PULP Issue 3 Part 1

PULP

ISSUE 003

EDITORS NOTE I want to say, PULP started off with a stupid idea written in my notes app less than a year ago, and now we’re on issue three! Jesus, I’m screaming, crying, running into the woods and never returning.

I never thought PULP would be this popular, or be able to share so many amazing works from artists all over the world. To say that I’m shocked would be an understatement. I can’t explain how happy I am to be able to be an editor in chief of anything, especially this amazing magazine.

This unthemed issue is a little bit of everything that makes PULP great. From scifi to horror to humor and more. I am constantly in awe of the spectacular work that gets sent to my inbox. It’s insane to say that my job is basically getting to showcase masterpieces, from people publishing their first poem or story and established writers alike.

Without the contributors, especially the ones who came back and submitted more work after the first issue, I wouldn’t be typing this right now. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for your work. Never stop making it.

-Finnialla

TABLE OF CONTENTS Howling, after Ginsberg, The Changing Light in Leicester, after Ferlinghetti - Joel Glover Election Year, Annus Horribilis - Now We are All a bit Fucked (After Larkin), Take Note, And Rue The Winds Soar of Change - D Rudd-Mitchell The Terrors - Simon Collinson Finite Expressions | Infinite Expressions, Those Empty Pages At The End Where Your Favourite Character Waves You Goodbye, E, Dear Elementary School Children:, The Ether - Zeid The Mind of a Child, The Cat who Edits, The Wave - Claudia Wysocky I would grind him up and smoke him, Car Battery, Lyrics to a Land Shanty for Truckers to Sing with One Another Over Their CB Radios as They Convoy Along the Interstate, Gnome, Passport to Refreshment - Rosalind Shoopmann A Reminder - Rory Haase Raguel - Emma Wilson-Kanamori Bottoms up, Babe, Walking Along Glass Beach, King of Wands, Obsolescence Kristen Csuti just a little word bout the damned - M.S. Blues Monsieur's Marvelous Machine - Paula Hammond Sick Kid - Neil Randall Chasing the Buzz, Tempest, Work on Your Aim - Calla C. Smith A Hitman’s Prognosis, Le Festin du Cochon, Rat Trap - Ilan Jones The Guardian - D.W. Baker Seven Veils - Simon Collinson A Giants Hand - Matthew Spence Walls Closing on Methuselah - Paul Carreo Alexander the Gray, A Dull Disinterment, Do Us Part - Devin James Leonard Things To Remember Us By - Levi Reynolds Little Miss Tobacco Spit - M.C. Schmidt ZAHAV GERONT - Nemo Arator Snow Cover - Abe Margel

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

Former waiter in a Love Boat themed restaurant, reformed mandarin, and extroverted accountant, Joel is a cuddly teddy bear, really. He lives in the woods of Hertfordshire with two boys and one wife. In a house, not a nest. He knows how that sounds. His grimdark novels "The Path of Pain and Ruin" and “Paths to Empires’ Ends” are available on Amazon, as is his fantasy novel “The Thirteenth Prince” and a collaborative project “Literary Footnotes”. His short fiction has appeared in Nature: Futures, foofaraw press, and Peasant Magazine. His essay on the “London Has Fallen Series” appeared in Swords and Sorcery Magazine and further publications are forthcoming.

D Rudd-Mitchell writes poetry and stories.

Simon is a writer from England. He seeks solitude and darkness.

Zeid (he/they) is an author, poet, and scientist from Jordan. After writing for almost a decade, they’re finally submitting their pieces to be published. And here they are in PULP! Other poetry of theirs can be found in Assignment Literary Magazine, In Parantheses, Panorama, and Rising Phoenix Review.

Claudia Wysocky, a Polish writer and poet based in New York, is known for her dive rse literary creations, including fiction and poetry. Her poems, such as "Stargazing Love" and "Heaven and Hell," reflect her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions. Besides poetry, she authored "All Up in Smoke," published by "Anxiety Press." With over five years of writing experience, Claudia's work has been featured in local newspapers, magazines, and even literary journals like WordCityLit and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Her writing is powered by her belief in art's potential to inspire positive change. Claudia also shares her personal journey and love for writing on her own blog, and she expresses her literary talent as an immigrant raised in post-communism Poland.

Rosalind Shoopmann currently lives in San Diego, where she recently completed an MA in English and Comparative Literature at San Diego State. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Boats Against the Current, Bullshit Lit, The Bicoastal Review, and elsewhere.

Rory Haase is a Cree-Dene mixed Indigenous writer and drag queen. They have previously been published in the "Growth" issue of local zine "Essence."

Emma’s poetry has appeared on Half Hour to Kill and Backwards Trajectory, and her short fiction in Ginosko Literary Journal and The Gravity of the Thing. She grew up in Japan as a writer, artist, and dancer, moving to Scotland and settling down as a scribbler of words and images.

Kristen Csuti is a professional greeting card writing, freelance editor, and coffee enthusiast. She currently resides in the Midwest where she is working on her first novel.

Mia Soto (AKA M.S. Blues) is an 18 year old writer, editor, mentor, stoner, and SBNR advocate. Through her work, her objective is to raise awareness to issues that society tends to neglect, as well as represent her Mexican, Polynesian, Indigenous, and Queer communities. She’s one of the most decorated figures in the literary magazine community, having been published over 130 times and serving on multiple staff boards. She’s currently an editor for the following magazines; The Amazine, Adolescence Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Hyacinthus Zine, Chromatic Stars Review, Low Hanging Fruit, Sister Time, DICED Online Magazine, and The Mixtape Review. She’s also a poetry/prose reviewer for The Cawnpore Magazine. In addition, she’s the co Editor-in-Chief of The Beaulieu Gazette and Sorry! Zine, as well as the Assistant Editor-in-Chief for Voices of Asylum. Lastly, she is the Founder & Editor-in-Chief of The Infinite Blues Review. You can interact with her on Instagram @m.s.blues_ Paula Hammond is a professional writer & artist based in Wales. She has been published by Abyss & Apex, Old Moon, and Third Flatiron, amongst others. Her fiction has been nominated for the Eugie Award, the Pushcart Prize, and a BSFA award. She reads too much, sleeps too little, and firmly believes anything can go in a sandwich.

Neil Randall is a novelist and short story writer. His debut novel, A Quiet Place to Die (Wild Wolf Publishing), was voted e-thriller Book of the Month for February 2014. His first collection of short stories, Tales of Ordinary Sadness (Knox Robinson Publishing, 2016) received much critical acclaim. One story was short-listed for the prestigious Wasafiri New Writing Prize 2009, another long-listed for the RTÉ Guide/Penguin Ireland Short Story Competition 2015. His latest novel, Three Days with Adrianna (Anxiety Press) was released in March 2024. His shorter fiction and poetry have been published in the U.K., U.S., India, Australia, and Canada.

Calla Smith lives and writes in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She enjoys continuing to discover all the forgotten corners of the city she has come to call home. She has published a collection of flash fiction “What Doesn’t Kill You”, and her work can also be found in several literary journals.

Ilan Jones writes horror under the shadow of the mountains near the Salish Sea. More of his work can be found in Unstamatic, Dark Matter Magazine, and an upcoming issue of Exposed Bone. You can find him attempting to use Twitter @Mountain_Horror.

D.W. Baker is a submerging poet from St. Petersburg, Florida, where he writes about place, bodies, belonging, and the end of the world. His work appears in Identity Theory, Sundog Lit, Voidspace Zine, and PULP Issue #1, among others, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He serves on the mastheads of Variant Lit, Divinations Magazine, and Cosmic Daffodil. See more of his work at www.dwbakerpoetry.com Matthew Spence was born in Cleveland, Ohio. His work has most recently appeared in Infinity Wanderers magazine.

Paul Carreo is an American born, Irish naturalised speculative fiction writer. He has lived over ten years living in Dublin writing and publishing short stories. Retired from his pulpit at a global technology conglomerate, he now surrounds himself with the delicious absurdity that quells the human condition.

A native of upstate New York, Devin prefers the countryside over cities, and dogs and cats over humans. His interests include throwing paint on canvases, walking through the woods, and exercising. His favorite word is urchin, though he’s never used it in a sentence. Devin has published over a dozen short stories across many online and print magazines. His published work can be found on Instagram @devinjamesleonard M.C. Schmidt's recent short fiction has appeared in Southern Humanities Review, EVENT, The Saturday Evening Post, Coolest American Stories 2024, and elsewhere. He is the author of the novel, The Decadents (library Tales Publishing, 2022). He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University.

Levi has a BS in Computer Science from the University of Minnesota in the US, and worked in the IT field since graduation over twenty years ago. He’s queer, lives with Multiple Sclerosis, and recently retired — he’s told “mid-life-crisised” makes for an unsatisfactory verb — to follow his lifelong dream of writing fiction. As such, his published works are limited to technical documentation locked behind company firewalls and a string of ukulele cover videos on Youtube.

Nemo Arator is a writer from Saskatchewan. He studied Journalism at the University of Regina and worked at various odd jobs while writing his first book. A surrealist, he seeks gnosis through dreams, intoxication, and objective chance. His book To What End will be published by Unveiling Nightmares in November 2024.

Abe Margel worked in rehabilitation and mental health for thirty years. He is the father of two adult children and lives in Thornhill, Ontario with his wife. His fiction has appeared in Mystery Tribune, BarBar, 7th – Circle Pyrite, Yellow Mama, Ariel Chart, Uppagus, etc.

HOWLING, AFTER GINSBERG JOEL GLOVER

TRIGGER WARNINGS - TRANSPHOBIA AND MENTAL HEALTH.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness well not the best minds, and not my generation I saw the minds of former contributors of cruel columns and reviews of guitar based bands to a once popular music magazine, of writers of acclaimed situational comedies, of an endless column of opinion writers for a so called liberal newspaper, and an author who shall not be named in case they sue bare their brains in a daily search for serotonin and affirmation, endlessly seeking the rattle and hum of the approval of an ever diminishing coterie, not expelled from their academies, never silenced, never silent, amplified and emphasised, their fallacies and febrile fantasia seized and weaponised cowering in their underwear, incinerating their reputations in the public square, resolutely unshaven yacketeyakking, cackling, crowing in triumph as they repeat and regurgitate the most minor details of encounters with an unthreatening other, before returning to discussions of beakers, feeding habits and onanism imagining demons under their beds, in their prisons, in their bathroom stalls, reprising the logic of their oppressors as they develop a carceral punitive logic banshee wild in their support for the norms they profess to oppose, at the doors of restrooms and washrooms, shrieking out their unexamined lives howling into their Live, Love, Laugh mugs, supping decaffeinated hot milk and revelling in the echoes of their cacophony like children holding seashells to their ears and listening to the sounds of the sea Whilst outside their binary world, the real numbers flow past their uncaring eyes, of waiting times, hate crimes, and suicides.

THE CHANGING LIGHT IN LEICESTER, AFTER FERLINGHETTI JOEL GLOVER

The changing light in Leicester is none of your St George’s clad fantasies none of your lily white, red cross, ain’t no black in the Union Jack It is the light of Diwali decorations with plates pulled out and replaced with Christmas themes And fireworks for a week, celebrating the victory of knowledge over ignorance the final liberation of Mahavira and the state sanctioned torture of a failed regicide.

It is the dull amber throb of burglar alarms The only lights in abandoned shop fronts And the blue glow of phones lighting hooded faces living their circumscribed dreams.

The feeling of stepping out of the shade under the Crumbie, As you bite into a Chicken Tikka Pukka slice, Into the spring glare of the Welford Road terrace And hear the roar of Citeh scoring at Filbert Street The sun rising over Beacon Hill Reflected in Rutland Water The half-forgotten heat of Kampala, Nairobi, Gandhinagar, Rawlpindi Bright colours on the Belgrave Road Blotting out past mistakes with hopeful smiles.

ELECTION YEAR D RUDD-MITCHELL

TRIGGER WARNINGS - TOXIC MALE THINKING / HISTORIC SEXUAL OPINIONS/ PESSIMISM ABOUT POLITICS/ MASTURBATION

Have to pick a boat to ride on.

Choice: Titanic or Poseidon.

ANNUS HORRIBILIS NOW WE ARE ALL A BIT FUCKED (AFTER LARKIN) D RUDD-MITCHELL

TRIGGER WARNINGS - TOXIC MALE THINKING / HISTORIC SEXUAL OPINIONS/ PESSIMISM ABOUT POLITICS/ MASTURBATION

E-commerce economics, Big banged in 98: Between the rise of the internet And the download speed update.

The smartphone E-volution Brought a pixilated pleasure, And put a carbon footprint on, A once organic leisure.

Now ‘Data packets’, bits and bytes Use mega watts for streaming: high-def, AI, deep-faked-feeds of Greta Thunberg gleaming.

SELF LOVE SLOGANS FOR A GREENER TOMORROW D RUDD-MITCHELL

TRIGGER WARNINGS - TOXIC MALE THINKING / HISTORIC SEXUAL OPINIONS/ PESSIMISM ABOUT POLITICS/ MASTURBATION

1) Greens don’t use machines.

2) Reduce your carbon palm print.

TAKE NOTE D RUDD-MITCHELL

TRIGGER WARNINGS - TOXIC MALE THINKING / HISTORIC SEXUAL OPINIONS/ PESSIMISM ABOUT POLITICS/ MASTURBATION

He was a youth at first, of course, Before the affairs or divorce.

Before the thinning hair or hope, But always on a greasy slope.

The office girls once raised his mood, And turned his irksome thoughts to lewd.

Before The third or forth complaint, The one that taught him self restraint.

The toxic man fought back his tears, And dragged himself through thirty years.

Ill health it got him in the end, He met it like a welcomed friend.

The liberals made his life a joke, No good clean fun, no dry wry poke, Blacklist, a slip of tongue: dismissed.

Take a note, misogynist

AND RUE THE WINDS SOAR OF CHANGE D RUDD-MITCHELL

TRIGGER WARNINGS - TOXIC MALE THINKING / HISTORIC SEXUAL OPINIONS/ PESSIMISM ABOUT POLITICS/ MASTURBATION

Apollo felt a changed wind soar, When Gods were judged by mortal law.

And wanton beastly sons of Zeus, Felt justice tighten like a noose.

Apollo’s name was soon akin To every lecher’s deed and sin, And God’s of privileges and might, Chose not to take the stand and fight.

No epoch is a good defence, No Laurel wreaths a recompense Apollo, golden son, don’t threat For history has to judge you yet

THE TERRORS SIMON COLLINSON

In that dark tower of greyness, Surrounded by suspicion and strangeness, How I dreaded bedtime as a child, When the Sun lay down with the sea.

Afraid of everything, Fearing creatures around me, From walls they emerged nightly.

Bang, bang In anguished terrors would I lay down to sleep, Dreading the visions so bleak, Sheets drawn up to cover, Superfluous in this fiery place, The heat scalding on my burning flesh, Nighttime sends no soothing for stinging skin, I knew what terrors awaited within.

Bang, bang In that room, well known to me, The pale red rocking horse.

My Gus to comfort me, The shroud placed over me, The sounds that curl around me, The screams that came drifting in from outside of this sad place full of lonely people, far from home.

Bang, bang The relentless whirring of the fans, Mingles with distant drifting drones of wailing, whining wirelesses, Merging with the incessant murmur of insects crawling all over Rain trees.

Bang, bang I know they’ll soon come for me, Listen to the pitter patter of scurrying Chit-Chats crawling up the walls, running across floors, Faces all evil and devilish,

Slipping easily through cracks and crevices, Watching carefully the flesh flies and bloodsucking nyamuks, They’re waiting for me to fall asleep, Listening for those thuds and thumps within the beating walls.

Bang, bang Waiting for those pitiless fiends to come out of the walls.

Bang! Bang!

The fans! The fans! They’re fiercely humming, They’re coming , they’re coming, Bang! Bang!

Watching nervously behind stifling shroud, Sweating burning sweats.

Stifling, suffocating heat, Stinging skin, Begin the screeching and shrieking, Their signal that they are near.

Watching the walls all the time, For they are the ones I fear, Containing torments that nightly terrorise.

Bang! Bang!

They’re here!

My room bathed in horror, Gus is gone, The rocking horse, a fearsome thing, Eyes blazing , snarling at me!

Bang! Bang!

Contorted shapes start to dance upon the walls, All breath and colour draining from me,

Eyes frantically looking at the tops of the walls, At gaps the shape of triangles, Those terrible triangles.

Bang! Bang!

They’re coming down to get me!

Darkness drives out the light, Insidious shapes loomed large hovering around my shrouded bed, Shapes pulsate and grow, a living skin, Surely something monstrous dwells within.

Each has horrible moving lines and makes a throbbing sound that grows and grows, Crowding out everything inside my ears.

Bang! Bang!

Mesmerising , hypnotic, holding me, Trembling, Mind disordered, Fitful face, Twitching and quivering, Senses shaken.

Bang! Bang!

Can’t stop shaking, knowing how it will end, The incessant beating hum in my ears.

Bang! Bang!

Louder and louder, as though something drives a nail through my head.

Bang! Bang!

These fiendish shapes float down from the walls to oppress and torment, A cruel congregation grimly gathers around, These gruesome hordes swarm close,

Foul things feeling for my face, Pressing upon the shroud, My face smothered and suffocated by these foul objects, strangled within the shroud, Until the room is blocked entirely from view.

Fear freezes limbs, Makes muscles limp, Sound silenced, No sound comes out of my mouth, The air around becomes stifled and stuffy as if it had been squeezed out by these revolting triangles.

Bang! Bang!

Am I to be suffocated in slumber?

Release me from sleep, Send me no more dreary dreams, loosen the grip of such fiends, let go of me, Set me free, Bring me peace and serenity.

Bang! Bang!

Rocked and racked, Bashed and broken.

I awake and look around at those now still walls, the triangles back on top.just full of air and the sounds of the beating gone, replaced by traffic, Gus once more besides me and the rocking horse has its old silly grin.

But I know the terrors will return for me the next night.

And the next, They always do, And always have.

Bang, bang.

FINITE EXPRESSIONS | INFINITE EXPRESSIONS ZEID

TRIGGER WARNINGS - DEPRESSION

FINITE EXPRESSIONS | INFINITE EXPRESSIONS I CHISELLED AWAY AT THE CAST BUILT AROUND MY BROKEN HEART DISCARDED THE ASTRAY BITS AND PIECES OF MY CORE INTO A TIMELINESS COFFIN I TRAPPED THE BUTTERFLIES OF LOVE IN A JAR DUMPED SAND ON THE HEAT OF RAGE AND WARPED MY FACE SO MY LOVED ONES DIDN’T SEE THAT I AM DYING

I FASHIONED AWAY AT THE PUZZLE THE UNENDING QUESTIONS FOR LIFE DISCARDED EXTRA BITS AND PIECES UNNEEDED DISTRACTIONS FROM MY JOY. I FREED THE BUTTERFLIES OF PASSION FROM THE JAR THAT ONCE TRAPPED THEM AND MADE MY FACE VISIBLE SO THE OTHERS CAN SEE ME SMILE.

I PLAYED A SOFT TUNE TO MUFFLE THE BLUES

I PLAYED A SOFT TUNE TO COMPLEMENT

MY BROKEN HEART STRINGS BLED

THE GLEES MY HEART STRINGS HUMMED.

DAMPENED MY VOICE DOWN TO THE FADED

HARMONISED MY VOICE TO THE RELAXED

VIBRATIONS OF A BEAT THAT CAN’T BE HEARD I LOCKED MY HEART AWAY IN A CHEST AND STORED THE KEY IN A BOTTOMLESS PIT

VIBRATIONS OF A BEAT TO BE LOVED. I UNLOCKED THE CHEST HOUSING MY HEART TO TRADE KEYS WITH THOSE WHO DO THE SAME

NOW I AM STUCK IN MY TOOL SHED

NOW I STAND IN ANOTHER’S TOOL SHED

UNABLE TO BUILD A SUN FOR MYSELF

BUILDING A UNIVERSE FOR OURSELVES.

THOSE EMPTY PAGES AT THE END WHERE YOUR FAVOURITE CHARACTER WAVES YOU GOODBYE ZEID

Did I ever tell you about the others?

Yeah, there were others.

No, they never came back to play.

I’m always scared when we get to this point.

Yeah, there were others.

They were this close to the end.

I’m always scared when we get to this point.

Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.

They were this close to the end.

Things just feel really final right now.

Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.

It’s like a downward slope starting to level out.

Things just feel really final right now.

But I’m not really scared, oddly enough.

It’s like a downward slope starting to level out.

After all, you can always open me up again!

But I’m not really scared, oddly enough.

I remember the others; why won’t I know you?

After all, you can always open me up again!

Your lovely eyes saw more than just my black lines!

I remember the others; why won’t I know you?

But that can’t be true. Please don’t say it is.

Your lovely eyes saw more than just my black lines!

I’ve never said that to another person.

But that can’t be true. Please don’t say it is.

Did I ever tell you about the others?

I’ve never said that to another person.

No, they never come back to play.

E ZEID

A prong runs away from a fork A trinity of rays from a post Marks of two parking lots on asphalt It stands straight but not stationary To not stroll its history would start a scandal Unworthy of joy that pharaohs acclaim Constantly in my mind it whirls and twirls Words that lack this symbol simply don’t rival I put it in most paragraphs and situations In fact it is unusual to do without this symbol So this is rough but I am not through with this script Without it too much would go unsaid Enough, it escapes everyone with elegant Echoes. E, I see the element re-emerging.

DEAR ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CHILDREN: ZEID

Thank you for always demanding excessive amounts of glue sticks. Your arts and crafts projects sure are impressive. Here, let me hang them on the fridge. You’re so adorable and cute that I can’t be mad at you, even though your unnecessary whining for glue sticks caused the horses to go extinct. Yes, you made us drive the horses to annihilation. But no worries; you’re a delight. Let’s blame the older generation; they’re the ones asking for punk, leather jackets. Here, I’ll begin a “Punk Responsibly” campaign. Let’s defile the streets with posters.

Let’s deface gravestones with “Did Not Punk Responsibly” slogans. Let’s shame the older generation for what you caused. And don’t feel guilty – can your immature minds even feel guilt? In a few years time we will come to terms with our own stupidity and realize that punk, leather jackets are made of cow hide (not horse hide). We’ll restore the graveyards to their previous state (and return the stolen corpses), have the media footage of this campaign conveniently corrupted, and clean the mess in the streets. You’re welcome.

THE ETHER ZEID

Few of those who look actually see the night sky I became one of those few at the age of fourteen When I laid back on the roof of my old middle school To observe the sprawling celestial darkness.

But there’s an issue with the night sky.

For one thing, it’s unpredictable.

One minute I could be gazing At the outer moon of a distant planet, The next I could be staring at a ceiling: Grey and flat.

Cities have these in droves to a blander degree.

There’s never a clear sky where there’re cars and lamps Fogging up the view like a plague-carrying devourer.

Light pollution is a virus infecting the innocent eyes Of an on-looking wave of generations to come and pass.

It’s a wonder how people get through their lives Without seeing at least one good sky.

Not the bored-beige canopy that hangs up above a village, But the mostly empty space that provides The most exhilarating revelations.

I once wandered too far from the city, Warranting a search party and many paternal tears.

This did not matter to me.

What mattered was gawking up and seeing The soul-stealing natural beauty of the night sky.

THE MIND OF A CHILD CLAUDIA WYSOCKY

I shall be a child.

I shall rush through things.

I shall be foolish about things.

—Until I do not know myself.

Until my story ends in death, I shall live a lifetime in a day.

I shall not love much.

—But I will love with all my heart.

I shall not search for certainty.

—For nobody does.

I shall not speak much.

—But I will speak with all my might.

I shall find no purpose in the end.

—One thing I shall know— Asleep in my bed, I know that, I’ll be gone by 7:45.

THE CAT WHO EDITS CLAUDIA WYSOCKY

The cat who edits what isn’t loved is motivated by its own greed for the spotlight.

It’s been asleep, dreaming of the red pen it’d paw at when it heard a new poem in the hall.

Without even asking, it pounces and takes over, removing any trace of what was there before.

When you see the cat, it is time to run and hide.

It will keep you up all night and work you like a slave; it doesn’t need a screen or a fat stack of paper.

It has only one idea: to take your poem apart and put it back together again as something else.

It won’t stop until it thinks it’s done enough damage— till you’re tired of fighting with every word he adds or deletes; till there’s nothing left that can be changed again, nothing left that is yours alone, It is his.

THE WAVE CLAUDIA WYSOCKY

I spend hours waving goodbye.

It hurts, doesn’t it?

The goodbye that breaks my fingers and my heart.

I wave ‘bye’ to every last person i’ve ever dated...

The stars gaze back, but there’s no way for me to greet them.

The world’s so big, and people are all small, But if you wave back, I’ll wave with my left hand and wave with my right.

Everything is black—blue green yellow white and orange red!

And day turns to night; and night turns to day.

For the scared ones, like me—a reason to find hope.

No one stays in the same place... and yet, the storms have the same face. Perhaps tomorrow will be beautiful again? Perhaps you’ll find another?

Perhaps you’ll be like me...

Perhaps you’ll find someone just like me.

And I’ll be here, waiting for your wave.

I WOULD GRIND HIM UP AND SMOKE HIM ROSALIND SHOOPMANN

I hate Yoda green bastard needs to talk normal no wonder he lives alone in the swamp fucking freak green bastard needs to talk normal “Around the survivors, a perimeter create.” fucking freak Who writes this crap?

“Around the survivors, a perimeter create.” jesus christ Who writes this crap?

I hope yoda gets eaten by a dog jesus christ he’s such an obnoxious little asshole I hope he gets eaten by a dog. fuck yoda such an obnoxious little asshole no wonder he lives alone in the swamp fuck yoda I hate yoda

CAR BATTERY ROSALIND SHOOPMANN

To dispose of a car battery, just throw that thing into the sea: the most ecologically sound of the ways that I’ve found to dispose of a car battery

LYRICS TO A LAND SHANTY FOR TRUCKERS TO SING WITH ONE ANOTHER OVER THEIR CB RADIOS AS THEY CONVOY ALONG THE INTERSTATE ROSALIND SHOOPMANN

The Dale Earnhardt is a very fine truck, the fastest in the state.

It can outrun bears without a care, regardless of its freight.

But I’ll leave this truck in Portland-town.

I’m done hauling cross-country.

All this driving around has got me run down; I cannot keep on trucking.

Ol’ Dale Earnhardt: fastest in the state.

Ol’ Dale Earnhardt: fastest in the state.

Said the firm’s owner and CEO to my manager one day: “It’s up to you to keep your crew; other work lures them away.”

Said manager to CEO: “I have a plan so fine.

Leave it to me and then you will see how to keep truckers in line.”

Ol’ Dale Earnhardt: fastest in the state.

Ol’ Dale Earnhardt: fastest in the state.

The day I went to quit my job, this threat the boss-man made: “You leased our rig to take this gig, and the balance must be paid” So now my contract has me trapped I can’t afford to break it within this truck I’m truly stuck, I don’t know if I’ll make it.

Ol’ Dale Earnhardt: fastest in the state.

Ol’ Dale Earnhardt: fastest in the state.

GNOME ROSALIND SHOOPMANN

In my yard I once found a small man.

He made his home inside a pan.

It’s outrageous to me that he lived there rent-free; now I charge him as much as I can.

PASSPORT TO REFRESHMENT ROSALIND SHOOPMANN

Drink Coca-Cola.

The Great National Temperance Beverage.

Good til the last drop.

Coca-Cola revives and sustains.

Three million a day.

Thirst knows no season.

Six million a day.

It had to be good to get where it is.

Pure as sunlight.

Around the corner from anywhere.

Coca-Cola… pure drink of natural flavors.

The pause that refreshes.

The best friend that thirst ever had.

Whoever You Are, Whatever You Do, Wherever You May Be, When You Think of Refreshment Think of Ice Cold Coca-Cola.

Thirst asks nothing more.

The only thing like Coca-Cola is Coca-Cola itself.

Ice-cold sunshine.

A REMINDER RORY HAASE

TRIGGER WARNING - BRIEF MENTION OF CANNIBALISM

Lay Perfectly Still keep your weight even across the bed of nails. do not twitch. do not stretch.

Move Slowly hold the railing when you see the stars. don’t let them take you. don’t let them try.

Perfect Posture Only stay straight from your spine to your fingertips. you want to curve. you want to sigh.

Lay Face Down the bed of nails are the least of your worries. the nails are cool. the nails soothe your head.

Move Quickly run to the nearest cabinet and contort inside. it’s out of the way. it’s safer this way.

Perfect Posture straight from spine to fingertips Lay Still even weight. don’t twitch.

Move Slow the stars are beautiful.

Posture ...

Lay i am comfortable Move in my cannibalism Pose of my own body.

RAGUEL EMMA-WILSON KANAMORI

there’s an innocence to love which no longer satisfies me. i who have known the violent hand, the dark horse of death who looms at my bedroom door - and you who did not stir but looked at the stallion and said, “i will kill him.” i learned that i will only love a man who will kill for me.

BOTTOMS UP, BABE KRISTEN CSUTI

cheers to the washed-up tossed-up hasbeens cheers to the flaming tequila shot tailspins cheers to the mascara tears, the make-up smears, the couldhave-beens cheers to the late night bartender medicines cheers to the wolves in their pretty oxford sheepskins cheers to the world’s fucking smallest violins cheers to the almost copacetic, to the messes, to the perfect sins, the cheshire grins, to glitter sinking in the gin

cheers to new beginnings cheers to you, my dear drink up.

WALKING ALONG GLASS BEACH KRISTEN CSUTI

salt slick glint off an open oyster shell each half stuck quick at the hip & flipped mother-of-pearl sunward life’s looking up

KING OF WANDS KRISTEN CSUTI

your little paper crown snipped from newsprint grapes on sale! only — need insurance? call — have you seen this — taped together and then retaped a double vision some kind of omen (maybe) i was the original but they see you clearer & when you lean too close to the fire six beers deep mired in your own importance just having a good old time i don’t warn you about the flames licking closer and closer i think it’s called growth

OBSOLESCENCE KRISTEN CSUTI

I bit into a strawberry and found a worm, a little green one, just sort of chilling in the hollow.

He seemed content in his self-made heaven when he looked up at me and said with conviction, “Relationships are politics and love is a myth.”

I took pity on him, wanted to prove him wrong, so I set him on the counter for further observation.

He crawled around a bit, impossible to lose sight of on the dull gray granite, before returning to the strawberry hull.

“That’s not the best part,” I said, “It’ll leave a bitter taste.”

And I offered him another fruit.

He looked at me, disinterested, and insulted my mother and my latest life choices before curling into a ball of self-assured loathing.

I swept him into the garbage and told him to knock himself out.

JUST A LITTLE WORD ‘BOUT THE DAMNED M.S. BLUES

TRIGGER WARNINGS - TRAUMA/SUICIDE

the damned stands before her ʻāina, repressed tears embellish her limpid eyes as she overlooks the lavender, melancholy , acknowledging those before her with a silent prayer and nod. winds swim around her, the trees serve as companions, and the distant chants of spirits grow closer to her despondent heart as seconds speed by. she sits on the sand, watching the intricate waves clash against the rocks – (i remember clashing like that with... “embrace the little things, my girl,”) a tear skips down her cheek and she’s hasty to wipe it away, as if someone’s there to judge. poor soul, sitting on the ashes of her damned spirit, contaminating the ʻāina. (everything i do – i do it wrong i deserve to – become an ancestor) – the damned retrieves a shovel from pa’s tool room. she returns to the spot –

the spot of self, the spot of ola.

– 6 feet deep sand grave. she throws the beaten shovel aside, then grabs the matches. slowly, she descends into the grave. (“goodbye, my dearest ola.”)

– the damned takes a final glance at the lavender, melancholy skies, cherishing the moments she had during this ola. aesthetic of her ola – death. the end. for the damned. she lights the ahi, and smiles, relishing in her final moments, before being welcomed by mother earth to her new ʻāina, just across the alaula.

MONSIEUR'S MARVELOUS MACHINE PAULA HAMMOND

SICK KID NEIL RANDALL

Brad Fad’s cell phone started to vibrate. A call from his agent Matt Williams. In the normal scheme of things, Fad would’ve let the call redirect to voicemail. Williams hadn’t got him a decent gig in over six years. But Fad had been drinking steadily since long before breakfast-time and had reached that mellow stage of intoxication where he’d reconciled his many differences with the world.

He accepted the call.

“Brad-a-saurus, how’s it going, baby?”

“Not good, Williams. The script you sent me last week was for a voice-over for a sanitary towel commercial. I thought you said Scorsese wanted me for a part in his new picture.”

“He did, he does. But you know what Marty is like. The guy is so hard to pin down. I’ve left two dozen messages, maybe more, with his personal secretary. Look. If the picture gets the green light from the studio, the part is yours. It’s in the bag. But that’s not the reason I’m calling.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. An opportunity has fallen into our laps for some kick-ass PR. The mother of this sick kid called me about twenty minutes ago. Her boy has got terminal cancer – bone, bowel, brain – I can’t remember which. To cut a long story short, he’s a huge fan of the Fantasy Star franchise, especially your Leon Minewalker character. He’s got all the action figures, the posters on the walls, he’s read all the spin-off books.”

“And?” “And he wants you to visit him at the hospital, Brad. Like I said, the kid is real sick. He’s got less than four weeks to live. If you could go down there and talk to him for half an hour, forty-five minutes tops, I’ll make sure every journalist in the city writes a feature about you.

It’s like gold dust in terms of opportunities. And it could put your face right back in the spotlight. There is one proviso, though.”

“What’s that?”

“He wants you to visit him as the character Leon Minewalker not the actor Brad Fad.” Fad felt like terminating the call. The last thing he wanted to do was visit some sick kid riddled with cancer, bald through chemotherapy, coughing and hawking up what was left of his vital organs.

Moreover, he’d developed an almost pathological hatred for Leon Minewalker and everything he represented. Granted, the role in the sci-fi blockbuster had made him a household name. Granted, the royalty cheques still came thick and fast and provided Fad with a decadent lifestyle. The five bedroom house in the Hills, the pool, the maid, the top-shelf liquor. But it had left him typecast, cut adrift from the rest of the industry, unable to land any decent roles.

“Brad, you still there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. Only I’m not sure about this one, Williams. I’ve been under the weather myself recently. Maybe the hospital with all those pesky germs isn’t the best place for me right now. So, with a heavy heart, I’m going to have to decline the opportunity.”

“No way. Out of the question, baby. We can’t pass up on this. Believe me. It would be suicide. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life. For years, I’ve been busting my hump trying to get you back on top of things. Time and again, you either turn up to an audition drunk, or are so rude to everyone involved in the production, they have to get security to remove you from the premises.”

“That only happened one time, and I was severely provoked.”

“One time, two times – word gets around that you’re an asshole and casting crews are reluctant to consider you again. It’s a small town. People talk. Now, if you were to visit a sick kid in the hospital and make all his dreams come true, it would go a long way to repairing a lot of that damage.”

Fad tried to argue his way out of the situation, but with wavering conviction. Much of what Williams had said was true – and Fad knew it.

“Okay, okay,” he finally relented. “I’ll do it. What hospital is the kid in and what time do I have to be there?”

“Saint Mary’s, eleven o’clock. Please, don’t be late. I’ll make sure the papers are there to take your picture.”

After finishing with the call, Fad poured himself another drink and went inside the house. He climbed up the marble staircase to his master bedroom and slipped inside the walk-in wardrobe. Tucked away in one of the compartments, next to fifty or more designer suits ranging in colours from raspberry to gold, he found the outfit most synonymous with Leon Minewalker: a cream-collared tunic, loose pants of a similar, if slightly darker shade, a chocolate-brown cape, and a pair of brown knee-length leather boots.

He placed his drink on the floor, took off his swimming trunks, and changed into the outfit. Barely able to look, he shuffled over to the full-length mirror built into the far wall.

“I’m going to look absolutely ridiculous.”

Next morning, Fad woke up at ten o’clock, having either forgotten to set the alarm or having slept through it completely. Morbidly hungover, to the point where he knew only a stiff drink would have any chance of reviving him, he stumbled downstairs to the kitchen and asked his maid to make him a Bloody Mary.

“And don’t skimp with the vodka, Conchita. I know when you try and cheat me with a short measure.

I’m a pro. Now, I’m going to jump in the shower. Call me a taxi. Saint Mary’s hospital. Half an hour.”

Fad showered quickly and proficiently – a feat in itself, with hands shaky, eyesight blurry, and head throbbing.

After towelling himself dry, he pulled on the Leon Minewalker outfit, bundled his way down the stairs again, gulped back the Bloody Mary in four easy swallows (and it was good and strong), just as the taxi honked its horn from outside.

“Good. Perfect timing.” He patted down his thinning hair in front of the mirror in the hallway and felt that reassuring, uplifting feeling of alcohol reigniting in his bloodstream. If he could just hold onto the sensation for the next hour or so, he might be able to make it through this thing and boost his dwindling reputation in the process. If not, he’d slipped a small hipflask of vodka into the Minewalker utility belt around his waist.

The journey was uneventful, the traffic mercifully light for this time of the morning. As Williams had promised, there were around a dozen photographers waiting outside the hospital.

“You’re doing a good thing, Bradley,” one shouted.

“God bless you, Fad,” said another.

“A fine gesture,” said a third. “It’s nice to see a big star giving something back for a change.”

Williams was waiting in the reception area, a plastic cup of coffee in his hand, and chatting to an attractive young nurse with all the causal flirtatiousness of a confident and successful ladies’ man.

“Hey, here he is – Leon Minewalker himself.” He chuckled and winked at the nurse. “Still fits you like a glove after all these years. Your exercise regime is a credit to you, Brad.”

“I never exercise, Williams. I just have an incredible metabolism.”

“Well, whatever it is, you look terrific on it.” He gestured towards the nurse. “This is Gloria. She’s been looking after Jack – that’s the name of the sick kid you’re going to be visiting shortly.”

“Thank you so much for doing this, Mr Fad,” she said. “Jack talks non-stop about Leon Minewalker.

He’s been so excited. He’s written this big list of questions he wants to ask you.”

Fad flashed a forced, false smile that he dearly hoped contained a trace of phantom sincerity, even though he was wincing inside – a big list of questions!

“If you’d like to come this way to the lift,” said Gloria. “We can go up and see him now.”

When Fad walked into the private room, the kid let out a gasp of such pure undiluted joy, and put his hands over his face, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, it (briefly) stirred a little warmth in Fad’s heart. As expected (or feared), Jack had lost all his hair due to many debilitating bouts of chemotherapy, he was terribly thin, had big bags under soft blue eyes which had clearly seen too much pain and suffering for one so young, and had all kinds of tubes and wires connected to his face and body, most prominently from the nose. By the window stood his parents, a youngish couple in their mid-thirties, smartly attired, professional people no doubt, who both mouthed ‘Thank you’ to Fad as he shuffled closer to the bed.

“Leon, thanks so much for coming,” said the kid. “Please, sit down.” He pointed to a chair to his right.

“It must’ve taken you a long time to get here. Then again, if you travelled at light speed in the Century Condor, I guess it only took you an hour or two to get here from another galaxy.”

“That’s correct, Jack.” He took a seat. “We can travel anywhere in the blink of an eye. And it’s my pleasure to come and talk to you today.”

An intro Fad had rehearsed in the cab on the way over and delivered in trademark Minewalker tones – a little stiff, wooden, and unnatural, but just how the director of the movies had instructed.

“I have some questions I wanted to ask you.” The kid picked up a thick wad of papers from the bedside table. “I hope you don’t mind. But there’s some very important things that I need to know about your life in outer space.”

“Not at all. That’s why I’m here.”

“Great.” Jack looked over towards his parents. “Would you mind leaving us alone, Mom, Dad? Some of the stuff Leon is going to tell me is kinda top secret. I wouldn’t want to put him in an awkward position.”

Both parents wore hurt, downcast expressions, as if that was the last thing they’d been expecting to hear, as if they’d been looking forward to seeing their son quiz his hero.

Jack turned to Williams, still sipping on his coffee.

“Same with you, Mr Williams. I’m so grateful for you setting all of this up, but we’re going to be discussing super classified information here. In many ways, it’s best if you wait in the corridor outside for your own protection.”

“Of course.”

In contrast to the parents, Williams couldn’t have looked more elated at this unexpected reprieve. Now he would no doubt ride the lift down to the main reception area and resume his flirtatious conversation with the delectable Gloria.

A few moments later, Fad was alone in the private room with the sick kid.

“First things first, Leon, do all Khedis have the power of levitation? And if so, could you demonstrate for me today?”

“Yes, we do, Jack. But as you know, the Earth’s atmosphere is slightly different to Mongolon’s.

Therefore, I can’t use all of my Khedi powers here, I’m afraid.”

Fad had anticipated this very question. Years ago, at a fans’ convention in Delaware, one smart-assed teenager had tried to trip him up in a similar way. Fortunately, Fad’s co-star Dean Green had his wits about him that day and delivered the stinging comeback about the Earth’s atmosphere being different.

“Of course.” Jack banged the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I should’ve known that – it makes perfect sense. But what about your breakfast, Leon? In the first film in the Fantasy Star saga, you eat a thin porridge called kasa. But in Book Nine from the Mongolon Mayhem fan fiction series, you eat a meat dish called bruna which, from the descriptions, is some kind of sausage.”

Fad was aware of the spin-off book series, the fan fiction nuts, how some semi-demented enthusiasts had dreamt up new adventures for the characters of the original film franchise, but he’d never read them in any detail or kept up-to-date regarding the ultimate fate of Leon Minewalker.

“Well, like most families,” he sought refuge in generalisation, “we tend to mix things up. We eat kasa weekdays when we have to work and the meat dish on the weekends when we have a little more time.”

“The bruna?”

“That’s correct,” he answered quickly and confidentially, even though he’d clean forgotten the name of the meat dish in question.

“Great. Mix things up.” Jack made a note in the margin of the top sheet of paper. “And in the second film from the original series, how did you manage to outrun the Ghalahad? It was the most sophisticated space ship in the galaxy. It had hi-tech tracking devices and fearsome weaponry. There was no way you should’ve been able to outstrip it like that.”

“Well, it wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. Knowing the ship’s vast capabilities, I headed straight into an asteroid field. It was a clever but dangerous move, and certainly evened things up.”

“But still, the Ghalahad! I have the secret blueprints for the ship in my bedroom at home. I did all the calculations. Even in an asteroid field, it should have got a solid track and annihilated you.”

“Maybe we just got lucky.”

“Luck shouldn’t come into it. I hate it when things don’t make sense. It’s phony and disrespectful to those who do the proper research.”

“Look. I took my chances and came out on top. What more can I say, kid?”

At this point, Fad had to rein in his rising anger. He hadn’t meant to snap and half-lose his temper, only the alcohol from this morning (and last night) had started to wear off – suddenly, without warning. Now he felt sweaty and clammy, his mouth was dry and his vision a little blurry again. It was all he could do to stop himself from shooting to his feet, fleeing the room, and making a beeline for the nearest dive bar.

“In life sometimes,” he said in far softer tones, “you have to take a risk. If not, you might regret it for the rest of your days. You’ll look back and wonder what would’ve been if only you’d taken a chance.”

“I think I know what you mean,” said Jack. “Now, the blaster you use in all three films is a Primus 917, right?”

“That’s correct,” Fad replied, his interest waning. “The old trusty 917.”

“Did you bring it with you today?”

“Afraid not. The firearm laws on Earth are pretty strict. I didn’t want to get myself arrested before I even had a chance to visit you.”

“Understood. But in your opinion, is the 917 a more devastating weapon than, say the 765, used by the dark intergalactic forces? Opinion is kinda split, in terms of accuracy and laser power.”

“Having used both, it’s hard to set them apart. The 917 has a more comfortable grip, which can only aid with accuracy, while the 917 arguably packs a bigger punch.”

This was unsubstantiated nonsense, no more than ad-lib, saying the first things that came into his head.

But it went a long way to satisfying the kid. Frantically, he began to scribble more notes into the margins of the top sheet of paper.

“Great stuff. I’ll upload this information to the forum later today.” Jack lifted his head. “Now, when you battled with Lord Angelon in the third film from the original series, why did you lower your weapon and let him strike you down like that? I mean, you were clearly on top in the tussle. It was kind of a stupid move, you know. And it made you look like a bit of a pussy.”

Still desperately hot and uncomfortable, Fad rubbed a hand across his dry, flaky lips. If he didn’t resort to emergency measures, he felt like he might faint. Taking the hipflask from the utility belt, he unscrewed the cap, and took a long, measured gulp of neat vodka.

“What’s that?” asked Jack.

“Oh, just a special Khedi potion to enable me to breathe and function properly on Earth. It’s an ancient recipe that all Khedi take with them when they travel to another part of the galaxy.”

“Woah! I didn’t know that. What’s it called?”

“Akdov.” Inspired, Fad reversed the word order in the spirit’s name.

“Akdov.” The kid made another note in the margins. “And do you think I could try some?”

Fad shook his head. “No, no, it wouldn’t be effective for an earthling. Besides, it might not mix well with your medication.”

“Okay. Pity, though. I’d love to sample some special Khedi drink.”

“To be a Khedi, you have to go through years of training. It’s not all hand-to-hand combat and intergalactic adventures.”

The alcohol was having an immediate and pleasing effect on Fad. He felt a rush of good-feeling course through his veins.

“I understand,” said Jack, looking suitably awed. “But I still don’t get that scene with Lord Angelon.

Some of the guys on the forum say that you always lacked backbone, that you were a coward at heart.”

“Lack of backbone? Coward? Never.”

Fad felt a little offended. Despite his misgivings about the franchise, he’d always given his best and tried to act out the role perfectly.

“But what about your romance with Princess Carolina? The woman was clearly besotted with you. She practically offered herself to you in Part Two. Why’d you go all shy and nervous? It was embarrassing.

It ruined things for me. You were supposed to be this big tough heroic guy, not a pathetic little nerd.”

“Look, kid.” He jabbed a finger in Jack’s direction. “Relationships are difficult to navigate in outer space.” He was slurring badly, but either didn’t care or didn’t notice. “The Khedi are of ancient lineage.

We’re sensitive and important. It’s against our code to take advantage of a woman. We have to be sure that it doesn’t contravene any cov-covenants. Besides, women can be fickle creatures. Just because you’ve made a name for yourself, just because you’ve got a bit of wealth and fame, they still feel like they’ve got the right to walk all over you. To cheat on you with your best friend – and right under your nose. And when they’ve really dug the knife into your back, they think they’re fully entitled to a big slice of your cash as well.”

Like a dam breached, Fad couldn’t stop himself from recalling the more intimate details of his break-up with his first wife, the only woman he’d ever really loved, and someone who’d hurt him so badly, he’d never recovered from it.

“I don’t understand,” said Jack. “Princess Carolina is devoted to you. She travelled halfway across the galaxy to be with you.”

“Empty gestures. Six months of marriage counselling. Promises of sobriety. And I meant it this time.

Only the more successful the franchise became, the less of me was left over.”

“What are you talking about, Leon?”

“Life, kid. Whether you’re light years away, fighting for truth and justice, the dark forces will still conspire against you.” He took another swig from the hipflask. “Fantasy Star is a poisoned chalice. It’s not real. Smoke and mirrors.”

“No way. Fantasy Star is more real than anything. It’s my whole life. When I grow up, I want to be just like you. I want to fight for truth and justice. I want to help defeat those dark forces, once and for all.”

“But, kid, you ain’t ever gonna grow up.” Fad knew he’d said the cruellest words he’d ever uttered as soon as they’d left his mouth – but it was too late.

Jack lowered his eyes and started to softly sob.

“Ah, look, kid. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure the doctors will help you. You’re going to get better.”

The kid sniffed hard and wiped and had across his face, smearing a mixture of stringy mucous and thick hot tears across his top lip.

“You know something, I don’t think you’re the real Leon Minewalker. I think you’re just an actor.”

Fad couldn’t help but let out a bitter, ironical chuckle.

“You don’t know how close to the truth you are, kid.” He took a far more restrained sip from the hipflask, sat back in his chair, and crossed one leg over the other. “We’re all actors, to a lesser or greater degree. Only some of us never get the chance to play the roles we were born to play. Other things get in the way.”

“Not other things,” said Jack. “But your own weakness. The guys on the forum were right about you.

You’re always looking to blame someone else. If you’d have just kicked Lord Angelon’s ass like you were supposed to, none of this would’ve happened.”

“None of what?”

“Everything. The Annihilator destroying Planet Revel. Lord Hammond killing the entire Jungoid race.

Me getting sick in the hospital.”

“You getting sick?”

Jack nodded. “I couldn’t get that fight scene out of my head. I stayed up late at night trying to understand how you could’ve possibly given up such a position of strength. I reenacted the scene with friends at school. It completely took over my life. It was all I could think about. The doctors called it a mono-mania and said it could well have contributed to the development of my condition.”

Fad swallowed hard. He didn’t like the idea of being responsible for a kid getting cancer.

“Look, Jack, I’m terribly sorry that you got ill, but I don’t think it had anything to do with Fantasy Star.”

“But like I said, Fantasy Star is my whole life.”

Feeling ovewhelmingly depressed, Fad took yet another swig from the hipflask.

“Here, kid.” He offered it to Jack. “Why don’t you try and little Khedi juice? It might make you feel better.”

“Really?”

“Sure, why not?”

Jack took the flask and, mimicking the way his screen hero had been guzzling away at it, took a huge mouthful of neat vodka. At first, it didn’t seem to have much of an effect. But after ten, maybe fifteen seconds, he started to choke and wheeze.

“Help,” he murmured, grabbing his throat. “Help.”

Startled into action, Fad shot to his feet and pushed the nurse call button, time and again. A moment later, Jack’s parents, Williams, and Gloria rushed into the room.

“What the hell is going on?” cried the father, when seeing his son writhing around on the bed clutching his throat.

“Jesus, Brad.” Williams pointed at the hipflask. “You didn’t give him any booze, did you?”

The headline in the following day’s main paper effectively put the final nail in the coffin of what was Brad Fad’s once hugely successful movie career:

FANTASY STAR ACTOR BRAD FAD GIVES VODKA TO CANCER SUFFERER, 12 – BOY IN CRITICAL CONDITION

CHASING THE BUZZ CALLA C. SMITH

When I moved to the city, I thought I was hungry for the otherness that haunted every twist in the street. I soaked it all in. I saw the flower stands with their bright patchwork of color, blooming up and down the streets all day and all night. I didn’t see the rain fighting through the cracks in the subway wall or the trash spilling out over the asphalt streets until later.

More water poured in every time there was a storm, and the electricity of the rails sent sparks flying almost all the way up to the platform. The sidewalks disintegrated under my feet, one step at a time.

The sirens kept me awake at night. On the corner there was a man asking for change for the bus back home.

But there was a smooth electricity to the air that shook me harder than I was prepared for. It started in the soft horizons and ended in the jagged glass of the broken windows in the neighborhood supermarket, one world all bound together and glowing like radioactive waste in the flat swamp land.

I was in the center of it all, peaking into the windows of the ground-floor apartments, searching for something behind every locked door. I could see them, but they couldn’t see me; I was nothing more than a grotesque outline of a person slipping from place to place, cheeks gaunt and hungry for something I couldn’t name.

Even though I found more and more things to nibble at, I was still starving. I took bigger and bigger chunks to shove into my mouth and chew. I spent more and more time out on the winding roads as I looked for something I wasn’t sure I would ever find. I sought out connections to anyone and everyone around me, and went out to parties or events even if I knew it wasn’t a good idea. I tried to fit myself into a new mold that would be acceptable there, but it was hard to swallow my old self down and it made me sick for days. But nothing would stop me. I would eat the whole word if I had to. Anything to quiet the need screaming at me from the howling void and fill the empty pit consuming my soul.

I threw myself back out on the streets to ice my wounds while the world slept. But that wasn’t the end; that was the middle when I learned that sometimes you have to throw yourself out with the heaps of rotten garbage because that’s the only way trying to fit yourself into a new mold won’t break you. And I kept devouring the flowers and the rain and the man on the corner as only a stranger in a brave new world would.

I know that one of these days, I’ll round the corner and see my reflection where I least expect it, and I’ll shout in joy at the electricity of knowing that the white blob of a face and dark sunken eyes is me. The one thing I was really looking for all this time. The only thing that I had ever really needed.

TEMPEST CALLA C. SMITH

The man sitting next to his newspaper stand lived for the song emitting from the radio, and as the melody started to build, he flung his hair around as his fingers played a mean electric air guitar. Across the street, in the empty parking lot, trash and dead leaves whirled in the sharp and strange gusts of air.

The wind was picking up. A storm was announced, but you could never really trust the weather reports, especially not at that time of year when the sun, rain, and clouds were all scrambled up and disjointed with the irregular surface of the pavement under her shoes. Lydia’s ankles were feeling rebellious that day, and she had stumbled too many times to count already. Something had happened in the subway station; the firetruck was taking up half the road, and a line of firefighters protected whatever it was from the onlookers. Everyone stopped to try and see what it was, another clear demonstration of their morbid curiosity, but she hurried on. Lydia was almost there now, and she could already start to smell the wetness of the air. She stumbled again and fell but picked herself up and propelled herself through the old wooden doors of the coffee shop. Lydia sat in the corner, far away from the wide-open windows, and ordered the same coffee she had every afternoon.

She would pretend to read Julio Cortazar’s Hopscotch sitting on the table in front of her, but she knew she would do little more than leaf through the pages and eavesdrop on the other tables. And there was plenty to listen to. The table next to her with two elderly women who seemed to be on a video call with someone. They were yelling as one of them held up her phone high in the air.

There could be no concentrating on that fuss going on, so she watched the way the tree branches bent in the gusts outside. The fat drops would pop onto the concrete any second now, and Lydia worried she would be trapped within the video call. She felt ready to interrupt at any moment, as though she were already part of the conversation.

Fortunately, though, they hung up and asked for the check. Unfortunately, the respite from the raised voices was short-lived, as they started to loudly demand explanations for the price of their drinks and crumpets. The waitress could only stutter that all the prices were listed on the menu before hurrying off to be anywhere else.

They finally left, cursing the place and hoping it was run out of business all the way to the door. Why they thought it was a French franchise, no one could say, but they shouted that they hoped the café owners would have to go back to their own arrogant homeland. The remaining clients couldn’t help but share a conspiratorial grin.

Outside, people flashed by like blurs of color, and the pitter-patter of water soon hit the glass window planes. The latches were shut, but the building seemed to start shaking faster than she could finish her coffee. The decision was made to close the metal curtains as well, and they all ordered something to eat as it seemed they would be staying there for dinner.

Lydia picked at her food and wished she wasn’t alone and thought guiltily of how much she had wanted the women to leave. Had they made it home? Outside, the only sound was the howling of the storm and sirens after sirens. Something big hit the ground with a crash, and all the waiters and customers came to sit next to her in the corner as the lights flickered, keeping each other company even though not a word was spoken.

Finally, the shaking stopped, and the rain became a drizzle. The door was opened a crack to see if everyone could try to make their way home in a world they were worried they would no longer recognize.

The skies had calmed, but the streets had been transformed. The trees had been pulled out by the roots, and cars destroyed by the heavy branches. Shattered glass covered the pavement, and a few signs had even been blown over to be found yards away in the middle of the street.

Flowerpots had been overturned and the petals were scattered over the streets like pieces of exploded bombs. The landscape raised the hairs on the back of their necks, as though they were suddenly dropped into a scene they had seen only on TV programs about disasters that always happened somewhere else.

No one else was out on the sidewalk, but they all took the chance to walk through the devastation of broken windows and torn fences to find their way home to their loved ones. Somehow, when Lydia walked past the newspaper stand, the old man was still there, hair tangled and the whites of his eyes showing. His radio was still working, though, and his fingers were starting to pick out the melody of his favorite song, the song that he lived for, again.

WORK ON YOUR AIM CALLA C. SMITH

Just throw some words around, he said. One will land eventually. The rest splatter against the walls like paint bombs, the color dripping down to the floor like blood. We had already said so many things to each other with no end in site that broken shards lay scattered across the floor. I picked them up, felt their weight and sharp edges in my hand. I loved them, and I didn’t want to let them go. I wanted to hold them for myself, like a prized collection on my bookshelf, but I already knew that wasn’t how love worked.

I tossed them in his direction, perhaps a little harder than I meant to. He sat across from me at the wooden kitchen table. Escape came first, and I thought of my mother escaping from my grandparents’ house in the middle of the night. The beginning of the best years, she always said. It sailed right past his left ear as he threw something back at me. I didn’t even have a chance to see what it was.

Barbie was hard and plastic in my hand and smacked the spot his arm had been just a moment before with all the dying glory of the Barbies I mutilated as a child, cutting their hair and hacking their limbs and covering them with glitter and hiding in my flower garden. But he had always wanted me to be a different kind of doll.

He didn’t respond, and his silence only infuriated me more, filling me with a rage that spanned decades, reaching far beyond that Saturday afternoon and the slamming of the screen door. Brick found its way to my hand and I crushed it into a ball that bounced off the backboard and into the sink hard and red like the pillars of this place we had bought with so much happy optimism.

I barely managed to avoid cherry trees, where we had first fallen into each other’s arms and felt our skin melt into one. He was scowling, and I wanted to reach over and soothe away the deep lines on his forehead as I had so many times before. But I couldn’t now; he was too far away to ever touch him again.

The floor was covered in rubble left over from the plates given us as wedding presents and splinters of one of the chairs. This was my fault, I thought. My fault for clinging to those brief moments of release, for always stowing away the extra sheets just in case I need to knot them together to lower me to the ground from our bedroom window. It was my fault for never being able to fit into the spaces he had made for me.

But that wasn’t right, because the sharp edges of my final weapon were starting to cut into the soft flesh of my palm, and I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I pitched it toward him like a baseball, and it hit him full on before lodging itself in the table like an axe, a glittering, deadly, and beautiful sign of what had brought all this on: her.

He staggered backward from the impact and looked at me with empty eyes. That face was no longer the face of someone I loved, the gentle lump of dough looking up at the moon and starts as we danced in each other’s arms, the face I had woken up to every day for so many years. I didn’t know what the thing was that was sitting with me in the shell of what we had before. I didn’t even wait for his reply. I got up and left, my fury and heartbreak glittering like the scars of a defiantly damaged doll still perfectly capable of walking out onto the sidewalk under the harsh light of the sun.

A HITMAN’S PROGNOSIS ILAN JONES

The letter was heavier than it ought to have been. Its texture now resembled that of thin felt. The trifold creases had been softened by the humid air and the letters on the page grew more illegible with each successive reading. Like a script written in bruises, the words were hardly more than blots staining the page black, then blue, and yellow at the edges. At this point the meaning of the brief being all but obscured, had become an artifact of sorts. It was no longer necessary; he knew every word of the diagnosis by heart.

Rudiger folded the letter carefully and tucked it neatly into his breast pocket, where it would lay inches away from the growths spreading through his lungs. The clock on the wall was three minutes slow. It was always this way in these small cafes. He attributed it to the general population’s common lack of joy in their work. Whether it was a symptom of subconscious rebellion by the disillusioned staff or an act of compassion that allowed the patrons to believe they had three more minutes to pretend they were the ones in control of their lives, he could not decide. He had no sympathy for either party. His work meant everything to him. It was his one true love.

The people on the street outside looked like rats in the dreary morning light. The numberless crowds scurried under the eaves to escape the rain, forming an undulating grey mass of flesh punctuated at intervals by the occasional beige trench coat. His mark hid in their company. Doctor Mueller would be arriving any minute. He gathered up his briefcase and left the remains of the burnt café-au-lait on the table. He passed like a specter through the crowded restaurant, stopping only to adjust the unattended stereo upwards before disappearing into the restroom unseen.

“I suggest you leave.” He said, as he passed behind a young man primping in front of a long mirror. He had entered a stall and locked it before the youth had a chance to see who had spoken to him. He waited, listening for the squeak of rubber on tile and the soft closing of the door before starting his count.

Thirty seconds passed. Long enough. He was alone. He crawled through each of the stalls, locking the doors as he went. The last one was for him.

He lowered the lid of the commode before sitting down. He balanced the briefcase on his knees for a final inventory. Rudiger had packed the leather case himself, but the potential for sabotage was ever present in his line of work. Inside he found a knife, its bevels and serrations polished to surgical precision, a military issue pistol with plenty of full magazines to see him through a firefight, and a glass bottle containing enough industrial acid to destroy a body in matter of minutes, or two if you stacked them right. Everything was in order. The show was about to begin.

Time always moved slowly in these moments. Just twenty seconds remained. He lifted his feet from the floor and tucked his knees into his chest. He drew in a breath and held his body motionless. His legs started to tremble. His stomach muscles burned. He cursed himself for his weakness, but held himself steady, refusing to allow his ailing health to ruin this moment. The door creaked open. Dress shoes clicked their way across the floor. They stop briefly to tug on a locked stall door. The new arrival attempts to open the other two without success. The man outside swears under his breath before reaching the final stall.

Upon seeing the other’s toes appear under the door, he kicked out his legs with terrible force, blowing the door off its hinges and sending the man sprawling across the room. The eruption of sound could not be helped. Yet, he wasted no time in locking the door against any would-be witnesses. He paused a moment to listen to the acoustic music and exaggerated conversations floating through the door. For the moment their privacy was almost assured.

“I trust you’re not too hurt?” he said, watching the man crawl across the floor, gulping for air. He delivered a strike with his heel into the man’s kidney. A wheeze rushed out in place of a cry. Seeing that their conversation would have to wait, he picked up the few teeth scattered around the room and placed them neatly onto the counter, in descending order of size. His mark had curled himself into a ball covering his head and neck as best he could.

“Stand up, Doctor Mueller.” He said, his victim raising his bloodied face to see his assailant for the first time.

“Who are you?” Ignoring the question, Rudiger pulled the weather worn envelope from his coat pocket.

“I need to ask you some questions about my prognosis.” He said, leveling his pistol inches from the Doctor’s left eye.

“I, I don’t even know who-“ “Is that urine, Doctor Mueller?” he said, his lip curling in disgust. “Do not debase yourself like this.” He caught the doctor under the chin with his foot. The kick knocked the man against the wall. In short order the doctor was dragged to his feet with a forearm against his throat and the gun waiting at his temple.

“Read this document, tell me what you think.” The victim’s windpipe collapsed in slow motion beneath his grip. A gurgling cry escaped the doctor’s bloodied lips. He released the man and took several steps back towards the door. Doctor Mueller trembled, holding the three-page letter. His breathing stuttered around mumbled words, read through quickly swelling eyes.

“You’re not my patient.” The panicked man said, “This report isn’t even from my hospital!”

A sigh announced Rudiger’s displeasure. He lowered the gun and shot a hole through the doctor’s thigh.

The doctor fell to the floor, the world spun all around him. He made no attempt to stifle the man’s screams. An urgent knocking came from the door.

“You need to work quicker.” he said, taking a seat atop of the doctor’s bloodied legs “We don’t have much time and if you don’t cease this sobbing we may never get to finish.”

“What? What do you want for me?”

“A second opinion, of course.”

“A what?” The knocking grew louder.

“Can my cancer be removed?” The pistol took its place once more across from his face. His breath was ragged from the pain, Doctor Mueller looked over the worn pages once more.

“I would need to know more but...”

“Yes?” he said “What is it? Speak plainly doctor. Give me nothing but your most sincerest of truths.”

“Based upon the little information I have,” the doctor said, his assailant’s cold grey eyes staring at him expectantly. “Your cancer is inoperable, untreatable.” A woman’s voice shouted on the other side of the door. A melody to join the incessant banging.

“I see,” he said, waving a hand towards the door “I thank you for your professionalism, in spite of such distractions.”

A shadow had passed over Rudiger. He retrieved the bottle of solvent from the briefcase. He pulled the cork stopper and placed the acid next to the doctor’s dislodged teeth. He paused for a moment, studying the bloody tiles underfoot. Though hardly original, their spacing was immaculate. Running straight and true to the otherwise imperfect wall. He hated to besmirch such perfection with blood and filth, but such things couldn’t be helped.

“Please just let me go.” The doctor said, “I’ve got money. I can pay you whatever you want.”. A smirk spread across Rudiger’s face. His smile soon gave way to riotous laughter.

“What is it?” Someone claiming to be the police shouted amongst the chorus of concerned voices outside the door.

“My dear Doctor Mueller,” He said wiping his eyes “I would expect an oncologist know that you cannot put a price on good health.”

“Are you married Doctor Mueller?” He asked, the shining blade appeared in his free hand. The doctor’s widening stare and stammering speech told him everything.

“Stay calm please. The time for sentimentality has passed. If I’ve done my job right, she will never know you’re gone.”

The knife’s steel parted the flesh of the Doctor’s abdomen. Tortured screams filled the air and the door shivered on its hinges while the men outside doubled their efforts to stop the atrocity unfolding within.

Without so much as turning his head, Rudiger swung the pistol and emptied his magazine into the wood and plaster behind him. The pounding ceased, at least for a time.

“Not the most precise incision I’m afraid,” he said “but it should heal straight enough. We weren’t all born gifted surgeons. Yet, we mustn’t ever stop striving to achieve the impossible.”

The empty pistol clattered to the ground as he held back doctor’s spilling entrails with his free hand.

With a wink and grimace, he turned the knife upon himself, slicing neatly through tendons and flesh.

His screams mingled with those of the Doctor, taking on a mocking quality as he drew a fist sized object out of his chest.

He stumbled backwards against the counter, dropping the knife into the sink. The black thing unfurled itself in his hand, its chitinous scraping sound dully like metal or stone. Steaming ichor dripped between his fingers. His breath rattled as it sucked in through the hole in his flayed chest. Mueller’s face contorted into a voiceless cry and his legs kicked limply in front of him, as he tried to escape the madness unfolding before him while keeping himself whole.

“You mustn’t doubt my sincerity,” he said, “When I say I wish we could have met under different circumstances. This is goodbye Doctor Miller.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply from the poison, never stopping to take a breath. The thing rolled from Rudiger’s fingertips and crashed to the floor, shattering the tile beneath its fall.

The obsidian object propelled itself by unseen means up Doctor Mueller’s shattered leg. He lost consciousness sometime before the police came bursting through the door. They found him alone, quivering mere feet from an inexplicable pool of dissolving organs and fats.

Were it not for eyewitness testimony, the investigators might have declared the ordeal a hoax.

Doctor Mueller offered no help in the investigation. The trauma had been too great, and his memory failed him. To the relief of his harried wife, the police shelved the case after a matter of weeks, citing “no sufficient evidence”. She waited on him day and night during his long recovery. She had noticed changes in him in those first two months and by third the police would return to Mueller residence to find the woman’s remains scattered throughout the home. Her tongue and her husband never to be seen again.

LE FESTIN DU COCHON ILAN JONES

“She’s still not answering.” Erin said, ending the seventh call in a row to the babysitter. She was growing more upset. This date had been a disaster.

“Try to relax. Maybe her phone is on silent.” Brad told her, trying his best to disguise his frustration from having to abruptly leave the nicest restaurant in town. If Erin hadn’t been such a catch, he would have told her to take the bus home to check on her own damn son. Still, He might be able to salvage the night if he played his cards right. All he had to do was play the hero and he might just get pretty, little blond Erin to break her “no sex on the first date” rule.

“Turn here” She said.” It’s faster.” He did as he was told, revving the engine of his sportscar to bolster the illusion that he might actually give a fuck about the lives of little Oliver and his babysitter.

“Maybe her boyfriend is over and they’re necking on the couch.” Necking? He thought. How could he expect her or any other twenty-five-year-old to know what that meant. Hell, the term was outdated when he was that age and even that was about twenty-five years ago. He couldn’t remember dating anyone as gorgeous as her back then. A smirk spread across his face.

“There’s my driveway, pull in!” He swung the car to the right and careened down the gravel path. He gritted his teeth as the overgrown shrubs scratched at the side of his freshly waxed car. This chick better be worth it.

“Nice place.” He said, doing very little to mask his sarcasm, as a rundown house took shape in the headlights’ glow.

“Her car is still here.” Erin was on the verge of tears “Where the hell could she have gone?” Maybe this is serious after all, he thought, as the gravity of the situation settled upon him for the first time.

“Why would she have left?”

“I have no idea.” Her voice quavered “Look! The front door is open.” The car skidded to a halt just shy of the dilapidated front porch. The dented steel front door hung half open on its hinges. The dull light of an incandescent bulb shone dimly on the landing.

“Wait here.” He said, tossing his seatbelt to the side.

“What should I do?”

“Call the police and don’t move until I get back.” He stepped cautiously onto the deck, doing his best to avoid the many missing and rotten floorboards. He heard a shuffling from inside.

“Hello.” He called . He heard the pounding of feet running deeper into the house “Oliver? Is that you?”

He gagged as a stench like aged urine and rotten meat emanated from somewhere within the house.

Brad crept up to the door dreading every step. The living room before him was sparsely furnished. A shadeless lamp burned brightly on a table next to a corded telephone. The smell made his eyes water.

He stuck his head in, calling one more time for Oliver or the babysitter to come outside to see Erin. The phone rang loudly at his right. He felt his heart pound against his ribs. He looked back at the car. All he saw were his own headlights shining back at him. He charged across the room and answered the phone.

“Hello?” The door slammed behind him. A key scraped against the tumblers, locking the deadbolt. The hairs on his neck stood up. There was no latch on the inside of the door and windows were boarded shut. The taste of vomit was on the back of his tongue. The smell was growing worse.

“What is this?” He whispered into the phone.

“I’m sorry Bradly.” Erin’s voice came sweetly over the receiver. “I really should have been truthful with you before but frankly, you’re just not my type.”

Behind him, hooved feet thumped across the threadbare carpet. The stench was now overwhelming. He turned to find a ruddy skinned mutant sitting hunched and slavering. A disfigured mass of jagged tusks and gangrenous sores made up what might have been its face. The naked creature stared with pallid eyes while the nostrils of its wide flat nose flared with each sniff in Brad’s direction.

“Erin let me out of here right this second.” he said furiously into the receiver. The creature charged without warning. It’s clublike hands swinging towards Brad’s skull.

“Don’t worry, Bradly, I think my brother Oliver will like you though. He’s always had a taste for older men.” Her cackling laughter could not be heard over the porcine screams and gurgling cries of a dying man, much too far out of his league.

RAT TRAP ILAN JONES

I’m gonna ring that little fucker’s neck when I get ahold of him. He’s gonna find out he fucked with the wrong person. If he thinks he can sneak up while I’m sleeping and do me like he did the others, he’s got another thing comin’. He’s gonna learn that I don’t sleep. I might pretend to doze for a minute, but the moment he comes near me, bam! I’ll kick his fuckin’ teeth in. He’s got a world of hurt headin’ his way.

He deserves every bit of pain that I’m gonna deliver. Little fucker doesn’t know I’ve got his knife.

Found it down in the hull near where I found the captain slumped over, face down in her own blood. I swear to God, when I see him next, I’m gonna shove it down his goddamn throat. I’ll make what he did to the others look like an arts and crafts project. I’ve got the little pissant scared now. He knows I’m gonna be the last one standing. That’s why he’s hiding. He’s pretending to be one of their bodies. He’s a smart little fucker, that’s for sure, but he ain’t gonna fool me. Even with their faces missing I know he’s one of them. Six of us left Juno Station in this bucket and there’s only five cadavers lying on the ground.

I can watch these stiffs for days. I can wait until we reach port. Hell, I can wait forever if I need to.

Sooner or later he’s gonna fuck up. He’ll twitch or breathe, and it will be all over but the screamin’.

Time to settle in, take a few more stims, and save sleep for later. The computer can do the driving for now, I’ve got a rat to catch.

THE GUARDIAN D.W. BAKER

READ THE COMPANION PIECE, “THE GARDENER” IN THE WASTELAND REVIEW

The detective leaned forward slightly, sitting straight and looking the woman in the eye, before disclosing the crucial evidence behind the decision to bring charges. “We disassembled your chipper,” he said. The gardener remained at peace, breathing softly, as he continued: “down to the gears and screws. We swabbed everything. So far we have seven database matches to missing persons in this state alone, and dozens more samples.” He paused. “We’re also still going through the soil and ground cover on the property.” The gardener smiled, thinking of the warm breeze turning her rose petals gently along their slants, thinking of the familiar soft crunch underfoot. The detective stared her down for over onehundred and twenty seconds before she closed her green eyes.

“Of course I did it,” she said quietly.

“Did what?” he pressed, gently.

“Recycled them,” she said, eyes snapping back open. He let her words hang in the air, echoing in their thoughts, before composing a response.

“Why do you say, recycled?”

“They were used up,” she said. “Empty containers. Litter. Ready for a second, useful life.”

“They were people.”

“They were homeless. Crazies. Drug addicts. Triple amputees. Broken bodies, wasting water.”

“Everyone has a right to drink.”

“You’re one of those people, then?” she said, fixing her gaze on the detective‘s right eye. “Trumpeting about water for all, but not looking at the problem on its face. Specific regions, municipalities, water districts — they’re going to suffer. People will die. Here in the desert towns? There won’t be enough to keep living this way.”

“So what, then?” he asked. “What‘s your solution? Killing people?”

“You don’t see it correctly, detective. People are going to die regardless. It’s a trolley problem.”

“A trolley problem?”

“All the tracks have people. Wouldn’t you rather flip the switch so that the trolley spares the future? So that the children who deserve a chance have oxygen and water that would have gone to a cancerous vagrant instead?”

“So you pick and choose who will die?”

“You make it sound distasteful,” she said. “I administer a small-scale depopulation, carbon capture, and soil restoration program. I select carefully to preserve population health and desired traits.”

“You’re a serial killer.”

“The ones I take would die anyway. Not like the rest of us, I mean, in due time. These people were wasting away before your eyes. Open wounds, withdrawal symptoms, hearing voices. Near death. They were waste.”

“That’s quite a word to use about your fellow citizens.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying? These people wasted their lives, and their bodies were wasting our precious earth. … Well? What did they do with their calories, with their tax benefit, with their annual water intake? They disappointed people. They took in vast amounts of energy, using it to do what— shoot fentanyl and clog up the ambulance service? They took water, that could have gone to somebody who contributes—just so they can keep stealing what I sweat for?”

The detective, a mid-50s career law enforcement agent who had been raised in the upper middle class of empire, said nothing.

The woman’s argument made sense to him.

“They’re dead weight. Shriveled growth. Pruning them is the best thing for the planet.”

“They’re people, ma’am. Not plants.”

“Both are of the earth and its shared cycles. People and plants are more similar than you realize.”

“Maybe. But if I killed a person, I would feel remorse.”

“A tree will grow many branches, detective. An arborist will not keep them all when pruning, for their job is to prioritize the whole and its lineage. Don’t you see? The human tree also needs this type of care.”

“Care?” he said. “You’re playing judge, jury, and executioner.” He pronounced the last word carefully.

She furrowed her brow.

“We are a distributed organism, detective. You are correct that I play my part very carefully.” She paused. “Our grandchildren’s fate depends on it.”

SEVEN VEILS SIMON COLLINSON

We filed furtively into the seedy Herod club under the cover of darkness. All of us “Johns.” Avoiding eye contact with the other “Johns”. Anonymity was important in a place like this. None of us wanted publicity or our family to find out we went to places like the Herod club.

The drinks were overpriced. The lighting was lurid and blurry. The table wobbled. But we had come for the entertainment. We had come to see the dance of the seven veils performed by Salome. We waited impatiently for the comics and contortionists to shuffle off.

It was Salome we’d all come to see.

There were nearly a hundred of us salivating and licking our lips anticipating the pleasures ahead.

Waiting for Salome to do her dance and remove all her seven veils.

She was billed as Salome, that wasn’t her real name. No one cared. All they cared about was seeing all the veils come off and casting their eyes upon her body.

Salome mounted the stage to wild applause.

The music began and the crowds were hushed.

She started slowly and seductively removed the first veil Our eyes encouraged her to dance on and remove more.

And sleekly remove more veils one at a time.

Each veil removed sent me higher and higher closer to heaven, my head spinning, my pulse racing, sweaty palms and quickening heartbeat. Banging the table with my fists to the beat of Salome’s song.

And we saw tantalising glimpses of Salome’s arms, legs, shoulders, face and neck.

My loins are pumping. My cock bulging. All the air in my body rushing to my chest.

Eyes only upon Salome.

There’s only one more veil left. I struggled with impatience. In my thoughts I was screaming, “Take it off Salome, get it off now Salome, please, please Salome.”

Salome gave a cheeky wiggle and a knowing smile as she took her time to remove her final veil.

I leaned forward, straining to see heaven.

So close I’m nearly there!

And in a flash I am surrounded by strangers in broad daylight. My head hurts. The sunlight stings my eyes. Then I look down. I’ve got no clothes on. I can’t remember how I got here. I cover up my privates with my hands.

There are people around me laughing or saying things like “pervert” and “disgusting”. A policeman approaches. “Here’s a towel to hide your modesty,” he says.

I would show him my ID or phone. But I have nothing on me. I have lost everything. The policeman says, “Oh you’re not the only one. We’ve picked up nearly a hundred guys round town. All been robbed and Roofied on a grand scale.”

Salome or whatever her real name is, would be long gone by now.

A GIANTS HAND MATTHEW SPENCE

Jeff saw the giant while he was walking towards his car, a stack of used paperbacks under his arm. The giant was standing next to one of the apartment buildings that lined the street near the beach. It was wearing a pair of swimming trunks, sunglasses with shades the size of billboards, and carrying a Diet cola can the size of a small water tank in its right hand. A large number of people had also seen the giant, and traffic came to a standstill up and down the avenue as people got out of their cars to take pictures with their phones or simply stare. Jeff watched along with the rest as the giant took a drink from its can and walked away from the apartments towards the beach. It went past a couple of palm trees that only came up to its waist, crushed the can in its hand, and tossed it over its shoulder, causing Jeff and dozens of others to involuntarily duck as it sailed over their heads in an arc, landing behind a nearby strip mall, where it seemed to disappear behind the buildings. The giant started walking again, as it disappeared behind another row of apartments and was never seen again. Jeff shook his head. As he got into his car, he could hear several of the other spectators making comments about the giant. “That’s the first one I’ve seen that close!”

“I heard they were created by a top secret experiment...”

“They’re aliens. They have to be.”

“He looked so familiar...”

Jeff didn’t pay that much attention to them as he drove off. He’d heard the same things from his own coworkers and neighbors whenever a giant appeared, although until today they’d always been seen at a distance. He’d heard plenty of other theories on cable news and social media, some of them even stranger. Jeff hadn’t thought that much about the giants himself one way or another. Like most people, he’d simply gotten used to them as they became a regular thing, and the sensation around them faded as they became more common. People even gave them names, and talked about the ones they’d seen as if they were their own friends and family.

Like most other people, Jeff had first seen the giants on TV when they began appearing in other parts of the world before showing up in America. Nobody seemed to know where they came from, except that they looked like people from the places where they were seen, and spoke their native languages, according to lip-reading experts. They also seemed completely unaware of their surroundings, going about everyday activities, appearing for several minutes at a time before vanishing. What was known was that the giants had first appeared in Russia, then Europe, before showing up in other parts of the world. In some places they’d naturally provoked panic, and the military forces of various countries had tried shooting at them, with no apparent effect. They just continued to ignore or otherwise be unaware of their surroundings, not knowing or caring that the rest of the world was underfoot, which didn’t seem to matter anyway, since nobody had yet been hurt by the giants, even when they were stepped on.

People reported feeling something when that happened, but not much, and soon there were even online challenges to see who could get stepped on first. The next day, Jeff talked about the giants with his friend and neighbor Tom Redfern, who had his own theories about them. He had created a site dedicated to the giants and trying to solve the mystery, as well as a podcast on the subject. “I think they’re really us,” Tom said as they shared a pizza while Tom updated his site with the latest articles and videos about the giants. “I mean, think about it. I think that, somewhere down the line, thee was a split between realities, theirs and ours, and what we’ve been seeing is an enlarged reflection of it. Like a mirage, or an echo...”

“Is that why we can’t interact with them?” Jeff asked.

Tom nodded. “Possibly. And for that we should be extremely grateful. Imagine if you discovered another world alongside your own, with your own mirror counterparts in it...how would you react?”

“Well, I guess I’d be fascinated.” Jeff thought about it some more. “But then...maybe I’d be worried about the counterparts’ intentions. And, given their size, if the giants ever did notice us, and they got angry about it...”

“Exactly. Which is why I think we’d be well advised to just keep away from them. Because they might decide that they don’t like being gawked at. They might also decide that, for whatever reason, they couldn’t tolerate our existence. Fortunately, they seem confined to their own dimension, wherever it is. I don’t think we have to worry about...”

Jeff looked at Tom as his voice trailed off and he stopped eating his pizza. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Tom frowned. “I think I might have spoken too soon,” he said quietly, pointing at the balcony outside his apartment. Jeff turned to look, and saw with dismay that Tom had been right after all. One of the giants-the same one he’d seen earlier, in fact-was standing outside, towering over the apartment, blocking the sunlight. It was still wearing its sunglasses and swimming trunks. It had an angry expression on its face. it was a face that was frighteningly familiar. It was his own.

Jeff had just enough time to wonder if they had enough time to post this event online for posterity as the giant’s fist came down through the balcony’s sliding glass doors.

WALLS CLOSING ON METHUSELAH PAUL CARREO

The evening city dispersed prism triangles across the open floors of a spartan penthouse. The casting colors accentuated broken shadows over the figure of a man, standing bare chested with hemp-linen joggers at his floor-to-ceiling windows. The tidy smart-suite and sleek walls behind him, consoles once subtly integrated into his decor, were now hitting their tipping point of cascading failures. Requested update alerts and blinking warning screens blended with luminous skyline adverts, obscuring his view of the vast rivets of skyscrapers and black canyon streets far below. All reminding him that the walls were closing in.

Ten thousand years he could remember, living on this earth. One hundred turns of a century and countless seasons of change. With each turn, he had been able to adapt, to turn the page, to reinvent himself. Whether by way of luck, his own cleverness, or his compounding dynastic wealth - he always found a way forward.

The earth was turning again, but this time there was no straight path. The past could no longer predict the future. Humanity was at a frontier where he could no longer feel safe. The lines of knowledge were blurring between the real and the computed. And the age of integrated intelligence was demanding more than he could give.

Every individual choice, every organizational decision, assisted. Every persona, integrated across online and offline lifestyles. Every human experience, flattened to one acceptably accessible, universal norm.

Secrets and privacy, the currency that had helped him stay hidden for so long, helped him thrive through every empire’s rise and fall, were going extinct.

The silhouetted man stood palm planted on his high towering window, recounting how it had come to this. Whether it was inevitable. Whether to count his blessings humanity hadn’t destroyed itself long before now. God only knows how he would’ve dealt with a nuclear holocaust, or any other mass extinction event. Ten thousand years, maybe longer, he had walked the earth as an early man, passing as a modern one. Able to survive, able to turn with each revolution.

He didn’t even know if he could die. But there was surviving, and there was living. *** Forehead pressed along the glass, he scanned the adjacent avenues to a panoramic Coca-Cola advert.

The model’s hologram, two stories high, crisp resolution skin so real, and blood red lips wet enough to kiss. Her smile glistened with the reminder of a safer time. A simple nostalgia from one hundred years ago. Trading futures at a Wall Street corner office, draped in pinstripes and wool blends. Tossing Boxster keys to valets, striding straight past club bouncers and velvet ropes. Cherry ice- cream smiles like these were flashed at him by the dozen.

Even now, two oceans away from Manhattan, his billion dollar media acquisitions weren’t as thrilling anymore. And neither compared to that century of conquests, from Spanish bays to the South Atlantic.

A pirate commander with as much wind in his prosperous sails as his long black locks. A fat loyal crew, who followed him to the edge of the earth, tracing the coastlines of Chile and Peru, plundering villages and installing gold mines. A wealth overreached, a town‘s inevitable revolt and the Spanish army’s intervention. Disavowed by his king and sold into slavery for eighty years. Blessed with long life but not wisdom, he should’ve known better. It seemed he still possessed the greed-demons of man.

Spending time in chains was good parole, time to think upon his misdeeds. Time to rebuild and repent.

He had gone into hiding for long stretches before, like a cicada for the ages. Burying treasures and forged documents across the continents, biding his time for memories to fade and empires to fall. As he had done leaving Morocco, a titled noble, six hundred years earlier.

Those were warring times, chaotic times. Good for opportunists with a lot of patience. As Islam flooded the Draa valley in North Africa, uniting the desert tribes, he built his wealth from humble emissary to naval commander.

A new trade he had learned from those burly southfaring vikings, whom he still missed outdrinking over trading post campfires.

Before that, along the Pilgrim’s Road by caravan and then Egypt alone for two hundred years, he learned the value of laying low as a nomadic trader. Buying up shares in land and olive presses, as he wound the south basin of the Mediterranean. Securing his options and betting futures, while growing a safe distance from the sacked mosque cities to the east. A fugitive in hiding, waiting for the tides to shift again.

In the ninth century, he had been a woman, a great princess of Baghdad, wanting for nothing, and moving the economics of the world and the men upon it like a chessboard. She was at the center of the Caliphate, ignored by historical record, face veiled and feet hennaed, worshiped for her tempestuous beauty. Just as a wise man named Pericles had claimed one thousand years earlier in a different land for a different time, all were certain they were at mankind’s pinnacle golden age in this jeweled city of spires. So certain that future ages would marvel in gratitude at the path set for wealth and enlightenment. So certain all would endure forever.

It was the safest she had ever felt. Unlike five thousand years before, when she - and he - had served as chief advisor to a Sumerian king. Cleverly hiding in plain sight, whispering his spells of magic and prophecy, through the shifting dynasties of Mesopotamia. Outwitting and embarrassing the court’s alchemists and clerics, all charlatans compared to his thousands of years of knowledge. Knowledge of the stars, the trends of man, the turning of nature.

And all the time in the spinning world to contemplate their meaning.

His experience in weather prediction had served him well. Moving from farm town to boom town, carving out a franchise of fortunes. Delivering rich forecasts and richer harvests for those fertile rivercradled lands. Deftly avoiding suspicion of his uncuttable skin and unwavering health. Untouched by plague and disease, ever wary of growing dissent from lynch mobs and witch burners.

Never too proud to pack up and start anew, seeding his fortunes ahead of his path.

A wandering necromancer who had dealt high dealing with the devil, they would say, vanishing when exposed. Banished over the stirring interests of his treasured secret. But he was no mystic. He had met no devil, nor any angel along his four corner wanderings of the Earth. He feared judgment in this life more than in heaven. A worry of loss that came long before he fully knew what he was. So many faces in his tribe growing older before him. So many unwrinkled reflections gazing over still waters. So many attempts at stoning him, worshiping him, exiling him to frozen glacial wastelands.

He scantly recalled stroking his first lover’s hair in a warm cave, belly full of child and fire roasted mammoth. It was then he first saw their old shaman draw his face on the stone wall. That first shouldered look of suspicion. And the man’s first warning, his secret could not be hidden for long. *** Off shore banking and tax havens were gone. No more shell corporations and money laundering. No more forged birth certificates and reinvented identities. This man of millennia, could no longer simply disappear for a few decades and wait. Going off-grid and reemerging as someone else, a wealthy forgotten heir to a fortune. Off-grid no longer existed. Every facet of living, from geolocations to online transactions, authenticated and policed, permanently tied to your unique genetic ID. With social credit scores and career behavior reports, from cradle to grave, a person’s public record was unshakeable.

This early man stood over the city streets shrinking below. Every wall console still flashing threatening script errors. Panels at his desk asking for authentication. Cameras asking to be unobstructed.

Household OS updates making final warnings to be downloaded. Old accounts asking for new digital passport verification. His violations were ticking upwards to an infraction point.

Surely the authorities had been alerted, his fugitive status upgraded.

He considered burning it all to the ground before they arrived. Making them work for their investigation. An ashy puzzled mess to sift through, including his charred and impossibly breathing body in the rubble to haul to the… morgue? A hospital? Some military bunker?

The end he had dodged his entire everlasting life. Men in suits prodding over this ancient genetic anomaly, a black swan they would never understand.

Expecting the door to be kicked down at any moment, resigned to a life as government property, something occurred to him. He would endure - as he always had. More than that, he would adapt. He had not avoided capture for so many century’s revolutions merely on the merits of his health and resilience. He survived because something inside him, coded deep within, knew how to grow stronger in adversity. He didn’t simply heal through trauma, he evolved ahead of it. Spontaneously changing height, changing race, even genders. He didn’t will it consciously. It was emergent. A change that manifested because the climate demanded it. And this was no different.

His pliably limitless brain was continuously absorbing new trends and cultures on reflex without bias.

Some intuitive alarm system that changed course without knowing why. Something that knew before he did. Maybe even something that had already foreseen this turn of ages. Something that wanted this cornered retreat, the opportunity for the only true path forward.

Without thought or reasoning, the man suddenly hurled a heavy steel chair at his towering corner windows, splintering them like the fragments of his transparent lies. Building alarms immediately bathed the room in throbbing crimson light. Buzzing surveillance drones rose from street level to meet his eyeline. Infrared cameras grabbed every detail of this social infraction, live-streaming to the masses.

This man, this hidden man, stood naked to the world, arms wide in the gusting winds of the open air.

He smiled for the cameras, allowing them to swallow up the defiant act to follow. Then he jumped. Into the night skyrise void, trusting preternaturally what would come next. A base jump to put a sedated video streaming population on their feet. Falling to terminal velocity, wind whipping through his hair like off the bow of his old forgotten ship, or on horseback through desert valley, or from the frozen peak of a craggy hunter’s perch.

There would be no toiling away, sequestered in some government laboratory, not while the whole world was watching. Until now, all of humanity and this immortal had one thing in common. With time on their side, they had accumulated knowledge. Now, they had their best chance in all of history to discover truth, in themselves and together. His body would hit concrete and show the world how to survive and how to live. It was time the public eye met his true self.

ALEXANDER THE GRAY DEVIN JAMES LEONARD

According to the human race’s timetable, the year was 1949. Light-speed traveling brought the spaceship to a cabin set within a dark, lifeless forest on the outskirts of the Catskill Mountains, a southeastern quadrant of a state called New York. While the ship hovered in place, two extraterrestrials on board inched their way inside the dematerialization chamber on thin, trembling legs. Once the compartment door closed, their physical bodies immediately broke down into energy particles, and an instant later, they re-materialized back to their slender, three-foot-tall, gray-skinned forms within the walls of the wooden structure.

In this dark and quiet room, Alexander, or Xan to his friends, and Pearl turned their oversized heads to survey the area with their bulbous black eyes. They were in a human’s main quarters, one side of the room a kitchen, the other a lounge of some sort, decorated with long cushioned seats and a square steel fire pit burning wood for warmth. The air was dry and hot and stunk of soot, human perspiration, and filth. Atrocious was a word that came to Xan’s mind. He’d once discovered a plant that emitted a foul odor resembling feline urine, which, when he brought back to his ship, had grossly offended the senses of everyone on board. However, even that scent had been more pleasant than the stench that invaded this human’s residence.

With his fingers plugging his nostrils, Xan gestured toward a pair of closed doors at the far end of a hallway and telepathically informed his associate to follow him. Quietly, they slipped down the hall, stopping at the doors, and Xan used his senses to gauge the human’s location. “He’s in here,” he said, pointing to the one on the right.

That was Pearl’s cue to contact the captain and engage the paralysis beam. Pearl did just that, using his mind to do so, and right on cue, a streak of bright blue light appeared underneath the door.

It was time to go in.

Xan entered the sleeping quarters, the room filled with the light of the ship’s beam. In the center of that blue beam, lying in bed and hidden under a sheet of coverlets from head to toe, was Roger Smith, Xan’s first abductee. The first earthling he would ever lay eyes on.

“Waiting for paralysis confirmation,” Pearl said.

Xan quivered uncontrollably from head to toe. His little chest heaved as his heart raced. The anticipation was killing him. Here was his first contact with human life, and he was moments away from seeing what these things looked like for the very first time. Any second now, he would get the order to progress, and he would strip the cloak of garments away from the man and come face to face with Earth’s mightiest creature.

Xan and Pearl remained in place, waiting for the captain’s signal, only it was taking too long. Xan had expected paralysis to have occurred faster than this.

“Something is wrong,” Pearl said, and Xan nodded, confirming that he too had heard the captain say so in his mind.

“Confirm the human’s position,” the captain telepathically ordered.

Xan and Pearl crept closer to the bed, positioning themselves on either side of the mattress, and together they slid the blankets away from the large bulge underneath. Roger Smith was not there, only a mass of cushions arranged in the shape of a sleeping human.

Just then, a door burst open behind Pearl, and out came a hideous creature with hair growing out of its head and face. In the center of its face was a hole where its voice came from as it shouted, “I gotcha, you sons of bitches!” It was holding a long metal object with both hands; the human raised it, aiming it in their direction, and it made a loud chattering explosion. The instrument—weapon!—projected something with a speed imperceptible to Xan’s eyes. All he heard was the result of the discharge, which was the shattering of a large window behind him and above his head.

The ship’s paralysis beam snapped off, plunging the room into complete darkness. As Xan ducked below the bed for cover, flattening to the floor on all fours, Pearl telepathically yelped, “Retreat, Xan, retreat!”

Xan’s ears were humming. He could not physically hear his comrade’s bolting footsteps, but felt the vibrations of his hasty departure on the floor where he lay cowering.

From somewhere in the darkness, Roger Smith shouted, “I got your number, you demon!” and a metallic racking sound followed.

Xan couldn’t see a thing, but that meant neither could the human. He rose to his feet, quivering from head to toe, and scattered toward the door.

“Come back here!” Roger hollered, and a second burst of weapon fire and a blinding flash of bright light engulfed the room. Xan wasn’t certain, but he thought he felt the strong current of the projectile whoosh past his face just as he rushed through the door. The sound of splintering wood beside him told him—as if he hadn’t already determined it—yes, the human was attempting to kill him.

He took off down the hall, panting in terror, while telepathically pleading to the captain to activate the dematerialization chamber and return him to the safety of the ship.

“Where do you think you’re going, you little monster?” Roger called after him.

Xan continued sprinting through the darkness, heading for the place in the lounging quarters where they’d first arrived. Pearl was already standing in position, shuddering all over, waiting. Xan raced forward, never slowing, never looking over his shoulder, never stopping. He ran, hoping that when he reached the spot, they would break down into energy in the blink of an eye and zap out of there before Roger could— Xan was four strides away when Pearl dematerialized before his eyes—zap!—and Xan ran straight through the spot and crashed face-first into the wall on the other side. He fell on his back and lay on the floor in a daze.

His vision became cross-eyed and blurry, and his head swam with pain and dizziness. Lights flickered on, cascading the room and shrouding his lidless eyes with blinding brightness. For a moment, he thought the teleportation beam had come back for him, but no, these lights belonged to the human.

Roger Smith crouched over his line of sight, and with a wide, grotesque smile, he enthusiastically shouted, “Gotcha!” # Xan awoke to cold liquid splashing against his face, and though he snapped to consciousness with enough fright to make him gasp and shriek, he emitted no words or sounds. Disoriented, he turned his sagging head left to right, finding himself confined to a wooden chair, with his wrists tied behind his back, and the human, Roger Smith, pacing in front of him.

In his mind, Xan tried to send a distress call to his captain, a request for evacuation, but he received no reply. His head was sore and felt heavy to lift, his brain under mental strain, lacking clarity and, thus, a proper telepathic connection to the ship. He couldn’t relay a signal to his compatriots, not with his head in this condition. It meant he was trapped, all alone, abducted by a human, with no help on the way.

He shouldn’t have been here in the first place. Xan was not an abductor, but a botanist. His specialty was the procuring of vegetation from uninhabited regions of various planets—grass, herbs, flowers, fruits, vegetables, and trees—for further research. He had a particular fondness for the sweet-smelling leaves of the Lamiaceae family, what the human beings on Earth referred to as mint, and had been hoping to snag as much as possible on this routine expedition once the ship had made landing.

However, while traversing the galaxy, Xan’s captain was given a new order, a mission that was much more complex than simply removing plants from the forest.

“Roger Smith has discovered his implant,” the captain had told the fleet. “The commander has instructed us to perform an immediate extraction.”

Xan had heard of these extractions before but never participated, having only journeyed into remote areas, mainly dense isolated forests, where the vegetation was diverse and abundant, and the Terran habitation was scarce. He had never come into physical contact with an earthling, let alone entered their abode, which was what the extraction had entailed. It wasn’t part of his job; human research was beyond his pay grade. The captain may have had abducting experience, as well as the surgical capabilities that the task required to implant and remove these monitoring chips, but as for the rest of the crew? Xan couldn’t speak for the others, but not only had he never cast his eyes on these implants, but he’d never once faced a human up close. The thought of encountering an earthling, an alien being, had simply terrified him.

What happened, the captain iterated, was that this human named Roger Smith had visited a doctor after complaining of knee pain and, despite the absence of injury or scarring on the outside, the microchip was discovered with advanced technology (as far as human capabilities went) that generated images beneath the skin—called an X-ray machine. According to the captain’s dossier, the tracking device had been inserted into Roger Smith six months ago, and now that it had been found, the doctor intended to remove it.

The commander had instructed Xan’s captain to change course and perform this extraction themselves before the implant could fall into a human surgeon’s hands. This meant someone had to venture inside Roger Smith’s home and take him aboard.

Since Xan had never seen a human being up close and in the flesh, he’d been hoping to sit this one out, but— “Xan and Pearl will lead the extraction,” the captain had said.

Despite their lack of experience handling humans, the captain had advised them that it was a simple inand-out procedure. The ship would hover over Roger’s house, where the paralysis beam would cascade down into the room where he slept. While the captain remained stationed behind the controls and two others worked the beam and the dematerialization chamber, Xan and Pearl would slip inside the house to confirm his paralysis and transport him to the laboratory on board. From there, the team would remove the chip, patch him up, and return him to his sleeping quarters.

What they hadn’t been expecting was for the human to lay a trap for them.

Xan certainly hadn’t expected to find himself confined to a chair, soaking wet, with this ugly being prancing in front of him, cheering in celebration.

“I gotcha!” Roger said. “I finally caught one of you!”

Roger Smith’s excitement differed vastly from his previous hostile demeanor, which, in some way, was a relief to Xan. But cheerful or not, he was still clutching his firing weapon, and this offered no trace of comfort to the little gray alien.

“How do you like it, boy?” Roger said. “How’s it feel? You aliens tried to take me, but I took you! How do you like it?”

Xan said nothing, but thought, No, I do not like this at all, and as he thought these words, Roger stiffened and cocked his face toward the ceiling.

“Who said that?”

“I did,” Xan said. His telepathy, he concluded, was limited to close quarters.

“Holy—” Roger dropped his weapon and clutched his repulsive hair as if his head were about to fall from his shoulders.

His enormous mouth widened, and his eyeballs seemed to grow bigger. “Holy crow, did you just talk to me inside my head?”

“Yes.” Roger gasped. “My word, it’s in my brain. Son of bitch is speaking to me, and I can understand it.”

“Please,” Xan continued. “Please, let me free. Our intention was never to harm you. Pearl and I never meant to hurt you.”

“Pearl? Who the hell—?” Roger stared at the floor between them, which was the exact location where Xan and Pearl had first entered the house, and snickered, finding amusement in something Xan didn’t understand. “Was Pearl your buddy who left you behind?”

Xan remained verbally and telepathically silent. Yes, his associate had left him, and now he was a hostage.

Roger pulled up a wooden seat, parked it in front of Xan, and slumped into it. Since Xan had never seen another earthling, he couldn’t determine the age of this one. However, it was evident by the wrinkles on his skin and his pale complexion he had aged poorly. He was wearing filthy biballs, had a mouth full of yellow teeth, and strands of hair grew out of not only his face and head, but from his pointy nose and floppy ears. That putrid stench that Xan had smelled when first arriving was coming from Roger, too; now, with his hands tied behind him, he couldn’t even plug his nose to avert it.

“You got yourself a name, too?” Roger asked.

“Alexander. Xan for short.”

Roger stroked the hair under his chin, a gesture that appeared to be one of thinking. “Well, now,” he said, “what do you suppose we ought to do with you, Xan?” “I never wished to cause you any harm. If only you could release me from my restraints—” “Don’t wish to harm me,” Roger said in a mocking tone. “Think I don’t remember you the last time you came here and took me? What you did to me?”

“That was not me.”

“Sure, sure.”

“You must believe me,” Xan said, “that this is as much a precarious situation for me as it is for you.”

Roger snorted. “Doubt that.”

“Truly. This is my first ever contact with your kind. I should not be here.”

“First time, huh?” Roger said, scratching his chin. “Shouldn’t be here? Then tell me…why the hell are you here?”

Using his telepathy, Xan sent Roger a visual and auditory sensory relay of the captain’s dossier on Roger himself, as well as their recent orders to change course from their usual exploration of the planet’s vegetation. Upon receiving and processing the information, Roger blinked heavily and sank into the chair, slouching tiredly. His human brain must have been too feeble to handle such an extensive amount of telepathy, and so he became overwhelmed with fatigue.

“You creatures are on top of everything, huh?” Roger said with a yawn. “You knew the docs found the implant you stuck in my damn leg. Hell, you even knew when they were gonna slice me open and pluck it out of me. But guess what? It was all a ruse. I tricked you into coming here. You see, we know a hell of a lot about you as you do us. There’s lots of abductees you’ve taken and been messing with. We find each other, and we talk. I met a man a few months back—you know what I found out from him?

He had a pain in the back of his neck, went to his doctor and got an X-ray, and guess what they found?”

Xan nodded. “An implant.”

“Bingo. Doctors didn’t know how it got there but decided it needed to be removed. Only, what happened…the man woke up the morning of the procedure with more pain in his neck, and bruises right where the implant was. Was—meaning you creatures knew what he was intending to do—don’t know how—maybe it’s like some kind of listening device—but you monsters knew it was coming out, and you came and sliced it out of him before the doctors could.”

“And so you scheduled your own implant removal.”

“That’s right. See, I knew I was abducted, but I never knew I had a chip in me. Not till I started getting the aches in my leg and got x-rayed. And there it was, an implant. And here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“I made the appointment, figuring you were listening in.” Roger grinned. “You fell right into my trap.”

“May I ask what your intentions are with me?” Xan inquired.

“Need to keep you alive,” Roger said, “to prove you exist. That way, those government people that know about you can’t say you’re some hoax, like they claimed that Roswell incident was.” He interlocked his hands behind his head and smirked. “Yeah, I imagine I’ll be famous for this. Now, tell me, what’s the reason behind these chips you’ve been putting into people?”

Xan lowered his face and shook his head in dismay. “Unfortunately, I cannot be of any help to you in those regards. I have no knowledge of you humans. My specialty is plant life.”

“Plants?” Roger said with a snicker. “Yeah, sure, okay. What would you beings be studying plants for?”

“The same reason you study things—to understand.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“That you know plants.”

“Very well,” Xan said, and transferred his thoughts to Roger, sharing with him a mental article of his most recent and favorite discoveries, a wide, varying list of findings on vegetation and plant biology that, regardless of whether Roger could understand any of it, would at least demonstrate his sincerity.

As soon as Roger received the telepathic information, his eyelids drooped, and he slumped in his chair with labored breaths. “Huh,” he said.

“My favorite specimen,” Xan said, “is from the Lamiaceae family.”

“Oh, yeah?” Roger said. He paused for a wide-mouthed yawn. “What’s that?”

“Mint,” said Xan. “That right?” Roger’s eyes were now closed more than they were open, the telepathy having furthered his exhaustion. He stuck a hand in his front pocket and withdrew a small package. From this package, he removed a thin, white paper tube and placed it between his lips. From another smaller paper compartment, he ripped away an even tinier strip of paper-like material, which he struck on the side of his chair. The tip of it erupted into a tiny orange flame, and with that flame, he lit the tube-shaped stick hanging from his orifice. He took a deep inhalation, and when he exhaled, smoke blew straight into Xan’s face.

Xan couldn’t stop himself in time from taking a breath. He inhaled, and with that breath, the smoke traveled down his lungs. The smell…the taste…he couldn’t believe what his senses were telling him.

Roger gazed at him with a knowing smile.

“Mint!” Xan exclaimed. “You are burning and inhaling mint.”

“Here on earth, we call it menthol. It’s a cigarette—with a minty flavor.”

“Cigarette,” Xan repeated. He had never heard of this plant.

“It’s tobacco,” Roger said. “You must know what that is.”

Oh, yes, indeed, he had heard of and researched this plant: Nicotiana, from the Solanaceae family. The benefits he had discovered ranged from increased alertness, concentration, and memory improvement, which also led to the reduction of intense nervousness, unease, and worry, what the Terrans called anxiety. Xan had never experienced any of these negative emotions before (Not until now, he thought), his species having no concept of worry, and thus, found no use for the nicotine plant. But now, sitting bound to a chair and abducted by a human, never in all his life had Xan felt so much fear and worry.

“May I?” he asked.

Roger’s bushy lines of hair above his eyeballs shriveled. “May you what?”

“Partake.”

“You want—?” Roger cackled. “You want a cigarette?”

“Nicotine,” Xan said. “It will help relax me.”

“You wanna relax, do you? I would have liked something to help relax me when you took me on board your ship and experimented on me. A cigarette would’ve been nice to have then. But, no, you monsters never gave me anything to calm me down.”

Roger sneered with a bitter expression, then his eyes shifted about the room, considering. He rose from his seat, yawned, and said, “Well, I suppose.”

He retrieved another cigarette from his package, extended it at arm’s length, and leaned forward. Roger placed the cigarette in Xan’s lipless mouth, ignited a stick from his square paper, and touched the flame to the end of Xan’s cigarette. Xan inhaled, and when he exhaled, a wave of euphoric clarity washed over his entire body. His head, what felt heavy before, now floated with blissful ecstasy.

He inhaled just as deeply the second time, but with his hands tied, he couldn’t remove the cigarette from his mouth, and so he began to cough. There was too much smoke and no oxygen. He was having trouble breathing, and so Roger took the cigarette away, pinching it between two fingers, waiting while Xan hacked and heaved to catch his breath. The nicotine was a blessing to his mind, but the smoke that filled his lungs made him feel sick and short of breath.

“If you release one of my hands,” Xan said, “I can hold it myself.”

“Think not, demon,” Roger said, and returned the cigarette to Xan’s mouth.

One more inhale and exhale, and Xan shook his head, meaning he’d had enough of the nicotine. His mind had cleared plenty—too much, as it were. He was completely alert now, relaxed, and coherent.

He used his telepathy to send a message. But not to Roger.

Roger stamped out the cigarette and returned to his chair—his chair that just so happened to be set in the precise spot where Xan and Pearl had teleported into the house. It was all Xan needed to relay to the captain.

That, and, “Switch to paralysis.”

And the moment Roger dropped his rear end into the chair, the beam shot down from the ceiling overhead and engulfed him in bright blue light, freezing him in place.

Clearheaded communication transpired without a hitch. Xan, high on nicotine, commanded Pearl to return to the house and untie the knots from his wrists. # Xan waited for Roger Smith to wake, and when his eyelids flickered and opened as he lay naked on the research table, Xan crouched over the human and peered down at his face. He couldn’t smile, but made sure Roger sensed the humor and triumph in his voice when he telepathically said, “Gotcha.”

The paralysis was still working on Roger, and he could only move his head. His eyes and mouth widened, lips trembling.

Sensing the human’s fear, Xan told him to relax. “All we wanted was to retrieve the microchip implanted in your leg. It’s finished. You will be returning home momentarily.”

“Yeah,” Roger said dryly. His voice sounded hoarse and weak, as if he was deprived of nourishment, even though he’d only been on board the ship for a few hours. He licked his lips, swallowed, and said, “Till it’s time for you to come back again. Experiment on me some more. Isn’t that how it works? You abduct the same people, over and over.”

“So I have heard,” Xan said. “But now we have as much use for you as you have time to live, which is little to none.”

Roger’s eyes shifted with confusion.

“Those sticks you’ve been puffing on, Roger, are extremely carcinogenic. I’ve done some research on the tobacco leaf, but found no long-lasting results beyond its addictive components. The ones you have been ingesting, though? These human-manufactured cigarettes? Not only is nicotine an addictive and sometimes poisonous element, but with the addition of the chemicals fused with your tobacco, anyone who inhales them over long periods is at severe risk of heart and lung disease, emphysema, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, diabetes, and cancer.”

“So, what you’re saying is…”

“You have cancer, Roger.”

Roger’s eyes darted back and forth. “Cancer?”

“Malignant tumors have invaded your lungs and spread throughout your other organs. You are dying, and because of your condition, we no longer have any reason to study you.”

“Dying?” Roger shrieked at Xan, as if he were to blame for his illness. “How in the hell can that be?”

“Because of the reasons I just iterated.”

“But—but—cigarettes are legal!” he cried. “They even say smoking’s good for you, in the ads, with doctors promoting them and everything. They wouldn’t sell them to us if they were bad for us.”

Xan didn’t know who they were, but found out by placing his palm on Roger’s forehead, discovering with his mind how this human could have fallen for such a blatant lie. He acquired the knowledge that Roger had gathered in all his years as a smoker, envisioning advertisements with slogans such as ‘Give your throat a vacation…smoke a fresh cigarette’, and ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’ There were photographs of children, doctors, and dentists posing with cigarettes, even celebrity endorsements and kid-friendly cartoon characters, all promoting misleading health benefits, and never once mentioning the risks of smoking.

Roger Smith shut his eyes and whimpered. “Smoking’s bad for you,” he said. “I just don’t believe it.”

Having seen such blatant deception inflicted upon this poor human, Xan induced a sympathetic tone to his telepathic voice. “Well, it appears I am not the only one who has gotcha,” he said. And as a comforting gesture, he presented his open palm, which held a small offering of tiny green leaves. “Care for some mint, Roger?”

He didn’t.

A DULL DISINTERMENT DEVIN JAMES LEONARD

Little Daryl Fox was walking down the sidewalk, whistling and daydreaming of inflicting pain on the next person he came across, when he heard a language he didn’t understand. “Ma dai!” a voice groaned beyond the picket fence beside him. “Ma dai. Scialla, Vito, scialla.”

Daryl was tall for a ten-year-old, but he couldn’t quite see over the fence. He picked up a discarded fivegallon pail from the sidewalk, turned it upside down, and stood on it. Rising above the posts, his eyes cast upon an enclosed lawn littered with holes and mounds of soil piled beside them. If not for the old, bespectacled bald man in the middle of this small enclosure, wearing an open bathrobe, with nothing underneath but a pair of dirty white underwear, and driving a shovel into a shallow hole, the yard would have looked as if it were infested with groundhogs.

“Porca miseria, testa di cazzo!” the old man cursed in aggravated huffs.

“Hey, mister,” Daryl called from the fence, “what are those words you’re talking mean?”

The old man jumped as if he’d been caught doing something wrong, shooting his wide startled eyes up at the fence. As soon as he saw Daryl, though, the alarm left his expression, and he relaxed. “Italiano,” he said, his hairy white chest rising and falling with breathlessness.

“You speak English?”

“Yes. I only speak my native tongue in times of frustration.”

The old man’s accent was strange, yet familiar to Daryl. He’d never heard it in real life before, only in the movies his father sometimes watched. Movies with guys who wore suits, had dark, slicked-back hair, cigars in their mouths, and fired machine guns. Gangster films.

“Say,” Daryl said, “what are you looking for?”

“Questi sono fatti miei,” the old man muttered.

“Huh?” “That’s my business.”

“Fine, don’t tell me.”

“Get on out of here, kid. Leave me be.”

“Just saying,” Daryl said, “maybe I could help. I’m pretty good with a shovel.”

“Do I look like I need help?” the old man grumbled.

“It looks like you ain’t got much of a clue where you’re supposed to be digging.”

“You got that right.” With a loud, exhausted sigh, the old man struck the shovel into the ground and rested on it. “What’s your name, boy?”

Daryl told him.

“Didn’t your folks ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“My folks never taught me nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can help you find what you’re looking for,” Daryl suggested.

“Oh, yeah?” The old man said. “What’s in it for you?”

“I’ll take half.”

“Half? Half of what?”

“Whatever we find.”

“And who says I can split what I’m looking for?”

Well, then, that’d be something not worth finding, Daryl thought. The best things in life were those that could be split down the middle: money, a candy bar, a woodchuck, a rabbit, an opossum—any animal, really, when you got right down to it. Cutting varmints in half, or into even smaller pieces, was the most enjoyable. Only Daryl didn’t believe this old man was looking for a dead animal. You don’t bury a carcass and dig it back up. And candy, well, who would bury some candy? It had to be money he was looking for, something of value he’d hidden. It wasn’t out of the question that a man who talked like a gangster would stash some cash in his backyard.

“Whatever you’re digging for,” Daryl said, “sure must be important.”

“You could say that,” the old man said. “Many years ago, I hid something out here. And now, my son, the ungrateful figlio di puttana, is selling the house and sticking me in a home. Can you believe it? Lived here thirty-five fucking years, raised that boy into the man he is today, and now he’s taking it out from under me.” With a sorrowful chuckle, he wiped the sweat off his brows using his robe sleeve. “The thanks I get.”

“And now you can’t find it?”

“Been a long time, sonny. I forgot where I put it.”

“And you want to find it before your son makes you leave?”

The old man nodded. “Before whoever buys my house can find it.”

“Worth much?” Daryl asked.

“Worth something to someone.”

“So, let me help.”

“Mind your own business, kid,” the old man said, and waved him off, dismissing him like a pesky dog.

“Go on. Get away from my fence.”

Stubborn old man, Daryl thought, as he dropped to the sidewalk and headed home. If the man didn’t want his help, that was fine. What Daryl could do—he could come back tonight, when the geezer was asleep, and search on his own. Worth something to someone, he’d said. It had to be money. Plus, it was a small yard, with not much ground to cover. It wouldn’t take long for Daryl to find whatever the old man had lost.

And if he got caught? Well, Daryl would just kill the old-timer, wallop him upside the head with a shovel, and throw him in a hole. That’d be the worst-case scenario—not the murdering part, but the labors of digging a grave. The killing he didn’t mind. He’d done it once before and had been dreaming of doing it again ever since. # That night, Daryl waited for his parents to drink themselves to sleep, and then he set off to the shed for a shovel and flashlight. It was a two-mile walk to the old man’s house, but he knew a shortcut through the woods that’d cut the time in half.

He made it to the sidewalk in under forty minutes. The bucket he’d stood atop earlier was still there. He pitched the shovel and flashlight over the fence, climbed up, and dropped over the other side into the yard.

The property was well-lit by an outdoor light; Daryl didn’t need to use the LED to see. With his shovel in hand, he contemplated where to dig first. The obvious places to avoid were the holes where the old man had already searched. The second was the trees, because that would be tough digging with all the roots underground. There were large pine trees in three of the four corners of the fencing, but the fourth corner was only grass. If Daryl were to hide something of value, the treeless corner would be his location of choice.

So that’s where Daryl started digging, and with every plunge of the spade and every scoop of earth removed, he imagined the riches he would uncover and all the items he’d buy with these priceless treasures. Images of cold metal machine guns raced through his mind, the smooth brass of bullet casings, the reflective carbon steel of a knife dirtied with the blood of his victims. However, he was still just a young boy. He’d have to secure his treasure until he was old enough to buy the things he desired. That was okay. Whatever he found tonight, he could hide it, the same as the old man had done, until he was of legal age to make his purchases.

After almost an hour of relentless daydreaming and tiresome excavating, Daryl’s shovel struck a solid object three feet deep below the ground. He dropped to his knees and scooped the soil out with his bare hands, and when a black plastic object began to surface, he gently brushed the dirt off like an archaeologist unearthing an ancient artifact. The plastic was a garbage bag and—Oh, boy!—he just knew there would be money inside. Because that was how you were supposed to bury cash. You sealed it up in plastic, so the bills wouldn’t get wet.

Since the hole was too narrow and most of the bag remained lodged in the packed soil, Daryl used his fingers to claw at the plastic, tearing the bag wide open, revealing...

A human skull.

With three eye sockets.

That was strange, a person having an extra eye, dead center on the forehead.

Daryl spread the plastic bag wider but found no treasure inside. Just more bones.

He’d never heard of such a thing—a person with three eyes, or why someone would want to pull a dead body out of the ground. Anytime Daryl ever buried something, it never crossed his mind to dig it up again.

What goes in the ground was meant to remain there forever. But he supposed this was different. The old man had mentioned he needed to locate it before the house sold and someone else came across it. The only reason you dig something up that you once hid was so you could hide it again. Daryl had buried someone once, when he was nine, in the same woods where he’d taken his shortcut. The only difference, Daryl had concealed it where no one would ever find it. He would never have to dig up that body and hide it again, like this old man was fixing to do with this one.

Well, this was the old man’s problem, not Daryl’s. So, what Daryl did—he scraped the dirt back over the hole until it covered the three-eyed skull, loaded up his tools, and waddled on back to the woods.

It was after midnight by the time he returned home with his arms, clothes, and face browned with sweat and soil. He itched from foot to forehead, but it was far too late to take a bath and clean himself; running the water would be loud, and his father would whip him bloody if he woke him.

He stripped off his filthy clothes in his bedroom and crawled under the covers, scratching at his chest, face, neck, and arms. And the agitation absolutely infuriated him, intensifying his desire to kill something. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d return to the old man’s house right now and bash his brains in while he slept, all for wasting his time, energy, and dreams of riches, weapons, and murder.

But no, Daryl thought, it wasn’t the old man’s fault. The blame ought to lie on his mom and dad. After all, they were the ones who never taught him to keep his nose out of other people’s yards, never taught him to mind his own business.

No. Daryl’s folks never taught him nothing.

DO US PART DEVIN JAMES LEONARD

As the scavenger creeps through the hallway, I sneak up behind him, wrap my arms around his neck, and squeeze. With a pull and a lift, his feet come off the ground, and we both topple backward, landing on the floor with him on top of me. He squirms, his hands reaching and swatting at my face, but I don’t let up. I tighten my grip and hold the pressure, crushing his throat, strangling the life out of him. He tries to gasp for air, but he can’t. It lasts a minute, maybe more, and then the scavenger is no more.

Breath will never reach his lungs again.

I shove his limp carcass off me and remain lying down until I’ve caught my breath. And then I sit up, fast, peering around this dank and dusty house.

“Christine?” I call out. “Christine, where are you?” # Every morning, when the sun rises to greet the ashen wastelands, I scour the earth in search of my wife.

I always find her, but come dawn, she’s gone again.

Our day-to-day consists of traveling on foot, from one desolate location to the next. At night, we set up camp on the barren ground, eat what food we can scrounge, and fall asleep nestled together in our sleeping bag.

In the morning, she’s wandered off, and I must repeat my search.

Despite the landscape festering with smoke and blood, and ash descending from the sky like black snowflakes, whenever I locate Christine, she remains as immaculate as she was on our wedding day. In a world of filth and constant nomadic traveling that leaves me sweaty and dirty, Christine’s clothes remain white and untarnished, her skin as pure as cold stream water. I suspect she’s been sneaking off in the mornings to wash and clean herself, but who am I kidding? The creaks dried long ago.

The chances of her wearing an invisible cloak, a protective shield to keep her from the muck and grime of our new life, is a greater probability.

It’s the days and the miles that have taken their toll on me; you can see it in my sunken, dry eyes, the scruff of hair on my hollow cheeks, and the dirt caked to my emaciated frame. Since the downfall of our world, I’ve aged exponentially.

Christine looks as young as ever. #

Morning arrives. I wake up alone. The search begins. This time I find my wife in a clearing surrounded by rotten pines, miles from the old stable where we took shelter the night before. When I catch up to her, I snatch her in my arms and embrace her with as much aggravation as relief.

“Where are you going?” I ask her. I already know the answer. Because I’ve asked this question what feels like a thousand times.

Home. She wants to go home.

“I want to go home,” Christine utters, her unsoiled face inexpressive, catatonic.

“There is no home to return to,” I say. “You know that.”

With my backpack securely tightened on my back and the rifle sling adjusted on my shoulder, I cautiously gauge our surroundings for any nearby threats. There could be others in these woods— scavengers, looters, killers—but I don’t see or hear anything in our proximity.

“You can’t keep running off like this,” I whisper to my wife—for the thousandth time. “Now come—we have to keep moving this way.”

I take Christine’s hand and lead her through the silent woods in the opposite direction. # Another night, another camp set. A pot of soup boils over the small fire I made. I scarf my meal, ravished with hunger from the day’s endless trekking and the additional miles I had to backtrack to find my wife.

Christine’s bowl lies on her lap, untouched.

“You should eat,” I tell her.

“We should go home,” she says.

I have no response. What can I say that I haven’t said before? #

The heat rises with the sun, and I wake up to find my sleeping bag zipper undone and Christine missing from her usual spot beside me. I’ve come to expect this. What once made me jump with panic now only makes me sigh with frustration.

I pack our belongings, kick dirt over the smoldering fire, and set out for my wife. Like all the previous mornings, I find her moving in the direction where we came from the day before.

I hustle over to her as she wades through the thick brush, grabbing at her shoulder and forcefully spinning her around to face me. “Where are you going?” I hiss at her.

She won’t look at me. “Home,” she says.

“I told you, there is no—” A branch snaps in the distance. Leaves rustle. My ears perk up to listen.

A deep, apprehensive voice, booming, threatening, echoes beyond the dense growth of foliage. “I see something! Over there!”

I clutch my wife’s hand. “This way,” I whisper sharply, and we flee.

I run and run, pulling my wife along as we sprint through the thick forest. Christine struggles to keep up (it’s like dragging a stubborn mule) but her breath never labors and she never speaks except to tell me where she wants to go.

Branches whip my face, leaves blind me as I hurry forward— The woods suddenly open. My feet leave the ground, and my stomach leaps. I’m dropping—falling. I lose my grip on my wife as I plummet down a steep hill, rolling and tumbling, cartwheeling and flipping uncontrollably until I crash into a dry, rocky ravine at the bottom.

Jagged rocks poke into my back. My entire body seethes with pain, and I groan and hiss while holding my mouth shut tight to suppress the screams I feel summoning up from my lungs. With great effort, I roll over and hobble to my feet, scanning my surroundings.

Christine is nowhere in sight.

The voice of the pursuing threat calls out from the top of the hill where I’ve just fallen. “This way! He went this way!”

Growls and moans escape my mouth as I dash to the opposite side of the dry creek bed, and I ascend the hill, clutching trees for balance, clawing at the earth for grip. I pull myself halfway up before I direct my gaze toward the peak. And there she is, my wife. She’s standing on the summit, having somehow made it up there much faster than I. She’s gazing down at me, but now she turns away and walks off, receding from my view.

I dig in. Climb harder. Faster. I reach the top, sweaty, breathless, and aching. Once again, I’ve lost sight of my wife.

The sound of falling rocks clatters behind me, but I pay no mind to whoever is chasing after me. I only focus on my wife, who is no longer here. Instead of Christine awaiting me, I find myself standing on a crisp green lawn, with a house on the other end. It’s a structure unlike any I have come across since the world crashed down around me. It appears clean and maintained, and as I progress closer, crossing the yard, the sunlight casts its blaring rays down on me from the open blue sky. The stink of ash and waste has vanished from my Senses, replaced by the aroma of flowers and freshly cut grass.

The closer I approach the front door of the house, the more familiar the place becomes. It’s quite possible Christine and I have once taken refuge here not so long ago— But how do you explain the lawn? It’s been mowed —very recently.

“There you are!” a voice behind me calls out.

I reach over my shoulder as I swing toward the voice, only I find no weapon on my back. My rifle and pack must have fallen away from me during my tumble down the hill. I’m defenseless to the man hustling out of the tree line, and the closer he moves forward, the more slow and cautious his footsteps become. This strikes me as quite odd, the pursuer more reserved and hesitant than I am. Even stranger, this man is clean-shaven and wearing a black suit, with a white long-sleeved shirt underneath and a tie hanging loosely around his collar.

Peculiar attire for the end of the world.

“Where have you been, Dwight?” the man asks with his hands raised in mock surrender.

He knows my name. I recognize him. I know him. But I can’t place him.

“We’ve been scouring the woods for you,” this man tells me. His voice and his eyes convey a sense of genuine concern.

He carefully approaches, each step more wary and deliberate than the last. “We saw your pack and rifle were gone. Figured you went camping since you and—” He hesitates. “You had everybody worried.”

I take in my surroundings, this house, this yard, blinking the sweat out of my eyes. “Where am I?” The man frowns at me. Then he turns his palms out and spreads his arms as he slowly approaches.

“You’re home, Dwight. Come on. It’s time to go. We can’t start without you.”

Home? How could this be? My home is gone, destroyed.

Who is this man?

And where is Christine?

Who is everybody, and what were they worried about? What is it they can’t start without me?

“Come on, Dwight,” the man says with a pat on my shoulder as he passes me. He’s heading toward the house. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”

The man opens the front door and waves at me to follow, and then he turns inside, leaving the door open. Beyond that door, I see, at the far end of a long narrow hall, Christine. My wife is sitting in a den near a fireplace, completely still, her profile facing me. She doesn’t seem to notice the man proceeding down the hall, moving closer to her.

I sprint across the lawn, slowing down and quieting my steps as I reach the inside. The man moves through the hallway, making his way straight toward my wife. I sneak up behind him, wrap my arms around his neck, and squeeze. Reeling him backward, we both fall to the floor. The man squirms and chokes, but my arms don’t let up. I hold the pressure, strangling the life out of him. It lasts a minute, maybe more, and then the man is no more.

I shove him off me and sit up, peering down the hallway where I saw my wife sitting a moment ago.

She’s not there.

“Christine?” I call out. “Christine, where are you?”

With no answer from within the house, I set out into the apocalyptic landscape.

Searching.

THINGS TO REMEMBER US BY LEVI REYNOLDS

TRIGGER WARNINGS - MENTION OF REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS, NON-HUMAN BODY MUTILATION, DIGITAL GENOCIDE

“I don’t know. What’s your civilization most proud of? You called me.”

Emickis leaned to see around the energy-guzzling holy beacon. His partner and friend, Agjunoo, met the desperate gape in kind. The experiment had worked. The beacon pierced the infinite barrier between the physical world and heaven, and God answered.

Agjunoo waved her antennae in surrender and mouthed, “I don’t know!”

“Well umm” — Emickis wondered if God could see the room they were in — ”we’ve invented a way to reach across dimensions and speak to our creator. This proves that you exist, and there are a lot of doubters down here. The conversation we’re having right now might be the height of fenkar achievement.”

“Well done there.” God’s voice sent convulsions through the beacon’s audio diaphragm. “But there’s gotta be more, right? What did you do before you created this transmitter?”

Agjunoo spoke up. “Our planet has maintained a single, peaceful government for a millennium, our fusion distribution network has eliminated energy disparities, and recent advances in quantum computing allow us to simulate uncollapsed probability; that’s how we’re talking to you. Fenkari are proud of our peace and devotion to common purpose.”

“Hmm. I’m looking at that power grid tech you’re talking about; it’s not really that fancy. It only works because you guys agree to ration. That wouldn’t work here. World government? Let’s see.” God sounded cynical.

“We’re not just guys here,” Agjunoo said. “I’m a woman.”

“Yes, uhh, Lord!” Emickis blustered to respond before God could. “My partner is female now. I’m sure you’re familiar with how particular we get in that season.”

Agjunoo mumbled under her breath. “For Kinot’s sake, we’re as bad as we said we were.”

“Female, eh? Is that why you have those glands all over your face?”

The fenkari looked around for God’s invisible vantage. Agjunoo reached to her face to settle her twitching ducts and answered, “Yes, my velglots. Why do you ask, Lord? Aren’t you familiar with your creations?”

“Not all of them. Look, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Free will, which do you wanna hear first?”

Emickis said, “The bad news,” over Agjunoo requesting the good.

God chuckled, an unnatural noise and too dry. “Guess I’m the tie breaker. Bad news first then, so I can leave you on a high note.”

Even as he braced for apocalyptic revelations, Emickis emitted a prideful squelch that Agjunoo must have heard. God had chosen his side of the coin flip.

“The bad news is about your quantum computers. Congratulations on those, by the way. They are a major advancement for your civilization and really speak to your peoples’ intelligence, but the program that’s simulating your existence can’t handle all of that processing workload without tying up actual quantum processors here in the real world. You’ve become expensive, so we need to find a way for you to pay for yourselves.

“That’s why I asked about your accomplishments. If you’ve discovered or invented anything worthwhile, we want to get that cataloged before your world is shut down — things we can turn into wealth, preferably. Peaceful systems of government aren’t really good for that.”

“Shut down?” Agjunoo slapped her hands on the beacon’s control board.

“You’re talking about the end of our civilization because of our quantum computers? Why can’t we just stop them?”

“It was coming anyway. Your computers just got you flagged for the front of the queue. And it’s never long before you guys try again. Sorry, I mean you all.”

“If we have something to offer, you’ll permit us to exist?” Emickis couldn’t decide which direction to address his plea so he beseeched the floor.

“Probably not. It’s possible. Usually we take backups of the good stuff and drop the simulation, but one time my friend found a planet of algae that blooms in prime numbers. That one was worth keeping around. The algae wasn’t sentient, though, so it doesn’t chew up cycles like you do.”

Agjunoo stood and rounded the console to speak to Emickis face-to-face, assuming God would hear as well. “This is too much. The experiment worked, but we have no idea who we’re really talking to.

Would our creator really end our existence because we weren’t ready for a pop quiz about our achievements? And even if it is God, we weren’t chosen to speak for all fenkari.”

“It’s alright, I’m not vain,” God said, “and I said there’s good news anyway. My shift is almost over here, and I don’t have enough time left to decommission a sim. I’ll let you run overnight and see if anything interesting pops up by morning.”

“One night?” Emickis groaned a chord of wet notes.

“It’ll seem longer to you, especially if you get rid of your quantum computers. I can call back without them, so don’t worry about that. I gotta go, though. Night!”

The holy apparatus stopped humming.

Agjunoo broke the silence. “What the hell was that, Emi?” “It was God! We have to tell people. Dr. Ovidoo’s invention worked. She’ll be absolutely orange to hear it!” Emickis hurried to power the beacon down.

“This wasn’t good news, you know,” Agjunoo said. ”We should be cautious not to spread unconfirmed results. Okay?”

Emickis wasn’t listening. *** “She says she doesn’t see a future for us anymore, but I don’t know what changed.” A nimbus of vape mist billowed from Hero’s mouth, and his voice dropped to a normal register. “She knew I didn’t have a white collar diploma when we got married. I was a tradesman back then and I’m a tradesman now. It’s not my fault the money’s not as good since QI replaced AI. I kept up with the industry at least, didn’t I?” Susan chased Hero’s vape exhaust with a cloudfront of her own, tinged blue with a cosmetic particulate that hadn’t been banned yet. It turned her lips blue too, which she pursed as she examined her glowing pen.

“You know, back when we smoked, the cigarettes told us when we were done. You enjoyed yourself until everything was used up ‘cept the butt and then called it quits until the next one. There’s probably a lesson about relationships in there somewhere, but you don’t have time to learn it. You’re already late.”

“Yeah, I’m telling you why. I was up late talking to Eva.” “Why are you telling me? Practice? I’m not your supervisor. Let’s go in. I just agreed to come out for the puff.” Susan began walking toward the windowless edifice where they worked. “Besides, why are you still talking to her? I thought your divorce was finalized.”

“Almost finalized, and that’s the point. This is my last chance, and she’s telling me she needs me to be more successful.”

An eavesdropping security guard cocked an eyebrow at Susan while Hero rambled his way through a turnstile. Susan shook her head and rolled her eyes, hurrying Hero on with a touch to his back. “You have to quit letting her make you feel worthless. Did she say she wants you back if you find success, or did she say she doesn’t want you back because you haven’t. I’m sorry to ask, but there’s a difference.”

“But she said almost the same thing! She says I have to figure out how to be worthy of myself. Like I was stressing her out because I don’t feel loveable unless somebody loves me.” For the first time that day, Hero seemed to hear himself. “And to be honest, I still don’t understand that. I mean, self esteem sounds great and all, but isn’t that the definition of unloveable if nobody loves you?”

Susan pressed a pair of fingers to her temple and took a deep breath. “No. It’s not. And you’re not unloveable. You’re late, and you’re exhausting, but we reserve unloveable for people who heat their stratoplankton in the break rooms. Just get logged in and start your shift; you need to get your mind off your ex.” *** “My Lord!” Emickis startled at the sudden change of venue and slammed his head against the laboratory ceiling. He’d grown twice as long since his last visit to the room, which was designed for younger, more compact bodies. The holy beacon shimmered with energy despite its retirement long ago.

Agjunoo was there too, appearing as confused as Emickis.

“Good morning!” God’s disembodied exuberance shook the room. It was evening. “I restored our conversation from last time; glad to see you’re both still with us. How long has it been now?” The voice subsided into mumbles and grunts.

“Three hundred seventeen years and another twenty months.” Agjunoo spoke as she helped her old partner into a comfortable coil. She hadn’t seen him in a hundred of those years.

“I see. You fenkari live a long time.”

“Compared to what?” Agjunoo asked. “We live as long as there’s cause and enough heavy metals to eat, though your tithes have stripped enough pantries.”

“Agoo! Show some respect. We are twice blessed by the Lord’s presence, you and I!” Emickis pushed Agjunoo’s helping hands away, declaring independence now that the aid was consumed.

“You can’t be sure God is a Him. We’ve been over this.”

“I’m male; you can call me Him.” God’s proclamation sounded distracted. “It’s close anyway. Our physiologies don’t really line up exactly.”

Emickis pumped his antennae in victory. “Of course! It is like I said, Agjunoo. We become female to feed our elders. God would have no need for such a transformation.”

“That’s not accurate, but don’t think too hard about it. I hope you enjoyed your existence these past few centuries. Did you come up with anything I can show my manager? This has to be my day.”

“Yes!” Emickis said. “We’ve dedicated our society to your pleasure, my Lord. You said you desired wealth. We have stockpiled our most precious of metals and set them aside for you instead of fueling our own selfish proliferation. Everybody contributed, no exceptions.”

“Tithes,” Agjunoo spat like a curse word. “We’ve gone hungry, is what he means.”

Emickis hurried on. “Nevertheless, Lord. Our banks overflow with our devotion to you. You are welcome to all that we have.”

“I can’t use that, sorry. You’re a simulation. Your physical world doesn’t exist to me. I need new ideas or information — creations we can replicate out here in the real world.”

“Like the algae that speaks magical numbers? We have prayed to our flora, but none communicate back,” Emickis whined.

“You see it was for nothing, Emi?” Agjunoo’s velglots flushed in anger. “Our people have not reproduced in over three hundred years because you convinced them to conserve in God’s name. What discoveries and advancements could we have made if our population had been allowed to grow? Instead, our scientists starve with everyone else. I told you!”

God took sympathy. “Well come on now. It’s probably not all his fault; I wasn’t that clear yesterday. He was just trying his best. Agoo? Is that what he said your name is?”

“It’s Agjunoo. Agoo is a name for the familiar.”

“Well, I did seed your simulation, so…”

Agjunoo’s velglots swelled and darkened towards purple.

“Oh, God,” said God. “What’s happening to your face? Does that mean you’re angry?”

“Of course it means I’m angry! You’ve told us our world is ending if we can’t satisfy your nebulous, metaphysical goals, and now you’re defending the man that made sure we did anything but for the past three centuries.”

“Alright, it’s Agjunoo then. Got it. Please calm down. You look like you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“How could it matter? You’re about to end our existence. We’re not even real to you!” Agjunoo’s inflamed velglots remained unpleasing.

“It can’t be the end, can it?” Emickis’ words whistled in pitiful tones. “Surely this is a test for your faithful. You have no need for our resources, sure, but you see our devotion? If you would just tell us what you want, we’ll stop at nothing to accomplish it. Please, Lord. I beg on behalf of all fenkari!”

“Okay, Okay! You’re both feeling jerked around. I get it. I wasn’t very clear, but it’s hard to explain; I just know it when I see it.” God paused for a moment. “Shit, you probably feel like I do when my wi— I suppose my ex-wife… Well, Eva. Fuck. I don’t even know if you have spouses. My female partner is leaving me, and I don’t really know why either. I mean, she told me a hundred different reasons, but none of them ever seem like that big a deal. I think there’s something more, anyway.”

Agjunoo stared at Emickis, recognizing the color of his nervous flush. Stress had triggered a metamorphosis. Changes would begin within the week — if days and such continued.

God carried on. “I’m sorry, Agjunoo. I don’t need another disappointed woman on my conscience. You either— is it Emi?” “Yes Lord, you may call me Emi, of course! Just say what we must do to please you.”

“Nah, don’t be like that. Don’t worry about doing what will make my company happy. You aren’t even supposed to know about us. Promise to keep the quantum computers stopped so you don’t get flagged in my system, and I’ll give you all a little longer. I don’t want a whole civilization upset with me this early in the morning, okay? I’m not that bad a guy, really.”

“But what do we do?” Emickis had not been calmed; his whistles sputtered. “We want to be worthy of existence!”

“That’s just not always in the cards. You can’t take it personally. Spend some time enjoying yourselves.

Become the society you want to be. I’ll be back later to see if anything interesting develops, but that’s going to be it. Make the most of this.” *** Hero spoke around a mouthful of bean roll. “I just couldn’t do it. They were so pathetic.”

“You can’t let them get to you like that. They’re not real.” Across the cafeteria table, Tal punctuated his advice with a piece of maki on a fork. “Be surgical. You’re in there pruning data, that’s it. I don’t even like to talk to mine anymore.”

“I know, but we don’t have to be cruel. I feel like I led them on.”

“Led who on?” Susan’s tray slapped down on the table next to Hero.

“The teat-faces,” Tal said. “He’s having trouble breaking up with a sim now.”

Hero grimaced. “Don’t call them that. They’re called the fengar or finicky or something. I can’t remember. They just have glands on their faces.”

“Glands?” Susan crouched over her tray for a moment, considering other seating options. “Why are they the teat-faces then? You guys think everything is a tit. Why not the penis-faces?”

“Only the females have them. Besides, I just said they looked like a cow’s teats,” Hero said. “Tal made up the name.”

Tal shrugged innocence.

Susan sat with an unimpressed side-eye and asked, “How far along are they? Any new properties?”

“They’ve figured out quantum computing, but nothing of interest along the way. Seems like they stopped progressing much after our first contact.”

“See?” Tal asked. “Shouldn’t talk to them. You said you don’t want to be cruel, but honesty is the meanest thing to a simulation. Let them be ignorant and happy until the end. They don’t need to know the difference.”

Susan added, “He’s right. And they have quantum computers? You don’t want a bunch of pissed off sims trying to hack their way inside-out. It’ll take out your whole processor slice. No commissions for you, and the company’ll be in your ear for wasting resources.”

“I know. I just feel bad. They’re so sad, like they disappointed me. Well, one is sad. The other’s pretty angry.” Hero looked up. “It’s complicated. I don’t like either feeling. I miss the AIs. They never laid guilt trips; they knew what they were.”

“Yeah but we couldn’t patent anything they gave us after the statutes were passed.” Tal waved off useless history. “Besides, I think the quantum sims are more fun. Sure it’s mostly sifting through shit, but the gems are amazing. Not like that repurposed crap the OLD ONES called innovation. But seriously, Hero, end the sim.”

“I have to agree with Tal.” Susan looked reluctant. “You need to make a clean break.”

Hero cast a penitent gaze on his lunch’s empty packaging. “You’re talking about Eva, aren’t you?”

Tal grunted an exasperated curse and threw a napkin to his tray.

“For God’s sake!” Susan started and then took a breath to try again. “You know what? I wasn’t talking about Eva, but you could use the clean break there too. You have to get your head back into your job, Hero. People are talking about layoffs.” *** Without warning — there was never omen nor messenger — Emickis found himself in God’s presence once again.

Knobs of chitinous scar tissue decorated his face where velglots should have grown at this stage of life.

Once-friend Agjunoo sat lifeless across the hallowed laboratory, a statue of metallic corpse parts.

“Emi?” God didn’t seem to recognize his creation.

“Yes, my Lord. You’ve brought me from my temple, and Agoo from the catacombs.”

“Agjunoo passed away? I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“It was for the best. You told us you didn’t want any more disappointed women. We have forsworn the gender since.”

“You what?” Distress was clear in the deity’s voice despite the holy beacon’s ignored condition.

“I spread the word you gave us. We live for ourselves now. When my body entered the female cycle, I had my velglots removed to impede the metamorphosis. As you indicated, we needn’t sacrifice our energy sustaining the elderly for a future that will never happen. I know the female form was distressing to you; I hope this is more palatable.” Emickis rubbed his scars.

“That’s not what I said!”

“Of course not; our talks are short. We have many years between to discern your deeper meanings.

“What happened to Agjunoo? You didn’t…” God trailed off.

“Kill her? No, she chose her end soon after your last blessed visitation. You see by her corpse that she died intact. You offered consolation just now, hearing of her passing, but your grace is undeserved. I’m afraid poor Agoo was never strong in faith. We apologize on her behalf for the afronts.”

“Why did she choose to die? I gave you all more time to live. She could have done anything she wanted.”

“I could never understand, but I fear it was sacrilege. Agoo was vain and concerned with legacy. Your commandment to enjoy life with abandon didn’t sit well with her, I suppose. She was not alone; we lost many to your revelations before the cullings finished the rest.”

“Cullings? Shit.”

“Everything by your holy direction, Lord. You know, I thought it was a test for so long. You told us the end was coming and to live as we wished, but I believed with all my hearts you’d collect us into the afterlife if we lived respectfully in your image. It wasn’t a test, though, was it?” Emickis didn’t wait for God’s answer. “I’ve known for some time now, and only after that moment of enlightenment did the selfishness feel this wonderful — the consequences so ignorable. I thank you Lord.”

“So there’s nothing worth saving? Everything has gone downhill since our last meeting, and you’re happy with that?”

Emickis’ antennae waved a quizzical bob. “I was happy living. You wanted that for us. Now we will cease to exist.”

“I was still hoping you’d come up with something useful with all the freedom I gave you in your last years. You really interpreted everything in the worst way; this is a little exhausting.”

“When we last spoke, I would have been beside myself with shame for disappointing you. I’ve learned that you want better for me, though. I choose to be joyous and unrepentant. If you must, Agoo the apostate left you a recording. She sought to live on in your memory after our civilization stops being, even as she raged against your edicts. I wasn’t going to mention it for all the good it won’t do, but I don’t think any of it matters now. View her work or don’t. You won’t find much else; there are few of us left, and our long lives have become rigid.”

The simulation paused, and Emickis froze in place. God searched through history for Agjunoo’s death and final message. There was a recording entitled Things to Remember Us By. *** “Nothing,” Hero said.

Employees milled in the hall outside an open conference room, waiting until the last minute to go in.

Management wanted to speak to everybody fifteen minutes before shift-end — one of leadership’s many witching hours.

“Everything I said just made them act worse, and they created nothing worth a second look. Definitely better off in oblivion.”

Susan nodded along to Hero’s venting but was preoccupied with the afternoon’s ominous news.

“You two were right. I just needed to make a clean break. That was the right thing to do. Better for everybody.”

“Right!” Tal said. “I’m glad you finally subscribed.”

“Yeah, but I still don’t have anything to show for it.” Hero’s face wrinkled again. “How am I supposed to convince Eva to take me back if I’m not making any commissions?”

“How are you supposed to eat if you get fired this afternoon?” Susan delivered the question without tone, lost in staring at an empty podium through the conference room doors.

“Both of you need to cheer up.” Tal’s voice rose above the din for a moment. “You’re being a couple of teat-faces.”

LITTLE MISS TOBACCO SPIT M.C. SCHMIDT

Oscar and Scott had been coming to Shelly’s for years—six in Oscar’s case; nearly fifteen for Scott, who had briefly dated Shelly in high school and was still a little sweet on her all these decades later, so he had become a regular stool-sitter when her husband bought her the bar. Both men stopped in at least three nights a week, sometimes four, but most often five or six. When one would spot the other, he would belly up beside him, and they would commiserate on life and love in Piker’s Hole until Shelly locked up and sent them home.

On this night, the topic of discussion was, once again, how an honest man just couldn’t get ahead in this country. The complaint was Oscar’s.

“Who are you telling?” Scott asked in reply. “I’ve been a bedeviled working man since you were still in pampers.” Scott was sixty-three, an age that he simultaneously understood to be an insult to his former youthful vigor and a cudgel to be used whenever some young pissant like Oscar tried to tell him the ways of things. Oscar was not quite forty.

“You’re on disability, bro.”

“I’m fighting the power structure,” Scott corrected. “I’m a peaceful resister.”

“Are you boys at it again?” Shelly asked, having made her rounds and returned to them. It was Monday, always a slow night.

“No, ma’am,” Scott said. “Just candidly communicating.” He gave her a wink, prompting her eyes to roll.

Oscar said, “I was just telling this old fool about a property I’m junking. It’s a dance studio out on Pepperidge. You know it?”

Shelly said she didn’t.

“Been sitting empty a long while, judging by the state of it. My contract gives me three weeks to empty the place out before the wrecking crew comes. So, I walk in there this morning to get started and find out it’s got this theatre, or, like, a room for recitals or something, with two hundred chairs bolted to the floor. I’m going to have to pull up every one of those bastards and lug them out to the dumpster. I’ll come off this job a hobbled man.” He shook his head and took a long pull of her beer.

“Poor baby,” Scott said. “When I was young, I could have carried one in each hand, probably. You remember me back then, Shell. Tell him how strong I was when we were a thing.”

“You were a veritable Adonous,” she said mockingly. Then, to Oscar, “I think it sounds cool. I love old theaters. I was a drama kid once, if you can believe it.”

“Shelly was the star of the high school dramatics club back in our day,” Scott explained. “She made the prettiest Ado Annie you ever saw. I still have the program around the house somewhere, I think.” The program, as Scott knew perfectly well, was in a shoebox full of special memories that took pride of placement at the top of his bedroom closet. He tilted his glass to her before taking a drink.

“You can come see it if you’ve got a mind to,” Oscar told her. “I’ll be out there all by my lonesome, busting my hump.”

“Pepperdine Road?” she asked. “I just might, tomorrow.” She touched Oscar’s hand, a platonic gesture that nevertheless caused Scott’s ulcer to burn.

“You’re welcome too, He-Man,” Oscar told him. “I’ll even spring for lunch if you give me a hand with those chairs.”

“Pass,” Scott said, “but I thank you kindly.”

Soon afterward, Shelly’s husband stopped in and appropriated the conversation.

The husband got on well enough with Scott, even buying him a beer here and there, because Shelly had never told him that she and Scott had gone out as kids, a fact that made her lovesick patron quietly swoon. Coming so soon after the hand touching and the possibility of Shelly spending the next day with Oscar, the husband’s arrival put Scott in a mood. He paid his tab and was out the door by ten. He didn’t need these indignities; there was beer in the fridge at home.

The rest of his night was less than stellar. On the drive home to his rented shack on Route Seven, he dribbled tobacco juice onto his jeans. Once home, settled in with a can of Pabst in his lap, he found that the cop flick he’d been meaning to watch had been pulled off the streaming service. He scrolled and drank until his vison went foggy. Defeated, he settled on the reality show where pageant parents fought like barbarians while there clowned-up preteens, high on sugar and inflated egos, tromped around onstage, looking for all the world like little street walkers.

It was then, watching that trash with heavy eyes and listening to the perpetual drip of his kitchen faucet, that Scott had the greatest idea of his life. For a few minutes, he sat with it, blinking absently while he thought it through. Then, in a slurred voice, he called out, “Alexa— how much do folks pay to be in a beauty pageant?”

*** Little Regina McIntosh was a star. Everyone knew it—her mom; her dad; and even her Sunday School teacher, Miss Marcia, who was always telling her to hush up and sit on her hands because if she didn’t settle down, she was liable to upstage Jesus in his own house. She had taken tap and jazz and ballet, and she had paid enough attention to still remember a step or two. She knew, though, that her greatest gift couldn’t be taught. Little Regina McIntosh had verve.

To have been born so talented somewhere as culturally bankrupt as Piker’s Hole was her life’s great tragedy.

She’d said so a thousand times to her ex-best friend, Lulu, and had probably said it nearly as many times to Sasha, who was her new best friend now that Lulu claimed to be having dinner and unable to talk no matter what time of day Regina called her.

On Tuesday morning, Regina was on the sidewalk in front of her house practicing a self- choreographed dance routine that she called, Viscosity—a very lovely word that she saw printed on a rusty metal can in her garage. She was ostensibly practicing the routine for the elementary talent show but had taken to doing so on the front sidewalk because she had heard of talent scouts discovering mega-talented future starlets when they happened upon them on some non-descript street. Also, there was a rad echo effect off Mr. Johnson’s big, boxy house if she belted her original Viscosity song at the top of her lungs. She had just gotten to the part where she came out of her final bow with a little demurring move of her head and shoulder when a car drove by. Its driver attempted to roll up the windows as he passed. He might have succeeded were it not for the giant trophies that hung out the car’s back passenger window. The trophies got her attention.

“Holy buckets,” she said out loud as she stopped in mid-demurring shoulder thing to watch it. Then, with the robotic urgency of a tiny Manchurian Candidate, she started down the sidewalk, following the car, dragging her spangly cape behind her. *** When Scott arrived at the derelict dance studio, Oscar and Shelly were out front, leaning on the bed of Oscar’s truck, chatting and having a smoke. They paused at the site of his old sedan as it pulled toward them in the gravel lot, kicking up a cloud of dust that made Shelly fan her face. They fell into restrained laughter at the site of the trophies in the back, the way the little prone bowlers that topped the biggest of them were trapped in the vice of the mostly closed window.

“Hell’s bells, bro, what are you up to?” called Oscar after the older man had slammed his door and was waltzing toward them. “You moving in or something?”

Scott, feeling kingly in the wake of his million-dollar idea, couldn’t be riled. He simply smiled at the pair of them and, in a voice that was uncharacteristically jolly, asked, “How are you two this fine morning?

Getting lots of work done?”

“Been at it since five. Me, that is. Shelly just pulled in.”

“Well,” Scott allowed, “she’s a hard-working woman that keeps late hours. Isn’t that right, Shell?”

“What’s with the bowling trophies?” she asked.

“Hmm?” Scott glanced behind him as if her meaning were unclear. “Oh, those trophies? Those are part of a business proposal I have for you two. The props of said proposal, I guess you’d say. Oscar-boy, why don’t you give me a hand getting them out of there once you’ve sucked all the cancer out of that stick? I don’t want to stink up my upholstery.” He adjusted the plug of tobacco in his cheek and spat.

Oscar shared an amused look with Shelly before flicking his cigarette away and joining Scott in retrieving the trophies. There were twelve of them in total, league trophies dating back to the midnineties. They lined them up by height on the cracked concrete of the studio’s elevated porch. The tallest of them came to Oscar’s nipples.

“So, what’s the deal?” he asked. “You want me to junk these in the big dumpster or something?”

“Not at all,” Oscar told him. “What I want is for you to hush up a minute so I can explain to you both how these babies are going to change our lives.”

Shelly looked skeptical but she hopped up onto the porch and took a seat beside the trophies, dangling her feet over the edge.

“I got to get back to it,” Oscar said, “so make it quick.” He leaned against the side of the porch at a respectable distance from Shelly’s tranquil, swinging legs.

“It won’t take but a minute,” Scott assured him. He cleared his throat and asked, “So, every little girl wants to be a princess, right?”

“No,” Shelly and Oscar said in unison.

He gave them a peeved look but continued. “Some do though. And every mother believes her child to be the cutest in the world.”

“Not mine,” said Oscar.

“Mom used to say she found me in a sewer,” said Shelly.

“Well, I didn’t mean mothers like ours. I meant good mothers, supportive ones. And a surprising number of those good and supportive mothers are willing to pay big bucks for the opportunity to pit their kid against others for confirmation that they’re hot shit.”

“Like a little fight club?” Oscar asked.

“I think he means a beauty pageant,” Shelly said, having caught on.

Scott tapped his nose with his index finger and said, “Ding-ding-ding.”

“I don’t follow,” said Oscar.

“You want to hold a beauty pageant here before they knock it down, is that it?” Shelly asked. “And award the girls your old bowling trophies?”

“The toppers screw off,” Scott said. “You can get the right ones online for nothing—little dancing girls and that. And as for the plaques at the bottom that say The Pin Droppers, I can flip those around and get them etched with something appropriate for, like, a buck-fifty each at Home Depot.”

“Absolutely not,” said Oscar.

Scott eyed him shrewdly. “Afraid you’ll get in trouble with your boss, huh? Think he’d look the other way if we cut him in?”

Oscar was growing perturbed. “The boss lives in Brown County and the property’s owned by a hedge fund over in Idaho. The reason we’re not doing it is because it’s stupid. I only have three weeks to gut this place and have it ready for the wrecking crew. So, pack your junk back up and take it home.”

Having given his final word, he rose and made for the front steps.

“Hang on there, brother. We’re talking about a once in a lifetime type of deal. You’ve got this place; that’s opportunity. I’m the idea man. And Shelly, she’s got dramatics training; she could judge the talent. Also, she’s a lady, which could be handy to have in a partnership like this. It would make it seem —” “Less sketchy?” Shelly cut in. “Less potentially perverted? Red flaggy? Stranger-danger- adjacent?”

“I was going to say more legitimate, but yeah. And she and I can help you with this place. We can help you set up and then junk out all this crap after the fact. A three-way split of the profits.”

“Before you go volunteering me,” Shelly said, “remember that I already run a business.”

Scott waved away her concern with the back of one hand. “Your business sense is too good to pass this up. Stop acting like you think I’m crazy and help me convince this gentleman.”

“You can’t,” Oscar said, now lording above them on the porch. “There wouldn’t be a profit because no one would pay you to do this.”

“Actually,” came a small voice from the gravel lot, “a bunch of people would, probably.” They turned to see a small girl with heavily ringleted blond hair standing behind them. The lower fourth of her spangly cape was coated in gravel dust. “Some girls travel from out of state just to do pageants, even small ones.

And their moms pay oodles in entry fees.”

“Who is she?” Oscar cried, exasperated.

“Wait, honey,” Shelly said, sliding off the porch, “when you say oodles, how much do you mean?”

“Three hundred bucks?” the girl guessed.

“Per child?”

“Mm-hmm. And that’s on top of dresses, hair and make-up, shoes. It’s a real racket, like this guy said.

I’ve never been in a pageant because there’s never been one in Piker’s Hole, and Mom can’t drive long distances on account of her hair-triggered road rage. I’d join though, obviously.” She did a brief, dramatic ripple of her cape to underscore the importance she could bring to the affair. “I’m sure lots of girls would.”

Oscar, who was still not onboard, was growing irritated by the thought of the time he was wasting. He opened his mouth to speak, but, before he could, a ringtone sounded from the little girl’s fanny pack.

“My mom,” she said with a sassy expression of displeasure. She brought the phone to her ear and said, “Regina McIntosh speaking... Yes, Mom, of course I know I’m not in front of the house; why would I not know that? I’m at that abandoned dance studio downtown... Signing up for a beauty pageant... Here at the dance studio, duh...” She covered the phone’s speaker and whispered, “She says to ask how much is the entry fee?”

Shelly looked at Scott, who hesitated to respond. From the porch, Oscar called, “Five hundred dollars.”

He sneered at his companions, certain that it was too exorbitant a price for any rational person to agree to it.

Regina relayed the information, then pulled the phone away again and asked, “When is it?”

“Sunday,” Shelly said reflexively, this being the one night per week when her bar was closed.

When the girl reported this to her mother, there was a pause that caused Oscar to lean forward in anticipation of her refusal. “Yes, this week... It’s enough time... I already have a dress... Because they won’t have it again next year!” This last piece of information was relayed in an ear-piercing whine and accompanied by a stamp of her foot. The trio watched her face expectantly until she pulled the phone away for a final time to ask, “She wants to know what your pageant’s called.”

Oscar, who was only now beginning to accept that he might really get roped into Scott’s ridiculous idea, tried one last time to sink it. “Little Miss Tobacco Spit,” he said, inspired by the yellow dribble on the older man’s chin.

Regina disengaged the call and told them, “She’ll bring the check on Sunday. Will that work for you all?”

“Um, sure,” Scott said, unclear how he had so easily set this in motion. “No problem.” Then after a moment’s thought, he added, “Have her make it out to Shelly’s Bar. They’re our sponsor.”

“I’ll communicate that message,” the girl said.

Scott looked at Shelly who shrugged and looked at Oscar. Oscar glowered at Scott.

“See?” Scott said. “I told you these pageant parents were jackals.”

“They really are,” agreed Regina. She tossed her cape and said, “Whelp, I guess you’ll see me Sunday.

Have that ginormous trophy ready for me.” She gave it a final, longing glance and then headed back the way she had come, singing her Viscosity song in her most boisterous voice.

*** Shelly placed an announcement on social media and hung a sign on the door of her bar. Scott went to every supermarket within a three-hour drive and pinned flyers to their vestibule bulletin boards.

He listed his own phone as the contact number, and the calls were endless. By Friday, they had thirty girls scheduled to compete for the title of Piker Hole’s own Little Miss Tobacco Spit.

Together, they prepared the studio, junking what they could and prettying up what was needed for the pageant. Scott refurbished his trophies, and even sprang for those little arrangements of flowers that the losing girls on the TV show were awarded. Shelly boned up on the beauty pageant scoring system. Oscar mostly kept to the original scope of his work contract, but he stayed out of the way, and he was able to convince his nephew to loan them the sounds equipment from his side hustle as a wedding DJ. By Saturday night, the studio, though still visibly past its prime, was at least presentable. *** Despite being his own brainchild, it didn’t seem real to Scott until the contestants began to arrive. The pageant was scheduled to begin at four o’clock, and cars began pulling in before noon. “Hair and makeup,” Shelly explained to him, “that shit takes forever.” Because she was used to dealing with the public and was female and, at least in the mind of Scott, had a certain pizzazz that couldn’t be replicated by a gnarled old piece of tree bark like himself or a little griper like Oscar, Shelly became their public face, taking checks from the entrants’ parent and showing them to the dressing room behind the stage.

As the time grew close, Scott—who was forced into being the pageant’s emcee due to flat refusals from his business partners—didn’t look so well. From her place behind the card table, Shelly saw him pacing back and forth across the studio’s porch. She opened the front door, holding her cash box like a lunchpail and called to him.

He was wild-eyed, aggressively chewing several pieces of nicotine gum, having enough self-awareness to see how the girls’ parents might find his tobacco habit unbecoming. “Look at these license plates,” he told her. “Ten or fifteen of them are from out of state. Can you even believe that?”

“Well then,” Shelly said with a mothering tone that, under different circumstances, he would have found wildly alluring, “you were right. People came. Congratulations, Scott.”

“Don’t do that!” he said, wringing his hands and pacing. “Don’t jinx us. We still have this whole thing to get through.”

“Just...take a breath, okay? All you need to do is welcome everyone then read each girl’s name off the card.”

“And help judge these little monsters. Can’t you hear them in there? I’ve never heard anything like it.

They’re like the sound of some atrocity from the Book of Revelations.”

Indeed, it was impossible for her to ignore the unpleasant caterwaul of thirty little girls belting out thirty different songs in unison as they practiced their talents in the cramped hair and makeup room. “They’re just kids,” she shrugged. “Let them make fools of themselves.”

“I’m not worried about them,” he admitted. “I’m worried about me.” His pacing had brought him near her, and he stopped to stare gravely into her eyes. “Do you know why you broke up with me all those years ago?”

“Scott...”

“No, I’m serious. It’s because I’m a loser. I was born under a bad sign or something. I’ve never in my life had a pot to piss in, and it wasn’t for a lack of trying.” He hung his head. “I’m cursed, Shelly.

Everything I touch goes to pot. It started with my name, I think. I mean, Scott. Who’s going to hire a man named Scott? Who would give a swanky office and a livable salary to a man when every time you hear his name all you can think of are kilts and bagpipes? This world has it in for me, and it has done since you and I were babies.”

Because there was no going back now and she had serious money at stake, and because, under her hardened façade she really did care for him, Shelly took him by the shoulders and said, “Do you know what I think of when I hear the name Scott? I think of the most interesting, creative man I’ve ever known.” Then she reached up and kissed him on the forehead.

They stayed like that for a time, Shelly’s hands bolstering Scott’s shoulders, until Oscar bound through the front door with an unlit cigarette already dangling from his lips. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he said, “do ya’ll hear that in there? It sounds like someone’s beating a sack of ferrets with a hammer.” *** In the left wing of the stage, little Regina McIntosh was experiencing something that she never previously had. Nerves. The pageant had been going on for nearly twenty minutes and, despite a rocky start where the old emcee guy couldn’t seem to clear the frog out of his throat, it was now fully underway. When the whole group of girls had first come out to introduce themselves to the audience, she had been fine.

Standing onstage with them, though, wearing her put-on smile, it had occurred to her that some of those girls were really pretty. She was pretty too, of course, and very talented, but some of those girls looked like magazine people. When the talent portion began, she was shocked to find that most of them approached the high notes of their songs without making that strained, loony face that Regina always adopted to demonstrate to her audience that she was searching for those notes in her very soul. What’s more, many of those other girls could actually hit them. The dancers, too, were a revelation with their tight choreography and their lack of grunts and heavy breathing. She was watching a girl named Stacy Dumphy do an honest-to-God minor-league-baseball-quality version of the national anthem, when she realized that her nerves had pushed over into a serious and crippling self-doubt. Regina was so shocked by this strange feeling that she barely noticed when Stacy took a bow and flitted off stage, past her. She didn’t snap out of it until she heard her own name called.

The old man was onstage, smiling at her with his yellow teeth and holding out his arm, beckoning her.

Out there, the audience was applauding. Her feet, apparently unaware of her current major crisis, carried her toward the sound. Her lips slid over her Vaseline teeth, approximating a smile. Her cape tapped against the back of her ankles with every step. The man handed her the microphone and then hurried off stage. Somewhere toward the back of the room, her mom hooted. Regina’s eyes swam. They were blurry with tears. She knew, though, that the show must go on, and so she took a deep, diaphragm breath, opened her mouth to sing, and then proceeded to vomit all over her frilly, white dress. *** Scott bullied the mop bucket through the back door, careful not to splash himself with the pukey water.

He had called a temporary halt to the evening to clean up the little girl’s mess and wouldn’t be able to get this thing over with until he dumped that bucket and got back out there. Just as he released the foul water out into the back lot, though, he noticed the vomit girl herself sitting alone in the far corner near a rusty bay door. She was hugging herself and crying.

He picked the cellophane back off a piece of nicotine gum, popped the gum in his mouth, and called to her, “That was quite a performance, kid. What do you call it?”

The girl sniffed. “It was supposed to be the Viscosity song.”

“Sounds about right. It was memorable, I’ll give you that.”

“Will you please get my mom?”

Having never had children of his own, Scott wasn’t sure how to console one now that he was facing her.

Irritatingly, his gum was already flavorless. He longed for a plug of tobacco. “What do you want your mom for? The show isn’t over. There are still three more acts and then the judging. Don’t you want to know how you did?”

“I did bad. I’m ugly, and I suck.” She lowered her head and began to properly sob.

“Hang on, now. You’re cute a button, and I should know; I’m a single man, and I’ve sewed lots of buttons. And as for sucking—I could never have done what you did. I’m so nervous I’ve felt like I could throw up all night, hand to God. But you? Not only did you do it, but you did it in front of all those people. Like an art piece, or something. Like a social commentary on how dumb it is to parade little girls around on a stage and judge them based on their looks and that. What you did really spoke to me.”

“You’re lying,” she sniffed.

“Am not. You’re like one of those social justice warriors. I’ll tell you, girl, I’m a man that doesn’t have many heroes, but I found one tonight.”

“Me?” “Damn straight. Now, you better put yourself together and get back on that stage. You hear me?”

She continued to sit, staring out into the evening. He thought about getting Shelly or the kid’s mom, someone who could really help her. But then, to his surprise, she leapt to her feet and tackled him in a hug. She was leaking from most of the holes in her face and she didn’t smell great, but Scott held his breath and withstood it. *** The pageant resumed, and the remaining girls performed. Each of them avoided the newly moped spot on the stage, which Scott took as indictment of not just the girl but of his own clean up job.

After they had all performed, he brought the lot of them back onstage. The other girls stood apart from Regina.

Shelly met him at the edge of the stage with her and Oscar’s scorecards. He announced winners, one by one, giving each child a trophy or a cheap bouquet. When he got to the final category, that of Little Miss Tobacco Spit, he was unsurprised to find that his partners had both chosen Stacy Dumphy, she of the perfectly serviceable rendition on the national anthem.

He looked from the judging table to the crowd. The parents of the remaining girls stood with anticipation, leaning in. Some prayed. Others held hands. This is going to get real bad thought Oscar, and then he called the name of the overall winner: Regina McIntosh.

She marched forward aggressively, showing her tongue like that evil singing clown from KISS, making devil horns with both fists. “Fight the power!” she screamed. “We’re human beings, not show ponies!”

And then she proceeded to smash Scott’s biggest and most beloved bowling trophy into pieces as the audience gasped and booed. *** They didn’t see Scott at Shelly’s for a while, though he was all the stool jockeys could talk about. They spoke of how he had barely made it out of the dance studio with his life, such was the anger of the pageant parents. Oscar, who had been pleased by the night’s unexpectedly volatile finale, only shrugged when they asked if he’d had word from him. Scott had earned him a nice chunk of change and had given him a thoroughly enjoyable evening, and so he was happy to keep silent and let the older man’s mystique grow. Shelly too. When he finally stopped in again, he would be a legend. They both knew that a man whose life had been as lonely and troubled as Scott’s deserved it.

In truth, they had all been working together through the day to get the studio junked in time for the wrecking crew. They finished a day early, the same day Shelly gave both men their earnings from the pageant. In his envelope, she put the name and address of Mrs. McIntosh, just as Scott had asked. She didn’t know how much of his share he was going to give to Regina as prize money, and she didn’t offer any of her share to help him. She knew that this act of generosity was something he should have for only himself.

As they left the hollowed-out dance studio, she said to him, “You did a good thing, Scott. You’re a good man.”

“You didn’t know that?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I did.”

“And now that you do, I presume you’ll be leaving your husband?”

“Not on your life.” She smiled.

“Well, he won’t live forever. Here’s to an early heart attack.”

“That’s sick,” she said. “Anyway, he’ll outlive you by decades, you old drunk.”

“One never knows,” he assured her. “One never knows.” He gave her a wink and arced an impressive line of tobacco juice across the gravel lot. As she watched him walking away from her, she had the pleasant realization that it had been years since she had seen him walk so tall.

ZAHAV GERONT NEMO ARATOR

It was the third week of December and I was back in the city for the first time in almost a year. I came back hoping to spend a few days and a few dollars buying Christmas presents and meeting old friends.

But the first day was a hateful blur: this place is all streets and sidewalks, people and automobiles, constant noise, a never-ending circulation, it was overwhelming. Eventually I found a safe quiet place to park my car and fell asleep until dark. When I awoke I immediately drove to the burlesque club, not bothering to phone ahead. Monday night, I was expecting it to be fairly empty. Go have a drink and watch the ladies dance, try to relax. Forget about the world and what’s happening to me.

However, when I arrived I saw the lot was full and I had to park down the street. Inside the place was jumping: packed to capacity with warm bodies jostling for space, crowded around tables and any open area. Smoke hung heavily over the room and music throbbed in the air. I could smell the liquor and the sweat. The din of their many voices talking, laughing, shouting, it made my head hurt. I heard somebody start coughing and I cringed. I was back in the city now; there was an international pandemic declared; if I was ever going to catch sick anywhere, it was here. But I bought a drink anyway, and settled in to watch the show.

Tonight’s routine was funereal: onstage the women danced and cavorted per usual, but their performance seemed sardonic and mocking, pantomiming lust. Here were women ripe and in the full of bloom (healthy and fertile) but who had painted themselves to look like corpses: purple lipstick, sunken eye-shadow, their skin powdered with ash. And their movements were formal, which they executed with desultory perfection, going through the motions of turning a worn-out old trick, parading a roll-call rendition of classic sexy poses, but doing it with a stiffness of limb, a loopy awkwardness, as though they were drunk, or pretending to be marionettes; it was utterly enchanting.

And then I noticed they all had something around their lips, a piercing or little munroe cold-sore painted on. on. It was the virus of course, the pandemic officially declared worldwide last month put everyone in a morbid turn of mind – we could all catch sick and die at any time.

I could feel it in the air; that’s why there was so many people here; there was that kind of madness brimming tension. And when the ladies descended from the stage to work the crowd for tips, they made sure to kiss each and every single person in the room as they went around.

I went into the back lounge, hoping it would be calmer there and it was. The television news broadcast was displayed across an entire wall via hidden projector. On another wall there was a full-size city map with each neighborhood colored differently to indicate current infection levels. Some neighborhoods were quarantined entirely and guarded by police day and night to ensure no illegal entry or exit attempts occurred. I saw that my old sweetheart’s neighborhood was one of them and in that same neighborhood toxic waste was recently uncovered that had been contaminating the area for decades.

Zinc ion poisoned the groundwater, leaked from the cheap burial containers whatever corporation hid out there all that time ago when it was just scrub and wasteland; now it’s all been developed and the whole thing come to light.

An interesting feature of the story was how the whole thing was discovered: a crack team of journalists snuck in there one misty night to investigate – they had night-vision equipment and the fog enabled them to gain access undetected; however, the hazy miasma also concealed the swarm of giant mutated rats that came out of the darkness and attacked them. Bloated, leprous things the size of small dogs, they built their lair beneath the nearby cemetery; the journalists barely escaped with their lives. Those rats of course were also carriers of the disease. The journalists were all immediately arrested and put into isolation. The neighborhood was later decimated by a series of small bombs that reduced the whole vicinity to ashes, trees and houses smoldering cinders.

After listening to the entire report I went back to the main room to watch the rest of the show but I was too late. The night wasn’t over, but things were winding down: there would be no more performances, but people were welcome to stay and drink with the girls until dawn.

I asked a couple of them if they’d seen Maria lately, but they all just shook their heads and looked at me with blank polite expressions, as if they’d never heard of her. I went and bought another drink and stood in the corner sipping it, not sure what else to do.

It was then a woman approached me and handed me a sheaf of large black-and-white photographs so I set down my drink and began sifting through. They were all nude pictures of a voluptuous woman whose face was always carefully hidden by a magnificently tangled mess of her lush black hair. She was posed on her back, on her knees, bent over, squatting, a perfect sequence of classic sexy poses. I became increasingly aware of that woman standing right there beside me as I looked at them, leaning in closer and closer. And I could hear her saying something, her breath warm and moist on my ear, about how someone is “the most sexually gluttonous woman you’ll ever meet.”

“We’re shooting a video with her tomorrow and I’d love it if you could come for us. We know you like your privacy so we’ll let you wear a mask. It’s actually part of the scene I want to do. It’s about a woman who gets initiated through the degrees and we need someone to be the stud who takes her all the way through it. Don’t worry, everyone’s cool. They don’t care who you are, we just need a dude to play the part. You can handle that, can’t you?”

She cooed the last words, looking directly at me, her eyes wide and black and staring. “And you get paid for it too. Pretty cool, huh?” She gave me a folded piece of paper and a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Tomorrow, noon, don’t forget.”

One more look from those eyes and then she vanished into the diminishing crowd. That look in her eyes was the last thing I remember of that night; the rest disappeared into the vacuum of a black-out.

I awoke the next day lying on the couch in the house of my friend Cory Palmfree, awash in the cold gray light pouring through the window.

I had no idea how I’d gotten here; the familiarity of the place was off-set by the unexpectedness of finding myself here of all places. Cory was already awake in the kitchen drinking coffee; he laughed when he saw me standing in the doorway hung-over and confused. He said he found me this morning sleeping on his doorstep, curled up like a puppy, so he hauled me in and slung me on the couch, where I’d been sleeping like a sack of potatoes for the last six hours.

“What time is it now?” I asked.

“Around noon,” he said.

“Oh damn, I better get going,” I said.

“Why’s that?” he asked.

I told him about my appointment and he gave me a skeptical look, then shrugged and said whatever, laughing. “Good luck to you then,” he said. We shook hands and I departed, embarking upon the halfhour trek to the address listed on the card, it was the base of operations for a company called SDMC. As I walked down the cement sidewalk on my two legs, one foot after another, step by step pulling myself that much further forward each time, the cars rolling past beside me with rubber wheels on the asphalt lane, I thought that it was indeed the first surrealist gesture to have imitated walking by inventing the wheel, which does not at all resemble the legs or limbs of any creature, but nonetheless it works. One might think it was inspired by snakes but no, serpents slither. They weave over the ground like a thread of food winding its way through the intestinal tract, peristalsis round the endless coil, digested along the way, transmogrified into shit and pooped out the ass at the end. There are many ways to travel: walking, crawling, slithering, flying, swimming.

And as I went I passed a huge ramshackle old house, weathered gray from all the years it stood without paint. A forlorn structure in an overgrown yard, all the weeds and trees were withered winter-dead; the place looked like a decrepit cemetery.

Suddenly I imagined a hideous old crone in a wheelchair holding an umbrella to keep her aloft, slowly floating down from the sky.

Then I noticed in one of the upper windows of the house it appeared there was an entire room full of huge white birds like pelicans crammed in there, flocking and fluttering about. This was swept from my vision by the steadfast forward tread of my feet carried me on and a couple blocks later I arrived at the place.

It would have been a rather discreet little establishment (one floor, white stucco, tinted windows) were it not for the giant inflatable elephant someone had put on the roof. I stood there a moment and looked at it, a great gray and blue mammoth of a balloon, swaying and shivering in the wind, the shape of it huge and stark against the cloudy miasma in the sky. Elephants are contagious, I thought, then I pulled open the front door and went inside.

Inside there was a cramped yellow foyer that had a pair of washrooms, a narrow hallway leading somewhere, the door to a receptionist’s office, and a door to a larger area with tables and chairs; I heard voices in there so I went through the latter and found a group of people sitting on some couches in a niche-like area out of sight from the foyer. I told them who I was and they welcomed me in. Have a seat, have a drink, make yourself at home, they said. They seemed like they were in a pretty good mood despite the collective hangover evident, recuperating after the strenures of the night. Eyes parched from prolonged consumption, they’re so fried they’ve been forgetting to blink.

After a while there was a lull in the conversation where it seemed everyone was quietly expectant, waiting for something to happen. By then I was drunk enough to barely notice this; however, it was right then that I noticed there was an opening in the wall where I hadn’t realized was a door but apparently it was because it was open now. Having noticed this, I was curious and got up and staggered over to investigate. Behind me I heard someone say, “Ah good,” and a couple people followed me there.

I looked through the doorway and into a room with mirrors on the walls and rainbow lights strung across the ceiling; there was a queen-size four-poster bed in the middle of the room. The sheets were clean and fresh and everything else was in its place.

Then someone was standing beside me and they were explaining the scene. Then someone on the other side of me touched my arm and I turned and saw it was a young woman I didn’t recognize, but she seemed familiar. She said something gently in my ear and took my hand and squeezed it lightly then let it drop and walked on ahead of me into the room and I could see she was wearing a nifty one-piece nylon body garment with a hole around the crotch. My eyes fixed on her bum and I was mesmerized, watching that luscious ripe buttock sway. There was no mistaking that backside: it was the woman from the photographs. Then I felt someone fit the mask over my face and give me a little push, saying, “Go get her, tiger.” My eyes locked on that beautiful bottom, and I followed it into the room. The rest of the afternoon must have been a dream.

Afterward I bade everyone farewell and set out once more. The crisp winter air was a succor to my overheated self; I felt like I could walk a dozen miles in this cold. I decided to go visit my old friend Danny, who I hadn’t seen for a couple years, that being the way of things, but I knew he was now a resident of the clinic that was just a few blocks down the street from here, so that’s where I went next.

When he answered the door I was surprised at how old he looked, even though visible signs indicated otherwise. Indeed, he looked healthier than ever – his skin was plump and colorful, not sagged and wrinkled – but his eyes gave it away, those sorrowed pinpricks, the horror of mortality.

“My friend Barbara died about three weeks ago,” he said. “Poor girl. She got the flu and then she died, just like that.” He’d mentioned her before: “Best piece of ass I ever had,” he said. “She liked getting a good screw and I liked giving it to her.” He paused. “Guess my fucking days are over now.” He looked down at his hands. After a while he asked, “Ever hear from Meg at all? That broad you were telling me about?”

I shook my head and mumbled something about Friday and she’s taking classes now, expressing a vague disappointment, she’s too busy for me anymore, and when I finished saying that I saw he was looking directly at me, his eyes fixed in that rare curious way when he’s giving you his full attention, something he almost never does. Then he got up and made a couple ketchup sandwiches for us, which, on an empty stomach, are delicious. And as I sat there eating mine, this utterly humbled food, the same thing I eat at home, I tried consoling myself, saying he’s not so bad, not a bad guy, just another lost soul trying to exist. If he’s a pathetic person then I am too. We really aren’t much different except in age.

Then there was a knock at the door. A few seconds later it opened and a white-coated doctor came in. It looked just like a human being except for the scanner bulb in its forehead like a third eye which gave it away as an android. “Drone-docs” they’re called. I had heard of these things before and was amazed to actually see one. It instructed him to stand about six feet away facing it and not move.

He got up and did as he was told and then a light shone from the bulb. It passed over him, washing him from head to toe and then back up again. That light was of course some sort of x-ray; it could see right through him and everything inside. Once the body-scan was complete, it took a few moments for processing and analysis. And then comes the nifty part: Its mouth dropped open to issue the diagnosis and a feed of ticker tape reeled out like a scroll tongue unfurled.

But there was a malfunction – it spewed forth a great roll of paper pouring from its face, piling at its feet. And then it started going BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP and a stream of smoke rose from the back of its head and filled the air with the stink of melting plastic and burning wires.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, goddamn fucking useless piece of shit,” Danny said. He snatched the reel of paper, ripping it from the mouth and passed it over to me, then shoved the broken machine out the room into the hallway and slammed the door.

When we sat down again we lit cigarettes and I commenced to tell him the story, the myth or the legend, about the two travelers who were lost in a swamp. They thought it would be quicker to go through, rather than around; however, the swamp was huge and easy to lose one’s bearings within. It was a dangerous place, full of poisonous plants and carnivorous animals; it seemed veritably designed to confound one’s sense of location. After a couple days wherein which they could not find the way out, they were surely on the cusp of giving up. Nerves shot and supplies dwindling, they carried on solely for the sake of it, going onward until they either died or escaped.

Instead they eventually came across a run-down little shack and saw a beautiful woman tending a small fire outside of it. And when she heard them approach, she smiled, not the least bit afraid of the two strangers who appeared from the jungle. They went to her and asked for help. They wondered how someone who seemed so sweet and innocent could possibly survive in this place; they’d been run ragged, lucky to be alive, whereas she was plump and happy. She laughed, delighted to have company, and two handsome men at that. She explained that she had lived her whole life here in this swamp, she had never been anywhere else, she didn’t even know the way out. She had no siblings, her mother died when she was born, she lived with her father until he died and then she buried him and continued living here in the way he had taught her, knowing no other way to exist and being adequately comfortable in her environment.

The one traveler had difficulty believing such a beautiful woman, so tender and gentle, could possibly survive out here in the big bad swamp – either she had a secret benefactor or else she was deceptively cunning and clever, the latter of which seemed more likely, for the only things that survived in here were stealthy and vicious – the jungle will devour you alive. The other guy of course fell immediately in love with her. It was her eyes, they drew him in; they seemed to emanate warm benevolence and playful coyness. Those eyes and that smile, those pink lips stretched thin faintest Cheshire grin hinting; he could imagine the teeth in her mouth, small and perfectly sharp.

Yes that smile, and the look in her eyes, black and glinting, he knew what it was, and then he knew that she could be his, and that made him want her even more. Within seconds he’d fallen, utterly and hopelessly. It burned in him, madly, like a fever – to be faced with such perfection – he must have her…

However, she could not, would not, give herself to just any man, under just any circumstances; if they were to be together then it must be forever – a life-bond rather – and it must be done during a full moon. She warned him that she was not fully human, but only occasionally present in this form. Her suitor was not deterred, however; it was enough. She presented him with a piece of paper he unfolded and tried to read. But his desire was very great; he could barely focus; his penis became so swollen it poked him under the chin and he had to quickly masturbate in order to concentrate. The paper was a wedding contract, it contained a two-sentence declaration of their undying love for each other, binding them body, mind, soul for the remaining duration of this lifetime. There was a space at the bottom for him to sign. He pricked his finger and did; so did his new bride; his companion signed with ink as witness. Then they celebrated. She brought out a special liqueur her father said was to be saved for this occasion and they drank it. His companion watched them carefully, but saw only signs of amity and nascent connubial bliss. Eventually they slept.

The next morning they bade him farewell and he set off in the direction she suggested. It must have worked; we only have the story because he lived to tell it. He said he glimpsed her bedroom on the wedding night: it was lit entirely by candles around a four-poster bed with a frayed lacey mildew curtain enclosing it. With a mix of envy, awe, and horror he imagined his friend going in there that night to behold her in the secret glory of her true form, and revel in it.

But nobody knows how things turned out for the couple from then on – “happily ever after,” one might hope or suppose.

SNOW COVER ABE MARGEL

Looking out his front window Jared marvelled at the thick white powder that covered every tree branch, rooftop and roadway. A weak smile drifted across his lips. He felt at peace as he nestled a glass of whisky in his hands. There was no movement outside. The deep snow prevented vehicles and pedestrians from traversing the streets. He took a deep breath, turned around and walked over to the glowing logs in the fireplace. The flickering flames were reassuring, fascinating.

His wife, Linda and teenage son, Rob, were less enchanted by the storm than he was. The two were in the basement watching a movie.

He sat down on the sofa and took a sip of his drink. A moment later his cell rang. Reluctantly he answered.

“Are you coming by?” It was his mother, Nancy, calling.

His jaw tightened. He was a tall man in his mid forties, a little overweight with thinning brown hair and sad amber eyes. The feeling of contentment that had enveloped him abruptly evaporated as the voice at the other end of the line dragged him back to his childhood. “Hi, mom,” he said flatly.

He knew why she phoned him. It was always the same reason. She needed his help, wanted a favour.

Being the eldest of her three children and the only male it was his filial duty to show up, make things right. But he could never make it quite right, not right enough to her satisfaction. She regularly compared his lack of enthusiasm to one of her neighbours, a man who appeared to enjoy helping out everyone on the street including her.

“I’ll be over in the morning to shovel your driveway,” Jared said. “I can’t get there until the streets have been plowed, right?”

“Are you sure you can’t come by sooner?” she said sounding anxious but also demanding.

“I’m sure.” His voice was harsher than he intended.

“But if I need police or an ambulance they won’t be able to get to my door.”

“Stop worrying. If there’s an emergency I’ll make my way over to you somehow and so will the cops and EMS. Anyway there’s always Arny. Hasn’t your strange neighbour been by with a shovel or snow blower to dig you out?”

“No, I haven’t seen him in a few days. He’s probably out of town visiting his grandmother in North Bay. He talks about her a lot.” Long pause. “There’s nothing odd about him. Arny is just kind and does me and other people the occasional favour. In the fall I saw him help Murray McDonald across the street change a tire. Arny’s considerate but I don’t expect him to show up every time I need a hand, he’s not my son.”

“I thought you told me he and Murray had a falling out?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t Arny’s fault. Murray is jealous of any man that lays eyes on his young wife. It’s none of my business but I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. Arny isn’t that type of guy.”

Nancy had arranged for a snow removal company to clear her driveway but the man had the flu and was not available. As it was, the side streets had yet to be plowed so it was unlikely, even if he were well, the fellow would have been able to reach her house.

Still Jared knew there were good reasons besides bad weather for some of his mother’s fears. There had recently been burglaries near her house. Mr. Watson, her neighbour three houses down, had been badly beaten when someone broke in. He never fully recovered and ended up having to move to a nursing home. She and Jared both knew that at seventy-four and using a walker, she wasn’t likely to be much of an obstacle to a violent thief.

Jared did not sleep well that night.

The following morning was a Sunday.

Jared’s wife pulled back the bedroom window curtains then turned to him and said cheerily, “The storm seems to have passed.” Linda pointed outside. “Duty calls. Your mother will be waiting for you.”

“Okay. Let me just check.”

The CTV news app on his cell phone said the City of Toronto was making good progress on clearing the snowfall off the main thoroughfares and had begun plowing the side streets.

He woke up his son.

“Well, it’s stopped snowing,” he said to Rob. “I’m going over to Grandma’s and I’d like some help to dig her out.”

“Okay Dad.” “No rush. Have breakfast.”

The aroma of cooking wafted through the house.

“Rob, I’ve made you pancakes,” Linda said in the kitchen.

Jared phoned his mother. “They’ve scraped the snow from in front of my house. How is it where you are?”

“Thank God, they’ve finally gotten around to doing my street,” Nancy said. “So when can I expect you?”

“Rob and I will be heading out soon.”

“Good, good.”

Father and son put on heavy winter coats, tuques and boots and climbed into the family’s Mazda SUV. They carefully made their way from Willowdale to East York, where Nancy’s house stood. The usual thirty-minute drive took over an hour.

The area where his mother still lived and where Jared and his two sisters had grown up had changed.

Many of the modest bungalows were being knocked down and replaced by monster homes.

A couple of blocks from his mother’s place Jared parked in a strip mall parking lot that had been plowed. He was unhappy about having to leave his vehicle there. In July there had been a gang shooting at this very location. Two teenagers were dead and no one had been arrested. Based on what he read and saw on the TV news it seemed violent crime was now rampant in Toronto, rampant across the whole country.

The sidewalks were impassable so he and his son walked on the road. Snowbanks were piled high on either side of the street and right onto the pavement. While some people were digging their way out of the snow, giggling little children in front yards were building snowmen as their parents hovered nearby.

When the two arrived at Nancy’s driveway they found over ten inches of powder. Jared glanced at the house next door to his mother’s. The place appeared vacant.

He was glad to see Arny was not around. He wanted to avoid the man. Arny stood six feet two inches, had a beer belly, square jaw and a deep scar on one side of his forehead. He had an intimidating way of leaning in when he talk to Jared.

He’d long concluded his mother’s neighbour was creepy and deceitful. If he found Jared alone he would spew off-colour jokes about women or give boastful accounts of his youthful years as a sailor on Great Lake cargo ships. “Whores in every port and booze, Jesus we all drank like fish. The fights I got into, that was fun. I miss those days.”

Arny said he now had a job as a warehouse forklift operator. “I work a rotating shift so I’m sometimes asleep when other people are up and vice versa. But I don’t mind.”

He never told his mother about Arny’s racy and idiotic stories. As it was, he believed the tales were mostly myths.

Father and son struggled in the deep snow to reach the entrance to Nancy’s house. Jared knocked on his mother’s front door. The door opened a crack, then all the way.

“Hello, mom. I need the key to the garage to get to the shovels.”

“Come in. I’m so glad to see you two.”

Jared and Rob stepped into the entranceway and closed the door behind them. Nancy shuffled off and a couple of minutes later returned with the key.

“What’s with your next door neighbour? I see Arny’s side drive and walk haven’t been cleared.”

“I told you. He’s probably visiting relatives up north. The guy is lonely since his wife left him.”

“Yeah, divorce is common.”

“He took it hard. I think he’s been drinking a lot recently. I’d never seen him plastered until his marriage fell apart. She took the new car and all his money, he told me.” Nancy paused. “Well at least they didn’t have kids.”

“I guess that’s something.”

In the garage Jared and Rob found shovels and a rake standing next to grandma’s old Chevrolet Malibu.

As they began to deal with the snow choking the driveway Rob said, “Grandma’s neighbour seems to have disappeared. Look, his mail box is overflowing.”

“His problem, though I wish he’d stay away from her.”

They worked diligently for an hour before they were finished. It was an exhausting task.

“Okay Rob, we’re done. Let’s go in.”

They returned the shovels to the garage and came into the house to rest and have coffee and cake.

“This is delicious, grandma,” Rob said.

“Pound cake, I’m glad you like it.”

“The garage is really packed,” Jared said. “I didn’t see the carton with your dad’s World War Two military medals. Did you finally have the Legion museum pick them up?”

“No, the box is in there somewhere. I’ll check once the snow is gone and I can take the car out.”

Jared glanced out of the dining room window facing the backyard. “What’s that?”

“Oh it’s a ladder,” Nancy said. “Arny started to take down my Christmas lights but never finished. I did mention it to him a few days later but he must have forgotten and so did I.” “Yeah, maybe the guy does have some good traits. It’s nice he offered to take the lights down even if he didn’t complete the job,” Jared said with a shrug. “Still he’s a strange guy. Those shark and crocodile tattoos, and he is always looking down at his feet, won’t look you in the eye unless he’s right beside you.”

“Arny’s getting his life turned around,” Nancy said sounding defensive. “Last time I talked to him he told me he was having the tattoos removed. He got them when he was a brainless kid and now hates them.”

“Good for him,” Jared said unconvinced.

“Rob, you’ve met Arny,” Nancy said. “What do you think of him?”

“Well, he’s a great story teller. He had some interesting things to say about growing up in North Bay and working on Great Lake ships.”

“See, he’s a good guy,” she said, “just down on his luck that’s all.”

“They’re calling for mild weather by the middle of next week,” Jared said changing the subject. “I’ll come back then to take down the Christmas lights and put the ladder in the garage. What’s going on with the swimming pool cover?”

“Oh, is there something wrong?” Nancy said.

“It looks like it caved in.”

“It’s those stupid raccoons,” she said. “Shouldn’t they be hibernating?”

“Maybe one of them drowned,” Jared said. “I told you years ago to get rid of the pool. I’ll have a look.”

The door leading to the backyard was only partially blocked by snow. After some hard pushing Jared and Rob were able to force it open enough to squeeze through. Using one of the shovels from the garage Rob removed enough of the snow to allow the door to fully open. He was worn out and he leaned against the trunk of pear tree in the yard.

After catching his breath Jared changed his mind about waiting for better weather to remove the ladder from the deck. He struggled in the knee deep powder to move it to the side of the house while Rob went over to assess the damage to the swimming pool cover.

The wind picked up. Rob pulled the hood of his jacket over his tuque and rubbed his gloved hands together.

“Dad, come over,” he said sounding alarmed. It was getting colder. With every word spoken little white clouds were released from his mouth.

“But be careful of the liquor bottle and the tool box. They’re right over here, sticking out of the snow.”

The small tool box was sitting at an angle with its contents half spilled out. Lying in the powder were three types of pry bars, a picklock, pliers and screwdrivers; burglary tools. Beside them was a cardboard box.

Rob bent down and picked the carton up. Inside he discovered his great-grandfather’s military medals.

“Look at what I found dad.” He held up a six pointed Italy Star hanging from its red, green and white ribbon.

“Jesus, what’s that in the pool?” Jared said.

“Oh God, I think it’s a dead body!”

Jared shook his head. “Can’t be. It’s probably a raccoon or something.” He walked over and stared hard at the pool. Yes, it was a body. “Don’t go nearer Rob, the ice is too thin to hold you.”

Rob nevertheless took a couple of steps closer to the pool’s rim. “See those tattoos on his arm. It’s Arny isn’t it dad?”

Jared also leaned over the edge of the swimming pool. “Yeah, sure looks like it is or was Arny.” He turned his back on the troubling scene. “Good riddance,” he mumbled to himself.

Holding back a smile he turned to Rob, “Let’s go back into the house. I’ll tell grandma about her darling Arny, then call 911.”