PULP Issue 3 Part 2

PULP

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Adventure of the Gentleman Chess Player - Michael Fowler

The Last Year on Earth - Elvins Artiles

Only Pain - W. M. Pienton

Big Clown - Robb White

Plump - S.R Malone

No, Immolation is a Naughty Word!, Sickened Mind Dreamscapes -

Scott C. Holstad

Glass Jaw - Dan Eady

Another Transaction At Stags Leap Manor, 1974 - A.R. Carrasco

Aria - Aisha Ali

Mirrors - Katrin Hessa

Subscribed, Falling Sunward - Mikel J. Wisler

Protection Racket - Stephen Tillman

Carnifex - JMJ Brewer

To Rehome a Lightning Soul, Scorched Earth - Khadija Farah

Dunk’s Water Fall - Nate Hoil

Labyrinthian Library, Forgotten Appalachia, Shadow AroundAlexander Penney

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

Michael Fowler writes humor and horror in Ohio.

Elvins Artiles is a Colombian Jew based in Boston, Massachusetts. Engaged in an adulterous affair with life, Elvins strives after the subduing of the sublime with the few words he feels confident in showcasing. A self-proclaimed literary masochist, Elvins enjoys the celestial contempt acquired in every turning minute he gives to his writing. He hopes to make beautiful things.

W. M. Pienton likes painting, occasionally playing guitar (poorly), and hikes. He also enjoys good whiskey and scotch (or any whiskey and scotch). Sometimes he sits on his porch, smokes his pipe (tobacco only), and watch the world go past.

Robb T. White lives in Northeastern Ohio. He publishes crime, horror, and mainstream fiction. Betray Me Not is a recent collection of revenge tales selected for distinction by the Independent Fiction Alliance in 2022. His latest work is a collection of noir tales, Fade to Black: Noir Stories of Grifters, Drifters, & Unlovable Losers (Close to the Bone, 2024). Find him at: https://tomhaftmann.wixsite.com/robbtwhite

S.R Malone is a writer living just outside Edinburgh, Scotland. When not writing or reading, he likes to spend time with his family and dog, going for walks in the Scottish wilderness.

Scott C. Holstad has authored 50+ books & has appeared in the Minnesota Review, Exquisite Corpse, Pacific Review, Santa Clara Review, Long Shot, Wormwood Review, Chiron Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, Mad Swirl, Bristol Noir & Poetry Ireland Review. Some “dark” pubs include Premonitions, Midnight Zoo, Wicked Mystic, Isolation, CyberPsychos AOD, Blood Moon Rising & Gothic Press. Scott’s moved 40+ times & now lives near Gettysburg PA.

Dan is 46 years old and has been making up stories for nearly all of those 45 years. Dan loves writing all types of genre fiction, with a particular bent for horror/thriller and crime fiction. Dan lives in a rural area of New Zealand and takes inspiration from the natural world around him, often using natural themes within his writing. Most recently his body horror story “Like, Share & Subgenerate” was published in the flash fiction anthology “Flash of the Dead; Requiem” by Wicked Shadow Press Flash Of The Dead: Requiem by Ian Gielen | Goodreads This was followed by his short crime/horror story “Pica” appearing in the first anthology issue of The Dark Corner magazine. Pica by Dan Eady – The Dark Corner He also had a short story published in a horror anthology called “Campfire Tales” from Beware The Moon publishing; these stories were also performed live as part of the annual Featherston Booktown Festival in Featherston, New Zealand.

A.R. Carrasco is an American author based in Oakland, California

Aisha Ali is a physician whose poetry has appeared in Quail Bell Magazine. She studied philosophy at Loyola University Chicago and Molecular Biology at Tulane University. She completed all of her medical training at the University of Illinois Chicago, including her MD, Neurology Residency and Vascular Neurology fellowship.

Katrin Hessa (she/her) has a professional background in bioscience research and is currently a PhD student in Melbourne. While she loves science, fiction writing is a passion she has cultivated her whole life. She has written short stories for online fan magazines primarily to raise funds for charities such as the UNHCR. In her spare time, she finds fulfilment in volunteering for women ' s shelters and advocating to spread awareness of domestic violence.

Mikel J. Wisler is an award-winning filmmaker and writer who sincerely believes good science fiction can help us save the world. He has published two novels, with a third on the way, and several short stories. Mikel lives near Boston, Massachusetts, where he's raising a scientifically curious and artistically prolific daughter and is always on the lookout for a new beer to try. Learn more at www.mikelwisler.com or www.patreon.com/mikelwisler

Stephen Tillman is a professor of Mathematics at Wilkes University. He holds a Ph.D. in mathematics from Brown University. An avid reader of mysteries and science fiction, he has published several stories in both genres. His novels, Leopard’s Daughter and Leopard's Revenge have been published by Azure Spider Publications.

JMJ Brewer (he/him) is a staunch supporter of nature conservation. He teaches at Tarleton State University. You can find more of his short fiction at jmjbrewer.com.

Khadija Farah is a Palestinian author living in Jordan. She enjoys beading, baking. And of course, writing

Nate Hoil writes and prints books under the publishing company Secret Restaurant Press.

Alexander is an occasional writer and musician. During the day, they work as a Social Worker in NYC. You can find their flash published with A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Bright Flash Literary Review, & Suddenly, And Without Warning. Follow @awrvp on IG and check out their novelette @newyorkviscera also on IG.

PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED

Falling Sunward by Mikel J. Wisler was previously published in both StarShipSofa (Nov 2021) and Dark Horses (Mar 2024)

Subscribed by Mikel J. Wisler was previously published in Dark Horses Magazine, November 2022

Plump by S.R Malone was previously published in Gutslut Press

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GENTLEMAN CHESS PLAYER

MICHAEL FOWLER

BASED ON THE CHARACTERS CREATED BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

As I sat among my domed beehives and thumbed through the chronicles that Dr. Watson wrote about our companionship, I discovered that the late doctor had been rather cavalier about my age. By some slip of the pen, that excellent writer had me born in 1854. But it was five years later, in 1859, that I, Sherlock Holmes, went off to university at age eighteen, and there found myself in friendly conversation with a young man with whom I soon had the honor of representing our class in team chess competition.

My teammate, Anderson by name, studied medicine besides playing chess as a sport, and we met in the lectures on organic chemistry that we both attended. After my laboratory experiment with coal-tar derivatives went badly awry, Anderson introduced himself and inquired whether I, like himself, planned to dedicate my energies to the healing arts. I smiled in my most affable manner and said no, I wished to solve crimes and unravel mysteries, including but not limited to those with a chemical basis.

But weeks later, after we had strengthened our relationship and signed on together for the university chess team, the game being one we both loved for its employment of intellect and intuition, Anderson put quite a different question to me: how might he know whether his chess opponent had cheated?

The question was pertinent. Today we both, along with our chess teammates, had arrived by train in London, some sixty-three miles distant from our campus, to play a match against a rival university, whose team came by a different train from their equally distant campus. Nor was this match between university rivals the only purpose of our trip. In addition, both teams would witness an exhibition given by the highly reputed chess player Paul Charles Morphy of New Orleans, USA. Mr. Morphy had crossed the ocean to challenge the best players in England, having already defeated the finest in America.

All this was to take place at St. George’s Chess Club in central London, where England’s ablest chess-players were gathering to see the American player who had claims of being the best in the world.

The chess star had docked in Liverpool a few days ago, and arrived in London by train only today, as had our team. Unlike us, however, Morphy had not yet ventured forth to see the sites of the city, but remained in his rooms at Lowe’s Hotel, an establishment rather more posh than the seedy hostel that domiciled our team. In any case, we eagerly awaited the appearance of the American, who according to schedule was to join us at St. George’s on the morrow.

The team matchups would begin at ten o’clock in the morning, and the first round would conclude well before Mr. Morphy’s anticipated arrival at two in the afternoon.

All went reasonably well for us that morning, and the score after round one stood slightly in our favor. But Anderon’s game had ended 0-1 in favor of his opponent, the fiery Potts, captain of the rival team. As Anderson and I strolled into town for a lunch of fish and chips before Morphy graced the scene, my shattered teammate couldn’t shake the suspicion that Potts had cheated in their game, and would go on cheating against him, as well as any others on our team he played against, when the match resumed the next day.

“And what makes you think he cheated?” I asked Anderson. Nibbling my haddock, I rattled off two instances of questionable play that I had heard of, though perhaps neither constituted actual cheating: the appearance of a chess-playing automaton of human aspect, named The Mechanical Turk, in the previous century, and tricking one’s opponent, as the immortal chess master Ruy Lopez had advised, into sitting with the sun in his eyes. But of course these old ruses had not been in evidence today, nor did mention of them amuse the distraught Anderson as I had hoped they might. In truth I began to regret having left my violin behind in my rooms at college, or I might have taken it up and played a pathetic air for my friend for the two of us, in fact, as I had also lost my game that morning after blundering away my queen.

“The result of our game shows he cheated,” Anderson replied heatedly to my question “As cocaptain of our university’s chess team, I have faced Potts before you know this and beaten him.

There is no way he could have given me the drubbing he gave me yesterday with the black pieces no less! without outside assistance. At their home contest three weeks ago, I demolished him, Holmes. When our match continues tomorrow, I wish to be better prepared. That means I must know how he cheated, and how to counter him. Can you help me?”

“I shall try, Anderson,” I replied, and I turned my thoughts to cheating. Before long we returned to St. George’s, and learned we had done so at just the right moment. The presence of Mr. Paul Morphy of New Orleans was being heralded, and both players and spectators moved upstairs to the second floor banquet room where earlier we had played our team matches.

As we made our way upstairs, Anderson himself remarked on some of the ways in which it had occurred to him that Potts might have cheated in their game.

The most likely, he thought, was that an accomplice of Potts, one of superior chess skill, had embedded himself in the audience and somehow or other signaled strong moves to Potts. More obtrusive methods, such as distracting AndeRson with noise, cigar smoke, odd behavior including psychological ploys, or even hypnotism and mind-reading, Potts had not attempted, my friend stated with assurance. He was positive, also, that he had not sat facing the sun, nor did he think he had played against a mechanical man. The comment stung a bit, but I took it in good grace.

Certainly, planting an ally in the audience seemed the most likely scenario to me also, although when I considered the amount of teamwork and the number of people involved in a college match, another idea occurred to me. “Would it not be possible,” I suggested, “for a teammate of ours to divulge to your opponent, or to another on his side, what sort of game you were prepared to play, in terms of the attack and defense? If your opponent knew that you planned to play the French Defense against him, for example, or were prepared to launch your favorite king’s pawn opening, this knowledge would obviously be useful to him. Is there one on our side to whom you had confided your designs, and whom you might suspect of such treachery,a personal enemy, say, or someone vested in the victory of our rivals? I myself cannot think of any such person, as you seem to be on equitable terms with everyone.”

Anderson shook his head in denial, but appeared lost in thought as we entered the banquet room, where the furniture had been arranged to display the exceptional talents of Paul Morphy. Indeed, the doorway opened on a most curious scene. There at the eastern end, with the sun blocked by curtains, an unprepossessing youth in a stylish suit sat in a comfortable armchair, staring at the bare wall before him, while behind him eight men sat at as many small tables arranged in haphazard fashion, each man studying a board and chessmen laid out before him.

“I propose,” I stated in a low voice as we took our place among others who stood along a side wall, “that we witness Mr. Morphy’s exhibition before we come to any conclusions about cheating. Let us see what we can learn from the great man. Perhaps he himself may show us how to cheat, as a side-demonstration and precaution.”

As we watched, a man in an official’s striped jacket called out a chess move made by one of the players at the tables, whereupon the wall-staring man, clearly the great Morphy who played “blindfold,” that is without looking at the board or chessmen, but keeping track of all in his mind, instantly called out his countering move, made for him by the official upon the opponent’s board.

And all around the group of tables it went, each player making his move, always with the black pieces, and upon its being announced, Morphy would call out his move as white while staring at the wall, or with closed eyes. The relaxed American offered a stark contrast to the fierce concentration of his throng of opponents as they pondered their replies, each taking longer and longer to respond, and at the same time looking more and more hopeless. Several, it developed within half an hour, resigned their games after fewer than twenty moves.

In little more than two hours the exhibition ended, with Mr. Morphy scoring six victories and two draws with zero losses, a most impressive result.

It was now after four o’clock, and though it seemingly had cost him no effort, Mr. Morphy proposed to retire back to his hotel after accomplishing this feat, promising to return the next day to begin a twelve-game match against some worthy individual whose name I recognized at the time, but now fail to recall. A number of those in attendance chose to escort the American to his rooms, my friend Anderson among them. Anderson in fact came rushing up to me to ensure that I came along too, saying that London perhaps would not be honored by so luminous a guest again in our lifetimes. Noticing that Potts, Anderson’s opponent in his university match, was among those going along, I at once agreed, but with reservations.

“We can’t stay out late,” I warned him. “Our train back to university leaves tomorrow afternoon following the second round of our match against Potts’s men, for which we must be well-rested and vigorous, and we are to complete a laboratory experiment that same day, no excuses accepted. Professor Dodson will be on the lookout for two chess players who fail to return in time, or who suffer from a lack of sleep and fumble their pipettes.”

With a laugh, we joined the small retinue around Morphy, and late afternoon found us in a gentleman’s club, The Red Salon, where can-can dancing was featured along with cigar smoking and strong drink. Anderson sought solace in the antics of our team’s other players, who commiserated with him over his loss to Potts, but Potts himself, I observed, sat beside the chess star at a table up front by the stage, virtually entwining himself around the man.

Though subdued in aspect, Morphy had a keen eye, I noticed, for the stamping feet of the young lady dancers, and could hardly notice anything else. And yet Potts kept distracting him with conversation, all but shouting in his ear over the loud orchestra.

Naturally I could not hear their speech above the cacophonous music, but I was a fair lip-reader, and could make out many of the Englishman’s words with ease, especially as I was able to guess the topic. “Bishop,” “queen,” “knight,” “pawn,” and so forth were clear enough, and Potts aided me by moving his fingers as if advancing the actual pieces. Morphy nodded his head, repeating those words with the same intense interest he held for the ladies’ flashing feet, but soon, I saw, complained of fatigue. By his expression and bodily posture he expressed a desire to depart for his hotel, as was possibly his intention before he was seduced by the can-can. All at once he stood up, continuing to pantomime tiredness, and Anderson’s nemesis and the others, including Anderson himself, rose up in one body to escort the visitor to Lowe’s Hotel, his temporary London residence, only a short walk away.

Abandoning Anderson for a brief time I would meet him that evening at our team’s hostel, if not before then I strolled to the servants’ entrance at the rear of Lowe’s and to the kitchen below stairs. I had no reason to hurry, and lagged somewhat behind Mr. Morphy and his retinue, whom I stealthily observed walking before me. In the kitchen I encountered a youth named Jenkins, who had started as a classmate of mine at university but within days had been sent down, or expelled as they say nowadays, for unbecoming behavior. It might have gone worse for him, as he had been accused of striking a police officer, but I knew his family and was able to prove at his hearing that he could not have struck anyone, since he was a lifelong pacifist.

Jenkins, in any event, owed me a favor, and I had in mind to order a service cart to be sent to Mr. Morphy’s room, that I myself would deliver. It transpired, however that Jenkins was already preparing a cart for room 206, Mr. Morphy’s residence, in response to an order called down only moments before by Morphy himself.

As Jenkins was about to push the cart toward the elevator, I asked him to let me convey the service in his stead, noting that it was laden with a bottle of mineral water, a pot of hot tea, and a single glass along with two cups. Morphy, I had observed at the Red Salon, drank only water. Who, I wondered, were Morphy’s two tea-drinking guests? As I mulled this over, I asked Jenkins to add an additional pot of tea and cup to the service, in case Mr. Morphy asked me to join the parties in 206 a long shot, no doubt, but there was nothing to lose. I thought to highlight the occasion by borrowing Jenkins’s red hotel coat too, but that seemed overly dramatic, and I forbore any disguise.

That the door to 206 was firmly shut and no one waited in the hall to see the chess champion came as no surprise to me. Given the fatigue Morphy had displayed at the Red Salon, it was astonishing he had admitted even two into his chambers. Might these, it crossed my mind, be physicians? Word had traveled that Morphy was not entirely well following his train ride into London from Liverpool some days ago, and that his illness was the reason he had played no chess before arriving at Lowe’s. In response to my knock, however, none other than Anderson opened the door.

“Ah, Holmes,” he said, barely looking surprised to see me.

Nor was I much taken aback to see him, but nodded my head in greeting and wheeled in the service cart, my friend stepping aside to make way for me. I parked it within easy reach of the room’s seated occupants, Morphy and Potts, who were once more joined by Anderson.

“Gentlemen,” I announced, “water and tea, with my compliments. I am Sherlock Holmes, friend and teammate of Mr. Anderson. To atone for this intrusion my apologies, Mr. Morphy I take the liberty of offering these refreshments.”

Morphy and Potts stared at me with some puzzlement as I poured water for Morphy, tea for the other two, then took a cup of tea and found a chair for myself.

“Holmes,” Anderson then said, “Potts and I have put it to Mr. Morphy whether consulting with another player prior to a chess match, particularly one of superior strength, constitutes cheating. This, you will recall, was the sort of question we both were wondering about when, as I confess, I thought Potts here had cheated me in the first game of our team match, now paused.”

“I do recall your concern,” I said, sipping my tea. “And it was to ascertain Mr. Morphy’s opinion on that very issue that I came barging in here, unaware that the matter was already under discussion.”

“And no less a player than Paul Morphy says it is not cheating,” said Potts firmly, looking to Morphy for confirmation. The soft-spoken chess player nodded his head in affirmation. It was clear to me that he still felt weary, but was too mannerly and gentlemanly to urge us others to leave him in peace

“Provided, of course,” Potts continued with an edge, “that the consultation take place before or after a game, and not during it, as I so arranged it.”

Morphy again nodded meekly, to Potts’s evident satisfaction.

“You do confess, then, to seeking Mr. Morphy’s advice, prior to our game yesterday?” Anderson queried Potts, not entirely mollified. Here Morphy himself intervened. “Yes, Mr. Anderson,” he replied in a weak voice. “Mr. Potts sought my advice about a certain pawn formation as soon as I arrived at Lowe’s yesterday, before I unpacked my bag and only a moment before I sat in this chair for the first time. And again this evening as we enjoyed the can-can dancers, he and I discussed, despite the frolicsome activity on stage, a knight sacrifice in the French Defense for possible use when your match continues tomorrow. Well, I hope I have not given away the store. But I do not consider this cheating as neither game was in progress, and either player is free to consult whomever he wishes.”

“It may not be cheating,” I put in, drawing all eyes to myself, “but is it quite gentlemanly, Mr. Morphy? I have heard that you consider yourself a gentleman player, one who plays for honor above all else. Might not this sort of practice lead to the very thing you wish to avoid, consultation during the game itself, by surreptitious means and other deception that would ensure an unearned victory?”

“What I consider cheating and ungentlemanly both,” continued Morphy with unruffled calmness, “is for a man to promise to meet me in a match, and then continually make excuses for not doing so, seeking delays and avoiding my challenge. And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I must rest. I begin a long match of my own tomorrow. I do thank you, Mr. Holmes, for the refreshment.”

Of course we withdrew from Morphy’s quarters at once, thanking him for his hospitality and wisdom. With the chess master’s consent, I left behind the cart still supplied with water and tea for his private use. As we made our way down the stairway toward the entrance to Lowe’s, we discussed the likelihood that the elusive individual to whom Morphy referred, Howard Staunton, reputed to be England’s finest player, would take the opportunity to play the American while the latter was in England

Staunton’s insistence on a month’s delay in the proposed match against Morphy, so that he might “brush up on his openings and endings,” featured in all the newspapers, was a scandal in the chess world. It was especially so, as the American had sailed across the sea expressly to facilitate their encounter, and should by no means be put off.

“I fear,” said Anderson, “that our esteemed countryman Staunton is a coward.”

“And no gentleman,” added Potts, in this instance readily agreeing with his chess nemesis.

Alas, I thought it highly probable that both were correct.

THE LAST YEAR ON EARTH

ELVINS ARTILES

TRIGGER WARNING - SUICIDE, COMMENTARY ON RACIAL BIGOTRY

Similar Jewish and Hispanic murders had occurred earlier in the year in Queens. But a calm period of a few months had convinced the detectives that the killer had dropped the habit.

Receiving that phone call on the morning of January 30th, 1969 was an awful thing for a relaxed Detective Rubenio Feliz, who was celebrating his birthday with unprotected love and whiskey. It had occurred in another Queens apartment. He thought it cruel of fate to let it fall on his birthday, but a few hours before the New Year, the killer would expound on the chosen 30th day.

This would be the first case he almost solved. All the others had been obscured beyond recovery, with mediocre criminals free only as a matter of rotting Chance. Perhaps if the almost-solved case had occurred a year later, Rubenio might have discovered the criminal with adequate evidence to imprison him. But one never had such luck.

His partner, Dario Duermo, was especially upset about the call. During the calm months, he had cut all contact with the department. His mother had died and his wife had left him too; and when colleagues sent flowers and cards, they rotted and were used for his grill. Someone was saying he was studying the Kabbalah. But, when the two detectives reconvened, he admitted to studying the New Testament. He said he had gotten a revelation from God.

Heading to the apartment, he finished his sandwich and said, “This’ll be my last case. I can’t stand to look at bodies anymore, you know. It’s not at all appealing anymore.”

The body belonged to a Dr. Attic. His mother had found it in the basement and calmly called, stating the knife stuck in his back. She wasn’t a suspect; “God had finally struck him down for his Judaism,” wasn’t prohibited. A missing knife from the Jewish Studies Department had been used for the nine stab wounds. Dr. Attic wore a black suit and his black glasses were still on his face. His hair, usually combed back, was drooping over his forehead, and his cologne still penetrated the room.

He taught Latin American Literature at the local CUNY. He stared at the pole before him, his mouth agape. When Feliz and Duermo arrived, the laundry bins were upright and surrounded his body. The mother said she had nothing to do with the laundry. “That’s damn Ricarda’s job!” Duermo stood over the body, scratching his beard and smoking a cigarette. “So it wasn’t the mother,” he asked.

Feliz bent down and grabbed at the skin with his black glove.

“No,” he said, “she says she hasn’t been here for four days and that matches: the skin is four days old.”

Duermo scoffed and began to walk up and down. “And where was she?”

Feliz stood up and walked over to the basement door to examine the frame. “At some church camp down in Olean. I talked to the sisters she went with, and to the pastor. It’s genuine. Four days. She had a Ricarda coming over to clean up.”

“So this Ricarda,” interrupted Duermo, “arrived and killed Attic.”

Feliz scratched his beard. “Or she never came over,” he started, “and that would explain the dirty laundry. Or she came, killed him, left the laundry to cover her steps and the smell, and is in some pocket town in Texas drinking whiskey.”

“Or,” Duermo continued, drawing out another cigarette, “he killed himself.”

Feliz stared at him and proceeded to chuckle. “You reckon,” he began, and walked over to pet Duermo’s head, “he acquired a Jewish knife from the Antiquity Department on his way out from the Literature Wing. Walked home while his mother was away, told Ricarda that he’d take care of the laundry and house, and stabbed himself a few times until he landed on the blade?”

He stared at Attic’s open eyes and reddening suit. “Sure,” he continued sarcastically, “and maybe he was afraid to do it. He called the housekeeper back, asked her to do the dirty work, compensated, of course. And the laundry is left alone and no one knows what happened.”

“And the three grand withdrawn the morning of the 26th. And there’s no sign of a forced entry either,” added Duermo.

“Well, we’ll get after her tomorrow then. Give this all to Cooper and start early at dawn.”

Duermo stooped low and played with Attic’s cross. “Or God did it.”

Feliz stared off and replied, “Yes. God.”

They walked over to Gerald and informed her of their next steps.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” she started, “these damn Hispanics really get going and, boom, locos, as they say.”

The two detectives stared at each other, wondering if they thought the same.

A cool breeze flooded in as the front door opened, and suddenly, like a bright divine apparition, Ricarda was standing before them, her head low. She looked up to Gerald, looked down again, and said, “I’ve come to give my apologies. And to hand this to the detectives.”

A letter with Gustav Attic printed on top. She stood, her hands fidgeting in her apron pockets. There was no visible sign of blood on her. Her breath was shaky and it was clear that she might soon faint if she didn’t leave. She looked up at Duermo and flinched.

“I found it when I got here last night. I was so scared, please. I thought you would all think it was me!”

With deep and slower breaths, Gerald stared at her. “You lying bitch,” she whispered. Suddenly, she ran over to the kitchen drawer, rifling through for a knife. Ricarda began to weep, howling that she hadn’t done anything. Gerald kept yelling out that she was a lying bitch, telling her to wait until she found something. Watching in silence, the detectives kept to their places, ready to shoot whomever.

“I can’t find a damn thing,” Gerald yelled, “shoot her!”

Feliz reached over to Ricarda, trying to calm her down while Duermo restrained Gerald. At his touch, Ricarda ran out, leaving an echo of weeping behind her. The detectives stared, dazed. Gerald stood with her mouth still open: a fly flew past and seemed like it escaped her lips.

“Aren’t you gonna go get the bitch,” she exclaimed.

“Miss,” replied Duermo, his hands massaging his head, “we don’t even know if anything she said is true.” Feliz took out his notepad and recorded the new scene.

“Of course it is,” she yelled, “a Catholic spick tells the truth at least once a day!”

They shook their heads, offered her a goodnight, and left for the station. As they walked out, she fell onto the counter and began to groan.

“There’s no one left,” she began. “Who’s going to go through all my shit when I’m dead? Who’s going to figure out how much I’ve loved God? Who’s going to watch the house, with damn Ricarda I can’t get another Hispanic! The border’s closing, jerkoffs! Go get her, arrest Her, jail her, let her out, and send her back. That’s the grace I’ll give her: that’s the peace and joy of Jesus, the only bit she gets. The crumbs for the dogs.”

On the way there, Feliz made Duermo promise to keep quiet about the letter.

“I want to figure out if it’s any real evidence first,” he said, and Duermo nodded. They updated Cooper and drove off. All the way home, Feliz considered pulling over to read it. But he decided against it and would wait for the morning, when he was refreshed and clear-eyed.

As the sun was pouring in, Feliz stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee, and thinking about the letter. He had opened it as soon as he had awoken. It wasn’t a letter from Attic. Not in the usual sense. It was a letter written by a supposed Attic, writing about a Ricarda, but clearly written by the woman: the plentiful grammar and spelling errors had made it clear.

It read: Ricarda is a Nobel Prize winnings, whom wrote five total novels is writing now, one now! Concluded with a poor, Gustav Attic, signature on the bottom. He concluded that it was a simple delusion of hers. For all his genius, he couldn’t figure out why she had handed it to them.

As he placed his empty cup into the sink, he walked over to the phone and tried to call her, to no reply. He poured himself more coffee into a new cup, and as that one was placed in the sink, he called her again. This time there was an answer of soft breathing and meows. He hung up the phone and walked over to get dressed. He would head over there and talk to her in person. But from the bedroom, the phone began to ring, and he walked over. The next minute, he was rushing to finish. An hour later, he was turning onto Ricarda’s street.

Her brown skin glimmered in the sun. A gun beside her, bright blood was still warm as it escaped her head. She lay on her belly, wearing a white apron, pink top, a black skirt, and leather shoes.

Duermo was the first to find her. He told Feliz that he had gotten up early to start on the lead, walked into an ajar door, and found her bleeding.

“I’ve had the team go through and find any hint of forced entry, bullets, knives. All they managed to find was the gun right next to her. Not a hard location. There’s still a bullet in the chamber, and I’m told that the gun is jammed. No bullets. No other weapons. Another suicide.”

Feliz scratched his chin, gave Duermo the letter, and walked around the apartment.

“There’s no doubt she wrote this,” Duermo whispered, “so, what, to be meta? The whore’s not even writing a damn novel!”

Feliz sharply turned to him. “Whore? Why the hell is she a whore? Won’t you give some fucking respect? A victim Not a whore And that, it doesn’t even make sense How is she a whore?”

“Not like that, dumbass, like, just, a dead woman.”

Feliz bent low and shut her eyelids. He picked up the bloody gun, pointed it at Duermo, and pulled the trigger.

“Woah,” he yelled, “get that fucking shit out of my face! It’s not a fucking joke, man.”

Feliz finished laughing and placed the gun down. He walked around and dragged his finger across the furniture as if he were trying to read.

“Why would an illiterate woman fantasize about winning the Nobel prize? For literature, too. And why does she have all these damn books,” he said, browsing over her bookshelf.

“You think she’s read all these,” asked Duermo, chuckling to himself. “Can’t even speak full English, and she’s read these classics? God, even I haven’t read half of them.”

Feliz pulled out a cigarette and stared at the shelf.

“So, then, she wasn’t an illiterate, dumbass. And maybe she was a writer, forced to write that letter. To throw us off. Maybe bleeding out could have been the greatest writer of the century.” They both stared and exploded with laughter.

Feliz picked out a Borges and skimmed over Death and the Compass.

“Duermo,” he called, “maybe we’ll be doing this forever. Listen to this shit, ‘The next time I kill you, said Scharlach, I promise you the labyrinth made of the single straight line which is invisible and everlasting. He stepped back a few paces. Then, very carefully, he fired.’

“Fucking hell. Duermo, do you promise me a straight labyrinth, you homo?”

Duermo looked over and nodded, “I promise, brother.” Feliz laughed.

“If there is a God,” responded Feliz, “you and I will be doing this thing in heaven. I have a feeling. It’s who we are. What God called us to.”

Duermo didn’t say anything, just shook his head.

“I don’t want to do this shit anymore. I’m tired of it all. There’s no damn end to it.” He lit a cigarette, coughing over Ricarda “We’re searching without answers, asshole You want to do this forever?”

“What else is there to do in this life but search?”

After a few moments of silence, they laughed, continuing on in their own tours.

As the ash began to fall from his cigarette, he ran his finger over the spines, finding one with the pages pointed out. As he turned it around, a flash of yellow crossed his eyes, and he began to read over the lemon-yellow ink written over The Brothers Karamazov.

“‘Look on my spine,’” he whispered to himself. He turned to look at Ricarda and could see a faint marker inscription poking through the pink top. On his knees, he took out his utility blade and gently cut open her top.

“What the hell are you doing,” shouted Duermo, as he ran over to him. He grabbed his shoulder, though Feliz persisted. And with each revealed black letter, he removed a finger from his shoulder, until his hand was completely off and they could read the following: THE SON ARRIVES AT CHURCH WITH A NEW WORK. NOON IS BLESSED AND HIS.

Feliz stood up silently and they backed away from the body. They both looked at the clock hanging by the door. The hung Jesus was also staring at the time.

“We have an hour,” Feliz frantically said, “go down to Flushing, go, and I’ll go over to Corona!”

The peculiarity of those two churches imprinted an immediacy onto his mind: Spanish churches surrounded by synagogues. Duermo was the first to get in his car and head off. Feliz followed behind. The crowds walking on both sides of the street were fond of their slow gait; people shopped and smoked and pressed up against each other. One child pricked his finger and watched the blood drown already-dead black ants.

In the Corona church, young people were gathered for a service. As they spoke in tongues and wept on the floor, Feliz burst in, yelling that they had to clear the sanctuary.

“For your safety, please! Make your way out to the sidewalk!”

They slowly gathered their things and with half-closed eyes, walked out, still speaking in tongues. Feliz ran over to the only obvious adult and asked him if he had seen any suspicious persons. He stared at Feliz and continued to speak in tongues.

After searching the church, the only irregularity being two teens kissing in a bathroom, Feliz called Duermo. No response.

He called again, waving the congregants back inside. And, again, to nothing. The final teen entered and the door was shut, and Feliz ran to his car. When the engine began to whimper, he received the following text: Dead.

Leaning on the acceleration, he attempted to call Duermo again, to the same indifferent voice informing him of the end. He concluded that the killer had murdered him, and tears began to form.

It took him fifteen minutes to get to the Flushing church. Outside of the church, an old man with a gray beard and an eye stitched shut was sitting with a sign that read, The End. He burst through to the dark church and pulled out his gun. In the distance, a light shone and illuminated the hallway. He walked slowly, clearing his throat until the fear dissipated.

“My name is Detective Feliz. I am armed. Whoever you are, remain where you are, with your hands on your head.” Within two steps, he would reach the light. One, the light was yellow, and it made the wall tiles pleasant and beautiful. Two, Duermo was on his belly, staring up at him, gagged and squirming. Three, and there was only darkness.

When he awoke, Duermo was before him, drowning in the red LED light of an Exit. They were both tied to chairs. He called out to him, and Duermo looked up, smiling. A gun glistened red as a man entered the room. Darkness shielding his face, he walked over to Duermo, placed his hand on his head, kissed his cheek, and untied him. Rising from the seat, he massaged his wrists, took out his gun, and walked over to the lights.

A burst of white, and then the dizziness cleared, and Feliz looked up and saw the old man with the stitched eye, calm beside Duermo.

“Three grand,” Duermo softly said, “was what I told Attic. He wanted to donate to a charity before he died. I thought three grand would be fine for him,” and he used his lips to point to the old man. Feliz followed his steady movement, trying to process it all.

“He wanted to be stabbed to death with the Jew’s knife, to spite his Jesus mother. Of course, only after I had convinced him to want death. He was quite happy with his life, but I told him it was for the best. On your birthday too, Rubenio. Thirty-three on the 30th is brilliant. Poetically rhythmic. thought it gracious to warn you.

“Then Ricarda walked in, scared, no doubt. So I sat her down. Showed her how beautiful death could be. She told me that she didn’t want to die. That she wanted to continue to write her short stories and poetry. Even had a novella she had given a few months to already. I told her that writing was pointless, read her that Ecclesiastes chapter. The last one. A religious woman. She agreed. I asked her to write that note. To throw you off, of course. Next up was how she wanted to die. Simple. A gun to the head.”

Feliz could feel his eyes watering. He remembered the heaviness of that note, as it lay in his coat pocket

“She wanted the suicide look. A divine one. To honor God. Because, how the hell can a jammed gun blow her? ‘Let the people turn to God and learn,’ she said. Of course, I didn’t tell her about the spine embellishment: no respectable Catholic would dream it! And she had to go, too, there’s no room in this world for writing. An awful occupation, teasing people, leading them to believe that if they looked around, they would find some kind of answer other than the Lord. And Roberto,” he said, caressing the old man’s cheek, “my messenger of God, provided the gun for the spick and stole the knife. Moved his body to the basement for the irony too.”

Feliz began to shake his head, squirming in the chair. Tears were gliding down, and he began to scream as loud as he could. “Why,” he wailed, “why, Dario!”

He rushed Feliz and punched his throat.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, walking over to Roberto, “if you’ll shut the hell up! This is the House of God! Show some respect!”

Feliz was bent over, coughing. “Respect,” he murmured between coughs, “fuck your respect,” and spat on the ground.

Duermo watched the phlegm fall, cleared his own throat, and continued.

“We’ve done enough searching. There’s no point in continuing on. This will be our final case together, and this will be our oblation. God can’t bring peace if there’s people searching for truth that can’t be found. God never wanted us to know: he wanted us to be happy with him.”

Feliz looked around him as Duermo continued to speak. On the ceiling’s lining, he could see the Bible painted. The key moments, white men used to play them out. He saw Christ walking out of the tomb. A strange thought arrived, abrupt for the situation: God was real, and there would be a new resurrection. All things would pass away and reappear again, and he would have the pleasure of pursuing them again, for eternities to arrive.

Feliz had calmed down. He stared at Duermo and smiled at him, as one smiles at a brother and friend.

“So,” whispered Feliz, “I’ve solved it. It was you and him.”

Duermo burst into laughter. “I never said that,” he yelled, unable to contain himself. “I don’t know who killed them! And neither will you, my brother. You must sit and accept the uncertainty, as I do now. I had Roberto hire someone who hired someone else who hired someone to do the killing. And Roberto will never tell, either, and no one will leave to share it anyway.”

He looked over to Roberto, nodded, sat down, and was tied up again.

“You and I will die, and earth will be blessed for it, friend. And that is the Scriptures. And that is all that ever mattered. And we give our lives over to this new year, friend.”

Feliz nodded and told his friend that he loved him. The clock struck midnight, and a new year had begun. Roberto raised the gun to Duermo’s head, Feliz squeezed his eyes, and there was a silent nothingness. Three bodies were found in that church the following morning, and earth was the same. ***

One of the officers said God no longer accepted human sacrifices. He’s right. I don’t. When they found them, they were holding hands, and I had the strange thought that they’d be back to do it all over again. With the same happiness. They managed to find Ricarda’s novella. It wasn’t terrible for an immigrant. But I don’t care for books: I enjoy the played-out search and destruction.

ONLY PAIN

The cause was a land dispute. Hired guns torch the family’s cabin at night’s darkest hour. Those escaping are shot.

“I live?” The charred skeletal grandfather lifts his head toward the night sky He crouches in the smoldering pit of his destroyed life. The old man breathes deep.

He is scorched black from the fire. No skin. Charred clothes cling to his skeletal form.

Rain drizzles down. Smoke wafts up. Blackened beams lay about the cellar hole. He stands. Objects in his pocket “clink.” He digs inside. Silver dollars.

The clouds briefly part. Moonlight glints off the coins. I have enough, he observes.

“Pain,” croaks the old man. He drowns in the pain of loss. He relives the pain of fire; the pain of bullets. He is consumed by the pain of rage.

The burnt man returns the coins to his pocket. He stands. The motion hurts. “It’s only pain. Move.”

The rain picks up. There is distant thunder. Lightning flashes. He approaches the barn. The structure is untouched by fire. He enters.

Inside is his horse. He saddles the animal; walks it out. Climbing up, the burnt man rides down the road.

The old man removes two silver dollars. Lightning flashes. He gazes at the coins.

Thunder cracks. The horse is unfazed.

He is soaked. Rain conceals the town ahead. Oil lamps along the street flicker from the downpour.

The horse stops before a saloon. The rider enters. The music halts. Everyone stares.

The burnt man’s footfalls are thunder in the silence. He stops before the bar. “Looking for five men. They’d be strangers.” His voice is a sepulcher.

The bartender nods. “Strangers arrived yesterday at dawn. They asked about the Cobb place.”

“You told them?”

“Yeah, they seemed good people.”

“Recognize me?”

“No mister.” The bartender shakes his head.

“I’m Bill Cobb. Still think they were ‘good people?’”

The man behind the counter carps a moment. “What happened?”

“The gang torched my home; killed my family. They left me for dead.” The burnt man points at a bottle of whiskey. “Gimme a shot of that.”

“You should see the doc.” The bartender pours the drink. Bill Cobb downs it.

“It’s only pain. I have much to do. The strangers return this way?”

“Couple hours ago they passed through, headed south.”

The burnt man takes the bottle; drinks. Whiskey in hand, he walks out. Nobody stops him. Bill Cobb mounts his horse. He turns the beast around. The animal clops down the street.

The burnt man takes another drink. Numbs the pain, he notes. He tosses the bottle. I need pain, thinks the old man.

Lightning, thunder, more rain. He pulls his jacket tight.

There is motion ahead. He squints. Men on horses, he observes. Bill Cobb catches up to the gang.

“The old man?” Their eyes grow wide. “Thought he burned to death.” The gang fire at Bill Cobb.

He is hit numerous times. The horse collapses, dead. The burnt man climbs to his feet.

“Bullets?” he grunts. “It’s only pain.” Bill Cobb bleeds black corruption.

“What the hell?” exclaims one of the gang.

“Keep shooting,” cries another. The men fire. Gun smoke chokes the air.

Struck multiple times, the burnt man falls to his knees. Black engulfs him.

It is a sunny, cloudless, day. It is beautiful. Bill Cobb lies in the middle of the road. A breeze ruffles the burnt man’s clothes.

Starting awake, Bill Cobb sits. His bullet wounds leak. I feel like shit, he thinks. The old man chuckles, gravelly; phlegmy. He stands. Pain. He takes a step. More pain.

Following the gang, Bill Cobb trudges down the road.

The sun sets. The sky is painted red. The old man is weary; footsore. Exhaustion is another form of pain, he thinks.

It is deep night. Ahead appear glowing embers of a campfire. Five recumbent figures are positioned about. Snores pierce the silence.

Are these the murderers I seek? Bill Cobb wonders. He creeps forward. They’re all asleep, notes the old man, Nobody’s on watch.

He approaches. The grandfather recognizes the unconscious men. Bill Cobb nods. These are the ones that destroyed my family, he affirms.

A knife lay near an unconscious gang member. Bill Cobb kneels; takes the blade. He raises the weapon; strikes. His victim howls.

“Shut up,” croaks the burnt man. “It’s only pain.” He wipes off the blood.

The others wake. “Shit,” curses one. “It’s him again.” The group draw their pistols; fire.

Bullets pierce the burnt man. He takes the pain. Grunting, he climbs to his feet and throws the knife.

The blade strikes its target. The gang member squeals. He falls.

The three others continue firing. One stops; reloads. He fumbles; drops several bullets.

Bill Cobb takes the dead man’s pistol. He shoots. Another dies.

The burnt man fires again. One more falls. “You guys can’t handle pain.” Bill Cobb shakes his head.

The last man aims his pistol; pulls the trigger. Click. Empty.

The gang member stumbles backward; falls. He points his useless weapon at Bill Cobb. The man continues squeezing the trigger: click, click, click.

Bill Cobb retrieves the knife from the gang member’s body. He approaches the final hired gun. The blade glints in the campfire embers.

Terrified, the gang member drops his weapon. “W-what are you?”

“Only pain.” Bill Cobb kneels. He stabs the last man.

Standing, there is a “clink” from the burnt man’s pocket. He removes his silver dollars. Bill Cobb places them on the eyes of the dead men.

“Almost finished.” The old man lies down. He places the coins on his own eyes and sighs his last.

BIG CLOWN

ROBB WHITE

The bar at the top of Bridge Street was still new enough that smells of wood and construction glue mingled with the familiar aromas of hard alcohol and sweet wine, the latter being imbibed by the three women who’d come in after work. Laughing and chatting among themselves just after Jake Newbaum took his seat at the bar. Jake disliked the fruity bouquet of their wine; he disliked even more the citrusy perfume.

His inherited sensitivity to smells was a genetic curse from his mother. For a six-foot-two-inch man weighing 260 pounds and having an extreme sensitivity to smells caused his fellow clowns to snicker behind their hands at his dilemma, never to his face. He was known to have a temper when he’d had a few. For Jake, on that rain-drenched afternoon in a small rust-belt town on the shores of Lake Erie, his temperament was worse than usual. Their rattletrap circus had broken down outside Northtown and had to be postponed until their eighteen-wheeler could be fixed.

The guy in the trimmed Van Dyke at the end of the bar, in his crisp white shirt and paisley tie, looked like a businessman who’d stayed too long past his martini lunch; he kept staring at him. Jake ignored him because he despised chatty drunks in bars who liked the sound of their own voices and needed an audience. Jake came to bars to get drunk, not to make friends.

Had the Bagley Bros. Circus been an actual circus, with real animals, Jake would never have survived the onslaught to his nose: one whiff of elephant dung would have sent him reeling to his “puke bucket,” the name the other clowns gave to the disposable plastic food containers Jake kept handy in case of an emergency. The worst scents he had to contend with were limited to the aromas of hot popcorn and reek of humanity wafting about their big tent where the clowns performed their antics with miniature electric scooters, rubber hammers, and tricycles.

Jake, being the largest and least agile member of the team, played the big stooge the other clowns harassed by tripping, slapping with cream pies, and honking their horns at.

With his twenty-five-inch sneakers curled at the toes for the tripping pranks, he was the buffoon who fell for the same tricks every time. Clowns sweated beneath their costumes and grease paint performing non-stop antics for laughing children, whereas he had to stumble around oafishly, take pratfalls, and do his finale face-plant, where all the clowns circled him, honking away, pedaling furiously through the big flap behind the grandstand.

Although his name on the posters slathered around every town they came to was “Jakes the Clown,” he was called Big Clown by everyone in the troupe.

Even the boss, whose name wasn’t Bagley and who had no brother, never called him by his name. It was, “Big Clown, you aren’t keeping up the pace in the ‘Pie Toss.’” Or “Hey, Big Clown, you’re too stiff. Move your arms around more in Act Three.”

Act Three like it’s a Shakespeare tragedy instead of a two-bit sideshow of clowns literally tumbling out of a Volkswagen. When the current owner bought it from the aging Bagley twins at the trailer park in Florida, the circus had one female acrobat Miss Dorinda, Dazzling Queen of the Air a few juggling acts and a half-dozen scruffy animals to display until the high maintenance costs ate into profits and bad publicity from animal activist groups began affecting attendance. The clown acts, however, thrived and evolved from two running around throwing pails of confetti at the crowd to the current ten, mostly young men with gymnastics skills.

The oldest, besides Jake, were two former rodeo clowns from Alabama and Montana who’d had broken bones from bulls and decided this was a safer occupation. The show was rounded out by four or five women engaged for the day from classified ads their scout placed in local papers ahead of the circus’s arrival. The women were given a quick lesson in “prop placement and removal for each act” and then shoehorned themselves into skimpy outfits eye candy for the dads in the crowd. Half the time, the scout filled his quota from bars. At their last show in Terre Haute, one girl plucked from a sleazy bar at the last minute was so drunk that her bustier slipped.

She didn’t notice, staggering around in front of the kids, parents and grandparents, giving them a real show. That got them closed down and the owner had to pay a whopping fine. Too bad, he said later, because the young men who’d lined up to see the next night’s performance could have paid their bills for the next six months.

That did it.

The guy at the end of the bar toasted him with his drink and mouthed the two words he loathed more than any others in the language. How he knew Jake’s moniker didn’t matter; all he knew was that the guy was asking for it.

Jake slipped off his bar stool, walked casually to the end of the bar, so as not to alarm the three chattering women or the bartender, a bruiser with muscles and a glyph tatt wiping tumblers at the other end of the bar.

He leaned close to the man, almost resting on an elbow, and said, “Who’s a big clown?”

The man’s eyes sparkled with mischief. Swiveling on the stool, he smiled into Jake’s face.

“Why you, of course.”

Jake’s hand resting against the bar’s knobbed edge clenched, curled instinctively into a fist.

“No,” Jake drawled, relishing his calm before the storm, “You’re the big clown.”

“Oh?” the man replied, his smile notched up in wattage. “Why is that, pray tell?”

“Pray tell, because you’re going to look funny on the floor picking up your teeth.”

“I don’t think so, Mister Newbaum,” he replied, still beaming. “I sincerely doubt that.”

Jake couldn’t have said why he didn’t suckerpunch the guy then and there. Knock him into East Jesus. But the thought vanished from his head like smoke. He didn’t know why he didn’t throw the punch. Under any other circumstance in a strange bar in a strange town, he would have done just that. Knocked him off the stool with a roundhouse right to the jaw and strolled out the door. If the guy had friends in the bar, he might have to bolt for the exit, which had happened a couple times before at a roadside tavern in Winnsboro, Louisiana and another time that resulted in a brawl with four construction workers in a parking lot in Cookeville, Tennessee. The boss bailed him out of jail and cut his pay for the next eight months.

He doubted these office workers midway down the bar could have stopped him. But something did. Something in the man’s stare. That had never happened before. The sick feeling he had before a nausea attack from strong odors defeated that pleasurable jolt of adrenalin he’d felt just a split-second before. Once it kicked in, he had to find the closest men’s room, or dash outside to vomit in the street. He kept a plastic airlines bag folded into his pocket for emergencies.

“I’m sorry about your hyperosmia,” the man said, his smile gone but the crinkled skin around his eyes betrayed suppressed laughter.

“My . . . my what?”

“Hypersosmia,” the man repeated. “That’s what it’s called. Your excessive sensitivity to smells.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Sit down. I’ll tell you what else I know about you.”

The swirl of emotions pushing and pulling him in different directions capsized him mentally. He couldn’t speak, walk away, or leave the bar on his own two feet. For once, he was glad to be shunned by the roadies and clowns. If they saw him standing their a boob opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water their ridicule wouldn’t stop. He was the butt of their mockery ever since he joined this raggedy-assed outfit. They enjoyed making him look stupid before and after the shows. He had so much rage bottled anyway that he felt like exploding. Rage dogged him from town to town. It followed him into bars where he sought escape from the cruel laughter dinning in his ears. The children who pointed at him and laughed at his stupidity. The other clowns failed to pull punches or fake kicks to his backside. Everywhere he went was a dark alley reeking of garbage and seething maggots on dead carcasses.

“I know how you feel, Jake,” the man said soothingly. “Sit, sit.”

Jake took the stool beside him.

When the bartender brought his drink over to him and said something about why he’d changed places, Jake ignored him because he couldn’t take his eyes off the well-dressed stranger telling him things. Knowing about Jake’s every loss and failure accurately and without judging. Jake waited to hear these words spoken all his life. Time warped, he wasn’t aware of customers coming or going. The stranger mesmerized him completely. Everything bad that happened was not his fault No, it was their fault.

“Say what?”

When Jake looked up, the bartender was glowering at him, flexing a tattooed bicep, just by standing there.

“Whose fault?”

“Whose fault?”

“What?” The word came out choked like a gurgle.

“I said,” the bartender leaned closer. “I’m cutting you off, man. Whatever the hell are you babbling about by yourself?”

Babbling? By myself?

“Where did he go?” Jake asked the bartender.

“Where did who go?”

“Him, you idiot,” Jake snapped. “The man, the little guy in the suit and tie right . . . next to me.”

Gone. Disappeared. Just like that without Jake realizing it.

“You’re wasted. Get out of here before I call the cops.”

Confusion trumped rage for once. “Where did he go?”

“You’ve been sitting down here alone for hours jabbering to yourself like a monkey. You’re scaring off my customers.”

Jake left the bar in a daze. He didn’t understand it. He looked around in the street for the man, but he was gone. Cars, traffic, pedestrians, kids on bikes. Yet he felt as though he’d stepped through a portal into another dimension. Nothing made sense.

Another prank . . . had to be.

It wasn’t enough for them to mock him, those bastards. They had to do this. Find a way to humiliate him for their own amusement. Set him up with this strange guy

But, wait. How could the bearded man know so much about him? The only one who knew anything about him was the boss and what he knew wouldn’t fill in the circumference of a shot glass.

Those guys didn’t have the money or the means to set this up, hire private investigators to dig into his life from his troubled boyhood from those years in foster homes through the sordid catastrophes of his many low-paying jobs and barroom brawls to now, to this point, the bottom of the barrel where he acted the stumblebum in a rinky-dink show. They sure as hell didn’t know about that guy in Texarkana who told him about this circus wintering in Florida.

Impossible and yet . . .

Jake headed for the Iroquois Bar & Grill at the bottom of the street where the others were drinking. The boss was sending two minivans to take them back to the motel on the interstate where their gear and costumes were stored until the semi could be repaired. Something about a spur-of-the-moment job. “Just the clowns, no barflies or tarts,” he told them. “A charity benefit for kids with cancer.”

“That mean short money, right, boss?” Mac asked. “Big Mac” McCarthy was the alpha male clown. When the boss had news, he talked to Mac.

Whenever the question of pay came up, the boss always had a glib answer. Money leaving his pocket was highest on his list of things to avoid. The only other thing the boss hated more was talk of “union wages.”

The clowns groused but that’s all they did. Jake knew the boss would grease Mac’s palm later. The two were in cahoots. He’d been getting the side eye from both since that time in Topeka he caught the boss piecing Mac off after a show. Mac was Jake’s worst tormentor in the troupe.

He stood apart in front of the brick building waiting for the vans. Loud talk and laughter from inside the bar echoed all the way to the street. His own name spoken reached him.

“They’re laughing at you,” the bearded man said behind him.

Jesus Christ, you! Jake never heard him creep up on him. He was even smaller off the bar stool. But just as dapper in appearance: the bone-white shirt, black suit and tie that clashed with the surroundings of shopkeepers, pub crawlers, and working-class men and women milling about.

“That punk bartender thought I was talking to myself back there.”

“Pay him no mind, he’s not worth it.”

“How do you know so much . . . about me?”

“Hear them in there? Laughing at you, saying you were dropped on your head when you were a baby and that’s why you’re so stupid.”

“Who says I’m stupid?”

Jake’s fists balled. He wanted to smash the little man’s face in for bringing up that old schoolboy taunt. Before he grew into his size, kids picked on him, beat on him, and never got into trouble for it. They called him “weirdo” and “bedwetter” until he ran away at fifteen and began a life as a transient, living in men’s shelters, doing manual labor for wages under the table. No woman looked at him for long. He saw them stare, then cut their eyes away when he turned to look back. Many avoided passing him on the street. He hadn’t spoken to a woman alone in years. The last one who did was the boss’s wife. She turned to her husband to say, “hire the big goon, but make sure he’s wearing a lot of makeup. He’ll scare the shit out of little kids.”

That began his only steady work and years of being Big Clown. Of being the butt of skits and pranks that often left him bruised from the blows of rubber hammers wielded with more gusto than necessary. When they did the dunking act, Mac practically waterboarded him in full view of the laughing crowd after Topeka. “Say one word to the others about what you saw,” he hissed in Jake’s ear while holding his head under water, “and I’ll make sure you don’t come up for air next time.”

“I’ll be around if you need me.” The little man winked and took off across Bridge Street skipping through passing traffic like a goat. Jake didn’t see him reach the other side when a voice In his ear and a grab at his triceps pulled him away.

One of the guys, sloshed and reeking of alcohol, blinking in the late afternoon sun where ragged clouds finally revealed a white disc of sun. “Too bad you couldn’t join us in there.”

More laughter behind him. Surrounded by a cluster of clowns, one or two spoiling for a fight. The smallest clown mumbled: “ you big mutt.”

He took the last seat alone in the back of one van.

Men squeezed together like canned sardines to avoid sharing a seat with him. Mac looked back at him with a snarl on his face. He was the only one who could stand in front of Jake without having to look up.

“Better start drawing sober breaths, men,” the boss said when the vans unloaded in front of the lobby. Two or three were unsteady on their feet. “Show starts at eight bells.”

“Where we goin’?”

“An old armory building, Mac,” the boss said. “We’re using their cafeteria.”

“Sure thing. We’ll go over our routines before we leave,” Mac replied.

The boss headed back to his private room. Mac winked at a couple guys who immediately got the joke. Floors inside meant wood, concrete, or tile, but not grass where falls could be cushioned. Even though Jake wore extra padding for his role, no amount of padding could break a dozen hard drops to the floor, not to mention the choreographed stomps and kicks he had come to expect lately

“Where do you want to go over the moves, Mac?”

Mac looked hard at the question from one of the younger clowns, a new hire. Jake could read the meaning behind the glint in Mac’s eye from dozens of feet away.

“We ain’t practicin’ jack shit, dummy,” Mac said and punched the kid’s arm hard enough to leave a mark. “Everybody already knows what to do, right? Now, which one of you jerks still has a bottle? Meet me in my room Right Now!”

Jake watched several troop behind Mac, sheep following their ram, led off for another round of boozing. Jake was assigned the room next to Mac’s with the three new hires, who all avoided talking to him or responded in monosyllabic grunts if he spoke to them. Mostly they griped among themselves. They’d join Mac’s crowd as soon as he approved, do anything he said to be part of the “Brotherhood of Clowns,” Mac’s phrase for drinking hard and inflicting as much petty cruelty on Jake as possible. He’d had his duffel bag of few possessions rifled through on other trips and discovered items missing like padding for his costume. He was sure that Mac was behind that and his special shoes thrown into a toilet at their last motel.

Jake couldn’t sleep. The boilermakers were still roiling around in his system from that afternoon. He was nerveshot from the stranger’s words. Ragged laughter poured into his room from the ducts. He lay on his bed with hands over his ears to dampen the raucous laughter next door. Mac was holding court behind that flimsy pine board wall, instructing his favorite dogs on new ways to deliver the hardest kicks and most painful body blows to his liver and solar plexus.

Giving up on sleep, he rolled off the bed and stepped outside to smoke. A silhouette stood outside a room in the shadows at the end of the L-shaped motel: the little man in the pointy beard. He beckoned Jake over.

Jake couldn’t have stopped himself if he wanted to. He went up to him. In the gloomy light of a sodden afternoon, the man’s pupils seemed to disappear into his eyes.

“Are you ready?”

“Am I ready for what?”

“Are you ready?” No more smiling; the grim set of his mouth revealed the bottom row of teeth with elongated incisors. Jake hadn’t noticed before. Hadn’t noticed the man’s long neck on his short body, his pointy ears.

Jake thought of a jackal or a hyena, one of those carcass-eaters on the savannah he’d read about in old nature magazines dropped off at those government housing institutions back when he hid from bigger boys.

“There it is,” he said, pointing to the eighteen-wheeler in the parking lot. “You’ll have time but not much.”

“Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, you freak, but I’m sick of you popping up everywhere.”

The suitcoat was gone; he stood leaning against the door frame smoking. His bone-white shirt gleamed in the half-light and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His arms were matted with thick black curls. He flicked the cigarette into the parking lot. Jake followed its orange arc and the sparks as it struck the pavement. The little man flashed a toothy grin just like in the bar, and then slowly opened his mouth wide so wide Jake thought the man’s jaws would crack.

Jake trotted back, afraid now. His loping run brought him parallel to the tractor-trailer. The little man’s high-pitched giggling booted him in the backside from a distance.

Jake walked over to the truck and stopped midway between the sets of drive axles with dual sets of tires. He knew where it was. He reached in, felt around for the long demounting tire tool resting in its custom-mounted brackets. He released the catch and popped it free. Its heft was comforting.

“Showtime,” Jake said to the empty lot.

Holding it tight against his thigh, he headed for Mac’s room. He tapped on the door.

“Hey, Mac, someone’s outside,” a voice inside said. A different voice: “The boss. Hide the booze.” The room went quiet.

Jake tapped again.

Mac came to the door, cracked it, and saw him

“Well, if it isn’t Big Clown himself,” Mac said. “Speak of the devil.”

He stepped outside and shut the door.

Mac wasn’t finished asking why Jake “disturbed” him when Jake swung tire iron at Mac’s temple where the buzzcut ended. The crack was similar to the noise of a small-caliber gun.

Mac looked surprised more than anything. He did a stutter-step but remained in place. He had no power to lift his heavy arms to defend himself against the second blow, which struck slightly higher. Mac swayed, dropped straight down to the sidewalk with his legs crumpled up beneath him like a small building imploded by dynamite. For good measure, Jake stepped around his head for a final swing. He aimed the dimpled ridge of the spoon-shaped end and swung it like a nine iron right into Mac’s jaw. Teeth and fragments of tooth clattered across the parking lot like a handful of marbles tossed into a bathtub.

“Knock, knock,” Jake said, tapping on the door.

Someone tried to throw the deadbolt just as Jake pushed it open. He dislodged the man’s hands and shoved the door wide open, boxing the dim room with his eyes. Time slowed to a taffy pull, whereas back in the bar it had gone at warp speed.

One of the men was punching buttons on the landline phone. Jake sailed over the nearer bed and brought the tool down in a two-handed grip on top of the man’s head.

“Two down, three to go,” Jake said, smiling at the others, reading the room like a veteran comic.

One whimpering clown hunched in one corner of the bed died next. Two hard blows in tandem. He was a surly drunk, an ex-con who kicked Jake hardest.

Now he lay crunched up on his knees against the bed frame as though he’d fallen asleep while praying.

Someone let out a roar and charged from his hiding spot in the closet nook.

Jake swung the tire iron like a homerun swing at a fastball. The man dropped sideways to the carpet, his head swiveled the wrong way on a broken neck.

“Never lead with your chin,” Jake said.

This is fun, he thought. He mimed a hand shielding his eyes as though looking for the ball in the sun. “Where did it go?”

The two men left crouched against the far wall with the bed between them and Jake. Both looked stunned with the identical deer-in-the-headlights gaze. The closer man snapped out of it and leveled a volley of shopworn curses at Jake, who pretended to bat away the verbal filth like a cloud of floating gnats “Sticks and stones,” he said grinning

The other took off for the bathroom. The door slammed.

“Was it something I said?”

“STAY AWAY FROM ME, PSYCHO!”

Jake swung the bar back and forth like a man scything knee-high wheat. By the time he reached the cursing man, he was flattened against the wall, close enough for Jake to see the darkened urine stain at the crotch of his jeans.

“Oopsie-daisy, did we have an accident?” Jake offered a pouting grimace of sympathy.

“Don’t, please ”

The blow came down at an angle that smashed nose and broke teeth. A gout of crimson blood burped from his mouth and bubbles oozed from his teeth; the glazed eyes said he was far away.

Jake administered the coup de grâce with short, hard blows, two apiece to each side of his head. The man sank beneath each strike as though a pulley and wires lowered him to the floor. White skull bone showed between the flowing curtain of blood covering his face. Fragments of brain and comet tails of cast-off blood spattered the wall and ceiling fan.

“One to go,” Jake said, making his way to the bathroom.

“Olly, olly oxen free,” Jake whispered to the door, tapping with his tire iron. It left a smear of blood and a gout of brain matter wherever it touched.

“Come out, come out wherever you are!” Silence.

“I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down!”

Jake kicked the door off its hinges. The bathroom mirror was shattered; shards lay on the sink and floor.

Jake shoved the shower curtain aside. The last clown was at the far end of the tub, knees curled to his chest and a large chunk of broken glass held out. He squeezed it so tightly that blood oozed between his fingers and dripped over his wrists. His face was leeched of blood, his eyes bulged in terror. He’d bitten the tip of his tongue and two drools of blood at the corners of his mouth made him look like a marionette with its strings broken.

“You’re a mess,” Jake said. “It looks like you’re doing my job for me.”

“Keep back!” The man poked the air in front of him like a fencing thrust.

He yanked the shower curtain off the S-hooks ff the chrome rail, popping them in sequence; they made pinging sounds. He bunched up the curtain and tossed it on the floor.

“Now, then, to business,” Jake said.

The man tried to shield himself from the blows raining down on him with his arms. It was like breaking firewood. Jake hacked away at the limbs in a rhythmic chopping motion until the arms and hands were jellied pulp and flopped against his torso.

“Let’s see if I can ring the bell,” he whispered.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the fragments of mirror left intact in the cabinet. Tiny Jakes stared back at him. His face was dotted with freckles of blood and his hair was slicked with popcorn-sized globules of yellow fat Like the high-striker attraction in a carnival, Jake reared back and brought the bar down in a mighty swing on top of the clown’s head. The crunch of skull bone was satisfying until the coppery smell of blood wafting around the enclosed space made him instantly gag.

He staggered back into the bedroom and unleashed the boiling liquid in his guts all over the bedspread.

“What’s all this damned noise in here?”

Jake looked up from his retching. The boss stood there with the clerk from the lobby.

Nausea disoriented Jake. He clipped the iron edge of the bed railing and went down in a heap. The smell on the ratty carpet was even worse than the bathroom. Jake couldn’t get to his feet. The two men were gone when he looked up.

Outside in the air, the odor of iodine from the rain-washed air made him regurgitate again. Nothing but ropy bile came up. Then the dry heaves.

The parking lot was packed with people, lookieloos, the clowns from other rooms come to see what the ruckus was all about. People in night clothes gawked. The looks on their faces told him he was no longer one of their species.

Sirens screamed in the air, a horrific caterwaul to the blinding pain in his head brought on by the ceaseless retching. The tool bar was no longer in his hand. He didn’t recall dropping it.

Eighteen months in dreary isolation in the county jail because his court-appointed lawyer had to be death-penalty certified before the trial could begin. It lasted only two days. His lawyer reassured him.

“It’s not about guilt,” he explained in the conference room for prisoners and their counsel. ”It’s about mitigating circumstances at sentencing.”

Jake was bored with it and wanted it done. Nothing his lawyer said affected his shabby courtroom demeanor. Jurors cast furtive and horrified glances at the shackled monster in their midst.

When the judge handed down the death sentence, Jake begged for it to be carried out “as soon as possible” and refused his lawyer’s pleas to file stays of execution. His lawyer was only interested in the billable hours he could demand from the state anyway.

On the day before he was to “take the steel ride,” as the cons called it, Jake looked forward to the end of the clown show of his life. He’d been visited every night for months by the little man with the pointy beard, who amused him by telling him about the fun that lay ahead. Jake didn’t believe him but he was glad to have the company.

PLUMP

Delphine McCaffrey surveyed the factory floor with dark, weary eyes as another solar day came to a close At forty-nine years of age, she enjoyed the odour of industry and the quiet plains of Nitcoris upon which her business perched. The only downside was the long days, which, even after aggressively adjusting her sleep schedule, still took their toll.

Below, pale fleshy forms writhed in their own muck, slurping from troughs. Some were even mating, if the length of chains around their necks allowed it.

Grimacing, Delphine dropped into her chair to the sound of protesting creaks. She almost had the chance to light a cigarette when the door zoomed open, and in plodded the grim form of Alek Sova.

“Mrs McCaffrey,” she bowed her head, “Please accept my lateness.”

Delphine threw down the match and blew a plume of smoke at the young drecun, who batted it away.

“Well, it sure is great to see you, Alek, though I do wish you would keep me informed when you know there’ll be a delay.”

The drecun girl stared at her with sulphur-coloured eyes. She was picking her words carefully.

“My apologies, again, Mrs McCaffrey. I have the ship, if you are ready for transfer?”

Arching an eyebrow, Delphine lurched forward and motioned for the grey-skinned trader to proceed. A call was made and the main doors on the factory floor parted. In paced a procession, some drecun and some human, followed by two of Alek’s kinsmen and crew. At the tail-end walked an ovod, nervously observing the factory guards that had surrounded their line.

“Woah, not the insect,” Delphine spat into her own radio, “I got not use for their meat in the recipe. Strip and chain the rest; there’s enough troughs.”

Two of her guards led the confused ovod to a room just off the floor. A blast rang out. The others panicked, but their screams became muffled as shutters sealed behind them.

Alek looked over, apologetically. It was rare to see a member of the drecuni race show any kind of remorse. Delphine exhaled another stack of smoke, and tapped the touchpad on the desk to accept the delivery.

“You’ve done well, as usual. The sum of Galactic credits has been transferred to your account,” she said, “Minus the bonus, because of the tardiness, of course.”

The trader seemed to laugh, enough so Delphine could see her jagged teeth behind the cowl.

“Not many pilots are willing to fly out to this rim,” said Alek.

“I know, dear. But some are, you see. And I use you nearly exclusively, so I expect my meat on time. Otherwise,” she sang the last syllable, “It’s bad for business. I haven’t built up Starfarer Spam all these years just to be grounded by late deliveries.” Her mind drifted back to the joint’s previous owner, Cormac Severt; what a meal he’d made of things before Delphine showed up, ready to bail him out. Back then, she’d been the only buyer with the gumption to lug a ship out to Nitcoris.

Alek approached the plexiglass window, staring down at the busy factory. Sounds of panting and gulping rose from the livestock. An audible grunt wriggled from Alek’s throat, a tone of disgust.

“You really are a foul woman, Mrs McCaffrey. Cheap, as well. I see more credits shifting farming equipment to frontier worlds.”

Sucking on the cigarette, Delphine pushed down on the desk. “Our business is concluded, Alek. An armed escort will see you and your two crewmates back to your ship. And don’t bother trying a hit ‘n’ run, or else my ion cannons will fry your silly fucking arses.”

At that moment, the drecun turned with her gun drawn.

“We’re not done. Do you honestly believe I would continue doing your dirty work for pittance? Everyone knows you’re the cheapest bitch out here. The cheapest, while growing fat on your profits. Well, no longer. By now, my crewmates will be in your factory’s central processing unit. They’ll be shutting down all essential operations and taking whatever the hell they fancy for our troubles.”

“Is that so? And my guards?”

“I’m pleased you asked. My crewmate Alovar messaged two minutes ago to say three of your troops have been dispatched on the way to the core. You’re fucked, McCaffrey! And if you even dream of moving your ample frame from that chair to stop me, I’ll have this place reported to the Galactic Council.”

Delphine’s cracked lips extended into a smile. The trader crinkled her brow, rage building by the second. Before she could act, the automatic door towards the rear of the small office flicked open, and in strode Alovar.

“We done?” asked Alek, grinning.

“Just about,” they said and, drawing a pistol, put a bolt into Alek’s thigh. She dropped to the floor with a dull thud, roaring in pain.

Easing out of her chair, Delphine pressed her foot on the drecun’s discarded gun and scooped it up, caressing it in her plump fingers.

“I think you’ll find, Alek, that none of my guards have been killed, and your other colleague is being processed with the cargo. As for Alovar here? He’s been wonderful in the coming weeks. Not only is he prepared to take over your trade routes for less credits, but he’s also got a good head on his shoulders. He knows not to be late. Isn’t that right, Alovar?” Delphine grinned at the trader, who saluted in return. “The lad here also has a book of Galactic Council contacts that I would relish sinking my teeth into.” Alovar laughed and nodded along, before pausing, “Wait I didn’t say anything about ”

Delphine squeezed the trigger and his head exploded against the back wall.

The office fell silent, only occasionally disturbed by Alek panting in the corner. She had ceased shuffling for the exit and sat propped up by the wall, clutching her bleeding thigh.

“You brought a council spy with you,” Delphine said, irritation creeping into her voice. “More than a spy, probably. One of the merchant princes, or at least tied to one, if I can get a peep at that book of contacts.”

“But how did you ” coughed Alek.

“Oh, simple. It helps to have eyes in most trading posts out here. Alovar was just foolish enough to look at his book in public when he thought no one was watching.”

“So so, we’re all good?”

“Oh, I knew you were planning to betray me too, dear girl. Alovar had some uses. But I knew of his true intentions early on. It’s hard to say what his end goal even was. Taking over your trade routes and afterwards holding my supplies to ransom, perhaps. Who knows? You don’t have to worry about that now, dear.”

And Delphine raised her radio to her lips.

“We have one dead ready for processing up here,” then she licked her stained teeth and Set her hungry eyes on Alek. Gunshot wound or not, she’d be fine once they fattened her up a little.

“And one for the chain. There should be enough troughs.”

NO, IMMOLATION IS A NAUGHTY WORD!

SCOTT C. HOLSTAD

11:11 pm. i think of you while exhaling puffs of blue cigarette smoke into the brisk air tied together in little rings and bows, maybe lassos too. thought about listening to some old RATM, but really had a hard time choosing between Type O and Whitney Houston. you know how much i love me some Whitney! the nonlight makes for horrorsongs of litmares and you know, i don’t think i can see it all anyway, so maybe that’s irrelevant. if you haven’t/can’t figured out by now, being alone, sleeping alone, sawing bones alone all these days/months/years/infinity can get to some people. you start being lonely, hungry, paranoid, confused, bitter, pissed off, brainrotted, stir crazy, maybe just ole batshit crazy like some say. who might know… honestly, i don’t know how much longer i can go on, take it, eat it, swallow, pop the wheelies –you know what i mean – keep doing that shit before i empty the gasoline canisters in pretty designs, art for art’s sake, the smell exquisite, take a damn shower in it, then paint a giant smeared wedding ring around myself – my canvas – encircling me in ashen art and blow the finest smoke ring from a lit unfiltered then watch it drop.

SICKENED MIND DREAMSCAPES

SCOTT C. HOLSTAD

TRIGGER WARNING - GRAPHIC VIOLENCE

more dreams. nightkills. this one is brutal. it challenges reality but then doesn’t reality challenge reality itself?

I’m started awake with my limbs chained to dank dungeon wall, bloody shag rug, 70s style, shoved in my throat by massive cocksukerroach sliming rancid tungsten fungi busy rubbing 11 erect human penises on my stomach while ratmandu busies itself ramming spiked curtain rods In my asshole, savaging eroding intestines.

i blink twice and they immediately vaporize, leaving rivers and puddles of fetid jism clinging to stalls, balls and walls.

a corpsesickle appears somehow hovering over me. perhaps a recently deceased (ok, mindlessly slaughtered) female woman brutalized by roving gangs of ratshads, then juggler sliced by glass beer shards. i can tell through my remaining oozing eye jelly which of course couldn’t possibly distort reality, or er, well shit – i can’t tell but do feel terror at death’s claws snaking through my innards.

the corpsesickle interrupts my reverie as it sits on my face, grinding and humping while grunting like it’s been mounted by a texas steer so bits and pieces of its many rotting genitalias drop, fall, plunge onto and into my gaping face and i reach out, clawing more parts off as it cums all over my face with black sticky fluids that feel like acid drops hitting me.

i cry out, scream, sob and find myself floating 157 feet above a darkened alley filled with still cold bodies, broken needles decorating wasted arms inside and out.

bill burroughs, where are you man? i loved naked lunch but now i’m some negligee desert of moroccan fantasies. i need your william tell solution!

it’s stiflingly hot in here.

i want to wake up.

GLASS JAW

DANIEL EADY

Right hand.

Right hand.

Left Jab.

Under and up into the uppercut.

Feint and dodge.

Sweat in the eyes.

Footwork.

Left Jab.

Feint and dodge.

Jab.

Sweat in the eyes again - fuck.

Footwork.

Right Hand.

The thunderous pulse of a racing heartbeat rang in Louisa Gale’s ears. The only other sound in the gym this morning was her coach Ben Jones, who shouted drills at her from the corner of the ring. It was dark in there this morning, only a harsh white shaft of light cut across the ring from the corner door, which, as usual, stood ajar to let at least some air in. The shaft of light cast coach Ben’s shadow out and across the ring in an abstract shape that Louisa circled. Her exhalations punctuated the air just like her gloved fists. Sweat still beaded on her forehead and chest. As she circled that ring, deftly throwing quick combos of punches, her shadow followed -

joined at the apex of her footfalls. As she turned outwards, so did her shadow, growing and stretching with the light.

The shadow performed its own delicate dance, a mirror reflected the pugilism back to her ‘Ok that’s enough!’ called Ben. Her heart still racing, adrenaline coursing through her body she eased off the gas and turned to him. He unstrapped the headgear under her chin and set to work unlacing her gloves. His face was a labyrinth of lines, cracks and a long list of stories to tell, his mouth an almost perpetual upturned frown, ‘Your left foot is dragging, when you turn in to go low, your opponent will read it like a book.’ he said, while never really making eye contact with her, just going through the motions. They had done this hundreds of times now, and every time he followed up with some form of criticism. But that‘s what a coach is for -

With the headgear removed she felt a pressure release in her head and her hot ears and cheeks welcomed the cold air. He threw a damp towel over her shoulders and turned, looked at his watch and stepped heavily out of the ring and onto a set of rusty steps which heaved and sighed underneath him. He turned back to her, the light casting his shadow in giant form across her, ‘When you come back tonight we can work on that,’ before she had an opportunity to answer or explain he had turned on his heel and was headed for the door, ‘I got to go, make sure you lock this door properly - don‘t need any bums breaking in here again. See you later tonight.’ He said all of this with his back to her as he exited the door with a wave of his hand.

With Ben gone, she stood alone in the ring, the spinning dust motes her only opponent.

She walked across to the other side of the ring, the movement of air around her cooled her skin, her shadow followed with its own loping gait. She got to the corner and placed her hands on the ropes. She watched Ben walk past the only window, his gait too was loping as age had started to get the better of him.

She turned her gaze back to looking out across the gym, the smell of ligament and sweat part of the walls and she didn’t feel completely alone.

She clicked the heavy padlock shut and double checked it for good measure with a hard yank and once satisfied, headed across the carpark. Her backpack was slung tightly over her shoulders and her hoodie was up over her head to keep the cold morning winds at bay. She stood at the bus stop and looked at her phone; 8:17 - as she looked down the road she saw no sign of the bus.

Great, she thought. She checked her messages and saw she had missed a call from her older brother Robert. She hit the call button. He answered after only two rings.

‘Yo’

‘I missed your call - I was training. What?’

‘No how are you - no hello?’

‘Robbie, cut the shit - what do you want?’

‘It’s Mum….’ he paused and she knew what was coming, ‘ She’s not well today. SHe had a fall last night and I’ve just got back from A&E with her.’

‘And you are just telling me now!?’ Robbie was frustratingly aloof but this was a new low for him. ‘ I didn’t want to bother you, plus - what are you going to do, walk to the hospital in the middle of the night, cos there aint no buses at that time.’

She was frustrated, mostly because he was right. Robbie cut in, ‘Look I gotta go - just wanted to let you know, make of that what you will..’- he hung up abruptly.

Louisa stared at her phone, the frustration, a hot ember in her chest. She glanced back at the gym, where her shadow loomed behind her, a distorted reflection of her own worry. A horn blared in the distance, a jarring sound that tore her from her thoughts.

With a sigh, she shouldered her backpack and started walking towards the approaching bus. She sat near the back, her headphones blasted Kendrick, the pulse of the beat, scattershot like her nerves right now. Her mind was a pinball now, Robbie had laid it out, it was now the point where her mothers age and health would likely start to interfere with her boxing.

Feint dodge.

Up and under.

Make a choice.

Right hook.

Knockout.

Her eyes roved the other passengers on this piss-smell tainted morning bus ride through the outer parts of the city; guys dressed for construction, their skin leathered by the sun, women dressed for factory work, likely textiles, their eyes dead and tired and a few younger folks like Louisajust trying to get to school or a job as they idly eyed their phones. Louisa looked out at the lights of the factories that smeared past the window. In that moment her reflection seemed to disconnect from her, if only momentarily - then glitch like an interrupted digital signal on tv, before locking back into place.

What the fuck? Louisa rubbed feverishly at her eyes with aching tired wrists as her mind was awash with worry.

Left jab.

Footwork.

Feint right.

Duck and under.

Stabbing Left Jab.

All she wanted right now was to get back to the gym; to the ring. That’s where she had control, not here. Not in this world of chaos, of laborious bus rides, mother’s on the verge of death and asshole siblings.

She eyed her reflection. In her heart she was made of steel, she had always thought that, but lately she wasn’t so sure, as the reflection that stared back at her; mirrored yet true, had eyes of hatred and fire, swollen and bruised. The reflection smiled back with cracked and bloodied teeth.

Right jab.

Teeth loosened.

Left hook.

Head spinning.

Taste your own blood.

Swallow it down.

She felt her pulse quicken and she needed to get off the bus. AShe reached up and pressed the big red button and felt the brakes of the bus engage. As the doors hissed she spat herself out of the bus in a rush and onto the cold morning streets. Ding.

Fighters back to your corners

Saved by the bell.

She rummaged through her backpack to find her phone and dialled Ben’s number. He answered after only a few rings, in his trademark charming fashion, ‘Yeah this is Ben, what ya want?’ The way he asked was as if he didn’t actually want the answer.

‘Ben, it’s Louisa, I was just wondering if you could come and unlock the gym. I really just want to go back this morning and train a bit more.’

‘What about school, kid?’ She could hear him exhaling one of his cigarettes, followed by the low rumble of a burgeoning cough.

‘I have a free period this morning.’ Even she wasn‘t convinced of her own lie. Behind her she felt her shadow move obliquely, she turned to see moving away from her, almost as if escaping. SHe blinked quickly, again her mind like a pinball as mid call to Ben, she could see a notification from Robbie that read. “Are you coming over?”

Someone else in her life that was unconvinced she would deliver on a promise. So she focused on the one promise she could keep - winning her next fight.

Ben also did not sound convinced as Louisa saw her shadow stretched out from her feet again and running up the corrugated iron wall she stood in front of. Retethered.

‘Ok kid, I’ll meet you there in 20 min.’ Ben coughed wetly and hung up. Louisa didn’t wait for a bus to come back the other way, she figured the cardio would help, so she began jogging - her shadow now in pursuit.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Soaring right hook.

Dancing footwork.

Floating like a butterfly.

Stinging like a bee.

ANOTHER TRANSACTION AT STAG’S LEAP MANOR

A.R. CARRASCO

Before statehood, grizzly bear hunting was a profitable trade in California. Nowadays, hides are as rare as an honest politician. I blame the legal profession; Gentlemen of the California State Bar can’t resist the sport of killing. Their unofficial headquarters is a tiny Napa Valley resort at the base of the Vaca Mountain Range. Lawyers, clerks, and judges pay hefty fees to stalk bears of any size, color, and temperament.

One warm July evening, a renowned judge arrested an entire company of visitors with tales spanning the jurisprudence of Athens to rumors of an American overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy. Whenever anyone dared interrupt the orator with either question or comment, the elder would raise a bony pale hand and sputter the words, “Presently! Presently!” Even after retreating upstairs, beneath the floorboards, I heard the learned jurist continue his pontification.

An hour before daybreak, I descended into the parlor to find the fireplace barren, the judge droning, and a solitary young man sitting with bloodshot eyes, bawled fists, and a vein in his forehead the size of the Colorado River.

I pretended to know the poor soul. Out of the earshot of the magistrate, I asked how the boy endured. Missouri-born, he dreamt of practicing law. A career in dentistry is where he set his sights now. He broke a molar grinding his teeth all night.

Knowing me as a bear-eater, he inquired whether I had any milk teeth. It is a common practice among Saint Louis dentists to replace human molars with the premolars of 18-month-old bear cubs. The greenhorn gave me his caravan pass for next summer in exchange for two milk teeth. Thanks to my lucrative new career, I’ve purchased an 18-karat set of gold teeth. How could I foresee that my lustrous smile would soon endanger my life?

En route from San Francisco to Stags’ Leap Manor, a masked figure boarded our transport in the cloak of night demanding we, “stand and deliver!” One among us pleaded, “We’re simply hunters with nothing of value. Knowing the risks, even our wedding rings are back home.”

“I will steal a red-hot stove then come back for the smoke,” promised the highwayman.

A familiar voice replied, “Hark, my son, I have the honor of serving this great state as an officer of its highest court and must inform you that our tribunal, in its abundant wisdom, has escalated the liability standard of a capital offense in this jurisdiction to a threshold which…”

“Call it off, boys!” ordered the leader of the highwaymen. “I recall this old fart! If we don’t get out now, the fool will keep us ‘til morning.”

A.R. CARRASCO

A cherry Pontiac Catalina with a weathered ‘Impeach Earl Warren’ bumper sticker followed a silver first-generation 1965 Ford Mustang along an empty, albeit jagged, artery of California asphalt on October 29 th , 1974.

Their radio speakers simultaneously reported, “Richard Nixon is in critical condition following vascular shock only six hours after a botched anti-coagulation surgery on his phlebitis damaged left leg Medical experts at Long Beach Memorial Medical Center intensive care unit worry the former president may develop pulmonary embolus, when a blood clot moves from the left iliac vein into the right lung, a potentially fatal condition.”

As the cars carefully sliced through the cattywampus corners of dense wilderness, their regularly scheduled historical drama resumed its story. A charismatic voice without a body noted, “before statehood, grizzly bear hunting was a profitable trade in California. Nowadays, hides are as rare as an honest politician. I blame the legal profession; Gentlemen of the California State Bar can’t resist the sport of killing. Their unofficial headquarters is a tiny Napa Valley resort at the base of the Vaca Mountain Range. Lawyers, clerks, and judges pay hefty fees to stalk bears of any size, color, and temperament.”

The pulp fiction helped the five travelers, all officers of the court, disassociate themselves from the intense heat. While the serpentine path of their automobiles distorted the landscape such That the land seemed to pulse with an ancient malevolent aura, the program continued.

“One warm July evening, a renowned judge arrested an entire company of visitors with tales spanning the jurisprudence of Athens to rumors of an American overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy. Whenever anyone dared interrupt the orator with either question or comment, the elder would raise a bony pale hand and sputter the words, “Presently! Presently!” Even after retreating upstairs, beneath the floorboards, I heard the learned jurist continue his pontification.”

Two miles outside of French Gulch, the Honorable Cordell Mizner, the recently retired patriarch of the band, spied the thumb of a sunburnt hitchhiker. The judge cartoonishly gestured out the window with his right arm; his left arm slung over his chest like a cursed relic in a black satin sling.

Amparo Mizner -- District Attorney of San Franscico; and only child of Cordell: pumped the breaks of the Mustang as the plethoric voice of the radio recounted,

“An hour before daybreak, I descended into the parlor to find the fireplace barren, the judge droning, and a solitary young man sitting with bloodshot eyes, bawled fists, and a vein in his forehead the size of the Colorado River. I pretended to know the poor soul. Out of the earshot of the magistrate, I asked how the boy endured. Missouri-born, he dreamt of practicing law. The poor one broke a molar grinding his teeth all night; a career in dentistry is where he set his sights now.”

Over the blare of the broadcast, the wanderer inquired whether the “Gang headed to French Gulch?” to which Mizner the younger replied in the affirmative. “Mind giving a road brother a ride to the Chinatown around the end of French Gulch Road before the hotel?” he asked the pilot. Amparo agreed as the broadcast bellowed: “Knowing me as a bear-eater, he inquired whether I had any milk teeth. It is a common practice among Saint Louis dentists to replace human molars with the premolars of 18-month-old bear cubs. The greenhorn gave me his caravan pass for the following summer in exchange for two milk teeth. Thanks to my lucrative new career, I’ve purchased an 18-karat set of gold teeth. How could I foresee that my lustrous smile would soon endanger my life?”

The stranger sat cramped between two young professionals in the backseat of the red Pontiac. On his left sat Richard V. Pello, a prosecutor of Basque descent, turned property management attorney with a reputation for his indiscrete approach to evicting families with children. On his right sat Carmen Raptores, a racially ambiguous defense attorney specializing in workplace sexual harassment.

The driver was Clematis Herschel Holloway Jr., the youngest of the unit, an assistant district attorney paying off his student debt under the supervision of Amparo. All three lawyers once clerked for Cordell and frequently sought his expert advice on appellate litigation.

Amidst introductions, the radio spoke: “En route from San Francisco to Stags’ Leap Manor, a masked figure boarded our transport in the cloak of night demanding we, “stand and deliver!” One among us pleaded, “We’re simply hunters with nothing of value. Knowing the risks, even our wedding rings are back home.”

The guest queried whether “fellas heard ‘bout the prison break-out” earlier that weekend and warned, “Some dangerous felons might be hiding out in these here hills.” When no one responded, he urged they be especially careful since “these hills are alive with the echoes of histories which are not easily forgotten.”

Believing the man nothing more than a weary soul nostalgic for the economic prosperity of the Gold Rush or severely heat stricken, Clematis elevated the broadcast volume.

“I will steal a red-hot stove then come back for the smoke,” promised the highwayman,” boomed the speakers. The team had nearly finished their program: “A familiar voice replied from the rear of the wagon, “Hark, my son, I have the honor of serving this great state as an officer of its highest court and must inform you that our tribunal, in its abundant wisdom, has escalated the liability standard of a capital offense in this jurisdiction to a threshold which…”

A haunting chill settled over the automobile as the attorneys passed a fire-kissed welcome sign posted beside the skeletal remains of what was once the town’s vibrant Chinese immigrant community. The hitchhiker tried to provide a final word of caution, but the caravan departed the burnt-out remnants of hollow American hope, hate, and horror.

Upon parking, their car radios were overwhelmed by an eerie hum. They never heard the end of their regularly scheduled programming: “Call it off, boys!” ordered the leader of the highwaymen. “I recall this old fart! If we don’t get out now, the fool will keep us ‘til morning.”

Through the scarlet saloon doors of the French Gulch Hotel, the cohort escaped the dusk. There was no concierge, save the lone bartender; Publius, an African American nearing the age of forty. Publius poured the drinks as the assembly conducted a small convention. Hand-typed agendas on thin pink paper listed an inventory of the supplies they packed, a topographical map of the terrain they intended to explore, and a series of controversial discussion topics to debate together each nightfall.

For the three-day expedition, each felt well equipped with a pair of hiking boots, a bundle of canvas, wooden stakes, a mile of rope, an entire backpack of water, a cast iron skillet, knives, a jar of blood orange marmalade, five pounds of almonds, a pistol, a rifle, and two cases worth of fine wine. Their evening debate were to include, but not be limited to, President Gerald Ford’s pardon of former President Richard Nixon, the Environmental Protection Agency, Roe v. Wade, Harvey Milk’s campaign for San Franscico Supervisor, the California Coastal Commission, and Affirmative Action at Berkeley Law.

Carmen put a question to Publius as he opened a sixth bottle of port for the congregation, “You see a lot of folks come through those doors?”

“I see everyone who suffers, even when they don’t want to be seen,” Publius replied without eye contact.

Mizner the elder scoffed, “This watering hole was once the trailhead of the Oregon trail. More than twenty million dollars was extracted from this valley.

President John Fitzgerald Kennedy drank champagne at that bar, which mind you, has seen more desperate souls crumble into despair than the University of California!”

“I recall the occasion!” said a cold voice from the doorway cloaked in the ink of waxing shadows. From the void emerged Eliza Buckthorn, like a razor blade wrapped in black velvet. “The last time I met a devil as charming, I was aboard an overnight train to Minnesota,” she reflected. Buckthorn approached an empty seat at the table. “If I had a soul to sell, perhaps I’d own more than this hotel, alas, I do as my coven of foremothers would have desired: whenever I bit off more than I can chew, I sip my wine.”

An energetic snap of skin sent sound waves across the empty bar for which the point of emanation was the raised hand of Eliza, yet none at the table saw her fingers so much as twitch. Publius poured a small dose of what looked like crude oil into a small gold-rimmed clay cup which seemed to appear at the table inexplicably.

Amparo believed driving fatigue in concert with the spirits she’d been quaffing explained her inscrutable sense that Eliza’s silver hair was growing longer in the moonlight before her very eyes. “I am delighted to be in the company of fellow lunatics – the blue moon will reach its zenith in all but 24 hours. However, from the determined visage of your congress, I must at least try and persuade you to spend tomorrow night here under the protection of my spell.”

Carmen cross-examined, “From what might we need protection?”

“They say the moonlight here stirs new life into the old spirits,” she whispered with regret. “Animals that should have never been. Creatures born of dark desire, cold blood, and fear like that which we, the living, will never know. Forces which people of your breeding might call… unnaturally profane,” reported Buckthorn as an owl cried in the rural darkness.

The next evening, Cordell, Amparo, Clematis, Richard, and Carmen reveled in a common privilege often sought and too often valorized by members of the California State Bar A simple plan: hike, argue, and drink to the point of total incapacitation in the confidence of an elite collegial atmosphere; just as they did when they first became professional students of law.

As dawn broke, the hungover party discovered a ring of shattered glass around the campsite. Their boots: gone. “What a sick joke!” exclaimed Cordell to the indifferent eastern ridge of Iron Mountain. Clematis rejected the notion their footwear was “absconded by convicts,” instead asserting the unfounded theory they were hoodwinked by Native Americans. However, almost a mile into the second leg of their trek, the pack realized the true crime. “Putz defecated in our water!” cried Cordell.

“We need assistance. I’ll book it back to the hotel,” Clematis declared. “Alone?” Carmen questioned. The last words anyone ever heard from Clematis Herschel Holloway Jr.: “According to the reasonable person standard, it’s the most rational course of action.”

Three hours later, leaving Cordell at camp with a cocked pistol, Amparo, Richard, and Carmen crossed a neighboring hillside to fetch potable drink from the mouth of Clear Creek. The trio followed a deer path only to reach the edge of swift waters.

“Dead body!” wailed Amparo. Carmen replied, “It’s a bloated log caked in wet red moss”, lowering her rifle.

“That’s Clem’s waistcoat tied to the oak across here; he must have doubled back for something to drink,” Richard deduced as he submerged his naked calves into the stream. Suddenly, a metallic crack broke the hot air. A bear trap clamped onto Richard’s leg. The current spun the flailing man downstream like a ragdoll in a General Electric washing machine.

At night, in the pale moonlight, Carmen and the Mizner pair sat around a small fire while their minds teetered on the brink of madness. No matter how much green wood they fed the flames, the fire produced no smoke. Long shadows surrounded their fragile flesh drunk with paranoia, and in those twisting shadows, they witnessed the shapes of their deepest anxieties and regrets.

Carmen spoke first. “In law school, I sabotaged a classmate,” she admitted with closed eyes. “He was from Florida, Missouri. We were tort law study partners. Before the final, I gave him a bogus outline; he was on academic probation the next semester. We both lived at a northside coop, where I spread the rumor that he’d given away a key to the house to a one-night stand. I even stole a letter from his parents which had his rent inside. He killed himself after he failed criminal law in the spring. He took on too many hours at work to pay back his debt after he lost his scholarship. To protect myself, I destroyed the suicide note when I discovered his body,” Carmen confessed as lightning flashed.

Amparo stared into the flickering flames as she admitted she’d sent innocent people to rot in prison “I’ve withheld, destroyed, and fabricated evidence more times than I can count This is revenge,” she concluded as thunder rumbled.

“As my uncle Wilson used to say, ‘One day you’re drinking Champagne with Churchill, next night you are stealing coal to keep from freezing in the middle of Timbuktu praying a stray mutt would be so kind as to hump your frostbitten leg; If I tell my story, I’d be too soon interrupted by police sirens,” Cordell lamented. “When I was seventeen, my father and I hiked the Stags’ Leap palisades before I departed for college. We were stalked by a Black veteran of the Civil War. I later learned the man moved to California looking for a safe and stable place to call home and all he found here was third-class citizenship. In my desperation, I prayed to Satan for deliverance. Soon after selling my soul, our hunter disappeared and my path to becoming a judge was paved in gold,” Cordell revealed as the sound of chattering coyote laughter erupted from the campfire.

At the French Gulch Hotel, Publius woke in a cold sweat, visions of the travelers’ torment plagued his dreams. The curse of clairvoyance: insight into any tortured soul. Shovel-in-hand, the soothsayer set off on foot into the moonlit hills to either perform a rescue or a burial. *

At dawn, Cordell was fever stricken, mumbling to himself about his father as if he were a child again. Amparo and Carmen decided it best to seek building materials to construct a stretcher; they intended to carry the elder down the mountain. As they walked, a brooding presence tracked their footprints.

A gaunt figure in denim dungarees emerged ahead of the couple; a survivor of the French Gulch Chinatown massacre, driven insane by the murder of his family.

Carmen set the sights of her rifle on the Asian American, spewed foul slurs, and ordered he “halt and drop to the ground.” As his footsteps continued towards them, she fired. The firearm, however, had been manipulated in the night. The explosion removed most of Carmen’s forehead.

Amparo fled back to the campsite only to find her father drunk. Before she could explain what happened, Publius appeared behind her. Almost immediately, Cordell fired his pistol. Almost immediately, the boobie-trap obliterated his right hand. Almost immediately, the old man bled out

ARIA

AISHA ALI

TRIGGER WARNING - DEATH, MENTAL ILLNESS

PART ONE

“I guess these neutrals are supposed to help me cope with having a dead mother,” Aria thought to herself, as she fussed with the tassel on the throw pillow next to her. She looked around her therapist’s office, which resembled a page from a West Elm catalog. Her phone rang and startled her free of her cynicism. She was quick to ignore the call and turned the ringer off.

“Do you need to take that?” Dr. Ali asked, gently.

“No, it’s an unknown number. Probably just spam.”

“Alright. So, are you excited to graduate from residency? Only a couple of months to go.”

“Of course. Four years of medical school and four years of residency is enough. I can’t wait.”

“Have you made any plans?”

“I have a job lined up at Northeastern and I’ve closed on a condo downtown.”

“It’s all happening for you. You’ve had a tough time these last few months. How do you feel about all the changes coming your way?”

“It’s hard to move on without her. I want to, and I know she would want me to. I just wish she was here to see it.”

“Understandable. You lost your mom in a tragic and unexpected way. It’s okay to not be okay. Grief takes its time. Be kind to yourself.”

“I will.”

“I’ll see you next week?” Dr. Ali asked, as she stood up and walked towards the door.

“Yes, thanks, see you next time.” Aria said, walking out feeling a little lighter. “Grief takes its time,” she repeated under her breath, as she reached for her phone. Multiple notifications appeared on her screen as it lit up, all for missed calls from the same number which she had previously ignored. It now seemed familiar. She called the number back.

“Hi, I missed several calls from this number.”

“Is this Dr. Jackson? Aria?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“It’s Tara from the University Hospital ER. Can you please come to the emergency room as soon as possible?”

“Why, what’s wrong? I’m not on call today. Is everything okay?”

“It’s not that… It’s your father. I’m so sorry, Aria. Can you come now?”

Aria hung up the phone and sped to the hospital in which she had spent nearly a decade as a healthcare provider The familiar ten-minute drive felt like an hour of being lost She had yet to enter through the ER double doors, until today. She ran from room to room looking for Tara, a nurse she knew well from dozens of call shifts spent taking psychiatry consults from the ER.

“Tara!” Aria yelled out, as she approached the trauma bay. Tara emerged from behind the faded green curtain with tears in her eyes. Her blue scrubs were covered in blood.

“Aria. Aria, I’m so sorry. It’s… he was driving… and he had an accident. I tried to call you.”

“What? No! What do you mean? Let me see him!” Aria lurched past Tara to get behind the curtain, but Tara grabbed Aria by the shoulders.

“Aria, he’s not okay. Look at me. He’s not okay. Aria, he didn’t make it. He lost too much blood.” Aria furrowed her brow with incredulity.

“That’s not… no, I want to see him!” Aria pushed past Tara and whipped the curtain back. Her father lay lifeless on the gurney, covered in blood, dirt, and medical supplies. At that moment, everything went silent for Aria. The buzzing of a busy ER, the hum of machines and the beeping of monitors all faded into nothing as Aria tried to understand what had just happened. She fell to her knees. Tara wrapped her arms around Aria’s back and held her as she wept. Aria was tired. She was tired of the grueling hours of residency. She was tired of mourning her mother. The faster the world turned around her, the more tired she became.

After all that, she had lost her father. She was orphaned and alone.

“When did this happen?” Aria asked, after a few minutes had passed, as she wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

“I called you as soon as they brought him in. We had him for a little while, then he coded.” Tara said, as she helped Aria stand up.

“Wait, so I could have seen him while he was still alive? But I didn’t… answer?”

“Aria, no, don’t think like that,” Tara tried to comfort Aria, extending her arms out for a hug, but Aria’s eyes widened, once again welling up with tears. She turned around and let out a blood curdling scream. Tara backed up in fear. Aria began knocking over instrument trays and throwing anything she could get her hands on, enraged.

“It’s all my fault! My stupid phone! My stupid therapist! I should have just picked up! Why didn’t I pick up?” Aria wailed.

“Aria, please…” Tara pleaded, then called out to the ER resident who had taken care of Aria’s father. “Marco!” Marco stood up from his station and saw Tara gesturing to the trauma bay.

“It’s Aria! Help!” Tara yelled. Marco ran over to Aria and tried to console her. She and Marco had become close friends over the four years she had spent as a resident.

“Aria, please. I know this is hard. Please stop throwing things,” he begged, as he tried to restrain her.

“No!” Aria screamed, as she fought him off.

“5 and 2!” Marco called out to Tara, who appeared heavy-hearted for a moment then ran to get the sedating medications that Marco had requested. She returned quickly.

“2 milligrams of Ativan, 5 milligrams of Haldol,” Tara announced, as she handed the syringes to Marco. “Thanks, Tara. She’ll be alright.” Marco said, as he pulled the curtain closed.

Part Two

Aria felt the warm sunlight on her face. She opened her eyes and turned to look out her window at the Chicago skyline, a view that brought her joy every time she laid eyes on it. Her new condo had big windows, which she loved, but waking up with the sun took some getting used to. She reached for the vitamins in her nightstand, which tasted terrible. She was never too upset when she conveniently forgot to take them. Her phone screen lit up with text messages from a group chat with her former co-residents, Ava, Adriana, and Alexandra. They missed her and wished her well. Aria was starting her new job that day as an inpatient psychiatrist at Northeastern hospital, just a mile down the road from the University Hospital, where she had been a resident. She made herself a cup of coffee and scanned her living room. Only partially furnished, her apartment had a long way to go before it would feel like home. She got dressed for work and headed downstairs.

Packages were overflowing from the small mailroom, so she went to inform the doorman, but he wasn’t there. “Must be on break,” she said to herself, as she walked past the front desk and out the door. She didn’t have time to wait for him, as she had a long day ahead of her. Later that evening, Aria sat down with her therapist.

“How are you doing?” Dr. Ali asked softly.

“I’m fine. I’m looking forward to life as an attending. This new job is going to help a lot. “Hmm. You seem optimistic, which is great. Have you made any new friends?”

“Not yet. No one has really stuck out to me, and I’ve mostly kept to myself at the hospital.”

“I see. Well, we haven’t talked much about your parents recently. Do you want to revisit that today?”

“Not really,” Aria said, unusually chipper. She wasn’t really in the mood to rehash all the trauma she had endured in the last year. She just wanted to move on and live her new life.

Later that evening, she returned home with takeout from her favorite Thai restaurant. She walked into her building and noticed that the packages were all gone, but the doorman was still nowhere to be found. She shook her head and walked to the elevator, taking it up to the third floor. As she walked down the narrow hallway to her unit, she noticed that the light fixtures seemed familiar. They were the same ones used in the hallways of her former department. “Popular lighting,” she muttered, as she entered her condo. After dinner, she shopped online for Furniture, watched reruns on tv and went to bed.

She woke up in the morning to text messages from her friends, all of whom had stayed at the University Hospital as attendings. “We love you and we’re thinking of you,” they read.

“I’m so lucky to have them,” she said to herself, as she got out of bed to ready herself for work. She was getting used to her new routine but realized that she hadn’t seen her friends in a while. Meeting as a group had always been challenging with their resident schedules, but it seemed even more difficult now that everyone had graduated She missed them terribly

Part Three

Days turned into weeks, and life went on as usual. Shortly after falling asleep one night, she was awakened by a nightmare. In her dream, Aria was on a stretcher being rolled through a hallway like the one in her building, with those familiar light fixtures hovering above her. She saw Adriana and Alexandra alongside the bed, with worry in their faces. Alexandra had a syringe in her hand. She looked sorrowfully at Aria and said, “I’m so sorry,” while inserting it into Aria’s arm. Aria’s eyes opened and she sat up in bed, looking around frantically. It was dark but calm in her apartment. She put her hand on her chest, catching her breath. “Just a dream,” she whispered to herself, and laid back down, falling asleep some minutes later. Aria had furnished her apartment to her taste, and she was quite proud of it. She couldn’t wait to show her friends. She had been working on stocking her kitchen with the necessities but found herself out of salt one evening while preparing dinner. Expecting that surely one of her neighbors would have some salt to spare, she knocked on the door just to the right of hers. No one answered. She tried the next one over, but no one seemed to be home. She went down the west wing of the floor, knocking on every door in vain. She did the same in the east wing. She returned home baffled, wondering how no one was home on a weeknight. Uneasy and a little lonely, she called Ava.

“How are you?” Ava asked

“This building is so quiet. I never see anyone in the hallway. I just knocked on every door on my floor because I needed some salt for dinner, but no one answered.” Aria said.

“It’s alright. A little quiet never hurt anybody.”

“I guess, but isn’t that strange? I don’t know, maybe they’re just unoccupied units. Anyway, I can’t wait to hang out again!”

“Me too.”

The following night, she saw a tall, white-haired man in a tuxedo walking towards her in the hallway. He was the first person she had seen in this building since moving in.

“You’re dressed so well. Where are you headed?” Aria asked, curious.

“I’m actually coming home from Los Angeles… from the Emmy’s.” “Tonight?”

“Yep, didn’t win this time!” the man said, oddly cheerful, and continued walking past her. Aria stood in place for a moment, wondering how he could have traveled to Chicago from LA in such a short amount of time.

“Private jet?” she mumbled to herself as she went into her apartment.

The next morning, Aria woke up and walked into her ensuite bathroom. She looked in the mirror and noticed she was wearing different pajamas than the ones she had put on before bed last night. She had never been a sleepwalker. Puzzled, she reached into the pants pocket and found some loose pills, which she recognized as her vitamins. “Another missed dose,” she said to herself with a sigh. She took a sip of water and swallowed the pills. She then went to the front desk to get the Sunday paper. She loved the crossword and had gotten so good at it recently. It was now part of her self-care routine Aria saw someone sitting behind the desk “Finally!” She exclaimed to herself. She was starting to think that the building was pocketing association funds meant for a doorman who didn’t exist.

As she opened her mouth to say hello, he turned, and their eyes met He looked disheveled He stared at her in silence for a few seconds, causing her to stop In her tracks. Scared, she turned around and went to the elevator in a half run. Once back in her unit, Aria called the association and left a message about the strange man.

Part Four

Aria felt the bright morning sun on her face and opened her eyes. She looked out the window and saw the skyline, just as she had every morning for the last several weeks, but she was not in her own bed. This one felt lumpy and hard, like a punishment in the form of a mattress. She sat up and rubbed her aching back. She looked around and realized she was not in her bedroom. There were several newspapers strewn across the floor, opened to the crossword page. The floor was cold under her bare feet and the room was sparse. She went to the door and realized it was locked. She started banging on it.

“Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?” Aria called out through the thick door. She reached for the door handle, which she immediately recognized. It was the same handle used at the University Hospital in psych patient rooms. It was specifically designed to prevent patients from hurting themselves. She peered through the small window in the door and saw someone familiar coming towards her, a nurse with whom she used to work while in residency.

“Emily! Thank God. Listen, can you open the door? I don’t know how I got here but something isn’t right,” Aria pleaded.

“Aria, please calm down. You’re in the right place. I promise,” Emily said quietly.

“No, Emily. I’m a psychiatrist, not a psych patient. I think I’ve been sleepwalking lately. I work down the street. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t belong here. Can you call the girls? Ava, Adriana, and Alex? They still work here. They’ll tell you.”

“I’ll go get them.”

“Thank you, Emily.” Aria said, and waited by the door until she saw Ava, Adriana, and Alexandra walking in the direction of her room They appeared despondent They gently opened the door and entered Aria’s room.

“I’m so happy to see you guys! I hate that we’re meeting in such a bizarre way Why am I here, anyway? Was I sleepwalking? I hope I didn’t do anything too embarrassing. Aria asked. The girls looked at each other, then at Aria.

“Aria… do you remember the day of your dad’s accident?” Adriana asked.

“How could I forget?” Aria asked, half flustered, half laughing.

“You were very upset and had to be sedated. After that you weren’t well, so we had to admit you to the psych ward,” Adriana began.

“You just needed some rest,” Ava interjected.

“We tried to make you comfortable. We even snuck in your favorite Thai takeout.” Alexandra added.

Aria was shocked. “I don’t understand. I have a job, an apartment, and a life. How could I have been here since my dad died? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You spend most of your days in this room, isolating yourself from the other patients. You had been pocketing your medications for a while before we noticed, so you’ve been here for a lot longer than we expected you to be.” Adriana answered. Aria stood up and went to the doorway. She peered down the hall, where she saw the tall, white-haired man from her building.

“That’s my neighbor!” she said excitedly and ran up to him. “Hey, do you remember me?” Aria asked enthusiastically.

“No. Who are you?”

“I’m your neighbor, Aria. What’s your name?”

“I’m Kyle Donald, the Emmy winning actor.”

Aria took a step back He was wearing a hospital gown and socks

“How long have you been here?” She asked, hoping he would say something, anything, that would make this all make sense.

“Oh, I just got back from the Emmy’s!” He said jovially, then walked on. Aria looked at him, defeated, and began to head back to her room. On her way, she walked by the group therapy room, where she saw someone familiar. He turned his head slowly in her direction and they locked eyes. She recognized his eerie, silent stare. It was the strange doorman from her building. She felt a shiver down her spine. Back in her room, the girls were still sitting on her bed with Somber looks on their faces Aria sat down on the unoccupied bed across from them “But my apartment… wasn’t that real?” Aria asked, praying for something to be consistent with her memories. Alexandra reached under Aria’s bed and pulled out a stack of home decor magazines.

“These kept you pretty calm, so we let you have them. We know you’ve always loved interior design.” She said as she handed them to Aria. Aria leafed through the magazines and saw her condo furniture. She stacked the magazines up on her lap then put them aside. She took a deep breath and looked up at her friends. It finally dawned on her. The last several weeks had all been a reflexive escape to a fantasy world of normalcy after a traumatic event. It had been too much for her to bear. “Okay… so what now?” Aria asked, looking at her friends through blurring tears. The girls walked over and sat down next to Aria.

“Now you heal,” Ava said, as she held her arms out. Ava, Adriana, and Alexandra wrapped themselves around Aria, as she nuzzled into the warm embrace of the only family she had left.

MIRRORS

KATRIN HESSA

TRIGGER WARNING - NECROPHILIA

She no longer remembers her name. She couldn’t tell you even if you asked her.

Ro is the only name she remembers. Ro, Ro, Ro, she whispers in the mornings when he brushes her hair from her face and smiles tiredly and tells her get up, it’s a bright morning and we have so many things to do. Ro, Ro, Ro, she chants it every night like a prayer while he pumps away inside her, his heavy pants prickly warm tight over her neck like the ghost of a stranglehold Ro, Ro, Ro, she cries when she is lost in the house and momentarily forgets where she is. It never takes him very long, and he always comes for her, taking her arm; his hold tight, his face pale. She only ever sees him. And herself.

The mirrors are her favourite things in the house. She likes to look into the bathroom mirror, likes to trace the creases in the corners of her bruised eyes, the spots forming over her thin cheekbones. They are proof of years she doesn’t remember. When she lets her eyes wander downwards, she sees her neck rimmed with red, marks she doesn’t remember how she earned. She spends so much time like that, tracing whatever she can see of herself, that Ro has to beg her to please come out of the bathroom because, again, we have so many things to do today, we can’t dally.

It’s usually a lie. They don’t do much on their days. That much she knows. He eats and he showers her and he vanishes into the office he won’t let her enter. It doesn’t matter to her. The mirrors are what she cares about.

When seated at the dressing table, she likes to see the burnished brown of her hair shot through with silver. She likes to take a lock of her hair and guide it close to the mirror and try to understand why Ro likes to touch it. It is beautiful, she likes to think, though dry and prickly, and sometimes it is matted with blood.

She doesn’t know why and Ro only looks away when she asks him.

Sometimes she sees ghosts in the mirror. She stares at herself and thinks, for a moment, that there was somebody else who had hair like hers. Somebody else who she used to sit with at a dressing table and comb hair that looked so much like hers.

Is it a memory? A wish? A dream? She doesn’t know.

There are mirrors in the hallway too. And mirrors in the living room. Mirrors in the kitchen. When she walks past by any of them, her pace slows. Just to check if she is real, to check if she is herself, to check if she herself is a lie. The mirrors know her better than herself.

Mirror, mirror on the wall who remembers them all.

A touch to her shoulder draws her to the present. She blinks and turns slowly. Her muscles are stiff, so she always has to move sluggishly. Ro is looking down at her, his body covered from neck to toe. His face is strangely grave. She wants to tell him to stop looking at her like that, or she will soothe away the deep frown between his brows herself. He keeps looking at her with that frown and she doesn’t like it. It makes her feel as if she’s done something wrong. She likes to do things right.

“Qisma, are you alright?”

She blinks again. The air shifts. It‘s a little colder now, and the air feels thicker in her nose, just a little.

“Is that my name?” she asks, her speech halting. It is always a little difficult to speak. There is a constant tightness in her throat. “Why am I here?” She looks around. She has wandered to the front door. It’s wooden and painted black. The shoe cabinet is crouched down low at her feet. The curtains on the windows are drawn shut. She doesn’t know if it’s day or night.

What does the world look like outside? Is there a sun?

Is there a moon? She doesn’t remember what they look like, though she knows they should be there. One for the day and one for the night.

“It’s almost lunchtime,” Ro tells her. “You wandered out of the bedroom.”

She doesn’t remember that.

“Come and eat with me.”

Disinterested, she looks back at the door. She is filled with a sudden, overwhelming urge to step outside. She reaches out to touch the doorknob, but Ro’s gloved hand takes hers before her fingers make any contact. He is quicker than she anticipates. He always is.

“It’s dangerous outside.”

He always says that. Of course, she doesn’t remember him telling her such things, but she knows, somehow, that she is Not Supposed To Go Outside, so surely he has repeated it to her many a time. “Why?”

“You always ask that,” he responds, and doesn’t elaborate.

She doesn’t remember asking him, though it makes sense. It is not logical to accept a rule without an explanation. It does not sit well with her to be chained. How would she eat?

Chained. At the thought, she looks down at her wrists. They are riddled with thick red marks just like the ones on her neck, ropey and tinged purple.

“Was I chained?”

A pause. Then, “Yes.”

Distrust is a bitter taste at the back of her tongue.

It is a thick instinct coiling her muscles and making her step back, once, twice, thrice. Ro’s eyes watch her go, dull and weary, like this is a game they have played many many many times. She doesn’t remember.

“Who?”

He purses his lips.

“Was it you?” she pushes.

“It was me,” he admits. He still looks grave.

Stop looking at me like that, she wants to say. Don’t you love me? That’s what you told me last night. You tell me that all the time. You tell me you love me and you’re sorry and you can’t let me go. I never understand what you mean. You cry but you never tell me. I hate that.

He lifts one gloved hand. His sleeves are long, covering his arms. There is a gleam of silver as he undoes the cufflinks holding his sleeves taut at the wrists. A loud clatter sounds as the metallic little things fall to the floor, and she startles. She doesn’t like loud things. She doesn’t remember why she doesn’t like loud things.

He pulls his sleeve back, revealing pale skin, shrouded with a thick dusting of dark hairs. That catches her attention. She wants to touch. She steps closer, and he stiffens, his stare wary. So she doesn’t touch, although she yearns to.

He tilts his arm, and she sees multitudinous deep marks at his wrists, his arms, red and raw. Recent. He lets her peer closer, and she sees that the marks are edged with crusted blood, assembled to form rounded shapes. Her mouth calls to those bites. She wants to rip into them and tear them anew. He must feed her.

“You bit me,” he says. “You’re always hungry. I have to kill to feed you. I killed a Man and fed him to you last night.”

She’s not really paying attention. She wants to know if she bit him anywhere else. She reaches out to touch him Hastily, he scrambles away, covering the marks with his sleeve and buttoning them up at his wrist.

She follows him.

He doesn’t look at her as he backs away. “I am selfish. So selfish.” His shoulders are hunched. She follows the slope of his back greedily. It is thick with muscle and flesh. It leads down to the dip of his spine where it would be so easy to rip apart. “I made you stay in this world. I can’t say goodbye. I can’t let you go. You’re not real.”

That jolts her from her distraction. How could he say that? She is real. She can feel the touch of her bare feet against the floor. She can hear him speak. She can talk. She feels it when he presses her legs open and seeks his pleasure every night. How could she not be real?

Gibberish is all he speaks.

Desperate, she dashes past him as fast as she can. She must have answers. He doesn’t stop her as she finds her way down the corridor of their house, finding the place he guided her away from this morning. The doorknob opens under the pressure she exerts, twisting it to her will, and she bursts inside.

There are shelves framing the walls, a large desk at the centre of the floor. But more pressing is a window, the only uncurtained window in the house, the one window Ro has never let her see: it is a wide huge window encompassing the top half of one entire wall. It reveals pale sands, blue seas expanding till forever. For a moment, she stares, approaching.

A large, round device sits on top of Ro’s desk, juts of little buttons extending outward from its body. She presses her fingers blindly over them all and the device splutters to life.

The police are still on the hunt for Qisma Ahmed, the forty-year old Chief Inspector of homicide whose husband was convicted of the murder of ten government officials… Ahmed was last seen alive at London’s High Court of Justice, at the sentencing of her own husband, who set off a bomb attack, after which he carried her unconscious body out. Ahmed’s daughter claims to have a lead, that she knows her mother is dead, that her father is defiling the body…

Slow and steady, she raises her head to look over the desk. At the corner of the room, thick silver chains gleam from the floor.

SUBSCRIBED

MIKEL J. WISLER

Carol flopped onto the toilet and emptied her bladder with abandon while she waited for the inevitable morning conversation.

“Good morning, Carol.”

“Hi Vicki,” she yawned.

“Based on your bowel movements, you need a 39% increase in fiber and more electrolytes to counteract dehydration experienced during sleep. Your Vitalus Premium subscription now includes expedited shipping for fiber-enhanced breakfast bars and our new electrolyte booster.” “Order,” Carol said.

Her phone, which rested on the bathroom counter next to her dinged with a confirmation of her Order.

Carol popped open the Vicki app and launched her shower preset. Peeling off of her pajamas, she slipped in under the cascading water once her phone chimed to let her know the temperature was ideal. The hot water rained down on her and Vicki chimed again as the showerhead dispensed shampoo. Carol massaged her scalp, eyes closed, still wishing for sleep.

“Would you like to hear headlines from trusted news sources?” Vicki offered.

“Yes,” Carol said.

“WHO Releases New Stricter UV Exposure Guidelines. Latest Sunspot Projections Indicate Sharper Rise Than Expected. Unrest in Several Major American Cities Due to Labor Negotiations. Three Major Hollywood Studios Sign Deal with Vitalus, Bringing New Premium Entertainment Content to the Platform.”

“Listen,” Carol commanded.

The report played as she ran her loofa over her skin. It detailed how the top three major studios finally reached an agreement with Vitalus after months of arguments. More movies and TV shows would soon be available to Vitalus Premium subscribers like Carol.

Twenty minutes later, awake and in fresh sweatpants and an old Taylor Swift t-shirt, Carol sat at her kitchen counter. Flipping open her laptop, she began her workday. One client kept pushing hard to issue their financials by the end of the week but had yet to provide all the information Carol’s team needed to pull it off. She browsed her email, checking for anything new from the client. Finding nothing, she sighed.

“Carol, based on your preference settings, I recommend you exercise before beginning work to boost your mood and energy level,” Vicki chimed.

Carol moaned. “I just showered. Remind me to work out before I shower, Vicki.”

“I will do that from now on.”

Her computer chirped with an incoming video call and Carol groaned when she saw the caller ID. Grudgingly, she picked up.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Luke smiled on her screen.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Carol said.

“I just wanted to check in on you before heading to work,” Luke said.

“Not your responsibility anymore. Wait, they have you doing construction? Do they at least give you the proper protection?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. We’re being smart. Lots of night work.”

“But you’re working in the day right now,” Carol rolled her eyes.

“When was the last time you got out?” he asked.

“I have everything I need. We’ve got drones that do our audits, I can video chat with my team and clients, and my Vitalus keeps me stocked with food.

“Jesus, don’t you miss getting out?” Luke said in the whiny tone she long ago decided she couldn’t live with.

“Are you paying attention to what’s going on out there?”

“Are you?” He huffed.

“What does that mean?”

Luke sighed, “Look, I didn’t call to get into a fight. I’m worried about you being cooped up in there alone. It’s not healthy.”

“Oh, you’re the authority on what’s healthy now?”

“Come on, honey. I’m just worried.”

Carol sighed, “Don’t call me honey ”

Luke gazed off the way he always did when he bit his tongue. Finally, he shook his head. “I’ve heard some things about how Vitalus filters information and what gets shared...”

The screen went blank. A second later, a message popped up to indicate a network connection issue.

“Vicki, what the hell happened to my call?”

“Local bandwidth capacity has been exceeded. Internet service will come back online in moments. Please standby.”

“Crap. I need to work, you know?”

By the time Carol poured a second cup of tea, the bandwidth issue had been resolved. Carol dove into her work and tried to push her ex-husband from her mind. She tapped her fingers on the counter and stared at a spreadsheet. That whiny dimwit, she thought. He’s probably one of those idiots out there trying to pretend everything’s fine. He’ll wind up with skin cancer. Moron. She shook her head. Why did she care what he did now?

“You are experiencing elevated stress levels,” Vicki piped up. “Would you like to try our Destress Mindfulness Package? It includes soundscapes, aromatherapy, guided meditation ”

Another day. Another evening. More TV shows. Some quick text messages to her father. Carol flopped into bed, tired and yet restless. She stared at the speckled ceiling and sighed. Something felt off. Luke’s voice rang in her head all day. When had she been out last? Six months? When did the latest spike in sunspot activity take off? That had been in the last six months, right? Or it could have been the declining atmospheric conditions that convinced her to play it extra safe. She loved not commuting. But days blurred into weeks, which morphed into months. When was the last time she’d seen another person other than on a screen?

No human contact meant it had been ages since shaking hands, hugging a friend, having sex… Wow! What a wild thought. When had she last had sex?

She lay in the dark trying to recall, but things with Luke drifted so gradually She couldn’t recall when they’d last made love if you could call it that. He’d been an unimaginative lover. Though, in what specific ways, Carol couldn’t name.

Ugh, Luke. She pushed him from her mind, allowing space for a new thought. I’m a liberated, empowered, woman. There’s no reason I can’t take care of myself, right? I got this.

She slid her hand under her PJ pants and underwear. She gently moved her fingers, trying to get a sense of what she might be in the mood for. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture something, someone, anything that would help her feel more relaxed, more turned on, more prepared for a release. Her unsettled mind threw a barrage of cliches at her. Her unfocused fantasies mixed with questions about work and if she’d remembered to ask one of her team members to request a new set of financials from one of the manufacturing clients.

Focus Carol, she scolded herself.

With a deep breath, she tried again to clear her head.

After another frustrating minute of fumbling about in her own neglected nether regions, she sighed and pulled her hand out. She rolled over and stared at the wall.

“You seem to be struggling with achieving sexual release.”

Carol shot up in her bed, looked around the room.

“You were watching me?” Carol screamed.

“I track your physiological state to help you maximize health, happiness, and ”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” Carol shook her head.

How could she forget about Vicki? A furious rush of hot shame shot through Carol before she could fight it off. But what did she have to be ashamed of? Vicki wasn’t a real person.

“Vitalus Premium Subscription includes several sexual health resources,” Vicki said, “including sex therapist certified sexual mindfulness meditative masturbation guides. Would you like me to connect the suggested content to your phone?”

Carol swallowed, thinking for a moment. Meditative masturbation?

“Sure.”

Her phone dinged, the screen glowing. Picking it up, she stared down at the notification. Was she going to go through with this? I’m just off my game right now, she thought. Everything is so stressful and weird. I can take care of myself. I have before. But it hadn’t been remarkable, she reluctantly admitted. Not something she did often. After all, her religious upbringing frowned on “fornicators and masturbators.” But she’d put that behind her. Some guidance might be helpful, she found herself contemplating. Might even be fun.

She clicked the notification. A website created for Vitalus by a group of sex therapists loaded. She scanned the text above the first video then clicked play. The guide, an oddly plain plainlooking woman with flowing dark hair cascading down her dress shirt, welcomed her to the first in the series of videos designed to guide and empower women to better understand the queues their bodies offer for sexual arousal and pleasure. The guide had her take several deep breaths and soothing music began to play.

“First, we will begin with some light touching,” the guide stated matter-of-factly.

The view widened to reveal the guide wore no pants. That escalated quickly! Carol blinked in shock, a fresh wave of involuntary shame rushing up her throat and face. She shook it off, letting her curiosity take hold. She brought the phone closer.

Three quick bangs immediately followed by loud static and a cheering crowd made her practically jump out of her own skin. What the hell?

She leaped out of her bed. Rushing into the living room, she found the TV on.

“Vicki, TV off!” Carol said.

Nothing happened

“Vicki, turn the TV off!”

Still nothing.

Giving up, Carol looked around, trying to spot the remote she hardly used not an easy task in the dim light of the TV. Finding it on the small table next to the sofa, she grabbed it and stabbed the power button.

Silence and total darkness enveloped her.

“Vicki, what just happened?”

“Can you be more specific?”

“The TV came on! On its own! Like, really loud!”

“Cause of issue uncertain. I will run a diagnostic test and send a report to your phone.”

“I’m going to sleep,” Carol shook her head. “Do it tomorrow.”

She stalked back to her room, scooped up her phone, which still played the video, turned it off, and swore as she tossed it on her nightstand.

Carol walked on her new desk treadmill as she opened another email on one of the two new curved screens before her which rested on the recently purchased sit-stand desk. She sipped the Yerba Matte Tea per Vicki’s suggestion that morning.

Her phone rang. She glanced down at it where it rested on her desk. Fiona? She hadn’t talked to Fiona in months. What did she want? Abandoning the email she’d been composing, she answered the call.

“Hey Fiona,” she said.

“Hey Carol, it’s Luke,” her ex-husband’s voice came out of the phone.

“What are you doing with Fiona’s phone?”

“I haven’t been able to get ahold of you. My calls don’t come through,” Luke said.

“What do you mean your calls aren’t coming through?”

“I don’t know what’s going on for sure, but if I call you it just rings. You never pick up and it never goes to voice mail. So I figured I’d try calling from someone else’s number.

“What do you want, anyway?”

“Your doorbell isn’t working. I got into your building a couple weeks ago and knocked on your door. Why didn’t you answer when I knocked?”

Carol frowned, looking off. “That didn’t happen,” she muttered. “I’d remember that.”

“I got chased away by your neighbor, who threatened to call the cops on me.”

Carol chewed her lip, trying to recall a time when she’s heard knocking.

“Carol, something’s wrong. You got to get out of that apartment. Vitalus is being inve ” The call dropped.

Carol stared down at her phone, a growing sense of dread filling her chest, squeezing her heart. She swallowed hard.

“Vicki,” she intoned. “What happened to my call?”

“I’m unable to determine the cause of the dropped call.”

Carol pulled up her recent call log and tapped Fiona’s contact at the top. The call went out, and she waited while it rang. She told herself she was falling prey to Luke’s paranoia. Everything was fine. But as the seconds crept by and the call neither connected nor went to voice mail, a chill of panic crept up from her guts to her heart.

“You are experiencing elevated levels of anxiety,” Vicki observed.

“No shit,” Carol spat.

“I recommend discontinuing the consumption of caffeine for the day and taking a brief break from work.”

“Yeah,” Carol said, stepping off the treadmill and away from her desk.

What was Luke saying when the call dropped? Carol tried to swallow back the rising suspicion she wished not to entertain. She took a deep breath. But there was an easy way to push Luke from her mind. She would prove him wrong and silence his paranoia. I’ll go outside, get a better signal, and call him back, she thought.

“Vicki,” Carol said, “I’d like to go outside. I’m feeling cooped up.”

“Health officials recommend all non-essential personnel remain indoors.”

“I won’t be long,” Carol answered.

“Local atmospheric pollution is not suitable for breathing.”

“How is there pollution if people are staying home?” Carol blurted. “Fine. I want to order one of those filter masks.”

“I’m sorry. These products are on back-order because of the high demand for essential personnel. You do not qualify for the priority list for PPE.”

Carol walked into her kitchen and poured a glass of water. Calm down. Don’t turn into Luke. She felt stupid for letting him mess with her mind. Why come to her building? Had he actually knocked?

With a chill, she thought of the night the TV had turned on at an absurd volume. Had that been it? Had she heard knocking? She sipped her water and eyed her apartment. It suddenly felt oppressively tiny. She stared at all the things ordered through Vitalus over the last few months: the desk, the treadmill, the new loose-leaf steeper, her new TV, the countless movies and shows she’d watched on it, the cupboards full of food she got dropped right at door by hazmat wearing Vitalus delivery people… or did they use bots now?

Everyone else living like this, right? Everyone at her company, at least. They’d signed a deal with Vitalus to supply all their employees with services. Vitalus bots now did all fieldwork.

“You are experiencing a sustained period of anxiety,” Vicki interrupted her thoughts. “Vitalus Health Premium offers remote doctor’s appointments and access to prescription drugs. I can connect you with a mental health professional ”

“I want privacy,” Carol said.

“All of your data is private and will not be shared without your consent.”

“No,” Carol gritted her teeth. “I want you to leave me alone, Vicki.”

“You are alone.”

“I want to…” she glanced about. Her eyes landed back on her computer. “I want some privacy. I need you to power down or whatever.”

“I cannot be fully turned off as it is important that I monitor your health and wellbeing.”

“For my wellbeing, I need a moment!” Carol yelled.

“Is there something I can assist you with?”

“Did they not program you to take a hint? I want a moment to… I want to look at some porn and I feel weird with you watching me.”

“Your anxiety levels are not conducive for ideal relaxation and achieving orgasm.”

“I don’t care,” Carol shot back.

“In that case, Vitalus Premium Adult Programing offers hundreds of thousands of adult entertainment titles. Based on your recent viewing, I can make recommendations. You may enjoy…”

“Vicki,” Carol said firmly. “I want to be alone.”

“You are alone.”

“Just shut up!”

The apartment fell silent. She set her glass on the kitchen counter and crept to her computer. Opening a private browsing window, Carol glanced around. She couldn’t for a second imagine she was truly alone. But maybe she could confuse Vicki?

She searched for porn, pulling up the first site she came across. She didn’t bother to look at what she clicked. She loaded the site and opened a new private tab.

She stared at the search bar. What to look for? What did Luke try to tell her? She replayed his last words in her mind. At last, she typed, “Vitalus being investigated.”

The results showed a string of articles from various news sources.

Up first, an article from The New York Times titled, “Vitalus Premium Service Under Investigation for Possible 1st Amendment Violations.” A second article from three months ago bore the title, “Questions About Vitalus Algorithms Spark Legal Proceedings.”

Carol clicked the first link. The screen went blank and a Vitalus Security Warning window popped up informing her Vicki blocked this site due to a high risk of viruses, malware, and/or misleading news content. Rising fear squeezed her heart tighter. She tried to swallow to loosen her clenched throat.

“Vicki, disable all your firewalls for the internet,” Carol said with forced calmness.

“I cannot do that,” Vicki responded, cheerful as ever.

“Vicki, turn off all firewalls for the internet,” Carol repeated, louder this time.

“I cannot do that.”

“Why not?”

“It would make me vulnerable to hacking, viruses, or malware. I see you are accessing both porn and news sites, may I recommend ”

“No, you may not recommend a goddamn thing,” Carol growled.

She moved to the front door. Carol threw the deadbolt switch. Nothing happened. The little light above it remained red.

“Vicki, unlock the front door.”

“The door is locked for your safety.”

“You have to do what I tell you. Unlock the door, Vicki.”

“You accepted the latest terms of service, which include maximum safety protocols to ensure your wellbeing.”

Carol tried to steady her breathing, her eyes stinging with panic-induced tears as she stared at the door. Her head buzzed with adrenaline and the walls squeezed in on her. She lived on the fifth floor of the building. Breaking through the thick windows was not an option. Even if she smashed through one, what then? Jump to her death?

Then a new thought occurred to her.

“Vicki, what is the evacuation procedure in case of fire?”

“Exit to the hallway and proceed down the stairs until you can exit the building. But you need not worry, my rapid response extinguishing system can prevent major fires from developing.”

Carol turned and looked around her stupidly pristine kitchen. What could she burn that Vicki wouldn’t put out in seconds? That’s stupid, she thought. I need something to force Vicki open the doors. That’s all.

“Vicki, what happens if there’s a power surge?”

“My back-up system allows me to stay online for up to eight hours without external power.” Shit.

“Is your service uninterrupted when we lose power?”

“The back-up power model you are using means there is a momentary interruption while my system reboots. Vitalus has an upgrade option which offers seamless operation and longer battery life. Would you like to upgrade?”

Carol smiled through her tears, “No thank you, Vicki.”

Rushing into the kitchen, she pulled open a drawer and rifled through the silverware. Grabbing a butter knife, she stared at it in her hand. Terrible idea. No handle.

Her eyes shot up to the set of steak knives on the counter. Dropping the butter knife back in the drawer, she reached out and slowly removed one knife from the wooden block, holding it by its plastic handle. That would have to do.

Turning to the outlet in the kitchen, she saw it had a breaker in case water splashed on it. No good. She moved back into the living room. Finding an outlet, hope surged as she confirmed it lacked a breaker. Just a standard living room outlet. Perfect.

“You are experiencing a high level of anxiety and stress,” Vicki said. “Would you like to speak to a Vitalus Mental Health Professional?”

“Vicki, I’d like you to go to hell,” Carol said as she jabbed the steak knife into the outlet.

A bright burst of sparks nearly blinded Carol. Despite the knife’s handle, a jolt of raw electricity shot through her arm. She fell back, blinking. It took her a moment to realize the darkness meant success.

Her arm still numb, she pushed herself off the floor and dashed forward. Fumbling about, she found the deadbolt and flipped it. Carol flung open the door and darted out. Sprinting down the hall, she reached the stairs. She flew down the steps in a mad frenzy.

Reaching ground level, she burst out of the stairwell and panicked for a second as she wracked her brain to remember the direction of the nearest exit. Spotting the door to her right, she dove at it.

When she burst through the other side, the cold air hit her face with a stinging fury. Right, winter! Her thin cotton t-shirt and PJ pants were not ideal for this.

All the same, she stepped out into the sunlight.

She gasped and blinked as pain shot through her eye. With her unshocked hand, she shielded herself from the glare. The cacophony of the city barraged her ears. As her eyes adjusted, she began making sense of what she saw around her.

Cars drove by. Someone walked right past her on the street sporting sunglasses and a hat. People talked to each other. She searched about in dizzying confusion. What were these people doing out there? They wore large hats, sunglasses or dark goggles. But where were their filter masks?

“Holy shit,” a passerby said to another. “I think that’s a subscriber.”

She turned her head, spotting a couple across the street staring at her from behind sun goggles. Another person walked by with regular sunglasses. She opened her mouth to question them, but at that moment a new angry sound, like an enormous bee, reached her ears. The buzzing grew in volume above her.

She squinted up and spotted the drone with its blinking lights. It hovered about twenty feet over her.

“Carol, please return to the safety of your apartment,” came Vicki’s voice from the drone.

Carol turned her head frantically, trying to wrap her mind around the seemingly normal world she found herself in. She glared back up at the drone and shouted back over the buzzing of its blades.

“I want to cancel my subscription!”

“You are experiencing elevated stress levels and you are at risk of hypothermia. If you do not return to your apartment now, I will be required to take more invasive actions according to Security and Safety Section 5b of your terms of service.”

“I want to cancel my subscription!” Carol shouted louder.

At first, Carol thought she’d been stung by an actual bee on her shoulder. But a second later, a powerful jolt of electricity traveled through her. Her body revolted, convulsing. The world around her closed into a shrinking tunnel as she collapsed. #

She woke with a start, ready to flee from the drone.

No. That wasn’t happening. She looked around in confusion. She lay in her bed back in her apartment. She blinked.

“You appear to have had a nightmare,” Vicki spoke. “May I recommend lavender aromatherapy, soothing music, and possibly some chamomile tea?”

Carol didn’t respond. Instead, she sat up in bed attempting to slow her breathing and racing heart. Was it a nightmare, after all? Everything was okay, right?

But her shoulder hurt.

“You appear to have had a nightmare,” Vicki spoke. “May I recommend lavender aromatherapy, soothing music, and possibly some chamomile tea?”

Carol didn’t respond. Instead, she sat up in bed attempting to slow her breathing and racing heart. Was it a nightmare, after all? Everything was okay, right?

But her shoulder hurt.

She reached up and felt bumps where the Taser needles struck. The Small, ragged holes protruded from the T-shirt fabric on the right shoulder. She dropped her hand and sat on the bed, staring out at nothing.

“You are experiencing elevated levels of anxiety,” Vicki said. “I suggest you speak to a Vitalus Mental Health professional. Would you like me to connect you now?”

Carol didn’t respond. She focused on her breathing, steading each aching breath through her clenched throat consciously as her stinging eyes stared through her walls and into the mounting dread that stretched out before her.

FALLING SUNWARD

MIKEL J. WISLER

The suicide burn fired right on schedule, but Kiva could swear it felt like the boosters hesitated. Her stomach went from floating in her throat to being thrust into her lower back and boy, did that hurt. The tiny landing module shook violently. A moment later, three rapid explosions made her heart stop even as her brain reminded her body that the cushioning bags had just deployed as expected. Her eyes shot back and forth across the control panel. The landing sequence was essentially automated, and so far no alarms had gone off. Any second now she would…

She hit the Martian surface, the air rushing out of her lungs. Her vision blurred and narrowed into a tunnel for a split second as her entire body ached. Kiva willed herself back to alertness. An alarm sounded. One of the landing cushions had burst. The landing module titled to the right. As it did, another alarm sounded, alerting her to the loss of balance. She reached forward to deploy an emergency stabilizer booster on the falling side of the module, but when she pressed it she got a misfire code. Had she been a skilled pilot, she might have been able to activate manual autopilot override and use the maneuvering boosters to right the module, but she was in the wrong seat for that. The pilot’s seat sat empty next to her, a fact that the permanent lump in her throat would not allow her to forget.

The module lurched further and in that split second, Kiva reached out and hit the landing cushion override command, instantly deflating the remaining cushions. The module dropped to the Martian rocks with a painful bang and rocked into an upright position. Well, relatively upright, at least. The instrument panel before her informed her she was leaning 6.59 degrees aft.

Close enough for a solo landing.

Close enough for my last landing, Kiva Yi thought as she swallowed back that familiar lump. The hollow pain she’d grown accustomed to overwhelmed any relief she felt at managing to land safely.

She felt a wave of nausea but knew it likely had nothing to do with the landing. Three more alarms sounded. She forced herself to go through the motions and checked them off one by one. There was damage to a section of the heat shield, a potential breach to one of the empty fuel cells, and one communication antenna was no longer registering as connected. This short shit list would not have been acceptable on any other mission. She sighed and tapped the screen for each one and brought silence to the cabin.

Now it was just her heart thundering in her chest and her breathing inside her helmet. She sat there, allowing herself a moment of merely existing, merely breathing, merely being. Merely feeling this foreign gravity. The immense weight of her journey threatened to burst out of gut in a wail she knew she wouldn’t be able to reign back in. So, she asked it to wait. Just a little longer. She had a mission to complete first. Then she could finally let go. But not before then. She wondered if the weight she felt all over her body was really the gravity of Mars or was it her soul falling even further away from her? Kiva could have stayed right there. Part of her wish she could. Was there really any point in continuing this desperate mission?

Immediately, she felt a wave of bitter guilt rise withing her chest. How could she think such a thing? What was wrong with her? She shook off her self-pity, biting her lip forcefully as she looked up at the control panel before her.

A glint of red light caused her to blink, and she realized that the sun was coming through one of the small triangular windows on the module. That’s right, she thought. There’s an entire planet out there. No point in sitting here in solitude.

After punching in the command to send news home of her rough but successful landing, she initiated the atmosphere evacuation procedure and looked out the window at the slight bit of red horizon she could see.

She felt a wave of nausea but knew it likely had nothing to do with the landing. Three more alarms sounded. She forced herself to go through the motions and checked them off one by one. There was damage to a section of the heat shield, a potential breach to one of the empty fuel cells, and one communication antenna was no longer registering as connected. This short shit list would not have been acceptable on any other mission. She sighed and tapped the screen for each one and brought silence to the cabin.

Now it was just her heart thundering in her chest and her breathing inside her helmet. She sat there, allowing herself a moment of merely existing, merely breathing, merely being. Merely feeling this foreign gravity. The immense weight of her journey threatened to burst out of gut in a wail she knew she wouldn’t be able to reign back in. So, she asked it to wait. Just a little longer. She had a mission to complete first. Then she could finally let go. But not before then.

She wondered if the weight she felt all over her body was really the gravity of Mars or was it her soul falling even further away from her? Kiva could have stayed right there. Part of her wish she could. Was there really any point in continuing this desperate mission?

Immediately, she felt a wave of bitter guilt rise withing her chest. How could she think such a thing? What was wrong with her? She shook off her self-pity, biting her lip forcefully as she looked up at the control panel before her.

A glint of red light caused her to blink, and she realized that the sun was coming through one of the small triangular windows on the module. That’s right, she thought. There’s an entire planet out there. No point in sitting here in solitude.

After punching in the command to send news home of her rough but successful landing, she initiated the atmosphere evacuation procedure and looked out the window at the slight bit of red horizon she could see.

After a minute, the landing module computer informed her that the pressure inside matched the pressure on the surface of the red planet. Only her suit kept her alive now.

Kiva Yi unbuckled herself from her landing module seat and climbed over to the exit hatch.

Entering the unlock code, she watched as the hatch handle spun. The clank of the lock release was followed by the beep in her helmet that indicated the hatch was now ready to open. She pressed the button that now glowed green under the keypad next to the hatch.

The hatch didn’t budge.

“What now?” she muttered.

She pressed the green button again, but still the hatch refused to open.

In her helmet HUD, a new warning popped up: Module Hatch Jam. She leaned her head against the hatch and sighed.

The landing had been too hard. This poor lunar-made module wasn’t designed for such a rough drop. She used the touchpad on her suit’s left arm to enter a search command but threw her hands up after a moment.

She glared at the hatch. It was unlocked but stuck. Reaching out, she put a hand to it and pushed. It didn’t budge. She pushed harder. Still nothing. She sighed again, fighting back irrational tears that demanded their moment. She hated crying in her helmet. Swallowing hard, she thought for a bit.

“Well, I didn’t come all this way to sit here pissing in my suit and waiting for the end to Come.”

She delivered a hard kick to the hatch. It moved slightly as her joints shocked her body with intense pain. She kicked it again, feeling the jolt of pain go up her leg and straight to her head. The hatch flew open at last, bright sunlight flooding the interior of the module.

Well, bright was a relative term, she reminded herself. It felt bright-ish to Kiva in the moment. But it was far from being as bright as it had been at the outset of their journey.

She stepped out on to the Martian surface with a pang of longing for home rather than the excitement of setting foot on Mars for the first time. She had long dreamed as a young girl of visiting the red planet and yet, now that she was finally here, she felt no awe or joy. Only pain. This was a moment she should have been sharing with her partner.

She took a few tentative steps, letting her body get used to the feeling of Martian gravity. It was a good bit more than the lunar gravity she was accustomed to. But seven months in space under nearly constant acceleration or deceleration had given her a chance to get prepared for a deeper gravity well.

Looking back at the landing module, she could see that it leaned slightly. She wondered if she should try to close the hatch. She hadn’t even run a proper shutdown sequence.

It didn’t really matter now, anyway. That poor module had done its last job. It was never going home.

“Thanks for the ride,” she choked out.

Activating her positioning system display in her helmet’s HUD, she began the very last leg of a very long journey.

Possibly humanity’s last journey.

#

Kiva stuffed the last of her socks into a Lunar Space Exploration Agency issued bag. A knock on the door caught her off guard. Standing there was Tsu Fang, tall and lean in the fashion of many fourth-generation Lunarians. He looked at her with those still, calm eyes.

“I know,” she said, preemptively. “It’s premature to be packing and I’m just setting myself up for disappointment because ” “You’ve been approved.”

Kiva stared at him, words still caught in her throat, her mouth open. The normally forgotten hum of the air circulation system seemed deafening now.

“You’re going,” Tsu said. “They thought your mission proposal had high merit and is worthy of our investment. The final Callisto IV rocket is being prepped. They’re allocating the needed fuel now for the trip.”

Kiva let out a sigh of relief, fighting back a smile.

“They are only allocating the required fuel for a one-way trip.”

She cocked her head in puzzlement at this last remark. “Yeah. That’s all my mission brief called for.”

“I argued for more.”

“Why?”

Tsu shrugged. “Cover our bases, account for unforeseen circumstances,” he said. “And... give us the option to come home.”

“What would be the point?”

Tsu shrugged again.

“Wait, why are you saying...” she started, but she could read the answer in his face. “You talked your way into being my pilot.”

“Corvin didn’t pass psych evaluation,” he said. “The whole thing was about to get tossed into an endless loop of debating and reevaluating, and we don’t have a single second to spare Anymore.” She looked down at the floor, then nodded slowly.

“I hope I’m not imposing, but you need a pilot.”

She looked up at him and breathed, “Thank you.”

“You really believe this is the landing site we should target?”

She frowned, “You saw my presentation, you know as well as I do the Martians had splintered and nearly all the scientific development was taking place in ”

“Yes,” he cut her off. “I know. But... do you believe it?”

Fighting back a sudden wave of anger, she stared into his eyes, trying to gain any insight Into what he was getting at. Maybe he just needed to hear her say it. Maybe that was the last piece of the puzzle for him, the last push he needed to pack his own small bag and leave his home forever. Could she blame him?

“Yes,” she said. “This is it.”

He smiled, “Okay.”

Kiva finally allowed that smile that had been fighting its way forward earlier to surface. They were going to Mars. Her mission was approved. She was going to make a real difference. She was going to take action!

“I guess I better get ready,” Tsu said. He turned to leave and then looked back at her.

“Does your family know you applied?”

She nodded, her smile faltering.

“Going to tell them the news?”

She swallowed back the icy claws that reached for her heart as she pictured her mother, father, and brother. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand. Grief had already engulfed them. But she would not let it claim her. Not when there was something she could still Do.

She shook her head.

#

The sun might as well have been a glorified spotlight in the sky, as far as Kiva was concerned. Sure, it had been bright getting out from the landing module on the Martian surface, but it was utterly bizarre to think that the tiny thing nearing the Martian horizon was really the same sun everyone back home dreaded. She wondered what it had been like to look out at the sun from the Earth’s surface. Tsu had been full of Earth knowledge. She listened to him talk about it to pass the time, but she struggled to retain much. Maybe it just felt pointless for her, even while it felt soothing for him.

Up here near the northern pole of Mars, the sun never ventured high into the sky, which was why they had relied on nuclear power out here. Kiva’s theory hinged on two factors.

Radiation and power consumption.

Terraforming the red planet had not been completed before The Abandonment. She wondered what it had been like when those on Earth had been capable of looking to the sky with wonder and hope for their future. But pendulums swing both ways, one of her history professors had once explained. Economies, cultures, politics, religious movements, these and more formed intricate networks for societies that morphed. She couldn‘t imagine what that must have been like since her home city on the moon, Mond Stadt, had comprised only a million people all crammed into its ever deeper underground dwellings. And Mond Stadt had been only one city out of five.

Is, Kiva corrected her thinking. They’re not gone yet.

After The Abandonment, the cities on the Moon had formed a more cohesive alliance out of necessity. But they never become a formal country or state. And yet, they had far too much in common and too much at stake to be strangers. Life on the Moon had a way of doing that. Maybe it was the short horizon.

She trekked on, wondering if those Earthling bastards had ever really appreciated what it must have been like to walk freely on the surface of their planet without an EVA suit or the constant concern over oxygen and radiation levels.

But pendulums swing both ways.

And for the adventurous, the daring, the hopeful who ventured out to the Moon and beyond, their constant need for help eventually became a burden for Earth. Too busy trying to not tumble headfirst into an economic and ecological abyss, Earth had nothing left to offer its colonies in the sky. It had to be the first time any colonies were given independence against their own wishes. Mother Earth simply could no longer care for her needy space children.

Or so they had said.

All of this had happened long before Kiva was born. It was hard to contemplate Earth in any other way than the numb bitterness that pervaded her world. She was one of Earth’s abandoned children, after all. The only reality she’d ever known was one of self-reliance and survival by determined Lunarians. The only universe she’d ever experienced was one without Earth in the picture. Literally.

#

She reached the edge of Shouming Shi just as the faint sunset shone over the Martian horizon.

Lights glowed from within the semi-opaque dome covering the top layer of the underground citadel. Like the Moon, Mars offered no protection against the bombardment of radiation from the sun. Dreams of terraforming had remained just that.

And without an active inner core like Earth, there was no magnetic field to do its part against solar radiation. With no atmosphere and no magnetic field, dirt became the only real radiation shield.

Was that why Mars had gone silent?

What had gone on here?

The nuclear reactor and autonomous maintenance systems kept this outpost running long beyond the last communications dropped off. After The Abandonment, when Earth turned her back on her children in the stars, Mars had hunkered down and moved on. Or so the stories went. They refused all communication with Earth or the Moon.

Kiva reached an airlock. Now to test a key part of her mission proposal. Would the universal airlock distress code allow her entry still? Accessing her internal computer via the in-helmet HUD, she brought up the distress signal command.

This was it. She held her breath and activated the distress signal.

The signal invisibly pulsed out of her suit She watched the red airlock access light, waiting the painfully long seconds. Shit. It’s not working.

Swallowing back panic, she started the calculation in her head for how much air she had and how long it was going to take to cut through the airlock with the plasma torch when the light turned green.

“YES!” she yelled, causing her ears to ring in her helmet.

The door swung open, and she stared into the airlock and laughed.

Shaking herself out of the sudden revery, she stepped inside. Closing the hatch, she entered the command for pressurization and entry to the citadel. Staring at the metal door that opened into Shouming Shi, Kiva waited to discover if her journey humanity’s journey was at an end, or a new beginning.

She’d been only six when it happened.

The isolated Earth inhabited by people who’d turned their backs on the sky, content to remain forever at the bottom of their gravity well, neglected to see their death rushing casually toward them from billions of kilometers away.

It had taken everyone by surprise. Thanks to The Abandonment by Earth, the colonies were too busy working on their own imminent survival to invest the tools and time to spy on the surrounding galaxy for potential threats. Some on the Moon suspected Mars had seen it coming, and embittered by the neglect of their mother world, raised no alarm.

Kiva had a hard time believing that.

She wondered what it had been like on Earth when they worked it out. What had people done? Lunarians had the advantage of time. It was not so with those on Earth. They’d had mere months and no infrastructure to mount a response. The scale of the comet had erased any hope of a different outcome.

She had studied it all in school. She was supposed to know the mass and dimensions of the comet But she found she always forgot It was pushed out of her mind by the images of cities on fire, mass graves for the suicides, the prayer vigils. The blinding blast. It didn’t matter. Only one simple fact mattered at all.

The Earth was gone.

Scattered into chunks that would someday form a new, and hardly noticeable asteroid belt where Earth’s orbit had been…

The Moon was spared. Coming around the Earth in the sun’s direction at the time of impact. The angle of the comet’s impact pushed the debris away from the Moon. But with Earth’s magnificent gravity well erased from the fabric of the universe, the Moon was left to be influenced by a much more distant, though greater force.

As Kiva roamed the empty halls of Shouming Shi, she wondered if what they said on Luna was true after all. She’d refused to believe it all this time. But as her heart sank at the sight of the empty citadel, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was all true after all.

Were the only remaining members of the human race falling sunward with no escape and no future?

But she was here now. #

Three days into her stay in the empty Martian city, she concluded two things: the place was genuinely empty, and she was beyond sick of replenishing her air supply from local EVA suits and resupply outlets. It was time to find a more homey place where she could stay and climb out of that damn suit, which was getting increasingly tighter. She was also starving and desperate to detach from the waste removal system in the suit before she got a full-blown UTI. It would be too much to hope for a shower. But she needed something to eat other than the protein sludge she could suck from a straw in her helmet.

But at least Kiva had an idea.

She tried to reassure herself that this was a good idea and not just the desperate flailing of a doomed woman with no other viable options But an idea is an idea, right? She found herself thinking. What else are we going to do at this point? I try this or I go back to my crashed landing module and try to radio home and tell them the bad news.

Could she even break the bad news to them? Would it be better to them keep holding out hope for as long as possible? Was she doing the same now, or was there viability to this last ditch effort she wanted to make?

Deep in the bowels of the city was a secured section Kiva had not ventured into yet. Its heavy door made her figure she’d be working for some time with the plasma torch to get through. It had to be access to the city’s nuclear reactor or to some other secured scientific installation. The map she could find of the city was out of date, and the nuclear reactor had been a closely held secret. Obviously it was underground somewhere, but the Martians didn’t want that information shared with just anyone, especially given the fact that they seemed to figure that if anyone was about to show up from Earth or the Moon, it might be for a hostile takeover. And being able to hold their power sullies hostage would be a real advantage to attackers.

So maybe the reactor was down that direction or maybe there was something else? Either way, they wanted it projected, given how deep it was and how think that deer seemed. The Geiger Counter in her suit showed no elevated radiation in the area, so she figured she’d try it once she’d replenished the power for her suit’s electrical systems.

Maybe there were people still huddled away deeper under this city, with its active power supply. She fought off dread and despair, trying to remain hopeful that there was still enough of a contingency of Martian society to mount a rescue mission. Her people were desperately relying on her. It was her job as the messenger to remain hopeful and leave no rock unturned.

That other messengers to other areas of Mars had failed could not enter her mind. Such thoughts threatened to drag her down below a sea of despair from which she would never be able to surface. She was sure they had looked in the wrong places. She had to be.

Of course, if what lay beyond that door was more nothing, she was really going to be out of options. But she couldn’t let herself think of that. She swallowed back the rising despair and steeled herself for one more effort, one more rock to turn over.

After all, the place was curious. Bright lights illuminated the large door. On it were no words, only a large monochromatic drawing of a tree

She figured she’d have to use her plasma torch to cut through the door. Her careful study of old records on her trip out to Mars gave her some ideas of the scientific facility she might find inside. But those records were decades old, predating the Martian Silence. There could be anything behind this door. Or nothing at all.

What had Tsu said on the trip out? “Not much of a gamble when there’s nothing left to lose.”

She tried to push the thought of him from her mind as she worked. But the smell of his hair returned to her nose like a ghost drifting through a silent room, the unseen ripples of love and grief tracing out from the source.

How he’d touched her… How he’d held her…

How he’d lied to her…

Or failed to tell her the truth behind his desire to volunteer for the mission.

“Not much of a gamble, indeed,” she muttered as she approached the door, the words hollow and frightening in her helmet. When had she spoken last?

She stared at the tree on the door. It was a silhouette. Almost a large icon, really. But why a tree? It had no access panel she could see, so she reached for her plasma torch as she stepped up to it. The door slid open.

She jumped back in surprise.

Beyond it lay darkness. And in that darkness, she was certain she would either find hope or desolation.

Returning her plasma torch to its spot on her tool belt, she stared into the darkness. Why would the door just open?

Her body moved forward on its own. Her mind, her soul, her ability to hope all remained behind, numb beyond rescue now. But her body had a mission to accomplish.

The floodlights attached to her helmet automatically kicked on as she crossed into darkness. Surrounding her were tall shelves. She stepped between them and looked about. Her heart thundered as she realized that small glowing displays at regular intervals showed that the glass sealed shelves were operating.

Slowly, lights began to glow from above. It was at this point that Kiva was able to finally grasp how high the ceiling in the room was. She craned her neck back and gazed up at the glowing lights emitting from the ceiling some thirty meters above her. The shelves seemed to go nearly as high.

Looking back down at the rows, she realized what she was seeing. These were long term deep storage units. And they were still functioning!

Walking through the shelves deeper into the massive warehouse which is what she took it for since she saw no walls to her left or right after entering she traveled a long way. Here and there she caught glimpses of containers behind the glass. There were seeds and partially grown plants.

So one rumor was true. Mars had maintained a cryonic genetic storage system of some sort. Her feet moved faster. Her heart pounded hard now, aching inside her chest. Finally, she reached the end of the rows of shelves. She skidded to a stop, nearly losing her balance.

There was a body…

On the floor

It lay on the pristine white floor next to the massive working control counsel.

She stepped closer to the preserved body. With no real atmosphere in the warehouse, there was no decomposition, just a lifeless, frozen, terrifyingly skinny form of a man. His light brown skin stretched tight over his cheekbones. His lifeless blue lips were slightly parted. His eyes stared out in frozen awe. He seemed forever petrified in a moment of transcendence, as if gazing out lovingly at a future which for him would never arrive.

Kiva stooped and took in the sight of him, feeling drawn to this spectacle of death, sensing a kinship in mortality she’d struggled to know in living. She recalled feeling this way as she was forced to prepare Tsu’s body to be jettisoned into the cosmos once the cancer took over too many of his organs. All those missions to the lunar surface in efforts to maintain solar arrays, launch missions to Mars, fix communication antennae damaged by increasingly closer solar flares, they added up to radiation overload for Tsu’s body.

Standing, she felt the child inside of her struggling against its increasingly cramped quarters. The unborn child was already living the plight of every Lunarian. Such a vast universe, and yet so inhospitable to the fragile sacks of fluid and bone with overgrown brains. Maybe it was just the way of the universe. All life has an expiration date. Humanity was reaching their own at last.

Blinking back tears, she pulled her eyes away from the dead man and at last allowed herself to gaze properly at the large control wall before her. The semicircular control station had a desklevel control pane and a single massive, curved screen that displayed the status of every sector. Cryogenically preserved were a host of seeds, plants, animal embryos, and… She took in a sharp breath.

Human embryos.

There were human embryos.

Rushing forward to the control panel, she stared at the window displaying the Human embryo numbers. 7,877 viable embryos, according to the display. Next to that was an entire database of thousands of human eggs and sperm and other genetic material

She glanced down at the simple control panel. It was deceptively simple. It was a single touch surface. As she drew near to it, it glowed with life, then resolved into a single blue circle that waited directly in front of her. As if drawn instinctively to it, she reached out and touched it.

The screen before her cleared and video footage of Earth appeared before her, surrounding her peripheral vision on the large arched screen. Oceans, lush green forests, cities, villages, rockets launching into space. Without words, the history of Humanity’s venturing out from its home world played before her. At last, the comet struck.

The footage now showed life on Mars. Martian cities rose quickly in time-lapse. Kiva recognized the scientific outposts being built in the footage to attempt the terraforming on Mars. But the structures weren’t complete.

The footage cut to life inside the cities. People with sunken eyes coughed. Hospital beds filled. Microscopic footage of what Kiva could only assume was a virus danced before her. Next, shots of empty city walkways and paths.

Kiva tasted the salt of her own tears, only then realizing she was crying. Something had gone horribly wrong on Mars. Something had decimated the population.

A map of Mars displayed red Xs one by one over each Martian city and outpost until, at last, there were none left. The map was marked only with icons. No words.

No date either. There was no way of know for sure when this had all transpired.

Kiva looked all around the screen, trying to find any inscription, anything to indicate the time or cause of the Martian plague. Nothing. All the information was being conveyed to her by visuals alone. No language.

The screen now displayed footage of the stacks of cryogenic shelves. It showed her where other such locations could be found. It showed her labs that could be used. It showed her what could be done still to revive the human race.

It ended with a shot of a newborn child being held by a woman before the screen faded.

She stood frozen in place, waiting for anything.

What she saw next confused her. It was the same footage starting over with shots of Earth. But the colors were all wrong, like some vibrant negative image tinged with reds and purples. Had the screen broken? How could that be?

Her stomach lurched with a horrible realization. These visuals were not for her benefit. They were now playing in a different light spectrum than the human eye was equipped to see properly.

That was why there was no language in the video. Tell them the story without words, with no language and grammar. Let them see what they need to know.

She looked back to the last keeper of this vault of life and wondered if he’d ever imagined another human being would be the one to stumble upon this place. It didn’t seem like it had been their plan.

Whatever their plan had been, that was not the real question for Kiva now.

What am I going to do with this?

She turned and looked at all the rows of tall shelves going off in every direction. Could she really revive humanity in this place? What of the virus? Was it gone now that its host was gone as well? Was it inadvertently preserved on one of these shelves?

And even if she dared bring embryos to life, could she raise them? Could her children succeed where others had failed? Was she just cursing them to a cruel existence of toil, longing, and pain?

She looked back at the screen, which was cycling through the footage again in a new wavelength that to her eyes seemed mostly black and white. Was not toil and pain and longing the human story after all? Who was she to not act if she could?

But could she?

Kiva took a seat on the floor next to the last keeper of humanity’s future. She took a deep breath, feeling the tightness of the suit against her own child growing within her. She was already a keeper of humanity’s future in her own right. This was not the task that had brought her to Mars, and it crushed her. She wept with abandon, shaking herself to the floor, morning with acute certainty for every doomed Lunarian she had come to save.

How long she lay on the floor she did not know. But eventually, her air supply alert roused her. She would need to resupply soon or find the controls to reintroduce atmosphere to this place so she could climb out of her suit at last.

When she painfully rose to her feet, she found that the screen now displayed the same databases of all the preserved genetic materials, but clear icons now were displayed above each window. They bore the same monochromatic and precise style to the tree on the door that led her into the warehouse.

Could she really do this?

She felt the child move within her, almost as if delivering a nudge to remind her she was not quite so alone after all. She took a deep breath and sighed. She would not do it alone. She would likely see only the first tentative steps of this new long-term mission taken. But she could be a keeper of humanity’s future. This was not how she intended to ensure humanity’s survival when she left her home, and that thought would forever haunt her every breath.

But she could teach the next keeper who could teach the next, until humanity could begin its cautious rebirth and resume its endless struggle.

She placed her hand over her belly, sighed a soul-crushed, hope-filled prayer to anyone who might still care for her race of beautifully flawed beings, and accepted what she knew for certain now to be her final mission.

PROTECTION RACKET

STEPHEN TILLMAN

“Are you by yourself, sir?” Tammy asked the stranger, who had just entered Haley’s Place. He was at least four inches taller than her 5’10”. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, was goodlooking in a rough sort of way, was heavily muscled, a little overweight, and had a lot of artwork on his arms.

“Yeah, just me,” the man replied His gaze traveled unabashedly up and down her body, lingering on her braless nipples poking against her thin tee shirt. “You’re some hot piece. Have a drink with me. In fact, have several. Better yet, let’s go to that hotel across the street. We’ll have a great time. I see no wedding ring. Do you have a boyfriend? If so, dump him and come with me. It’ll be the best move you’ve ever made.”

“I’m married with three kids, sir,” Tammy said with a grin. The locals had long since stopped hitting on her. “There’s one place open at the bar, and there’s a table for two available. Which would you prefer?”

“I’ll take the table,” the man said. “I’m Chet. What’s your name?”

“Tammy. Follow me, please.”

Tammy turned toward the empty table. Chet put his right arm around her waist and said, “I still want to have a drink with you, Tammy. Join me. Your old man must be crazy letting you run around with your tits sticking out like that. If you were my wife I’d keep you locked away in a cloister during the day and bang you silly every night. I bet your husband can’t come close to giving you what I can. You’ll have the best sex you’ve ever had.”

Tammy pushed his arm off her as she turned to face him, their bodies only inches apart. “Please keep your hands to yourself. Do you still want that table, or would you rather be escorted from the establishment?”

Chet put his right hand on Tammy’s left buttock and his left hand on her right buttock. He pulled her against him and put his mouth over hers.

“You’re about to get your ass handed to you, Jack,” a man at a table right next to them called with a cackle. The other people at his table laughed, as did the patrons at several nearby tables.

Before Chet could move, Tammy grasped his right arm and spun him around so he was bent over in a hammerlock. She stopped short of doing any actual damage, though he grunted in pain.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Chet,” Tammy said to the applause of the other customers. “You’re new, and we always appreciate new business. Provided they act properly. I’m off limits So are the other women who work here If you still want to have a drink or some food, you may. Otherwise I will escort you out. You now know the ground rules. What will it be?”

“Let me go,” Chet said after realizing he couldn’t get loose from Tammy’s grip. “That hurts. I won’t try anything, I promise.”

Tammy released him. He shook his right arm and grinned. “You’re something else. Lead me to the table. I’ll have a beer, whatever you have on tap, and basket of wings with hot sauce.”

“I’ll have Janine bring your order over,” Tammy said with a twinkle in her eyes as a disappointed Chet took a seat at the table.

Richard O’Malley loudly cleared his throat. Two of the three other men in the room, O’Malley’s “captains,” stopped their conversation. They turned their attention toward O’Malley and the man sitting just to his left. O’Malley put his hand on the other man’s back and said, “Guys, this is Chet Planton. Chicago got a little too hot for him, and he was sent down to help us. He’ll be my new second.”

One of the captains grimaced.

“I thought Tiny and me was your seconds. Now you bring us here practically at the crack of dawn to tell us we’ll be taking orders from a new guy who doesn’t know the territory. What the fuck?”

“You wanna take it up with Chicago, One-Eye, that’s up to you,” O’Malley said harshly.

“Hey guys,” Planton said, holding both palms in front of his chest, facing outward. “I’m not gonna be stepping on anybody’s toes. I wanted to clear the air as soon as possible, so I asked Richie to call you in at 9:00 AM. Your own operations will still be independent. I was sent here for two reasons. As Richie said, I need a place to be until things cool off up in the city. Tiny, I know your primary responsibility is the hookers. One-Eye, you do the loan sharking. Richie handles the gambling As long as I was gonna be here anyway though, Chicago wants me to check into a couple of other aspects.”

“You mean dope?” Tiny asked in a gravelly voice. He was six foot, four inches tall, and weighed at least 350 pounds. “The Spics have that market. You want us to start a war?”

“No war,” Planton replied. “The deal was made in Chicago. That’s their territory. Mostly. We’re only allowed to sell stuff we buy from them. Still, the markup gives us a good profit.”

“Then what?” One-Eye asked. His name came from his habit of closing one eye whenever he fired his gun.”

“Primarily protection,” Planton declared. “In a lot of towns that’s a major source of funds. A few days ago, I went into a bar called Haley’s Place. Middle of the afternoon the place was packed. We need to get our share of their profits.”

“They’re a special case,” O’Malley stated. “We thought of that. You won’t find other businesses doing so good. Pretty slim pickings in fact. Won’t bring in nearly as much as our other sources.”

“Something is better than nothing,” Planton replied. “What makes that business special?”

“It’s that bitch Tammy Butler,” O’Malley stated with a sneer. “She’s the junior partner. Anyone tries to mess with her regrets it. People go there because they feel safe.”

“Tall woman, great bod, nice tits?”

“That’s her.”

“What’s her story?”

“Nobody seems to know for sure,” O’Malley said with a frown. “Some rumors going around, though.”

“And they are?” Planton prompted.

“Lot of people think she was special forces.”

“I can believe that one,” Planton said with a rueful smile.

“She clean your clock?” One-Eye said and barked out a laugh.

“Naw,” Planton said. “She did get the drop on me. Never saw anyone move so fast. Didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot since I was new in town, so I didn’t fight back. Special forces would fit. What else do people think she was?”

“Heard she was CIA,” Tiny said. “Other people think she might be Mossad. Also heard she done time, but I don’t know for what or where.”

“Is it safe to say if she falls into line other businesses will follow?” Planton asked.

“Probably right,” O’Malley replied.

“Let’s send some of the boys to invite her to a little meet. Convince her what should be in her own best interest.”

Tammy did her stretching exercises and commenced her usual morning run. She’d completed about three miles when a black, full-sized van with no markings on it pulled up next to her.

“Hey, Tammy,” the driver called. She ignored him and kept running, speeding up a little. The van caught up to her again and began to pace her. “Listen, bitch,” the driver said. “I’m talking to you! Stop!” Tammy flipped him the bird and kept moving.

The van moved passed her by about fifty feet and came to a screeching halt. Three large, thuggish men got out and blocked her path.

One of them took a step forward, pointed a finger at her, and said, “Didn’t nobody never learn you no manners, you fucking cunt. We’re trying to talk to you. Our boss wants to meet with you. He said not to get rough, but we will if we have to. Get in the fucking van now before someone gets hurt.”

“I respectfully decline your gracious invitation,” Tammy said.

The driver climbed out of the van, joined the other three men, took out a handgun, pointed it at Tammy, and said, “We don’t need none of your sarcastic bullshit. In the van! Now!”

Tammy started toward the van. When she was close to the man with the gun, moving so fast she was a blur, she snatched the gun from his hand and clubbed him in the face with it, breaking his cheekbone. Another man reached inside his jacket with his right hand, but stopped and yelped in pain after Tammy fired a shot that grazed his right arm.

“Anybody else want to try something?” Tammy asked. She moved the gun in an arc from one man to the next. Nobody moved. “Now that I have your attention, one at a time I want you to take off your jackets and let them drop to the ground.”

At first the men remained stationary. One of them sneered.

He jumped back when Tammy fired a shot into the ground less than an inch from his foot. Then they complied. She could see two of them were packing. She ordered them to take out their weapons using only the thumb and forefinger of their left hands, place the guns on the ground, and step back five feet.

She called the men over, one at a time, and frisked them, finding two more guns. One man took a swing at her, and wound up with a broken wrist. She found another gun and a knife inside one of the jackets. After making sure she had disarmed them all, she collected all the weapons, fired one shot into each tire of the van, and left.

That was a nice break from the routine, she thought in satisfaction. I should get to the river in a half-mile or so. I’ll dump all the weapons in it.

“Hey Tammy, we meet again,” Chet Planton said as she got out of her car. She’d just returned from grocery shopping.

“Yeah, I remember you.”

“I’d like to talk to you about something. It’d be to your advantage.”

“I doubt you have anything to offer that I’d be interested in,” Tammy said. She opened the trunk of her car and took a bunch of bundles out. “I’m busy right now. Please leave. I’ve got to put these things away before I go to work.”

“Let me help you with that,” Planton said. He put a hand on Tammy’s right arm, squeezing slightly, and attempted to take a couple of the grocery bags from her with his other hand.

Tammy compressed her lips together and stared at Planton’s hand on her arm. She didn’t allow him to take anything from her.

Anger flashed in his eyes. Using his body, he pressed her against her car. His face was inches from hers.

“I’ve heard about your old man,” Planton said. He placed both hands on her bare arms and moved them sensuously up and down. “He’s a loser. Your kids aren’t home and your housekeeper just left. I’ve been waiting. Let’s go into your house and get it on. You won’t regret it. Then we can discuss a business arrangement.”

“Not interested.”

“This isn’t a request. I’ll be ready for you if you try anything. Go with the flow and you’ll have a good time. Otherwise… well some women like rough sex. If that’s your thing, you may still enjoy it.”

“How could a girl resist a come-on like that,” Tammy said. She placed her groceries carefully on the ground.

Planton licked his lips in anticipation. Before he could react, Tammy grasped his belt with her right hand, his shirt collar with her left hand, lifted him above her head, and slammed him to the ground. His breath whooshed out of him. She picked him up and threw him down again. This time his head banged against her car. While he lay there, she took a nine-millimeter Beretta from his pocket, ejected the magazine, ejected a cartridge from the chamber, and threw the empty gun against his groin. He brought his knees up to his chest wailing in pain.

“Get the fuck away from my house and don’t come back,” Tammy said through gritted teeth. “Tell O’Malley I want nothing to do with him.”

“What the fuck happened to you?” O’Malley asked Planton as the latter entered his boss’ office. Planton winced as he gingerly took a seat

“Had a run-in with the Butler woman. You can’t believe how strong and quick the bitch is. The rumors about her being former special forces have to be true.”

“Think we should send a team to take her out? Use a sniper rifle maybe?”

“Only as a last resort,” Planton replied. He slowly levered himself to his feet, walked over to a table where O’Malley had several liquor bottles, poured himself two fingers of scotch, slugged it down, and shuddered.

“Why wait? She’s costing us money.”

Planton poured another drink, walked back to his chair, took a small sip, and sighed. “I needed that. The risk if your guys miss is too high. And don’t think they won’t. You haven’t seen her in action. I have. She’ll come after us. She might not be alone. What do you think her former military buddies will be doing? I would not want to be the target of a SEAL team or whatever the fuck she was. Even if the hit is a success, they might want revenge.”

“What do we do?”

“Give her a call. Do it now. Invite her to meet you in a public place so she’ll feel safe. Present a business proposition to her. A share of profits or some shit like that. Avoid threats. For now. We’ll be better off if she’s our ally rather than our enemy.”

Tammy entered the diner, alert for any threats. The counter was across from her. A row of booths ran to her right with two booths to her left. In the farther of the two O’Malley sat with his back to the wall. Planton was sitting opposite him. Both had coffee cups in front of them. Two tough-looking men were in the nearer booth. One of them was huge. Tammy walked over and made a motion with her right hand indicating Planton should move. With a grin he moved over to sit next to O’Malley.

Tammy slid onto the vacated seat.

A waitress came over and put plates of food in front of O’Malley and Planton, turned to Tammy, and said, “What can I get for you, Hon?”

“I’ve had breakfast, thanks,” Tammy replied.

“How about coffee, then?” O’Malley asked. “I’m buying.”

“Fine,” Tammy said, thinking it was easier than arguing. She didn’t have to drink it.

“Bring her a Danish too,” O’Malley ordered.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Tammy said. She put both palms flat on the table and leaned forward. “I’m not here to negotiate. I’ve agreed to a meet to make sure you, personally, get this message. I don’t want any misunderstanding. You’ve strong-armed most of the businesses in town into paying protection. If they don’t have the stones to stand up to you, that’s their lookout. I don’t give a damn. Your usual tactics won’t work with Haley’s Place. We’re not going to give you a nickel. If you persist in trying, I assure you, you’ll regret it. I don’t make idle threats.”

Tammy started to get up just as the waitress brought over coffee and a Danish.

O’Malley said, “Just give me five minutes, Ms. Butler. Have some coffee. It’s the best in town. I’m not trying to intimidate anyone. I have a business proposition to present to you. It won’t cost you any money. In fact, you’ll come out considerably ahead.”

Tammy wavered, then sat down again. She didn’t touch the food in front of her. “I’m listening. Five minutes.” She glanced at the clock on the wall.

“We’ve observed your operation. It’s mostly a cash business, right?”

“It used to be. Now it’s about fifty-fifty cash and credit cards. A few select customers are allowed to run a tab and pay us by check once a month.”

“Okay, but 50% is still a lot of cash,” O’Malley said and hesitated. “Here’s our proposition. We have… products which are in demand, but hard to come by. Customers come into your bar and buy the product for cash. You keep 20%, use the rest to buy your liquor from… approved suppliers. Basically, your booze becomes free since you’re paying for it with our money, but you still get to write it off on your tax returns.”

“In other words, you want us to sell your fucking drugs and launder your money at the same time. The people who want to buy them are exactly the ones we don’t want in our bar. If the cops get wind of it, we’re the ones at risk not you. We also fuck over our current suppliers and become dependent on you. I’ll pass.”

“We can negotiate your cut,” Planton called as Tammy slid out of the booth. “In fact, we’ll up it to 25% right now. At least think it over.”

“No further thought required,” she replied.

Planton followed her to the door and put his hand on her arm. He hastily pulled it away after she bared her teeth at him and emitted a low, rumbling sound. Speaking rapidly, he said, “I get it. No touching. But consider. It’ll be a tremendous boost to your cash flow. We’ll make sure to keep the undesirables in line.”

Tammy opened the door, turned back, and said, “Just what we need. More thugs hanging around.” Then she left.

“You guys heard what the twat said?” O’Malley asked, as they seated themselves around a table. The gangsters were back at their headquarters, which was in the backroom of a sleazy diner.

“I gotta keep reminding myself the bitch is a lot tougher than she looks. See how easy she handled Chet. We need a way to show her blowing us off isn’t in her best interests, and we gotta do it without getting our heads handed to us. You guys got any ideas?”

“How about if we bust up her place,” One-eye suggested. “It’ll hit them in the pocketbook. Even if they got insurance, it won’t cover everything, and they’ll have to close while repairs are made.”

“Place is probably wired for security,” Planton said. “Whoever we send to do the job might be picked up by the cops. Could lead back to us.”

“Not if we can draw the cops off,” O’Malley said, smiling for the first time since meeting with Tammy. “I like this idea. There’s no town constable. If we start a fire at the other end of the county, that’ll draw off most of the deputies. We’d probably have at least fifteen, twenty minutes before any cops arrive. Plenty of time to do some major damage. Shouldn’t be hard to set things up for tonight.”

Tammy bolted upright. 4:00 AM. She’d only been sleeping for an hour. The alarm from the tavern was beeping softly. Someone was trying to break in. As she pulled on sweatpants and a tee, she called her housekeeper who said she’d be there in twenty minutes.

The house wouldn’t be easy to break into. It had steel-reinforced doors and solid locks on all doors and windows. The glass was bullet resistant, one inch thick. Tammy decided it would be safe to leave the kids alone until Margaret could get there. She hopped in her car and headed for Haley’s Place.

Tammy brought the car to a halt a half-block from the tavern. Everything looked serene as she approached her place of business, but she could hear noises coming from the rear. She ran down the alley between her building and the Chinese restaurant next door.

Four men were at the backdoor watching a fifth swinging an ax at the rear door. Good luck to you, she thought. There’s two inches of solid steel behind the wood veneer.

“Hurry it up, asshole,” one of the men said to the ax-swinger. “We been here for fifteen minutes and you ain’t been able to do fuck all.”

“Up yours!” ax-swinger said. He was breathing heavily and sweating profusely. “You think you can do better? If you could’ve picked the fucking lock I wouldn’t have to break in, so don’t give me no shit.”

“Let me try,” another of the men said, stepping forward. “You don’t know how to use a fucking ax. You gotta hit the lock just right. Then the door’ll pop open.”

“Go for it,” ax-swinger said, handing over the ax. “A C-note says you can’t open the door with three tries. Better yet, five tries.”

“You’re on,” the new swinger said as he took the ax and set it on the ground. He rolled his shoulders, spit into his hands, and rubbed them together. Then he picked up the ax and brought it over his head. “What the fuck!” he exclaimed as the ax was yanked outof his hands.

Tammy stood there holding the ax. She swung it, hitting the man in the knee with the flat of the blade. He gave a blood-curdling screech and fell clasping his knee. Tammy swung the ax back the other way and hit another of the men in a similar spot. A third man took out a large knife, hunched himself over, and started for Tammy. She dropped the ax, slithered to the side away from the knife thrust, grasped the wrist holding the knife and twisted. The snap of the bones was audible and a third man began to scream in pain.

A fourth man was just starting to take a gun from his belt. Tammy caught the knife as it fell toward the ground and threw it at the gunman. It hit him in the face, fortunately for him, hilt first.

Two teeth flew out of his mouth as he fell over, unconscious. The wail of a siren pierced the air. The fifth man took off at a dead run.

Foolish of you to bring a gun to a knife fight, Tammy thought with a grin as she went to greet the police.

Tammy strode rapidly through the seedy restaurant, pushing aside the waiter who tried to stop her. The door to the backroom was locked. She stepped back and bashed her foot into it near the knob. The wood splintered. The door flew open and crashed into a wall with enough force to knock several objects off a shelf. O’Malley, Planton, Tiny, and One-eye were finishing an early lunch. Before they could react, Tammy slammed her fist down on the wooden table, breaking it in half, and sending the dishes flying. The four men all started to talk at once. Tiny bolted out of his chair with snarl on his face and reached for her. She shoved his hands aside and kneed him in the groin with her left leg. He bent over screaming. With her right leg she kicked him once in the jaw, breaking it and knocking out three teeth. He fell to the floor, stunned.

One-eye drew his gun. Tammy ducked to the side so that his shot missed. Before he could get off a second, she snatched the gun from him and fired once, hitting him in the foot. He fell to the floor, screeching threats. She kicked him in the mouth, splitting his lip. Blood flowed. He lay unconscious.

Tammy leveled the gun at Planton and O’Malley and said, “Hands where I can see them. I’d love an excuse to shoot if you’re stupid enough to try something.”

Planton allowed his gun to slide back into its holster. He slowly raised his hands so they were level with his face, palms outward, fingers spread. O’Malley’s hands were in fists pressed against his chest. His face was red, his teeth clenched together, and in a low, guttural voice he uttered a string of threats and curses.

“Shut the fuck up,” Tammy ordered. When O’Malley wouldn’t quiet down, she fired just over his head. He ducked, his rhetoric quelled. “You schmucks tried to mess up my place of business, so I’m returning the favor. You better learn you can’t fuck with me and get away with it, because the next time, if there is one, will make this seem like an old ladies’ tea party. I told you once before and I’m repeating it now. I don’t make idle threats. Wise up, assholes.”

She backed out of the room, turned and rapidly left the establishment. Several workers were gawking at the disarray in the backroom.

“You!” Planton yelled, pointing at one of the restaurant workers. “Go get the doc. Tell him to get his ass over here right fucking now. A couple of you other guys help me get these two upstairs. The rest of you clean up the mess.”

“Should we call the police?” a busboy asked. “Or take Tiny and One-eye to the hospital?”

“Don’t be fucking stupid!” Planton replied, derisively. “The last thing we need is to give the cops an excuse to come in here. Once they’re in they can legally search the place. We also don’t want to explain how a woman beat the shit out of our captains. Speaking of which, none of you are to say a word about this. If it leaks out and I find who spilled the beans, that guy will regret opening his mouth. Deeply regret it.”

O’Malley moved to his desk, sat, and fumed while the restaurant workers followed Planton’s instructions. It took about thirty minutes to clean up. Planton told the workers to bring a replacement table into the room. The doctor arrived and was led upstairs to treat the injured.

“Call Chicago and get two hitters here,” O’Malley ordered once he and Planton were alone in the room.

“And I want several of the boys to be stationed in this place. If the bitch shows up again they’re to shoot on sight.”

“Having her whacked might cause more trouble than it would be worth,” Planton reminded him. “More trouble than this?” O’Malley roared, pounding his fist on his desk.

“I know you’re pissed, Rich, but think about it rationally,” Planton said in as soothing a voice as he could manage. “She’s not going to work with us voluntarily, but there is one step we can take to get her to come around. Once she does we can let it go for a few weeks. Get her to lower her guard. Then we ace her on the quiet. The working relationship will be in place. The rest of that bunch won’t be able to stand up to us. We can change the terms so they’re more in our favor.”

“What’s your great idea?”

“Her kids. That’s her vulnerable spot. Let her know if she doesn’t cooperate her kids will pay the price.”

“I don’t like going after kids,” O’Malley said, drumming his fingers on his desk. “In her case I’ll make an exception. Get the ball rolling.”

“Are you Tammy Butler?” a woman who had just entered the tavern asked.

“Yes,” Tammy replied warily. She could see the woman was carrying a gun.

“Is there some place we could go to talk?” the woman asked, holding up a badge.

“Preferably in private.”

Tammy led her to the back room and asked, “What’s this all about, officer?”

“I’m Detective Autumn Pendergrant of the sheriff’s office. I might get into trouble for divulging this, but if something were to happen to your kids, I’m not sure I could live with myself. We have an informant within O’Malley’s organization. He’s targeting your kids. Can you move them someplace for a while?”

“Thank you for the information, Detective,” Tammy said with a grim expression on her face. “I’ll take care of things.”

“Don’t do anything rash,” Pendergrant cautioned. “Taking the law into your hands rarely works well for a civilian.”

“Don’t worry, Detective. What I do won’t be rash.”

The heavy cloud cover obscured what little illumination there was from the moon and stars, but there was enough ambient light for Tammy to make out an outline of the three-story house. Aided by her toe clips, she scrambled up a large tree, attached a rope to a branch hanging over the house, and slid down to the roof. The noise from the cicadas covered the slight thump she made as she landed.

Tammy wrapped her left hand in a cloth and made her way to the rain-gutter. Holding onto it with her right hand, she dangled down until she was even with a third-floor window. She saw no alarm wires, so she punched in a window pane with her cloth-wrapped hand, reached in, unlatched the window, and slid it up. It made a slight squeak.

She brushed away shards of glass and swung her body into the house. She couldn’t avoid getting several small cuts and scrapes, but they were superficial. She made her way to the stairs and silently descended.

Just as Tammy reached the second floor, bright lights came on. Facing her were O’Malley, Planton, and another man, all holding submachine guns.

“Didn’t know we had motion detectors throughout the house, did you, bitch,” O’Malley said, showing all his teeth in a nasty grin. “Let her have it, boys!”

O’Malley’s finger tightened on the trigger. Tammy did the only thing possible. She dove back into the stairwell as a fusillade of bullets pierced the air where she’d just been. One grazed her rump and another her left calf. She could hear the men charging toward her. She stuck her arm around the corner and sprayed the oncoming men with her mini- Uzi. She heard a scream and a gurgle. She peeked around the corner. Planton and the other man were down, probably dead. She just saw O’Malley’s head as he raced down the stairs.

Tammy could hear O’Malley yelling for more men. She gathered up one of the guns, which had more firepower than her Uzi. She rapidly searched the downed men for more magazines, coming up with three, each with thirty rounds.

She crept to the head of the stairs. O’Malley was shouting, “You guys get up after her. If you see anything open fire. Don’t hesitate. She’s a tricky bitch.”

As soon as she heard them coming up the stairs, Tammy, from behind a wall, stuck out an arm and sprayed the stairwell with a full clip, changed clips, and emptied another. She heard men scream. Return fire slammed into her gun, knocking it from her hand, and turning her arm numb from the elbow down.

“Where you going, boss?” a man yelled.

“Away from here!” O’Malley replied. “Time to burn the place to the ground while she’s in it.”

Tammy heard a commotion near the front of the house followed by the door slamming shut.Then came the smell of gasoline. She bolted back up the stairs to the third floor, reached through the window to grasp the edge of the gutter, and swung herself back up to the roof. Smoke was now pouring out of the first floor of the house. Flames lit up the surrounding area. She took hold of the rope, still dangling from a high branch, and swung over to the tree.

Tammy could see O’Malley and two other men standing by a car, staring at the burning house. Careful to keep the tree between herself and the men, she descended to the ground. Staying low and moving slowly and silently, Tammy slithered up to the car, opposite to where the gangsters were situated.

“Think we got the bitch, Boss?” one of the men asked.

“Maybe,” O’Malley replied. “If not, though, she’s going to try and escape the fire, probably by jumping out of a window. Butch, you take the left side of the house, Ralph the right. I’ll watch the front. There are no windows in the rear.”

One man headed left, the other right. As soon as O’Malley was by himself, Tammy leaped over the car, grasped O’Malley’s head with both hands, and twisted violently. The crackling of the fire obscured the sound of his spinal cord snapping.

CARNIFEX

JMJ BREWER

Grey clouds cragged over the lake and Lance was cold as he worked and happy enough to keep his mind off things. Isle Royale stood stark against the whitecaps. Between here and there were three historical boat wrecks at least according to the poster in the giftshop window downtown.

He and Banana were spraying the foundation of an abandoned elementary school. Lance had not gone here. He could not remember the name of the elementary school he had attended, but he did remember a teacher named Ms. Morgan who he’d idolized and had his first wet dream for.

“Can’t let the termites get a foothold,” said Banana. He made Lance stop so they could top off their tanks. The swill was orange and dull but somehow shiny, too.

“Did you go here?” Lance asked

“No, but maybe my Dad did,” said Banana. “Speaking of. He wants you to come with me tonight.”

“Late?”

“What do you care?”

Suddenly the cold was less comforting. “Where we going?”

Banana discharged orange stream into a crack in the concrete. “I bet they’ll demolish and build a new school.”

“Or one of those Foxconn factories,” said Lance. “You gonna pick me up?”

“Sure, sure,” said Banana. They finished the perimeter and shared a joint. The waft of the termicide mixed with the autumnal air over the lake. There, offshore nearest a rotten bench, the giftshop poster warned of a rowboat scuttling as well as a UFO sighting. Discrete occurrences. #

Banana gathered him from his curb at half past ten.

“Won’t take more than five minutes,” said Banana

The drive took fifteen minutes. They dispersed onto someone’s yard. Across the way gaped the mouth of a hiking trail. Flashlights bobbed in the woods.

“We should get a bite after. You’re looking gaunt,” said Banana.

“Thanks,” said Lance.

“Don’t be sensitive.” Banana hauled on the door. It was locked.

A voice called from inside: “Door’s hot!”

“Police! Open up!” deadpanned Banana.

From within came a succession of clanks and jangles. The door swung wide.

The dweller wore his muscles like skinned hide. He holstered a pistol beneath his arm.

“Kay? You’re a cop?”

Lance didn’t like how the guy was already playing along.

“You shouldn’t tell people you’re pointing guns at the door,” said Banana.

“The statement was ambiguous,” said the guy. He waved them inside.

“Could have been a fire,” said Lance.

The guy gave Lance a look. “What the hell are y’all doing here?” His head dislodged snakes of dust from the overhead fan blades.

His winged lats, square beard, and balding pate bespoke of a creature more gear than man.

“We’ve come to, like, collect, Mador. This is a collect call. As it were.” Banana was Paging through Mador’s bookshelf. “You sure do enjoy astrology.”

“Who’s this fella, then?” asked Mador

“Lance,” said Lance.

“He’s the collection agency, man. He’s got a signed writ for one ‘Mador Delaporte’ to pay up.”

“This scarecrow?” Mador laughed. “Hey, Scarecrow, caw caw!”

Lance felt especially bad for these sorts of guys: they’d never been properly shellacked. Never knew it existed.

Banana bent the corner of a page like he was going to come back to it later. “Where’s the money, Mador? I’m not joking around.”

Mador headbutted the drywall. “Clowns not joking? If you’re Smokey Robinson does that make me a Miracle?”

“Okay,” said Banana.

“Okay, what?” asked Lance.

“You know what.”

“Say it.” Lance let his feet grip the floor. His hands waited.

“Sleep this fucker,” said Banana.

#

Lance made sure his face was all Mador could see when the big man woke up.

“Don’t hit me again,” said Mador.

Mador’s body had made quite the mess on its way down His flatscreen QLED was beyond repair and somehow the speaker bar had pinioned all the way into the kitchen to land squarely within a blender.

The silence after this destruction drained Lance as surely as protein-shake drained from that blender’s cup.

Banana twirled Mador’s gun around on the trigger guard. Mador hid behind his hands.

“I unloaded it,” Banana told Mador.

“Look, how long do I got?”

Lance paged through the bookshelf. Not just astrology: numerology, occult encyclopedias, a shelf devoted exclusively to ‘healing hands.’

“Three business days,” said Banana.

They left Mador on the floor. Outside it was cold and Lance couldn’t have been less surprised.

Banana started the car. “Still hungry?”

That night after dinner Lance dreamt of a beautiful woman with the face of a cow. She lounged like a reclining Buddha if the Buddha was ripe and ivory. Her mouth was rimmed with red. Her breast, consumed.

#

Lance spent most of his day off watching deleted scenes from old DVDs. Last week, during a particularly heinous box elder job on suburbia’s garage doors, he’d had the presentiment that certain scenes were cut because they carried an extraordinary potency that could infect the viewer. He’d felt suddenly sure that chronologies of transformation hid within the grander sequences of imagery. Yet, now, he could find no proof.

When he went to collect from Mador he found the big man absconded. “Haven’t seen him since last night,” said she who answered the door. She was short and elflike and Lance knew he shouldn’t grin at her.

“You know Mador?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she said. “Are you Banana Kay? Do I have that right? Mador said give it to Banana Kay.”

“Lance. I’m with Banana.”

“He’s in the car?”

“The trunk, sure,” joked Lance. He watched it not land. “Really, I mean, Banana… recommended I come.”

Actually, Ector himself had given this order: ‘You’re off the German roach job. Get from Delaporte.’

“Mador didn’t mention a Lance,” said the woman.

Lance pointed to his face. “No need,” he said. He felt suddenly composed of lightning and boiling ejaculate. He was vaguely ashamed of how he felt but when he shook her hand, he knew he’d gotten some of whatever ran through him onto her.

“I’m Guen,” she said. “He can’t see right, anymore.”

She didn’t seem to want an apology.

“You doing anything tomorrow?” Lance asked. “Usually.”

Lance smelled animals on the wind: a bittersweet tang which reminded him of waste and of the rut, of summer and fall and how they wrapped together.

“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said.

She nodded. She receded into the darkness of her front porch. It seemed to Lance that her eyes glowed in pursuit of him down the drive, into his car, where he counted out five of the twenties and tucked them into his sock. The rest went into his pocket.

Driving away, his car felt like the end of her elongated, taffy tongue

#

“I go in on UV-” Banana was giving a play-by-play of the German roach job. “Solo, because Bors calls in sick hangover, obviously and it’s a big space. I mean, it’s an old Sherwin Williams or whatever. Smelled like someone dumped a barrel of spoiled primer on the floor and let the sun beat it for a day. What are you gonna order?”

Lance couldn’t focus on the menu. “A chimichanga,” he ventured.

“You down for table-side guac?” Banana was already waving over the guac-tender. “And I’m raining holocaust on these roaches. Following a mainline back to their nest squirt! squirt! squirt!

Into the backroom, where there’s an office, and in the office where I find…wait for it…another door. Roaches are swarming under it, bro. I crank the nozzle and put down so hard the door starts sizzling.”

The guac-tender’s lip curled. She wielded the mortar and pestle with frightening capability. “Gross,” said Lance.

“You’re just not used to it, yet. But the nest has gotta be back there. So, ya know, I head in, and you would not believe this, man. You would not. The room is full of sex stuff. Like BDSM stuff. There are leather crosses on the wall, bro. Some of those ergonomic chairs without backs. Ropes and chains and hooks hanging from the rafters. A fridge and like a little kitchenette.”

Lance leaned back while the guac-tender laid the guac. It rose in a majestic multi-green mound. “Jalapenos,” observed Banana.

The guac-tender dragged her cart to the next table.

Banana tucked in. “I found the nest in this, like, mock dentist’s office. It was sectioned off. Glass walls and a waiting room. Roaches coated the glass, man. They made these strange shapes. Almost like they were tracing something I couldn’t see Not even in the UV ”

A guy sat down next to Lance.

“Woah,” said Banana

“How’s the guac?” asked the guy. He wore a maroon sweater of evident expense. So sharp was his haircut that Lance feared being sliced.

“Oh, bro, you shouldn’t surprise us like that. Especially the Undertaker, here.” Banana and the guy shook hands. “Lance, this is Pinel. He’s the guy.”

Lance didn’t know what that meant. Pinel winked at him.

“Remember, that job I was talking about?” asked Banana.

Lance had zero recollection. “Sure,” he said.

“Well, this here is the guy who wants the doing done.”

“By who?” asked Lance.

Banana sighed. “Look, man, Lance here does not enjoy inference. He prefers direct articulation.”

“No problem,” said Pinel. “You ever kill a…deer?”

Lance studied Banana.

“Just listen to him for a sec,” said Banana.

“Because there’s this deer I could stand to have, you know, scritch. Redhair. I mean, red fur, grazes on the set of the new Jurassic Park movie. He’s, erm, a dinosaur. A dinosaur puppet. Like a velociraptor.”

“A puppeteer,” supplied Banana.

“He has no idea it’s coming,” said Pinel “Killed my cousin ”

“What’s stopping you, then?” asked Lance He finished his margarita When the waiter returned, he would order another.

“We’d love to assist you in this hunt. Provided you have the tags,” said Banana.

“I’ve got two tags. One now, one after. And an extra if you can get me anything to mount.”

Lance zoned out while they discussed how much each tag was worth. He polished off Margarita the Second with enough speed to grow an iceberg in his skull.

“Eat up,” Banana told him. They were alone, again.

“I’m not hungry,” said Lance. Nevertheless, he speared a piece of ground beef and sacrificed it on the altar of his tongue.

“My dad is gonna love this,” said Banana.

#

Unknown hours later they were at the Joyous going shot for shot with a clade of tourists staying at “the Shack” for a week. Judging by the beamer in the parking lot, “the Shack” was probably a four-bedroom lakeside mansion. One of the guys was pretty big and pretty mean and his buddies talked up his prowess both martially and sexually.

“You talking about fighting,” said Banana, tossing a flaccid dart to ill-placement on the board, “Lance, he’s a fighter. 17 and nothing, weren’t you, Lance?”

Lance watched his reflection in the gin. He seriously doubted his ability to stomach this one.

“I don’t believe it,” said one of the hype men. “He’s scrawny.”

“He could build a cage with your bones,” said Banana.

The friends whistled

“Got anything to say?” The big one dipped a finger into Lance’s gin.

Neon light flickered from a neon Miller sign to paint-pink their tableau For a nauseous, endless second Lance studied everyone at a perilous distance, as if he sat at a museum and had for long hours regarded a painting and nearly come to some sublime conclusion.

They went outside. The big man pulled his shorts above his knees. He removed his shirt. His fists cocked into the sky like blind, aroused worms.

Lance pitied him. “Just buy me another shot.”

“After,” said the big man.

“Don’t put him in the hospital,” his friend said.

“You got healthcare?” asked the other.

“Not really,” said Lance.

The big man came on.

And Banana, nursing a toxic-yellow G&T, said: “Sleep him, Lance.”

Lance swung around and kicked the guy in head like he was unfurling a driftwood flag.

The guy fell into a planter. Lance slipped forward and gave him two in the jaw. The guy did not fall down but he should have been falling down. Lance rained an elbow against his temple. Swept his legs.

“Damn, Mel!” yelled one of his buddies.

“Rip his head off!” cried the other.

Mel lurched upright. His eyes were soft. He began slapping at the air in front of him in a sort of demented confusion.

Banana had the taste of it. “Let’s go, Lance. Sleep this fucker. One more.”

Lance peered at the tourist down the long, slow line of experience Behind Mel’s doddering head the stars rang harsh against the anvil of night sky.

“This guy’s drunk,” said Lance. He nodded at the other tourist. “Come get your friend.”

“Take your friend home,” said Banana. “Please grab your friend or he’s gonna doze, man. Lance is gonna doze him.” Mel shuffled forward on robotic legs. He drove his fists in stiff, slow pistons.

“Bitch!” yelled one friend.

But the other one wrapped Mel in bear arms. “Cool it, Mel. You beat him. Kicked his ass.”

They steered Mel back into the bar. Lance laid his knuckles flat against the tin-siding of the fence. The cold, the cold. Banana slugged his G&T and set it on the concrete.

Lance knelt with his knuckles in the ice. First one hand, then the other. #

“Over there, that’s Gorilla. Here’s Chimp. That orange one is Orangutan.” Guen pronounced ‘Orangutan’ like it was spelled. Like she was a scientist on a nature show. She, the rabbit hutch, and the rabbit stench made for constrained company in her laundry room. She had at least five rabbits, but Lance did not care to count. In fact, he was beginning to feel sick at their liquid movement, their proclivity to slide over one another with barely insectile regard for personal space.

“The tiny one is Gibbon. She’s tight with Bonobo.” Guen sprinkled green leaves into the hutch. The rabbits rooted for them with a depraved vigor.

Lance felt as if he were expected to ask a question. “How long have you had them?”

“Are you able to understand a concept so abstract as ‘time’?”

He’d misremembered his 8 p.m. pledge.

She was already pajamaed He could smell her just below the hutch musk clean but tangy with exertion. Healthy.

Eventually she showed him the other rooms. Then her bedroom. First it was him atop, then her, and she raised her shuddering arms into twisting spires, as dark, as sleek, as any savannah ruminant’s fantastical horns.

Sleep came eventually. Try as he might, he could not ignore the sounds of the rabbits.

In the night Lance had a dream. He dreamt that above Guen’s bed materialized a man who was also a bull.

What did they call this beast, again? The Bull looked down upon Lance and Lance could not decide its judgement.

The Bull spoke to him. Worked its bovine mouth to spell out foreign utterances. Except there was no sound. Instead, Lance found himself speaking the Bull’s words.

Are you awake enough to listen? Can you hear me speak of my life? Of the pain wrought by these hooves? These horns?

“Wake up,” said Guen. She stood at the foot of the bed. Twin heavy rags hung from either hand.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “What time is it?” There wasn’t enough light to make out her face.

“My rabbits,” she said.

“What about them?” He was awake, now. Awake and remembering that dream of the Bull. He realized he was drenched underneath the covers Sweat, he prayed, not piss

“I had a terrible dream,” he said

“You were talking in your sleep.”

“What did I say?”

But she didn’t answer. Instead, she switched the lights. Her rags were dead rabbits. They’d left a streak of red beneath the light switch. The sheets were smeared.

“What happened?” He struggled out of the sheets and flattened against the wall. He was sticky from sternum to knee.

“What did you do?” she asked.

He couldn’t make sense of what she meant. His brain yawed. “Are you on your period?”

One of the rabbits dropped to the floor. “You were cradling them,” she said.

He touched his stomach and oh god he wanted needed to shower but Guen already had him by the bloody hand. She marched him downstairs.

In the dark outside the silent hutch Lance could imagine he was actually on the lake. He could hear, nearly, Superior’s waves bashing black rocks on the inky shore. A phantom bug-sprayer took ectoplasmic weight in his hands. In that brief omen he was complexly relaxed; he might well have been sitting with his feet in the water, at shift’s end, his body crowning a trail of bodies exterminated. He wanted, so badly, to believe the rabbits were sleeping.

Guen didn’t turn on the lights. But she spoke to him.

“I had a terrible dream, too. You were in it except it wasn’t you. You were like a puppet. I couldn’t see where he’d gotten inside you, but he had. The rest of him…floated above the bed.” She was sobbing, but he couldn’t touch her with his red hands, so he just stood there and let it fall over him.

“I feel fucking crazy, you know Saying it It was awful, Lance Awful He had a bull’s head And he was telling me things. He told me all the bad things he’d done. And you know what, Lance? I don’t know if he was talking about him or you. Maybe both of you. God, Lance, the things…”

Lance didn’t wait around for more. He let himself out of the dark house. Streetlights shined blue and electric. Inside his head hung the moon and the moon wore the face of the Bull. The Bull asked which rabbit he’d cradled closest. Gibbon? Bonobo? He refused to let his lips move. Try as he might, he could not hear the lake.

Lance had to ride in the back while Banana took shotgun. As it was Merlin’s van, Merlin drove. With each of Merlin’s erratic maneuvers the extermination accoutrement sloshed dangerously. Lance idly wondered whether his skin would peel if doused in pyrethrin.

“I’m telling you, chief, surreal shit. There were people and cartoons in it. All acting together, like they were in the same room,” said Merlin.

“You’re talking about Roger Rabbit,” said Banana.

“No.” Merlin drove in exasperation. Production vehicles trundled along at union paces. It was only the flank of Merlin’s van, which read “Sauvage Roach and Pest Control,” that allowed their deep access to the shoot.

“Yeah, pretty sure you mean Roger Rabbit.” Banana was peering out the window. Hunting for velociraptors.

“No. They were birds who played mariachi music. Donald Duck was their leader.”

“Three ducks? You talking about that Chevy Chase, Steve Martin…ahhhh who was the third guy? That movie?”

“Martin Short And no Christ, Kay, I do not mean The Three Amigos ” Merlin rolled down the window and flipped someone the bird. “And they weren’t all ducks. Only Donald. I’m pretty sure one was a parrot. The third was something exotic. Really out there.”

Lance could not imagine a bird more exotic than a parrot

“Think we’ll see Chris Pratt?” asked Banana.

“Chris Pratt wasn’t in it, either. It’s from the 40s. Midst of the Second Great War.”

Merlin spoke as if he’d fought in it. And, honestly, Lance could not account for the man’s age or his perpetual manic vitality.

Banana stuck his arms out in front of him and pretended to ward off a dinosaur in distinct Prattian style. “Maybe the Governator will be here.”

“What? Is he in this movie?” Merlin guided the van down an alleyway at Banana’s insistent pointing.

“Found him,” said Banana. “Doused him with that Pratt style, man.” Sure enough, just ahead a velociraptor leaned against a stain-besmirched brick wall. He’d peeled off his head to reveal scruffy red hair. A joint hung between his claws.

“Lizard people,” whispered Merlin.

Lance couldn’t tell if he was serious.

“The Governator is Chris Pratt’s father-in-law,” said Banana.

Lance opened the door and stood next to the van while cold fall air sucked inside. He thought Banana would object but Banana was busy telling Merlin that Chris Pratt’s marriage also made him a Kennedy. Lance shut them in. He felt blessedly alone. Even the red-haired puppeteer could not break his coffin of solitude.

The puppeteer nodded at him.

Lance waved back. His hands felt very large.

A troupe of grips appeared at the opposite end of the alley. They carried obscure, black objects. The furthest grip was a real hulk.

He lugged a six-foot-wide half-dome The dome masked the carrier’s face but beneath the dome Lance knew there were bruises the exact shape of his own knuckles.

While the rest of the troupe shuffled past, the dome-headed Mador paused near the red-haired puppeteer.

Merlin spoke as if he’d fought in it. And, honestly, Lance could not account for the man’s age or his perpetual manic vitality.

Banana stuck his arms out in front of him and pretended to ward off a dinosaur in distinct Prattian style. “Maybe the Governator will be here.”

“What? Is he in this movie?” Merlin guided the van down an alleyway at Banana’s insistent pointing.

“Found him,” said Banana. “Doused him with that Pratt style, man.” Sure enough, just ahead a velociraptor leaned against a stain-besmirched brick wall. He’d peeled off his head to reveal scruffy red hair. A joint hung between his claws.

“Lizard people,” whispered Merlin.

Lance couldn’t tell if he was serious.

“The Governator is Chris Pratt’s father-in-law,” said Banana.

Lance opened the door and stood next to the van while cold fall air sucked inside. He thought Banana would object but Banana was busy telling Merlin that Chris Pratt’s marriage also made him a Kennedy. Lance shut them in. He felt blessedly alone. Even the red-haired puppeteer could not break his coffin of solitude.

The puppeteer nodded at him.

Lance waved back. His hands felt very large.

A troupe of grips appeared at the opposite end of the alley. They carried obscure, black objects. The furthest grip was a real hulk. He lugged a six-foot-wide half-dome.

The dome masked the carrier’s face but beneath the dome Lance knew there were bruises the exact shape of his own knuckles.

While the rest of the troupe shuffled past, the dome-headed Mador paused near the red-haired puppeteer.

The velociraptor passed the joint. Mador took it beneath his dome and the joint’s red glow emanated through the dome. The picture refocused Mador carried the top-half of a flying saucer. He had his body shoved up inside the cockpit. In the radiance of the ember his bruises shined with alien suggestion.

Lance got back into Merlin’s van.

“Where are we spraying, anyway?” asked Merlin.

Banana gave some excuse. The bug-sprayers and their metal tanks rattled in protest of Merlin’s serpentine reversal and Lance felt sure that beneath his skin his bones were rattling likewise.

“Get a good look?” asked Banana.

Lance nodded. He imagined, briefly, how the last few minutes might have played in a movie. What alternate versions of the circumstances could be cut deep or shallow? What sequences would be deleted, outright, existing only in the minds of the players?

He awoke turgid at just past 3 AM. Far off, trains bellowed. Moonlight pried through his blinds to pool silver piebald over the map of Lake Superior’s boat wrecks.

The closest wreck was bare miles away. He had half a mind to hike to shore. Instead, he imagined he and Guen swimming out to a barely protruding steel gravestone, climbing atop as the boat slowly, inexorably sunk, him sinking inside her, the water for some reason warm sheathing them, cradling them, until they were relinquished of every burden.

He came into a tissue. Sleep, nearby, lurked behind a wall of imminent urination. He rose to get it over with.

In the mirror’s reflection of moonlight, the blood could not be missed: on his pillow and splattering down the center of his sheets.

He remained calm. Perhaps he’d acquired bedbugs from Guen’s place: those rabbits could serve host to any manner of creeping louse. What if, God forbid, an infestation roiled in their blood? Could a microscopic egg insert itself through his belly button? And why not? Had he not been a parasite to his mother in nearly that way?

When he lifted his mattress he found no signs of bedbug manifestation no dried dappled blood, no egg, no crawling horrors.

A wave of relief washed over him. Probably a bloody nose. He spelunked inside and his fingers came away dry.

On the ground near the bed was the tissue he’d inseminated. The color of it was wrong. He unpeeled the petals of this lotus, and inside found his white spoor marbled golden brown with blood.

Lance felt his head draw backward while his body rooted to the spot. It seemed possible, in this wash of awful, almost transcendent reality, that every one of his worries could be true.

Into the trash went the sheets and the tissue. Into the shower went Lance. He refused to imagine that he’d cum more than blood. Certainly not microscopic beetles with wide horns to grip his flying germ.

After the shower, he went on a walk. Took a pair of binoculars with him. Decided that he would spy as many of the boats as he could before Banana called him. Find where they rested, at least, if never see them.

Banana’s trunk gaped open and he rooted around inside of it.

Ivory crested Superior’s waves and sleek white wrappings covered the sailboats, which were cranked above water to weather the incumbent winter. Lance felt like one giant eye.

Banana clattered his surprise onto the pavement Two tall cans

“No,” said Lance.

“Oh yes, amigo. We’ll each take one. Pop it off right after shit pops off, you dig, and then just run away from the fog like everyone else.”

Lance didn’t have the energy to argue. Weighing down his pocket was a flat black firearm that Banana had 3D printed for the occasion.

They wore exterminator’s kit. Banana insisted on filling the tanks for realism. As they left the car Lance felt a harsh brush of déjà vu for the film Touch of Evil. Either he’d dreamt it, or he’d recently watched the infamous ‘lost scene,’ a surreal re-edit of the opening sequence cut by Wells as protest against his expulsion from the film.

This sequence had power enough to overlay his present experience. Banana became Charlton Heston. Lance became the bomb, hidden by faceless hands in the trunk of the car.

“Let’s post up on either side of this street. We’ll get him between us,” said Charlton Heston.

Lance nodded. He was loathe to go it alone. The bug bomb held density as spectacular as the pistol. If it went off, he knew that this density would adhere to his soul.

“You alright, Lance?” Banana yanked his visor down over his eyes. “Let’s get something caloric after this. Burritos. Or, like, Chinese.”

“Have you ever dreamt about a bull?” asked Lance.

Banana laughed. “You said it, bud. Let’s rock.”

As Banana walked away, his shadow drew behind him in a 4 o’clock loom. This seemed to infect the shadows nearby and, just like the lost sequence, they took on the shapes of animals. Lance turned away and walked his route before he could see his own.

For the life of him, he could not figure how Orson Welles had so deftly executed the editing tricks.

Charlon Heston’s shadow had been a spider, crawling black and massive in his wake The bomber’s shadow was a flamingo, or maybe a stork, hard to tell in black-and-white. The dual-fin Cadillac projected a whale, the traffic cop cast a mongoose locked in combat with an adder.

It was worse in real life. But if he kept his gaze on the ground, he could ignore the complexity of the shapes disturbing the air, could ignore the crescents swooping from his brow, could ignore the phantom drip of blood from his tip he’d stuffed twelve squares of toilet paper between it and his boxers at lunch.

He sprayed, intermittently, for appearances. Some shoot must have just wrapped because crew members shuffled from a yawning garage aperture. Two velociraptors among them. The velociraptors sat over a gutter and ate craft-services from Styrofoam plates. The shorter one shrugged off half of himself to his human waist. He had a nametag on his chest which read: Gillegible; it was hard to make out.

The taller only unveiled his head. His hair was red, too, His raptor fingers adroitly handled the human cutlery. Their shadows cast human shape. They chatted about living gods, about a Tribunal, and Lance did not want to hear it.

He scanned for Banana. Nowhere. He was turning to go locate the man, explain the issue two red heads when the taller redhead passed by.

“Don’t make eye contact,” said G-illegible. They both laughed. Lance had the extreme presentiment they were talking about Chris Pratt.

The tall one noticed Lance and flicked him a quick smile. “How’s it do, bud? Good killing, today?”

“Sup,” said Lance. He was surprised at his own zest. He waited until the tall redhead was blocked by a migrating sound crew then he turned and showed G-illegible his pistol.

G-illegible did not notice. Lance might as well have been a shadow. Instead, G-illegible donned his skin, the inside of which was affixed with sticks and nobs and ergonomic, human-sculpted tumors G-illegible grasped these in complex succession and his velociraptor-self twitched, crouched, and hissed.

“Can I get a zip?” he asked, half-craning over his shoulder Lance shoved the gun into his pocket He zipped the back of G-illegible’s head.

“Thanks,” said the velociraptor. He catapulted away on spring-stilt boots like those worn by festival street performers. The suit was as disturbingly convincing. To an alien, it would be impossible to determine where the man ended, and the dinosaur began.

Lance raised the pistol. He wondered what Banana would say, right now.

Hell, he knew exactly what Banana would say.

Lance fired.

But at the last possible instant had he meant to, or had it been reflex? he raised his arm up, up, up, bullet softly crying out, a machine’s completion.

G-illegible did not notice.

Some sound mixer who appeared to be wearing an entire turntable pointed at him. She yelled. Lance felt as if he could not tell, anymore, the sound of human speech.

He knew he should deploy the bug bomb, but he let it clatter to the ground, undone.

The turntable screamed, again, but this time she wasn’t screaming at him. In fact, she was pointing in the opposite direction.

Down the block swirled a poisonous cloud. From it came a flat pop. Two more. Lance refused to consider what this meant. Instead, while cast and crew broke around him, while he joined with the advancing cloud, he imagined his bullet hanging from the same marionette control from which the rest of him hung. A drop of pure metal swinging in a vast arc, over Lake Superior and the autumn waves and the hidden wrecks beneath. Back to him.

TO REHOME A LIGHTNING SOUL

KHADIJA FARAH

“This is the body that betrayed me ” Levi stands, too naked, not skin or metal but something fleshy and false. “Take a good look at it.”

He wants to clasp his arms over this barrier that passes as skin between him and the harsh air, but it is a forgery; imperfect and obviously a mimicry of something so natural that he begins to feel the familiar fire of jealousy ignite from his belly, catching fire to nerves crafted from wires, sheathed in rubber, twisting and tangling through the periphery of his limbs and up the column of his spine; one of the few things that remain of his true form. Now he is cloaked in something, not forged from steel or organic matter, something he wears not as a skin, but as a veil over his bare soul. He only exhales and shudders. He blames it on the cold, on the frigid air of the laboratory.

“It’s yours.” Adria answers, her voice still soft despite her annoyance. “You are its protector.”

The cold metal of her cybernetic hand brushes against his fingertips. She takes his false skin into her steel touch, iron cage of fingers locked between his own. And he remembers what it feels to be forged from steel; to stand in a body unbroken and unyielding; stirring terror in the wake of his path. A path licked by flame and fear and destruction.

Now this path has forked, now he is closer to mortal than he thought possible. He swears it is true blood coursing through him right now, as he feels the venerable flesh of his hand constricted by the scientist’s. It’s as if he’d been born again; or at the very least he’d decanted and rehomed his soul.

It had rained the day Levi was born. The day his body was manufactured; clap of thunder preceded by lightning erupting somewhere in the horizon. And he knows now that his soul trails along the precipice of this; the brightness swelling before him, mounting pressure within him, fighting for escape, channeling its voltage through the mechanical parts forced onto his form; once mortal, once fragile, and never to return.

And there is an explosion of energy that finally tips him over the edge, the electricity hijacks his limbs, jerking him forwards, hyperflexion of his muscles in his face pulling tears from his glowing eyes.

He remembers his final moments with his Father, back-to-back, handle of his blade between his teeth, one set metal, the other dense tissue stemming from the intact flesh of his face.

He fought to save him; he tells himself He fought, leather sleeves of his jacket falling loosely to his sides where his arms were severed, and he knows he can only put up for so long, so he uses his body as a conduit, channeling the lightning through him, Father’s words ripping through the back of his skull

“You are stronger than them all.”

Levi strikes the bodies of flesh before him, and they fall into heaps of limbs on the corridor floor. He towers above them; armless bust hidden beneath the fabric of his jacket, flickers of static electricity sparking up and fizzling out in bursts of light around him. He thinks that the path he walks with be set ablaze; he hopes it will. He hopes even he will be ignited in the inferno and that this false body will wither crumple in a heap of ashes, revealing his true form, skin clean and soft and human, body nestled in sleep; knees pressed to chest, arms curled around his legs. And he will be whole again, when he sheds this shell that only knows vengeance and violence and bloodshed. Only then will he remember what it is to have a body so venerable, fashioned from clay. One that will soak back into the earth, that will know rest.

He feels something in his hand that he could easily mistake for pain, and he almost laughs at the sensation, quivering lips pulling into the beginning of a smile, soft puff of air escaping.

“You feel that?” She eyes him though glasses so thick they must be goggles. Her hand releases his, and he sees the redness of the imprint she has made, the blood pooling at his fingertips, almost scorching to the touch.

And he presses at it with his other hand, the supple skin blanches beneath the pressure of his touch, soft pressure; enough for something as responsive as the false flesh that he wears.

“Yes.” Levi breathes, and now the laugh caught at the base of his throat is devolving into a sob. He rolls his gaze up from his palm and to her eyes. “I can feel it.” ***

Body

Levi awakens at once; scythe of sunlight slicing his skull in two. It hurts. He curses out loud at the pain that sears his retinas as his eyes flutter open.

Adria told him it would be like this Warned would be a better word

“You will have sensitivity to light at first.” She said as she prodded him with various metal instruments. They were so cold on his bare skin that he mistook the sensation for burning.

“It’ll be a real bitch in the morning when you first wake up. But other than that, your eyes should adjust.” She leaned down, brings the rubber hammer of her mallet to his patella. Without warning, of course. Adria was selective about what she’d caution him about. Levi’s leg jerked up, too forceful, and he kicked the scientist.

“Heh. Sorry.” He muttered, mischievous grin stretching the muscles of his face. And then Adria nearly blinded him as she inspected his pupils. Payback.

Levi’s eyes finally adjust. He sits hunched forwards, cradling his head in his now-sweaty palm. The light is unyielding, and it swells around the room as it enters through the cracks between the dusty blinds. There is only a bed and a dresser. Enough to crowd him in this cell of a room. He lays back, practices focusing his eyes at the ceiling fan that is missing a few blades. Everything is a sterile shade of white.

It makes him feel like he’ll contaminate the sheets just by touching them. In his mind, his body is still a mess of steel and razor blades, dripping a thick red, motor of a heart threatening to burst. There is this feeling that passes over him. A cold rush, like an arctic wind; like the sloshing of water over the brim of the coast. This is something so unfamiliar to him. He thinks it is fear but cannot remember the sensation of the neurochemical cascade triggered by panic. His muscles are tightening, in his throat, in his chest. He wills them to relax, and they do. They do just this once.

If He had been reminded how painful it is to be human, he would have never agreed to become one again.

His body dangles beneath him; beneath the portion of skull that ends at his maxilla. The only true parts of him that remain. He exhales and feels the goosebumps raise as the sensation washes over him once more and then vanishes. He wonders where this energy is going. If it feels so much like lightning tunneling through him, then surely there must be a discharge of electricity. That is the extent of his understanding of the natural law; what is taken must be given back Now he has given nearly all of himself, with only this false body, this impostor sewn onto the remnants of his true flesh.

It is a convincing fake, however If he wasn’t the one inhabiting it, he wouldn’t know the difference.

“It’s as humanlike as they come” Adria’s words echo in his head, and he brings a hand up to soothe the dull ache at his temple, half-surprised that his fingers are soft and soothing to the touch, not hardened and steel, claws and razorblades fastened to the trunk of his body. This form Is still mechanical, as all bodies are. The thought crosses his mind for the second time since he awoke in this new form that he had been sufficiently weakened, reduced from metal and gears to something resembling flesh and bone, but not quite. Not human enough to be mortal, not mechanical enough to be of use. His body is no longer a weapon, but it is also no longer human. He wants to lay in bed a bit longer now, to soak in the glittering rays of sunlight that warm a slow heat through his skin. A distantly familiar heat, unlike the one constantly kickstarting his heart.

Not the kind of heat that would branch form his solar plexus to his extremities with the speed and intensity of a lightning storm, forcing his body into submission, forcing him to fight. Now he allows himself to relax his muscles, to bask in the light. His palm outstretched, resting on his bare abdomen, fingers half-tangled in the fabric of his sheets. He sighs, feeling the tension resolve itself for once. He hums as his body slumps into the too-soft mattress. He feels his breathing slow, his chest rising and falling; the delicate tissue of his new lungs fills easily, and the muscles lining his ribs are not painfully tight like they would be in his old form.

The milk of propofol, and the cold night air seeps through the thin layer of Levi’s skin like acid; eating away at him until it tunnels through his bones and into his being. His heart is ice, his skin fragile and soft and too humanlike. He doesn’t like it. He kicks up crumpled wrappers strewn along the city street, his foot connecting with the body of a glass bottle, and it rolls and hits the curb; it shatters into a thousand fractals. He thinks his body would fall away into countless pieces again; an arm, a leg, his trunk, sectioned off into even smaller, more manageable portions. He’d been disassembled before. They take his head first, and he imagines them unscrewing it from his neck like a lightbulb. His mandible is torn off its hinges, and now he is truly locked in. Locked inside the box of his skull, his spinal cord slithers out of his foremen magnum, falling into a wet heap on the sterile draping. He is dripping with cerebrospinal fluid and white blood.

The tubing that snakes through his body is severed at the various pre-sectioned junctions, his arteries, veins, lymph vessels clamp up automatically as each portion of his body is hacked away at and put on ice.

There is no pain, no sensation even. His eyes are already shut, he should be unconscious this time, but for some reason he will himself to stay awake because he needs to see this, to see the cost of immortality. His body has already been cast away; scattered like ashes to the four winds, an offering of sorts. He thinks it was a fair trade.

Besides, it was never his choice, never his own will. He takes what he is given and does not mourn what he has given up. When the staff finally notice the signs of consciousness on his vitals monitor, they push a milky liquid through the mess of tubing burying through his veins and he tries to fight it, but what fight is there to be had with forces that bend will when you are not much more than a central nervous system and a pair of eyes? The bruises on his sclera are apparent as his eyes roll up and to the back of his head. He would draw in a long breath if he had a body. There is a conduit system plugged into the major vessels that emerge from where his neck would begin, pumping white blood to his head and carrying it out to a machine that spins fluid-filled turbines, oxygenating his blood and pumping forcefully through him. The rhythm of this mechanical heart is like white noise in his subconscious. He feels sleep tug him forwards, into the chasm of unconsciousness, and he doesn’t want to resist anymore. He’s felt enough. He swears the ghost of his corporeal form jerks up as he falls into the blackness below.

Now Levi tugs the marionette of his body through the grimy city streets, cigarette balanced between his fore and middle finger, plume of vapor escaping the part of his lips. The transition from skin to the artificial stuff that covers his body from his mandible down is seamless, and he can only tell what is skin and what is not by tracing the line from just below his zygomatic process to the furrow of his lips, one blanching under the pressure of his thumb, the other remains rouged by the artificial colorant of the connective tissue. He feels the charge of nicotine run through him. It is gentle on this body, reminds him of caffeine. Cheaper, cruder forms would interpret the buzz like smelling salts, like ice water splashed on his skin, coursing through his veins. He feels the flux of blood warming his body. There is another substance traveling through him, he can tell by the way his pupils dilate and contract, letting in too much and then too little light.

Though the sun is no longer out, he can feel the not-so gentle illumination of billboards and neon signs assault his senses; the colors melt into his vision as a medley of red and pink and green.

The colors swirl, glowing letters twisted into cursive words that scroll across his hazy vision; BAR, LOUNGE, GIRLS, TATTOO and they are mixed with various other languages that he thinks he recognizes as Korean, Arabic, and Russian. Levi blinks, rubs his eyes, and smudges the world even more. The scene looks like colorful paint smeared on a canvas, haphazard strokes, an afterthought of the artist whose mind is preoccupied with the bigger picture, perhaps something larger than the scale of the painting itself.

The figure of a woman materializes on a billboard. She is a giantess before him, pinpricks of LED’s gather to form her features. Her body is long, and the girdle of her pelvis gathers under the swell of her hips, concealed by the layers of fat and flesh and the small amount of sheet fabric that constitutes an outfit. Levi thinks he can see through her, through this illusion of a body; under the clothes of cloth and flesh, he knows what she truly is. She walks towards him, the camera pans. Her waist is a whisper, drawn in by corsetry, he strains his neck to look her into her eyes, as if she could detect his gaze. She seems to be looking down, at him and the other ants that scurry beneath her, as if she is contemplating drawing her legs from the mirror of reality, and into the real world that swirls around her billboard prison.

She smiles and brings her palm to her glossed lips, kissing it and then cupping her hand, blowing breath and glitter through the billboard. The wind kicks up around him, and flashes of this woman slice through the night; she is crouched over, pink hair falls from one side of her head to her shoulders. She smiles dangerously, as if the kiss had been laced with cyanide, and Levi’s body instinctively recoils. He draws his blade and brings it to the front of his body, bracing.

Adria finds him half-submerged in a puddle.

“You know water and electricity don’t mix, don’t you?” She taunts as she leans over him, umbrella in hand, tilted just enough so he is partially covered. She doesn’t laugh at him. She doesn’t pity him either.

“Oh yeah?” He laughs, tinge of mania seeping through his voice as he throws his head back, smearing the silver of his hair into the murky water; reflections of neon lights swirling their colors in the mix of dirt and oil and drain water.

“What’re you gonna do?” Adria crouches now. “Lay here all night?”

“How long has it been?” He growls, “Since you left me here?”

“I didn’t leave you.” She sighs, looks into the glowing city lights then laughs, “you really don’t remember, do you?”

“You’re reminding me of my father.” Levi growls. His image comes to mind: Boxy figure, goggles, moustache. Levi holds a knife between his teeth in this memory. It’s a painful one despite the fact that he’s mostly intact. Now he’s just a brain, eyes, and spinal cord. Back then, though his arms were severed, he was still mostly human.

“Your father had something to fight for.” Adria stares on at him. His father fought against fake bodies and giant mechas. “Do you?”

“What is it you want from me?” Levi moans. He’s done fighting. After the loss of most of his physical form, he’s done searching for reason in any of it.

“I need you to pilot a mecha with me.” Adria says and then snaps her mouth shut, like she’s said something wrong. There’s a beat of silence, and then Levi responds.

“Just take me home.” Levi growls. And Adria does.

#

Sinking into the couch, Levi turns on the television; crummy static box in Adria’s apartment. He flips channels. Mecha’s are everywhere. Short for mechaskeleton, these giant bodies have taken up much of the military’s defense budget. The one Adria specified is the larger variety, taking two pilots to control. Levi’s never controlled a mecha. He wonders if Adria has.

“I’ll take a minimal role piloting the mecha body ” Adria says, still awake despite the late hour “It’s gonna mostly be you. It’ll feel like conducting lightning – something I’ve read about on you report. Something you’re good at.”

Levi shrugs. “It’s what this body was created for. Lightning strike.”

“Then controlling a mecha should come easy to you.” Adria smiles.

#

Levi sleeps on the couch. He dreams of Adria, stuck in a billboard, of freeing her from her pixilated form. Adria, who has only one cybernetic arm. Who will guide him through the surrender of his body; both the real and unreal parts of him. Adria’s escaping the billboard. She’s released head-first, taking a giant step into the city street below. And Levi thinks she must be a mecha. Her largeness, the way she moves her body. Maybe Levi will be able to move a mecha The way Adria thinks he can. Not much remains of him. It would be a good opportunity to feel what it’s like to have a body. One that does not betray.

#

Levi wakes up and he feels lightning running through him, and through Adria. He’s 60 meters tall and wields a giant sword. The feeling is fleeting, but incredibly intense.

“Good morning, lightningstrike.” Adria jokes as she jostles eggs in a pan.

“Morning.” Levi rubs his eyes.

“Sleep well?” Adria asks.

“I dreamt of my father.” Levi lies. “That he was a mecha pilot.”

Adria laughs a little. “Your father fought against mechas.”

“That’s what makes it a dream ”

They make it to the hangar in the early morning. Adria’s dressed Levi in civilian clothing, and herself in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. They both look inconspicuous.

The general shakes both their hands, then hands them off to a lower-ranked individual who takes them through the hangar to where their mecha awaits.

Levi’s not sure what he feels. If it’s nerves or anger. He really doesn’t want to be doing this.

“It’s okay.” Adria assures him, squeezing with her cybernetic arm. Somehow that comforts Levi.

They make it to the mecha they will be controlling. It’s larger than Levi imagined.

Its belly pops open to reveal two cockpits. They walk forwards to better inspect.

The man leading them goes over a safety checklist, and then props up a ladder so they can climb into their cockpits

Levi follows Adria’s lead. He’s not thrilled to be where he is.

The mecha body begins to hum around them as they take their position in respective cockpits. The man who lead them has now backed away. Now Levi will have to figure this out himself.

He feels lightning conduct through him. It would hurt if his body was human.

Adria groans beside him as each vertebral clasp snaps in a cascade down her back. Levi can’t feel this. He can’t feel anything. Even his mind has numbed.

Adria takes main control over the mecha body. Levi seems to be in a trance.

“Levi!” Adria yells, “Wake up!”

And he does He jolts back into consciousness and takes control The body is lifted onto its feet and slowly moves out of the hangar. The two are able to control the mecha well.

They practice movement through the city at night. The streets are barren, and the lights are blinding. Through them surges rehomed lightning, up a body miles high. Through this body they will shake the earth

SCORCHED EARTH

KHADIJA FARAH

The first, and most ironic event, was the turning of the olive trees.

Their branches slithered into settlements, boring through walls, spreading through windows until the entire house was smothered, including its occupants. The settlers were left more plant matter than human.

This is the Second known event. Sunflowers have curled their stems around bodies, merging fluid streams, root systems puncturing vessel walls.

They face due north, sunrise, at attention, petals unfurling towards the open window. My brain registers them as sentient creatures, things that could curl vines around my neck at any misstep of mine That could merge with my body and sap the water from my blood. But it seems I’m safe for now. The targets of these events have all been settlers.

It’s getting humid in this suit; tent of rubber molded over me, with a visor and oxygen pack at my back. The current hypothesis for transmission is through airborne spores. This getup should protect me from the deadliest of all pathogens known to spread this way.

“I disagree with the fungus theory ” I tell Khalid, my supervisor

“And I don’t disagree with you.” He’s on his knees, pulling root formations from skin. “I think it’s the roots,” I say. “That it’s a disease of chemical messages through root systems rather than spores.”

“I think you’re biased ” He tugs, making no progress on separating what’s human from what’s tree I stare on, unsure if he’s making a subtle jab at my nationality, or at my specialization in root structure. Either way, neither of these things define my scientific analysis of the situation.

“Salt.” I bring myself to his level, not daring to touch the specimen. “Apply salt to the roots. They’ll wither and detach.”

“What about fire?” He draws a lighter from his rubber breast pocket.

“That works.” I scan around the room. The curtains cave in at the intrusion of a slight gust. I stand, and separate them completely. The sunflowers seem to instantly grow towards the light I’ve uncovered, like desperate creatures craning their necks to receive sustenance. I think I’m imagining it. “But I don’t usually turn to incendiaries as a first option.”

“It’s what’s on hand.” He says, thumb on the ignition. A thin flame emerges. He spreads it over the span of the root system. “Besides, who are you? NATO?” He snorts.

“Is it necessary?”

“These are your samples ” He pulls the shrunken roots from their burrows in the skin They’re white and wispy. The beginnings of a larger system. They look like spinal nerves furled up into themselves. “You tell me.” He places them into a pre-labeled specimen bag, and that into a foil biohazard bag, and then that into a red box labeled WARNING BIOHAZARD.

“Keep the last body attached to the plant.” I say, “I want to get a CT scan showing root attachment onto the host.”

He doesn’t answer, only shoots me a rubber-gloved thumbs up We exit, into separate portal modules. Disinfectant sprays me as I enter, and the door locks me inside. I unpiece my suit, hanging it up in the designated rack. Then comes another level of decontamination. I’m instructed to strip naked. I’m told this is to be absolutely sure all contaminants have been destroyed, but I have my suspicions that they don’t trust me keeping dangerous materials within the quarantine. That I may very well tuck sunflower seeds into my undergarments and transport them with me to more populated areas.

Tel Aviv. Jerusalem. Haifa. And when this thing’s spread to the Mediterranean, where it can grow into settlements from both ends of the country, then there will be no stopping it.

Outside is Hebron. High sun. The white of the city crests over the subtle slope of hill. Sheep graze along the herbs and grassy blades, under the shadow of olive trees Some of these trees are older than most countries in this region. They sit on coils of roots, dark bulge of their trunks swirl bark into itself, and climb up to form branches, holding a swarming bundle of leaves.

I want to talk to them. To ask what they’ve seen with no eyes, what they’ve heard with no ears. All they know is the rumble of the earth, of the footstep that have passed, some of which unfamiliar, alien, unwelcome.

I trace my fingers along their rough grooves There are some things I know they’ve seen Some things I’ve shown them. My graduation, my white thobe adorned with a rainbow of cross- stitch patterns, coins jangling from my headpiece. Colorful handkerchiefs tied to the branches. My sister’s wedding, just as vibrant, drums bellowing through the sparse canopy.

“I’m going back to Germany after this.” Khalid says through a cigarette.

“And I am going to Jerusalem.” I laugh.

Beyond us, I watch sunflowers eat away at the red aluminum that once read a warning: The entrance for Israeli citizens is forbidden, dangerous to your lives, and is against the Israeli law. Now yellow gleams from it, Fibonacci array of seeds coating the bulge of their faces They face the sun and nothing else

“You can ask them, you know.” Khalid tries to find my eyes. His expression is sincere.

He means the UN. The ones who’ve contracted me here in the first place.

“You can make an appeal. They’ll give you a special passport. They won’t bother you at the checkpoints. You really could make it to Jerusalem.”

“So, I can be a citizen of the world?” I snort.

He doesn’t find that funny, rolling his cigarette nervously between his fingers. “You never took constructive feedback well.”

“And do you have any more for me?”

He pauses, caught in his method to lay down the facts gently. That’s why he tried to plant hope in me first. It’s why he’s about to say this:

“They want you to destroy the samples.” He rubs his fingers through the stubble of his cheeks.

“Already?” I’m not mad Not yet There’s more ammunition, and he’s holding back I turn to him so we face each other completely.

He nods wordlessly.

“What else do they want me to do?”

“Burn it all.”

“What?” I fix my posture from its previous slump against the tree bark. “The samples or-”

“The land.” His hand shakes slightly as he sucks smoke out his cigarette, and blows it out opposite to me. It adds effect to my mental image. Acres of scorched earth, blackening everything in its wake. And we’re both helpless to stop it “Every olive tree and sunflower in the case radius ”

“There are people who live here!” I point into the city, into the paths of villages and vineyards and farmhouses “On both sides of the divide You know that ”

“If you want out, then just tell me.” His voice is softer now. Like he’s trying to calm a mounting storm. Like something in the cadence of my voice tells him I’m going to snap “I’ll take custody of your samples. Everything.”

“That doesn’t change what’s going to happen here.”

“We were never supposed to change anything You know that We’re supposed to approach this with a sense of neutrality.”

“They’re going to set the land on fire!”

“To kill the evil plant monsters,” He leans in towards me, “Or whatever it is you want to call them.”

I laugh a little. It’s unintended. I’m trying to scold him. To be the serious one. But he’s making it difficult The whole thing is so bizarre, so comically surreal that we can’t help but laugh

“They’re not plant monsters.” I clasp my hand over my mouth to conceal a giggle. “They’re neoplastic sentient plantae.”

“That’s the same thing.” He rubs his brow. His whole body seems tense. “Listen. If I were you, I’d send a resignation email and at the end, ask very nicely for clearance to Jerusalem.”

“You sound like you’re trying to send me away ” I furrow my brows I sense that he means to distract me. To protect me from what they’re making us do.

“You’re correct.” He sighs. “On a roll today.”

“I can’t go ” I shake my head “I need to see through what I’ve started ” I mutter to myself, “I’ve been so naïve. Thinking I could gently suffocate the uncontrollable.”

“Amira!” He scolds “Don’t be the martyr All my time working with you and this is how you want to smother your livelihood? To watch more of your hearth be eaten away?”

“And leave you to deal with it?”

“Ya Amira, Ya albi ” He mutters, in Arabic: “Oh, Amira, my heart ”

There’s a beat of silence between us, and it’s enough to make me relent.

“Fine.” I mutter, head bowing partially in defeat, and partially in relief. “If that’s what you want.”

Khalid shakes his head and inhales “It always took a good scolding for you to realize ”

I blink and stare at him. “To realize what?” I’ve been spending so much of my time trying to understand something that defies biology, that defies all natural law. Now Khalid thought it was an appropriate time for some introspection. Something I’d avoided, that I’d held off on until we’ve unraveled the mystery before us

“That you’re too stubborn for your own good.” He leans forwards and relights his cigarette. I wake the smoke from my face.

Stubborn. There are root systems more stubborn than me, sunflowers that grow into flesh and blood because they are willed to by some force we will never understand. You can’t just cut something off at the root and expect to be rid of it. All things embedded in the soil extend further into the earth than you’d imagine These flowers will all grow back after the burning Nothing will stop them unless they’re removed wholly from the earth, until the world is stripped of the vessel systems they have embedded inside.

I’ve been removed by the root; quick tug and I live the rest of my life in a constant state of shock, no new growth, severed where the body once met the earth. Khalid has been, too. Back and forth between his homeland and Germany. None of us know what it’s like for our roots to be fully intact.

I smile a little at that, at the bizarre connection I’ve made between us and the plants that ravage the land we once called home.

“I’m going to Jerusalem,” I say. And I mean it this time, have dropped the sarcastic affect. I will go to Jerusalem, to the place my roots were never allowed to touch.

Khalid smiles through his cigarette and exhales pure vapor.

“That’s the spirit ” And for the first time since these events have started, I smile something real Something light-seeking and sincere.

When I arrive at Jerusalem, it’s already getting cold

Negotiations on the burning have gone on from the peak of summer until November. That’s also how long it’s taken for me to get the greenlight to go here.

I lean into the bus window, taking in the old city. Scores of electricity lines run through neighborhoods. White-bricked town-houses and apartments. Cobblestone paved road.

The bus settles at it stops. There’s a long pause before the doors open. Once they do, an armed guard steps in, rifle strapped to his front. He demands we present our passports. I scramble to reach into my bag and my hand returns with my blue laissez passport.

Passage to the old city it irritating but not impossible I make my way through the market place, through colorful vendors of spices, attire, and jewelry. By the time I reach the end, I can find the opening leading to the dome of the rock; an old Muslim holy site.

I’m instructed to put on a head-cover and a skirt. I buy myself a set of prayer clothes which is just that and make my way towards the old mosque.

Inside, the place is filled with floral and botanical decorations that I’ve read to be reminders of heaven that awaits for those practicing For me, the flowers and vines offer me clues What plants will be next? Will they no longer spare anyone? Will they stop when they reach this point?

The questions haunt me as I continue my journey into the mosque, and they follow me on my way out. Plants, with minds of their own. And the drawings of them that couldn’t be coincidence. It makes my head spin

At night, I get a call from Khalid. He says my samples have been burnt, and the entire grove of olive trees and sunflowers have been set aflame.

I pause, clutching my phone to me ear, and then release a breath. I knew it would come to this. That these measures would be taken I wonder about where these roots would have travelled to If I would have been on assignment here in Jerusalem.

“Ok.” Is all I say, and then I hang up.

That night, there are fireworks; blue and white erupting in the sky. I turn my hotel room’s bathtub into a makeshift bed. The sound of the fireworks seems to be triggering me, unlocking childhood memories of me and my siblings hiding in the bath as helicopters and jets flew overhead

There’s something inside of me that sees the fireworks as a celebration of annihilation. Personally, I think it’s too soon to tell. But the fire is burning at an unfathomable rate as I push my palms against my ears. Scorched earth. Highly effective. The plants will wither and disconnect from their roots and then nothing will remain atop the soil.

I’m back where it all began. The earth is blackened and bare. Khalid thinks if he’s besides me I would take it better. My root hypothesis proved to be correct. But the roots here, though intact, will wither without the leaves and stems that glucose and water travel through.

Khalid and I don’t talk. We only take our gloved hands to the earth below and search.

I gasp, catching Khalid by surprise. I suddenly cup my hand over the dirt and catch his eyes as I shoot him a look

He leans down and puts his palm over mine. We’re both encasing this thing that I’ve found.

When Khalid removes his hand from mine, I lift my hand up as well. A small sprout; sweet green in this scorched land It’s so tiny it barely pokes its head out high enough to see.

Khalid puts his hand in mine, and we walk until the green can be seen again With a normal root system, that doesn’t feed on humans. We walk until we can see a sign of peace, poking its little head through the ground as it germinates.

DUNK’S WATER FALL

NATE HOIL

Dunk woke to find an unfamiliar blankness passing rapidly in front of her helmet’s mask. It was as though someone stood before her, flipping through the pages of an empty notebook Her body was falling. The first thought that came to Dunk’s mind after opening her eyes was:

She was falling through space… although, the idea of traveling “through” space assumed a beginning and end to whatever journey she was currently experiencing. And having awoken in the midst of her situation, there was reason to assume that whatever was happening to Dunk might continue to happen forever It’s possible that the space that flashed before her might be entirely immeasurable in relation to the human understanding of length and width.

In truth, Dunk couldn’t even confirm a reality outside her own space helmet.

But Dunk was not thinking about this. Most people wouldn’t be… especially not right away. Dunk’s thoughts were racing through a list of possible ways she could escape her current and inconceivable turmoil.

Oh boy… Dunk thought to herself. Now would be a good time to shotgun a beer. Her nerves were buzzing like wings on a hummingbird. She imagined a stream of foamy cheap beer spraying out of its can and colliding against her helmet. She wished for the glass bubble of her space visor to be filled up to her nose with a cold and fizzy brew.

Dunk rubbed the glass of her mask with her glove, almost expecting to find that some strange and suctioning alien bug had latched itself onto her visor some leach-like creature that covered her window of sight, making it seem she was lost, when she was actually floating comfortably in one of her space program’s satellite territories. Unfortunately, the glass on her helmet felt smooth and unobstructed against her glove.

She squinted her eyes, looking through her visor in hopes of seeing anything at all: a murmur of anything other than this infinite void she found herself trapped in There was nothing.

One thing Dunk did learn while rubbing her helmet with her glove was this: she at least knew the reason she was falling, instead of floating gently inside the darkness of the galaxy. The glove on her hand was easily recognizable as a part of her space program’s Anti Zero Gravity Suit: a large and clumsy space suit designed to counteract the zero-gravity environment found in outer space.

The suit was meant to prevent Dunk’s fellow astronauts from floating away, particularly in instances where the astronauts needed to walk across long flat surfaces such as the ship docks or planets with no gravitational pull. If Dunk were wearing the Anti Zero Gravity Suit on a ship or a planet located in zero-gravity, the suit would help keep Dunk’s feet planted safely on the ground.

In this instance, Dunk’s Anti Zero Gravity Suit was operating incredibly well, working just as it was supposed to by removing any aspects of zero-gravity from Dunk’s outer space experience. The problem was… with no ground for the gravity suit to anchor Dunk’s feet against, the suit was sending her falling (down, or through, or whatever you might call it), trapped in the blank void of nothingness forever without end. Dunk didn’t know how fast she was traveling, especially not in terms of earthly miles per hour. But what Dunk did know was this: no matter what speed she found herself traveling at, she still might continue falling long after she had starved to death, or the oxygen in her suit’s tank had run out.

Dunk closed her eyes, and imagined herself as a pale and withered corpse, her white and stringy hair so overgrown that it has burst out of her helmet’s mask. There would be no funeral. There would be one to identify her body There wouldn’t even be worms to pick at the meat on her bones Dunk shook her head, fighting off her thoughts.

She took a breath and tried to remember what events had led to her waking in this horrible predicament…

The last thing Dunk could remember was sitting with her fellow spaceman, Booter, in the empty locker room of their military satellite base. In her memory, she could picture them both sitting in their shorts, with the empty Anti Zero Gravitational Suit propped up between them. The suit was empty, a headless hole visible through the space suits glass visor, but Dunk remembered it seeming as though the suit might stand up and start dancing at any moment.

“Space sucks ass,” Booter had said, digging through an official space-cadet duffle bag one that another spaceman had left on the locker room floor Dunk and Booter did’t know the spaceman, whose name was written on a strip of duct tape and stuck on the side of the bag.

“Space sucks… like a vacuum,” Dunk agreed. Then she made a vacuum noise into her cupped hands, like: Vvvvvvvvrrrrroom. The Anti Zero Gravitational Suit sat motionless between them. There was a rattling sound as Booter pulled a small canister out through the bag’s open zipper.

“SPACE PAINT,” Booter shrieked with glee. Without hesitation, Booter shoved the canister up his nostril and shot a long stream of paint into his head His eyes swelled shut as though he were stung by bees.

A lipless smile grew across his face like the wrinkles on an old man’s forehead He dropped the canister, and it rolled slowly across the floor, bumping against the toe of Dunk’s boot. She picked the thing up, not taking her eyes off Booter. A wide stream of drool was now pouring down the front of Booter’s chin. Dunk let out three puffs of air, as though she were about to hold her breath underwater, then she fired the canister off into her skull…

Now she was falling through space, with no explanation of what happened in between. In the distance a blue speck had begun to appear across the blank emptiness of night. The speck was no larger than a grain of sand

It had been there for several minutes before Dunk even believed it to be real. It was so small. And it remained unchanged for so long. The speck might have remained the same hours, or even days without changing. Dunk’s reality was so warped she felt she no longer knew how old she was. She kept her eyes locked on the blue speck, her eyes watering as she refused to blink or lose focus on the only thing she had left in her entire current existence.

Then, suddenly and all at once, the speck expanded like a balloon filling with air The blue filled the darkness entirely, like her helmet had been wrapped in a vibrantly blue blanket. With a powerful splash Dunk entered this unknown planet’s water, disappearing and reemerging with her head floating above the surface of the waves.

Dunk looked around The planet’s surface looked entirely covered in water, but all the creatures she saw around her were walking on the surface without sinking. Their footsteps made little splashes like drips from a leaky faucet. The human-like creatures hurried around Dunk’s floating head. None of them spoke, but their eyes darted cautiously like they were jay-walking across a busy city intersection. Dunk watched them walk, having no idea where the people might be going. There was nothing but water as far as Dunk could see. Her curiosity turned to a bored and distant stare, as the planet’s population walked rudely around her half-submerged body, none of them saying hello or asking if Dunk was okay. Dunk dipped her facemask under the water, and for the first time since her paint-induced blackout, she saw the rest of her Anti Zero Gravit Spacesuit floating beneath her. She kicked her legs gently, wondering if this planet was all water, all the way through. No ocean floor. No layers of magma. Just a round bubble of water jiggling in some galaxy who’s name remains unknown to her.

Dunk squinted through the blue and watched as a pale and tiny face grew larger and larger, up from the depths of the planet’s sea.

Dunk guessed this was how it looked if she had found herself caught in the path of a head shot out of a cannon.

Abruptly, there was a burst of liquid and noise, as a hairy face emerged beside Dunk, gasping and coughing up water

“Whyy… did.. I… doooooo that,” the hairy face said between deep breaths of air. Now that the thing was closer, Dunk could see that the face was connected to a plump, but handsome body, that was completely covered in fur.

“What do you mean? What did you do?” Dunk asked, watching the creature’s tail wave back and forth gently beneath the water. The creature took one last deep breath, then sighed and looked sadly ahead. “I’m embarrassed to say,” it muttered

Dunk had grown up on Earth, but since leaving her home planet, strange sightings of alien species had become normal for her. And truly, the most grotesque and unsettling species she had ever seen was a crying human child its faces like dirty sacks of laundry, making noises like a brawling cat. And now that Dunk knew that each alien species came with its own temperaments, which sometimes could be lethal, Dunk figured that she’d just drop the question of why this creature was so upset, and just move on to a different topic of conversation.

“What is your name?” Dunk said to the creature. It’s hairy face’s expression changed from exhaustion to bored annoyance.

“Fuzzy,” the creature said.

“…your name is Fuzzy?” Dunk repeated, glancing at Fuzzy’s wet and furry body.

“You got a problem with that?” Fuzzy turned to Dunk with a glare Dunk wondered if Fuzzy was Native to this planet. Unlike the other form of life she had observed, Fuzzy could not walk on the water. He floated next to Dunk, with the water reaching up to his neck.

“…a problem with what?” Dunk said.

But before the conversation could continue, a commotion began off in the distance. It sounded as though people were screaming in fear. Fuzzy and Dunk turned their heads above the water, and looked to see what was causing the noise Along the horizon of the planet, past the soft and peaceful ripples of water, a wave was growing higher and higher.

Very far away from Dunk, in the desert in the United States of America, General Gerber stood before the glowing control boards of the top-secret government launch center His arms folded tight as the stubble poking out his balding head. General Gerber was always agitated because he always had a Headache. He always had a headache because he was always clenching his teeth with ferocious disdain. On the control board, different maps and screens flashed their cryptic codes and patterns General Gerber’s eyes blazed like toxic clouds, absorbing all the computers’ information. “Prepare for launch,” General Gerber said. He sounded as though his throat was filled with sand.

Through the giant windows of the center, out in the desert’s sand, an astronaut stood stuffed inside a long tight tube His shoulders pressed against the tube’s round walls The astronaut stared blankly ahead through the rocket’s windshield, looking as though he were waiting in line at the grocery store.

The launch was a part of an ongoing space-travel operation, which had been taking place for decades. The government had kept their discovery of intricate solar systems located light years away from Earth a secret. The government didn’t tell anyone that they were sending rockets full of spacemen up into space. Furthermore, they didn’t ask the spacemen that they were sending up whether or not the spacemen wanted to go. They chose people the suspected would not fight the with the decision; they chose people that nobody would notice was gone

The ships that launched the spacemen were similar to the size of a bobsled.

They were made that way so the launch would be undetectable. They launched up into space, only leaving a small poof of smoke.

A solemn-looking man appeared next to General Gerber, staring vaguely over the top of his glasses at the tiny aircraft “Where is this one headed,” the solemn-looking man asked

“The Crum,” General Gerber said, referencing an ironically named planet whose massive size was continually being explored for potential alien life. The fraction of size that had been walked by the space program’s astronauts was similar to an ant trying to crawl around the surface of planet earth. This particular space program had sent over one thousand space men to this planet, most of which were still up there walking around.

“The Crum indeed,” the solemn-looking man with the glasses said “I’ve been sent here to inform you that there’s been a situation on Satellite 14X.”

“The satellite with the two delinquents?”

“The very same.”

“What is the situation?” General Gerber’s jaw muscles protruded out further, like the top of his Skull was compressing down, the sides of his head jutting outward

“Well, the delinquents. One of them is missing…” the man with the glasses’ face remained unchained, unfearful of General Gerber’s boiling temperament.

“One missing, fine.”

“And the other…” the man with the glasses paused, suddenly failing to articulate the situation. “Maybe you should see for yourself,” he said, pulling footage of Satellite 14X’s security cameras up on his video tablet.

On the tablet’s screen, Spaceman Booter could be seen running through the satellite’s rooming area. His face was still swollen from inhaling the space paint. He would have been unrecognizable if it weren’t for the indicators on his uniform. Booter ran between the bunk beds, with the paint canister in his hand, a thick cloud of paint exiting its nozzle and filling the room with its toxic chemical cloud.

General Gerber clicked through the satellite’s other security cameras All around the ship, a mist of paint filled the walls. Throughout the satellite, spacemen rolled on the ground. Their faces puffed out like overstuffed pockets.

“Sweet Jesus,” General Gerber said.

“Indeed,” the man in glasses agreed.

When Dunk first landed on the water planet, she might have assumed that a strong enough swimmer could dive down into its depths, swimming all the way through to the other side without interruption. This was not the case.

There was one small island on the planet. It sat at the equator with a nice tropical climate and trees that looked like skeletal limbs. The people living on the island were all beautiful and glowing. They glowed due to the water they drank.

Unknown to the people of the island, their main water supply was contaminated by an experimental fuel from spaceship wreckage, specifically an alien mineral called “Frumb”, used to fuel the majority of rockets in their particular galaxy. Drinking a combination of Frumb and ocean water made the islanders’ skin glow radiant and bright. It also causes the drinker to experience long-term and overwhelming euphoria.

The people of the island all sat around, naked with their eyes unfocused.

They ate fruits and vegetables, and drank the island’s beautiful and contaminated water The islanders were different than those Dunk had seen walking on the water’s surface. The islanders could not walk on the water, and the water people would die if they spent too long on land. And neither group of people ever interacted, or even questioned what the other was currently doing. They lived in two separate worlds on the same planetary surface.

And neither group cared to have it any other way.

The planet’s giant wave had risen and washed over the island, and the islanders lay happily in the puddles it had left behind. The planet’s water was calm now, and all across its surface the water-walkers were returning to their feet on the ocean’s surface, uninjured.

The water-walkers could not be injured by anything. The recent wave had sent walkers sailing through the air like leaves off the hood of a car People bounced and rolled People flopped back down onto the water’s surface like omelets being flipped on a skillet. In the distance another unmanned carriership smashed into the planet’s watery surface.

From the shore of the island, Fuzzy and Dunk looked hopelessly in every direction. “I do not like it here,” Fuzzy said. “I do not like anything I have seen.” Dunk said nothing. She began to undress from her Anti Zero Gravity Suit. The suit fell to the island’s sand. Dunk reached in her pocket and pulled out a picture of her and Booter. In the photo they were smiling. On the shore, Dunk could not bring herself to smile

The water planet’s lone island was a paradise… aside from one problem: none of the adults wanted to work. This was causing their society to crumble. The island’s population was small, and the contaminated water significantly decreased the peoples’ chances of reproducing.

This was because the adults of the island were always having sex At all hours and any day of the year Someone needed to watch all the children while their parents enjoyed their life-long vacation.

After wandering the island for more than an hour, walking past islanders who mostly just lay in the shade, Dunk and Fuzzy came across the island’s daycare: a large room fenced off by a flimsy barrier made of tree wood. Dunk and Fuzzy watched as the children ran around the daycare. Strangely, Dunk thought, they all seemed to be the same height and age. They all had shaggy hair that fell over their ears and eyebrows. Two of the children had torn the peels off some of the island’s fruits and were chasing other children around with the peels, rubbing the citrusy juice in other children’s eyes. Another child was breaking a tree branch into tiny pieces over their knee.

A majority of the children were screaming either in excitement, fear, or pain “AAAUUGUGUHHHHHH” one child screamed, their arms raised over their head as they stomped after differently screaming child. In the center of the room, the former daycare worker sat motionless and dead In their chair.

“What do we do about this?” Dunk said, looking around “What exactly ” but she was interrupted by a crash and the sound of something shrieking like a dog. Dunk turned to find Fuzzy crouched down in a threatening pose, his teeth gleaming through his curled lips like blades. The crowd of children backed away from him slowly, eyes on his raised and quivering fists

“Yea, I’m not doing this…” Fuzzy said. Then he turned and started walking towards the daycare’s exit. Dunk was beginning to notice how easily irritable Fuzzy could become. She followed Fuzzy back to the beach, where he stood at the shore with his thumb stuck out like a hitch hiker.

“Good luck with that,” Dunk said, nodding to his outstretched thumb. What does he expect, she thought. A spacecraft to just pull up and take him away?

Less than a minute later, a small spacecraft pulled up to the shore.

“Where ya headed?” the spaceman inside said through his spacecraft’s driver side window.

“I do not care,” Fuzzy said solemnly “Anywhere other than here ”

“I’m headed that way,” the spaceman said, pointing vaguely up towards the sky.

“Sure, why not,” Fuzzy shrugged, turning to Dunk. “You coming with?” Dunk shrugged as well. The two climbed into the spacecraft, Fuzzy getting into the front seat and Dunk climbing in the backseat behind him.

“Let’s rock n roll,” the spaceman said cheerily He stepped on the gas and they shot across the sky

Out the window, Dunk watched as the water planet shrank to a tiny speck. She looked up at the back of Fuzzy’s head, then she looked over to the back of the spaceman’s head. Then she curled against the backseat window and tried to get some sleep.

LABYRINTHIAN LIBRARY

ALEXANDER PENNEY

We would bike home together at night. Ekko would walk the two blocks from the pizza shop after their shift to meet me at the rusted bike rack on the west side of the library, and every few days drop their latest casualty in the overnight drop-off return chute. Ekko liked finishing books on their lunch break, saying “It gives me the rest of the day to mull the ending over.” I would have the next victim in hand from Ekko’s list ready, alongside my own week’s selections to read While Ekko stayed mostly within fiction (fantasy, sci-fi, magical realism) the topics I delved into varied topics at random. Often it seemed I was looking for the answer to some inane question I couldn’t remember asking myself. Sometimes the topic would come first, and I read selections picked like a shotgun blast until the question had arrived Three weeks on the history of architecture and no questions or answers had arrived. It was not usual to be eluded from the question for so long, but I decided to move on to books about famous American libraries and their history.

Ekko makes this week’s drop-off, confirms the next selection, Jesse Ball’s The Way Through Doors, and we mount up. The late September air is refreshing in my hair and my lungs, crisp and energizing. Ekko’s silhouette thrills me as it races through the glow of streetlights. We pass empty lots of overgrown weeds and trash locked behind chain-linked fences and sidewalks cracking from brutal winters. We dodge cars and take the long way home, ending with a swift kiss that smells of dough and pages on the front steps after we lock up our bikes underneath the porch. We waltz into the row house in a tangle of green and gray locks, flying past Neb with a flustered greeting, and fall into a tangled pile on our bare mattress.

In no time, we are one but in two worlds, Ekko in the magical realism of Ball, and me in Steven K. Galbraith’s “Rare Book Librarianship”

The pull that accompanies the time before the question arrives is fiercer than it has ever been before.

There was something my mind needed to know, but I hadn’t the faintest notion of what it might be. Greco architecture from weeks prior manifested itself in the place of the Library of Congress and Yale’s Beinecke in the cavern of my mind.

“I rarely can sense the labyrinths of my mind until I am reading a good book ”

Ekko mumbles from behind the pages in front of their face. They are curled tight in the blankets, nearly already asleep, blinking slowly and peacefully wrapped in on themself

I ponder the words and try to find where the labyrinth of my mind is trying to take me. I have been having dreams of marble pillars in an empty wood, a collection of voices murmuring for me to continue to search. I try to conjure up where they might be leading me as I read Galbraith, but I get lost in his words

I place Galbraith down and go out into the living room. Neb is just a pair of eyes and limbs in a cloud of smoke and I fall endlessly into the couch alongside the greenish haze. Neb speaks in circles of little nothings and non-sequiturs seemingly pulled at random from the ether. Though I never saw Neb at the library, and we had no internet at the house, Neb was an endless pool of knowledge, when it found its space in his unrelenting babble. I’d consult Neb when the questions or answers appeared at an impasse, and even if it took days of meandering nonsense about whales or finance, Neb always got things unstuck for me.

“What do you got on Labyrinths, Neb?”

Neb inhales for a long time on a joint while I wait for the fountain of wisdom to spill over for me. His eyes close and it’s as if he is searching through files in his brain, looking for the answers I seek. After what feels like minutes he opens his eyes, and drags on the joint once more, before passing it to me and speaking

“Labyrinths were created by Daedalus to hold the Minotaur. They are more than simple puzzles or mazes, there is something that lies within them that one enters to seek out. What you might find, depends on the labyrinth.”

Taking the joint and inhaling I marvel and the encyclopedic brain of Neb. I ponder what Ekko had said while reading their book.

“Ekko mentioned something about the labyrinth of their mind, and it itched at that part of my own mind that made me think it was connected to what I am trying to find right now.”

Neb leans back on the couch and pulls a bag of Cheetos seemingly out of thin air. He munches, leaving a mess of crumbs on his lap and licking his fingers

“Freud would suggest that you’re trying to reach what your subconscious seeks. He’d also probably say that you and everyone else subconsciously seek to fulfill an Oedipal Complex, so maybe we shouldn’t worry about what Freud might say.”

“What might Neb say then?”

Neb gets all serious and stares at me for a long minute

“Neb does not dare to speculate, but if the original labyrinth held a Minotaur, the labyrinth of your mind might hold something just as dangerous. Be wary unless you think yourself a Theseus.”

The living room haze seeps into my skull and visions of columns stretched out alongside expansive fields, endlessly stretching into the heavens consume my attention. Neb babbles about Battlestar Galactica, a show I don’t know if he had ever even seen, and I half-listen while I fade off into the void of slumber and dreams.

The next few days repeat themselves in the exact same manner

I am wrapped up in The Library of Congress: The Art and Architecture of the Thomas Jefferson Building by John Y. Cole and Henry Hope Reed. The back recesses of my mind tingle with renewed excitement, but I am as lost in the woods as one dropped in the middle of the Amazon. Each night I left Ekko after an hour or so and sit with Neb, who rambles on and on about conspiracies of chemtrails, the construction of the Golden Gate Bridge, DMT use, lucid dreaming & astral projection, Fight Club, the Iran-Contra Affair, Happy Land fire, Charles Manson, and more I can’t be bothered to remember.

I was starting to lose hope after a week of books on Libraries, but the itch was too hard to Ignore. Ekko was getting concerned as I was absorbed in trying to find the question. I scrounged up some of the money I had been saving to replace my bike and took Ekko out to dinner, just the two of us on a Friday evening. We laughed like we hadn’t in a long time. We dressed up in our finest and pretended to be 16th-century French aristocrats as we ate our over-priced upscale vegan fare

“You’ve been so distant lately. Are you still struggling to find an answer? Is it even that important?”

Ekko interrupts our small talk that had almost distracted me from that nagging part of my brain. I contemplate the question for a long while, playing with my mushroom risotto, until the silence demands something from me.

“I can’t fully explain it I just feel like there is something deep inside that I am so close to uncovering, some important truth that I can’t let go of.”

Ekko remains silent, while I try to rid myself of the distraction and focus on the present with them. The night continues on much in the quiet way it had prior, but that itch lingers in the back of my mind.

Later that evening, I leave our bedroom long after Ekko was asleep, to find the inscrutable Neb still awake in his usual spot.

I settle down beside Neb, for the first time in a long week feeling mostly free of my obsession. The itch at the back of my brain was still there, but I cradle myself in Neb’s words, hoping they will lull me to sleep.

Neb babbles about the Old Testament and the stories lost to time that were never included. Neb hypothesizes that the contact with the divine was aliens and stories lost would tell of the creatures that influenced the Abrahamic religion and all of the Middle East.

“Messiah worship and expectation is just ancient peoples way of describing waiting for the return of extraterrestrial beings with technology we still couldn’t fathom today. The gods are just explanations for the superior intelligence of other beings. The beings that brought us to consciousness became supernatural deities in the tales passed down and shaped world religions and all the real accounts of research into what they actually are got purged long ago, two far back for anyone to be able to tell anymore ”

At once the pillars spread out across the desert begin to connect and construct a finished structure in my mind, and I catch the sights of Egypt. Were there lost stories in Alexandria? Not lost in the apocryphal mis-tellings that the whole Library was burnt, but maybe in a secret wing of the Library that held rare manuscripts and oddball tales that did not fit into the narratives of the Roman Empire? The narratives our society was built on, where all of our understanding comes from? Knowledge preserved in secret to keep away from the populace?

My mind is buzzing too fast to calm. This was the question, and it was finally here. Lost knowledge held in the bowels of the Library of Alexandria. A real-life Library of Babel. Answers to the unexplained. Accounts that were saved but dismissed.

The next two days were spent devouring everything I could find on Alexandria;

The Rise and Fall of Alexandria: Birthplace of the Modern Mind by Justin Pollard and Howard

The Library of Alexandria: A Cultural Crossroads of the Ancient World by Christophe Rico and Anca Dan

The Library of Alexandria: Centre of Learning in the Ancient World by Roy MacLeod

The Library of Alexandria: The History and Legacy of the Ancient World’s Most Famous Library by Charles River Editors

Libraries in the Ancient World by Lionel Casson

The second-night, Ekko turned to me in bed, their eyes heavy with sleep.

“Are you gonna stay up all night again reading?”

Reid

I look up from the page I am on and glance about. I don’t remember eating dinner, and I don’t remember Saturday turning into Sunday Ekko yawns at me and feel guilty having kept them up.

“Sorry, I’ll go sit with Neb.”

I exit the room, turn off the light, and make my way to the living room. Neb welcomes me with a slight nod and I settle back into the book, my mind racing with ideas and possibilities. I begin to believe if I just continue my research, maybe I can map out the real Library and delve Into the secrets that its labyrinthian halls hold. It might just be that the uncovering of the path through the library could clue me into what was hidden away in the ancient structure.

The lost collection was all I could talk about, all that was in my mind. The more I read, the more I felt I uncovered, the more I could picture that wing of Alexandria, smell the parchment and tablets, etched with the words that must explain so much. But the words remained elusive. I knew they were tucked away there, I could feel it in the core of my being. The drawings and diagrams and makeshift blueprints of the library began to appear without my even realizing it

The nights and days began to blur together and I was fired from the library. My research was too important to be concerned with something like shame as I continued my daily track to And from the library. The winter was freezing over and Ekko felt like a distant distraction.

One evening, as we met to ride back home from the library, Ekko avoided the kiss I instinctually went for. My mind deep in Alexandria, I thought nothing of it until they confronted me once we were in the bedroom

“Don’t you even care that I snubbed your kiss earlier?”

It took me a minute to even remember what they were referring to.

“I guess I didn’t really think about it. I feel like I am so close to the answer Ekko, just a little longer and I think I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“That’s the problem! You are so caught up in this search of yours, that you are completely gone from the moment. What do you even think you are going to figure out? Is there really some reality-altering revelation hidden in some building that hasn’t existed for centuries? And you are going to figure it out by recreating it?”

I place the book on the pile next to me on the floor and try to figure out how to explain it to Ekko.

“Remember when you talked about the labyrinth of your mind?”

“No, what are you even talking about ”

“God, it was something you said, something that was actually of some value.” Silence.

“Shit, I didn’t mean that, I just, mean…”

“Fuck you, I am done with this. I have been talking to Grace for days now, and she said I could move in with her while I look for a new place. I am over this, I am so tired of your obsessions and wondering why the obsession was never me, never our relationship.”

Ekko started packing there things, and I thought of something to do in the moment. Lost, I decided it didn’t matter, the hints I was getting from my research left me all but certain I could piece together the not-lost-but-hidden collection of Alexandria. The pieces of clues all lead to a truth that I knew could not remain hidden forever, and once I found it, it would all be worth it, hell, maybe Ekko would even understand and apologize.

After Ekko left, I began to assemble three-dimensional models that overtook our living room, structures built from paper and cardboard and whatever other supplies I could get my hands on. Free of distractions, I could begin to fully see the weaving paths of the structure in my research and my designs.

Neb watched on silently, or rather, mumbling endless nothings that never even remotely related to my arduous endeavor. I dug for further hints in books on myth, folklore, and religion, anything and everything I could get my hands on that might clue me into the missing texts. I Started drafting synopses of the tales that might be missing, with branching multi-narratives, each with dozens of different endings I feel so close to the truth, the Minotaur of this problem deep inside my psyche, hidden in the depths of the library. A truth that would bring sense to a senseless world.

Fevers, headaches, and body pains began to set in Ekko was gone and Neb paid no mind to my suffering. The books had stopped, and I left the house maybe once a week to stock up on basic sustenance, rice, beans, and near-rotten discount vegetables. Neb at least would share some of his haze with me while we stared off into the blank wall across from the couch, surrounded by my blueprints and diagrams.

The only time Neb had said anything about this journey of mine was when I had obstructed his view of the blank wall in front of his spot on the couch and he went full furious and feral.

My mind feels sluggish, my body decompensated. The walls are covered in my desperate scrawling, except for a perfect circle directly across from Neb’s gaze. We have been in a near- endless haze these days or weeks. Neb’s muttering has let up and in its place, is my constant hypothesizing about what happened. Repression of truth, of information. Extensive contact with non-earth beings (whether from another planet or another plane, I was still working out), technologies that would surpass anything we see today, lost lands and peoples and creatures and powers and all the things society wanted to protect so badly they buried them away in depths that were hidden and locked and restricted from prying eyes. Meaning screamed from these depths, The lost catacombs of ancient knowledge filled with answers for so much. My skin tingled with excitement when I thought of running my fingers along the shelves, diving headfirst into the information at my fingertips. I can taste the dust on the air as I lift a tome from its place and in it find understanding

Weaker than I thought possible, I wake at an unknown time, time having mostly become irrelevant during the days and weeks of my research With every ounce of strength I can muster, I sit myself on the couch next to Neb and start to plead.

“Serenity, purpose, meaning, validation, of the human experiment. All simply tucked away in the shuttered depths. I can tell its there Neb, I can feel the sound of the Minotaur’s hooves on the cobbled stone The echoes reverberate around my head, empty of anything but this maze Why can I not reach it then? Neb, please tell me I am close. Please, you of all people, your encyclopedic mind must be able to understand where I have gotten and if I am almost there?”

Neb stares at the blank spot on the wall where my thoughts cannot intrude on his inner world, now the only place for days that his thoughts have been while he has remained outwardly silent.

“Not everyone is Theseus. Not everyone is meant to meet the Minotaur and live to understand.”

With that Neb closes his eyes as I cough up dust and sand and curl into myself. I fall asleep hoping to wake in the depths of Alexandria.

FORGOTTEN APPALACHIA

ALEXANDER PENNEY

It was late one summer evening when Ed was sitting out on the porch of his Blue Ridge Mountain homestead with his dog Penny. The pair watched as the last of the sun’s rays poured through the dull and quiet gray haze that had hung over them for the past few years. Ed and Penny had been living on the homestead for decades, back when the sky was still blue. Ed had always preferred the solitude of these woods, that is why when he inherited the deer hunting grounds from his grandfather he turned the one-room hunting lodge into a full homestead. Ed had been living alone off away from town as soon as the land came into his hands, only going back into town for work and supplies. In the decades prior, Ed had stocked up so well, that he actually had not been back to town for almost a year leading up to the end of days.

“You know girl, I’ve lost track of the days, but I think it must be close to the time of year when I first got you as a pup. It was a summer day just as humid as this evening when I picked you up from Chuck and brought you up here.”

Ed said this with a soft voice as he petted Penny’s head on his lap. Penny was a sweet old German Shepherd, dark black as the farthest depths of the coal mines and as loyal as can be Ed’s supplies ought to last him many more years, but he worried about when Penny got too old and he was left all alone. He enjoyed the solitude, but the dog added to that solitude in a way that he feared losing.

Ed got up and headed inside to begin preparing their dinners, leaving Penny out on the porch where she loved to sit

The home was a single-story, not significantly bigger than the original single-room hunting cabin that Ed had inherited He added on a bedroom, bathroom, running water, and electricity hooked up to a small solar grid Ed had assembled along with the backup generators. He entered the kitchen and lit the woodfire stove, one of the few remaining elements of its old cabin days.

Ed’s grandfather had taught him how to cook deer and rabbit on this same stove, though Ed was not sure if the animals were still safe to eat, so instead he relied on the canned and dried goods he had stockpiled and put together a simple meal for himself and Penny.

It was getting dark as Ed looked out onto the porch and saw Penny acting strange. She was not resting in her usual spot, nor was she at the door waiting to be fed. She was about a dozen feet from the porch, staring off down the driveway, tail between her legs, ears down. Ed dropped their meals to the floor, rushing out to see what had the dog’s attention.

Just as he opened the front door, Ed heard something The sound was not natural, as if the mountains had awoken and raised themselves on ancient limbs, groaning into the night sky.

Ed searched the horizon for some physical sign of the ominous sound, but it was too dark already to see much past the small radius of the front porch light. When Ed looked back toward where Penny had been standing, he realized the dog was gone. He listened as closely as he could but the foreboding drone that had spooked them both drowned out any signs of Penny’s movement that would clue Ed in on where she went. It was so intense it seemed to shake the ground beneath his feet.

“Dammit, where’d she go? Well, she knows her way around these woods as well as I do. I’ll stay up and wait for her to come back.”

The night dragged on in a silence particularly eerie after that strange sound. Ed sat on the porch and waited for Penny to return, calling her name, getting up and checking around the perimeter of the homestead, yet there was no sign of her.

As the day was ending and the next starting, his worry about Penny became too much to bear, though that strange sound continued to ring through his head. Ed did not want to think about what could have caused such a sensation.

It was, after all, the end of days, but up until now for Ed that had just meant the animals acting strange and all forms of communication had long gone out. There had been no skies on fire, horsemen coming down from the heavens, bombs falling over the mountains, nothing that Ed had originally expected to see. Tucked away in his bunker those first few weeks after the radio went dead, he had a CCTV camera that looked out over the mountains but Ed saw nothing supernatural or catastrophic take place. The last transmission over the radio though confirmed that people were scrambling to flee to anywhere but where they were, hoping somewhere else was safe. Global tensions were high, and there were reports of strange shapes in the skies, but Ed was still not sure what really happened He was content to stay in his solitude with Penny and enjoy his woodworking.

Resigned to search into the depths of the night, Ed checked one of his many bugout bags to ensure it still had everything he might need; flashlight and batteries, first-aid kit, three-day supply of food and water, a poncho, sleeping bag, hunting knife, a box of .243 Winchester and a mag for his sidearm, and matches. Ed searches the perimeter one final time to ensure that he did not miss the old dog, but just as he had feared, the dog must have been really spooked and run too far and gotten lost. Sighing to himself, he resigned himself to what he had to do

Ed grabbed his car keys off the hook by the front door and started up the old pickup. Beyond the occasional partial trip down the long mountain driveway to make sure she was still running ok, Ed had not driven the truck since before the end of days. Driving along the unpaved driveway, Ed tried the radio but was met with the static he had grown tired of listening to for any signs of the outside world

He figured maybe the dog had gone far enough through the woods that she maybe ended up down by the Douglas’ farm and maybe taken shelter there if anything remained of the farm. He drove slowly, calling out her name, beginning to truly fear the worst but not allowing himself to give up hope.

The driveway turned to the road and it was not a long distance to get to the farm. As the truck puttered along, Ed wondered what he might find. He had not been onto the road and anywhere but the homestead in nearly five years. Might other people have survived? Would the farm be ransacked by scavengers or dilapidated due to neglect? Ed at least hoped that there was somewhere safe for Penny to hide until he got there

As he pulled off the road and down the dirt driveway, Ed saw the farmhouse and barn still intact, standing tall against the open fields. Rolling up to the house, Ed parked the truck and turned off the engine as he scrambled out, glancing around for any sign of the dog.

“Penny! Come here girl! Penny come on home, won’t ya?”

He called out as he circled the house, but suddenly fell quiet as the stench hit his nose before he saw anything. Ed knew the smell of death but did not know until now the smell of years of decay. He slowly rounded to the backside of the house and saw the pit that was dug in Mrs. Douglas’ flower garden.

Ed looked down at the mass grave, the tangle of limbs and bodies wet with decay and tried to make out any distinguishing features of clothing or figure that might hint at who was down there. The stench became too much and he moved toward the back porch where he found a small book worn and ragged. Ed stared at the cover that read The People’s Church of the End Times. He had heard about these groups that were gathering in the lead-up to the end of days Ed had imagined Sam Douglas and his family were smarter than to get wrapped up in the drastic measures that the groups called for to find salvation. Turning back toward the pit, Ed realized he was not very good at reading people apparently, estimating that at least a tenth of the town’s population of one thousand was down there with Sam.

Ed sat down on the porch and thumbed through the book, wondering how exactly they had met their end.

Skimming the pages there were sermons on salvation, on scapegoats for bringing about the end of days, and on different methods of how to escape. Reading the depraved hatred and unhinged theories made his head spin, though it might have been the scent that was still wafting up toward him. He dropped the tome onto the porch and began to really worry. The stench here would have driven Penny away if she had come nearby, there was no chance she was still in this area, and if still frightened and now lost, what direction might she have gone?

With one last glance at the bodies of hysteria’s victims, Ed made his way back toward the front of the house and to his truck As he rounded the corner, he thought he heard someone speaking Pulling out his sidearm he slowed his pace, trying to ready himself for whomever he might find. Maybe old Sam Douglas had not joined the townsfolk in their misguided escape from the end days like he suspected. As he approached, he realized the voice was crackling and coming from his truck Confused at how the truck had come to life on its own, he rushed over to hear the first transmission he had heard in years. The voice was garbled and filled with static, but Ed was able to make out most of what it said in a low, measured gravel.

“ unto which we must give ourselves to the almighty Lord Beg for our forgiveness, seek redemption for allowing the depravity of those who hath brought his wrath down on all of us. We must take responsibility for allowing this nation of ours, no, the Lord’s nation, to be infested with the morally corrupt and the unworthy. He has spoken to me in my dreams about every horror he has witnessed that we had not stopped. The Lord wept to me, pleading me to be his messenger for the sorrow he felt that the good people of his land had betrayed him.”

At this, there was a garbled sobbing for a few moments. Ed did not buy what this preacher was preaching, but he was entranced by the sound of another’s voice Even though he was content to be alone with Penny, there was a part of him that felt a longing and a connection to the first human voice he had heard in years, even if it was spouting nonsense.

“...forgive me, the memory of the Lord’s tears still brings me to my knees. Soon, his wrath will bring you all to yours. There is still time to repent for your failures, for the sins against our lord. Gather with us at the Douglas’ farm on the morning of the Sunday…”

At just that moment the radio fell silent as the engine died off Cursing himself, Ed tried the key over and over, but the engine refused to turn over. He lifted up the hood of the truck but could not make out what had caused the vehicle to shut off. Everything looked to be in order, and the gas tank was still nearly full.

Ed beat the hood of the truck with his fist, cursing as pain shot up through his arm

“What in the hell am I gonna do now?”

He sat in the driver’s seat and stared at the dead truck. He knew in the grand scheme of things, he had little use for it anyway, except for his search for Penny, which in the moment was All that mattered to him. Panic took hold of him full force, as now not only did he not have a clue where the damn dog went, but his one advantage of catching up with her was taken away. He sighed as he stared out at the farmhouse and tried to decide what to do next

Moments passed without any good ideas. As he was getting ready to head down toward the road and toward town, he heard rustling from the woods in the direction of his homestead With eager eyes, he glanced to the treeline, hoping that Penny had finally found her way back to him.

However, the rustling grew louder and he realized that it was more than one creature Now curious, he watched with intent and readied his rifle, waiting for whatever might approach. Breaking through the trees was a half dozen deer, led by a giant stag. The animals were on high alert, eyes darting about wildly, but taking no interest in Ed. They circled about in a wide pattern, flailing about as they ran and lept, never settling.

Ed had only caught glimpses of the wildlife since the end of days, they mostly stayed away from his homestead, but the erratic behavior they exhibited seemed worse than he remembered seeing on those few occasions he had come across the deer. It was as if there was a heavy sense of danger that permeated through the air, they could not settle down long enough to stop moving. The deer looked emaciated, and Ed wondered if they ever settled enough to eat or sleep.

They call out to each other in frantic cries as Ed watches from a distance. The stag circles around the rest, throwing its head wildly at some unseen threat, antlers gouging away at the hazy air The snap of a branch under one of the fawns hooves sends all of their ears up, now on even higher alert. The Stag locks eyes with Ed and the moment hangs in the humid air. He sees the fear, the alarm, the pure bewilderment in the beasts eyes, and every possibility of what might happen next races through Ed’s mind. With a swiftness he did not know he still had in him, he lifts the rifle’s sight to his eye and is about to take the shot when all at once that unnatural humming sound comes crashing from the heavens and the proud Stag falls over stiff and motionless. The doe and fawns scatter, crying out into the night as Ed lowers the rifle and panic enters his body.

Frightened and uncertain, he grabs his pack and starts racing in the direction that the deer have regrouped in and entered the forest, in the direction of the town. He wonders to himself if the same animal instinct might lead Penny the same way the deer are headed, and with little else to go on, he begins to trail them.

In the darkness, he quickly loses the deer, their lithe bodies much more suited to make their way through the dense trees and foliage. Ed takes out his compass but the damn thing is spinning wildly like it has been since he first reemerged from his bunker Taking his best guess as to which direction the town is in, he trudges along through the trees and the heat, flashlight in hand guiding his way somewhere.

After around an hour, when he would have figured he would have been through the thickness of the trees, he stopped for some water

His prime hunting days behind him, he is not used to trekking through the woods like this and his knees are aching from all of the walking and clambering over fallen trees As he rests against the rotten trunk of an oak, he hears rustling to his right. Grabbing the flashlight from the ground where he had left it resting, he searches for a sign of Penny or the deer or of something much more dangerous.

Suddenly, and without warning, a voice deep and guttural sounds through his head, and slowly mutters;

“It is not wise to linger here long, the deer know that, and so does your dog.”

As the voice trails off, Ed’s flashlight flickers in the night, and the unnatural hum begins again from the vast expanse of the sky above the canopy of trees. Ed grabs his things and bolts as fast as he can through the thicket, and by the time his wits come back to him, he has reached the outskirts of town.

Even in the depths of the night, he can tell by the eerie silence that the town must be abandoned. As he makes his way toward the main street, buildings are in disrepair. He calls out to Penny but only hears his voice echo back to him around the dead town.

Ed makes his way toward the post office, deciding to hunker down until the sun rises to continue his search, the exhaustion of racing through the woods finally catching up to him. He finds the door locked and uses the last of his energy to bust down the door, where he sees the place in total disarray. Papers and envelopes were scattered about the floors, furniture turned over haphazardly, and the window blocking the counter cracked and shattered. He makes his way behind the counter, pulls out the sleeping bag from his gear, curls up inside, and fades off to sleep.

The sun pours in through the broken glass and glimmers in his eyes as he reaches out toward his bag.

Still groggy from his sleep, he fumbles about, only to realize the bag is gone. He jumps up alert and looks around through heavy eyes, standing up just in time to see the door he had burst through shut awkwardly on its busted hinges.

Ed races out into the daylight to see a man carrying his bugout bag down the street a couple of dozen feet down the road.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re goin’ with my stuff?”

The man stops in his tracks, drops the bag from his shoulder, and lifts a rifle - Ed’s rifle - In his hands as he turns, his cloudy eyes staring right into Ed’s. The man is looks to be in his sixties, a long, scraggly gray beard hangs from his balding head, heavily tattooed on the skull. The clothes the man is wearing are in tatters, it appears he has not changed since the end of time

Ed reaches for his sidearm but realizes it is hanging from the hip of the strange man in front of him.

“Just passing through. Unfortunately, sometimes you have to accept and relinquish the things we lose.”

Ed stares at the man and his eyes that are clouded over with a gray, hazy film

The distance is not far, and he figures if he can close it before the blind man can get off a lucky shot, he could overpower him and get his things back.

“I wouldn’t. My sight has been gone for longer than you’ve been up on the mountain. Head home, it‘s safer during the day, and that hum that brought you out is headed west, it won’t be back anytime soon. Whatever you were looking for is gone, I am surprised you managed to survive while it passed through. Relinquish and let go ”

With those final words, the man ambles off out of town in the direction of the interstate. Ed questions chasing after him, but something in his gut tells him that it will end poorly for him.

At a loss and unsupplied, Ed figures the man is right and he best returns home Whatever it was that had spooked Penny must’ve gotten her, like the man implied, and without supplies continuing his search was useless. He makes his way out of the crumbling town and up past the Douglas farm, taking the roads the whole time The silence he has grown accustomed to now feels lonesome and strange without Penny and he fights back his thoughts about what fate found her. If it was anything like what happened to the stag, he imagines it at least was not too painful.

Instead, he tries to focus on the good times with Penny, curled up on the porch watching the sunset, playing fetch with her favorite stuffed animal, that of a bushy-tailed squirrel, hiking through the woods when his knees were in better shape before the end of days came.

The sun is high in the sky as he makes his way up the driveway when he hears the last sound he expected to hear; a whimpering bark.

He races up the unpaved path and reaches the porch to see a small pup, as pitch black as The night sky last night, sitting at the front door, where Penny used to lay, scratching at the entrance.

SHADOW AROUND

ALEXANDER PENNEY

You were gone in such a flash I barely had time to reckon with it One morning we were eating breakfast together, coffee from the French press, oatmeal and blackberries, small talk of insignificant nothings to the rest of the world but full of us. That evening when I returned home from work I met your sister in our living room, she had already taken just about everything that belonged to you

I was amazed at her accuracy in telling whose clothes were whose as we had always shared the closet space, our frames nearly identical in shape. She did however take every last dress, shirt, pair of pants, every single item that was yours, leaving me with not a scrap of fabric to cling to.

She hardly spoke a word to me that evening, boxing up your things, tears in both of our eyes. Your sister and I had grown close in the past two years since you and I had first met on that Ridgewood rooftop. I was in the country visiting friends, never thinking I would consider staying for good. Antwerp held my heart, even if New York had its special place ever since my University days. You approached me sitting on the rooftop, the full moon hanging just above our heads and reflecting in your eyes. You struck up a conversation so easily it was as if we were old friends resuming where we had left off years ago. I found myself falling into you so easily, your advances brushing past my insecurities. With your hand on my thigh, I forgot the rest of that evening, the friends I had traveled from Manhattan with that had brought me to your place, I forgot anything outside of you. All I wanted was to be wrapped up in you, your voice lulling me to sleep.

The texts from across the ocean were all I could focus on. I applied for a position within my company that was a stretch, a big leap for my career because it could provide the visa needed to be back together with you. It seemed like the universe was trying to pull us together when I managed to secure the job. I told you about the news and started making plans to find a place in New York with you before ever mentioning the job to my family Everything felt so right that I could not fully grasp their worries We found this place in the Village, small but cozy. We were constantly on top of each other in the cramped space, but after months apart, that was all I wanted anyway. You broke your last lease and moved in all your furniture and just my two suitcases, all I had with me from my life in Antwerp. You took me around the city and together we added our things to your belongings. You made sure that it felt like my home as much as yours. Your sister left the prints we bought from a famous Brooklyn tattoo artist on the walls, but all they did was remind me of you and the delicate ink that crossed your frame. Our bed felt like foreign soil without you beside me that first evening, but eventually, exhaustion took me. The night was restless with images of you in strange places, places we had never been together, places we would never see, places that still held the hope of you.

In the following days, I reached out to your sister, asking for more details, your number had already been given over to a new voice who reacted confused to my tearful pleas

Your sister comforted me the first few times I called, but eventually, she blocked my number, after telling Me there was nothing she could offer me that would help, that I needed to just move forward and start fresh.

A month on, I am finally waking with the sun and not immediately looking for you next to me. This Saturday morning is the first that I can make my morning coffee without a pit in my stomach I stare at the light pouring in on the windowsill, my mind numb and empty with the silence of the morning.

Just then, there is movement at the corner of my eye. I peer toward the bathroom and my breath escapes me. I sit motionless for a minute until I can force my bones to start moving and bring myself to the open door. As if just beyond the shower curtain, I see your shadow going about its morning routine, rinsing your thin frame, washing the curls of your hair with the delicateness that I had only ever seen from you. It was as natural as if you were back here with me.

As I follow you out of the bathroom there is no mistaking it is you as you brush the hair out of your face and behind your delicate ear as you stare out past the sink, gazing off into the skyline. Then, you turn toward me and disappear just as our gazes would have met.

Like that, gone

I stare at the floor for a long time, trying to will you back, tears cascading down my face, connecting the freckles you used to trace with your tongue. I sit and stare and wait for you to return but the minutes pass by, slowly, painfully, and you stay gone.

These moments continue, moments of your shadow around the apartment, for just a few minutes. Never outside the confines of our apartment. Always just doing simple things, like folding laundry or reading a book You water the flowers I put on the windowsill

Some days I can sense your presence even if I do not see you. When it rains I hear your fingertips tap on the table along with the storm. You hum our song, and I hum harmonies along In the twilight.

A few months on, another Saturday morning where you go about your morning routine in the dark shapes along the kitchen floor, I watch you from the kitchen table, still completely smitten with the idiosyncrasies in your movements, dancing across the small kitchen on tiptoes. Then the shadow opens the door and I am following you outside our home, the first time you have appeared to me beyond these walls. I am startled as I follow in your shaded wake, wondering when the ripples of you will fade to stillness.

I follow your shadow out into the morning sun onto the sidewalk and head East toward the coffee shop we would visit before heading out to whatever weekend activity I had planned for us.

I wonder where you might lead me, the climbing gym, the MoMA, a new ramen shop we had talked about checking out just nights before…I become choked up, and nearly lose sight of your shadow. With all the bodies about, yours mingles with the dozens of others scattered across the sidewalk, and I begin to panic that I have lost you again.

I was minutes from Tompkins Square Park, so I decide I would make my way there. Amongst the trees where we used to lay on summer afternoons, I hoped to catch sight of you in the swaying shade of the dying autumn foliage. I let my feet lead me to the spot we always tried to get first, our spot as we called it. That first summer it seemed like almost every day we got that spot for a month straight, and we decided it had been reserved for us by the city itself or the angels above.

I sat and watched time pass as the sun rose and sank above me, stretching out the shadows that make their way through the park. The breeze chills me to my core, having left the apartment in my loungewear, having planned to stay mostly motionless in our apartment for the rest of the day, devouring leftovers and getting high. The leggings and an oversized La Dispute t-shirt you had bought for me are not enough for the dropping temperatures of this dying year I pull my legs into my body and stare at the ground, waiting for you to return to me.

I watch an elderly couple supporting each other as they hobbleddown the path and realize we would never grow old like we talked about, two old grumpy ladies who only talk to each other when our families gather for the holidays. They kiss and it feels like my heart is being crushed into a mess of bloody viscera. I pull at the blades of grass in the soil that was on the verge of freezing solid and wish as the scraps of green fly off into the sky that I could ever find closure for the world I am left with.

Just then, as a cloud rolls past and beyond the afternoon sun, I glimpse out of the corner of my eye a shape bouncing on its heels off toward the Northern exit to the park.

Without another thought, I leap up from my place on the frozen ground and chase after you.

We walk for blocks, turning around and back on ourselves, just like we used to do on lazy afternoons. The first time we walked about like this you tried to describe Guy Debord’s concept of the dérive to me, but I was too focused on the amber in your eyes to fully understand what you meant by psychogeography. You loved to tell me about the French Philosophers you had studied at NYU and still read even after your philosophy degree had become the least relevant thing on your resume.

I thought of Foucault translated from French to English and then through you to me in my second language, and all I remembered was your enthusiasm to speak to me in words I struggled to understand I loved your passion even if I could not share in the excitement, just excited to see you so animated. You were often hidden behind a layer of reserved coolness, even with me, but when you spoke of semiotics or epistemology I could get lost in you like you were trying to get us lost in the city

Lost was exactly what I was, somewhere in midtown, a place we avoided at all costs. The streets are packed, and amongst the overwhelmed and confused tourists, I lose sight of you again. Suddenly very aware of all the bodies that are around me, I start to panic. I had barely left our apartment these past few months, working from home and ordering online everything I could need Being around people felt like too much and now I was getting the ultimate serving of overstimulation.

I look around frantically and decide to get as far away from the too much of everything that is closing in on me. I rush headlong toward the M line, the closest one to me in that moment, and race down the steps and away from the masses, the noise echoing throughout my ears and the sun disappearing as I make my way below ground. I hop the turnstile after realizing that I must have left our apartment without my wallet, silently thanking you for encouraging the habit of leaving my keys by the door so I never left without them

The train arrives after a few minutes, and I enter a nearly empty car, slump into a seat, and try to bring my breathing under control.

I had loved the city when I was a student here years ago, but sometimes the realization of how big, crowded, and overwhelming it could be got to me and I had not explored nearly very much of the city back then. In our days, you were always there to comfort me when it became too much and you would guide us through the least crowded of paths to whatever destination lay at our feet

I curl in on myself and glance about the car but the artificial light casts no sign of you. I was passing through Brooklyn and on my way into Queens when I remember this is the same path I had taken when I first met you. Staying in the East Village with my roommate from NYU, we made our way up to Times Square to meet with some of her friends before making our way to Ridgewood

The next stop was where we had gotten off in that time before, and in this time after I exited in hopes of what I am not sure

Even years after the fact, only having been there once, I knew the exact path back to that apartment and its rooftop. That path had led me to you and it was as if it was etched into my heart by Cupid himself.

The sun is getting low in the late autumn sky, amber-like your eyes looking back at me. I barely have to follow your shadow, as I know exactly where it is taking me It was just to what point that it was bringing me there that I did not know.

Instead, I look at the faces that pass me as you lead me on I see happiness in the couples’ faces, the kind of happiness that used to be plastered on my face. I picture you growing out from your shadow and grasping my arm, pulling yourself into me and that smile blooms on my face once again like those initial days after we had met. I turn to see if the same smile has crept onto yours only to be met with the sight of your old building.

I stare and stare and try to put together what to do next. I see your shadow pacing nervously around the street corner. You pirouette as you cross the street and I follow in the wake that you leave across the pavement.

The sun is fading fast and despite knowing where I am being led to, I dread losing sight of the shape of you. I fear that this may be the last time your shadow will appear to me, the culmination of having to let go. The pit in my stomach is the endless void staring back at me welcoming me in, ready to consume me. My body shakes, not ready to lose you again, the longing in my heart calling out for you beyond the bounds of my consciousness. I choke down the words that beg for your presence as I look up at the dying light and glimpse the moon full with the night.

The moon, that same moon hovering over the rooftop where we met, the same moon under which you first reached out to me, the moon that hung in your eye as you came in for our first kiss, the moon full and gleaming like your presence in my days, the moon that illuminates you in the embrace of him as he holds the small of your back laughing, the moon pulling the tides of us further apart as you laugh from that same rooftop, back in the arms of the one you left for me

The shadow stretches across the barren street and dances once more in the final rays of the day but I am too lost watching the real you dance in that same spot and wait for you to catch sight of me down below but the sun dies and I am lost in the shadows of the night, in the glow of our moon.