2024 Next Generation Short Story Anthology of Winners

••• First Lines from a few Winners: “This land is made of bones—skulls, ribs, and scattered vertebrae.”

—Wolf Place by Nick Jans “An Air Force assignment to England had introduced me to her pubs, warm pints of good beer and an ancient game of skill – darts.”

—Jimmy Don’t Like to Lose by Robert Wright “Service animals perform so many more useful functions since Someone to Care® started manufacturing them.”

—Service Animals by Kiki Dove St. Hilaire “My name is Evie, and I guess you can say that I’m on my deathbed.”

—Hope for the Free by Niquita Utrera “A man walks through a train station with nothing but a guitar case and a folded-over knapp-felt hat clutched in his frail grip.”

—Phantom Pains by M. L. Bell

2024 NEXT GENERATION SHORT STORY AWARDS ANTHOLOGY OF WINNERS

The inaugural year of the Next Generation Short Story Awards brought excellence from around the globe. The judges had difficult decisions to make and the winners have now been named and brought together in this single volume of excellence.

2024 Next Generation

Short Story Awards Anthology of Winners

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

2024 Next Generation Short Story Awards Anthology of Winners copyright ©2024 Next Generation Short Story Awards Disclaimer: The publisher has chosen a selection of winning stories for the Anthology. In instances where swear words were included in a story, the publisher has revised these swear words to include symbols characterizing a swear word due to the fact that the Anthology is being offered to the general public including school-age students. The opinions expressed herein are not the opinions of the 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: 9781958914465 Library of Congress Number on file with the Library of Congress

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 Introduction....................................................................................... 5 GRAND PRIZE WINNERS 1. Wolf Place (Nick Jans)................................................................ 7 2. Jimmy Don’t Like to Lose (Robert Wright)........................... 15 3. Service Animals (Kiki Dove St. Hilaire)................................ 21 CATEGORY WINNERS 4. Baiting the Line (Wheston Chancellor Grove)..................... 31 5. Blues and Trouble (Mark ZY Tan).......................................... 45 6. Daddy’s Girl (Mary E. Schulz)................................................ 56 7. Exit, Atlantic City (Joseph Gosler)......................................... 70 8. Hope for the Free (Niquita Utrera)........................................ 81 9. Love Line (Lia Hagen).............................................................. 91 10. Mr. Bandersnatch (Liza Martini)............................................ 99 11. My Lie (Anka B. Troitsky)..................................................... 110 12. My Life Spared (Pete Cruz)................................................... 115 13. Out of Time Travel (YS Pascal)............................................. 121 14. Phantom Pains (Maggie Bell)................................................ 134 15. Smoke (Helen Delaney)......................................................... 140 16. The Believer Within You (Tyrone Burnett)......................... 145 17. The Boy and the Tree (Hank Leo)........................................ 161 18. The Moving Picture (Lucia Cascioli).................................... 168 19. The Vaccine (Douglas A Burton).......................................... 175 3

20. Trails West: The Oregon Trail Revisited (Richard B. Gartrell)............................................................... 184 21. Two Strikes Against (Matthew Apple)................................. 195 22. What Child is This (Julie Stielstra)....................................... 210

4

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 selfpublished authors and independent publishers) and Independent Book Publishing Professionals Group.

In its inaugural awards year, this program is designed to celebrate the best short story writing and the creative minds behind the words.

This Anthology of Winners includes the stories of the Grand Prize Winners and category Winners for the 2024 Next Generation Short Story Awards inaugural year. Congratulations to all Winners and Finalists! Happy reading.

For information visit www.ShortStoryAwards.com.

5

6

Animals/Pets

First Grand Prize

Wolf Place

by Nick Jans

1st Grand Prize Winner

This land is made of bones--skulls, ribs, and scattered vertebrae. After eighteen years of looking, they’re impossible to avoid. Here, by my boot, a handful of chalky twigs, feathers, and a claw; all that’s left of a fox-killed ptarmigan. Down the valley, scattered caribou skulls. And there, across the draw, what’s left of a moose--one of mine, a few years back. If I swung the spotting scope around, really tried, I’d find ten or fifteen kills, just from here. Move a mile, there’d be more.

The valley could be any one of ten thousand--rocky creek and tundra rising into gray shale hills, scrub willows, a few clumps of spruce. Beautiful in a harsh way, nothing special to a stranger.

It’s different for me, though. I know the real name, Amauqvik: Wolf Place. It was Amauqvik a thousand years before some halfassed geologist came through and filed it as Copter Creek. I’ve been here often enough to be on a first-name basis with a good number of the bones. They’re my responsibility.

There. A flicker of movement, a golden speck. I zoom the Zeiss up to thirty power, tweak the focus, and my guess takes solid form. Grizzly. No mistaking that rocking horse gait. He’s the first of the day--first in three days, for that matter. I’ve been up out of my bag and looking since first good light, working over 7

each bush, learning every boulder and shadow by name, waiting, not a sign of anything breathing, and suddenly he’s there-conjured up, transported by magic. It doesn’t matter that I’ve seen it happen hundreds of times. Adrenaline roars in my ears.

Impossible to tell at this range exactly how big, but much more than a cub. Seven feet, or a bit larger—no giant, but a mature boar. A female that size would probably have young unless a dominant male snatched and ate them. That happens more than you’d guess; in their nasty habits, they’re a lot like us. I watch as this one works steadily up the creek, wind in his face. The image grows larger and larger in the round world of the lens until he almost fills it, a thousand yards off. He’s blond with a dark hump, shaggy around the hindquarters, a little scarred around his head.

I dig out my notebook and study the entries. A newcomer, like I thought. I jot a few lines, tuck the book away, and prepare to stalk. This may be the one.

The wind is perfect, and, moving downhill, I’ll be able to see him most of the way in. I leave my gear behind, trot along the ridge until I pick up a good angle into the draw and cut down into the cover of the willows. I doubt he’ll see me, but I don’t leave it to chance. Gravity at my back, scrambling, I snatch at the brush. My breath is ragged by the time I reach the bottom of the hill. And there he is, head down, back to me, digging out a ground squirrel hole. Two hundred yards of open tundra between us; only a few hummocks for cover, but I know I have him. The only question is how close. Bent over, I hustle forward. When his head rises, I go down and freeze. I can hear him huffing now and the sound of claws tearing through roots and gravel. I flatten and crawl. It’s easier these days without a rifle to cradle. Fifty yards. Forty. He’s plowing out dirt, grunting--hunh, hunh!--as he digs. He must be able to smell the squirrel, warm and sweet as a slice of fresh pie.

Thinking of him let loose in a bake shop, rooting through layer cakes, face smeared with frosting and whipped cream, brings a smile despite the copper-penny taste in my mouth.

8

Fear? Not exactly. Fear--even a touch of bottomless panic-is there, but so is longing and a certain sardonic resignation-what an exhausted climber must feel as he nears a summit he’s attacked over and over, only to be turned back at the last.

HRRUNH! The bear swings around in one motion, rises, leans forward, staring. I know he hasn’t smelled me, or he’d be gone. Probably hasn’t seen me either; maybe the faintest crackle reached his ears, but more likely, he’s just felt my presence. Even man, with his deadened instincts, can feel watching eyes; think of a solitary animal, almost—hell, maybe just as intelligent, with senses honed to a hair trigger. The bear stands on his haunches, swinging his head as he snorts the air, talking to himself in low, suspicious woofs--ummnh, ummnhuuf! He sees my outline now but can’t identify it.

UMMMNH! He drops down on all fours, gathering himself, deciding whether to charge. Out of pure habit, I imagine where I’d aim, and for an instant, I can see him thrashing backward, bawling blood, a fist-sized hole punched through his lungs.

That image is enough to chase itself; the old sickness rises in my throat, and I choke it back. Come on, beautiful. Here I am.

I won’t run, won’t fight. Take me. I know I could draw a charge by fleeing, maybe even by moving suddenly, but that would be a simple triggered reflex, and it’s not what I want. He has to do it on his own, by choice.

The bear’s hackles come up, and his jaws chop with the sound of an axe clashing stone. His head lowers, and I wait, a new song rising through the thunder in my chest. I begin whispering to myself--yes, come on, yes, come on, come on--as he steps stiffly forward, eyes glittering.

This is the one, I know it. Yes. He stops ten paces away, huffing, peering fiercely, and I see old Mr. Hugo, the half-blind widower I tortured with kid pranks thirty years ago--soap on the windows, dog poo in the mail slot. Gott damn you little wretches, 9

Gott damn, and kids running, trailing jeers. Come on, Hugo, this is your big chance.

But he hesitates. I can see him consider, the steam of his breath pulsing. I’m still kneeling, facing him, close enough to smell him, breathing to match his breath, eyes fixed on his.

Don’t stop now, you son of a b**ch. You can’t! I blurt out loud.

My voice is absurd, out of place. The bear understands something else--my stance, my aura. He knows I’m not prey and not a threat, either. His head cocks. I push all my will into a ball and force it at him: take me. You have to. You would if you knew.

But the moment has passed, and the song in my ears is gone.

There’s only the hiss of wind through dead grass and the inner hiss of blood.

Slowly, deliberately, the bear turns away and walks off down the valley without a look back. He doesn’t stop for berries, and he doesn’t meander, searching for an interesting scent. Dignified, unhurried, but with clear purpose, he fades to a pinpoint and is gone as if he’d never been.

It’s been three seasons of that. The exact scene changes-closer or further, more or less, almost or not even close--but it always ends the same way, and the score stays the same: fortyseven to nothing. Forty-seven. That’s how many times I’ve pared a grizzly hide free of the carcass, inch by inch; skinned a head and boiled the skull out; split lips, ears, and nose; shaved each toe down to the claw; fleshed the hide clean, salted it, scraped then washed it, and stretched it on the rack to dry; and scrubbed the crusted blood and fat from under my nails.

But no amount of soap erases the grease stains on clothing, and the stench soaks into everything-boots, pack frame webbing, knife sheath, the hair on your arm. Breathe it inside your sleeping bag, catch it when you lift a fork to your mouth, unroll a pair of socks and it’s there six months later. It got so bad I finally threw most of my gear into a pile, doused it with a gallon of gas, and touched it off. That was after the Wagner hunt.

10

Wagner--the last in a long string. I lost count of clients ten years ago. When there’s a million of something, what’s the point?

Not like bears. Clients are all the same; each one wants a kill, and the guide is the pimp, paid to spread the land’s legs.

Wagner. The bull moose comes trotting stiff-legged right at us, hot on a young cow’s trail, blind with the rut. Wagner braces his magnum Mannlicher on his shooting stick and twitches his finger--crash of a shot, answering wump, a spray of hair and bone. Dark jugular blood gurgles at my knife, scalding my hands.

We hack off head and quarters and leave a gut pile steaming in the wind.

That night, I haul five-gallon buckets of blood in my sleep; in my dream, it’s part of some experiment. And then it’s Lady MacBeth’s voice that wakes me: Who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him? But there’s only the dark tent and Wagner’s snores.

And the stench.

Next, the caribou, standing head down and splay-legged, teetering, disemboweled by a bad shot, refusing to die. Wagner fumbles for shells in his pockets as I fire all three barrels of my Dreilling point-blank. The head explodes like a dropped melon, the base of one antler--a record book set--shatters. Wagner curses, shaking his fist at me. The taxidermist can fix it, I tell him.

The taxidermist can fix anything.

By now, I know I’m in serious trouble, and there’s still a bear tag to fill. I never bothered to count the dead caribou and moose, never had any mysticism for them--herd animals, grass eaters, long on instinct but short on brains as we understand them.

Switch around to long on brains, short on instinct and you’ve got man. But grizzlies are different. Watch them, hunt them, and you know they not only think, they can read your mind. Skin one, and there’s the torso of a superman inside, thighs big around as a weightlifter’s chest. The skinned paws look so much like a deity’s hands that man seems like an evolutionary dead end. From the 11

beginning, they pulled at me like magnets. Captain Ahab knew you can’t ignore gods. You either worship them, or you kill them.

But souls that size have to go somewhere, and the weight piles up like boulders in your chest.

Wagner, of course, doesn’t see things this way. He’s a banker, and it’s simple dollars and cents to him: thirty thousand in advance, and I owe him caribou, moose, and grizzly. He has a spot all picked out inside his house for a rug with a Hollywood snarl; he doesn’t know or care that there isn’t room inside me for another bear. And why should he--it has nothing to do with him personally. He just has the bad luck to be here now.

For a week, I take Wagner on snipe hunts, leading him up valleys where I’ve never seen a bear, or using the wind to push our scent ahead. But Wager is no fool and I can’t get away with enough. He threatens to go to the guide board, and I’m not quite bad enough yet to say screw yourself, to give him back his check, and fly him out. Fifteen years of habits have to be overcome, and there’s a matter of professional pride. Reputation is everything in guiding, and mine has always been up with the best. Forty-six, I tell myself. Why not forty-seven?

At the headwaters of the Amauqivk we find him: a chocolate brown male rooting around on a hillside; we’re looking up at him into a steady quartering breeze. We circle downwind a quarter mile and have a perfect stalk set up. Up a draw, then through a boulder field. Two hundred yards of crawling, and we’re in handshaking range, fifty yards. Wagner’s knuckles are white on his gun. Even he understands this is different, beyond the imagined danger. All right, you idiot. You wanted a grizzly, here it is. I keep inching us closer. He starts giving me nervous nudges, but I shake him off and slither forward another two yards. We can see the bear’s eyelashes and the wet shine of his nose.

Another yard. The bear, who’s been lazily poking around an old kill, suddenly stiffens. He snorts and whirls, charging 12

without warning or a bluff, six hundred pounds barreling in low and hard. Wagner squeals like a pig on an electric fence, jumps up, and bolts. The bear blows past me and is on him in two steps, and WHAM WHAM WHAM, the Dreilling erupts in my hands.

A moment of dead quiet, and then UMMOHHUH HUH HUH UMMOHHUH, the bloody pile of fur starts to writhe.

UMMUH HUH HUH, he’s crying, his paws held to his ruined face, cradling a shattered lower jaw. An eye is gone, the nose blasted away. MMMUH MHUH HUH, blood spurts from his neck as he sobs like a child, not from pain, but for the ruin of his being, the end of everything. He knows, just like a man, and he cries.

And there is Wagner on all fours, puking his guts out, whimpering with terror, drooling and pissing himself. I grab him one-handed by the scruff of his jacket and jerk him around to face the dying bear. Look, you son of a b**ch! Watch! I hiss through clenched jaws. ERRRUhhhh, the bear fights in a last breath, sighs, sags downward, and is gone.

I look down at the Dreilling in my hands, four thousand dollars of custom machined steel, scrollwork, and rosewood. I walk calmly over to a boulder, grab it by the barrel, and beat the stock to pieces. I toss what’s left away, stroll over to Wagner, and drop my knife. Here’s your bear, I tell him. Skin it. And I walk away down the mountain, down the valley howling with ghosts.

About the Author

Nick Jans is one of Alaska’s most prolific and recognized writers, with over 500 magazine credits and 14 books, including two national bestsellers. His most recent book, Romeo the Friendly Wolf, has been named a finalist for the 2024 Montaigne Medal and is a 2024 Ben Franklin medalist. While known for his non-fiction, Jans won the 1987 Hall Prize for Fiction at the 13

University of Washington and is glacially laboring on a literary novel set in bush Alaska. The manuscript for Wolf Place was lost 25 years ago and recently electronically recovered. See Nick’s work at www.nickjans.com.

Animals/Pets

1st GRAND PRIZE WINNER ($500) + WINNER ($75): • Wolf Place by Nick Jans

FINALISTS: • The Cemetery Cat by Elizabeth Karlhuber • The Fall by A.D. Vancise • They Are Not Underlings by Linda Riebel

14

General Non-Fiction

Secon Grandd Prize

Jimmy Don’t Like to Lose

by Robert Wright

2nd Grand Prize Winner An Air Force assignment to England had introduced me to her pubs, warm pints of good beer and an ancient game of skill – darts. Years of practice at home and in bars around the world had narrowed my collective error to where I wasn’t embarrassed to challenge others to a friendly game. I threw good darts now and then, but consistency, throw after throw, was an entirely different matter.

Decades later, my wife and I were in The Big Apple. It was one of those bucket list things, a visit to New York City. Of course, I brought my darts. We had a long day of being good tourists, visiting Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, followed by a Broadway show, then finishing off the evening with an excellent dinner at Sardi’s. We soaked up the ambiance of Times Square and retired late to our hotel room in Midtown.

I had done a computer search; there were many dart bars in Manhattan. I marked those within walking distance on my tourist map. My wife of many years cautioned, “Don’t stay out too late. Be careful.”

I headed out to the nearest dart bar. On the way, I was introduced to another aspect of the city that never sleeps. I was propositioned by a tall woman in a short skirt. My morals, 15

marriage, and naïveté held forth, “No thanks. I’m going out to play darts.”

“Your loss.” She rolled her eyes and swayed away.

The first bar was decked out as an Irish pub. The two dartboards were being used more for raucous entertainment than serious competition. A crowd of young patrons hogged the well-worn boards. It looked like it would be a while. So, I went to the next bar on my map.

This one was much different, a long, narrow establishment with an equally long bar, all in dark, rich wood, and a bartender wearing a vest over a long-sleeved white shirt and a black bow tie. At the far end, near a door to their restrooms, there was a very nice dart setup. Spotlights lit one brand new board. There was a big blackboard on one side for scoring. A couple of high tables with stools were behind the throwing area. The throwing distance was from a two-inch high edge of an elevated platform to the board, precisely the same distance I had first encountered back in England and everywhere else … there were standards.

This professional arrangement ensured that a player could throw from the very same distance each time, not closer, but farther away if a player so chose. Locking down the same distance eliminates one of the many variables affecting repeated accuracy.

There were pints of beer on a table and three players, two engaged in a game. They spoke with distinctive New York accents. I felt like I was in a bar scene from a New York movie where the Mob hung out. I just stood off to one side and watched their very good play. So, what to do? I went to the bar and bought my crutch: double Bacardi rum and coke with a wedge of lime – a Cuba Libre to liberate my darts. Being an inherently nervous sort, I had found that the rum part of that drink took the edge off and calmed my jitters. Like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, it was not too little, not too much, but just right. I sipped my way to that magic level and set my darts on the table. Being hospitable 16

New Yorkers, after a few more games, they noticed my waiting darts and asked if I would like to join them.

“Sure,” was my guarded, not-too-eager reply.

After cordial introductions, I took some warm-up throws and stepped into a magic realm that I had experienced only on rare occasions. I felt Bacardi wrap around me like a familiar soft, warm blanket. I was “in the groove.” Over the next hour, the games were close, but I had won everyone. There was no money involved, just friendly, earnest competition.

I was into my next match and felt the presence of another patron standing behind me, watching. My lubricated right arm, hand, fingers, and brain smoothly threw and released three excellent darts, scoring a Ton-40, the British vernacular for 140 – two in the triple twenty, one in the single twenty, it next to the separating wire. The arrival went to the blackboard, picked up a piece of white chalk from the tray, and quickly wrote “Jimmy.” My opponents saw me glance at his blackboard signature, indicating that he wanted to play the winner. That would turn out to be me. After he went through the restroom door, one in the group warned, “That’s Jimmy, the best player in Manhattan. He’s going to want a piece of your ass.” Maybe they hoped it would be so since I had won all the matches against them. Jimmy could knock me off my winning pedestal.

Led by the hand of fate, I had wandered into Jimmy’s haunt, his lair. But I had Bacardi on my side. Relieved of bladder pressure, Jimmy came out and introduced himself with a thick Bronx accent. That formality over, he took some warm-up throws.

Jimmy was very, very good. His steady throw and release were as smooth as silk. His warm-up darts all landed in the green and red areas of the bullseye every time! As such games go, with tradition and rules, we each throw one dart at the bullseye. The one with the closest dart to the center would throw first, giving 17

the advantage of being three darts closer to finishing the game.

As skill and a wee bit of English luck would have it, I hit the red center of the bullseye. Jimmy’s dart landed in the surrounding green. We bumped fists. I stepped to the line and began one of the best games I had played in a very long time and won. Thank you, Bacardi. From the table where the other players were sitting and watching, I overheard a whispered, “Jimmy don’t like to lose.”

With that, I wondered if I should back off a little, lest my wife find me floating in the East River.

With furrowed brows and lowered voice he merely said, “Good game.” His following words, perhaps intentional, paralleled that from an old black and white ‘60s movie with a pool theme: The Hustler. In a famous scene, Fast Eddie Felson (Paul Newman) had been trouncing Minnesota Fats (Jackie Gleason), winning games and taking his money in front of pool hall onlookers.

After many losses over many hours, Jackie Gleason goes to a sink in the corner, washes and dries his hands, and is helped on with the jacket of his fine three-piece suit. Instead of leaving, as smiling Paul Newman had apparently expected, Jackie Gleason smiles, looks at Paul rubs talcum powder on his hands and challenges, “Fast Eddie, let’s play some pool.” That bumped Fast Eddie off his game.

Jimmy pulled on the right short sleeve of his black t-shirt, stretching and loosening the fabric, apparently to lessen any interference with his right-handed dart throw. I noticed “Alidoro’s Deli” in white letters on the front; the image of a Mob movie scene again flashed across my mind. He looked up at the ceiling and interlaced the fingers of his hands, turned his palms out, took a deep breath, and extended his arms. The rippling sound of cracking knuckles pierced the air and set the stage. He looked me straight in the eye, up close, “You’re good ... I’m good. Let’s play some darts.”

Like had been done to Fast Eddie, my spell was broken. I thought to myself, “Hey, I was playing darts and good darts.”

18

Was he holding back, hustling me? Jimmy got into my head and stayed there for the next 13 games. I came close a few times, but there wasn’t enough Bacardi in me to shake off, “Let’s play some darts.”

At closing time, Jimmy thanked me for the games with selfassured bravado fueled by Italian testosterone. He walked out with his friends as I bade them all farewell, promising to return someday. One of them turned and looked back, “We’re here most nights – Jimmy, too.”

I made my way back to the hotel. At the same street corner, along the way, I was propositioned by the same woman. She looked even better this time; I think it was the Bacardi. This ended a memorable evening of darts, long legs in a short skirt in the Big Apple, topped off with a “Well, how did you do?” from my wife, who was still up, reading in bed.

“I had some very good games with some very good players; won some, lost some,” followed with a marriage-saving description of what I did not do despite the opportunity.

Jimmy didn’t like to lose; neither did I.

About the Author

From Portland, Oregon, Robert Wright served in the United States Air Force for twenty-six years; commanded units four times; retired in the rank colonel. He worked for over a decade on the Washington D.C. Beltway as an assistant vice president and manager of technology development. Throughout his long career, he wrote tomes of technical and management reports and documents, then returned to Portland and turned to writing books for others to enjoy from his experience as a world traveler: anthology of memoirs; non-fiction history; two fiction novels; presented at www.wrightstuffpress.com.

19

General Non-Fiction

2nd GRAND PRIZE WINNER ($300) + WINNER ($75): • Jimmy Don't Like to Lose by Robert Wright FINALISTS: • Blues and Trouble by Mark ZY Tan • MY LIE by Anka B. Troitsky • Two Rivers by Tracy L. Botting

20

Humor

Thir Grand d Prize

Service Animals

by Kiki Dove St. Hilaire 3rd Grand Prize Winner

Service animals perform so many more useful functions since Someone to Care® started manufacturing them. Sure, there have been cases of batteries failing at critical times, like in important meetings or while driving. And yes, a few have blown up, permanently injuring their owners. But I can’t imagine life without one.

One of the greatest things about their new line is how personalized they can be. They now come in two models—one for boys and one for girls—and you can choose from a wide range of neon colors. Sure, they’re expensive. But I need them.

As a child, I was diagnosed with Defectum Conformare disease, which, of course, worried my mother daily but had little effect on me until I reached the proper age for school. My disability quickly caused disruptions in the classroom—I laughed openly when no one else was, I refused to eat my pudding at lunch even though everyone agreed it was the best, and by junior high, I had even let a boy kiss me without blushing.

This final indiscretion launched my mother into a fit of humiliation and worry. So, she sought out help at the first place every worried mother goes when she thinks something might be wrong with her child—Someone to Care®. Their website offered 21

the privacy my mother needed to address this sensitive issue.

Since they had been hacked last year, the website had doubled its onsite security badges. Plus, they had a questionnaire that helped you figure out exactly why your child needed their product.

Soon, a neon pink bunny arrived via drone addressed to Katie Jones. I thought the pink clashed with my curly, red hair and would have preferred blue to match my eyes. And the surprised look my new friend always seemed to wear reminded me of my mother after she had her eyebrows done when she would look down and say, “What are you staring at?” But the glitter finish, flashing eyes, and robotic limbs quickly won me over, and I began carrying my new bunny tucked under my arm wherever I went.

I used to imagine talking machines when I was younger. You know, like on those Sci-Fi shows—the computers that sound just enough like humans to incite suspicion and prejudice. Like every parent’s nightmare, they were the creation that advanced beyond the creator and could no longer be controlled.

But smart people, the ones that advance technology, can’t create genuine life. Only stiff replicas. It takes someone fresh out of an ‘abstinence only’ class to make true life. The smart people hired by Someone to Care® did try their best, but after several attempts to communicate with their users using a speaker equipped with a sultry female voice only resulted in the servers being flooded with voice commands demanding the service animal describe in detail what abstinence class didn’t, they became convinced that the vast majority of humanity was too stupid, or to horny, to comprehend speech. So, now the machines simply beep or whistle at you, much like that strange woman next door who makes kissing noises at her dog every morning while he’s trying to do his business.

However, despite the creator’s reservations, you can still get a service animal that has a display on its belly that will also give you a few simple word prompts (with no option for responses, 22

obviously). But you have to sign a 10-year payment plan to be able to afford that model. I did, and I regret nothing.

At first, I found my bunny’s beeping, vibrating and flashing distracting. It was hard to focus when she would go off every few minutes, and the constant flashing and dinging gave me a headache. But Someone to Care® made pills for that, and soon I felt as if something was missing if I didn’t hear the bunny every few moments, and would check over and over again to make sure she was still there. Her main purpose was to help me navigate and make sense of the overly complex world around me. She prompted me to be myself and instructed me on who ‘myself ’ ought to be by beeping at me when I was behaving in a way that might seem odd or offensive to others and correcting me when my tastes or opinions ran contrary to popular opinion.

Thanks to her guidance and constant disapproval, I was able to overcome my disability and develop a sense of normalcy that led to a proper, bunny-approved job. I even got my own office on a floor full of other executives who also owed their success to the bunnies and puppies that never left their side. Even the CEO, who ran a weekly conference, was never seen without his Someone to Care® puppy and often stopped in the middle of a PowerPoint to pet it and check its tummy. It was annoying – but who could really blame him? You can’t be successful without your service animal. People without service animals become slaves to their disabilities and end up on the street or living out some delusional fantasy in the woods. No, thank you.

For those of us who accept our need for Someone to Care® products, life progresses smoothly and predictably. You always know the proper things to complain about, the correct amount of time to wait before excusing yourself from a conversation, and the perfect amount of time to discuss family versus travel. The most stressful parts of one’s day are the inevitable server issues, when a puppy or bunny takes longer than usual to download a prompt or come up with an error message. Then, one is left to 23

sweat and mumble and, hopefully, find a way to buy time while the animal restarts.

I remember one day, Betty from sales came up to talk with her VP. Her bunny crashed halfway through their meeting, and as I heard it, she spent 20 minutes discussing her new baby before her bunny restarted and finally alerted her to stop talking! That poor VP. But that’s nothing compared to what I did. The whole thing started with a stupid mistake. I woke up late, and then my bunny refused to sign off on my hair three times. The first time because it looked like I had put too much effort into it, the second time not enough, and the third because the style looked like I had tried to copy one worn at the Oscars but failed. At least, I assume that was the problem. Since the bunny only gets 55 characters to set you straight, the scrolling criticism can be a bit vague. Like this morning I got the messages, “wtf,” then, “did ur mirror dump u?” and finally just, “do better.”

Completely flustered, I stirred my bathroom drawers, searching for decorative clips, bobby pins that hadn’t been bent from overuse, and that fabric flower that looked cute pinned to a side pony. But amidst the rattle of metal hair décor against painted pressboard came the unmistakable ‘squirt’ of the hair oil I forgot I had as it coated my fingers in the slimy fluid. Three attempts to rinse the sweet-smelling lubricant off in hot water failed, even with such vigorous towel-rubbing that my hands burned red. I would have to try some soap and sugar in the kitchen before I was late to work on top of having unacceptable hair.

I picked up my bunny so I wouldn’t forget her, but her smooth, glitter-infused plastic body slipped right through my hands, and she promptly dove nose-first into the toilet. I let out a short scream as my hands splashed around in the porcelain pool after her until, finally, I corralled her against the side of the bowl and lifted her to the safety of the countertop. I immediately 24

checked the clock on her head to see how long I had to resuscitate her before I was really late when I realized nothing was working, and I now had no way to tell time either.

So, wrapping her in a towel, I sprinted for the kitchen, where I rubbed her down with paper towels then pressed both her front paws simultaneously for 15 seconds. Nothing. I ran back to the bathroom to untangle the hairdryer, and once it was free of the knot of beauty cords, I rushed it back to the bunny and blasted her glistening body with maximum heat. I managed to melt the tip of one of her ears, but after another 15 seconds, she still wouldn’t start.

My carpool van honked its arrival outside my door. I had no choice but to take a mixing bowl from the drying rack where I kept all my dishes, fill it with the remains of four different bags of rice - two brown, one jasmine, and one wild – and bury my bunny in it for the day. Grabbing my purse and keys on the way, I managed to slip on two matching shoes as I hopped out the door to greet my waiting co-workers.

The ride to work was quiet. I felt a little awkward sitting all alone while my colleagues pet their puppies and bunnies, and the animals beeped and chortled in affirmation. Once or twice, a woman in a pinstripe dress suit, with her brown hair styled into perfectly undone curls that swirled seductively around her chest, eyed me suspiciously from behind her rimless glasses.

I understood why she did. Only a weirdo would go to work without their service animal.

My mind wandered back to my poor bunny, buried in mixed rice, unable to start up. I just had to make it one day, and then I could go home and either fix her or call the insurance company and have a replacement sent out express. Eight hours and everything would be okay again.

But it was to be a long eight hours. It started out fine. I swiped my badge at the door, waved good morning to Jason, our cute security guard, and pressed 13 on the elevator like always. But as 25

soon as the elevator doors opened I could tell that today was a bad day to be without a service animal. Across the cubicle-cluttered room, in the biggest office overlooking the harbor, stood “Call me Rick” Devno, our alarmingly high-spirited CFO. Movie-star teeth, perfectly gelled hair, and money were his obsessions. And as he already had all three, he made company profits his priority.

Not because the company was struggling but because it was business. As he often lectured, “Business is not product. Business is when a handshake and a smile convince a wallet to go to bed with them. Product is simply the love child.” Then he’d flash you that Tom Cruise smile before turning to give the same lecture to another of his adoring fans.

“Call me Rick” only visited us once a quarter. And even if you missed seeing him, you could always tell he was around by the sweat that accumulated on Bob Furlong, the Marketing Manager’s, forehead and the way Bob paced around his big office clutching his beeping puppy.

This is because “Seriously, just call me Rick” delighted in “ferreting out waste.”

Or, as Bob called it, “Stealing from the company to feed the balance sheet.” Regardless of which viewpoint you took, it was a good day to prove you provided an essential service to the company so that your job title didn’t get either “ferreted out” or “stolen.”

I tried to duck behind the wall of cubicles between the elevator and the office so that I could hide behind a monitor until the end of the day, but it was too late. Bob waved at me through the glass and, stepping into the hall, called me into the office. I tried to smile confidently as I made my way through the gray maze, but each step took me closer to some inevitable and unknown fate. I already knew my hair looked dreadful, my hands probably still smelled of sandalwood and vanilla, and I hadn’t gotten approval for this outfit before I had to leave. How would I know if I was embarrassing myself without my bunny to 26

tell me? I unconsciously rubbed my hands together, but the oil made them slick, so instead of comforting me it just reminded me what a walking natural disaster I was.

“Come in, Katie,” Bob greeted me with a nervous smile. He shook my hand, which he had never done before, and I wiped the dampness from his hand onto my skirt while he shut the door behind me. He blushed as his puppy whistled disapproval but fumbled on. “You know Mr. Devno, of course.”

“Please, call me Rick.” He smiled and offered me a hand that wasn’t so much a hand as it was a temple for the massive ring on his last finger. Perched silently on his other arm was a carbonfiber falcon with gold-rimmed eyes and solid gold talons that clutched his Armani suit.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Rick.”

“No, no,” he chuckled, “Just Rick. Please. Sit.” Both Bob and I took a seat in the chairs placed in front of the desk for subordinates while “Just Rick” ambled behind the desk and set his Someone to Care® falcon on Bob’s office chair. “I called you in to ask you some questions about your position here.”

I clutched my hands in my lap. I had heard this was how he started. First, he quizzed you on company knowledge, then on your work habits, and then finally, he would go over your record and determine whether your position was a waste of company resources. Most employees got coaching from their service animals—when to smile, the answers to technical questions, prompts when to say yes or no. Jane, the short blonde who always brought cookies on Monday, said that the only reason she didn’t get the ax is because she had updated her bunny the night before.

Mike, who liked to use one finger to slide his glasses up his nose and leaned in too close to the monitor, did get “ferreted out” last quarter because he couldn’t see the prompts properly with the puppy in his lap. And now here I was with my bunny done in by a toilet.

27

“Let’s start at the beginning; how would you describe your job here?”

My tongue tried to run away down my throat, but I coughed lightly and forced it to speak. “I, uh, I’m a graphic artist. I design the packaging for three of our major beauty lines: U Do U® hair products, Face of an Angel® cosmetics, and the new It’s All Me® bathroom selfie kits.”

“Call me Rick,” he said, chuckling disdainfully, “Those sound ridiculous. How on earth do you design a package for a product called U do U?” I instinctively looked down for a prompt, but, of course, nothing was there. My brain rushed through 1,000 ridiculous answers, from lame jokes about designing them at a sleepover to just agreeing with him that the whole project was a ridiculous and pointless endeavor. As he stared down at me, impatiently twirling the ring on his pinkie finger, I realized I had to answer something. As I had no service animal to tell me the correct answer, I would just have to tell the truth. “I don’t find it ridiculous at all, sir. I think every project is a beautiful challenge.

We are marketing these products to young people just figuring out who they are and how they want to present themselves to the world. These products provide a way to share and explore those discoveries. I just try to design images that reflect who our customers want to become and show how our products can be a part of that journey. Mr. Rick. Sir.” I knew immediately I had said the wrong thing. He stopped twirling his ring for a moment and stared at me. How could I have disagreed with him? And I rambled on and on. I should have just said, “Yes, Mr. Rick, they are ridiculous,” and he would have laughed, and I would still have a job. If I had my bunny here, I wouldn’t have made such an idiotic mistake. But, instead, he said nothing for a moment, then coldly moved on to more technical questions, mostly about the cost, probably calculating in his head how much he was going to save by firing me.

28

Eventually, I was free to go. He flashed me one last smile and shook my hand before allowing me to return to my desk. I looked around my office, wondering how long it would be before I could find another position. I only had seven hours left before the end of the day and the inevitable visit from Bob telling me that “Mr. Rick has decided we no longer require your position.”

Several co-workers visited my office to ask how it went. When I told them I had broken my bunny this morning, I received hugs of sympathy and condolences. As they left, they clutched their animals all the tighter, knowing that they would probably be called into the office over the harbor as well and didn’t want to repeat my mistake.

Hour after hour went by. “Call me Rick” left in the afternoon, and by 4 pm, Bob was calling people into the big office. Cubicles were packed, puppies and bunnies beeped and whistled with displeasure, and three of my friends disappeared. Eventually, at a quarter to five, my turn came. I lingered at the door of my office a moment before weaving my way back to Bob’s desk and, with a deep sigh, took a seat.

“I’ve called you in here to talk about your talk with Mr. Devno,” Bob began seriously, his elbows resting on the desk so he could lean in closer to me.

“Yes. I know.”

“He was very impressed with you.”

“What?”

“Yes. He said that while he doesn’t care much for product or design himself, he can tell that your approach will ‘sell whatever ridiculous nonsense the executives want to invest in.’ So, he wanted me to make sure you were happy here and to tell you to ‘keep selling junk to girls who want boyfriends.’

I bounced out of my chair with relief and excitement. “Thank you so much, Bob!” “It was all you. By the way, I heard you broke your bunny this morning.”

29

“Yes—I dropped it in the toilet while I was doing my hair.”

“Well, you’ll have it fixed before tomorrow?”

“Of course!”

“Good. See you at 9:00 am.”

I almost danced out of his office and into the elevator. What a horrifying, fantastic day. First thing to do when I get home is call the insurance company and have a replacement bunny shipped out. I never want to have to face a meeting like that without my bunny again. Next, I can call some friends and celebrate. That’s the proper thing to do, yes? I’ll have to check with my new bunny when it arrives.

About the Author

Kiki St. Hilaire is a member of a flock of large parrots who occasionally give her time to write stories because they are told that humans enjoy that kind of thing. They don’t understand why she would make so much fuss over words on a page when it’s much more fun to shred the paper—but as it seems to keep her happy and out of trouble, they’ve decided to permit it. Just so long as it doesn’t interfere with her main job of delivering nuts and giving head massages.

Humor

3rd GRAND PRIZE WINNER ($200) + WINNER ($75): • Service Animals by Kiki Dove St. Hilaire FINALISTS: • Dressed for Success by Naomi Atwood • Flying Dog Support Meets Abraham Lincoln by Brian Price • Frigg and Bush's Caveman Adventure by Norm Cowie • The Tumultuous Tire Revolution by Rocky Leplin

30

Relationships

Baiting the Line

by Wheston Chancellor Grove It was a Thursday afternoon late in August when I went out to the garage in search of my childhood fishing pole and tackle box. I found them cobwebbed and rusted in the front corner beside the automatic door-lift. Leery of a nasty eight-legger seeing lunch in my soft white hands, I quickly grabbed the handle on the tackle box and shook it. Sure enough, on the bottom, there dangled a nasty brute. I set the box down, got the broom, and swept the encasement free from debris. The enemy scurried off, packing into one of the many recesses of the bin-stacked wall. I lingered for a moment, feeling the close and quiet stillness of the garage— it was warm and safe here. My usual tiredness was fugitive as a rejuvenating surge of energy came over me. It wouldn’t last.

While loading my truck, I called to Thad, who was sitting on the front steps stroking Liam’s peltlike belly.

“Thad, you all ready? Where’s Gabe?”

“Inside. Grandma’s fixing her hair.” He grasped Liam under the arms, hoisting him to his lap.

A loud yowl sounded. Thad immediately let him go.

“Don’t worry, he won’t scratch ya. Try holding him upright.”

31

Gabe appeared in the doorway, her dark brown wavy hair pulled back in a tight braid so’s not to get in the way. “Uncle Hayward, can we take Stogie with us, please!?”

“I don’t know if they’ll let him on the boat. They’ve got so many damn rules nowadays.”

“Please, Uncle Hayward!” Thad answered his sister’s plea.

“If they say ‘no,’ he’ll have to stay in the truck. I don’t think he’ll be too happy about that.” I took the front steps two at a time.

“Mama? We’ll be back later this evening.”

Thad climbed in the passenger’s side and sat next to me. Gabe followed suit. Stogie was relegated to the bed, his leash pulled through the window and held by Gabe just in case he got the notion to jump ship.

“How long a drive is it?” Gabe was eager to get there, even though she didn’t know where there was.

“Maybe thirty minutes, if even.” Not one for asserting safety procedures on myself, I instinctively made sure the children buckled their belts.

The ride shortly grew awkward and silent. I didn’t know what to say to them. Children and I never have gotten along. It’s not that we don’t like each other, it’s just—I’m indifferent to most youthful exuberance.

“You like Simon and Garfunkel?” I asked, trying to circumvent the exchange of idle conversation. Gabe and Thad showed the wherewithal to simply shake their heads in a nodded shrug and let what would ensue.

“This is a favorite.” I scrolled to number four, The Dangling Conversation.

Gabe fell to looking out the window at the pleasant scenery, a respite from the congested city she called home. Thad stared straight ahead, barely able to see above the dash. I just watched the lined pavement.

At long last, the sign. Saratoga Springs .45 miles ahead. I turned right onto a winding road; many a tree had prematurely 32

begun to shed its leaves. Stogie stood with his front paws on the bed’s lip, his head in the air like a Brigadier at salute, taking in the gamey scents. Gabe smiled into the side-view mirror as his red ears flapped in the breeze. He was solid copper, part lab and dachshund, long and cylindrical like a cigar.

I veered off to the left in the direction of Murdoch Lake before coming to a stop by an old boat house.

Lifting Stogie out of the bed, I told Gabe to take his leash.

I asked Thad to carry my tackle box and rod; he didn’t seem to mind. We ambled over to the cut-out square, serving as a window for the rental office. I told the attendant we were there to do some fishing and wanted to take a boat out for the evening.

We had a choice: manual or motor.

“Thad and I will row Uncle Hayward. Let us get a rowboat!”

I was feeling my usual bout of tiredness coming on again and began to doubt my endurance.

“Um, we’ll take the motor. Sorry, guys, I’m not up to rigorous activity today and the paddles would just be too much for you to handle. Maybe next time.”

The man requested eight dollars. Reaching for my right hip pocket, I explained I needed a couple of poles—for the children.

He laid a blue and lime green rod on the counter. Each handle with the reel was in the shape of a duck. The rods were only three feet in length. Withdrawing into the musky quarters of his idle employment, a light suddenly appeared succeeded by the sound of a door closing, very much like a refrigerator. Once again, his personage became indiscernible.

“And here’s your bait. I almost forgot it’s included with the poles.” The man returned, setting a styrofoam container on the sill.

“Worms. Cool, we get to use worms, Thad!” If Gabe was this excited about slimy, manure-fiends,

33

I couldn’t imagine how she’d react if we actually caught something.

“Can I also get some power bait and salmon eggs to go along with it?”

“They’ll be extra.”

I nodded in approval.

“But Uncle Hayward, we already have the nightcrawlers!”

“Never you mind. They’re for you and Thad.” I glanced at him and saw a flash of horror on his face.

“Let me just get the kids’ life-jackets and I’ll fix you up with a motor.”

Once out of the dank hovel of an office, old age shone definitively on the man’s brow. He noticed Stogie for the first time. “Are you planning on taking him along? I’m sorry, but we don’t allow animals on the boats.”

“Tell you what,” I signaled him with my eyes to consider the children, “I’ll take full responsibility.”

“Well,” he pondered, looking over his shoulder as though conversing with his own conscience, “Don’t come blaming me if he jumps overboard, swims ashore, and runs off to Kalamazoo.” His tone was half-joshing but clearly indicated bases were covered concerning his liability.

“You can carry the worms, Gabe, I’ll get the poles,” I told her.

We followed the shipman down a small incline to the wooden dock. Stogie stopped to relieve himself a few times. “You can use that one over there,” the crooked man pointed before making his way back up the hill. “Have a good time,” he called over his shoulder with an expression that could only be a smile of reminiscence or mild irritation.

“You and Thad get your vests on.”

“Do we have to, Uncle Hayward?” Gabe complained. “We both can swim!”

34

“Tell you what put them on ‘til we get outta sight of the office then I’ll let you take um’ off.”

Once everything and everyone was in the boat, half-stooped, I gave the pull cord a forceful jerk.

The engine coughed and wheezed before evening out. Stogie’s lethal claws scratched and clicked the metal floor in fright.

To the left, a stout wooden bridge rose out of the water, leading the way for hikers and dogwalkers alike to the park’s many trails. On the right-hand side the mouth of Murdoch Lake opened into its full expansion, a mile or so in length. Various inlets branched off, cutting deep within the surrounding banks of Dogwood and Cypress. Down a ways, a lone fisherman could be seen eddying; I decided to take us upstream in the vicinity of the old brick artillery fortress once occupied by U.S. soldiers. The lake had long ago flooded the makeshift magazine submerging the entire first floor.

Thad was in the bow on his knees, each tiny hand on either side of the V. He’d taken off his train conductor’s cap and held it down with his knee. His short, dirty blond hair whipped backward as the fresh air broke across his forehead. The sun was to our backs as we headed out along the main inlet. I could tell by his staid behavior Thad was in awe and enjoying himself. Gabe sat in the middle of the boat with one leg on either side of the slab seat. Stogie was pulling to get closer to Thad and as far away from the engine as possible.

We drifted for a moment beside the dilapidated fort. The wake of recently disturbed waters swayed the boat mildly. A hollow, liquified bass sound from beneath the surface knocked its metal girth in response to the lapping, undetectable shock waves.

“Over there, Uncle Hayward, let’s go over there!” Gabe gesticulated toward a smaller inlet branching off to the right.

I turned the rudder control and followed her point away from the stone edifice. Thad whipped round and scanned the waters 35

behind me, studying the trough and black-square cutouts of the fort. There was a blankness about the dark windows which I cannot forget, something incredibly lonely and desolate in its vacancy.

Easing into the inlet, I shut the motor off. “All right.” The children looked at me earnestly for proof of my word—“You can take them off now.”

A fish jumped in the nearby shallows. Stogie’s head jerked.

“Hurry, let’s get our bait in the water.”

“Hang on, the fish aren’t going to leave.” I handed the blue pole over to Gabe and although she didn’t say it, I knew she’d received the color she wanted. “Green, okay, Thad?” He smiled.

Gabe was already reaching for the worms at her feet. “You sure you don’t want to use some of this other stuff? It might work better?” I coyly suggested.

“Oh no, this is half the fun!”

Again, Thad appeared to flinch as his sister pulled the lid off.

“Ewwwou, look Thaddy, they’re great big ones, plump and perfect!” she waved the unsealed contents closer for viewing.

Thad tried to scoot farther back.

“What? Tell me you’re not afraid of a little worm?”

Thad looked away just as Gabe dunked her tiny index finger and thumb into the black soil and fishing pulled out a 3 1/2 incher.

“Look, Uncle Hayward!” Gabe dangled the legless crawler in front of me. It pulled itself up into a loop. I had to contain myself the sight was so unnerving. I stared at the open container.

Another pulsated deeper into the soil, its whole body telescoping in on itself like an intestinal intussusception. How was I going to handle the situation? Once a child realizes your weak-point you’re powerless and at her mercy.

“Gabe,” I tried to sound nonchalant, “leave your brother alone and just put the bait on your hook.”

36

“Can you do it for me, Uncle Hayward? I don’t want to hurt the little guy.”

Now she was siding with the worm, making it sound cute and cuddly. Stogie put his inquisitive snout to Gabe’s hand.

“You want to eat it, don’t you, boy?” she screeched lightheartedly.

I was in a panic, remembering another fishing trip long ago.

Thad was paralyzed in the bow, a veteran to his sister’s minor tortures. She was nine and he was seven.

“Gabe, I’d better help your brother get his pole fixed; I think you’re old enough to handle things on your own.”

Undeterred by my proclamation of her independence, she moved closer to Thad, holding the worm over his face. He scrunched down as low as he could in the little triangular prison, flailing his cap for protection. His shins butted the front slab.

“Stop, stop it, get it away, please no, stop it!”

“Gabriella!” Her braid with the bluebird tie at the end stopped swishing in its taunting motion. She snapped her head and stared at me, open-mouthed and sweetly innocent. My tone had taken me by surprise. I wasn’t used to being stern or demanding my authority be obeyed. Respect was different.

Gabe dropped the impish crawler back into the cup, lowering her chin. I looked at her little lavender t-shirt with the gray and white tabby reaching up after a pink butterfly. Her blue shorts had an embroidered rainbow on the left cuff leg, a cloud on one end. Her shoes were a dirty sky blue, more gray than anything.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” I said, softening my voice. Thad was just about brought to tears by his sister.

“You all right, young man?” He rocked his head forward, but I detected his bottom lip quivering.

“Come here,” I coaxed, but there was nothing to do. He wasn’t about to pass that open container.

37

“Gabe? If you want to use the worms, that’s all right, but don’t scare your brother with them anymore. Is that clear?”

She looked up into my face. A stream of sun coming through the trees caught her green, tigress eyes.

In that moment, I loved her wild, tom-boyish inclinations.

She didn’t realize the full extent of her actions. I heard her gleeful laugh from earlier in my mind, and now she was solemn, her voice small and abashed. She wasn’t going to let me back in her graces without some work. “I just want you to be nice to your brother so you both can have fun out here. How would you like it if someone used something to scare you?”

“I’m not scared of anything,” she esteemed with confidence unmarred by experience. I saw her mother at that age sitting before me.

“Well then, you’re at an advantage, but don’t go exploiting others.”

“What do you mean?”

“It just means one day you might need your brother, or he might need you.” I opened the jar of power bait and started to roll it on Thad’s hook.

Thad faintly took his pole and dipped it in the water.

“So, you still want to use the worms?” Gabe shook her head.

“How ‘bout I let you and Thad take turns casting my line then?”

“Hold it on your ring finger first. Now flip the catch and swing,” I instructed. The line went zipping some six feet away.

“Flip the catch back over; otherwise, you’ll have an unspun reel.”

I was amazed at how natural my voice sounded in its instruction.

It’d been some twenty years since I threw a line.

Feeling more relaxed, I said, “I’m going to tell you a story from when I was a little kid and first went fishing. I was just about your age, Gabe, when Grandma bought me a reel and tackle box special for my birthday, along with some salmon eggs. Anyway, 38

your Granddad and I went out on a lake not much different from this one. ‘This will be some fun,’ he said, ‘a day to remember.’

I’d found a little blue and black gecko in the bottom of the boat and picked it up. I could do the same things with frogs, crickets, beetles. Well, it came time to bait the hook, and what do you know, Dad whips out a brown bag, discolored on the bottom by moisture. Thinking nothing of it, he opens the bag and says, ‘Hay, pick your guy!’ I was mortified staring down at that mound of devilish snakelings all clumped together, sliding in and out of view.”

‘I’ll use the salmon eggs ma bought me,’ I told him.

‘These are better, believe me, I’ve done my share of trial and error!’ He began to get agitated.

‘C’mon, just try one on the hook and if it doesn’t work you can use yours.’

‘I don’t want to. I—I don’t like them!’

‘You don’t like them, or you’re afraid?!’”

Thad was looking right at me with intense blue eyes, paying no attention to his line jerking in the water.

“You got one, Thad, pull it up, pull it in!” Gabe’s spirits returned.

He was too late. The sudden commotion dispelled in expanding rings a yard or so from our temporarily listing boat.

“What happened next, Uncle Hayward? Did your father make you hook him, did he?” Thad needed to know.

“No.” I scratched my beard in vivid recollection. “No, he did not. Oh, he tried, but I refused. Dad grasped the bag by the bottom and before I knew it he took my hand and held it out ready to dump the entire contents in my palm. I bucked in horror and using my free arm hit the bag clear out of his fist, straight into the water. He reached overboard and retrieved it, staring at me. I can still see his face.” The utter contempt and disgust.

“You mean he didn’t say anything?” Gabe questioned.

39

“He didn’t have to,” Thad piped in, looking at me and not his sister.

“You’re absolutely right,” I exchanged a venerable glance. + “Daddy’s all the time giving Thad looks,” Gabe revealed.

“And Grandfather—“Thad, Thad, he’s a fag!’ ” Gabe meant her mother’s father-in-law.

“Gabe, don’t say such things.”

“I’m not, Grandfather does.”

“Uncle Hayward, what it is a fag?” Thad was so little from where I sat in that moment.

“Well—it’s what they call a cigarette over in England.” I wryly smiled.

“No, it’s not. I thought it was when two men loved—” “Gabriella, please.”

“It’s a slang term and should not be used. What does your mother have to say about all this?” “Mama’s going to leave Daddy,” Gabe divulged.

I couldn’t help feeling relieved. I studied Thad speculatively.

If she stayed, soon I’d be listening to him and only hear his father speaking.

“Uncle Hayward, how come you’re not married?” Gabe had other interests now at hand.

“Well, quite truthfully, no woman would be able to tolerate my moodiness.”

“Oh. Daddy says you’re strange.”

“Hah. That may be true, but then I think he’s a bit strange.”

“I don’t like him,” Thad rushed to confess, stroking Stogie’s nape.

“Uncle Hayward, are you a, a—” Gabe went on.

“No.” I always admired the bold innocence of children. Why are adults so afraid of the truth?

“Do you think I am?” Thad begged in the absence of full comprehension.

40

Gabe held her breath in bated anticipation as though my judgment ranked supreme, withstanding that of their own father.

“Thad, I’m most assured you’re not, but even if you were, it’d make no difference. Understand?

Your dad’s just afraid.” I couldn’t tell him that I thought their father was using their mother–my sister–as a cover because he could never come out to his rigid father.

A turtle patrolled alongside the boat, festooning us with a sage-like presence. Thad watched him dip under and resurface on the starboard side. As silent as the advance, he glided away.

“Uncle Hayward, why does Daddy think you’re strange?”

Thad, unwilling to raise his head, dug his green corduroy converse into one of the grooves in the floor.

“It’s true, I’m not married. I spend my time making observations. I’m…an old soul. He thinks I have no courage because I feel things much more than he does. He’s scared of me.”

“Why is Daddy scared of you?” Gabe mused, searching my face perplexedly, finding no revelation in my unbidden expression.

“It’s hard to explain. You see, I walk a fine line and can get away with it; your father hides.” She feigned an effort to understand.

“Daddy says you’re the one hiding from the world.”

“Perhaps so.”

The tip of my rod bounced forward and began to wobble.

“Uncle Hayward, we’ve got one!” Gabe screamed in delight.

“Pull ‘im in.” I jerked the pole and held the rod while she reeled the silverman topside. He wasn’t big, maybe a seven incher, but boy did he put up a fight when we brought him into the boat.

The hook had just barely snagged his lower jaw.

“Look, Thad, we got one!” his sister held the line up proudly.

We all watched as he flopped violently about and then grew tired, his gills opening and closing like shutters.

41

“What do you say we let this one go?” I asked them.

Thad suddenly looked very old. “Yeah,” he returned in a soft voice.

We turned him loose. A splash, followed by a ripple of water as if to say ‘hmph,’ and then he was gone.

We didn’t catch any more fish that day. On our way back to my truck, Gabe knelt down and told us to wait a minute. She upturned the contents within the styrofoam cup in the plowed dirt beneath a dogwood, recently raked and churned by Stogie’s nosing rampage after a ground critter. He snorted several times then sneezed to clear his nasal passages of all dust.

That night, I tucked the children into bed. Gabe was sleeping in Helen’s old room with her Bunny crooked in her arm. It wasn’t a rabbit at all, but a mouse that just ‘happened’ to be named “Bunny.” I tucked the blanket around her, enjoying a paternal moment I seldom experienced. Stogie faithfully thumped his tail beside her.

“All right? If you need anything, I’m just across the way, and grandma’s right down the hall.”

“Night Uncle Hayward. I had fun today.”

“So did I.” I meant it.

I went into the guest room. The library light with the green glass shade and gold pull chain was on. I flipped the overhead light switch up. Thad was worried.

“Hey,” I said, pulling something from behind my back. I held a shoebox-sized blue and what used to be pink but was now affectionately a dirt-mauve, horizontally striped rabbit with two long gray ears.

“His name’s Marzipan, after Grandma’s favorite candy.”

Thad’s eyes lit up then died. I knew what he was thinking.

“Just show your mother, she’ll understand. This guy used to belong to me.”

42

“I hate Daddy.” He quickly looked away to the hall tree and motionless pendulum in the hanging clock.

“You’re too young to hate. Besides, it won’t get you anywhere.

Don’t worry. Your mother’s an independent woman, she’ll do right by you and Gabe.”

“I wish you were my Daddy.”

I wished it, too.

“Uncle Hayward, Daddy’s wrong. When I get older, I want to be like you.”

I smiled but said nothing for a long moment. “If that’s the case, then I want you to make me a promise.”

He weighed the silence curiously. “What?”

I handed Marzipan over to his reluctant but wanting hands.

Liam came strolling into the room nonchalantly with tail up, surveying the situation. Pretending to be bored, he hopped onto the bed and kneaded the covers, softly motoring his contentment.

“Never grow up.”

I turned off the lights and left the door open a crack. The tiredness came back full force.

A grown man, I sat myself down on the landing, just beside Helen’s old door, and stared up at the glassed moon. Wanting to cry, I couldn’t. Countless times had I sat there, alone in the dark, glaring down the lighted streetlamp at the end of the cul-de-sac, both loving and hating its bittersweet defiance to the watchman’s heart.

No one before or since has ever said that to me.

43

About the Author

Wheston Chancellor Grove holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College, VT. He also earned an MSW. He is the author of Who Has Known Heights, a bildungsroman (2017), and The Lost Art of Love (2023), available on Amazon.

He believes elephants can fly and talks to pigeons. Writing is his purpose for living. He’s traveled down the centuries, acquiring a love for train stations, post offices, and cemeteries. When not playing chess or going for midnight walks, he’s most likely reading a book and studying the sky. He prefers handwritten letters. www.chancellorscorner.com.

Relationships

WINNER ($75): • Baiting the Line by Wheston Chancellor Grove

FINALISTS: • A Murder of Crones by Susan Hasler • Black Mountain by Shilo Creed • The Bonnie M by F. J. Talley

44

Health/Wellness

Blues and Trouble

by Dr. Mark ZY Tan Blues and Trouble “So many days since you went away I often think of you night and day But I know that someday, someday darling I won’t be trouble no more.”

—Trouble Blues by Sam Cooke He was close to death when I arrived. Monitoring had already been connected, and the numbers on the screen confirmed the severity of his condition. But I didn’t need the numbers.

The rhythm of the beeping was rapid - double that of my own.

The bright lime-green “120” merely applied a number to his rushing heart as it struggled to pump blood around his body.

The corresponding note was at least a minor third below what I was used to during anesthesia, and the baby blue number on the screen confirmed a dangerously low oxygen saturation level of 89%. A further high-pitched, handbell-like, high-priority alarm rang every second, dissonantly cutting across the flattened oxygen saturation beep and forming an uncomfortable polyrhythm with his heartbeat. I reached out my hand to shake his.

Tar stains on his index and middle fingers. He must be a heavy smoker.

45

“My name is Dom; I’m one of the intensive care doctors. How are you?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“My breathing…terrible,” he replied, in seemingly broken English, between several breaths, by which time my ears had piqued as the oxygen saturations dropped a further two semitones. I had to work quickly.

“Oh, you don’t sound good at all. Let me quickly examine you.”

87% now. Clear respiratory distress: rate almost forty. Sat bolt upright: maximizing the efficiency of breathing. Arms anchored to the rails of the trolley: increased work of breathing and use of accessory muscles. Gaunt facial and body features: is this cancer-related weight loss? Deep orange tan: manualworker or cancer pigmentation? Chest expansion abnormal: life side hardly moving, hyper-expanded. Percussion: left side hyperresonant. Stethoscope: minimal breath sounds on the left. This is a pneumothorax!

“Novak, you’ve got a pneumothorax. The air around your lungs. It’s compressing the lungs so you can’t breathe. It’s now pressing on the heart. We need to let it out with a needle, then a larger tube”, I tried to explain in a loud voice, using large hand gestures in a strange attempt to mitigate any potential language barrier. He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.

That’ll do for consent, I guess.

I turned around and reached for one of the translucent drawers, picking out the biggest cannula I could find, coded orange in color, along with an alcohol wipe. On the countertop were boxes of gloves. I took out a pair. There was no time for local anesthetic. I cleaned the top of Novak’s left chest with the alcohol wipe, then unsheathed the cannula, positioned it under the second rib, and pushed it in.

“Sharp scratch,” I exclaimed as I inserted the cannula, knowingly underplaying the extent of pain he would experience.

46

Compressed air rushed through the relatively small caliber of the cannula, creating a deeply satisfying hiss of a life saved.

But this was a temporary solution. The small, hollow cannula would eventually act as a one-way valve itself, causing a reaccumulation of the pneumothorax. A larger chest drain was required to prevent this from happening, but this could take a bit more time than this emergency needle decompression. By now, Novak’s breathing had improved, and he looked a little less grey.

His oxygen saturation improved to an acceptable 94%, and he began to speak more than two words at a time. As I prepared equipment for the chest drain, I asked further about his history and the circumstances leading to his hospital attendance.

Novak was 47 years old. He used to be a successful musician, but in a Bojangles-like fashion, found himself first sleeping with too many women, then smoking and drinking far more than he could afford, and once addicted, ended up jobless, penniless, and occasionally homeless. Of course, the women had disappeared long before he became bankrupt. He continued to play in the streets of inner-city London, earning only as much as would pay for his habits. He put his cough down to the years of smoking and the many drugs he had taken. He admitted to a host of them, from heroin to cocaine, and from cannabis to spice, but he was quick to tell me those were from his touring days long ago. I nodded but kept my suspicions.

“What sort of music did you play?” I asked as I pointed to the eight--centimeter-long introducer needle for the chest drain at his chest, with his arm held up and hand resting under his head.

This time, some local anesthetic made sure the discomfort was minimized. He was reclined on a trolley with the side down. He had enough strength to keep his hand held up, so no assistant was needed.

“Blues,” he said and then immediately broke out in a deep rumbly cough. If it wasn’t the middle of a busy A&E, his pose 47

could well have passed off as lounging and relaxing to music.

But instead of a soulful bend in a guitar solo, he grimaced when my needle twanged the sensitive nerves of the outer lining of his lung.

“Very nice. I meant blues, not the pain; sorry about that. I do blues dancing, actually,” I said as I then inserted the guidewire into the needle, which would serve as a track for the actual chest drain. I was well-practiced in the art of small-talking while performing invasive procedures. Seizing the opportunity, I indulged in what I thought was a clever explanation, “Dancing is a nice analogy for this problem you’ve developed. See, the lungs are surrounded by thin linings called pleura. Normally this allows smooth expansion and contraction of the lungs, like a nice dance.

Both partners moving together, according to the music, happy days. But when they are damaged or punctured, the lungs tend to collapse, and the ribcage prefers to spring outwards. This creates a space between the linings and causes breathing problems. It is kind of like an unsatisfactory dance with partners moving out of sync with each other. The body much prefers a good blues dance than a silent disco.”

Novak let out a snigger. I was proud of my joke. I wasn’t sure he appreciated it. He instead told me about his better days, reminiscing on the wild parties, the seemingly bottomless supply of alcohol, and the sex. By now, the chest drain was inserted. The circuit was connected to a rigid tube submerged in a bottle of water. On each exhale, bubbles appeared from the underwater end of the tube. The rhythmic rise and fall of the meniscus formed an effective seal and prevented air from re-entering his chest.

Another life saved. But there’s something up with that cough.

My intuition was right. There was no sustained recovery, and only a couple of hours later, Novak’s oxygen saturation started to fall again. His shortness of breath worsened. On the chest X-ray, the original pneumothorax had already started to resolve, but it 48

also showed a nasty pneumonia on the right. They were filling up with fluid fast, and I was faced with no choice but to put him to sleep and onto a ventilator. I called a couple of colleagues to assist me and explained to Novak what was about to happen. Not long after, he was intubated in the intensive care unit. An ultrasound scan revealed the cause of his deterioration. Surrounding his right lung were multiple, loculated pockets of pus, also known as an empyema. The inflammation that resulted from the empyema had caused fluid to leak into his lung units. The antibiotics we had already started were unlikely to resolve such a collection, so, according to the age-old Hippocratic wisdom of “ubi pus, ibi evacua” (where there is pus, evacuate it), I got ready for another chest drain, but this time, with a far larger surgical drain roughly the circumference of my thumb.

Novak’s right arm was held in position up again. This exposed the area beneath his armpit, the so-called “safe triangle.” With a scalpel, I made a cut in between his ribs. Then, a pair of tissue clips were used to dissect down past the three layers of muscles before getting to the pleura. An audible, dull pop was produced as the clip punctured the pleura, followed by a spurt of viscous, cream-colored pus onto my gown. I was glad he was sedated. The pus oozed out and flowed down the side of his chest as I replaced the clip with my finger. Then, the surgical chest drain went in to replace my finger. By now, the stench of the pus had filled the room - a pungent and repulsive smell of dead cells and bacteria.

Behind my surgical mask, even breathing through my mouth failed to mask the potency of the odor until I connected the chest drain itself to another underwater seal unit and the system was contained. By the time I stitched the drain to his chest to keep it in position, almost a liter of pus had flowed into the bottle.

With the help of the ventilator, high concentrations of oxygen, and the two chest drains, the monitor was beeping in far more agreeable tones and rhythms. Novak’s oxygen saturation was 93% - acceptable, even though it required 80% of oxygen 49

from the ventilator. His heart rate settled with better oxygenation and proper sedation. His blood pressure became less labile, and there was some degree of stability. My ears were appeased, but my mind was not completely satisfied. The speed of deterioration, the level of advanced support required, and the strange smell of the pus left me feeling like we were missing something. But according to our protocols, we had done everything we could for now. He was on broad-spectrum antibiotics, which would act against a wide variety of bacteria. He had had relevant initial X-rays and ultrasounds. We had taken further blood tests.

Samples were sent off to the lab. The admission document was completed, and relevant paperwork was filled in. We even asked for expert opinions from the respiratory physicians and cardiothoracic surgeons. My job was done for that day, and I headed into the evening handover.

After my shift, I headed into the city. I had missed the dance classes during the day, but it was the blues afterparty that I was looking forward to. As I approached the dance hall, slow, sultry blues music streamed outwards from underground. A crowd of people stood around the open ground-floor entrance. Some were smoking, many had drinks in their hands, all were happy.

I felt time slow down as I walked through the doors. Inside, the musk of sweaty bodies hinted at the intensity of the dance, while the steady, swung rhythm seemed to slow my heartbeat, making my limbs and muscles feel heavy and fluid. Occasionally, highpitched twangs of the guitar cut through the air like electricity.

Accordingly, the dancers would break a move in response.

Despite the individual movements of each couple, there was a unified sway within the entire hall, governed by the flow of the music.

I spotted Lucy across the room and waved. We had agreed to meet after my shift.

I walked across and hugged her.

“How was the shift?” She asked.

50

“All right, but I had to go home to shower after a really mucky chest drain. Stinky pus everywhere!”

“Urgh. Like my operations, then?” She joked, referring to the abscesses she drains in theatre as a general surgeon.

“Haha, very funny. Tell you more later. This is a good song.

Wanna dance?” It was Sam Cooke’s ‘Trouble Blues’.

Lucy and I met as foundation doctors. In those days, we stayed in doctors’ accommodation attached to the hospital. I had a longterm partner (who became my wife after I completed medical school) in a different part of the country who was not subject to the post-code lottery of the foundation training programme. But the shifts were long, and instead of driving across the country to meet her at night, I stayed in the doctors’ accommodation, where Lucy and I spent countless late evenings together watching TV, chatting, or practicing dancing. That was years ago. Lucy stayed in London for her further training. I moved away and married, but my wife didn’t really enjoy dancing. Soon, the bliss of marriage was replaced with the grind of mortgage, childcare, and post-graduate exams. The training was long and arduous, but when I ended up back in London for a six-month fellowship in a large hospital, I secretly enjoyed the temporary escape. Lucy and I promised to go out dancing together again.

She nodded and put her hand in mine. I put my right hand around her back. The fabric of her dress felt smooth on my hands. Her left arm draped around my neck as she put her cheek on my chest. Held in a close embrace, I closed my eyes and listened intently to the music. Cooke’s soulful hum, coupled with the sparse and regular bass, made us sink further into each other’s arms. As the verse began and the music swelled, I inhaled deeply. At first, I noticed the fragrance of her hair mingled with the scent of sweat. Then I felt her chest rise in unison with mine as we mirrored our shoulder rolls. I prolonged the inhale in accordance with a sustained note in the solo, almost to the point 51

of discomfort, as our torsos pressed even tighter onto each other.

A downward glissando of the Fender Rhodes keyboard followed, and we both allowed our bodies to dramatically buckle. I exhaled quickly. She let out a long sigh. Soon, our hips rocked together in tiny movements, an exquisite connection with each accent of the snare drum. The closeness and sensuality were enjoyed by both of us - the afterglow of a climatic keyboard solo. I glanced at the smile on her face through a mirror on the wall, and I’m sure she saw mine, too, as we turned throughout the song. I let her sit back into my right arm, her hips rolling in a circle with the peak of a phrase, before resuming the close hold. As the music slowly faded, our movements again got smaller and smaller.

Each breath was matched. I felt her heartbeat on my chest, just as she felt mine on her cheek. A blissful moment of intimacy before a final dip. We then held each other in a long, tight hug.

We had several more intense and intimate dances before it was time for me to leave. I had another long day shift in under eight hours. Lucy and I arranged to meet at the next social dance.

Over the past few months, we had gotten close. We hugged for what seemed like a long time. She kissed my cheek, and I hers, “You should come over to mine after the next social, for old times’ sake,” she whispered in my ear.

I smiled as I made my way out of the dance hall. I knew exactly what she meant.

The tube back to the doctors’ accommodation was almost empty, but the exceptionally noisy central line train muted my thoughts, or perhaps it was the alcohol. Lucy’s scent lingered on my shirt, an intoxicating mix of perfume and sweat. I closed my eyes and inhaled. The music, the dancing, the embrace. It was exhilarating, a buzz I had not felt for years. It was the complete opposite of the monotony of family life: ferrying the kids to their classes, making sure the bills were paid, and ensuring the ParentPay school account was topped up. Over the years, the necessities of family life meant both my wife and I became 52

ruthlessly efficient with our affairs, and corresponding, our relationship grew equally transactional. Because we had no extended family nearby and childcare was expensive, date nights were few and far between. We both needed to work to pay off mortgages and bills. This meant romance dropped further and further down the list of priorities. We had both weathered and grown apart.

Lucy, on the other hand, was single and did not have children.

She seemed to retain her gracefulness and beauty even after many years. I was thrilled by her invitation. I felt invigorated and looked forward to our rendezvous.

Our secret shimmy. Covert cha-cha. Hush-hush hip-hop.

Discreet disco.

Back at work about a week later, Novak was still in a dire state. His inflammatory markers showed little response to the strong antibiotics we had been giving him. He still required 90% oxygen on the ventilator and dangerously high driving pressures. His kidneys had failed, and he needed the help of a hemofiltration machine. Strong drug infusions were required to maintain his blood pressure. Our team was both puzzled and pessimistic. And then, a call from the microbiology lab came.

Novak had Extensively Drug-Resistant Tuberculosis in his blood. He had had this infection long before his presentation to the hospital. What he put down to “smoker’s cough” was, in fact, years of tuberculosis. But this was no normal tuberculosis infection. It was almost immune to most antibiotics. We had no effective treatment. This was a battle we had already lost, and not merely several weeks ago.

The microbiology lectures in medical school failed to accurately portray reality. After all, they were held in the Sir Alexander Fleming building, necessitating a cult-like celebration of his discovery of penicillin in 1928. Of course, we weren’t told that resistance traits had already appeared within twenty years of discovery. We weren’t told about irresponsible antibiotic use 53

globally, from over-the-counter prescriptions for inappropriate indications, as my family insisted on for my frequent but minor viral illnesses in childhood, to widespread use in livestock as growth promoters, after which traces would remain in the meat products sold in supermarkets. No, instead, we were taught about all the different classes of modern antibiotics, with complicated names like “macrolides,” “tetracyclines,” and “glycopeptides.”

We were taught various drug targets, from inhibition of protein synthesis to bacterial cell wall disruption. This was medicine.

We were the brightest minds. We could synthesize new drugs, manage chronic conditions, treat infections, and cure cancers, so we were told.

It turns out we have been dancing with death all along in a slash-and-grab, bump-and-grind, down-and-dirty orgy of collective irresponsibility. We had bred Extensively DrugResistant Tuberculosis with decades of antibiotic misuse. The adulterous affair of Novak’s lungs with the invisible superbacteria sealed his fate. All I could do was to make his death as dignified as possible, and so, as I put a blues playlist on his bedside speakers and heard Cooke’s ‘Trouble Blues’ ring out, I hoped that, at the very least, our send-off to the heavenly realms would be as musical as he would want it. For Novak, the world of suffering indeed “won’t be trouble no more.” But I knew it would only be several weeks till the next patient with another antibiotic-resistant infection.

That evening, I was due to go dancing with Lucy. I stood her up and instead took the long drive back to my wife.

“Every breath you take, Every move you make…

Every single day Every word you say, I’ll be watching you.”

—The Police 54

About the Author

Mark ZY Tan is an anaesthetics and intensive care medicine doctor, a multi-award-winning essayist, a researcher, and a broadcaster. He has been working on a book exploring some of the uncertainties and dilemmas in modern intensive care, seeking to encourage a more humanistic approach to the practice of medicine. He has won multiple awards for his written works, and regularly presents on British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) Radio 4. He grew up in Singapore, but currently lives with his wife and two daughters in Northwest England. Website: www.markzytan.com

Health/Wellness

WINNER ($75): • Blues and Trouble by Mark ZY Tan FINALISTS: • Exit, Atlantic City by joseph gosler • Missing the Clutter by Greg Peck • The Hospice by Zenna Davis-Jones

55

Seniors (60 and over)

Daddy’s Girl

by Mary E. Schulz The asphalt crackled in the heat as Olivia rounded the corner for the third time. She hardly recognized Main Street as it dozed, shuttered, in the blistering afternoon sun. Where was the pharmacy where she’d tried (and failed) to steal candy on her so-called best friend’s dare? Where was the barber shop where she’d got her bangs cut ‘til she’d figured out that girls went to Thelma’s beauty salon? The only place that was more or less the same was the schoolyard where she’d learned to ride her bike, her face glowing as Dad cheered her on. She knew it was silly to expect that nothing would have changed in almost 35 years. But she had.

After two more irritating circles of the town where nothing was where she remembered, she found her way into one of the inn’s tight parking spots. Peering up at the Victorian structure, she realized she’d been right. She did know this house. She’d been pretty sure when she saw it on the website but now, she was certain. She’d never been inside. Oh, no. Her family was not from this side of town. She remembered trudging up their wideplanked steps each Halloween, her costume trailing behind her.

One of the richest families in town had lived here – the Marshalls?

56

The Martins? What she did remember is that they always gave out full sized chocolate bars.

Olivia let her duffle bag fall with a thud at her feet as she reached up and pulled the envelope from where it had been taped to the front door. Her name was printed in bold letters, heavily underlined.

Running her finger under the flap, she slid open the envelope and read: Sorry I couldn’t be here to welcome you in person to Hudson House, Olivia! Your keys are here – one for your room and one for the front door. Breakfast is served between 8:15 and 10:15, and there are cookies and complimentary tea and coffee in the hallway.

Hope you settle in well and I’ll see you soon! Cheers! ~ Jennifer : 0) Olivia rolled her eyes at the smiley face emoji. She’d forgotten how bloody quaint everything was in Hudson.

The glossy black door opened easily into the airy hallway where the lingering smell of coffee greeted her. An oak staircase, gleaming with polish, rose to the second floor on her left. Olivia shifted her shoulders, her shirt sticking to her back from the long, hot drive up from the city. She swept her damp, dark bangs off her forehead. Maybe she’d have time for a shower before going to see her father. They probably fed him dinner at some godawful hour, like 4 o’clock or something.

Olivia peered around the doorway of the living room and glimpsed a yellow dining area where one wall boasted nothing but photographs. She had reluctantly booked this bed and breakfast only because the flight from Calgary to Toronto and then the rental car had eaten up most of her savings. Paying for a place to stay was the last thing she needed. But then she really didn’t have much choice now that Mom was gone and the house long sold.

57

As she opened her bedroom door at the top of the stairs, she was relieved to see that it was a good size, even though it was decorated in a fey Canadian style. A pine four-poster bed dominated the room, along with an old-fashioned sewing machine, converted into a desk so small that a minuscule welcome basket covered its entire surface. She dropped her bag on the pine bench by the door and moved to check out the basket. A banana, peach, cookies in the shape of maple leaves and a half bottle of local wine were nestled in shredded paper.

She picked up the bottle with both hands and stared at the label.

She swallowed. Hard. A thread of sweat trickled its way down her back. She twisted the cap and brought the bottle to her nose.

So sweet! So soothing. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For a fraction of a second, she hesitated before turning toward the bathroom. As though from afar, she watched as the golden liquid swirled down the drain. Dropping the bottle in the garbage, Olivia’s heart thrummed in her ears.

Her right hand began its irritating tremble. Olivia moved to sit on the wide, low windowsill and looked up and down the leafy street. She had to admit that Hudson was charming despite the obvious changes she’d seen on Main Street, especially at this time of year when everything was in full bloom. She craned her neck.

She could just make out where their old house must still be. It had been a happy place until it wasn’t. She would never forget that phone call. Mom ringing her in Calgary to tell her that Dad had left her. By then, Olivia was long gone – off to chase her dream job. She shook her head as she turned to unpack. That had been the right move for her, she reassured herself for the umpteenth time, even as she again felt the familiar twinge at the thought of how long Mom had rattled around that barn of a house on her own. Mind you, that was only until she met charming husband #2, upped stakes, moved to Florida. And died.

58

God, a splash of Scotch would hit the spot around now.

A rap on the door made her jump. Opening it, Olivia was momentarily struck by the wide grin and head of dark curls that met her. A petite young woman, her hands in the back pockets of her impossibly tight jeans, was practically levitating with energy.

“Oh, good! You’re here! I’m Jennifer. So great to meet you.”

Olivia swallowed, trying to transform her scowl. Was she ever that young? That perky? That thin?

Olivia shook her hand. “Hi, Jennifer.” She glanced around at the upper hall, “You’ve a lovely place here.”

“Thanks. I still can’t believe it’s ours. I’ve only just taken it on with my partner, Maddie. It was a big move for us, but we’re loving it.”

She looked over Olivia’s shoulder. “Is your room okay?”

“It’s great. Really… nice. I just got here, actually.”

“Good! That’s really… good,” said Jennifer.

Their conversation stuttered to a halt as they took each other in.

“Um, I think you said you grew up in Hudson,” Jennifer offered.

“Yes,” Olivia replied quickly. “Though I’ve been gone a long time. Over thirty years, actually. But it was a great place to grow up.”

It wasn’t a lie, she reminded herself sternly. Even though it was hard to be here now, it had been a happy place to be a kid. The ache that threatened to close her throat was, she knew, not from nostalgia but rather from the possibility that some of that nectar had puddled in the sink, just sitting there glistening against the white porcelain, waiting. It was all she could do not to excuse herself and rush to catch a few drops with her fingers, licking them clean. She could almost taste the honey-golden sweetness. “I agree!”

59

Olivia snapped back to catch Jennifer’s bright smile. Forcing herself to focus, Olivia asked, “Did you grow up here, too?”

“Kind of. Mom’s in Toronto, that’s where I grew up, but Dad’s lived in Hudson all his life. So, I kind of had the best of both worlds. The “big city” during the school year and summers up here. Now, it’s just home. Feels good.”

Jennifer’s eyes shone. Olivia pushed down the sour taste in her mouth as she pictured Jennifer, perhaps dressed in leggings and a floral peasant blouse meeting her parents for brunch, laughing, sharing a bottle of wine, or toasting each other with Mimosas.

Yeah, Jennifer would drink something girly and made-up like Mimosas. She’d likely introduce her Mom as her best friend to anyone who’d listen. Probably a Daddy’s girl, too.

Olivia’s jaw tightened. “Well,” she made a move towards her room, “good to meet you in person.” Jennifer nodded before turning back towards the stairs, her hand resting on the newel post. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, just shout.

Otherwise, see you at breakfast!”

Olivia chewed her thumbnail as she looked up at her father’s new home. As retirement homes went, it didn’t look too bad. She could feel her lip curl as it occurred to her that they had to make it look nice to lure you inside. The automatic doors opened, and a woman bent almost in half, rolled through with her walker, accompanied by a Personal Support Worker. If only her father were aging as well. From what she’d gathered when she called the home to confirm he was still alive, it seemed unlikely.

“Good afternoon,” said the young man at reception. “May I help you?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m here to visit my father, Henry Richardson.

I’m not sure of the… I haven’t been… I’ve forgotten his room number,” she stammered.

“No problem. Just let me check,” he turned to study the computer screen. “Ah, yes. Here he is. Mr. Richardson. He isn’t 60

signed up for any programs right now. You should find him there.

Room 407.” As she turned toward the elevator, he reached out.

“Hold on. Here you go. Please wear this while you’re visiting.”

Olivia studied the glossy “Visitor” card on the bright blue lanyard. “But I’m family…”

“Not to worry,” he said with a blank, cordial smile. “It’s just ‘til we get to know you.” *** His door was open. An odour of stale air freshener and dried sweat hit her, reminding her of the cloying smell of her rental car.

She knocked tentatively but didn’t wait for a reply. It took her a moment to make out her father in the grey wingback chair by the window. There he was, grey on grey.

He looked as though he were deep in thought, his brow crinkled in concentration, his head resting in the palm of his hand. But no, he was asleep. His light blue polo shirt had an obvious stain down the front and his grey plaid slippers showed signs of other, less savoury stains. Olivia took a moment and watched her father’s chest rise and fall. Closing her eyes, she took a deep, cleansing breath. In and out. She had practiced this moment, visualizing how she would just take her time. Not blast him. Remind herself that he was just a frail old man whom she barely knew. Tell him quietly, calmly, how much it had hurt – still hurt- that he had cast Mom aside all those years ago.

Feeling her heartbeat slow, she opened her eyes and looked over at the bank of windows, assessing the likelihood of getting some fresh air in here. She eagerly cranked the centre window open and was rewarded by the clean smell of pine from a nearby cluster of trees. Leaning towards the screen, she ached for a breeze to sweep over her. “Waaa?”

61

She turned her head and arranged her face into a neutral expression. “Hello, Dad.” Her father squinted and sat up straighter in his chair, grimacing as he moved to one side. Olivia wondered just how long he’d been sitting there.

She pulled over a straight-backed chair from the corner desk and sat beside him. She looked down at his hands, the parchment skin. She hadn’t factored in the idea of touching him.

“Hi, Dad,” she repeated loudly, scrunching forward. “It’s me.

Livie.”

No response. He slipped back into sleep. A surge of anger roared up her chest, scorching her cheeks. What the hell was she doing here? Setting things right with someone who could actually acknowledge you was one thing. But this? This was like trying to have a conversation with a lamp post.

“Come on, Dad.” She shook his arm, watching as his eyes fluttered. “I’ve come a long way. At least open your eyes.”

He grunted, pulled his arm away and scratched his head. She watched him swallow. He shivered and settled back, resting his head in the crook of the wingback.

Olivia slumped. She watched the blue veins of his eyelids twitch ever so slightly. Everything about him was colourless and transparent. If she held him up against the light, might she see his organs? His beating heart? His lungs labouring in and out?

Setting her jaw, she took his hand, willing herself to be gentle.

It twitched against hers like a gasping baby bird, each fragile bone nestling into her skin. He opened his eyes and looked over at her, pursing his lips, then puckering as he studied her face. And just as quickly as it had come, her anger left with the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d forgotten how he always made a puckery sound when he was trying to sort something out. A prickle of grief shivered down her neck as a wisp of white hair slipped over his eyes. How frail he had become.

62

The tight smile she’d painted on her face slid into something like sadness. She looked into his blue eyes, faded like old china.

“It’s good to see you, Dad. It’s been a while.” When this brought only a tilting of his head and more squinting, she leaned toward his ear and said brightly, “I’ve come all the way from Calgary.”

He looked towards the window. She followed his gaze, his face fallen into soft folds. The pine trees swayed gently in the light breeze, making a whooshing sound.

An image of her father in what she’d disparagingly dubbed his “mid-life crisis years” suddenly flooded her mind. Even before he did a runner, she’d been embarrassed that he was in his sixties – his sixties!- acting like an old hippy. Funny how that didn’t seem so old to her now. He’d gone from being a conservative golf shirt and chinos kind of guy to someone who wore bright pink Bermuda shorts. He’d even seriously considered buying a Miata convertible and had asked her during one of his infrequent calls if she knew anything about hair plugs. She’d reach instinctively for the Scotch as soon as she heard his jocular “Hey there!” on the line, roll her eyes as he explained that he was calling to connect with her. Little did she know at the time that he was connecting with all kinds of women, mostly decades younger than him.

She’d finally just stopped taking his calls. Embarrassment had long ago turned to disgust. Olivia wondered what it meant that the memory of the clink of ice cubes in her glass warmed her now more than anything they’d ever said to each other.

She barely felt the sting of a tear as it dropped onto the back of her hand.

“It’s a beautiful day, Dad. July.” She tapped him on the arm as he attempted to slip back into a doze, “Maybe we could go outside for a bit. What do you say?”

This was not going at all as she had imagined. Telling him she forgave him. That was the plan. That even though she still 63

thought he was a bastard, he actually hadn’t poured the booze down her throat for the last twenty years. No, she’d accomplished that all on her own and was trying, trying to get her act together.

Not a moment too soon, either. She felt the familiar ache in her chest as she thought of Gary. Too late for them, though. They were staring divorce in the eye, and maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all his fault.

She sat on her right hand, willing the trembling to stop.

A woman appeared in the doorway, her hair a frazzled grey halo around her head.

“Mine!” the woman screamed, barreling towards them. “Get out!”

Olivia jumped up, threw one arm out and put the other against her father as she felt him try to stand.

“No, no, no!” the woman hollered, shaking her fist at Olivia, spittle spraying. “Get out!”

“It’s alright, Dad. Stay in your chair.”

A buxom Personal Support Worker ambled in and moved around to face the older woman.

“Martha? Martha, come now, let me help you.” She reached out and took the woman’s flailing hands in her own. Martha looked up at the aide and took a breath.

Olivia watched as the worker put her arm around Martha’s thin shoulders and said soothingly, “Come on, now. You’ve made a wrong turn somewhere.”

Martha slumped into the worker’s embrace, allowing herself to be turned towards the door.

The worker looked over her shoulder at Olivia. “Sorry about that.”

Olivia shook her head and took a deep breath. “No. No, it’s okay. It just startled us, didn’t it, Dad?” He just grumbled, “Bloody, bloody. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

64

Olivia patted his arm and turned back to the worker, who was already halfway out the door. “Before you go, could I ask you? I mean, I was thinking of taking my father out for some fresh air. Do you think that’d be okay?”

“You’re his daughter? That’s nice. I’m Jasmine. I take care of Mr. Richardson most days.”

“Hi, Jasmine.”

Jasmine frowned. “I don’t think it would be a good idea.

Going outside. He’s not taken well at all to being outside lately.”

“Really?” Olivia countered. “Dad’s always loved being outside. He used to…”

“Yeah, I’m sure. But it’s just that things seem to be scaring him. The sounds.” She glanced towards the window as if to illustrate her point. “I’ve seen it a lot. Especially as things, you know, progress. It’s as though the bigness of everything just becomes too much.”

Olivia licked her parched lips. The bigness of everything?

“Ok,” Olivia sighed. “I sure don’t want to upset him. I’m here for a couple of days anyway. Going to visit Mom’s grave while I’m in town.” She said this last bit softly, mostly to herself, wondering what she resented more, visiting the parent who survived or the one who should have.

When she looked at her father, he was concentrating on pulling a loose thread from the sleeve of his shirt.

“Maybe tomorrow will be better,” Olivia offered, straightening her shoulders and tucking her hair behind her ears.

Jasmine looked at her with an expression that reminded her of kindness.

“Sure. There’s always tomorrow.”

Jasmine put her hand around Martha’s waist and led her toward the door. Before stepping out, she said, “Mr. Richardson likes watching the birds at the feeder through the window.

65

Downstairs in the lounge. That might be a nice thing to do together.”

Olivia sat back down beside her father. “Oh?” she replied, unable to hide her weariness. “Good to know.” She leaned towards her father again, “Shall we do that tomorrow, Dad? Huh? What do you say?”

“Jen, jumm, jelly, jen,” he chanted.

“What’s that, Dad?” She brought her head closer to his as though it were a matter of hearing him more clearly.

Jasmine laughed. “Mr. Richardson’s just telling us he likes it when your sister comes. They always seem to have a good time together.”

Olivia frowned at Jasmine. “My sister? I don’t have a sister. I have a brother, but…”

But Jasmine was gone. Olivia could hear her soothing Martha with her singsong voice as they shuffled down the hall. *** Of course, the front door was unlocked when Olivia got back to the inn. What a bloody cliché, like something out of “The Waltons.” She jerked her hair off her neck, wishing she had an elastic to pull it out of the way. Her bra dug damply into her ribcage.

Olivia slumped towards the pine hutch tucked into a nook in the hall, her thoughts careening into each other like bumper cars. ‘Your sister’? Who could Jasmine have meant? Olivia hadn’t kept in touch with any of her childhood friends; no one she knew would be visiting her father. After all, it was only because of her sainted therapist that her own blistering anger at him had started to soften into something sad and tired. Sure, she was here to set things straight before it was too late—and after today it looked like it might already be- but who else was seeing him and so regularly?

66

The thought that some young woman was trying to squirm into her father’s favors nagged at her and actually worried her.

He would be completely vulnerable to someone kind and pretty.

She’d have to ask for more details when she went back tomorrow.

And then, of course, there was that throw away comment, that dropped like a stone into the pit of her stomach. As things progress. So, this was how it was going to end. She was too late, after all. What would she tell her therapist? Was it the effort that counted?

No, she knew what counted. Pouring that bottle of wine down the sink.

Even so, she was dying for a drink. Would it never stop?

She leaned into the hutch, squeezed her eyes shut, and balled her hands into fists. She would not let this bring her down. She’d worked too hard. Grant me courage. Grant me strength. As if in answer to her hasty prayer, her eyes landed on the coffee machine.

Coffee. A cup of strong, black coffee. That would help. Scanning the offerings displayed in glass containers, she picked out a coffee pouch. Damn. The kettle was not on its electric stand.

Olivia moved tentatively towards the kitchen. The buttery yellow swing door was closed, but she could hear banging and movement on the other side. She knocked and pushed the door open.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Jennifer popped out of the room at the back, wiping her hands on a blue and white striped apron. “Oh, hi, Olivia. How’s your day been?”

Ignoring the question, she replied, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m aching for coffee, and the kettle seems to be missing.”

“Oh! Sorry about that.”

Jennifer turned back into what seemed to be the working part of the kitchen. “I asked the housekeeper to give the kettle a thorough cleaning this morning and she must have forgotten….

67

yes. Here it is,” she said triumphantly, handing it to Olivia. “Here you go.”

Olivia smiled her thanks while pretending to check her watch.

“A big glass of Scotch would normally be my drink of choice in, oh, about an hour or so but, coffee will have to do.”

Jennifer frowned. “What? Tough day?”

“You could say that.”

Olivia felt tears prick the back of her eyes. Second time today.

Geez. She stared at the clock, centering herself with the rhythmic swaying of its pendulum.

Olivia wanted to close her twitching eyes and go numb.

From sleep, perhaps. It used to be so easy to forget. Searching for something to focus on, her darting eyes landed on the wall of photographs. She moved to look more closely, feeling Jennifer’s gaze follow her.

“These are lovely. Did you take them?”

“Some of them, yes. Maddie took some, too. It’s a hobby for us. It’s…”

“Who’s this?” Olivia’s hand shook as she pointed at a photo.

“What the…?” Her voice fell away as she felt the colour drain from her face, her heart crack.

Jennifer met her startled look and leaned over to peer at the photo that had caught Olivia’s eye.

“What? Which – oh, that’s my Dad and me.”

Olivia whirled around, causing Jennifer to take a step back and put her hand on her chest.

“Your Dad?” Olivia cried.

“Yes. Why? What’s the matter?”

Olivia glared at the photo, at the old man, grey on grey, cradled snuggly in Jennifer’s arms.

Even though his beaming face was tilted up to Jennifer’s, Olivia could see. They were his eyes.

The faded blue of old china.

68

About the Author

Mary E. Schulz is a Canadian writer who enjoys the quiet company of good friends and dogs. Her life is enriched by the passion of opera and art that steals her breath away.

Seniors (60 and over)

Can write about any topic WINNER ($75): • Daddy's Girl by Mary E. Schulz FINALISTS: • Assurances by Sandy Ince • Bass Boat Bully by Sharon CassanoLochman • Cityscape Chronicles--Unveiling the Tapestry of New York by Mark M. Bello • Divergent Blessings by Barry Lewis

69

Survival/ Overcoming Adversity

Exit, Atlantic City

by Joseph Gosler He was seated at the octagonal poker table at the 2008 Borgata Poker Open. An eclectic entourage of eyes quietly followed his every move. Dark tinted sunglasses hid his furtive blue eyes.

Sweat was noticeable on his forehead and cheeks; it was the bright lights of the casino and the excitement of the game. Lips pursed as though he was about to kiss the air, he looked at his hand once more. Showdown! He turned over his hand and, in a low, flat, nasal tone, said, “Royal Flush.”

You could slice the moisture in the air with a butter knife. I parked our Volvo on a gravel path next to a large dumpster. The heat and humidity pressed on my shoulders as we entered the high-rise apartment building and made our way to the front desk.

The wide, sanitized and neon-lit hallway displayed wheelchairs, clothing racks, and collapsible shopping carts parked alongside the high-gloss, white institutional wall. Some residents were playing cards, others checking messages on their phones.

“Can I help you?” said the young receptionist while answering the phone.

“We were told that we could access Hendon Denko’s apartment and needed to check in before going up there.”

70

She did not answer at first, then went into an adjacent room, returning with an older woman who spoke with the authority of a decision-maker.

“How are you related to the deceased?” she asked with mild indifference.

“He was my brother-in-law and these women are his sisters.”

We moved along a narrow, dim corridor where numerous framed, colorful primitive drawings and paintings were exhibited, suggesting that a prodigious art program is or was held on the premises. At the end of the corridor, a vestibule with a large window, a giant Dieffenbachia plant, and a loveseat created symmetry with the two elevators directly across from it.

The 13th floor, or 12A as it was discreetly named, was as poorly lit as the corridor downstairs and except for the flood of daylight at either end, engulfed us in the mystery of expectation. Unlike the other doors, Hendon’s was wrapped in heavy-duty plastic, covering the door and sealing it with duct tape around the frame.

The tape vacuum sealed the plastic, neutralizing air and light from entering in or going out of the apartment. The foreboding entrance with its opaque plastic was divided in half by a blue fabric zipper which unzipped from the bottom to the top of the door.

Muted voices were heard inside.

My neck stiffened as I anxiously unlocked and opened the door. Two men, startled, looked our way, “What are you doing here!” a young man wearing a yarmulka asked.

“Your manager, Bev, told us it was okay. Besides, we are Hendon’s family.”

“You can’t be here because the boxed bioremediation stuff hasn’t been removed!”

Stress and paranoia hit me all at once as I looked at the men and wondered why they were there at that moment. The boxes were already neatly stacked from floor to ceiling, waiting to be 71

picked up. There was no need for them to be there unless they were “casing” Hendon’s flat. At the same time, I could sense that Leah, Hendon’s sister, was beginning to quietly sob as she picked up items off the floor.

A verbal tug-of-war ensued with the young man threatening to call the police if we didn’t leave. I dared him to call the police and became more belligerent when Leah, in a halting yet angry tone, stated, “My brother died, how dare you tell me to leave? We just got here.”

Reluctantly, we left a half hour later. Frustrated and pissed off, we got into our car and drove back home.

“How are we going to empty his flat if they don’t remove those boxes,” I fumed.

“We have only another 24 hours to clear the space before Leah returns to Florida.”

In the rearview mirror, I could see Leah smiling.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“I found $6,300 in one hundred dollar bills in one of his jackets,” she said.

It took us three hours to return to Manhattan. Weary and stressed out, we ordered Chinese food and eventually found our way into a restless sleep.

“We can’t promise when the boxes will be picked up by the state’s hazmat team, but I’ll call when they do,” the receptionist said when my wife, Sara, called the following morning.

Three hours later, she called back and immediately asserted that the boxes were still there.

“But, I have an idea,” she said. “As long as one of the custodians is present in the apartment, you can go in!”

Perplexed and annoyed that she couldn’t come up with that solution yesterday, the three of us jumped into the car and headed to Atlantic City once more.

It was 4 PM when we got there. A faint odor of bleach and molasses greeted us as the custodian unzipped and opened the 72

apartment door. For the first time I took notice of the place.

A single studio room with a small appendage that served as a sunroom was filled with succulent plants. A kitchen and a small bathroom, large enough to house a wide shelf, below which on a horizontal rod hung his clothing. The sunroom seemed more like a trophy room where a variety of cactus and other succulent plants were displayed on glass shelves in cut glass containers that sparkled in the sunlight. They were meticulously stacked at various heights. The brown earth, intermixed with tiny grey pebbles, the barbed spine green plants, and occasional purple and yellow flowers, filled the five-by-five-foot exotic space with light and a sense of peace and seclusion. In sobering contrast, the rest of the apartment was unsettling, a reflection of the remediation, Hendon’s state of being, and his transient lifestyle. On the floor near the walls, indiscriminately lay a white powder, presumably to destroy roaches or rodents. The refrigerator was moldy and filled with decomposing fish, cheese, eggplant, and lettuces. The air in the apartment had a persistent staleness. To avoid the stench, I wore a mask and tried not to inhale deeply. I was convinced that touching anything, even with surgical gloves, would make me puke and ill. There was a perpetual sense of doom that went well beyond my normal experience with death and mourning. I felt the corrosive air on a visceral level, leeching into every pore and crevice of my body. The stifling room with numerous half-filled garbage bags, felt like an inferno and I imagined smoke rising from the bags, vestiges of life that would soon dissipate.

We were determined to leave the flat as quickly as possible.

Except for the trophy room, there was no validation that anything or anyone could survive or grow there. Life was suspended in this space, with no exit or entrance.

Ten floor tiles were missing near the bed, where Hendon had been found. A number of coffee table art books were stacked on one of the kitchen wall cabinet shelves, a reflection of Hendon’s varied tastes. In the drawer below the kitchen counter lay a 73

collection of half-empty pill containers, keys, matches, and other sundry items. In the bathroom, below the hanging clothes, you could see the white flecks of a deteriorating plaster wall mixed with some powder to kill roaches. On the shelf above the clothing lay an assortment of impressive high-top sneakers, a potpourri of computer and iPhone cables, and, most astoundingly, a dozen diverse, dark-tinted sunglasses. His clothing, especially his shirts, suggested that he was either a rock star or someone who frequented the resorts and gaming casinos of Atlantic City or Vegas. I saw glittering shirts, some with large collars, others cut to the waist, Harry Belafonte style, a black leather jacket with white tassels, and an array of colorful silk scarves.

In the main room, there was a small round coffee table top that had a smiling Cheshire cat surrounded by colored glass studded poker cards, a mirror with the same feline grin and a white T-shirt with a black grinning Cheshire matching the others. I’m not sure why he seemed infatuated with the Cheshire, but in Alice’s story, the cat was elusive and baffling, which were characteristics he exemplified. Actually, he loved cats and I recall stories about him walking on the boardwalk and feeding all the stray cats that he could find. Like the trophy room, he nurtured his plants and the cats, and they nurtured him in return.

I met him in the early 70s when I started living with his sister, Sara. He was in his mid-twenties, nearly six feet tall, with long arms, a wide frame, a Slavic face with high cheekbones and pouty lips. He worked as a house painter but dreamt of being a rock star.

Iggy Pop was his idol and as he aged, Hendon convinced himself that he was forever young. In his early forties, he dyed his hair and had plastic surgery to remove the dark circles under his eyes in an attempt to control the aging process. He often dated women that were ten to twenty years younger than himself. They seemed more like groupies than girlfriends. I imagine that women closer to his age were less impressed by him. When I first got to know him, he loved basketball, and we would often play pick-up games 74

on Houston Street and Sixth Avenue, where he would outshine most other players. He also had a strong, clear aesthetic sense, which was avant-garde and eccentric. Yet I recognized that his rock star persona was a reflection of something much deeper.

Of the three siblings, Hendon was the firstborn. He often had fights with his father, both verbal and physical. Possibly to get away from the house or to cooperate with the draft board, he joined the army. That was short-lived, and within six months, he was deemed “unfit for military service” and received a 4-F classification. I’m not clear whether he was disobedient or had a mental breakdown, but he never talked about it. On the rare occasions when I would bring it up, he would say in his low, gravelly, nasal voice, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Or, he would say, “I just didn’t want to be there.”

In any case, he wrapped himself in a cloak of mystery that he hoped would not be penetrated. Our friendship was more transactional than anything else. We played basketball.

Sometimes, he would come over for Hanukah and other family occasions, but neither Sara nor I could ever go beyond his cloak.

He was always “cool,” ahead of his time, especially when it came to music and art. He was into Dylan and Bowie well before they made it big. He was careful to share only what he wanted to share, which was usually about the many unfulfilled ideas and fantasies he had. These were elaborate schemes, developed in great detail “in his head,” but never took root nor were followed through to completion.

At one Hanukkah gathering in the late 1970s, with my sister and her girlfriend present, he made a joke and disparaging remark about a gift that my sister, Marta, bought for her girlfriend. Bee came out of the bathroom wearing the new black blouse, to which Hendon noted, “It looks more like a tablecloth than a blouse.”

Marta confronted him angrily while Bee’s lower lip quivered, ready to burst into tears.

75

“How can you be so rude and poke fun at someone else’s expense!”

He was both startled and hurt. In his mind he was simply having fun, but didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Since he lacked introspection, I suspect that he felt victimized and certainly blindsided by her remark. Instead of apologizing, he tried to deny and minimize the situation, simply making Marta that much angrier.

We did not hear from him for many months after that and he would make sure that Marta and Bee weren’t present whenever he did drop by. Over the next half a dozen years, he would come over to see our infant son, but then we lost track of him. For a while, we continued to invite him to family gatherings, but he wouldn’t show up. He could not pick up the nuances of social interaction, which doomed him to be misunderstood for the rest of his life. In fact, if it wasn’t for Leah, we wouldn’t know he was alive. I guess after that “unpleasant Hanukkah,” he was content to simply have a familial détente.

Though he wanted to be shrouded in mystery and mystique, a cloud of depression enveloped him. It was difficult for him to develop and maintain relationships, and he led a desolate and marginal life. His singularity was a self-imposed ghetto, within which he was cut off from people and his own emotions, and he bathed in a perennial stream of self-pity. He was easily angered and frustrated by circumstances and seemed to need constant validation. Within the family, he prioritized his issues over everyone else’s. The people he called friends were more like marionettes, collapsing when he was out of view and resuscitated back to life when he was in their presence. Perhaps they were attracted to him because they shared his fantasies and his emptiness, or they may have been profoundly damaged in some way themselves. Somewhat shy, it was his gentle innocence beneath the “cloak” and his spirit for life, his fantasy life that 76

carried him forward and made him attractive to his friends. And yet, this side of him was rarely seen.

At age 77, Hendon had lived in Atlantic City for over 25 years.

His knees blew out and he no longer worked as a house painter.

The food stamps and Medicaid could only take him so far and he needed to supplement his income in some other way. He liked Atlantic City, but like the City itself, his glory days had passed. In fact, he had two knee replacement procedures and bypass surgery, and except for his pouty lips, there was no physical resemblance to his twenty-five-year-old self. Instead of walking like a sleek panther, he now wobbled, the result of rheumatism and knee replacement surgery that had gone bad and other factors to which I was not privy. His mobility was further compromised by being overweight and bloated. The latter was most confounding because he was fastidious about his diet and was a vegetarian to boot. Ultimately, I am not sure what caused his death since no autopsy was done, but I assume his cardiac issues played a role.

I don’t know how Hendon got into gambling other than two complementary factors: his need for money and his attraction and aptitude for the gambling life. Living in Atlantic City might have inspired that, but it’s really a chicken-and-egg question.

Did he move to Atlantic City in order to be a stone’s throw from the casinos, or was it accidental? I suspect it was a little of both.

He could no longer hide the fact that he was getting older. His life wasn’t going anywhere and he hoped that a change of venue would revitalize his vision of life according to his fantasies.

Atlantic City, a weathered, sprawling port city, not only mirrored his spirit but afforded low rents. By the time he arrived, casinos like Resorts, Caesar’s, and Bally’s had been in business for fifteen-plus years and were popular hotel and gambling centers.

Was it the perceived glamour of the “joint” or the prospect of making or losing all those Benjamins that attracted him to the gaming tables? Or, conversely, being the focal point of all eyes or losing oneself in the game, which enticed him? Whatever the 77

reasons, a professional gambler’s life is a slow dance with the devil while your soul slips away.

Once or twice a year, Leah would visit Hendon, usually when she was visiting us for Thanksgiving. Leah, being the youngest sibling, always looked up to Hendon and was generally impressed by his plans and vision. When she saw him, they would shop together at thrift stores, travel to Philadelphia to visit art museums, and on occasion, ate in restaurants near his housing. Though they were in their sixties and seventies, it was a rare day when they didn’t argue. I’m not sure if it was sibling rivalry or simply two people with poor interpersonal and communication skills, but their feuds grew rather than diminished over time. I suspect, in those moments, ironically, they were closer than ever. Alert all, without insight, paradoxically, don’t we repeat what is familiar, even if it’s detrimental to us and our loved ones?

He chose poker because the stakes were high, it was a thinking man’s game, a challenge, and the art of bluffing was familiar to him. He was also very comfortable visualizing and remembering each player’s hand. By the year 2000, he was playing regularly in the World Poker Tour, Trump Classic, and a variety of Borgata tournaments. Not surprisingly, the purses he won, which at the beginning were no more than $500, grew to the $10,000-$20,000 range and once over $65,000. He was building momentum, had a small but growing number of followers, and, of course, amassed a good track record of winnings. As a result, PartyPoker sponsored him whenever he played online.

The buzz around him made him feel like the star of his dreams, but after a while, he became increasingly disenchanted. I never found out how much he lost, but I assume it was substantial, as he never gave up the Medicaid and food stamps he received monthly. About five years ago, we heard that he had written a manuscript about the art of gambling. A blend of a “how to” book and some esoteric ideas about gambling as an art form. He even 78

had an idea of using cheerleaders with pom poms to spout quotes by famous artists about the meaning of art. The cheerleaders reminded me of blonde Jane Mansfield prototypes who would walk around the boxing ring holding placards announcing the next round. I heard about the manuscript through Sara who learned about it from Leah. I subsequently learned that Hendon had talked at length to Leah about the manuscript, but in her retelling, all three of us were bewildered by what he was trying to say. More recently, I came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter whether I or anyone else understood what he meant or whether his manuscript would eventually be published. What was important was Hendon’s actual process of writing, of expressing his thoughts and feelings about the “art of gambling.” By actually writing down his ideas, he was able to combine all the elements of his fantasies: recognition, glamour, hard cash, intellectual curiosity, and an aesthetic vision. In other words, writing the manuscript became his vehicle for reflection in a way he could not process in other aspects of his life. Through his manuscript, he was the rock star that he visualized in his youth.

Two hours had passed, and sweating profusely, I brought down the last garbage bag filled with remnants from the apartment: basketball trading cards, broken dinner plates, pill containers, and so much more. As I heaved it into the dumpster, its deadweight and contents mirrored the experience of the day, strained my shoulders, and made me shudder. Except for the trophy room, the apartment was now empty and lacking in identity. We left in the same manner that we had arrived, relieved and disturbed by what we found. There was no time for mourning. We drove home in silence.

79

About the Author

Early in his life, Joseph Gosler realized that he enjoyed observing people and bearing witness by standing on the sidelines. He found writing the best medium to capture that vision. For fifty years, he worked in finance in K-12 independent schools. Four years ago, Joseph’s memoir, Searching for Home: The Impact of WWII on a Hidden Child, was published by Amsterdam Publishers. The introspection required in writing a memoir reawakened an interest in writing in him. His stories cover a variety of subjects and genres flavored by his life experience. www.joegosler.com/books.

Survival/Overcoming Adversity WINNER ($75): • Exit, Atlantic City by joseph gosler

FINALISTS: • Black Mountain by Shilo Creed • Cielito by Matthew Brady • Whale Song by Nick Jans

80

BIPOC

Hope for the Free

by Niquita Utrera My name is Evie, and I guess you can say that I’m on my deathbed. I know I don’t have too many more days left here on God’s green earth and it all has made me start to think back over my life. I’ve had to navigate through so many things in the last ninety-two years. That’s a long time and now that I think about it, it feels like I’ve had enough living for three lifetimes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made the best out of what was given to me and there have been a lot of wonderful moments, but there were times that I didn’t know if I could bear it all. I’m here to tell you that there are some experiences that are impossible to heal from. You can try to bury them and move on, but your eyes can’t unsee certain things and your heart will always ache. As I reflect over my life, a lot of those times are unearthing themselves from the depths of my memories. It’s tough to let myself relive those moments, but maybe it’ll be beneficial for the one reading this to know what true strength can be like and how it can keep you from giving up. The world is so different now in 1935 than it was when I was a young girl. Being born into slavery isn’t an easy thing to talk about, but after being free for almost seventy years, I’ve realized that you have to look back at the bondage to appreciate the freedom.

81

As a house slave on the well-known Darbonne family plantation in New Orleans, my life was pretty mundane. I know that may seem like a strange thing to say, but I did the same thing every single day. I got up early and worked until it was time for bed and then I did it all over and over again. I have no memory of any relatives, which was very common for someone in my position, so I just kept to myself. My master was a kind man, but Lord knows he was bad at the business side of things. I’ll never know how he managed to make it into old age as a wealthy man.

His weaknesses were gambling and sleeping with the girls who worked in the house whenever he wanted to. I was lucky because he never came creeping over to my bed. Of course, there was never a chance that he would because my caramel complexion wasn’t light enough for him, which was fine by me. All of the other girls were so light that you could only tell by their hair that they had any African blood in them. I always hated how that light skin made them act like they were too good to do any real work. I had to do the hardest and dirtiest jobs while they got to lounge around. The craziest thing is that they were more cruel to me than our owner. I can’t tell you how many times they would wait for me to finish cleaning something and then they would go and tear it up right after I walked away. These girls would tease me endlessly about my “dark” skin and laugh as they flaunted their little gifts that they had received on a regular basis. I knew exactly what they had to do to get treated the way they did and I didn’t envy them one bit. It wasn’t worth it to me and I wouldn’t have traded places with them for anything. They stuck together like glue and they took advantage of the fact that I was on my own. Even now, I still can’t figure out why they thought they were better than me when they were counted as property just as much as I was. A slave is a slave.

While they were busy shamelessly being the master’s concubines, I fell in love with the coachman. His name was Joseph. Lord, he made me feel like nothing I had ever felt before.

82

He had deep brown skin and long curly hair that he kept tied back. I was young then, so I will admit that the first time we met, I was very mean to him. I wasn’t used to anyone being nice to me and I didn’t believe him when he said I was pretty. Up to that point, I was usually ignored or treated like a dog, but he would smile at me and try to make small talk. After a few months, he would bring me little trinkets, and then I noticed that he would try to wait around for me at certain times of the day when he knew I would be in the kitchen. My plan was to keep ignoring him, but he was so kind and handsome that I couldn’t help but stare at him. It didn’t take long for Joseph to wear me down and I started to look forward to seeing him. It all began with stolen kisses here and there and then it turned into sneaking off and getting together whenever there was an opportunity. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Every time I was with Joseph, he made me forget about everything else. I could just be Evie, not the quiet girl who had no life and belonged to a house. Being in love for the first time was unexpected but he was the best thing about my life at that time. Eventually, all that sneaking around caught up with me and I ended up with a baby in my belly. I was nervous about it, but Joseph was excited about being a father.

Around that same time, my owner had been on one of his gambling sprees, and he needed to pay off his debt quickly before word got out, so he decided to sell off some of his property. He sold two field hands and my Joseph. I didn’t even realize what was going to happen when they left that day. I thought they were just going out for an errand. I almost fell out when I saw that the wagon had returned without him. My whole world was shattered in a hundred little pieces. There’s no way I could’ve known what was going to happen that day, but I still regret that I didn’t even get to say goodbye. If I had known that I would never see or hear from him again, I would’ve held him for a little longer or gotten one more kiss. I was heartbroken that the man I loved was gone forever and that my child would never know his father. Deep 83

down I knew that it was a mistake to ever believe that we had a chance of being a real family. I was a slave. I didn’t have the luxury of having hope for any other kind of life. That was the day that I learned that love and happiness were only for the free.

When it was time to have the baby, I went down to the slave quarters where all the field hands were kept because those snotty girls in the house wouldn’t help me and I knew I couldn’t do it alone. That night, those kind women helped me deliver a beautiful, chocolate-brown baby boy. I named him Samson because I’ve always liked that bible story. I liked that Samson used his strength and his wits to fight off his enemies and I wanted my son to have those qualities. The day of my Samson’s birth was the best and the worst day of my life. For the first time in my life, I was able to feel what genuine unconditional love was like. I was immediately ready to do anything and everything for him when they put that beautiful baby boy in my arms and he looked into my eyes. My heart melted and I was filled with joy. Tragically, that joy quickly faded when I became aware of my surroundings and remembered that I had no control over what happened to him. Terror filled me as I thought about how he could be sold and taken away from me forever in the blink of an eye, just like his father had been. Samson was not really mine. He belonged to my master. That night, I sobbed and sobbed until there was nothing left in me. The next day, I decided that I would dry my eyes and make the most of the time we had together because the future was so unsure. From that day on, he was always by my side. I never let him out of my sight.

The next two years went by with no major events. I was back to the same mundane life every single day. Although, now that I think about it, maybe some things happened, I just didn’t care enough. I had my baby boy and that was all that mattered to me.

I still had to do all of the grunt work around the house, but that was my life and I had accepted it. Then came a fateful morning in the spring when Samson was three years old. I was told not 84

to do my chores but to get cleaned up because I was going out on a wagon ride. I’ll never forget how my heart started racing and I felt like I couldn’t breathe as the dread set in. It felt like my muscles had turned to jelly and I sank to the floor. I knew from experience that whenever someone left in the wagon, they never came back. It was the day that I had feared the most, the day that my son and I would be up for sale at an auction. My mind started racing. I thought about how I could try to run away, but I knew that there wasn’t enough time. I looked over at Samson sleeping peacefully and I couldn’t help but weep. I knew that I was probably spending my last couple of hours with him before we were sold to different owners. I had accepted the fact that I had no freedom, but the thought of being separated from my one and only child was unbearable. I was numb inside because I knew that there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop what was about to happen.

Then my tears dried up. There was no use in crying. I had to be strong for the both of us.

I woke him up and got us both dressed and ready to go. He was still so young, which meant he had no idea how ominous it was to see the master waiting in the wagon for us. I held his little hand and walked steadily down the path, away from the only home I ever knew. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone and I didn’t look back. It’s not like any of them ever cared for me or my son in that house. The other house slaves ignored my existence and I didn’t have any family to miss. The only reason I was so sad to leave was because I knew that there was a chance that I could end up with a cruel or violent master. I had never been slapped or whipped before and I was terrified about where I would be sent to.

We rode silently along the road for a while and I just stared out into the distance. I knew that the real reason he was selling me was because he had gotten too far into a gambling debt again and he needed some quick money to keep one of the men off of 85

his back. It was well known around the plantation that he never sold any of the slaves that he was sleeping with or any of the children that came from that. Naturally, that meant that Samson and I were on the chopping block. As we journeyed on in silence, I tried with all my might to convince myself that a nice man would buy Samson along with me and keep us together so that we would never have to be in danger of being separated at an auction ever again. For one moment, I tried to pretend that hope wasn’t only for the free.

When we arrived at that terrible place, I could feel a scream bubbling up in me and everything in me was telling me to take off running, but I held my composure. I tried my best to stay calm for the sake of Samson. Immediately, I felt myself being dragged over to a large tree stump and told to stand on it. I felt so exposed and helpless standing up there on display. There are no words to truly describe the indignity of being up for sale. The thing that I had feared the most was happening right before my eyes. I can say that only the grace of God and the worry about what would happen to my son kept me from dropping dead right then and there. No human should ever have to endure something that was meant for animals.

There was a little boy on the stump next to me, and I watched in horror as all of the men inspected him like he was cattle.

They grabbed his jaw and forced his mouth open, they lifted his shirt up and poked him, and they crudely discussed what they intended to use him for. The little boy just stood there with a face like stone. I admired his bravery, but I had to look away because my courage was slowly fading away. I clutched Samson so tightly that I was afraid he would suffocate. When they were done with the little boy, a small crowd started to close in on me, and I held my breath until I thought I would faint. One of them told me to put my baby down so that he could get a good look at me, but I just stood there, frozen. The closer they got to me, the more panic gripped me. In desperation, I suddenly came out of my 86

stupor and pleaded with them to buy my baby along with me.

I screamed that I could not live without him. One of them told me to shut my mouth and another man said that I might be a handful. He told the small crowd that he had separated a mother and child before and how big of a headache it was for him. He said that she did nothing but mope around. She was so brokenhearted that she was worthless, and she eventually drowned herself in the river. He told them that he lost a thousand dollars and that he would never waste his money on a useless creature like that ever again. He glared at me with so much contempt in his eyes that I had to squeeze my eyes shut until I heard him walk away. When I thought it was over, I breathed a sigh of relief.

However, when I looked up, I was surprised to see a man with a cane and cool blue eyes trying to examine Samson. I snatched my son’s hand and tried to hide him behind my back. My body started to tremble as I heard the auctioneer start the bidding for me. He said that my name was Evie and that I was about twenty years old (I had never known my age until that moment) and that I had come from the notable Darbonne family, where I did all of the heavy housework. Once the bidding actually started, I didn’t hear anything else. I blocked everything out. I just wanted it to be over with. I knew that I was only seconds away from having my child ripped right out of my life forever.

The next thing I knew, I was being shoved off of the tree stump and over to the man with the cane and the cool blue eyes.

When I got over to him, I began to cry and let go of Samson’s hand. Unexpectedly, he told me that it wasn’t necessary because he had paid for both of us. I was stunned. I was set on ending my life the first chance I got, but this man’s words had filled my heart with overwhelming joy. My son was my everything and I knew that I could not survive one day without him and I guess he knew that too. That was the only time in my entire life that I had ever looked at a White man straight in his eyes. I couldn’t hold it in any longer and I dropped to my knees and thanked him over 87

and over. With a flat tone, he told me that it would be the only act of kindness that he would ever show to me. He said that it wasn’t right to separate a mother from her child, but that he had paid good money for us and he intended to work us just like any of his other property. I could tell that he meant business, unlike my previous master. I knew that I was going to have a tougher life, but I didn’t care because I was so happy that I got to keep my baby.

All of the joy and relief in that moment was the only thing that got me through what was to be the worst part of my life. I quickly found out that my new master meant it when he said that I would only get one act of kindness from him. He was a harsh man and it was only because of Samson that I was able to endure all the terrible things that happened at that plantation.

The day I went up at the auction was a terrifying experience for me, but what I went through with my new master is something that I can’t ever put into words. I didn’t know that human beings could be so vile and evil until I arrived there. I saw horrific acts of torture and unimaginable suffering. Death was always looming around that place and sometimes I can’t believe that I made it out myself. Even after all this time, it’s so hard to let my mind go back to those memories. I’ve seen what can happen to a person who allows themselves to be haunted by those times and it consumes them. The burden is heavy for those who have been enslaved, for some, even freedom doesn’t lighten the load. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve only been able to survive this long because I keep all of that locked away.

Because of God’s grace and mercy, we only had to endure four years in that wicked place. The war came and went, leaving the plantation ravaged and desolate. I have to admit that it felt so good seeing everything tattered and destroyed, but I honestly didn’t have too much time to dwell on that because I left the first chance I got. Some people hung around because they had nowhere else to go, but neither did I. None of that mattered to me 88

because I was finally free. Even after all this time, it still makes me weep thinking about that moment. Knowing that I could come and go as I pleased, that I could make my own decisions and that no one could ever take my son away from me. I was finally able to have my own thoughts and be able to have hope. There was and never will be a greater feeling than that when all I had ever known was oppression. Nothing was going to stop me from leaving New Orleans and never looking back. I still remember the day I grabbed Samson’s hand and we walked right off of that plantation together. We didn’t have anything but the clothes on our backs, but we kept walking. I didn’t know where we were going or have a plan, but we kept walking. Don’t get me wrong, leaving didn’t give us a fairy tale ending. It was rough out there in a country that refused to treat us as equals, but my son and I were free and that is what made it all worth it. I would never have to endure another slave auction or feel the gripping fear that my son may be snatched away from me ever again. We had no owner and we could be the masters of our own fate. It was frightening to be out on our own, but I have absolutely no regrets. To know that my grandchildren and their grandchildren would never have to experience the terrible heartache and cruelty that I had to endure was enough to keep me going.

It still amazes me to have witnessed how far not only my family but our people have come. Now that I know it pays to hope, I can’t help but hope that we go even further. I would like for this letter to stay in the family and to be passed down from generation to generation. I think it’s important for the kids to appreciate the kind of life they get to live. There’s still so much more work to be done for us to be treated fairly in this country, there’s no question about that, but I think my story will benefit them. Hopefully, it can help keep them grounded and maybe even motivated to endure whatever is thrown at them no matter what.

Never give up hope and never take your freedom for granted. To be able to live like a human and flourish the way God intended 89

and not be seen as interchangeable property is something that we should all cherish with all that is inside of us. Do whatever you can to hold on to it and thrive in it. Never give up hope, it was meant for all of us.

About the Author

Niquita Utrera is proud to be a self-published author. Her passion is writing about the variety of triumphs and tribulations that make up the experience of womanhood and considers it a bonus to be able to do so through the lens of a person of color.

She believes that representation matters and looks forward to creating more stories for women to see themselves in.

BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People Of Color) WINNERS ($75): TIE • Hope for the Free by Niquita Utrera • Smoke by Helen Delaney

FINALISTS: • A Father's Son by Sandeep Kumar Mishra • More Than One Way to Skin a Cat by Billie Holladay Skelley • Vigilantes Oscuros by Scott Russell Duncan

90

Romance

Love Line

by Lia Hagen “My daughter thinks I should stop coming here,” Cindy said, her frizzy curls dampened by the rain. April stepped wordlessly out of the doorway, away from the heady scent of syrup that clung to Cindy after her morning shift at the diner. Pushing past her, Cindy entered the dim storefront. Her fogged glasses caught the light of April’s plastic candles. There were rows of them on every surface, each set to “flicker” mode, though only half worked. Even those seemed in danger of shutting off, their bulbs struggling to recover from each flash of darkness.

Cindy ignored her usual seat, a velvet armchair whose cushion she had patched herself, and strode towards the shelf of dollar store trinkets. April was embarrassed by the plaster Buddhas with their misshapen heads, but her customers expected them.

Picking up an affirmation stone, Cindy squinted at it. She was a pale, plump woman who’d long stopped giving away her age, the kind of waitress who called all her customers “sugar.” It was only with April that she allowed her pretty face to pinch.

For her part, April wasn’t sure why Cindy expected her to be surprised. Her daughter Gabby had hated psychics since their first reading when Cindy had arrived at the strip mall with a baby balanced on her hip. It had been clear to April then that 91

they’d both been crying, the daughter snotting, her mother’s eyes raccooned by heavy eyeliner. Still, Cindy had gathered herself enough to wipe Gabby’s face and leave her on the faux Turkish carpet. April’s clients rarely waited for her to speak, but Cindy had stared at the menu of offerings until April had been forced to ask what she was looking for. Once a single card reading was decided on, Cindy went quiet again, her eyes fixed on April’s cheap rings as she shuffled the tarot deck.

When April prodded her, Cindy admitted that she was waiting for the universe’s direction. April admired her restraint, though it was difficult to tailor a reading to a woman who gave nothing away. April was the same way around strangers, a trait ill-suited for a string of sh**y jobs and worse relationships. It had taken until her thirties to discover that it worked for her here, in this dark room where her wordlessness was interpreted as wisdom. Her clients had been taught by their televisions to expect the silent Chinese sage, and her memorized explanations of each card were taken as secrets from the universe. The rest they filled in themselves.

Later, she’d realize that Cindy hadn’t wanted secrets. Recently divorced, she’d had enough of them. On the floor, Gabby wailed, and Cindy cooed at her without taking her eyes off the cards, studying the identical backs like they could reveal their meaning.

April laid out her choice. It was the Ace of Cups, a sure-fire sign of new love and a guaranteed tip. April focused her explanation on that angle, but Cindy only listened to the expertly delivered platitudes, her narrowed eyes fixed on the illustration. April had recognized the hunger in her face and the hardness too.

She’d never expected to see the woman again, but Cindy had shown up the next week with teething toys to keep Gabby quiet. For weeks, they’d spoken only of the baby and the cards, Gabby drooling on April’s shoulder as she explained each suit and showed Cindy the different spreads. Slowly, Cindy revealed 92

herself. She loved medical dramas and white wine with two ice cubes. Her father was dead. Her ex-husband had cheated. Still, her worst thoughts were dedicated to customers who chewed with their mouths open. With Cindy, April found it easy to go off script.

Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, Gabby had read increasingly lengthy books, old enough to be embarrassed by her mother’s earnestness. She was in middle school when Cindy finally agreed to let her stay home alone. Cindy loved the craft in a way April never had, and the two of them worked through every type of reading — tarot, tea, palms, astrology, numerology, and that thing where you illustrated your own aura. April couldn’t believe she’d ever thought of Cindy as a quiet person. Cindy, who had once torn Gabby’s principal a new one because he’d said her skirt was too short. Cindy, who’d recapped over 400 episodes of Grey’s Anatomy in almost two decades of weekend appointments.

That was the Cindy that Gabby knew and resented. It never occurred to her that her mother might need anything that her weekly appointments with April might pay more than they cost. Faced with decades of phantom presents, Gabby resisted every cent spent on her mother’s so-called psychic obsession.

Overwhelmed by her opposition, Cindy had rescheduled their standing appointment to Saturday at noon when Gabby was at her college prep course. In the cloistered shop, it took on the quality of a clandestine meeting. April had boarded off the front window rather than risk it being broken in again, and the only light came from the electric candles she’d bought five years earlier.

There was a smaller, barred window in the back, but Cindy had never seen it. April had curtained it off and laid her mattress there, saving the sunlight for herself.

April’s favorite chair was placed against the curtain, and she sank into it, ready to hear why Cindy had worked herself into a lather. It was best to let her argue with herself. Once she came to her senses, she’d credit April for all her best conclusions anyway.

93

But Cindy only traded her affirmation stone for a chunk of rose quartz, rolling the rough edges along her fingers. Eventually, April cleared her throat.

“How’d Gabby find out?”

“She guessed.” Cindy’s smile was humorless. “Apparently, my tips weren’t adding up.”

“Since when does she decide what you do with your money?”

“Since she got smarter than me.”

“She’s not,” April said. Cindy was smart. She’d helped April get out of her lease when her landlord got aggressive, and she’d taught her to pirate her favorite reality romance shows. April hated every couple, but she liked talking about them with Cindy, who was always convinced they’d last. “She thinks ‘cause she’s going to a college that costs more than a house, she’s worth more than the mom who put a roof over her head.”

Cindy clicked her tongue, setting the quartz back on the shelf. She stepped towards the two armchairs, united by the end table between them. On its surface was a plastic candle, its bulb struggling to stay lit. “Have you ever had a reading?”

April tilted her chin to meet Cindy’s eyes. “Yes,” she said. Her first and only psychic had been one of her mother’s drinking buddies, an older woman named Mickey, who’d worn beads in her heavy hair. She used to hold court in their living room, captivating the town’s wayward women with stories of their next husbands. April had always rolled her eyes, but Mickey was the only woman she’d ever seen her mother listen to.

Stepping towards her, Cindy crossed her arms. “When?”

“Years ago.” Before April had moved to Omaha, Mickey had insisted on a full tarot spread.

She’d claimed every card predicted happiness, even when they both knew they didn’t.

Cindy sank into her armchair, inches from April’s. “Why so long?”

94

“No one else has offered.”

Cindy put her hand on the table, palm up. “Let me.”

“But—” “I know how. I saw a Facebook video.”

“Alright,” April said, managing a smile. “Will I have to pay you?”

Cindy only wiggled her fingers, and April swallowed. She’d always hated palm readings.

Someone else’s sweaty hand in hers, the useless lines that crinkled and collapsed into each other. Everyone was an amateur palm reader these days, and she struggled to keep up with their inane questions.

But Cindy’s hand was dry and warm, and she watched April’s palm with a concentration she reserved for her own readings.

April stared at Cindy’s downturned eyes and the smooth curve of her broad nose. She remembered Mickey’s smile and sweeping hands, completely unselfconscious. Mickey was “tuned in.” She had a direct connection to the universe, and she’d used it to read the auras of women at the local bar. April had always envied her clarity.

Grazing April’s lifeline with her acrylic nail, Cindy took her bottom lip between her teeth. Between them, the plastic candle blinked, and the corner went dark. When it came to life again, Cindy’s loose hair left shadows along her cheeks.

“Your lifeline’s long,” she said, but her voice was short. “And it’s all broken up, especially at the beginning.”

“Uh-huh,” April said, her eyes on the spot where their shared hands lay.

“That means trouble.”

April nodded. Huffing, Cindy pressed her nail into her palm.

“You’re supposed to talk more. Isn’t that what you make me do?

Talk?”

“No one needs to make you talk,” April said, wishing she hadn’t sounded so sour. She recognized Gabby’s words in her 95

mother’s mouth, but it still stung like Cindy’d thought them up herself. “Being a psychic’s not a solo career. You know that.”

“So work with me.” Cindy’s nail dug into the soft skin of April’s palm over her branching lifeline. “Why’s it broken?”

“You know.” April was sure she’d mentioned her mother.

She must’ve said something when Cindy’d talked about hers, something about the long nights she’d spent alone, hoping her mother would be home soon enough for April to steal some lunch money from her wallet.

“I don’t,” Cindy said. Her fingernail carved a line to the top of April’s palm. “Your love line’s shallow.”

“At first,” April agreed. It started far beneath her fingers, but it sloped towards them as it went. “It gets deeper.”

The pad of Cindy’s pointer finger sank onto April’s hand, skin on skin. “Was there ever anybody in your life?” April could’ve sworn she felt her fingerprints. “Were you married?

Divorced? Did you want kids? Did they?”

“No,” April said.

“No to what?”

“To everything.”

“Jesus.” Cindy pulled her hand back, scrubbing it over her eyes. “Do you even believe any of the sh** you spew?”

“Yes,” April said. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Cindy repeated in the tone she reserved for celebrity cheating scandals.

“Seventeen years, and she says sometimes.”

“The world’s ninety percent bullsh**,” April said. “Sometimes is not bad.”

“But you were lying.”

“No,” April said. She’d never said anything that couldn’t be true. “No, I just—” Cindy stood, and April reached for her, her hand sweeping through the air before she knew what she was doing. Her fingers 96

closed around Cindy’s wrist, and the plastic candle guttered out on the end table.

Breath catching, Cindy stopped. April could see her silhouette, those thick curls, the hunched lines of her shoulders, her sloping stomach. The only light in the room was the thin strip of daylight under the back curtain.

April’s eyes flicked to their joined hands, and she pulled Cindy forward. Cindy nearly collapsed into her, grabbing the arms of the chair to steady herself. Her neck hovered above April’s face, and April couldn’t help it, she tilted her head up, burying her nose in that soft space where neck met shoulder, catching the sugared scent of syrup. Her breath beat across Cindy’s skin, and goosebumps followed April’s path as she turned her head, her nose sliding towards Cindy’s jaw. Swallowing, Cindy dipped her chin. Her mouth fell open, inches from April’s own.

When April spoke, her voice shook. “Ninety percent bullsh** still leaves 10 percent real.”

Cindy’s eyes crinkled, and she was kissing her, soft lips only half-meeting in their earnestness, mouths colliding with chins, correcting, finding their way in the dusk, the softest shadows they’d ever seen. Cindy’s hands settled on April’s shoulders. April let go of her wrist, cupping her cheeks instead. When Cindy pulled away, she turned to kiss April’s palm.

“I don’t want any more readings,” she said.

April nodded, near invisible. “Alright.”

Cindy reached for her hand, and they walked together into the back room, towards the light.

About the Author

Lia Hagen is a terminally optimistic writer from Omaha, Nebraska. Her work has been previously published by The Minetta Review and Button Poetry. She was a Jefferson Hall Fellow and a finalist for New York City’s Youth Poet Laureate.

97

Romance

WINNER ($75): • Love Line by Lia Hagen FINALISTS: • Charlie Myer by Sarah Blinn • Lost and Found by Fran Scannell • No Wrong Answer by Alvin Lin

98

General Fiction

Mr. Bandersnatch

by Liza Martini If you were ever pixilated enough to pursue a certain provincial pathway, you would have promptly found yourself in the quaint town of Parish. Parish proper nestled pleasantly near a large placid bay at the foot of a prodigious palisade. You might have thought it preposterous that the people of Parish believed in the importance of P’s & Q’s and minded them with quotidian regularity. But after a closer look, you would find that they were never parsimonious nor profane; Propriety, prudence, and piousness were pronounced by their Grand Pooh-Bah, Mayor Quell, to be prized at all times.

The next thing you would notice is that it was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else, and they continually helped one another in a quid pro quo fashion. If you lost your pet, your neighbor helped you find him. If you were feeling puny, someone was quick to bring you a nice quahog soup. To be sure, if you did something too quirky, you could count on your friend’s mom to tell your parents about it. All in all, the townspeople of Parish could be pragmatic but pleasant to live with. Everyone liked everyone else. Everyone, that is, except Mr. Bandersnatch.

Mr. Bandersnatch was liked by no one, and as far as anyone could tell, he liked nobody.

99

That is what he would tell you if you could get close enough to ask, but of course, no one could. His tall, peduncular body supported a head spiked with a quintet of porcupine quills. His beard provided a pelt for the parasites.

He had a disquieting appearance. When Mr. Bandersnatch walked to town, dogs would quiver, babies would quake, and parents would quail as he grimaced and said rude things to them as they passed. A most unpleasant person, he never said “please” or “thank you.” Nor had he ever the pretense to say, “you’re welcome.”

When Mr. Bandersnatch went to the theater, he often cut in front of others in queue. Once inside, he rattled his candy wrappers loudly in the quiet places and threw popcorn at people during the exciting parts. Of course, he would pretend to be innocent of the deed, but everyone knew. They all KNEW. You could say that Mr. Bandersnatch was an extremely pugnacious fellow, and whenever they left the house, all children were reminded to “Stay clear of that pesky Bandersnatch!”

One day after school, young Ben Phrankly, who had the misfortune of being Mr. Bandersnatch’s neighbor, was walking to the library to prepare for a quiz on quadratic equations. He watched helplessly as Mr. Bandersnatch drove his polluting old Packard up to the curb and tossed his library books out. This was how he ALWAYS returned his library books and it threw Ms. Tomeworthy, the librarian, into a quandary! She would lean out of the window by her desk and cry out after him: “I’ll have a word with you, Mr. Bandersnatch!” But Mr. Bandersnatch would peevishly press the gas pedal, causing the Packard to let off crude POPPOP-POPPING noises, leaving everyone in a plume of palpable pollution. Ben Phrankly gathered the books and brought them to Ms. Tomeworthy, who muttered something about the puerile behavior of SOME people.

Ben Phrankly did not like to see the normally kind librarian so upset. He could not understand how Mr. Bandersnatch could 100

be so perverse. “And a grown man!” he thought. “How could he think it funny to make babies quake, dogs quiver, and grownups quail? Why did he feel the need to ruin a good movie?” Ben queried himself. “Where were this man’s polite manners?”

Then, one tranquil Tuesday evening, Ben Phrankly was walking home from ping-pong practice. As he passed Mr. Bandersnatch’s house, he noticed his neighbor standing on his porch. This was very unusual, you see because Mr. Bandersnatch was not enjoying the pretty sunset nor the quickening air. No, he was penuriously refusing a little milk and provender to a lost kitten that haplessly found its way to his door. “Push off!” he yelled, waving his arms. “Do I look like your mother?”

Standing there on the sidewalk, Ben Phrankly shook his head perplexedly.

Mr. Bandersnatch saw Ben standing there shaking his head: “What do YOU want, half-pint?” he bellowed, bearing down on him with a grimace.

Now, Ben Phrankly refused to quiver, could not be made to quake, and no one ever called him a quitter. Bearing the propinquity of Mr. Bandersnatch’s unpleasant countenance and the even more unpleasant breath, he bravely (but respectfully) stated, “I’m NOT a half pint – I’m your neighbor, Ben Phrankly.”

“Frankly, I don’t care who ya are. You’re blocking my view!”

Mr. Bandersnatch quipped rudely and waved his arms some more. Of course, there was no view, only Philistine’s Scrap & Salvage, a junkyard concern that belonged to him.

Ben Phrankly felt a little queasy at the paronomasia made of his name. He continued once again in the direction of home, shaking his head sadly, and tried not to think of the word, Poot.

But just when Mr. Bandersnatch turned to go up his front steps, he got tripped up on the mires of wires that spilled over from the salvage business into his front yard. Mr. Bandersnatch toppled over like a cracked pilaster. “Ouch!” he cried. “My arm!

I broke my arm!”

101

Ben Phrankly looked back over his shoulder at Mr. Bandersnatch writhing in pain on a pile of wire and old hub caps.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. But then he remembered a quote from his mother: “For quandary or predicament, inform a parent promptly!” Ben Phrankly ran home and found a parent quaffing coffee and poring over important papers.

“Pop!” he yawped, “Mr. Bandersnatch fell and broke his arm!”

Mr. Phrankly perked up with a look of pique on his face as he considered this report. But a moment later, Mr. Phrankly, Mrs. Phrankly, and Ben Phrankly ran out of the door and pelted across the property.

Poor Mr. Bandersnatch, who was now hopelessly tangled in a quagmire of wire, sat cradling his arm in pain. As Mr. Phrankly worked to untangle the wire, Mrs. Phrankly phoned for the ambulance. As for Ben Phrankly, he was able to clear a path to the porch so they could help Mr. Bandersnatch into a chair, such as it was.

The ambulance came with a wail and left with a whine. They took the broken Bandersnatch to the hospital, where they put pins in his arm and plastered on a cast.

All patched and repaired, Mr. Bandersnatch sat in the waiting room and wondered how on EARTH he would get home. But the next minute, Mr. Phrankly and Ben pulled up to the Patient Loading & Unloading Zone in their periwinkle Prius. Nurse Prickle (happy to be rid of him) pushed Mr. Bandersnatch’s wheelchair out and quickly packed her parcel into the Prius.

Mr. Bandersnatch sat in the backseat. He knew he should say something, but the words would not present themselves. They drove in silence until, nearly home, from the back of the car came a hoarsely spoken, “Uh. . . th-th-tha-a-a-nks? Phrankly.” To say that the word rolled off his tongue would be a prevarication.

In fact, the word “Thanks” had never been found in his mouth before, and it made a kind of unpleasant, pinched sound in the 102

listener’s ear.

“No problem, Bandersnatch,” said Ben’s papa. “What are neighbors for?”

Mr. Bandersnatch pondered the strange query– scouring his brain for an answer.

Before too long the people of Parish came to hear of this unfortunate pickle, and they were quick to pitch in. Some brought food, some pruned plants, and some even attempted to organize scrap piles, but soon realized it was past all prospect.

Mr. Bandersnatch didn’t know what to say in the face of such persistent philanthropy. First, he tried to tell everyone to push off. But unable to quash such an outpouring, he found he was enjoying all the attention – especially the palatable provisions!

When the time came for the pins to come out and the plaster cast to come off, Mr. Bandersnatch was a somewhat changed man. Now, when he met people on the street, he would attempt to say something nice – rather pathetically at first, but these efforts improved with practice. When he smiled at babies, they still quaked, but they weren’t sure why – proclivity perhaps.

Remarkably, Mr. Bandersnatch found himself looking for ways to contribute to the welfare of the little parish. He started a food drive for the poor. He helped neighbors find their lost pets.

He brought CO-hog soup to the sick, though it left a lot to be desired, but his pandowdy took the prize! And to the pleasure of Ms. Tomeworthy, he placed his library books IN the book drop.

He now behaved himself at the movies, though he might have an occasional relapse during the exciting scenes. His manners improved tremendously. He remembered to say please and thank you, and on some occasions, he was now heard to say, “You’re welcome!” Why, he even adopted that little pitiable kitten and named him Pip. It could never be said that the people in Parish were a lot of quidnuncs, but it had been whispered over the years that Mr. Bandersnatch had had a very problematical upbringing. It 103

seemed his parents, both zoologists, had been studying the Papio Cynocephalus, or Yellow Baboon, in the south of Africa between the Limpopo and Zambezi rivers.

One disastrous day, a quarrel arose between competing troops of baboons, and the two zoologists met with a terrible fate when they tried to intervene, leaving young Bandersnatch alone. The family had become quite familiar to the baboons, and very soon after the incident a kind mother took the orphan into her family. But as baboons climb trees and travel around a lot, the young boy was not able to keep up and fell between the cracks, as it were. That’s when some missionaries found him.

They took care of him while they arranged to have him sent by boat to an orphanage in Papua New Guinea. However, the ship, starting its journey in the unpredictable waters of the Cape of Good Hope, was blown instead up into the Atlantic Ocean rather than its intended course across the Indian Ocean. They landed eventually in Portugal.

Not having anyone there to greet him, he was quickly befriended by some gypsies making their way back to Yugoslavia.

He traveled with them for a few years, but alas, they became separated in some confusion or other. As luck would have it young Bandersnatch ran into a circus traveling to the next town, and he was then taken in and raised by a couple of clowns.

The circus enjoyed a quantum of success as it traveled here and abroad, but by the time the opening spectacle paraded off the boat and into the peaceful precinct of Parish Proper, Mr. Bandersnatch grew tired of the peripatetic life. He’d had his fill of baboons, gypsies, and clowns. In his quest for a quieter existence, he somehow managed to befriend the aging proprietor of a salvage business (no one can remember his name) and put down some roots, such as they were.

It was all so far in the past that no one could really be sure of all the particulars.

104

From the baboons, he gained some rather quixotic foraging habits. The gypsies taught him the art of pluck, and from the clowns, he was taught to always play the Punchinello. Sadly, he was not with the missionaries long enough to do him good. All through the pandemonium of his childhood years no one had thought to teach Mr. Bandersnatch polite manners, so he had remained somewhat of a pariah most of his life. Until now, that is. He finally had the benefit of seeing kindness, charity, and polite manners in action, and he found himself quickened to the plight of his fellow human. He now thought to perpend the circumstances that had brought him through many perils to a place such as Parish.

As if to make up for lost time, Mr. Bandersnatch became a quintessential paradigm of proper politeness, though his appearance remained unchanged. People now fondly referred to him as Old Mr. B. in recognition of this transformation. Mr. B. still makes babies quake and dogs quiver with his quirky quills and questionable hygiene, but it’s unintentional. Everyone seems to understand and continues to show patience. Mr. B. now lives out these golden years practicing good deeds in a quotidian fashion, minding his P’s and Q’s.

So before you depart on that provincial pathway, look back once more to that prodigious palisade that reflects from the large placid bay. And if you had the pleasure of his peculiar acquaintance, you would now perceive why Mr. Bandersnatch remains an important person in that quaint little town of Parish.

The End

105

Glossary: (GLAH-seh-ree): definitions of tough words and things Bandersnatch (BAN-der-snatch): a rude or outrageous person, a nuisance Palatable Provisions (PAL-ah-table Pro-VI-shuns): tasty food Palpable (PAL-pa-ble): that which can be touched or felt, though you might not want to Pandemonium (Pan-dah-MON-i-um): chaos or mayhem; mixed-up Pandowdy (Pan-DOW-dee): a yummy kind of apple pastry Paradigm (Pair-a-dime): paragon, beau ideal, or shining example Pariah (Par-I-ah): an outcast or untouchable person Paronomasia (Pear-on-o-May-zia): a pun, or a word that may have two meanings Parsimonious (Par-suh-MON-ious): stingy tightwad Peduncular (Ped-UNC-yoo-lar): a narrow stalk that supports something like a flower or a tumor Pelt (PELT): a thick fur; also, to rush or hurry (this is why words can be tricky!)

Penurious (Pen-YUR-ee-us): someone who never gives to charity Peripatetic (Pear-uh-puh-TEH-tic): always moving around; pacing Perpend (Per-PEND): consider carefully; an idea passing through a very thick skull Perplexedly (Per-PLEX-ed-ly): confused; puzzled; stymied Philanthropy (Fi-LAN-thruh-pee): good works and deeds Pique (PEEK): curiosity or keen interest Pixilated (PIK-sa-lated): lost; led astray by pixie fairies Placid (PLAH-sid): peaceful, like a still lake, pond, or bay Plight (PLYTE): a bad state of affairs Pluck (PLUCK): to swindle, or, to have courage (again, two very different meanings!)

Pragmatic (Prag-MAT-ick): a very practical point of view -boring, even!

106

Prevarication (Pre-ver-i-KAY-shun): a bald-faced lie Proclivity (Pro-CLIV-ity): to prefer or like something, maybe too much Prodigious (Pro-DI-gious): a sight that makes your jaw drop open in amazement!

Profane (Pro-FAYNE): vile, vulgar, or obscene; very, very bad Propinquity (Pro-PIN-kwity): the nearness of you when you sit so close to me Provender (PRAH-ven-der): food; rations; kibble Puerile (PYO-er-ayle): trivial; childish; immature Pugnacious (pug-NAY-shuhs): always ready for a fight; querulous Punchinello (Poonch-i-NEL-oh): chief puppet or clown: Punch and Judy were puppets that first appeared in 14th century Italy, and later all over Europe. Punch was outrageous, grotesque looking, and a bad actor!

Puny (PYOO-nee): sickly; small like a runt Quadratic equation (Kwah-DRA-tic ee-KWAY-zhen): a univariate polynomial equation of the second degree (If this direct quote from Wikipedia does not help, please ask your math teacher).

Quaff (KWAHF): sip, swallow, or slurp Quagmire (KWAG-mahy-er): a very tangled situation Quahog (KWAY-hog): a type of clam; delicious stuffed or in soup Quail (KWAYLE): to shrink away from something unpleasant; also, various game birds Quandary (KWAN-dree): a predicament, a pickle, a very bad place to be Quash (KWASH): to stop an action; put the kibosh on Quantum (QWAN-tum): as much as is enough Queue (KEE-OO): the line everyone stands in to go to lunch and recess Quickened Quickening (KWIK-end): brought to life Quid pro quo (Kwid-pro-kwo): Latin; you do something for me, I do something for you 107

Quidnuncs (KWID-nunks): gossips, busybodies, nosey parkers Quintessential (kwint-es-SEN-shul): the very best you (or something) can be Quixotic (Kwik-SAH-tik): unpredictable, impulsive, impractical, erratic, romantic; Don Quixote was a character in a novel

by Miguel de Cervantes called (in English) The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha. Don Quixote was at once romantic and erratic.

Quotidian (Kwo-TI-dian): something done with great regularity, like the brushing of one’s teeth P’s & Q’s: In school work, students were reminded that p’s and q’s looked a lot alike. They were encouraged to be mindful of their position on the line, or told to mind their p’s and q’s.

Eventually it came to mean, Mind your behavior!

Idioms, “Such as it was” and “As it were”, are figures of speech: roundabout ways of saying what something is, when it’s not quite what it should be.

About the Author

A lover of nature, wherein life is often too short, Liza Martini learned that if you sit quietly, quiet things will share their story. Stories are everywhere—from the honeysuckle tree whose life is slowly squeezed away by a parasitic vine, to the house that sits oddly beyond the pale. One day, she was offered the job of a school librarian, which she pounced on, and began to offer up good stories to hungry children, while they in return, brought their favorite literary morsels to her. She began to write her own stories and won an award for her first middle-grade novel!

108

General Fiction

WINNER ($75): • Mr. Bandersnatch by Liza Martini FINALISTS: • Bear Tracks by Rick Hussey • Dilemma on Mars by Fred Shackelford • No Wrong Answer by Alvin Lin • The Bonnie M by F. J. Talley

109

Social Change/ COVID-19 Pandemic

My Lie

by Anka B. Troitsky “My dad once told me that lying is “shouldn’t, but not mustn’t,” but only in extreme cases. And I think that if you must lie, then you absolutely need to tell someone about it.”

From a high school student’s notebook.

Note in the margins. 2003 “Ding!” A notification on my mobile phone.

Things have changed over the past few years! Now, calling an interpreter to the hospital is an SMS message from the cursed agency. This year, most clients were from Ukraine.

Yesterday, I was in a maternity ward. A tiny Ukrainian girl was born, whose father is fighting in the war. Tomorrow, I will go on call for a second gastroscopy procedure for a handsome bloke from Kiev, and the day after tomorrow – to see a boy from Mariupol with diabetes.

Who do we have today? They don’t give us a full name — just initials and a hospital number. Some K.M. A bony man sat in the waiting room, blue eyes indifferent, voice weak.

“Are you Russian?” he asked the first and quite expected question.

110

He had no intention of keeping up small talk. Painkillers have not helped for a long time. He sat tied in a knot and soon closed his eyes.

When we were invited into the oncologist’s office, the doctor calmly turned the computer screen towards him.

“I received the scan result this morning. Your liver cancer is terribly advanced. Why didn’t you see your doctor earlier?” She asked with a strong accent.

“It didn’t hurt so much before,” K.M. answered grumpily, “You got it now, so treat it and prescribe something stronger.”

“Don’t you understand?” She turned her beautiful eyes to me, “Please explain to the patient that he has about three months left without chemo. Or up to six, with it. He must choose what to do with this remaining time.”

I guess you can get used to even bringing bad news. At that point, her words reached K.M., and he fell silent.

We left together, but he still had to wait for the hospital transport. He sat on a chair in the corridor.

“Do you have any relatives?” I asked, “Will you let them know?”

“Nah, no need.” He paused and suddenly turned to me. “This is not where I should be, treated for all this bullsh**! I want to go home and fight for my Ukraine! Eh!” He waved his hand. “This war has been going on for a long time, and I was hoping they would help us and end it sooner.”

He hunched over again, closed his eyes and didn’t move when I said goodbye.

On the same evening, I received another offer to attend his appointment a few days later.

The next week turned out to be quite busy. Every call was seasoned with difficult conversations in the waiting chairs. I usually listen more than I talk. I can discuss politics, but I try to be more professional. For example, I remained silent when one 111

patient and his daughter argued about the definition of fascism, and another spoke to me about “harmful negativity in the news.”

I kept silent.

I knew it would cease as soon as they called us into the appointment room. If we were at a debate, I would... Actually, no. One of my favourite actresses said that the demagogue will always win in any argument. I agree.

Sometimes, it’s different. The other day, I was interpreting for a person who made me want to cry. I remember his words: “COVID has taken so many lives, but we tamed it. And this war will also end someday. The wounds will heal, the pain of loss will subside, the smartest will fix the crisis, and on the people of the whole world... a big and ugly scar will remain.”

There were two days left before K.M.’s appointment.

But he did not come. I asked to check whether there were transport problems, but the receptionist found him in one of the wards in the neighbouring building. I poked my head in there, but the nurse just showed me the way because K.M. hadn’t much time left for the bureaucracy.

Since then, I visited him every time I come to this hospital.

He became even bonier. The nurses recognized me and took advantage of his “best mate” to tell him something important.

One day, when I arrived, they literally dragged me to him. For the first time, K.M. was glad to see me. He suffered and asked to be given something to speed up the inevitable process.

They explained to him that they don’t help people die by law.

All they can do is make him more comfortable and not try to save him when this very, as he called it, “process” begins.

I asked again while he was getting his injection, “Are you sure you don’t want to let your relatives know?”

“No. To hell with them. You better tell me what’s happening.

How’s the counterattack going? I’m like in a barrel here.”

After the injection, K.M. sank back into the pillow, closed his eyes, and breathed evenly.

112

I thought that he, as a person, was the most unpleasant of all my patients. He swore, was harsh, rude, taciturn, and was always reluctant to talk about himself. He was mocking, angry, and capricious. In other words, not an angel. How the angels would behave if their insides were constantly burning... from pain or despair - is still unknown. I, too, have no halo to judge. The nurse nodded sympathetically and left.

I made up my mind, “So you didn’t hear? Ukraine won the war,” he opened his eyes, and I continued without a twitch, “It’s over...”

He closed his eyes again, and a large drop rolled out from the corner of his eye, leaving a wet trail on his red skin. The eyebrows were still frowning, but the lips relaxed and even stretched a little.

He fell asleep. Or fell into a coma, I couldn’t tell. I left, and there was no one to visit the next day.

Lying is bad. But if you lied, then be sure to tell this secret to someone anyway.

June 2023

About the Author

A scientist and artist with a peculiar sense of humour, Anka B. Troitsky grew up in Kazakhstan and came to the UK in 1993.

Before committing to serious writing, she served as a Teacher and Professional Police Interpreter. Anka loves reading and always studies something to acquire new skills. “Everything I learn serves me well sooner or later,” she says. As an independent author and award winner, she crafts mainly sci-fi/fantasy novels and short stories of different genres. Her notable novel series, Who is Vist, presents intriguing adventures in the distant future, addressing global societal issues and human nature. www.ankatroitsky.com.

113

Social Change/Covid 19 Pandemic WINNERS ($75): TIE • MY LIE by Anka B. Troitsky • The Believer within You by Tyrone Burnett

FINALISTS: • Ice Cream! by Arnold Clickstein • Love & Basketball in the Time of Covid by Dan Schiro • Unveiling the Truth: Inside the Life of a COVID-19 Vaccine Volunteer by Shelley Malicote Stutchman

114

Spiritual/Religious

My Life Spared

by Pete Cruz Twigs, leaves, and rocks pressed against my helmet’s cracked face shield. I lay face down, my vision filled by a macro view of the ground.

I rolled onto my back and unclasped my chin strap, needing fresh air to gain my bearings. My last conscious memory was of my rear tire snaking side-to-side as my motorcycle hurtled off the road. Apprehension held me in place, fearing I could be seriously hurt.

A whisper of wind wafted through the pines. Late afternoon sun hung in a cloudless sky.

No one around. I reclined on an embankment to the side of the road.

Who parked my bike? In front of me, not more than two feet away, my prized one-hundredth Anniversary Harley-Davidson Fatboy rested against a wooden mileage marker post. My motorcycle’s handlebars drooped while brake fluid dripped onto the engine. The gas tank looked sledgehammered. The windshield and mirrors had sheared free. My seat and backrest torn apart.

“You all right?” I heard Tucker shout. He had ridden his bike behind me.

“I’m okay, I think.”

“Looks like your hand’s bleeding.”

I raised my right hand. Blood oozed from my pinkie.

115

“What happened?” I asked.

“You and your bike somersaulted twice in the air,” he said as he moved his hands in a circular motion.

“Was I on it?”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Why is my bike sitting here like this? Did you park it?”

“No, it came down like that and stopped,” he replied, shaking his head. “The bike should’ve landed on you. Or you should’ve landed on it.”

The thought of being crushed by eight hundred pounds of searing hot machine made me gasp.

“Big John was behind us. He went for help,” Tucker continued.

“There’s no cell service here.”

We’d driven through the twists and turns of the mountain highway in the El Dorado National Forest region, 5,000 feet elevation north of Sacramento.

Minutes later, a green U.S. Department of Forestry truck parked to the side of my bike.

“I’m Dan,” the ranger said, walking to me. “Paramedics are on their way.” He bent over; his face filled my sight.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Pete.”

“What day is it?”

“Friday.”

“Do you know the date?”

“The thirteenth.”

“Friday, the thirteenth?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Just my luck,” I said.

The other four in our riding group who’d driven ahead of me arrived. They hadn’t noticed until further down the road that I no longer followed. Grim expressions covered their faces.

An ambulance stopped and two paramedics hopped from the back and hurried to me. One of them, Kari, hovered, making 116

quick assessments. Her calm but concerned manner settled me down.

“Any pain?” she asked.

“No, but my hand’s messed up.”

“You think it’s broken?”

“Yeah.”

“Anywhere else?”

“My chest.”

Jason, the other EMT, sliced my shirt open to reveal a small purple blotch. Before losing consciousness, I’d pulled in my right arm to cover my heart, fearing I might be headed for a ravine.

My hand absorbed the impact when I landed.

The rapid sound of rotating blades diverted my attention.

Hovering in the clear blue sky, a red helicopter posed like a hummingbird inspecting a flower.

“Anytime there’s a motorcycle crash, they’re sent automatically,” Jason said, noting my gaze.

Pulling her shoulder radio to her lips, Kari said to the copter, “We’ll take him. His vital signs are okay. He knows his name and knows where he is. We’re going to Marshall Hospital.”

While they secured me inside the ambulance, Kari advised me. “We’re closer to Auburn, but Marshall in Placerville is the major trauma center in this area. We’re 45 minutes away.”

The ambulance wound through the hills while I observed through the back window our group’s ride captain, Rafael, following on his Honda Goldwing. The siren stayed silent.

The ride seemed more for comfort rather than urgency. Each paramedic kept a watchful eye. Jason periodically checked my blood pressure.

The hospital’s emergency staff called twice for updates.

On the third, Kari told them, “He’s looking at me. In fact, we’re having a nice little conversation.”

I peered at her curiously.

“They’re concerned. Believe me, they’ve seen a lot worse than you from a motorcycle crash.”

117

*** “Where were you going?” the young ER physician asked while the staff pushed my gurney through the corridor.

“We were on our way to a church retreat,” I answered.

“I see. A bunch of outlaws up to no good,” he said, grinning.

“Yeah, you bikers and skiers keep us in business,” a nurse added.

Hospital staff was kind and professional. They took X-rays, other readings, and cleaned me up. A short time later, the doctor stepped into my room.

“I have the results of your x-rays.” His face gave no indication of my status. “You don’t have any broken bones.” He reviewed his clipboard and then pressed his finger to his temple. “I think I’m going to look at them again, a little closer.”

He marched out the door.

Other visitors included a social worker and a CHP officer who was instructed to wait his turn by a nurse.

After several attempts, Rafael, got a text through to the retreat.

The doctor reappeared. “I didn’t find any fractures.” His halfsmile expressed satisfaction. “There are no indications of internal trauma. I’m going to discharge you. From what I hear, you are a very lucky man. Must be that church gang you ride with.” *** A church brother, Phil, arrived Sunday afternoon with groceries. I sprawled on my couch, my body dealing with the pain that happens after initial shock wears off.

“Pastor Mark didn’t tell us until the evening service. He said you’d been in an accident.

There were no details. Cell phones don’t work very well up at the retreat.”

118

I pictured the pastor making the announcement in the venue’s small, theater-like facility.

“I gotta tell you,” Phil said, “There were 189 guys praying for you. Some of them were in serious prayer. It was really something.”

“Wow,” was all I could say. I normally feel humbled when one person prays for me.

“Big John arrived at our cabin around eleven o’clock.” John had brought up the rear of our biker group. “He said you were airborne and landed face-first on a tree stump. He told us, ‘Pete should not have survived.’”

I pointed out my banged-up, dirt-strewn, full-face helmet on the counter. It was a memento of a ride gone wrong.

“I’ve been riding about forty years and have always worn a half-helmet with sunglasses,” I said, tracing my finger along my forehead. “I only bought that helmet a few weeks ago and hadn’t used it on a ride until that morning. I think the Lord impressed upon me to wear it.”

“The damage to your face….” Dread came over Phil’s face and his voice trailed off.

I looked away and considered the grave consequences of what would’ve happened if I’d used my usual headgear.

“Big John said when they pulled your bike away from the post, the post crumpled. He said that’s when he knew it was a miracle.” *** After months of physical therapy to treat my hand and muscle soreness, I was the same as I ever was. When the next May thirteenth neared, I reminded myself of the day my life was spared. Although grateful, I still wondered.

119

From others, I’d heard the usual, “He still has plans for you” and “It’s not your time yet.”

“Why, Lord, did you spare me?” I asked.

But His answer eluded me. There was no still, small voice. No human or supernatural messenger. No Bible verse, radio/TV, or print media offering revelation. Nothing.

Nonetheless, I awaken each morning roused by daybreak filtering through drawn blinds.

God’s answer is as plain as day. Each morning, He says: The breath of life is My gift to you. A new day beckons. Rejoice.

About the Author

Pete Cruz’s memoir, No Tears for Dad, is the 2023 gold medal recipient from the Next Generation Indie Book Awards for the category Memoirs (Overcoming Adversity/Tragedy), as well as the 2023 silver medal from the Illumination Book Awards for the category Biography/Memoir – Personal Struggle. He has won awards for short stories, served on editing teams, and presented workshops on various subjects during his professional career in adult education and as a lead trainer for the State of California. He’s a longtime resident of Sacramento, CA, where he enjoys playing pickleball, water volleyball, and an occasional speaking gig. www.facebook.com/PeteCruzAuthor.

Spiritual/Religious

WINNER ($75): • My Life Spared by Pete Cruz

FINALISTS: • The Man and the Boulder (A Retelling of the Classic Parable)

by Chris Engle • Voices by Andrew Corin • Wheat by Kiki Dove St. Hilaire 120

Fairy Tales/Fantasy

Out of Time Travel

by YS Pascal My Dad had a friend, Chuck, a pilot. Mostly General Aviation, flyover country. From a state in what used to be Tornado Alley— before climate change pushed the tornadoes to the East Coast.

Dad’s friend moonlit for the tire company that had the blimps.

Goodstone, you’ve seen their ads, right? A long time ago, Chuck took Dad up for a joyride on his local blimp even though Dad hadn’t bought any tires or Goodstone stock. Now that’s a friend.

I’m not supposed to tell this, but—hypothetically—Chuck even let Dad take over the controls for a few minutes at 1000 feet.

Dad said pushing the pedals and steering the airship was like moving a sailboat through mud. Slow and late. Never found out when Dad’d run his dinghy aground, but he and Chuck did land safely with Chuck back at the helm. Mom said she’d never seen him happier, even though he strained his knees climbing up the narrow ladder to the blimp’s gondola.

I’d never seen him happy after Mom passed. Dad couldn’t stay in our old colonial cookie-cutter house anymore and moved the two of us from the East Coast to Southern California, the land of 24/7 sunshine, earthquakes, and drought. I spent my teens in the Valley--yes, that Valley—hanging out in the 110-degree heat with fellow nerds who loved to cosplay as Star Trek characters. TOS, 121

of course. Moving gave me the chance to change my nickname from Jimbo to James T. and in those hot summers, I took off my shirt more than William Shatner.

It was many years later before I crossed paths with another Goodstone blimp. Or, actually, dirigible. I’d read about how they’d retired the old models and replaced them with new semirigid airships. I’d seen pictures of the new vessels, bigger and sleeker than Chuck’s balloon, but still an inviting Goodstone “blimp.” I was stuck in traffic on one of the busiest freeways in Los Angeles, the infamous 405, which means I had plenty of time to look at the parched scenery just yards from the concrete when I caught a live glimpse of the new airship moored at its home base in the South Bay. Over the next few weeks, stuck at the notorious “South Bay Curve,” I’d watch the blimp take off and land— always at a thrilling 45-degree angle. Looked like one hell of a ride; I swore to find a way to get on that coaster! But Dad had lost touch with his Midwest friend—and most of his memory— so I put the blimp ride on my bucket list for now and got back to seething about the jammed highway.

There were days I just couldn’t take the snail-paced commute anymore, so I’d get off the freeway and crawl through surface streets back home. Even hitting every red light on the way was a relief, better than not moving at all. And, I’d get to see hundreds of mini-malls that hadn’t yet been turned into unrented luxury apartment buildings for the unpredictable gig economy.

Last week, while escaping a massive SigAlert by using surface streets, I caught the name of a new lessee in one of the mall spaces, Out of Time Vinyl. I think “Out of Time” was an REM song from a few decades ago. Wasn’t “End of the World as We Know It” on the B side, ha, ha? Sorry. Anyway, why not check it out? I still had an hour before I had to be home. I turned into the empty parking lot (not filled by the cars of the great majority who stream their music nowadays) and parked the EV in one of the stalls. Inside, the old record store was just what I’d expected.

122

Musty smell, dusty shelves, and a teenager at the register wearing AirPods, oblivious to customers or the lack of them.

Check, check, check.

Dad had gifted me his old phonograph when his trembling hands couldn’t lay the needle on the record anymore without scratching it. I’d always planned to get out some moldy oldies from his collection to cheer him up, but his hearing had gotten worse than his dementia. Still, he might enjoy some crooners or jazz, so I headed for the bargain bin and started to sift through the albums for anything with Tony Bennett or Pat Boone. No luck. Not even an old Beatles album. I kept flipping. Flip, flip, Flip.

I have to admit, I’d forgotten how beautiful some of the album art was, especially from the 60s and 70s. Lots of nature, zen, and welcoming space scenes. The space scenes were so inviting, like gateways to heaven, or a “higher” existence, unlike the “universe will burn you alive” darkness of today’s photos from space. I’m not a vaper, but I could see myself rolling a joint just staring at those old operatic rock covers. And taking a long, slow, deep breath.

One album print especially caught my eye. In shades of pink and sunshine yellow, it highlighted a steampunk vessel landing on a rose planet with a pink “bainrow,” the joking word Spoonered in the title track Magentalane. My best friend from high school had played the album for me back in the day, lecturing me about the band Klaatu. He whispered that Klaatu had released several albums that some US DJs were convinced were written and sung by the Beatles—after their breakup and John Lennon’s death.

That rumor made their first album a best seller, but after the band finally admitted that they were just two guys from Canada and not the Fab Four, their sales tanked. Magentalane, among their best work, had not even been released in the US by Capitol Records. No surprise there. Profit trumps art, no? My friend had gotten his album from a cousin in Toronto, and he was eager to 123

share the music—and a bong--with me. Why not? I didn’t make enough “profit” to travel for real.

Didn’t take long for patches of lyrics from Magentalane’s songs to start earworming me. Hell, may as well buy the album and listen to the real thing once again. And weed is legal now. The kid at the register didn’t look up from his phone when I walked up with the record, but just scanned the barcode from the shop’s price sticker and pointed to the tap card location for me to pay.

I Apple Paid, took the album, and didn’t bother to say thanks. I guess you could argue he was just right for the store, certainly out of the present and off into another digital world. Or maybe he was a 3-dimensional bot. Glad gaming wasn’t so addictive in my youth.

Dad was napping when I got back home, as was his caregiver, so I tiptoed to the garage and sought out the record player. Like everyone else in LA, I had parked on the street—most LA houses don’t have basements or functional attics, so we store all our stuff in the garage, except for our cars. We have to leave them on the street so the catalytic converter thieves can have easy access. I found the phonograph in the corner, and it seemed to work after I dusted it off and plugged it in. Yay. I eased the tape off of the album sheath’s opening and reached in to pull out the record.

My fingers felt the vinyl and then something else. Paper? I drew it out and unfolded it. The header displayed the logo for Goodstone Tires and a photo of the latest Goodstone semi-rigid “blimp.” What was it doing in this old album? Below the logo, the printed words read, “One Ticket to Ride,” along with a URL link.

At the bottom of the paper, in a calligraphic font, was the title “Maybe I’ll Move to Mars,” one of the album’s songs. Completely confused, I rested the record atop the phonograph, scanned the paper into my iPhone, and clicked on the link while the lyrics of the sweet tune bored into my head. “Maybe I’ll move to Mars…

One step closer to the stars…maybe I’ll move to— 124

My meditative calm was interrupted by a change in tempo.

“How will you get there?” sang Klaatu in an urgent beat from my smartphone, as the screen lit up with a time and a location. Tomorrow, Saturday, 3 AM, at the Goodstone base in the South Bay. Be there or be square, as Dad would say. I didn’t need convincing. I’d get a chance to ride in the new dirigible after all. Still, 3 AM? LA lights are awesome, but I’d’ve preferred a day tour of the sprawling city.

I nudged Dad’s caregiver awake and whispered a request for a favor. Could she stay overnight and I’d pay her for the extra time in the morning? Dad’s bedroom had a cuddly recliner that could stretch out into a business-class bed. I’d likely be back by morning, and she’d be off for the weekend anyway. She mumbled a yes and promptly went back to sleep. Glad Dad was no longer mobile enough to sneak out while she snored.

I did try to go to sleep for a few hours before the flight. No such luck. Too much adrenaline, even with a “little help from my friends” at Cannabis R Us. At 2, I was in the car and on my way.

If only the freeways were this empty during rush hour.

Dad had described all the security precautions at the Heartland blimp base after his own trip.

Security checks at the door and beyond and electrified fences gave it a secret military installation aura.

This base was no different. There was a line of half a dozen people quietly waiting in the brisk night air for clearance and admittance. I had both my paper ticket and my phone cued for Goodstone’s “TSA.” The queue moved slowly as each entrant was scanned, fingerprinted, and either DNA or COVID tested.

Or both.

There was an eerie quiet in the line, without the usual airport small talk, as each of us stared at our impressive vessel. Beyond the booth, we could see the airship tethered on the tarmac, brightly lit with spotlights that glistened yellow and blue, which 125

made its enormous size look even larger. Man, that is one big ship. The gondola, from closer up, looked to be the size of a minivan, but was literally overshadowed by the massive semirigid frame and its envelope, which seemed to stretch for miles.

We would likely all fit in the gondola, but I did have a brief vision of it being packed with dozens of clowns, their red noses and hair sticking out of the portholes.

I went through the security obstacle course with minimal hassle, as the guards didn’t seem to be in the mood for chit-chat either. I did ask, “How long is the tour?” but the only response was a Q-tip applicator up my nose. O-kay. On the other side of the entrance, I took tentative steps toward the rest of the group, who were waiting for one rider to manage the steep steps with “Dad knees.” For just a moment, I had a flash of the Twilight Zone episode “To Serve Man” and let a nervous chuckle escape, but frowns from two other passengers ahead shamed me back into silence. Man, that is one big effing ship.

Once inside the “minivan” cabin, I settled into a “window seat” and checked my pulse. Good, under 100. Can’t be too safe.

I’m not a kid anymore. Fifteen minutes later, the last seat up front was taken by a well-kempt middle-aged man wearing a captain’s uniform and a soldier’s bearing. The cabin door closed and we were ready to go. I didn’t expect dancing flight attendants, but I was surprised that the captain didn’t turn to greet us and welcome us onboard. Eh, for the price I paid, zero, I can’t expect luxury service. I buckled my seat belt and sat back, ready for the sharp take-off.

What the—?

The gondola began shaking and I felt an elevator G-force as it started to rise. And rise and rise until it was completely sucked into the inside of the blimp. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We were supposed to hang below the ballonets, right? My thoughts were pierced by a grinding noise from below our feet and a rough stop after we fully entered the giant blimp. I peeked through 126

the window, but the surroundings were dark, though I did see glints and felt vibrations from machinery nearby. I gripped the armrests and tried to catch a glimpse of the other passengers to ask: Um, are we still in Kansas?

As soon as our gondola was “locked in,” the ship began its take-off, 45 degrees and more. But we didn’t level out at 1000 feet; we just kept going and going, faster and faster, as the engines whined. The porthole remained dark, but I estimated that, at this rate, we were probably close to 50,000 feet. Glad we hadn’t hit any airliners on the way up. Or, at this rate, any satellites up ahead.

My adrenaline was through the roof, and if they really wanted to serve me at our destination, I’d be well-marinated after this coaster ride.

If only I could see. Reading my mind, the porthole started to show a camera view of the panorama outside our ship. Oh, my God, Earth. Below, behind us, getting smaller. The moon. Cheese Louise. Stars. Lots of stars. Is that an asteroid coming at us— no!—phew, deflected. Within minutes, a sudden jolt and the star field coalesced into streaks. Warp drive?

My eyes were glued to the porthole screen and its mesmerizing waves of stars. Not a roller coaster, but an amazing cruise ship. The trance was broken as the ship slowed, just black sky and clusters of stars. How long had we been a-sail…? My Apple watch read only 15 minutes, but, reaching into my brain for my high school relativity knowledge, I wondered where we were and how much time had elapsed on Earth as a result of our disparity in speed.

A reddish haze soon dissolved into a glimpse of a planet, and we aimed 45 degrees down and entered the atmosphere to what I’d bet was Mars. Wow. E-ticket.

The view screen shut off as we landed and I sat back again, waiting for our gondola to lower and let us out. I hope. It did, and we did, each of us sporting a full-head helmet we’d been given with a 180-degree visor and piped in oxygen. I hopped off the top of the ladder in the 60% gravity with a smile. Now, all I needed 127

was a Harley to race across the deserts cape before us. As we were shuttled towards a shuttle, I noted that two other Goodstone blimps were parked nearby and that the landing area had none of the intensive security measures we had left behind on Earth.

Apparently, the night tours go a bit farther than the day ones and are, therefore um, less accessible.

The shuttle took us underground to a modern facility where we would be processed (and hopefully not served!). Clearance was quick and we were each guided to our own private lounge, complete with a rustling fireplace, comfortable sofas, and a table full of tapas and tequila. Better than business class after all. I was enjoying my second drink when a hologram appeared before me.

Could it be, Amelia Earhart? Young, short blonde hair, polo shirt and khaki trousers.

“Hello, James,” the holo said.

“Hey…Amelia?” I returned.

She smiled. “Welcome to the way station.” The holo sat across from me. “I hope you enjoyed the trip. Are you ready for the next adventure?”

“James T is always ready. Risk is our business,” I joked. “As long as I’m not dinner.”

Amelia laughed. “I saw that show 60 years ago. And Star Trek, too.”

“Um, maybe it’s a filter, but you don’t look that old.”

“No, we don’t age in Level 3. I can choose my appearance, and 25 beats 125 any day.”

I swallowed another sip of the alcohol. “Level 3?”

“We’ll explain it all to you after you settle in. Earth is in Level 2; we’re sort of like a modern version of heaven.”

Spit take. “Am I dead?!”

“No, not exactly. But, Earth will think so.” I must have looked as confused as I felt.

“This lounge is a—” she continued.

“Way Station?” I offered.

128

“Or a Wait Station. Until you decide.”

“Decide what?”

“Whether you’ll stay, live in this universe, explore its worlds and its mysteries. Or return to Earth, which is no longer a mystery to you.”

“And has no answers and asks the wrong questions,” I said.

“Can’t argue with that,” she said. “We can upload a vision of Level 3 for you to perceive and you can opt to move on with us.

Eternal youth is only one of the perks.”

“Is there a catch here?” There’s always a catch.

She nodded. “You won’t be able to return to Level 2 ever again.”

“Oh.” “But, Level 3 offers so much more than Level 2. You can be anything or anyone, travel to billions of new worlds, hibernate and awaken at your request if you’re bored or tired, and split your consciousness so you can experience multiple adventures at the same time. You’ll learn more about us in the upload.”

I frowned. “Nobody in Level 3 can go back to Level 2? Like the blimp pilot, for example?”

She hesitated. “We do have intelligence operatives that can travel between Levels, with a disguise if needed. But, it’s a oneway street for most in Level 3, yes. Most who come here are very happy to stay. And you can meet a lot of old friends and celebrities in person. And historical figures you’ve always admired.”

“Not many of those,” I sighed. But, the offer was intriguing.

I bet neither of my ex-wives would miss me, and I’d lost touch with most of my best friends from my past. I had no kids (that I knew of), and no close relatives to mourn my absence. Except Dad. And we both had a will. Our lawyer could sell our house which would cover the nursing home costs for the rest of Dad’s life, thank LA house prices. “Do I have to decide now?”

“Well,” she admitted. “If you want to stay, yes. You won’t get another chance.”

129

I shook my head. “Who makes these rules?” I muttered.

“Okay, let me view the upload, and I’ll think about what to do.”

“Sounds good. Here you go.”

A flash in my brain and the holo disappeared. I had a fastforward vision that lasted 30 seconds or less with a preview of Level 3 and its magic—a universe that was almost irresistible.

Exhausted, I leaned back on the sofa and grappled with my choice.

“Hello, Jimmy.”

I sat up, startled. Another holo in front of me, this time, with a young version of my dear late mother. She, too, was youthful and beautiful before her cancer had ravaged her body.

I reached one hand towards her out of instinct. “Mom. Are you here?”

“In Level 3, yes.”

I laid my glass on the end table and stood up, hands inching towards an air hug. Could it be? My mother? “H-how?”

“Just like you. I got the invitation and I was moved in the middle of the night. Chuck flew me right here to the same lounge where you are now. I wouldn’t have lasted much longer on Earth.

Days at most.”

Yes. But days that I could’ve said goodbye.

“Your grandfather, Sarion, has pull with Level 3 Intelligence,” she continued. “I had the option as his descendant to return, as do you.”

“B-but the hospital showed him your, um, you…”

“Synthetic. I made the journey the night before I ‘died.’ A convincing replica was in place by the next morning. The staff were part of our agency. Your father broke down as soon as he saw that I’d passed and they escorted him to social services until you could get in from school.”

Mom shook her head. “Jimmy, you know that your father would never have agreed with my decision to live, even if I could’ve told him about our family. Which was not allowed.” A 130

smile. “But I knew you were strong enough to make it. Now that you’ve come here, there’s so much I can finally share. So much you can learn about your galactic relatives, your past, and your future.”

I stepped back, wringing my hands, and paced before her for a few minutes.

“You’ll stay, yes?” her voice trembled.

“I was 13, Mom. And Dad was left totally alone. Ever since.”

“Except for you.”

“Yes! Except for me!” I cried.

“Jimmy, try to understand. I would have died either way.

What would be the point of dying into nothingness when I had a whole universe at my door? How would that have helped your father—or you?”

I plopped back on the couch. “You could have let us know.”

She shook her head. “No. Not allowed. Not back then. But now you do know. So we can be together again. Our family.”

“Not all of us, not Dad,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, Mom.” “Don’t say no, Jimmy. We can observe what’s going on in Level 2. Your Dad isn’t who he was anymore. And he won’t be around forever. Think of your future.”

“I am. And Dad’s. That’s why I have to go back. For him.” I met her eyes, brimming with tears. “He needs me. I really am sorry.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re happy, Mom. Thanks for watching over us. But…” “You’ll be missed. Again.” Shaking my head, I stood up and tried to give her an air hug. My decades-late goodbye. Instead, my hands slipped through the holo image and met in the center of her chest, enveloping her heart.

“I know we’re in here, and we’ll always be,” I said, “And you’ll know we’ll always be the best we can. You’re in our hearts, too.

So, give us a heart signal in the clouds every now and then, and 131

we’ll look up towards the sky and wave. From home. Level 2.

That’s all I can promise. Good-bye.”

Shedding a digital tear, the holo dissolved. I was left standing in the lounge alone for just a few moments. The door suddenly whooshed open and the taciturn captain entered my suite. “It’s time to go.”

After a quick glance at where Mom’s holo had been, I followed him out, re-placed my helmet, and trekked silently back to the blimp, pausing only to take in the beautiful pink sky for the first and last time.

I hope Mom will be grateful that I came to visit, even if I didn’t—couldn’t—stay.

I was the only passenger on the return flight, and the Captain didn’t bother to turn on the porthole camera. If Einstein was right, Dad may not even be there when I got back, hundreds of years in the future. But, through some unexplained mystery or magic, I landed at the South Bay base the same Saturday I’d left, just before sunrise at 5 AM. As I set off for the exit, I turned back for one last look at the massive vessel, whose hanging gondola was now back in place for the upcoming day tours over LA. I stopped to give the airship and its silent Captain a sharp salute. I guess I would never find the answers to how my voyage happened, among many other questions. But, at least I’d make it home before Dad woke up and started asking for his breakfast waffles and strawberry jam.

I never did play the Klaatu album on Dad’s phonograph.

I wasn’t going to move to Mars or Magentalane after all. No regrets. There were too many things—and people—I’d miss here on Level 2, on Earth. Wasn’t it the Beatles who sang, “And, in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make”? For me and my father, that’s just fine with us both.

132

About the Author

Yolanda “Linda” Reid is a physician/author/journalist who has been published in the Los Angeles Times, Washington Post, Baltimore Sun, American Film Magazine, Woman’s Day, Salon.com, Huffpost, LA Daily News, and Chronicle of Higher Education; her essays have been syndicated via Tribune International. She was a medical editor, host, and reporter for Lifetime Medical Television, and CBS Washington, DC. She was a staff writer for “Family Medical Center” and is in the Writers Guild of America West. As Linda Reid, she is the co-author of the award-winning Sammy Greene mystery-thriller series, and, as YS Pascal, the author of the award winning Zygan Emprise Trilogy. She is a member of Sisters in Crime Los Angeles, and the author of “Natural Causes” in the latest SINCLA Anthology as Yolanda Reid. Her websites are: akesopress.com and amphitritepublishing.com.

Fairy Tales/Fantasy

WINNER ($75): • Out of Time Travel by YS Pascal FINALISTS: • A Girl, a Dog and Water by Holly Dutton • Maid of the Moon by Phil Bowie • The Witch's Apprentice by Ekta R. Garg

133

High School Students (Grades 9-12)

Phantom Pains

by Maggie Bell A man walks through a train station with nothing but a guitar case and a folded-over knapp-felt hat clutched in his frail grip. The hat conceals the few coins a street side audience had been willing to offer up, but he knows that it will be more than enough to cover the cost of another change in scenery, and that is all that matters.

Walking up to the ticket booth, he glances to the side, looking at the all-too-familiar benches that have been his home on recent nights. He sees a boy sitting on one, dressed in a ripped pair of slacks and a shabby overcoat, rubbing two one-cent coins together, two coins that won’t be nearly enough to get from here to anywhere at all. Curiosity overcomes the man, and he wanders over as quickly as his aged legs allow— slow for anyone of a younger age, but perfectly spry for him.

“Where are you going, son?” he asks the boy.

The boy looks up. Any other child his age might know better than to talk to a stranger, but this boy just shrugs his shoulders and says, “Nowhere, it looks.”

The man, either from exhaustion or out of kindness, joins the boy on the bench. He sets his guitar case at their feet and taps his hat against his knee thoughtfully. “Where do you want to go, son?”

134

The boy thinks for a moment, eyes full of something they shouldn’t be, then replies, “Away.”

Away is a word the man understands, and the boy’s eyes carry the same weight as his own. He stands again, motioning for the boy to come along. “I have enough to pay us both through,” he explains, “and it turns out I’m going to that same place as you.”

The boy smiles his thanks and follows the man through the ticket booths and onto the train, the two of them lugging no baggage save the guitar case. They sit facing one another in the fine seats, much different from the wooden benches they’ve both grown accustomed to. The man gazes out the window as they depart, staring down his reflection— feathery-white hair lining his forehead, blue eyes faded from having seen too much, skin sagging from years on the move. He smiles.

“That rain reminds me of the night I first died,” the man muses, then pauses. The boy’s brown eyes grow to the size of quarters, and the man continues, satisfied with the attention of his young audience. “It was dark and cold that night, too.”

Yet again, the man stops, only to continue: “Oh, it was cold! I still sometimes shiver when it crosses my mind, even after these many long years. It shouldn’t have been cold, mind you, in the middle of July, with much too heavy blankets, but it was, and I woke up in the middle of the night.

I had been out all afternoon, trying to find anyone who would hire, trying to make ends meet any way I knew, just coming back from the war.” The man rambles, losing the smile from his face, “Everything had changed for me after going to Europe— everything but Morrigan, I had thought. But Morrigan didn’t really understand. All she knew was the whiskey on my breath.”

Such things a young boy shouldn’t understand, but this boy does, and he leans forward to the edge of his seat, waiting.

“When I woke up, I heard her rummaging through the drawers, pulling out clothes and money and jewelry and piling it 135

all into a suitcase. We’d been married for ten years, Morrigan and I, before I left for the war. Coming back, I needed her more than ever as I tried to find myself again. But that night, when I leaped up and begged her not to go, she only sighed. And left.

“I’ve always regretted going back to bed, but I did. And I woke up on a hot summer’s morning expecting to be comforted by warmth— but the cold feeling only persevered. I couldn’t be consoled. I sat at home, gathering up all the things that she left behind, which reminded me of her. The only times I got up were when I had to, just to keep living, just barely. The rest of the time I sat and pined, trying to think of what I did wrong, watching the dust collect on the mantle, on the table, the dirt gathering like a moat around me on the floor, trapping me in place. It took me so long to think of it, the notion that she’d fallen for another while I was gone. Whenever I went out— occasionally to work, to buy a loaf of bread— I brought with me a heavy suitcase full of her things, not bearing to part with them in case something happened and they would have run away in my absence, like my happiness, like my Morrigan.

“Five years passed like this before someone found me out, sitting all day without a real job, without a real life. They kicked me out of my house, and I left with only Morrigan’s things and the clothes on my back. I wandered, a stranger to myself, someone else’s soul trapped in my body.

“Just once, Morrigan passed me on the street. She didn’t recognize me. Of course, she didn’t; I hardly knew myself. But I knew her, and I followed her, crying out, asking her to forgive me.

People backed away, saying I was mad. I suppose I was. Morrigan turned her back on me and walked away as if I was someone else’s husband, someone she had never seen before.

“After that, I found myself in a different town, at a run-down bar with a faded sign. The owner gave me drinks for free, seeing the heartache in my eyes. I spent a lot of time there, sleeping in a back room, staying there for years. I worked bartending, made 136

enough money to pay for my room and the peanuts I stole. When I worked, I tucked my heavy suitcase under the counter; when I slept, I kept it close by my side— never out of reach. Leaving my suitcase behind me felt impossible. I didn’t have anything else left from my old life. Soon, leaving the bar felt impossible, too. I didn’t have anywhere else I could go.

“The bar’s guitar player was my lifeline for those years, an old man strumming stories of heartbreak, stories that, suddenly, I could understand. His eyes carried the same weight as my own.

One night, I sat on the ground before him, holding my suitcase like a small child in my arms, and he asked me why— why I held onto something from years before. I told him simply, ‘Because I don’t know how else to carry on.’ He set his guitar down and took my suitcase from me, took it into the night and down the road and threw each item over the side of a bridge one at a time.

“I begged him to stop, but I didn’t keep him from tossing over a faded shirt. A fragment of lace. A rusted thimble. A single flower petal. I watched each piece of my shattered heart float away on the waters below, each memory of my sweet Morrigan, and somehow, I started to heal.

“That man brought me back to the bar afterward, sat down beside me, handed me his guitar, and showed me how to play.

I had never seen him look as old as he did that night. As his fingers taught me the ways of music, his words taught me his story. He shared with me the reason behind his heavy eyes, why he sat there strumming all those nights— somehow, some way, maybe— waiting for me. At last, he whispered, ‘This is the best way to carry on, even with the pain.’”

The man’s attention finally slips from the rain outside the train’s window and back to the face of the boy. He pats his guitar case reverently. “And he died the next day.”

The boy presses his hands together, the feeling in his eyes showing again, and says something for himself: “I left, too, cuz of 137

the Depression. Mama couldn’t pay for me after that, especially not with Papa gone to this next war and two other kids to take care of. But I haven’t moved on yet, not like you.” The boy flips one of his coins with his thumb. The man catches it, checks the face, and tucks it in his pocket, a smile creeping from the creases lining his cheeks.

Slowly, the man leans over, pulling his guitar from its case and handing it to the boy. “Most times, it’s loud, son, on the busy streets with my guitar playing. But sometimes, it’s silent. I’m left all alone with my guitar lying on my lap with nothing to play.

That’s when I feel the pain creep back in all over again— the throbbing of a heart that’s not there, that’s floating down a river somewhere, since my one true love left me on a cold summer’s night all those years ago.”

The boy nods. “I feel those pains, too.”

By the end of the ride, the boy knows how to play a good lick, and when the train stops, the man slips his guitar into its case for the last time. He lowers himself to be face-to-face with the boy, looking into the boy’s brown eyes again before slowly rising to his feet. Then the man tucks his now-empty hands into his pockets and disappears down the aisle, leaving the boy alone on his seat with nothing but a guitar case and a folded-over knapp-felt hat, concealing the exact number of coins to buy another ticket.

About the Author

Maggie Bell (M. L. Bell) is a high school student in Northern Maine. She currently has two published novels: Coffee Gets Cold Quick (published July 2022) and We Are Human Still (published October 2023). Her debut novel, Coffee Gets Cold Quick, is the 2023 Next Generation Indie Book Awards winner of the Young Author (written under age 25) category. Maggie enjoys developing characters through various genres and styles.

138

Outside of writing, Maggie rereads books too many times, plays her instruments, and spends time with her family, though she is often thinking up a story while doing all of these things.

High School Students (Grades 9 - 12) Can Write About Any Topic WINNER ($75): • Phantom Pains by Maggie Bell

FINALISTS: • Amaranth by Summer Harris • Dayeinu by Cyrus Sarfaty • Two Way Mirror by Emma Yin

139

BIPOC

Smoke

by Helen Delaney There is no good end to the smell of smoke, I can tell you that.

You shouldn’t trust everything I tell you now though, because a lot of my memory is gone.

You will remember what you need to remember, they say.

My father was dead. My mother had no one to hunt for her and we were always hungry, especially in the winter, and it was winter when he rode into our village with five horses. He came to my mother and said I will give you these five horses for your daughter. And she said I can be rich with five horses, but I will still be hungry. You can trade the horses to some men in the village, and they will hunt for you, he said. And she said how do you know my daughter? When she said this, her eyes pinched together. I have seen her in the fields looking for food, he said. Will you feed her? And he said I will feed her. And what will you do with her? Will you make her work like a slave? she said. She will be my wife, he said. My mother looked at me and I knew she was going to give me away and I ran and hid in the bushes until I fell asleep. When I woke, the sun was in my face and he was standing over me. He put me on his horse, and he walked alongside, and that is how we left the village. I looked back and my mother was standing outside our dwelling and she was holding the horses.

140

That is enough, they say. You must sleep now. That is how it is here. You don’t want to remember too much too fast.

Listen. I had a dream. My husband came to me in the dream, the one who bought me with the five horses. He handed me a rabbit to cook. His eyes were black like the river at night. I smiled at him and he smiled back. He went away and I made a fire. I feel better now because he came to me in the dream and I don’t feel alone anymore. Where am I? You are here, they say. What happened when you went with him?

I was young and we had not been together yet, so I had to live with his mother. She made me do too many chores because I was not from her village and she didn’t want me for her son. She was old and smelled bad and her mouth was always turned down.

She gave me her hard voice every day and called me names.

There were times when I wanted to push her down. The people hated me too.

And what about him? they say.

Snow was on the ground and he gave me a blanket because I was cold. I was wearing the blanket when he and the other men rode into the village. They had been away in a battle with the men who looked like ghosts. I was glad to see him because his mother did not like to share her food with me, and I had started to get hungry again. I saw him on his horse and there was a wound on his thigh. Blood was all over his leg and on the horse, too. I had wood in my arms for a fire for the old woman. I threw the wood down and followed him. He came to lie down in his mother’s dwelling and soon he had a great fever. The healing man came to see him, but he got worse. His old mother cried and made loud noises, but I wasn’t thinking about her. I went out and found some moss hanging from a tree. I cleaned his wound with water and put the moss on top and bound it with a piece of cloth. Every day, I made a fire to keep him warm because he had started to shiver. I found some herbs for his fever and made a tea and held 141

it to his mouth. It was bitter, but he drank it and it made him sleep. He slept days and nights and days again. I put new moss on his wound and clean cloths that I washed in the river. My mother taught me this. The people gave us food and I think they didn’t hate me anymore.

Are you tired now? they ask.

No. When I remember him, I do not feel tired. The trees were dropping flowers on the ground when I came to him and his black eyes were looking at me, and he smiled, and I knew he was well. It took a long time because the wound was deep, and the fever came and went and came again. When he was strong, the people made a ceremony. The trees had turned yellow by that time and I became his wife. The people accepted me then. I think I will rest for a while now.

Yes, they say. We will wait.

He was tall and had a beautiful face and he stayed with me even when I had no children. You should have another wife and bring our people and children, the women of the village said.

Too many of the people are dying. But when their children were sick, I healed them, so there were more children in the village because they did not die when they became sick, but they did not remember that. Our dwelling was very clean, and I kept healing herbs there and beautiful blankets that I made to make the children feel better. And I took care of the old woman till she died. I did that for him. He was a good hunter and we had many days when our stomachs were full, and we were laughing and making love and being happy. The people did not know this because our laughing and loving was soft and stayed in our dwelling. He fought many more battles and had many more wounds, but none like the one on his thigh. I healed him and put medicine on the other men, too, but some of them died. I was always glad when he came home from the battles and was not killed. When he was not away, we were always together. When the smoke came, we were together.

142

Yes, we know about the smoke, they say.

That day, it was dark like it is before a big rain, and we put the horses under the trees, covered them with blankets, and tied them up. We should not have done that because when we smelled the smoke, the horses were too far away, and we couldn’t get to them.

I could hear them whinnying. After a while, I didn’t hear them anymore. I think they broke loose and ran away. When animals smell smoke, they run. Do I have to remember everything?

No, not everything, they say. Just enough.

Enough for what?

Enough to rest, they say.

We knew they were coming. He and the other men had been talking about them coming for a long time. I heard them talking and I knew they had killed everyone in my old village. But my mother had been long gone before that and I was glad. That day, he came to me and said we have to leave now because the men who look like ghosts are coming and we have to run. I began to pack our things, but they came too fast. We heard the people running and screaming…

Do you want to stop now? they say.

No. I want to tell you what happened. Our horses were gone, and we were older than the others and we could not run fast, so we stayed in our dwelling. We could hear their horses and their guns knocking the people down. Someone fell outside our flap. And we heard fire crackling and the ghost men screaming their words and we smelled smoke. Nothing good comes from the smell of smoke, I can tell you that.

You can stop now, they say.

No, it’s all right. We sat down together on an old bearskin. He was holding my hand in his two hands and he was looking at me with his black eyes. There was no fear in his eyes. I was all right after that. He had put an eagle feather in his hair. I looked at him and said you are still handsome. And he said that we had lived a good life together. And I said that my happiest time was when we 143

were under the trees and the yellow leaves were falling and it was warm, and the people were dancing, and we were laughing. And he said yes, that was a good day. And I said I am glad you came to get me with five horses.

Is that all? they say.

I looked up and saw fire in the top of our tipi. And the smoke came down. I think you can trust me on this.

Ah, yes, they say. That is enough. You can rest now.

About the Author

Helen Delaney is a former diplomat whose writings have included research papers on international trade, Congressional testimonies, magazine articles, and editorial ghostwriting. She is the author of two books, The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide, and The Well: Two Women, Two Thousand Years Apart, Connected by a Pandemic, Slavery, and a Son. She lives in Pasadena, California, writes a blog, “Something Else to Think About” at helendelaney.blog and is currently working on her third book.

BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People Of Color) WINNERS ($75): TIE • Hope for the Free by Niquita Utrera • Smoke by Helen Delaney

FINALISTS: • A Father's Son by Sandeep Kumar Mishra • More Than One Way to Skin a Cat by Billie Holladay Skelley • Vigilantes Oscuros by Scott Russell Duncan

144

Social Change/ COVID-19 Pandemic

The Believer Within You

by Tyrone Burnett The Believer Within You centers around a wise twelve-yearold, Brenda Sue Bellamy, with no ambitions of becoming a civil servant, but she finds herself thrust into the glare of the public eye playing this part. She was—and is—an ordinary resident of the most rural county in Northern Gainesville, Pamunkey County, Florida, and one of the few close-in havens among swathes of undeveloped land and subdivisions that were planned for singlefamily houses, townhouses, condominiums, and strip shopping centers. Buyers, beware! This is a windfall for local residential and commercial real-estate operators and prominent homebuilders, and they play a role with local government lawmakers in a larger real-estate conspiracy.

Brenda Sue is a bright young girl fond of life who harbors the goal of studying law or becoming an investigative journalist.

Unlike how she usually spends her evenings, the precocious young Brenda Sue is watching the evening news on television, feeling intrigued by the coverage of the 2007–2009 global financial crisis. It pains her to learn that, as of February 2022, more than six million children lost their houses because of wrongful foreclosures throughout the nation and that up to four million children continue to be at a similar risk. In addition, another four million children or more were unjustly evicted or may face eviction from rental properties undergoing wrongful 145

foreclosures and evictions, suggesting that more than 10 million children are directly impacted by the ongoing global financial crisis.

Brenda Sue doesn’t understand why the United States federal government did not intervene to prevent these abuses and stood by allowing this to happen.

She lives with her parents in Pamunkey County, Florida.

Still, her roots are in nearby Gainesville, Florida, where she has lived for over ten years. Her father, Army Sergeant First Class John Bellamy, deployed in the Middle East, is the senior enlisted advisor for Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 28th Expeditionary Combat Aviation Brigade. Her mother, Ida Jean Bellamy, works for the county government’s Tax Commissioner Office as a quality control auditor in Pamunkey County, Florida.

In April 2022, while visiting her next-door neighbor and best friend Mark’s house, Brenda Sue overhears something suspicious—an accidental disclosure between his father, Gary, and, from what she could gather, a stranger whom she believes to be the treasurer and accountant for the prominent local homebuilder and residential property development agency, Landsdowne Real Estate Operators, for the last 20 years. Oddly, the stranger is also the homebuilder’s treasurer of its homeowners’ and condominium unit owners’ associations. This is important information—let’s file it away for later.

Gary says, “This information about changing the owner in the record of the new construction project planned for single-family houses, townhouses, and condominiums and altering real-estate parcel and tax map identifiers in cadastres when a potential homebuyer signs a purchase agreement with the homebuilder and, more importantly, be- fore mortgage loan origination and sale transactions will be handy to our associates in the county and our friends—the powerful investment bankers, local mortgage lending banks, title insurance companies, lawyers, and law firms. With it, we will be able to fool potential homebuyers 146

into buying our new under-construction houses, and there will be no outstanding construction mortgage loans or liens existing on the houses that can be traced to the original real-estate parcel and tax map identifiers, credit accounts, and receivable tax accounts—to the seller, I mean, in public land records—and can be audited. Typically, the real-estate operator and homebuilder.

Therefore, this will eliminate the need to file income taxes to federal and state tax authorities on the revenue received because of, in part, the creation of fake mortgage loans and real-property tax accounts.”

Brenda Sue can discern by the tone of their voices that something amiss is going on between them. She quickly pulls out her ever-present, trusty notebook, which she often uses for her studying and observations, and starts scribbling her notes.

However, she is further disturbed by what the stranger says next: “For all parties to benefit, we must ensure that our associates from the county government alter the real-estate parcel and tax map identifiers for the entire subdivision in their computers and land, tax, and property registration systems as soon as potential homebuyers’ phony contracts are drawn with the home- builder.

There will be no paper trail linking the county government with homebuilders’ houses and potential homebuyers. The real-estate parcel and tax map identifiers must be altered before the buyers sign their phony contracts with the homebuilder to purchase new, under-construction houses. Doing so will steer the county toward establishing a real-estate tax account in the name of the potential homebuyer. When they attend the fraudulent closing and receive the keys to their new house, they will think that they are the sole owners of the newly constructed houses. They will be unaware that there are multiple unsecured mortgages on their newly built houses. At the same time, real-estate operators can create those associations as a cover to collect the assessment payments from these buyers.”

“Clever, my friend. And when the title agent or lawyer 147

submits the original trust deed and land title deeds to the county, our associates at the county will record the deeds with the altered real-estate parcel and tax map identifiers described in the deeds.”

“Of course. Once deeds are acknowledged by the county, they are recorded among its public land, tax, and property registration systems. The deeds will now reflect the altered realestate parcel and tax map identifiers linked to real-estate tax and assessors’ accounts. Moreover, by altering the real-estate parcel and tax map identifiers, the county essentially wipes out any record that shows that the prominent homebuilder and residential developer had multiple unsecured mortgages on the house. If homeowners complain to federal, state, and county authorities about irregularities regarding the transfer of property and ownership, the county can simply state, ‘The county is not authorized to look beyond the face of the document.’ Most likely, if a resident hires a local attorney—no worries—we also have associates in the county’s court.”

With a sinister grin, Gary says, “If ... excuse me, when homeowners default on their mortgage payments or even their association assessment payments, they will find themselves trapped in the center of the county’s court system. In other words, they will fall through a bottomless pit. This will encourage our associates from various law firms to initiate civil claims against the homeowner, ultimately making it possible for them to take possession of the house.”

Like Brenda Sue’s mother, Gary also works in the county’s Tax Commissioner Office and bills and collects personal property and real-estate taxes from residents in Pamunkey County.

Brenda Sue’s intuition tells her to share notes of what she heard with her mother, but for the time being, she decides to remain quiet, processing and not wholly understanding the scope and magnitude of what she has just discovered. Furthermore, knowing that her mother works for the county, too, she is hesitant to report her findings to local law enforcement officials, 148

fearing they are possible participants in this elaborate scheme. At this point, she reflects on television coverage from a few months earlier about the global financial crisis.

Four months later, in a private conversation, a public official at a Silkwood town meeting instructs another employee on what to say and not to say about a recent mortgage audit report on tens of thousands of foreclosed property sales in the community and how powerful Wall Street investment bankers and local real-estate operators benefited from the local county board of supervisors overseeing billions of dollars’ worth of land development projects.

The public official says, “How smart it was that the county posted a newsworthy press release that the government would be closed during the Fourth of July holiday, a long five-day weekend, to replace its 25-year-old automated real-estate tax collection and assessment system.”

Ida Jean is unaware of this private conversation between the public official and the county employee. Even though she is one of the county’s top quality control auditors, she is confused because she is typically chosen to conduct audits on foreclosed property sales. But it turns out that the county appointed Gary to supervise the audit this time.

One evening, in late October 2022, after listening to Ida Jean having an open conversation on the phone with her co-worker voicing their concerns about this, Brenda Sue suddenly realizes that she may have the answers her mom and co-worker are seeking and is thrust into a situation where there is no return.

She is, however, thankful that she overheard this conversation.

Through it, she confirms her worst fears that not all county officials are ethical; a few corrupt officials hold powerful positions and trust within the local government but abuse their power. They are corrupt not necessarily in the sense of an official accepting bribes but in a systemic sense. Finally, she hears enough to be convinced of this, prompting her to connect the dots and turn 149

herself into an amateur investigator.

She rushes to her bedroom to retrieve her notebook.

Returning to her mother, she says, “Mom, may I ask you a few questions?”

“Of course, you may, my dear.”

“Can you tell me why you and your friend were talking a lot about foreclosed property sales?”

“Yes. We had concerns about the number of foreclosed properties in our county. More than that, we were wondering why we were not called to participate in the audit. We are the county’s top auditors, after all.”

“Mom, what does ‘foreclosed’ mean?”

“Foreclosure, you mean. Okay, first, let me try to explain what a mortgage is. To buy a house, most people do not have the cash to pay for it, so they apply for a loan from the bank. Then, after the potential homebuyer signs all the ‘mystery’ paperwork and deeds to buy the house at a scheduled closing, deeds are recorded in the local county government offices. My angel, do you understand what I’ve said so far?”

“Yes, Mom.” “Okay, nice. At the closing, this is where money exchanges hands, and the owner change occurs in the record of the home.

Present at the closing table are the seller, the lending bank, and a representative from the title insurance company, who serves as the closing agent and presides over the closing. Are you following me?”

“I think so, Mom.” “Please stop me if I’m confusing you or talking too fast.”

“Yeah. I had a question: is the lending bank for the seller or the potential buyer?”

“Excellent question. To help you understand better, I will give you a scenario of the role of the lending bank and explain why they are present at the closing. The potential buyer’s lending bank is to whom they make out checks and the amounts. Let’s say 150

Jane Doe is attending her closing, and she brings three checks.

“The first—a check for $269,489 to Lending Bank A to pay off the homebuilder’s construction loan and to release the lien on the property from the seller. The second—a check to the home- builder (or seller) to cover their profit in the sale of the house. If the purchase price is $328,000, a few checks are needed to pay off all the construction liens. And finally, the third—a check to the title company to pay for the title insurance policies, which typically protect the lending bank and not the potential homebuyers.

“Are you still following me?”

“So far, I am,” Brenda Sue says, reflecting. “Perfect. The seller’s settlement agent is responsible for ensuring that the proceeds to buy the house are deposited in the lending bank’s account, so there are no outstanding mortgage loans, taxes, or liens existing on the house.

“In Jane Doe’s scenario, when she submits a mortgage loan application with the lending bank, the lending bank will ensure that the check in- tended to pay off the entire mortgage taken to build Jane Doe’s house is delivered on the day of the closing to the appropriate bank accounts and not diverted to other business or personal accounts.

“Now, to answer your question, a foreclosure is when the lending bank has the legal right to take away the property from a homeowner for their failure to make timely payments.”

Brenda Sue says, confused, “The closing process is kind of difficult for me to completely understand. But I now know what foreclosure means. I’m still puzzled about something called a ‘real-estate parcel and tax map identifier,’ though.”

Ida Jean says, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise, “That’s a fantastic question, sweetie! Think of a real-estate parcel and tax map identifier as the storybook for a piece of land. It not only gives every property its own unique number, like a special name, but also tells the story of everyone who owned and paid taxes on 151

that land—from the first owner to the present one. So, if someone wants to buy a house or a piece of land, they can refer to this number to understand its entire history and ensure everything is in order with the local government where the property is located.

It’s like checking the entire backstory of a character in one of your storybooks before deciding to read more about them.”

Brenda Sue, attempting to keep her voice casual, probes further. “Mom, I’m trying to connect the dots here. If every property has its own story through real-estate parcel and tax map identifiers, how does that relate to the mortgage and the lending bank? Why is it important?”

Ida Jean, once again taken by surprise, says, “Ah, Brenda Sue, you’re really diving deep, and I’m proud of you for thinking so critically. Okay, let’s go back to our storybook analogy. Imagine you’re reading a story about a character—let’s call her Lynn— and suddenly, in the middle of the story, Lynn’s name changes without any reason. It would be confusing, right? You’d wonder if it’s still the same Lynn or a different person altogether.”

“Duh, Mother! I’m sorry—yes, Mother, that would be weird.”

Ida Jean studies her daughter for a moment, sensing there might be more to the questioning. “Similarly, when someone gets a mortgage to buy a house, the real-estate parcel and tax map identifier or that unique number we talked about is attached to all the legal documents and records. This ensures that the lending bank’s loan is tied to the correct property. If, for any reason, the real-estate parcel and tax map identifier changes without the knowledge or consent of the buyer after they’ve signed to purchase a property, but before the loan is issued and before closing, it can lead to major complications tied to who owns the property or land. It may mean that the lending bank’s loan, which is recorded on the property through land record deeds, may not be secured against the right property and that potential homebuyers and homeowners who believe they own their homes actually do not.”

152

Reflecting on her visit to her friend Mark’s house, when she overheard something suspicious between Mark’s father, Gary, and a stranger— Brenda Sue, with wide eyes, says, “So, the lending bank may have given a loan thinking it’s for securing one property. But because the real-estate parcel and tax map identifier was changed, it could actually be for a different one?”

“Exactly! And this can lead to all sorts of legal complications and financial risks. In the worst-case scenario, if things aren’t caught and corrected, it could even lead to wrongful foreclosures and unjust evictions. The real-estate parcel and tax map identifier is a way to make sure the story of the property stays consistent, just like ensuring Lynn’s name stays the same throughout our storybook.”

Brenda Sue nods slowly, taking it all in. “Mom, is it possible for about 10 million children to lose their houses because of wrongful foreclosures?”

Ida Jean sighs deeply, looking into her daughter’s earnest eyes, and replies, “My angel, it’s impossible to imagine something like this could happen, especially here in the United States.”

Knowing that her mother has a vital role as the county’s quality control auditor to safeguard the property rights of each property owner in the community, Brenda Sue has new fears that if she tells her mother what she heard in April, Ida Jean may be in danger of being stripped of her job, their safety and security, and her ability to protect Brenda Sue. Ultimately, they could be torn away from the community they had become part of. So, instead of jumping into this uncertain plan, she kindly recounts what she watched on the television a few months prior, stressing how bothered she felt seeing those wrongful foreclosures and consequently homeless children.

She then leans in gently toward her mother, informs her of what she heard, and shares her handwritten notes, implicating Gary. Shaken by these revelations, Ida Jean suddenly drops into the kitchen table’s chair and immediately understands the value 153

of the information that her daughter has presented to her.

Seeing the intensity of her mother’s face, Brenda Sue instantly understands that what she just shared is very serious.

“My angel, did you get the name of that stranger?”

Brenda Sue softly responds, “I am sorry, Mom. Nope.”

Ida Jean finally says, “If I report these assertions to the proper authorities, what will happen to me ... What will happen to us? It could be life-changing, and we could be in great danger from a lot of bad people.”

Five minutes go by, and Brenda Sue holds her mother’s hand and tenderly rephrases her question: “Mother if we fail to report these allegations to the authorities, what will happen to the 10 million displaced children who are both past and present victims of wrongful foreclosures and unjust evictions—and not to us?

That’s the question at hand.”

She soliloquizes for five minutes straight about values and principles, doing what’s right, taking responsibility, being respectful, having self-respect and common sense—both for oneself and others—and following the guiding light of common sense. This moment signifies Brenda Sue’s first deep connection with the Infinite Spirit. She perceives the journey she and her mother must embark on and is encouraged by a determination to act with no thought of retreat.

When Brenda Sue stops, Ida Jean just stares at her with her mouth wide open. Then, feeling empowered and inspired, she finally responds, “Wow, everybody needs to hear what you just said!” Ida Jean knows that Brenda Sue is channeling into her the will to do the right thing, knowing that the love she is displaying is for humankind and that shouldn’t make her worried about her situation. Ida Jean embraces her daughter and thanks her for inspiring her to do what is right in God’s eyes.

So, emboldened by what she heard from Brenda Sue and nothing more than a gut feeling, Ida Jean knows, without hesitation, the time is right for her to act and examine the 154

county’s revenues, expenditures, debt activity, new construction building permit activity, housing sales, government-insured foreclosures and trustee sales reports, and business indicators from its internal computerized systems of records, land and real estate records, and tax collection databases. She compiles a list of suspicious disbursements, claims submitted by thirdparty law firms and lawyers, and evidence that the local county government has been orchestrating an elaborate bait-and-switch Ponzi scheme by improperly changing the owner of the record of tens of thousands of single-family houses, townhouses, and condominiums, altering its real-estate parcel and tax map identifier inventory (predating fraudulent mortgage loan origination and sale transactions), and purging billions of dollars of federal pledged mortgage loans from the local government’s (1) land management information (new construction permits), (2) title deeds and public land records management, (3) real-estate tax assessment, (4) tax collection, and (5) judicial electronic systems of records.

She obtains enough evidence showing a pattern of misconduct traceable to public servants. Unfortunately, she discovers that the local government used a ruse—a press release—to mislead the public and cover up its corrupt practices, resulting in a record number of wrongful foreclosures and unjust evictions that were easily preventable had every local government elected official gotten involved. Her findings reveal that the local government’s elected officials were very active in approving billions of dollars’ worth of major land acquisitions of commercial and residential properties among prominent local real-estate operators, home builders, residential developers, and powerful investment bankers, saddling millions of potential homebuyers and homeowners with double unsecured mortgages on their houses.

They also reveal that more than 7.1 billion dollars or tens of thousands of government-insured foreclosures and trustee property sales were originated, settled, and certified improperly 155

by the county, spanning four decades. This is confirmed by the mortgage audit report. Ida Jean obtains a copy of the audit report, including written notes, from the outside certified accountant firm, Watchdog Accounting Firm, which conducted the audit supervised by Gary. In truth, the local government hired the firm to perform the audit during the long Fourth of July weekend.

An accountant’s written notes discovered by Ida Jean state, in part, “Oh boy, this is worse than we thought! How do billions of dollars of government-insured foreclosures and trustee sale reports disappear from the county’s databases containing real property assessment and land parcel information?”

Ida Jean now understands why she and her co-worker were excluded from the audit. She also understands why the county sent out a press release about its offices being closed during the Fourth of July holiday. Up close to the public, the press release may seem to illustrate exceptional real-estate land use, building or zoning regulations, tax collection practices, transparency, and open government. Unfortunately, nothing could be farther from the truth. Indeed, the biggest financial cover-up in history ensued and was coordinated by the county government.

The closure provided a window of opportunity for the government to forge, alter, destroy, mutilate, conceal, purge, falsify, or make a false entry in any record, document, or public record stored in the county’s land management, real-estate tax assessment, tax collection, and judicial systems of re- cords, affecting house sale, the transfer of land title deeds, ownership, and mortgage servicing rights.

The well-planned public relations event was an attempt by the county government to cover up and retroactively purge, alter, or delete evidence of crimes when officials created fake mortgage escrow and tax accounts during the fraudulent mortgage loan origination phase. They did so by unlawfully and materially altering the real-estate parcel and tax map identifiers before federally insured mortgage loans were originated and serviced— 156

when houses were being pledged as security.

Ida Jean’s findings also show the county routinely and improperly altered, purged, or concealed data affecting the chain of title and transfer of ownership of houses for the entire community in its real property assessment and land parcel information systems of records. As a result, potential homebuyers of Pamunkey County were misled and deceived when they took out their mortgage loans and attended their fraudulent closings.

Based on information gleaned from Brenda Sue’s notebook, Ida Jean substantiates Watchdog Accounting Firm’s findings. Her notebook turns out to be the smoking gun that reveals the root cause of the widespread foreclosure improprieties arising from fraudulent mortgage loan originations and closings organized by prominent real-estate operators, homebuilders, developers, homeowners, condominium unit owners’ associations, lending banks, and closing agents from title insurance companies— affecting the legitimacy of the chains of title and transfers of ownership of tens of thousands of houses to millions of potential homebuyers and homeowners.

Ida Jean believes the foreclosures in Pamunkey County, Florida, were preventable if the United States government only focused on fraudulent mortgage loan originations and closings when the local county government intentionally altered realestate parcel and tax map identifiers described on publicly recorded mortgage and title deeds.

With the proof of these violations in hand and hidden in plain sight, she contacts the federal authorities, state inspector general, auditor, and attorney general. Moreover, she presents her findings to the local board of supervisors and sends multiple emails to the federal government, state government, and media outlining this pattern of wrongdoing by the county’s management.

The outcome is that federal and state housing watchdog agencies launch a far-reaching audit—in other words, foreclosure and eviction probes and referrals to federal prosecutors of the 157

widespread deception around real estate, the losses, and the ongoing global financial crisis. Moreover and most importantly, the federal government implements a nationwide foreclosure and eviction moratorium for all federal-insured mortgage home loans originated and indorsed between February 1, 1996, and the present—to review multiple trillion-dollar loans for compliance with the internal federal government’s underwriting and origination requirements within a nationwide mortgage electronic registration and tracking database. At the grand culmination, the county administrator and several constitutional officers resign; the chief financial officer is relieved of his position and asked to go on leave.

Then, the state auditor agrees to examine the county’s finances, and Gary is arrested by federal authorities for his role in this elaborate bait-and-switch Ponzi scheme. In parallel, the board of supervisors also considers hiring a consultant to advise Pamunkey County on its finances and general operations.

Although Ida Jean “uncooked” the accounting books traceable to the county’s actions, Brenda Sue’s contributions cannot be understated. She helped expose public corruption, not only averting their family’s risk but also helping countless other potential victims—including those from future generations—of fraudulent mortgage loan originations, closings, foreclosures, and unjust evictions. Federal prosecutors confirm that innumerable residents of Pamunkey County were the victims of the largest citizen data breach ever from fraudulent origination and closing schemes, causing multiple unsecured mortgages on a single house. Moreover, local mortgage lending banks al- lowed illegal deposits to flow into prominent local real-estate operators’ accounts to pay off the construction mortgage loans that the homebuilders left on potential homebuyers’ houses. Hesitant or unwilling to become the youngest whistleblower that brought about these changes, Brenda Sue insists that she deserves no accolades. Instead, she diverts praise to her mother and says that 158

her only concern is to make things better for the county and its residents. Brenda Sue risked her life and reputation because she cared about her fellow citizens in her community.

Because of Brenda Sue’s brave act, Pamunkey County’s elaborate scheme resulted in significant changes being made to the local government’s land use and building records and title registration, loan origination software, and tax and assessor systems nationwide. This scheme now emphasizes the need to establish laws on how assessors track the current ownership of all parcels via the recording of deeds and other documents conveying the title, ensuring home-builders, lending banks, and closing agents from title insurance companies throughout the United States implement constitutional protections for potential homebuyers by maintaining a transcript of each closing via recorded video and audio tapes.

Brenda Sue’s brave act also brings to the public’s attention a requirement for every local government’s register of deeds and assessors nationwide—to notify potential homebuyers— particularly when they sign a purchase agreement with the homebuilder—and current property owners when a change occurs to a real-estate parcel and tax map identifier. This notification must happen before the “date” when escrow (impound) accounts and real-estate tax accounts are established in their legal names.

This is especially important considering the real-estate parcel and tax map identifiers on mortgage documents, through which houses are pledged and federal and state governments guarantee mortgage loans.

Of course, the struggle for justice for property rights continues in the United States. The Fourteenth Amendment (Amendment) to the United States Constitution states, “No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of the Citizens of the United States, nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property without due process of law nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the 159

equal protection of the laws.” However, since Brenda Sue is still too young to learn of the amendment, a quote related to this life event from the Bible favored by her states, “For whatever is hidden is meant to be disclosed, and whatever is concealed is meant to be brought out into the open” (Mark 4:22).

About the Author

Tyrone Burnett is honored to share insights gained from his service as a Master Chief Petty Officer in the U.S. Navy during the pivotal Gulf War years through his debut book, The Believer within You. His experiences, particularly within the Judge Advocate General and Naval Legal Service Command, deeply inform this work, allowing him to explore complex societal challenges. His debut novel introduces Brenda Sue, a resilient young girl in her community, reflecting his commitment to shedding light on the strength possessed in adversity. This narrative, inspired by real-life challenges, advocates for selfdiscovery and empowerment, especially among the younger generation. It is more than a story—it is a source of motivation for positive change and belief in oneself. Explore more of Tyrone’s work at www.thebelieverwithinyou.com.

Social Change/Covid 19 Pandemic WINNERS ($75): TIE • MY LIE by Anka B. Troitsky • The Believer within You by Tyrone Burnett

FINALISTS: • Ice Cream! by Arnold Clickstein • Love & Basketball in the Time of Covid by Dan Schiro • Unveiling the Truth: Inside the Life of a COVID-19 Vaccine Volunteer by Shelley Malicote Stutchman

160

Inspirational

The Boy and the Tree

by Hank Leo Tree to the Boy: Tears are like raindrops off of leaves. They eventually absorb into the ground and foster growth and strength.

Boy: Who is that talking? Come out from behind there!

Tree: There is no one else; only I am here.

Boy: A tree that talks?

Tree: I can do many things Tree: Why so sad?

Boy: There was another school shooting today. Many kids died, even younger than me and school teachers too. This seems to happen more and more. I am afraid it could happen in my school. And a couple of weeks ago, there was another shooting, this time in a grocery store. There is violence everywhere around us. I am afraid, and so are all of my friends. My parents are even afraid. Everywhere we turn, there is violence and hatred, which doesn’t seem to end. It is overwhelming and depressing.

Tree: Why do you think all of these things are happening?

Boy: I don’t know. My friends and I hear people talk all the time that it’s about guns, assault rifles, video games, skin color, politics, and hatred. How can someone hate 161

Tree: Boy: Tree:

Boy: Tree: Boy: Tree:

Tree: Boy: Tree:

Tree: Boy:

162

so much that they want to do something like this? Why are there so many bad things happening? Why does the color of someone’s skin or how they dress, or how they do things differently matter so much?

And what do you think?

I think I’m scared. And I don’t know what to think or say.

Though I cannot tell you why people do what they do, I can tell you what we, as trees, do. Would you like to know?

I’m not sure trees would understand.

What do you notice about my trunk?

It is pretty thick and strong.

Yes. There were heavy winds yesterday. 60-mile-an-hour winds swept through here and damaged many buildings.

Some trees lost their branches, but most of us stood firm.

Our roots keep us grounded enough to withstand most any storm.

What do you know about my knot over here on my left side?

I don’t know. I guess I’ve never known why trees have knots.

A long time ago, I was injured. A branch of mine was broken off. The knot comes from the cells in my body coming to the rescue to heal me. I am stronger because of the knot, even though there was a loss. It is not a blemish.

Trees do not make fun of each other because of knots.

Those are honor scars of healing and strength.

What do you notice about me, as compared to all of the other trees around me?

Hmmm. None of you look the same. There are some tall trees. Some are short. Some are wide and some are skinny. I see a Christmas tree over there, one with berries on it over that hill, and a really old one.

Tree:

Boy: Tree:

Boy: Tree:

Boy:

Yes, we are all different, but we are, indeed, all trees. Therein lies our beauty. We look at each other with appreciation and respect. We also do not hide our differences. We are proud of them. Trees are not jealous or angry. We need each other to survive. And we still maintain our freedom.

Freedom? How do trees have freedom? Aren’t you planted wherever someone decided to put you?

Not necessarily. Our seeds go where the wind blows or where a bird decides to drop them. We treasure and embrace freedom and mobility but are perfectly content being grounded, too.

Take, for instance, this branch over here. This once held a swing for a little girl. See these initials engraved on the south side of my bark? These are the markings of a boy who grew up to be an engineer. And do you see this board bridging two of my limbs? This is what remains from a house that once provided a safe place for a brother and sister to talk. Sometimes, just being there for someone is the best we can do.

Are each of you, uh, alone, or do you know each other?

Not only do we know each other, we speak to each other often, work together and cooperate with one another.

We’ve always talked to each other. It took humans a long time to discover that fact. We also share water through an underground network. A forest is a community. Our goal is to live in peace and harmony. Forests and jungles are often referred to as “mighty.” We take care of each other through communication. Our strength comes from unity.

I feel sometimes like the world is falling apart. It feels like everything is getting worse. People are killing each other without any concern or fear, and for reasons I can’t understand. There are wars around the world. And I am afraid to go to the park, or the mall, or even the movies.

163

Tree:

One thing we as trees know, all the way from our roots to our leaves, is that we have to be patient and have trust and conviction. We know that every winter turns into spring and every spring turns into summer. During the fall, we shed our leaves to conserve resources. Everything happens for a season and a reason.

Even though a forest fire started by humans can destroy an entire region of trees, we know that we will regenerate, replant, grow, and form another forest. We accept natural challenges as part of life, but band together when someone from the outside causes a tragedy either intentionally or accidentally. It is difficult enough to worry about natural causes than to also fear the unknown.

We cannot prevent lightning from striking one of us, and only humans can prevent the intentional destruction of our forest. We rely on you to learn more about us, why we are important, what we contribute to you, your health, and your livelihood. Education is extremely important. If we are important to you, you will treasure our gifts. We have hope, faith, and confidence that we will survive, but only if we work together and are respected.

Boy: But what can a tree do to stop a murderer, or a virus, or anger, hatred, and ignorance?

Tree: Trees cannot prepare for or worry about storms, but we know they will happen and can occur unexpectedly. Can we stop someone with an axe who wants to cut us down?

Can we hide? Can we run away? When we wake up in the morning, we do not think about hurricanes, tornados, fires, and logging companies. Instead, we look at each day as a gift and we hope that you value trees as vital to this world. During storms, we have a saying, “Bend, but don’t break!” leaning on each other so that we do not lose loved ones. We work together as a community and talk with each other. We love, not hate each other, and 164

Boy: Tree:

Boy: Tree:

celebrate our differences. Thick trees provide protection.

Thin trees tell us which way the wind blows. A knot is a badge of courage that we display proudly. A beautiful forest has many different types of trees- all sizes, shapes, and types. Have you ever listened to a forest sing?

Forests sing?

The next time you are out in the woods, stop quietly and listen. You will hear a world-class choir with voices from the bottom of our roots, to our vines and knots, all the way through our tiniest of leaves, collectively saying, “We stand tall and even if one of us falls, we will grow back stronger.” We sing, “Everyone is welcome here, come in and enjoy being with us.” But respect where you are standing, sitting, playing, or having a lunch. When that order is violated, we weaken, but we stand firm even in the worst of times. If we break, well then, we break, but not without giving everything we have to save each other.

What can I do to make my world more like a forest?

Start with planting a seed of hope. Water it. Nurture it. Make sure its roots are firm. If your hope starts to droop, provide support for it. Never let it fall. If it is that important to you, you will care deeply about it. Do not wait for someone else to care for it, as it may be swept away forever. Plant seeds with intention. If you see progress, keep planting them. Each seed is important alone, but combined with many more seeds, you can create a beautiful forest that will last forever. Don’t give up just because it is difficult. The chance that one little seed will hold firm and take root is very small, nearly impossible on your scale of understanding. But we know how important each one is.

One little seed could hold a swinging tire for a child.

It could provide warmth for a family for a year. It could provide shade for someone needing rest.

165

It could provide food for thousands of animals. It can produce enough oxygen for a family for a year. Its branches can save the lives of others.

Trees represent stability and longevity. You can, too.

Be a model. Stand tall and unwavering in your value of what is important for the betterment of all.

Tree: Do you know when trees are at our most beautiful stage?

Boy: The fall, when you turn colors?

Tree: That is correct. When the temperatures change and the days are shorter, we come out in full splendor to celebrate the turning of a season. We become a bright red, orange, yellow, and golden blanket covering entire areas.

Our magnificence lies in our diversity.

Boy: My hardest and last question... why?

Tree: Why? Boy: Why do you do all of those things? Why go through the trouble? What is the point?

Tree: This is how we were made. Trees were put here to take care of each other, animals, people, and the community.

It is the only reason we exist.

Tree: Lean up against me, with your back against my trunk.

Look up at my branches. Now, close your eyes and feel me and listen. What do you feel and hear?

Boy: I hear peace. I hear calm. I hear quiet. I hear the wind. I hear your branches knocking against each other and the tree next to you. I hear, well, harmony.

Tree: I am glad you found me today. You have the ability to write your own future. Carve a short promise in my trunk. Years from now, as time passes, come back and sit with me and bring friends. As you age, remember this day and look at your promise. Is it fulfilled? Go and spread that feeling of harmony. Be a tree- strong, sturdy, a resource, and an example. Reach out your branches to 166

others and embrace them for what they are and who they are. Above all, value harmony above all else. It is why you are here, too.

THE END

About the Author

Hank Leo Jr. has served as the CEO of the YMCA of the Greater Tri-Valley for nearly 30 years. Leo is also an awardwinning author of seven nationally published books: Home When the Streetlights Come On (Winner, GSB Festival 2016), God Called, In Your Hands, Return To Allen Park, The Toolbox, Just Be Held, I Finally Heard From Someone!

His story, Dad was featured in The Best of the Spiritual Writers Network 2013.

Leo has penned three new books for a multi-media project entitled “A Better Place,” a global initiative to help children understand and accept differences in others. www.hankleojr.com

Inspirational

WINNER ($75): • The Boy and the Tree by Hank Leo FINALISTS: • Cityscape Chronicles--Unveiling the Tapestry of New York by Mark M. Bello • Making a Way Out of No Way by Shelia Payton • SCARLET A Friend of God Teaches About JOY, by Tamiko Nesbitt • Strings of Love by Loretta Marion • The Last Wave by Richard Attree 167

Mystery

The Moving Picture

by Lucia Cascioli Mrs. Rossi lived in a bungalow at 15 Barton Street East in Hamilton. It was the house in which she was born and where her parents and husband had died. In the in-between, children had come into the world, first steps taken, doors slammed, grapes pressed, sauce made, and pasta stretched to feed the ever-growing family that expanded around the table on feast days. Yelling was mistaken for arguing by the neighbours who came and went and who didn’t understand that it was necessary in order to be heard over the cacophony of voices conversing over a meal, or up staircases, or through windows; that the loudest got attention over the television blasting a soccer match in the living room, the radio blaring songs in the kitchen, and the dogs barking to come in from the cold.

But that was years ago. She knew that her beloved Frank had been the family glue, always bringing everyone together, bribing them with fresh vegetables from the garden in the summer, canned roasted red peppers in the winter, and a million-dollar smile year-round. His face was hazy to Mrs. Rossi now. The pictures on the mantle helped, but her memories zoomed in and out like a camera lens since he passed away too soon, twenty years ago. Twenty years since the rocking chair—in which she 168

had nursed her babies, cuddled grandchildren, and listened to piano practices—had been turned to face the street. Her only company.

Families stretched their tentacles. She knew that. Hers was no different. Off her brood had gone farther and farther in search of careers and a different life in Vancouver, Montreal, New York, and Rome. They sent pictures and Facetimed. It took her longer to figure out how to connect the call than the length of the call itself. The regular ear-to-receiver method was all she needed and even that was a chore. She missed her rotary phone. She missed her family and her dogs. She missed her old younger life.

And so today, like every day, she sat in her zipped-up housecoat, sipping her coffee behind her sheer drapes open just enough to clearly see the moving picture outside her window.

The overnight rain had washed the scene clean. Across the street, the school bus was picking up the neighbourhood kiddies and commuters with their stainless-steel travel mugs clicked their heels and veered around recycling bins, racing to catch a GO train to somewhere else. A Canada Post truck was parked in front of the community mailbox, which meant Alfred, her usual mailman who always stopped to chat, was filling up her slot with flyers for things she never bought.

Mrs. Rossi had just noticed a rather rotund traffic cop slipping a ticket under the windshield wiper of a BMW when a chickadee flew onto her sill, distracting her, tapping on the window in its bird Morse code.

Dumb bird. All these mature trees and fall flowers and it taps on the glass. “Look, bird,” she said, pointing to the flower bed.

“Fly over there.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. She loved her garden and loved George, her young gardener, for tending it since she couldn’t bear the wear and tear of the task. Enough dirt had found its way under her fingernails over her lifetime. The young could sweat it out. She would enjoy the 169

colours. The brown-eyed Susans were still a vibrant yellow in early September and the hydrangea were already turning from white to pink after a couple of cool nights. The stonecrops were covered in bees and wasps searching for fall pollen and the hostas were turning cornhusk yellow. And George was dead under the weigela.

Mrs. Rossi rocked herself forward and upright, pressing her nose against the glass before shuffling to the front door and flinging it open. “George!” Her slippers slurped the soil as she made her way around his scattered tools, a breadcrumb trail to his body.

Zigzagging in her robe caught Alfred’s attention as he threw the empty bins into the back of his truck. “Mrs. Rossi, what’s—” “He’s dead!” she yelled, pointing down to the ground.

“Who?” Alfred asked, running across the road with the officer right behind him.

“George.”

The police officer, expecting to see a pet named George when he looked over the hedge, jumped back at the sight of a dead man. “I’ll check his pulse,” he said, scrambling to the gate.

Alfred knew better than to move.

“Freeze, 4073,” Mrs. Rossi said, looking at the number on his shirt. “Call the real police. This is above your pay grade and I don’t want you messing up the crime scene more than I already have. I watch Murdoch Mysteries, you know.”

“Ma’am, I need you to step back. He might be alive, he—” “His eyes are open and I can see his brains,” she growled.

“Wipe that milk off your chin and go call the real detectives, 4073. You can’t ticket a dead body for trespassing.”

Officer Connelly, who would forever be known to Mrs. Rossi as 4073, hesitated. He shifted his gaze to Alfred and gave him a can-you-reason-with-her look, but Alfred just stared at him wide eyed and shook his head subtly. Don’t poke the bear.

170

“Okay, but don’t move or touch anything,” he yelled over his shoulder as he ran back to his car.

“Where am I going?” Mrs. Rossi muttered. “You believe this, Alfred? I’ve lived here since the ’50s. Now, those were rough years in this neighbourhood. No one liked our kind here. Too much garlic wafting out the windows, too many dark-haired children who brought pasta to school instead of Wonder bread. We had rocks thrown at the house and bricks through the window, but never this.” She tsked.

“A body in the flowerbed? I should think not,” Alfred said.

Officer Connelly came panting back. “Okay, they’re on their way. Just stay where you are,” he said to them.

“We haven’t moved since you saw us two minutes ago, 4073,” Mrs. Rossi snapped.

Officer Connelly wiped his brow. “You’re pretty calm. You must be in shock. You want me to call someone, Ma’am?”

“Like the police?” she barked back.

Alfred suppressed a chuckle. Even in a morbid situation, she could make him laugh.

Before Officer Connelly could respond, two cruisers and a black SUV pulled up to the curb.

From that moment on, her moving picture changed. She no longer sat in her rocking chair in her housecoat, sipping her coffee. Over the coming days and weeks, Mrs. Rossi would have to rewind and play that morning. Her life was filled with interviews. Detectives questioned her about George, how long had she known him, what she knew of his past, his family, his friends. What of her family? Her friends? Her past? Where were they going with this? she thought.

“Ma’am, where were you on the night of—?”

“Asleep, we’ve been over this, Sonny.” Mrs. Rossi’s voice became raspier by the day. Her frown lines deeper. Her eyes sunk into their sockets and her cheeks hollowed like a bitten apple. “You keep asking me the same questions, looking for 171

enlightenment. George came to the house once a week. He was alive the week before and, on that morning, I found him dead in my flower bed. Worm food. Kaput.

“And before you ask, we were not an item. Not that he cared much for age difference. He played for the other team. He introduced me to his boyfriend. Karl’s his name, I think.”

“We’ve checked him out and other leads, too. Some are telling us that he often argued with you. There was a lot of shouting.”

“Barton’s a busy street. Gotta yell over the cars. Listen, he was a sweet kid. You’re not pinning this on me,” she said, pointing an arthritic finger. “Use your common sense. Look at me. How could I take on a tall and muscular guy like George? Impossible.”

“We’re not accusing you, Mrs. Rossi, just trying to resolve this case. A man is dead.”

“Well, focus your attention elsewhere. I’m near the grave myself and I don’t want to waste a minute more with the lot of you.”

Months passed, then years. The case went cold and stamped ‘unsolved.’ Dust collected on boxes. Mrs. Rossi sat in her rocking chair facing the window, but the weeds had taken over her flowerbed, crowding out the brown-eyed Susans, hydrangeas, stonecrops, hostas, and weigela. Every once in a while, a visiting child or grandchild would try to tame it all, but the weeds grew stronger.

Mrs. Rossi took it as a sign. Once evil had come into her garden, there was no uprooting it.

“It’s time, Ma,” Mrs. Rossi’s son, Joseph, said as he helped her stand out of her rocking chair.

“George should never have been there,” she said, staring out the window.

“You’ll like the nursing home,” Joseph said gently. “It’s new and fresh and—” “Not like me,” she whispered. “Give me a minute alone, will you? I just want to take one more look around the house.”

172

“Okay, I’ll take the rocker out. Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”

Mrs. Rossi shook her head. “Thanks for coming all the way from Vancouver to help me out,” she said.

“No problem, Ma,” Joseph said as the rocker scraped the door frame.

Mrs. Rossi turned to look at her empty house. The faded green carpet had patches of bright rectangles where furniture had been removed. They reminded her of caskets. Invisible yet visibly marking the memories of the place.

What had he been doing in the garden shed at midnight? She drifted into the kitchen and eased herself down by the sink. All in black like a burglar. Skulking around. She eased herself down to the floor, hanging on to the counter. He could have been a thief hiding from the police or a druggie squirreling his stash in the shed.

How was I to know? She crouched under the counter. Of course, I was scared. She reached over to the space behind the cutlery drawer. I had to defend myself. I didn’t even know I had it in me to do that. Her fingers tickled a black garbage bag. Just a bit further.

She felt the wad of tape wrapped around a hammer, the one she had washed clean of blood long ago, the one her husband had used to hang family pictures on the wall and to build the garden shed. Got it. She yanked it out and placed it into a plastic grocery bag.

“Ma, are you ready,” Joseph called in.

“On my way.”

“What do you have there?” he asked, putting the key in the lockbox.

“Just some rubbish from the kitchen.”

She tossed it into the dumpster in the driveway filled with the rest of her possessions and stared at the rocking chair legs upside down in the air like sad faces.

“It’s just furniture, Ma,” Joseph said with his arm around her shoulders, “not your memories.”

173

Mrs. Rossi nodded. “I’ll leave some of those behind and just take the good ones with me.”

As they drove past the hedge one last time, Mrs. Rossi noticed a stretched branch of the weigela reaching for the sunlight.

If trumpet flowers could talk.

About the Author

Lucia Cascioli is prone to going down rabbit holes on topics that interest her, which inevitably makes her reading pile grow higher and higher. She is also a doctoral candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Glasgow and a member of the Writers’ Union of Canada. Lucia is currently working on a novel. www.luciacascioli.com.

Mystery

WINNER ($75): • The Moving Picture by Lucia Cascioli FINALISTS: • A Japanese Fan by Lea O'Harra (pen name) • Grammy's Basement by Mary Deal • In the Twilight by Francesco Paola

174

Scary Stories/Paranormal

The Vaccine

by Douglas A. Burton Cutting open a human being is always a big deal, especially when the subject’s not dead, but undead. The patient, codenamed “Zach Seven,” is one of dozens of infected human beings contained during the Baltimore quarantine last month. Like all the other infected subjects, Zach’s vital signs are nonexistent, his brain activity nearly zero, except for his primal functions— his reptile brain—with an irreversible loss of all cognitive functions. His body seems trapped in the algor mortis stage of decomposition, a patient in agonizing pain, a corpse in decay, a biological contradiction of life and death, side by side, within a single human host. If left to his own autonomy, Zach would use nightmarish brute force to bludgeon and cannibalize anyone he encountered.

I’ve been working with Zach for two weeks now, prepping, but only from behind two feet of fortified aluminum oxynitride, the kind of armored glass capable of stopping fifty-caliber bullets. Now that we have an experimental vaccine and a certified procedure, I must come into contact with Zach. But I’m not a surgeon or even a doctor. I’m an embalmer.

Without a beating heart, the vaccine can’t circulate through his system from simple injection. Zach’s blood sits like water in 175

a Ziploc bag. But me? I know how to drain standing blood and pump chemicals through a dead body.

“Well, David?” says the familiar voice of Dr. Kendra Hersch inside my hazmat suit. “How do you feel?”

I turn to face her. “Like a human burrito.”

“You look like one.”

Her bedside manner soothes me. Calm. Humored. Just what I need right now, given the task ahead.

Most people see hazmat suits in the movies, you know, big lemon-yellow sumo suits with spaceman-like masks and respirators. Now that I’ve had a crash course, I’ve learned that not all suits are equal. I’m wearing a Level 4 suit, the highest protective suit they make. The damn thing smells like the freshest toy store vinyl and takes over thirty minutes to put on. It can block anything from chemical splashes to microscopic particles that may or may not be a lethal virus.

You see, I’m standing in a fortress of artificial sterility known as the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases.

Otherwise known as USAMRIID. I don’t want to be here. It’s not my usual workspace. I’m used to sterile environments— the kind with white-painted cinder block walls, acoustic ceiling tiles with brown water stains, and Gustav Mahler playing on my iPhone.

Such is the charm of a funeral home basement, my natural workspace.

“Okay,” says Dr. Hersch, “Let’s pressurize.”

I grab a long yellow tube that hangs from the ceiling, just like we practiced. I press the end of the tube into a silver disc on my suit, twist it, and then hear a loud rush of air. My suit puffs up like a blowfish. I suck in lungfuls of sanitized air. My breathing stutters in and out. How strange that I feel like I’m drowning in oxygen for the first few seconds.

“Take it easy,” says Dr. Hersch. “Your heart rate is climbing.”

I force down a swallow, and I hear myself grunt in the process.

“I watched more of the news last night. They showed clips of all 176

sorts of things. Downtown. Suburbs. Even in the countryside. I saw what the infecs are doing to people.”

“Slow your breathing, David. Come on. Focus on our procedure.”

She’s not listening.

“Live feed after live feed,” I say. “They’re calling it an extinction pandemic. Some scientists give us three months. They said even if a few of us have natural immunity, none could survive the physical threat. There’d be billions of Zachs.”

Dr. Hersch draws back. “I know, David. But you and I are the counterattack. We need to find out if we can kill the virus.

Right now. Today.”

Her comments slow my rising panic. She and I stare at each other momentarily, and the realization comes back. The military will battle the infecs in the streets, barricade them off, gun them down, surveil them, but if we’re to beat them, really beat them, we have to beat the virus, host by host, cell by cell, until the virus eradicated. I don’t have a choice because there’s nowhere else to go. So, I have to do this.

I watch the doctor’s coffee-colored eyes flit over different parts of my suit. She tugs on this and brushes over that until she looks satisfied. I check her suit in return. Then she detaches the yellow tubes from our suits and sends them retracting into the ceiling. But the momentary calm is capsized by a flood of fresh anxiety when she shifts her gaze over to the door on the far side of the room. “Open the vault,” she says in a commanding voice.

Refrigerated air mists out along the metal seams of a massive, four-foot silver door on the far wall, the kind you see in Swiss banks. Right away, I know that the final barrier between me and the worst Level 4 hot agent in human history just disappeared.

Zach is in the room beyond.

“David,” she says, “Look at me. Focus on the procedure.

There’s nothing else in the world right now.”

Only the procedure. Only the procedure.

177

Dr. Hersch and I walk side by side through an airlock and enter a room with pristine stainless-steel walls, a grill-like ceiling, blocks of halogen lights, and industrial wall fans.

Those fans comfort me the way air support comforts ground troops. If my suit tears, the wall fans will flush the hot morgue of all infected oxygen in two seconds flat. But contaminated air isn’t what frightens me.

I fix my gaze on the decomposed cadaver strapped to the gurney in the center of the room. Zach is perfectly still. Beside him is the embalming equipment. I’m to perform a simple RCI, a restricted cervical injection, so that I can get the precious vaccine into his body tissues.

“Approaching the subject,” says Dr. Hersch into her commlink.

At the sound of her voice, Zach jerks. He suddenly flails his head and body violently as if in the throes of sustained electrocution. Dr. Hersch and I both jump back. Zach’s animalistic strength is unsettling, triggering an awareness that the gurney straps are designed for regular people. Have the straps ever been tested to the limit on an undead subject?

Zach belches out a long, hoarse wail.

We need to get the hell out of here.

Right now.

Even if this stupid procedure is successful, there’s no way to produce enough serum in time to save everyone. A vaccine is a blow dart against a battleship-“Come on, David. Let’s get this done.”

Zach suddenly settles. And when his glistening, decomposing torso finally flattens on the gurney, I watch his head slowly turn in our direction. His eyes, yellow-white—boiled eggs with opalescent corneas—fix on Dr. Hersch and me. Zach gives us his full attention, entranced, the vacant stare of the psychotically obsessed. I noticed his nose had come off since I last saw him.

Now, I see only two elongated holes in the center of his face.

178

His skeletal fingers open and close in an almost rhythmic cycle. And his chin moves side to side as his teeth snap down repeatedly with an awful clack. He sees us, and we see him.

I look back as the vault door shuts and hermetically seals with a high-pitched hiss. No going back now.

“The subject is secure,” says Dr. Hersch to break the horror film lull. “Proceeding to the embalming station.”

“Just watch those straps,” I say. “Any sign that he’s about to break free, and we call it off.”

“Of course.”

I accept her assurance, though we both know perfectly well that if Zach breaks free, that vault door’s not budging.

Zach stares and even stills——a serpent’s steady patience as a field mouse strays near its venomous mouth.

I remind myself there is no need for an antiseptic on the operating field because it’s not an operation. For this procedure, I skip all the cosmetic steps of embalming. No disinfecting. No shaving body hair. No setting the jaw with wire.

Now I hear my own breathing, in and out, in and out, like a nervous astronaut. I need my music, my Mahler. Embalming was a ritual, after all, and rituals must mask the unpleasant with art and repetition. “Can I get my music, please?”

Through the speaker in my suit, I hear the opening of Mahler’s Symphony Number One. Strings in unison. A dreamlike wail from far away, approaching me in a combined seven octaves.

Yes. I draw in a deep breath. This is familiar. The symphony progresses, and rich music soon transforms the hot morgue into a palace of mesmerizing and complex sound, a symphony hall in a death chamber.

“Prepare the patient,” I say, taking my position behind Zach’s head. His eyes roll up to follow my every movement. I reach for the metal trocar, a syringe-like device attached to a thick tube.

Then, holding the trocar between my fingers, like a conductor with a wand, I lower my hand slowly, lightly, at the same pulse of 179

the descending woodwinds of the symphony, settling above the navel. Then, I press the device into Zach’s soft flesh.

Zach twitches like a sleeping dog poked in the hindquarters.

He spasms wildly and screams out like a wounded animal.

His loose skin frays where the straps hold him firmly in place, and I hold my breath. He tries to lift his head up to face me.

Cold, predatory hatred shows on his face, but the head restraint prevents the full range of motion. The gurney straps hold. When he realizes the futility of his struggle, Zach settles on panting rapidly and snapping his fractured, yellow teeth.

I ignore him and focus on the music, just as I would at the funeral home. Only the music. I have to drain all the infected fluids from his chest, abdominal, and pelvic cavity to make way for our vaccine. Dr. Hersch and I exchange an uneasy glance. So far, so good. “Prepare for drainage,” I say.

Dr. Hersch prepares the equipment, her eyes nervously glancing at Zach every few seconds. We both watch as black blood fills the tube, chunky with partial clots and bits of organic matter.

Afterward, I repeat the process in the stomach region. I press another trocar between two ribs. Infected gas hisses out, and brown liquid speckles my mask before spilling out as sludge to pool at my feet. After a while, I drain the pelvic area. Even without body fluids, Zach stays in a restless rhythm of movement, random twitching, or deliberate struggle. However, as time passes, Zach seems more and more accepting of the activity on his body.

When it comes time to pump the vaccine into his decayed veins, Zach watches with an unsettling serenity, like a calm zebra, as lions feed upon its flesh. This was the moment we’d been awaiting. Dr. Hersch and I watch intently as the dark blue vaccine travels up the tubes and vanishes into Zach’s body.

Only Mahler passes the time with us. Fourth Movement.

Brass horns, light fanfare. Descending pattern in D major. The music fades now. Fading. Fading…

180

Like Zach.

Zach blinks slowly, like an infant about to dream. He opens his eyes wide in a final bout of alertness, the last pulse of unholy life. Then his attention quickly wanes, and he sinks further and further toward a wary stillness.

“He’s dying,” says Dr. Hersch.

And I see that he is. Zach’s hands droop. His mouth ceases its phantom chewing. His chest takes in no breath. Then, with certainty, I see that Zach is motionless.

I wait.

“Note the time,” says Dr. Hersch.

I glance over at the clock. “7:17 a.m.”

I look at him, at Zach. His opalescent eyes fade back to a pale blue. I try to remember that this monster’s face had been someone else once, a father or friend, a human with memories like mine. Zach’s one of us, even if he’s in some ways the opposite of us, the side of us beneath our shared humanity: life for the sake of life, sight for the sake of sight, hunger for the sake of hunger, equipped only with an electric impulse to live on, but nothing else. He’s our animal existence, a rudimentary form of life in rebellion against death, but here, at last, we’ve restored a precious order.

When I look up at Dr. Hersch, I feel unsettled. For perhaps we are the doctors of a new dark age. Our gift will be freedom from blind consciousness. Freedom from existence. Freedom of a kind. And our cure will be not life, but death.

“Flush the room,” said Dr. Hersch. “We’re coming out.”

“Amen,” I say.

There’s a long pause over the commlink. “Hang tight in there, Kendra. We have a problem at the east barricade.”

“Problem?” she says.

I feel my blood rising. “What kind of problem?”

“Stay put,” comes the answer. “Right now, you two are in the safest place in the building.”

181

“But we have the cure,” says Dr. Hersch. “It worked, and we have the cure in our hands. Open the vault door.”

“We’re being ordered to evacuate,” says the commlink. “Stay put.”

“Get us out of here!” I shout, running to the sealed doorway and pounding with an open palm. I hear muffled sounds over the commlink and an awkward thump as though the headset hit the ground. Distant gunfire. Shouting. A loud, high-pitched ringing.

Sudden silence.

When I look at Dr. Hersch, I can see she’s scared. Her eyes are wide.

“We have the cure,” I say. “They have to come back.”

“David, no one’s ever taken back an area once it’s overrun.”

“We have to get out of here.”

Without water, Dr. Hersch and I will be dead in a week, entombed inside the vault with Zach. Dying of thirst is a terrible, agonizing way to go.

Dr. Hersch glances over at the dead monster on the gurney.

At that moment, I sense her thoughts. A primal nightmare logic fills the room as my own reptile brain awakens. You’re entombed forever. Don’t die of thirst.

I look at her, stunned, not believing. “There’s no hope for us if they’ve left. We’ll run out of air.”

Dr. Hersch swallows, and in a calm but eerie voice, she says, “They’ll come back for the vaccine, David. Please step away from the patient.”

Her sudden distrust in me triggers a dangerous tension, like an insult, like a challenge. My reptile brain screams at me. Either I’ll be her victim or she’ll be mine.

Dr. Hersch raises her hands. “Stay calm.”

I rip off my mask in a panic, and cold air chills my face.

My lungs fill with foul, acid air as I feel spasms in my hands.

I feel overwhelming nausea. I can’t breathe. My vision blurs and everything moves away from my senses.

182

Dr. Hersch screams.

Violas in F minor. Then brass in D major.

Conclude with light fanfare.

About the Author

Douglas A. Burton is a novelist and storyteller whose works emphasize heroic women in fiction. Burton’s awardwinning debut novel, ‘Far Away Bird,’ brought Byzantine Empress Theodora to life through an intimate biographical account.

Burton’s newest book, ‘The Heroine’s Labyrinth: Archetypal Designs in Heroine-Led Fiction,’ is a writing craft book that proposes an original story structure—sourced entirely from heroine-centric stories. The labyrinth model offers a groundbreaking alternative to the hero’s journey. Burton lives in Austin, TX, with his wife and two boys. www.douglasaburton.com.

Scary Stories/Paranormal

WINNER ($75): • The Vaccine by Douglas A Burton

FINALISTS: • Albert by Donald Firesmith • SWELL by Ken Ewings • What We Were Made For by Abigail Corfman

183

Travel

Trails West:

The Oregon Trail Revisited

by Richard B. Gartrell They walked their way across our nation, their prairie wagons flexible for the trek over the flat yet undulating prairie and treacherous mountains. Imagine no highways or interstates, no railroad tracks or telephone lines, no small towns with streetlights, no highway signs, few trees, and no designated rest areas. The wagons carried their supplies and what little personal items and memories of their former homes. The harsh realities of their crossing only toughened their resolve.

Each day, the early pioneers walked almost fifteen miles along an unmarked, later overrun, overgrazed, and dusty route.

Eventually, nearly 400,000 pioneers traveled the 2,170 miles of open, flat, bleak and rugged prairie, and staunch, foreboding mountains, with only scattered landmarks to help them know if they were on the right route. At first, there were few signs of life ahead, but with time, wagon ruts began to identify the Oregon, Mormon, and California Trails, along with grave markers and jettisoned stuff to lighten the wagon load.

Weather was always a serious consideration; winters were harsh, bleak, and cold, with deep snows and freezing winds. The other seasons were filled with equally daunting weather, sun, humidity, and draining heat; hot, searing, dry winds chapped 184

lips and burned their faces. Heavy rains, electrical storms, and flash floods too often made moving a wagon extremely difficult.

The hard, uneven ground on which they walked callused their feet and soles while the sun toughened their skin.

Evening campsites were carefully positioned to avoid an overnight change in weather, producing thunderstorms, rain, and rising rivers that wandered aimlessly across the prairie, potentially threatening a campsite of the not-so-wary pioneer.

Between Fort Kearny (Nebraska) and Fort Laramie (Wyoming), the prairie route was known as The Great Platte River Road. The Platte River dominates the geography of Nebraska; in fact, the word “Nebraska” is the Omaha Indian term for “flat.” Following the North Platte River, the trails are still visible with wagon ruts. There are many preserved locations along the route where you can view those ruts carved into the rocks and land over which wagons rumbled. Standing there on the rough land, seeing the deeply marked trails, hearing nothing but the wind, it is easy to image the hardships of walking and stumbling along the trail, dust choking your throat and coating your eyelids, nose, and very skin, sun beating down, or a cold chilled wind cutting through your layered clothes. Yet resolve, persistence, and outright stubbornness, in mind and continence, drove them forward, following their dreams.

My 271-mile journey from Kearney, Nebraska, to Casper, Wyoming, began at Fort Kearney State Park. That evening, you could reach up and touch the stars in the heavens; the night was cold and clear. There were no lights, and, in fact, no one was around. The deafening silence of the prairie put us in the mood to understand and appreciate just how our pioneering forefathers found this new world. The prairie is flat and when alone, you really do feel like you are in the middle of nowhere. The “wagon” on the prairie, however, would be something solid and earthconnecting, easing the feeling of aloneness.

185

Fort Kearny was a military post as well as a place to stock up before the next leg of the pioneer journey. It was the “gateway” to the trails that passed through Nebraska and continues to be a gateway with its recently opened The Great Platte River Road Archway Monument, which straddles Interstate 80 just east of the main Kearney interchange (access via exit 272 off I-80). This unique, if not overbearing, attraction offers insights into the spirit of those early pioneers and the many hardships that were encountered.

Leaving Kearney, we drove along Highway 30, first to Gothenburg to see the Pony Express Station (in the City’s downtown park); this is a replica and does not have the horse stables or other building that might have been with such a station, but it gives you a sense of the size of the stations (they’re really small). The legends of the Pony Express live on, but its life was short-lived due to the development of the telegraph and railroads.

Continuing along Highway 30, we arrived at North Platte, home of Scout’s Rest Ranch, winter quarters for William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody. Buffalo Bill retreated to North Platte for the winters following the tours of his Wild West Show. He was first an Army scout, then a showman. This debonair, gregarious man hosted royalty on buffalo hunts, was respected by the Indians and lived a lavish life. Today, Buffalo Bill’s cherished “old west” is honored at Scout’s Rest Ranch with its annual Buffalo Bill Rodeo.

West along Highway 30, Ogallala, Nebraska, is not far from North Platte, where we connected with Highway 26/92, heading northwest into the yucca-studded bluffs and short grass prairie Panhandle of Nebraska toward Scottsbluff. Through small towns, along large agricultural and livestock fields, and over the bluffs that are characteristic of this region, we took in the rural beauty of the countryside while wondering if the pioneers had time to appreciate the rolling land and bluffs, or if they were too busy 186

struggling with those ruts, dust, distracted by drying wagon wheels, squeaky springs and the pesky oxen or mules. Like portions of Interstate 80 in Nebraska, Highway 26 is part of the route of the Oregon Trail.

For the emigrants, landmarks were very critical navigational tools, even when they were just ruts, especially with regard to timing westward movement over the mountains to avoid being caught in the snow. Several significant, awe-inspiring landmarks denote the trail and jut regally above the prairie.

The first notable site with its cedar-speckled furrows and wildflower-covered hilltops, was Ash Hollow State Historical Park (28 miles northwest of Ogallala). This is the site of Windless Hill, where pioneers reportedly lowered their wagons by rope over the bluff ’s 250-foot dissent to the floor below. People can walk to the top of the bluff for a pioneer’s eye view (the ruts are clear in the grasses of the hill); there is an authentic sod house at its base, too. Once down the hill, the pioneers camped until everyone arrived safely. It was a good time to do repairs before they began the next leg of the arduous journey. A nearby visitor’s center has fossils as well as Native American and Oregon Trail artifacts on display.

Not too far from Ash Hallow along Highway 26 are Courthouse and Jailhouse Rocks, located in the Platte River Valley near Bridgeport, Nebraska. Named after the courthouse in St. Louis, these were among the first landmarks seen by pioneers.

Chimney Rock (Bayard, Nebraska), the most famous landmark along the Oregon-California Trail, was an inspirational towering, cone-shaped mass of sandstone seen nearly 40 miles before the pioneers reached its base. There are discrepancies regarding how high it was 150 years ago as compared to its height of 300 feet today. Regardless, pioneer spirits soared as they rallied near its base. Some folks even left their names inscribed in its sandstone base. The State Historical Visitor Center has an excellent collection of maps, photographs, and books describing 187

the journeys of early pioneers along the trail, including several emigrant diaries that provide a first-hand look at life along the trail. The visitor center has a parking lot and is accessible on a paved two-lane road just off Highway 26/92. You may wish to camp at the Chimney Rock Pioneer Crossing RV Park at the foot of Chimney Rock or the nearby Oregon Trail Wagon Train camp.

The Oregon Trail Wagon Train offers a taste of the 1850s with a variety of wagon treks from 24 hours to four days.

Thirty-five miles west of Chimney Rock is Scottsbluff National Monument, rising 800 feet above the North Platte River. At its base, wagon trains passed through the narrow Mitchell Pass. Depending on which trail you were traveling, the two landmarks, Chimney Rock and Scottsbluff National Monument, signaled that nearly one-fifth (Oregon Trail) to onehalf (Mormon Trail) of the westward trek had been completed.

The Scotts Bluff Monument is part of the National Park Service; its visitor center has historical displays, a gift shop, and a small theatre. They have a large parking lot; cars and RVs can usually navigate the 2-lane tight curve route to the top of the monument, but one should check first with the Ranger Station at its base.

There is a hiking trail for families who wish to “play pioneer” and walk to the top.

Leaving Nebraska, we continued west along Highway 26 into Wyoming. Whatever you’ve believed about “forts” and the wild, wild west, well, guess again. The use of “forts” west of the Missouri was essentially to keep livestock safe from wandering off at night.

When we drove into Fort Laramie, we were introduced to what a real fort looked like back in the early 1800s, open, spread out with no fences or walls.

In 1834, Fort Laramie was the crossroads where the Cheyenne and Arapaho traveled and traded; initially a fur trading post, by 1840, wagon trains rested and resupplied there. In 1849, Fort Laramie became a military post but closed in 1890. Many of the original buildings remain, with some restored to their original.

188

You can walk the parade grounds, visit the jailhouse, view both officer and enlisted quarters, and get a glimpse of how life was on the prairie. It doesn’t take much imagination to see just how rugged, isolated, and exposed life was in those early days. Today, Fort Laramie is maintained by the National Park Service with a visitor center that includes books and an orientation film introducing life at the fort and the surrounding area.

Nearby Register Cliff, now a historic state park, bears the inscriptions and signatures (with dates) from thousands of emigrants who left their mark as they migrated west. It’s a great place for a picnic, along a small winding river overlooking the surrounding ranches.

Our travels came to an end, visiting the new National Historic Trails Interpretive Center in Casper, Wyoming. Run by the Bureau of Land Management, there’s an introductory story about the pioneers, using film, audio, and colorful full-sized dioramas. Each section of the center provides insights into those early days. You can ride a wagon as it crosses a river just to get the feel of what it is like to be bouncing on an uneven river bed, or you can try your hand at pulling one of the Mormon carts (complete with appropriate “weight” and resistance!). The first Mormons in 1847, fleeing persecution, pulled their hand carts along the north banks of the Platte River; nearly 100,000 would follow. Some pioneers didn’t make it because of poor timing and perished in winter blizzards. Others celebrated their newfound homes. Located overlooking the City of Casper, the Center has a large parking lot and gift shop.

The beauty of our journey was reliving the early pioneers’ experiences and their struggle to follow their dreams. Seeing inspiring geographic landmarks and recognizing how important they were to the pioneers brought back many images. The winds whispered their voices, grave sites along the trails marking their struggles. Their sacrifice and spirit for discovery opened new worlds. Along the way, we experienced small-town hospitality 189

and the warmth of friendships renewed. We chose the fall season with all its beauty and grandeur; the cold weather reminded us of what our pioneer forefathers had experienced, too. But most of all, we found this region of Western Nebraska and Eastern Wyoming to be a “destination” so rich with its pioneer heritage and geographic splendor.

It was a great excursion!

List of Attractions and Camping Locations

(Fort Kearney, Nebraska to Casper, Wyoming) Attraction Information Fort Kearny State Historical Park 1020 V Road, Kearney, Nebraska 68847-9804 2 mi South, 4 miles east of Kearney 308-865-5305 www.Fort.Kearny@ngpc.ne.gov Grounds open year-round.

Visitor Center open Memorial to Labor Day daily 9-5.

The Great Platte River Road Archway Monument 3060 East First Street Kearney, Nebraska 68847 877-511-ARCH (2724) www.archway. org Open 9:00 am-6 pm May 27 to September 4 For seasonal hours: 308-237-1000 or 877-511-ARCH Entrance fee (child, youth, adult, senior). Annual passes available.

Buffalo Bill Ranch State Park (Museum) 2921 Scouts Rest Ranch Road North Platte, Nebraska 69101-8444 308-535-8035 Email: Buffalo.Bill@ngpc.ne.gov 1 mile west of North Platte 190

Seasonal Hours usually 9-5 Memorial to Labor Day (everyday) Ash Hollow State Historical Park P.O. Box 70, Lewellen, Nebraska 69147-0070 308-778-5651 .5 miles east, 3 mi SE of Lewellen on US Hwy 26 Open Memorial Day weekend to Labor Day Tues-Sun 10 am-4 pm www.Ash.Hallow@ngpc.ne.gov Chimney Rock National Historic Site P.O. Box F; Bayard, NE 69334-0680 Telephone: 308-586-2581 Web: www.nebraskahistory.org Email: chimrock@scottsbluff.net Visitor Center: 1.5 miles south of Highway 92 on Chimney Road Rd. Hours: Memorial to Labor Day: 9-5 daily. Sept-May: 9-5 Tues-Sun. Small admission fee (children with adults free).

The Oregon Trail Wagon Train Route 2, Box 502; Bayard, NE 69334 www.oregontrailwagontrain. com Chuck Wagon Cookouts (May-Sept) Adult/children (under 12)call for pricing.

Country Prime Rid (Oct-Apr) Old West History Tours: Morning (8:00-11:30): fees per person (max 16 people per wagon) Also, 24-hour treks and 4-day treks (call for pricing) Telephone: 308-586-1850 Fax: 308-586-1848 Scottsbluff National Monument 190276 Highway 92 West Gering, Nebraska 69341-0027 308-436-4340 191

Fax: 308-436-7611 Open Memorial-Labor Day 8 am-7 pm Rest of Year Open – 8 am-5 pm Closed Christmas & New Years. Small admission fee. www.nps.gov/scbl Fort Laramie State Historical Park 965 Gray Rocks Road Fort Laramie, Wyoming 82212 307-837-2221 Fax: 307-837-2120 National Historic Trails Interpretive Center (Casper, Wyoming) 1501 N. Poplar Street Casper, Wyoming 307-261-7700 www.wy.blm.gov/nhtic April 1-October 31: 8 am-7 pm daily Small admission fee (Adults, seniors, students, youth (6-17), child (3-5 yrs).

Nebraska Department of Economic Development Tourism Development Division PO Box 94666 Lincoln, NE 68509-8907 Publication: Nebraska Visitor Guide (and camping guide) 877-NEBRASKA www.VisitNebraska.org Wyoming Division of Tourism 1-25 at College Drive Cheyenne, WY 82002 Publication: Wyoming Tourism Guide (and camping guide) 800-225-5996 www.wyomingtourism.org Campground/RV Park Information 192

Fort Kearny State Recreation Area 1020 V Road, Kearney, Nebraska 68847-9804 308-865-5305 www.Fort.Kearny@ngpc.ne.gov 2 mi South, 4 miles east of Kearney 75 pads with electricity; 35 sites w/o elect.

Showers/Restrooms. Reservations accepted.

Fees vary.

Buffalo Bill State Recreation Area 2921 Scouts Rest Ranch Road North Platte, Nebraska 69101-8444 308-535-8035 Email: Buffalo.Bill@ngpc.ne.gov 23 Camping Pads with electrical hookups, 20 non-pad sites without electricity Electrical: 20/30/50. Water. No dump station. Directions: Hwy 83 N to Hwy 30 W, 1 mi north. Fees vary.

The Oregon Trail Wagon Train Route 2, Box 502; Bayard, NE 69334 www.oregontrailwagontrain. com RV: No hookups & full service (fees vary) Telephone: 308-586-1850 Fax: 308-586-1848 Chimney Rock Pioneer Crossing PO Box 189, Bayard, Nebraska 69334 308-586-1988 or 308-586-2361 Email: settlers@prairieweb.com www.chimneyrockpioneeringxing.com Located at the base of Chimney Rock.

16 RV pull-through sites. 30 tent sites.

20/30/50. Soft water showers. Convenient/souvenir store Open Year-round. Fees vary.

193

Fort Casper Campground 4205 Fort Casper Road, Casper, WY 82604 Open: Year-Round 86 RV sites (including pull-through, laundry, store, cable). Fees vary.

Telephone: 888-243-7709 forcasparcampground@sprynet.com

About the Author

Richard B. Gartrell is the author of a detective mystery series (silver medal, “series” finalist, Next Generation Indie 2022 International Book Awards). He’s a former tourism marketing executive, college professor and administrator and author of numerous professional articles and a tourism industry textbook.

With degrees from San Francisco State University and doctoral studies at the University of Nebraska, he began his creative writing career in 2014 with his detective series and more recently, short stories and a romance novel (publication pending). Enjoying retirement at 83, he and his wife live on the Olympic Peninsula, Washington State. www.rbgartrellauthor.com.

Travel

WINNER ($75): • Trails West: The Oregon Trail Revisited by Richard B. Gartrell FINALISTS: • Blissed Out at the Integratron by Laurie McAndish King • Open Spaces by Bryan Bigelow • What Happens in Chonburi by Bryan Bigelow

194

Sports

Two Strikes Against

by Matthew Apple The transmission from the dugout manager came on all the available channels: “Okay, here we go, everyone. Last inning of play. Check your oxygen levels again. Let’s not have a repeat of last week’s hyperventilation.”

On the outfield communications channel, Tetsuro heard a snicker from the roving outfielder, followed by an additional comment: “Looking at you, right field.”

The RO wandered the inner outfield area, past where on Earth would be the edge of the infield dirt diamond, here on the Mars surface represented by a solid black line. From his position close to the outer wall, Tetsuro could barely see the fourth outfielder through the rust-red haze. The RO turned around and waved.

Swallowing his pride, Tetsuro muttered, “Yes, Captain.”

He tapped a control panel on his left sleeve. A little low, but within normal standards. He tweaked the O2-N mix and pounded his glove as best he could. A habit from his high school days; it seemed odd now with no sound, no smell of leather or grass. Yet he couldn’t help it. The feeling relaxed him. Not for the last time, he wondered whether volunteering for the cultural exchange program had been such a great idea.

“Batter up!”

195

The words seemed to come from an enormous distance.

Well, Tetsuro thought, shrugging inside his bulky space baseball suit, the words were coming from a distance.

Some rapid eye flicking back and forth adjusted the color filter. Through his face shield Tetsuro peered in toward the infield, some 200 meters away.

His face shield’s tiny inset screen, in the upper left, gave him a miniature view of what the viewing audience in communal rec halls across the Consolidated Mars Colonies saw. Tetsuro envisioned the exaggerated slow motion: the umpire in the tiny screen indicated the start, and the pitcher reared back for the inning’s first pitch.

“Striiiiikkkke...” the ump’s voice bellowed.

The sound echoed around Tetsuro’s helmet. He winced and adjusted the volume control on his left forearm touch panel. The face shield screen displayed the pitch velocity and angle. Curve balls didn’t work well in space. Not enough air friction. Luckily, their pitcher could throw the “riser” and change up effectively.

Only one more strike and he’d get the first out.

“Man, I remember the old Lunar Leagues...” the center fielder’s voice came to him on the outfielder channel.

Tetsuro sighed. Not this again.

Doug said the same thing in every single one of the last twenty games with the Mars Landers. Not for the last time, Tetsuro wished that the league forbade video transmission of player communiqués during tournament games. Their captain argued that someone could hack the signal and relay it to the opposing team. Good entertainment value, the owner proclaimed. As if the danger inherent in the sport weren’t entertaining enough.

But, then again, the players had no choice, he thought. No rights at all. “...the ball used to just fly at us. I mean, fly, man,” Doug was saying.

196

“Clear the channel, Lunie,” a female voice cut in. The roving infielder, the fifth infield player playing directly behind second base.

Tetsuro attempted to pound his glove again and flexed his knees to stretch his hamstrings. Eleven people on the field. He’d never get used to it. Still, he reflected, with only the original nine-person Earth game configuration, they’d be hard-pressed to catch anything.

“Aw, c’mon, Indiri. I was just...”

A sudden sparkle lit up his helmet. “Here it comes! Right and Center!” somebshouted.

Tetsuro tapped the arm controls. The ball’s trajectory instantly displayed on a pop-up screen at the face shield’s upper right corner. Speed vectors calculated, he turned to his right and kicked against the ground to propel himself into the air. One bound. Two. “Get it, old man!” he heard Doug shout. Old man. He grimaced as he bounded again. Just because the Mars calendar year lasted twice as long as Earth’s didn’t make them any younger...

He neared the wall as the ball changed its forward momentum.

The backspin overtaking the air resistance, the ball looped upward and backward. Tetsuro braced himself against the base of the wall, crouched, and leaped.

The ball slammed into the wall five centimeters beneath his outstretched glove, falling to the ground and bounding away.

Kuso! he silently swore. Once again, underestimated his vertical.

Tetsuro touched his forearm, toggled from computer grid to plain view and bounded after the ball. Doug was nowhere close.

“Third! Third! Hit the primary cut-off!” the captain shouted over all channels.

Catching up to the errant ball, Tetsuro touched his forearm again. A 3D image of the field appeared, showing the location of all fielders with distances estimated between them. A green light flashed to show the closest fielder’s location. A red moving dot, 197

the runner’s progress around the bases. Marsball rules placed the bases 60 meters apart, more than twice the Earthbound rules.

Still, the runner made good speed; she rounded first and was halfway to second.

Scooping up the 180-gram ball, Tetsuro quickly calculated the distance to the cut-off fielder. As he pulled his arm back for the throw, he heard the roving infielder break into the outfielder channel: “She missed first! She missed first!”

Stopping his throw, Tetsuro blinked twice rapidly to toggle the infield audio channel.

“RI says the runner missed a base.”

“Iron Man, chuck it in here,” the first base fielder cut in. “We’ll appeal to the line ump.”

Tetsuro reached back again and heaved the ball to the secondary cut-off near the infield/outfield demarcation line.

With little air resistance, the ball flew in a straight line to her. She deftly cradled it and returned to the infield.

The runner stood confidently on third. The Mars Landers manager left the dugout area and slowly walked to the umpire behind first base. At a gesture from the manager, the second base fielder tossed the ball to first. The ball floated in the thin air; it softly bounced into the glove of the waiting first base fielder, who stepped on the bag.

“Out!” came the cry from the umpire, transmitted on all channels.

Tetsuro couldn’t hear what the opposing team players were saying, but from their manager’s sudden bouncing and arm flailing, he could make a good guess. Time was called for the instant replay crew to show the vid, fed via satellite uplink to all players as well as the home audience. Tetsuro clearly saw it on his helmet screen — sure enough, the runner had skipped over the bag at first without actually stepping on it.

Now he watched as if a rec hall audience member. The runner hung her head but walked off the field with no protest.

198

Meanwhile, her manager went furiously helmet to helmet with the umpire. If their helmets actually touched, he could be thrown out. Though not terribly delicate, face shields that cracked would lead to severe consequences.

Tetsuro remembered an accident the previous year. Vivid memories he didn’t care to see repeated. Particularly if it involved former teammates.

“Back to your positions, everyone,” the captain called on the pitching battery, infielder, and outfielder channels.

Muted murmurs of assent buzzed through the static. Tetsuro bounded back to the circle in right field that marked his position and waited in silence.

The inset screen in his visor showed the score now: Far East Consortium 17, Mars Landers 19, superimposed over the typical pitcher-batter view from a camera behind the pitching area.

The opposing manager must have given up and returned to the dugout.

The next batter stepped in, and the pitch time clock started to count down from 10. One out to go, top of the 5th. One out to a semi-final victory and a spot in the final championship game.

A ping on the outfielder channel. Doug.

“Sorry, I wasn’t much help back there, old man.”

Tetsuro shook his head, then stopped. Of course, nobody could see him. “No problem.” “Ball!” the umpire’s call came from a distance.

Tetsuro shook his head again. Their pitcher was too tense.

Six batters walked already. Granted, only three balls for a walk made it easier. And no pitcher’s mound, just a flat surface, made the ball easier to hit.

Tetsuro sighed. The game here sure was different.

“You know, Doug—” “Ball!” Another umpire call interrupted him.

The left roving fielder clicked her tongue in disapproval. Or maybe just to remind them the channel wasn’t private.

199

“You can stop calling me ‘old man’ any time. I’m only 24.”

Doug laughed. “To my 20 Mars years. You still seem old to me. Short, too.”

“Yeah, well, I was the youngest player on our corporate team back on Earth.”

The screen lit up again. Tetsuro didn’t need to hear the “incoming” warning from the captain. The fielders could tell from the swing angle and speed.

Doug had already turned and bounded back to the wall, but no rush; they had to wait out the hang time. Four seconds. Five.

Tetsuro bounded over to center to join Doug. They both stood still. Ten. “Man, back in the Lunar Leagues...”

“Yeah, Doug. I heard this already.”

“This one guy, I swear he hit it twelve hundred feet. I waited at least half a minute to catch it.”

Eighteen.

“There it is!” Tetsuro said, pointing. The ball finished its loop.

Would it come down?

They both crouched, ready to jump. But the ball continued sailing straight over their heads.

Over the wall and out of sight.

“Kuso,” Tetsuro swore.

“Yeah, man, you said it,” Doug said, standing up. “Now we’re up by only one.”

Tetsuro turned to go back to his position and paused to look at the 250-meter sign hanging above the wall.

“Say, Doug, what is twelve hundred feet?”

“What, in meters?”

“Yeah.”

“Dunno. About 350?”

“About?”

“Uh...360? C’mon old...Iron Man. I was a desalination plant operator.”

200

“Engineer. You were an engineer.”

Doug laughed again. “Yeah. I was. Legally, anyway.”

A voice broke into their conversation. “Iron Man. Tetsuro.”

Tetsuro sucked in a breath. The team captain never used his nickname.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Get in here. You’re pitching.”

Stunned silence on all channels.

“But I, uh, I haven’t thrown since I was in high school.”

“That’s an order.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tetsuro swallowed, shutting off the channel. He waved to Doug and bounded toward the infield.

The audio channel fell dead; his own ragged breathing the only sound. Pausing once, he checked the oxygen mix again. A little low. Enough for this half-inning, but he’d need a refill before batting later. If he let them tie the game.

He resumed bounding toward the infield. Four of the five fielders stood anchored at their respective positions, occasionally gesturing to each other. Probably talking about him on the infielder channel.

Tetsuro approached the pitcher’s circle.

Only 25 meters from the batter. So close...

He paused for permission to log in to the pitching battery channel. The previous pitcher stepped out of the circle and handed him the ball. Tetsuro held out his glove to accept it, but the pitcher kept his hand firmly wrapped around the sphere.

Swallowing heavily, Tetsuro looked up, directly into the pitcher’s eyes. The stare-off lasted only a split-second.

“Don’t screw up, Easterling,” the pitcher said in a low voice.

Tetsuro felt his face turning red inside the helmet, but not from Martian dust. “I’m not—” “No freebies for your friends. We’ve got a lot riding on this game.”

201

The pitcher shoved the ball in his glove and bounded off to take up Tetsuro’s former outfield position.

Tetsuro stared down at the ball. He knew that some on the team still resented his even being there.

Suddenly, he grew angry. Even though he had volunteered for the exchange program, he felt just as trapped as they did. Just as vulnerable to the risk.

“What was that all about?” came a voice in his helmet.

“N, nothing,” Tetsuro stammered, wishing the captain would just drop the matter.

Tetsuro flipped the ball slowly between his glove and his right hand. He’d dig into the mound if he could. But, of course no mound, and digging a trench made no sense in low grav ball.

The lowered friction coefficient already made the ball seem faster anyway, even if it did effectively hamper curveballs.

“Didn’t look like nothing,” the captain commented.

Tetsuro could almost feel her gaze from the inner outfield.

“I know you’ve taken a lot of flak from the team during your cultural exchange season,” the captain continued. “But I also know you’re stronger. Stronger physically, thanks to growing up on Earth. Stronger mentally, too, thanks to what happened last year.”

Tetsuro stopped tossing the ball and gripped the seamless sphere as tightly as possible.

“Winner of the semi-final gets a half-term reduction for all team members. Win the whole thing, the further reduction might help some of us get out of here right away.”

Tetsuro swallowed hard, staring at the hard red ground.

“We lost to the Far Asian Consortium early in the tournament last year,” the captain added. “You must remember that. We also lost a player. Keep that in mind.”

Tetsuro remembered. He’d played on the Far Asian Consortium team the previous season, caught illegally downloading vids at work only a month into his temporary off202

Earth assignment. Still new to Mars. New to the confined living quarters. New to the isolation. But he received no leniency. Using up valuable online bandwidth was a serious crime in a society that needed connectivity to survive.

Not like home. Not like green home.

Kobe beef. Fresh fish. Real miso soup. He forced down his long-forgotten homesickness and squeaked out a response.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tetsuro looked into home plate. As usual, the catcher stood about half a meter behind the batter; the umpire, a bit more diagonally behind the catcher’s right. The catcher gestured for the five warm-up pitches. Tetsuro reared back and threw.

The ball flew unerringly directly into the catcher’s mitt, chesthigh, sending the catcher backward a few centimeters. A hushed quiet prevailed on all channels. The catcher lobbed the ball back, gingerly flapping her glove hand. Tetsuro threw four more times, not even bothering to try anything but straight pitches.

After the final warm-up pitch, he turned his back to home plate and looked upward at the Martian sky. Brownish-yellow by day, it started to turn pinkish-red toward sunset.

Tetsuro sighed, thinking of blue.

He thought they’d send him home after the arrest. Instead, they sentenced him to a facility with others deemed “Far Asian,” like himself.

But they were all Mars-born, and he was simply here on business. Much shorter than the Mars-born. Not used to their yeasty food and strange customs. Too different. When he volunteered for the exchange program, he assumed they’d be happy to see him go, even if just for a year. Now that he was on the verge of leaving on parole earlier than them...

“Iron Man.”

203

He lowered his head, turning the ball around in his pitching hand. The catcher on the pitching battery channel. Live transmission, no doubt.

“Yeah.”

“What is it your people say? You gotta go into the tiger’s cave...”

The Mars Landers players understood him better than the “Far Asians.” Tetsuro smiled despite himself. “...if you want to catch the cub,” he finished the proverb. He turned around to face the plate. “Only tigers don’t live in caves, do they?”

“They don’t live on Mars, either. Show your old teammates what you got, Earth-born.”

The catcher gestured. The umpire shouted, “Play ball” on all channels. Tetsuro reared back for the pitch.

The ball flew towards the batter’s head. He instinctively tried to duck to avoid the pitch but didn’t squat fast enough. The ball struck the tip of the bat and ricocheted toward the opposing team’s dugout area.

Players immediately reacted by dodging, but the ball bounced harmlessly off the protective transparent wall and back out near first base.

“Strike!” came the call from the umpire. Channels burst into life. As the first base fielder tracked down the loose ball, Tetsuro saw the Far East Consortium manager start to charge toward the field. Two of his coaches physically restrained him. Tetsuro could only imagine what they were saying. Even before the season had begun, his former teammates started calling him a traitor.

Catching the ball with a snap of his glove, Tetsuro heard pings from two separate channels.

“Iron Man, settle down, man.” Doug. From the outfield wall.

“Yeah, you heard something?” Tetsuro said, testily.

“Zoom in from the on-air crew got sent to us nanoseconds after. Vid hackers, probably.”

204

“Yeah, well...” He couldn’t ignore the second ping. “Yes, Captain.”

“Tetsuro. Cool it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Facing the catcher again, a warning sign in glowing red letters appeared inside Tetsuro’s helmet screen. No second warnings, the gist of the message. Another throw like that, they’d automatically forfeit the game.

The warning sign shrank and moved to the upper left corner of the helmet screen. He deliberately let out a slow sigh.

A directional path from himself to the catcher appeared as an overlay on the screen before his eyes.

Irritated, he made a motion to flick the image off by touching his left wrist console.

Suddenly, he realized that he hadn’t paid attention to the pitchtime clock.

“Ball!”

Tetsuro inwardly winced. Automatic ball for running out of time without pitching.

He gripped the ball as the clock started again. The batter stood silently, waiting. Tetsuro threw.

Low. The ball struck the dirt and squirted under the catcher’s outstretched glove.

“Ball two!”

Tetsuro stood facing the catcher this time, glove out, waiting for the ball to be returned. He held the ball again, the clock started again.

Heart thumping in his ears, he realized why the previous pitcher found it no easy task to calm down. He imagined how many cameras focused on his every move, how many commentators poked fun at his lack of experience.

How many family members on Earth might eventually watch a bootleg streamed vid the following week after a fan leaked transmissions via semi-legal uplink.

205

Desperately pushing down any errant thoughts, Tetsuro swallowed hard and looked in at the catcher. He shook his head.

No, no way. He looked. He saw it again. The catcher signaled him to throw a curve.

He nodded. Well, why not? Time to test his strength.

Changing his grip, Tetsuro reached back for everything he had and threw. The ball zoomed toward the batter, waist-high, then slowly arched down. Not as much as a typical Earth pitch but more than usual for Marsball. The batter swung.

The ball rocketed on the ground toward second.

The first base fielder dived for the ball, leaving him out of position.

“Tetsuro! Cover! Cover!” somebody shouted.

Tetsuro bounded toward first, his helmet screen tracking both the ball and the runner’s progress down the first baseline.

The second base fielder flopped on top of the ball in short right field, struggled to her knees, and pegged a throw toward the base.

Still mid-bound, Tetsuro reached as far as he could with his gloved left hand and snagged the ball as it crossed the foul line.

He could feel his right foot drag across the bag half a second before the runner arrived.

Tetsuro tumbled into foul territory, fell on his side, and rolled over. His legs kicked up in the thin Martian air.

“Yeeeer out!” came the call. Tetsuro sighed in relief. The Far East Consortium manager would likely challenge the call, but an instant reply would back him up. Game over.

But he heard no cheers. Instead, on all channels, the call for medical help sounded.

On his back behind first base, Tetsuro tried to see what happened. Two or three Mars Landers players surrounded the runner collapsed facedown on the ground, holding both hands to one leg.

No...

206

Faint wisps rose from between the runner’s fingers as he twisted his head back and forth. A hole in the suit leg. From Tetsuro’s shoes? From falling down too hard on the bag? From small, sharp rocks kicked up randomly by the wind?

Tetsuro staggered to his feet.

A coach bounded out of the Far Asian Consortium dugout area, waving away other players nearby. A quick med kit spread open on the ground.

Tetsuro stood silently nearby, still holding the ball. A trickle of sweat worked its way down one cheek as he watched in fascinated horror.

The runner ripped open the pant leg. He scratched, scratched, futilely scratched in agony at the perchloric, carcinogenic Martian dust entering the suit. The coach quickly, desperately, attached the self-sealing patch to the suit leg and started the biowaste flush sequence.

Too late.

The hands slowly stopped moving. The head lolled and the torso shuddered. The hands dropped. It was over.

All players stood and bowed their heads in a moment of silence.

“Game set!” the umpire shouted. “Hit the showers! Players have an extra fifteen minutes tonight before evening roll call and inspection.”

Tetsuro stared at his feet, still gripping the ball as Mars Lander players bounded off the field.

“Iron Man.” He looked up. The captain put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him, helmet to helmet.

“M, ma’am,” Tetsuro said, unable to finish.

“There was nothing you could have done,” she said, not unsympathetically. “It was an honest accident.”

207

“I can’t go back now, can I?” he asked. He looked at the runner, lifeless on the ground behind first base. The Far-Asian players surrounded their teammate in a semi-circle of prayer.

Outwardly, they ignored him. But he knew better.

What could he say? That he thought the prisoner exchange between vying factions of Mars colonies would get him a better chance of winning on an obviously superior team? That he just wanted the chance to play baseball while serving his term?

Or that, despite external physical appearances, he wasn’t really “Far Asian” at all. Not like them. Not like those born and raised off-Earth, separated from their cultural and linguistic heritage.

He just wanted to go home. Back to Earth, where everybody could play outdoor sports.

And not just criminals.

The captain patted his shoulder again.

“Well, we all knew the risks. It goes with territory.”

Doug’s voice floated to him from the outfield channel.

“Iron Man, you done good. Even this old convict was impressed. One more game to go!”

Tetsuro gazed toward the setting Martian sun, the pink-rose sky fading to azure blue around a tiny disc half the size of Earth’s.

Night had fallen some time ago, but it would still take longer to completely turn black.

About the Author

Originally from Upstate New York, M. Thomas Apple gave up his childhood dreams of becoming the next Carl Sagan and instead studied languages and literature at Bard College and creative writing at the University of Notre Dame. Author of the award-winning Adam’s Stepsons and Bringer of Light, he runs a blog about science and science fiction by night and teaches 208

English by day. He lives in rural Japan in a quasi-traditional house co-designed with his wife and partially decorated by his two daughters, nestled in the foothills of the mountains and surrounded by lots of cedar and cicada. mthomasapple.com.

Sports

WINNER ($75): • Two Strikes Against by M Thomas Apple FINALISTS: • Love & Basketball in the Time of Covid by Dan Schiro • The Collarbone by Liz Larson • The Power of Imagination by Robert Almada

209

Family/Parenting

What Child is This

by Julie Stielstra “Mo-om!” She dragged it out into two syllables when she wanted something.

Molly stood at the arena gate, her rhinestoned cell phone in her hand. Sarah was quite sure she had not bought her the pink satin shorts she was wearing.

“I called you like a million times!”

Sarah sighed and halted the bay gelding at the gate. “I don’t carry the phone on a horse, you know that. What do you need?”

“Lexi wants me to come over. Can I go?”

“I can’t take you now. Joan’s lesson is in fifteen minutes, then I’ve got the beginner kids after.”

Molly scowled, swiveling her bare toes, smeared with green polish (where did she get that?), in the dirt.

“I told you no flip-flops in the barn,” Sarah said before she could stop herself.

“It’s just for like one second! And I tried to call you on your phone, but you never answer it! If Lexi’s mom can come get me, can I go?”

Sarah hated this. Living out on the farm, Molly took the bus eight miles to school. After school, after work, this was the busiest time of day for riding lessons. At eleven, Molly was in the 210

throes of what she’d heard called “the tweens,” which seemed to require relentless, uninterrupted contact with girls she’d left at school an hour before and with whom the online chatter never stopped. The constant ferrying back and forth in and out of each other’s houses too often fell to someone else’s mother. It made Sarah impatient and guilty, and she just didn’t get why Molly couldn’t come home after a day at school and do her homework and feed the guinea pig and read or watch TV (though she did plenty of that) without this daily social hysteria. For Sarah, the best part of the day was after the last car had left the parking area by the barn, and she could sit quietly by herself with a glass of wine and the snort and stomp and swish of peaceful horses in the evening pastures.

There was a lot she didn’t get about Molly.

She and Bill hadn’t really even discussed having a baby. It was one of those things you might talk about doing some time, like skydiving or going hiking in Costa Rica. There were certain passions, like being heterosexual or for the company of horses, that she had been born with. Wanting a child was not one of them. She’d been fourteen when her brother Ted was born. She liked him, was curious about him, enjoyed him when he was cute and charming, and when he wasn’t, she could hand him back to their mother, so overall, it was the best possible experience.

But it hadn’t lit up any longing for one of her own. Maybe it would come when she was older.

“You’ll see!” her mother said. “You’ll change your mind.”

Then, she simply ceased to think about it.

The riding stable business was doing well, and Bill was settled teaching high school. She worked hard, sometimes unwinding with more wine than was good for her, and hit a patch of waking up every morning feeling wasted and nauseous, shakily retching in the stalls as she forked manure into the wagon. She stopped drinking, and it didn’t help. The doctor just asked when her last period was. She began to count back and said, “Oh, god.” The test 211

was positive, of course. The doctor told her to set up a schedule of appointments when she left.

“What if…” she began, “what if I don’t want …”

The doctor wrote on a pad. “You can call either one of these if you’re sure about that.

Really, really sure. You and your husband.” And she left the room.

Sarah waited for Bill to come home, practicing how she would tell him. The diaphragm was a useless piece of sh**. She would swell into this bloated deformity, there would be unspeakable pain, there would be no sleeping for months, she would be a hostage to this helpless being for years and years. When Bill came in the door, she looked up, ashen-faced, and whispered, “I’m pregnant.” He set down his briefcase, gathered her up in his arms, and held her close. When she leaned her head back and looked at his face, she had never seen such a smile on him, not ever.

It was worse than she could have imagined. She threw up almost every single day. She was in the hospital twice, with fluids pouring wide open into her veins and a basin under her chin.

Then the migraines started – one day, then two, then three days a week, twelve-hour stretches of pain splintering her temples, her eye sockets. It was so bad it nullified her fear of labor. She yearned for it to begin so the rest of it would end. At seven months, she found the slip of paper from the doctor and wondered for one desperate moment if they would help her now. Bill fed and watered horses, mucked out stalls, paid the bills, brought her ice water, drew the curtains, and slept in the spare bedroom.

Through it all, the fetus grew and thrived and floated serenely in its lair, heartbeat lup-dupping away. Sarah declined the offered printout of the ultrasound.

At last, at last, the contractions began. They were no worse than bad menstrual cramps when the nurse mentioned a 212

suspicious positioning of the baby, not quite headfirst, not ready to dive out, but twisting and shrinking back, deeper inside.

“Please,” Sarah begged, clutching Bill’s hand. “Just do a C-section and get it out.” The nurse looked startled, scurried away. Ten minutes later, she was back. “Okay, c-section it is.”

When they laid the slimy, purplish creature across her chest while the surgeon stitched away below, Bill reached out and touched the top of Molly’s head with one finger.

“Oh my God,” he murmured. “Look at her. Here she is.”

Sarah, who had learned that the desire for a child might not rise up even when one was on the way, thought maybe that was wrong, that there would be a fierce surge of love and awe once it had actually arrived. Her mother said words couldn’t describe how she felt when she had first held Sarah, even after 18 hours of labor. The words Sarah thought of were relief, exhaustion, anxiety, and a sort of stunned amazement.

Sarah loved her daughter. Of course, she did. She was hers, a little being who needed her, who was perfectly formed and fragrant and healthy. She was cute and charming as Ted had been, sweet and funny. She was also willful and endlessly demanding.

She reminded Sarah of a Shetland pony they’d had, who bit and kicked when you were careless, who broke more gates and latches than she could count, and in certain moods, he’d simply plant his feet and refuse to move. He could also be counted on to carry any clumsy, frightened child round and round and round in a gentle shuffling gait till that child relaxed into a grin of triumph. When he died at 27, she and Bill had both mourned. Of course, she loved Molly.

There was no other choice.

Bill no longer loved Sarah, however. One day, he fell in love with Lucy, a student teacher, a smart, pretty, exquisitely groomed young woman. Sarah kept her horses trimmed and shining, but stable work and riding, schooling, and teaching in dirt arenas were dirty jobs. Her hair might be stiff with sweat or helmet213

flat, her short fingernails dirt-edged by the end of every day.

Her working clothes were riding breeches, crusted boots, and t-shirts or sweatshirts, depending on the season. No wonder he was drawn by well-chosen clothes, glossy hair, perfume. He confessed in tears and was gone in a week. She did whatever her lawyer told her, kept the farm and her livelihood, and Molly. Bill picked her up from school on Friday afternoons, dropped her off at home on Sundays, and everyone was more or less content.

After all the hours Molly had spent in a playpen in the barn aisle, horses meant nothing to her. They were like furniture, like her father’s desk. Sarah couldn’t understand it. Molly’s school friends were agog that she lived on an actual horse farm; they begged their parents for riding lessons, and Sarah’s business grew. In a few years, they lost interest, a new crop of little girls arrived, and Molly followed her friends further afield.

And now here she was. What child is this? thought Sarah. The pink shorts revealed legs suddenly longer and glinting with pale hairs; her feet were long and white and damp. The face was still round and young, but what was going on behind the rolling eyes was impatient, sarcastic, testy.

“So, can I go or what?” Molly demanded.

“Not tonight,” said Sarah sharply. “And where did those pink shorts come from?”

“Madison,” Molly snapped. “They don’t fit her. What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing,” she answered. “Besides too tight, too short, and what is it with you and pink, anyway?” The pink drove Sarah crazy. All pastels, even – they were phony, washed out, feeble.

Her horses wore burgundy saddle pads, navy blankets, forestgreen halters – rich, honorable, serious colors. She wondered if that’s why Molly insisted on pink always. Probably.

Molly clenched her fist around her cell phone and growled theatrically.

214

“You’re always picking on me,” she shrilled. “Do I bug you about your stupid clothes? It’s not like you’re some kind of fashion queen.” She stamped out of the barn. Only then did Sarah see the curly white letters scripted across Molly’s buttocks: Hot Grrrl.

Who would make shorts like that for an eleven-year-old?

Who would buy them for their daughter? And why in God’s name would the daughter want to strut around with “Hot Grrrl” rippling across her taut, round, little girl butt?

“I don’t want to see those shorts again, you hear me?” she shouted. “Gone!”

Sarah leaned forward and scruffed the roots of the gelding’s mane. He stretched his head down luxuriously as she scratched.

“You’re a good boy,” she said.

Joan was tacking up her mare when Sarah came in with the gelding. Poor Joan. For sixteen years, she had ridden – and ridden well – an amiable gray gelding named Gus. Everything she’d ever asked of him, he had done willingly, safely. Then he colicked for the first time in his long life, and when they opened him up found a lymphomatous tangle squeezing the life out of his bowel. They did not wake him. Then a friend of a friend with racetrack connections offered her – for free -- a four-year-old chestnut filly who’d raced half a dozen times and hated it. Joan jumped at the chance, looking forward to the project, rescuing this pretty, lovely-moving, sensitive youngster from the miseries of the racetrack and letting her shine. Trouble was, this filly who hated racing hated everything else, too. In her stall, she sweated and paced. In the pasture, she screamed at the gate to come in.

She dropped a hundred and fifty pounds and developed very expensive ulcers. She pinned her ears at Joan and dragged her around on the lead rope as though she weren’t there. Grimly, Joan persevered. Sarah worked the mare herself, squaring up her shoulders and chasing her off when she came at her with bared teeth. After six months, the mare was not dangerous, but a day 215

when she could be walked and trotted in both directions around the arena was a victory.

Joan had cross-tied the mare in the aisle. The mare popped her head up to eyeball the passing gelding. When she hit the end of the ties, she lifted herself off the ground, flailing her head against the restraint. Joan stepped around in front of her, calling, “whoa, whoa.” The halter broke and snapped into Joan’s face. The brass buckles cut bleeding divots out of her forehead and the bridge of her nose, and by the time Joan had stopped gasping and loosed her hands from her face, her left eye was blackening.

Once free, the mare had simply walked away, down the aisle, and into her own stall.

“The b**ch!” sobbed Joan. “Useless b**ch!” Sarah fetched the bag of frozen peas from the refrigerator and pressed it to Joan’s eye. Poor Joan, she thought again. What a bad fit this turned out to be.

“Mo-om!”

“What?”

“Can I borrow some lipstick?”

“What?”

“Lipstick! I need some!”

Sarah put down her coffee cup, got up and looked up at Molly, half-dressed at the top of the stairs.

“Since when do you wear lipstick?” Sarah asked.

Molly swiveled her toes. “Everybody does. Where is it?”

“I don’t have any.” Or eyeshadow or mascara or blush or foundation. Another of my many failings, Sarah thought. Her mother used to brag that Sarah’s father had never seen her without makeup, even in the hospital when Sarah and Ted were born. She said that’s why their marriage was so successful. After Bill left, she managed to mention it regularly in Sarah’s hearing.

But honest to God, deeply and truly, Sarah never did understand painting colors on one’s eyelids. It just seemed so unfair (men certainly didn’t do it) and incomprehensible. So she never did.

216

“You don’t have any? Or you just won’t let me have it?”

Sarah shrugged and walked away. “Go ahead, look all you want. Good luck.”

The kid wasn’t even dressed for school and she’d thrown a poison dart already. Thank God it was Friday. At least she hadn’t seen the pink shorts again.

Sunday evening, Molly whisked through the living room and up the stairs to her room.

Sarah trailed after, tapped on the closed door and walked in.

“So hey,” she said. “How was your weekend?”

Molly emerged from the closet and faced her. “It was great, actually,” she said.

Her shining brown hair was piled up on top of her head with a saucy pink butterfly bobbing on the clip. She was flushed, her eyes bright and excited.

“Lucy and I did a beauty spa! We went shopping and conditioned our hair and she gave me a facial, then we did manicures and pedicures.” She held up a foot with toes buffed and polished to a dusky rose color. “And she got me my own makeup kit.”

A light hand had brushed in just a touch of color around the eyes, a little gloss on the lips, and, just for fun, a tiny dust of glitter across those silky cheekbones.

“You look beautiful,” Sarah said. She did. “That was so nice of Lucy.” She hugged her daughter. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, there are things I just don’t know how to do.” Or why we have to do them, she thought.

After Molly was in bed, Sarah called Bill.

“I guess the girls had a spa day,” she said.

“Yeah, was that okay? I know you’re not much for the whole makeup thing,” he began.

“But Molly was nuts for it. I should have talked to you about it first, I know, but…”

217

“Bill. It’s okay. Lucy’s a genius, really. She was brilliant. If we left it to Molly and her girlfriends, she’d look like, I don’t know what. So would you…thank Lucy for me?”

“Sure. I think Luce enjoyed it as much as Molly. Listen, I guess I should mention this too… school will be out soon. Molly’s been saying she feels kind of left out at the farm. It’s hard for her to see her friends, and I know you’re tied up a lot. We were thinking, well, maybe she could stay with us a bit more over the summer.

We’re in town, we’ve got a pool pass, she could hang out there.

We were thinking maybe taking a trip out to Yellowstone or something, too.”

Sarah said nothing.

“Sarah?”

“Yeah, yes, I’m here. She wants to come live with you?”

“No, no, not live with us exactly, just come and stay more than just weekends, for the summer. Just… just think on it, I guess. Think about it?”

Poor Bill. He must have been dreading this conversation.

“Well, sure. We’ll talk about it. Me and her, and you, and Lucy’s okay with it?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely. She and Molly are buds.”

Buds. Well, there was territory Sarah wouldn’t know anything about. Yes, she’d think about it. She hung up the phone and sat until it was too dark to see her way upstairs, and went to bed by feel.

Sarah was accustomed to observing bodies in motion: the posture and balance of riders, the stride and flexion of horses.

When Molly passed through the kitchen as Sarah was stirring the spaghetti sauce, the slight half-halt, the shortened step, the droop of head and shoulders were not lost on Sarah.

“Yes, Uncle Ted is coming,” Sarah said. Ted always said Sarah made the best spaghetti in the world, and as their mother claimed a tomato allergy, he never got any at home. Ted still lived in what he liked to call the “parental abode.” It worked out all right – he 218

mowed the lawn and raked leaves, cleaned the gutters, shoveled snow, and took out the garbage, and had taken over the basement family room for his home theatre and computer network. Ted was a geek, Sarah supposed. And a movie fanatic. Every month or so, he drove over for spaghetti and a video. Over the years, they had worked their way through gangster movies, historical epics, weepies, and film noir. Now, he was tutoring them through westerns, which Sarah found hard to watch as she kept assessing the horsemanship of the actors and wishing they didn’t yank on their horses’ mouths so much. Often, she fell asleep in the recliner while Ted and Molly curled up on the sofa. Once she awoke near the end of Casablanca, as Humphrey Bogart spoke earnestly to Ingrid Bergman, both in their beautiful hats. She saw their faces, Molly’s and Ted’s, both wet and shining with tears in the blue-gray light.

“How can he let her go?” Molly was sobbing. “How can he be making her go?”

“Well,” Ted had said, sleeving his eyes. “If they stayed together, would it be as good a movie?”

“I suppose he’s bringing a movie?” said Molly, her back to Sarah.

“3:10 to Yuma, I think he said. The old one.” Molly heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Mol, you used to like it. He loves showing you all his favorites.”

Molly turned around. “Okay, okay, but just so you know, Lexi is going to call me at six o’clock. She’s been homesick, and had to go to the doctor, and missed school, so she has to call me about what she missed. So it’s about school, so it’s important, and I have to talk to her,” she announced.

Sarah shrugged. “Whatever,” she said.

“Hey, girly!” cried Ted to Molly when he arrived. She stood quietly enough for his boisterous hug, Sarah noticed, if she didn’t return it. “You’re going to like this one tonight. Glenn Ford is 219

such a great bad guy, a bad guy you can’t help liking. It’s way better than the newer one. Did you see it?”

“Ted, the new one’s R-rated. Molly wouldn’t have seen it.”

“I saw it at Madison’s house,” Molly informed her. Sarah wouldn’t yell at her in front of Ted. But she thought, damn! anyway.

Ted gabbled away, as he always did, wolfing rolls and dropping sauced noodles down his shirt. When Molly’s phone clashed out its latest shocka-shocka-trill ringtone, she shoved back her chair and headed out of the kitchen as she talked.

“Yeah, yeah, no, it’s okay, it’s just my uncle… no, he’s pretty much a dork.”

Molly’s bedroom door slammed. Sarah couldn’t help looking at Ted. Ted pushed his glasses up his nose and wiped his blotched face with the napkin. Sarah got up and blew up the stairs and slammed that bedroom door back open.

The phone caught in Molly’s hair when Sarah tore it out of her hand. Sarah shoved her onto the bed with one hand and hurled the phone against the wall with the other.

“You little snot!” she hissed. “What is wrong with you? How could you say that in front of him? What kind of a selfish little b**ch are you?”

White-faced and gasping, Molly huddled on the bed. “My phone,” she whispered. “You broke my phone.”

Sarah jammed the heel of her shoe into it on the hardwood floor. “Right, I did,” she said.

“You can ask your precious dad to get you another one, because I’m not going to.”

A car revved in the driveway, and from the window, Sarah saw Ted’s grubby Toyota swing away down the road. She turned back to Molly, who was crying.

“How could you?” she said again. “Did you think he couldn’t hear you? Or did you even care? Is this how you treat other 220

people, you and your princessy little friends? My God, what have I raised?”

“I’m sorry,” Molly wailed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“You didn’t mean to what?”

“I don’t know. Oh, don’t tell Daddy, don’t tell them! They won’t want me, and you hate me anyway. I won’t have anyone!”

Sarah went downstairs. She called Ted and hung up on the seventh ring. She dialed again, and this time the recorded female’s voice informed her that this number was not available.

Molly jumped when she came back into the room.

“Listen carefully. You don’t leave this room till you’ve apologized to my brother. You will not be calling, texting or messaging anyone. You will write a private letter, on paper, in ink, and you will tell Ted you are sorry. Period. I don’t care what else you say, but you will tell him you are sorry. I will mail it, and then you’ll just have to see what happens next.” She picked up the shards of the phone and left again.

In the morning, there was an unsealed envelope on the kitchen table. Sarah did not open it. She put a stamp on it, and raised the red metal flag on the mailbox. She called Ted three more times, but he did not answer. That did not surprise her. It did surprise her that her mother didn’t call, for she excelled in dispensing parenting as well as marital advice with just the right touch of acid.

It took four days. When Sarah answered the landline (yes, one with a cord even), a male voice said, “May I speak with Molly, please?”

“Ted? Ted, are you okay? Ted, I don’t know what to say. I am so sorry, did you get her letter? I didn’t read it, but I hope…”

“May I speak with Molly, please?” he said again.

“Yes, yes, of course. Just a moment, please.”

Molly stretched the phone cord into the living room closet.

Sarah went out to the barn.

221

Joan arrived unexpectedly and backed her truck up to her trailer.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve sold the mare,” Joan said, cranking down the hitch. Her eyes were red. “That dealer up in Grayslake will take her. With that little cash and what I can save not paying board for a few months, maybe I can find myself a real horse.” For a wonder, the mare walked right into the trailer. Sarah hugged Joan, and they both pretended there weren’t tears.

Molly crept into the kitchen as Sarah was pouring wine.

“Mom?” she said. “I hope it’s okay… I asked Uncle Ted if he would come have spaghetti with us next week. He said he would if it was okay with you.”

“Of course it is, of course.”

“I asked him if he’d bring a movie too, one we really liked.”

“Which one?”

“Tale of Two Cities, the one about the French Revolution and the guillotine and Sydney Carton? Remember how we cried about that one?” Sarah nodded, her chin in Molly’s hair.

Lucy helped Molly stow the duffel bag in the trunk of the car.

Bill gave Sarah a hug, reminded Molly to buckle her seatbelt back there and got in the car. Lucy came over and stood before Sarah, hunched on the porch step over her canted knees.

“You call her any time, okay? Twenty-four seven.” Sarah nodded. Lucy put her hands on Sarah’s shoulders and brushed a brief, sweet-smelling peck on her cheek. “Any time at all.” She got in the car and they pulled away, Molly waving madly out the back window as they disappeared.

Sarah carried her wineglass to the pasture fence. She balanced it on a post. The bay gelding lifted his long, innocent head and looked gently at her. She lay her arms on the rail and her forehead 222

on them. She wept for the loss, she wept for relief, she wept for the loneliness, but most of all, she wept for her own great error.

About the Author

Julie Stielstra dwells in a century-old farmhouse with her partner, two dogs, and six cats in very central Kansas. She is the author of over three dozen published short stories and essays.

Minerva Rising Press named her historical novella Pilgrim the winner of their 2016 novella contest, and her novel Opulence, Kansas from Meadowlark Press received gold medals for young adult fiction from the Midwest Independent Publishers Association and the High Plains Book Awards. She blogs on books, writing, reading, animals and whatever else takes her fancy at juliestielstra.com.

Family/Parenting

WINNER ($75): • What Child Is This by Julie Stielstra FINALISTS: • A Father's Son by Sandeep Kumar Mishra • How To Be Left by Bo Hurd • Letters Home by Penny Goetjen

223

Wild Card

WINNER ($75): • Pussy & Goliath by Pearl Solas FINALISTS: • Nostamon by Linda Riebel • The Float by Robert Wright • The Manikin by Donald Firesmith

Historical

WINNER ($75): • 2036 by Lynn Housner FINALISTS: • A War I Didn't Wage by Camron Swartzendruber • Five Blossom Death by Carolyn Radmanovich • War Doll by Luke Rowland

224

••• First Lines from a few Winners: “This land is made of bones—skulls, ribs, and scattered vertebrae.”

—Wolf Place by Nick Jans “An Air Force assignment to England had introduced me to her pubs, warm pints of good beer and an ancient game of skill – darts.”

—Jimmy Don’t Like to Lose by Robert Wright “Service animals perform so many more useful functions since Someone to Care® started manufacturing them.”

—Service Animals by Kiki Dove St. Hilaire “My name is Evie, and I guess you can say that I’m on my deathbed.”

—Hope for the Free by Niquita Utrera “A man walks through a train station with nothing but a guitar case and a folded-over knapp-felt hat clutched in his frail grip.”

—Phantom Pains by M. L. Bell

2024 NEXT GENERATION SHORT STORYAWARDS ANTHOLOGY OF WINNERS

The inaugural year of the Next Generation Short Story Awards brought excellence from around the globe. The judges had difficult decisions to make and the winners have now been named and brought together in this single volume of excellence.