1
When Judith noticed the sign pointing to the small town of New Crest had changed since her last trip, she eased her Caprice Classic to the shoulder and stared at the sign. Had the population been modified? She couldn’t remember the original number—somewhere around 1100—but it now read 968. Despite that, Judith was sure the sign appeared older somehow: the once vibrant green, metal sign now sported patches of rust and eroded paint. She could still make out “New Crest” and the population, but it was surrounded by age.
Just like me, she thought.
She slowly pushed her 73-year-old frame from the driver’s seat. Using the car as support, Judith scooted along until she found herself leaning against the front of the car. Too much work to move the walker from the passenger seat and over her weak frame just to check out what she really was seeing. Her cane would have been perfect, but she left that at home. Perhaps she should buy a second cane just to keep in the car. Maybe after church she’ll stop by the hardware store and see what they have this week.
Judith smiled. Chatting with charming Mr. Tolton wouldn’t be so bad either. She never thought at her age she’d be flirting with a man a few years older than herself. She kept it respectable—not like the teenagers and their tank-tops and extremely short shorts. Her granddaughter dressed like that to get the attention of boys and Judith always fought the urge to show her how to flirt like a lady.
If she continued to think about Mr. Tolton, she might miss church.
As she turned, she noticed the grass and weeds in the surrounding ditches rising to a level she’d never seen before. Four or five inches? A few stalks wrapped around the bottom of the signpost and even more spilled into the adjacent cornfield. Mr. Johnson better get out here and mow these ditches. How could he have let them get this bad? He usually attended the 8:15 a.m. church; she’d remind him then.

2
Mr. Johnson was not at church. In fact, attendance at the First Lutheran United dropped dramatically since last week. The congregation count from last Sunday was still posted and read 118. But Judith definitely didn’t see near the amount this week.
The pews were in two sections, split down the middle. With seven rows to a side, Judith always took a spot on the left side in the fourth row. God could see her no matter where she sat so why sit up close to have your ears blasted when Pastor Thurmon exacted one of his tirades on the congregation? And why sit in the back next to all the sleeping attendees and their heavy breathing and occasional snoring? Fourth row, right on the aisle.
Her watch moved to 8:13 and she counted on both hands the number of church-goers who decided to get up this morning. Mr. Tolton sat with an arm on the back of the pew two rows ahead of Judith; her neighbor who lived a mile away sat across the aisle with her husband and two kids; Donald, the school’s janitor, sat one row ahead of them, directly in front of the kids; and the grain elevator owner enjoyed a front row seat. Seven others besides her. Why weren’t there more people in here? Did it have something to do with the strange change in population?
Before she could answer her own questions, Pastor Thurmon emerged from the rectory and bowed in front of Jesus. He turned.
Judith gasped. Luckily, no one noticed.
Pastor Thurmon looked older somehow. Judith knew he was around 55-years-old, but now—with the thin, white hair, patchy bloodspots on top of his head, his slow and slouched stroll to the altar and extremely wrinkled skin—the Pastor appeared ninety. Maybe even a hundred. His robes hung too big on his body, like another Pastor could fit under there.
Judith glanced around at the others. The expressions on their faces remained stoic, inattentive. Did they not see what she saw?
The Pastor opened his Bible and looked out to the crowd. “Please stand,” he said. His voice spit out in more of a whisper than a solid sound. A raspy cough followed. “Let us invite the Lord Savior into our hearts on this glorious morning.” Each word floated methodically from his mouth, as if it took every ounce of energy to speak.
The rest of the sermon went the same way. Judith struggled to pay attention and for the first time, she nodded off to sleep. She couldn’t blame herself: Pastor Thurmon’s new way of speaking was the culprit. Had any of the others shut their eyes for a moment? With quick, furtive movements, she passed her eyes over the other seven people. They were listening intently to Pastor Thurmon, entranced. Judith honestly thought that if the Pastor asked his sheep—though small in numbers today—to follow him off the side of a cliff, they would.
This day’s church service didn’t play a closing hymn. Instead, the Pastor moved up the aisle to the doors in silence. It took him nearly five minutes from the altar to reach the last pew. Judith was the only one to track his movements. The Pastor reached the doors and eased them open. When the final creak resounded through the church, everyone stood and shuffled out, greeting Pastor Thurmon and wishing him a blessed day.
Judith proffered her hand as she approached the Pastor and he shook it.
“Judith. Nice to see you,” he managed.
“Are you okay, Pastor?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Of course. I get a little tired preparing for Sunday’s service, but other than that I feel great.”
“You look a little pale.”
“Do I?” For some odd reason, the Pastor caressed a cheek. “Maybe I need a little sun.” He peeked out the door. “Today seems like a good day to do that! God has surely blessed this Earth with a wonderful day.”
“Yes, He has.”
“Well, Judith, I must get to the retirement home before it gets too late.” Pastor Thurmon clamped his hand on her shoulder and guided her to the sidewalk. “Have a blessed day, Judith.”
She nodded and headed back to her car.

3
Judith wasn’t in the mood to stop by the hardware store. Her mood directed her home, past the restaurant, past the post office and past the sign that confused her earlier. As she passed the spot where she pulled over, she saw the vegetation had grown even taller in the hour and a half she spent at church. Most of the corn in the field, though sprouted to its full height, was brown and wilted and the ears had fallen to the ground, brown and most likely useless.
Impossible, she thought. This was the same road—actually the only road—she took into town no matter where she went. And really, she only visited a few places in New Crest on a weekly basis. The grocery store, the post office and sometimes the hardware store were her main attractions. Every once in a while, she’d eat at the New Crest Diner, but that was only on special occasions like her birthday and her deceased husband’s birthday and their anniversary. When she visited Esther, she’d go to the retirement home, but other than those places, that was it. And it was always the same road, no matter what she decided to do. To go to the grocery store: drive down 4000 Road. To go to the post office: drive down 4000 Road. To go to the New Crest Diner: drive down 4000 Road. To go the hardware store: drive down 4000 Road. To visit Esther: drive down 4000 Road.
About halfway home, the ditches eventually reverted back to a trimmed state. As if a classically-trained barber blended in the sideburns with the rest of the hair.
She pulled into her drive and went into her house. A nice lunch and a nap were in order to dissolve the morning’s strangeness into nothingness.

4
The nap turned into full-fledged sleep. Judith woke up the next day around 9:30 in the morning. She jumped from bed with a shock, delirious at first, but as the seconds went by, her mind cleared. Judith was mad at herself for wasting yesterday and most of the morning. Six-thirty in the morning was her normal wake-up time and dammit to herself for waking up this late. Calm down, she thought. No reason to get that angry. She needed to complete some errands so breakfast and a shower were in order.
After nourished and refreshed, Judith snatched her cane and left.

5
One mile from her house, Judith slowed the car, gazing around her. The growth had moved closer to her house and had started covering the road, which was now cracked and weathered. The yellow lines were now faded and peeling. She veered to the center of 4000 Road cruising around 20 MPH and watched for thicker plants and weeds. No sense in being reckless. She wanted to get her three letters mailed.
Judith passed the New Crest sign, or what she could see of it. The only reason she knew it was the New Crest sign was because of her repetitive journeys down this road. It was even possible she could drive from her house to the town with her eyes closed. With each little divot in the road, rise of the ground and unique cosmetic feature she could tell exactly where she was.
Judith reached the edge of town and crunched over large stalks of a plant that had yellow and red blooms protruding from the ends. The type of flower escaped her, but it looked like a large Rhododendron. As she drove down Main Street to the post office, many more of this type of plant lined the sidewalks, as if they were spectators to a parade and she was the lead car. The flower parts swayed like swiveling heads in the light breeze as she crept by.
A few minutes later she pulled into a parking spot right in front of the door.

6
Judith clumsily pushed through the door. Opening a door and dragging a cane at the same time was difficult for her. She was glad she brought it though: the walker would just be a nuisance.
A musty scent greeted her as she made her way to the main counter. Many of the wall decorations and advertisements for the newest stamps and shipping options had fallen to the floor. The P.O. boxes lined on the far right wall exhibited vast amounts of rust; something that should normally take about ten to fifteen years only took six days—which was her last visit.
She placed her letters on the counter. “Hello?” She called out.
There was no answer. Instead, a shadow flittered behind the mail bins on the other side of the counter. Second later, a door open and Ronald, a mail carrier, emerged with a wide grin on his face.
“Judith! How are you?” He slapped his hand on the envelopes and slid them to him.
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“Wonderful. Stupendous. Magnificent!” He glanced over the addresses. “Just these?”
“Yes.” Judith watched Ronald emphatically type zip codes and prices into the computer. He was too excited. His eyes gleamed with sneaky abandon as they darted across the information appearing on the screen before him. Suddenly, Ronald shot his hand up and rubbed his fingers on his cheek. When he lowered his hand back down, Judith noticed it was shaking. “Why are you watching the counter today?” She asked him.
“Beth’s out of town today. She’s sick. She doesn’t have a babysitter. Beth had a death in the family.”
“Which is it, Ronald?”
He looked at Judith as if she had just entered the building. “Which is what?” His hand stopped shaking and the glint in his eyes was now gone. Ronald tossed the letters into a bin marked Out of Town and punched a button. A total popped on the register screen. “There’s your total,” he said.
She paid him and took the receipt. “Can I ask you a question?” Judith asked.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Have you seen anything strange in town today or yesterday?”
Ronald paused before answering and Judith hoped that the pause was indicative of a positive response. Why yes, Judith, I sure as hell have seen weird plants and decaying roads all over town. I’m glad you brought it up because I’m scared shitless about it. Judith snapped her head to the left. Her thoughts were getting away from her. She knew it was possible she was frightened and projecting her fear, but she didn’t have to swear.
“No, can’t say I have. Why?”
Judith smiled. “Well, I was wondering if you’ve noticed any changes in the scenery of New Crest. Plant life, roads turning bad, dead crops?”
“Again, no.”
“What about your boxes over there? Do you see them?”
“Yeah, I see them every day,” he said with slight irritancy.
“No. Do you see them? They’re all rusty and broken.”
Ronald took a minute to look at the mailboxes. Judith watched him sincerely pass over the section within his view. He shook his head. “Sorry, Judith. They look fine to me.”
Inside her, Judith felt her body warming. Her face got hotter with each passing second. How could he not see these things! New Crest was falling apart right in front of him! When she clenched her fists, Judith knew she needed to calm down. She inhaled a deep breath and closed her eyes. As she exhaled, she told her mind and body to relax.
“Ronald, I’ll be right back. I have to show you something.”
“If you say, Judith. I’ll be right here.”
Judith left the post office and stood just outside the door trying to find the oddest-looking plant she could. Many of the flowers and plants were larger, intimidating versions of those she knew. However, the one she wanted to show Ronald grew just across the street, pushing through a crack in the sidewalk. She slowly made her way over the growth as it tugged and gripped her shoes in sticky-like manner.
For one moment, when Judith hit the middle of the street and looked down, one of the plant’s roots swirled around the bottom of the cane and slowly made its way up. Judith tried to take a step with the cane, but the root tightened its grip, holding the cane steadfast. She gave the titanium pole a sharp tug. Her lack of strength and age was no match for the vegetation.
She was only ten feet away from the large, overly-red plant that reminded her of a tulip. Judith released her cane, nearly regretting the decision immediately, and hobbled towards the red flower.
When she awkwardly approached the tulip, it angled towards her, as if in greeting. Judith imagined that if the flower had hands, it would be offering one to shake.
Nearly five times the size of her fist, the red flower tilted towards her and opened its petals, revealing a collection of yellow, green and pink stamens. Like eyes on the end of antennae, the ends twirled and aimed at Judith, watching her.
Judith used both hands to grasp the plant below the head. She’d have to give it her all on the first tug; otherwise, who knew if she’d have enough strength to do it again. Just don’t fall, she thought. A smile formed on her face: now that she thought it, it was probably going to happen. That’s how it always worked right?
Closing her eyes allowed Judith to focus her energy to her hands. She braced her feet and violently jerked backwards. She stumbled, pinwheeling her arms and stomping her feet for purchase. Her eyes flew open and saw that she wasn’t falling and this excited her. After staggering into the plant-covered street, Judith managed to catch herself.
Her heart pounded and her stomach wanted to lurch, but she suppressed any pain and urges to puke and looked in her right hand. She had the top of the plant.
A new energy sailed around her body. Judith turned and walked quickly—quicker than her normal pace—to the Post Office. She easily pushed through the door and made her way to the counter. Ronald still maintained his posture.
“I have it, Ronald!” Judith set the red flower on the scale. On the screen, 8 LBS appeared. Was it that heavy? Judith didn’t notice.
Ronald glanced around. “What do you have?”
“That!” She pointed to the scale. There it was, sitting on the scale. “The red flower. I don’t know what it’s called but it weights an amazing eight pounds!”
“Sorry, Judith, there’s nothing there.” A chuckle escaped Ronald. “You okay? Let me get you some water.”
Before Judith could decline, Ronald vanished into a back room.
She stood there in the stuffy, outer portion of the Post Office, as if she were waiting her turn to mail a package. First Class, please, she would say. Delivery confirmation or insurance? They would ask her. No, just confirm that I’m not crazy and give me assurance that I’m not in a nightmare, she would plead. Sorry, Ma’am, can’t do that.
“Can’t do that,” Judith whispered to herself.
A Post Office box door eased free from the wall and tumbled end over end to the ground, finally erupting into a deafening clank. The door bounced, scraping on the tile, unnerving Judith.
“Ronald?” She called.
When she heard no answer, Judith moved into the hallway and opened the door that lead behind the counter.
“Ronald?”
Judith walked through the service area behind the counter and pushed through a swinging door into a smaller hallway. The silence surrounded her, driving her fear to the front part of her mind. The door to her right opened to a sorting room. Right now, nothing moved. She saw abandoned letters and boxes paused on the conveyor belts, waiting for their turn in the loading bays.
The next two doors on the right were offices and the two doors on her left were obviously bathrooms, Judith noticed despite the faded plastic Men’s and Women’s signs.
One final door stood at the end of the hall. A handwritten sign—on lined paper—read Employee Breakroom…Employees Only. Judith chuckled at the fact someone had to specify who was exactly allowed in the Employee Breakroom. Ronald must be in there.
She opened the door and before she entered she called out once again. “Ronald? Are you in here?”
Through the crack, Judith saw two shoes, toes down. “Ronald!” Judith whipped the door open and she grabbed onto the door jamb to keep herself steady.
Ronald lay on the floor, fused to the tile. His skin had melted, spilling to the sides like curtains. In a few spots, bones were exposed, playing a sick game of hide and seek, except without the hide. The worst part was Ronald’s body continued to dissolve. Right in front of her eyes! Like a gradually-slowing boil, Ronald’s mass soon turned into nothingness. Except for bones and clothes.
Judith immediately puked. Her yellow eject shot across the room, hitting one of the tables and leaving a trail back to her. She turned and ran—as fast as her legs could carry her—back through the hallway, behind the counter and back into the waiting area. The room now looked even more decrepit: the cracked floor gave way to growing foliage; the walls were starting to crumble. The dirty and dusty windows blocked any view to the outside.

7
Sprinting to the door, she shoved through and breathed in fresh air. Without stopping for any length, Judith found her car and headed towards the Caprice. Her Caprice. Her sweet Caprice. A couple hundred feet.
One of the older buildings let loose a corner of the roof. It cascaded violently to the ground, splattering the sidewalk with brick. A few of the plants around the crash tilted downwards and absorbed the crumbs. Behind her, she heard a leg-breaking rumble. Looking back, the road half a block down bowed upwards like a volcano in the making. Debris and vegetation broke away and rolled down the inclines.
A hundred feet now.
Houses on her left and right imploded on themselves, sending up massive amounts of dust and cement residue. Wood exploded upwards, as if someone were underneath the houses purposely throwing them into the air.
“Stop it!”
Near the edge of town, a long, horizontal section of the road suddenly disappeared into the Earth. Just like that. There was no way she could get the Caprice over that opening. Maybe if she got it going fast enough. Judith could see the horizon, but she wasn’t sure just how wide the gap went.
Judith fumbled for the door handle and finally got the door open. Trees fell all around her, narrowly missing the car. She jumped in, feeling the tickle of a branch of leaves caressing her. The car started easily and she plunked it into Drive.
At first, the rear wheels slipped on the plants. She felt no traction. Judith laid her head on the steering wheel. This was it. How could she get out of here when the wheels just spun around and around on plants and flowers?
Rock the car, something in her mind told her.
“Yes!”
She leaned back and flipped the gearshift to Reverse. The Caprice lurched backwards. Now, to Drive. The car moved forward about a foot before slipping again. Almost. Back to Reverse. The road gave her more.
On the count of three, Judith whipped the gear to Drive and floored the accelerator. The tires spun for a second, but had enough momentum to move forward. The tires caught a small patch of the tar and the Caprice shot forward and quickly climbed to twenty miles an hour.
“Finally!”
She sped down Main Street, careful of the crumbling buildings around her. They threw parts of themselves at her, trying to slow her down or worse, stop her. Judith maneuvered around the rise in the middle of the road. She actually had to pop onto the sidewalk for a moment. Ahead of her was the edge of town, the opposite side she was use to.
That’s okay, she thought, I’m getting out of here!
Thirty second later, she passed the last of the houses and found herself in the country again. The corn in the fields on both sides of her were stiffening back, becoming healthy and green again. The soil changed from dry and cracked to damp and usable. The road ahead of her eventually became void of plants and overgrown vegetation.
Judith slowed the car and glanced in her rearview mirror. Behind her, the town was slowly putting itself back together. The bulge on Main Street subsided and the street returned to the flat road she was used to. Buildings repaired themselves and soon looked like nothing had ever occurred to them. The clouds of dust and debris she had pushed the Caprice through dissipated into the air, leaving a bright sun to shine its rays onto a gorgeous backdrop.
She eased the Caprice to the side of the road and cautiously got out. Her legs almost gave out; they strained as the adrenaline disappeared. Judith leaned on the car and watched the rest of the town return to normal in front of her. Around her, the world pretended like nothing happened.
A signpost caught Judith’s attention. She looked up at the road sign as it indicated she stood on Route 14.
She smiled. This will have to be the new route into town.
This is my new way.

BIO: Gregory M. Thompson is a Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror writer with publishing credits in Macabre Realms, Digizine, Aphelion Webzine, Concisely, Digital Dragon Magazine, Dark Gothic Resurrected and The Fringe Magazine. He also has an award-nominated science fiction piece in the collection, Steampunk Anthology, published by Sonar4 Publications. Nightcry and The Golden Door are two of his novels, released in March and June of 2011 respectively. For more information visit his official site at http://www.nightcrynovel.com.

Jim suddenly found himself in a parallel world. Jim knew that was the case because he had noticed how the things around him had changed from how they had been before when he had gone to sleep – a sure sign that something was up. This was not a new circumstance for Jim, having had found himself in many a parallel world before. Jim’s mother would often warn the boy about this sort of thing. “Watch where you’re going, Jimmy!” she would shout. Jim never listened, though. But this (space-)time was different; Jim was fed up and determined never to allow himself to get so lost ever again. Jim was going to keep his eyes open from now on – forever.
Suddenly, Jim saw his grandfather. Jim’s grandfather looked a lot younger than when Jim had last seen him. Something was up, Jim knew. An urge then fell upon Jim – not of malice but of a scientific kind of curiosity – to kill his grandfather. Reaching into his pocket, Jim discovered a gun. He tried to use it to shoot his grandfather.[i] Unfortunately, it didn’t work; the gun had misfired. Evidently, something was stopping Jim; Jim felt as if he had lost something from within.[ii]
Confused, Jim lost interest. Jim decided (or so it would seem) to sit down for awhile, and, despite his better judgment, Jim closed his eyes. Sure enough, Jim fell fast asleep. When Jim later woke up, everything had changed again.[iii]
Suddenly, Jim saw his grandfather. (This is what the French refer to as déjà vu. Jim didn’t know that, though, not having taken any French.) Recognizing the significance of the moment, Jim pulled out his gun and aimed. (Though some may find it disturbing that a kid like Jim should be carrying a gun, remember the old adage: Better safe than sorry.) Fortunately, Jim shot his grandfather, who died instantly and didn’t suffer, so don’t worry. Jim then felt the world change;[iv] Jim felt that he had gained something from within.[v]
Feeling free, Jim kept on walking. As luck would have it, Jim stepped into a hole.[vi] Jim didn’t know it was there, of course, because holes are invisible.[vii] Falling all the way in, Jim didn’t even bother to struggle, knowing pessimistically that he was already beyond the point of no return.[viii] Coming out at the other end, Jim was now somewhere (or some-when) else.[ix]
Suddenly, Jim saw his mom. Jim’s mom looked a lot younger than when Jim had last seen her. Jim thought she was kind of hot, so Jim asked if he could kiss her. “Ok,” she said. (Though some may find it disturbing that a son should desire his own mother, remember the old adage: Honor thy father and [especially] thy mother.) Nevertheless, Jim could not shake the strange feeling that this woman, despite appearances, was not really his mom.[x] Anyway, perhaps out of guilt for killing her father, Jim decided to propose. “Ok,” she said. Eventually, they got married, bought a house, and had kids – predictable. Jim felt pretty awesome; Jim was doing what he wanted to do (including his mom) without anything stopping him.
After several years, Jim got bored of the married life (who doesn’t?) and decided to leave his mom/wife and siblings/kids. Jim got into his convertible and drove off, never to see them again. Serendipitously, Jim found a gun in the glove compartment.[xi] (Jim had forgotten all about the time he had purchased and put it there after having decided to kill himself because the marriage was driving him crazy [we’ve all been there] but ultimately decided against it.) The gun had collected a lot of dust over the years.[xii] Jim put it in his pocket in case he later changed his mind about killing himself. Jim hit the convert button, and the car changed into a starship. Jim wanted to get as far away from everything as possible.
Jim was travelling really fast in space.[xiii] But, no matter how fast he went, whenever Jim looked out of the window, there was always a beam of light passing him by.[xiv] “Show-off,” Jim thought. The time away actually helped clear Jim’s mind, for he had decided to come back home to his family, after all. However, when Jim returned back to the Earth, a million years had passed.[xv] Intelligent machines now ruled the world, and there were no humans left.[xvi] Jim looked at his watch; Jim was only gone for a few hours.
Jim was pretty bummed out. Jim needed people in order to determine how good to feel about himself. Eventually, Jim learned that the intelligent machines had built a time machine – predictable. The time machine, essentially, was an immense spinning cylinder in space.[xvii] So Jim got back into his convertible and orbited it until he got dizzy and passed out. Later (or before), when he came to, Jim realized that the time machine wasn’t there anymore. Frustrated, Jim decided to head back to complain and tell the intelligent machines that their time machine didn’t work. When Jim got back, though, there were no intelligent machines to be found. “Predictable,” Jim thought. Then Jim saw people again, many of whom Jim knew he was better than; Jim was pretty stoked.
*
Jim decides to live his life in this here-now and change the world.[xviii] Jim still receives letters from his mom/wife and kids/siblings on occasion.[xix] But Jim doesn’t write back; Jim was already paying child support and felt that that was enough. Besides, the whole situation had become awkward all the sudden. This time around, Jim ended up marrying a robot girl, though he didn’t know she was a robot at the time. (What don’t women lie about?) Thanks to breakthroughs in nanotechnology and medicine, Jim is able to live forever.[xx]
*
Eventually, the end of the world will come – predictable. It will get very dark and very cold.[xxi] The cyborgs of the future will decide to build a giant machine. The machine will use powerful lasers that focus all their beams on a single point of space-time.[xxii] It will get very hot.[xxiii] This will naturally make Jim very sleepy, and, though he knows much better, Jim will take a nap. A window will be opened.[xxiv] And when he wakes up, Jim will find himself in a parallel world.[xxv]

- – - – -

[i] Theoretical time travel engenders a number of paradoxes. The grandfather paradox occurs when a time traveler goes into the past and kills his grandfather (or one of his parents) before he is born, therefore, inhibiting the series of events that lead to his birth in the fure. However, the question then becomes: If the time traveler is never born, then how could he have traveled back in time and killed his grandfather in the first place?
[ii] This is a reference to free will, which doesn’t exist in this hypothetical universe. One of the solutions to the grandfather paradox is that there is one universe and no free will. Therefore, a time traveler to the past who attempts to kill his grandfather is somehow prevented from doing so, thereby not engendering an alteration to the timeline.
[iii] The protagonist travels into parallel universes via sleep. He now finds himself in a different universe with a different physics.
[iv] The other solution to the grandfather paradox is that there is a virtually endless number of universes in existence (known as the multiverse) where all possibilities play out. Hence, when a time traveler alters the timeline, a new universe is instantaneously created, thus, preserving the original universe the time traveler came from – and his timeline.
[v] Another reference to free will, which exists in this hypothetical multiverse.
[vi] This is a metaphor for a wormhole (or Einstein-Rosen Bridge), a space-time bridge connecting a black hole, which consumes matter, and a white hole, which emits it.
[vii] A black hole is not itself visible, for not even light can escape its powerful gravitational pull.
[viii] Once within the event horizon (or outer edge) of a black hole, nothing is known to be able to escape the immense gravitational attraction.
[ix] The center of a black hole, a black hole being a rupture in the space-time continuum, may, theoretically, lead to a distant part of the universe or, as is the case for the protagonist, a different point in time.
[x] Parallel people, or the equivalents of others in a parallel universe, may look alike or have the same memories, but they are, in fact, different people within a different timeline.
[xi] This is the same gun from earlier in the story. Therefore, this is an example of the ontological paradox, whereby an item, or information, is sent back in time and then becomes the same object sent back in time. Its origin in time is impossible to determine.
[xii] The accumulation of dust is what causes the gun to misfire earlier in the story.
[xiii] The protagonist was traveling close to the speed of light, which is about 300,000 km/s.
[xiv] This is a reenactment of perhaps Einstein’s most famous thought experiments. Essentially, at 16, Einstein pondered what it would be like to race alongside a light beam. Older and wiser, he eventually concluded counter-intuitively that a light beam always appears to be moving away from us at a constant speed no matter how fast we may be traveling in relation to it.
[xv] According to relativity, if one is traveling near the speed of light, time for the traveler slows down. Therefore, the traveler, effectively, journeys into the future via time dilation, or the slowing down of his “clock.”
[xvi] This Terminator-like scenario is certainly a plausible reality. Many have long predicted the eventual surpassing of biological intelligence by technological intelligence. Technological intelligence is already more efficient in terms of its speed, accuracy, and instantaneous information sharing ability. Futurist and inventor Raymond Kurzweil, for instance, has estimated that a technological singularity, where the exponentially increasing rate of technological evolution will become unperceivably quick, will occur in the year 2045.
[xvii] This is a reference to a van Stockum cylinder. Named after Dutch mathematician Willem Jacob van Stockum, it’s a mathematical solution using Einstein’s equations that theoretically allows for time travel into the past or future. It involves an infinitely long cylinder spinning at the speed of light, which distorts the space-time around it.
[xviii] The world, indeed, changes due to our protagonist’s existence in a foreign timeline.
[xix] According to the multiverse theory, people coexist with their parallel neighbors. Therefore, any such people a traveler to parallel worlds would encounter continue to exist whether the traveler stays in that universe or leaves it.
[xx] Aging, which results from the accumulation over a lifetime of genetic damage, and by extension death, has long been theorized to have a cure. Future advances in nanotechnology may make this a reality. Nanobots could swim in our bloodstreams and instantaneously and simultaneously repair and prevent genetic damage from taking place.
[xxi] This is a reference to the Big Freeze, which is the most widely held scientific theory for the end of the universe. As the observable exponential increase in the expansion of the universe with time continues (known as metric expansion), eventually there will be no stars left in the sky and temperatures will reach absolute zero (or 0 K), where individual atoms stop moving.
[xxii] This is a description of a theoretical machine described by physicist Michio Kaku in his Parallel Worlds. The machine would allow a highly technologically advanced civilization to escape their dying parent universe and enter a budding baby universe.
[xxiii] The theoretical machine works by “boiling” a point of space-time by raising its temperature extremely high. This temperature is known as the Planck energy, where all known physics breaks down.
[xxiv] A window into hyperspace (or the space that separates parallel universes) is opened.
[xxv] The protagonist finds himself back where he was at the beginning of the story. This is an example of a paradox of time travel known as a causality loop; the protagonist is stuck in a loop of events which cause him inevitably to continue to travel back in time with no end.

Bio
James Noguera is a speculative fiction writer, blogger, and poet from the Bronx. He received his BA in English from Fordham University and is pursuing his MFA in Creative Writing from City College. He is currently working on a novelette.

When Diedre awoke, she felt that something terrible was wrong, as if some nightmare had come to life. Aside from opening her eyes, she remained motionless, frozen, not even breathing for a moment. What was wrong? She listened. The room was empty of sound, of smells, of moving shadows. Wait. Someone was in the kitchen.
She rolled over to find that the other half of the bed was empty. Ted had gone. Usually he slept like a fallen oak tree, heavily with a touch of a snore. Solid. That was Ted, a solid unimaginative man who never had a flight of fancy in his life, who never saw fairy rings, or heard the howl of a banshee on a windy November night. Taurus by sign. Taurus by nature, an ox of a man, and Diedre loved him for being everything that she was not. But Ted, her Ted should have been sleeping beside her at 4:30 in the morning. Where had he gone?
Knowing that sleep wouldn’t return, Diedre slipped out of the bed and into her medicine bottle blue robe and slippers. First to check on their child, her daughter.
The second bedroom was a nursery. No adult would have chosen that paper for anyone but an infant. No child would have chosen that paper at all. Within the bower, there stood a crib, and within the crib lay a sleeping Elizabeth. Already that had been shortened to Beth by her grandparents, and to Biff by the princess herself.
Beth collection of stuffed animals waited for her in a bookcase. Whenever she left the house she always took one with her, no matter what the trip. Each animal had a name and a personality. She loved them all and shared her affections evenly. Even trips about the city were distributed evenly.
Straightening the cover Diedre smiled down on the face that should have belonged to an angel, a mischievous one. The dark hair naturally curled into ringlets. The features were even. In the repose of sleep a touch of a smile played with the lips. Carefully, not to wake her sleeping darling, Diedre bent over and kissed that face that meant more to her than life.
Diedre found Ted in the kitchen, his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the table. His broad back was too her, hiding his face. He was a large boned man, a heavy man. The size had come naturally for all his family had that build. Summers working for his father’s bricklaying business had built layers of muscle on his back and shoulders. Even today he appeared almost squat despite his height.
Those summer jobs had passed, but they had moulded the man, mentally as well as physically. He learned how a man must earn his living without education. Ted applied the same style to his learning that he applied to carrying a hod of bricks up a ladder. Care and persistence, but never speed.
A half-empty cup of coffee sat before him. Beside it lay a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray. As Diedre approached, he seemed in a trance, lost to the world, staring into space. When she placed a hand on his shoulder he neither moved, nor spoke.
“Is something wrong, darling?” Diedre asked gently.
When he turned to her, clasping her hand in his she could tell that something was terribly wrong. What was it? Then she realised that he looked frightened.
“Sorry,” he replied. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. What woke you up?”
“I had a dream.”
“Well come back to bed. Go back to sleep.”
“No. I don’t want to go back to sleep. I might have the same dream. I have to figure out what to do.”
She leaned to him, and he put his arms around her and nestled his head in her breasts. She ruffled his hair a bit. Was that a gray hair? She smiled. He would look distinguished in gray. “Come on, darling. Let’s go back to bed. We might not be able to sleep, but I’m sure we can think of something. It was only a dream.”
Wrong words. Ted stood up, letting go of her and pulling open the liquor cabinet. He took out a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses. Sloppily he poured a rough couple of ounces into each glass and set them on the table, the bottle too. He added ice to hers and water to his.
“I wish it was just an ordinary dream,” he half said to himself.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you ever dream something and then it happened?” he asked as he lit another cigarette.
Diedre shook her head.
“I have,” said Tom taking a gulp from his glass. ” Three times. I remember every one. These dreams have a different taste to them. The colours are brighter. The smells are stronger. Everything in them is more vivid.”
Diedre opened the fridge and took out some milk. Then she opened the cupboard and got some cookies. It wasn’t on her diet, but she wanted some comfort food.
He didn’t notice. “I remember the first time. I was only about eight. I dreamt about riding on the Flyer at the CNE. In my dream my mother and father came on the ride with me. On the ride my mother purse opened and her stuff fell out.
“I thought it was just a silly dream. There was a polio scare and my parents were talking about skipping the Ex that year. Besides I couldn’t see my mother riding on the Flyer.”
He stopped for a moment. “Three weeks later we went to the Ex. After the Better Living Centre and several other displays, we went to the Midway. My father teased my mother into joining us for a ride on the Flyer. On the last loop her purse sprung open and all her cosmetics fell out.”
Ted fell silent. Staring out the kitchen window into the blackness of the night.
“What about the other times?” Diedre asked. He was creeping her out.
“The second time I was seventeen. I dreamt I was in a car accident. A few weeks later the car I was in, coming back from a skiing trip, was side swiped. The third time I dreamt I met a girl at a party. You wore the same dress as in the dream and had your hair in the same style. That’s why I’ve always called you my dream girl.”
“You never told me about this,” Diedre said, after a moment. She held his hand as if to reassure him, but it was for herself. She wanted to hold onto him, her husband of six years. Touching him would make him go back to the man she had always thought he was.
“There wasn’t any need,” he replied. “I didn’t want you to think I was silly. You’ve always been so down to earth.”
That startled her. She, Diedre, the one who cried at the movies, who wouldn’t walk through a cemetery at night, who eyed crossed knives, black cats and ladders with suspicion had never been thought of as ‘down to earth’. Her parents and sisters always teased her for being feigh. But tonight Ted needed their roles reversed, so she would play the solid, sane, unimaginative one.
“What did you dream tonight?” she asked, but really didn’t want to know. If only he would tell her that this was a silly joke, would laugh and kiss her and take her back to bed. He didn’t.
“I’m in a large building. The walls are a light grey. They’re far away. It’s a big open space. I can tell that by the way the sound of footsteps echoes. The floor is smooth stone. It’s some sort of marble.
“I’m wearing a leather jacket. I’m in my jeans and running shoes, so it must be a weekend. I’ve got a plastic bag in one hand, and Beth’s coat in the other. You know the coat, her red one. I’m waiting for her. She’s gone to the washroom.”
He paused and licked his lips. He took a puff from the cigarette and then butted it out. Instead of continuing to talk, he reached for the pack and took out another cigarette. Diedre saw the sweat on his face although the room was cool. She waited.
“I pace back and forth. I’m worried. She’s been gone too long. I go to the door of the washroom and hesitate. I look around for some woman to go in there for me, but I don’t see any. I push open the door and call for Beth. She doesn’t answer.”
He stopped again. His eyes stared into that distant land of memory. For a moment Diedre thought he would stand and leave. She put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Go on,” she said calmly.
“I push open the door and call again, but there is no answer. I look in. I see Beth’s bear on the floor. I know there’s something wrong. I go in and look for her. I can’t see her. There’s a mess of papers in one corner. I look again. I can see her foot sticking out of the pile of papers. She’s wearing those purple socks she likes so much. I know that . . . and then I woke up.”
He finished his story, and then his drink and poured himself a second one, this time without water or ice. The horror of the tale made Diedre want to shiver, but she mustn’t. Tonight she must be the rational one. She took a breath, squeaked out a weak chuckle and began, “let’s just examine the whole dream, and see what we can find out. OK? Good. Now, do you know where you were?”
“No. It was some type of public place. It was too large to be anything else. It was a fancy place. The steps were carved out of stone. The handrail was brass. It could be a museum. It could be somewhere else.”
“Go through it again, Ted,” she said. Inside Diedre knew that this was just a nightmare, but she had to convince Ted of that. She would find a way to show him there was nothing to this.
Reluctantly, he repeated the story. The words were different. The image burned into his mind remained constant. The actions and the emotions repeated themselves with horrifying faithfulness.
“You saw one of Beth’s stuffed animals,” said Diedre.
“It was a bear, about a foot long. He was brown with a red T-shirt. The T-shirt has a pot of honey embroidered on it,” Ted said.
“Wait as second,” Diedre said. “Beth doesn’t have a bear like that. She has three bears, but none of them have a T-shirt. And we don’t have a T-shirt with a pot embroidered on it.”
Ted looked up. “We don’t? You’re right. But I saw it so clearly. I know what I saw.”
“You know what you dreamt, Darling. That’s all that it was. It was just a dream and nothing more. You’ve got a full day tomorrow and we have your parents coming over for dinner.”
Diffidently, he surrendered to her bullying. They returned to bed and the rest of his sleep was undisturbed. The next day was hectic and he barely got home for dinner. The guests had arrived before him. The roast was ready.
“How’s my son, the lawyer,” his father said as Ted came in the door. “Put it there, Son. Ahh. You haven’t lost the grip yet, although your hands are almost as soft as a woman’s. Who would have thought it, my son the lawyer.”
“Let him be Henry,” said his mother. “Ted made something of himself, and not with much help from you. You were always hammering at him about wasting his time on books. Come here son and give me a kiss.”
Dutifully, Ted obeyed. “How’s the business Dad?”
“Not bad. I’ve got a subcontract for some houses outside Barrie. If you need a little extra I’d could take you on for a few weeks. What do you say?”
“It is too busy at the office. It doesn’t pay as well as bricklaying, but I get to sit behind a desk all day.”
“Yes, and it makes you soft. Next thing I expect you’ll be getting your hands manicured. Look at me. I left school at fifteen and I’ve worked with my hands all my life and I’m worth more than any of those fancy pants lawyers you meet.”
“Henry, stop it. It’s not polite.”
“Yes dear.”
“Dinner’s on,” sang out Diedre, from the kitchen.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Ted’s mother said, as they sat to eat. “I got a little something for Beth. I just couldn’t resist it. It was so cute. Honey, it’s in my bag. Go over there and get it and show it to your mother.”
Diedre hadn’t really been listening. She was wrestling the roast onto the platter. Then she proudly carried it out to the dining room for Ted to carve. When she saw Beth, she couldn’t help herself. The platter fell from her nerveless fingers.
There, at the dining room table with her new companion, sat Beth. She couldn’t understand why her father looked so pale and her mother was frozen with terror. In her arms was her new Teddy bear, a light brown bear with a red T shirt. On the T-shirt was a pot of honey.
—THE END —-

About The Author

Born in Toronto, Edward has pursued a professional career during the day, while taking writing courses, joining writer’s groups, and writing at night. When not writing, he spends his time sailing and fencing, and working as a movie extra. Currently, Edward is sailing his sailboat off the Florida Coast. Perhaps in the Bahamas.

PUBLICATIONS (limited list)
Number 21 Rue le Sueur,Pseudopod (2010)
Shuttle watching for a sputnik child, The Broken City (Winter 2009)
Nothing but Vacuum, NewFoundSpecFic (Volume #2)
Naked in the Night, Midnight Echo (#3) (2009)
On the Lake where the Loons Cry, Damnation Books(Fall 2009)
Crash, Neo-Opsis(February 2009)
A Conscious Act, Aoife’s Kiss (March 2009)
Prince Victor, Flashing Swords (2008)
The Prize, Aoife’s Kiss, (March 2007)
The Whistler, ESC! Magazine(April 2006)
No place for a cripple, Wild Child Publishing(March 2006)(March Editor Choice Award, Fiction)
The SinEater, RIM (Summer 1999)

The Divine Astarte was the ruler of many worlds, times and realities. She was one of the last of her race. Her people had seeded many worlds with life, and had power like unto that of the gods. Her son, Theonas, the demigod, was born to transform the world, and revealed to all men the Mysteries.

The Orphic Mysteries, Introduction, p. 21.

***

Holy Mother, I have passed as you commanded to the Dark Realm. I have seen the world transformed, and the Light spread to all the worlds. To all that hunger after justice, I will seek to reveal the Mysteries. Long life and victory, to you! Theonas, Prince Imperial.

***

“The time has come for you to visit your uncle, my dear Theonas,” said the Divine Astarte, the Goddess. “You will find him to be a man of power.”

“Where does my uncle dwell, Holy Mother?” I asked.

“Your uncle, Chronos, lives in a Cosmos out of our time and reality. Chronos did war with our Father, the Storm God. He slew him, but was cast out of this bubble of existence, into yet another by the act of our Sire. He cannot return, and we are safe from his evil intentions,” explained Astarte.

“So, I may journey to him. But why?”

“We are among the last of our race. You would do well to better understand those of us that yet live. We also need to know what he may plan, and if he does wish us ill,” spake Astarte.

“Very well, Your Imperial Highness. I will go, when you do command,” I did reply.

“Very well, my son. I will open the portal now, and send you forth,” the Goddess said, raising high her royal orb. A rainbow of light filled the room. The face of my mother seemed to waver before my eyes, then I felt a pain in my chest, and closed my eyes. I opened them, to find myself standing on a rocky beach. To my left was a pounding surf – and before me sat a man on a throne.

“Chronus, Chronus! This is Theonas, son of your brother – the Lord of the Storm. I, Astarte, ask you to receive him with honor!” so came the voice of Astarte, fading into silence. I looked at the being on the throne. He was a man of middle years, with white hair. He was surrounded by a throng of others, forming an arc behind the throne.

“Theonas, dear lad, I have been given tidings of your visit by your mother. You resemble your father well. You have his red hair, and green eyes. You are most welcome,” saith the God of this world out of time.

“Thank you, Uncle. I have journeyed far, and I give you tidings from my mother,” I said. A woman, with dark hair, and dusty skin, like unto my mother, did step forward. She advanced to my side, and embraced me.

“I am called Pandora, and have long waited to see another person from my own realm,” said the dark lady. “I will be your companion, Theonas.”

“I do thank you, my lady,” I replied.

I glanced at those near the dark throne of Chronus. To the left were creatures, covered with green scales. They wore coats of mail, and conical helms. They were armed with pikes, war axes and sabers. On the left were men and women, of grim visage, all wearing white tunics. They seemed to be of many exotic races and worlds, and of many hues of skin.

“Go with the lady, dear boy. She will take you to your quarters,” saith the Dark Lord. “I will give you tidings to convey to your Holy Mother on the morn.” I bowed, and drew my sword, and gave the salute of the warrior. Pandora took my arm, and led me away. As we strode along the strand, a chariot appeared in the distance, moving at a high rate of speed. The chariot wheeled, and came to a halt at our side. The charioteer was a woman in mail, with a conical helm.

I lifted Pandora onto the chariot platform, and then stepped up beside her. The Charioteer nodded and smiled. She then lashed the four steeds with her reins, and we then raced back down the shore.

In the distance, I could see slender towers, white in hue. We soon neared the towers, rising from a massive stronghold, with thick walls of white stone. As we neared the gates of the fortress, they swung open to allow us to enter. Inside the walls was a large courtyard, with a tower rising into the sky. There was a wide flight of steps, leading to a double door in the tower. The doors also swung open, in invitation.

I followed Pandora up the steps, and into the hall inside. The room was filled with tables, and contained a hearth with a fire. There was a strong odor of cedar, when we came near the fire. There were tapestries along the walls, with battle scenes depicted in subdued hues.

Pandora led me to a flight of stairs, and up to a wide level, thence into a room. She led me to a convex chair, and bid me sit. She clapped her hands, summoning a group of women bearing a horn of mead and platters of food. Tables were carried forward, and the Dark Lady bid me to partake.

I sipped the mead, and sampled the many dishes before me. As I ate, Pandora did to me convey some explanation of this World out of Time. “Chronus has gathered about him men and women in search of power, lost souls who sought to escape demons, real spirits or ones eating out their own soul – and yet others who slipped by mischance into his power. Chronus desires to rule other worlds, and hopes you may give him dominion over any realm that you desire to cast into darkness. If you need to punish any men, or destroy any cities, he will gladly open a portal for you,” said Pandora.

“If any flee from us, they may seek refuge with him, mayhaps,” I replied. “His realm seems to reek of pain, and I sense lost souls calling out, seeking escape.”

“Yes. I too have done penance here for eons, for nearly forgotten sins. Now, I wish to return, and to dwell among others of my own kind. For I am of the same blood as you. Your mother was born on the same orb that gave me birth. If you grant me leave, I shall return with you.”

“Will this be permitted by the Lord of Time?” I asked.

“Yes, I do not belong here. Nor do my servants. I pray that you will free us, and lead us forth into sunlight and Spring Time.”

“It shall be so, Lady,” I promised. The Lady did gaily laugh, and clapped her hands once more. Her servants returned, and bowed. She did rise from her bench, and beckoned me to follow. She opened a wide door, leading into a room filled with fountains. There were urns, from which flowers sprang forth. The sounds of songbirds did fill the large room.

The lady, and her women, helped me to remove my coat of mail and my tunic, and led me to the pool. The women discarded their own robes, and stepped into the large pool. I joined them, and splashed my face with water. “My Lord, you are welcome here, to my secret garden,” I turned to see a young woman. She had eyes of blue, and light hair, falling down her shoulders.

“I am called Persephone. I too entreat you to allow me to follow you to your realm of light. I often dwell there when I may, but am drawn back here by the Lord of Time, who cannot part with me. His only desire is to garner more souls, and add to his kingdom,” did say the fair woman.

The damsel discarded her white tunic, and dove into the pool. The woman did me sweetly embrace, and kissed me on my neck. “Come My Lord, we must retire. Long have we lived in this dark realm, and have not known the love of a man. Do come,” pleaded Pandora.

***

I woke in the morning, surrounded by the sleeping forms of the women from the pool. I had been roused from sleep by one or another of the women through the night, seeking pleasure. I was now able to return to the pool and splash in the water. The night had seemed to be overlong, and we seemed to be joined in the night by many women I had not seen before in this place.

Pandora appeared at the fountain, with a new tunic. She helped me to don the white garment. I also donned my coat of mail, and girded on my sword. Persephone also appeared, bearing a white cushion. On the cushion was a golden flute. “Here, My Lord. This is now yours to play,” she said. “Take it, we have waited long for this day.”

I took up the flute, and raised it to my lips. I began to play the flute. The air was filled with the gilded sound, the tune seeming to reverberate, and to fill the space outside the walls of the room.

Pandora took my arm, with a gay laugh. The door of the room swung open in invitation, and I passed thru the opening into the realm outside. I was followed by the women of the night.

I walked thru the great hall, playing the flute of power. From doors along the way, doors opened, to allow other women to hurry to join our number. I passed through the gates into the world outside, and then descended the steps. I found the chariot from the day before waiting for me.

I mounted the chariot, and was joined by Pandora and Persephone. The chariot wheeled, and slowly drove down the rocky way. From the hills along the shore, more people did emerge – both men and women. They fell in behind the chariot, in growing numbers.

In the distance, I saw a dark figure walking toward me. As he drew nearer, I could see that the being was the God, Chronus.

“This is treason!” he called. “Treason!” A blue myst blew in from the troubled sea, covering us all. I lost sight of the Demon Lord, as the myst became thicker. The charioteer lashed her steeds onward, as I continued to play. I turned, to dimly see figures following me. The chariot continued onward, as I played on.

Ahead, I could see a dim light in the distance. The light grew brighter as we advanced. The rays of the glowing orb appeared to burn away the myst, forming a tunnel. The chariot passed onward, as the myst gradually dissipated.

I could now see that the light was the sun, rising from the horizon. All about was a green field, covered in grass. I could hear the music of songbirds, joining in with the tune from my flute. The chariot drove forward. I turned to see a vast throng, darting out into the field of Spring. Some of them seemed to fade into the air, departing to some other place or sphere of reality.

I lowered the flute, to find it glowing from some inner power.

“You have revealed to us the Mysteries. My Prince, you are now the ruler of the Light,” said Persephone, her eyes filling with tears.

She then held me in an embrace. Pandora grasped my arm. “Spring, the world is now in Spring!” I said, in wonderment.

The end

Jerome Brooke was born in Evansville, Indiana. He attended Indiana University – MLS, JD. He now lives in the Kingdom of Siam. He is married to Jiraporn Sutta, a princess of the lost Kingdom of Nan. He is the father of two children. His daughter, Jirachaya, is five. She has been crowned as Miss Superstar 2011. His son Justin, 40, is a sales executive in Shanghai.

He is a member of the bar of the Supreme Court of Indiana. He served as City Attorney, for Ellettsville, Indiana. He also served as Judge Pro Tempore for the Superior Court of Monroe County.

He has written City of the Mirage (Amazon Kindle) and many other books.

His work has been published in many magazines, including World of Myth – Welcome to Wherever – Blood Moon Rising – Blood and Lullabys – Candidum – Danse Macabe – Bewildering Stories- MelBrake Press blog – and First Literary Review.

His work has been described as:

The poems are savage and barbarous … intricate and complex … horrific. …talent, interest, and clarity of diction. Joseph Hart. — Isles of Myst Review

The poems remind me of ancient primeval legends … . The imagery is active and personified. Joseph G Phillips. — New Mirage Quarterly

A terse series of quatrains which evoke the cold and dark realms … of the Ice Age. — Carol Hamilton, New Mirage Quarterly

A timelesss tradition of honor, bravery, and romance. … tales of mediaeval warfare … spell-binding. Charming and seductive … . — Lorraine Tolliver, New Mirage Quarterly

Battle, victories, defiance, perseverance ring melodiously throughout the pages … . The victor within us all prevails. — Paul Truttman, Western Archipelago

Primitive, barbaric, spare, austere, but eloquent … frightening. The images .. are savage. The poems are exciting and moody. — Joseph Hart, Isles of Myst Review

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Jeromevbrooke at yahoo dot com

Slathek of Mahngbhayo had been in Murtaghan, the capital of Korthlundia, nearly a month and had disposed of his cargo and come a fair way towards buying merchandise for the return trip. He sat at a table in the Clothmakers’ Guild Hall, counting the gold coins carefully before pushing them across the table to the linen merchant. He knew the amount was as had been agreed upon, but he loved the way the cool coins felt against his skin and the way they gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the window. He hated to part with them, but he knew the linen he’d purchased would bring him twice this amount when he returned home. He smiled as he thought of the jewels and the art he would buy with them. He’d commission a marble statue for the entry hall of his port home—a young woman riding on the back of a dolphin. Malkekek charged outrageous prices for his work, but the sculptor was the best, and with the profit of this year’s trip, Slathek could easily afford it.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” Abenzio said, sweeping the coins into his purse. “Am I to see the lovely miniature of your sister again?”

Slathek tensed. “You’ve seen it every year for the last ten. Do you think you’ll suddenly remember something you had forgotten?” Still, he pulled his copy of her miniature out from under the tunic and allowed it to be passed around the table. He’d placed the small portrait in a gold locket, studded with diamonds and sapphires. Annke, the captain of one of his three ships, said he was a fool to wear something so valuable around his neck, but Slathek had faith in the sword he wore at his side. It hadn’t failed him yet.

“Such a lovely girl.” Abenzio shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Your older sister, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” Slathek answered, tucking the miniature back under his tunic. His mother died in childbirth, and Sphry had been like a mother to him.

The barbarian clicked his tongue again, but his eyes gleamed. “Such a shame. So much evil in the world to corrupt innocence.”

Slathek’s lips tightened, and his eyes narrowed. Despite the fact Slathek was half the barbarian’s size, Abenzio had the sense to pale.

“I’m sorry,” the barbarian stammered. “I meant no disrespect.”

Slathek gathered his papers and held out his hand in the fashion of the barbarians. “I’ll expect the merchandise delivered to the docks in the morning.”

Abenzio shook his hand. “Yes, yes, of course.”

Slathek walked back through the crowded streets of Murtaghan towards The Traveler’s Haven, where he always stayed.

Among the numerous stalls lining the street, Slathek caught sight of an herb seller. He stopped and examined her wares. The scent of rosemary and comfrey filled the air, bringing him back to his childhood. Despite the fact he had no use for it, he bought a bag of dried rosemary, paying the outrageous sum the herb seller asked. He wouldn’t lower himself to haggle over a few coppers. He tried to remember what Sphry had used rosemary for, and it saddened him that he couldn’t. At six, he’d known the use of nearly all the herbs in his sister’s stillroom and had wanted to be just like her. He wondered just what had happened to that boy and what Sphry would think of the man he’d become.
* * *
Slath had a pestle in his hand and was crushing dried burdock root into powder for his sister. It was hard work, but when they were finished, Sphry had promised to take him to the beach. Aunt Dnrill didn’t think he was big enough to go by himself, and Aunt Dnrill never did anything fun. She never did anything at all, but cook and clean. He didn’t like Aunt Dnrill who wasn’t really his aunt, just some woman their father paid to look after him while he was away trading. Sphry claimed that now she was thirteen they didn’t need Aunt Dnrill anymore, but it made their father feel less guilty about leaving them so often and for so long. Slath barely knew his father. Even when he was home, he spent most of his time at his office on the docks counting his money and buying merchandise. But Slath didn’t care. He had Sphry. Sphry was a healer and took care of every hurt or sick thing. Slath wanted to be a healer just like her when he got bigger. He prayed daily to the Father and the Mother to grant him enough magic so he could. They hadn’t answered yet, but there was still plenty of time. Sphry’s magic hadn’t become strong until she was ten, and he was only six.

The cauldron over the fire hissed as Sphry added ingredients. She looked beautiful in the firelight; even the other boys agreed his sister was the most beautiful of all their sisters. A wild fox sat calmly next to her on the counter.

“What are you making, Sphry?”

“An ointment for this poor fox, Slath. See, he’s got into something.” Sphry pointed to the side of the fox were the fur had been rubbed off, and Slathek could see the fox’s skin was red and inflamed.

“How do the wild ones know to come to you?” The fox had hardly been the first wild creature to show up on their doorstep.

Sphry wrinkled her forehead. “I’m not sure. Perhaps they can sense me like I sense them. At least, the dolphins can. It’s hard to ask other animals because their minds aren’t complex enough.”

The fox’s eyes followed Sphry’s every movement. Slath was immensely proud of his sister. Her medicines were the best in the harbor. Everyone said so.
* * *
Slath held his sister’s hand and skipped at her side. “I’m going to build my biggest sand castle ever today. Big enough to have a thousand rooms, and I’m going to be king of it.”

“We don’t have a king,” Sphry reminded him. “We’re a republic. Adults, like daddy, vote on the laws.”

Sphry had explained this to him before, like she’d taught him how to read and write. His father said he’d hire a tutor for Slath when he got back from trading this season, but Slath hoped he’d forget again like he did last season. “In my country, there’s a king, and I’m going to be it.”

Sphry laughed and, fortunately, didn’t bore him with any more lessons about why it was wrong for one person to make all the laws.

With their shovels and buckets, Slath and Sphry made a castle as high as Slath’s waist. When it was finished, Slath pointed to the bottom right corner. “This is where your stillroom will be,” he told Sphry. Beside it he used shells to build a fence. “Your herb garden will be here, and there will be lots of woods behind the castle where you can gather mushrooms and such.”

“I think I’d be very happy in such a castle, but are you sure you want to be king? They have an awful lot of responsibilities. You wouldn’t have much time to help me grind roots.”

Slath shrugged. “I’ll be a king only if I don’t have enough magic to be a healer like you.”

“Why not be a merchant like father?”

“No!” He jumped to his feet and stamped his foot. “I’ll never be like father. He doesn’t care about us. He doesn’t care about anything but making more and more money.” He started to tell her what the other boys had said about their father, but Sphry got that dreamy look on her face.

“They’re here,” she said. Slath didn’t have to ask who. Only the dolphins gave her that look. As she stood and walked toward the water, Slath saw a dolphin do a flip and dive back into the water. Slath laughed. They were silly creatures. When Sphry told him the stories they told her, he nearly burst his sides laughing. He hoped some day to be able to hear the stories from the dolphins themselves, like Sphry could.
* * *
“Where is your sister?” Slath’s father burst into the study in the middle of yet another boring lecture from Slath’s tutor on the governments in nearby countries. Robrek claimed that because trade depended on the policies of various governments, his son needed to understand everything he could about them. Slath had tried to tell his father that he didn’t want to be a merchant, but Robrek never seemed to hear him. Slath no longer knew what he wanted to be. He was starting to despair about becoming a healer. Even though he was eight now, he didn’t have the slightest hint of the gift. Sphry told him to be patient, but that was easy for her to say. She was only fifteen and already the strongest healer in the port city.

“I don’t know,” Slath answered. He almost never got to spend time with his sister during the day anymore, except on holy days.

“She didn’t go down to the beach, did she? I warned her the pirate ships had been sighted.” The pirates often grabbed young girls and sold them in faraway lands. His father wouldn’t tell him why they only wanted girls, but Slath figured they made the girls do the disgusting thing that his father paid women to come to the house and do with him. Sphry said that was how babies were made, so Slath decided he didn’t want to be a father. The way his father groaned and the woman cried out when they did it made Slath think it hurt a lot. Sphry said she didn’t know.

Robrek sent his servants to every place Sphry might have gone. Slath ran to their favorite spot on the beach. But Sphry wasn’t there. The dolphins were playing off shore, and again Slath wished for enough magic to understand them. Sphry sometimes gathered things from tidal pools in the rocks at the far end of their beach, so Slath went toward them, looking and calling for her.

When he climbed on the rocks, Sphry wasn’t among the tidal pools either, but then Slath saw it—Sphry’s gathering basket, the basket that used to belong to their mother, his sister’s most precious possession. It was lying among the rocks tipped over and trampled. “No!” he cried gathering up the broken pieces. He frantically searched the shore for her, but at the base of the rocks, he noticed a place where a boat had been pulled ashore, and he knew they’d taken Sphry and with her everything that was bright about his world.
* * *
When Slath put the broken basket on his father’s desk, Robrek’s face went white. He fingered the pieces as if he didn’t know what the object was, then grabbed Slath and hugged him as Slath never remembered being hugged before. “We’ll find her, Slathek. We’ll bring her back. This I vow by the names of the Holy Mother and Father.”
* * *
Slath and his father walked through the slave market in Neaseria. They had been tracing the path of the pirates for nearly three months now. His father had learned that this market was where they disposed of their goods. Slath and his father wore gloves and scarves wrapped around their heads, covering their faces like the Bendouins did. His father said that they mustn’t be recognized as Mahngbhayons or the slave traders might not be as forthcoming. They passed cage after cage full of men, children, and old women of all different shades and hues—some as black as ebony and others so white Slath wondered if they were ill until Robrek told him that was the normal color of their skin. Some of the men were covered with hair, even on their faces. The eyes that looked at him from the cages were full of rage, hatred, or despair. He felt sick at the thought of his sister in a cage like that, but when they found her, they had plenty of gold to buy her and bring her back home. Then things would be like they used to be.

Ahead was a gaudy tent. Robrek said it was the last place he wanted to find his daughter, but the first place they needed to look. Sphry was beautiful. She wouldn’t be sold to work some planter’s fields. The tent was full of girls; they weren’t in cages, but chained by the neck to posts placed throughout. They wore nothing more than two small pieces of cloth—one wrapped around their breasts and the other around their privates. Neither piece covered much.

When they went inside the tent, a huge man with ebony skin hurried up to them. “Welcome!” the man enthused. “What type of girl can I interest you in? We have samples from across the world.”

Robrek matched the man’s accent almost perfectly when he answered. Robrek had a knack for languages, which Slath was discovering he’d inherited. “I have seen a girl like the one I want. Creamy brown skin, black hair, emerald eyes, and small enough to fit under my arm.” Slath’s father went on to describe Sphry in detail as if she were one of those women he wanted to make disgusting noises with. Slath vowed to kill any man who did that to his sister.

The slave trader grunted. “Sounds like you want a Mahngbhayon. They’re hard to come by. I had about a half dozen of them a month ago brought in by Salomian pirates. They’re the only ones you can get Mahngbhayons from since they have an unique way of acquiring them, if you know what I mean.” The man winked and nudged Robrek, and Slath wondered why his father didn’t break the man’s neck. “Too bad I sold the lot to traders heading for the northern countries. Apparently dark skin, but not too dark, is seen as exotic up there.”

Robrek stared straight ahead like a dead man as they left the slave traders’ tent. “We can’t follow until spring, Slath, my lad. The seas are far too dangerous now. If only we’d found this place a month sooner.”
* * *
That winter Slath’s father sold his old ship and bought a larger, faster one. He learned what items of trade the cold countries coveted and filled the ship with them. Now nine, Slath insisted on new tutors who could teach him the languages of the cold countries, but most of all he insisted on a fencing master and a well-made sword. His father gave him everything he asked for. He applied himself to his studies as he never had before, and by the time for safe sailing arrived, he knew the rudiments of five new languages, and his fencing master declared him adequate with a blade.

It was a three month journey to the cold countries, and Slath continued to practice both languages and the sword throughout. He helped with any of the sailing tasks that would increase his strength or balance. His father noticed nothing of what he did, but spent his days either on deck staring at the northern seas or in his cabin staring at a miniature of Sphry that had been painted shortly before she was taken. He’d had a copy made for Slath as well, and Slath always wore it around his neck under his tunic. Slath took it out several times a day to look at his sister’s face, but he didn’t waste time staring at it as his father did. He got straight back to practicing his sword work or speaking to sailors who knew the languages of cold countries. He would help find his sister. Then he’d kill the men who forced her to make those disgusting noises.

Slath had the chance to practice his languages as they searched the slave markets of port after port, but he found no use for his blade that year. They’d found no sign of the slavers who purchased his sister from the Nesearian harbor and no sign of Mahngbhayon slave girls. It was years before they found the trail again.
* * *
Slath and his father walked along the docks of Murtaghan, the capital of one of the smallest of the cold countries. The people of Korthlundia had pasty white skin and looked like giant, animated corpses whose hair refused to stop growing. Slath thought them closer to animals than to humans. Now sixteen years old, Slath had grown more than adequate with his sword, and he spoke over a dozen languages of the cold countries, including the barbaric grunt of the Korthlundians.

His father’s eyes, which had grown deader and deader every year they returned empty handed, grew feverishly alive as they followed the directions to the auction house which dealt illicitly in foreign whores. Slavery was illegal in Korthlundia, but it still flourished in the underground market. From the outside, the slave auction house looked like any of the hundreds of other warehouses that fronted the harbor. Inside, nearly every surface was covered in red velvet. They found the owner—a hairy giant, missing half his teeth and with the foulest breath Slath had ever encountered. His father held out the miniature of Sphry. “It would have been nearly seven years ago.”

The man laughed without taking the picture. “You think I remember every tits and ass that passes through here.”

“Perhaps you remember this one.” Robrek’s voice was tight as he put a handful of silver coins on the man’s desk.

The man leaned forward in his chair, swept the coins into his hand, and took the miniature. He smiled widely. “Oh, yes, I remember this one. Fiery temper she had. She objected to what men were doing with one of the other girls, so we had good fun with her instead.”

Slath drew his sword and pointed it to the man’s overlarge belly. He’d sworn he’d kill all who had her. “You’re talking about my sister!”

But the auctioneer didn’t even blush. “Every whore is someone’s sister. Now put that toy away before you hurt yourself with it.” The man spoke as if he were a child. Since Slath’s people were much smaller, Korthlundians were always mistaking him for younger than he was.

His father put his hand on Slath’s sword arm. “However much he deserves it, put it away, son. We’re here to find Sphry, not avenge her.”

“I’m here to do both.” Slath glared at the auctioneer who paled as he realized Slath’s size didn’t coincide with his age or ability.

“Now look here, you can’t condemn a man for doing his job.”

“Slath, put it away. I won’t see you hanged for killing such trash.”

Slath hesitated. It had never occurred to him that he might face consequences for killing his sister’s debauchers. Slath sheathed his sword.

“Who bought her?” his father asked, adding a few more coins to the pile.

“I don’t rightly recall,” the man said. “But whatever brothel it was, she’d hardly still be there. Sailors use up whores fast.”

“We’ll try them all,” Slath’s father insisted.
* * *
Slath blanched as they went through the first brothel’s front door. Girls wearing nearly nothing, many Slath’s age or younger, stared at him with hollow eyes. Slath couldn’t help the tightening in his groin at the sight of so much flesh.

A plump woman with large breasts hurried forward to greet them. “Welcome, sir, what can I interest you in today?” The woman’s eyes widened as she caught sight of Slath. “The boy isn’t for sale, is he?”

Robrek slammed the woman against the wall. “This boy is my son.”

A huge man grabbed Robrek from behind and threw him out the door onto the cobblestone street. Remembering what his father said about being hanged, Slathek merely got out his miniature of Sphry and asked about her. The woman shook her head.

The next brothel wasn’t as bad as the first. Three woman—one white, one brown, and one black, lounged on couches. They weren’t chained, and they wore robes of a transparent fabric. Slath could see the full outline of their bodies. Slath tore his eyes away from the women, but as his father talked to the brothel owners, Slath’s eyes kept drifting back to the women, running his eyes over their bodies, and wondering what it would feel like to touch one. He’d heard the sailors talking of the pleasures of a woman’s body, but he’d had no chance to find out for himself.

Hours later when they finished making the rounds of all the brothels in the harbor district, Slath’s groin was throbbing, and he could thinking of nothing but room after room of nearly naked women—any of which could be had for a few coins.

After Robrek went up to bed, Slath sneaked out of the inn and back to the brothel district. He entered the one that had seemed the cleanest and where the whores had seemed the most eager to serve. He handed over the coins to the brothel owner and chose a whore as black as ebony with huge breasts and firm thighs.
* * *

Hoping his father wouldn’t know where he’d been or what he’d done, Slath whistled as he walked back to the Traveler’s Haven. But his father was waiting for him at one of the tables near the door. “So do you think you’re a man now?” his father asked. “Do you think bedding your sister makes you one?”

Blood rushed to Slath’s face. “She wasn’t my sister!”

“She’s somebody else’s sister, somebody’s daughter! Those women are little better than slaves, like your sister is!”

Slath ran from the inn. At the dock, he tore off his clothes and dived into the water of the harbor. The water was frigid, far colder than it ever got in Mahngbhayo. But not cold enough to cool his burning shame. He swam for the rock out in the harbor that the sea lions used. It was farther than he’d realized, and he was shaking with cold and exhaustion by the time he pulled himself onto it. The sea lions barked at him, but kept their distance. “Did you speak to her like the dolphins did?” he asked the beasts, but he could hear them no better than he’d been able to hear the dolphins. Only Sphry had had that magic, and he’d dishonored her. He vowed he’d never sleep with another whore. But as the sun began to rise, he realized what his father wouldn’t admit. It had been seven years since Sphry was taken. His sister was dead, and the family fortunes were dwindling due to his father’s obsessive search. It was time to stop looking for her and tend to other matters. If his father wouldn’t, then he’d have to.
* * *
The bark of the sea lions took Slathek by surprise. He hadn’t realized he’d been that close to his ships. He stopped and gazed on the three ships he now owned. While his father searched fruitlessly for Sphry, Slathek had made the family prosper, becoming a sharper trader at eighteen than his father was at forty-five. But as Slath looked at the sea lions, he realized he’d dishonored his sister far more thoroughly than that single night with the whore. Sphry was the magic of his childhood—a magic that healed and mended. He’d replaced that magic with the cold comfort of gold.

Perhaps he wouldn’t commission the dolphin statue after all.

Bio:

My work has been published on Short-Story.Me and was chosen for inclusion their annual print anthology. My novel, The Goddess’s Choice, is forthcoming from Reliquary Press. I teach writing and literature at Auburn University.

“I’m interested in werewolves only so far as they can tell us something about humanity,” I said.
Jose stared at me blankly. He was wearing his Florida Marlins baseball cap, which was dirty and crusty with dried sweat. He had on a punk metal t-shirt, and shorts that had chains and looked like they’d been cut off at the knee with rough scissors.
“But my whole life is werewolves,” he said. “It ain’t like I got any other interests, Mr. Nancy.”
I cringed every time I heard my last name. There was no denying that my pudgy figure, short skinny arms, and pale skin undercut my many attempts at fostering a sense of my own masculinity. People always called me “ma’am” on the phone, and I had long ago admitted to a certain amount of femininity in my mannerism. My last name was like a mirror I couldn’t look away from and sometimes it made me feel ill when I heard it.
I put my hands on my hips. “Jose, this is the twelfth grade. It’s time to expand your horizons,” I said. I turned to the chalkboard and began to erase the elegant white lines that served as the only record of an hour-long lecture. “You’ve got to have some other interests. Perhaps even something that’s real. Skateboarding, maybe?”
Jose tilted his head to the side and narrowed one eye. “What did you say, Mr. Nancy?”
I brushed the chalk powder off my hands. “What? You’re not a skateboarder, then? What do they call them these days? Skaters? You’re not a skater?”
“I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
A cloud of white chalk residue lingered in the air. I stifled a cough. “I’m sorry?” I said. “Are you mad about the skateboard thing?”
“The werewolf. Thing. You’re gonna be so sorry you said that, man.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Is that a threat? Because if that’s a threat I will send you to the principal’s office without hesitation. Absolutely none.”
Jose looked at me for another long second. His eyes were dark, hidden under the brim of his cap. “It’s not a threat, man. Just makes me feel bad for how dumb you are.”
“Yeah, well. No hats in class. Mister,” I said.
Jose tilted his head and walked out of the classroom.
The next morning I woke up with my wrists in handcuffs. I remember the sun peaking in through my thick, velvet curtains and thinking that I had overslept. There was a moment of panic, my eyes snapping wide, the desire to look at my clock.
I always made sure to wake up every day before dawn. That gave me time to go for a walk, make some scrambled eggs, and check the internet news before heading to the school at 8 a.m. It was in my attempt to confirm the time, to roll out of bed and check my clock, that I first discovered the handcuffs. And so slowly was reality setting in that the handcuffs frustrated me only because, were it not for my bindings, I might be able to make it to work on time.
I can be a very narrow thinker sometimes.
My mind became much clearer when I heard the growling.
It would not be unfair to say that I have always appreciated my privacy. My room was smallish, for I had a one bedroom apartment. The presence of noisy neighbors and my dwindling hearing ability (too much headphone jams when I was a teenager) had necessitated the soundproofing of my walls. I watched a lot of poetry on television, after all, and poets are not generally very loud speakers, especially when it comes to appreciating the nuances of a reading while trying to ignore the domestic violence next door.
I was thankfully still dressed in my pajamas. They were blue, soft, and the shirt had three large plastic buttons. My imitation silk sheets, however, were curled around my ankles, as though they were binding my legs.
I looked at the ceiling. It was only for moments, and halfheartedly, that I struggled against the handcuffs. Before any exertion, I knew it was pointless. It was impossible to ignore the conclusion that someone had broken into my apartment, drugged me, and, while I was passed out, confined me to the bed.
This situation in itself may not have been quite so alarming had it occurred after, say, a drunken evening at the bar. As I remained relatively convinced that I had come home directly after teaching, it was difficult to find comfort in the plausibility of drunken debauchery. The growling from the hallway lent credence to the conclusion that this was not a mutual or planned—if inebriated—event on my part.
A shadow crept along the pale hallway. The living room lights must have been on, and in the darkness granted by thick draperies, the shadow was truly startling in its stark contrast. The figure of the shadow looked mostly like a man, only eight feet tall, and elongated in all proportions. It was approaching my room slowly, one lumbering step at a time. I noticed then, even in shadow, the drool hanging from the shadow-caster’s mouth.
Sweat began to bead around my hairline. My puny arms started shaking uncontrollably, my hands fidgeting, twitching.
I was immediately flooded with regret, not for all of the transgressions of my life, but for the day before doubting the existence of werewolves. The drool, the deformed shadow, and the hideous growling left in me no doubt that I was having such an ironic visitation—a visitation that any of my twelfth grade literature student with a rudimentary grasp of foreshadowing could have seen coming.
“I’m so stupid,” I said. My lips quivered, and the words came out like jello. I pushed my head back into the pillow. “Why am I so stupid?”
A growl was my only answer—but as the source of that primordial sound rounded the corner and crossed the threshold of my room, I collapsed back into my bed not with fear, but rather relief. I rolled my eyes, closed them, and then returned their gaze to my doorway, where I could see clearly Jose standing there.
I regained control of my bladder. “What are you doing here Jose?”
Jose stood in the doorway and stared at me. I couldn’t make out the fine details of his face. He was wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday—the intimidating shorts, the punk rock t-shirt—only absent was his baseball cap. Without the cap to confine it, his long hair erupted in all directions, like an untempered of weeds in a vegetable garden. I couldn’t be sure due to the strong back light, but I thought his hair looked almost gray.
“You’re on very thin ice here, Jose,” I said. I tried to be stern, but my trembling voice betrayed my intention. “Very thin ice indeed.”
“It’s not like I had a choice, Mr. Nancy,” Jose said. It may have been my imagination, but his voice seemed deeper, more mature, and more resonant.
“I know, I know. You’re still upset about that thing I said, aren’t you?”
“Not the skateboard thing.”
“Right. The werewolf…thing. But, I mean, really? How necessary is this? If you inspect my bed you’ll find, I’m sure, a small wet spot between my legs. That’s, um, recent, and a testament to my truly felt fright.”
“Mr. Nancy,” Jose said. He wouldn’t step into the room. He wouldn’t let my eyes adjust. “You’re a teacher. An English teacher. You of all people should appreciate the rules of things.”
I stared at his silhouette. “There’s an exception to every rule!”
Jose hangs his head. “Of course you would say that, Mr. Nancy. That’s what all English teachers say. You should think before you say those things.”
“I know.”
Jose patted his hair back with his hand. Then he took something out of his pocket, I couldn’t see what. He took a step forward and closed the door to my bedroom behind him. The room was suddenly cast in darkness, the only illumination coming from a single jagged shard of sunlight that broke through a separation in my curtains.
Finally, with the door closed my eyes could adjust. Slowly I was able to start making out the details in Jose’s face. I could see his arching eyebrows, his chubby cheeks scarred from chicken pox. I could see his pouting lower lip, which, combining with the flat forehead that made him look, somehow, extra-intelligent.
Whatever was in Jose’s hand, he brought it up to his mouth. No, he put it in his mouth. Then he took his hand away and showed me a mouth full of sharp, jagged teeth. After that, he put a fake plastic wolf nose over his face—the kind you buy for three dollars at a costume shop.
“That’s a really fake nose,” I said.
Jose shrugged. “The teesh ahr real.”
“What?”
He pointed to his teeth. “Real.”
“Oh. Shit. You went all out. I especially liked the, um, drooling in the hallway.”
Jose nodded.
“Right,” I said. “Can I say something first?”
Jose shrugged.
“And, just as a side note, shouldn’t you, ah, be coming at night or something? On a full moon? It’s freaking daylight out there.”
Jose cleared his throat.
“Okay.” I pulled against the handcuffs. “Well. I guess, you know, I’ve sort of lived for English. Not like I have a family or anything. Well, will you take care of Eli?”
“Wha?”
“My cat. Will you?”
Jose nodded again.
“Good. He’s a good cat. I’d hate to see him put down. He bites sometimes. Chases me around when I haven’t fed him and bites me. You know. It’s not like he did anything. He shouldn’t pay for my, um, mistakes.” I took a deep breath. “Now that I think about it, do you know what would have worked better? If there had been a pack of werewolves.”
Jose hovered over my bed, listening, grinding his teeth.
“Because then I could have been sure to notice the four shadows on the wall. You know. And really hammer home the point.” I tried to make a hammering gesture with my arm, but just pulled the chain on my restraints.
Jose shook his head. “Hoo muckh.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right. Anyway. This isn’t exactly what I meant when I said I would die for my art. Well. I never said that. I suppose if I had, a painting would have fallen on me shortly thereafter. Or something. Impaled with a pen. You know.”
Jose was tapping his foot. “Ah’ve got hkool.”
“Right. Right. Hope the sub’s okay.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready.”
And then Jose, the would-be werewolf, leaned forward, and dug his teeth into my neck. I screamed. My body convulsed and every muscle tensed and my eyes bulged so much I thought one of them might dislodge.
I saw the blood splatter against the headboard, could feel more of it escaping from my neck, running down the canals in Jose’s teeth, dribbling from his chin, staining my sheets. There was a lot of blood. My blankets grew hot and sticky and heavy.
I took a deep breath and screamed some more. Then everything went black, but slowly, like it was a fade out on TV before a commercial.
It occurred to me, to late to move my lips, that I should have told Jose that Heaven wasn’t real. That would have been a good one.

“Wha …” I screamed as a sudden grip tightened on my shoulder and, as my shoes clattered across the concrete – giving little to no purchase – I was propelled towards the edge of the train station’s platform.

     I struggled, twisting back and forth, trying to grab at whoever was pushing, but couldn’t. One of the heels snagged, in a crack on the concrete floor, before my shoe was wrenched off. My bare foot scraped against the hard surface, skin ripping with a burst of pain but, suddenly, I had purchase. Ducking down, twisting around, I came face to chest with a grey suit. My brain, synapses firing faster than ever before, took in every detail of his form. Six foot tall. Average build. White shirt. Slender tie of a lighter grey. Dark hair. Clean-shaven. No anger, no malice, no emotion at all, on his face. The three-week self-defense course at the YMCA suddenly screamed out at me from the recess of my memory and I slapped out, as hard as I could. His head barely moved to the side. I brought my knee up – hard – into his groin. He didn’t even flinch. Slowly, impassively, he stared at me – through me – with grey eyes that barely seemed to register my existence.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” I faltered, in mid-recollection. “I just still can’t believe it happened to me!”

I winced at the sound of my voice. It made me sound weak. Unreliable. The positioning of the lights in the room meant that I couldn’t see their eyes, not clearly, but I knew what I would see there if I could. Doubt. I mean I felt it myself; I had been through it and even I couldn’t believe it. How could they?

“So you said, Ms. Maycock,” the older of the two men stated, impassively. His voice was calm. He must have sat there, so often, interviewing people just like me. Well maybe not ‘just’ like me; I was a journalist – I interviewed people too. I did it to sell their stories, though. He was a cop. He interviewed people to get the truth. I wasn’t even sure that I knew the meaning of the word anymore. If I couldn’t get a story I simply made the ‘news’ up. Any journalistic integrity I had had died the same day my dreams of writing for the major leagues did; the day I started writing for a dirt sheet that specialised in conspiracy theories, alien abduction and celebrity gossip.

‘The Truth’ was London’s answer to ‘The National Enquirer’ – but with fewer facts per square inch. Nick Flanagan, the owner of the rag, had come up with the name one night after knocking back a few pints. He had thought he was being clever when he dropped the ‘stranger than fiction’ part of the well-known phrase and used it for a monthly newssheet that had as much truth in it as a politician’s promises three days before election.

“Why don’t you start again?” The cop prompted. “From the beginning.” His younger colleague picked up a pen and waited, patiently, as I tried to recall what I wanted only to forget.

* * *

“Guys – and girl, of course” Nick said, with the quirk of his lips that passed for a smile, as he glanced my way, “I am pleased to tell you that we just had our best month on record … and that’s the truth.”

The belly laugh that erupted from him was echoed with lackluster noises from the other two staff reporters at ‘The Truth’, Colin Wright and Jamie Rogers. Nick Flanagan thought that it was the epitome of humour to work the title of his publication into at least one conversation per day; I had heard it too often to even pretend to find it funny. He didn’t notice that, nor that ‘his boys’ weren’t really laughing either. Had he cared for ‘the truth’, after all, he wouldn’t be where he was.

None of us would.

“Circulation is up by seventeen percent and the last issue peaked at thirteen hundred and four copies.” He beamed at the figures and I was reminded of a shark as his teeth flashed. A short, fat and balding shark but a shark nonetheless. It was the small, cold eyes that did it. Even when he laughed his eyes never lit up. Of course he hadn’t mentioned just why the figures had been so good last month, hadn’t mentioned that my story had been on the cover and that it was thanks to me that …

“Linda?”

“Yes?” I hated the smug look on Nick’s face as he realised – correctly – that I hadn’t been listening. “Sorry, Nick, I was miles away!”

“No need to apologise, love,” he glanced at the two men on either side of the table and winked. “Probably thinking of much more important things than our end of month wrap up, weren’t you? What was it then, shopping list?”

“No, I …”

“Don’t matter, love,” he cut me off. “Don’t need to know. What I was saying, while you were off wool-gathering, was that I’m going to take us all out tonight to celebrate. So, why don’t you go powder your nose – or whatever it is you do in the bogs – and let’s go get slaughtered!”

Jamie and Colin jumped to their feet, immediately. It wasn’t often that Nick put his hand in his pocket for anything, after all. We sometimes considered ourselves lucky just to get paid at the end of each month. Even that didn’t happen without the customary moaning about none of us being worth half of what he paid us. I had once looked up ‘tight’ in the dictionary but was disappointed when I didn’t find his photo there. They had their jackets on before Nick had even lumbered his bulk to a semi-vertical position; they wanted to take him up on the offer before his mood changed along with his mind.

“You guys go on,” I said, as I walked back to my desk. “I need to check a few emails first. I might have a lead on something for next month; Dave, the guy that tipped me off last time, says that he may be able to get more – something even bigger, he said …”

“Whatever,” Nick threw back over his shoulder as he led the other two out of the door and stood in front of the elevator. “You can tell me all about it at the pub. Don’t be long, though, or you’ll miss out on happy hour – and after that the next round is on you!”

The door to the office closed behind them as they waited at the elevator and, finally, their voices died out. Leaning back in my chair I quickly typed in the password and watched as the monitor flickered to life, then called up my email.

“Dammit …” I gave the mouse a shake, watching the cursor move contrary to my wishes. As the small arrow continued to dance, aimlessly, across the screen emails started to disappear, one by one. None of the guys were here to do the one thing they were good at – geek stuff – so I resorted to using my own, amazing, technical skills. When slapping the monitor, and shouting at it, didn’t work I bit off another frustrated curse and grabbed the phone. Nick’s number was quickly dialed before I realised that I was listening to silence. I looked into the receiver, as if I would be able to see why there was no dial tone, then was thankful I was alone; I would never have lived it down had any of the guys seen me looking helpless, like a damsel in distress, because I couldn’t get my email or phone to work.

“Oh shit …” The phone dropped from my hand, landing on the keyboard with a clatter, as my face was suddenly bathed in blue light. Even my limited technical knowledge was enough to know that a PC suddenly showing a blue screen, with the words ‘memory’ and ‘dump’ in the same sentence, wasn’t a ‘good thing’. I snatched my mobile phone, hitting the speed dial for Nick, as I hurried out of the office.

“Hi there, this is Nick …”

“Nick, you fuck!” I snarled into the silver Motorola as I hit the call button for the elevator. “It’s Linda …”

“I can’t get to the phone,” his voice intoned, “leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you.”

It took me a few seconds to realise that I was about to rant at an answer machine. In all the time I had worked for Nick I had never known him to turn his phone off; day or night he was always ready to take the call that would be, in his mind, a tip on the next big story. The fact that it never came, though, never stopped him. He never turned his phone off.

“Nick, it’s Linda.” I sighed, not really wanting to talk to a machine. “Your cheap-ass computer just ate my emails and then committed ritual suicide in front of my eyes. You had better get someone to get my shit back; I am not willing to lose everything on there! Also, you must have forgotten to pay the phone bill! We’ve been cut off – again – you idiot!”

A small tone rang out as the elevator doors began to open. I started to snap the phone closed but, with a smirk, I brought it close to my mouth again.

“… and make mine a double, you skinflint. If it wasn’t for my story you wouldn’t have the best numbers you have ever seen!” I grinned, stepping forwards. The phone fell from my hand, dropping into the darkness, as I scrabbled for balance. Grabbing the side of the doors I pulled myself backwards, staring down into the empty shaft where the elevator should have been. I heard my phone clatter of something further down in the darkness and then all went quiet. My heart, pounding, was the only sound that filled my ears.

“Stupid. Fucking. Building!” I staggered back from the abyss and watched, shaking, as the elevator doors closed – silently and slowly – as if nothing had happened. Twice, last month, the elevator had broken down but then it had simply got stuck between floors. This was the first time that it had nearly killed someone. Nearly killed me! “Nothing fucking works!”

Slamming open the doors to the fire escape I took the stairs down the three floors and walked out into the January night. My breath escaped in a cloud of vapour and I shivered; I told myself that it was from the cold but I knew – or at least the small part of me that I, big girl playing in a man’s World, normally ignored knew – that the near miss with the elevator had scared the shit out of me. Not literally, of course, but pretty damn close.

Turning left out of the building I hit the button on the pedestrian crossing, jabbing at it repeatedly as if that would make the lights change faster. I saw a lorry approaching but the crossing sign changed to green in my favour and so I stepped out into the road. The scream of tyres, and the blaring of a shrill horn, rent the silence of the night and, as I turned – eyes wide – towards the sound, I saw the grill of the lorry rushing towards me. Shoulders bunched, eyes closed in horror, and I held my hands out, Canute-like, as if by some miracle I could physically stop it from crushing me.

“Wha’ the Hell are ya playing at, ya stupid girl?”

Silence returned. My eyes opened. I was mere inches from the lorry; steam rising from the engine and the tyres. A face looked out from the side window, the most beautiful face that I had ever seen – simply because I was still alive.

“The man was green.”

“Wha’?”

“The man was green,” I repeated, this time with a voice above an inaudible murmur. “The little man on the crossing was green; that meant I could go.”

“Don’t be stupid, lass,” the driver spat down at the pavement. “My lights were green; they never changed. Ya nearly got yaself killed there!” Muttering curses he pulled his head back into the cab of the lorry and indicated that I should get out of his way. I didn’t need much encouragement and was across the road before he could change gear and start the lorry moving again. As the taillights faded into the distance I stood, alone, in the dark and felt my heart pumping harder than ever before. Twice in one night I had nearly been killed. I had nearly died! All I wanted to do was go home, wrap myself up with a hot water bottle, and go to sleep. I knew that, in the harsh light of morning, the guys would laugh at the silly little girl who let two accidents scare her so badly, though. I also knew that, in the morning, I would agree with them.

Looking down the street to the left I realised that I still had a fifteen minute walk to get to the pub. The drop of rain that hit me between the eyes made me turn, instead, to the right and scurry the three hundred feet to the entrance to the Tube station. I never liked taking the Tube at the best of times. Late at night, on my own, and having the sort of night that I was, was definitely not the ‘best of times’. Getting drenched was worse, though, and it was only two stops. I descended the steps, the sounds of rain fading behind me, and moved onto the deserted platform. The faint rumble in the dark tunnel, and the small rush of air that made my hair dance, let me know that I wouldn’t have long to wait for my train. I could almost taste the vodka and coke.

“Wha …” I screamed as a sudden grip tightened on my shoulder and, as my shoes clattered across the concrete – giving little to no purchase – I was propelled towards the edge of the train station’s platform.

I struggled, twisting back and forth, trying to grab at whoever was pushing, but couldn’t. One of the heels snagged, in a crack on the concrete floor, before my shoe was wrenched off. My bare foot scraped against the hard surface, skin ripping with a burst of pain but, suddenly, I had purchase. Ducking down, twisting around, I came face to chest with a grey suit. My brain, synapses firing faster than ever before, took in every detail of his form. Six foot tall. Average build. White shirt. Slender tie of a lighter grey. Dark hair. Clean-shaven. No anger, no malice, no emotion at all, on his face. The three-week self-defense course at the YMCA suddenly screamed out at me from the recess of my memory and I slapped out, as hard as I could. His head barely moved to the side. I brought my knee up – hard – into his groin. He didn’t even flinch. Slowly, impassively, he stared at me – through me – with grey eyes that barely seemed to register my existence.

The wind picked up behind me. The rumble of the approaching train grew louder. I squinted, dust and debris flying, hitting my face, and it was then – as he reached towards me once more – that I realised what was causing every fiber of my being, every nerve in my body, to scream in protest. It wasn’t the fear, it wasn’t the attack, it wasn’t even the knowledge I was about to die. I had hit him; I had kicked him where it should have hurt. The wind blew debris directly into his face, into his eyes, but he never reacted.

He never blinked!

Staring directly ahead, eyes fixed, he reached for me. I felt his fingers scrape across my nipple and, in an absurd moment, it hardened at his touch. Before he could grab me, though, I pulled at his wrist and – with a scream of terror and fury – dropped to the ground, hoping and praying that my momentum would move him.

Curled, foetal-like, face down on the platform, I watched his body collide with the incoming train. Like a meat balloon, he exploded. His blood and viscera drenched me.

* * *

     “… and then?”

I stared at the cop, as if seeing him for the first time, forgetting where I was – briefly – and taking a few seconds to free myself from the gripping fog of memory. I looked down at my hands, knuckles white, as I clenched them hard enough for the fingernails to draw thin lines of blood on my palms.

“And then?” Failing to choke back the laugh, that threatened to become a scream, I let it out in a gurgle of hysteria. “Then I came here so that you guys could have me repeat this over and over again while you look at me like I am mad!”

The door opened and a grey haired policeman peered in, nodding towards the other two. Standing up, lifting the file from the table, one of them walked over and listened as the older man whispered to him quickly before backing out of the room again. Indicating that his young colleague should follow him, the cop smiled.

“We’ll be back in a few moments, Ms. Maycock.”

* * *

“So, what do you think?” Richard Dawson, Detective Constable for all of four months, looked earnestly at his older colleague as the door to the interview room closed.

“I’ve just been told that there have been no reports of any incidents on the Tube tonight, Rich,” Detective Sergeant Andrew Magwood sighed quietly. “I sent someone to check out the address she gave us for the so-called ‘Truth’ of hers …”

“And?”

“There’s nothing there. The building is there, of course, but it’s disused and empty – looks like it has been for years,” Andrew continued. “No trace of the people that she supposedly works with, either. No social security numbers, no birth certificates. Nothing. They just don’t exist.”

“What about the blood?” Richard asked, confused. “She’s covered in it!”

“I don’t know, Rich. It may be an animal’s, it may be fake, I just don’t know,” Andrew admitted. “The initial tests show it definitely isn’t human, though, so we don’t have to worry about her being an insane serial killer!”

“Is that what you think, then?”

“What, that she’s a serial killer?”

“No,” Richard returned, quietly. “That she’s insane?”

“Maybe.”

“So, what now?” Richard asked, obviously concerned. “She needs help, doesn’t she?”

“Now, my son?” Andrew smiled, glancing over Richard’s shoulder towards the older policeman at the front desk. “Now you go and get me a coffee. And don’t worry – we will look after Ms. Maycock.”

As Richard disappeared further into the police station Andrew watched as two men – both six foot tall, both with dark hair, both clean-shaven, both dressed in grey suits with white shirts – entered the station.

Walking to the front desk he glanced at the newspaper they held out towards him. Linda Maycock’s by-line graced the front page beside the headline: “They walk amongst us! Who – or what – really runs the Country?” He handed them his file and, without a single word, pointed towards the interview room.

As they made their way towards the room, moving in silent symmetry, Detective Sergeant Andrew Magwood stared after them.

Unblinking.

- – - – -

Bio:

Jay Faulkner resides in Northern Ireland with his wife, Carole, and their two boys, Mackenzie and Nathaniel. He says that while he is a writer, martial artist, sketcher, and dreamer he’s mostly just a husband and father.

His work has been published widely, both online and in print anthologies, and was short-listed in the 2010 Penguin Ireland Short Story Competition. He is currently working on his first novel.

Jay founded, and edits, ‘With Painted Words’ – www.withpaintedwords.com – a creative writing site with inspiration from monthly image prompts, and ‘The WiFiles’ – www.thewifiles.com – an online speculative fiction magazine, published weekly.

He is a co-host, and contributor to, Following The Nerd – www.followingthenerd.com – for all the latest news, reviews, articles & information across all mediums on nerd culture.

For more information visit – www.jayfaulkner.com

Glacial Avalanche’s head felt like it was filled with cotton balls. Where was he? He’d been called in to fight his nemesis du jour, so he suited up and then–had something hit him? He didn’t remember. He was lying on a cold concrete floor, and as he picked himself up, his limbs felt shaky and feeble. At least he was still in costume. His pale gray mask and deep blue suit hugged the muscular curves of his body.
Harsh fluorescent lights filled the empty room with an annoying buzz. All four walls and the ceiling matched the unornamented floor.
He flexed his fists. Concrete was no match for his super strength. He threw himself at the wall, winding up in midair, and punched it as hard as he could.
His fist bounced off and he fell on the floor. His knuckles were bleeding. “Impossible,” he hissed through clenched teeth. It had been a long time since he’d really felt pain. He picked himself up and stumbled to the wall, pressing his palm against it and willing it to freeze beneath his fingers. If he froze the wall, maybe whatever strange material it was made out of would weaken.
Nothing happened.
What was happening to him?
The low, familiar chuckle seemed to come from all around. “This room nullifies your powers, Avalanche. No super strength, no invulnerability, no ice control. I thought about telling you that before you hit the wall, but that was comedy gold.”
“Ominous.”
“Indeed,” Lord Ominous said. “But the room is the least of your worries.”
The wall in front of Glacial Avalanche opened up, revealing a laboratory. An unconscious woman lay strapped to a steel table with an IV dripping into her arm.
“No!” Glacial Avalanche shouted, running forward. He slammed into the wall. It still felt like concrete–the image must have been a projection. “What are you doing with my wife?”
“You killed my wife. I’m returning the favor.”
“But Molly doesn’t have anything to do with this! Your wife was working with you–she was your assistant–she was trying to kill me! Molly’s never tried to kill you.”
“You keep calling me your nemesis. I decided that it was time I act like one.”
“You’re evil! And mad!” Glacial Avalanche pounded on the wall. Molly’s face was so pale. Wisps of her short auburn hair clung to the sweat that glistened on her face.
“Yes, you often say that as well. Again, I decided to make you an honest man,” Lord Ominous said.
“Please, let her go.” Glacial Avalanche stopped hitting the wall. His hands ached. So did his throat–it felt like he had something stuck in it.
“Oh, my. I didn’t expect begging quite so quickly. You must really love her.”
“Of course I do,” Glacial Avalanche said.
“I loved my wife, too, you bastard.”
Glacial Avalanche didn’t know what to say to that. He stared at Molly. He thought he could see her chest rising and falling slowly. Finally, he asked, “What is happening to her?”
“I’m poisoning her. It will be slow, but relatively painless. This is meant as torture for you, not for her.” Lord Ominous’ voice had lost its angry edge. Now he sounded sad. “You will watch her die and be powerless to help her. You’ll be able to hear anything she says–she should be waking soon–but she won’t hear anything you say. No words of comfort from you will reach her ears.” Lord Ominous paused, then asked, “Does she know who you really are?”
Glacial Avalanche shook his head.
Lord Ominous snorted. “You still subscribe to that ‘secret means secret means secret’ bullshit they taught us in school?”
“Ignoring the rules is a slippery slope, Ominous. Look where it’s landed you.”
“And look where following them has gotten you.”
“Scott?” Molly’s voice trembled.
“Molly!”
“She can’t hear you,” Lord Ominous said.
“Hello? Is anyone there? Can anyone hear me?” Molly pulled against her restraints. “What’s going on?”
“Hello, Molly. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” Lord Ominous rumbled, and Molly jumped.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“You can call me Lord Ominous.”
“The super villain?”
Lord Ominous sighed. “Some people insist on calling me that, yes. Anyway. Your husband did something incredibly stupid, and you’re here as his punishment.”
“Scott would never have anything to do with you.”
“Scott and I go way back, Molly.”
“You’re lying!” she shouted.
“Well, you’ll be dead long before you can ask your husband about the details of our relationship, so you can believe whatever you’d like.”
“Dead?” Molly asked.
“It will be relatively painless,” Lord Ominous said.
“Ominous, please,” Glacial Avalanche cried, “Let her go! I’ll do anything!”
“No, Avalanche, you won’t do anything, except watch the woman you love die. At least when I watched my wife die, she knew why.”
“Damn you, Ominous!” He could hear Molly sobbing. Every once in a while she whimpered his name. Her breathing gradually grew more and more labored.
He’d always meant to tell her, eventually. After he’d retired. He’d say, Honey, remember Glacial Avalanche? That was me. And she would laugh and roll her eyes and say, Sure Honey. Then he’d walk over to her and pick her up by the waist and lift her over his head. She’d laugh and insist on seeing him in his suit, then she’d take it off of him, piece by piece.
Tears soaked his mask, slipped down his cheeks, and dripped onto the bright blue material of his super suit.
“You know, whatever it is that you think Scott did to you, I wasn’t involved.” Molly’s voice was tiny and rough.
“He killed my wife,” Ominous said.
Molly laughed. “So you’re murdering his? How poetically barbaric.”
“It’s justice,” Ominous snapped.
“You can’t honestly believe that,” Molly said.
Ominous was silent for a while. “Avalanche, do you even know what we were working on when you murdered my wife?” Lord Ominous asked.
He remembered Ominous’ wife–the way she’d spun around, holding a shiny silver gun. She’d looked angry. At least he’d thought it was anger. Maybe it had been fear. He hadn’t meant for her to die. He was a hero. A good guy. It was an accident. “I didn’t murder your wife.”
“Don’t argue semantics with me,” Lord Ominous snapped. “Answer the question. Did they tell you what we were doing?”
“No. Dispatch said you were a threat, that’s all.”
“I’d retired from the super business. I was tired of all of the regulations. Lacy wanted to make chocolate. We were working on a strawberry infused dark chocolate. Nothing sinister. I didn’t leave the super society to become a villain. I left to help my wife make chocolate.”
Their lab had smelled like chocolate. But that didn’t mean anything. Ominous was great at chemistry. The chocolate could have been poisonous, or filled with some sort of mind controlling agent. “That’s impossible,” Glacial Avalanche said. “Dispatch doesn’t send us off to get rid of retirees–they couldn’t get away with it.”
“I was always a rebel, Avalanche, but I was never evil. You know that. And you know I had enemies on the council even when I was in action. I asked too many questions.”
“Too many questions?” Maybe he could distract Ominous–get him to monologue. Though Glacial Avalanche wasn’t sure what good that might do him. But it was the only strategy he could think of.
“Like, ‘Where do all the super villains come from?’” Ominous snorted. The council keeps you so busy fighting the enemy that you don’t think about where they come from. I think that the council makes them.”
“You’re insane.”
“If heroes weren’t constantly proving their usefulness by fighting villains, people would start fearing them again. Remember the dark days? Society has never been kind to people who are different. So the council has to make sure that we don’t run out of villains.”
Glacial Avalanche barely remembered the dark days before the formation of the council. Normal people had hated people with super powers. His mother had been afraid to leave their house. He still remembered the strain in his father’s voice, the fear in his mother’s eyes. “Even if the council is making villains, it’s better than going back to the way things were.”
“Do you remember Noah Parkins?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He had the ability to bring people back to life. Problem is, after a week or so their minds eroded away, leaving the bodies as mindless husks that obeyed his every command.”
“So he had an army of zombies?”
“He discovered his power when he brought his girlfriend back to life. She got hit by a bus as she was crossing the street toward him. He ran to her, held her to his chest, and she came back. He was so happy with his power. So proud that he’d be able to help people. Then, after a week, the girl he loved was gone. And in her place she’d left an empty, functioning body.
“He tried to kill himself. I was part of the team that saved him. He was a sweet kid. Confused and sad, but not evil. The council took him away for counseling, and the next time I saw him, he was wearing spandex and cackling about his plans to rule the world.
“That’s when I knew that I had to get out. I knew I didn’t have the power to stop them, but I couldn’t play along anymore. So when Lacy suggested the chocolate shop, I retired.”
Could it be true? He thought about the look on Ominous’ wife’s face. Had it even been a gun in her hand? What if it had been some sort of chocolate nozzle? Had she been angry or afraid? Or both? “Maybe I’d believe you if you weren’t murdering my wife.”
Lord Ominous didn’t reply. The sound of Molly’s breathing filled the room. A gasping breath in, a hissing sigh out, then a pause. He pressed his palms onto the concrete view screen his teeth grinding, his throat tight. He felt ill. “Breathe, honey,” he whispered, “please, breathe.”
Molly inhaled a rasping breath. “What was your wife like?” she asked Ominous.
“She was wonderful. Patient and kind and beautiful.”
“Do you really think that this is what she’d want? That she’d be pleased with your revenge?”
Ominous didn’t answer.
Molly laughed. The sound made Glacial Avalanche wince. It was so weak.
“You’re bluffing!” Molly said, between laughs broken by her ragged breathing. “Scott, can you hear me? Don’t worry, honey. I’m going to be fine. He’s bluffing.”
Molly’s breathing grew even more uneven. Every pause tightened the fist of nausea in his belly. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to hold her. Each pause stretched a little longer than the last, and he sagged with relief with every strained inhalation.
“Scott.” Her voice was barely audible.
He waited for Molly’s next breath. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. His knees gave out beneath him. “Molly.” He should have told her. Maybe, if he’d begged, Ominous would have let him talk to her one last time. He should have begged.
His chest tightened, and he waited for the tears to come. They didn’t. He felt hollow inside. Molly was dead, and it was his fault. He’d never hold her again, or laugh at one of her terrible puns. “I’m sorry, Molly,” he whispered.
A fissure appeared in the featureless cement wall, and a door hissed open. He moved into a battle stance by pure instinct. Was this some kind of trick? Was Ominous going to finish him off?
He wanted Ominous to finish him off. He lowered his fists and waited.
Nothing happened.
Glacial Avalanche picked himself up. There was no way to know if Molly’s body was really in the next room, but he hoped it was. He wanted to hold her one last time.
The hallway was as plain as his cell had been, but there was a door a few yards away.
There was something taped to it–a note and a syringe filled with a pale pink liquid. Glacial Avalanche’s fingers shook as he unfolded the note.
Inject her with this. It’s the antidote. She’ll be fine in a few minutes. Glacial Avalanche ran to his wife’s side. Was it really an antidote, or was Ominous playing a cruel trick? Could he trust a villain?
Molly had believed that Ominous was bluffing.
He slid the needle into Molly’s upper arm and injected her. He pulled her limp body to his chest and stroked her silky hair.
There was another note on the pillow, crumpled from the weight of Molly’s head. I want to be left alone. If I’m not, there won’t be an antidote next time. You can believe what I told you or not–you can investigate the corruption in the council or not. It doesn’t matter to me. Someone was responsible for my wife’s death, but revenge won’t bring her back. I don’t expect to see you again. Goodbye, Avalanche.
Breath rasped back into Molly’s lungs. She’d been right about Ominous.
But why, Glacial Avalanche wondered. Had Ominous been playing with him, or was his story true? Had Glacial Avalanche been an unwitting accomplice to murder? To multiple murders?
Belief hit Glacial Avalanche like an ocean wave. He’d killed an innocent woman. Lacy’s eyes haunted him. How could he have been such a blind naïve fool?
Color slowly returned to Molly’s cheeks, and her eyes fluttered open. “Glacial Avalanche?”
He took her cold hands between his. “Molly, I have something to tell you.” He pulled off his mask. “I love you.”

END

Jamie Lackey earned her BA in Creative Writing from the University of Pittsburgh at Bradford. Her fiction has appeared in over a dozen different venues, including The Living Dead 2, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and The Drabblecast. She has appeared on the Best Horror of the Year Honorable Mention and Tangent Online Recommended Reading Lists. She reads slush for Clarkesworld Magazine, and she’s worked on the Triangulation Annual Anthology since 2008. Find her online at www.jamielackey.com.

On the day Frankie left, Tricia Lee sat in my driveway blaring the horn of her fancy, blue Camaro. I stood stony-faced and watched Frankie throw his measly belongings into a shopping bag.

“You just don’t turn me on anymore, Angel,” Frankie said. “You’re downright boring compared to Tricia Lee, and besides, look at the difference between the two of you. She’s a big star, and you flip burgers for a living”

“At least I have a job, Frankie,” I replied, feeling the first hint of rage creeping in. “You sit on the couch and drink beer all day.”

He gave me a pitying smile as I followed him to the door. “You were stupid enough to let me sit on the couch drinking beer all day. Maybe you should get yourself a dog, Angel.” With this parting shot, he was gone in the blur of the blue Camaro and Tricia Lee’s bleached, blonde hair blowing in the wind.

I didn’t feel sad. Instead, I felt a red rage so strong that my head pounded, and my heart raced. I chased the blue Camaro down the driveway with a big rock in my hand, but I stopped short of throwing it. After a while, I calmed down. My head told me I would be better off without Frankie.

Three days later, I found Jack by the side of the road. He was unconscious, barely breathing and bleeding profusely from his empty eye socket. I wrapped him in my old flannel shirt and took him to the veterinarian’s office to have him put out of his obvious misery. At the time, I felt sure he would never survive his injuries. I didn’t know all the circumstances on the day I found him, and I had never seen him before. I knew for certain only a vile and evil person could do such a thing to a dog.

For the next few weeks, I threw myself into my job and worked myself to death pulling double shifts at the diner. I brooded about the dog, and I brooded angrily about Frankie’s rejection. My boss, Joe, answered the telephone the day the veterinarian’s office called.

“Hey Angel,” He yelled out to me. “That little dog you took to the vet is ready to go home. They want to know if you can adopt him.”

“How can he possibly be alive?” I asked in amazement. And I remembered Frankie’s parting words about my getting a dog. I guess fate had listened to him even if I didn’t.

Joe and I stood in the waiting room at the vet’s office later that day talking to Shirley, the office receptionist.

Shirley shook her head, “It’s a miracle, for sure. I overheard the sheriff talking to the vet about it. Apparently, they got a tip from someone that saw Tricia Lee and one of her crazy boyfriends parked by the side of the road late one night in the area where you found the dog.”

I felt a wave of nausea wash over me, and Joe put his arm around me. “It was Frankie, wasn’t it?” I asked Shirley. “He and Tricia Lee did this horrible thing to that little dog.”

“The sheriff is launching an investigation,” Shirley replied. “He doesn’t have enough evidence yet to arrest Frankie and Tricia Lee. The best we can do is to make sure the doggie gets a good home.” I nodded numbly, feeling my head pound with rage. It seemed that uncontrollable anger was fast becoming a big part of my life.

The little dog was skinny, but he gave a feeble wag of his tail and licked my hand when I picked him up, and I fell madly in love with him. Joe called the little guy “One-Eyed Jack”, but I shortened it to plain “Jack”.

I carried Jack to work with me every day in a basket, which I placed next to the huge restaurant stove. Joe and I cook together on the day shift, and we watched over the dog together, although Joe blustered about it in the beginning. Joe is old enough to be my father and he treats me like the daughter he never had. I secretly enjoy the attention, because I have no family of my own.

“The Health Department will close us down if they find out we have a dog in here,” he groused every morning. But time passed, and Jack began to gain weight and run around a little. Most of the time, he gnawed on soup bones in his basked, happy to have the diner for a home. The sutures over his empty eye socket healed fast, and he reminded me of a teddy bear missing a button eye.

Joe and I continued caring for Jack, and he grew to a healthy ten pounds, with a shiny coat and lots of energy. He couldn’t give us enough love to thank us for saving him. However, I soon got a chance to observe his true feelings for Tricia Lee and Frankie.

I had Jack on a leash when I got off work, and I didn’t see Frankie and Tricia Lee until I heard the growl. It was not a normal little dog sound, but the kind of growl where a dog curls back his lip and sounds like a hound from hell. I stopped dead in my tracks. I looked up, and that’s when I saw the fur on Jack’s back standing on end. Frankie and Tricia Lee were standing a few feet up the sidewalk, and they were laughing at me.

“Lookie here, Tricia Lee,” Frankie said, sarcastically. “Angel adopted that little retarded dog of yours. Ain’t that the cutest thing?” Tricia Lee looked startled when she saw jack, but she laughed and I swear to God she sounded like a mule braying into the wind.

“I took her man, so she got my ugly, little dog,” Tricia Lee screeched. For the first time I noticed an ugly gap between her two front teeth. Sweat ran down her cleavage.

By now, Jack was lunging on his leash trying to fling his ten-pound body at them with all his might. I scooped him up and held him close, feeling his little heart beating like a trapped bird.

“You’d better keep that mutt under control,” Frankie called out as he swaggered away. “Or I might finish the job I started on him.”

Tricia Lee flipped her hair and turned to stare at me. She wore a smug smile and she said, “I have a brand new hot tub at my place, and Frankie and I are going to break it in tonight. Just think of that, Angel, when you are home alone with my hand-me-down dog.”

I ran furiously after Tricia Lee, with poor Jack clutched to my side. He whimpered with fear and tried to hide his face against me. “What sort of a sorry whore are you, Tricia Lee?” I hollered after her. “How could you let anyone hurt a little dog?” My head pounded unmercifully, and I felt blinded by the pain.

Tricia Lee shot me the bird with her middle finger, and ran to catch up with Frankie, wobbling unsteadily on her ultra-high heels. I hugged Jack close, and he trembled violently as we watched them walk away. It would be a dark night, and I would be in a dark place emotionally, but with Jack, at least I would not be alone.

Later that night, I paced restlessly through the house trying to calm my pounding head, while Jack looked hopefully at me with the leash in his mouth, begging for a walk. We started down the dirt road near my house under the cover of darkness. Jack was happy and full of energy, and I was lost in my own gloomy thoughts. I didn’t realize how far we had walked until too late. I looked around and saw we were in sight of Tricia Lee’s place. I could see lights blazing around the outdoor patio area. Honky-tonk music blared, and I heard laughter. Jack pricked up his ears, growling low in his throat, and pulled me toward the house.

I allowed him to pull me along like a sequence from a bad dream in which you can’t wake up. We crossed the barren fields and when we got closer to the house, I scooped up the little dog in my arms and ducked behind some bushes. The night had taken on a surreal feeling I didn’t like.

“Shhh,” I cautioned Jack. “Stay quiet.” Jack’s ears were pointed and alert, but he stayed still. I could see the patio and the hot tub. Frankie and Tricia Lee sat submerged to their necks, drinking out of champagne glasses. A big boom box sat perched on the edge of the hot tub. An old fashioned, country singer sang loudly about her lying, cheating man, and I felt a surge of sympathy for her sad words.

Suddenly, Jack saw Frankie, and he set up a racket of furious barking and growling. He leapt from my arms and ran toward the hot tub. Frankie and Tricia Lee looked up in surprise. Reluctantly, and thoroughly humiliated, I left my hiding place to catch Jack.

“Well look who’s here,” Tricia Lee called, with a sly smile. “Are you trying to bring that damn dog back to me?’

I had no time to reply because Frankie started in on me. “You and I are through, Angel!
Take that ugly, retarded little mutt, and get the hell out of here before I call the cops on you!” He rose from the water and took a step forward.

Before I could grab him, Jack charged at Frankie with a vicious snarl. He jumped up on the side of the hot tub and to my horror, he knocked the boom box in the water. I yelled and hid my face in my hands at what followed. For the rest of my life I’ll hear the sounds of the screams in my head, and I’ll remember the thrashing of the water. I knew Frankie and Tricia Lee were goners, but I was afraid to look. I was terrified Jack had fallen in the water, and I couldn’t bear to lose him.

After what seemed an eternity, I heard an uneasy whimper and looked down to see Jack at my feet with a definite “I’ve been a really bad dog” expression on his face. I reached down and scooped him up, and he nuzzled my neck. I buried my face in his silky fur and turned to head for home. My head stopped pounding and the rage was gone.

“You really are a very good dog,” I whispered, and he licked the tip of my nose, as we walked away.

Author Bio Page

Brenda Ramos resides in Alamogordo, New Mexico, and is employed in the field of educational finance. Her previously published works are children’s stories. She is currently working on a fantasy novel.

Papers were strewn everywhere, tiny squares unfolded and wiped clean. Kate was desperate for any granule she could scrape onto the table. She craved the noise, the rushing swirl of energy that left her without a chance to think. WIthout a chance to see.

She slumped behind the coffee table, pulled her knees to her chest and pushed back at her hair with trembling hands. No money, no drugs. No way to avoid what was in front of her, no matter how often she looked away.

“What the hell, Kate!” Startled, she looked up to see her roommate, Johah, standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. “Look at yourself; this is pathetic.” He grabbed a handful of the small papers and tossed them at Kate. They fell like confetti, and though she knew they were clean she instinctively grabbed at them. Like a child grabbing at candy falling from a pinata.

“I can’t do it, Jonah. I try not to look at him, try to ignore him but he just stands there looking at me. He’s there all the time. And his eyes, I can’t stand his eyes.”

She buried her face in her small, boney hands, refusing to look up, determined not to know if the specter was looming. Hiding held the added benefit that she didn’t have to see the distrust on Jonah’s face. He was the only person she’d told and as great a friend as he was, she could tell he dismissed her stalker as a drug-related delusion. He didn’t understand that the man was the cause, not the result of her drug use.

“Kate, you were doing so well,” he said as he sat across from her, on the other side of the coffee table. His voice was softer, had lost the edge of his previous words. “Stop the drugs and this man will go away. I swear.”

There was desperation in Jonah’s voice, a need to be her saviour.

When she finally replied her voice was small, the words falling heavily from her lips, weighted by exhaustion. “You don’t understand, and I’m too tired to explain again. I just need some sleep.” She pushed herself to standing and swayed slightly from the incredible effort it was to remain upright. Every muscle in her limbs trembled.

“Will Michael be coming over later,” she asked before making her exit, hoping for a negative reply. Michael was Jonah’s new boyfriend. They’d been together just a few weeks. He seemed inoffensive enough though she’d met him only briefly, but the last thing she wanted was more people around. Unfortunately when you share living space, you don’t always have the right to make that rule.

“He will be. Don’t worry, I’ll clean up. Just go to bed.”

She lifted her blue-eyed gaze and could see the disappointment in his eyes. There was nothing she hated more than the idea that she had let him down. Her best friend. He’d been there through her initial recovery, and she felt she owed him some sanity. But he just could not and would not believe what she said when she tried to explain the man.

Even now she could see him hovering in her peripheral vision. Looming like a shadow on the corner of her life. He didn’t ever speak, just looked at her with those eyes, those awful eyes.

Squeezing her own eyes almost shut she turned away, and shuffled off with halting steps towards her room. Kicking off her torn jeans, she fell into the bed, not bothering with the covers. Behind the closed door of her room, she buried her head in her pillows and tried to slow her breathing to normal. Calm herself, because no matter how deeply she buried her face, she could not ignore that the man was here in the room. His eyes bore a hole through her back until she could do nothing but turn to face him.

She clutched the pillow in her shaking fist and, taking a deep breath, turned her face.

The man was no longer standing. He was crouched down, his eyes mere inches away from her own.

She jerked away and whimpered in fear, cowering into the corner of the bed. If only she had some coke, some speed, she could create a world in her mind that he couldn’t penetrate. Without, she had to face her fear in the image of his dark eyes.

Was he even real? No one could see him, but to Kate he was as solid as Jonah or Michael. And why did he not speak?

“Who are you,” she asked, hating the quiver she heard in her own voice. “What do you want?” Her desperation was mounting in her tone.

The man said nothing, but stood to his full height. Over six feet tall as he hovered over Kate. She’d never looked so directly at him, and the longer she did, the more she cowered into her corner. His eyes, so dark and so full of hate. The muscles in his face worked beneath his tanned skin, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He made no move to approach, just stood over her staring, always staring.

“Are you here to hurt me?” Even as she asked, her words tentative, she knew it was a futile inquiry. Would he really admit if it were his plan to hurt her in some way?

She hadn’t expected the vehemence of his response. No words were spoken, but he shook his head from side to side and paced as though he had a purpose. His eyes kept shooting to the door. His posture was the perfect image of frustration.

Kate unfolded her legs and leaned slightly out of her corner. A thought occurred for the first time. “Are you trying to help me,” she said softly, barely daring to hope that she could have been wrong this entire time.

His nodding was as strong an affirmation as she could have asked for. To say that this put Kate at ease would be overstating, but she relaxed a little. Her breathing was back to normal, but the physical need for the drug was ever-present. She wiped the sweat from her forehead as she considered how she could communicate with the man.

Again his eyes shot to her door. Michael had arrived and she could hear the clinking of glassware. Conversation and laughter. All of the sounds of a normal life. It was what she managed to have for herself until she’d turned back to the drugs.

“What is it you need to tell me,” she said haltingly. Her voice caught, weak with need.

The man never said a word, but his pacing sped up and his tension was clear. Never had he been anything but stoic, an unmoving presence in her line of vision, staring her down and igniting her fear. This constant motion was less unnerving, but his eyes were as insistent as ever, trying to convey an unspoken message. A message of fear, anger. Evil.

The pounding at the door caused her to jump, a small cry escaped from her lips. She imagined it was Jonah, checking to see how she might be doing. When the door swung open she was shocked to see Michael standing there. His presence filled the doorway, but he made no initial move to enter the room. Suddenly conscious that she wore only a tank and her underwear, she grabbed a corner of a sheet to cover herself.

The man tensed from head to toe, his hands clasped in fists at his side as he glared directly to where Michael stood.

“Hey there, Kate. I heard you were feeling off today. How’re you doing?”

The words were kind, but there was an edge to the tone that caused Kate’s hackles to rise. She was covered in gooseflesh, but had no idea where withdrawal ended and instinct began.

“I’m fine. Where’s Jonah?”

The man turned to Kate, and it was the first time she’d seen desperation in those eyes.

Michael took two steps into the room. “Jonah is sleeping,” he answered, a gravelly note she’d never noticed thick in his voice. “He’ll be sleeping for awhile.”

He took two more steps. The man looked to Kate and shook his head.

She sat tensely against the wall.

Michael reached the edge of her bed, and a glimmer caught Kate’s eye as he pulled a knife from behind his back. When she looked in his eye she knew that his was what evil looked like.

And as the knife sliced across her throat, she looked over Michael’s shoulder and watched the man fade away.

Denise Kelly LeBlanc currently spends her days working in the ever-creative field of banking, and her nights dreaming of escape to the country and life as a full-time writer. After some early success in print and ezines, including Zygote Magazine and Bewildering Stories, she is working hard to re-enter the world of regular writing.