The Fable Online Issue 15

The Fable Online

Issue 15 May 1, 2016

Sarah Kedar Editor-in-Chief Readers Heather White Katelyn Barbee Steven Fischer Tim Tanko Mari Noller

Š2015-2016, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors

Table of Contents Ferry Crumbs

by Charles Hayes ............................................................................................................................5 Burning Out the Rot

by Rob Francis ................................................................................................................................ 7 Dying Time

by David Everly .............................................................................................................................11 In Stone

by Embe Charpentier ...................................................................................................................20 Shining Example

by Christian Sanchez ....................................................................................................................23 Sloane Square

by Lee Hamblin .............................................................................................................................27

Poetry

Ferry Crumbs

by Charles Hayes Plying the warm waters of a shadowed Sea, speckled with spits of froth and reflected starlight, we ride the ferry for the lost and found. Our crowded cots, tiered across an open deck, pitch and roll, lifting our smell as one, from stem to stern. Legs akimbo with slippered feet, grow across the tiny aisles, bodies hidden by the sacks that haul our life.

On the move, going from crumb to crumb, visions of better fare, or to only home somewhere, our nods of passage show, as the knocking screw calls the tune. Sometimes we wander to the rail and stare beyond. If a light of life be seen, suspicions of how its table fairs, or what its bed beholds, float among our spray. Looking along the rail, another’s eye to see, table or bed is quick to know.

With dawn and a port that calls, we rise like Jack’s stalk, among the humps of baggage, mount our loads, as if super ants we be, and string along the plank, to melt into the life we know. Crumb by crumb, visions of a knocking lullaby safely tucked away.

Charles Hayes, a 2015 Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, and others.

Fiction

Burning Out the Rot

by Rob Francis Show me your worth, boy.

Scratch cringed against the doors of the barn, his back to the chill wind and the knives it carried. The moon was sharp and watchful, and he had scurried from shadow to shadow across the overgrown fields to cheat its revealing light.

It seemed there was no-one to see him. No watchers, no guards, the doors of the old weathered building closed firmly against the cold and cloudless night. Some luck, though Scratch was unsure whether good or bad. If he couldn’t get close, he couldn’t complete his task. There would be no need for his worth to be judged.

You want to work, boy? Show me what you can do.

Scratch’s hands shook as he tried to light the torch, shielding it from the wind with his small body as best he could and striking the flint with numb fingers. The sparks would not come.

On the other side of the door, the diseased men would be sleeping now. Snoring into the dusty air beneath the rafters, while the cavern rot slowly turned their skin to mush and their bones to ash. Scratch couldn’t hear them over the wind, but he knew they were there. Greedy, stupid miners who had fled a sickness they had brought on themselves when they defiled the Hallowed Hills. So Preacher Reeves had declared, back at the spirit house in Stony Falls.

Heathens and sinners, bringing their taint to our community, the Preacher had announced to those gathered beneath the wooden beams two nights before. Ignorant maggots, ridden with pestilence. I have seen them.

The others had questioned that, though meekly enough. Only Tall Angold had shown any real outrage, beating his fists on the stage and shouting that it wasn’t right to drive them away, to place the burden on another unsuspecting town.

We will not drive them away. We will offer them our warmest welcome.

Scratch had watched Preacher Reeves ride out alone to meet the small band of refugees coming from the hills. To personally offer them sanctuary in the old barn on Venator Farm, long abandoned now. An act of charity to preserve both the miners and the good people of Stony Falls. To ensure that the town’s children would not lose their parents to the rot and become desperate orphans, like Scratch. It had been the right thing to do, a holy thing.

But it didn’t really solve the problem, of course. That was Scratch’s job.

You can work for me, boy. If you show me what you’re worth.

More strikes, but still no sparks. Scratch cursed. He needed work. The fields were a poor place to sleep, and lately, his belly had become little more than an aching hole with naught to fill it. He swore at his clumsy fingers.

A baby’s wail, faint but unmistakable, made his trembling hands suddenly still. He listened hard, breath bated, to see if he had imagined it. A moment later it came again.

A baby. Like Alma, before the soldiers came. Alma, who always smiled at him from Mam’s arms, when she was being rocked to sleep. Who had liked so much to squeeze his nose between her tiny fingers. Alma, who was in the dirt with Mam and Dad. No-one had mentioned babies back at the spirit house.

Scratch felt sick. The wind dropped, and it seemed to Scratch that the land was holding its breath, waiting for him to make a choice.

Show me your worth, boy.

‘It’s too windy,’ he whispered. ‘Too windy to set a flame.’ Scratch began to steal his way back through the long grass, away from the barn, now silent once more.

Something moved, away across the field. He looked carefully, but saw only the moonlit grass and a copse of stunted tar trees, waving their leafless branches at the sky. Then the shadow of one tree stretched and became a man, moving not towards him, but to the

barn. Scratch opened his mouth to call and then thought better of it. He watched the man move and realised from his size and loping gait that it was Tall Angold. He had something long gripped in his hand, like a club.

‘Tall,’ he hissed. ‘I’m over here. I didn’t do it.’ Tall seemed not to hear. Just kept trotting towards the barn, head dipped, club waving in his hand. Scratch started to make his way over, to reassure Tall that he hadn’t gone through with the Preacher’s plan. The big man had hated the idea of burning the miners.

He stopped as a torch flared against the barn doors. Illuminated in its light, just for a moment, was Preacher Reeves. The doors creaked as they opened slightly, and the flame vanished. Scratch saw Tall run to the doors, and he held his breath as he waited in fascinated horror for the big man to seize the Preacher and throttle him, or stave in his head.

Instead, he slid the block of wood he held through the old iron door handles.

Scratch wailed and rushed forward, but Tall turned and scooped him up as if he were an errant piglet. He was hauled bodily through the air as Tall strode across the fields, before being dumped carelessly in front of Preacher Reeves.

‘Sorry lad,’ Tall muttered, and then stalked away.

The Preacher’s cold eyes flickered red in the light from the burning barn. Wails of panic and screams of pain were drifting on the cold air across the field now, along with the smoke. Scratch saw other men walking out of the night, come to bear witness to the end of a threat to the people of Stony Falls. To support their Preacher.

‘You disappoint me, boy. Your Preacher always knows what’s best for his people. Rot must be burned out, or the community will die.’ He frowned in disapproval. ‘How can I put you to work, when you don’t trust me? Perhaps it’s best if you keep moving, boy.

There are other settlements in these parts.’ His lip curled, just a little, and then he turned away, melting into the flickering darkness.

Scratch stood and watched with the men of Stony Falls as the barn burned. All bore hard expressions on their weathered faces, and farming tools in their hands. Iron axes, sickles,

forks, hoes, all shining in the firelight. No-one spoke. Half a dozen figures broke free of the flaming charnel house, some wreathed in fire, and the men stepped forward together to cut them down. None of the escapees carried a baby, though Scratch was sure at least one was a woman. Someone’s wife, or mother, or sister. Someone’s daughter. Another was small and slight, probably of an age with Scratch himself.

After some time, the roof of the building collapsed with an angry roar. Smoke and sparks whirled into the sky and across the moon. The smoke stung Scratch’s eyes and settled on his skin in a greasy film. Still he watched. When the timbers of the walls tumbled in and the fire began to die, the angry wind whirling ash across the fields, the men began to drift away. They left as they arrived, in silence.

Scratch stood watching the fire, then the glowing embers, and then the windswept ashes, until dawn broke the darkness.

It had all been for nothing. He had lost his chance to work, and the miners had died anyway. Like Alma, and Mam and Dad. In the chill of the morning, he wandered across the fields and to a dense stand of tar trees he knew of, to try to sleep. The stench of smoke was thick in his nostrils. As he walked, he held the torch and flint tight in his freezing hands. He thought he would need them soon. Preacher Reeves had told him that rot must be burned out. He found himself agreeing.

His courage had failed him last night, but it wouldn’t tonight. The spirit house was dry timber, just like the barn. He would show the Preacher his worth before he left.

Rob Francis is an academic and writer based in London, UK. He has published numerous scientific articles and books, and his fiction has appeared or is forthcoming at SpeckLit, Swords & Sorcery Magazine, SQ Mag, The Lorelei Signal, 9Tales and Every Day Fiction.

Dying Time

by David Everly That crazy Carlos always said he could shoot. I’d figured it was just more of his macho bull but damned if he wasn’t right. Problem was, I only learned how good he could shoot a few minutes ago when he started shooting at me. Bad timing. Story of my life.

I can hear him talking inside the old farmhouse. He’s nice and cool while I’m going brown and crispy under a hot Texas sun. Calling in reinforcements I’ll bet, and using my damn cell phone to do it with. I handed it over to him easy as anything. “Gotta call my folks,” he said. “See how Grandma’s doing, broken hip… hospital… blah, blah, blah.” All bull of course. Figured he wanted to look at my contacts list, see who I’d been talking to, make sure I was who I said I was. I’d heard he did that sort of thing.

I’d bounce if I could, but my car is parked less than ten feet from the front door and he’s sure to be keeping a close eye on it. It’s what we’re all here for after all. A 1994 beat to hell Lincoln Continental, half gray, half all American quarter panel rust, and at least five years late for the crusher. In the trunk is three million dollars’ worth of Peru’s finest. Pure white snow, direct from her high mountain meadows and brought to America by the magic of me. That’s what I do when I’m not dodging bullets. It’s a living, and a good one, at least it was until today.

I can’t afford to wait until this asshole’s friends show up. I can’t leave on foot, it’s a damn desert out there and way too open. There’s nothing to see for miles; no trees, bushes, nothing. I’d stick out like a sore thumb when his buddies showed up. Leaves me one choice.

I bust two caps into the Lincoln, shattering windows. I’m around the house and through the back door while the glass is still falling – I was a sprinter in high school. Out of the frying pan and into live fire. I can only pray that the sounds of destruction distracted him enough.

It’s cooler inside, out of the hot sun, and I can feel the difference as soon as I enter, my skin crinkle popping as it eases its tight protective grip. It’s darker inside too. Where is Carlos? Come out, come out, wherever you are. If anybody ever needed a good old

fashioned crinkle pop it’s my not so good friend Carlos.

Coming in from the bright sunlight to this semi-dark room it’s hard to see. No time for my eyes to adjust. Move, squint, move. I hear him then, see movement down the hall to my left. I turn and fire at the once dark figure in front of me, now lit up and all too recognizable from the muzzle blast of his hokey old wheel gun.

Like I said, that crazy Carlos always said he could shoot. # I’ve expected to die young my whole life. When I was a kid I knew I was going to die at thirteen. I don’t know why I thought that. Looking back I figure it was just because thirteen was supposed to be unlucky, and dying is often considered an unlucky thing to do. Right up there with stepping on cracks and breaking mirrors. I was never bothered by the thought of dying so young. I accepted it as I accepted all the other things kids have to put up with.

“You start school on Tuesday.” (Okay) “You go to the Dentist next month.” (All right) “You die when you’re thirteen.” (Okay) What the hell did I know?

I was an only child, with loving parents who loved to say yes but knew when to say no, and loved me enough to say it and make it stick, so I escaped the dangers of childhood relatively unscathed. It was a good childhood. I mean, hey, if you can handle the fact you’re going to croak at thirteen you can be cool with just about everything. I think the worst thing that happened to me when as a kid was when my Grandmother baked a round loaf of her special bread, just for me. She called it my “big biscuit”, and I dropped it on the ground getting out of the car when we got home. A tragedy at five.

Dying at thirteen I could live with - well, you know – but Grandma’s bread was something else. God, I loved that bread.

# My breathing was the first thing to go. It’s a funny thing, breathing. It’s there your whole life, right in front of you, right inside of you, and we never think about it. Every few seconds you breathe in. Your lungs inflate, delivering oxygen to the blood, then you breathe out expelling crap you don’t want anymore. In and out, in and out all day long and we never notice, but you notice when it’s gone. Damn right you do. An atomic bomb going off down the block would be less noticeable.

I’m lying here on the cracked linoleum of this dirty kitchen floor just trying to breathe. I don’t hurt anywhere; whether from shock or spinal injury I don’t know, and I can’t spare any time to think about it. I can’t breathe! There’s a huge weight on my chest, a Jumbo the elephant kinda weight pressing down on me like I was a grape in a wine press. No pain, as I said, but there’s a terrible pressure, an emptiness. Part of me is gone and I feel its loss keenly. I would gladly exchange that emptiness for any amount of plain old fashioned pain. Pain can be good. Pain means you’re alive. # I graduated high school with honors, a full blown idealist. I was young, smart, and eager to do my part, to serve my country and give back some of what had been given to me. I also wanted to kick some ass and take some names if the truth be told, and lying here on this dead linoleum, truth is all that’s left to me. It didn’t hurt that the G.I. Bill was still around either.

Al-Qaeda brought the towers down and there I was, trained and ready to go, with orders to protect my country from evil men. I couldn’t have asked for a better assignment to begin my military career. I was like a knight of old embarking on a sacred quest; killing evil dragons and rescuing fair damsels.

My naiveté lasted less than a month once we were boots down on enemy soil.

We were on a routine patrol thirty clicks down the Euphrates searching for hidden weapons caches. We hit bank and exited the boat near a lone farmhouse. I’m forty meters from the house waiting for the order to move in when a huge dog erupts from a pile of hay nearly right under my feet. He attacks, and momentarily stunned, I don’t

shoot him but I do manage to hit him with my gun butt sending him flying. Before he can recover and attack again I click the safety off and shoot him.

I’m still freaked. It feels like a movie monster attack or an alien, not a dog. It’s only been two or three seconds and I’m still trying to figure out what going on. I’m scared, I’m confused, and I’m angry; angry mostly because I’m scared and confused and I think that’s why I shoot the kid when he comes running out of the house to help his dog. Seven, eight years old maybe. Hard to tell with half his face blown away like that.

Shoot an innocent kid in the face and you don’t feel like a knight in shining armor anymore. You feel like the goddamn dragon. # It was so hot outside in the sunshine that I was constantly wiping the sweat out of my eyes, but in here on the linoleum, it’s beginning to feel downright chilly. I hear car doors slamming outside, a bunch of them. They sound a million miles away. Even so, my heart jumps a bit, skips a beat I guess, when they all come storming in; a dozen guys with guns, organized and professional. Law enforcement or military I suppose.

I don’t really care at this point though because my heart has stopped. That last jump/skip seems to have worn it out. That steady beat is missing. That lub-lub-lub, that lub-a-dubdub gone bye-bye now. Well hello Mary Lou, good-bye heart! Didn’t need it anymore anyway. All it does is send oxygen to the cells and I seem to be all out of oxygen at the moment. Maybe you can come back tomorrow. I may have some then; the trucks due in at four.

I brace myself for the shooting pain in my chest and down my arm – it’s the left arm isn’t it? I can never remember. It doesn’t come. In fact, the pressure on my chest has eased up a bit. I’d say I feel better, but with my heart and lungs shut down better ain’t in the dictionary anymore. Damn it! Nothing is. # I can’t even remember the name of the place. I was high a lot those days. Hell, it might not have even had a name for all I know, just some little podunk rat infested raghead

village in the middle of nowhere. There was a deal going down there, a big one, and everybody knew about it. The bozos doing the dealing were supposed to be some kind of big shots; drug lords of the old Byzantine Empire with the whole world bowing before their magnificence, but they let the whole world know their business. That made them dangerous to the rest of us in the business, so they had to go.

Army reconnoitered then sent a whole company in. Me and the boys, my squad, went in just a little bit ahead of everyone else. We were what you’d call self-starters, especially when there’s money to be made. We knew just where to go so we went in fast and hard.

We killed everybody, I mean we burned them down. It was easy.

There was more smack in that ratty little shack than we could carry, must have been nearly a ton of it. Thirty or forty duffel bags of the stuff, and heavy, but we couldn’t find any cash. There was supposed to be cash. We grabbed what we could, getting more than half the drugs, then torched the place. We left enough burning heroin behind to fire the imagination and edify the mind of anyone getting close enough to breathe it in. We used the smoke to slip out while the others slipped in, with a lovely sense of unreality in our minds and big, wide smiles on our soot covered faces.

We got the stuff to our transport quick as we could, putting it into empty ammo cases brought for just that purpose. The craziest part of the whole thing, just after we got back we were spotted by some brass. Fight was over and they were showing up so we could tell them how wonderful they are. I can’t believe how gullible I was when I joined up.

They saw us, tired and a bit worn, our faces blackened by soot and reeking of poppy power and declared us heroes; gave us medals. Real heroes all over the place, throw a rock and you hit one and we get a bronze star. Crazy old world.

It wasn’t long after that that I realized I was no longer in control of my drug use. I’d ridden the wave too long and it finally broke over me, dragged me down. Drugged me down. I had a monkey on my back and he was one needy little bastard. I couldn’t make enough or steal enough, to please my new master.

When I finally crashed the Army sent me back to the States and got me cleaned up. I was ready for clean and vowed to stay clean forever. Yeah.

Used my G.I. benefits, went to college, got a B.S. in Botany. Stayed clean. The first couple years were tough. I felt alone and without purpose. In the Army, there were always buddies around and there was always a clearly defined goal. A purpose. Civilian life was different. No friends, no purpose, no drugs, but during my junior year, I met some people who helped me find some of the purpose I had lost. Four months later I applied to be a Peace Corps volunteer and was accepted providing I completed my degree.

I graduated in May and left for my station in Peru three weeks later. I had a lot to make up for. Maybe this would help. # I’m dying. Not much doubt about that now. Gunned down over a trunk load of cocaine.

I’m dying and I’m scared. Scared of what come next, cause I don’t know what comes next.

I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life. I killed that little boy. Killed him right there in front of his mother and father. Didn’t mean to, but I did it. Couldn’t take the dreams after that.

Kept seeing his face all angry-mad and scared exploding into a pink mist, a thousand tiny shards shooting out and twinkling in the sunlight like fireflies at night. Relived it every night, over and over. I turned to the drugs to chase away the reality. I was weak, that’s all it was. I tried, I really did, but I was weak.

Went downhill fast after that. Hell, I didn’t really care anymore. Taking drugs, selling drugs, killing folks to steal their drugs. Did awful things. I… Oh, Lord! That hurt. Don’t know what it was; kidney, liver. Whatever it was, it’s shut down, left town, kill that fuzzy Charlie Brown. Little dizzy. Can’t move, can’t even move my eyes.

All part of the deal when you fly Dead Air. I can still see, though and mostly hear. I can see my hand, the right one. It’s so pale, all the blood run out of it. Looks like the hand of a statue, one of those old Roman or Greek suckers. White. Ugly.

Someone tries to find a pulse but I got none so they ignore me. I see the back of his jacket as he leaves, though. Says ATF. Don’t know what they’re doing here. Oh I had a few guns but hell, this is Texas, everybody’s got guns. Case of beer on the back seat. No tobacco. Don’t know… know what. Oh boy. Dizzy. Hurts.

I tried to be good, tried to make up for all the bad. Went and helped people cut down

trees and all that other stuff. I’m gonna, I’m gonna go to Hell. Killed that poor little boy. I punched his ticket for him all right and proper that day and earned a lifetime pass through the gates of Hell for myself. An E-ticket too, just like at Disneyland. I’ll get the full treatment. All the rides. I went to do good. Tried to do good. Ha. Good intentions, that’s what I was trying to say. The bricks used to pave the road to Hell. I’m sorry for screwing up. I’m sorry little boy. Never even knew his name. I’m sorry little boy with no name. I’m … I’m so sorry. # The Peace Corps gig ran two years, and two years is a long time to be stuck out in the boonies. After six months I got three weeks off and got to live in a real town again. First thing I did was to get a pizza. Delicious.

I met some guys and we had a few laughs. One thing led to another. Six months later when my next break came I started moving white powder again. Cocaine instead of heroin, but the job was the same and the ride was fantastic. I was back on top and that nameless little boy on the banks of the Euphrates became just another sad memory.

I served out the last year of my volunteer duty. My trip back to the States was one of the most exciting of my life as I successfully smuggled in half an ounce of cocaine. A piddling amount of blow but this was just to see if it could be done. The method I’d come up with was simple and worked perfectly. Within a month, I was bringing in ten and twenty pounds at a time. I built up a list of customers, a “clientele” that got bigger and bigger as my stockpiles increased, finally culminating with my largest customer so far, old straight shooting Carlos which brings me right back to where I started.

Carlos was major, man. Anyone who buys three million dollars’ worth of coke is a big time dude. He said he wanted the same every month if the quality is as good as I say. He failed to mention he was going to shoot me to get it or I would have pointed out, reasonable business man that I am, that killing me would make it harder to deliver more.

Some folks just never think ahead.

I can hear Carlos talking in the background. Says I started shooting when he badged me.

When he badged me! He’s ATF, or maybe FBI, they’re here too. Don’t know Known him for six months and never had a clue. Clever bastard.

I’m beginning to feel light now. Light all over, and it’s getting harder to hear. I have to strain to hear what they’re saying in the other room. Cell phone in the truck so he couldn’t call? That’s why he wanted to use my cell phone, to call his buddies and leave no record traceable to him. He’s dirty. Couldn’t use his own cell phone to call people to haul away the goodies. Mine! Mine goodies. I mean my druggies. Lighter now, won’t be long.

Head hurts. I didn’t think it was supposed to take this long to die.

Somebody’s tugging at my soul. No, wallet. Tugging at my wallet. Everyone’s so surprised when they find the badge inside, especially Carlos. Makes his story sound pretty fishy.

Good. Damn good. Squirm baby, squirm.

The friends I’d met during my junior year put me through an accelerated training course during my next summer vacation. After graduation, I took a two-week refresher course then joined the DEA as an unofficial undercover asset two days before I left for Peru.

When I got back to the States I began working my way up the scumbag ladder, looking for the big guy, the one at the top. Carlos wasn’t the top rung, but he was close, and we were going to take him and try to turn him in hopes of reaching the number one guy, but my guys got lost somehow and I got shot. Turns out Carlos wasn’t what we thought he was anyway. Turns out he was worse, a bad cop. Not my problem anymore.

My mind is clearer now that I’ve left my body behind, but the fear is still there. I tried to do good. I tried to make amends. I tried to erase the black stain from my soul.

I’m going now, I can feel it. Not rising, not ascending to heaven, not going down a tunnel, just… going. Going in a direction I could not have gone when I had a body to impede me.

As I go I can feel all the accumulated baggage of a lifetime dropping away, piece by piece, the once fiery rocket of my life shedding its stages as it ascends to glory... or destruction.

I am going home. I feel that. Going home to face the music. Unsure of the tune, uncertain of the outcome.

No one really knows how long it takes to die. No one knows when our minds shut off when we stop seeing and feeling what is going on around us. No one knows when consciousness flees or where it goes when it leaves. No one knows what doors death opens for us, or how difficult it will be to pass through them. No one knows. It is the

uncertainty that frightens us so, that once frightened me.

Rod Serling always said, “There’s a signpost up ahead”, so I am unsurprised to see a signpost appearing out of the shadows. With a sense of relief and a rising, almost giddy excitement, I rush forward into a wondrous uncertainty.

Dying time is done.

56, truck driver, married with four wonderful, bright, and now fully grown children.

At last count there were five grand-children, none currently on the way, or so they tell me. My only publishing credit is out this month in The Scarlet Leaf Review, titled "Dying Time". Gives me time to write, now I'm just waiting for the talent, or for the world to swing around to my way of thinking. It's possible, right?

In Stone

by Embe Charpentier After their latest argument, James drove Tyler to the beach for their ritual. A chilly New England wind propelled reckless waves. The beach spread wide studded with rocks great and small, most worn into soft ovals by the tide. On the crest of the dunes, seagrass twisted in and out of knots. The tops of tall wire and stave fences, meant to stem beach erosion, peeked out of the sand.

Tyler avoided his father’s gaze they strode down the walkway. His eyes scanned the beach for the perfect stone, one that could carry his father’s harsh words away.

James cleared the lump from his throat. “What do we need to get rid of first?”

“I cursed at you,” Tyler answered. He picked up a small rock studded with a broken periwinkle shell. He hurled it into the ebb.

James walked closer to the tide line to lift a near-boulder. “This is for every time I lost my temper with you.” Though his arm muscles bulged, he could only propel the rock a few feet. A huge wave covered the thrown stone, forcing them three steps backward. As his father wheezed, Tyler handed James a crumpled tissue.

“Thanks,” James sniffed.

“Just an ol’ pocket tissue, Dad.” Tyler stowed a white memory pebble in his pocket, then rolled it between his fingers. A small box at home held seven white rocks, one for every time they’d gone to the beach.

“You don’t listen,” punctuated by the splash of a fist-sized rock.

“You were rude to me.” Dad tossed a larger stone into the surf.

“So my grades aren’t all A’s. I try as hard as I can.”

James threw the gray stone with a swing of his arm. “Angry there’s no cell phone? I have

to pay for that phone.”

After divesting themselves of their grudges, they held each other and apologized, ending the ritual. James’s phone alarm sounded six o’clock. Their clothes whipped with the breath of the rising winds.

Tyler picked up a crumbled piece of shell and tossed it into the retreating wave. “Next time, I wanna come out to the beach for fun,” he began. “Fishin’ with a surf rod.” Tyler mimicked the motion of a fisherman casting his line over the water. “But there’s prob’ly not much to catch this close to the shore.”

“We’ll find ourselves somebody’s old rubber boot. Now that’s good eatin’.”

James and Tyler finally smiled as they turned west, away from the churn and splash and into the uneasy gasp of the day’s death throes. No one else saw the green flash at the sunset’s end. James and Tyler recognized its miraculous glow, though it lasted only moments.

“Wow.” Both gazed at the three-second event.

“Ever seen that before?” James reached for his son’s hand. “Light refraction. It’s rare, but it can happen right before the sun sets or rises.”

“Free light show. Better than fireworks,” said Tyler. He allowed his father to give his hand a squeeze.

James pointed to the twenty-foot high wall of the hurricane barrier’s harsh boulders. “The fastest way to the truck is over the rocks, not down the ramp. You up to that challenge?”

Hands steadying them, the two climbed with the haste of hungry men. Steep angles became unsteady footholds. James led the way, looking backward at Tyler from time to time.

James thought he found a secure spot on the crest of the breakwater, but the sole of his boot scarcely made contact before his anchor foot slid backward. With his left hand, he grasped at the rock above him. His belly tensed to avoid the apex of a chiseled boulder

below.

Tyler clambered up past his James’ feet. The twelve-year-old grasped his belt and pulled.

His father’s foot slid just a quarter-inch, but Tyler’s feet did not budge.

“Let me go, buddy.” James continued to seek a finger hold. “I’ll be okay.”

Tyler’s jaw was set tight. His eyes bore into granite boulders. “I won’t, Dad.” James found a secure crevice between stones only by stretching in a perilous arc. He hauled his thick body up and forward, his eyes on the top of the horizontal slope. Tyler let go as James recovered his footing. He picked his way with the caution of a trespasser, but he found his footing up to the ridge. Tyler waited to climb until his father stood tall and waved him on.

“I was waiting ‘cause…”

“I know. C’mon, son.” James clenched his fists long enough to wait until Tyler’s feet struck the solid ground beside him.

James thanked him for years.

The eighth pebble in the keeping box completed Tyler’s collection.

Embe Charpentier teaches by day and writes by night. Her novel "Beloved Dead" is published by Kellan Books. Her short stories have been published online in diverse literary magazines, including "Polychrome Ink", "Indianola Review", "Poydras Reivew", and "The Quotable". She invites you to visit her website,www.embecharpentier.com, and to follow her on Twitter, @embecharpentier.

Shining Example

by Christian Sanchez

“Name’s Jack. What’s yours, Beautiful?

"I think he flirts to hide the fact that he is as freaked out and nervous as me. Jack, Jack, Jack, I know three Jacks’ and none of them match.

“Raven.”

"That’s a cool name.”

“I think so.”

Tension filters through the air. Unsaid questions catch in my throat. Why is the wiring in my head not connecting the dots?

“Let’s cut the bullshit. Have we met somewhere?” I asked.

“I would remember you if I did.”

“But you do.”

“No, I know you, but I don’t remember you.”

That’s what it is. I know with every fiber of my being that I know him, but my brain just can’t remember him.

I like this feeling. This is the only thing in my life that is not directed or overseen. There is a spark in my blood I haven’t experienced before. I want to know how this is possible and more importantly if it can keep going.

“We’re not getting anywhere like this, so how about you tell me about yourself, Jack.”

“So, you want to know more about me, Gorgeous?”

“Just answer the question, Smartass,” I say hiding the fact that I love his snide remarks.

“I work for Asimov Incorporated, as an assistant to the CTO.” “That’s on the other side of town. Why’d you come to this dingy bar?”

“I had to run an errand around here and this looked like a good place to get a drink.”

“Makes sense. Well, I’m a nurse in Tomorrow’s Eve Medical Center.”

“That’s the place across the street, right?”

“Yeah, I come here after my shift to unwind.”

“So is saving people as awesome as it sounds?”

I chuckle at his enthusiasm.

“You know when you get that self-fulfilling feeling after a hard day’s work.”

“You get that?”

“Not even a little bit,” I say without hesitation.

“Oh, the nurse who hates her job. How original.”

“Hey, we don’t get to pick our job, Asshole,” I say while taking a drink.

“Don’t I know it,” he says downing his own drink.

“What’s the matter. Working at one of the biggest companies in the world not glamorous enough for you.”

He looks at me with disdain.

“Not when you’re a glorified errand boy who’s only there to showcase diversity.”

Looks like his problem is with the system and not me. Thank the Maker.

“That’s just the world we were made in.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” His grip on the glass tightens.

I need to change the subject. Like now.

“Hey, you like walking?”

He’s cute when his brow furrows.

“Um, as much as any other guy.”

“Perfect. Let’s get outta here.”

I jump off the bar stool and grab his hand. He stumbles as I drag him out of the bar.

“But I needed that drink.”

I give him my best pout.

“You like that drink more than me?”

“Cheater,” he says while staring at his feet.

Walking into the chilly, New York air, his hand doesn’t try to escape. Wow, I don’t remember the last time the sky was this clear. Usually it’s filled with traffic.

“Is this how you pick up all your guys?”

“Only the cute ones.”

If only he could blush.

“So, where do you live?”

“You aren’t going to stalk me, are you?”

“You got me. Serial stalker here,” I say while pointing at myself.

“It’s too late to turn back, huh.”

We both burst into laughing fits.

“Wanna walk me home?”

“And where is Ms. Stalker’s headquarters?”

I point to the building at the end of the street.

“Convenient.”

“I know,” I say as I lead him down the street.

“I can walk myself.”

“But this is more fun.”

He shakes his head. We pass by the repair shop that doubles as an oil speakeasy. I prefer actual alcohol.

“So, Mr. Mystery, can you at least tell me how old you are?”

“I’m four and a half.”

He’s the same age as me. Wait, does that mean?

“Hey, were you made in Facility 3-B?” His face twists into confusion.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Because I was made in Facility 3-B four and a half years ago.”

I can see the gears turn in his head and his face flashed an emotion akin to surprised mixed with recognition.

“I saw you on the assembly line. It was after I got my chip put in. You were getting your skin molded on,” I say.

“I can’t believe it. They had just finished your layer and were sending you for testing.”

We imprinted each other before we were finalized. Is that even possible? As we cross the street avoiding the hover-taxis and drones we fall into a questionable silence. Where do you go from here? Does he still want to see me, now that we know? I really hope so.

We reach my building and look at each other.

“I had a really good time, Jack.”

“Yeah, me too, Raven.”

My hand leaves his and I already miss its artificial warmth. I make a move for the door.

Please, say something. Anything.

“Hey, do you want to maybe get coffee tomorrow?” he asks.

Fuck, yes.

“I would love that.”

I never knew a smile could be so bright.

C. L. Sanchez is a freelance writer based out of Orlando, Florida. When he is not trying to get his work published, he is often seen with his nose in a comic book. He loves cats, but they don't seem to like him.

Sloane Square

by Lee Hamblin "Where to guvnor? What’s that you say… Sloane Square… yeah, no problem, hop in."

Sloane blinkin Square, I ask ya. I’ve been sat on the rank nearly an hour waiting my turn, and he wants Sloane blinkin Square. From here it’s a ten-minute walk max. And it’s not like it’s cold or raining... he’s not even got luggage… Sloane blinkin Square… Oh well… another one I’ll just have to let go, I suppose… some you win… and some…

"Nice evening," I say, eyeing him in the mirror. His threads look top quality. He’s wearing a rather dapper navy-blue suit, (made-to-measure I’d guess,) a white Oxford Cotton shirt, and a slim, striped, wine and cream tie. Nothing’s too showy, more like classy… classy like Bond. James Bond. Sean Connery though, not that Moore feller - I don’t rate him much.

It’s the kind of gear I’d only get out for a wedding or a funeral. Mind you, my one and only whistle came straight off the peg, and that was at least fifteen years ago.

The fella doesn’t strike me as a talker, not to the likes of me anyhow. And I reckon I’ve called that right, cause straight away he opens up a black leather briefcase and dives for refuge amongst an assortment of papery clutter.

Sometimes, though, I like to push it a little, you know, have a bit of fun. After all, I’ve just spent an hour on me Jack Jones with the cryptic crossword and a cup of oxtail soup, and all for what, a couple of quid, tops. And I betcha he don’t tip neither.

"Here, guvnor," I call out, "you’d never guess who I had in the cab last week?" He looks up from his papers. In the mirror, I see his forehead tighten and his eyes narrow. I ignore him, and slide the partition window open, so he can hear me better, whether he wants to or not, which of course he doesn’t. "Last week," I say, "sitting right where you are…" I’m trying my utmost to wheedle a response out of him, "go on," I urge, "have a guess... it don’t cost you nothing, does it?" I chuckle; oxtail soup repeats on me something nasty.

He doesn’t say a thing. Poor bloke, mind you, he does look all-in; probably had a stinker of a day and just wants to get home and pour himself a large scotch.

We’ve all had days like that, haven’t we? Still, I can’t leave him in the lurch like that, can I? And you never know, I might even cheer him up a bit; coax a smile out of him. But right now all he’s giving me is a look of get on with it man - if you must.

"Give up," I say, "alright then, I’ll tell ya." "It was only that Meryl Streep… you know… the Hollywood actress," he looks unimpressed. "She’s my favourite… gorgeous in the flesh too, she is… made me go all weak at the knees," I laugh. Sadly, he doesn’t. Maybe he’s not a movie guy.

I try to remember the name of the movie that I saw her in, but it must have been years ago now, probably the last time I went to the flicks, with the wife; Leicester Square Empire, big screen. It was definitely wintertime when we went, that much I remember for sure. I remember cause she wore the fur coat I got her for her 30th birthday.

I turn the radio up. There’s some old boy having a blood-pressurised rant on the phonein about the filthy habits of punk rockers, decrying all that spitting and swearing and flicking of V’s to the queen and country. He’s even crusading for the return of National Service to sort them out, having a right word, he is. Go on my son, I tell him.

"Right oh squire, here we go, Sloane Square, which side is it you wanted?"

It turns out he didn’t want Sloane Square as such, but halfway down the Kings Road. He hands me a fiver, thanks me kindly, and says to keep the change. Result. What a turn up for the books. You see, some you do win after all.

A foreign-looking woman gets in as soon as he gets out; two school-uniformed girls in tow, about nine or ten years old, wearing out-of-season straw boaters with tomato-red ribbon tied round them. They’ve got tan, leather satchels, far too big for them, diagonally cut across their shoulders. They remind me of my own little girl, way back when. They clamber onto the squeaky drop-down seats right behind me, giggling with little-girl excitement. I join the traffic before we even know where we’re going and set the meter running. The woman, my first guess is she’s Spanish, tells me that she first needs to drop the girls back home in Battersea, and then she’ll be going on to Wandsworth. Listening to her, I’m thinking that if she’s not Spanish, she’s definitely Italian.

Unlike some other cabbies, I don’t mind going south of the river. The thing is, though, people going there don’t appreciate that you’re more than likely have to come all the way back into town empty before getting another fare. And diesel ain’t cheap, let alone the rent on this blinkin thing, and then there’s the flat, and food… pff, listen to me - I could go on forever. But I suppose everybody’s got to get somewhere, haven’t they? And I never like to refuse a fare, honest I don’t, not unless I’m dog-tired and homeward bound, that is, and they want to go the opposite way.

Within the confines of the back of my cab, the young girls are hell-bent on playing whatever the latest playground craze is. There’s lots of flailing arms and too many backof-the-eye-piercing shrieks involved for my liking. So, for a little p + q, I slide the window closed and mute the still-ranting fella on the phone-in while I’m at it.

I’ve got two boys and a girl of my own. My boys are teenagers now. When they were about their age, nine and ten, I took them to Greece for two weeks, to an island a fivehour ferry from Athens. It wasn’t cheap, I’ll tell you that for nothing; had to work me arse off all year to save up for it. My girl is twenty-one now, she’s got a young daughter of her own. Kids nowadays don’t understand money, do they? Don’t appreciate the hours one has to put in to keep them clothed and fed. Me, I’m at it until two in the morning, sometimes later, and I still get up early for next morning’s rush hour, trying to put a few quid away for a rainy day. You gotta do it, ain’t ya?

Considering it’s Friday night, the run to Battersea is smooth enough. I pull up just after the park, outside a Victorian semi-detached. All three of them bundle out. The girls skip along the path to where their mum and dad are waiting at the front door.

A mum. And a dad.

Just as it ought to be.

Most of the time it don’t work out that way, though, does it?

There they all are, a family reunited for the weekend, all touchy-feely and joyous smiles, big hands holding them close - little hands waving goodbye. The happy family go inside the happy nanny returns.

"All OK?" I ask. She looks relieved of a burden. Life’s like that, ain’t it? There’s a lot of carrying to be done, and most of it’s right heavy.

All of a sudden she’s become all chatty, telling me how she’s looking forward to a night out later, going to a gig in town, she says, saying that I wouldn’t recognise her once she’s got her black makeup, safety pins and bondage trousers on. She’s probably surprised that I know what she’s on about. I do. I tell her how one of my boys is into punk.

"Spikes his hair up with soap, he does.’"I tell her, "and he’s gone and got both his ears pierced, which he knows I don’t approve."

"Didn’t you make him take them out?" She asks.

"Nah," I say. "There’s no point. He’s sixteen now. I just let him get on with it. I don’t bother saying anything to him anymore. He wouldn’t listen anyhow. Would you, at that age?"

"Course not," she laughs and asks me what bands he’s into. I tell her that I have no idea.

It’s true, I really don’t.

We reach her place, she points to the top floor flat she shares with two other girls, they all came over three years ago from Seville, she says, though she calls it Seviyya, which makes it sound exotic. She pays me with money that’s not hers, which is always easier to part with, and wishes me a nice weekend. A nice weekend, I think. I try to think when a weekend wasn’t this: Wasn’t all pick-ups and drop-offs. Wasn’t going to A from B and back again. Wasn’t hours of waiting at stations, and wiping party people vomit from the seats. Wasn’t midnight bacon butties and stewed tea from a van perched on Waterloo Bridge.

"You too," I say, she smiles pity at me; maybe she sees my thoughts. "Look after yourself… don’t do anything I wouldn’t do." I add. Her face becomes a puzzle. They probably don’t say that in Spain, do they? And besides, I’m sure that she’ll be doing everything that I wouldn’t have dared when I was her age. I wait there a mo, till she’s through the front door, before driving off.

My youngest boy, the punk, he smokes now as well. I know what he’s smoking, but I’d prefer not to. I catch him some nights when I get in, he’s got glazed and reddened eyes

and he don’t ever smell of booze. More likely than not he’s eating a bowl of cornflakes, or biscuits, or toast. Immediately he sees me he buggers off to his room, locks the door. He used to help me learn the routes, he did; The Knowledge, they call it. It was his job to test me. He used to be quite a bright lad, at school like. It had to be him helping me out as his brother’s the more practical one, always busy taking things apart and putting them back together again: bicycles… clocks… lamps, and later on: engines… girlfriends… himself.

Lately, I’ve had to keep an eye on my youngest. See, I keep all my spare change in this leather pouch, and somebody’s been helping himself, so now I have to lock it away of a night, out of reach of his sticky fingers. Funny ain’t it, years ago, the boys were content with the few coins they found slipped down the back seat, that was when they were happy, happy enough to help me clean it out on a Sunday morning, give it a wash and wax. We could have a laugh and a joke together back then. Oh well.

I can spot a fare half a mile away, even at night. The first thing is to check if there’s anyone in front gonna get there before me, if not, then to manoeuvre across lanes to the kerbside, that’s the thing what gets right up car drivers noses. It’s water off a ducks back to me, I don’t know why they bother with the blasting horns and V-signs; it’s a blinkin jungle out here mateys! I tell em.

There’s a woman up ahead. She looks about my age. Dolled up for a night out. She’s stood under a streetlamp. One arm held aloft.

I get caught on a red at the next set of lights.

"You can put it down now, love, I’ve seen you," I say. Not that she’ll hear me.

Lights change to green. I pull over.

"Oh, thank you, driver," she says, stepping in. "I’ve been waiting for an age. And it’s just starting to rain.'

"Just in time then," I say, "ain’t you the lucky one?"

She wants Hammersmith. That’ll do me I think, I’ll get another job no problem from there, could turn out to be a fair old night. We pootle along, getting into rush hour traffic

now, but luckily most of it’s heading towards us.

"Busy day, driver?" She asks.

"Not bad," I say, "I’ve just started my shift, really."

"It’ll be a late night then?"

"Err… yeah, I should say so." I reply.

"Do you mind me talking, only I’m a bit nervous," she says, "I haven’t been out for a while, not socially I mean, and certainly not where I’m going… I’m off to a dance class."

"No problem," I say. "Dancing, that sounds like fun, always fancied having a go at that myself." It’s true, I have. She moves from the back seat to sit behind me.

"Yes, it should be… Latin mainly," her voice softens, "I trained years ago… many years ago… then family came along, I guess you know all about that. Are they your children?"

She asks; having spotted the photos I’ve got tucked into the dashboard. I glance at them, having forgotten they were there, to be honest. My daughter was about twelve then.

She’s in the school play, staring role. She went to drama school, always the show-off, loved to sing and dance.

The boys are sat in plastic chairs, feigning sleep on the deck of that slow ferry in Greece.

Both still blonde haired; both wearing matching shirts - military style, U.S marines I think, badges sewn on the lapels.

"That I do, and yes, that’s the brood." I say, "two boys, and a girl."

She tells me about her two daughters and how proud she is of them; one is a nurse in London, the other, training as an architect in Europe. She tells me that her husband passed away two years ago, and that she still misses him every day, but that the girls say it’s time now for her to move on, hence tonight’s nerves.

And I tell her about mine. Not about how they are now, today, but how they were then, in the photos on the dashboard. How I like to remember them.

I don’t tell her how my daughter told me she will never forgive me, and I believe her. Or that she went off to Italy with this older guy when she was sixteen. Or that a heartbroken six months later I refused her plea to come back home, so she ended up sharing a room and a bed with some Charley who she married for a while. I don’t tell her she has a child that I’ve yet to see, all I know is it’s a girl.

I don’t tell her that I haven’t spoken to son number two in over a year or that son number one is channelling his aggression with the army in Aldershot barracks.

I don’t tell her any of that.

I never tell anyone any of that.

You see, their mother died, thirty-four years young.

In her bed.

In our bed.

I wasn’t there at the time. I should have been. I was out working. I was always out working. She wanted only the best for her children. So I needed to deliver, things cost money, it all costs money, so I had to work, right? My daughter found her dying. She saw it. She remembers it. She’ll never forget it. My daughter was thirteen. She had to take care of her brothers after that because I had to work. We had no help. They wanted to take them into care, the social services did - my boys - take them into care. Not blinkin likely, I said. I stormed out of there sharpish. I even swore at them, and I never swear. I’ve never asked anyone for help ever again. From then on the boys learnt to look after themselves. You understand, don’t ya?

"And your wife?" She asks.

"Oh, I lost her to cancer. Nine years ago now." I reply, "been on my own ever since."

"Oh, I’m sorry, she says. You must be very proud, raising your family alone."

I say nothing as I pull over.

"Thank you, driver," she says, "thank you for the chat, I hope it didn’t disturb your concentration."

"Not at all," I say, "my pleasure, us cabbies are always good for a chat, all part of the service."

I’m marking down the fare in my logbook as she walks off. After only a couple of steps, she turns round and comes back. I slide down the side window.

"Did you leave something behind?" I ask, scouring the back seat.

"No," she says, "It’s nothing like that… I was just wondering… I hope you don’t mind my asking… just, if you ever fancy a night off, if you want that is… that you could join me… here… come and try a class, as my partner, dancing partner I mean… just as friends. We could start from the beginning if you like."

Friends.

Starting from the beginning.

You know what. I think I’d like that.

Lee Hamblin is from the UK. Since 2007 he has lived in Greece. Long ago, he produced music to dance to. He still prefers to spend his time indoors staring at screens. He’s had stories published with: F(r)iction online, Sick Lit, Platform For Prose, STORGY, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Red Line, and was shortlisted for the BBC's 2015 Opening Lines competition.

He can be found on twitter @kali_thea