The Fable Online Issue 5 July, 2015
Editor-in-Chief Sarah Kedar
Š2015, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors Photo used for cover creation by Beautelle. Terms of Use. Typeface used for cover creation and within the document by Zang-O-Fonts.
Contributing Authors Bryan Grafton Ferederick K. Foote Frederick Senese Garry Gunnerson Katrina Johnston Maria Marklove
Poetry
Perfection Complex by Maria Marklove Coke addiction, heroin. Hell, a caffeine dependency would do. To be starving, disabled, dying; any of ‘em could work, I’d wager. Maybe I could get leprosy, some form of cancer, a brain aneurysm. Anything, really. I could take up smoking, try -- then fail -- to quit. That’d be nice. To have a real problem. Not just occasionally eating more than I need to, nibbling into an evening once a month or-so. To have the excuses of an alcoholic. A gambler. A necrophiliac. Not just having a perfectly acceptable -- tolerable -- job, that I don’t detest (but nor do I love). My food and shelter needs are all met. I even get to choose. Oh, to have been born in a developing country, a war-torn nation, a slum. Typhoid. Cholera. Lockjaw. Scurvy. To be a hoarder, rather than not wanting for anything (and yet always wanting, always striving, pushing, dragging myself into perfection). Everything’s so goddamn comfortable. Let’s shoot some E’s, hook up my veins. Maybe when I’m old; drugs are wasted on youth. How I long to have something real -- something palpable -- to complain about. Problems less ... imaginary. To actually feel lonely -- to detest my own company; to not have a family who love me; friends, who don’t flood me with laughter, who don’t hold the keys to me.
To have been abused, more than I was. To have not gotten over it. Herpes. Genital warts. I’d take moderate back pain, if it were offered. An aching pinky would suffice. To have not worked so hard repairing my situation; the life I was dealt. Pushing, always pushing, forward. Fixing, until I wanted for nothing. For without a problem, how can I complain? How can people believe I suffer? No one accepts the old I-don’t-feel-happy-but-I-don’t-know-why argument. I still have all my limbs, for Christ’s sake. Berating myself for the smallest of things. Exaggerating imperfections lends to misery. I was just born this way. My lungs function. My heart beats. Anaemic? Not even slightly. Don’t talk to me about wheat intolerance. I can digest food without the aid of a bag, drink without the aid of a tube. Clean water comes straight out of a tap into a home I call mine. There’s ten thousand miles’ worth of blood vessels in my body, all working, doing crazy, magical shit without me even thinking. I’m random bits of stardust collated into self -- it’s a goddamn miracle I’m even here, alive, breathing. Feeling warm, safe. Yeah, so I’m not leaping out of bed in the morning, and I do just roll over, at times, pulling the cover over my head. But I can taste, smell, hear, touch. I can see beautiful, mind-blowing things right before my eyes, everywhere I look, if I choose to. There is wild love within me. I feel like killing myself.
Yawn. Heard it all before.
Maria Marklove lives in Cambridge, UK. She has a Ph.D. in Mathematics and enjoys weightlifting, painting, playing the piano and attempting to speak French.
Flash Fiction
By Any Other Name by Frederick Senese
"The last thing I remember was stepping off the curb," she told him. The sun was behind him, haloing his hair and blanking out his face. They weren't alone on the long balcony. Another patient leaned over the railing about twenty feet away. She wondered if he could hear what she was saying. Probably not. The wind was hot and incessant. It whipped her hair around her ears. She had to keep her hands on her thighs or her hospital gown would blow up around her waist. "Think hard," he said. "You remember nothing before that?" "Nothing." "Okay, well, what's the next thing you remember? This is important. Did you see the driver's face?" "The next thing I remember was riding in the ambulance. An IV bag swinging over my face. Someone sat with me, asking me what my name was." "What did you tell them?" "I think I said, Marie? Maria? Something like that." "Your name's Clara," he said. "Clara Fleming." "If you say so."Clara. Clara the cowardly lion. Clara Cluck, best friend of Daisy Duck. He winced. "So, why did the doctors do that to your hair?" "They didn't do it. I did." "You did this? Why?" "Well. One of the nurses had someone help me with it. They wouldn't let me hold the scissors." She ran her fingers through her hair. "It wasn't right. It was too long. It's still too long. Maybe it's the wrong color. You don't like it, do you?"
"It's different," he said. "But it'll grow out again." He reached out to brush a stray strand from her face. She shrank away from him. "You don't remember me at all. Do you." "I know you were here yesterday," she said. "And the day before." "You have to know me." "I don't."Have to. Half two. Have me, half me. "I'm your ... I'm a friend." He squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again. "They said you had to remember. That I shouldn't tell, that I should let you remember." "What shouldn't you tell?" "That it wasn't my fault," he whispered. "What wasn't your fault?" she said. He looked away for a moment. "Your parents are flying down from New York tomorrow. You remember them?" "Maybe." She frowned. "What do you 'maybe' remember about them?" "They split up when I was twelve. Yes. I lived with my mom till I was eighteen. My dad is short, like you, he has a funny little beard--like yours. But his beard is streaked with white. His name is Tom ..." "Jesus, Clara, your parents have been happily married for thirty years. Your dad doesn't have a beard, his name's Mark. He's an accountant." "Are you sure?" she asked. "Yes, I’m sure. Listen, are you tired? Should we go back inside?" "No," she said. "The sun feels good." She lifted her head and closed her eyes. The wind smelled like the ocean.
"Can I get you anything?" he asked. "I'm dying for a cigarette. Do you have any?" "What?" He stared at her. "I don't smoke, and neither do you--you hate the smell of smoke—Clara, Jesus God--" Clara the cow. Clara the clown-"You know what? I think I am getting tired." "I'll take you back to your room," he said. "No... I think I'll stay out here for a little longer. Maybe you can come back some other time, okay?" "Okay," he said. He leaned towards her, as though he were going to kiss her cheek. She stepped back. "Bye," she said. "I'll be back tomorrow," he said. "The doctors told me I could bring a few pictures in for you to look at." He's so small. He's shorter than I am. The thought warmed her somehow. She crossed her arms and smiled at him. "Goodbye," he said. Even his voice was small. She leaned over the balcony rail after he left, looking down at the beach. The sun was beginning to set. Families trudged back to their cars with umbrellas and beach chairs tucked under their arms. The palmettos swayed in the dying light, casting shifting shadows on the sand. The tops of some of them had been sheared off. Maybe there had been a storm. A heavy-shouldered man slouched against the railing on the far end of the balcony. The bottom of his hospital gown flapped in the wind. He nodded when he saw her watching him.
"Good thing I wore pants under this thing, huh?" he called. She smiled and walked over to him. "I wasn't so smart." "So, what are you in for?" he asked. "I don't know," she said. "I feel fine. What about you?" "I don't know either. I fainted, blanked out, or something. They're checking it out. I'm David. David Sobolewski." "Hi, David." "It's beautiful here, isn't it? The ocean, and all. Like a resort, not a hospital." "It is. I've never seen the ocean before." "Where you from?" "Colorado," she said. "Wyoming." "Which?" She shrugged. "Either way, you're a long way from home," he said. "I guess I am." "Was that your husband?" "No. He says he's a friend." David laughed. "Gotcha." He looked over his shoulder at the door into the hospital, and then back at her. "You mind if I smoke?" "No, not at all." He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. She watched him light up. "I'm sorry," he said. "You want one?"
"Please," she said. "We're not allowed," he said. "You see an orderly, chuck it over the side. They give you shit about it." He tapped a cigarette out of his pack and handed it to her. "They'll give us shit for standing out here, too. We're supposed to use the wheelchairs." He offered her his lighter. His hands were so much bigger than hers. She let her fingers linger on his wrist before he snapped the lighter closed. He grinned. She inhaled deeply and let the smoke trickle from her nose. It was delicious. "Thanks so much." "No problem. I didn't catch your name." "I'm Marie," she said.
Frederick Senese is a former NASA research scientist, dishwasher, textbook author, short-order cook, software developer, Flash cartoonist, art student, waiter, and educational media designer. He teaches chemistry at a small state university in rural Appalachia. --fredsenese.com
Deadly Harvest by Garry Gunnerson
The corn was high and waving beside the road, ready for picking, but no one was on the land. As he drove up to the farm Buford tried to picture it—what the dispatcher told him on the radio. That the cutting blades had already sheared off the feet, before old man Sanford knew what was happening and stopped the mechanism. The gigantic, green John Deere harvester was still idling in the yard when Buford, the County Sheriff, got out of his truck. Scrambled between the cutting mechanism and the monster front tires, he could see what appeared to be the remains of two bodies. Appeared to be was the right way to describe it, because it was hard to tell. Visible beside the left wheel was a man's hand, the fingers curled as though they had been clawing in the dirt. Beside that a woman's foot, peaking out from under a blood-soaked rag that probably had been her dress. Buford knew the family well. Sanford, his wife, and their son—newly back, wounded and crippled, from a stint in Iraq—Art. Then there was Art's young wife Josie—hitched just before Art shipped out. “Is that Josie under the harvester with Art?” Buford asked. “Nope, that's the wife. Josie's in town,” old man Sanford replied. “In town?” “Yeah,” Sanford said, taking another pull from the bottle, Jim Beam. “She had an important appointment.” “I'm surprised to hear she's in town. You know what people are saying there.” “What?” “That when your son was overseas doing his duty, you took a shine to his pretty new bride. Got her pregnant and your wife's fixing to throw you out.” “That's bullcrap. When she gets back check her yourself. Josie won't have no pregnancy.” “The farm still in your wife's name, same as when she inherited it from her father?” “Don't prove nothin. This here's an accident. Hell, that harvester practically runs itself— GPS, field navigation. I fell asleep listening to Garth Brooks on the WI-Fi.
“Passed-out you mean. You were drunk, Sanford. That's motor manslaughter. Get you twenty-to-life and I don't have to prove outright murder.” “Started drinking after. Told my lawyer that. Called him first. He's said I'm not responsible for nuthin. Not even what I'm saying right now, I'm so full of liquor and remorse.” “You son-of-a-bitch,” Buford said.
Garry Gunnerson lives in the city of Windsor, Ontario, Canada just south of Detroit, with Valerie, his wife of many years. Following a successful career in sales and marketing, Garry now devotes his time to Tai Chi, travel and writing short fiction.
Neck-a-Breaker by Bryan Grafton Mac was Albanian. His long Albanian name was unpronounceable. He Americanized himself with Mac. His greasy spoon was Big Macs Burgers Home of the Little Mac Burger. Mac had a problem and I was to solve it. “Someone stealing my money. You private eye. You find. Tell me. I fix a them good.” “Why do you think you’re getting ripped off?” “Because at end of day there is not enough money for me to, how you say, skim off top.” “Let me get this straight,” I said. “Someone’s been ripping off your cash that you should be ripping off and you want me to finger the employee by working as an undercover waitress and catch them in the act and you’ll take it from there. Is that correct?” “Ya I break a their neck.” Ignoring his somewhat blunt response, I went on. “You got a waitress that just had a baby and I’m to take her place until she’s back. If the thievery stops while she’s off, she’s your culprit. If not it’s one of your other three employees. “Ya must give her leave or she sue family leave law. If crook, no have to pay family leave money.” “And if not what about the others. What about your cook?” “Not cook. He my nephew. He know I break a his neck. Besides job pay how you say it under the table and he illegal.” “You’ve got two other waitresses. Tell me about them.” “One my cousin. Same as nephew pay under table and illegal. Besides…” “I know you break a her neck.” “No! I never hurt a woman. Pay someone to break a her neck.” “Your other waitress a relative too?” “No, American. Good for business. Look like Dolly Parton. Her name is Raedeen.” “Why didn’t you just grill Raedeen and the momma on leave about this. Let them know you’re on to the stealing?” “No can do. Get sued sex harass.”
“Alright,” I said. “I’ve waitressed before and worked retail. I’ve seen people pocket and palm a bill or two in my day. I know what to look for. Now are we agreed on my fee?” “Agreed and if catch thief quick will pay a bonus.” Mac took cash from his billfold and brought his fistful of dollars under the table at which they sat. He bent over and extended his arm toward me. “Here.” “I guess you really do pay under the table.” Next day, was my first day on the job. Raedeen was a Dolly Parton wannabe. Poured into her dress and blouse with a shoe horn. Mini skirt and full low cut frontal view with platinum blonde hair piled high. The rear and front body parts of her body extended. Her waist was so small that it was disproportionate to her figure and looked like it had to hurt. I asked her during a break how comes she dressed like that. “That’s where the money is honey,” she giggled. I watched her. She didn’t always take the money off the tables to the cash register right away. Sometimes she went out for a ciggy, or back to the store room, or to the ladies room first. So a couple of times I peeked in the ladies room. She didn’t see me, but I saw her continually playing with her hair. Case solved. It had to have been a good day for business. Mac and his nephew never left the grill and kept us waitresses on our feet all day. After closing Mac came over and sat down beside me. “Here try Little Mac Burger. Bigger than other guys Big Mac,” he said and plopped it down before me. Oh, it definitely was. “Why not call it Bigger Mac Burger? You’ve got them beat in size.” “No can do. Those guys sue me.” “I don’t get it Mac. You’re not afraid to ‘break a’ somebody’s neck but afraid of getting sued all the time. What’s with that?” “Not afraid of the law. Just afraid of lawyers.” And with that he plopped the day’s receipts down on the table and started counting then cursing in Albanian. “Should be more.” “I know where your money is Mac. Call Raedeen over here and have her plop her butt down.” Mac waived Raedeen over. She came and sat down. I got up, went over to her and pulled
off her Dolly Parton wig, held it high and shook it. Bills floated to the ground. “That’s where the money is honey,” I taunted to Raedeen and left. Next day I was back before they opened for my bonus. Mac called me over to his table. “Put hand under table,” he said and handed me a wad of bills. “Raedeen paid your bonus and my money back, he said as Raedeen walked through the door. “Can’t fire her. Too good for business. Besides she know if she steal again I...” But I cut him off and finished his sentence, “break a her neck.”
Bryan Grafton is a retired attorney who started writing stories this past winter for something to do while recovering from a broken foot. Stories have appeared in Romance Magazine, Clever magazine and Prime Numbers. Six others have been promised for publication this summer and fall.
Short Story
Halverson Lake by Katrina Johnston
No one is here for me. Not even Hazelton, my husband’s kitty cat, a shedding smell-orama. I’m roasting like a self-basting turkey and enduring the worst aspects of accumulated heat and thick humidity which has settled upon me and the Township of Emberton. Discomfort intensifies and I start scratching at a prickly rash beneath my chin. I settle for a while, daydreaming about ice. But I’m bothered by intrusive and recurring thoughts. I want to be alone for real, but that implies ramped-up energies and a plan. I don't have any ambitions for problem-solving during this over-heated afternoon. I hate my husband. I start channeling thoughts of cold relief, imagining frozen popsicles and triple decker ice creams and lakes encrusted with snow. The Emberton River might offer up some miniscule relent from the record-breaking temperatures, especially where it dumps into the placid depths of Halverson Lake, but the waters there are murky and unforgiving and I'd only achieve a degree or two and a temporary respite. Beyond the city limits, the waterway grows wide and then flows lazily west. The lake is not designed to be a swimmers paradise. The riverbanks are overgrown and they slide long and greasy with inclines into mud and silt beneath many treacherous overhangs. As I daydream, I am looking around for the sneaky and the odoriferous feline, but Hazelton is living the dream. His nine lives are as a phantom. I wish my husband made himself as scarce as that darn cat. A wooden dock begins from the eastern shoreline of the river and it stretches to the middle of Halverson Lake which is known to be fathoms deep and not ideal for any aquatic recreation thanks to pollution and a paucity of fish. The existence of the dock and the long walkway enable pedestrians to wander outbound should they wish to stroll it, but they must traverse with caution. The wooden planking is worn and smooth. Although there is an elevated barrier for a degree of safety along the edges, the configuration changes into an oblong area near the terminus. There are no safety barriers at this wide expanse. The footing is slippery during rain or frost, or if the gentle wavelets splash upward upon the surface. There are many spaces for boats to tie-up at the middle of the lake, but strangers never utilize the moorage. A single behemoth is berthed out there at the end of the dock. That’s the Emerald
Princess Pub and Casino which is housed within a refurbished high-capacity ferry, redecorated until it resembles the over-painted tawdriness of a Vegas hotel anchored in perpetuity. My husband, Brent, just loves that place. He adores it. His devotion is unfailing and is constant. He is in love with gambling and losing everything. But this is not a sacred love I share. I’m not sure if Brent and I ever reached for that much consensus on our romance or our partnership. Not even from the beginning. And Brent loses most of his salary at the Emerald Princess while I’m stuck with managing the household. I’m in my usual summertime funk and feeling sick. My life’s become a pressure cooker. Brent is actually at home today. He's sleeping late this morning. But he’s not in my good graces. He’s snoring inside the master bedroom. I can hear his foghorn wheeze. He crawled in late last night, and then the drinking binge began in earnest. He must have concluded or passed out around 2 am. By that hour, I’d taken myself to the spare bedroom. Brent hides evidence, but not efficiently. Eleven cans of Labatts, two high test pints, one pale ale and a flask of Rileys. I recycle empties. Yesterday morning when we were both getting ready and Brent was hogging the main bathroom because I needed to get in there to get prepped for a job interview, I felt a fresh wave of repulsion as I watched him shave. Apparently he doesn’t believe in using shaving cream. “Hideous mess,” I said. “You’ve got bits of beard and soap scum all over the sink and the fixtures.” I indicated a blue rag hanging over the bathtub. “Clean this up.” “In a hurry,” he said. “Got to start at work by 9:15.” The bar of soap slipped into the brimming sink sending an eruptive splash of scummy messes overboard. Rivulets dribbled along the vanity, inside the cupboard and dampness seeped into the baseboard flashing. “You’re going to wipe that up." I said. “No time honey pie.” His endearment was not genuine. He is awfully good at this form of sarcasm. I'd learned a long while ago that he could stab me with his attempts at irony. And so I let him try it. “Don’t you dare call me honey pie,” I said. “I’ve got to get ready. Today’s the day I have the interview at the library.” “That all you got?” “What more you want?”
“Plenty.” When he’d finally hauled his hung-over carcass off to his job, my cerebral neurons began to fire inside my head. Daydreaming and a mental escape are my only salvation. The interview was for a senior library assistant, a clerk III with starter salary. I was in and out of the interview in less than twenty minutes. Don’t call us. We’ll let you know. After I drove back to the condo, I checked-off this tedious errand from my list. Now I face another day. And once more I am confronted by a sordid mess, a sink full of dishes and lined with greasy residues. I dream divorce, quick and neat. We dance around irreconcilable differences on every level. I’m not a legal diva and I don't know what to do. Not really. I catch myself dripping perspiration and gazing sightlessly at the floral calendar which hangs above the cupboards reminding me that the days are piling up, one atop another and another and I'm still married to the jerk. We got married just after Christmas. Our wedding had a snowflake theme. The honeymoon never ignited. I’d say that I gave it opportunity and time, approximately two weeks plus. Yes, I tried it out – tried it on for size. But the evidence was irrefutable and constant. I realized that this marriage and all the tedious baggage that comes along with getting married was a huge mistake. I must have believed in something. I mean, at first, I must have attempted it. Yeah, maybe? He’s such a loser. I should have known. And I suppose all this wisdom comes by hindsight and I had to learn the hard way by actually trying to live with Brent. He’s nothing but a self-absorbed slob, a dispassionate klutz as to things romantic or sexual; magnificently hopeless with his rare attempts. I don’t like to remind myself of my mistake of this marriage or his fumbles either. And then Brent started going out and leaving me alone to handle the domestic bliss. Now, he spends every night he can at the Emerald Princess. Like he's avoiding me. The draw is poker and sometimes the slots. He’s a compulsive gambler. He staggers home to drink in solitude until he’s comatose. Alone again for the entire afternoon, I finish tidying the kitchen. Then I go into our master bathroom. The soap – still sunken and slimy – has totally dissolved into its mucoid goo. Guess who cleans the mess? Why did I ever consent to marry such a guy in the first damn place? Because he asked, I suppose.
I was pushing 33 and had grown weary of waiting for a prince to come along like some conquering hero. No knight in white had ever made the ride to sweep me from my feet or to carry me off to his castle. When Brent suggested marriage, I thought he might suffice, though the armour was dented and tarnished even way back then. He somehow manages to hold onto the same IT position at InterStet Solutions, a downtown software concern. He starts each morning battling the hang-over. But hey, they keep Brent doing whatever it is he does. I sometimes try to remember exactly what attraction had manifested in the first place. He sports a blondish mop of hair and green eyes flecked with amber dots. He has a pointy chin that sprouts thick and wiry. On the crown of his head, a pink oval, and this is now accentuated by his further loss of hair. He’s getting flabby and the weight gain is constant and astonishing. A superficial impression must have overwhelmed me. Brent can dance and he does it well. At least he probably still does? If he tries it anymore? I thought that was kind of interesting. Back then, he was all lean and gangly. He’d dance all sort of jittery in a display of physical innovation, like a masculine marionette. I looked at him and admired that looseness. Not so much anymore. The idea was that wedded bliss and a modicum of normalcy might set it all to rights. Besides, everybody else was getting married. There was also this feeling that just maybe my time was up, and like other women of my age and my circumstance, I'd just have to settle with some degree of lowered expectation. I said yes and couldn't take it back. How could I do that? He farts and picks and snores. My consolation prize. We barely manage to make the mortgage here at this upscale apartment, although I like it because it’s shiny and rich with silver chrome. I resent the scrimping. I have to budget carefully. Big crabby tears are falling from my eyes. Another day slips away, the temperature not quite so torrid. Brent has phoned me now; three times. It’s way past midnight. He’s asking me to come down to the casino to pick him up and then to drive him home. He's drunk. Let him stew. Instead of my car, I rev his Ford truck engine. I plan to pick him up at the dockside near the gangplank entrance to the Emerald Princess. I park the truck at the lot near the beginning of the walkway and switch off the ignition. Then, I breathe. It’s blessedly grown cooler. Just as I am commencing the longish trek along the dock, I encounter Grayson Keeler, the
security guard, a well-liked guy who lives downtown. He is jogging along the length of the walkway and I find this is a strange occurrence. He arrives in front of me. I halt and we commence an awkward conversation. He tells me that the Emerald Princess is deserted except for Brent who is waiting there for me. “I’m the fleeing rat,” Grayson says, his voice huffing. He laughs.“The last critter, or the first one off the sinking vessel. But of course, she's all tied up and sure as hell not sinking. There’s no one onboard. Your husband is sitting outside.” “Aren’t you supposed to stay-on? Like through the night to provide security out there at the moorage?” “Yes, that's true, and you’re completely right to wonder. However, I’ve got a family thing. Oh hell, here's the deal, but keep this under your bib. It's all hush-hush. My wife, my Jeanette.... Well, she’s expecting. And now she’s in labour. Our second. I’ve gotta split – you know, I’ve gotta go and do the husband thing. I'm abandoning the ship.” “Hey, congratulations!” And I mean it. He seems content with his marriage and his wife and his kid. I mean, he's got one kid already, and one more arriving. “That’s just awesome, Grayson, congrats.” “Thanks.” We stand there facing one another, almost nose-to-nose, in the dark for a few more awkward heartbeats. “Uh, your husband, Brent....” “Yeah?” “He’s just sitting on one of those stools next to the casino entrance and he's not quite sober. I’m glad you’re going to see to him. He needs a bodyguard and a safe escort for this long walk back to shore.” I begin to understand that Grayson wants to jump right through me, past me, so I step to one side. Hastily he jogs beyond me, running once again like a regular exercise enthusiast. “See ya around,” he hollers over his shoulder. Quickly he becomes a silhouetted figure, a stick man in the night. I face forward and I breathe deeply while I continue my hesitant advancement along the wooden boards. I'm a little concerned that I've had an encounter with Grayson, but he's no impediment now that he's off and gone. I must proceed. I will not stop. When I get to the moorage facilities, Brent is not asleep as I had half expected he would be. He notices my approach. He wobbles like a metronome, can barely focus. His green eyes sparkle with the booze.
“You’re drunk as usual,” I say. “So what?” “I bet you can’t even stand up straight.” And Brent pushes himself and he obliges. He stands as ramrod straight as only an intoxicated lush can manage, like a suspect pullover who is trying to fake sobriety for the cops. He's sucks in his ponderous gut. “Oh yes I can schtand, you see,” he says holding his arms stiffly at his sides, chin to chest, settling his gaze. “Bet you can’t stand up straight and hold onto any kind of a weight while you’re doing it?” He looks skyward. “A wager?” “Yes, a bet.” “The odds are in my favour. Count me in.” A pile of rubble is heaped near the Princess gangplank, some recent evidence that a remediation crew has dredged around the casino’s massive hull. I hand Brent a smooth river rock, about as big as my fist. He clutches it and he grins with his accomplishment. “See, I can hold on well.” “Bet you can’t hold onto another?” “Oh, yeah? You bet I can.” I fetch another rock which is larger, rounder. He hefts both rocks and slips them into his pockets. Brent smirks in self-satisfied way, the material of his jacket pockets sagging. “Bet you can’t manage another... oh, I dunno... perhaps another six?” “You betcha that I can.” “Here. Let me select them for you and put them into your pockets for you. That way you’ll have even more capacity to hold on to more – that is – if you dare to try, and I betcha that you can’t. Remember, you have to keep standing ever so perfectly. Straight. No staggering about. No bending. No sitting on one of these stools.” “Fill all of my godlemity pockets. I don’t care. I’ll still stand as straight as an arrow, and I’ll stand up straight and truest. I’m.... I’m... I’m like a pointer aiming into heaven. Yeah.” “You sure?” “Fill ‘em up.” I knock more rocks from the mucky pile and stuff them into Brent’s jacket pockets,
making sure the lot of them are tightly wedged inside. I pick up rocks and add these until he bulges everywhere. Brent looks like a lumpy Hefty bag. I make sure that all the buttons of his summer jacket are pulled tight and fastened across his middle. After each addition I goad him again, and that’s dead easy. “There,” I say as I brush him down with the palms of my muddied hands. “A miracle.” Brent has forever been a self-righteous sort of drunk. He wobbles like an egg. “I’m a rocked man. Get it, huh, you know. Rock-ed to the moon.” I almost laugh, noting once again his epic struggle. I start worrying. But, I shunt the worry from my mind. The Ford is back at shore and Grayson's seen me. Grayson's talked with me. He knows I'm here. And I wonder if any others saw me also? But then, I don't care. I don't give a fig. Did I notice anyone else? Does it matter? I try my best not to worry. “See!” Brent shouts at me. “I can balance jus... like just perfectly. I'm a rock-ed man. More of dem. Put in my hands. Hey I got a couple of pockets in my ass.... I mean, on my ass.... I mean my pants.” I’m over at him like I'm offering a tight romantic hug. I wedge two more rocks into pant pockets. “There, you go.” “Look how.... Look how swell I’m doing. Yeah, look, ya know, stuffed – but I’m.... I’m perfectly strong.” “You do look, hum, well, rather weird. I should take a picture.” Even though it is far too dark to use the camera capabilities on my cell, I fake a pose, gesture to him. “Aw, you’re perhaps a bit too close.” I motion with my hand. You need to step back a bit. Step back two giant paces.” So he does. “Two more.” And then he staggers. “Little more.... Once again. Keep going.” “Like dis?” “More.” He takes the last definitive step and perfectly he does it too, like a dancer, arcing almost gracefully, falling cleanly without bumping or scraping against the edge of the dock. There is a welcome splash. I rush over. He does not bob like a fisherman's float because
he's too stone heavy, and he's too sloshed to squirm. He cocks his face at me. A question. Eye-to-eye for one split half a second. Brent blubbers. Green eyes are terrified, bulging. He spits. “Whaaaa.” Sinking happens swiftly after that. I watch the outline of his body, a strange lumpy spiralling beneath the greenish murk. He disappears rapidly. There's a sort of fading-out, as he is pulled downward by the string of a yo-yo in a wobbling rotation. The bald spot glimmers last. The warm foul waters lap softly against the boards as if nothing has occurred. The tiny stream of bubbles ceases while I wait beneath the edges of the moon. I hurry back steadily, purposefully. The night has cooled and descended into indigo. The dark waters remind me how it always in Emberton, and how the wind can sometimes blow a downright sense of frigidity even after a sweltering summer's afternoon, relieving the recent temperatures that I’ve suffered. Hellish hot and then it’s cold, and the season comes upon me once again with peaceful and fair intention while I scurry away from Halverson Lake. I'm going back to find and feed the idiot cat and then to move anywhere it's cool and normal and I can dance in solitude.
Katrina Johnston is the winner of the CBC/Canada Writes True Winter Tale. Works of short fiction may be found at several online sites and occasionally she breaks into print. She lives in Victoria, BC, Canada where the goal of her storytelling is to share a human journey.
The Trial by Frederick K. Foote
Three years to the month later, they come for me after dinner in a little tavern deep in the backwoods of a nearly forgotten Province in a far Queendom. Three Queen Rosemond Palace Guards in full dark blue and bright yellow livery accompanied by four King’s Royal Rangers in their splendid red and gold uniforms and swashbuckler, caps with long red feathers. The backwoods patrons and owners are all big eyes and amazed wonder. The Palace Guards remove me from behind the bar and chain me hands and feet as the Corporal of the Guard reads: “At the request of our far neighbor and close friend of long standing, King Arnold the Fourth, we have seized you, Oman Smith of Reston and the House of Lord Mathis, under a warrant issued by Good King Arnold to seize and deliver you into the hands of said king’s agents and representatives.” The two Guards walk me over to the company of the Rangers. The Patrons are finally coming out of their shock. Shell, screams, “No!” and rushes to intervene. The tavern owner grabs the poor girl by her waist and holds her firm. Shell’s daughter, all six years of her, charges the nearest Guard, but wise hands sweep her up into a resolute hold. The Corporal addresses me, “Are you Oman Smith of Reston and the House of Lord Mathis?” “I am he. I’m the person named in the warrant.” The Corporal reads on: “We now deliver to you this very same Oman Smith of Reston and the House of Lord Mathis." A Ranger lays a gloved hand on my shoulder. The Guards come to attention and salute their distant colleagues. The Ranger leader returns the salute. I have barely the chance to catch the eye of Shell and give her daughter a flash of a smile before I’m swept away by the Rangers. ##
Into a rough prison cart, chained to the floor without word or comment from my captors I’m rumbled and rattled, bounced and shaken for six days and nights with only brief stops to relive ourselves and change or rest the horses. Not one word is directed at me during the journey. On the seventh day, I’m lodged in King Arnold’s High Prison. I’m back in the Golden Kingdom again. ## My mind has been all on Shell and Loy. I wish I had never touched their lives. A gentleman comes to my cell and stands well back. Orders are given to the guards. Simple, but fresh and wholesome food and clean water are provided me. My clothes are taken and a shabby, but clean sleeping gown is provided and never a word is spoken to me. And so it is for three days and three nights. On the fourth morning, my clothes are restored to me, cleaned and repaired. A guard brings me a barber. I’m shaved, and my hair is cut all without a word to me. The gentleman comes again, and I’m chained and taken to a small chamber and chained to a rustic wooden table and seated in a crude wooden chair. There is another, longer table across from me with three handsome leather bound chairs. My mind returns again to Shell and Loy. I pray that the shadow of my monstrous crime will not fall on them. The chamber door opens, and a bald moon-faced man in rich robes of green and gray enters followed by a tall, thin, long-faced man in a black robe with a bright blood red lining. The final man is very old of face but young and strong in body. He wears the King’s red and gold and a smart red cap to match. They sit in the same order they entered. From within their gowns, they remove folders, papers and writing instruments. At last when they are settled the thin one addresses me in a voice as lean and sharp as his face. “Oman Smith of Reston and the House of Lord Mathis you are on trial for consorting with evil from beyond the grave and conspiring to and in the actual killing of as few as seventy-two and as many as seventy-three of his Majesties most beloved subjects. It is noted that these subjects died in the most horrible manners imaginable.
Are you indeed Oman Smith of Reston and the House of Lord Mathis?” “I am.” “Do you understand these charges?” “I do.” “Then let the trial began.” ## “Were you the Head of Household for the House of Lord Mathis in the Third Year of the current Cycle of the Red Moon?” “Yes.” “Are you aware of the slaughter of Lord Mathis and all his guest at Lord Mathis Manor on Harvest Festival night of that date?” “Yes.” “Did you direct all the servants and staff into the basement bolt hole just prior to the infamous attack?” “I did.” The three judge’s exchange glances. The thin judge continues. “On the night of The Harvest Festival celebration at the House of Lord Mathis did you arrange, allow or have advanced knowledge of the pending destruction of the invited guest of your master, Lord Mathis?” All eyes are on me now. Every breath is held in suspension. I have long dreaded this moment. “I did arrange for and make possible the attack on the guest of Lord Mathis.” And there is no sense of release or remorse or regret. I truly am lost. My judges are shocked and the color drains from the face of the round-faced judge and the skin on the face of the red-capped judge is as taunt as a drum head, and his eyes are mere slits. My interrogator is as if all the air has been let out of him. It takes a moment for him to recover. It takes a moment for all of us to understand what has occurred. “Did you, did you have… Were you in league with the night creatures of relentless evil in this act of betrayal, this massacre?”
There are apprehension and fear in the faces and behaviors of the judges. I study each judge carefully before I respond. “Yes.” There are moans and looks of anger and disbelief. They turn to each other whisper and consult and debate among themselves. Finally, the thin judge turns to me. “Are you now at this very moment in league with these forces of evil?" “Yes.” This is not true. I have had no connection with the night creatures since that blood orgy. The round-faced judge blurts out the next question. “Are we in danger? Are we three in danger at his very moment? Are we?” “Yes.” Of course, they are in danger as is every living creature in danger from the moment of its birth. “Guard!” The chamber door flies open immediately in response to red cap’s shout. “Bring them.” Shell and Loy, mother and daughter, are cuffed together. They scream out my name when they see me. I cannot bear the sight of them in cuffs. I keep my eyes on the thin judge. “Now, we have here your whore and her cub and-“ I cut the thin judge off. “Thank you, all three of your judgeships. I’ll repay you threefold.” “What? What do you mean, ‘thank you?’ What are you thanking us for?” The round-faced judge is on his feet now shouting out his questions even as the slender judge tries to calm him. Red cap has the guard take Shell and Loy away and close the door. There is a hushed conference among the judges, and red cap questions me now. “Are you threatening us? We-” “Yes.” Red cap slams his fist on his table. “You do not threaten us! We’re the threat in this room. Us and us alone. We’re the King’s representatives! Do you understand that?” My response is to look at the quaking round face judge and the drawn thin judge. After a
moment, red cap drops back into his seat. He leans forward and sighs. “Let us start anew. You commanded the forces of-“ “I commanded nothing. I made a fair bargain.” “Yes, yes a bargain. I understand a bargain. Well, the King would be interested if you could perhaps make such a bargain on His Majesties behalf. If that were possible… Lord Mathis was not dearly beloved by His Majesty. His Majesty would be most grateful. Many things could be forgiven or forgotten and the rewards, the rewards would make your head swim.” I turn to round-face. “Is this not near the Harvest Celebration, near the date of the destruction of Lord Mathis?” “Why? Why do you ask? It is three days hence.” I turn away from round-face’s sweaty response to thin-face. “Do you not think it odd that I have found my way into the heart of the Kingdom at this time?” “Enough, enough you will perish this very hour along with your sluts. You will never see Harvest Festival Eve. I have had enough.” But red cap is not rising from his chair or calling the guards.” The room is quiet and full of unease for long moments. “You three will die as did the revelers at the House of Lord Mathis. After the sun sits on the day I die so shall you three.” I like the reaction this lie stirs in the three judges. “What can we do? We will set you and yours free. Will that save us? I mean we can do that. We must do that. We must.” Round-face is pleading with me almost in tears. I turn to red cap. “You would abandon your King and your Kingdom to save your own lives?” I think round-face is about to give a resounding yes, but the slender judge uses a sharp dagger to the heart to silence round-face forever. “I don’t believe the Kingdom is in the danger you speak of and we two can fend for ourselves.” It is thin face speaking as he cleans his blade on round-face’s gown. “Allow me this night to give you some show of my connection with the night creatures and their very real threat to the Kingdom. If you are satisfied with my offering, you will provide a sacrifice of nobles to the night creatures akin to that at the House of Lord Mathis. The Kingdom will be saved. Me and mine will be returned home unharmed and
rewarded for our services to the Kingdom and your esteem will know no limits in this whole land and beyond.” All of this is my fabrication of desperation. I’m returned to my cell. That night the King and Queen witness a parade of shadowy night creatures throughout the Castle. A ghostly parade the guards can neither capture, contain nor repel. That night the night creature from three years ago shares my cell for a short time. “I have never regretted letting you live. And now I would have you live forever if you bring us bounty like this. Lucky for the both of us we keep an eye on your return to the Kingdom.” I pay little attention to the night creature as my mind is drawn back to the looks of fear and hope on the faces of Shell and Loy in the doorway of that chamber. “Listen, when your time comes my master has a place at his right hand for-“ At that word, “master,” I cannot stop the flood of my laughter. I nearly choke on it, but I do remember the night creature’s last words, “My friend, we all have to serve someone.”
Frederick K. Foote, Jr. was born in Sacramento, California and educated in Vienna, Virginia and northern California. He started writing short stories and poetry in 2013. You can find his work online at: spectermagazine.com, akashicbooks.com, pikerpress.com, everydayfiction.com, Short Fiction Break, Cooper Street Journal, The Fable Online, So Glad Is My Heart, birdspiledloosely, Sirenzine, The Blue Falcon Review Vol.2, CMC Review, Across the Marginand in the print copies of the 2014 and 2015 Sacramento City College Susurrus Literary Magazine in The Way the Light Slants, by Silly Tree Anthologies, and in Puff Puff Prose, Poetry And A Play Vol.
It's Issue 5! It's been a surreal experience, one we hope will continue. Happy reading! Till next time. Submit on thefableonline@gmail.com. Follow on Twitter @FableOnline.