenfreude she’d worn all afternoon while watching my reaction to the dangers she’d been describing here.

With her guard down, I could have verbally punched her nostalgic ramblings. But I wanted her to stay open like this, and vulnerable. So instead, I said enthusiastically, “Totally. You sail away from your problems on land to a different world entirely, with no rules. And I can’t imagine how gorgeous it must have been to live with a 360-degree view of the ocean.”

“I’m glad you get it,” Ava said, and I saw her shoulders relax slightly. Then, our kayak made a strange skimming sound.

“Okay,” she said, business-like. “We just hit a sandbar, so we’re going to have to get out and walk now the rest of the way. There’s a lot of them between here and the house.”

We got out together, with Ava dragging the front end of the kayak over the sand, and then I joined her and lifted the back end. Suddenly the sand leveled downwards, dropping us back into waist-deep water, and we both gripped an end of the kayak to steer it next to us as we walked. As we worked together and found our stride, I was overcome by a profound peace. It was strange and oddly beautiful, she and I alone wandering through water in this isolated place.

Then Ava said, “S is for shark,” she said, and pointed to our right.

I froze as I spotted a brown, medium-sized one slowly weaving its way across the ocean floor towards us.

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“Don’t worry, it’s just a nurse shark,” Ava continued. “They have tiny little mouths. Like that muppet on the muppet show, Beeker. Remember him?”

When I didn’t reply she made a noise imitating his voice, beep beep beep which would have been funny if we weren’t less than a meter away from it with no one around to help us.

“What do I do?” I rasped.

The shark was swimming closer, its tail waving back and forth in a mesmerizing motion. Instinct told me to run, but I’d be running through waist-high water and I figured the shark would be faster and I didn’t want to be floundering and thrashing around like prey. I contemplated throwing myself over the top of the kayak, but if I didn’t move fast enough, it could bite my legs.

“Oh, just kick it if it swims too close,” Ava said nonchalantly.

“Kick it?” I said, shrilly. “I’m not kicking a shark!”

She laughed, and I stomped my foot, trying to suppress a howl at her lack of concern. The shark turned and swam away.

“See? It’s fine,” she said. “And look, we’re almost there.” Ava pointed towards the frame of what used to be a house perched precariously on stilts. “I’m glad you were up for this today. It’s the only day the park doesn’t give boat tours of this place. They’d probably kick us out for trespassing.”

Great, I thought. Now we’re trespassing, too. “How are we getting up there?” I realized her “house” was the one that looked like a triangle from shore because all the walls were pretty much gone, and there was only a sliver of roof left supported by a triangle-like frame.

“We’ve got to climb,” she said and indicated a broken staircase leading up to what was left of the floor of the house. “You okay with that?”

I nodded because I had come too far already to turn back.

Because I was sun-drunk and had smothered any common sense the moment, I felt her fingers on my skin back at the beach.

Because I was a “lesbian in theory,” and as terrible as her teasing 229

was, I had her full attention out here, in this uninhabited place.

And because something inside me I could not name was shifting, coming unbound. Something feral, like her, and it was thrilling.

Ava climbed up first, directing me to certain rungs left on the stairs that would hold my weight. I followed her, trusted her.

When I slipped, she reached down and steadied me with her hand. It was tense work, but I felt a sense of accomplishment when I reached the top.

We were rewarded with an incredible view. Endless ocean.

Seagulls, hanging above us in the sky, suspended like puppets, shouted with their yellow mouths hanging open.

“We’re the only humans for miles, aren’t we?” I whispered like we were in church. “It’s extraordinary.”

“I thought you’d appreciate this,” Ava said just as softly.

“You did? Why?” I wanted to add, but you barely know me.

“Because of that essay you wrote in English class about growing up with your grandparents and tagging along with your grandfather on his fishing boat. It was evident how much you love him, and the sea. And you know what it’s like to be an orphan. I don’t meet many people like that. Most people at school are superficial and just want to do some unholy trinity of partying, shopping, and drugs for recreation. I’m guilty of it, too, when I’m in the city. But I don’t want to be that way when I’m here,” she said sadly.

“Oh,” I said and fell quiet as I absorbed what she said.

“See?” she said. “This experiment was a success.”

I jerked up my head. “What do you mean?” Here it comes, I thought. The explanation of the brutal nature test I’d endured the whole day. Her taunting. How I was just a plaything for her in a game, and this was the big reveal. I braced for the impact of her laughter, her scorn.

Instead, she said sheepishly, “I’m trying to do things differently than I usually do. To connect with people instead of how I usually don’t. To stop using people like Kleenexes, 230

throwing them away after one go. It’s a bad pattern I’ve been trying to break unsuccessfully. Then I noticed you in class. And I thought...well, you don’t seem to care about parties. You’ve looked so unhappy and out of your element at the few I’ve seen you at.

You’re not interested in fashion, and you don’t gossip about our classmates. You seem like the kind of person who could skip all the nightclubs here and do something of real substance in nature with me, like this. Something meaningful. And you were brave, too, even when I tried to scare you. I know I can be acidic sometimes. But you didn’t insult me, didn’t ever complain. I was right about you. This day proves it, and my experiment worked.

We’re here together, in my favourite place in the world.”

The look of open joy and trust on her face was so earnest that I had to look down at the deck below as I nodded. I was equally flattered and ashamed. What would Ava say if she knew what I’d been thinking all this time? About how much I wanted from her?

She’d add me to her list of predators. Y is for You, she’d say. My mind was spinning, spinning. I had to adjust my expectations of this trip, of her. I could be different, too, and who she thought I was. Put away my emotional weapons and give Ava something instead of just taking it.

“Thank you,” I said, and Ava rewarded me with a huge smile.

“I’m honored, actually. I’d love to experience more of this place with you and learn more about your home and life here.” “Let’s go, then,” she said and took my hand. It felt fragile and warm there, hovering like a sparrow in my palm. Then she brought my hand to her lips and gave it a slow, old-fashioned kiss, like we were a couple in a Victorian scene, courting. The respect this small gesture implied nearly brought me to my knees with relief. Maybe we’d move slowly while coming together, but it was happening. I encircled her waist with my left arm and leaned my head on her shoulder until it fell into the salty strands of her hair.

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We looked over the vast expanse of the sea together, and I marveled at the majesty of it. Of how your perspective could change in an instant, depending on where you stood, and who you were with. How one girl had the potential to make you a different person entirely. But as Ava started to lead me to the stairs, I could not resist thinking, maybe we could take a selfie together here first.

About the Author Stephania Jean lives in Canada and is a copywriter for a women-powered marketing agency in the USA. She received her MFA from the University of British Columbia and wrote for The Graduate Magazine during her student days there. This sparked a post-grad career leading to her words being published in The Malibu Times, Southern Gulf Islands Travel & Tourism, The Bitter Southerner, Ask a Stylist for Stitch Fix, and more. When not writing or reading, she’s out having adventures on wild Maritime shores with her husband and her blue-eyed Doberman.

LGBTQ+ Finalists Sandpiper Feet by Don Carter Let the Sunshine In by Juliet Hill A Hallmark Christmas by Fran Scannell

232

Middle School Students

The Last Conversation

by Aarav Trivedi “The Clock lets you talk to one dead loved one for a final time.

It is time to have one last conversation.”

That ad changed everything.

The machine, as the lower-class thought of it, had to be a hoax. A single conversation was subjective, a million words could amount to nothing, and yet a single pause could reveal everything.

Of course, we were all living a lie, yearning to hear one last goodbye through the monotone speaker of the past, waiting for someone to prove that the costly technology was truly false, but hoping it wasn’t. The ones who walked through the sliding glass door, who brushed their hands over the silicone stair rail, who elegantly slid their cheques into the cashier box, they had to make the invaluable decision. Who would they choose to call? – Charles Kaur, Year 2134 Chapter 1 Who: Ram Charveda Where: The universal Clock, Arabian Desert When: 2578 TEMP: 48 Celsius I had tried to delay the meeting, but inevitably, all my business appointments and medical notes had to come to an end.

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The Clock seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, sticking out of the rocky sand in the shape of a crooked, uncanny hourglass. The sand glistened in the moonlight, seeming to waltz as if it were the fated sands of time. Contemplating the past and presenting to the now. All I had to do was follow its steps.

The sliding doorway had a slot to insert a bill, which was the only way to enter the building. It was as though the hourglass was slowly eliminating each one of us, allowing the ones with the biggest wallets into the building and leaving the others standing pathetically outside its glass doors. The crowd behind me had gotten bigger, and as people began to pour into the building, the similarities of those who had successfully entered with the ones who had been left behind confused me. The poor, less fortunate ones outside were sweaty, nervous, and anxious, and the rich, elegant ones inside were, again, sweaty, nervous, and anxious.

It was as though when prompted with the certainty of the past, fame, and richness did not matter anymore. Human beings have long been terrified of the future because of its uncertainty, but when faced with the dead voices of the concrete past, we look at both parts of time in the same way. Afraid.

As I settled down into the waiting room after sliding my bill into the cashier box, I watched the Clock tick down, waiting for my turn. Looking back down to my mother’s old journal, I licked my fingers, slowly dabbed away the dust on its cover, and turned the old yet crisp pages to the last page. A line in my head appeared in faded ink, already dissipating before I could think about it, but its essence stuck with me. Everyone can be hopeful for the future, but you can’t have hope for the harsh certainty of the past. That would only be true if my past wasn’t just a mere idea, a collection of thoughts, a memory that was flying away like a flock of birds, deteriorating away at the same speed as my brain was. Who I am, I have worked so hard for, but who I was, that is what I am here for; that is what I must sit here for and see. I do not have much time before I completely lose myself. I stared back 234

at one of the medical notes, ran my fingers over the unforgiving words, and sighed. “Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease” What did they truly think of me, my mother, and my father? What were their true feelings about me before their lives ended? It was time for one last confrontation.

Chapter 2 Who: Riley brizinger Where: Alaska When: 2579 Temp: -30 I tried scooting on the wooden bench, changing my position and lifting my legs so my back wouldn’t get drenched, but I eventually gave up and took a seat on the wet, chipped wood.

With my soaked mittens, I attempted to open up one of the few surviving ancient Alaskan newspapers I had purchased from an Old-Timey antique collector, making an attempt to change my view from yet even more headlines about the early development of the Clock to something much more peaceful for me. I eventually settled on a worn-out medicine commercial with degraded graphics and read the warnings and the even smaller footnotes, hoping to take my mind off the absurdity of the future and into the warmth of the past. I remembered the sunsets, the sky fading in from the restless days to the sleepy nights, the watercolors of orange and pink that coated the plane above. I reminisced on the powerful moment when dusk turned to dawn, when my mother called for the “last” time and I got up from my quantputor, stumbling downstairs for dinner. I woke back up to the relentless brown snow, the cold, and the acid fog, feeling my throat burn with each breath. How could our generation let go of the past so quickly, accepting this unwelcoming future, claiming that our world was at its best moment when we are at the brink of war and extinction?

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The Clock, the first advertisement for it that I saw, kept running over and over in the background noise, almost like my head could not decide what was appropiate to feel about it. It would let me peek back into the window of the past, but the amount of money in my pocket already decided that I could never use it. I sometimes daydream what I would tell her through the Clock, imagining conversations, telling my mother what the world has turned out to be, but it is not enough to merely think.

I want to do it.

I looked back at the graveyard for the first time, slowly getting up as I turned over to view my watch and placed the small bouquet on the grave. The sun started to go down, and I felt a sunset, a moment of peace. As the sky glowed with an orange and pink electrical light and the bomb bells rang coincidentally just in time for dinner, I felt the past slowly slip into the present.

For a mere second, it all came back to me better than it ever could with the Clock. It was time to accept that I can not access the past and that all I could do was to walk into the future. As the sunshine slowly lit up the quote on the decaying gravestone, I read it for the first time. A single raindrop fell down to the earth after 55 years of a mental drought. That raindrop fell from my eye to the ground.

The quote read, “It is time to move on.” The name was Rally Brizinger, my mom.

Chapter 3 Who: Charles kaur Where: The universal Clock, Arabian Desert When: 2580 Temp: 44 Celsius6* The conversation was short. Many smiles, many blinks, and many long pauses. And then, the monitor abruptly went blank, the only remains of the conversation was the waning voice of an 236

“I love you.” The past wasn’t finished. It only clawed deeper into my mind, a lump stuck in my throat indefinitely.

When they go, you will always have a regret in your mind, and you will carry that regret until the end of your days. At that moment of their end, a book is placed on top of your head, making it much more difficult to balance to gain control. It is a book of sentences you could have said, a book of actions that could have been done, and a book of thoughts that could have been thought of. More books slowly pile up, weighing you down, not letting you move forward in life, causing you to slowly get lost into the past. Slowly, but surely, you get stuck.

The Clock is supposed to be a reset; it is supposed to be a place where you can unburden those regrets, but then it ends off with more questions. It ends with them saying goodbye and you not having time to respond. It ends with them telling you their raw, harsh feelings. It ends with you blinking at a blank monitor, with the screeching noise of an exit door opening.

The machine, as the lower class called it, was a hoax. At least, they prayed it was a hoax so that the inevitable outcome of them never using it would be a bit more reassuring. But, indeed, the Clock would be a hoax. It would be a sham if its true purpose is to take that weight off of you. But now it is too late, you are already getting hopeful about the conversation, you are already typing down their name on the digital screen.

I am not going to let you do that. I am not going to let the Clock spit out yet another victim after this day. As I exited, I heard the ill-fated commercial play through a TV. Even still, the advertisement burns through my head.

“The Clock lets you talk to one dead loved one for a final time.

It is time to have one last conversation...”

I tightened my fist, closed my eyes, and smashed the television set until the song was unrecognizable. As I walked out of the vacant building, which was completely closed off at the time due to curfew, I stared at the window I had broken to get in. I sighed, 237

wishing it had worked, but knowing that “The Last Conversation” never truly did what it was supposed to do. I couldn’t let anyone else feel the extra burden it put on me. The beeping became louder. 3. 2. 1. The Clock was gone. Sirens roared in the distance.

The villagers, my villagers, all gathered from their tiny huts to see the giant mushroom cloud in the sky, the dust revealing the rubble. The cuffs locked around my wrists. I smiled.

Middle School Students Finalists Ashes, ashes by Juliana Sier The Scarecrow by Yana Stanoeva Five Ways to Fall Asleep by Emeline Zhou

238

Mystery

The Riddle Inheritance

by Michelle Corbier The San Francisco sunlight dazzled as I exited the airport. A moment of California warmth preceded a bitter wind that made my eyes water. Slipping on sunglasses, I scanned the loading area. Cars zigzagged up to and away from the curb.

A middle-aged woman with box braids sat in a tan sedan, frantically waving.

“Danielle,” I said, starting forward.

The twisted body of my aunt materialized beside the car.

I stopped abruptly, causing a man to bump into me. By the time we exchanged apologies, the vision evaporated.

“Hurry, Lorna,” my sister shouted, breaking my inertia.

At a brisk clip, a police officer zeroed in on her car. I ran and jumped inside. Before the seatbelt clicked, Danielle sped away.

She zipped out of the airport and launched onto the freeway.

“Nice to see you, too. When did you audition for the Indy 500?”

San Francisco zoomed by in a blur.

“You going to pay a loading zone ticket?” She ping-ponged between cars.

Hypnotized by the swaying motion and vehicles whizzing by, I dozed off.

I awoke to find we had crossed the bridge. Yawning, I asked, “Why is the funeral tomorrow?”

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“Auntie’s will specified the funeral arrangements.”

“Did the lawyer contact you?”

She gave a side glance. “Mr. Denton called Momma, and she called us.”

Us included me, Danielle, our brother Tim, and cousin. To prevent misunderstandings, each year Aunt Mable discussed her will. As a university professor, she devoted over twenty years to teaching mathematics. Single and childless, other than teaching, family remained her top priority.

Last year, I accepted an overseas medical position. Distance from family had been difficult. I hadn’t seen my parents in almost a year.

Aunt Mabel visited, though. Since childhood we shared interests like traveling, music, and mysteries. In time, I grew closer to her than to Momma.

Sorrow blurred my vision as Aunt Mabel’s last phone call echoed in my head. She had asked—begged—me to return home.

“It’s important,” she had said.

“Can’t,” I countered while typing clinic notes. “I’d have to pay a hefty termination fee.”

“Lorna, I’ll pay it. I need you here.”

The force of those words had sent a jolt to my brain. That didn’t sound like loneliness. “What’s wrong?”

“Not over the phone.”

“The medical director is off today,” I had said. “I’ll put in for emergency leave tomorrow.”

Aunt Mabel had died the following day.

“Tired?” Danielle asked.

“A twelve-hour shift before the flight. And a crying baby for seven hours.”

Danielle parked in the driveway of Aunt Mabel’s house and killed the engine.

“Don’t expect to sleep tonight.”

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*** The next morning, I rested in that sweet spot between sleep and consciousness. Three months have passed since her last visit.

We had tromped around Europe, eating and drinking. Between excursions, Aunt Mabel discussed the inheritance.

For her, providing for the next generation had been a matter of pride. We had become her de facto children. Aunt Mabel wanted us to have a security she never did.

A floorboard creaked. Jolted upright, I absorbed the surroundings. The perception of a presence made me wary.

Seconds passed. A minute. The feeling dissipated as Aunt Mabel’s master bedroom registered in my brain.

Birds whistled outside the window. Crickets chirped. Frogs croaked. Nature endured, undaunted by death.

I tossed the handmade quilt aside. The still air whispered Aunt Mabel. Everything about this room represented my aunt.

Drowsy, I climbed off the poster bed and into slippers.

Framed pictures of our travels adorned walls and dressers. My head drooped as I staggered into the narrow stairwell. Halfway down the staircase, I lost a slipper, missed a step, and stumbled.

In a heap, I landed on the tile floor.

Around the house, lights flickered on.

In a tornado of activity, Momma, Danielle, and Tim scrambled over.

Momma cried, cradling me like an infant.

“What happened?” my siblings asked in concert.

Massaging my shoulder, I said, “I slipped.”

Danielle and Momma assisted me to the couch. Tim retrieved a glass of water.

Teary-eyed, Danielle rubbed my back. Momma sobbed, squeezing me to her heaving bosom. Over her shoulder, I peered at Danielle.

She said, “We found auntie dead at the foot of the staircase.” *** 241

The funeral concluded, and we returned to Aunt Mabel’s 1920s bungalow. On the drive, I stayed quiet, reigning in my grief.

Why didn’t I come home as soon as she called?

In the foyer, Momma removed her hat and coat. “I’ll prepare the food. People should be here soon.”

Daddy trod behind her into the kitchen.

Soon, coffee ignited the air, accompanied by scented roasted meats. I sat languidly on the couch beside Tim, who was reclining on a pillow.

“I don’t want to receive mourners. Why can’t we be alone?”

“How did Aunt Mabel die from falling down the stairs?” I asked, studying the staircase.

As Tim and I held divergent conversations, Momma dropped a tray of sandwiches onto the coffee table.

She glared. “Don’t be selfish. This is for Mabel. These people loved her too.”

Danielle chased after Momma, who fled into the bathroom.

The doorbell rang, and I advanced to greet guests. *** In time, the mourners departed. I was up to my elbows in soapy dishwater while Tim rinsed and dried.

“Are you staying over?”

“Martin works third shift,” he said, drying a plate. “I have to watch the kids.

You flying out tomorrow?”

“Not yet.” I peered out the kitchen window, admiring the lush garden in the auburn sunset. “It doesn’t make sense. How could Aunt Mabel die from falling down a staircase?”

From behind, a voice said, “She slipped on a belt around her housecoat.”

Tim and I pivoted around and found Mr. Denton framed inside the arched doorway.

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Tall and fit, Richard Denton’s handsome face and welltrimmed graying afro embodied his gentle demeanor.

I threw down the sponge. “Ridiculous. Aunt Mabel wasn’t a frail woman.”

“Mabel struck her head on the floor.”

“So, she died from the head injury,” Tim said, sotto voce.

My gaze bore into Mr. Denton’s stolid face. “Does that make sense to you?”

“That’s—” Tears gathered along his curly eyelashes. “The police determined it was accidental.” Mr. Denton left.

I regretted my tone. Mr. Denton cared for Aunt Mabel beyond the duties of a lawyer. Their relationship had been an open secret. Why hadn’t they married?

Tim discarded the dish towel and departed. I followed.

Danielle and our cousin huddled on the couch, conversing.

Tim joined them. I gravitated to the staircase. On the opposite side of the room, Mr. Denton conferred with my parents. He held Momma’s hands.

“I’ll make the arrangements. The house should sell quickly.”

“Why does it have to be sold?” I asked, louder than intended.

Conversations ceased. Six pairs of eyes beamed upon me.

Danielle scratched her box braids. “Because none one wants to live here.”

Mr. Denton said, “In her will Mabel directed that her nieces and nephew choose between her home, an antique car, artwork, and a riddle. Otherwise, the estate will be divided among various charities and her alma mater.”

Our cousin rose from the couch. “We asked what you wanted, Lorna. You said we could choose first.”

I flushed. “Danielle, if you don’t want the house, I’ll take it.”

“And do what with it?” she asked. “You don’t even live in California.”

My lips pouted but made no reply. Frustrated, I kicked at the floor, leaned against the wall, and stared at my feet. Voices 243

hummed throughout the house as the family discussed Aunt Mabel’s will.

An inconsistency in the porcelain tile pattern captured my attention.

I scrutinized the flooring. Oblivious to the surroundings, I inspected a crack in the tile and an adjacent splintered wooden step.

In the distance, people said goodbyes and departed. I heard my name called and absently waved, fixated on the area surrounding the staircase. My gaze drifted over to a brown circular discoloration on an adjacent tile.

I jerked away from a touch upon my shoulder.

Danielle retreated. “Damn. What’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry. I’m a little nervy.”

“A little.”

My shoulders sagged.

“Lorna, if you want the house—” I swallowed. “It’s hard to let go.”

“I understand.”

We linked arms and sat before the bay window facing the front yard.

“Danielle, what if Aunt Mabel’s death wasn’t an accident?”

She glowered. “Stop it.”

“What?”

“Don’t make this into a mystery.” Her jaw tightened. “I know you and Auntie loved crime stories, but this is real—not some ridiculous crime drama.”

“I am serious. Something’s wrong.”

Danielle’s folded arms rested on her chest. “Like what?”

On fingertips, I counted. “First, Aunt Mabel didn’t wear a robe unless there was a man in the house. She walked around butt naked, even when I stayed over.”

Danielle gaped. “Serious?”

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“Aunt Mabel said if anyone wanted to see her fat black behind, they were welcome to it.”

Danielle roared. An emotional bubble burst and I laughed too. Tears streamed down our cheeks in a moment of levity.

Once we regained decorum, Danielle retrieved wine and two glasses from the kitchen.

“Stay here with me tonight.”

“Can’t. One night alone with the kids and Robert’s overwhelmed.” Her eyes rolled. “What are the other points?”

My brows rose. “Excuse me?”

“The inconsistencies.” Danielle refilled our glasses.

“Second, Aunt Mabel didn’t wear slippers upstairs. She kept them at the bottom of the steps.”

Danielle settled back into the couch cushions. “Um hmm.”

“Third, there’s a new cracked tile in front of the staircase.”

I pointed at a corner adjacent to the staircase.

With an exaggerated sigh, Danielle strutted over to inspect the crack.

My finger traced the path extending from the tile up to the splintered wooden step.

She twirled the glass stem between manicured fingers. “And what do you deduce?”

“Don’t know, but it’s fresh. There’s no dust or lint in the crack.

And look at that stain.” I pointed to the discolored tile. “Wasn’t there a vase next to the staircase?”

Doubt shown in the wrinkles framing her mouth. Danielle shook her head and ambled into the kitchen drinking wine.

Regardless of what Danielle believed, I intended to uncover the truth. My gaze slowly trailed up the narrow staircase.

Dark emptiness reflected the question, “If not from the fall, how did she die?”

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A presence like that in the bedroom hovered near the staircase. I hastened away, afraid something—or someone— might provide an answer. *** Yesterday after the funeral, Mr. Denton handed me a golden envelope sealed with purple wax embossing and imprinted with Aunt Mabel’s personal emblem of the goddess of wisdom. She loved drama.

Now, alone in her home office, I searched for a letter opener.

Aunt Mabel’s office resembled the quintessential habitat of an intellectual. Behind an enormous desk hung framed diplomas.

Floor to ceiling bookcases covered two walls. And in a touch of sentimentality, Aunt Mabel scattered family photos around the room.

I spent time viewing those photos, recalling fond memories.

Gradually, I retreated to a leather chair behind the desk, curled into a ball and cried. A clock chimed.

Cognizant of the time, I remembered the envelope.

“How can I open this and preserve the seal?” In the center drawer, I found a jade letter opener. Aunt Mabel purchased it while vacationing in Bali or Japan.

I slit the envelope open and admired the heavy ivory paper.

My fingers trembled. With sniffles, I read it.

Lorna, I knew you’d end up with the riddle. I couldn’t resist one final mystery. We shared many wonderful experiences. Remember those times. Be happy. Good luck and be careful.

“Aunt Mabel loved puzzles.”

After re-reading the letter, I gripped the paper.

“Be careful of what?”

Those cryptic words were contrary to Aunt Mabel. For a brilliant mathematician, she possessed an optimistic naivety.

In fact, not a month prior to her death, we had a heated discussion about online scams. Of all things, we argued about cryptocurrency. In light of her death, it seems foolish.

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Aunt Mabel could be credulous regarding finances. She lent money to friends and family, giving them leeway to repay at their convenience. Perhaps jaded by years in medicine, I understood people often masked their true intentions.

“Be careful of what—or whom?”

I concentrated on the riddle.

Now we’ve come to the end of our rainbow. If in September you gaze upon a shining star, be wary not to give way to fantasy. The reasons may seem simple. The elements are there. If unprepared, they will lead you astray.

One, two, three ladies.

A right angle will reveal its depths if measurements are correct.

Babylonians documented its secrets on tablets, and a millennium later, a Greek.

Plant a flower and grow a pearl. As now can’t reveal the mystery of tomorrow, but in passing will grow older every day. Just as all is born new, know what I say is true. I’ll be loving you always.

“What?”

Reclined in the chair, I stared at the ceiling. An hour disappeared, and the riddle remained undeciphered.

“Time for a break.”

I massaged my aching neck and considered a walk when the doorbell chimed. Still holding the letter, I prepared to answer the door when Aunt Mabel’s warning buzzed in my mind. Quickly, I secured the letter between the pages of a geometry book and shelved it before leaving the study.

At the front door, Mrs. Barbara White, a friend of my aunt, beamed.

A little too chipper.

I opened the door and stood aside.

“Hello. Come in.”

A gentle breeze cooled the California spring morning. As Mrs. White entered, I glanced across the cobbled walkway past the flowered garden.

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Aunt Mabel cherished this neighborhood. My parents desired better schools and settled closer to Santa Rosa. But we visited often. Whenever I returned to the US, I stayed with Aunt Mabel. Refreshed by the crisp air, I remembered my guest.

“Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

Mrs. White settled on the comfy couch, which swallowed her slight frame. So unlike Aunt Mabel, who stood six feet tall with a large build. I recalled they’d met in college.

“How’re you doing?” Mrs. White asked in a high, shrill voice.

“I thought your sister was staying here, but there wasn’t a car outside.” Her tone hinted at a question.

“Danielle returned home yesterday.”

“I came by to check on things. Mabel’s death was a shock to everyone.”

“Yes, it was.”

Distracted by personal reflections, I hadn’t appreciated the growing silence. Mrs. White did not appear uncomfortable, though. Her tilted head regarded me quizzically.

“Well.” I rose. “Thanks for stopping by. If you’ll excuse me, I was going out for a walk.”

With alacrity, she stood. “You’re headed for the cemetery, right? I’ll come too.”

Confused by her eagerness, I chewed my bottom lip. “Um, I—” “You shouldn’t be alone, not at a time like this.”

Suffocated by an overwhelming presence of Aunt Mabel, I needed air.

“Sure.” I grabbed a sweater.

“Let’s go.” Mrs. White preceded me outside.

How long before I can ditch her? *** On the way to the cemetery, flashbacks of childhood vacations with Aunt Mabel danced in the streaming sunlight.

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During visits, we slept in the upstairs bedrooms, which my aunt later combined into one master suite.

The downstairs primary bedroom became a recreational space. We spent hours listening to classic soul and R&B music. Shared secrets. Played board games and read mysteries.

Correction, I read mysteries. Danielle and Tim hated them. Aunt Mabel introduced me to the genre.

Oblivious to my surroundings, I tripped over the curb and into the cemetery. Tall wrought-iron gates stood open at the entrance, flanked by gnarled oak trees.

“Visiting our ancestors clears my head,” Aunt Mabel had said.

Two blocks from the bungalow, this burial ground had been her favorite walk. While she strolled around, we played around the crumbling headstones.

This was the oldest African Americans cemetery in northern California. European settlers refused to be buried next to us.

Thus, these hallowed grounds contain the remains of people desiring a final, peaceful sleep. Away from the bigotries that plagued their lives.

Aunt Mabel wouldn’t be interred here, though. After the cremation, we will disperse her ashes throughout Redwood National Park.

A breeze eddied around me as I crossed the entrance.

Leaves fluttered. I buttoned my sweater, shivering not from the temperature but from an impression.

Careful of the rocky trail, I ambled beside Mrs. White, desiring to be alone. Our feet crunched along the pebbled crabgrass, creating a calming rhythm—at least until Mrs. White spoke.

“Mabel’s death upset me very much.”

I merely nodded, fearing my voice would break with grief.

“The kids miss her. She was kind, always interested in their wellbeing.”

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Uninterested in her banter, I sauntered along. My legs faithfully recalled the way.

“The services were so soon after her death. None of the kids could attend.” My eyebrows raised. I hadn’t recalled any of Mrs. White’s family in attendance.

Without provocation, she laughed.

My shoulders flinched.

“Mabel had a wicked sense of humor. I remember once she mentioned a—” “Hello.”

With a start, I swung around. My heart pounded and sweat trickled down my spine. Mr. Denton stood beside a crypt.

Why was I so nervous?

Like a battleship, he came forward. His chiseled face displayed as much mobility as a headstone. Then a soft smile alighted on his grizzled façade.

“Lorna,” he said in a heavy baritone, “you should have called.

I would have happily joined your walk.”

“It was a sudden decision. I needed…” My chest rose and fell like an ocean swell.

“The house felt heavy.”

His brief nod communicated more than words could. I believed he understood.

Alongside each other, we resumed the walk. Mrs. White followed.

“Mabel spent hours here.” His words strummed with warmth.

“With you?”

He shot me a probing glance, then seemed to consider the question. “Yes.” We continued our stroll. He never quit my side.

I ambled over to the tallest tombstone. On it stood a chiseled monument of a woman with a small afro. She wielded a sword in her outstretched arm.

“Mabel called her the avenging angel,” he said.

“Appropriate.”

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Next, I visited the thinker, a woman seated on a low stone staring into the distance. A fisted hand supported her tilted head.

We referred to a headstone formed into a stack of books as the library. One of the saddest headstones was of a petite praying angel memorializing the death of an infant.

Mr. Denton’s features softened. While I lost an aunt, he had lost more than a friend. However, I had a riddle to unravel, not to mention my aunt’s suspicious death.

“What if they’re related?”

“Did you say something?” Mr. Denton asked.

Unaware I had vocalized my thoughts, I said, “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

In a hurry, I exited the cemetery. Ideas streamed through my mind.

Could Aunt Mabel’s riddle solve her murder? Did she suspect her life was in danger?

On the walk home, Mr. Denton cleared his throat. “Lorna, do you need anything?”

Mrs. White bustled between us. “Do you want help with the riddle?”

I gawked.

“Mabel told you about the riddle, Mrs. White?” Mr. Denton asked.

She snorted. “Of course she did. Mabel and I were best friends. I’ll help.” Mrs. White’s smile was all teeth.

Cringy.

“Thank you, but I’m more concerned with my aunt’s death.”

“Why?” they asked in unison.

At the bungalow, I unlocked the door, blocking the entrance with my body. “I don’t believe Aunt Mabel slipped on a belt.” *** Once my entourage departed, I lunched on leftovers. Satiated, I retrieved the geometry book and retired to the recreational 251

room. Aunt Mabel thought recreational room sounded dignified.

We called it the tv room.

One entire wall contained a life-sized poster of Earth Wind and Fire. Albums and posters from various artists filled the space. Blackout drapery covered the single window, shrouding the room in darkness. I flipped the light switch, flooding the room with a subdued yellow glow. As adolescents, Danielle and I switched out the light for a sparkling disco ball. My aunt didn’t appreciate the modification.

I extracted the letter and skimmed the contents again.

“This is crazy.”

Clutching the letter, I relaxed in a rocking chair, pondering the riddle. My temples pulsed, foreshadowing a burgeoning headache. In anticipation of the impending pain, my eyes closed.

With a start, I jerked awake. Had I heard footsteps?

Quickly, I scanned the room and found nothing amiss. No footsteps or sounds of another person reached my ears.

The letter had fallen on the floor during my nap. I retrieved it as a phone rang.

“Where’s my cellphone?”

I dashed up the stairs and grabbed the cellphone on the fifth ring.

“Hello,” I said, panting.

“Lorna, you all right?”

“Yes.” I recognized Mr. Denton’s voice.

He paused for so long I thought the call had dropped. “Are you still there?”

“I am. Mabel spoken with you in the past month?”

Seated on the edge of the bed, I considered the question.

“We spoke the day before…” Sorrow—and guilt—choked my throat.

“Did she mention changing her will?”

My jaw dropped. “No, she hadn’t.”

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The cellphone shook in my trembling hand. Why had she changed her will?

After Mr. Denton hung up, I slogged down the staircase as a hunch developed.

First, I needed something from the garage. *** An orange sun teetered along the horizon as I reached the cemetery. The caretaker jostled a key ring in hand. Perspiration glistening on his glowering forehead.

“The cemetery’s closing.”

“It’ll take ten minutes.” Not waiting for a response, I sprinted toward the praying angel.

With a laser distance measurer, I determined the length between the praying angel, avenging goddess, and the thinker.

While conducting measurements, the Commodores’ Three Times a Lady crooned in my head.

Although history credited Pythagoras with the right triangle theorem, it dated back to the Babylonians. a2+b2=c2 Using the formula, I calculated c2, the hypotenuse. “Got it.”

I waved to the caretaker and exited the cemetery. “Thank you.”

He muttered, “Crazy lady,” and locked the gates.

On the way home, I reviewed the riddle.

“Okay, Aunt Mabel, what does c represent?”

Cumulus clouds streamed across the darkening sky, draping a full moon. A shiver shot up my spine recalling Aunt Mabel’s hasty demise. I ran. *** Inside, I returned to the recreation room. The first paragraph of the riddle included references to September, Fantasy, Shining Star and Reasons—each Earth Wind and Fire song titles. I evaluated the band’s poster, searching for a correlation with the hypotenuse.

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Earth, wind and fire constituted three of the four classical elements. Water was missing. I circled the room. Aunt Mabel’s voice whispered in my head, reminding me to focus.

“Slow down, Lorna. Clear your head.”

Seated on the floor, I took several deep breaths and re-read the next section of the riddle.

‘Plant a flower and you’ll grow a pearl.’

Nothing came to mind. I picked up the geometry book, intending to return it to the study, when my phone buzzed.

The screen read DANIELLE. “Not now.”

An itch in my brain suggested the answer was within reach. The phone buzzed again.

I tapped the green button. “What?”

“Something wrong?”

“Sorry. I’m trying to decipher Aunt Mabel’s riddle.”

Through the phone, noises from my nieces screeching obliterated most of Danielle’s reply. In the kitchen, I got some water and three ibuprofens.

“Did you get anywhere?”

“A little.” I moved the phone away from my ear as Danielle yelled at the kids to be quiet.

“Why’d you call?”

“The gardener canceled for tomorrow. Could you water the plants? I don’t want Auntie’s flowers to wilt. She adored her garden.”

Nothing after Danielle said ‘water the plants’ penetrated.

Pieces of the riddle danced in my head.

“I have to go.” Dropping the cellphone into my pants pocket, I switched on the backyard lights.

Enchantment arose.

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Aunt Mabel gardened with a passion surpassed only by her commitment to mathematics. Fruity scents wafted around the yard. I inhaled and stepped along the flagstone into a natural sanctuary.

“Where does c fit?”

In the center of the circular stone patio, Aunt Mabel had the architect etch the figure π. An ode to her love of mathematics. Or could it be more?

Like spokes on a wheel, I staked the hypotenuse in multiple directions around π.

“Now, where will you take me?”

One measurement ended next to a plant with glossy verdant leaves, pale pink flower petals and yellow-tipped purple stamen. I smiled.

“Could your name perhaps be pearl flower?” As if in answer, the flower’s leaves bristled.

For confirmation, I dashed inside the bungalow, headed for Aunt Mabel’s office. As I rounded the corner outside the kitchen, I careened into Mrs. White. Confusion and anger competed for expression.

“What are you doing here?” My grimace faded as I sized up the gun.

Mrs. White’s eyes glistened with excitement. She raised the weapon level with my chest. Although half a foot shorter than me, the gun more than compensated for her diminutive stature.

“Got the answer, don’t you?”

Instead of answering, I sized up the situation, searching for an escape.

“I knew you were up to something when you returned to the cemetery.”

My gaze widened.

She smirked. “I’ve been watching you since the funeral.” With the gun, she directed me toward the office. “Move.”

255

Once there, she didn’t enter. From the doorway, she said, “Shut the drapes.”

I closed them but remained in front of the window, facing the doorway.

Comfortable about not being seen, Mrs. White entered the office. She strode up to the antique desk and knocked over a picture of my aunt, splintering the glass.

“Mabel disappointed me.”

Careful to keep my hands raised, I asked, “Because she requested repayment of a debt?”

She shoved the gun in my face. “Who told you that?”

“Aunt Mabel altered her will disinheriting your kids.”

“I owed her money, so she held it against them.” Her face contorted into a furious scowl. “It wasn’t fair. They deserved the money.”

“My aunt could do what she wanted with her money.”

“Ours!” Engorged veins pulsed along Mrs. White’s thin neck.

“In 2009, we purchased those bitcoins together. When I needed money, she bought my share. Mabel paid pennies for them. Do you have any idea what bitcoins are worth now?”

“No idea.”

Her cackle made me shiver.

“A fortune. I can retire and my kids will never worry about money again.”

“But…” “But Mabel changed the code.”

A hinge creaked. I gravitated towards the door.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

Mrs. White flicked the gun barrel. “Give me the answer to the riddle and your cellphone. I saw you calculating something on it.”

Footsteps tiptoed in the hallway. I hesitated.

Anger sparked in those beady eyes. “Give it to me!”

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I placed the cellphone on the floor and slid it across the floor with my foot.

Mrs. White reached for the phone. Her gaze zeroed in on me.

Delay, Lorna.

“You killed your best friend for money.”

A snarl curled along Mrs. White’s lips. “Mabel was selfish.

She didn’t understand how expensive it was to raise four kids.

She could save money and travel. Lavish her family with gifts, while I—” “Having children was a choice.”

“Doesn’t matter. Mabel was supposed to be my friend.”

“A friend, not a bank.”

For a moment, the gun wavered. Mrs. White spoke distantly.

“I hadn’t planned on killing Mabel.”

I looked toward the doorway.

She followed my eyes.

In a flash, I leaped forward and pummeled her to the ground.

The gun fired. We tussled, tumbling around the room. We wrestled for the gun.

Though scrawny, Mrs. White possessed strength. She smacked me in the face and kneed me in the abdomen.

With a grunt, I curled into a ball. Mrs. White scurried toward the gun. I grabbed her legs and pulled her backwards. She kicked me under the chin. My teeth clacked, and I bit my tongue.

As Mrs. White lunged for the gun, two men stormed into the room.

Mr. Denton restrained Mrs. White on the ground by her shoulders.

Blood dripped down my chin as my chest heaved. I crawled to the desk.

The second man removed a badge from under his jacket.

“Mrs. White, you’re under arrest for suspicion of murder.”

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*** While police escorted Mrs. White from the bungalow, I retired to the kitchen. Mr. Denton entered while I tried opening a bottle of bourbon.

“What took so long?” I asked, shaking.

“I followed Mrs. White to the house, but had to wait for the police.”

He removed glasses from the cabinet.

“Should’ve called 911.” I cupped the glass and sipped.

“We needed a confession.”

My brow arched.

He smiled. “I would never let her hurt you.”

I raised the glass. “To Aunt Mabel.”

His countenance softened. “To Mabel.”

We clinked glasses and returned to the living room.

With a heavy sigh, I sank onto the couch cushions. Tenderly, I palpated my swollen lips.

Mr. Denton sat on a chair beside the staircase.

The garage door cranked upward. I jumped.

“The police are searching the trash for pieces of the vase.

After we spoke, I found an old picture of it next to the staircase.”

“Good.” My body relaxed.

He deposited the glass on a side table and leaned forward.

“Did you solve it?”

“Yes, but I need a shovel.”

“I’ll help dig.” He rose and headed for the kitchen.

“She loved you.”

His shoulders sagged. “She declined my marriage proposals, but I always knew she loved me.”

Whether from fatigue or alcohol, my head lolled. Thoughts flittered through my head, accompanied by music lyrics. In the distance, I heard Stevie Wonder’s song As. “I’ll be loving you always.”

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About the Author Michelle Corbier was born in Illinois. Her childhood was spent bouncing around military bases from San Diego, CA, to Charleston, SC. After high school, she obtained a biology degree from UC Santa Cruz and a medical degree from Michigan State University. She has experienced all aspects of medicine, from private practice to non-clinical medical consulting. For her, writing began in junior high with book reviews for the local paper, then a research paper during a UCSC college internship.

The span of her writing stretches from mysteries to urban fantasy. In addition to writing, she likes to bake, bike, and garden. michellecorbier.com Mystery Finalists The Fen by Joseph Gosler The Bunyip of Death by Judith Thomson Escape Room Entries by Tony Tu

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Poetry

Antares: A Life At Sea

by Gary Westphalen The wind in her sails sings the happiest of song.

A guitar strums flamenco in harmony along.

From the galley below rise plates filled rich bites, A sunset trip on this ship is a glorious delight.

I’ve broke many a wave riding aboard her this way.

Enjoying sunsets and friends and luscious gourmet.

Happy times on her sail trips are filled with great pleasure.

But the story of her life is the true sunken treasure.

Sparkman and Stephens, boat builders of legend, Would breathe life into her. It was Nineteen Forty-Seven.

She’d be eighty-feet long, and sleek as an arrow.

Her wake would be smooth. It’s width would be narrow.

With her hull made of steel, She would slice through the water.

A hot knife through butter, sailors racing astern never caught her.

She was christened Antares, a name drawn from night’s sky.

A powerful light in the darkness, her spirit would not be shy.

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Double-masted and schoonered, her sails flashing with pride, To victory in each race, Antares would glide.

She’d win on this continent, and then on the next.

Her racing career was at the apex.

She won many a trophy, challenging every on-comer.

When her sails filled with wind, none could take the win from her.

But time catches all. It’s a race we can’t win.

It was time for a new life, a fresh course to begin.

Antares, Antares, I miss you so much.

Winning races aboard you, my soul you did touch.

The freedom I felt as I walked on your deck, Put all of my worldly worries in check.

With the wind in my face, and the waters a-spray, There’s no way on earth this would be a bad day.

Antares, Antares, What happened to you?

Now my soul is adrift. I don’t know what to do.

With a new crew aboard, a new life in her soul, she set sail for Argentina to seek a new goal.

Treasures of the deep would be her next aim.

Shipwreck caches of gold could bring fortune and fame.

But that goal is elusive, it rarely ends well.

Still, she carries the memory. A great story she’s held.

With all great tales, there’s a time that’s unknown.

So happens the next chapter. That story’s her own.

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The seekers of gold abandoned Antares, Just how it happened, well, that story varies.

Whatever is true, she made Panama her home.

The Caribbean now, would be where she’ll roam.

Soon she found her way here, to these waters so warm.

The gold coast of the Ticos, was her new place to charm.

Antares would take travelers from all over the world.

They’d watch the sun set with her sails all unfurled.

She’d speak to the whales, and the turtles as well.

They’d share great ocean stories. Oh my, what they’d tell.

Then, one night with a fury, the ocean unleashed.

The waves were so high that her deck they would breech.

She bobbed up and down and tried to hold on, But something gave way and her mooring was gone.

She drifted towards shore with no one at the helm.

I watched in great horror as the waves overwhelmed.

When the water came shallow, Antares laid down.

Her port side in the sand, water all around.

When the tide receded and troubled waters went calm.

Antares lay still, but I was filled with alarm.

My dear old friend, who had given such pleasure, Lay beached and alone. Bad by any measure.

Her hold filling with sand and the waters of sea, Her deck turning to rust, it was painful for me.

Antares, Antares, I miss you so much.

Cruising sunsets aboard you, my soul you did touch.

The freedom I felt as I walked on your deck, Put all of my earthly worries in check.

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With the wind in my face, and the waters a-spray, There’s no way on earth this could be a bad day.

Antares, Antares, What happened to you?

Now my soul is adrift. I don’t know what to do.

He was stranded and helpless, half-buried in sand.

Not quite in the ocean. Not quite on the land.

She lay there for months, her future unknown.

Watched her die slowly. Her last milestone.

Then one Sunday the men came with tools in their hands.

They chopped off her roofing and her steel cable bands.

The blue skies above her, like my soul, turned to gray.

They cut her to pieces. They hauled her away.

There’s a hole in the sand now. Her last port of call.

There’s a hole in the ocean, where her masts once stood tall.

There’s a hole in my heart. It’s the deepest of all.

My time with Antares was fleeting at best.

Mine’s just one of the many lives she has blessed.

I’ll remember her fondly and dream of the day That we’ll reunite and go sailing away.

About the Author Gary Westphalen is an Emmy and Peabody winning documentary filmmaker, who has published five books to date. Working for ABC News, Discovery Channel, National Geographic, among others, Gary has covered the world’s most important and amazing true stories for decades. Gary’s experiences are the foundation for his books, which he then spins wildly out of control into a seamless blend of fact and fiction that can’t be ignored. He has founded the Tamarindo Writers’ Group, 263

a collective of highly talented scribes who are raising the bar for writers everywhere. You’ll find his films and books at: www. garywestphalen.com.

Poetry Finalists The Day That You Go by Callie Chapman An Anthem Of Strength by Angelina Corsi That Girl by Grace Hill

264

Relationships

Cassandra

by Gerard Marconi The steel towers of the two suspension bridges loomed ahead as David approached the Chesapeake Bay bridge. The height of the four-mile twin spans still made him uneasy even though he drove across them three days a week to teach at the Naval Academy.

The early evening sky glowed purple, casting its reflection on the dark water below and reminding him of Homer’s description of the wine-dark sea that surrounded Greece. When traffic slowed at the top of the bridge, he glanced quickly at the distant view of Annapolis. He had once hoped that his son would attend the Academy, but Aaron’s grades weren’t good enough to survive a long list of applications and David wasn’t good at pulling strings.

He still blamed himself for his son’s enlistment in the Marines and subsequent death in Iraq. He slowly descended the western end of the bridge where both structures curved in parallel arcs toward the shore. Despite their shared symmetry, they weren’t identical because they were built thirty years apart.

Instead of taking the Annapolis exit as usual, he headed north toward Baltimore to meet his daughter, Cassandra, at the airport. Later, when he parked in the garage using his side mirror as a guide, he noticed the familiar words he had often quoted to Casey when she was learning to drive. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. He usually said it as a warning but had once raised his voice and spoken too harshly, so she sulked about it 265

for days. During the painful years of adolescence, she went from demanding child to rebellious teenager and finally admitted that she hated the prophetic name David had given her. Then she went off to college on the West Coast and settled there after graduation. Now, she lived by herself in San Francisco and never mentioned being close to anyone. David was surprised when she called last week to say she was flying to London on business and could arrange to see him during a stopover on the East Coast.

She had recently been promoted to assistant editor at a fashion magazine, a job for which she seemed well suited. A tall redhead with striking features like her mother, she moved with self-assured grace and poise. But her stunning beauty was sometimes overshadowed by a disapproving gaze or dismissive words. She and David had never been close because he had paid more attention to Aaron. She hadn’t come home to visit since Clara’s funeral and he still wondered how she had coped with the loss of her mother.

Several days after she called, Chloe, the older of his two dogs, had to be put down. David knew Casey would be upset because she had named the red-haired retriever, but he wanted to save the bad news until he could tell her in person. He lived alone now with the dogs in an old Victorian house that Clara had renovated. She worked for years with carpenters, plumbers, and painters to get everything right. But as the condition of the house improved, her cancer returned.

She died at home in hospice after planning her funeral as meticulously as she did the renovation. She told David that she wanted a traditional church service that would bring them closer in her absence, but that didn’t happen. At the funeral, Casey glared at David as if he had chosen the manner of her mother’s dying as well as the hymns.

He scanned the arrival screen at the airport before heading to the gate. When he caught sight of her long red hair in the crowd, he waved. She smiled and gave him a quick hug before 266

they headed to the baggage claim. While they waited, she said casually, “How’s Chloe?” Their eyes met briefly and he shook his head. He hadn’t planned to tell her until they were crossing the bridge to the Eastern Shore. She frowned and grabbed her bag, then headed toward the parking garage. David drove in silence until she finally said, “What happened?”

“She went downhill quickly, so I had to put her down before you got here.”

Casey scowled and then asked about Chloe’s offspring. “What about Barney?”

“He’s fine, but he obviously misses her. He spends most of his time lying at my feet, wanting to be petted.” David paused and said, “We seem to comfort each other.” He glanced at Casey, but she didn’t reply. He had hoped that her short visit might be a chance to make up for past misunderstandings, but that didn’t seem likely.

At the house, Barney came bounding down the hallway to greet them. He wagged his tail and licked Casey’s face when she knelt to pet him. He reminded her so much of Chloe that her heart sank. “Good boy,” she said with a catch in her throat and then stood up to look around. Little had changed since her last visit. While her father fed Barney, she walked through the formal dining room, the heavily draped living room, and her parents’ master suite on the first floor. She glanced inside her father’s study at the walls lined with bookcases and his neatly arranged desk. She looked for the small figure of Buddha she had once given him but didn’t see it. Then, telling David that she was jetlagged, she headed upstairs to bed. On the way, she stopped at the door to her brother’s room. Everything was exactly the same as the day Aaron left for boot camp, with high school photos on the wall, sports trophies in the bookcase, and a model sailboat on his desk. She still missed him desperately. Despite their differences, he had always been there for her. She had often unburdened herself to him and wished she still could. After brushing away 267

tears, she went to her room at the end of the hall and collapsed on the bed. She wondered how her father could go on living here with everything the same. Then her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep without unpacking.

David was pleased the next morning when Casey asked how his classes were going.

“Teaching ancient history to young officers is a real challenge,” he said over coffee. “Especially when they’d rather be studying computer science. But this semester is going well. I’ve even had time to publish an article.” She nodded but didn’t inquire about it, so he suggested they take Barney for a walk along the beach after breakfast. Later, as the dog raced ahead of them, barking at the seagulls, David took a deep breath and said, “There’s a trunk in the attic with your mother’s things in it. I’d like you to see if there’s anything of hers that you want.”

Casey shook her head. “I have a one-bedroom apartment with hardly any closet space, so where would I put it?” They walked in silence for a while until she said, “Do you still have the Buddha I gave you when I was in college?” She had given it to him after taking a class on comparative religions.

David smiled because he still remembered what she said at the time. It represents enlightenment, a state of peace and clarity without emotional attachments. “Yes, it’s on a shelf in my study,” he said. “Along with souvenirs of the trips your mother and I took.” He threw a piece of driftwood into the water for the dog to chase. “Do you still practice meditation?”

She nodded as they watched Barney swim after the stick.

“It gives me peace of mind and helps me cope when things go wrong at work.”

He followed her gaze to the horizon where the sky and water met. “My students tell me that Artificial Intelligence will soon be able to predict the future with 98% accuracy. They use terms like cloud infrastructure and disambiguation, but I’ve no idea what they’re talking about.”

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Then he surprised her by saying, “Are you happy?”

The question startled Casey because her father rarely asked about her personal life. She took the stick that Barney brought back to them and answered yes, even though it wasn’t true.

Happiness had eluded her, despite her successful career and expensive sessions with a therapist.

That afternoon, while her father retreated to his study, Casey walked along the beach again with Barney and smiled as she watched him chasing seagulls. Dogs are so simple. They accept you for who you are and appreciate everything you do for them.

She wondered why it was still so hard to talk to her father. They had often argued in the past and she recalled the day he yelled at her for not checking the sideview mirror of their car. Looking back now, it seemed that one small incident was the beginning of their growing apart. In college, she learned to control her feelings so she wouldn’t be hurt so easily. Since then, even her friends admitted that she sometimes came across as distant and unknowable.

David suggested they go out for dinner that night to a new seafood place in Chestertown.

He ordered a gin and tonic while she chose a glass of white wine. “I’d like to see Melissa tomorrow,” she said after they ordered their meal. “But I would have to borrow your car because she can’t leave her children.”

He shrugged. “Of course. How many children does she have now?”

“Two boys and a girl. And I think she’s expecting again. That’s why I want to see her.”

Four children seemed excessive to David, but he said nothing. At a recent class reunion, he met an old friend who had ten grandchildren. He never wanted a large family, but was disappointed that he and Casey were the only two left of their small clan. It seemed unlikely now with her ambitious career that she would start a family. When he asked about her upcoming 269

trip to London, she mentioned fashion shows, film shoots, and celebrity luncheons. “It’ll be hectic,” she said, “But I love my job.”

As he listened to her talk of a possible promotion, David decided not to mention his plans to sell the house. Casey had never appreciated what he and Clara had shared there. Watching the sunset over the water, listening to the cry of geese during their annual migration, planting a garden every spring. But he was growing tired of the upkeep, the commute over the bridge, and coming home to a large empty house. He planned to buy a condo in Annapolis.

Casey spent the next day visiting her friend Melissa and didn’t return until after dinner. When they said goodbye at the airport the following morning, she wanted to say I love you, but the words stuck in her throat. She hugged her father quickly and then turned away, striding purposefully toward the gate. David watched her go, thinking it was better they lived at a distance with only an occasional visit or the carefully measured words of a phone call.

As the plane climbed steeply in a cloudless sky, Casey gazed down at the twin bridges that connected both sides of the bay.

Tiny boats sailed out from both shores in random patterns. She wished she could have told her father that her greatest fear was spending the rest of her life alone. Would he have believed her even if she told him? He seemed happy with his predictable life of teaching and scholarly papers. She wondered if and when she would come back to see him. They seemed to live in two different worlds with no way to bridge the gap.

Later, when the plane reached its cruising altitude, she peered down at the wispy clouds moving slowly across the ocean far below. At that moment, she had a sudden premonition, like her namesake in the ancient world. She would never see her father again, just as she had known somehow that her brother would be killed in Iraq and her mother would die of cancer. An unexpected wave of sorrow welled up inside her and she wiped away the 270

tears from her face. There was no escaping the past or the future, no matter how hard she tried. Most days, she could ignore the feeling or shake it off, but it was always there, something dark and painful, a note of sadness just beneath the rhythm of her daily life. She wished it wasn’t so.

On the drive home, David mentally reviewed his topic for tomorrow’s class based on the article he had recently published.

He would explain the ancient concept of agon or conflict and how the Greeks embodied it not just in battle or warfare but ritualized it in their games and drama as well. Their goal was to achieve a balanced life, to avoid the excess of emotion that led to suffering and disaster. It was part of the age-old struggle between order and chaos, reason and emotion, detachment and empathy.

When he passed the exit sign for Annapolis, he thought of Aaron. Casey had been close to her brother and was devastated by his death, but she hadn’t mentioned him during her visit. He recalled her animated conversation about the London trip. He hadn’t expected her to be so successful and it dawned on him that she was smarter than Aaron and could have gone to the Naval Academy if she had wanted to.

As the bay bridge loomed in the distance, he realized that he had misjudged her in other ways as well, and she, in turn, had imitated his seeming indifference. At that moment, he recalled the recurring verse sung by the chorus in Greek tragedy. The greatest evils are those we bring about ourselves. He wished it wasn’t so.

About the Author Gerard Marconi has a master’s degree in Humanities from Johns Hopkins University and in Theatre from Catholic University. He has taught these subjects at the college level and also studied fiction writing with Roxanne Robinson and Jennifer Haigh at the Iowa Writers Center. His stories have appeared in The Chattahoochee Review, The Write Launch, and Mayday 271

Magazine. His one-act play entitled Rapture was given a public reading by The Baltimore Playwright Festival and his collection entitled The Accidental Universe and Other Stories was published

by Apprentice House Press at Loyola University of Maryland.

Relationships Finalists Goldilocks and the Wicked Frog; or, a Modern Love Story

by Saskia Hirst In The Rearview by Hailey Jones Let's Dance by Brenda Shoshanna

272

Science Fiction

Invisible Ink

by Liza Fables 6:02 A.M. My eyes flick open, shocked by the violet light squeezing its way through a gap in the aluminum shutters just to my left.

Mechanically, I throw off a single sheet, rise, and step once to stare through the tiny slit in the apartment shutters. Straight ahead, two immense, violet fireballs blaze, their power gleaming off silvered city turrets that curve up in a cluster to touch the morning sky.

Frowning, I turn to scan the bare room.

A crisp notice paper is propped up, waiting on the bedside table.

‘Dear Amber,’ it begins.

I blink, without recognition.

‘At 5:02 am, three days prior, you were admitted to Ospol Hospital Intensive Care. A broken rib and fractured skull were reformed and sealed during the ensuing seventy-two hours. You were then transported to your last known place of residence. Procedural effects may include, but are not limited to, loss of sensation and temporary amnesia. We apologize for any inconvenience; these effects should not exceed 24 hours.

Special note: Your relative contacted us. You are urged to meet them at the Ospol Craftport, Terminal Four, 6:00 pm this evening.

For your personal safety and in light of your condition, a map 273

is enclosed. Follow the route provided if you wish to reacquaint yourself with our most regularly acclaimed city attractions prior to travel.

Thank you for being a valued gold-level member. Ospol’s staff wish you a rapid recovery.’

I flip the paper.

The underside is blank.

6:17 A.M. Outside, the streetway hums with hovering vehicles. Swarms of tiny, leather-winged creatures swoop to nip at the arms of an exasperated convertible driver, who lashes them away with a fluorescent, two-pronged trident.

Impulsively, I cut towards the closest refreshment cart for shelter.

Before I can remember the name of the flying terrors, I freeze.

Behind the counter, a man—whose dimples previously shone from his smiling round face—is looking at me in alarm. His eyes glow with the same violet shade as the twin suns. His skin is a striking blue.

After a long pause, I instinctively produce two coins I’d found winking at me from within my bedside table and give the hospital’s tourist map an awkward wave.

At this, the man’s frown melts into refined curiosity. Accepting the coins, he speaks. The tone is jovial, but the language is strange.

I shake my head, unable to process it, and point instead.

As my drink is passed over, I flinch at the cartman’s hand. He has no fingernails. Trying to hide my face, I nod and turn away.

I catch a young girl peeking at me from behind her mother’s arm; the pair’s skin is dull red, and their limbs measure twice the length of their torsos. Two fleshy extremities protrude from their heads, twisting daintily down their backs.

Their eyes are slits of indigo, and the mother snarls at me in warning.

I move on, hands shaking.

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6:32 A.M. The drink doesn’t agree with me. Its contents smell like sweetened cleaning fluid.

A streetside disposal incinerator engulfs my wasted cup in a hiss of blue steam. I back away, my arms already swelling with an assortment of new blisters.

The map crumples in my fist.

I will remember where I am supposed to be. Without help.

5:17 P.M. My hands twist and prod at the day’s new scars. Over and over. They don’t hurt.

The remaining scraps of my overused map flutter like broken butterfly wings each time the doors to the Ospal Craftport slide open.

It’s nearly six o’clock.

Warped, angular faces avoid me as I scan the chittering crowd.

Will they be here?

Will I even recognize them, if they are?

The second a man’s mop of dark hair appears, I snap to my feet. He’s not red, or blue. His skin is... tawny. We hone onto each other, like two bees in a hornets’ nest.

Something about his face trips a wire in me—and for the first time that day, I feel almost relieved. “Are you—?” but he cuts me off.

“—Finally. It’s you!” He pauses, looking as if he were about to say something important.

Then his eyes slice the crowd, left to right. “Sorry, not here.

I’ll explain... Follow me.” Without warning, he grabs my wrist and pulls, forcing a path through a stream of hissing travelers.

Shocked, I don’t struggle.

So much for a reunion.

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We reach a mirrored alcove. “Look,” he whispers, “This will be a lot to take in, but...” he shakes his head, changing tone.

“We haven’t got much time. Sorry. But we—” he motioned to the space between them, “are not from here. You’re not, I’m not.

Surely, you’ve noticed we don’t have their eyes?”

I blink. The man has dark gold irises. I yank my hand free, confused. “Sorry, what do you mean, ‘have their eyes’? And—” my arms cross automatically, “who are you, to me?” I scan him up and down, involuntarily.

He ignores the last question. “It only takes 24 hours for irises to absorb the suns’ colour here, no matter the race. That’s one point they need to learn.”

“So...?”

He blinks in earnest. “So, your eyes are blue. Mine are brown.

So, someone led you to believe that you have lived here, when you haven’t been under these suns longer than a day.

Otherwise, your eyes would show. So, that someone is lying.”

“Oh.” I nod, eyebrows raised. Excellent. Either an entire medical department lied to me, or my only known relative has a screw loose. I glance around. Security staff are nowhere in sight.

I shake my head. “Sorry.” I speak slowly, as if to a small child.

“But you’re wrong. I had an accident. Three days ago. I was in hospital.” An unwelcome shiver rolls through me.

It took effort not to gaze past his shoulder to my reflection on the wall. There had been no mirrors in the room I woke up in.

The man’s lip twitches. Possibly irritated, possibly amused.

He studies my face. “You received that information on a piece of paper beside your bed, did you?” My shoulders lock. How...?

“I know...” he continues, “because I got one, too.”

Something prickles at the back of my neck. “You... were in the hospital?”

Of course—we must have both been in an accident. That could explain a few things...

276

He’d probably been across the hall, in the psych department.

My relative presses his hands together, definitely irritated now. “The hospital story is just a cover up! Listen, you don’t remember anything, right? I couldn’t either—but last mission, I was pushed down some stairs—malfunctioned—and started to remember snippets.” He forces his dark eyes closed. With great effort, he breathes in, then out. His eyelids click back open. “I managed to remove my tracking device just long enough to rewire my memory circuit, tweak the timer, and replaster. When they tried to wipe me the next time, like they normally do, it didn’t work. I woke up in storage and found I wasn’t alone. We’re all sent in pairs—like us. But I... had to open another pair’s door just to cover for the security alarms, and I still... don’t know... where they took them.”

Something like hot oil trickles through my insides. My head starts shaking, so gently at first, the motion is barely visible.

“I should have escaped, but I... couldn’t just leave you.” His pitch rises. “I’ve been acting oblivious, blank, each time we’re set up, for months, trying to get to you. You’ve refused before...

So far, they’ve passed off our early interactions as coincidence— meaningless conversations.” He grimaces, “I mean, they’re great with basic data reports and maintenance, but the thorough mechanical checks?” he actually whistles with disapproval, “Shocking.

Still—I can’t slip their radar forever. At some point, they’ll suspect me for tweaking routes on the last planet. Now, here.”

Adrenaline is slathering my limbs now, sending small electric currents from the bones to the blisters.

“They already know we’re together on the trackers!” He gestures, frantic. “They’re coming now. Who do you think was supposed to pick you up at six o’clock?”

277

My voice cracks, despite myself, like a radio with bad signal.

“What are you saying?” I need to disappear. Run. Now. This person, whoever he is, is insane.

“We’re out of time! If you’re coming with me, we need to go.

Now. They never leave our batch unwiped longer than a day.”

I order myself to move—not towards him, but away—pushing through the bustle. The madman follows, still prattling.

But it doesn’t matter... because the words he speaks are not real.

I catch a strand of blonde in a reflection, a hint of blue.

Not real.

“You’re being studied!” his voice rises after me, pleading, urgent, and authoritative all at once. “The collectors program us before each mission. They use us to learn about new planets and societies. Answer questions. What’s poisonous? What’s safe?

Which races are useful? Which are deadly? We’re often ripped apart one day, fixed and rebooted the next! They believe where we pass unharmed, humanity can be integrated peacefully. ...It’s all a test. But we’re the main experiment!”

Violet. Violet eyes everywhere. Not real. I wheel around.

“Stop.” My tone flatlines.

He does stop, so quickly he almost topples a passer-by with scales up to their elbows. I focus, remembering the taste of the blue drink. The flavour. But I can’t even remember the feel of it on my tongue. Nothing. I pluck the memory from my head, as if it were a splinter, intending to throw it away.

But I don’t need to. It’s all a medical side effect.

“This isn’t real.”

And that was final.

For a moment, he softens. “That’s what they want you to think.”

Without invitation, he grabs at the back of my neck. His whisper is low. “I’m disconnecting you from our group’s trackers now. Understand?”

278

A jolt rocks through me as something clicks and snaps. A tiny, bullet shaped object is pushed roughly into my palm. The side engraving reads: A5002. My mouth drops open. My fingers shudder as they prod at a gaping hole, just below my hairline.

Repulsed, I try to throw up.

I can’t.

5:47 P.M. We’re running. We almost reach a passenger craft when they line up behind us. Together, we plunge headfirst into a panicked crowd of color, but a dart has already fired. I feel my companion’s body jerk beside me, convulsing with electric shocks. Real ones.

I reach out, to help, tug, drag him if I need to—but he forces his hand up in warning before crumbling to the floor. A crackling hiss of steam rises from the heap.

I hadn’t even asked his name.

Eyes dry, scratchy, I scramble for the closest aircraft.

But its entrance has already clamped shut.

Trapped.

Slowly, stiffly, I turn.

On instinct, I know them. Collector Drones.

All silver, and spindly. Jagged and lethal. They watch me with eyes of blank hunger.

You should have left us without emotions, I think. Now, we can see how cold you are.

I shut them out. A blurred vision of transport pods flashes behind my lids.

That’s when the déjà vu strikes.

I don’t know who I am. Not even my real name. At the end of the day, they find me.

That’s when I realize they had every day before.

I’d just forgotten. But I remember now...

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Every world, every place, every culture, and every race they’d thrown me into—it all comes streaming back so fast that it hurts... until they black me out. And I wake as someone new.

Fresh as a blank book.

Still damp with invisible ink.

About the Author Liza Fables is a Meanjin (Brisbane) based writer who finds herself needing to write ideas down before she goes to sleep.

She's fascinated by fairytales and the roles they play in shaping our perceptions, considers slam poetry a perfectly valid sport, and cannot resist theatre events or ballroom dance socials. She appreciates any tale that explores the importance of nature and human nature, and is excited to be working alongside other writing communities in the coming years. You can find more at lizafablespoetry.wordpress.com.

In short, she thinks books are cool. She'd very much like to publish one someday.

Science Fiction Finalists Spectral Space by Lewis Gennery Kalpa by Kaushal Gokare The Little Robot by Claire Zhong

280

Seniors (60 to 69 years)

Fishing for Atonement

by Don Carter Like the day before and the day before that, the hitchhiker started this day beneath a cottonwood grove draped in hanging robes of Spanish moss. This day was different, however, because a rare breeze stirred the Mississippi air and brought a checkerboard smile to his face. Like the people in his life, most of his teeth had abandoned him years before. Friends and bicuspids were nothing but memories now. He closed his eyes and listened to the mesmerizing symphony of the cicada in the trees overhead.

Their song rippled through the branches, gracefully rising and falling with the wind. The sound became the wind and its melody moved the silver moss into a soprano sonata that captivated the hitchhiker until the breeze descended once again into the trembling vibrato of the insect’s call.

Earlier that morning, the hitchhiker had attempted to capture his thinning grey hair in a ponytail, but uncooperative strands sprouted beneath his hat like the gossamer moss that hung from the trees. His rebellious hair joined the swaying branches and the hitchhiker was swept up in nature’s dance. His arms rose with the music and he swirled gently through the cottonwood seedlings that collected like snowdrifts around his ankles. The forest reminded him of his mother’s silver shawl draped over the emerald gown she wore in the ballroom dance competitions he sometimes remembered in his dreams. He wrapped his arm 281

around his mother’s waist and they whirled gracefully across the dancehall floor.

The sound of a new wind, a more urgent wind, pulled the hitchhiker from his reverie. He opened his eyes to see a crimson convertible slow and come to a stop. He examined the car from hood to trunk before his eyes settled on the stranger behind the wheel. The man carried with him an air of self-assuredness and certainty that was common among ex-military men. He looked like a man who could deliver a righteous sermon or a righteous uppercut, depending on what was called for.

The hitchhiker considered his own wretched physique in return. It bore the lumps and hollows of a war fought halfway around the world and an antiwar movement fought closer to home. In the former, he acquired a leg full of shrapnel from the Viet Cong; in the latter, he acquired three broken ribs from a Chicago police sergeant.

The stranger spoke first. “Where you headed?”

“Well, sir, I don’t rightly know where I’m headed. I’m waiting for the good Lord to make up his mind.”

The stranger considered this and replied, “Can I drop you somewhere while you’re waiting?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose you can. I’m just going up the road to my favorite fishing hole. It ain’t far, but I don’t walk quite so good as I used to.”

“Stow your gear behind the seat and get in.”

“Thank you, sir. I won’t be no bother.” The hitchhiker placed his oversized bucket and fishing gear behind the seat and eased his troubled body into the convertible.

The stranger slipped the car into gear and continued north.

“That’s the third time you called me sir. Are you a military man?”

“Yes, sir. 26th Marines.” The hitchhiker paused before adding, “But that was a long time ago.”

“No need to call me sir. The name’s Michael.”

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“My mother always said you can trust a man with a good biblical name.” The hitchhiker paused to assemble the memory and added, “Michael...Saint Michael, the Archangel they called the Angel of Death, come to escort a man to the pearly gates at the hour of his death.” The hitchhiker thought a bit, then added, “Providing he’s deemed worthy, of course.”

“You seem to know your Bible, soldier.”

“I made a point of knowing my Bible after what I seen and done in Vietnam.”

“Were you in Khe Sanh?”

The hitchhiker considered Michael and reached a conclusion: a soldier always knows when he’s talking to a brother-in-arms.

“Seventy-seven days we kept Charlie at bay. We bent, but we never broke...‘course we lost a lot of good men.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

The hitchhiker ignored the opportunity to change the subject.

“God Himself sent men into mortal combat, so I figure killing in war is different than murder. That’s why I’m hoping God will give me a pass for the things I done.” He contemplated the passing woods and found no divination there. “But I’m not holding my breath.”

The corner of Michael’s mouth curled northward. “And that’s why you’re waiting for the Lord to make up his mind?”

The hitchhiker narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the stranger. “Some things are too terrible to forgive, mister. Some things are worthy of eternal damnation.” He wondered what compelled him to open up to this man, to expose the raw nerve of his memories and confess his sins.

“Regret is a cancer, mister. Memories get all bunched up inside a man’s gut until they turn poisonous.” He absentmindedly rubbed his stomach as if checking for tumors. “It’s always a memory that stirs up that toxic lump of remorse inside a man.

Sometimes it goes into remission, but one day, a song on the radio or a scene outside the car window triggers a memory and regret 283

starts all over again. He hopes it won’t stick, but he knows it will.

He thinks it won’t grow, but it always does. He prays it will go away, but he knows it’s gonna come back. Remorse sinks its teeth into a man in the middle of the night and won’t let loose until he’s drenched in sweat and praying for the daylight to come.”

The convertible entered a clearing scarred by towering power lines that cast flickering shadows over the hitchhiker’s eyes.

Beneath the cables lie a junkyard, the final resting ground for rusted cars and trucks piled three and four high. Like the enemy, we buried after the siege. The hitchhiker shifted in his seat to block the sun and the memory before it could take hold in his gut.

They slipped back into the shade where the convertible offered a view of the trees and their shimmering moss shawls that the hitchhiker rarely saw. Once again, he thought of his mother waltzing across the ballroom floor in the dance competitions she enjoyed with his father.

He hadn’t thought about his parents in years. His father fought in World War II and lost an arm at the Battle of Iwo Jima.

His mother was a Navy nurse and lost her husband to whiskey.

The hitchhiker realized Michael was talking to him.

“I said, the Lord forgives a penitent man.”

“Does he? I did what I could to get right with the man upstairs, but I won’t know which way the wind blows until the judgment day comes.”

“And if the wind blows to heaven? What then?”

“Heaven? Heaven is sitting beside a river with a fishing pole in my hands. It’s the most peaceful thing on Earth and as close to heaven as a man can get.” He let his eyes close and his imagination open. “In the morning, the mist rises from the water and it’s like living inside an impressionist painting. A cool wind sweeps away the fog and there’s an egret wading in the shallow water, searching for breakfast. Then the breeze stirs the wild anise bushes that grow at the water’s edge and puts the sweet 284

smell of licorice in the air.” He opened his eyes and added, “That’s the smell of my dad. He always kept licorice in his pocket.

“The egret takes flight and then there’s nothing but me and a single fish in the whole world. I sense him below the surface and he senses me above. He nibbles at the bait and the bobber dances a tiny jig, nearly imperceptible if not for the circles it sends across the water’s surface. I lay the fishing line across my palm and feel him testing me. I slowly take the slack out of the line, but not enough to give myself away. Will he outsmart me, or will I be frying fish for dinner?”

The hitchhiker turned to Michael and said, “If Saint Peter decides I’m worthy, I surely hope there are fishing holes in heaven.” Then he chuckled and added, “But if he decides I’m a bad bet, I know what I’ll find in Hell because I’ve already been to ‘Nam and that’s about as close to Hell as a man can get without taking the trouble to die.”

Michael remained silent. The hitchhiker continued unprompted.

“I deployed in ’67, but my tour was cut short when I caught some flak from a mortar shell. That was in April of ’68, right after the 7th Calvary broke through enemy lines and saved our asses.”

The hitchhiker sniffed and turned his head away from Michael.

“Jesus Christ, I haven’t talked about this stuff in years.”

Michael winced at the blasphemy but said nothing.

“It’s just that I lost the best friend a man could ever have during that siege. Murray went to grab us a couple of drinks and I never saw him again. We had this running gag where he’d offer me a beer or a soda. As soon as I reached for it, he’d pull it back and take a big slug from the can. Then he’d give me the can and open a fresh one for himself.

“The thing is, it was me who asked Murray to get us something to drink that last time. I knew mine would be half drunk when he gave it to me, but it was worth the laugh.” The pain collected in 285

his throat and he swallowed hard to get past it. “It was a mortar shell that killed Murray, just like the one that nearly took me.”

“That’s a hard thing to live with.”

“I didn’t get over it for years. It was my wife, Betsy, who helped me through the darkness. When I came home, I was angry and I got involved in the Anti-War Movement. I met Betsy during the protests at the ’68 Democratic Convention up in Chicago.” The hitchhiker grinned and said, “She had this makeshift care station set up at a big water fountain in Grant Park. She was soaking strips of cloth in the water and passing them out to the protesters who got tear-gassed. I came up to her, my eyes burning and my ribs aching from the clubbing I just took. She placed a wet cloth over my eyes and lay me down in the grass to recuperate.

“She was wearing this big flowery skirt that went all the way to the ground. She always dressed like that; she called it a peasant skirt. Anyway, when she ran out of rags and towels, she started ripping strips off the bottom of that skirt so’s she could keep treating the protesters. The more tear gas the cops threw at us, the shorter that skirt got.” A short laugh escaped his mouth.

“By the end of the day, she was wearing a miniskirt and I was rooting for the cops to keep it up.”

“I bet you were,” chuckled Michael.

“We got married a couple of months later. Before she died, it was Betsy who introduced me to the Lord and set me on the road to atonement.”

The shade deepened as the cottonwood grove gave way to a cypress marsh. The Spanish moss hung lower in the swamp, descending in long, pearly pillars that tickled the water’s surface and released tentative circles to probe its boundaries. Speckled sunlight meandered through the leaves and illuminated thousands of flecks in the air. The atmosphere weighed heavily on the hitchhiker and he felt helpless against the weariness that forced his eyes shut. A kaleidoscope of flickering light and 286

shadow danced inside his eyelids and he seemed weightless as if the convertible’s momentum were lifting him from his seat. He spread his arms and imagined himself floating above the car. He rose up on a wave of the cicada’s song and drifted through the upper branches of the cypress trees.

The pains of his earthly body fell away and he dared not open his eyes for fear the feeling might be lost. In his mind’s eye, the bog’s surface became a dance floor and he spotted his mother and father twirling through the shimmering moss pillars. Like the swaying moss, their footsteps sent fluid circles rippling over the surface. His mother looked up at the hitchhiker and winked, just like she did when he was a boy and the dancehall judges weren’t looking. They twirled behind a tree and she emerged on the other side with a new dance partner. From his perch high above, he saw it was his ten-year-old self and he heard his mother whisper in his ear, One...two...three...four. Back...two...three...four.

A distant train whistle joined the music and rose in an overpowering crescendo that quickly obliterated all other sound.

It shook the images inside the hitchhiker’s dream and the vision crumbled around him. For a moment, he felt himself falling and he woke with a start to find himself sitting on his upturned bucket at his favorite fishing hole. The train whistle faded and he turned to see the last car pass over the trestle and disappear into the woods. He called out for Michael, but only the cicadas answered.

What a strange dream, he thought. He felt a twitch on his finger and looked down to see the fishing line in his palm. The bobber dipped and sent tiny ripples across the water’s surface. He closed his eyes and immersed himself in the strange wind that carried not only the song of the cicada but also the sweet smell of licorice. The wind seemed to put on weight and wrap its arms around him like a mother’s hug.

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The hitchhiker opened his eyes and there stood Murray with a beer in each hand. Behind Murray, he spotted a flowered peasant skirt billowing in the breeze and in that moment, he knew, at long last, which way the wind blew.

About the Author Don Carter has been published in the Tulip Tree ReviewHumor issue, and the Tulip Tree Review-Wild Women issue. His stories have also been published in three issues of Stories That Need to be Told, one of which won the Humor Merit Award.

He won second place and was published in Baby Boomers Plus - Stories Through the Ages 2020. His blog, WineSnark, The Wise-Ass Guide to Wine Appreciation, has won accolades and been shortlisted in numerous wine writing competitions. This is his first attempt at fiction. You can find more of his work at winesnark.com.

Seniors (60 to 69 years) Finalists A State of Grace by Judy Campbell Readers Digest: Vanguard of the Revolution by Adrienne Farago Payback by Eileen Huging Ghost of Johnson's Creek by Sandra Brown Lindstedt Cheet-O by Robert Russin A Glance at an Old Newspaper by Hui Zhou

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Seniors (70 years and above)-Tie

Welcome The Wrong Turns: A True Travel Story

by Mike Day My bride and I were on top of the world with planning to go to the 2020 summer Olympics in Tokyo. In all our travels over the years, neither one of us had ever been to an Olympics. I had been to Japan and was eager to return with my spouse, who had never visited.

We worked with a broker to secure hotel accommodations, transportation, and, most importantly, tickets to our preferred events. We planned to see the women’s basketball championship game, as well as track-and-field events in the newly built 68,000seat National Stadium in Tokyo.

We paid for refundable airline tickets and purchased insurance in case there was an interruption to our Olympic travel plans. Alas, just months before our planned sojourn, SARS CoV2, the COVID virus, began traveling as a stowaway on airplanes worldwide. The pandemic forced the postponement of the summer Olympics until 2021. We were content to wait another year. Then, four months prior to the rescheduled games, the Japanese decided to limit spectators, prohibiting travelers from outside of Japan. We had protected ourselves for an extraordinary and unpredictable scenario. All the money we had already paid for the trip was returned to us. We stayed home and watched the competitions streamed, like the rest of the world.

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When the news hit about the Olympics going forward without fans in the stands, I was disappointed for the lost opportunity and then started researching where and when we might travel internationally. I listened to podcasts and pored over news articles about travel options and Covid safety measures being implemented around the world. Due to Canada’s travel restrictions, we couldn’t even drive the 135 miles from our home on Lake Superior’s north shore in Minnesota to cross the international border. Canada wouldn’t let us in.

I went to the US Centers for Disease Control (CDC) website to read the Risk Assessment for countries worldwide. They divided the world into color-coded levels of risk–from low risk (Level 1) to very high risk (Level 4). At the start of summer 2021, fifteen months after the World Health Organization had declared the pandemic, countries to which I was interested in exploring still carried a very high CDC risk label: Sweden, Costa Rica, Namibia, and Estonia. Canada was rated Level 3: high risk.

The place that finally rose to the top of my list was one I had never visited, a place to which I could get a direct flight, and a place with a CDC Level 1 risk: Iceland. I began talking to those who had been there. I went to the library and borrowed a copy of Rick Steves’ Guide to Iceland. I made numerous visits to the TripAdvisor app on my phone to read travelers’ stories from Iceland.

Even with all my research and planning, an unexpected turn meant that my first distant trip since the Covid pandemic wasn’t going to Iceland. It turned out to be to a place that wasn’t even on my list.

My eighteen-year-old niece had been accepted to attend Alabama State University (ASU) in Montgomery, Alabama.

Though it was at the top of her list, she had not had a chance to visit the campus during the pandemic. Two months before her 290

freshman year was set to begin, with both of us fully vaccinated, we flew to Atlanta and drove on to Montgomery. It was the first time I had been on an airplane in a year and a half.

As first-time travelers to Montgomery, my niece and I had one objective: to take a scheduled ninety-minute tour of the ASU campus with two current students. We drove onto the campus the night before the tour to begin to get acquainted with the place. What we discovered, both on the campus and around Montgomery, were a lot of buildings with historical markers in front of them. Montgomery has a lot of history, especially with respect to the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 60s.

The best travel experiences are so often the unplanned ones.

Anthony Bourdain, beloved American chef, author, and world traveler, said it best, “I’m a big believer in winging it. Letting the happy accident happen is what a lot of vacation itineraries miss.”

On the day of our campus tour, I made a wrong turn and had us going in the opposite direction of where I intended. Instead of driving down South Jackson Street to the campus of Alabama State University, I drove up the street. We had plenty of time, so we purposely continued in the wrong direction, seeing where a wrong turn might take us. We spotted a house on South Jackson Street that bore a historical marker. We pulled over. It was the Dexter Parsonage House. Built in 1912, it was the house for the pastor of the Dexter Baptist Church. In 1954, a new pastor came to live here at the age of twenty-five. His name was Martin Luther King, Jr. On Thursday evening, December 1, 1955, Rosa Parks boarded the Cleveland Avenue bus, headed home from her job as a seamstress in a department store in downtown Montgomery.

She was seated just ahead of the “colored section.” When the white seats at the front of the bus filled, the bus driver asked Parks and three other Black riders to move to the back to make 291

room for white riders. Rosa Parks refused.

The bus driver pulled over and stepped off the bus to use a pay phone to report the incident. The police came and arrested Parks. E.D. Nixon, a Black community leader, bailed her out of jail. She was scheduled to appear in court the following Monday.

On the tour of the campus, my niece and I found ourselves in front of Alabama State University’s Council Hall. It was here on the evening that Rosa Parks was arrested that Jo Ann Robinson, an English professor at Alabama State and the president of the Women’s Political Council, typed up a statement so that it appeared three times on a single sheet of paper. In part, it said, “If we do not do something to stop these arrests, they will continue... this woman’s case will come up on Monday...stay off the buses Monday in protest of the arrest and trial.”

Robinson and two students stayed up all night and mimeographed more than 10,000 copies of the page, cutting each into three for distribution throughout the Black community of Montgomery. Black ministers announced the boycott in church.

They formed an association and chose Martin Luther King, Jr. as its head. They called for the boycott to continue beyond a single day, and the Montgomery bus strike began.

A group of Black women legally challenged a city ordinance and state of Alabama statute and won in U.S. District Court, overturning the busing segregation laws. The city appealed to the US Supreme Court, which upheld the lower court’s ruling and delivered the order on December 20, 1956. The next day, the city buses were integrated and the Montgomery bus strike ended after 381 days.

With the Montgomery trip under our belts, I turned my focus to the originally planned trip to Iceland. In September 2021, my spouse and I made our first sojourn out of the United States in 555 days. It was a direct flight from Minneapolis to Reykjavík.

We rented a vehicle and spent a week driving the Golden Circle in southern Iceland–a 150-mile loop that connects Reykjavik 292

and parts of the country’s most beautiful scenery. We ate cured salmon, Arctic Char, Atlantic Wolfish, and North Atlantic Plaice. We hiked six hours to overlook the crater of the volcano Fagradalsfjall, which had become active six months before our visit.

Iceland is the newest island on Earth. Its landscapes date back to less than twenty million years ago, when magma rose from beneath the Earth’s mantle along the mid-Atlantic ridge as the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates slid away from each other. The process continues today. Iceland has seen hundreds of volcanic eruptions since the Norse arrived on the uninhabited island sometime in the ninth century.

Ingólfur Arnarson is credited with establishing the first permanent settlement in Iceland. In 874, he followed a Viking ritual, tossing high-seat pillars into the sea as he approached land.

The pillars, symbols of the authority of a chieftain during Viking times, were wooden poles placed on each side of a tall seat where the head of the community sat. The settler’s home would be established where the gods brought the pillars. Arnarson called the place where his pillars went ashore Reykjavík. In the early tenth century, Icelanders held a district assembly near Reykjavík.

This evolved into an annual event, a National Assembly held for more than eight hundred years at a site that is today Thingvellir National Park. This assembly went on to become the world’s first parliamentary government.

In Thingvellir, the great underwater mid-Atlantic ridge exposes itself above sea level. There we hiked between two great plates of the earth that continue to split apart. As we overnighted near the park, we found ourselves on several mornings and evenings driving through it. Every time we did, the beauty of the landscape overwhelmed us, whether the sky was full of sunshine, floating clouds, or a gray sky with misty rain. Ravines opened by tectonic movement are filled with glacier meltwater 293

and the undulating lava rock terrain is mottled with moss. The interaction of light and landscape created vistas that made us feel we were elsewhere in space and time, a long way from Tokyo, a long way from home. It was easy to understand why the park was used as the setting for the “Gates of the Moon” in the HBO series Game of Thrones.

A long period of peace in Iceland came to an end beginning in the early thirteenth century, when power struggles fueled the creation of chieftain armies that raided each other across the country. In 1281, the King of Norway introduced a new code of law, along with high taxes. The volcano Hekla erupted three times, covering a large part of the island in ash, and a mini-ice age wiped out crops and livestock. Then the Black Death came to Iceland, killing half of its population.

In the 1600s, pirates arrived in Iceland, and hundreds of Icelanders were captured and sold as slaves in Algiers. A smallpox epidemic killed tens of thousands of people in the early 1700s.

The Katla volcano erupted in 1660, Hekla in 1693, Katla again in 1721 and 1755, and Hekla again in 1766.

The 1783–84 eruption of the volcano Laki lasted eight months, covering the island in ash and sulfuric acid fog that killed crops and livestock and led to the death of more than 20 percent of the population, mostly from starvation. Denmark considered relocating the remaining Icelandic population to their country.

In 1800, it was about 45,000 people.

In the twentieth century, Iceland transformed from a poor country into one of the most developed. Early in the century, its rowboat fishing industry moved to mechanized fishing vessels and the import of trawlers. The British and American occupation of Iceland during World War II injected money into the Icelandic economy, launching various projects and raising wages. In the early 2000s, it built a great deal of wealth in the banking industry.

In the fourth quarter of 2008, the worldwide recession hit and 294

Iceland’s banking industry, its stock market, and its currency (the krona) all plummeted. The country had high unemployment, high debt, and high inflation.

Iceland became international news in April 2010, when the eruption of volcano Eyjafjallajökull shut down European air traffic for a week. The volcano Grímsvötn did the same thing for three days the following year. The international attention on Iceland coincided with the country expanding its airline routes to and through the country. Tourism to Iceland boomed, making it a faster-growing destination than any place in Europe.

Tourist visits increased 440 percent in the seven years following the 2010 eruption. That industry was disrupted in 2020 by the COVID pandemic. At the start of the 2021 tourist season, the Fagradalsfjall volcano became active with multiple cones of fountaining lava, filling a valley less than an hour’s drive from Reykjavík with miles of flowing lava. Hundreds of thousands of people, including my spouse and I, came to Iceland that year to see the volcano.

An island in the North Atlantic, Iceland has a long history of fishing. This history includes stories of many people who made a living by fishing—and then drowning. That is because earlier generations learned to fish, but they never learned to swim.

Today, learning to swim is obligatory in Iceland. In every town, you’ll find the social center of the community: a soccer field next to a playground, next to a basketball court, next to the community pool. Icelanders will show up at the same time each day, hang their clothes on the same hook in the locker room, and sit with the same neighbors in the pool. Scandinavians have their saunas. Wisconsin has its roadside taverns. The community pool is the social gathering place for Icelanders. There are more than one hundred heated community pools in Iceland.

We were told that no matter what time of year you go to Iceland, be prepared to get wet. We made sure to pack a couple 295

of different rain jackets, rain pants, and a swimsuit. We dressed in layers. We got wet from wind and rain and waterfalls. We got wet and warm sitting in geyser-heated pools.

Icelanders open their screenless windows in their homes and apartments almost all the time. They even open their front doors, even in winter. Icelanders love fresh air. Visitors to Iceland will love it as well. People can afford to open the windows in winter because Iceland’s heating costs are so low. The island’s electricity leaves virtually no carbon footprint as it is generated by geothermal, hydroelectric, or wind sources. Iceland is also a safe country. You will see babies left in carriages outside a store while their parents go into shop. Icelanders prefer to leave their babies outside in the fresh air.

My spouse and I expected to be at the summer Olympics in Japan, sitting with tens of thousands of others in a newly constructed stadium. Instead, we found ourselves soaking in a riverway warmed by the Earth’s geothermal activity. We expected to be in the most populated city on Earth, but instead, we went hiking on some of the newest terrain on the planet. It reminded us to welcome the wrong turns and happy accidents of travel.

About the Author Mike Day, a native of Chicago, has produced more than a dozen documentary films in IMAX®, the world’s largest film format. His work has taken him to magnificent worldwide locations, including the tallest sand dunes in the world in Namibia, the erupting volcano Sakurajima in Japan, and Jane Goodall’s research site in Tanzania. Mike loves to write stories about the unforgettable places, extraordinary history, and remarkable people he has encountered in his travels, as well as the invaluable lessons about humanity he learned along the way.

His website is: www.mikedaytravels.com

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Seniors (70 years and above) tied with Heartland Terror by C.W. Lewandowski Story on page 139 Seniors (70 years and above) Finalists The Transformation of Layton Roth by Geoffrey K. Graves Damn Lewy: A True Story by Michelle Kaiser A Glimpse of Christmas Joy by Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt

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Social Change/ COVID 19 Pandemic

The Cure

by Helen Jennings She sniffed. The cold was climbing up her nose and into her head. She had lost touch with her feet a while ago and her fingers resembled frozen sausages. She should not be out here in the cold. She knew that. Weighing up the risks, she had decided that the risk from the cold was not as great as the risk from the disease. Shivering on the exposed path, she was beginning to rethink that assessment.

She had an appointment, so had not expected to be kept waiting. She was going to get a chill if she stayed here any longer.

She would give it another five minutes, and then she was going home. She looked at the other people around her, trying to imagine their stories. Did they really need the Cure? Did they need it as much as her? Maybe they needed it more. She shouldn’t judge.

She felt a hint of moisture on her face and decided. This was insanity. She was going home. Stepping out of the queue, she noticed that the people behind her looked pleased – they were one place closer. It was then she realised that the slow movement forward was not real movement, it was other people giving up.

Before she gave up completely, she walked to the front of the queue. She needed to know what was happening. It was not far.

She had a brief chat with a woman almost at the front. She said nobody had been invited in, but she had seen some expensive cars pull up around the back. One of the cars was driven by that 298

celebrity chef, the loud one. She pondered that but didn’t give it much thought, her brain was too cold to think.

Walking home took her past the queue that was behind her, it went on and on. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how many people were standing, quietly waiting.

One young man caught her eye. He looked so tired. Two small children sat in the buggy in front of him. They looked tired, too.

He caught her eye and she couldn’t leave him there. She went to him and said, ‘I think it is a scam, the queue isn’t really moving.’

He glanced down at her, his face unreadable. ‘We’ll wait,’ he said.

She left him there, at least she had tried. She moved on, not stopping to tell anyone else; she didn’t want to remove the hope they had, and she really wanted to get home.

Closing the front door behind her, she let out a deep sigh.

Home wasn’t so bad; she was still getting a little bit of freelance work and she could survive. She had plenty of books and the gin supply was looking remarkably healthy. This was her life and it could be much worse.

She had been trying to limit her social media, but she allowed herself a quick look, just to see what was happening in the big, wide world. Immediately, she saw the thread. ‘Hundreds caught in scam’. Reading down, her fears were confirmed. The early access to the Cure had been a scam, or possibly a government stuff-up; it wasn’t clear.

A typical political fight was happening as everyone blamed everyone else. Little seemed certain, but if there ever was a cure, it was not available anymore. Social media was full of stories.

People who had waited in the cold for nothing. She quietly congratulated herself on her decision to come home, then made some toast and opened her book. She was giving herself an afternoon of reading to counteract the disappointment of the morning.

Her life continued on in its little bubble. She occasionally checked out the papers, sometimes even social media. The 299

Cure was mentioned from time to time. It was a hundred per cent effective, long-lasting, and would finally get things back to normal. The Cure was going to free the world. That was what the papers said, but nobody seemed to know where you could get it.

Was it even real? She couldn’t help but dream of the freedom it would bring. But it was just a dream. She needed to live in the here and now.

Life was so different now, but it was good – gentler, slower, maybe even easier. She thought back to that day when all she had wanted was the Cure so she could return to ‘normal’. She definitely wouldn’t say no to it, but it wasn’t such an urgent need.

She was careful; life would go on. She flicked on the radio and caught the latest news. That celebrity chief, the loud one, was dangerously ill in the hospital. She was shocked, saddened. He seemed so young, so fit. Well, you never do know what people’s lives are really like, perhaps he has some unhealthy habits. It did unnerve her a little bit. There was something very sad about young and fit people suddenly getting sick. She hoped he would recover.

He didn’t. He was just the first. The news sounded like a horrible dystopian fiction; it didn’t make sense. She focused on the report, heard the voices of reporters who sounded excited, but scared. They knew they had a great story, but it wasn’t good news.

It wasn’t just the celebrity chief, the loud one. An alarming number of people were getting sick. They were getting really sick. They might not survive. Nobody knew what was causing this new wave of disease or if it could be spread. It was terrifying.

She cursed herself for listening to the news. Now she would worry, but she could do nothing.

She reimposed her social media ban and extended it to all media.

It was a week before she spoke to anyone, protecting herself by refusing to talk to friends or engage with the outside world.

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Eventually, her best friend texted and threatened to come to the house if she wouldn’t at least take a phone call. So that is how she found out.

There had been a cure. Well, not a cure, more of an idea.

It wasn’t developed by large pharmaceutical companies but by some enthusiastic wellness practitioners. The ingredients were all wholesome enough, at worst, it should have been harmless.

‘Trials’ were planned, but they never happened. Instead, the Cure was sold off to the rich and powerful.

At first, it appeared to work. The lucky few, who got a supply, went about their business without a thought for the rest of the population. They got together and planned the future. They could rebuild the world without the current checks and balances. They were living the dream; they really were invincible. The rest of the world suffered through the peaks and troughs of the pandemic, the endemic, whatever it was called now.

Then, those who had taken the Cure started to get sick. First, it was mild, but it got worse, then it got really bad. Many didn’t survive. Tests were done. It wasn’t the virus – it was something else. Slowly, it became clear; it was the Cure that was making them ill.

Losing so many of the ‘elite’ left some major gaps in politics, entertainment, and business (and even celebrity cooking), but they were not missed for long. People stepped into the gaps, some good people. The virus still stalked the human race, but those who were left learnt to live with it and embraced the changes it had wrought. They protected the vulnerable and worked on better and better vaccines and real treatments.

And what of her? She goes out now, but she still loves her little home, her little piece of earth, her books, her garden, her gin. She has created a YouTube cooking channel. She isn’t a celebrity, but she is reasonably well-known. She has found contentment and definitely doesn’t chase miracle cures anymore.

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About the Author Helen Jennings grew up in rural England before moving to Australia on a working holiday that has never ended. Her love of travel has taken her to parts of Africa, Asia and on a nightmare cycle trip across Europe. She has worked in a variety of jobs from park ranger to kitchen hand and now makes a living facilitating conversations between community and government. All these experiences provide Helen with a host of ideas she uses in her stories. Helen lives on the beautiful Australian coast and is a keen walker and swimmer.

Social Change/COVID 19 Pandemic Finalists Water Runs Through It by Susan Chase Welcome the Wrong Turns: a true travel story by Mike Day The Protests Had It Right by Richard B. Gartrell

Spiritual/Religious

Spiritual/Religious Winner A Doll of Hope by Vanessa Caraveo (unpublished) Spiritual/Religious Finalists Angels We Have Heard On High by Merrell Palmer One Last Time by Don Stansberry While They Dream by Charles D. Virgil

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Survival/ Overcoming Adversity-Tie

Smoke Screen

by Faith Anderson I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday.

January 11, 2003, I became a mother. You were the most beautiful, absolutely perfect, brown-eyed baby girl with a full head of black hair. On this day, I couldn’t have loved anything else more. I was determined to be the best mother ever. I read all the “how-to” baby books and made sure all of your needs were met. I was scared. I was a child raising a child.

During your toddler years, you were my best friend. Being my only child, I may have spoiled you a bit. You were my whole world. We always had fun together. You didn’t know this at the time, but you were saving me from myself. I always tried to do right by you.

Attitudes, puberty, and divorce plagued your teenage years.

This is when the trouble began. I didn’t even see it. I didn’t want to see it. I was naive and in denial.

“Not my child” was a phrase I repeated.

June 19, 2019 you became a mother. I had my first grandchild.

It was a bittersweet moment. The bitterness left me wondering how my 16-year-old daughter can be a mother. How could I have failed you as a parent? Hindsight, my granddaughter is the sweetest blessing our family didn’t know we needed.

After the baby was born, you continued to be a successful student. You were an attentive mother. You had friends and 303

appeared to be happy. You graduated high school. Less than 40% of pregnant teenage girls graduate high school and you did not become a statistic. I was never more proud of this accomplishment.

You were 18 years old with a toddler, supporting yourself and living on your own. The world was at your fingertips, or so I thought. The world is a scary place, and I was about to find out.

You were slowly slipping away. I was still clueless.

You had discovered the world of drugs. I kept telling myself it couldn’t be true. I had raised you to be better than this, or had I? Drug addiction takes hold of a person’s mind, body, and soul. It does not let go. Addiction shows no prejudice. It doesn’t matter race, gender, ideology or socioeconomic status. Addiction demolishes everything in its path.

November 30, 2023 I received a text from you stating you were in need of help getting sober and clean. You said, “Mom, I’m a meth addict.” My heart was racing. My ears were ringing and I could not breathe. My eyes were deceiving me. I couldn’t believe what I had just read. My sweet baby girl was a drug addict. You lived 500 miles from me. I drove all night to get to you. I was praying for the best outcome, but prepared for events that could change our lives forever.

December 2, 2023 was the worst day of my life. At 6:00 AM I was abruptly woken by a 9-1-1 call across a scanner announcing an overdose at your home address. I was four blocks from you.

Driving to your house through the tears and hysteria, I was mentally preparing to perform life-saving measures to rescue you. I knew I had to keep it together to save my girl. You agreed to get help. You spent 50 days at an inpatient drug rehab in Colorado. Each and every day I blamed myself. “What did I do wrong?” “How can I fix this?” Well, guess what? I didn’t do anything wrong and I couldn’t fix this problem. It took me many, many months to be able to say that out loud. You came home from rehab and within two weeks disappeared. I was stupid to assume rehab would cure you of your addiction.

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As a parent, I should be able to trust my child. Addiction destroys families with lies and deceit. Blaming yourself eats at you. Addiction turns your child into a monster, unrecognizable to the people who love them the most. It is not a pretty picture and I would not wish addiction on any person. The phone calls begging for money or to come home rip at your heart. The sleepless nights, waiting by the phone, or desperately scanning social media for living proof of your child is exhausting. I was dying inside while my child was either in jail, an ER, or my worst fear, a morgue.

This is your journey. All I can do is provide support, a listening ear, and, above all, unconditional love. Letting go and allowing you to live your life, make mistakes, and fix them on your own is the best thing I can do for you. I still worry. I will always worry. I still wake up in the middle of the night and check my phone. I still have nightmares of seeing you high, out of your mind, with a needle sticking out of your arm. I see you detoxing in a hotel room as I struggled to get you home. I am raising my granddaughter. I often find myself second-guessing my parenting strategies. I have to remind myself daily that your drug addiction is not my fault. I have to move forward with my life.

December 16, 2024 you are coming home. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared or nervous about what lies ahead for our family. You are sixty days clean. You paved your own way. You took the initiative to get clean for yourself. I am so proud of you.

I pray you have the tools and utilize them to continue to fight this disease called addiction. I want my daughter back.

About the Author Faith Anderson is a self-published author who finds inspiration in everyday life and lived experiences. With a love for storytelling, she weaves relatable, heartfelt narratives that connect with readers. Faith resides with her family in the 305

mountains of Colorado. When she is not writing, Faith enjoys painting, gardening, and curling up with a good book. www. woollybooks.com Survival/Overcoming Adversity tied with Heartland Terror by C.W. Lewandowski Story on page 139 Survival/Overcoming Adversity Finalists Fritland by Melis Aker Hit The Glass by Kristi Paxton Where It Is, There Is Life by Kaden Sitrin A Glimpse of Christmas Joy by Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt

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Suspense/Thriller

The Blood Stone of Shiva

by A.K. McCutcheon Here’s what I must tell you about me: I am a man who indulged my passions for whisky, gambling, and women with generous bank accounts.

And I am a murderer.

Not with my own hands, but a murderer just the same.

There are those who believe it was the stone that killed them.

An accursed diamond, the warm red color of blood. As to the truth, perhaps you may judge for yourself. Have a drink with me, mate, and I’ll tell you the tale. It was one year ago . . .New Year’s Eve, 1919, aboard the steamship RMS Cliveden, thirteen days out of Bombay bound for Southampton.

The Great War had ended, leading to my discharge from the British Army in India. I had booked passage on the steamer, hoping for a lucky card game to finance my travels.

I was glad to be done with a soldier’s life, eager to leave India. I struggled to justify the inequity of British colonial rule.

Indian soldiers fought bravely beside us on every battlefront, yet Britain plundered their country’s crops for supplies or exports, leaving the natives impoverished and starving. The British Raj passed laws to quash protests and public gatherings. My years reading history at Oxford taught me that repression leads to rebellion. Indeed, our battalion had seen rioting in the Punjab region. I hoped cooler heads would prevail. I heard talk about protests 307

against the Crown, without violence, led by a native called Gandhi.

On that night aboard the Cliveden, there were thousands of miles of deep water between India and me. The sea was restless, as if spoiling for a fight. The passengers—a war-weary assortment of Brits, Turks, Indians, Portuguese—were all on their way to being drunk, or at least the ones who weren’t seasick and heaving over the side.

I was in the ship’s saloon, at cards with two other fellows: a Sikh, his head swathed in a white turban, and a Turk, his right hand displaying a silver ring in the shape of a wolf ’s head. The ring reflected lamplight in a manner that dazzled the eye—perhaps a dodgy tactic to distract other players. The mere presence of the Turk was unsettling, as the Ottoman army had opposed us on bloody battlefields just months ago. Even so, cards don’t question the nationality of the player. Indeed, disputes between countries might be solved more expeditiously if their leaders would sit down to a gentlemanly game of cards.

Our game needed a fourth player. I spotted a young Englishman at the bar and waved him over. The quickness of his response told me he was no stranger to card play. His erect posture and squared shoulders spoke of military service. I called to him, “I say, were you a fellow trooper? I’m lately with the Royal Fusiliers.”

He smiled and shook my hand vigorously. “Jack Shelton.

Somerset Light Infantry.” He had a bright, cheerful demeanor. I liked him at once.

“Call me Nigel,” I said, and offered him the chair nearest to mine at the table.

We fell into our play. The saloon had no windows; the air was warm and heavy with tobacco smoke and liquor. Hours passed.

The cards went against me. My watch told me dawn had reached the upper decks when we agreed on one last game. Poker, Fivecard draw. Our foreign companions soon folded. It was down to 308

Jack and me. My cards were promising, even exciting, but I had too little money to cover the final bet.

Then I thought: the diamond. I hesitated for agonizing moments—weighing the odds in my favor against the consequences of a loss—before I plucked the red gem from my vest and dropped it on the table. The reaction was immediate: The Sikh exhaled, a deep growl emerging from his throat; the Turk jerked to attention, the wolf ’s head ring flashing as he stroked his coarse black beard. Jack’s serious expression broke into a wide smile. “That will make a pretty bauble for my girl back home.”

He showed me a straight flush, spades, queen-high. My mouth went dry. I tossed my losing full house on the table and mopped my forehead as Jack pocketed the red stone with a flourish, relishing his victory. Nausea washed over me, not due to the pitching ship. No soul is more wretched than a gambler abandoned by luck. I’d squandered my fortune, my chance for a future, a home, and a life without a duffel bag on my shoulder.

The Turk and the Sikh said their good-nights and left us. Jack and I took our smokes outside to the creaking deck. We sprawled on wooden chaises, wrapping our coats tightly against the chilled sea air. I raised my voice above the rumble of the waves: “I’ll be off when we dock in Port Said. My fare takes me no further, you see.”

I glanced at my companion, observing his amiable and trusting manner. How could I bear him ill will for my loss? He had shown himself to be a gentleman. We were fellow countrymen, after all, and brothers in arms. I resolved we could not part ways until I told him—warned him— of the stone’s history. Might he return the gem to me when he learned of its terrible origin? I could only lay out the facts, and let him decide the stone’s destiny. “Jack . . . about the diamond . . . there are things you should know.

“Some months ago, our platoon received orders to travel to Amritsar to put down a violent uprising outside a Hindu temple.

Before our departure, I overheard a hushed conversation in the 309

company headquarters: two troopers whispering about a statue of the god Shiva the Destroyer inside the temple. Rumors had spread that a red diamond—as large as a pigeon’s egg—glared from the statue’s forehead like an angry third eye. Believers claimed that the stone was stained by the blood of those cursed by the vengeful god.

“Hearing this, a flush of excitement coursed through me.

Was the gem real, or merely myth? A diamond of that size and unique color would be worth a fortune. Occupied with my thoughts, I turned to leave . . . and glimpsed a tall figure in an officer’s uniform exiting swiftly from the building. Had he heard the whispers about the diamond?

“By the time of our arrival in Amritsar, another platoon had engaged the mob and driven them inside the temple. The scene was bedlam: the smothering stench of gun smoke and incense, the anguished cries of the wounded. Amidst the turmoil, the temple priests hastened to protect the relics. One priest lifted his robes above his knees, climbed to the top of the Shiva statue, and extracted a dazzling red stone from the statue’s forehead. Before his bare feet could reach the temple floor, a bullet dropped him.

“It was our lieutenant who fired the shot. If it was a misfire, or intentional, I couldn’t say. As the priest lay slumped beneath the statue, crimson froth bubbling from his chest, he leveled a finger at the lieutenant. Piercing him with a stare like a bayonet, the priest uttered his last words, ‘All who would possess the eye of Shiva must appease him with blood.’

“Perhaps you’d expect the priest’s words to have as chilling an effect as the shadow of death, but no, the lieutenant laughed like a man crazed. And then I saw him pry the diamond, wet with blood, from the dead priest’s hand. At that moment, I knew the shot was no misfire.

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“And here is perhaps the most astonishing part of my story: the lieutenant died that very night, stabbed through the heart in a drunken brawl with a Gurkha soldier in the camp canteen.

I witnessed the murder. After the Gurkha fled, I opened the lieutenant’s coat and removed the blood-soaked stone from his lifeless body. I confess I felt little shame in doing so, as I had no part in the unfortunate priest’s death. If I had not recovered the stone, other hands would have claimed it.

“And now, my good man, the cursed diamond is yours. That is, if you are brave enough, or reckless enough, to risk arousing the wrath of Shiva.” I flicked a cigarette butt over the side and waited for a response. Would he react in horror or outrage?

Jack guffawed and slapped his knee. “By Jove, that’s a cracking good story. Even if I believed a word of it, I don’t hold with fables.

It’s all the same to me if the stone is worth only a few quid. It will make a memento for my girl in Surrey.”

So he was determined to keep the diamond. My hopes of regaining the stone were dashed. I admit the story seemed like a fantasy. I lit another cigarette and surveyed the endless blue horizon beyond the railing. “Surrey, you say? My family has a country house in Surrey. I haven’t seen home in ten years. Black sheep, you see. I was an adventurer before I joined the army. The family name doesn’t sit well on a vagabond who’s a gambler to boot.”

Jack turned toward me, his expression solemn. “I’m sorry to hear it. If you like, I’m happy to deliver a message to your family.

I mean, surely they are anxious to learn how you fared in the war?”

I avoided his eyes. His words affected me deeply, in an unexpected way. I hadn’t known any real friends since my school days. My constant travels prevented lasting acquaintances, and I avoided forming attachments while in uniform—one couldn’t be certain who would live or die from day to day. To think that a few 311

kind words from a stranger would overwhelm me with gratitude . . . I stood and shook my head. “I appreciate your offer, Jack. But my family lost faith in me long ago. My father made it clear—I have no home there and no hope for it.” The sound of my father’s voice—decisive, without emotion—still burns in my memory. “So, I’ll say goodbye, and wish you safe travels.” I offered my hand in parting, and he took it. In the end, it would not be our final goodbye.

The Cliveden navigated through the Suez Canal and arrived in Egypt that evening. After the engines shuddered to a stop, I shouldered my duffel bag and left my cabin, lurching clumsily as the boat edged toward the dock. I had almost reached the gangway when a commanding voice barked behind me, “Make way! Make way there!” I leaned into the railing as two uniformed ship stewards jostled past me, straining to balance their shared load—a canvas stretcher, carrying what appeared to be a man’s body draped by a thin blanket. Only his black boots were visible, polished to a shine.

Then, as the stewards struggled to maneuver around a corner, a limp hand slid from beneath the blanket, revealing a silver wolf ’s head ring on the third finger. My bag dropped from my shoulder to the deck as I gaped in disbelief. The Turk.

Our card-playing companion. He seemed in perfect health when he left the saloon last night. What could have befallen him?

“Nigel!”

I turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Jack trudged toward me, his face haggard, a deep purple bruise above his brow.

“Jack, what’s happened?” His pallor alarmed me; he swayed to one side. I clutched his arm and guided him to a nearby bench at the ship’s prow. We sat with our backs to the gangway as the stretcher bearers disembarked with the body.

“That Turkish bloke . . . he must have waited and followed me to my cabin. He crept up behind me and bashed me against the cabin door. When I regained my senses, he was searching my 312

pockets. I kicked at his legs. He fell backward. I heard his skull crack. I’ll never forget that awful sound. A steward on duty in the passageway came running up. He saw everything.”

Jack exhaled a long breath. “The captain took my statement for the Maritime Board. He assured me there will be no charges.

The steward confirmed my account. And . . . I suppose it’s helpful that this is a British ship and the man was an Ottoman Turk.” His expression darkened.

“His head. There was so much blood. I served my wartime duty in the quartermaster’s office. I’ve . . . I’ve never killed a man.”

I gripped his shoulder. “Jack, the man might have killed you. You acted to save your life. There is no blame there.” The bruise on his forehead looked worse on close inspection.

“Have you seen the ship’s doctor?”

He didn’t answer, but said, “He was after the diamond. It was in his hand when he fell. Look—” He pulled the stone from his coat pocket. “Is that . . . is that blood?”

I told him I saw no blood on the gem.

“No, of course, that would be... I mean, I don’t believe in hocus-pocus and curses.” He passed a hand across his face. “I think I will see the doctor. My head is throbbing.” He smiled weakly. “So this is goodbye again. Good luck, Nigel.”

“Goodbye, Jack. Take care of yourself.”

I watched him shuffle away from me until the passengers milling on deck swallowed him in a sea of khaki and gray and blue. He said he didn’t believe in the Shiva curse. Months ago, I would have said the same. But now—after the lieutenant, and now the Turk—I shivered with foreboding. I hoped that all would be well with my young friend.

I stood and gazed out at the expanse of Port Said. Military and passenger vessels lined the docks, tethered like prisoners in chains. The shouts of dockworkers hovered in the cold night air—unfamiliar languages, babble to my ears. Another new 313

year in another foreign city. Another brief sojourn as a stranger among strangers. There was a time when the novelty intoxicated me. Now there was only tedium and loneliness. I needed to find a card game and a place to lay my head for the night. I hoisted my bag and made my way down the lighted gangway, into the darkness.

Let’s have another drink, mate, and I’ll proceed with my story ...

Some months later, at a train station in Istanbul, I came upon an old edition of The Times from London crumpled on the floor.

I might have kicked it aside, but the front page headline caught my eye: GENERAL REGINALD DYER REMOVED FROM COMMAND. About bloody time they sacked him, I thought. The Butcher of Amritsar, some called him. Dyer ordered his troops to fire without warning on a gathering of unarmed civilians.

Punishment for the unlawful assembly, he said. Hundreds were massacred. I was in Amritsar with my platoon that day. The day the lieutenant ripped the red diamond from the hand of a dead priest. Memories from that day still torment my sleep.

Now eager for more news of home, I seated myself in the station foyer and pried open the yellowed pages, determined to read every line. Imagine my surprise to see a familiar name in the society columns. Jack had evidently returned to England and reunited with his sweetheart. The newspaper announced the engagement of Mr. Jack Shelton and Miss Arabella Haverly of Surrey, daughter of Mr. George Haverly, deceased, and Mrs. Haverly. The announcement noted that the bride hoped to locate her brother, Alfred, traveling in locales unknown, to escort her at the wedding ceremony in place of their late father.

And what of the diamond, you ask? Ah, you presume there is more to tell, and you are right. Eventually, my travels brought me back to England, and I learned the fate of the stone.

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Jack commissioned a London jeweler to set the gem in a pendant necklace as a wedding gift for Arabella. The jeweler confirmed it was indeed an incomparable diamond.

Jack presented the pendant at a luncheon with Arabella and her mother, where he regaled them with the story of Shiva’s curse. Horrified by the stone’s origin, both women said they wished they had not heard of it. Arabella refused to wear the necklace, declaring that it should be locked away in a jewel box.

After protestations and chiding from Jack, she finally agreed to wear it on their honeymoon trip. It was a stunning piece, after all.

On the wedding day, the skies darkened, cracking with thunder and pelting rain. As the happy couple drove to London to begin their honeymoon, Jack’s roadster skidded off the slickened road and rolled into a ditch. Arabella’s neck was broken. She died instantly.

Jack must have ripped the necklace from her throat before dragging himself from the wreck. A passing police constable found him dead, lying in the mud, clutching the pendant. The constable delivered the pendant to Arabella’s mother, who packed it away with her daughter’s wedding dress.

Arabella’s miscreant brother returned from his travels too late to attend the wedding. He arrived to find the bridal couple dead and his mother bereft. Shortly thereafter, his mother collapsed with a sudden heart attack and died four days later. Was it the shock of her daughter’s death that killed her, or the sight of me— her worthless son—looming at her door after so many years?

Ah, I beg your pardon; I haven’t introduced myself properly.

My name is Nigel Haverly.

That is, Alfred Nigel Haverly. Arabella was my sister, you see.

She was a glorious girl, they tell me. I remember her as a child of twelve years, a beautiful moppet, sporty and lively. She made a game of flinging gumdrops at me to catch in my mouth, laughing the whole time. Happy memories, now sad remembrances.

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And Jack . . . Jack was a good man. I’m told he fell in love with Arabella at first sight, while they were at school together. He planned to follow his father into the banking business. To think that the card player I befriended on the Cliveden would marry my sister and perhaps become like a brother to me . . .

Arabella and Jack didn’t deserve their horrible deaths. And my poor mother, always my defender, who begged my father to reverse his judgment against me, to no avail. They were innocent of any crimes. The guilt is mine. I cursed them when I took the stone from the lieutenant’s coat. I killed them when I placed the stone on the poker table.

I only wished to gain the means to escape my aimless life and acquire a patch of earth to call home. My wish was granted in the cruelest and most unimaginable manner. The home I inherited is now a gloomy country house, rattled by ghosts and echoes. I see their faces and hear their voices when I close my eyes each night.

My days are consumed by a single thought while wandering lonely paths under windswept branches or seeking refuge in the pages of Father’s library: Why was I spared their fate?

As a pitiful penance, I booked passage on this ship to return the stone to its homeland, to its rightful place on the Shiva statue.

Perhaps I will bring peace to the caretakers of the temple when I restore the diamond to its home. Perhaps I will find peace in the task’s fulfillment. Or perhaps I must wait to find peace when I rest in my grave.

And so ends my sad tale.

You wish to see the diamond? Well, as you’ve been a good sport to listen to my ramblings, I’ll show it to you. I’m careful to keep it close to me, buttoned inside my vest. Here it is . . . Yes, it is a remarkable red color. When I first saw this stone, I saw riches.

Now, I see only death.

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Well, mate, the hour grows late. We dock in Bombay at dawn.

So, I’ll say good night. No, I don’t care for a game of cards, thanks.

I don’t play cards anymore. You understand, I’m sure.

And so, good night. ** Who’s that there? Oh, hello again, mate. You startled me. This is quite an old ship; the passageway is dim. My cabin door has jammed again. It’s the sea air, I suspect. I requested a quiet cabin, and as you see, I have the entire corridor to myself. I haven’t seen other passengers come this way. Is your own cabin nearby?

Is that . . . a pistol? Why . . . Wait! No! Ah! I can’t . . . get my breath . . . so much blood . . . Stop, stop, keep your hands off me. I’ll give you the diamond. Here . . . here it is. Take it.

Wait, wait, don’t go . . . You have the stone . . . Now, I beg of you, will you do something for me?

I don’t want to be buried in foreign soil. Put the pistol in my hands. Tell them you heard the shot and found me dying by my own hand. Tell them I said I want to go home. Do this for me, and you are free from suspicion.

Yes, that’s right, place the pistol in my hand. Good, good.

One thing more to tell you . . . All who would possess the eye of Shiva must appease him with . . .

Ah, yes! A quick trigger for such a small pistol. Not so bad to be shot, eh, mate? I did not aim to kill you. No, your wound is not grave. Just lie still . . . lie still. We will both survive this night.

I will take the diamond from you now.

I hear voices, footsteps . . . They must have heard the gunfire.

Our journey will be over soon. We’ll be in Bombay soon.

Yes, we’ll be in Bombay soon.

THE END

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About the Author A.K. McCutcheon is a Latina writer based in Southern California. Her short fiction has appeared in Elegant Literature, On The Premises, and other literary locales. She has received a Finalist placement and an Honorable Mention prize in WOW! Women On Writing Flash Fiction competitions. A.K. lives with her husband in a house stacked with too many books to read in one lifetime. Connect with her at www.akmccutcheon.com.

Suspense/Thriller Finalists Demons Within by Danae Vrachimi JuJu Justice: The Preacher's Son by T.E. Lane My Friend by Tapanga Wright

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Travel-Tie

My Brief Career as a Laundress

by Zelda Leah Gatuskin I spent six weeks in Israel during the summer between high school and college as part of a group of young adults studying Israeli dance. We spent two weeks at a hostel outside Jerusalem, two weeks on a kibbutz, and two weeks touring the country by bus. The kibbutz was the only place we stopped where we were expected to do any work apart from our daily dance instruction and practice, which never seemed like work at all. But everyone who visits any kibbutz is required to pitch in. That’s the system.

And while it’s been some time since these twinkle toes attempted a quick-stepping Debka, and I should probably consult my doctor before attempting the windmill spins of Haro’ah Haktana, I regularly apply the skills I acquired during my brief stint in the kibbutz laundry.

Our kibbutz was located at what was then the northern edge of the Negev Desert, a good example of how Israel’s “kibbutzniks” were making the desert bloom. The housing, community buildings, and lawns had a lush, suburban look about them. The central village was bordered by flourishing orchards and grazing lands for livestock. Only at the perimeters of the property did the desert reveal itself in a sandy, barren, sun-scorched terrain.

Visiting groups like ours were housed in old bunk buildings out there on the borderlands, and our first instruction was to always 319

wear shoes when we walked to the outhouse and showers, as snakes, scorpions, and tarantulas were the natural residents of these desert places.

This was a fairly rough and primitive setting for me and my similarly spoiled American companions. The Israelis referred to us as “marshmallows” -- so soft and white -- and I would say we deserved it. Many of our neighbors out there on the edge of paradise were German and Scandinavian tourists. They had come to the kibbutz for a cheap vacation in the sun. Once they scraped together enough for travel expenses, room and board would be provided free by the kibbutz in exchange for their labor in the orchards.

All visitors were put to work on the fruit harvest at that time of year, either out in the orchards picking pears and peaches, or over in the packing building crating the fruit. The outdoor work was much preferred. At first, we were split up among the orchards, but within a day or two, all of my group was assigned to picking pears, two or three of our “marshmallows” having complained that fresh peach fuzz was causing allergic reactions to their sensitive skin.

Once we got used to our regimen as field hands, picking pears proved to be a rather delightful way of earning our keep.

The weather was always fine and we enjoyed the company of each other and our international companions out in the sweetsmelling air.

Our schedule was dictated by the desert climate. Not much can be accomplished in 120-degree heat, and this was typically the temperature by mid-afternoon. The routine, therefore, was to set out for the orchards at 4:30 a.m. and work until half past noon. We were awakened at 4:00 and required to assemble before dawn at one of the kibbutz community buildings. Here we started the day with a styrofoam cup of that strong, sweet, milky coffee characteristic of Israeli hospitality and one tiny, doughy cookie.

Then, we piled into the back of a big farm truck for our bumpy 320

ride to the work site. The sky would be barely bright enough to show the fruit by the time we spilled out among the trees.

As we worked and the sun rose, we shed the long-sleeved overshirts we’d worn against the predawn chill and tied them around our waists. Meanwhile, the trucks made a second trip along the dirt paths, carting in the breakfast. We would be served between 9:00 and 9:30. There was a large temporary pavilion set up in the open field that bordered the orchards, with long benches and tables for seating a hundred workers. A whole crew of kibbutzniks was assigned to feed us.

Throughout my stay in Israel, I was generally disappointed by the food, the Israeli diet consisting of items I did not care for at the time -- plain yogurt, raw tomatoes, and cucumbers, gritty salads made from unfamiliar grains and beans, not to mention scary-looking meats -- but I cannot remember ever being dissatisfied with those breakfasts we ate out in the orchard in the rising heat of late morning. Hard work, fresh air, and high spirits made every one of these meals a minor banquet. We devoured everything, then returned to the fields for a couple more hours of work before being released to our own amusements.

At 12:30 we piled back into the farm trucks, which dropped us at the communal dining hall. There, we ate lunch before wandering back to our bunks to don our swimsuits. Early afternoons were spent at the big outdoor swimming pool, where those pale-skinned vacationing Europeans sweated over their tans, impervious or at least undeterred by the vicious biting flies whose swarms rose with the temperature as the day wore on. We American marshmallows typically retreated to our bunks after an hour or two. There, we’d strip down and take a siesta during late afternoons, which were so hot that lying motionless under a cool white sheet in a dark cabin was simply instinctual, and we’d have done it regardless of whether we needed to nap or not. We did need the naps, though, after those early mornings, in order 321

to enjoy the lively evening meal and the dancing and socializing that followed.

Now, it so happened that I’d developed a sore throat shortly before our tour broke camp in Jerusalem, and I was promised a doctor’s visit when we got to the kibbutz. I checked in at the infirmary soon after we arrived there; a throat culture was taken, cough drops issued. That seemed fair enough. Already fast on the road to recovery, I plunged into kibbutz life. More out of obligation than discomfort, I returned to the infirmary a week later to learn that the doctor only visited every other week. I would have to wait another week to see him and get the results of my test. The nurse gave me some more cough drops and, as an afterthought, decided that I shouldn’t work in the open air.

After a week of picking pears, I was reassigned to the peachpacking plant. This was not at all to my liking, as I was separated from my companions. Also, the subtleties of peach sorting, as explained in Hebrew, eluded me. Still, I managed to perform the tasks reasonably well. To the nurse’s credit, the work was less strenuous and the temperature more consistent in the warehouse than in the orchards, so after about three days of packing peaches, the persistent tickle in my throat was going away.

The doctor came. I appeared for my appointment, and he told me I had an infection -- that is, I’d had an infection at the time the culture was taken ten days before. I told him my throat no longer hurt, and he agreed that it didn’t look too bad and I didn’t seem too sick. I don’t think he gave me antibiotics -- I don’t recall taking any -- but he forbade me to work around any of the fruit at all.

And that is how, with just four days on the kibbutz remaining, I was given a morning shift in the laundry. This was more like regular kibbutz life. I didn’t have to get up before dawn, but I did have to get to the dining hall while there was still some breakfast left. There would be no morning break. The laundry staff worked through the morning, generally went to their own 322

homes for lunch, then returned to work. I was exempted from the afternoon shift and would meet up with my cohorts at lunch to rejoin our usual activities.

I was the only tourist at work in the laundry. There was one visiting Israeli, a woman a few years older than I, spending her summer off from college with her aunt on the kibbutz. I was very grateful for this warm and good-humored companion, Tzila. She spoke a smattering of English, more than the other older women of the laundry, and acted as my interpreter and guide.

For the most part my work was demonstrated to me with the guttural, kacha, kacha, “like so, like so.” How to fold the pants: Hold at cuffs and line up seams, “kacha, kacha,” shake, lay on table, smooth, “kacha, kacha,” lay pockets flat, fold once, “kacha,” twice, “kacha.” I loved folding; had never imagined the artfulness of it. There was a special sequence for each type of garment, which, when done properly on clothes still warm from the dryer, eliminated the need for ironing.

All of the laundry for all of the kibbutzniks was done right there, in two square buildings adjoined by a cement-paved breezeway and loading dock. It was quite an operation. One building was for the folding and sorting of the clean laundry, and the other housed the immense washers and dryers and all the incoming and in-progress apparel. The folding/sorting building was open and airy, with big windows to let in the golden sun.

It was “manned” by a small army of robust, cheerful and hardworking women. Some had more of an air of authority than others, but I could never quite tell who was in charge, and it never seemed to matter.

By contrast, the washer/dryer building was dark, hot, noisy and steamy. It was ruled over by a meaty, mangy, and always perspiring giant from Australia known as The Bear. He manhandled all of that wash in and out of the machines and considered himself the king of the entire roost. Periodically, he’d swagger over to throw his weight around among the folders and 323

sorters. He was a frightening presence, but as soon as he stalked out the laundresses always burst out laughing and went back to doing things their own way.

They could not take him seriously, Tzila explained to me. The problem was that impossible Down Under accent with which he spoke Hebrew. They couldn’t understand half of what he said, which would cause him to rage all the more. This is how he came to be called The Bear, with his rearing up and roaring, and of course, he was so very hairy....

Looking back, I have to believe those dear women really did understand his Hebrew, had learned to over time, but continued to pretend not to just to provoke him. If only my own Hebrew had been better I might have been privy to those secret jokes that resulted in fits of uncontrolled giggling in the folding room, and which Tzila could not or would not translate for me.

On my third day in the laundry, which was my second to last, we were discussing the movie that had been shown the night before in the community center. It was Woody Allen’s Play It Again, Sam, surely selected to appeal to us English-speakers.

While pockets of Americans were heard guffawing here and there among the crowd, our hosts and also our European friends had sat through it in stony silence. Apparently, the Hebrew subtitles had failed to capture the zany humor of an American spoof of a dead-serious American film classic. “We all thought it was stupid,” Tzila shared with me while the women around us tisked and chattered.

A sudden silence heralded the surly entrance of The Bear, who stopped just inside the big double doors and stood with his hairy arms akimbo, surveying his minions. “Yeeuow,” he said and pointed to me. Then he said something in Hebrew to one of the in-charge women, who nodded to me, and I knew to follow The Bear over to his steamy cave of washers and dryers. My fellow folders gasped and shook their heads. I’m sure they were thinking, Better her than me.

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The Bear must have thought I would understand his broad Aussie English better than the others understood his Hebrew.

Sadly, for both of us, I did not. I could tell it was a great disappointment to him. At least the job was not too complicated, and he was only mildly irate by the time he had showed it to me and rushed off on some errand.

My task was to take a load of polyester shirts and dresses out of the giant washing machine, shake each piece out and place it, “kyeehcheh,” on a hanger. The hangers were to be hung on rolling garment racks, and these racks rolled onto the loading dock, from which rows of clothesline stretched out across an open, sunny expanse. Here I would transfer the hangers from rack to clothesline, reeling them out into the sun where the garments would be air-dried in about twenty minutes.

It was a very big washing machine and it took me a long time to empty it. That was in the first place.

In the second place, the garment racks, when loaded up with wet clothing, were very heavy and steered very poorly.

In the third place, the loading dock was a space I was not at all familiar with or comfortable upon, it being raised about four feet above the sandy, unpaved back lot. Have I mentioned that at seventeen I was all of five feet tall and tipped the scales at slightly over a hundred pounds? In other words, about half the size of The Bear.

And so, in the last place -- oh, yes, I did it -- I tumbled an entire rack of freshly washed dress clothes right off the edge of the dock and into the dirt.

It was a horror. The fine desert sand first coated the wet garments then slowly turned to mud. I looked down in dread. All I could do was lower myself into the gritty, no doubt scorpioninfested abyss and start picking up the sodden clothes. My friends in the folding room had already finished their tasks and gone to lunch, so there was no one to witness the debacle, but also no one to help.

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Until The Bear returned. He took it all in with one anguished, inarticulate bellow and then, waving me back, leaped off the dock and heaved that steel rack -- with most of the hangers still hung with wet, muddy clothes still on it! -- up onto that platform, hurled himself after it, righted the rack, rolled it into his lair, and began flinging the clothes back into the washer from whence they came.

I picked up all the stray pieces and tossed them onto the dock.

For a wretched moment, I thought I would have to call out to The Bear to haul me back up to the platform, or wait in humiliation until someone rescued me. With relief, I located the concrete steps over by the breezeway and hustled back to my station. I picked up the last of the muddy garments still littering the dock, brought them inside, and, ducking beneath the flailing arms of The Bear, contritely tossed them into the washer. Together, we got the rest of the clothes off the hangers and into the machine.

Once it was running, The Bear turned his huge bulk toward me and berated me mightily in two languages. Three, if you count the accent.

I had already apologized loudly to his sweat-drenched back, so I just stood with my arms folded and an impassive expression until he had blustered himself out. I was then dismissed, and I found myself laughing all the way to the dining room. But there was no one left to laugh with me, and not much lunch left either.

I began to dread my return to work next day. Maybe it was me they’d be laughing at.

Thankfully, The Bear was nowhere to be seen on my last day at the laundry. And much to my surprise, an impromptu farewell party was thrown for me. I suppose I was like a rare bird who had flown into the sanctuary of the laundresses for an all too brief visit. A rather dumb bird but endearing in my own way, the more so for having caused The Bear so much anguish. Of course the story had gotten around, told with gusto by The Bear himself. My friends were anxious to hear if he had been terribly mean to me 326

and how I had taken it. I told them, through Tzila, that I wasn’t bothered by his insults, if that’s what they were, because I hadn’t understood a word he’d said.

We laughed and laughed and folded very little laundry, and Tzila and some of the others got moist-eyed when saying farewell.

These Israelis, I was learning, were as tender as they were hard. It meant a lot to have them like me.

All-in-all I think the sore throat, leading as it did to my adventure in the laundry, worked out pretty well. Having to go it alone without my American friends allowed me to get to know my hosts better, and taking a tongue-lashing from The Bear definitely elevated me above marshmallow status. And while I can’t say I still love to fold clothes, I am still very good at it.

About the Author Zelda Leah Gatuskin was born and raised in Wilmington, Delaware. After graduating from Emerson College in Boston with a degree in Visual Communication she moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she and her partner opened their creative arts business, Studio Z. 1991 saw publication of Zelda’s first book, The Time Dancer, and the beginning of an ongoing collaboration between Studio Z and Amador Publishers. Zelda took over the press from her mentors Harry Willson and Adela Amador in 2010. amadorbooks.com/authzg.htm

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Travel-Tie

The Wizard of East Jesus

by Laurie McAndish King “You have to look for me to find me.”

East Jesus is not an easy place to get to. It’s in southern California, off the southeast side of the Salton Sea—the opposite side from Palm Springs. The unpopulated side. Highway 111 takes you to the turnoff at Niland, which leads you over to Slab City, and then you’re almost there.

Slab City, also known as “The Last Free Place,” is a rent-free, plumbing-free, power-grid-free, trash-pickup-free jumble of ramshackle structures where a US military training facility once stood. The government dismantled its site back in the 1950s, removing pretty much everything but a raft of concrete slabs, which formed the basis of the current encampment. It’s a haven for the impoverished and indigent, for off-the-grid artists and the photographers who follow them.

A dusty, rutted road leads out the back of Slab City and curves around to the left, delivering visitors to a small parking area where a sign designates the “En-Trance” to East Jesus. And entrance you it will. At first, the place looks like a junkyard, with old cars and random pieces of detritus strewn about. But stroll through the sandy pathways of East Jesus and an odd kind of order emerges. The desert junkyard morphs, on its own schedule, into an outdoor art gallery—an art yard—as viewers take in 328

more and more of the elaborate detail, the clever assemblages, the creativity that has blossomed here.

I’d visited other art installations in the area—Noah Purifoy’s found art near Joshua Tree; the eerie, sand-swept installations at Bombay Beach; the 100+ gigantic rusted-steel dinosaurs at Galleta Meadows. But East Jesus excites my imagination the most.

Named because it’s so isolated, rather than for any religious reason, this “experimental, sustainable, habitable art installation” is technically a museum “interested in low-tech solutions, unresolved theories, non-linear advancement, and creative reuse.” The community also seeks to inspire people to see beyond what something is, and instead see what it can be.

I’m eager to check it out.

When I arrive in East Jesus the first time, at ten o’clock on a June morning, a hot breeze is already blowing. I am immediately overwhelmed by the view from the parking area: a rusty swing set with automobile seats hanging precariously from its bent crosspiece, a motorboat with an airplane propeller at the bow, a mannequin sporting robot arms, and a gas mask, harvested circuit boards, painted tractor tires, bowling balls.

A makeshift canopy near the entrance throws off a small shadow. Beneath it, a man with a big belly, a long white beard, and a curved, long-stemmed pipe sits on a chair in the shade.

From a distance, he looks so much like Santa Claus that for a moment I have the idea this is where Santa comes to warm his bones during the off-season, but then I realize that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe the desert heat is getting to me. This man is wearing a fluorescent orange East Jesus T-shirt that reflects upward to give his face an eerie, un-Santa-like glow. Also, he has a yin/yang tattoo the size of a quarter in the middle of his forehead.

I approach cautiously.

“Hi, I’m Laurie. Do you live here?

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“I do.” He nods.

“What’s your name?”

“They call me the Wizard.”

Not Santa, then. That clears things up. The Wizard invites me to sit down, and we chat for quite a while about Marvin the Martian Loony Tunes, the Wizard’s memories of his various churchwarden pipes (“each one is unique, and to be cherished”), and social evolution (“mutate or die”). He mentions his estranged son, but when I ask what his son thinks of this lifestyle, the Wizard clams up. For a minute, I think he might cry, but his eyes remain dry.

We are in the desert.

The Wizard has lived in East Jesus for more than a decade, almost since the inception of the community. “I’m an amateur sociologist,” he says. “I’ve watched East Jesus and Slab City grow and dance around, trying to form a community without rules.

There lies an inverse relationship between freedom and security.

The more you have of one, the less you have of the other.” Yes, I think. That’s part of why I came to the desert—to escape the security of my daily life, to taste the real freedom that comes with insecurity. But now that I see what life is like here, I’m not sure I’m up for more than a quick visit.

“Slab City was here first, then East Jesus came about, then Bombay Beach is most recent,” the Wizard continues. “It’s the most vibrant; it’s getting all the big money... Oh! Oh!” he interrupts himself excitedly with an idea that just can’t wait. “And my favorite, my very favorite, is the twelve-foot seesaw.” He points to a gigantic seesaw that until now had been overshadowed by the boat and the swing set and the masked mannequin. “I am the creator of one thing here. I held it all up with bowling pins, put some rebar in, and some glue in. I was at the top of my game there.” He laughs.

The East Jesus seesaw really is twelve feet tall. It consists of one very long board balanced on a neatly welded steel frame. Rusted 330

bicycle seats are attached at each end, and the handles seem to be made from old saw blades. The contraption looks impossible to ride, but the Wizard tells me it can be done, although it takes three people to maneuver two riders onto the seats. “It’s like the first time,” he says. “Remember when the seesaw was twice as tall as you were? It still is!”

The Wizard pauses, perhaps assessing my vibe. “Are you familiar with the term power vortex? Some people have a desire, a compulsion, a force—call it what it is!—to create art.”

“A lot of them seem to have ended up around here,” I observe.

“Is there much interaction between these artist communities— Bombay Beach and Slab City and East Jesus?”

“We know each other very well, but interaction, no. They’re a bunch of artists. They have these things called egos; there are different groups, camps.” Another part of the reason the residents didn’t talk to outsiders was that they didn’t want to invite company. “Unless it was someone you wanted to live real close with for a long time,” he continues. “No one talked about Slab City. No one talked about anything.”

I’m honored that the Wizard is talking to me now. He doesn’t seem to have anything else to do—nothing that’s pressing, anyway—but still, it’s nice that he’s sharing his time with me, telling me about the history of the area, introducing me to artyard highlights. This must be what all his days are like, talking with visitors who have come to take in the spectacle that is East Jesus. Some are doubtless Green Day fans, here to pay homage to the band’s 2009 anthem “East Jesus Nowhere.”

Some have come specifically to see the TV Wall. East Jesus’ best-known installation was constructed from more than one hundred scavenged televisions and computer monitors. Each screen displays a hand-painted message: Better Living through Sedentary Obedience. Insecurity We Trust. You Need More Stuff. You have the Wrong Opinion.

White People Yelling at Each Other. Turn Me On. Dear God, No. 331

The official description calls it “a castrated pile of technology,” and says the TV wall will remain a work in progress as long as there’s room to keep adding on, either horizontally or vertically.

“What do you do here all day?” I ask.

The Wizard pauses again. He pulls a hefty pinch of tobacco from the canister that hangs around his neck, fills his pipe, and tries several times to light it, but the breeze interferes. I stand up and move to his side to block the wind. The Wizard is focused on what he’s doing and doesn’t seem to notice. Eventually, the fire takes, and he drags on his pipe. Then he turns and looks at me.

“What are you doing over there?”

“I blocked the wind.” This doesn’t register with him. “So you could light your pipe.”

The Wizard looks from his pipe to me and back again, then rewards me with a broad grin. “Thank you!”

Finally, he replies to my question, “I write on the blackboard whenever the voices in my head tell me to. This is a place for the insane to go. I have the credentials. I have the pedigree.”

I wonder what the Wizard’s life has been like, what kind of childhood he had, what kind of challenges he’s faced. I thought of my own late brother, plagued for many years by schizophrenia— John would have loved it here in East Jesus. “We create a microcosm,” the website says, “where those who fall through the cracks of the modern world may thrive.”

“The crazies come here, the empaths,” the Wizard continues.

“Some who just plain want to get off the grid—they feel happier that way. There’s some trauma in their past; they’re running from something.”

“Is there a drug problem in East Jesus?” I ask tentatively, because earlier the Wizard had mentioned his use of meth.

“The only drug problem we have are meth heads. We don’t change. We get it under control. We survive. It takes one hell of a toll on the body, though. Yes and no, both. It is. Do good. Oh! Oh!” The Wizard interrupts himself again to tell me, excitedly, 332

“We’re hoarders! We never give anything away. Charlie Russell started the whole thing, named it East Jesus, made the T-shirt; he was a bit of a hermit. Charlie wanted to do a Burning Man 365, but you’ve got to pace yourself. It’s not for amateurs.”

The desert is not for amateurs—that’s for sure.

“How many people live here?”

“Right now, off-season, there are three of us here. We have solar panels, diesel backup, two refrigerators, a freezer, and three air-conditioned rooms. It’s too hot to support very many more people. Do you realize how much they drink? The bar bill! We’re artists, gulp, gulp!” The Wizard mimes drinking a long, slow draft.

“What about short-term guests—do you get many of them?”

I’m imagining what it would be like to live in East Jesus—the heat, the isolation, the meth. Blinding sunshine, monotony, sand in your pants, a visitor, a donation...bursts of creativity! More heat, more isolation, more meth....

“We’ve had three guests for a couple of days each in the last few months. It changes the balance. We have to exist here, so we have our own patterns. It’s nice to have a change, but we’re in this for the long run. We do it well. We don’t talk too much to each other.”

The art at East Jesus, more than 2,000 pieces, has all been donated over the past ten years. “Some pieces scream: Look at me!” the Wizard points out. “Others say: You have to look for me to find me. We have several acres of raw materials; we have a glass studio. A guy here named Pyro was really into glass. We have fuel and everything back there. We have a 110-volt welder; used it to repair the seesaw.”

“Do you need any more materials?”

“No, but we need artists to come and work here. Ones who want to suffer for their art.

We also accept money, alcohol—any really cool stuff.”

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“You have to look for me to find me.” The Wizard was talking about the art, but he might just as easily have been referring to other aspects of the desert: the East Jesus encampment itself, the freedom that comes with living off the grid, the beauty that grows from austerity—art from junk. He could have been talking about himself, a recovering addict who’s been able to find joy in creativity, despite adversities.

I visited the desert again the following year and drove over to East Jesus to say hello. My heart was light that morning; I was off to see the Wizard! The “En-Trance” sign was still there and so was the canopy, still casting a little square of shade over the Wizard’s chair. But a thin young man (dressed all in black—in the desert) sat in the Wizard’s place.

He was pale and friendly, and said the Wizard was no longer in East Jesus because he had gotten stuck in an ashram in India.

He’d just flown over for a quick trip, but then got caught up in Covid-related flight cancellations and possibly other bureaucratic issues, and was unable to leave the country.

“You have to look for me to find me.”

About the Author Laurie McAndish King has an eye for the quirky. Her subjects include 20-foot-long earthworms, an Ivy League astrophysicist’s explanation of how flying saucers are powered, and finding the perfect site for watching eagle sex. King’s award-winning essays and photography have appeared in Smithsonian magazine, the Washington Post, and other magazines and literary anthologies.

Awards include a Lowell Thomas Gold Award for Best Cultural Tourism Story. Her three books of travel essays—insightful, poignant, and often quite funny—are celebrated for the way they inspire and entertain readers. Connect at laurieking.com.

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Travel Finalists Crybaby in the Yucatán by Sophia Alexander Me Llamo Mariana Cañedo/My Name is Marianne Canedo

by Marianne C. Bohr Welcome the Wrong Turns: a true travel story by Mike Day San Pedro's Stars by Laurel Maxwell

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Wild Card

Sandpiper Feet

by Don Carter The warm light of dusk shone through the dragonfly’s filigreed wings, illuminating each tiny pane and casting rainbow shadows that Angel captured in her tiny palm. She followed the creature’s moves as it careened off invisible breezes in search of unseen midges. Its wings twitched robotically, sending it forward, backward, and sideways in neck-wrenching maneuvers above the boat’s deck. You are so strange and so beautiful, thought Angel. How can you be so lovely to some and so frightening to others? Angel’s Papa sat behind her with his weathered riding boots perched on the port side railing. He lit his pipe and released a stream of white smoke that chased the no-see-ums away. The dragonfly paused midair in confusion and then pivoted leeward in pursuit of prey downwind.

Angel turned her attention to the shoreline, where she noticed a man sitting at the water’s edge near a crimson convertible. She smiled and waved her arm in wide, arching circles above her head.

Angel’s Papa snapped at his daughter. “Angel, no! We keep to our own kind. Always remember, we are invisible outside of our people.”

Angel felt punctured by her father’s sharp tone. She curled her fists and stomped her foot in anger. “Papa, I am not like our people. I don’t want to be a gypsy!” She crossed her arms tightly 336

across her chest and said, “Why can’t we drive a big red car or live in a regular house?”

“My Angel, this is so much more than a regular house. This house can take us places where other houses cannot go. This house can take us where even a big red car cannot go.”

“But Papa, we live on the river. I want to live on the land like ordinary people.”

Angel’s father looked northward beyond the boat’s bow. The river appeared to narrow upstream, perspective squeezing its opposing shores together into a vanishing point on the horizon.

He knew it was a trick played on his eyes, but he felt he was sailing into a diminishing world just the same. “My Angel, some people suffer a life constrained to one place, but we are free like the river, free like the wind, free like the birds.”

“I know Papa, but I don’t fit in with the gypsies.” Angel furrowed her brow in distress. “I’m different, Papa.”

“Oh no, my sweet. A gypsy got to be what a gypsy got to be.

It is in our nature, just like a horse got to run, or a hyena got to laugh. It is a dangerous path when you turn away from your people. That is a choice not to be made lightly.”

“But Papa, I know this in my heart. There is no choice when your heart speaks so plainly to your head.”

“You should talk to Grandmama about this feeling. You are like her in so many ways.

You, too, have great abilities, and in time your powers may be as great as hers.” He paused in thought before continuing.

“Grandmama will tell you it is not good, all this talk of ordinary people. She is a bird, you know. Grandmama has lived among the seagulls.”

“Oh, Papa.” Angel pushed her father’s shoulder. “You’re being silly. Grandmama is a woman. She’s not a seagull.”

“Yes, she is a woman, too. But she has flown with the birds.

Ask her. She will tell you great stories about life in the clouds.”

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As Angel debated whether to argue further, her grandmother descended the spiral staircase from the houseboat’s roof. She settled into a chair on the deck and said, “My sweet Angel, come and sit on my lap.” The young girl did as she was told. “Now tell me, what is all this talk about being different? Why would you want such a fate?”

“Oh, Grandmama, I don’t want to live on the river. I want to live like other people. I want to be like that man on the shore.”

“Oh no, my little one. It is bad juju to talk this way. You don’t know what drives this man. Maybe he sits at the riverside because he longs to be a gypsy.”

Angel didn’t like the way the conversation was going and changed the subject. “Papa says you have lived with the birds.”

Grandmama closed her eyes and felt her attention drawn inward to where a lifetime of memories hung in the mist. Her fingertips twitched as she turned pages in the family bible she held in her mind’s eye. A breeze caught the tree branches tied to the boat’s hull and made a sound like rustling pages. Their people’s story wasn’t written down in the public records of the courthouse. Family histories were handwritten in that part of the bible set aside for such matters. In Louisiana, bibles like this were as legally binding a record as anything found in the dusty storerooms of the state capital. Histories that weren’t found in the family bible were kept in the memories of the elders.

“Grandmama?”

“Shh,” whispered Angel’s Papa. “Grandmama is drifting through the memories of our people to find the one you seek.

Give her time.”

Grandmama first felt the waters rising and falling beneath her.

As darkness gave way to light, she saw the seafoam surrounding her, stretched thin over the water’s surface like cobwebs in an attic. Floating nearby were her friends, Theodosia and Reynaldo, and their son Jonah. Watching over them all was the wise one, Eliana. They were laughing and cackling the way seagulls do.

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The sound wasn’t like the caw of the crows, who were sullen and moody, or like the screech of the hawks, who were all business.

The cackles of the seagulls rang like laughter, full of cheerfulness and joy to those who understood its meaning.

Grandmama had found the memory she was searching for and opened her eyes to the present world. “That was a long time ago, my Angel, but it is true nonetheless. I knew someone like you in that world, a little bird named Jonah.”

Angel smiled and snuggled deeper into her grandmother’s lap.

Grandmama slipped back into the private realm of memory.

She knew not to underestimate the mystical power of the history stored there. Vaporous visions competed for her attention, tugged at her like déjà vu, tempted her with the dangerous bait of nostalgia, pulled her relentlessly towards the emotional riptides of her youth and into the darker histories beyond. In this inner sanctum, a single recollection could lift you up or drag you down and she knew this memory had a current capable of pulling her under with its turbulent strength. Grandmama opened her eyes and let the story unfold.

“One day Jonah said to his father, ‘Why do I have these big, clumsy feet? I want feet like the sandpipers so I can run in the surf.’ “’That is a bad idea, Jonah,’ said Reynaldo. ‘You can’t paddle in the ocean currents with such bony feet.’ “’But if I had toes, I could run with the sandpipers, free and fast and happy on the beach. It is where I belong, father. It is where I have always belonged.’

“Theodosia paddled nearer. ‘But Jonah, you are a seagull, not a sandpiper. You need webbed feet to walk in the deep sand where we nest.’ “‘Oh mother, get with the times. Webbed feet are so...so amphibian.’

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“Eliana, her eyes cloudy with age but her mind clear with wisdom, looked at Jonah. ‘Why do you talk this way, little one?

You are a seagull. We are a proud race. For centuries we have weathered storms and comforted sailors at sea.’” “’I don’t care about any of that,’ snapped the youngster. ‘Ever since I was a chick, I knew I was meant to be with the sandpipers.’”

“Before Eliana could respond, a squadron of pelicans in the clouds overhead raised an alarm. They had spotted a shark and their warning sent panic through the clan. Beneath Eliana, a shadow appeared and she flapped her wings wildly as the beast’s gaping mouth opened and surged upwards. Her webbed feet caught the current and propelled her skyward a split second before the shark broke water and closed its jaws on empty air.

With a great crescendo, the birds rose in unison, circled over the waves, and searched the crowded sky for loved ones.”

“Oh, Grandmama!” gasped Angel. “Were you scared?”

“Yes, my Angel, but that shark went hungry because the birds looked out for one another that day. Later that night we gathered in the warm sand and listened to the elders tell stories of other sharks and other seagulls who weren’t as lucky as Eliana.

“Jonah wasn’t interested in the stories of the elders and he came to me on the outskirts of the flock. ‘You will help me,’ he demanded. ‘I know you are not one of us. I have seen you change from a bird into a human. You are a sorceress disguised as a bird and you will cast a spell and give me feet like the sandpipers.’”

Angel looked up in wonder. “What did you do, Grandmama?”

“I tried to talk sense to Jonah. I told him it was foolishness, but he wouldn’t listen to reason. He threatened to tell the others if I didn’t help him. It is very dangerous to expose a dreamwalker.

Things gone wrong in that world could keep me from returning to this world.

I did not want to risk losing all that is precious here, especially now that you are in my life.”

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Angel cuddled deeper into her grandmother’s lap and blinked away the tears that stung behind her eyes.

Grandmama closed her eyes on the present and felt herself surrendering to the irresistible pull of the past. Angel gave her grandmother a gentle nudge. “Are you okay, Grandmama?”

The old woman snapped to attention like a sleepy driver who suddenly felt the pavement switch to gravel. “Oh yes, yes. This was many years ago, but it is very powerful, this memory.” She steadied her breath and her heart and then returned to Jonah’s story. “I couldn’t sleep for worrying about what would happen if he revealed my secret. At midnight, I gave Jonah what he wanted.

He knew that I was not of his world and I had to protect my secret.

“The next morning, there was a great commotion among the seagulls. Reynaldo disapproved of his son’s change and cast him from the roost. Theodosia followed Jonah to the beach, where she witnessed starlings and magpies laughing and teasing him.

She saw the crows chasing Jonah and saying terrible, hateful things to him.” Grandmama looked into Angel’s eyes and said, “Nobody was surprised by this because everybody knows that crows are ****.”

Angel smiled. She liked it when Grandmama spoke to her like an adult.

“Later that day, I found Jonah running in the surf with the sandpipers. The waves chased him in, lapped over his tiny toes, and retreated into the foamy sea. I had never seen him so happy.

His calling could not be denied and despite the pain and the danger, Jonah did not regret his decision.

“That afternoon, Jonah grew lonely for the company of his clan and flew out to the ocean to join the other seagulls floating on the waves. Eliana said, ‘Have you had enough of being what you are not? A seagull cannot be a starling or a sandpiper any more than it can be a shark or a human.’

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“Jonah looked at me knowingly and then turned to Eliana and said, ‘You know so little of this world. I have the feet of a sandpiper because I’ve always known in my heart that I am a sandpiper.’

“At that moment, Reynaldo’s shout pierced the air and sent a thousand feathers ruffling in fear. The shark had returned and the flock rose from the sea as one. Jonah tried to paddle with his new feet, but the ocean waters ran through his toes. He flapped his wings furiously, but he could not lift off without the thrust of webbed feet.

“The shark spotted Jonah and turned towards the floundering bird. From above, Theodosia screeched, ‘Fly, Jonah, fly!’ The flock made suicidal dives at the shark’s head and shouted terrible things about the beast’s mother. They pecked and scratched at its monstrous back, but the beast raced toward Jonah, struggling in the surf.

“As Jonah’s screams rose above all other sounds, his father Reynaldo dropped from the clouds onto the shark’s back. He bit into its exposed fin again and again. The shark rolled over and pulled Reynaldo under the waves. Then the beast turned, opened its jaws, and lunged upward towards Jonah. When it broke water, Reynaldo was still holding on, his beak drawing blood from the shark’s fin. The splashing and thrashing seemed to go on for a full minute, but when the waters settled, we saw that Reynaldo had been thrown to safety, but Jonah was missing.”

Angel looked up into her grandmother’s face and noticed, for the first time, the weariness that this memory had wrought. Her grandmother’s eyes had grown dark and Angel sensed the remorse behind their opaque façade. “Oh, Grandmama, that is so sad.”

“All creatures are born into a clan, my sweet Angel. It is the reason a bird comes home to roost. It is why they say birds of a feather flock together. But it is also true that everyone is born with a unique coat of feathers that they must grow into it if they 342

are ever to be happy.” She paused to see if Angel understood. “It means that some creature’s destination lies outside their clan.”

Angel turned back to shore and spotted the crimson convertible driving up the grassy slope toward the levee’s peak. “I think Jonah was like that. He had to listen to his heart even if it meant he had to leave his clan.”

Grandmama followed Angel’s gaze over the port side railing.

“Some folks have to go where their voice tells them to go, but you should know that on that path, there lies great danger.”

She paused as the crimson convertible disappeared behind the levee’s peak. “Great danger...but also great reward.” She nodded shoreward. “You look at that man with the big car and you are envious, but maybe that man carries burdens beyond your ability to understand. Does he follow the call of a troubled soul, or is he only driven by a hungry stomach and a good woman at home?

We cannot know his heart. We only know that there is a voice that only he can hear.”

Angel looked at her grandmother and spoke in a voice that was partly an acknowledgment and partly a question. “Jonah was different and even though it was dangerous, he had to follow his heart.” She bowed her head and said, “But what a horrible way to die, to be eaten by a shark!”

Grandmama said, “Oh no, Angel. Jonah wasn’t eaten by the shark. Jonah’s friends and family distracted the beast and he escaped by a tail feather. The waves and seafoam concealed him from our sight and delivered him safely to the shore. Jonah lived because his flock was there for him when he needed their support. It is what families do.”

Angel sat up straight and threw her arms around her grandmother’s neck.

Grandmama smiled and patted Angel’s back. “That is how it happened, my little bird. The sandpipers gathered around Jonah on the beach and welcomed him to their flock with open wings.

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They thought Jonah was as brave as a bird could be, not for his adventure with the shark, but for the choice he had made.”

“Oh, Grandmama, I am so happy for Jonah, but also so sad that he had to part with his clan.”

“It was a difficult path that Jonah chose, but he did find happiness with the sandpipers, and he made a life with them for many, many years. One day, Jonah flew out to join his old clan swimming in the waves. Eliana had moved on to the next world, but Reynaldo, Theodosia, and all of Jonah’s old friends were there to greet him.” Grandmama smiled at the memory and said, “In no time at all, they were laughing and cackling the way seagulls do. It was a sound filled with great happiness for those who understood its meaning.”

About the Author Don Carter has been published in the Tulip Tree ReviewHumor issue, and the Tulip Tree Review-Wild Women issue. His stories have also been published in three issues of Stories That Need to be Told, one of which won the Humor Merit Award. He won second place and was published in Baby Boomers PlusStories Through the Ages 2020. His blog, WineSnark, The Wise-Ass Guide to Wine Appreciation, has won accolades and been shortlisted in numerous wine writing competitions. This is his first attempt at fiction. You can find more of his work at winesnark.com.

Wild Card Finalists Eighteen by Lucia Cascioli Mr. McFeely by Jeffrey Feingold The Time and Space Conundrum by A.K. McCutcheon The Way Out by Danielle de Valera

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List of Grand Prize-Winning Stories 1. Grooves and Blisters by Robert Wright 2. Three Cheers for Emilio! by Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt 3. Honeybee and the Sting of Love by Anne Freeman

List of Category-Winning Stories •

African American (Spare a Little Change by Kimberly E. Banks)

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Animals/Pets (Luce by John Paul Godges and Soul of a Griffin by Shilo Creed)

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BIPOC (Neighbours by Sanchana Venkatesh)

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Children’s/Juvenile (The Anywhere Home by Amy E. Whitman and Three Cheers for Emilio! by Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt)

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College/University Students (Julie by Eva Carignan)

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Fairy Tales/Fantasy (Stolen By The Sea by Travis A. Seabrook)

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Family/Parenting (A Doll of Hope by Vanessa Caraveo and Caller ID by Terri Friedlander)

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General Fiction (2,500 to 5,000 words) (Eleanor by Tom Ball and Heartland Terror by C.W. Lewandowski)

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General Fiction (Under 2,500 words) (Her hand in mine by Amelia Booth)

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General Non-Fiction (Grooves and Blisters by Robert Wright)

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High School Students (Rain by Clare Mullins)

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Historical (The Name by Judy Campbell)

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Horror/Scary Stories/Paranormal (Panspermian Dreams

by Cain Alexander Stepaniuk) 345

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Humor (A Tail of Two Dogs by Rocky Leplin and Galaxia and the Supreme Destroyers by Rakel Rae)

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Inspirational (Herding Pigs by Amber Swan and Home Away from Home by Success Aifuwa)

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LGBTQ+ (Sweetwater by Stephania Jean)

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Middle School Students (The Last Conversation by Aarav Trivedi)

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Mystery (The Riddle Inheritance by Michelle Corbier)

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Poetry (Antares: A Life At Sea by Gary Westphalen)

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Relationships (Cassandra by Gerard Marconi)

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Romance (Honeybee and the Sting of Love by Anne Freeman)

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Science Fiction (Invisible Ink by Liza Fables)

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Seniors (60 to 69 years) (Fishing for Atonement by Don Carter)

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Seniors (70 years and above) (Heartland Terror by C.W. Lewandowski and Welcome the Wrong Turns: a true travel story by Mike Day)

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Social Change/COVID 19 Pandemic (The Cure by Helen Jennings)

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Spiritual/Religious (A Doll of Hope by Vanessa Caraveo) (unpublished)

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Survival/Overcoming Adversity (Heartland Terror by C.W. Lewandowski and Smoke Screen by Faith Anderson)

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Suspense/Thriller (The Blood Stone of Shiva by A.K. McCutcheon)

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Travel (My Brief Career As a Laundress by Zelda Leah Gatuskin and The Wizard of East Jesus by Laurie McAndish King)

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Wild Card (Sandpiper Feet by Don Carter)

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“Emilio raced down the field, his eyes fixed on the black and white soccer ball.”

—Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt, Three Cheers for Emilio!

2nd Grand Prize Winner “The inky skyline stretched from the rooftop garden like yards of beaded silk.”

—Anne Freeman, Honeybee and the Sting of Love 3rd Grand Prize Winner “‘Let me tell you about the Alphabet of Predators,’ Ava said, her delicate flip-flopped feet smacking the decaying boardwalk below us.”

—Stephania Jean, Sweetwater, LGBTQ+ Winner “As I drifted into this vast darkness that engulfed my body, I knew that this was the end of me.”

—Travis A. Seabrook, Stolen By The Sea, Fairy Tales/Fantasy Winner

2025 NEXT GENERATION

“Intense light from the midday tropical sun burned straight down without mercy.”

—Robert Wright, Grooves and Blisters, Grand Prize Winner

SHORT STORY AWARDS

The Next Generation Short Story Awards brought exceptional writing from a plethora of writers around the globe. The competition was tough and the judges had difficult decisions to make. The winners have now been named and they are celebrated in this single volume of excellence.