HUMDINGER LITERARY E-ZINE JUNE 2006   Editor-in-Chief: Chris Goebel   Literary Fiction Editor: Lorena Smith  Poetry Editor: Rochelle Smith Editor: RS Prasanna   Editorial Assistant: Chronika McDowell   Contest Judge: Timothy Bruderek      TABLE OF CONTENTS: SCIENCE FICTION, COMIC FICTION, MAINSTREAM FICTION,  WHAT IN THE? WRITING CONTEST, LOOKING BACK AT YOUTH POETRY CONTEST, MUSICAL NOSTALGIA WRITING CONTEST FINALISTS, TALE TALE CONTEST FINALISTS,  XANADU'S GATE POETRY FINALISTS, BETTER THAN POTTER CHILDREN'S FANTASY FICTION FINALISTS,  HORROR ,  POETRY , FANTASY,  POLITICAL FICTION, AUTHOR INTERVIEWS, SHAKESPEAREAN FICTION CONTEST FINALISTS, SPACE EXPLORATION FICTION CONTEST FINALISTS,  15-LINE POETRY CONTEST FINALISTS  WHAT IN THE? WRITING CONTEST FINALISTS   OLD TUB By J. P. Kane   Adventures of Jack Care-away “Missing Word” By Scott M. Sparling   Prohibition Makes It Hard to Speak Easy (in English 101) By Brian Quass LOOKING BACK AT YOUTH POETRY CONTEST FINALISTS   Aging By Sophya Vidal   The Tower of TVs By Amberine Wilson   Remembering Neverland By Scott M. Sparling MUSICAL NOSTALGIA WRITING CONTEST FINALISTS   I SAW THE SIGN By Victoria Guidi   Tripping By Lorena Smith   Shifting By H. Lovelyn Bettison   MISTER DOUBLE YOU By Jeffrey Scott Jewett   MAINSTREAM/lLITERARY FICTION: CLICK HERE Poeme: An Autobiographical Letter to an Anonymous Friend By Chris Goebel       COMIC SHORT STORIES: CLICK HERE. The Way I See It  By Amberine Wilson  HORROR HORROR SHORT STORIES CLICK HERE. NIGHTSTALKER: IN THE CREEPING DARKNESS  By Chris Goebel POETRY POETRY Click here. The Singing Bridge By Jon Berahya   twenty, for you By Andrew Miller   Collection of Poems By Margaret Fieland   Collected Poems By Stan Krajewski   Untitled by Akil Drayton  SCIENCE FICTION CLICK HERE.   Saving Private Josh By Mark Bennett   Trash By Jonathan Berman POLITICAL FICTION POLITICAL FICTION CLICK HERE TO READ. When an Empire Falls By Lloyd Hudson Frye   FANTASY FICTION CLICK HERE. No recent submissions in this category.  AUTHOR INTERVIEWS CLICK HERE TO READ AUTHOR INTERVIEWS. Interview with Angel Logan.  XANADU'S GATE POETRY CONTEST FINALISTS   Click here to read...   Springwine: The Absinthe Season By Kalae S. Anthony   Forced Retirement By Anne Cahalan   Gotas–De–Lluvia (Raindrops) By Robert Prives TALL TALE CONTEST FINALISTS Click here to read the TALLEST tales! An Old Man Story By Dan Sullivan   INTERNET DATE By Carmen Diode   TALL TALE By Scott M. Sparling   He Married a Yeti By Lloyd Hudson Frye   “Yo-de-ley-e-he!” By J.B. Pravda   OLD DOG RUMBLE By Robert Rives  BETTER THAN POTTER CHILDREN'S FANTASY FICTION CONTEST FINALISTS     MagicWorks--where the magic is real By Chrissie Sparling   HUNYA By JB Pravda   Planet X and the Invasion of the Shadow People By Scott M. Starling SHAKESPEAREAN STORY CONTEST FINALISTS CLICK HERE TO READ SHAKESPEAREAN SHORT STORIES. Rosie By Julia E. Martin The Testimony of Yorick By Louise Norlie Speaking Shakespeare By Scott M. Sparling SPACE EXPLORATION STORY CONTEST FINALISTS CLICK HERE TO READ SPACE EXPLORATION SHORT STORIES. PROMS By Lloyd Hudson Frye Preventing the Reaping By Scott M. Sparling 15-LINE POETRY CONSTRUCTION CONTEST FINALISTS My Legacy By Mary Ellen Garcia Being Fifteen By Scott M. Sparling What If? By Sophya Vidal     WHAT IN THE? WRITING CONTEST FINALIST OLD TUB By J. P. Kane      Why is love so hard to find? And why is it that when you finally do find that someone special that you squeeze and hold on so tight that you press loving right out of them? Like a wash cloth rung too tight.   It was summer in New York. Hottest summer on record and Virginia found herself once again soaking alone. An old tub served as focal point of her Manhattan apartment’s living room. It made for a conversation piece par resistance. Virginia was drawn to it like a baby to candy. Her dark hair cascaded over its rounded cooling end, as her firm breasts floated softly, just barely visible. She held an ice-filled tall glass, which brought relief from summer’s heat and dulled her senses with each sip of brandy. She had been crying earlier and now with drink and deep drag of her joint, her troubles slowly floated like her breasts, away far away. She was alone and she did not care to be alone ever again.   In an adjacent apartment lived Dereick Saunders, ex-baseball star, now turned sports announcer, and his friend Major Domo, whose real name was Lenord Jerome White—but he preferred being called MD or just Major. He was an ex-Navy Seal who had served in Viet Nam.   Truth be told, he and his squad were ordered to retrieve several downed pilots who were being held in a P.O.W camp. Orders read: “To extract with and at any means with minimal contact with enemy.” Major White led his team into dense jungle and extracted six navy pilots safely. He then turned around and returned with three Navy Seals, strictly volunteer operation, to retrieve other POW's left behind. There were fifty or so enlisted marines who had been left behind. That's when all hell broke loose and three Seals were K.I.A.  He was the only black Navy Seal at that time. He was awarded a medal of honor and a purple cross for his actions. Uncle Sam's GI bill afforded him a college education and later a law degree. He now worked for a prestigious Law firm in New York's financial section. He and Saunders were roommates, lovers, and friends, sworn to secrecy about their relationship.   Mona was tall at 5’10’’, big boned with a strong character and a heart of gold. She loved kids and sharing her smile with you. She was unpretentious and looked you straight in your eye. She made an impression—a strong impression—when you first met her. She was raised in a South Dakota town named Winter, where it gets 30 below on average during winter months. Her four brothers helped her grow up confident, if not somewhat tomboyish. But make no mistake, she was a real looker. Green eyes that took your breath away coupled with a figure that an Olympic skier would die for. She, like so many before her, had arrived in New York City with high hopes of fame and fortune. She had gone on countless auditions and was told, over and over again in different ways. “You’re too young; you’re too old; you’re not right type; right height, right age. Still, she wasn't a quitter; she was determined to break into show business.   Forced by financial conditions, she took to exotic dancing, but just until she got her first real role. This is what she told herself. Mona, along with being an exercise-aholic, was a vivacious reader of short plays, poems and novels. She frequented a local Strand used book store at 828 Broadway; this is where she and Virginia first met. That is, Virginia Elizabeth Puscard.   Virginia worked behind the counter. It was a summer job that she had obtained along with a most coveted Manhattan apartment. Job and apartment were only for one summer. Virginia gave up her Paris Flat for a Manhattan apartment, even trade. It is amazing what they can do with an Internet connection theses days.   Mona and Virginia, upon first meeting, were taken by each other’s appearance. Virginia's soft skin and black hair with a gentle and very ear-pleasing French accent was matched by vibrating strength and confidence that oozed from Mona. What is this special magnetism or magic that draws couples to each other over thousands of miles? They hit it off like they had known each other in another life; you could see an aura of heat and a glow of warmth. Not long after their first meeting, they moved in together. Those were really special times; they laughed and hugged and whispered secrets to each other and most of all they loved. They loved with a special love like children display, a playful love not predicated on just sex, but on truly caring about each other. They spent hours together just soaking in an old tub, talking or reading to each other. They laughed; they were happy, gloriously happy and it showed.   Virginia and Mona lived together for three weeks, three days and three hours. There laid an unopened card that Virginia found one afternoon that simply read:                  Love doesn't die it just goes away. Like summer or the day’s end.                So draw love in with deep gentle sighs, ‘cause love doesn't die, it just goes away.                   Missing you already.... Mona       Derick was safe asleep in his apartment when he heard it. He at first thought it was a baseball bat hitting a fast ball. It was Major who knew what it was and from where it had come. An apartment manager along with Major and Derick entered Virginia's apartment. There they found Virginia's naked body floating, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot. Derick had never seen a dead person and lost his stomach. Major had flash backs of Nam but went into auto-reaction and checked for any pulse. Someone said something about him not knowing her as a tenant. I didn't find out about Virginia's suicide until several months later. I am so, so sorry my darling Virginia; I will never forget you and our love that we shared. You were like a sister, friend, and always will be in my prayers. I always will love you.   Mona   Derrick and Major don't live together any more. They are still friends and keep in-touch from time to time. Derrick drifted to California and Major decided to sail to Jamaica.   Mona eventually returned to South Dakota and married a son of a Rancher who owned a farm 13 miles from her home. She now has three lovely children. Two boys and a girl, who she named Virginia.   I knew them all for a short while. I am still in New York and on hot days, I still give some comfort from heat and city living. I am just an old tub but I have seen and heard a lot in my day.     Fini   © Copyright J.P. Kane       Adventures of Jack Care-away “Missing Word” By Scott M. Sparling                           Mister Reaver knocked with tight lips and white knuckles. He looked completely out of place considering his surroundings. From his shiny black shoes to his tall black hat, Robert Reaver was a man of impeccable grooming. Even his mustache had a sheen as if waxed. There wasn’t a hair out of place.             It was a rather scarred surface for a door, dinged and cracked here and there. Everything else in this outer office had that same used luster. Well ingrained dusts and oils. A second-hand look.             “Smells like coffee,” Mister Reaver sneered. “Old coffee. And cigarettes!” He knocked again.             “Come on in. It’s open!” a tired voice answered.             Robert pushed once. Door crashed against wall as he entered. He marched in with a large stride until his pants touched desk. He glared down at a man whom he had loathed ever since high school, but a man he knew he could trust with his life.             “Jack Care-away!” he exclaimed. “I have a problem.”             Jack looked up, bleary eyed and disinterested. “Mister Reaver, what seems to be-”             A harsh ring made both men jump. Jack grabbed his phone, listened for a moment and answered with, “I’m sorry, I have a client in my office right now. Don’t worry, I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something.” He hung up and took a look at his old high school adversary. “Police chief,” he explained. “How can I help you?”             Robert Weaver sat down hard, opening and closing his mouth under his immense mustache while trying to conjure a kind word. He couldn’t think of any. And judging every sour expression Jack shot back at him, he didn’t think Jack had any either. Could he still be upset over Mary-Sue, that cheating girl who had two-timed him with me? Robert wondered.             Robert decided to make his point quickly. “Sometime in this past week or so, someone has broken into my house and taken something from my safe.”             “What did they take?” Jack asked, leaning forward. Solving crimes was Jack’s passion, and he had a knack for it. It was what he lived for, Robert had heard, and he could solve any case handed his way.             “A word,” Robert blurted. “They took a word from my safe. I’m not sure which one it was. I’m not even sure how long or short it is. “I just know that one is missing.”             “Nothing else is missing?”             “No,” Robert said. “Nothing else. A bit odd, don’t you think?”             Jack nodded. “How can you be sure a word is missing?”             “I keep accounts on all words in my vault,” Robert said primly. “Accurate numbers. That’s my motto.”             “It might be just as important to find out which word it is as finding out who took it. You don’t seem to be talking strangely, so I would assume it was not a common word.”             “You’d be surprised how many common words can go missing without people noticing. I think it probably was a common word . . . Otherwise why would they take it? Criminals want something valuable, and common words are usually worth more in a black market. Can you imagine how much money a criminal could make by stealing And or But. What about Yes or No? Those would be worth millions in ransom.”             Jack scribbled a few notes on a yellow pad of paper. “Obviously, if we can still use those words, then none of them were stolen.”             “How right!”             “I think I’ll need to take a look at your house and safe. There might be more clues there.”             “How much is this going to cost?”             “We’ll talk about it en route.”                         A trip from Jack’s office to Robert’s neighborhood normally took fifteen minutes, but Robert cleared it in seven. When they stepped out into Robert’s white cement driveway, his face was already red and pulsing. Negotiations over money had not gone well. Jack’s fee, in Robert’s opinion, was too high.             But he had agreed. A word was missing, and there was nothing more important to a master librarian like Robert. His language and his reputation, were on thin ice.             As they walked up, Jack asked, “So, I heard you have an amazing jewelry collection as well. Quite a few rare pieces worth large amounts. You’re telling me they took a word, only a single word, but left all of those precious jewels untouched?”             “I know what you’re thinking,” Robert wheeled about on his heel and pointed a thick finger into Jack’s chest. “You’re wondering if I might not have made off with my word myself. For insurance purposes or something.”             “That thought had crossed my mind.”             “Well you can forget it. Imagine how useless my insurance contract could be just from missing just one word. That whole, damned, bloody contract might be obsolete right now.”             “I hadn’t thought of that.”             “No, you wouldn’t would you?” Robert calmed down. He forced himself to breath slowly. Jack waited patiently in silence. “I’m sorry. I keep my jewels in a separate safe. It’s hidden well.”             “Wasn’t your word safe hidden too?”             “Yes.”             “Have you checked your jewel safe? Are you quite certain it was not tampered with as well?”             Robert puffed up his chest. “Yes. I examined it most carefully. Not a scrap out of place. Besides, I had taken much more care with that one. Never thought some damned criminal would seriously consider stealing any words.”             They crossed into his house through a side door, and Robert brought Jack straight to his office, located on a very quiet third floor. This office, unlike Jack’s was impeccable. Clean coffee table with literary magazines lined up in a row. An Andrew Weathers sculpture of a man throwing a discus stood at a large window that overlooked a well trimmed garden. A Picasso, certainly a reproduction, hung flat on a wall, well lit from a sinking sunset and track lighting.             Robert marched up and pulled on this painting. It slid away, revealing a dark safe behind. Carefully, Robert ticked away, dialing a combination.             Safe now open, Jack stepped forward to begin his examination.             Words floated inside, as if void of gravity. They bounced off each other and changed trajectories and paths so as to baffle Robert’s eyes, who waited nearby on tip toes, craning his neck to see over Jack’s shoulder.             “How many are there?”             Robert was pleased to hear awe in Jack’s voice. He swelled once again. “Too many to count.”             “There’s an Is and a Yet. And How is floating just near When What and Who. Yes, it would be impossible to guess at what word went missing. You are too right. I’m going to see if I can lift a few fingerprints off this steel.” He set to work with his case of forensics devices. He continued his verbal examination as he worked. “There was nothing else out of place as you said. No damage to dial, handle or any other part?”             “Not a thing.”             “Where do you keep this combination? In your desk, I presume?”             Robert stuttered. “Well . . . yes. In my desk.”             “Anything there tampered with?”             Robert flushed bright red. It was bad enough he needed to ask Jack for help, but he didn’t want to be heckled or frowned upon by him. “I was just checking right now,” he hurried with an explanation. “Everything appears to be in order.”             “Nothing here,” Jack said slowly. “Maybe a few useable prints. Most likely they are all yours.” Jack joined Robert and examined all drawers. “I’ll have to comb over this entire desk for prints as well. I’m sure this supposed criminal must have visited here first to get a combination.”             Jack looked up at Robert, eyes suddenly alert. “Wait! Did you keep both combinations in here? One for each safe? Or are both combinations matching?”             “Of course they aren’t matching. Do you think me for a fool?”             Jack relaxed a little. “I think you should show me where you keep all other combinations. I should like to examine that area, and then take me to this jewelry safe you spoke of as well. I think I have an idea of what’s going on.”             “What is it?”             “Just show me quickly. Time is of essence here, man!”             Robert almost pulled Jack across two hallways and down a flight of stairs. He took Jack to an old broom closet with a secret panel inside where he kept a great many private things, including a small piece of paper with several numbers scrawled on its surface.             “This combination . . . it’s for your Jewel safe?”             Robert nodded.             “Do not touch anything else here. I’ll need to print this entire closet.” Jack gave a quick glance once more, then set down Robert’s secret combination. “Now, take me to your other safe.”             Robert was in a near panic as he waked, answering Jack’s questions as they went.             “No, none of my servants know where I keep it.”             “Yes, I have every piece insured.”             “No, my entire collection is worth over ten million.”             “Yes, I let my wife wear a piece or two occasionally, but I always check them back in myself.”             They descended a large flight of basement stairs. Robert moved away a section of wall containing rows of old wine bottles covered in dust, and revealed a safe of immense proportions.             Jack opened his bag. “Tell me, Robert, does your wife ever come down here without your knowledge?”             “I don’t think so. She hates it down here. Why?”             Jack sniffed at each component; dial, handle, door. “You are absolutely certain?”             Robert sniffed as well, wondering if there were a perfume or other strange odor in about. He detected nothing. “I am fairly certain. Why? Why?”             “I need to know for sure so I can tell how to proceed next. It is of up-most importance. You are certain nothing was missing from this safe?”             Robert grabbed his hair and pulled. His heart hammered away at his ribcage trying to break out. He reached out, ready to dial his combination, but Jack slapped his hand away.             “Robert, I need you to calm down. Take a few deep breaths, and call your wife. Does your cell phone get reception down here?”             “No, I’ll have to go upstairs.”             “I thought as much. Then listen carefully. Ask your wife if she ever opens this safe when you aren’t home. Ask her if any of her friends or family knows about it. Go over each person she knows, one at a time, no matter how aggravated she gets with you. Then tell her every jewel was stolen, just to see what she says. If she acts shocked or amazed, I want you to hang up and call nine-one-one immediately. Do you understand?”             Robert could only nod. He ran upstairs as Jack turned his attention back to his job.             He couldn’t get cell phone reception anywhere in his house, and never could, so he went for his kitchen phone. He tried to stretch as far as he could, but couldn’t see down those dark basement stairs. “Bloody cord!” he cursed his phone. “I told that bitch we should get a wireless.”             His wife answered. Robert froze.             She almost hung up after a few “hellos” but Robert found his tongue and started barraging her with questions. No matter how much she panicked and screeched in his ear, he drilled her for information over and over again, trying to remember every word that Jack had told him to say. Every question.             After a few minutes, she broke out crying and Robert hung up. “Stupid woman!” He said as he dialed nine-one-one. “If she had anything to do with this, I’ll slap that stupid look off her stupid face. Damned, bloody, stupid woman!”             “Nine-one-one.”             “I need to talk to a sheriff, or a detective, or somebody. My jewels have been stolen. They’ve been in my family for years!”             “Your family jewels, sir?” fired back a now stuck up, snotty voice.             “Yes, woman. My family jewels!” Why do I always have to deal with women? he thought.             “Sir, this is an emergency phone number. I’ve heard that joke five times already this week. Please stop calling or we will arrest you.”             She hung up.             Robert bashed his phone on a countertop, smashing it to pieces. I turned and ran down stairs.             “I called, but they thought I was joking!” he yelled. “They said they were going to arrest me if-”             But there was nothing more to say, because there was no one left to talk to. Jack Care-away was gone. Robert’s precious safe was open and empty.             Falling to his knees, Robert crawled forward. “What?” he asked. “What?” He hoisted himself his safe’s lip, and saw that it wasn’t entirely empty. There was one word laying alone, cut into separate letters.             With shaking hands, Robert picked up each letter. An H, and a T and an E. He moaned as he tried to piece them all together, his moan rising slowly into a scream of outrage. He crumpled each letter in his massive hands and faced upward, still screaming.             Had he actually led Jack into his office? Shown him where he kept his combinations? Walked him willingly toward his secret safe?             “Damn you, Jack Care-away. Bloody, hex, hell, damn you!” He screamed and screamed though he knew that Jack Care-away was so far gone that he couldn’t hear it, and that Jack Care-way would be too smart to ever be found again.     © Copyright, Scott M. Sparling         Prohibition Makes It Hard to Speak Easy (in English 101) By Brian Quass   No doubt some of you are wondering why I have prohibited you from either saying or writing a certain three-letter definite article in this semester's English class (you know, one that starts with “t” and ends with “e”?).   Peter, take your foot off of th—THAT desktop, young man! (Whew! I almost said that three-letter word myself!)   There’s a logical explanation. You see—   Come in, come in. What's your name? Sally? Well, you're not on my roll, I'm afraid. No, that's fine: just sit down in— in THIS chair, and we'll worry about it later. (Remind me to kill "a certain" registrar after class, okay, gang? He’s always overbooking me!)   In particular, you may be wondering why you can still use pronouns such as "this" and "that" while scrupulously avoiding this seemingly related three-letter word of which we speak— or of which, in fact, we are going to try to be completely silent until further notice.   Uh-uh! Peter, please deposit that gum in th— Ahem! in one of our several conveniently located trash cans that you'll find to either your left or your right.   Now, where was I?   Oh, yes: This particular three-letter direct article has been banned because it has disturbing connotations, particularly in today’s censorious climate of political correctness. True, its connotations are disturbing in an extremely subtle, almost rarified way, but then we are (I trust) extremely subtle people, so it’s our bounden duty to be revolted by even a marginal flirtation with boorishness.   If I’m making you guys sleepy, feel free to stretch out on— on— on floor! There, see, you almost made me say it again. Now behave!   Where was I? Oh, yes:   Every time we place that connotatively rigid word in front of a noun, we are tacitly suggesting that OUR object, OUR noun (whether it be something as tangible as a fish or as wispy as a dream) has some sort of pinpointable Cartesian existence and that somehow (amongst a vast panoply of likely cognates in a real or imaginary world) it merits our individual consideration in and of itself, without reference to a rich world of associations to which it might otherwise give rise.   In other words—   Oh, wait a minute: Sally Smith, right? I forgot all about it. I have you listed right here in— in— in THIS particular notebook. (Still, a certain registrar has really filled this class to— to— well, he’s filled this class to brim, is what he’s done, straight to brim!)   Anyway...   There is only one noun (or class of nouns) whose real-world referent might indeed be worthy of this connotative exclusivity implied by our direct article, to wit: God, or an Unmoved Mover, so to speak. For when we contemplate such perfection (at least in our western monotheistic tradition) we are indeed thinking of one and only entity. If we worship god X, for instance, we would consider it blasphemous to speak merely of a god X, for we thereby endow rival deities with a philosophical grounds, however slight, for existence.   Indeed, a definite article must introduce such religious nouns if we are to speak accurately of what theologians might refer to as “godhead.”   Fortunately, this class seems to be chockfull of reprobates, so I don't expect too many anchorites are going to object to my grammatical prohibition on religious grounds.   I know, it's 12:00, Peter. (Peter keeps looking up at one of several nearby clocks, so he must be getting antsy.)   Of course, you could argue: How can one distinguish between persons and things without using you-know-which word?   Well, first of all, Charlie Chan never pronounced a direct (or for that matter an indirect) article in his life, yet his conversation, though certainly quaint, was never unintelligible: indeed, it was witty and urbane, more often than not.   But let’s look at this from a philosophical point of view:   This may sound like splitting hairs (especially to you freshmen lot who haven’t yet attended your obligatory Philosophy 101 class with old man Smithers) but there is a real difference between "pointing something out" (with a relative pronoun) and "distinguishing" it (with a definite article). When I say, for instance, that THAT clock (one of several that Paul’s been staring at for at least a half-hour now) is reading 12:00, a full connotation of my statement, if laboriously expressed, would go something like this:   Connotation 1:   That clock over there is reading 12:00, which is not to say that other clocks are not reading different times, nor to suggest that this clock has a monopoly on time-telling accuracy. Indeed, I have merely consulted this particular clock out of convenience: any subsequent presumption of accuracy is therefore a function of our intellect and not of sentence structure.   Peter’s over there like: “Will this be on test?” No, Peter, this will not be “on test,” okay? Man!   Now then, suppose I truly "distinguish" our clock by introducing it (in writing or in speech) with a direct article (that three-letter one, say, that starts with “t” and ends with “e”). Our connotation becomes:   Connotation 2:   T** clock (in other words, this very clock, not some supposititious cognate) is authoritatively reading 12:00, therefore a consultation (even via imagination) of any extraneous timepiece is superfluous. Hence, our thoughts must now logically turn to scheduling considerations that take our noon-hour determination as a "given.”   See? By introducing our noun with a direct article, we’ve not just consulted ANY clock: we’ve consulted a Platonic “clock in itself,” or a sort of Jungian archetype of a “clock,” which, by definition, must be accurate (or at least must be considered so if we are to be logically consistent, since accuracy is one of many qualities that would seem to appertain to a paradigmatic timepiece).   Right, there goes th— th— there goes th— Well, there goes bell, okay? There goes bell!   Off you go, then. (Somebody might want to wake Peter on their way out.)   Oh, yeah, read pages 1 to 100 of “Tess of d’Urbervilles.” This is still an English class, after all, even if I did wax a little philosophical today regarding that unnamable direct article of ours.   Sally, do you have your computer-printed class schedule with you? I'm going to go ahead and add you to our rolls.   What? Your friend Kim there needs to be added, too? Well, you've got to speak up, Kim. You know what they say (let’s see, I’d better be careful how I put this...): a squeaky wheel gets grease!   (Ooh, wait till I see that registrar of ours. This overcrowding business is— is— well, it’s pits, is what it is: it’s just plain pits!)     © Copyright, Brian Quass   LOOKING BACK AT YOUTH POETRY CONTEST FINALISTS     Aging By Sophya Vidal   The whispering echoes of long ago— seem to call my feet today. The childhood—wrapped in a bow, gracing and forming all that I say. Ah, remembering those rainy afternoons, or the victory in my games, spreads my past like free laid runes, or freshly paved lanes. How fleeting youth is built, or perhaps simply the innocence, it seems— Yet like the stitches of a quilt, it’s what helps construct our future dreams.     © Copyright, Sophya Vidal       The Tower of TVs By Amberine Wilson   The tower of TVs was taller than me; he stacked them together all four … or three, and tilted his chair back so it was easy to see the tower of TVs that’d still be taller than me.   He called it “the box” and it worked as his muse, controlling his mood with its buttons and fuse. “What?” he would grunt as his thumb pushed down mute; “Nothing,” I said, but made faces behind the old coot.     I was sent to the table till my homework was done, then we’d mush up some ice cream just cuz it’s fun. Between five and five thirty when nothing was on, his guitar would come out and we’d sing Beatle songs   I noticed the power the tower displayed and watched how it soothed his nerves that were frayed because of some ship place where he worked “all damn day.” Then around six o’clock, “Come and get it,” he’d say.   I sat close beside him on the couch where we ate and beamed at his pride as I cleaned up my plate. When old Bunker was talking, I always laughed late, But Stanford was funny and Taxi was great.   Monday night football was never too loud; Three was a company, Barney Miller a crowd. Mash, Cheers, and Star Trek all seemed profound, but that’s the only TV I was ever allowed.   It was still blaring by eight twenty-nine, and I’d rush from the bath washed just in time to laugh with my dad at Hawkey’s first line and whine just a little when it was bed time.     © Copyright, Amberine Wilson     Remembering Neverland By Scott M. Sparling   We came in from Neverland leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, and pixie dust sparkled and swirled then faded before we could find our way home. It dissolved like the magical frothy sea foam.   Surprised when we turned to find that the trail had completely dispersed from just under our tails. How could we have known that we should have gone straight back into our youths? Why did we wait?   Now the trail is as cold as an elephant’s bones in the cuckoo bird’s graveyard. Ululate tones. We feel so alone when we look at the past through spectacles made with an ancient stained glass.   We cry out for Hook and his pirating crew. We’d even be glad to see Johnny Corkscrew in the hands of the venerable, twisted, angry old doffer we dubbed as the jolly good Shmee   We all were once Pans. We all were Lost Boys. We all had our fun with our glib games and toys. For us lawyers and writers are phony draft dodgers conscripted to serve on the old “Jolly Rodger.”   Now Lost Boys and Pans are the ones we hate so that we gnash at our tongues and curl up our toes. We fashioned our own age/youth bigotry and despise our own selves for our hexed jealousy.   What can we do? What’s to be done? We resent all our youth and the years of young fun. The old ticking croc that swallowed the clock is ticking and tocking and talking to us.   We abhor the clock as its ticking gets nearer. We can’t stand the old man with his face in the mirror. His reflection’s right there. Come with me. Take a look. We’ll see if the doffer is wearing a hook.   © Copyright, Scott M. Sparling   MUSICAL NOSTALGIA WRITING CONTEST FINALISTS   Quinn kicked at a pile of leaves. “I’m just so sick of them thinking they can get away with bullying us around like this all the time. We were feeling so good, and then they had to ruin it. Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think? It's like rain on your wedding day.”     I SAW THE SIGN By Victoria Guidi     At precisely 9: 12 pm on Friday, November 18th, 1995, the freshly painted pea green colored, gloss-finished back door of the First Baptist Church of Clifton, Massachusetts, joyously swung open, releasing the spirited voices of five distinctly enlightened souls. Approximately 7 seconds later, the last member of the Senior Youth Group, 15 year-old Wanda Dewey, departed from the back of the house of God where her father preached.   “Hey, you know what other place isn’t wheel chair accessible?” she said to the rest of her fellow friends as they started down the sidewalk. “BookTrader’s on Mooney Place.”   “Oh wow! I can’t believe I forgot about BookTrader’s. I have to add that one to the list,” Tara remarked.   “Yeah, maybe we should get rid of The Sports Spot then ‘cuz I think more people in wheelchairs will go buy a book before a soccer ball,” Lawrence suggested, fiddling with his jacket zipper that was caught on his hood string.   Tara threw Lawrence a reproachful look.    “That’s so discriminatory, Lawrence. Just because someone can’t walk doesn’t mean they can’t use their hands. Didn’t you get tonight’s lesson? We’re all the same in God’s eyes, and we all deserve to be treated the same. If someone has a disability, that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be given the same opportunity at least. Geez, haven’t you ever seen people in wheelchairs play basketball before?”   “Yeah, I’ve seen them play basketball,” Lawrence proclaimed. “But I’m just saying that maybe the wheelchair people will feel bad if they see a ramp at The Sports Spot. You know, like be offended ‘cuz they know they can’t really buy anything except presents maybe.”   “Man, this is turning into a big project. We’re going to have to do a lot of fundraising if we expect to build all these ramps. Wood can get pretty expensive,” commented David. He wished he didn’t feel so pessimistic about the community project, but the number of needed wheelchair ramps was already over 20.   Wanda threw up her arms to the sky. “Hey, where’s the spirit?! We can do it guys. Imagine how many people we’ll make happy! Let's don't wait till the water runs dry. We might watch our whole lives pass us by. Let's don't wait till the water runs dry. We'll make the biggest mistake of our lives. Don't do it baby.”   Quinn widened the stride between his short, stocky wrestling legs to keep up with the rest of the group’s pace. Nodding in agreement, he added, “And like Reverend Dewey said, man, it’ll be really good for Clifton with all the extra business it’ll bring. I know my dad sure could use it over at his stamp collectors’ shop.”    And then, roughly 45 seconds after leaving the church’s property, as they were almost to the street corner, voices called out from the lit porch steps of the black shuttered Victorian house across the street.   “Hey churchies! How’d Bible wanking go tonight?”   “Better run home to bed before your ten o’clock curfew.”   “Whoa! Who’s the queer snowman bouncing in the back?”   Realizing he had just been called a queer snowman, Lawrence quickly changed his jolly pace to a stiff walk.   David, Tara, Wanda, Lawrence, and Quinn didn’t have to turn their heads to know from whom the harassing was coming, with their fancy new Adidas shell toes and Aeropostle frayed wide leg corduroys. The popular kids in their pullover NFL team jackets. The pretty cheerleaders with their ‘spice’ colored lipstick and peace sign chokers. The buff jocks who lifted weights everyday after school in weight room.   Quinn fisted his hands at his side and cursed under his breath as soon the group turned the corner and headed down Inman Ave. “I swear, the next thing out of their mouths and I’m gonna punch ‘em in their faces.”   Lawrence anxiously chimed in. “Yeah, who are they calling a queer snowman? They don’t even know me.”   “Don’t let them get to you, Lawrence,” Wanda offered. “Besides, you’re not that fat.”   Quinn kicked at a pile of leaves. “I’m just so sick of them thinking they can get away with bullying us around like this all the time. We were feeling so good, and then they had to ruin it. Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think? It's like rain on your wedding day.”   David nodded. “Yeah ... Or a free ride when you've already paid.”   “It's the good advice that you just didn't take,” Tara added. “And who would've thought, it figures. Ugh! Those bullies think we’re so goodie-two shoes.”   “That’s so not true. You know why one of my parents’ vodka bottles is filled with water? I drank it all in my garage before a recital,” Wanda threw out.     “Yeah, and I skipped school before,” Tara announced. “I mean, my mom knew I stayed home, but I lied about being sick. I wasn’t sick at all. I just didn’t want to go, you know? Like in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. ”   Lawrence  fervently gripped Quinn’s arm. “Remember the time, Quinn, that we jacked off to your dad’s pornos in the bathroom? Oww. What was that for?”  he said, rubbing the back of his head where Quinn just whacked it.   David let out a frustrated sigh. “Look at how pathetic we must look. I mean, This is how we do it? It’s Friday night, and I feel all right. Let’s flip the track, bring the old school back. No school tomorrow, and what? This is how we do it?  Where’s the excitement? The rebels in us?”   “My parents are at the opera tonight. We can go to my house and fill some more liquor bottles with water,” Wanda suggested.   “Or egg mailboxes,” said Tara.    “Vandalize the school with toilet paper and mustard,” Lawrence proposed.   “Slash tires,” put forward Quinn.   “Ring random doorbells and run away,” added Wanda.   And then, as though God were listening to their pathetic ideas and thought he’d save them from doing something completely dorkish, the heavens parted and down shone the light, stopping David dead in his tracks as the group reached the corner of Jefferson and Inman.   There it was, across the intersection in front of Big Wheels Motorcycle Shop. Long and sleek. Weather stained and waxed. Extending out on a sleek and even 50 degree incline. Built with 3-inch thick solid pinewood planks the width of the shop’s double doors.   “Or we could fill waterballoons with—”   “Lawrence,” David commanded. Everyone stared at David, then toward where he was looking.    David stood in a trance. “I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes. I saw the sign.”   “We’re gonna steal the ramp?”   “Nooo, Lawrence. The ramp’s the sign. Through the store window’s our mission,” David said.   Wanda, Tara, Quinn, and Lawrence narrowed their eyes on the window display in Big Wheels Motorcycle Shop.   “What do you see, David?” whispered Wanda.   “That. The third one from the left,” he answered, slowly raising a pointed finger to the target. It was true. They had never seen anything like them before, not even on MTV. They were like those lowrider cars in rap videos. Only they were motorcycles. Two super long and shiny lowrider motorcycles.    “We’re gonna steal a motorcycle?”   “Not just any motorcycle, Lawrence. Those two lowrider motorcycles,” David answered.   Tara couldn’t believe what her ears were hearing. “Are you crazy, David?”   “I don’t know. Maybe I am. But guys, I’m telling you. If we really want our names to go down in history, then this is what we have to do.”   David pulled his four very I’m-not-sure-this-is-such-a-good-idea friends into a huddle and explained. “It’ll be simple. We pick the back door lock with pins. I’ve seen it in late night movies. The bikes aren’t locked up or bolted down. While Quinn and I grab the bikes, Wanda and Tara look for the manuals to those bad boys in the office, and Lawrence waits outside keeping watch.”   ‘Whoa. This sounds like out of an action movie. Like Die Hard or Lock Up or something. I love it!” Quinn shouted. “I’m in man. Like Keaneu Reeves.”   “Me, too! And I want to be Tom Hanks,” Lawrence announced, jumping up and down.   “Hey, calm down. This isn’t a movie. This is real life. Dangerous. We’re messing with the law. Living in the gangsta's paradise. Now, who wants to be a big pussy dork churchie for the rest of their life? Who wants to look back 20 years from now and think, man, I wish I had...?   “Quinn, you’re fine with being called stumpy bubble butt? And Lawrence, do you want to keep letting the guys in gym class make fun of your pigeon toe every time you run? And Wanda, you seriously don’t have any problem crying everyday after school about how you wish the girls would stop making fun of your monkey arms and metal mouth? And Tara? Come on. Acne Nimrod? Pimple Dweeb?   “I know I’m through with being called fanny pack fag. I like wearing a fanny pack and I’m not gonna let myself be made of for it ever again. In fact, I’m gonna bring it back in style tonight.”   “Yo, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want,” roared Lawrence.   “So tell me what you want, what you really really want,” asked Tara.   “I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna really really really wanna be the bad guy!”   His face bright red with emotion, David looked each stunned churchie in the eye. “Now, who’s in and who’s not?”   Surprisingly, the minister’s daughter was the first one to answer. “I’m in, David.”   Quickly smearing a tear from his cheek. Voice trembling, “David, I’m in.”   “Me, too,” said Tara.   Lawrence looked down at his pigeon-toed feet, pointing them out, then in, then out, and finally in. As his four closest friends stared waiting for an answer, he extended his arm out towards his friends, palm down. “You bet I’m in.”   One by one, David, Tara, Wanda, and Quinn stacked their hands on top of the others.   “Okay. So, we meet at the big drain pipe behind Milton Lake in a half hour. All black. Tara, you go with Wanda. The guys to my place. Got it?”   Wanda gasped. “I feel just like Sandra Bullock in Speed! I can’t believe it!”   “On the count of three, all say Lowrider,” David continued. “One-two-three—”   “LOWRIDER!”       At precisely 10:09 p.m. that same autumn night, Wanda and Tara sat shivering inside the old massive drain pipe as they waited for the boys, having dressed inappropriately for the weather, but not caring. They felt like catwoman villains in their matching black leotards and jazz shoes. A few moments later, David arrived in a long black trench coat and carrying book bag, followed by Quinn and Lawrence.    “Man, I’m suffering in these pants. They’re so long!” Quinn huffed, as he kicked about in David’s navy sweats.   Tara rolled her eyes at the 5’4”, 105 lb. complaining JV wrestler. “You’re suffering? Look at poor Lawrence!”    The only thing David could find for Lawrence was his father’s 1973 wedding tuxedo, about two sizes too small.   “Hey, check out what I took from Mr. David Ralph’s basement bar. This is how we do it. It’s Friday night, and I feel all right.” Quinn reached into his pants and pulled out three cans of warm Coors and five mini travel size plastic bottles of Jack Daniels. Shouts of sinful delight echoed through the drain pipe as the bunch raided the goodies as though they had just fallen from a Piñata.   “Hey, and look what I found in the bathroom.”   Lawrence reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a handful of white pills. “The round blue ones taste really good.... Oh, I think I finished them all. They were just so good. Like candy. Man, I can see how drugs can get addictive.”   As Wanda reached for two pills, Tara grabbed her arm and warned, “I don’t know about mixing pills with alcohol. You can get really sick that way. Don’t go chasing waterfalls. Please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to. I know that you’re gonna have it your way or nothing at all, but I think you're moving too fast.”   Wanda looked at the little white oval pills in the palm of her hand.    “AMB10,” she read aloud. Seeing David and Quinn each chase down two pills with the warm beer, she shrugged her shoulders, tilted back her head, and swallowed the pills with beer.   The boys all cheered, then started chanting Tara-Tara-Tara until the five foot featherweight gave in and swallowed not two, but three pills.         At 12:26 AM—or 62 - (Lawrence couldn’t tell), the churchies, now the Apocalyptics, sat with heads slumped in hands at the back entrance of Big Wheels Motorcycle shop. On the pavement in front of them were: a metal coat hanger, wrench, five safety pins, baby oil, and butter knife.   “I’m tired,” mumbled Wanda.   Suddenly, another wave of nausea hit Tara. “Oh no. Not again. Oh now, feel it comin' back again, like a rollin' thunder chasing the wind, forces pullin' from the center of the earth again. I can feel it.”   “Yeah, my stomach feels kind of weird,” moaned Lawrence.   “Okay. Uuuuummmm. What we have to do is get the lock oily,” slurred David. “And then stick the pins in the hole.”   Twenty-two minutes later, Wanda finally figured out what she had been staring out all that time. “Whoa. Well, life has a funny way of sneaking up on you when you think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up in your face...The window’s ... it’s like ... open.”   Everyone drowsily looked up at the small window above Lawrence, who was lying on the ground cramped up in stomach pain.   “Tara,” David instructed. “You stand on Lawrence’s shoulders and go through the window. Then open the door from the inside.”   Slowly, Lawrence lifted himself to his knees as Tara climbed onto his shoulders. Then, moaning with pain, Lawrence arduously stood up. The sound of the back seam of his pants ripping seemed to produce no reaction from the others as they watched Tara reach the window, open it, and hoist herself through.   Twenty very long seconds later, they heard scuffling, a few jiggles of locks turning, the slow opening of the metal door, Tara’s glazed over eyes standing before them, and finally the sound of the alarm.   The next two minutes were a blur for the Apocalyptics. David and Quinn shoved past Tara into the store. As Wanda followed, Tara grabbed her arm.   “I can’t. I’m gonna be sick. Go without me,” the drooling 13-year-old advised as the convulsions began.   Tara proceeded outside where she began throwing up. A few feet away, Lawrence couldn’t resist the massive urge to relieve himself. Clutching his ripped rump, he said to her, “Woo-ee-oo, I look just like Buddy Holly. Oh-Oh, and you're Mary Tyler Moore. I don't care what they say about us anyway. I don't care 'bout that,” then abandoned both Tara and his duty as he made a run for the obscure dumpster in the distance.   Meanwhile, David and Quinn managed to make it to the bikes, but suddenly were too weak to move them.   “I can’t! I’m soooo tired. I just can’t budge her. She's lump, she's lump, she's lump. She might be dead,” Quinn knelt down and plopped his cheek on the bike’s leather seat.   “Me, too. But we can’t stop now. We’ve come all this far... Okay. We take one bike. Oh, I’m soooooo weak!” David flopped against the shiny red motorcycle.   Wanda, who miraculously had a burst of energy come to her, ran over to the boys. “Tara’s aborted the mission! I can’t find the manuals without her. We can’t take the bikes! Come on. Let’s get out before the police arrive!”       Two days later.   “Hey, are you watching the Sunday Parade on TV?” Lawrence asked over the phone.   “What? I just woke up from sleeping for the past two days,” David said on the other end.   “Well, at least you haven’t been living in the bathroom like I have,” Lawrence answered. “Turn on channel 9. You have to see it.”   David grabbed the remote from his night table. As the image came up on the TV screen, he sat, mouth agape.   “We’re live here at the ‘Celebrate Small People’ Parade here in Clifton, and let me tell you. This is just another great example of what great work the church is doing for the community.”   “It sure is, Tina. And here with us is Mr. Danny Champ, who’s here to show us his very cool and groovy specially modified motorcycle. So Danny, what do we have here?”   “Well, Bill. Here we have the 450MDG model, custom designed for small people, which apparently is so irresistible that someone tried to steal off with it two nights ago from Big Wheels Motorcycle shop. But thanks to a brave young man who fought off the robbers before they could get away with the bike, we have this beauty unharmed here with us today. Thanks Quinn Sanders.”     © Copyright, Victoria Guidi     Tripping By Lorena Smith   The music blares from the open windows of the car. It is summer and we are all 16 and acting like it. “Well, get in…” There are two boys in the car. The one is blonde and wearing a black mesh shirt over tight Levis. He has a cross dangling off one ear lobe and a wicked smile. He looks like George Michael. At least he is trying hard to. The other one is not quite illuminated from the light of the streetlight and all I can pick up is the Hang Ten logo on his shirt and a Coke in the cupholder. I guess he hasn’t read the latest taste tests. People prefer Pepsi. Now that someone has actually stopped to give us a ride, we all hesitate. We have stood here for about an hour with our thumbs in the wind. We were about to call it a night for which I, at least, was enormously grateful. I had no desire to hop into a car with people I didn’t know to travel 60 miles to hear some concert we probably weren’t going to get into. And here we were, almost, almost out of this adventure that was going to have me in enormous trouble with my parents and this silly old car stops by. I twirl my black plastic earrings and swear softly under my breath. I can’t bow out because I don’t want to seem like a wimp. Our theme for the summer is “Wild women do—and they don’t regret it.” I’m not sure I’m that wild. And I’m sure I’m going to regret it. Madeline snaps her gum and puffs up her hair. “Is my mascara running?” She actually has so much eye makeup on that I can’t tell if anything is running in her face. Is there supposed to be a blue streak across her cheek? I don’t know so I keep quiet. I am the newest member in this gang of four and I’m not about to jeopardize anything. Linda tugs at her sweatshirt, which has the neck ripped out. Then she tugs at her leg warmers. I wish she’d stop tugging at everything. She’s making me nervous. “Well, let’s go—what the hell is everyone waiting for?” Anna is the most timid of the three that I had become friends with and she stutters a little. ‘Well you know, we don’t know them. And we’re going far. And what if…?” We hear the car start up again while we are talking and the music starts blaring.             Madeline throws herself at the door before they have a chance to drive off. “Hi—yes we’ll go” The guy who had hitherto been in the dark leans forward and I feel my heart skip. Oh heavens. It’s him. He is gorgeous. “I’m Jim; this is Bob.” I mumble something and slip into the back seat of the car behind the driver’s seat. Anna tumbles after me, still mumbling and catching her enormous pink fluorescent hair ribbon in the door. She always seems to be dropping bits and pieces around her. I notice that only one of her socks still has a pom pom on it. Madleiene, the most outgoing and the author of tonight’s adventure squishes herself in the front seat with the guys. I knew she was going to. I see her smile at Jim and feel my heart sink. This is going to suck. “Ladies. Onward. And what can my associate and I play for you today?” I stare out the window. I am tired of this already. I can tell how the evening will end. We will get there, won’t get in the concert. Linda will cry about Mike; Anna will be sick with worry that her parents will find out she has been hitchhiking and Madeliene will make out with Jim who looks like that guy from AHA. Or else she will pick a fight with both of them and we’ll be stuck all night trying to find a ride home.   “Take on me… take me on.”   Yeah buddy. Take me on. But I know that won’t happen. I recognized him from school and knew that Madeliene had too. He was an upperclassman and on the football team. She was by far the more aggressive of us and I was used to not getting what I wanted when it came to attention from boys.   “Why don’t they … do what they say… say what they mean… one thing leads to another…”   I mouth the words. The Fixx. I love this song. The road flashes by and the streetlights throw shadows across the white divider lines. I glance up. A look in the back mirror. A flash between our eyes. I stare back. He’s mouthing the words too and I feel a chill. He smiles slightly and I blush and look down. I glance at Madeliene and feel a chill of a different sort. Whatever. I look outside again.             We’re finally here. I knew it. We can’t get in. It’s in a large outdoor park, but the chain link fence is miles high and we have no tickets.             “Come on, quietly and hurry everyone. We have about five minutes to get there.” We run along the fence and I wonder if anyone knows where we’re going. We’re in a dark part now but I can see the flashlight from a security guard playing along the fence. One of Jim’s friends is waiting. “Come on!! Come on… For god’s sake… faster.” Bob is the first one to wiggle through the tiny opening underneath the fence. I can feel my heart beating. I think I’m going to be sick. He hauls Madeline and Linda through and then Anna. The security guard is almost on top of us. Anna gets stuck and the friend and Bob are both tugging at her. I feel the light catch my face just as she is yanked loose with a yelp. I turn to the guard. “What are you doing young lady? Go buy a ticket like everyone else. Now get the hell out of here before I arrest you.” I glance back over the fence and see the retreating back of Madeline holding Bob’s hand and tripping in her Madonna mini skirt. Great. Now what? I guess I’ll have to call my Dad and be grounded for the rest of my life. I turn to walk back to the parking lot and feel someone catch my hand. It is Jim. He smiles. “We can listen to music in the car while we wait for them,” he says.             So all night we listen to music in his car. Mostly hard rock. Poison and Europe and Scorpion. We talk and talk. We listen to guitar riffs and argue if Joey Tempest or Brett Michaels has better hair. We stop talking to listen to the Scorpions sing Winds of Change and talk a little about the Berlin Wall coming down and how strange that is.             We talk and talk until I see the others coming back. The concert is over. It is midnight. It will be past two when we get home. Only three hours past curfew.             The night didn’t end the way I thought it would. My parents didn’t catch me sneaking in through the window. Jim and I remain friends to this day. We often meet at social functions or business meetings.             Recently I ran into him and out of the blue he said, “Remember that day with the concert? In my car listening to music? I really wanted to kiss you that night.” “Why didn’t you?” I asked. He smiled. “I guess I just didn’t hear the right song.” I smile as I head for my house and my kids and my husband. Sweet memories. The final countdown and Aha. Too much hairspray and teenage hormones. I open my door and hear Barney singing “I love you… you love me… we’re a happy family…” How happy I am that this time the right song is playing.   © Copyright, Lorena Smith     Shifting By H. Lovelyn Bettison   “This is it,” Ray said extending his hand to help me up. I had mud in my new white K-Swiss sneakers and smeared up the back of my pink jeans. They were ruined. I just knew it. I thought we snuck out of school during lunch to see a movie, not to do this. Aaron stumbled around looking for his shoes. His unlaced sneakers had fallen off during the downhill tumble. “What do you mean, this is it?” Aaron said. He slipped his feet effortlessly into his shoes. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”             “Are we?” Ray said. He slipped the hood of his black Public Enemy sweatshirt over his head and walked confidently away from us.             “What do you mean are we?” I asked his back. He continued to walk away from us.             Ray’s hands moved in front of him jerkily and we could hear him saying, “’Cause I’m black and I’m proud. I’m ready and hyped plus I’m amped. Most of my heroes don’t appear on no stamps.” Ray was obsessed with Public Enemy’s Fear of a Black Planet album.  The reason I thought we were going to a movie is because he sat next to me in the cafeteria and said, “Burn, Hollywood burn. I smell a riot going on. First they’re guilty, now they’re gone. Sure I’ll check out a movie, but it’ll take a black one to move me.” He smiled at me. Ray was dark-skinned with straight white teeth and clear eyes. He had a scar just over his right eyebrow. He told me he got it in a fight with his older brother when he was nine. He had a part cut into his short black hair. As he got up from the orange plastic chair he motioned with his head for me to follow him. Aaron was waiting for us out in the hallway. I thought we were going to see Do the Right Thing. Instead Ray led us out to the woods. I followed Ray and Aaron followed us both. Aaron’s high top fade brushed the branches on the trees. His unlaced sneakers made clumping sounds in the dried leaves on the forest floor. Aaron was a follower. He was always getting into trouble for something that was someone else’s idea. He was slower than most and easily caught. He was funny and mostly honest. That’s why I liked him. Even though the leaves had already begun to fall off of the trees, it was an unusually warm day. It was too warm to wear a coat. I could hear birds loudly calling in the trees overhead. “Can you hear that?” Ray asked. He stopped walking. “Wh…” Aaron started to say, but Ray shushed him. With his feet firmly planted, he twisted his upper body and held up his hand, palm facing us. I strained my ears to try to hear what he was hearing. “Water,” Ray said. Once he said it, I could hear it. The rushing of water, like someone forcing air through his teeth. We continued to walk forward. I could see light ahead—a place where the trees parted. Ray stepped out of the trees into the light and stopped. We each took our places next to him. There was a short patch of grass that sloped into a rushing stream. Ray sat on the grass and hugged his knees. “This is it,” he said. “Oh yeah,” Aaron said, “I followed you all the way out here and messed up my new sneakers for this.” He clumped down to the edge of the water and stuck his hand in. “It’s warm, but warm water comes out of my sink at home too.” Ray laughed and looked up at me. I lowered myself to the grass next to him. It was damp, but I didn’t complain. “What do you think?” Ray asked me. “Pretty,” I said. He put his arm around me. It was heavy on my shoulders. Ray and I weren’t going together or anything like that. There were rumors at school, but they were just rumors. We did a lot of talking but it was just that—talking. It’s good to really know someone. It’s good to be able to trust someone. We sat there for a little while and watched Aaron walk back and forth along the water’s edge, mumbling. Ray seemed to be waiting for him to get tired, but he didn’t. Instead he started rapping, “Back in the 60’s our brothas and sistas were hanged. How could you gang bang? I never ever ran from the Ku Klux Klan and I shouldn’t have to run from a black man. ’Cause that’s…” Then he sang the chorus, “Self-destruction. You’re headed for self-destruction. Self-destruction. You’re headed for self-destruction.” Aaron only knew Kool Moe Dee’s part so he repeated it over and over again. I didn’t have a watch, but I knew that lunch and study hall were over. I was missing my A.P. English class. Mrs. Jenkins was collecting our creative writing assignments and going over the introduction to Thoreau in our textbook. I liked English and didn’t really want to miss the class, but it was too late now. “Stop that and sit down,” Ray yelled at Aaron. “I know you’re not talking to me,” Aaron responded. He threw his arms out angrily. Ray said nothing. He didn’t have to. Aaron dropped his arms to his side, laughed nervously and said, “Sike. You know I was just playing.” He walked over and sat down next to me. “I brought you here to show you something. You’re not going to see it if you aren’t looking,” Ray said. “Sorry,” Aaron responded, “Where do you want me to look?” “Over there,” Ray pointed to the stream, “Just sit here quietly and wait.” Aaron was good at following instructions. I didn’t know what else to do, so I did what I was told. As I watched, the water seemed to flow faster and faster. It rushed over rocks and splashed up onto the bank. The rushing of water started to roar in my ears so that I could hear nothing else, not the song of the birds or the wind. None of us spoke. I wanted to plug my ears up with my fingers, but I didn’t.  Ray and Aaron sat transfixed. In the roar of the water I could hear something that sounded like a voice. It was a voice tucked inside static. I couldn’t make out what it said. A mist was beginning to form. It was thick and white like a cloud seeping from the ground all around us. I felt Aaron’s cool fingers encircle my forearm and squeeze. “Ray,” I said. “Don’t say anything. Don’t move. Just watch and listen,” Ray said. I could still see him through the mist. He was calm. Seeing him made my pounding heart slow a little. Something fluttered against my cheek. It felt like butterfly wings, but I couldn’t see anything. Then it happened again and again. It was like a million butterflies flying by us. This probably only lasted for a few minutes, but it felt like lifetimes. When the mist lifted, I felt an overwhelming joy in my heart. It was something that I could never explain. When the mist disappeared, I knew that I was loved and approved of. I knew that. I had no doubts. I had no fears.     © Copyright, H. Lovelyn Bettison       Mr. Wendal has freedom A free that you and I think is dumb Free to be without the worries of a quick to diss society for Mr. Wendal's a bum Go ahead, Mr.Wendal —Arrested Development   MISTER DOUBLE YOU By Jeffrey Scott Jewett   Clip-clop-clip-clop. On route to Hailsham Park, where madness was bought and sold to anyone fool enough for the purchase, two police officers passed. The brim of their hats hid their faces as they rode high in their saddles. Clip-clop-clip-clop....   The day shined bright, and the sidewalks were shaded, but not by trees. Third Street had no trees, but rather shady inhabitants that mingled to and fro.   And Korean owned liquor stores.   ``Foreigner owners on every corner,'' Mr. Double You grumbled. He pushed his cart down Third toward Bonnie Brea. Gray-C, the ole' gray cat, sat atop a rolled up sleeping bag set among aluminum cans, plastic grocery bags and other odd stuff collected from a series of dumpsters.  Possessions he referred to as his `knick-knack-patty-whacks-give-a-dog-a-bone.'   ``Yeppity," he said. "This old man is rolling home.'' The cat's face craned back. Owl like, her green eyes lethargically blinked with adoration as she yawned. Then she mouthed an inaudible meow. Mr. Double You cackled. Like a captain at the bow of her ship, the cat craned her face back around as her body gracefully wobbled with the jouncing of the cart.   Gray-C and he had been together for a long, long-time, since she had been a handful of lint and squeaks. His eyes glazed with the memory of that morning when they had first met.   The morning had been relatively quiet. The sounds of a city yawning: the snore of a bus passing in the distance, and the whoosh from the traffic on the distant freeway.  A soothing sound, he thought, that reminded him of an ocean’s surf. As he pushed his cart, the wheels rattled warily, like the wheels of a roller coaster running down on its track after a long fast run. Mr. Double You had lived a long, fast life. When he heard the kitten's pathetic cries issuing from somewhere on the corner of Third and Bonnie Brea, he followed the sound. He kneeled in the gutter and peered into a drain, when ...     ``You wanna buy a bowling pin?'' A junkie interrupted Mr. Double You's day dream by blocking his path. The junkie pulled a bowling pin out of a garbage bag, displaying it like a game show prize.   Mr. Double You stopped and regarded the man's wares. ``I see your bowling pin has gotta red neck,'' he said. ``I don't like rednecks, and rednecks don't like me.''   ``Five bucks, man,'' the junkie pleaded. ``Give me three?''   ``Three dollars?'' He looked the junkie up and down. ``I see you got balls too.'' As Mr. Double You continued down Third, the junkie yelled, ``Big ones! Can't live on these streets without `em.''   On the corner of Third and Bonnie Brea, he left his cart on the sidewalk and walked to the curb. Down into the gutter he stared, his eyes narrowed with contemplation as he regarded the drain where he had crossed the path of the gray cat so long ago.   "Humph." After a moment he retrieved his cart and continued his stroll. As he passed panhandlers, those too lazy to panhandle, winos, and a variety of skid row backsliders who improvised at impoverishment, he muttered, ``A sound of a cello seeping up from the gutter.  HA!'' He shook his head doubtfully. ``I'm senile. Maybe always have been.'' Then he replied, ``You ain't crazy.'' He shrugged. ``You say.'' He nodded and smiled. ``I say. You ain't crazy.''   Gray-C began to purr when he stopped, and spotted fresh horse droppings in the middle of the crosswalk.   "I hear you got yer' engines runnin' don't you girly? That's my magic motor."   As he entered the crosswalk, he half spun one way, then another, as he danced a little jig around the horseshit. A happy dance dedicated to Miss Connie's potted tomato plants that would no doubt appreciate the dung. Faces on the procession of commuters waiting for the traffic light scowled with impatience. He stopped and returned an agitated glare as car horns beeped. They sound like swampland frogs, he thought, then tittered. From the cart he retrieved a plastic grocery bag with $UPER $AVERS written across it in large pink script, and for the benefit of his commuting audience, he dramatically shook the bag like a magician's handkerchief. Like magic, he thought.   ... It had been long ago, at Third and Bonnie Brea, kneeled before the drain in the gutter, when he heard an echoed melodic sound mingled with her cries, like a bow dragged across the strings of a cello. The low notes, as though a foreboding hum. A sound that somehow carried from the gutter all its filth and stench but then mended into a sympathetic symphony of something that sounded like ... like hope. Somehow, the sound reminded him of an ugly bud bloomed into a flower, or a bloody birth mended into life. He froze in silent reverie, hunched down with his ass up, half sprawled in the gutter. His hand mid stride from the kitten’s grasp....   ``Man,'' Mr. Double You asked, ``how long you think cats live, anyway?'' He frowned. ``Don't go there! Ya' hear! Just don't!" He smiled. "How much time you think she got left?"   The light turned green. A redheaded lady stuck her head out from a Regal and yelled,``Whad the hell are you doing?''   He stuck his hand inside the bag and pointed at the lady, then slowly waved the bag to and fro. ``Behold,'' Mr. Double You bellowed. ``Before yer very eyes, something heard but rarely seen!'' Another jig around the manure, he kneeled and scooped up the droppings. He pulled his hand out while simultaneously turning the bag inside out, then twirled and sealed it. He held the bag up like a prized goldfish won at a carnival. ``You just witnessed a brotha' taking shit from the police!'' The light turned red, and smiles beamed beyond the vehicles’ windshields as the commuters waited for the traffic light to change to green.   He pushed his cart down Third toward Flower. The cat gracefully wobbled with the jouncing of the cart.   ``But hadn't you been drunk as a skunk when you had heard that sound, what sounded like a bow being dragged against a cello?'' He shrugged. "Yeppity, I was drunk. Drunk as usual,” he muttered. ''And ain't had a drop since, have ya?" he asked. "That's because I ain't been thirsty."     On the corner of Flower, again the cat began to purr.   As he approached a Hispanic couple standing on the corner bewailing one another, he noticed a suitcase at the women's feet. As he neared, he read guilt and shame on her face. On the man's face he read murder, revealed like a red explanation point branded above his brow. Hell, I read faces like Einstein solved equations, he thought.   "Since you crossed her path?" He tittered. "Every since." And smiled at Gray-C.   He parked his cart before the couple, and then half spun one way, then another, as he danced a little jig.   "And how old was you when you found that cat, Wendall?" he asked.  "Eight-three or so," he replied.  "Living amongst the crime and the shootin,' but you hardly suffered a cold." He stopped dancing. "Yeppity,' he said. "Every since."   The man on the corner listened to the old man's mumblings and remarked, ``Loco chongo.'' Mr. Double You proceeded to rummage in his cart while Gray-C playfully swiped and pawed. She didn't swipe like she used to, Mr. Double You thought. But neither could he jig like he used to. The couple watched as he retrieved and donned a child's red plastic fire helmet. Then he retrieved two golf tees, dabbing them with chewing gum stuck to the cart's handle. He placed the golf tees atop his helmet, as though they were a roach's antennae. He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a lighter, lit it, and made a wild wailing sound while he danced a little jig.   The lady's eyebrows rose. The man glared, and then regarded his girl. When the couple's eyes met, they simultaneously guffawed. Satisfied, Mr. Double You retrieved a plastic yellow rose from his cart and handed it to the man. The man dug into his pocket, reaching over the cart—where Gray-C nudged the man's wrist—and gave Mr. Double You a dollar and some change, even as that red explanation mark faded like a school girl's blush.   Mr. Double You fingered the change with approval. ``A knick-knack-patty-whack-give-a- dog-bone. Yeppity, this old man is rolling home.'' He pushed his cart toward Hailsham Park.   He stopped in front of an apartment building. At Gray-C's relief, Mr. Double-You retrieved the bag of dung and tossed it up onto a second floor balcony, the home of seventy-four year old Miss Connie, who, unbeknownst to Mr. Double-You, had passed away last week. The new tenants were a family from the Philippines.       Hailsham Park was once beautiful with its glistening pond and healthy trees, now even the trees appeared demented. Branches reached up greedily like a malnourished hand from a panhandling dope addict. The pond was a cesspool of murky filth.   Home at last, he parked next to his bench. He lifted Gray-C up to an overhanging branch. She made her way to a cubby-nest that had been constructed more than thirty years past, back before the kid who had built it got in trouble with drugs. He had stopped visiting Gray-C. He locked his cart onto the bench with a bike chain. Strips of roasted chicken and fresh water were poured into a dish in the cart. With the sleeping bag placed on the bench, he sat and nibbled on roasted chicken while he read yesterday's newspaper.     Gray-C awaited him in her spot in the cart when he awoke the next morning. Her slumped posture and the muck around her eyes had failed to alarm Mr. Double You.   "Mornin' my sleepy cat?"   Under Gray-C's tree slept the usual drunks who had suffered a bad spell and junkies that failed to score. A few leaned against the trunk. Many slept sprawled under the twisted and gnarled branches. Each face was a blank page of serenity.   "Can't read them faces,'' Mr. Double You remarked. "Never could when they found their way under Gray-C's tree.''   Every night more and more of the pained found their way under her tree. Ignorant that she was even up there, purring like a tiny motor muffled by fur.   As he pushed his cart up Third, past Hailsham, and then Flower, her body wobbled not with grace, but with tension.   When finally they reached the corner of Bonnie Brea, the cat leaned up on the cart's handle and dragged her chin affectionately across Mr. Double You's cheek. His eyes light lit up with terror as she leapt onto his shoulder and hopped down onto the sidewalk. She had never, ever done that without his assistance.   ``Gray-Seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?''   His heart stopped when she trotted toward the street, paused at the curb above the drain, looked back, mouthed an inaudible meow, and then disappeared.   ``Gray-Seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!'' again and again he yelled into the drain.   His bench at Hailsham Park was forever vacant. He slept on that corner at Third and Bonnie Brea, right there in the gutter. Curled up and peering into the drain as his life's vitality seemingly seeped out of him like floodwater. As panhandlers, those too lazy to panhandle, winos, and a variety of skid row backsliders passed him as they improvised in impoverishment, he moaned, ``Gray-C...''     © Copyright Jeffrey Scott Jewett   Mainstream Fiction    I must be the Nick Carraway to your Gatsby, because of the empty faces at the funeral (the beady-eyed spouse awaiting the first moment he could leave, the teenagers hanging out with friends and trying to look cool, the co-workers popping in and out like bees into flowers), mine must have held the most grief.     Poeme: An Autobiographical Letter to an Anonymous Friend By Chris Goebel   What I really recall about you before death is your scent, how the fragrance wafted slightly ahead of your quick strides. You wore Poeme, and this resonated well with my poetic spirit. Perhaps this alone made us fast friends. We discussed work and children and holidays, spouses, cruises (your husband was a cruise ship pilot, not to your benefit). You were divorcing.   You gave me a Christmas present and I gave you one (we both gave candy, though neither of us cares much for sweets), the year ended and I got a job elsewhere. A phone call deepened our friendship: “We thought you might like to know, since you were closest to her.” This couldn’t be true. “How did it happen?” “She died when she went jogging. Heart attack.” At 40? While jogging? Doesn’t exercise ensure fitness?   But she’d spoken of anemia, a heart condition, blood transfusions. Maybe I had known her better. But we’d never gone to one another’s houses or left work to dine out, Escaped from the prison called work, caused catastrophes, whathaveyou.   Am I the only one who expects to see a beautiful woman (my friend was certainly beautiful—tall, blonde streaked hair, gorgeous face, enormous eyes, always smiling) buried well? The funeral home butchered that moment. If you’ve seen the autopsy picture of Marilyn Monroe you know what I’m talking about—the beauty’s been carved out instead of into them: the jawline, which says so much about beauty (ask yourself if that’s not true), was cut slack. No perfume. All that remained was a perfect French manicure that you’d always maintained were your own nails with acrylic on top (one of those idiosyncrasies I adore about people). I resist seeing more departed thus, having suffered this slight at your expense.   I must be the Nick Carraway to your Gatsby, because of the empty faces at the funeral (the beady-eyed spouse awaiting the first moment he could leave, the teenagers hanging out with friends and trying to look cool, the co-workers popping in and out like bees into flowers), mine must have held the most grief. While, like Nick, I couldn’t ensure the dignity you deserved, I still wear your perfume.   Thank God writers watch the world and still give a damn at sunset.     © Copyright 2005, Chris Goebel       COMIC SHORT STORIES   Again, I’m left to wonder what the hell is wrong with the world today. It’s coffee! Just coffee! Get a hold of yourselves!   The Way I See It By Amberine Wilson   I use to work for a large coffee company that shall remain nameless so Starbucks’ doesn’t sue me. As an employee of the above unsaid company, I was treated very well. In exchange for just twenty hours a week of micromanaged sweat and tears, I received full dental, visual and medical coverage. As a worker of various part time jobs, I can assure you that this is a fantastic perk. In fact, a plethora of people with resumes in their hands are drawn to the open doors of these beneficial institutions. There are many artists and musicians there; others, like me, have liberal arts degrees. Working for the insurance while going to school or selling art or playing at local bars is a good gig. Work full time and you get everything, plus stock! Yes indeed, this coffee company treats its employees very well, but it coddles its customers. I have never in my life encountered such a brood of over indulged "adults.” These spawn seem to be drawn, as if by a mother’s soothing song, to the comfy couches of these particular cafés. That obnoxious little blonde girl who got sucked in with the bad eggs at Willy Wonka’s factory drinks a single tall cinnamon dolce latte with half a Splenda and stamps her foot if there is even one person in line before her. Don’t get me wrong, there are some that I loved, some I called Sunshine because their sweet personalities were like rays of hope to all of us. Yes we love you venti, extra sugar-free vanilla latte lady and iced venti, extra ice, 2 Splenda passion tea lady and doppio espresso macchiato for here man. I’m not talking about them. They are outnumbered. It’s the little monsters that are in high concentration at the coffee shops I no longer have to open at four in the morning. You see, we are the only ones that will accept them for the picky little brats they are. We welcome them with open arms. Where else can you order a triple tall, 3 pump, sugar-free vanilla, two percent, upside-down caramel macchiato and actually have someone make it for you? I mean, with a smile on her face. Go down to the charming local coffee shop that features live music at night and smells of incense twenty-four hours a day, the one run by a bunch of fun loving dreadlock wearing folks, and just try to order that drink. You know what they do? They smirk in your face and point across the street … to the café where I use to work. Whose bright idea was it to give a bunch of lost souls, looking for a way to distinguish themselves from the rest of the herd they commute with, a little booklet that suggests all the different ways they can order their coffee? “Have no options or control in your life,” the little booklet prods. “No problem,” it consoles, “come down to this fantastic coffee shop and order whatever you want.” Now if someone comes in and desires a ristretto americano I understand that they want to taste only the sweet flavor in the first few seconds of an espresso shot. Ok fine, you’re a Coffee Connoisseur. But if someone orders a ristretto mocha, I think, what the fuck is wrong with people in the world today? How the hell can you taste a ristretto shot if it’s covered in mocha syrup? I swear, these are the same people who go to a bar on Tuesday night for a business meeting and order Grey Goose vodka only to mix it with Red Bull. I can just hear these people smirking, “Look at me, look at me; I know the word ristretto and I can afford premium vodka.” I’ve come to the conclusion that people just like to be difficult because it makes them feel more important or maybe even more secure. “But I can tell the difference,” they whine. Really? Did you know that for the last month the baristas have been serving you single grande mochas instead of grande ristretto mochas? Oh yes, and you’ve said nothing. But you are really not so bad, you who want to distinguish yourself. I understand your hopeless struggle against monotony. It’s those wretched descendants of disdain who made me quit my job.  Those who are so used to getting their way that if during a crazy rush, a barista with a burnt hand accidentally puts whole milk in an half calf, triple grande, 8 pump hazelnut, nonfat, 180 degree, with whip cream latte, they instantly turn on her as if she were responsible for every misery in their lives. They don’t care that the young woman arrived at work before four in the morning so people could have their coffee before four-thirty or that after spilling brewed coffee on her hand, she had to pour someone’s 20 ounces of half and half mixed with espresso down the drain because some idiot wanted their breve cut with whole milk. Yes, it’s you people who lack compassion and restraint that we can’t stand. You, who would back up your car, slam the door, stomp back into the café and turn blue in the face with a gigantic temper tantrum over a hot beverage. Of course at the café where I used to work, this behavior is still promptly rewarded with a free drink coupon, a smile and an apology. Again, I’m left to wonder what the hell is wrong with the world today. It’s coffee! Just coffee! Get a hold of yourselves! Who are these ridiculous inhabitants of those nameless coffee shops? What makes them treat every barista as if they live and breathe to serve them brewed beans? Did they never see their second grade teacher at the grocery store? Did they miss the revelation that no one’s world is an oyster? Has their botox snapped? Has their wife left them for their best friend? Are their kids driving them crazy? Have they even considered that their poor little boy wouldn’t have ADD if they stopped giving him raspberry mochas? Are they taken for granted paralegals? Does the color green make them angry? Did they not get the promotion? Are they simply passing the buck or do they think it gets them something? It gets them decaf coffee and insincere smiles. Do you remember that day? You came in and rolled your eyes when I asked you to repeat your ridiculous drink that you merely mumbled to me. Then you repeated it slowly, with exaggerated condescension dripping from your lips, before snorting and returning to your cell phone conversation. Decaf. And you who loudly whispered something under your breath about why stupid baristas get paid so little. Decaf. And woman, yes you, who screamed at me, with your child in your arms, about your nonfat milk. Decaf.  Do you know why all of you were a little tired that day? Why you had to drink the crappy coffee with powdered milk that your company’s employee lounge serves? Decaf. And don’t think that since I am gone you retched people will escape justice. There are many baristas who continue to use the Decaf Defense against your belligerency. No one wants the likes of you caffeinated. Oh yes, those “stupid” baristas hold the power in their hands. They supply the public with one of the most highly used legal drugs and then watch as your tolerance builds up and you complain of headaches and you come back for more. So be nice to your drug dealers, my friends, or they will cut you off with smiles on their faces and a free decaf drink coupon in their hands.     © Copyright, Amberine Wilson   HORROR   She wouldn’t live through this; many shadows emerged from the lit room and gathered with shuffling sounds around her on the concrete floor. AND THEY GREW.     NIGHTSTALKER: IN THE CREEPING DARKNESS By Chris Goebel   They had drugged her at the bar. She’d gone to the ladies’ room, left her Pina Colada unattended, returned to a smiling stranger inviting a cool, long drink. These places made her nervous—small town bars on major highways—that, and a skirt she couldn’t pull lower down her legs to be less whorelike. Nina hated wearing a new miniskirt and discovering it was four inches shorter in the wearing than it had been in the trying on: in that skirt, sitting down had stirred lust in every male within two hundred feet. Beauty cursed. Nina had experienced the fear of men wanting her, but this… You weren’t supposed to wake up on your birthday in total darkness, knowing you’d been drugged—worse, knowing you’d erred on the side of stupidity. Ignorance. Creepy fucking feelings. No sensation in your arms or legs—or anywhere else for that matter (and those parts did matter)—only a roaring scream in your head. Get the hell out of here. Move your damn ass, stupid! They’re coming to get you. This was Friday the 13th, only she was the ignoramus challenging Jason to attack. No light no sound no movement no wind no hope no future no nothing. You  can’t shut out pitch black fear by closing your eyes and Nina could do nothing but wait—closing her eyes, then squinting them open. If the attacker came, she needed to know. No, she didn’t need to freakin’ know! Let the rampage be done. Finish the madness. She could almost pierce the darkness to see her bound hands and ankles. Now she was a quadriplegic without a wheelchair or device. A dove without wings as the stealthy cat creeps. A body in space, awaiting unmentionable torture. The door would open; light would shine in and blind her. She couldn’t move. He’d remove his pants, lower himself to her, slap her around—his sweat would shower her with neverending grief and guilt—no one would believe she hadn’t consented. The drug would be out of her system in hours. Fucking asshole finish me now, you shiteating, yellow slime sucking, perverted specimen of subhuman, shrunken gonad bullying cowardice! Peon! Nina’s head pounded. She wanted to vomit or she had already—or maybe she had and would soon. This was worse than trying every drink at Pat O’Brien’s in New Orleans (151 Bacardi, unrelenting alcoholic purging that only beans and rice can soak up out of your liver). She was 21. Her parents wouldn’t come looking for her. She saw a tombstone glowing next to Commander’s Palace, or was it the Governor’s Mansion in New York? Mount Rushmore? WHERE IN THE HELL AM I? and no answer, no sound, no compassion in this vortex of loss, highness? Was she high? This was more than a drinking buzz. The man at the bar was a fuzzy memory. Nausea attacked like high sea waves. Light. Shadow. Mist. Mist? The cool vapor entered the room before the shapes. She wouldn’t live through this; many shadows emerged from the lit room and gathered with shuffling sounds around her on the concrete floor. AND THEY GREW. They seemed twelve feet tall, wore capes that swept the floor. Large, angular heads. Not … human. Alien rape? Would some alien child pop out of her belly and start eating her family? Talk. Beg! No words came and the shadows shuffled closer, their huge faces a few inches shy of fuzziness. Nina tried to tighten her knees, was too afraid to look down and see if it worked; hope drained out of her like urine. There was no freakin’ way she was gonna be gangbanged by aliens and not defend herself! Then one touched her temple and though she closed her eyes, heat radiated from the thing’s finger into her brain and she knew what it wanted. Her mind! Nina tried to move her head but nothing happened. As the alien worked her brain, the memory returned. She saw the picture as if she were outside of herself. She had gone to the bathroom, entered the stall, closed the door. When she’d pulled down her skirt to sit on the toilet, the alien—fully visible in his tangerine hue—had pierced the back of her neck with its jagged, clawlike appendage. Like a Brown Recluse bite, the chemical going in numbed the area. No wonder why she hated freakin’ spiders! The pain was yet to come. She would still go have the drink. The end of the drink had progressed to sexual madness on the stranger’s motorcycle while driving down the highway. Damn that skirt! The motorcycle dissolved—along with the driver. The previous momentum had thrust her to the street and the last thing she felt besides numbness was her skin scraping the pavement. Like tarantulas in the desert, the aliens had come for her. Like prey, she remained etherized. But this one wasn’t taking liquid substance from her. It wanted something in her mind. Thoughts and memories raced before her eyes, a million conscious and subconscious memories (So her boyfriend had slept with her friend while she’d been sleeping! So she had been adopted! Wait! Adopted?). The math problem she’d solved last week, the discovery of an extinct bird, accidentally killing a butterfly. Learning to sew, to cook, to make love. At once, the stabbing sensation awoke in her, the stifling realization arrived. How could anyone feel this pain and live? Her body writhed while her eyes widened with acute terror. She recognized the face of her first love, her first kiss—the inexplicable honeyed sweetness of human innocence and love. “Nina, will you go steady with me?” And that was what the alien wanted. As much as Nina knew what thought he viewed, she felt his desire to swipe this memory. She vomited, but the alien didn’t stop. She vomited again, until the dry heaves overtook her. Ice picks pricked at her skull. Vices gripped her brain. “Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin,” she whispered, then again, louder. “NOT BY THE HAIR ON MY CHIINY CHIN CHIN.” Then it was Disney and Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Then it was the Pythagorean Theorem. Albert Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. Wait, but she’d never studied that before. The aliens shuffled around her. Since sensation was returning, she kicked at what she hoped was a crotch. No movement. Great, either no balls or iron balls. The Laws of the Universe Complete. The equation for Entry in Concentric Universes. This had to be something she knew somehow. She tried pulling back her thoughts, but pictures and mathematical equations flashed by her eyes. The aliens got closer yet; the mist intensified. No scent, just wetness. Maybe they would rape her yet. Headache. Body ache. Scraped skin. The extracting appendage. Her head would explode and she recalled something in a mind apart from her own, separate from the one the alien examined. She had been beaten senseless as a child. A second mind evolved, a second conscience, a second being. Now that being awoke and saw the examination of Nina’s mind and laughed. They had attacked the wrong consciousness. Without her help, Nina would die. But Sostena knew what to deliver. Without much effort, she circumvented the alien’s mind probe into her own mind. Nina was now safe and if anyone died, it would be Sostena—but this mind knew no fear. In fact, Sostena’s brain possessed the one thing that could erase horror out of the corners of her mind. She shot the wave of depression and hopelessness into the alien, injecting him with the wavering dryness of years of abuse. Beatings, crying, screaming, invasion, betrayal, lack of compassion, fright, death, lack of love, horrid loneliness. The Nightstalker withdrew, the vapor immediately drying around them as the aliens dissipated, the ropes dissolved, the room disappeared. The motorcycle reappeared with the mysterious lover from the bar. She stopped in mid thrust. “I don’t think I know you,” Sostena whispered as she got off the motorcycle. Unlike Nina, she didn’t tug at her skirt as she dismounted. She couldn’t figure out why short skits embarrassed Nina. They had damn nice legs.     © Copyright, Chris Goebel     POETRY     The Singing Bridge by Jon Berahya The Singing Bridge is down the street where me and my girl like to meet. Rubber rolls over its ridges there in Frankfurt where the bridge is belting notes to passersby— buzzing, quoting like a fly in middle flight while it's still winging, never knowing that it's singing.     © Copyright 2006, Jon Berahya   twenty, for you by Andrew Miller I drew a line in the sky for all to see. People may see it, what could it be? Too low for a cloud, too high for a tree, Not a kite, nor a plane or a bird flying free. This line in the sky is for all to see. It may spawn curiosity or fill one with glee. Some worship such things and fall to a knee, While others ignore, "No time!" they decree. A line in the sky for all to see. I drew it for no one, not even for me. But you sat entranced for an hour or three. It evoked pleasant thoughts, sent your mind on a spree. This line in the sky was for you to see. A silence expected, as if a sting from a bee. It could be there forever, but when sounds ring in key, We may share ourselves freely, due to lines such as these.     © Copyright, Andrew Miller       Collection of Poems By Margaret Fieland                       White Lies   You asked me if Marilyn liked you but you didn't really want to know the answer.   The next time I am six I think I'll say I don't remember.                         Names Changed to Protect the Innocent   I am writing you this letter; I had hoped things would be better than they were the year before.   I am sorry I've not written but it's really hard to fit in; I am sure you know the score.   I am hoping you are all well. Did you hear my husband Al fell? It has really been a bore.   We found that his leg was broken when he went to let the folks in and was answering the door.   He went and slipped on the ice. He grabbed the rail but no dice; getting up was quite a chore.   We took him right to the doctor; the bad break has really shocked her. His leg's still really sore.   And my Mary's back to drinking, you can hear the glasses clinking and she drinks more than before.   We were hoping she'd stay sober, that her drinking days were over and her drinking was no more.   Alas it was all a vain hope. She says that she needs it to cope; She finds holidays a chore.   And my Al has started smoking, even though he's always choking; he just keeps on smoking more.   James is smoking like his father; it is really quite a bother; I don't need to tell you more.   And our Sally's started dating a boy Al is really hating and the rest of us adore.   All the rest of us are betting there will surely be a wedding, maybe June if not before.   Little Gary's grades are falling; it is really quite appalling. He won't study any more.   I've tried everything they told us. We have all made quite a big fuss and we've added to his chores.   Nothing that we've tried helps at all. We have just run into a wall; I just want to slam the door.   I hope that your news is better than the news that's in this letter. I feel I've been in a war.   I have written you all my news. Please write back to me when you choose. Love to everyone, Lenore.                             Bitter   I don't want to hear how unhappy you are because I didn't buy any Roast Beef at the deli or because I made Chili from Dave's recipe with the six tablespoons of Chili powder and Minestrone with the rind from the Parmesan cheese in the broth just like Marcella does.   It was enough to make me want to hit you with the soup pot.   And if you're ever happy with my cooking, then please tell me.   But I'm not holding my breath.                         Green on Thursdays   Where I was born, the world ended at the Hudson River and Sixth Avenue   was still one block west of Fifth.   In my neighborhood you never wore orange on Saint Patrick's day, never mind if you weren't Irish.   Better to wear green, unless it fell on a Thursday, because then they might think you were, you know,   one of Them.   Maybe I'll just wear blue.     © Copyright, Margaret Fieland     Collected Poems by stan krajewski     A Barrier Broken     Day by day a belief is lived. Bringing its character to all that we give.   We breathe, we speak, we sing, we dance. All with our style we continue to romance.   The years that taught our hearts this way Brought us to view others, not the same way.   This is the moment that is here for us all, When two souls touch, breaking down that wall.   A barrier broken occurs through the soul. Giving each other love,  Intended, for us all.       Whispers     In the quiet, can you hear? Soft is a voice, that speaks so clear.   Through the wind a whisper travels, touching our ears; it soon unravels.   Walking along in the still of the day, I hear its voice coming, my way.   “Let me speak to you alone;” “I have a message here, it is yours to own.”   As I continue to hear my day, there will always be a whisper in a Traveling way.          © Copyright Stan krajewski     Untitled by Akil Drayton    Damn sweets, what must I do or say? To show you, you’re always in the thoughts of AK. Not so much how you look, more so, the way yourself is conveyed. Just thoughts of you, from a brief interlude one day. For me you’re like a breath of fresh air. New beginnings seem so clear. A funny feeling takes over; each time you draw near the sounds of your voice, are constantly echoed in my ear. I want you to know how I feel about you. I don’t want to come off as rude, or look like a fool. So many times I wanted to reach out; instead I just leaned back, and started writing on my couch. If I only knew what you were feelings. A friend, yes! But it’s about you, I’m always daydreaming. This may not be the way to go; I am not putting on a show. It’s with you, I want to let my heart begin to grow. When I think of you, thoughts of a new love start to shine through. Baby, I’d take you however I can, be your rock, when it’s your man you can’t stand, my dear, as long as I’m near. Moms always told me, the woman I’d want, would leave me in tears. I’m writing these things, to show you I care. You’d know all these things for sure, if inside my heart you could hear. I want to make myself clear; with me there’s no rush, just know that I’m here.   ~AK~ © Copyright 5-30-06, Akil Drayton   SCIENCE FICTION Saving Private Josh By Mark Bennett                It reminded me of the Fourth of July. The cacophony of artillery was deafening. It sounded like there was an assault coming from the North end, to fierce resistance in the South. The offense was getting more desperate, the rifle fire was picking up. And this meant something important.             Mr. Andersen’s class had just broken up for their twenty-minute recess, and ours would be next.              I sat in English class, nervously watching the second hand tick by on the big, round clock that hung on the pockmarked wall. I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow as the hand swept up toward the 12. The bell sounded. Instantly, all students hit the floor, weapons drawn. The front of the class is the place to be. Those of us who are lucky enough to arrive early get to sit in front. This gives us a chance to slip quickly out the door when the bell sounds.             I noted that Matt and Sarah were lucky today. They had made it out the door before most of us had hit the floor. Last week John had made it out quickly all right, but so had Edward from the other class. In the crossfire, John escaped unhurt, only to succumb to heavy firing from two kids from Dr. Samuel’s history class three doors down. It was a tragic loss. He would surely have been a Valedictorian if he had lived to graduation, or if he had just not gone out the door as quickly. His situation lends support to the timeless lesson that war is unpredictable. Everyone is considered a potential enemy, or “potential,” as you never know from day to day who will be shooting at whom. Ad hoc groups form here and there, a combination of mortar teams, rifle squads, or even an upstart guerilla pack formed by bullies or loners that decided they are better off in a group than alone. The bottom line is the same for all: Survival.             Our school is one of the most violent private schools in the nation. The only humans in the building are the students and the janitor, “Old Milt.” No teachers. I’ve heard Milt has helped out with supplies now and again for kids who were unfortunate enough to run short of ammo just trying to make it to the bus after school. Teachers don’t come to class anymore. It’s not safe. They beam lessons via satellite television from their homes. The transmissions are live, the communication one-way, and it’s safe. No need to deal with the gunfire or the stupid questions.             We’re running short of students. So freshmen from around the country are shipped in. Replacements. The school district needs to meet a quota for number of live bodies so that they can continue to receive Federal funding. The poor kids show up every day en masse at the front gate, the big door of their Higgins Bus suddenly dropping down and exposing them to enemy fire. It’s not a good way to start school and certainly not what anyone had in mind when the term “new kid on the block” was coined. Last month, “Bifoc Tommy” climbed onto the roof of the Administrative Office and sniped at the fresh recruits. He was kind of a sicko, but he wasn’t always that way. He was a smart kid, wore glasses, and was without a doubt Honor Roll. He did this for two weeks. Climb, aim, snipe. Until he was killed. One of the new kids popped off a lucky shot as soon as the door of his bus fell, and dropped Tommy flat on his back. Tommy’s death was a big blow to our GPA National Ranking.             I made it to class late today so I was seated toward the back of the room. I had my desk flipped down for protection and my Glock 9 was at the ready. I only had one “Willie Pete” left on my belt, so I had to use it wisely. I figured I might need it after sixth period when things would really start to heat up. Suddenly, I heard my walkie-talkie crackle so I picked it up. “Josh! It’s Freddie. Come in.” Freddie was a good friend of mine and covered me several times in the early days when I had to go to the bathroom between classes. I’ve learned over time how to hold it until I get home. I depressed the button on the side of the box and replied. “Freddie. I’m here,” I said in a low whisper. “I’m pretty badly boxed in here in Mrs. Ingles’ class. I may need reinforcements. Can you rally anyone to come down here? A rifle company or something?” “I’ll do what I can. Things are pretty quiet out here in the hallway. I heard some firing about twenty yards away, probably near Dr. Schmidt’s class, but I don’t think it was in the hall. It wasn’t loud enough.” “I gotta get to my next class to turn in an assignment I’ve been working on for the last month. You’ve gotta get down here! I . . .” My command was interrupted by gunfire. Someone in the front of the class had gotten itchy and let loose. The “Battle of Ingles’ Class” had begun. I replaced the walkie-talkie on my belt and hunkered down to wait for the shooting to stop. A bullet hit the corner of my overturned desk, sending a puff of splinters onto my knee. There was a break, so I decided to survey the situation. As I peered over the top of the desk, I heard Mikey moaning, “Corpsman . . . I need a corpsman . . .” He looked pretty bad, and would get even worse. There were no wannabe doctors in this class so he wouldn’t get any attention. There were about six other bodies lying about, only two or three were moving and only Mikey was talking. The posts nearest the door were clear, confirming that others had escaped into the halls. Then the firing started again, but fortunately for those of us who remained, it was in the hallway. But still, even if we could get out of here, we would surely run into a more unpredictable situation in the halls. There would be no easy escape. See, some of the smaller students can bunker down in a locker, thereby taking advantage of the element of surprise on those who are less than superbly disciplined or merely aware. At least in the classroom you know where everyone is and, likewise, you surely know when your number is up. My review of the terrain was suddenly interrupted by the sharp sound of close gunfire. I ducked down and determined that the guns must have been carbines, and although it was good that they were not set on automatic, it was disturbing that the noise was getting closer. Then as suddenly as it started, the shooting stopped. I heard some clanging coming from the direction of the open door to the room, but dared not look up. I knew I was taking my life in my hands by inaction alone, as a grenade could easily have landed in my lap, but I felt I had no options. Then the shooting started again. This time it was booming and I heard explosions all around me. I peeked through my bangs to the wall behind me, and watched as large holes blew open in a line toward the windows on the side of the room. Then the shooting stopped again. “Josh! Josh, it’s clear!” came an unexpected shout from the front of the room. From my weeks of intensive training I immediately barked, “Password!” as I clutched the Glock firmly in my hands, anticipating the need to use it in mere moments. “Lucky Strike!” came the response. I leaped up with weapon drawn and was met with the vision of Freddie and six others flanking him. All were dressed in skateboard armor, including helmets, and each had a carbine drawn to cover Freddie and myself. Stu was also there, although already in position on the floor, manning the BAR unit on a bipod. He looked up and winked at me with a weary eye. “We gotta go, man!” Freddie shouted. No one dared get up. Anyone who peeked would definitely vomit at the site of the big gun that would surely erupt in his or her direction. I dashed through the maze of upturned desks, subconsciously noting that all heads were facing down, and greeted Freddie with a quick hug. Even though it lasted a mere second or two, I felt a deep relief and sense of peace. It helped to energize me for the battle that was ahead. “Yeah, good to see you, too,” Freddie started. “Now get off me and listen. The way I figure, we got about twenty potentials on the North wing of the school in the halls. We came through that way to get you and came under heavy fire. Sam here,” he patted an intense Sam on the elbow, “was lucky he was wearing his cap.” I noticed a graze on the top of Sam’s purple helmet. Sam nodded in agreement, but didn’t take his eyes off the temporary POWs. “So Shawn executed a great offensive maneuver, taking out seven as he rolled across the floor on his back. The rest of us followed his lead and charged ahead, firing at the max. They suffered heavy casualties, and retreated into the old Teacher’s Lounge. But like I said, there are about twenty left, and I’m sure they’ve regrouped by now and are dug in for the remainder of the break.” “Well, what are you doing talking to me, man? You want to give ‘em enough time to dig foxholes into the linoleum? Let’s get the hell out of here!” Freddie turned to run with me at his heels. The rest of the guys followed one by one, with Stu bringing up the rear after breaking down the BAR for transport. It was going to be a rough five minutes but at the very least, if today was my day to go, I hoped that someone would turn in my science project that I had carefully stashed in the fanny pack on my back. At school, you gotta take things as they come. One small battle at a time.     © Copyright, Mark Bennett       Everyone is supposed to just sit back and take death when it’s their time. I guess most of them would be too medicated to make much of a fuss anyway.       Trash By Jonathan Berman   It was the that time of night when the insomniacs have gone to sleep, the early birds thinks it’s a bit too early, and I’m usually left as the only human still walking the streets. ‘Rists were out at all times, checking up on their records and checking you out—to make sure you were following prescription. Two psychs in their pristine white uniforms became visible in the shadows. I was hidden in a dumpster among scraps of wood and smashed bits from cheap radios. They had not yet seen me, but they were close. They could triangulate the source, but electronic sensors designed to replicate the olfactory sense were spotty at best. I was shocked that they were so close. But then, a dumpster is really the only hiding place in an otherwise empty alley, so they could narrow the search down a bit. I watched them wave their sensors around in the air, trying to get a better lock. “Looks like some low level stuff,” said one, “maybe R-44, or DZ-23.” They were both standing right next to the dumpster now. One was leaning his elbow on one rusted corner of it. “W2-13, actually.” I said, putting my hands in the air in what I hoped was a non-threatening fashion and standing up so as to be clearly visible. There was little point in continuing this farcical hiding further. They knew my location and had been toying with me. “You know what we have to do, don’t you?” asked the second of the two psychs, “You understand?” He used an artificially soft voice. Perhaps he meant it to be soothing, but it struck me as being condescending. “There is no need to patronize me. I may not be on any meds, but I’m not stupid.” “We’ll be the one’s to decide if you’re stupid. If you are we’ll just put you on some intelligence boosters and clear you right up.”             They led me to their car, though I’m not sure if it’s really leading if there’s a tranquilizer gun pointed at your back. When I was safely strapped into the back (literally strapped into a straitjacket embroidered into the fabric of the back seat), the first psych took the wheel and the second took shotgun, heading off in an unknown direction. Shotgun took a blood sample from my left middle finger, squeezing it to get enough for the machine. He dipped the small container of blood into its slot and read the printout the analyzer gave him. “You’re right, it is W2-13. That’s real top of the line masking agent. Where did you get it? Rehab can be short or long; if you help us, we can help you.” “You expect me to help you to incriminate myself?” “I don’t need any more help. I’ve got everything that I need right here.” He waved the printout back at me. “Nothing in your system but W2-13. Law prohibits the possession or use of any chemical agent designed to replicate the effects of med tracers. I hardly think convincing anyone that you’re off your meds will be a problem.” “What am I supposed to be on?” Shotgun pushed a few keys on an ancient Internet tablet that had been bouncing around on the dashboard. I recognized the logo of a popular DNA search engine. That gave them my identity and from there he when to a government prescription database and plugged my number in. Little blue letters appeared: NONE. “That’s impossible,” said Shotgun. “What?” asked Driver. “There’s no prescription that matches his ID.” “He’s never been evaluated. I saw that once, the poor fellow had been running for his entire life. The IQ tested off the charts. It was almost sad, seeing that brought down to tolerance levels. We could do with a few smarties.” “Its not that. It’s all in the records. He’s been to a different robot evaluator every week. That’s more than often than the legal requirement. He’s never been prescribed anything, not even for ADD. Everybody has ADD.” “I don’t want to have to deal with any extra paperwork for something unusual. Maybe we should refer the case.” “I concur.” Driver spun the wheel quickly, quickly making an illegal u-turn. “Dr. Ksrib?” “Yes, I think he would be best.” “You know,” I said, interrupting them, “you don’t technically have to take me to any doctor. I’m on everything listed in my prescription.” “Now, you know that’s impossible. First of all, this prescription is an obvious forgery. No one could be prescribed nothing. Secondly, you were breaking the law by using imitation dosage tracers. If we hadn’t come along just now, you might still be out there, as insane as ever. What do you show us? Gratitude for helping you?  No. You show us nothing but disrespect.” It was in my best interest to remain silent. They were recording me and that could be used against me in later analysis. They drove down curvy back streets and through an affluent suburb before coming to a stop in front of a glass-paneled building. It was desolate in a way I could not quite trace; out here in the land of tract housing, this structure had a sense of urban obscenity about it. People worked here. There are a few rules to dumpster diving. The first rule is to never dive in a compactor. You see, there are a few types of dumpsters. Most of them are safe, but compactors are designed to crush garbage into manageable bundles. Of course the compactor will rarely discriminate between human flesh and garbage. Another rule is that a diver should always try to appear nonchalant. If the owner of a dumpster comes along, you can always claim to be innocently looking for boxes. I wanted very much to appear nonchalant, but I knew that I looked as nervous as I felt. This is what I had been running from my whole life. They parked in a poorly lit parking garage in parking area blue-seven. I was taken to the elevator and pushed into it. “Floor two, room a302,” one of my captors called after me.             For a moment I thought it odd that I should be given such an absurdly easy opportunity for escape, but it wasn’t really an opportunity at all. My genetic identity was now filed. A photograph of me sat in a database somewhere, ready to be emailed to every cheap street psychologist in the country. The elevator doors closed with a soft, almost resigned ding. Into the compactor. Another thought struck me, but I tried to keep it out of my head. They didn’t want to visit this psychologist to whom I had been referenced any more than I did.             Decades old machinery managed to pull the elevator up to the second floor and reopen the door, this time replacing the dingy parking level with a similarly dingy corridor. This was a place that had been built during one of those occasional economic booms where people managed to convince themselves that the wealth would keep flowing forever and the spending money on a garish office building would help give their company the razor’s edge. Now the majority of the offices were rented out to cheap firms that hoped one day to have a flashy office building of their own.              I knocked on the door to room a302 and for a moment no one answered. Finally after nearly a full minute a slat, roughly a foot below eye level, slid back revealing a pair of blue bloodshot eyes. “Are you my patient?” asked the owner of the eyes, muffled from behind the door.  “Your behavior is having a deleterious effect on my estimation of your ability to help me maintain mental health.”             The door slid open sideways, apparently on casters rather than hinges. Before I could react, I was grabbed by the lapels and pulled forcefully into the office. It was decorated tastefully in pastels with a vaguely floral motif. “You like it?” asked the psychologist, noticing my admiration of the office. “I’m also an interior decorator.” “Colorful term for what you do.” To my surprise he chuckled. “Oh my, yes. Now, how can I fix you today?” “Apparently I’m not on any medication.” “Oh my. What’s on your prescription?” “Nothing.” “Really? That is unusual. You don’t have any mental illness at all?” “Not a one.” “How odd. You look perfectly normal. Well, there’s only one thing to do.” “What,” I asked, “is that?” “Kill you.”              I must admit that this threw me off for a moment. I know it’s not the appropriate thing to do. Everyone is supposed to just sit back and take death when it’s their time. I guess most of them would be too medicated to make much of a fuss anyway. “Pardon me?” “Well, you know. If you run around being naturally normal, then people will get jealous. Naturally then the powers that be have a problem: jealous people. It’s not fair to have some people running around jealous and not other people. The other people might get jealous. There would have to be research for an anti-jealousy drug. There would have to be testing. There would have to be production and distribution of the medication. That would cost billions for a worldwide release! It would just be far simpler to kill you. Then the only thing that has to be done is a dose of anti-grief meds to your family, if you have one, and we’re right as rain. It’s much cheaper.” “Wow. Well, I guess it is for the betterment of society that I die then.” “Yup. Now hop up on the examination table and we’ll have you dead in a jiffy.” I sat up on the padded azure examination table and lay back with my head crumpling the paper towel that had been spread over the table from a dispenser at the bottom. The psychologist went across the room to his desk and rummaged around in a bin of plastic twist-top vials. He finally pulled out one marked with a smiling Jolly Roger. He tossed it in the air and caught it again before twisting it open and pouring two pills into his cupped right hand. “Here ya go, bud.”             He pressed the capsules into my hand and crossed the room to the water cooler to fill a small paper cone with water. I looked at the small capsules and I looked out the window to the back of the building where there were dumpsters.     © Copyright, Jonathan Max Berman "Rufus"     POLITICAL FICTION       Before the nuclear plant began to leak, when Moscow sent vodka and supplies to supplement the meager fishing village’s catch of mercury drenched fish from the Bering Strait. When weeds still had the will to live, and children played in the street out front....     When an Empire Falls By Lloyd Hudson Frye     “Ganpa, I ov you.”   The girl squirmed to find a new position that didn’t hurt so much. Ivan gently released his hold, just long enough, and then rewrapped his bony forearms around his precious Mishka. All seven fingers of her tiny hand closed around his scaly thumb, hardened from years at sea.   “Grandpa loves his Pooska doll.”   His eyes closed slowly, watching her pulse beat softly along a narrow blue-yellow vein on her white neck. He could hear the familiar flapping of the plastic in the front room window. He pulled the blankets tighter around them. A small tear from rotten fabric was the only sound left in the room, besides the faint clicking of the Geiger counter under the bed. A dusty picture of Lennon hung crooked on the peeling wall above him. His beloved wife lay frozen in bed, with just her nightclothes on.   His thoughts went back to a better time. Before the nuclear plant began to leak, when Moscow sent vodka and supplies to supplement the meager fishing village’s catch of mercury drenched fish from the Bering Strait. When weeds still had the will to live, and children played in the street out front.   Long before the “Wall” came down, the shipments stopped, and those still strong enough to travel had left the village. Mostly orphans and the dying remained. The water truck quit coming last year, so everyone just drank the water from the leaking plant, and listened to the Geiger counters crackling through the cold winter nights. They knew the water was not good, but what were they to do? A soldier came through just after the fall, and tacked a notice up in the square. It said, the new Russian assembly would decide how each Russian would fit into the new Capitalist model. There were cheers that day, as the men drank the case of vodka the soldiers left. That was three years ago.   Ivan heard some growling outside; he looked through the gray-white windows of the doorway. Three skinny dogs were dragging a young lifeless child across the road, to a rocky shallow strewn with bones. He made a note; there would be more rags to clothe his sweet grandchild in a day or two.   He looked over at his beloved, in their bed of 62 years. Her face was a greenish gray, but to him she was still that young girl with a laugh of tinkling bells. Olga was the most beautiful girl in the village, and he had to win her over numerous men. He closed his eyes and heard her call him for supper, a slight edge of irritation in her voice. He knew to come in. He liked it when she got frustrated with his tardy ways.   Their daughter long dead, was the pride of their lives, but pneumonia had taken her two years past. Olga was not the same after that. She gave up trying when her lovely Selma went to ground, her grave out back, still covered in dead, black flowers, stiff with ice. Even the Americans didn’t patrol offshore anymore. What threat could possibly come from dying people in half-frozen sheds, along a polluted shoreline?   He counted the cans left in the corner, only 38, and 12 pieces of dried fish. Omar, his neighbor, had brought the fish at Christmas, when Olga had prepared a feast for the entire village.   Mishka coughed; a trail of green saliva dripped down her hollow cheek. Ivan’s eyes stung and blinked, but no tears came; all his juices had dried up. He squeezed her tight, the only way he could be sure she was still there in his arms. Her eyes opened, but they were thick and translucent.   “Water pease, ganpa.”   He held her head up and let a small amount pass over her cracked lips, the dried blood holding the pieces together. The faint crackling of the Geiger counter played in the background of his mind. She coughed again and settled back into a tiny ball.   He thought about what the Americans had done to his village. He couldn’t think why two generations of people would willingly let their government spend their retirement on a cold war. Fishermen and their families on the edge of starvation could hardly be a threat to a people so strong and brave. Little Mishka would never hurt a soul; her heart was pure as gold. The celebrations in the West were too far away to hear.   He heard the dogs fighting over the remains of the little child in the bone yard across the way. He hugged his Mishka tight again. Her weak heart beat, the only thing keeping him alive. He finally fell asleep.   In the night, half-awake, he heard her say, “Ganpa, I ov you.”   He smiled, held her tight, and leaned against the bed. Ivan pushed his rough, sea-bitten cheek along side her white, hollowed face.   In the morning, three bodies lay frozen to that marriage bed.   Three skinny dogs were tugging at an old man’s boot, a once beautiful woman’s nose and seven cold fingers of a little girl’s hand.     © Copyright, Lloyd H. Frye      XANADU'S GATE POETRY CONTEST FINALISTS   Springwine: The Absinthe Season By Kalae S. Anthony   The glass becomes the chalice: holy wine. The fading shadows flicker spectral ghosts. Melissa, honey: bittersweet and fine, dissolves in pearly green the sug'ry host. Iridescent grail's inspiration, a glinting springwine fire on my lips, citrine blaze: the candle’s admiration: elixir, gentle, soft and slowly sipped. Behind the glassy wall, a secret door that leads you to the path of vanished dreams; a world where waxen wings will let you soar into the purple skies where diamonds gleam. Plummet, fall through velvet petalled skies, through the glittering maze of seeker's sleep. Absintheur, the elixir never lies to those who drink; to those who swim the deep. You will be lured across the rivers gold, and from the blue-cloaked boatman, payment asked: then let him taste the anise nectar’s cold, from shining spoon immersed in silver flask. You’ll come upon the blazing gates unseen and hear the siren song so soft and sweet sung by the perfumed maiden draped in Green. Continue past the gates, this is no dream. Be lashed like brave Odysseus to the mast. "Cry out! Exult in tempting lust!" she screams, "loose the flotsam and jetsam of the past!" Kaleidoscopic bursts of colored rain, the emerald water swirls with pale storms— Silence. Madness. The sacred and profane: the stillness of the night so gentle; warm. Awake. The storm of peridot subsides. Peer out in wonder through the window's jade. What part of you is lost, what part has died? Do you still hear the voice of that Green Maid? You've travelled far, my friend, your candles burned. The dreary world holds little; now you've seen that travelling sometimes means you can't return . . . when lost inside the glass of milky green.       © Copyright, Kalae S. Anthony       Forced Retirement By Anne Cahalan     I just think I’ve earned a little more, that I deserve a little better than this— after all I’ve seen and all I’ve done, the places and the mazes, I’ve wound my way through the tangles, the sudden drops and sticky swamps. I drew the first lines of the map, and it was hard work and dark work and night in uncharted territory is a scary place to be.   So don’t you turn on me, when I have suffered the snake bites and thorn scratches of your wild mind a million times. I’ve pulled you out of your own trees, slogged you out of your own quicksand, and left my own neat flower beds and hedgerows time and again to nearly lose myself in your morass.   And I’d do it again, in a heartbeat, because I’ve also seen your bright wildflowers, heard your iridescent songbirds, felt the startling serenity of quiet groves after the storms have passed.   And I think I deserve better than I’m getting, now that your huntsman’s paths are being paved and the jungle plowed under for agriculture.   I wasn’t a weekend Indiana Jones, you know, or a naturalist or a tourist; I meant for the long haul; I meant for your greater good. But now my machete is rusting and I haven’t seen a malarial mosquito in months and I’m happy for you, I really am.   I just think I deserve a little better than this.     © Copyright, Anne Cahalan     Gotas–De–Lluvia (Raindrops) By Robert Prives     While lying in bed listening to the Raindrops, my mind danced with the beat of the raindrops; as the thunder pounded with my heart, I drifted into a deep sleep and my sequences of dreams began: My first dream began with me as a lost puppy out in the rain trying to find my owner and searching through the darkness with no luck, I was soaked and wet and very hungry as I sat by a tree trying to find a little shelter from the rain; I shook as the rain and the cold took control! Just then I heard a faint whistle and heard here boy, here boy. My tail wiggled—yes it was my master coming to save her lost little puppy. I gave my puppy cry and! I was soon wrapped in a warm towel and treated to something good to eat and put on a nice warm bed and was soon yawning, stretching my paws with a belly full of food. My second dream began with me as an old woman in the rain and cold with no place to go! OR call home. As I pushed my shopping cart with all my belongings down the road, I found myself under the freeway with a little shelter in the rain. I lit a small fire and tried to stay warm when I heard the voice of an old man asking me if he could sit and get a little warm; we sat and drank a little wine from his bottle and shared a smoke and talked about how life used to be … but now were free to do as we pleased and did not want it any other way! My third dream began with me as a boy in a small house with my two sisters and my mother sharing a can of soup; as we sat there in the candlelight listening to the raindrops, I thought that maybe one day I would own my home and my mother and sister would not live in the dark. While we sat in the dark huddle up trying to stay warm, I heard the silent cries as tears rolled down my mother’s cheek, so I got up and went outside and looked up at all the raindrops until I was completely soaked; then I heard my mother’s voice telling me to come inside out of the rain. My fourth dream began with me as a bird flying south for the winter, flying in formation—what a beautiful sight, but halfway through our journey the rain began. The clouds grew dark and the rain got stronger. I lost sight of the formation and my wings got tired. I heard the cries of other birds and when I flew toward the cries I heard a bang, bang? and felt a sharp pain; I glided as far as I could and ended up in a pool of water surrounded by a fence. I heard a child saying, mama, mama come and see—it’s a bird in the swimming pool. When the people came closer, I was scared as could be, but the pain kept me from getting away; the next thing that happened was I was taken out of the pool to a warm house. I heard the child say, he is hurt—look at the blood; with the sounds of tears I heard the child say, mama what are we going to do? My fifth dream began with me as the King of a nation of rainbow colored people; when I stared out my castle window, I saw the sky get dark and I knew soon that rain would be here, but being different from most, I loved the rain. I watched as people in my kingdom hurried inside and the market places closed down and the streets became deserted. While staring out my window, I listened to the raindrops play a melody that could never be duplicated by any musician. The raindrops sang to me about being the best king ever and to love all throughout my kingdom and beyond. The raindrops said, take the poor and feed them, take the sick and try to heal them, take the orphan children and let them call you father and put shelter over their heads, and take the hands of single mothers and give them homes in your kingdom. I felt a hand on my shoulder; it was my beloved queen as we stared out the window together and waited for the rain to stop, so we could see the Rainbow over my peaceful Kingdom!     © Copyright, Robert P rives    TALL TALE CONTEST FINALISTS   An Old Man Story   by Dan Sullivan Sull30@aol.com               Joe Bartholomew hobbled into the Kenney Retirement Home lounge as quickly as he could. Wheezing and clutching his cane, the 79-year old managed to grasp his way to an old, beat-up recliner, where he carefully lowered himself to the seat. “You won’t believe what just happened to me,” he announced to the lounge occupants. No one responded. In fact, no one even turned toward him. Of the seven elders there, most concentrated on the large window overlooking the rear yard of the complex. “I must have been gone for days! Hasn’t anyone noticed?” “Quiet! Bewitched!” someone yelled. It was 72-year old Ruth Lukenson who was staring at a television mounted on the wall. Everything she said was at a really loud volume, so in her mind, she wasn’t yelling. “You’re yelling again, Ruth,” responded Joe. “Never mind Bewitched, you’ve seen that episode six million times. Never mind that nonsense, listen to this instead.” “Listen to you?” asked 80-year old Alice Atkins. She sat in the chair next to Joe and was about to take a nap when Joe entered. “You have about a hundred different stories a day, Joe. We’re tired of listening.” “But this one’s different!” Joe exclaimed. “I was just out with my nephew.” “Which one?” asked Alice. “I don’t know which one; I’ve got about a thousand nephews. He took me to that mall across town. You know, the one that’s about fifty stories high with … I’d guess around … nine thousand stores?” “Deed ya git t’all of ‘em stores?” It was Jeremiah Strug, a 69-year old retired farmer whose accent could not be placed by anyone. “’Cause eef ya deed,” he continued, “you’d a spint ‘bout a hundred thousand dollars. My cousin, he spint that much once een one a ‘em malls somewhere.” “A hundred thousand isn’t even a lot of money,” replied Joe. “My nephew and I spent about seven hundred thousand dollars today.” “Then where are the things you bought?” asked Alice. “Well that’s what I’ve got to tell you. But first I’ve got to tell you about the mall. My nephew took me there in his new car. A great car; it has around three thousand horsepower or something.” “I heard a dat car, they’s nice,” said Jeremiah. “’Course they’re nice,” said Joe, “and the lot at the mall, was filled with millions of cars. The parking lot must have stretched for miles and miles. They had trains that could sit a thousand people and take you from your car to the mall entrance.” “Trains in parking lot?” asked Peter Diefendorf, one of the window gazers. He was a 70-year old immigrant from Germany. “Never heard such a thing. Belong on track.” “I saw them, Pete, with my own eyes,” replied Joe. “You mean eye?” Peter inquired. Joe had lost one of his eyes to cancer about nine years ago. “Yes, yes, eye. With my own eye! Now, we entered the mall through these fifty-foot tall doors made out of stained-glass. Beautiful, I tell you, beautiful. And the lobby was huge, shops immediately to our left and right, and down the center was…a pool! A giant pool with a fountain shooting water up about a thousand feet. And all these kids were going down a water slide. My nephew said the slide started at the top floor, twenty-eight stories up, and spiraled all the way down.” “I can’t hear Bewitched!” screamed Ruth. “Ruth: lower tones please,” said Peter. “Now Joseph, I thought you said mall was fifty stories high, not twenty-eight.” “Well,” said Joe, thinking, “that’s because the other floors are underground. So that means … twenty-three stories were below us when we walked in.” “Twenty-two,” chimed Stanley Benson, who stood by the window. Stanley was a 77-year old former accountant. “And I’ve heard of these underground malls. They actually have whole cities underground now. I saw it on the news.” “I seen dat too,” agreed Jeremiah. “They do not, that’s outrageous,” replied Joe, waving a hand in disgust. “If that were the case, this whole city we’re in now would be underground. They’ve only got malls underground.” “Ya know, he mighta be right,” said Jeremiah, rubbing his bristly chin. “’Course I’m right. Now, my nephew needed to buy a pair of running shoes. So we looked on this directory right by the entrance as to where to go. These directories list off a million things about the mall that you’d want to know, and show you where to find anything.” Alice squinted in thought. “What if you wanted to find a phone number?”  “You could find a phone book store. They had about forty of them. We needed shoes, though, and it turns out there was a whole floor of shoe stores. It was seventeen stories up, so we took one of the elevators that go about seven hundred miles per hour to where you want to go. They could even go sideways to get to certain places if needed.” “My daughter’s second cousin, he helped invent those sideways elevators,” said Stanley. “Smart man.” “Really?” asked Joe. “I think they’ve made about a hundred trillion dollars at this point, too.” “Two hundred,” Peter said. “Right, two hundred. But never mind that. I’ve got to tell you about the shoe store.” At this point, Joe had captured everyone’s attention, except Ruth who was still drawn to the Bewitched episode. There were two other old-timers in the lounge as well, sitting comfortably by the window. They were Helen Coughlin and Wendell McAndrews, both 84-years old. Unfortunately each had gone mute about five years ago. However, they listened intently to Joe’s story and everyone else’s comments, with wide eyes and white knuckles. Joe continued on. “The shoe store we finally decided on had about fifty thousand brands and one hundred foot walls holding everything. You needed this crane that was in there to get the shoes at the top of the wall. So my nephew ended up trying on about forty pairs of shoes, but couldn’t decide what he wanted. So he just bought all forty pairs.” “Dat was smert,” said Jeremiah. Stanley and Peter nodded their approval as well. “Will he wear all of those?” asked Alice. “Oh yes,” Stanley said before Joe could even respond. “Runners need tons of different shoes to try out and experiment with, not to mention they run about a thousand races a month usually.” “’Course they do,” agreed Joe, “which is why we then needed to find a water bottle for while he’s running. We went up to the top floor, the water bottle floor, and they had all sorts of bottles. The best ones were the ones that chill the water while it’s in the bottle. It’s all state-of-the-art equipment.” “I’m trying to watch Bewitched!” screeched Ruth. “Ruth, keep your voice down please,” said Stanley. “Even I seen show five hundred times when I not even live in this country,” complained Peter. “My grandson has about seventy of those new water bottles, Joe,” continued Stanley. “He says they’re great. They can be run over by thirty buses in a row and they still won’t break either.” Helen and Wendell both looked at each other in surprise. Alice frowned. “When would thirty buses ever run over anything?” asked Alice. “That’s a standard water bottle test,” answered Joe. “So we got a bunch of those, about nine hundred, and since we were at the top, we decided to take the water slide down. I’m telling you all, we were probably going about two hundred miles per hour down the thing, it was incredible.”             “Ohhhh boy, dat musta been a helluva sweet ride geettin’ down,” Jeremiah exclaimed. “How’d you go down a water slide if you can’t even walk without a cane?” asked Alice. “I was just laying there,” retorted Joe, “and you don’t walk down a slide, you … slide. Besides, they held my cane for me. Anyways, we needed to find one more thing: shorts for running. Clothing was all underground, so we took these new escalator contraptions that whisk you down three floors every second.” “I think it’s six floors every second,” Stanley quickly interjected. “That’s impossible!” replied Joe. “Six floors? No way, Stanley.” “I think Joe right about three floors,” said Peter, in his cadenced English. “’Course I’m right. Now the shorts we ended up buying are made out of this new material that’s half cotton, half nylon, half elastic, and half micro-spandex. They cost around twenty thousand dollars each, so my nephew only got twenty pairs of them. You don’t need that many shorts.” “Everyone be quiet!” demanded Ruth, at the top of her lungs. “Bewitched!” “Can we unplug that TV she’s watching?” asked Alice. “Theen she’ll yill fer days,” answered Jeremiah. “So my nephew, being the good nephew that he is, said he’d buy me a gift for accompanying him. I told him a watch would be superb, so we took the elevator back up to the fourth floor where there must have been about three hundred watch shops and sellers. I enjoy a nice pocket watch, so he bought me one worth about sixty thousand dollars. It had a crystal casing and a gold face. Beautiful.” “Where is it?” asked Alice. “I’m getting to that. So after we got the watch we went up a few more floors to the food court, where they had every restaurant imaginable. We ate like kings. I think I had about sixty rolls from this one establishment. This is where we ran into trouble.” “Trouble?” asked Peter. “What sort of trouble?” “Well some kids started harassing us, stepping in our way as we left the food court. They wanted our purchases, our bags. One pushed my nephew to the ground.” Joe’s audience gasped at the mention of physical abuse. Ruth smiled at the small window of silence that took place. Joe let the silence hang a bit, cleared his throat, and continued. “So there seemed like a hundred of these kids, all circling around us. They started grabbing our bags and taking what they could get their hands on. I was forced to fight back with my cane. I believe I whacked fifty of them off the head before they sprinted away with our goods.” “You hit children over head?” cried Peter. “Ya deed tha right thang there, Joe,” Jeremiah confirmed. “I’ve held your cane. It’s heavy,” Stanley added. Even Alice seemed impressed. “My nephew managed to subdue a few more, but it was too late. And when mall security came by, they were no help. We must have told them our story four thousand times before they finally understood just what had happened. At this point, my nephew figured, the kids must have left the mall. So we were out of luck.” Joe leaned back in the recliner, signaling that his story was through. The listeners all stared at the floor, amazed at what had happened to their colleague. Ruth shouted mention of how good the Bewitched episode was. Helen and Wendell each threw loafers at her. Finally Alice spoke up. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were going to the mall?” Before Joe could say anything, Stanley spoke up. “Obviously he planned on buying us a bunch of things and wanted it to be a surprise. That right, Joe?” “’Course it’s right, I had left that out so you all didn’t feel bad. But I had gotten a bunch of different things: books, movies, a crochet set and … a decks of cards, board games, a new TV for Ruth and ... vitamins, slippers, new cushions for the sofa, a seat, a phone, newspapers … and … a million other things!” Everyone except Alice issued Joe thanks and reflected on how great a friend he was. Alice just closed her eyes, hoping to catch the nap she had pushed off. Soon the rest of them all nodded off, each thinking how he or she could sleep for days, but also wondering what they would purchase at such a great mall.   In the viewing station sat Nurse Craft and the new nursing assistant, Nurse Hebert. They had listened to Joe’s story and the reaction it received. Nurse Hebert looked at Nurse Craft. “I didn’t even know Mr. Bartholomew had been granted a leave pass,” she said, confused. Nurse Craft looked over at Nurse Hebert and smiled. “I didn’t even know Mr. Bartholomew had been granted a leave pass,” she said, confused. Nurse Craft looked over at Nurse Hebert and smiled. “Funny how they all exaggerate, huh? Mr. Bartholomew hasn’t been outside this building in a long time. He refuses to go out, even refusing the short walks we take all the patients on.” She paused and chuckled. “He hasn’t been outside in like a hundred years.” She sighed and stretched. “Alright, c’mon. We’ve got about a million medications to administer. Let’s get going.”   © Copyright, Dan Sullivan     We were in the middle of a discussion about the dollar's position versus various foreign currencies when she abruptly said, "My penguin has died." I nodded, pretending to understand what she meant, and asked her if she wanted to go to dinner. She indicated that she would. Our waitress came with our bill, and I sprayed her with a can of Raid, making her go away….   INTERNET DATE By Carmen Diode   Not too terribly long ago, I decided to try my luck with Internet dating. I discovered a romance advertisement service associated with an Anna Kournikova website that I was visiting on a frequent basis. The personal ad that I chose to respond to was elegant in its simplicity: "Fortyish woman, slim and attractive, upbeat and adventurous, enjoys dancing, movies, romantic dinners, and long walks on the beach. I am seeking a man who is intelligent, fit, kind and gregarious. Must be stable, dependable, energetic, and love lots and lots of HOT & WILD SEX!" I am not sure what aspect of this ad most attracted me, but I resolved to answer it, if for no other reason than to find out which beach this woman took her walks on, considering that we are at least a thousand miles away from the nearest large body of water. Having not dated for a while, I decided to tap in to the new electronic technology to see if I could locate an appropriate match. Online dating seemed ideally suited for an individual like me who has limited time, money and energy to woo potential dates and who is prone to embellish the facts about myself and what I like to do. I answered the ad, and apparently, the woman found my response to be charming and witty. She wrote back, wanting to know more about me. I came to know her, for several weeks, as bds42@Hotmail.com. She signed her e-mails bds, for short. Cautious and a little reluctant, as well, to reveal my true identity, I signed my e-mails to her as Copernicus. We traded e-mails for several weeks, and then phone calls. Our conversations were engaging and captivating, and aside from her frequent use of the word "fromage" in sentences where it really didn't seem to fit, I felt an attraction developing between us. We both agreed, during one of these conversations, that the time had come to actually meet. She told me that her real name was Maureen, and I told her that mine was Mr. Ed, still remaining inexplicably reticent about revealing my true identity. We arranged to meet, for coffee, at a local Borders book store. If things went well, we would go to dinner. Neither of us knew what the other looked like. Romantically misguided though it may have been, we both agreed that it would be more interesting to focus our attraction to each other's psyche and personality without the distraction of physical appearances. She told me to look for a woman with average length brown hair, wearing blue jeans and a red World Wrestling Entertainment t-shirt. I told her that I was unsure of what I would be wearing, but that I would bring signal flags in case we had trouble locating each other. I arrived thirty minutes ahead of our arranged scheduled meeting time, wearing a cheap and squalid disguise that consisted mainly of large sunglasses, a hideous blond wig that my daughter had used as part of her Halloween costume, and a vapid mustache fashioned out of some of the strands of the blond wig that I had chopped off to make the length more fitting for a man. I had decided that I would make a hasty exit if this woman turned out to be ugly. I found a vantage point, in the erotica section, where I could observe people entering and exiting the bookstore. I pretended to be browsing through a book on ethnic fondues (it was either misplaced or dealing with sexual practices that I am inexperienced with) as I waited for my date to make her appearance. Ten minutes passed beyond the appointed meeting time, and no one entered matching the description that she had given me. I did notice a woman in the Philosophy section, dressed in the manner that she had described, pretending to browse through a book about Kierkegaard, and amazingly wearing the same disguise that I was wearing. We made eye contact, and I used my signal flags to make the universal message for "Are you Maureen?" She nodded yes, and I signaled for her to follow me to a table in the coffee bar. Maureen ordered a mocha latte from the waitress, and I ordered a set of pneumatic power tools that were on sale at a reasonable price. After twenty minutes of small talk and pleasantries we felt comfortable enough to remove our disguises. Under the cheap and tacky blond wig, Maureen wore a cheap and tacky brown toupee. I encouraged her to dispense with the formalities and to drop the Mr. and just simply call me Ed, which she was happy to do. We managed to conquer our jitters about meeting for the first time and enjoy each other's company. I was drawn to her naiveté and good natured outlook, and she seemed to appreciate that I had purchased her a set of snow tires. We continued our animated conversation, on a variety of topics for another half hour or so. We were in the middle of a discussion about the dollar's position versus various foreign currencies when she abruptly said, "My penguin has died." I nodded, pretending to understand what she meant, and asked her if she wanted to go to dinner. She indicated that she would. Our waitress came with our bill, and I sprayed her with a can of Raid, making her go away. We decided to drive separate cars to our dining destination, Barney's Burger Bar. After she left, I remembered that I had walked to the book store and had to hitch hike to the restaurant. The restaurant was crowded, but the maitre’d said that he could seat us at a table for two if we were willing to share one chair. We took the table, but I grew uneasy watching her stand, so I asked our waiter to take the chair away, and I also stood. This seemed to make her feel better. I ordered vichyssoise and leek salad. Maureen ordered a plate of butter, which she sucked, noisily, through a straw. And, for some odd reason, she spit her iced tea at the waiter each time that he left our table. At one point I noticed that Maureen had a chunk of celery sticking out of her ear, but I didn't want to embarrass her so I let it pass without mentioning it. We talked of many things during the course of our dinner. I expounded on books, politics, movies, and religion, while she discussed fashion, her job, and small cycle engines. Since we both spoke at the same time, we never really heard or understood what the other was saying. We both declined dessert, so our waiter brought our tab. The back of his shirt was drenched in iced tea. I waited for Maureen to offer to pay but it became clear that she expected me to take care of it so I left the bill on another table as we departed. Outside, it was raining. I offered Maureen my umbrella and she surprised me by taking it because she already had an umbrella of her own. We walked to her car and she thanked me for a nice evening. She said that she had a wonderful time, but I couldn't really tell if she was being truthful. The fact that she had asked for the waiter's personal phone number, as well as the phone numbers of the entire kitchen staff, still weighed heavily on my mind. Maureen indicated that she was going to leave. I wasn't sure if I should kiss her or not, so I decided to grope her breast instead. It was obviously the wrong thing to do as she slapped me on the side of my head with a loaf of dinkel bread that she just happened to have in her purse. She told me to call her and hinted that maybe we could meet again. She thanked me for dinner and the umbrella, then drove away. All in all, the experience was not that bad, and I learned a few things that should serve me in the future should I continue to use the Internet as a means to locate dates. One thing that I won't do again is tell someone that I am six foot, five inches tall when I am really only five foot, eleven inches. I was only able to jack my height up to about six foot one inch with the heels that I wore, and they were extremely uncomfortable since I was unaccustomed to wearing them. Another thing that I believe I will avoid doing is embellishing my career. If a woman is unwilling to accept me for who I really am, then I am most probably better off without her. Fortunately, Maureen and I have not progressed far enough into our relationship for her to learn that I am not really the starting quarterback for the Denver Broncos, as I more or less led her to believe that I was.     © Copyright, Carmen Diode       “This is so stupid,” I told myself. “You can’t really do this. You’re going to die!” But I smiled all the way down.           TALL TALE By Scott M. Sparling                 The theater’s back wall at my old high school was something of a memorial. It easily stood ninety feet wide and just over thirty feet tall, far taller than the curtain proscenium, and was etched with the names of a few decades’ worth of actors who had worked under the theater hot lamps and anxious audiences.             Names and graduation dates. Some were written in blue ink, permanent marker, and even latex paint.             I used to go there during lunch hour or after school. Sometimes during class hour too, because I knew the trick of signing my own mother’s name and giving myself notes of excuse from classes. Even if a teacher had suspected something in the notes, they never questioned the notes anyway. My father had died that year and as a form of pity, the faculty let me get away with whatever I wanted. It was a silent, unspoken privilege they gave me, and it came along with sympathetic smiles and sorrow filled gazes that I guess I took advantage of.             I loved the smell of that theater, dusty old clothes and chalkboards and ancient make-up. Cheap tricks and wizardry.             I used to stand there, facing the wall with my back to the empty audience and pace the wall’s entire length, reading the names and touching them gently. I wondered who each person was and what they might be doing at that moment. Perhaps working in an office or selling a used car or managing a department store.             When I touched the cracked writing with reverence, did they suddenly shiver from some inward draft? Did they even remember writing their names on the great wall?             You had to stand on a chair to read the names at the top, and a few of the names were fifteen feet up because some student in a long ago time had decided to use the theater’s ladder and get his or her name higher than anyone else’s. At that time, a Bobby Braden from the class of ’88 was the highest on the wall about halfway to the ceiling, and there was a multitude of signatures just under his as if everyone else had known they couldn’t get any higher, and were content just to have their names next to Bobby’s as a symbol of respect.             I often wondered if Bobby Braden had come up here alone. Did he close his eyes for hours on end and just breathe in the magic of this place? Did he feel alone as I did? A person who could get his name up that high could not have been alone. Not with all the signatures circling under his. I imagined what he looked like, balance precariously on the top step of the theater’s ladder, red marker in hand and reaching as high as he could while his friends watched on from below with breathless anticipation.             “Where are you know, Bobby?” I asked aloud in the dusty silence.             “He’s out of here,” I answer myself. “Bobby Braden is long gone.”             Long gone.             I don’t know how long I sat there staring at his name that day, but I remember hearing the lunch bell ring twice, opening and closing that mad frenzy of conversation, greasy pizza and traded ding dongs. Maybe an hour? Two?             And I snapped out of it so suddenly I would have been surprised on any other day, but that day had some sort of enchanted fog wrapped around it. A flavor of fate.             I walked back behind the loft stairs and grabbed a bucket of black paint and a brush. I went back to Bobby Braden and looked up at him, wondering how I could get there too. Higher even.             I pulled over the large dining room table that had graced so many of our plays over the past two years. I set it up against the wall under Bobby’s name, and went for the ladder.             With the ladder up on the table, I could reach well above Bobby, but it seemed a cheap slight to beat him by mere inches, so I climbed back down and got the kitchen table from the right wings. With this place on the dining room table and the ladder on top, I could write my name about five or six feet over Bobby’s.             I looked down. The ladder wobbled. It didn’t seem so high up from down below, but from my position over the two tables I was nauseatingly aware that I could break a leg, arm, or neck with one slip. I carefully climbed back down.             Backing away, I looked up at the white brick I had reached from my last position on the ladder. It was pretty high, and I suppose if I wrote my name there, it would remain the tallest champion for years to come.             But what of the years after that?             I took the ladder down again. Now I was sweating and my back ached with all the twisting and lifting. This time I put two prop boxes on the table, then put two chairs on either end of the prop boxes. Even without the ladder, the entire ensemble was too rickety. I tied a rope between the chair legs so that they wouldn’t slide out away from each other. And used the remaining rope to tie the prop boxes together as well.             Down the hallowed halls, a bell rang, signifying the end of fourth period? Maybe fifth? Hopefully not the end of the school day.             I managed the ladder up onto the chairs, trying not to notice the way the tables swayed to and fro as I stood on them. When I got the ladder set up, I went for one more box, a small prop box about two feet high, and I carried it and placed it on the top step of the ladder.             “This is so stupid,” I told myself. “You can’t really do this. You’re going to die!” But I smiled all the way down. I laughed as I brought the paint up, brush in my back pocket. “Just hope you don’t die until after,” I warned myself. “Get this painted first!”             The hardest part (though not the scariest, that comes later) was getting onto the box on the ladder, and bending back down on my knees to get the paint bucket from the second to last ladder step. It took me several minutes to gently lift my feet under me and to stand to my full height, one hand against the cold wall, the other holding the paint bucket.             The ceiling was about six inches from my head. I shook so violently that the entire assembly rattled beneath me. I forced a deep breath. Then another.             I pried open the paint can, having to remove one hand from the wall. The lid came up easy, with a little “pop” that splurged paint over my t-shirt and jeans. I laughed.             I started painting, huge letters thicker than my hand in width, until I had my entire name up there, plus the cool little apostrophe with my graduating year’s numbers behind it. Another bell rang.             “Vat are you doing up der?”             I whipped around and leaned against the wall. It was Marina, the foreign exchange student from Romania that all the guys were hot after. She was so tiny below me, nose tilted up and face in strained terror.             “You’re goink to fall!” she warned.             I smiled and winked at her, then turned to put the last coat of paint over my name. When I turned around again, she was gone. I slowly lowered myself on the prop box, and fished one leg about to gain purchase on the ladder below.             That’s when the whole thing tilted. I felt the ladder going (my bladder almost went too, if I’m to be honest) and I opened my mouth. It’s funny how you remember little details like that when you’re about to die. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. In a last ditch effort, I pushed away from the ladder, back toward the wall. The entire ladder flew downward, and landed with a crash right where Marina had been a few minutes before. The chairs and prop boxes had fallen over as well, making a huge clatter in the empty theater, and I managed to land on my feet on the kitchen table. I heard a kerslop! And looked at the paint bucket still clutched in my right hand. The paint had sloped about a bit, but I hadn’t spilled a drop.             I jumped down from both tables, and ran to put the paint away. Someone had to have heard the crash from the choir room, or maybe the cafeteria, and who knows if Marina went to tell somebody.             I ran back and slid the prop boxes back into place, and put the ladder away. At this point, I could hear voices from the theater front door. I ran the kitchen table back and was just sliding the larger table into place when the curtains opened and the entire drama class walked in, followed by Mister Fiddler, the drama coach.             “What is going on?” he asked, hands already on hips for his “I’m going to give a lecture” stance he used when most upset.             Marina pointed up. “Look. See?”             Everyone craned their necks until they saw my name. They sat there, like a crowd at a movie theater, staring with wonder.             “How in the hell . . .” But Mister Fiddler didn’t even have the words to go on. He stood with the rest of them, mouth agape and eyes wide.             Someone in the class started clapping and it spread fast. Everyone kept looking up at my name and clapping. I even started clapping too, as silly as that sounds.             I didn’t receive that lecture, and though my antics were widely repeated throughout the school, the story never followed me into college. After high school, I never heard of it again.             But I did recently go to vote for my county two years ago, and the votes were held in the theater of my old high school. The curtains were open when we all walked in, and there was my name fifteen years later but every bit as startling as the day it was painted. Sure, there were plenty of daredevils that had gotten close to my name, even a few just up under it, but no one had dared to go as far as I.             Is there some kid who hangs out in the theater now, rubbing the ancient names that litter the wall, wondering where the people are who wrote them and what they might be doing?             I’m sure there is. I can tell you right now that I know many of those names. They are office workers and store managers and used car salesmen.             I’m here kid. We all are.     © Copyright, Scott M. Sparling     “Before we could even brush the snow off our parkas, two huge forms leaned over and lifted each of us to our feet. Even in the dark it was obvious they were giants, at least three meters tall.”     He Married a Yeti By Lloyd Hudson Frye     “ABOMINABLE  SNOWGROOM.” The 1952 headline read like a fourth page piece in the gossip rags. Here in the grand ballroom of the London Historical Society, with reporters from all the major papers of the world, it seemed to be the biggest story of the century. My name is Random Spencer. I work for the London Daily, third largest paper in England. When my editor said, this is your assignment, I almost sent spittle into his face, but when he continued with that worried look on his mug, I sobered up. He said there wasn’t time to go to Tibet to verify the story, just have to report what this chap has to say.   Jimmy T. (for Tall) Long would be my photographer, the best in the business, at 6’ 10” tall, he always got the perfect shot. He would lean over the crowd of reporters and take his shot from above. We had worked together before on several assignments and got along brilliantly.   Traffic was worse than usual, but the cabbie found a couple of passable back alleys, and dropped us off in front of the impressive façade in plenty of time. I tipped him double, and he gave me a great big toothless smile. The front steps were packed with reporters in front of their cameramen, using the massive, marble-covered building as a backdrop. I followed Jimmy up through the solid mass of suits, fedoras, and umbrellas. He always managed to cut his way through a crowd like an Antarctica ice breaker, using size and weight to push men to the side.     There was quite a delay at the door when a Press Pass didn’t seem to be enough to get by the coppers with the clipboards. I stepped in front of Jimmy, and folded a hundred pound note into the hand of an eager looking young man with a badge marked monitor. Soon our names were added to the list by hand, and he winked at me, as we squeezed through the opening. The room was immense; ceilings at least twenty-five feet high, mahogany paneled walls, huge chandeliers, and carpet with pile so thick, it was hard to walk. The dais was six feet off the main floor; several white-haired men sat in tuck-and-roll, red leather, high back chairs, seemingly bored with the proceedings at that point.   The noise level forced me to scream into Jimmy’s ear, “Get closer for the close up.” I would stay back and record from the recording stage, using one of the plug-in circuits provided. Using a large gavel repeatedly, a tall, thin man with a handle-bar moustache, called the press conference to order. He then introduced the guest speaker, Sir William Benchley Larchmount IV, Earl of Dover.   A very old man entered from a side door, hunched over; with the aid of a walker, he inched toward the pulpit. The flashes were increasing in intensity; finally, he stood in front of what had to be a hundred microphones, jammed together like tiny POWs in a small battle-field prison. Loud-mouthed reporters in front were yelling out questions, but the old man just stood there, silent. Finally, the roar died down and the speaker asked if those in the back could hear, a trick used by pros to get a crowd to quiet down. In a soft, shaky voice Sir William began his tale.   “In the summer of 1743, several landed men of my acquaintance, formed an expedition to the Tibetan Himalayas, to search for the Abominable Snowman. Legend had it, that they were to be found high in the mountains, in ice caves. Money was no object, so supplies were carried by over a hundred locals from base camp, to the first high camp. This would serve as the focal point, for any number of small excursions looking for signs of the Yeti. It was on one of those small hunts that our party fell victim to an avalanche. In our attempt to dig out, my guide, Mantunin, and I managed to loosen an ice bridge over a chasm. The bridge collapsed, and both of us fell a score of meters into the abyss. When we came to a stop, it was dark, with just a dim hint of sunlight from far above. I checked for broken bones and cuts, both deadly in the higher elevations. Mantunin said he was good for hunt, but he groaned right after.”   Sir William paused, held a glass of water to his lips, and returned it somehow without spilling it. His trembling hands were noticeable from the back of the room. He smiled, like that was an accomplishment, then continued.   “Before we could even brush the snow off our parkas, two huge forms leaned over and lifted each of us to our feet. Even in the dark it was obvious they were giants, at least three meters tall.”   The room broke out in chaos, as the obvious finally hit the slowest of the reporters. Shouts of “Fraud” and “Imposter” were heard. Sir William remained calm, taking advantage of the situation, to take another drink of water. As the shouting turned to grumbling, he continued.   “We were brought into a monstrous cave, with twenty-foot stalactites hanging from the top. The bottom was made up of ten-foot stalagmites, which formed small rooms with smooth floors. There were torches in sconces around the entire perimeter. Sunken down four meters, in the middle of the complex, was a small volcanic fountain, complete with churning, red-orange lava. Around the fountain were three rows of seating, just like the Coliseum, only smaller. Seated around the circle were dozens of Yeti with…”   Again the room erupted into a din, as many covered their ears, the flashes started up again. The man who had introduced Sir William stood up, leaned over to the microphone, and said that if this continued, the press conference would be over, and everyone would have to settle for a standard issued statement.   “We were ushered to the edge of the fountain. Thoughts of human sacrifice to the mountain ‘God of Fire’ raced through my head. My resolve to be brave to the end had me standing straight and holding a stiff upper lip. Mantunin, on the other hand, had bent over as if his ribs were broken. The Yeti discussed our fate for some time. I watched their faces for signs of anger; no emotion was in their speech.”   He stopped. The room was totally silent.   “Then, from the back, a shorter Yeti raced down to me and threw its body over mine, taking me to the floor with its weight. The voice was high; I guessed it was a female. She seemed to be pleading for my life. The story of Captain Smith and Matoaka ‘Pocahontas’ came to mind. Could this be some sort of redemption ceremony? What had to be a warrior, dropped his hatchet onto the floor with a deafening clank. My body relaxed for the first time since the fall. I noticed how heavy she was, thirty stones or so. The king or leader called out a final decree and the tribal meeting ended, with everyone returning to their rooms.”   He stopped for another drink. The men in the room were spellbound, not a single conversation could be heard.   “The girl Yeti took my hand and placed it on her chest and said ‘MEEO.’ I told her my name, she shook her head and holding her hand over my chest said, ‘OOHO,’ which later, I found out meant, small hairless one. The next thing I knew she pulled me to my feet, dragging me off to one of the outer rooms of the cave. I turned to Mantunin, but he also had a smaller Yeti dragging him off, in a very possessive manner.”   He stopped, smiled, and continued.   “I won’t go into any details of our life together, even in my book. What I will tell you is that Yeti women are what men dream about when they think of the perfect woman. There were several children from that marriage, each one a gift from God Himself. After her death I left the cave, never to return.”   At this point, Sir William broke down and cried. No one moved. Finally, he regained his composure and asked if there were any questions.   “Sir William, did you mean the 1943 expedition to Tibet?”   “No, 1743.”   “But how could you live over 200 years?”   “The Yeti worship a tiny white frog that survives freezing. Once thawed, it is ground into meal. There are ceremonies, where each member of the tribe is given a flat wafer on their tongues and told it is their right to life.”   “Will you go back someday?”   “My heart would break in two, if I ever returned to our room in the cave”   The clamor rose to a fevered pitch as men pressed forward to shout their questions. The cameras flashed, shouting increased, and the pushing started. The announcer got up, said the conference was over, and led the old man back to the side door.   I slumped into an empty chair. It was certainly an interesting story, but with no time to substantiate before for the midnight deadline, I was forced to settle to find out whether there was ever an Earl of Dover by that name in the 1740s.   I called the library in Dover and sweet-talked a Miss Louise Thumb to look on their records for an expedition to Tibet in 1743 and a certain landowner named William Benchley Larchmount IV, Earl of Dover. She came back a few minutes later and confirmed both for me. I promised I would send her a signed copy of his book.     © Copyright, Lloyd Hudson Frye   BETTER THAN POTTER CHILDREN'S FANTASY FICTION CONTEST FINALISTS     MagicWorks--where the magic is real By Chrissie Sparling   Sally raised her hands above her head. “Watch closely now boys and girls, for I, Sally the Magnificent, am about to make this silk vanish into thin air.” There was a collective “ooh” from her audience of six-year-olds and their matching parents. “Let’s count to three.” Sally fluttered the silk up and down in front of the kids’ faces as they screamed at the top of their lungs, causing any of the neighbors happening to be home on this warm Saturday afternoon to reach for ear plugs. “One, two, three.” There was no flash or puff of smoke. Those sorts of gimmicks were saved for the charlatans. Not Sally. She simply tossed the silk into the air, and instantly, right in front of the kids’ faces at Macy’s sixth birthday party, the silk vanished. Appearing in its place was a solid wood wand. It spun around in tight circles before falling into Sally’s waiting hand. She flipped the wand over her knuckles with a little flare before exclaiming, “I have a magic wand now, but what should I do with it?” She tapped the tip of the wood against her cheek, taking a dramatic pause. “Magic,” answered the mix of girls and boys right on queue as if they were being coached, but they weren’t.   “Good idea.” She praised their genius. She