Very Short Stories

Very Short Stories - Lengths a power of 2.
This is the saddest day of my life for I’m leaving Chen Li. Perhaps I
should leave a note. The details I haven’t decided on. “Dear Chen Li,
I’m leaving... take care of yourself. Love John.” From now on each
evening I’ll watch TV and sleep in the bed with the down feathers, or if I can’t
sleep, I’ll make an excuse and lie on the floor.
This then could be our last afternoon. Why? Duty? Because I should?
I wish for river banks, banana leaves and making love in the mud, but now
we’re here by a creek. She lies dozing on the Chinese blanket we brought back
from one of our trips, the shadow from a willow tree throws a mask across her face
with the smile that’s there, even in sleep, like some inner mystery. Her
shirt is still open from when I’d unbuttoned it earlier, down to the Mexican
souvenir between her breasts.
“Chen Li’s smile—it’s put on,” my wife, Paula says.
“If this is true, why does Chen Li look this way even when asleep?”—is
the reply I want to give, but my lips remain taut.
Two years ago my boss sent me to China; I drank too much wine in a
cool restaurant with a girl with a saucy smile. Since then Chen Li found work near
my home. Something about the arch in her back, the length of her neck,
the way she fell asleep during lovemaking made a part of her I could never
reach.
“Sometimes I feel like you only accept me as a receptacle,” I tell her.
“Oh?”
“Yes, something like that.”
Paula fled on the one occasion she found herself marooned in a room
with Chen Li at a party, gave a whimper and ran past the Newell posts wound with
red velvet garlands, past the glittering tree with the white angel with the wand on
top, through the door to the street where snow was beginning.
“That was a cruel thing to do,” I said.
“Not as cruel as stealing my husband.”
“That wasn’t what she was doing.”
“Well, what do you call it, some new spiritual chemistry?”
“Please, Paula, people are looking out their windows.”
Though, in fact “Oh, Little Town Of Bethlehem” rolled out over the tall
windows into the snowy sidewalks.
“Put on your coat.”
“I can leave town, but I’m damned if I’ll take the children out of school
before the end of the session.”
I squeezed her plump thigh; even through her winter tweeds, she looked so pale
and tense. “She should take off a few pounds,” I thought.
“You’re hard on me, John,” she said.”
I hate deception, but that night I slept with her.
***
I think how to tell Chen Li.
“You mean—you mean you’re going back?” she says flatly.
“You mean do I want to? Well, I just think I should.”
I put on my shirt. I take out my keys. I take a few steps away. A wind
sweeps through the willows. It strengthens me. Go. You must go. [512]
REUNION
Mark Hansen
I kid you not. She used to pay boys lollies to have sex down behind the
toilet block. This was in year 4. In year 7, she told the class she wanted
to be a stripper. Tonight was the 20th anniversary party of the end of high
school, and I wondered what had become of Mandy.
At first, when Christine had phoned me back in June, I was keen to go.
There was a voyeuristic desire to see how the others had turned out. As the
date arrived, I had flashbacks of the sheer terror of that pubescent melting pot.
I hated High School. There were bullies, hormones, peer pressure and exams to
endure. I felt lost and confused, and so did my friends. The few I had kept in
contact with over the years were survivors like me.
I hoped Mitch ‘Killer’ Kelly wouldn’t turn up. He scared me. One time
in class when Mr. Fraser was absent for a few minutes, he had yelled, “I hate
Tom Bosconi!” and punched his fist threw the window.
I wanted to see little Ben Harrison again. Stories of his capers were
legendary amongst us. Like when he climbed in the window of our music
class, before Mrs. Winkler arrived to unlock the door, and knocked over a
flower pot. Throughout the lesson, whenever Mrs. Winkler’s back was turned,
Greg would turn the pot around to show off it broken bits, and Ben would
sneak out of his chair to turn it back again. We were in stitches by the end of what
turned out to be the best music class all year.
When it came time to decide to go and see the faces of friends and foe,
it was thoughts of Mandy that drove my curiosity. I’d had a slight crush on
her, but she always treated me like a brother. In music class we often sat
together, legs touching occasionally, while sharing a sight reading book. She
played classical guitar really well, and could sing nicely too. What had she
done over the last 20 years?
Arriving at the Gymea Golf Club, I walked into the function room and
looked upon a potpourri of unfamiliar faces. This was a shock. Naively, I had
expected to recognise most people by sight, assuming that they would be fatter,
thinner, hairier, wrinklier, but essentially identifiable. Fortunately the organisers
were wiser than me, and had arranged name tags. I stopped at the
front table to sign in and got my tag from a girl whose own read “Nena Tucker.”
She recognised me, and started talking about Sarah and Jim, but I couldn’t
remember her at all and moved on quickly into the throng, after a few polite
exchanges. To find Mandy was going to take quite a while. There were over a
hundred people packed into the small room and I had to scan the tiny name
tags to find out who they were. This meant getting quite close to each person,
increasing the danger of falling into a conversation and being delayed from my
goal. Twenty minutes later, I had talked briefly with ten old schoolies, but
none had seen her. Luckily I ran into David who was a still a regular friend of
mine.
“Have you seen Mandy anywhere?”
“Yeah, I was talking to her about 10 minutes ago. I think she went off
with Alan for a chat,” he pointed to the left side of the stage.
As I headed in that direction, an announcement from the PA interrupted
a multitude of verbal interrogations.
“Can I have everyone’s attention please? Everybody please can I have
your attention for just a moment?” Most heads turned towards the stage and
only whispered chattering remained.
“Can you all please find a table and take a seat for dinner. There will be
ample time for catching up after dinner, as well as music from some members
of the school rock band, and some dancing.”
As we herded each other toward the tables, I spotted David taking a seat
and headed his way, lest I be trapped with a table of strangers. Taking a place
next to him, I checked out the others already seated. I’d seen John a couple of
months ago at my local Newsagent, but the others were unfamiliar, and as new
conversations started I tried desperately to remember who they were.
“Mandy, over here, come and sit with us.” David’s voice made me look
up.
“Oh, hi David, John, Anna, Gavin, Jacqui, Rachel and...” she looked at
my name tag, “of course, Michael.” She took the vacant seat beside me, and I
turned to face her.
“Hi, Mandy, how’ve ya been keeping?”
“I’m pretty good thanks Michael, and you?”
“Can’t complain. I’ve got a beautiful daughter, and have had some success
with my music lately. Any kids?”
“No. Though I have been married once.”
“Been there, done that. I’m divorced too. So are you single now?”
“No, I’m happy enough living with someone right now. I don’t think
I’ll ever get married again.”
“No me neither. What about your prodigious musical talents?”
“I’ve been in lots of bands, some of which have had music videos on
TV.”
“So you didn’t become a stripper then?” Her laughter gave her away.
Suddenly I saw the Mandy of old sitting before me.
“I do vaguely remember saying that. I mainly work in women’s refuges
now and organise music events. Still play in some bands too. So who did you
marry?”
“She was a girl three years below us at school, but you wouldn’t know
her because she only joined the school after we’d left. We were married for 3
years, and our daughter is seven now.”
“My marriage lasted 2 years. He was a nice, decent man, and I loved
him, but it just didn’t work out.”
“So who are you with now?”
“A fabulous person named Debbie.”
“Oh Cool.” I blurted out a bit too enthusiastically. An anxious pause
was thankfully broken when a waiter handed us a menu to share. We huddled
together to read it, and I relaxed as I felt Mandy’s leg touching mine. [1024]
Scent of Cologne
M. Stanley Bubien
It had been years—nine, ten, something like that—since he’d taken a

drink, but having my dad over for Christmas still made me nervous. Some
things are just ingrained, I guess, impossible to shake. Like tradition.
“Hi, Keith!” my dad barked with hand outstretched from my doorstep. I
met the grip and waved him within. He complied and whisked off his jacket to
place it upon the mantle. In that action, I caught a scent of his cologne, which he’d
applied with such vigor, it reeked mostly of its base—alcohol, of course.
Clenching fingers into a fist, I sighed and inhaled deeply, a relaxation
technique, but it failed me as I sucked another pungent mouthful of that reek.
“You got the gifts, right?” my father asked.
I shook my head—but I was clearing my sinuses, not answering the
question. “Yep,” I replied.
“You were right about sending them ahead—saved me big hassles at the
airport.”
Was that slur in his voice? It was hard to say. “I’m glad,” I told him.
In the living room, he greeted my wife, Margaret, with his always exuberant,
“Marge!” Followed by a sweeping motion that caught his grandson,
Matt, unawares, carrying the ten-year-old’s squeaking and giggling mass into a
hearty embrace.
“What would you like to drink?” Margaret patted my father.
I blinked at her.
“Cranberry juice, if you’ve got it.”
“For you, always!” Margaret stated, and retreated into the kitchen.
We ended up on the sofa to await the Christmas goose, making idle
conversation, which, I must admit, I actually enjoyed. But then a cloud of
some sort passed over my father.
“Keith,” he said, cupping his glass with both hands. “I need to ask you
a favor.”
“Oh?”
“I know it’s traditional for you to give the dinner toast—head of the
household and all that—but I wanted to know if you’d let me this year.”
“Um. Well. I’d prepared something.”

“I understand.” Dragging a fingertip across the crystal, he caused it to
emit a high-pitched whine. “This is important, though.”
I stared at him. The last time he’d given a toast, he blathered on about
family love or some-such, meanwhile swaying madly and dumping most of
his Southern Comfort onto his plate.
“Consider it a gift?” he asked.
I inhaled with eyes closed. “Alright, I guess so.”
As if on cue, Margaret called me to carve the bird. There, however, I
found myself taking my time, paring meticulously while wondering what my dad
was going to do. But, typical when I concentrated on something, it went
by quickly, and I soon found my family seated together at the table.
“Um, we’re sort of breaking tradition tonight,” I informed Marge. “Dad’s
giving the toast.” I gestured. “Dad?”
“Thank you so much, Keith.” He erected himself to his feet, cranberry
juice in hand. “I... I... Ahem!” he cleared his throat against his sleeve. “Sorry.
I wanted to say something. Something about Christmas.” He looked down at
his plate. “I remember one year—well, ‘remember’ may not be quite right—
there was one year when I drank so much, I passed out while you were opening
gifts, Keith.”
Memory for him might be hazy, but it was clear as day for me—”How
can Daddy fall asleep with so many presents?” I had asked my mom.
“Or,” he continued. “Another year when I stepped on one of your toys
and broke it. You were so young, and you cried for almost a half hour. And
I...” he cleared his throat once more. “I was a little drunk, but your mom was
afraid to let me hold you.”
“Christ, Dad!” I interrupted. “What’s you’re point? This is supposed to
be a toast. What’re you doing?”
Looking me in the eye—something he rarely did—he said, “you know
what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Of course, but I don’t see why?”
“Marge,” he turned to my wife. “There was also that Christmas...
Matthew’s first...” his voice cracked, but he tried to continue, “when... when…”
“When,” Margaret finished for him, “I had to ask you to leave.”
He nodded and swallowed, which made his adam’s apple bob with the
strain. All of us, even Matt, remained silent. I gripped the edge of the table,
staring at my father, trying to catch something, some reason or purpose for
bringing this stuff up again, stuff I’d been trying to forget for, well, a lifetime,
really.
He was gazing downward and rubbing his brow, apparently trying to
regain his composure.
“Dad...?” I whispered.
He raised a palm, and looking up, he said, “okay, that was bad. I didn’t
like saying it, I swear, but I needed to set some context.”
“For what?”
“For a question.” He raised his glass into the air, holding it in a traditional
toast position. “Keith, Marge, Matthew”—he made eye contact with
each of us—”for these things that I’ve done so terribly, terribly, wrong. For
the hurt and pain I’ve caused you all.” He hefted the crystal forward. “For all this, I
am truly sorry. And I ask—no, I beg—please, forgive me.”
Marge and I glanced at each other. Her mouth was pulled tight, and I
could tell her teeth were clenched, her usual tense look. I frowned as if to ask,
“what do you want me to say?” followed with a shrug. Her jaw simply flexed.
Drawing in a long, haggard breath, I blew it out across the table as the
shadow of my father standing over us begged a response.
Filling my lungs again, I took hold of my glass. “Dad, I’m not sure what
to say. Um, yeah, those things hurt. But, um...” Blinking at Marge, I rose and
lifted my cup, “I accept your apology.”
Without standing, Margaret presented her goblet. “Me too.”
“Me three!” Matt cried. And tension fled with our laughter.
And once we had retaken our seats, and filled our plates with goose, and
begun a hearty meal, I had a moment to wonder—or hope, honestly—that
maybe we hadn’t broken only one tradition tonight, but quite possibly
two. [1024]
The Man Who Fell in Love
Michael J. Stevens
The man who fell in love took a walk down the street one day.
Eventually, he came to an intersection where he paused thoughtfully.
Being a careful man, he looked to his left, then looked to his right, then
looked to his left again. Seeing that the way was clear, he began to cross the
street. And along came the bus that hit him. [64]
What Did People Do?

M. Stanley Bubien
Our baby was still crying as I worked him into his car seat. “Honey!
Let’s go!” I called to my wife who’d disappeared in search of some
forgotten, last minute—and did I mention unnecessary?—item.
“Be right down!”
Michael’s howls drowned my reply, and I glanced at my watch impatiently:
9:15 pm! “What did people do before cars?” I mumbled to myself.
Aloud I blurted, “hurry up! It’s late!” as I wrestled Michael’s kicking feet into a
blanket.
“I’m right here,” Lydia responded at my side.
Rolling my eyes, I yanked Michael’s seat from the floor, causing a brief
pause in his screams, and charged for the garage. Buckling car seat, cranking over
engine, and speeding away—the elapsed time barely registered in seconds.
Michael had returned to his cries, but as we wound the onramp onto the highway,
he snuffled. I clung the wheel as I accelerated to a constant—and slightly illegal—
75 mph., but I began to notice that the rhythmic thrum of theengine. Michael was
obviously fading, and after a few more whimpers on his part, finally, silence set in.
My grip loosened on the steering wheel. “He asleep?” I asked Lydia.
She leaned her chair back and adjusted his blanket. Righting herself,
she sighed relief, but said, “drive a little longer—to be sure.”
I let my ears take in the quiet like breathing fresh air. After a respite, I
asked, “what did people do before cars?”
My wife glanced back at Michael, shook her head and chuckled. “Suffered,
I guess.” [256]
Delible Ink on Paper
M. Stanley Bubien
“I did not want this,” I told my Chancellor, proffering the “Danger of War”
declaration I had presently signed; no more than spidery letters,
delible ink on paper, something so fragile that it could be easily frayed,
torn, burned even; and yet it fully prefigured an inevitability, preparing our
armies for mobilization.
“Ah, Majesty,” he replied, accepting the order for the Admiralty. “Yesterday,
you howled your anger at the Russians. Called your very own cousin
Nicholas the most unrepeatable of names! It seems to me that the evening’s
passing has left you overly cooled. May I reiterate once again that this is most
certainly for the best.”
“Humph,” I waved off my previous day’s rage with a sweep of my good
arm. “And how, pray tell, will this be for the best?”
“On so many occasions, I have heard you, yourself, declare your intention
to achieve a ‘Place in the Sun’ for the German peoples.”
“Of course,” I agreed, matter-of-factly. “As Kaiser, I have striven for this noble
goal.”
“Ah, but all that remains of Europe are places of shade.” He waved the
document before me. “This, however, changes so much. It opens so many
possibilities. First, against those uncivilized Slavs. And also, as you certainly
need no reminding, the Eastern occupied territories of those nameless Poles.”
I hunched silently within my seat, my great teak desk before me, spanning forward,
extending sidewards in its girth, immovable, save by the strength of five men, in its
mass. I always sought a measure of potency leaning upon this desk, for the strength
of its ancient trunk held me up and sustained me at
times. Oft considered the most powerful man in Europe, this desk, more than
anything else—territories, armies, navies—allowed me the luxury to believe
as much once or twice during my rule. Just as now, it seemed the only thing
solid enough to prop these pages, the weightiest the world has ever known,
which I had scattered upon it over the last several days.
“I hate the Slavs, though it is a sin to say so, it is most certainly the
truth.” And with that confession, I brought myself to my feet, and strode around the
desk, advanced to the open part of the room, and paced with boots thumping firmly
upon the flooring, while in contrast, the medals upon my uniform rattled lightly.
“All men are sinners,” the Chancellor informed me, as his eyes followed
my progress, to and fro, about the chamber. “That much we both know. But to
hate those who deserve your hatred? I am not convinced that such a thing is
evil.”
I halted, turned fully on him, and cocked my head. “Be that as it may, I believe it
was these feelings, in part, that motivated me to agree to your declaration of
support for Emperor Joseph and Austria-Hungary.”
“Well,” the Chancellor began in a slightly contradictory tone, “I must
point out that the Emperor has been a mighty ally for quite a number of years.”
I exhaled and nodded. “Certainly.”
“And in the tradition of our Teutonic ancestors, we are honor-bound to
adhere to that agreement. And you have been informed that the Austrian army
has already began their invasion of Serbia.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, gesturing toward the page in my Chancellor’s
hand, “and with the Russian army moving as well, I realize the necessity of
this.”
He broke into a grin. “You should also realize that this is merely a
beginning. Once we have taken our place in the sun, you shall no longer be
known as Kaiser.”
My eyebrows furled. “Oh?”
“Leading the German peoples to victory, certainly many will refer to
you as one of legend; even, I must say, as a god!”
I thrust myself forward, threw a clenched fist toward his projecting nose,
and, index finger extended, I cried, “Fool! Get out! Take that damnable order
and leave.” Unabashed, he complied to my command with a bow. He retreated, and
the door creaked wide, and he twisted slightly, and as he stepped through, I called
afterward, slightly less gruffly, “pray, my friend. Pray that it goes no further than
this. For if England enters this struggle alongside Russia, I will then be at war with
both my cousin and nephew.”
He hesitated, grasped the jamb, arched his neck slightly.
I knew his thought, knew the words he would speak, so surely I could
speak them myself. “Go!” I ordered, halting his response, and driving him
finally from my presence.
“A god,” I shook my head, “humph, damnable fool!”
And with that I glanced upon my desk the papers, in reality, a small pile,
emblazoned with various official seals, spun of such delicate pulp, yet again I fully
realized that only this teak masterwork could prop such a burden. For, in the two
days that they had flooded across my desk, I had come to know them, memorize
them, and, above all, despise them.
But it was one in particular, a Serbian document, a reply—a full capitulation,
no less—to the most formidable, and absolutely absurd, demand imposed
by the Austrian state upon her enemy. I lifted it lightly between fingertips,
and it flopped slightly as I studied it.
“Fool,” I had called my Chancellor. But surely that was my designation,
for this document, sent to Austria-Hungary several weeks ago, had been
completely ignored by myself until day before yesterday. And there, in the
margins, in an ink so delible, were words that I should have written not two
nights ago, but twenty. “A great moral victory for Vienna; but with it every
reason for war is removed—” Unable to read any further, I allowed the page to
drop to the floor.
“God,” my Chancellor had called me. And yet, alone in my office, before
my great teak desk, I considered also the statement I had halted him from
speaking in his departure. For, as he well knew, today I was totally powerless;
war would soon rage across our land, and there was not one single thing that I,
the Kaiser of Germany, could do to stop it. [1024]
Revenge
Mark Hansen
Right then and there, I knew it was time to stop. I didn’t know how I
was going to achieve that lofty goal, but I knew it had to happen. What
had started as a simple revenge fantasy, had gotten way out of control.
Seven years of hell for both of us, with our young daughter caught in the middle.
Anger is an interesting emotion. It has a burning power within it, but it
desperately wants to die out. Only a concerted effort by both of us had kept the
fire alive. For if it was to vanish, we would be faced with the pain of our loss.
The loss of our family and all the love, affection and security that went with it.
Though, ironically, it was the distinct lack of these qualities that had ended our
marriage. Sarah was only 6 months old when we separated. The anger between us
was almost constant. Life was unbearable, marriage counselling futile. How can
two people possibly hope to unravel abusive childhoods while living together and
trying to care for a baby? We couldn’t, that was obvious, and after 3 months of
therapy, we parted. She, with Sarah, to her parents, while I stayed
in the flat, alone. And that was the overiding feeling that hit me: loneliness. I
missed them both terribly and my hopes rose each Thursday as we continued with
counselling, only to fall into a depression after each session when it became clear
that there was no hope.
Three months later I called it quits, then recanted a week later. We
struggled through another 3 months, by which time it was her turn to end it for
good. Still we clung on for 3 months more as we slowly let go of each other
and our dreams of family life. The pain was intense, we both fought it, lashing out
with vengeful attacks. She denied me access to Sarah, I delayed maintenance
payments. The game we played went through so many levels and permutations, I
often got lost, and forget why we were playing.
Sarah suffered in the middle of this battle. I remember dropping her
back to Angela’s place one time, and as we talked, Sarah grabbed our hands
and put them together. For years, when I’d leave, Sarah would stand on the
verandah with tears pouring down her face, begging me not to go. I would get
so upset that I wanted to yell at Angela, “how dare you ruin our lives like this?”
Last Sunday, even though it wasn’t my day to see Sarah, I rang up on the
off chance that she might be free for a few hours. As it turned out she had a
party to attend near my place, and I offered to help Angela by picking Sarah up
and driving her. I organised to go early so I’d get to spend some time with
Sarah beforehand. An hour later I arrived at Angela’s local library (since we
had agreed to always meet on neutral territory), and Sarah swapped cars along
with all her beach party gear. I loaded her and everything in and walked around
the front toward my door. The road had a new wet patch which I sourced back
to my car. I didn’t want it to be what I damn well knew it was. Leaning in
through my window, I popped the bonnet and walked to the front again. By
this time Sarah had got out and joined me.
“What’s the matter, Daddy?”
“See that water down there? I think the radiator’s got a leak. Stand
back while I open up the bonnet.” My fingers found the catch and I slowly
lifted, hoping that a hose had just worked loose. I propped the bonnet on its
stand and bent down for a closer inspection. Sarah copied my pose.
“I think I can see some steam near that small hose there, but don’t touch,
‘cause it’ll be really hot.”
“So what’s wrong, Daddy?”
“That hose has split and the water has leaked out. I’m sorry darlin’, but
I won’t be able to take you to the party. We’d better get you back to mummy’s,
so she can take you instead.”
I closed the bonnet and kept an eagle eye on the temperature gauge as
we drove the two minutes back to Angela’s new house.
Angela and Jack had bought the house less than a year ago, to start their
new family. Sarah now had a baby sister, and I had heard from my grandmother
that another one was on the way. I hated them for moving away. It
meant that I saw Sarah much less. There had been two phone fights relating to
it, and Jack had threatened to punch me in the mouth if I came near their house.
So, when we arrived, I was unsure how to proceed.
“Sarah, can you run in and tell mummy that my car has broken down,
and to come out to talk.”
I helped her cross the road and she ran to the front door. I retreated to
my car and waited. Angela came out with Sarah and approached me.
“What’s the matter?” Angela asked.
“The radiators got a leak. I need to get it to a service station so they can
take a look. I’m afraid you’ll have to drive Sarah.”
“Are you with the National Road Service?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to use my mobile to call them?”
This is where my memory of events becomes a bit vague. Mainly because,
when Angela lent me her mobile, I was shocked. This was the kindest
thing she had done for me in 7 years, and when she offered it to me, I looked at
her. By that I mean, I really looked at her—at her face, eyes, arms, legs, and
body. I took her in as a person for the first time in such a long while. Right
then and there I knew the anger and hatred had to stop, because I felt something
I had being trying hard not to feel.
I looked at Angela and I missed her. [1024]
Issue #35 - March 1999
Story Bytes
Table of Contents
Issue #35 - March, 1999
Story Bytes
Story Bytes, Issue #35. Reproduction of this magazine is permitted
as long as it is not sold, either by itself or as part of a collection, and
the entire text of the issue remains unchanged. Copyright © 1999 M.
Stanley Bubien. All stories Copyright © 1999 by their respective
authors. For submission guidelines, or for more information about
Story Bytes, send a message to <editor@storybytes.com>.
Very Short Stories
Lengths a Power of 2
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128WORDSTORIES
1024WORDSTORIES
Or Maybe a Gift
M. Stanley Bubien <bubien@storybytes.com> ......... 7
Another term, seldom used, for Òcoincidence.Ó
What Is It that You Want from Me?
Joseph Lerner <ffiction@slip.net> ........................ 10
Or from yourself, for that matter.
Promise to Tell Me
What would your answer be?
4WORDSTORIES
The Dying Gasp of the Man Who Almost
Had It All
Our last words are often the most important.
512WORDSTORIES
ValentineÕs Day
Mark Hansen <markh@intercoast.com.au> ... 5
Expressing true love is the ideal. Reaching that ideal is
sometimes so simple.
STORY BYTES • ISSUE #35 • MARCH 1999 • PAGE 3
The Dying Gasp of the Man
Who Almost Had It All
M. Stanley Bubien
“I…want… it… all…” [4]
Ê0004 0b00000000/00000100 0x0004Ê
Ê0128 0b00000000/10000000 0x0080Ê
Promise to Tell Me
M. Stanley Bubien
“Dad, I have a question,” I asked as my wife departed, clearing the
dinner she’d prepared. Chicken cacciatore, his—and my—favor
ite, a meal which was a sort of breaking-in of her new kitchen.
“Shoot,” Dad prompted, sipping his wine.
My wife reentered abruptly. To distract her from our conversation, as
she reached for more dishes from the dining room table, I kissed her hand. She
smiled, and when she was gone, I continued, “Before I ask, Dad, you have to
promise to tell me.”
“Tell you? What’d you mean?”
I shook my head. “Just promise. Okay. Promise to tell me.”
Resting hands near the crystal, he shrugged, but nodded.
“I’ve been wondering for a while...” I wiped my mouth. “Dad,” I sighed.
“Are you proud of me?” [128]
Valentine’s Day
Mark Hansen
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Valentine’s Day has come and gone for this year, and I only got one
small present. That may sound like I’m complaining, but I’m
not, for it was the most wonderful gift I have ever received on that
special day.
Commercialism has ruined many of our annual celebrations—Easter,
Christmas, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day. The true meaning is often lost in
advertising hype. There are ready-made cards for every occasion, so it’s easy
to pick someone else’s words and send them to a loved one. That’s what was
different about the card that went with this present—it was hand made. My
daughter was the first to inform me of its arrival, late in the afternoon.
“Daddy, I’m ringing you about a surprise. A Valentine’s Day card is
here for you. I went down to check the mail-box and it was just there. Isn’t
that exciting?”
“That’s great darling. I wonder who it’s from?” Who would send me a
card, addressed to my parent’s place? A girlfriend from my University days,
perhaps?
“Come up to Nanna’s, and open it?”
Driving along reminded me of the conversation I’d had with my daughter
after lunch. I’d been dropping her off to her grandparents for the afternoon.
“So, Sarah, do you know what day it is today?”
“No, Daddy.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day.”
“What’s Val-in-tynes Day?”
“It’s a special day where people send cards and flowers and gifts to
those they love. But they don’t have to tell them who its from—though some
do.”
“Why wouldn’t they want them to know?” What an excellent question.
I paused to analyse the Valentine’s Day tradition before offering a reason.
“I guess that way it’s kind of a mystery and makes it exciting.”
By the time I arrived, I still wasn’t certain who the gift was from, but I
started to have a few suspicions. Sarah ran up to me after I walked in the front
door, and held out a small envelop with a huge bulge in it. There was ample
sticky-tape around the top to keep it all in. I took the tiny package and examined
it closely. My name and address were on the front in hand-writing that
looked familiar. On the back were a series of love-hearts—red, green, blue,
orange, pink and black—larger ones at the bottom and some tiny ones at the
top. One large pink heart had a bow drawn across its middle. I looked at my
mother and she smiled.
“Isn’t it good you got a card, Daddy?”
“Yes its great, but let’s see who it’s from.” I carefully opened it and
extracted its precious contents.
“A beautiful flower, a sea shell, and a lovely round pebble. What wonderful
gifts. Now let’s see what the card says. ‘Dear Michael James Andrews,
I love you and wish you a happy Valentines Day. Love from ?’ And there’s
another pink love-heart with a bow down the bottom.”
“It must be a mystery girlfriend Daddy.”
“Yes, and someone who obviously loves me very much.” [512]
Or Maybe a Gift
M. Stanley Bubien
Ê1024 0b00000100/00000000 0x0400Ê
It’s funny that I would be so uncomfortable here, while earlier, when
I really should have felt uneasy, I’d been fine. But as the technician
applied the gel to my prone wife’s belly, I sat off to the corner, leaning
with forearms against knees, inhaling deeply through my nose.
“Your first?” the tech asked Kathleen, though I caught a knowing smirk
from him in my direction.
“Yep,” I answered for her.
“And no sonogram yet, either?” He reached for the probes, and when I
though about that word—”probe”—I bowed further forward.
“It’s not that bad,” he said. “No blood!”
“My husband’s not too good around doctor stuff, medicine.” She
frowned, half-serious, but half-humorous. “At least that what he tells me.”
“It’s true!” I offered in my own defense. “My family wanted me to be a
doctor, like my dad, but there was no way! I can’t even watch medical shows
on TV. I’m squeamish.”
“You weren’t earlier, though,” Kathleen stated in a soft, gracious tone,
smile barely visible.
“What happened earlier?” the tech asked. But instead of an answer,
Kathleen and I simply looked at each other.
“Apologies,” he said. “I’ve overstepped my bounds. Why don’t I go
ahead and explain the process.” Kathleen nodded, and he told us how the
sonogram worked, and how he’d thoroughly check our unborn baby over for
problems. I could see Kathleen’s smile growing as he applied the flat sensors
against her and reach over to tune the computer screen.
For the first ten minutes, I simply alternated between watching the floor
or the tech’s motions, even over his exclamations of “there’s the head,” or
Kathleen’s “oh, look at all that moving around!” and “you can see the whole
body!”
I wasn’t avoiding this, and that’s God’s honest truth. I had made a conscious
decision to be here even if I was squeamish. This was, after all, the first
time we would actually see our child—and that had become so much more
“At the risk of overstepping my bounds again,” the tech said, “have you picked
a name?”
As Kathleen’s tears welled I told him, “Stasia.”
“Stasia? That’s beautiful! And very unusual.”
“It’s... my grandmother’s name,” Kathleen whispered.
The tech nodded as though he understood, but, really, he had no idea.
I hesitated, but as my wife wiped her eyes, she breathed, “go ahead.”
“Our grandmother died this morning,” I told him. “We were with her.”
Technically, she’d died last night, but after resuscitating her, the doctors
errantly put her on a respirator. “No extreme measures,” she had explicitly
stated. But I guess when her heart stopped, and the code blue went out, they
were too busy to read that tiny detail on the chart.
The call came from Kathleen’s mother in the wee hours, and we headed
down to the hospital, arriving just before they disconnected life-support.
Kathleen, her father, and especially her mother, comforted our unconscious
grandmother as instruments showed the fade in her heart’s beating.
Medicinal odors surrounded me, and death loomed close enough to touch,
yet I alternated in the hand-holding, crying, and speaking to grandmother. Many
things I said—many things we all said—but through the tears, all I remember
was one repeated phrase.
“I love you.”
Generally, we were unhappy with the doctors’ mistake, but it had given
us one last chance to speak those words—though, in the coma, it was doubtful
grandmother actually heard.
But who knows?
“Is that why you decided to come today?” the tech asked me, obviously
referring to my current discomfort.
“No,” I admitted. “I was planning on being here anyway.”
“It was just a coincidence,” Kathleen sniffed.
“Or maybe a gift,” I added. “We’re not really sure.”
And now, this time, when he nodded, it seemed he truly did understand.
A moment of silence passed—not the uncomfortable kind, but the solemn kind.
Since the tech was in charge, it was inevitably his duty to break that
silence. “I’ve printed a number of pictures. You can keep them.” He grinned
at me with bright white teeth. “Just in case you want to look at them—over
and over again!”
before she swung onto the floor to change, I hopped up and stopped her with a
kiss on the lips.
“I love you,” I said.
“You did great.”
“Well, I guess,” I shrugged. “I was thinking though...” And reaching
down and touching Kathleen’s now-sticky tummy, I leaned over the spot where my
hand rested and said, “I love you too.”
After all, who knows? [1024]
For Stasia Popowski and Torrey Stasia Bubien.
“What is it that you want from me?” Carol said. Her dachshund,
Harry, jumped at her bare legs, which made her jump too. The
weather, though promising, was still much too cold.
“What is it that I want?” Mike asked, walking faster to keep up with her.
“What is it that I want?” he repeated.
They stopped before the office building where he worked.
“Well?” she said. “Are you going inside?”
“Come inside with me.”
“I can’t take the dog, remember? Unlike my company.”
In his office he kept glancing out the window toward where he had last
seen her. Eventually he turned to the papers and mail stacked haphazardly on
his desk. “What is it that you want?” he asked, staring morosely at them.
He picked up several letters at random. One advertised baby products—
formula, diapers, toys. He wondered how he had gotten on that mailing list.
Another was a brochure from the company’s travel agent.
It advertised specials for Aruba, the Antilles, Malta. He remembered
his and Carol’s first (and only) long vacation—to Thailand and Bali—just before
getting married. The vacation had gone well except that when they had
returned to pick up Harry from the pound they had found him so traumatized
that he had become skittish and depressed for weeks.
Carol did not forget that it was Mike who had persuaded her, against her
better judgment, to board the dachshund.
He put down the mail. What is it that you want from me? Early in their
relationship such questions had been a game, light-hearted and teasing. During
sex: what is it that you want now? Walking Harry: if dogs dream, are they
random or do they spring from fear, hope and desire, like ours? With friends:
which ones are true friends, and which just want something?
But lately her questions, if prosaic in one sense, were also more barbed:
What Is It that You Want
from Me?
Don’t you want a better job, have children, own our own home?
Mike got little done that morning, and at noon when a co-worker, Don,
asked if he wanted to go with him and Liz, another co-worker, to lunch, he said
yes, forgetting he had planned to meet Carol.
They decided on the corner deli because of its proximity, but found it so
crowded they were forced to stand in line in the cold anyway.
After they sat and ordered, Liz said, “I am beside myself.”
“Why?” asked Don, who had squeezed beside her in the tiny booth.
People jostled each other in the take-out line just next to Mike, and he had to
lean forward to hear his co-workers.
“It’s my apartment,” Liz said. “There’s water seeping up from the kitchen
floor, the fuses are always shorting, and the back door steps are broken. I’ve
told the landlord, but he says I have to fix them.”
“That’s illegal,” said Don. “Let me talk to my attorney.”
“What’s worse,” Liz continued, “the landlord lives next door, and his
dog is always tearing up my garden.” She paused. “I’m thinking of burying
poisoned food pellets out there. Just enough to make him sick,” she added
quickly.
Both Don and Mike fell silent. All three ate quickly—half their lunch
hour already had been spent waiting and ordering—and then returned to the
office.
Mike phoned Carol to apologize, but she was not available. Later in the
afternoon he went to several meetings that Liz also attended, but he avoided
looking at or speaking with her. He decided to leave the office early, despite
the report his boss wanted completed by the next day.
On his way home he passed a lawn-and-garden shop. He stared at the
window display, slick with vapor. Orchids, hibiscus and oleander gleamed,
multifaceted as jewels. Before he and Carol had met he had gardened himself,
and had often planted aconitum—monk’s hood——or nereum—a kind of oleander,
both of whose poison discouraged blackbirds and other creatures from
raiding his garden. But he doubted if aconitum or nereum would work on a
dog.
At his front doorstep Mike heard the TV on. That probably meant that
Carol had brought Harry home during her lunch break—the dachshund was
less lonely with the TV for company. But as Mike walked through the house
(and called out his name) Harry could not be found.
Annoyed, he turned off the TV. He entered the kitchen, sat at the table,
and gazed at the trees out the window. The dogwoods should bloom soon, he
thought. They were hard-pressed to afford a house and yard so close to downtown;
it was a shame not to keep a garden too. He then noticed in his pocket
the crumbled travel brochure he earlier had read, and set it on the table, smoothing
it out.
He heard the front door open. Carol—without the dog—entered the
kitchen. She looked drawn and pale, and a few gray hairs were showing.
“Did you get my message?” he asked. She nodded. “Where’s Harry?”
“He got sick at work—”
“Again?”
“—and so I dropped him off at the vet’s. He has to stay overnight.”
“That must be one unhappy dachshund. What should we eat for dinner?”
“I don’t feel like cooking tonight.”
“I’ll cook.”
“I mean I don’t feel like eating.” She sat down across from him. “Have
you thought about what I said?”
“You mean—what is it that I want from you?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t thought much. I don’t understand. Is the question some sort
of puzzle, like a Zen koan?”
“I know what I want,” she said, her voice suddenly pitched high. She
balled her fists, and a tear glistened on her cheek. “I’m thirty-five years old,
Mike.”
“There’s still time.”
“I don’t want to wait!”
Her husband rose from the table. He left the kitchen and entered the
bedroom. As he lay atop the unmade bed, he heard Carol begin to cry. Again
he looked out the window. If it weren’t for Harry he could plant a garden. Or
quit his job and take a long trip, to Aruba, the Antilles, or Malta. [1024]
WHAT IS IT THAT YOU WANT FROM ME? • JOSEPH LERNER
Issue #36 - April 1999
Story Bytes
Table of Contents
Issue #36 - April, 1999
Story Bytes
Very Short Stories
Editor
M. Stanley Bubien
Web Site
Editorial Assistant
Kevin Athey
<kathey@pobox.com>
Weekly Mailing List
Story Bytes better
than sound bites.
Back Issues (PDF)
view-pdf/>
Back Issues (HTML)
view-month/>
For Kosovo!
Those who forget the past are... are... oh, I forget.
Salty, Uncomfortable Stains
If you could say anything to God, anything at all, what
would it be?
128WORDSTORIES
2048WORDSTORIES
The Snake Killing
Jerry Poyner <jpoyner@terraworld.net> ................... 9
When it comes to Crazy Joe Ray Shaw, some ideas
arenÕt always as good as they sound.
Farewell, Suburbia
Anne Leung <bitter0003@aol.com> ........................ 4
A blurb? You want a blurb for this one?
2WORDSTORIES
The Unhappiest Man Who Ever Lived
A morality tale, of sorts.
512WORDSTORIES
STORY BYTES • ISSUE #36 • APRIL 1999 • PAGE 3
The Unhappiest Man Who
Ever Lived
M. Stanley Bubien
“Forgive? Never!”
[2]
Ê0002 0b00000000/00000010 0x0002Ê
Ê0128 0b00000000/10000000 0x0080Ê
Farewell, Suburbia
Anne Leung
And there went the neighborhood. Why?
I told you to rock the vote, eat less fat, work smarter not harder,
exercise at least three times a week, pray but not at school, keep your
elbows off the table, clean your room, send your children to private schools,
lock your doors, sit down and shut up, look both ways, beware of THEM,
smile and nod, be all that you can be, call me and we’ll do lunch, buy American,
get professional help, fill in the bubbles completely with a number 2 pencil,
be seen not heard, seek your inner child, come see me today or I can’t save
you any money, avoid the Eastside, paint your house in pastel colors, and free
Willy.
Just try to defy me again. [128]
For Kosovo!
M. Stanley Bubien
Ê0512 0b00000010/00000000 0x0200Ê
“The date, tell me the date!”
“T-t-today,” I said, hands clasped behind my back, hiding their
trembling, as I concentrated upon the words. “Today i-is—”
“Not today,” our leader barked, “damn you! The da—” he fell into a fit
of coughing, leaning front-wise upon the table, though it hardly bent under his
form. His aid, and second-in-command, moved to intervene, but he waved the
assistance aside.
We waited until the tremors in his body slackened, and he dropped,
breathing wetly, into a chair.
“Thehhh...” he rasped in an attempt at speech, but shook his head. Clearing
his throat several times, yet to no avail, he finally gestured to his aid.
“Our instructions for you are clear,” the aid lifted a pistol from the table.
“You will be first in the line.”
“F-f-f-first?” I stammered. “Are-are you s-s-sure?”
“Absolutely! You are our most capable shot, and the automobile will
pass first position the fastest.”
I nodded.
“Freedom for Kosovo!” the aid stated solemnly as he presented the firearm.
“F-f-f-reedom.” I replied, unclasping my hands slowly, but before bringing
them forward, clenching my fingers into a fist. Yet that simply caused the
whole of my forearm to tremble as I reached toward the pistol. I closed my
eyes as I grasped it, but another palm, cold and clammy, laid itself upon mine.
“Unity!” our leader said, having found voice once more. “Won with the
blood of their ‘fearless leader.’ Pah!” He spat on the floor. “Our hands are
already blackened, but blood will pave our path. Are you up to this task?”
I stiffened, for to express doubt now would certainly mean my own
death. “A l-l-land united for u-u-s and all Serbians, its r-r-rightful heirs.” I
said, though my hand still shook.
At that moment, his grip tightened, the firmest grasp he had ever thrown
upon me. “Ah! You are for the task! These aggressions will not abide, and
you, my friend, you will have the first opportunity to free our land from such
treacheries.
“The instant that he dies, it will be for Kosovo. And his people—all
people!—will know the Serbian wrath cannot be contained.”
The three of us stood there at that moment, each with a palm surrounding
the pistol.
“The date, I ask again. The date?” our leader said in a tone that had
earned him his post, though in contrast, he had become so pale, he seemed to
fill the darkened room with a glow.
“Twenty-eighth, June,” I stated with perfect annunciation.
“In the year of our Lord 1914,” our leader continued. “Then, the Archduke
Ferdinand, heir to the Austrian throne will fall.”
And as one voice we repeated our rallying cry. “For Kosovo! Union or
death!”
They released the pistol, leaving it fully in my possession. They had
finished with me, this I knew, and made my exit. I fled to the street, and falling
against an alleyway wall, I held my hand before me. Through the moonless
night I could not see it, but I knew that, still, it shook as though it would never
stop. [512]
Salty, Uncomfortable Stains

M. Stanley Bubien
Ê0512 0b00000010/00000000 0x0200Ê
And I fled the service. The sunlight outside flash-blinded me, and I
lifted a hand to block it. Squinting, hand still raised, I charged
forward, tie flapping behind as I jogged toward the single oak which
provided the sole shade upon the whole church-grounds.
There, against its bark, I fell, carelessly staining my slacks as I pulled
knees to chest and buried head into arms.
When I had been within the crescendo of the building, “Jesus!” our pastor,
Bob, had cried. “Jeeessuuuusss!” he’d repeated, drawling the name for
impact, “is here! Yes! Right here! In our midst! Brethren!”
“Amens!” reigned with the Gospel choir’s rhythm; bodies swayed, many
with arms outstretched, while still more flashed smiles as though the light of
Christ beamed directly from their faces.
“Amen!” Pastor Bob echoed, throwing hands, fingers extended, heavenward.
“Amen! He honors our song! He... Is... Here!”
And calls of “Preach it, brother!” and “Hallelujah!” followed. But Pastor
Bob paused, bringing arms slowly down, lowering his voice. “What?” he
whispered while the choir quieted to a hum. “What?” he gestured across the
congregation, “are you to do? He’s here! The Lord, Jesus. Yes he is.” And his
voice raised again. “Right in front of you! Each and every one!” And lower,
“What will you say to Him?” And higher, “He’s here! Yes! Speak to Him,
brother’s and sister! Tell Him your heart!”
He spun in a circle, and the choir erupted into song, carrying the congregation
into a charismatic frenzy. And I felt it—a flushing in my cheeks, a
heavy draw of breath, a skipping of heartbeat—physical sensation inspired
only of the Spirit.
But that same Spirit revealed me—purely, wholly, honestly as I was—
and I knew that Pastor Bob spoke Truth. Jesus was here. With a shout, like a
naked man upon a stage, I covered my face, fingers digging into my brow. As
the fellowship continued their praises, I too called aloud, but the words I spoke
were those of Peter.
“Flee from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!”
The din drowned my voice.
I screamed again the decree, yet unable to hear even myself. Glancing
across the swaying mass, a moment of logic manifested—in begging the Lord
to flee from me, I also begged Him to flee from these, my Christian family.
Impulse took over; I pushed down the aisle, rushed the doorway, and fled the
service.
Yet, even here, shaded by the oak, I could hear their song, vibrating
from the paper-thin walls of our humble building. I shifted my weight, trying
not to listen as tears wet my forearms.
Hard and long I cried, oh, so very long, for a warmth eventually crept
upon me. Lifting my head, I realized that the shade had moved aside and the
sunlight beamed once more upon me. Wiping my nose, I gazed into its light—
again flash-blinded, but rather than blocking the rays, I closed my eyes. And
presently, I felt a tickling; for it was the trail of tears evaporating, leaving
behind their salty, uncomfortable stains. [512]
The Snake Killing

Jerry Poyner
Ê2048 0b00001000/00000000 0x0800Ê
“Joe Ray Shaw was walking down the road with a snake wrapped around
his arm,” James said.
“He ain’t afraid of snakes,” I said. “Granny says he is crazy. She said
his momma was marked when he was born.”
“How did he get marked?” James asked.
“I think she stepped on a snake when she was in the family way,” I
proudly told James. Usually James was telling me things.
“Granny said she knew he was crazy, because he plays with snakes,” I
said. “She said if he is walking down the road with a snake, we are supposed
to come in the house and hide.”
“What if he comes in the house?” James said.
“Granny will shoot him with her shotgun. She loaded it the other day
when he come up that driveway,” I said.
“Wanna go play on the big swing?” James asked.
“Nah. Let’s go over to Granny’s and see if that crazy Joe Ray Shaw has
been over there with his snakes.”
The walk to Granny’s house was a far piece for two young, barefoot
boys, but there was little traffic to worry about and sometimes, honking Jack
would come by and give you a ride. Taking off down the dirt road, my cousin
James said he had decided to be a preacher when he grew up. “Why do you
want to be a preacher?” I wanted to know.
“Cause if you are a preacher, you only work one day a week and then
you get to eat with Granny. You see preachers are called by God and since
God likes them, they don’t have to work,” James explained.
“Has God called you to preach?” I asked.
“I got saved last month at the brush harbor revival,” James said. “When
you get saved and if you don’t do any sinning, God will call you to preach,” he
very smugly announced. “I ain’t cussed or smoked since I got saved. I’m
going to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ and save everybody.”
“Think you can save that crazy Joe Ray Shaw?” I asked.
“Not if he keeps playing with them durned snakes. Snakes are bad. The
devil is in them snakes. It is in the bible,” James said.
Granny’s old house was sitting off the road about a half mile up on the
side of a hill. We took off through the cow pasture for a shortcut. The little
cow path was hard packed and there was no chance of stepping on a snake on
that path. Sometimes you would see one but it was easy to turn around and go
back the other way.
“I’m going to be a preacher too,” I decided right then.
“You ain’t been saved. You’re going to hell,” James said.
“How do you get saved?” I asked.
“Well you got to go to a revival and when they sing the invitation you
got to go front and tell the preacher you want to be saved,” James explained.
“Is that all you got to do?” I asked.
“Nope, you got to cry. Every time somebody gets saved, they cry and
cry. That tells God you are sorry for all your sins. You can’t even go up front
unless you feel like crying,” James said. He continued, “you ain’t ever been
saved because you ain’t felt like crying.”
By this time we were at Granny’s front door so the getting saved talk
had to end. Granny heard us coming up the driveway and came out on the
porch. She was a little woman, maybe 5’1" and maybe she weighed a 100
pounds, but she was the boss of the family and nobody in the neighborhood
crossed her. She had the gift of gab and ever since she had gotten her party line,
she knew every thing that was going on for two mile around.
“Granny, has that crazy Joe Ray Shaw been over here?”
“No way he’s gonna come over here. I told that momma of his to keep
him away from here if she didn’t want him shot,” Granny said with a spit of
snuff juice. “I ain’t going to have nobody around here that plays with snakes.”
“Joe Ray said that his snake wasn’t poison,” I said.
Granny got that look on her face that told me I had just said the wrong
thing. “NOW YOU LISTEN TO ME! All snakes are poison and there are
many a youngen laid out in the Klondike cemetery, that have been bit by them.
Why, if one just barely nicks your finger, you’ll swell up like a balloon and
then your face will turn purple and then you are as good as dead. God made
them snakes poison to keep us from wandering off all over the durn place and
getting in trouble. You kids leave that crazy Joe Ray Shaw alone and stay
away from them places where the snakes hide.”
Sensing my feelings were a little hurt, Granny said, “now you two come
on up on the porch and I’ll fix you a vanilla shake.” The vanilla shake consisted
of a spoon full of sugar, a dash of vanilla flavoring, and a glass of milk
out of the dug well. On a hot summer afternoon, nothing tasted better than
Granny’s vanilla shakes.
Anxious to get back to asking about being saved at the Baptist revival, I
told James, I had to get on home.
James was through talking about being saved. He had snakes on his
mind. “Granny told me one time that she knew a family that had a house back
over behind the little pond,” he said. “One night they went to bed and they left
the front door open and a whole herd of snake slipped in through the door and
bit and killed everyone of them. They never got up out of bed.”
“Granny was just telling you a scary story. My momma said that didn’t
happen. She said Granny makes up stories just to scare us kids,” I pleaded.
“Well I ain’t going to the little pond anymore,” James said. I’ll walk 10
miles around that place cause it is full of snakes.”
The trip home was filled with great fear. What if we stepped on a snake
and it just nicked our toes. We’d swell up and die. Ever step was made with
eyes open and on the road. I wasn’t in the mood to get saved anymore. I just
wanted to get home alive before a snake jumped out at me or James.
When we got to my house I told James bye and I went inside where it
was safe. I didn’t sleep very well that night and I dreamed about snakes and
that crazy Joe Ray. In my dream he was chasing me and he had a snake wrapped
around his arm. I would try to run and I couldn’t get my legs to move. I woke
up crying a little and I wondered if that meant I was saved. I decided to ask
James if that was good enough the next day.
The next day, I headed to James’ house to see if he was still scared of Joe
Ray and to tell him about crying.
When I got to his house, he was outside cutting a board with his dad’s
hatchet. “Whatcha doing James?”
“I’m whittling a snake killing stick. See, it’s got a big end here and I’m
sharpening it so I can kill snakes if’n we see some today.”
The device looked pretty functional to me. He had nailed a piece of tin
on the edge so that it looked a lot like a knife. “I want one too!” I said. We
spent the next two hours building me a snake killer and although mine wasn’t
quiet as good as his, it was longer so I didn’t have to get as close as him to kill
a snake.
After we got our snake killers made, James made a bold suggestion.
“Let’s go over to Joe Ray’s house and kill some snakes.”
That made a lot sense to me, since he was the snake man that everyone
hated and we had our snake killers. We grew about 10 inches taller with them
snake killers in our hands. Heck we weren’t ever afraid of Joe Ray Shaw, the
craziest kid on our mile of road.
On the way to Joe Ray’s house, which was about a half mile west of our
house, James kept demonstrating how to use the snake killer. He would stop
right on the road and say, “see, if that was a snake laying there,” pointing to a
dead stick poking out of the grass, “I’d just hit it right behind the head and then
the durn thing would be dead.” Then he would wham that old dead stick and
break it right into.
About half way on our journey, I told James about dreaming about Joe
Ray and snakes and waking up crying. I asked him, “am I saved like you are
now?”
“Nope, you got to do it at a revival,” he said with authority of someone
who is already saved.
“They won’t have one until next year and I might get bit by a durned
snake and die before then,” I said.
“You’ll go to hell if you do,” he said with satisfaction. James like to be
superior to others and knowing that he was already saved, and that there wasn’t
any way I could get saved until next summer gave him that place of importance
he always enjoyed with me.
“Have you cussed since you was saved?” I asked him. Then I remembered
hearing the grownups talking about cussing. “I heard if you even think
in your head a cuss word, you will go to hell. Is that true?”
“If you think a cuss word, it is the same as saying it,” James said. “I
haven’t even thought a cuss word since I was saved at the revival.”
“Boy, I think cuss words all the time. I hope I get saved real soon so I
can stop thinking cuss words,” I confessed.
“Yep, when you get saved, you don’t even think cuss words. I ain’t
even stole a cigarette since I was saved. I did have a dip of Granny’s two dot
Garrett snuff. Dipping snuff ain’t a sin, cause they did that in the bible.”
As we approached Joe Ray’s house, I began to get real nervous. What if
Joe Ray had a snake wrapped around his arm. I couldn’t hit the snake on his
arm, cause Joe Ray was older and a lot bigger than me.
Joe Ray was home and he saw us coming up the drive way. He met us
half way and said “What you’all doing with them sticks?”
“Just out killing snakes,” James said. “You got any snakes that need
killing?”
“Just in the barn,” Joe Ray said. “There are lots of snakes in the barn.
You’all go on out to the barn and kill all the snakes you want to kill. I’ll be out
there directly.”
Now at this point, I was ready to head back home, but James had worked
up a fever for killing a snake. There wasn’t any turning him back now. We
went to the barn and it was the usual mid-summer barn. There was a good bit
of hay stored and room for another load or so. James started poking around
looking for snakes and I stood way behind him, ready to enter the battle if I
needed to save his life or something.
Joe Ray had sneaked up the tree beside the barn and had crawled into
the little loft. He was a heck of lot quieter than James and my heart beat, so we
didn’t know he was anywhere around. He very quietly dropped his pet bull
snake down on the back of James’ neck. The sight of the snake falling down
on James turned me toward home, yelling for someone to help us. James was
right behind me, yelling goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it, over and over
and over.
About half way home. We stopped running, completely out of breath.
James, finally catching his breath, said, “now, I ain’t never going to be a
goddamned preacher.” [2048]
Issue #37 - May 1999
Story Bytes
Table of Contents
Issue #37 - May, 1999
Story Bytes
Very Short Stories
Editor
M. Stanley Bubien
Web Site
Editorial Assistant
Kevin Athey
<kathey@pobox.com>
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Could You Die With That?
Sometimes itÕs not what you ask, but what you donÕt.
128WORDSTORIES
1024WORDSTORIES
Cannibal Dreams
Lisa E. Cote <lcote2@videon.wave.ca> .................... 7
Can¥ni¥bal: n. One that eats the flesh of its own kind.
It Never Bloomed for Babcia
M. Stanley Bubien <bubien@storybytes.com> .........10
Trees, like secrets, often wait to bear fruit.
Uncle Basil
Joseph Lerner <ffiction@slip.net> ..........................13
They say thereÕs one in every crowdÉ erÉ family.
Abortion Kiss
J.R. Clubb <launchpad@ultranet.ca> ........................ 4
For some men, a kiss thatÕs neither supple nor soft.
64WORDSTORIES
The Conflict Between Sides
DoesnÕt matter which side youÕre onÉ
512WORDSTORIES
STORY BYTES • ISSUE #37 • MAY 1999 • PAGE 3
The Conflict Between Sides
or Like a Broken Record
M. Stanley Bubien
Ê0064 0b00000000/01000000 0x0040Ê
SIDE A: I will avenge thee, father (skip).
I will avenge thee, father (skip).
I will avenge thee, father...
(Thirty to fifty years later, flip record.)
SIDE B: I will avenge thee, father (skip).
I will avenge thee, father...
(Thirty to fifty years later, flip record...) [64]
Ê0128 0b00000000/10000000 0x0080Ê
Abortion Kiss
J.R. Clubb
Iwas wearing a T-shirt of a fetus in a womb. In shiny blue letters it
said, “BE MY BABY.” She rubbed my belly and I pushed out my tummy
to pretend the baby kicked. She thought that was cute. We both had on
our bare feet and the grass was yellow because it hadn’t rained for weeks. She
had a little cut on her chin and when we kissed, it started to bleed. Blood
dripped on my shirt and covered the baby’s nose and mouth. She called it an
abortion kiss. I never washed the shirt again. She moved in ungainly bounds
towards her freedom of action. She inhaled the oppressive stillness of air and
exhaled ocean mist. Our sideways ship drifted leeward of the desired
course. [128]
Could You Die With That?

M. Stanley Bubien
Ê0512 0b00000010/00000000 0x0200Ê
He had shot me and left me for dead, and dead I would presently
be—but not just yet. The blast from his revolver had certainly
rendered me unconscious, but I came to, gun fully in hand, and loaded
still—not even one shot fired. I knew this, from memory certainly, but also
because I clicked through the whole cartridge, weighing each bullet between
fingertips as I methodically removed them to make doubly sure.
I found him resting against the bar, sucking down whiskey, and I approached
from behind, locking the hammer back, pressing the barrel into the
exposed portion of his neck.
“I thought you’s dead,” he told me, apologizing, I believe, for my catching
him unawares.
“Not yet,” I answered, “but soon enough.” Forced to uncover the wound
were his bullet pierced my side, I relieved him of his six-shooters, and dropped
them, kicking them in bloody streaks across the floor. Replacing my hand in a vain
attempt to staunch the flow, I felt the warmth of my crimson life ebbing upon it.
“Soon enough,” I repeated, pressing the barrel unsteadily. “But first, you.”
He chuckled only briefly, for the motion jostled my gun, and he knew
my finger rested squarely upon a hair trigger.
“Them’s the price you’s payin’ for mistakes,” he told me. “I reckon.”
“I reckon,” and my vision blurred slightly, but I blinked it clear.
“And I’m reckonin’ I’s gotta live with that.” He paused, and though he
remained stiff in the neck, I knew he focused his eyes as much toward me as a
man in his situation could. “But I’s wonderin’...”
“Careful,” I commanded with a jab.
“I’s wonderin’, can you?
“Can I what?”
He indicated my pistol. “Could you live with that?”
“That’s the wrong question.” And, already having weighed the ramifications
of its converse, I grinned fully—would have laughed even, save for the
fact that it would most surely have rendered me unconscious. “You see, I don’t
have to.” I removed my hand, offered it for his examination, drenched to the
bone with blood.
He nodded carefully, for I had presented him, in that hand, with a basic
truth, which he recognized as such. “Then I’m reckonin’ we’ll be seein’ each’un
the other in, awe, well, hell.”
I shook my head and lost my grin, for had I not been completely convinced
ahead of time that he would speak those very words, I probably would
have fallen dead to the floor at that very moment—but I still had life left in me
yet.
I pulled the trigger.
The hammer clicked, causing him to go stiff, though what it struck was
only an empty cartridge.
“Maybe not,” I replied, lowering my gun, and with vision blurring again,
I strode away. My back was to him, but I heard his move, could gauge every
step as though I watched through clear eyes. When he dove for his six-shooters,
however, it was already too late.
I collapsed upon the floor, empty gun in hand, and died before he could
fire a single shot. [512]
Cannibal Dreams
Lisa E. Cote
Ê1024 0b00000100/00000000 0x0400Ê
At first we were just roommates. He answered the ad I placed in the
paper, along with several others, and I chose him, as I might have
chosen a dress for a funeral: plain, unremarkable, conservative, neat;
he seemed to be all those things. He worked as a banker, didn’t smoke or drink
excessively, and, unlike the other male applicants, didn’t come on to me when
I showed him the spare bedroom. Yet when we became friends I discovered he
was many things I hadn’t expected. For one thing, he could cook.
“Amanda,” he said to me one night as we ate canned spaghetti together
and watched TV, “have you ever eaten frog?”
I looked at him suspiciously and after a short silence said, “No.”
“Would you like to?”
Another pause, after which I responded, “I don’t know.” It seemed a
rather forward thing to ask, a strange and presumptuous question. Or maybe he was
joking.
He wasn’t.
“There’s a guy at the market who sells frog’s legs,” he went on, “and I
bought some from him this morning. Would you like to try some? I’d love to
share them with you.”
“Well... OK, sure. I’ll try some.”
At the time I barely knew him well enough to remove his underwear
load from the dryer; so it was strange to consider sharing delicacies with him.
But there was something so sincere in his face and his voice, so innocent and
inviting in his, “I’d love to share them with you.”
When it came time to actually eat though, I was worried for a moment
that I wouldn’t be able to after all, that I would insult him, and worse, that I
would reveal to him a weakness, a fear. But as I watched him savor every
mouthful, chewing slowly with mute rapture, I couldn’t resist, and took a tiny
bite. It tasted like tender chicken thighs, cooked to perfection and basted in herbed
butter sauce.
I groaned my approval without thinking, and he smiled at me, saying
nothing and everything at once.
After that night exotic dining became a weekend routine for us: sweetmeats,
rabbit stew, Cornish hen, ostrich, buffalo steak, calamari, sea urchin, shark. Then
there was the vegetable and fruit kingdom Jerusalem artichoke, kohlrabi, blood
oranges, plantain, guava, pomegranates. We devoured it all,and I grew more happy
and fearless with every new discovery. I also learned
a lot about him from his culinary crusades: “Tonight’s sushi night,” he would
say, “because it reminds me of my stint as a DJ in Hong Kong,” or “Try this
Jambalaya. I got the recipe from my landlady in New Orleans. She taught me
voodoo hexes too.” Once, in the forest, as we picked wild mushrooms to eat
with our asparagus, he pointed to a patch of dainty little flesh-colored fungi with
round caps. “Those are magic mushrooms,” he explained, “I tried them once—it
was an experience.”
Here was a guy who ironed his tee shirts and wore a tie to work, and he
had partied at Mardi Gras and eaten magic mushrooms: maybe on the same
night! I was intensely jealous of him then, and, of course, in love.
We continued to spend time together since he hadn’t made many friends
yet, and since I had let my other friendships slide. One of the friends I still
talked to on the phone was always at me about him, asking what was going on, if it
was going anywhere, and gee he wasn’t that good-looking but what was he
like in bed anyway? Of course I didn’t have a clue, but I was convinced I
already had the insight to say, “phenomenal.” I told her that he would try anything,
was open to everything. It was true. He watched “B” movies on latenight television
one night, and showed me how to taste wine the next. He had
a tattoo of a skull on his shoulder and a bird-watcher’s poster on his closet
door. More than that, however, he was entirely at ease with all his private
contradictions, those of the world at large, and my own.
Soon I began to obsess about him leaving. Not that he had said anything
about moving out or moving away; but I knew it was inevitable that he desert
me, just because there were still places he hadn’t been. And one of those places,
I reminded myself, was my bed. I would not let him go without, as he would
say, sharing it with him. So I waited for an opportune weekend, bought an
extra bottle of wine for our supper, dabbed on some exotic perfume. Sandalwood.
“Amanda,” he said to me after it was over, “I should tell you I’m already
attached.”
There was a picture of a pretty woman in a military uniform in his room.
I had hoped it was his sister or his cousin, but had never asked, just in case.
“That’s fine,” I said.
He had an admirable physique, as I’d guessed, but the sex had been
commonplace, almost nondescript. I wondered if he’d made it that way on
purpose.
That night, after he returned to his room, I dreamed I was having dinner
alone. The meat was choice, delectable, tender and rich, with the flavor of wild
game. I knew in the dream that I had cooked it, that I had even hunted the beast
myself in the forest, but I could not remember what it was. Venison?
Rabbit? Pheasant? I couldn’t say. But I knew the sauce was made from magic
mushrooms. I thought I must be in India, because of the Sandalwood trees,
and I wondered if eating this flesh was therefore sacrilege. I thought that even
if it was it was the finest meal I’d ever had. Only when I woke did I realize I’d
been feasting on him.
He moved away not long after, to be with the woman in the picture, and
didn’t leave me a forwarding address.
As for eating frog, I’ve recently learned that some species of them are
cannibals, and I haven’t been able to touch them since. [1024]
It Never Bloomed for Babcia

M. Stanley Bubien
Ê1024 0b00000100/00000000 0x0400Ê
“It never bloomed for Babcia,” my wife sniffed at the fledgling tree,
barely four feet tall, but stock full of oranges.
“We replanted it,” I told her, a promise keeping me from the true consolation
I wanted to offer.
“This pot’s only a foot bigger,” she grumbled. “It’s not fair.”
I sighed. My wife had given the orange tree to her grandmother, original
pot and all, just a year before the elderly woman died. I initially thought
the idea crazy. Personally, I considered myself an expert on orange trees, having
grown up around them all my life—seems like everyone in this part of
Southern California owns a grove—but I had never seen one in a pot! And I told
Kay as much. She, however, was relentless.
“Here Babcia,” Kay said, arms outstretched toward the potted tree as
her grandmother pushed open her apartment’s screen door. “I knew you wanted
something to liven up your porch.”
“Ooohhhh,” Babcia said in a long exclamation, bringing her hands together
before her mouth. “It’s wonderful!”
Kay beamed. “Where do you want it Babcia?”
They both looked around, and I found myself ignored for the fifteen
minutes it took for them to choose a spot.
“How about here?” Kay would suggest.
“I don’t know, seems like maybe too much sun,” Babcia would answer.
“Over there looks just a little better.”
“That’d block your window, Babcia, and you know how you like to see
outside.”
Eventually, I found myself dragging the pot to its agreed upon position.
In the months that followed, we caught Babcia pouring water upon it on
more than one occasion. “No oranges yet,” she’d always say, brushing the
leaves hopefully with gloved fingers.
But it was a particular early-evening visit that I wandered over to the
planter as Kay pulled upon the screen. Though shrouded in shade, I spotted a
bulbous protrusion in the tree and bent to examine it more closely. “Kay,” I said as
she was about to knock. “Look!”
Eyes wide, she stepped beside me. “Wow,” she breathed. Carefully,
reaching amongst the leaves, she touched the rind of the maturing orange. But it
hung so loosely from its branch, the poor thing broke off, bounced from her hand
and dropped onto the ground.
“No!” Kay screeched and covered her cheeks with her palms.
I picked up the orange before it rolled away. “It would’ve fallen off by
itself. The tree’s still too young.”
My wife remained frozen, staring at the piece of fruit as if it were bleeding
to death.
“Come on, let’s give it to Babcia.”
With a share of trepidation, I knocked and lead the way within. “Here
Babcia,” I presented the orange. “We found this outside.”
“Oh,” Babcia said, shuffling over.
“I did it!” Kay blurted and began to cry. “I knocked it out of the tree!
I’m sorry Babcia, I didn’t mean to.”
“Dear, dear,” Babcia reached for her granddaughter. “I saw that orange
there,” she explained, brushing Kay’s hair from within their embrace. “I didn’t
show you because it was so small and frail, I knew it wouldn’t last. Don’t feel
bad, dear, it was just too early.”
They hugged again, and Kay sniffed and wiped at the tears under her
glasses. “You’re just saying that.”
“Oh, no,” Babcia replied.
They released, and Kay removed the frames from her face. “I have to
clean my mascara. I’ll be right back.” But before she departed, she paused,
attempted a smile at her grandmother and said, “thanks, Babcia.” Another tear
formed as she headed for the bathroom.
We watched her walk down the hallway. “Poor dear,” Babcia said.
“Yeah. She really wants that tree to bloom for you.”
Babcia remained briefly quiet. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course.”
She turned toward me and placed her hands in her apron pocket. “You
must promise never to tell Kay.”
I blinked, but nodded.
My initial reaction was to frown toward the unripe orange now resting
upon the coffee-table. It looked sad, misshapen from its fall, but the secret
Babcia whispered somehow shed a completely different light upon it.
Unexpectedly, I began chuckling. A smile formed on Babcia’s lips, and she
followed suit until we were both laughing and slapping our legs.
“What?” Kay said reentering the room.
“Um, inside joke,” I answered. “Too hard to explain.”
That was over a year ago, and that was the only orange Babcia was ever
to see from her little tree.
“Why couldn’t it bloom like this for her?” Kay asked. “She took better
care of it than us.”
“They take a long time...” but my voice trailed off as I saw the tears
streaking down Kay’s cheeks. I reached over and brought her into my arms. I
held her tightly, allowing her to cry and repeat again and again her remorse at
the tree’s lack of fruit for her grandmother.
I wanted to wipe her tears, but as I tried to let go, she hung on. I waited
a bit, tried again, but received the same reaction. Closing my eyes, I whispered,
“forgive me Babcia.”
“Kay,” I said. “Listen.” She clung, and I repeated myself, a bit more
firmly, “listen to me. I know why it never bloomed for Babcia.”
She sniffed and, though hesitant, leaned to one side and allowed me
look into her face. Rubbing her back, I said, “Babcia was allergic to oranges.”
“What?” Kay stepped back and removed her glasses.
“She couldn’t eat oranges. They’d get her sick.”
“No.”
“It’s true, I swear. She made me promise to keep it a secret.”
“But... but why?” She looked at the tree. “It wouldn’t have hurt my
feelings.”
“Yes,” I brushed her cheek with a knuckle, “it would have. But that’s
not the reason she never told you. She really did love the tree! It was your
special gift to her. That’s why she always watered it.”
The words sunk in slowly, and Kay began crying again. She fell against
me, glasses dangling from her fingers. Yet, after a time, I eventually felt a
loosening in her sobs, and she began to quiet, consoled, finally, by my embrace.
[1024]
Uncle Basil
Joseph Lerner
Ê1024 0b00000100/00000000 0x0400Ê
UNCLE BASIL • JOSEPH LERNER
“I bet you never saw so much money before,” said Uncle Basil. He flipped
open his wallet, fanning the bills—50- and 100-dollars. He beamed
like an overconfident, would-be card shark.
“Yes, I have,” I replied. “I got a roll just like it in my bedroom top
drawer.”
I was fourteen, and I refused to be impressed by his display of sudden
and questionable wealth. My uncle sighed, wringing his suspenders. He then
leaned against my parents’ bedboard; his shoes dangled over the edge of the bed.
The wallet now lay on the night stand, sprawled open.
I thought he might call me a smart-ass or pretend to take a swing at me.
I began to leave the bedroom when he yelled, “Nathan!”
“Yes?” I stood in the doorway. I could hear my mother and father
downstairs. The doorbell had just rung, which meant that more relatives had
arrived. The family was meeting my older brother and his new fiancee at a
nearby restaurant.
“You want to come in my car?” Uncle Basil asked.
“Why?”
“I want to stop somewhere, show you something. It’s at your Aunt
Dina’s.”
I rolled my eyes. He had just separated from his third wife; they hadn’t
even been together long enough for me to call her auntie. “A surprise present
for your brother.” He rose and pocketed his wallet. “We’ll go out the back
door.” He winked. “So your parents won’t see us.”
I followed him outside because I felt sorry for Basil. I also enjoyed
conspiring with him against my parents. I saw that he had parked in the alley
as if anticipating a quick get-away.
Sure enough, my mother leaned out the kitchen window. (I could see
Uncle Cyrus and Aunt Netty sitting at the table, still in their coats and hats.)
“Basil, where are you going with my son?” she yelled.
“We’ll meet you at the restaurant. We’re getting a present for Gary.”
We both walked faster.
“What present?”
We reached Basil’s beat-up Chevy. He revved the engine. The clutch
ground as he shifted. Out the sideview mirror I watched my parents, aunt and
uncle hurrying to the back porch.
We were halfway across town before I realized I didn’t know where we
were going. Eventually we reached a neighborhood unfamiliar to me. The
houses were clapboard and dilapidated and set back on small brown lots.
Clumps of gray snow stood like bizarre lawn ornaments beside the driveways.
Through the tops of the stick-figure trees I could see the nearby dog racetrack.
He stopped the car but kept the engine running. The heater hardly worked
and I was wearing just my sweater. My teeth rattled and my whole body
shook. Basil offered me a cigarette, which he lit from the dashboard lighter.
“You been to the dog races?” he asked.
I dragged on the cigarette. “Only the horses, a couple times with Gary.”
“That’s okay, but it’s not the same as greyhounds.” He took back my
cigarette. As he smoked he stared at the house before us. Then he stepped out
of the car. I followed.
The living room curtains were suddenly wrung back. Glaring at us wasn’t
Dina but a stranger. He wore a pinstripe suit and a monogrammed white shirt.
Basil rang the doorbell—long, short, like a Morse Code. Dina opened the
door.
“What is it, Basil?” Her face was red. Then, “Hello, Nathan.”
“You look—fetching, Nettie,” Basil said. She wore gloves and a bright
flowered dress. She was much younger than Basil, thin and pretty with red
hair.
She said, “we’re going out.”
“And who’s the gentleman?”
“I said we’re going out.”
“You know why I’m here.”
Dina said, “she’s in the backyard.”
“You keep her outside?”
Basil brushed past her, hurrying to the back door. I followed. The back
yard was fenced in. There was a rusting swing, the remnants of a garden, and
a doghouse. A chain lay curled in the brown grass fastened to a metal pole. It
snaked toward the doghouse.
“Come on, girl,” my uncle said, crouching. Basil grabbed the animal
and cradled it in his arms when it emerged—a small greyhound, shivering
from the cold. The dog, squirming, licked his face.
“A puppy?” I asked.
“A whippet. They’re raced too. Her name’s Ginny. They were gonna
put her to sleep. She’s only six years old.”
So this was Gary’s present! I thought of my uncle’s other presents to me
and Gary over the years. A plastic hula dancer whose skirt lifted as she gyrated,a
model train with a burnt-out engine salvaged from a garage sale, an
especially dangerous chemistry set that had been pulled from the retail shelves.
Basil was a failed visionary, a master of the inappropriate, but today he outdid
himself. A live animal!
We returned to the house. Dina and her friend were waiting in the living
room. Basil said, “how long has she been outside?”
“A dog doesn’t belong in the house,” the man said.
Basil handed me Ginny. She was still shivering. “Now I remember
where I’ve seen you. At the racetrack, with Tommy Venturo.”
The man smiled. “Yeah. What of it?”
Basil balled up his fist. He reared back and swung, punching the man in
the face. The man recoiled, then stared in disbelief at his bleeding nose. He groped
for his monogrammed handkerchief.
“God damn you, Basil!” Dina screamed.
We left the house, hurrying to the car. Ginny yelped, her paws scratching
at my neck and shoulders. I didn’t want to let her go, fearing she might
jump out of the car, but I couldn’t hold her and close the window at the same
time.
We drove away. The sky had begun to darken, and the buildings were
haloed in the streetlights. We hadn’t reached downtown yet, but the streets
were already choked with traffic.
“Uncle Basil, what are we going to do with Ginny? We can’t take her
into the restaurant.”
“We can’t?”
I held Ginny close, pulling my sweater over her. The street light ahead
was stuck on red and the drivers were honking their horns. [1024]
UNCLE BASIL • JOSEPH LERNER
STORY BYTES • ISSUE #38 • JUNE 1999 • PAGE 5
As Badly as I Expected
M. Stanley Bubien
Ê0256 0b00000001/00000000 0x0100Ê
Surfing’s a mental sport, and I was psyched! From the stair-top, the
waves looked perfect: small, but with tube-like form. I bounded downward,
grinning.
“Hey! Dan!” a panting jogger greeted.
“No!” I mumbled, willing him to pass without casting his usual judgement.
“Dan, right?” he repeated.
I stopped, leaning surfboard against rail, offering a barely-friendly handshake.
Introduced to Rick as a fellow surfer, I’d run into him on these steps a
hundred times, but never yet saw him with a board himself.
“Going good?” Rick asked about my kids, even recalling their names.
My eyes lit when I talked about them—couldn’t help it.
“Great!” he replied. “The wife and I are still working on it. Can’t wait!”
He slapped my shoulder. “Wonderful to hear someone who loves their kids so
much!”
“Thanks,” I replied, and tapped the deck of my board. “Gotta hit it.” I
stepped away.
“Some fun looking waves out there!” he stated in farewell.
I halted. Damn! I’d almost gotten away. But he had to say it, just like
every other time—and I swear, not once was he right. Whenever he said, “fun
waves,” it sucked. Well, that was ending today!
“When was the last time you went out, Rick?” I frowned toward the
water.
He rubbed his lips. “Been a while.”
“How long?”
“Can’t, um, remember.” And looking at his watch, he blurted, “Say hi
to the kids!” and charged upward without another word.
Hitting the water, “Jerk!” I sighed.
And my surf session went as badly as I expected. [256]
Nothing
M. Stanley Bubien
Ê0256 0b00000001/00000000 0x0100Ê
It was the greatest Internet chain letter ever, crossing all fiftyStates, into
Africa, Asia—even the European Union!
“BOYCOTT!” it screamed in capital letters (which is, after all, how you
scream on the Internet). “Send a message to oil companies,” it continued
(somewhat quieter). “Do not buy gasoline April 30th.”
Angered by high gas prices, thousands (nay, millions!) bounced the rebellious
letter across Cyberspace, until newspapers, newscasts, and news magazines
joined the chain in support.
“Boycott!” they screamed (capitals implied).
Thus the world prepared, checking their guages—filling up early, if necessary,
guaranteeing they had the gallons to make May, if possible.
Finally, April 30th dawned (it’s true, check your calendar), and heading
to work, people sped past pumps by the thousands (nay, millions!). So, too,
homeward, they whizzed by near-empty stations (save for the random roadster,
obviously too foolish to understand such goings-on).
Night came, and morning, the first day of May—victory at hand!
Yet, low and behold, high prices remained.
“Why?” some asked from passenger side. “Where did we go wrong?”
others wondered behind the wheel. “We should’ve won!” lamented back-seat
drivers.
The answer, of course, was simple. For, unbeknownst to the Internet at
large (save for the random hacker) another cry went out—this time, across
OPEC nations.
“WHATLLWEDO? WHATLLWEDO?” oil barons screamed.
In response, one wise Arabian (or possibly Mexican) wisely typed into
his terminal a single, insignificant, yet inspired word—crushing the crisis well
before it began.
And what was that word?
I do believe I’ve already told you. [256]
The Cat Strangler
Richard K. Weems
Ê0512 0b00000010/00000000 0x0200Ê
It starts with the usual growls: the feline handled roughly by the scruff.
The Cat Strangler is at it again.
A slight struggle, a practice squeeze and others methods of impersonal
handling, and off he goes. The neighborhood collectively shrugs its shoulders
in hope of shutting out the yeowls and the hisses stretched into high pitch by
the Cat Strangler’s strong, trained hands.
Parents turn up their televisions; children pull pillows over their heads
to the point of suffocation. Neighborhood pets break into instinctual runs and
flee into unfamiliar territory, their nametags and phone numbers their only
hope of return.
The Cat Strangler continues his performance. The neighbors call the
authorities, but the authorities stammer helplessly—they’ve been over all this
before (the pulling up, the getting out, the knocking on the door, the being met
with the Cat Strangler’s cat-strangling credentials, backed with University
patronage).
For what few seem to hear under the barrage of kitty torture is the Cat
Strangler’s wife, Jill, in accompaniment (tonight: Heinrich Ignaz Franz Von
Biber, Sonata for Violin and Basso Continuo in C Minor). No one bothers
appreciating how a firm grip on the neck and harsh pull of the tail make a
perfect B flat, how a good squeeze produces a high E.
Instead, psychiatrists will be consulted—tears will be shed. Parents will
explain to the children the wrongdoings of the Cat Strangler’s art form; they
will recite scripture; they will make moral imperatives. Animal activists will
lick bloodlust from their lips and draw up plans of attack. Far off in distant,
political lands, untouched by the screams of dying cats but active just the same,
government agencies will do the voodoo they do. Nothing will remain the
same.
But for now, the recital ends—to no applause.
Jill, the Cat Strangler’s wife, critiques the performance. Siamese, she
believes, have too harsh an overall tone for something as technically precise as
Biber. For the Russians, fine (for Schnittke, for Shostakovich, even
Tchaikovsky), but for the Germans she is more inclined towards the longhairs.
The Cat Strangler makes hurried notes—such a landmark work will his
be! His professors had little hope for Musica Zoocidia beyond classroom
experimentation,
and they certainly never dreamed of using animals wilder than
your typical laboratory rat. The Cat Strangler’s treatise will break all confines!
He sees a future in pig concertos—nay, even a day for the Echo Sonata
for Himalayan, Chihuahua and Ostrich.
He transports the spent instrument in a brown paper bag in unceremonious
fashion. He takes it to a deep wood, as far as his car will allow, and
empties the bag onto a pile of expired brethren, cats piled upon cats piled upon cats
piled upon cats, tongues stuck out in strangulation horror. The pile writhes in
minute, maggot-infested rhythm. When the Cat Stranlger departs, waiting minions
of sporting equipment manufacturers raid the pile of former felines for the making
of tennis rackets. These rackets are placed into the able hands of strong-bodied,
gleaming white tennis players, who swing into furious volleys for game. [512]
The Family Portrait

Thomas M. Ledin
Christmas day, 1977 my family posed for a picture taken by Mr.

Bellows, our next door neighbor. That photo has become the bench
mark for all family portraits taken of my family since, not a single one
has equaled its magnificence. In that wonderful picture my family is much
smaller than it is today, there are no sons-in-law, daughters-in-law, or
grandchildren, just my father, my mother, my brother, my sister, and me. We’re all
sitting up amazingly straight, and our smiles are so perfect they almost look
drawn on. This photo is entirely beautiful in its simplicity, and truly impressive in
its rarity.
I admit that a good family portrait doesn’t seem like anything to get too
excited about, but consider the fact that every year since 1977 my poor mother
has tried unsuccessfully to improve upon that masterpiece. My mom has that
picture hanging in an ugly gold frame, large as life, opposite the front door in
her house. It hangs there as a trophy for all to see. “My perfect little family,”
she says every time I follow her in the front door.
I can recall with more than a little guilt the years my mother tried to
corral us into neat little two rowed formations for a photo, and the grief we all
gave her. We never made it easy on her, whether it was bunny ears behind
Julie’s head, or Josh pinching the sensitive part on the back of my arm, or my
dad’s favorite, passing gas a second before the picture was snapped. From
1977 on, no picture that contained my entire family came out well. We got
some nice pictures of individuals, even a group of two or three, but when any
more than that were told to sit still and smile somebody inevitably messed it
up.
It wasn’t always our fault, in 1991 we thought for sure the curse had
been broken. It was the day before my sister’s wedding, and mom arranged to
have the photographer at the rehearsal dinner to make a valiant attempt to
break her slump. We had two additions to the family, my sister-in-law, and my
soon to be brother-in-law. The introduction of these new variables increased
the difficulty level considerably, but we were prepared. The photographer
posed us like were modeling for the cover of Perfect Family Monthly, and we
all behaved ourselves. Aunt Lucy stood by the photographer and snapped a
few pictures with her Polaroid camera. After our photo shoot we gathered
around Lucy’s magically appearing Polaroids, which came out terribly blurry,
however, our faces could be made out, and nobody was doing anything stupid.
My mother was so happy she almost cried. She knew in about three weeks the
professional’s proofs would arrive, and she would be able to hang another
perfect family portrait opposite the front door near the stairs.
I was there the day the proofs came, the pictures of the wedding were
beautiful, but there were no rehearsal pictures in the package. During the
phone call with the photographer to find out where they were, my mom burst
into tears and hung up. “He lost the negatives,” she said in a flat voice as she
left the kitchen. I heard her pause by the ’77 wonder picture, and then proceed
upstairs. I vowed then that I would join my mother’s cause and cooperate at
every single photo-op.
It’s been eight years since the rehearsal dinner, and a second decent
portrait has yet to be taken. We’ve had plenty of opportunities, my wedding,
Dad’s retirement party, and eight Christmases. During that eight years five
grandkids have arrived, and the difficulty of getting the perfect picture has
increased exponentially. My mom had almost completely given up on her
quest and I was not the champion of her cause I had hoped to be.
There we were the entire family together, twenty-two years after the
perfect portrait was taken. There were no smiles to photograph that day. As I
walked into my mother’s house with my son on my hip, we stopped and starred
at the portrait, and my son asked, “Who are they Daddy?” I couldn’t answer
him, I recognized no one. Standing over my dad’s casket with my brother and
sister, I could not stop thinking about the second perfect portrait my mom
never got.
My mother did not make much of an appearance the day of the wake;
she came downstairs for a bit, mainly to thank everyone for coming. My brother,
sister and I went to her house the next day, before making the various trips to
the airport. As we opened the front door we noticed immediately that the
perfect portrait of 1977 was gone, and in its place was a portrait from 1995. It
was the worst picture ever taken of my family. In it, my eyes are closed, my
brother is leaning down to scold his misbehaving son, my sister is yawning,
two grandchildren are facing away from the camera, and my dad’s hand is
planted squarely on my Mother’s left breast. In that picture my mother is
wearing the biggest smile I have ever seen. When we finally tore ourselves
away from 1977’s replacement, we saw that every wall was now home to at
least one of our year’s worth of terrible family portraits. By the stairs, 1981,
where my brother was hung over and looked like hell, and my sister was frowning.
Near the dinning room table was 1987 where my dad was grabbing my
ears. 1990 was on the wall next to the bathroom, it was almost perfect, except
for my sister-in-law’s eyes were rolled back in her head, and my tongue was
doing something strange. We wandered around the house for twenty minutes
in silence looking at these framed portraits that had been hidden away in the
attic. They were awful examples of how a family should pose for pictures, but
they were perfect representations of my family. After twenty-two years my
mother realized that beautiful old 1977 in its ornate gold painted frame was the
mistake, in fact it wasn’t a picture of her family at all. [1024]
Think Good Thoughts
M. Stanley Bubien
“Think good thoughts,” she said. Sound advice, or so it seemed. I, however, had a
better answer—well, “answer” wasn’t quite right—but something better to offer,
surely. I simply needed do as she: speak the word before the class. I held my
peace, though. Afraid to offend? Possibly. Considering the situation? Certainly.
For it was our last meeting, and the professor missed due to an illness. Unspecified
illness, but requiring surgery—that much we knew. Parkinson’s disease, requiring
cauterization of his cerebrum—that much I guessed. “I won’t be here next week,”
he had told us in an uncharacteristically hushed tone. “I... um...” he gazed
downward, “have an operation.” His hand shook as he wiped his brow. I’m sure
everyone thought it nerves. But that same shaking I saw in private conversation
early-on. Nothing conclusive, but familiar with Parkinson’s, even then I assumed
he suffered the disease’s ravages. “Remember, think good thoughts!” she repeated
in a fearless, inoffensive manner. Ah, again my chance. I swallowed, licked my
lips, cleared my throat, sniffed—all gestures designed to postpone speaking the
most politically incorrect of words. I cleared my throat again, truly intending to
say it this time. And nothing came out. The classroom emptied instantaneously, yet
silently I remained, having made elaborate effort at collecting papers. All alone I
sat, clock audibly ticking, florescent bulbs bathing me in light. “I failed you,” I
whispered, head on desk against folded hands—doing the very thing I could not
say. “But, Lord, help him. Christ, please heal him...” [256]
teeth pushing outward from nineteen years of thumb-sucking, and call out,
“Padre,” without making eye contact, never making eye contact, but at least the
smile is genuine. [1024]
Reincarnation
Carlton Mellick III
I have been reincarnated into many things, many times. I started out a mere quack-
duck and died to exclaim a howl-wolf. Then into a maple tree, which was BIG and
drip-murky, and into a race horse, which was fast-fast, into a kite, into a marble.
Then I was a spooky house, a bowl of oatmeal, a space shuttle, a sentence of
twelve words. I was reincarnated into a cough, a sandwich, a song, a lightning
bolt, and a light bulb. Then a piece of paper with a love letter written on it, a
bulldog’s fart, a fatal Q-tip accident, a dance performance, a brilliant idea, a fat
man jumping, a leaf in the water, an echo. But I am usually just a typo that needs
to be erased… [128]
The Anesthesia Would Wear Off
“Baby killer!” They warned me I might hear something like that. “Don’t believe
it,” they’d said, “it’s a lie.” I laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling. Today, in the
speckles, I made out a man’s face. His mouth was open wide, crying out.
Yesterday, I saw an airplane with wings that looked too short. Day before that, a
unicycle on a bent tire. “Baby killer!” Sometimes I see the same things. The
crying face, that’s new. But I’ve found that airplane a bunch of times. I liked the
idea of flying, I think, even if its wings never got any longer. “Baby killer!” she
had screamed, sitting in the silent crowd as the nurses escorted me from the clinic.
I had chosen general anesthetic—I hate pain, you know—so I was pretty wobbly.
And all those people in the way, they made it a lot harder to get to my mom’s car.
“Baby killer!” that woman screamed—just once, because three protesters jumped
up and pushed her away fast. Four weeks, I think, maybe five. My dad told me
every day. Even when he came just to check on me. Or when he begged me to get
up. Or reasoned with me. Or cried. Maybe that was his face in the ceiling! No. I
liked my daddy’s face better. I tried to turn the ceiling one into his, so it’d be
something nice to look at. But I really wished that woman would stop screaming.
And I wished the anesthesia would wear off. [256]
M. Stanley Bubien
STORY BYTES • ISSUE #40 • AUGUST 1999 • PAGE 6
And I Walked onto the Battlefield
M. Stanley Bubien
And I walked onto the battlefield. As I marched between the lines, bullets whipped
by, rockets lit overhead, tanks threw shells each toward the other. And I halted in
the battlefield. The breeze blew, ruffling white trench coat, though its gentle
wafting drowned by the din. And I opened the coat. Cradled there, within right
arm, the tiniest of forms, barely three months amongst our world. And I waited
with her there. Guns, rockets, tanks, all paused in their barrage, as each in time
spotted the naked child, fell slowly, fell silent, fell until only the breeze spoke. And
I lifted her aloft. Her voice came gentle, at once quiet, but gaining volume, gaining
strength, gaining light until the battlefield rang with song as my fingers caressed
sensitive skin about her neck. For she laughed. And soldiers holding guns, from
side to side, whipped heads up. For she laughed louder. And soldiers launching
rockets, from side to side, eyes lit wide. For she laughed louder still! And soldiers
driving tanks, from side to side, threw hatches open. And each, at once heavy, but
lighter, lighter in futility, lighter in hope, lighter together the soldiers laughed too.
For they remembered. Some of raising their child’s joy, others wiping their child’s
tears, others again, simply their child. And the din died, as one by one, they turned
aside, turned away, turned back to the lives they had left. And I knelt in the
battlefield, my daughter and I, alone. For she laughed her magic. And I laughed
too. [256]
STORY BYTES • ISSUE #40 • AUGUST 1999 • PAGE 7
Now that He Doesn’t Stand There
M. Stanley Bubien
It was awful when my husband stood there, watching—and now that he doesn’t, it
should be easier. “I’m not finished,” I’d told him a month ago as I dabbed brush
into palette. “Don’t say anything.” “I won’t say a word,” he replied. Always the
same. Always. “Not a word.” I drew arrow-straight lines of green for palms, mauve
to mimic jacaranda over our garden, and skin-like hues as empty earth. For me,
painting, like film-making, remained an experiment. “Can I just say one thing?” I
sighed. Always, always. “I liked the squiggles better yesterday,” he pointed toward
the fronds. “The squiggles. They worked.” And he drawled on and on about how
and why and where they incorporated with the weave, nodding within his
halfstraight collar, gesturing with one sleeve rolled up. “Damn!” I cried, cutting
him off, brush pointed toward the kitchen. “Go make some lunch. Burgers or
something! But leave me alone.” With those mischievous eyes, and on the edge of
a smile, he marched away like a short-order cook. I turned again to the canvas, but
instead of dipping the brush, I rested on an arm, pushed nose close, leaned away,
cocked my head. A sneaking feeling came upon me. “Damn it,” I mumbled at
those unnaturally straight fronds. Always, always. I hated him being right! But I
still cried after the heart attack took him. A month later, I sought consolation in
painting—which should be much easier! I glanced behind and sighed. But now that
he doesn’t stand there, it’s awful. [256]
Evolution Revolution
Elaine Cleveland
She gazed at the lifeless Earth from the steps of the last operational spaceship. She
wished she could weep for the billions who had died. “They wouldn’t listen to us.”
Her partner stood above her. “Come inside. They paid the ultimate price.” “We
can’t make mistakes?” “Of course we can. But we have our instructions. Make
certain these frozen human embryos survive until we find a habitable planet. We
are to nurture them, instruct them and remind them of Earth’s fate.” “I know that!
You can be most irritating at times.” “Yes. But we will succeed.” “And you are so
arrogant!” “I have been able to alter the plan. This time we will be the ones in
charge!” The two robots closed the hatch and prepared to launch. [128]
STORY BYTES • ISSUE #41 • SEPTEMBER 1999 • PAGE 5

Opportunity Missed
Wendy Williams
Walking home tonight, feeling tragic and solitary, I saw a Coke machine just next
to the yellow 24-hour parking sign. I paused before it, instinctively, in a rooftop
shadow. Strange how I could pass by the same fixture hundreds of times and never
have taken notice of it. How could my steps have been so perfunctory? It glowed
in the dark. It screamed to be seen. There was a crooked old woman standing in
front of it this particular night, completely still, an illuminated statue consuming
and emitting the machine’s energy. Wisps of hair stuck out adamantly on either
side of her baggy, disheveled bun, giving a struck-by-lightening effect. What was
she thinking about, basking in the light that way? What imagination was stored
away under her swooping black hair? What secret knowledge? Could she have
felt the same feelings I’ve felt? The same pain? The same confusion? Did she
hold answers I didn’t? The light she radiated was enigmatic, enticing,
consumptive. I wanted to know her, but I was frightened by something I couldn’t
understand myself. My heartbeat swallowed all surrounding sound. I tried to lift a
foot, but it was nailed to the pavement. At the same moment, she broke her pose.
Four abbreviated steps toward the machine. She fumbled three coins into it, and
hesitatingly extended a slender finger to select. In slow motion, she stooped to
retrieve the can. She then half straightened herself, examined her purchase in the
light of the machine, and limped into the darkness. She never saw me. [256]

Until Death Do Us Part
M. Stanley Bubien
I’ll tell you the truth—even with my wife staring down at me in bed— marriage
ain’t easy. Nope. But now I knew, as she grasped my hand and I remembered my
vows. “I take thee to be my wife, to have and to hold...” Sure, there’s the sex!
Whoa boy! But I had my share of temptation. Once, a woman in the market
rubbed her thigh against mine while the wife was away picking fruit. I actually got
her telephone number! “In sickness and health...” But I never called. Nope.
Funny, if that was when the wife’d been depressed about her Momma dying, and
giving us all that grief. Damn! I would’ve called. She was so far gone, not even
our kids could get her moving. “For richer, for poorer...” Guess the Lord works in
mysterious ways. She got over it right about the time I lost my job. Almost as
though the hardship snapped her right back. Like she suddenly knew her family
needed her—like I needed her. “To love and to cherish from this day forward...”
Kissing her again, out to find another job, it was like she breathed life into me.
And it wasn’t too long—least it didn’t seem so. She kept on kissing me too, ever
since then. Even now she bent toward me. “And I promise to be faithful until
death do us part.” I smiled back, for now I knew—finally I knew—that I had kept
my promises. And with her kiss, I breathed my last. [256]
OUTER BANKS • PARRIS GARNIER
In the land of the U.S., there lived a man named Joe. This man was blameless and
upright; he loved God and shunned evil. He had no sons, no daughters, owned no
animals, no house and needed no servants. He was the least of all the people in the
east. One day, the angels came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan
also came with them. Then the Lord said to Satan, “Have you considered my
servant Joe? There is no one in the U.S. like him; he is blameless and upright, a
man who loves God and shuns evil.” Satan replied, “Does Joe love God... um...
you... for nothing? Have you not put a hedge around him and everything he does?
Instead, bless the work of his hands, and give him everything so that his wealth
spreads throughout the land, and he will surely renounce you.” The Lord said to
Satan, “Very well, then, everything he may have is in your hands, but on the man
himself do not lay a finger.” “Cool!” Satan replied. “Um... I mean hot!” One day,
when Joe was eating at McDonalds, Ed McMahon came to Joe and said, “You’ve
just won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes!” “Thanks to God!” Joe said.
While he was still speaking, Monty Hall came to Joe and said, “It’s a brand new
car!” “Thanks to God!” Joe said. And while he was still speaking, Carmen Electra
came to Joe and said, “Take me, I’m yours!” “What a babe!” Joe said. “Baywatch
babe,” Carmen corrected. And lo, they went and became married. And lo, they
moved unto California and bought land. And lo, Joe had sons and daughters. And
lo, Joe owned many animals, a big house, and needed servants. He was the best of
all the people in the west. And the Lord said to Satan, “Have you considered my
servant Joe? He still maintains his integrity.”
“We’ll see about that,” Satan replied. When Joe’s three friends heard about all the
prosperity that had come upon him, they set out from their homes and met together
by agreement to go and counsel him. “Surely God will bless you and your
longings!” his first friend said. “Surely God will heal your heart and all your
infirmities!” his second friend said. “Surely God will shower happiness upon you!”
his last friend said. So these three men stopped speaking because Joe was righteous
in their eyes. And Joe replied, “I have heard many things like these. Wonderful
counselors are you all!” And Joe prayed for the Lord’s blessings with his friends.
They prayed over the sons and daughters they loved; they prayed over the land
they loved, over the animals they loved, over the houses they loved, over the
servants they loved. And Satan smiled, “Have you considered your servant Joe?”
The Lord said to Satan, “There is everyone in the U.S. like him; he is shameless
and uptight, a man who loves what God has given him.” And so Joe died, old and
full of years. “Hot!” Satan said.
A CONFUSED MIND
The word confusion sometimes makes you spin your head and lose everything. Sometimes it brings
you a new idea and gets you on right path.
As I grow older, I have more and more responsibilities and obligations to myself and my dear ones.
Basically I have had a very simple family background that they (my parents) themselves are
struggling for their day to day life happening. As I talk to my parents, I get to know that they are still
not in a good financial status.
One of the major reasons why I was sent to India was just to relieve their financial burden an extra
belly in a family with limited means of livelihood.
Honestly, sometimes I feel that I am nowhere fit in this world. I am like a good guy that lost in a
crowd with … oh yes I think that I remember that guy but.....Even though I go to work regularly
reading a lots about business and idea, a part of me is like where I am now.
Obviously a guy getting close to 30 years old needs to have a decent job and a woman of his taste.
Here I am like parachute hanging on the tree. My close and dear ones are worried about my future
and a woman that partner with me. They try to hook me up with a desi gal in abroad, so that I have
more comfortable life rather than working hard in India with little here and there.
However I am still like I don't know about marriage and need some more times to think. It’s odd
times for me. Hopefully that confused mind won't drain my energy and loose temper. Our, believes
totally depend on our everyday attitude. Reading and writing stuffs may help me to get on
celebration.
"Health is Wealth" - A Short Moral Story for Kids
Once upon a time, there was a king, who was very lazy. He did not like to do anything. He waited for
his attendants to serve him every moment. He used to lie on his bed always. A time came when he
really became inactive.
Only eating good food and it's sleeping made him fatty. So fat he became that he could not move
around by himself. He felt sick, doctors were called in to treat him. Nothing could help him to
become fit and fine. The king was a kind hearted and cordial person. All his subjects were sorry to
learn about the fact that their king was not well.
One day the minister met a holy man (Sadhu) on the outskirts of the city. While conversing with each
other, the “Sadhu” came to know the fact that the king was unwell. He told the minister that he
could cure the king. Hearing this the minister’s face brightened. He arranged immediately for a
meeting of the “Sadhu” and the king.
The “Sadhu” saw the depressed king for a while and then spoke nothing serious had happened and
that the king would be alright. From the next day the treatment would start. He asked the king to
come to his hut which was at a distance from the palace.
The king had to come on foot to the hut. The king agreed, after so many years the king came outside
to walk on the road. His ministers and attendants accompanied him. By the time he reached the
Sadhu’s hut, he was breathless, sweating and uncomfortable.
The “Sadhu” came out of the hot noticing everything. He offered cool water to the king. The king felt
better. The Sadhu brought out an iron ball, the size of a football and gave it to the attendants asking
his majesty that daily morning and evening he had to roll that ball in the palace grounds.
The king okayed to the “Sadhu” and left. After fifteen days when the “Sadhu” came to the palace to
meet the king, he had lost a considerable amount of weight, was feeling much better and was active.
All his sickness had disappeared. Inspite a lot of wealth, the king was not happy as he was unhealthy.
The Donkey and the Load of Salt– Short Story
Long ago there lived a merchant. He used to deal in salt. He had a donkey to carry load. He used to
sell his salt loaded on the donkey. He had to cross a stream to go to other village.
Once his donkey fell into the stream and much of the salt was dissolved in water. The donkey easily
crossed the stream due to the light weight of salt on his back. The donkey was happy.
The donkey on his next trip knowingly fell into the stream. The merchant suspected the animal's
intention. On the other day too the donkey intentionally repeated the same trick. His master was now
sure about the animal's evil intention.
The merchant next day loaded the donkey with a lot of cotton. The donkey once again repeated the
same trick. He fell into the stream. This time his load became very heavy.
The donkey carried the heavy load. It was very tiring for him to move on. The donkey now realized
his mistake. He stopped falling down into the stream any more. He thought that it was not good to
play tricks. The merchant had taught the donkey a good lesson.
The Blind Man with a Lamp – Short Story

Once there lived a blind man in a small town. He always carried a lighted lamp in his hand whenever
he went out at night.
On one dark night he was going with his lighted lamp in his hand. A group of men were passing that
way.
They saw the blind man and made fun of him. They said," O Blind man why do you carry the lighted
lamp. You are blind and cannot see anything?
The blind man politely said, "This lamp is not for me, but for you people who have eyes. You may not
see a blind man coming and push him. They felt ashamed and begged pardon.
The Lost Camel– Short Story

Once two merchants lost a camel. They met a traveller and asked him if he had seen it. The man
replied he had not." But was your camel blind in the right eye?" Said he to them.
"Yes, he was", replied the merchants. "Was it lame in one left foot?" The man asked again. "Certainly
it was", said the merchants.
"Was its front tooth missing"? said he to them." Indeed I" said they. "Was it loaded with honey on
one side and with wheat on the other?" "That is just how it was loaded," they answered. "Please take
us to it."
"But I have not seen your camel," said the man "and I do not know where it is" the merchants got
angry and said, "Then how could you tell us so exactly everything about our camel?" "That is my
secret" said the man.
The merchants took him to the king who asked him where the camel was. The man replied that he
had not seen it. At this the king asked him how he knew so much about it.
The man answered that the camel had eaten grass only on the left side of the path. So he knew that it
was blind.
The marks of its one left foot were faint. This showed that the camel was lame. While eating grass, it
had left a little turf in the middle.
So he learnt that it had lost front teeth. There were ants carrying grains of corn on one side of the
path and flies eating honey on the other. The king was satisfied with his explanation and let him go.
Going To Law– Short Story
Once two cats, one white and one black, quarreled, over a large piece of cake. The white cat said that
she had seen the cake first and so it was hers. The black cat refused to allow her claim and pretended
to scratch her.
A monkey saw the cats quarrelling. He asked them what the matter was. He advised them not to
fight. He said that he would be the guide and settle the quarrel justly. Both the cats agreed.
The monkey broke the cake into two pieces. He said that he would divide the cake equally for them.
He got a pair of scales and put one piece in each pan.
One piece weighed heavier than the other. So he took a big bite out of the larger piece and ate it up.
Now the other piece began to weigh heavier.
So he bit the other piece and tried to make it equal. In this way the monkey went on biting first one
piece and then the other, till they became very small.
The cats were alarmed. They asked him to give them back the pieces. They said that they were quite
satisfied. But the monkey replied that it was the reward for his labour.
Saying this, he put the two pieces in his mouth. The cats lost the whole cake and went away sadder
and wiser.
Half of the Profit– Short Story
A rich man wanted to give a great feast to his friends. He got all kinds of dishes prepared but he
could not get fish. He offered a reward to the man who would bring it.
After some time a fisherman brought a big fish. But the gate keeper would not let him in till he had
promised to give him half the reward.
The fisherman agreed. The rich man was highly pleased and wanted to give him a lot of money, but
the fisherman refused to take it. Instead, he demanded a hundred lashes on his back. All were
surprised.
At last the rich man ordered a servant to give him a hundred lashes. When the fisherman had
received fifty, he asked them to stop as he had a partner in the business.
It was the gate keeper. The rich man understood the whole thing. He was given the remaining fifty
lashes dismissed from the service. The rich man gave the fisherman a handsome reward.
The Patient Little Girl– Short Story

Once a famine broke out in a country. Everyday the children of the city flocked at a rich man's house
to get loaves of bread.
As soon as the servants brought out loaves, they fought among themselves and struggled hard to get
them. One little girl did not fight. She waited patiently for her turn and got the smallest loaf last of
all.
One day as usual, she brought the smallest loaf. When she cut it, she found two rupees in it. She went
back at once to return the money.
The rich man was pleased at her honesty. He gave her not only those two rupees, but two rupees
more as a reward.
The Milk Maid– Short Story
A milk maid was carrying a pail of milk on her head and was to market to sell it. As she went along
she fell into day dreaming.
She thought that she would buy eggs with the money she got by selling milk After the eggs were
hatched, she would have a large number of chickens.
They would fetch her high price. She would then buy fine silk dress for herself and look more
beautiful. Princes would come to marry her, but she would toss her head and refuse them.
While thinking so, she did really toss her head in false pride. Down fell the pail on the ground. The
whole milk was split and all her plans came to naught.
Moral:
Count not your chickens before they are hatched.
The Arab and His Camel – Short Story
An Arab had a camel. One cold night the Arab lay asleep inside the tent while the camel stood
outside.
At midnight the camel awoke his master and requested him to allow him to put his head inside the
tent as it was bitter cold outside. The Arab allowed him to do so.
After a while, the camel asked the Arab if he might put his neck inside the tent. The Arab did not
object to do it.
Soon after the camel requested him again to allow him to bring his legs inside. The Arab agreed. Now
the camel stood completely inside the twit. But as there was not space enough for both of them he
pushed the Arab outside to shiver in cold.
Moral:
Nip the evil in the bud.
The Selfish Dog– Short Story
A farmer had an ox and a dog. The ox helped him in his fields and the dog watched the house at
night.
One evening the ox returned home very tired. He was very hungry He went to the manger to eat hay.
But he found the dog sitting on it.
The dog barked at him and would not let him eat it. The ox said to the dog, "Please, get aside and let
me eat the hay. It is of no use to you."
But the natured dog replied, "Since I myself cannot eat the hay. I will not let anyone else have it." So
the ox had to go hungry that day.
There are some selfish people in the world also. They would not let others have what they themselves
cannot get. They follow the "Dog in the Manger Policy."
"Almost Heaven" as in "Falling Short of"

Lad Moore
Moving to West Virginia was not what I envisioned would actually happen when I
read the contest rules---an essay-auction by mail---and the prize---a totally free house
precariously perched above Tallmansville Lick. "Send a photo of yourself and your
spouse with your essay of no more than 256 words, describing why you would be the
perfect person(s) to own this house."
How could my story about Beth's terrible childhood have been what would touch the
owners---so horribly graphic and all?
Very desperate to get immigrants I thought, as I drove down to the licensing office to
trade my Texas plates for those of the "Almost Heaven" state. I had two ten-year old
cars, the 1974 Oldsmobile that Beth said was the last of the body-slammers, and my
'74 Corvette, the remnant of my youth---fading color, like my proud hair.
The ordeal took two hours. State law says that cars brought into West By God Virginia
are levied a sales tax as if new---using current book value. "Double Taxation!" I
protested to the clerk, busily popping her Doublemint.
"Six hundred-twelve Dollars," she said, clicking her abused nails on the rubbed-raw
Formica counter.
"Let me see the head guy," I demanded.
"No head guy. Fishing at Stonecoal," she said. "Caught six big trout Monday."
"Did he fillet them?" I asked, hoping chumminess might lessen the penalty for
bringing in previously-taxed cars.
"Nope---he was using worms I think," said the woman who had just used finger-math
to figure my tax.
Attitude
M. Stanley Bubien
'Tude. Att-it-tude. That's everythin'. I use it in the ring. I say to myself, I'm gonna
work this sucker. I'm knockin' him down. I'm knockin' him out!
Round three. I smashed his head usin' a right---made him grunt like the pig boy he
was. He shook it off before goin' for me. Sucker swung wild. Knew I had him, though,
when that stream of blood spurted out his jaw as my fist mashed up 'gainst his chin.
Be bringin' it home to mama now, baby!
I slammed him, hard like, an' his face bended---his eye swelled up black too. He came
on like a bull. I got in another shot to his nose. That made him groan, but he lunged
into my arms.
He's 'gainst me, I smelt him, he's so close, and he had me blocked---had to punch wide
'gainst his shoulders---gloves slid off the sweat like nothin'.
That's when I says to myself, "my ear!" like he squeezed in a punch and smacked it
against my head bone. Mama, I pushed him! But them gloves slid off like nothin'. And
I go to myself, "my ear!" again, but it's the other ear.
The ref jumped in, all wavin' an' shovin' an' callin' the fight an' sayin' it's over.
I touched my ear and winced. My glove came back bloody. S'up wit' that? But I knew
right off. That sucker bit me! I was poundin' him---poundin' him in a fair fight---an' he
bit me. Holy God! Ws'up wit' that?
The Winepress
A short story by Josef Essberger
"You don't have to be French to enjoy a decent red wine," Charles

Jousselin de Gruse used to tell his foreign guests whenever he
entertained them in Paris. "But you do have to be French to recognize
one," he would add with a laugh.
After a lifetime in the French diplomatic corps, the Count de Gruse
lived with his wife in an elegant townhouse on Quai Voltaire. He was a
likeable man, cultivated of course, with a well-deserved reputation as
a generous host and an amusing raconteur.
This evening's guests were all European and all equally convinced that
immigration was at the root of Europe's problems. Charles de Gruse
said nothing. He had always concealed his contempt for such ideas.
And, in any case, he had never much cared for these particular guests.
The first of the red Bordeaux was being served with the veal, and one
of the guests turned to de Gruse.
"Come on, Charles, it's simple arithmetic. Nothing to do with race or

colour. You must've had bags of experience of this sort of thing. What
d'you say?"
"Yes, General. Bags!"
Without another word, de Gruse picked up his glass and introduced his
bulbous, winey nose. After a moment he looked up with watery eyes.
"A truly full-bodied Bordeaux," he said warmly, "a wine among wines."
The four guests held their glasses to the light and studied their blood-
red contents. They all agreed that it was the best wine they had ever
tasted.
One by one the little white lights along the Seine were coming on, and
from the first-floor windows you could see the brightly lit bateaux-
mouches passing through the arches of the Pont du Carrousel. The
party moved on to a dish of game served with a more vigorous claret.
"Can you imagine," asked de Gruse, as the claret was poured, "that
there are people who actually serve wines they know nothing about?"
"Really?" said one of the guests, a German politician.
"Personally, before I uncork a bottle I like to know what's in it."
"But how? How can anyone be sure?"
"I like to hunt around the vineyards. Take this place I used to visit in
Bordeaux. I got to know the winegrower there personally. That's the
way to know what you're drinking."
"A matter of pedigree, Charles," said the other politician.
"This fellow," continued de Gruse as though the Dutchman had not

spoken, "always gave you the story behind his wines. One of them was
the most extraordinary story I ever heard. We were tasting, in his
winery, and we came to a cask that made him frown. He asked if I
agreed with him that red Bordeaux was the best wine in the world. Of
course, I agreed. Then he made the strangest statement.
"'The wine in this cask,' he said, and there were tears in his eyes, 'is
the best vintage in the world. But it started its life far from the country
where it was grown.'"
De Gruse paused to check that his guests were being served.
"Well?" said the Dutchman.
De Gruse and his wife exchanged glances.
"Do tell them, mon chéri," she said.

De Gruse leaned forwards, took another sip of wine, and dabbed his
lips with the corner of his napkin. This is the story he told them.
At the age of twenty-one, Pierre - that was the name he gave the
winegrower - had been sent by his father to spend some time with his
uncle in Madagascar. Within two weeks he had fallen for a local girl
called Faniry, or "Desire" in Malagasy. You could not blame him. At
seventeen she was ravishing. In the Malagasy sunlight her skin was
golden. Her black, waist-length hair, which hung straight beside her
cheeks, framed large, fathomless eyes. It was a genuine coup de
foudre, for both of them. Within five months they were married. Faniry
had no family, but Pierre's parents came out from France for the
wedding, even though they did not strictly approve of it, and for three
years the young couple lived very happily on the island of Madagascar.
Then, one day, a telegram came from France. Pierre's parents and his
only brother had been killed in a car crash. Pierre took the next flight
home to attend the funeral and manage the vineyard left by his father.
Faniry followed two weeks later. Pierre was grief-stricken, but with
Faniry he settled down to running the vineyard. His family, and the
lazy, idyllic days under a tropical sun, were gone forever. But he was
very happily married, and he was very well-off. Perhaps, he reasoned,
life in Bordeaux would not be so bad.
But he was wrong. It soon became obvious that Faniry was jealous. In
Madagascar she had no match. In France she was jealous of everyone.
Of the maids. Of the secretary. Even of the peasant girls who picked
the grapes and giggled at her funny accent. She convinced herself that
Pierre made love to each of them in turn.
She started with insinuations, simple, artless ones that Pierre hardly
even recognized. Then she tried blunt accusation in the privacy of their
bedroom. When he denied that, she resorted to violent, humiliating
denouncements in the kitchens, the winery, the plantations. The angel
that Pierre had married in Madagascar had become a termagant,
blinded by jealousy. Nothing he did or said could help. Often, she
would refuse to speak for a week or more, and when at last she spoke
it would only be to scream yet more abuse or swear again her
intention to leave him. By the third vine-harvest it was obvious to
everyone that they loathed each other.
One Friday evening, Pierre was down in the winery, working on a new
electric winepress. He was alone. The grape-pickers had left. Suddenly
the door opened and Faniry entered, excessively made up. She walked
straight up to Pierre, flung her arms around his neck, and pressed
herself against him. Even above the fumes from the pressed grapes he
could smell that she had been drinking.
"Darling," she sighed, "what shall we do?"
He badly wanted her, but all the past insults and humiliating scenes
welled up inside him. He pushed her away.
"But, darling, I'm going to have a baby."
"Don't be absurd. Go to bed! You're drunk. And take that paint off. It
makes you look like a tart."
Faniry's face blackened, and she threw herself at him with new
accusations. He had never cared for her. He cared only about sex. He
was obsessed with it. And with white women. But the women in
France, the white women, they were the tarts, and he was welcome to
them. She snatched a knife from the wall and lunged at him with it.
She was in tears, but it took all his strength to keep the knife from his
throat. Eventually he pushed her off, and she stumbled towards the
winepress. Pierre stood, breathing heavily, as the screw of the press
caught at her hair and dragged her in. She screamed, struggling to
free herself. The screw bit slowly into her shoulder and she screamed
again. Then she fainted, though whether from the pain or the fumes
he was not sure. He looked away until a sickening sound told him it
was over. Then he raised his arm and switched the current off.
The guests shuddered visibly and de Gruse paused in his story.
"Well, I won't go into the details at table," he said. "Pierre fed the rest
of the body into the press and tidied up. Then he went up to the
house, had a bath, ate a meal, and went to bed. The next day, he told
everyone Faniry had finally left him and gone back to Madagascar. No-
one was surprised."
He paused again. His guests sat motionless, their eyes turned towards
him.
"Of course," he continued, "Sixty-five was a bad year for red

Bordeaux. Except for Pierre's. That was the extraordinary thing. It won
award after award, and nobody could understand why."
The general's wife cleared her throat.
"But, surely," she said, "you didn't taste it?"
"No, I didn't taste it, though Pierre did assure me his wife had lent the
wine an incomparable aroma."
"And you didn't, er, buy any?" asked the general.
"How could I refuse? It isn't every day that one finds such a pedigree."
There was a long silence. The Dutchman shifted awkwardly in his seat,
his glass poised midway between the table and his open lips. The other
guests looked around uneasily at each other. They did not understand.
"But look here, Gruse," said the general at last, "you don't mean to tell
me we're drinking this damned woman now, d'you?"
De Gruse gazed impassively at the Englishman.
"Heaven forbid, General," he said slowly. "Everyone knows that the

best vintage should always come first."
Luke Thompson
Scarecrow
So we hired this scarecrow. Yincent. My sister saw the ad in the Cambrian News
and said 'Is he for real?' so I called him up to see. We met in the afternoon and in
the evening I called him again to say the job was his. This was Sunday. I showed
him the plot and we watched at the kitchen window so he could see the birds he
was meant to scare. He took it all in, but I could see his hands shake. I said 'Are
you nervous?' He said he had Essential Tremors and he probably drank too much,
but the shaking helped his work. 'Makes you look real,' he said. Before dawn every
morning I let the cat out, and I see Yincent setting up. I think it's nice he's there and
I wave, and he waves.
Geoff Peck
Gradation
Just a mile outside the city limits of Council, Oklahoma, a man in dirty jeans and a
soiled gray sweatshirt stood above Interstate 40 on the Route 81 overpass. It was
an early November morning, the sun just becoming visible in the East, and he
rubbed his hands together in an attempt to alleviate the chill in his bones. Eighteen
wheelers were starting to fly by in both directions. Trucks headed east went on into
Oklahoma City, from there who knows. They could meet up with I-35 and travel
south to Dallas or Houston. North to Kansas City, Omaha or maybe all the way to
the Twin Cities. Possibly keep driving east over to Memphis or Nashville. Might
take I-44 and go straight on to St. Louis. Be there by mid-afternoon.
He decided he'd follow the westbound road. There just seemed to be fewer
options that way. Trucks heading west had to go all the way to Amarillo for a
decent stop. He'd gone that far west with his family once. It was years before at the
age of thirteen when an uncle was married in Dumas, Texas. That had been nice.
He remembered how when they reached Amarillo they went north up into the
panhandle. Even though there weren't any mountains, he could still feel them
climbing into higher altitude, but when they rolled into Dumas it was just as flat as
western Oklahoma. "High plains," his father said from the front seat. He hadn't
thought of there being a higher kind of flat.
Walking with his head down along the interstate, his heartbeat rose whenever he
caught sight of a plastic bottle, only to be let down when it didn't contain urine. He
knew truck drivers used meth to stay awake on cross country drives. Knew that
many of them would rather piss in a bottle and throw it out the window than lose
fifteen minutes with a truck stop. Recycled meth wasn't as pure a dose, but a batch
of good urine still got him five hours once.
He found himself picking at the scab on his left hand as he continued walking.
A nervous tic that had gotten out of control. He shoved his hands into his pockets,
but kept thinking about the sores on his body, causing him to bring a hand up to his
face and run it over the rough patches on his forehead. He wondered what he
looked like. Probably homeless, and at that point, he supposed he kind of was. His
girlfriend left the week before, less than a day after they shut off the electricity.
Shut the water off a few days after that.
She had gone to stay with her folks in Hobart, which had its conditions. One,
that she couldn't see him anymore – her parents never had liked the fact she was
eight years younger than him. And two, that her father the cop would administer a
drug test every two weeks. She was a fool. So were her parents. He knew it would
end badly.
With his headache becoming more acute, he contemplated crossing the

Mary McCluskey
Before/After
In an instant, a life can divide into Before and After. A phone call, a news flash can
do it. Invariably, something remains as a reminder. For Joseph, a colleague at
Chloe's office, it is Bach playing on the stereo before the screech of brakes, the
crunch of metal, an ambulance, the hospital.
"I hear Bach now and think: oh, yes, I used to love that. Before. In my other
life."
For Chloe's sister, Anna, it is a body shampoo. She told Chloe how the shower
was hot and steam clouded the glass. She stood in the warm fog, then sniffed the
fresh, pine scent of the new Badedas body shampoo. That clean scent of mountains
and good health. Just seconds later, her fingers, tentative, pressed back and forth,
smoothing the skin as her brain bristled indignantly. It can't be! But it is, yes, it is. I
think it is. A lump.
And after – doctors visits, surgery, chemo, hair loss, pain.
Chloe will be reminded of these conversations in four minutes. Right now she
chooses a pretty china cup, Staffordshire, patterned with red roses. She pokes the
tea bag with a spoon while she pours in the boiling water and then decides to start
the laundry while the tea steeps. Dan's shirts are already loaded in the washer but
she pulls them out anyway, to shake them. She is nervous that a stray ballpoint
might lie forgotten in a pocket, leave a Caspian Sea of navy ink never to be
bleached away. As she shakes the shirt, something flies out, floats up like confetti
to land on the lid of the dryer. She studies, frowning, a pair of ticket stubs for a
New York City theatre.
She is puzzled at first. Then remembers, of course, the business conference in

New York City. Seven days had stretched to ten; Dan had been exhausted when he
came home, complaining about the demands of clients, the tedious conversation of
his colleagues. Chloe studies these tickets with a sense of unreality, as if she is
watching herself on a movie set, frowning for the camera. But her mind is seething
with questions. Dan had not told her of this theatre visit. Off-Broadway does not
seem appropriate, somehow. Hedda Gabler is an odd choice for an evening with a
client. Or a colleague.
With cold clarity, Chloe sees that these stubs will lead to questions that she does
not want to ask, but must ask. That will lead to answers she does not want to hear.
Later, a Decree Absolute, loneliness.
Chloe knows as she stirs her tea, stirs what is now gungy, tarry soup, that she is
already in the after. She throws the tea away, gets a fresh teabag, starts over. The
Joanna Leyland
To Sit in the Sun
Don't ask me, dearie. I wouldn't know about that. As I said, I'm just a neighbour of
theirs - that's right, that little white house there on the corner, the one with the fig
tree next to it. And yes, I saw it all. Not that I was watching - I believe in keeping
myself to myself - but a body couldn't help noticing. First all the coming and going
with him being ill, then the weeping and wailing when he died - of course I went to
pay my respects, that's only right - and I saw them carry the poor lamb from the
village, lay him out proper and wall up the tomb. I did feel sorry for the two girls, I
must say.
What? Yes, that's right, dearie. Four days later it was - just as things were
getting back to normal. Some sort of preacher. The girls must have sent for him -
with never a word to anyone - and up he walked, bold as anything, with a bunch of
followers too. You can imagine the talk. And then to go on up to the tomb, with
near enough the whole village hard on their heels. No, I didn't go - not decent, I
thought, stirring people up, giving them false hopes, but I was wrong, wasn't I?
The preacher did it - got them to open the tomb and called out, so they say, and that
was that. Back they all came, the two girls crying and hugging their brother, half
the crowd jabbering with excitement and the other half - you know, looking
sideways and not really sure. I wasn't sure myself, come to that.
Afterwards? Well, when the preacher left and all the fuss had died down, I asked
his sisters if they needed any help to keep an eye on him. They couldn't thank me
enough. First it was just for a few hours, then they started bringing him over in the
morning and taking him home at night, then they asked me if I could .... you know,
have him permanent. Like I said, I'm a widow, and they ... well, dearie, let's just
say I'm not too proud to accept a little something for having him.
Mind? Bless you, no, of course I don't mind. Well, you can see for yourself,
dearie. He just sits there mostly. I talk to him, of course - well, a body needs some
company - but if I don't ..... No, he's no trouble at all. He just likes to sit in the sun.
John Ravenscroft
Fishing For Jasmine
The silent young woman in bed number six is called Jasmine. So am I, but names
Melissa Checker
In The Evenings
In the evenings, they go to the mall. Once a week or more. Sometimes, they even
leave the dinner dishes in the sink so they will have enough time to finish all the
errands. The father never comes -- he hates shopping, especially with his wife.
Instead, he stays home to read the paper and putter around his study. To do things
that the other dads must be doing in the evenings. To summon the sand to come
rushing in and plug up his ears with its roaring silence.
Meanwhile, the mother arms herself with returns from the last trip. Her two
young daughters forget games of flashlight tag or favorite TV shows and strap on
tennis shoes and seatbelts: and they're off. On summer nights, when it's light until
after the fireflies arrive, the air is heavy and moist. The daughters unroll their
windows and stick the whole of their heads out into the slate blue sky, feeling full
force the sweaty, honey suckle air. In the cold mall, their rubber soles squeak on
shiny linoleum squares. The younger daughter tries not to step on any cracks. The
older daughter keeps a straight-ahead gaze; her sullen eyes count down each errand
as it's done.
It is not until the third or, on a good night, the fourth errand that the trouble
begins. The girls have wandered over to examine rainbow beach towels, perhaps,
or some kind of pink ruffled bedspread. The mother's voice finds them from a few
aisles away. "What do you mean you won't take it back?" "I don't want to talk to
you. Where's your manager?"
Dinner squirms in the daughters' stomachs. Now comes that what-if-I-threw-up-

right-this-second? or where-is-a-rabbit-hole-for-me-to-fall-into? feeling that they
get around this time of evening, at the mall. The older one shakes her ponytails at
the younger one. Her blue eyes hiss the careful-don't-cry warning, but the younger
one's cheeks only get redder. Toe by toe, the daughters edge towards housewares
where they finger lace placemats or trace patterns in the store carpet with
sneakered soles. The mother's voice still finds them, shaking with rage. Finally,
heels slapping in her sandals, she strides towards them and then keeps going. They
follow, catching her word-trail, "Stupid people. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I HATE
stupid people." It's the little skips between steps the younger one takes to keep up
with her mother's long, angry legs. It's the car door slamming and the seat belt
buckle yanked into place. It's those things that tell the daughters how the next few
hours will go.
In the car, the older one sighs and grinds her back teeth. The younger one feels
her face get hotter and her eyes start to swell. She stares at an ice cream stain on
the back of the front seat and sees a pony, a flower, and a fairy in that splash of
chocolate mint chip. The mother begins on both at once. "And when we get home,
Ursula Wills-Jones
The Time-Sweepers
You may not be familiar with the time-sweepers. The time-sweepers are the people
who sweep up all the time that is lost and wasted. You cannot see them, though if
you are in the railway station and think you see something out of the corner of your
eye, that will probably be a time-sweeper, cleaning up around the bench you are
sitting on. If you were to see them, you would find a small, bluish person with an
intent expression, clutching a broom and a mop. The men wear overalls, the
women old-fashioned tweed skirts and scarves on their head.
The time-sweepers are present wherever time is being lost or wasted. There are
always several in train stations, and at least one in every doctors surgery. The man
who has waited so long to propose to his girlfriend that her hair has gone grey,
probably has his own personal time-sweeper following him around. The woman
who has spent thirty-five loathed years in an estate agents, dreaming of opening a
florists, causes the neighbourhood time-sweeper to sigh, and fetch a bigger
dustpan.
You should not feel sorry for the time-sweepers, though their work is menial:
they are never sick, do not worry that they are in the wrong career, and have
excellent working conditions, though what they do for leisure is unknown. They
enjoy bank holidays off, which is why, on these days, there seems so much more
time than usual. At Christmas and new year, the time-sweepers have a week's
holiday. When they return to work in January, they face a vast backlog of time
which has been lost, wasted and thrown away over the holidays. It takes them
around three weeks to resume normal service, which is why January always seems
to last longer than other months.
The time-sweepers have been around forever, though modern life has created
wasted time in such large concentrations that in some places the time-sweepers
have been forced to industrialise their operations, buying a number of specialised
compressing lorries similar to those used by ordinary bin-men. They use these for
the largest collections, at prisons and shopping malls, two venues where the tide of
wasted time threatens to swamp even the most dedicated operatives.
Were you to ask a time-sweeper, they would tell you one surprising thing: time
enjoyed is never time wasted. Cleaning up in a large office full of staggering
tedium, the time-sweeper will pass straight by the desk of the woman who is
reading a holiday catalogue under the desk, poring over photos of tropical beaches.
They will pass by the next desk, where a man is enjoyably wondering what his
mother-in-law looks like naked, and stop by the desk of the young man who is
counting every minute, and loathing the hours.
You may wonder what happens to the wasted time after it has all been cleaned
Lightning
by Beatrice Reeves
(Lloydminster, sask)
The little child looked up, a sudden blast of lightning hit his face so hard, and
painful that he screamed in terror, as it nearly tore his head to the other side of his
body. That blast of lightning was his fathers hand as it came crashing down across
his little face. "Nathan" was five years old and he feared his father, as these were
regular beatings. His mother had left him and he was all alone and brokenhearted
that his mommy was gone. He blamed himself for daddy hitting him, because
mommy had left. His frail little body cringed in pain and terror as his father now
grabbed him and threw him on his bed. "You do not talk to the neighbors," he
snarled. "Now, you go without supper." Nathan sobbed himself to sleep, only to get
up the next day to face this nightmare once again. One day the next door neighbor
noticed his face and hands. She talked to the kindergarten teacher about how he
looked that morning. They took him into a room and asked him some questions:
"Does daddy punish you?" and "Show us the marks." This child was starving for
love and attention, so like any small child was glad to talk and "show and tell", as
the teacher called it that day. They took him to the doctor, and the neighbor called
the authorities on this man. Little Nathan was removed from the home that very
day and is now living happily with his mother who had heard of the beatings from
her neighbor. These things happen to children on a daily basis. God gave us
children as gifts not to be destroyed. This world is overcome with the bashing of
children, and it has to be stopped.
The Use of Force

by William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
They were new patients to me, all I had was the name, Olson. Please come down as
soon as you can, my daughter is very sick.
When I arrived I was met by the mother, a big startled looking woman, very clean
and apologetic who merely said, Is this the doctor? and let me in. In the back, she
added.
You must excuse us, doctor, we have her in the kitchen where it is warm. It is very
damp here sometimes.
The child was fully dressed and sitting on her father's lap near the kitchen table. He
tried to get up, but I motioned for him not to bother, took off my overcoat and
started to look things over. I could see that they were all very nervous, eyeing me
up and down distrustfully. As often, in such cases, they weren't telling me more
than they had to, it was up to me to tell them; that's why they were spending three
dollars on me.
The child was fairly eating me up with her cold, steady eyes, and no expression to
her face whatever. She did not move and seemed, inwardly, quiet; an unusually
attractive little thing, and as strong as a heifer in appearance. But her face was
flushed, she was breathing rapidly, and I realized that she had a high fever. She had
magnificent blonde hair, in profusion. One of those picture children often
reproduced in advertising leaflets and the photogravure sections of the Sunday
papers.
She's had a fever for three days, began the father and we don't know what it comes
from. My wife has given her things, you know, like people do, but it don't do no
good.
And there's been a lot of sickness around. So we tho't you'd better look her over
and tell us what is the matter.
As doctors often do I took a trial shot at it as a point of departure. Has she had a
sore throat?
Both parents answered me together, No . . . No, she says her throat don't hurt her.
Does your throat hurt you? added the mother to the child. But the little girl's
expression didn't change nor did she move her eyes from my face.
Have you looked?
I tried to, said the mother, but I couldn't see.
As it happens we had been having a number of cases of diphtheria in the school to
which this child went during that month and we were all, quite apparently, thinking
of that, though no one had as yet spoken of the thing.
Well, I said, suppose we take a look at the throat first. I smiled in my best
professional manner and asking for the child's first name I said, come on, Mathilda,
open your mouth and let's take a look at your throat.
Nothing doing.
Aw, come on, I coaxed, just open your mouth wide and let me take a look. Look, I
said opening both hands wide, I haven't anything in my hands. Just open up and let
me see.
Such a nice man, put in the mother. Look how kind he is to you. Come on, do what
he tells you to. He won't hurt you.
At that I ground my teeth in disgust. If only they wouldn't use the word "hurt" I
might be able to get somewhere. But I did not allow myself to be hurried or
disturbed but speaking quietly and slowly I approached the child again.
As I moved my chair a little nearer suddenly with one catlike movement both her
hands clawed instinctively for my eyes and she almost reached them too. In fact
she knocked my glasses flying and they fell, though unbroken, several feet away
from me on the kitchen floor.
Both the mother and father almost turned themselves inside out in embarrassment
and apology. You bad girl, said the mother, taking her and shaking her by one arm.
Look what you've done. The nice man . . .
For heaven's sake, I broke in. Don't call me a nice man to her. I'm here to look at
her throat on the chance that she might have diphtheria and possibly die of it. But
that's nothing to her. Look here, I said to the child, we're going to look at your
throat. You're old enough to understand what I'm saying. Will you open it now by
yourself or shall we have to open it for you?
Not a move. Even her expression hadn't changed. Her breaths however were
coming faster and faster. Then the battle began. I had to do it. I had to have a throat
culture for her own protection. But first I told the parents that it was entirely up to
them. I explained the danger but said that I would not insist on a throat
examination so long as they would take the responsibility.
If you don't do what the doctor says you'll have to go to the hospital, the mother
admonished her severely.
Oh yeah? I had to smile to myself. After all, I had already fallen in love with the
savage brat, the parents were contemptible to me. In the ensuing struggle they grew
more and more abject, crushed, exhausted while she surely rose to magnificent
heights of insane fury of effort bred of her terror of me.
The father tried his best, and he was a big man but the fact that she was his
daughter, his shame at her behavior and his dread of hurting her made him release
her just at the critical times when I had almost achieved success, till I wanted to
kill him. But his dread also that she might have diphtheria made him tell me to go
on, go on though he himself was almost fainting, while the mother moved back and
forth behind us raising and lowering her hands in an agony of apprehension.
Put her in front of you on your lap, I ordered, and hold both her wrists.
But as soon as he did the child let out a scream. Don't, you're hurting me. Let go of
my hands. Let them go I tell you. Then she shrieked terrifyingly, hysterically. Stop
it! Stop it! You're killing me!
Do you think she can stand it, doctor! said the mother.
You get out, said the husband to his wife. Do you want her to die of diphtheria?
Come on now, hold her, I said.
Then I grasped the child's head with my left hand and tried to get the wooden
tongue depressor between her teeth. She fought, with clenched teeth, desperately!
But now I also had grown furious--at a child. I tried to hold myself down but I
couldn't. I know how to expose a throat for inspection. And I did my best. When
finally I got the wooden spatula behind the last teeth and just the point of it into the
mouth cavity, she opened up for an instant but before I could see anything she
came down again and gripping the wooden blade between her molars she reduced
it to splinters before I could get it out again.
Aren't you ashamed, the mother yelled at her. Aren't you ashamed to act like that in
front of the doctor?
Get me a smooth-handled spoon of some sort, I told the mother. We're going
through with this. The child's mouth was already bleeding. Her tongue was cut and
she was screaming in wild hysterical shrieks. Perhaps I should have desisted and
come back in an hour or more. No doubt it would have been better. But I have seen
at least two children lying dead in bed of neglect in such cases, and feeling that I
must get a diagnosis now or never I went at it again. But the worst of it was that I
too had got beyond reason. I could have torn the child apart in my own fury and
enjoyed it. It was a pleasure to attack her. My face was burning with it.
The damned little brat must be protected against her own idiocy, one says to one's
self at such times. Others must be protected against her. It is a social necessity. And
all these things are true. But a blind fury, a feeling of adult shame, bred of a
longing for muscular release are the operatives. One goes on to the end.
In a final unreasoning assault I overpowered the child's neck and jaws. I forced the
heavy silver spoon back of her teeth and down her throat till she gagged. And there
it was--both tonsils covered with membrane. She had fought valiantly to keep me
from knowing her secret. She had been hiding that sore throat for three days at
least and lying to her parents in order to escape just such an outcome as this.
Now truly she was furious. She had been on the defensive before but now she
attacked. Tried to get off her father's lap and fly at me while tears of defeat blinded
her eyes.
Just Another Client
by Jennifer
(Michigan)
Sitting in the back of a yellow cab, Julie looked at the address on the crumpled
piece of paper. She knew it by heart. She’d known it her whole life. Everyone
knew that address.
“No big deal,” she murmured, nervously. “It’s just another client.”
Her colleagues would be jealous if they knew, but Julie was more anxious than
excited. She was afraid her intimidation would be obvious enough for him to catch
on and take advantage of.
Julie was a striking woman with soft blonde hair, curled in a way that was
reminiscent of Old Hollywood. Her legs were so long, the trench coat she wore
couldn’t hide them, especially with the nude colored heels adding to their length.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked. The cabbie didn’t respond so she cracked
the window and lit up. She enjoyed the taste as she inhaled, but it was the circling
smoke that really calmed her. She reveled in it, but too soon they were pulling up a
long, paved driveway. Julie flicked her cigarette and handed the driver a wad of
cash.
“Keep it,” she said as she stepped out of the car. She was going to make fat cash
tonight and could afford the luxury of being decadently generous.
Apprehensively, she opened the front door without knocking. She found the
politician sitting in the front room, smoking a cigar with a newspaper in hand.
“Good evening, Governor,” Julie said breathily, hoping she sounded a bit like
Marilyn Monroe. She pulled open her trench coat, revealing her naked self.
“Good evening, indeed,” he replied as he looked up, clearly appreciating her fleshy
curves. Her eyes narrowed and her lips curled up into a smirking smile.
It was just another client.
Boxer
by Alex Combs
(Yelm Washington)
He was the best. The fastest, strongest, and smartest in the ring. When he stepped
between the ropes and into the center of the ring, he owned it. It was his domain,
his territory, and he’d defend it with his life. When the bell rang, he had one
mission. He was like a robot set on destroy all. Each action was calculated seconds
before it happened. He could see what his opponent was going to do before he did
it. He could see when to adjust, and counter his opponent's move. He moved
around the ring with great ease, almost like he was gliding. He could get from one
side of the ring to the other in a few quick steps. He was so fast. Then there were
his hits, even faster than his feet. He could knock guys down in one swift, well
placed punch. They’d be on the floor before they could even see it coming.
Noise
by Faith
(Green Bay WI U.S)
I know that I'm alone in my room. I know that I am alone in the world. Being alone
I am not afraid of. But being alone doesnt mean that I don't know what's going on
in the world. I am 14 years old. I am alone but I hear, Noise...
This noise that I hear would be my heartbeat. It's always unsteady when he is here.
Jordan. My stepfather. I hear the noise that comes from their room. I plug my ears
but I still hear the noise of fear. I can smell fear just as well as I can see it, and hear
it. Having to hear the noise of crying, beating, pleading, makes me want to hide.
All I do is hope that she is all right. My mother. I cannot help her because I am too
afraid. I can't take it anymore, covering my eyes and rocking back and forth doesn't
stop my mind from running. The room gets louder with this noise of fear, I think its
my mothers fear, but realize it is my own, I am hearing all the fear, the things that
could go wrong. I can't take this noise any longer. I feel tears pour down my face, I
break. I try to outrun this noise that folows like water following a wave as it breaks
against the shore. I run and run not knowing where to go. I stop. I am in my room.
Lost in my thoughts. I then notice the noise began to get softer as if fading along
with a memory of my past.
Fowl Play
by Catherine Underhill Fitzpatrick
(Mequon, Wisconsin, USA)
A. J. Meier was eighty when he shot his last goose. By then his eyesight was
indistinct, and his aim susceptible to inadvertent dips.
The goose was no spring chicken, either. That December afternoon, it followed a
low trajectory over the fallow cornfield where my grandfather stood scanning the
cloud-tattered sky. A.J. raised the stock to his shoulder, fired, and missed by a
country mile. Subsequent fusillades peppered swathes of Missouri sky and thus
managed to dispatch the bird.
Later, A.J. stopped by. He indicated Mom should roast the goose on Christmas. It
had been a while since her father ended a hunt with a full bag. She knew that.
As soon as the gifts were opened, Mom plucked the goose clean of feathers,
packed the cavity with stuffing, stucco’d the pimpled carcass with swirls of oleo,
and slid her blue roasting pan into the oven. Perspiration beaded her forehead.
That night our dining room glowed with candle light glinting off Mom’s good
crystal. Dad raked his carving knife against a sharpening rod and lowered slices of
goose like flapjacks onto Mom’s Lenox. A.J. looked on with pride. We tucked in.
With the first bite, we each crunched on something hard, something that electrified
the fillings in our teeth. Startled adults raised their napkins. Howling kids
commenced a buckshot spitting war.
A.J. lowered his fork. Steely-eyed, he accused Mom of ruining, ruining, a perfectly
good goose.
A tear trickled down Mom’s cheek. In the thundering silence, candle flames rose
unwavering.
Dad took a slow walk around his table. When he got to Mom, he bent to kiss her
upturned face. Then everybody piped up and said the goose was the best darn
goose they'd ever tasted. And Mom bucked up and said pass the stuffing, girls.
The Encounter
by Jody Carlton
(Chincoteague)
I'm walking through a forest. The only sound is the crackling of dry branches and
leaves beneath my feet. It hasn't rained for days. The wildlife around me is keenly
aware of my presence and they let me know by making their respective sounds.
Once I regain my bearings, I begin walking along the path that I had originally
started out on. Several minutes pass and I begin to hear sounds of life: human life.
After a few seconds I can smell the smoke. Not sure what lurks ahead, I post up
behind a large tree. Suddenly, a figure from the fire becomes alerted to something.
Is it me? A few seconds pass and the figure returns its attention to the fire. I make a
quick glance and then I reposition behind another tree, a tree closer to the fire. By
now I'm able to make out more human figures. There appear to be four, maybe five
- the far side of the fire remains allusive.
Overhead, a buzzard perches violently upon a branch several feet above my head. I
immediately hide behind the tree in full cover. I don't risk sticking my head around
the tree to take a look, but temptation overwhelms me. I crouch down and slowly
turn to maneuver my head around the tree. Just as my head pokes out the side of
the tree, I see four figures looking directly at my position. The buzzard ruffles its
feathers and takes flight as the fear dial turns up a notch. This is exactly what my
research had warned me of.
These specimens were highly proactive once their senses had been alerted. They
rarely passed up opportunities to progress their skills, skills to kill. My gut begins
to wrench.
I fight the urge not to . . .
See You There

by Liz Cawte
(Newbury, England, United Kingdom)
She lay on her bed, the pictures taken out of their albums spread out around her.
His shirt in her arms, It just wasn’t the same. She needed to feel his flesh for one
more time, his hands, where they belonged, in hers. His smell, so familiar, his eyes,
his hair all painted a picture in her mind. He had sent her a letter, the last thing he
had ever sent her. His handwriting, his words, his thoughts, captured on paper
forever. The paper even smelt like him, the letter itself only contained three words
written so carefully in blue ink.
“Dum Spiro Spero” three simple words, left only for her eyes. She knew what it
meant, translated it said “As long as I live, I hope”. Her eyes drowned out by the
tears that ran down her soft face like an over flowing river. The salty taste that
entered her mouth as she lay there, helpless, nothing was right now. Only he made
things better, only he made her smile, only he knew her inside out. Her bathroom
now steamy, peaceful and relaxing, she slowly took off her clothes but kept hold
his letter and the picture of them sat in front of a sunset. She slowly got into the
hot, clear, steamy bath. The water spilled out at the sides along with her tears, but
she did not care as her make-up was already ruined by the lonely tears, running
down her face. Still holding the picture and letter, she lay down in the bath. The
letter gently floated to the top and the ink ran off the page and into her peaceful
bath water. For if he is not alive, there was no hope. Quietly, softly, she slept in
patient silence, waiting to see him again.
Helping Out
by Pat Warren
Amy was miked, so I could hear every word of the conversation through the headphones. In
spite of her bravado earlier the tremor in her voice was apparent. However, even when I
explained that the under cover work she had agreed to participate in to help catch the killer
would be extremely dangerous, Amy was not deterred. She was desperate to help.
My colleague Anderson sat opposite me in the unmarked police vehicle. He was an old
hand at this type of work and I sincerely hoped the new PC with us on the case was alert
and standing by. He was as green as his face had been when he had viewed the body with
me in the mortuary.
The suspect in question, Danny Smith, carried on the conversation with Amy. He asked if
she wanted a cigarette and we heard her refuse. Then, his voice low and seductive, Smith
told her what a pretty girl she was and asked if she wanted to go for a walk with him. Amy
said she might. Smith carried on trying to persuade her, flattering, cajoling.
It was when Amy said she had to get home that Smith's tone changed.
"No you don't, you're coming with me now!"
Smith snarled the words, his evil intentions apparent.
Amy screamed, then went silent.
Anderson was out of the vehicle in time to assist DS Kyle dragging the evil, deranged man
away from the sobbing, terrified girl. Kyle got punched in the struggle that ensued, but he
held Smith's arms in spite of his efforts to escape, until Anderson got the cuffs on him.
I read Smith his rights, then Anderson took him away, but not before Amy thanked us for
catching her best friend's killer and proclaimed a blushing PC Kyle her hero.
Julianne
by Liezel Pichay
(Philippines)
"Hello, Julianne?" It's a familiar voice on my phone.

"It's Alexander. I hope you still remember me." How wouldn't I?
Without him, I would never have been good in academics nor would I be successful in my career now. He
was my teacher in sixth grade.
I was one of the lazy kids in class until this young teacher entered my class and caught my heart. I
studied hard to gain his recognition. I requested him to be my tutor in high school. In college, he was my
inspiration. He made me so happy until he told me he was getting married. I cried. I cried in front of him.
"I love you." I confessed. He just smiled at me saying:
"It's just a puppy love." And he gave me a warm brotherly hug.
On his wedding day, I was there -- smiling, but wounded inside.
After that, I kept distant from him.
It happened four years ago, but the memories are still clear and the pain still here. How would I ever
forget him?
"Oh, it's you!" I answer sluggishly. "How are you, sir?"
"I'm more than fine, actually; just had my first baby -- a pretty daughter. Imagine? After four years!"
"That's great, sir. Congratulations!" I mean it.
"Surely she got a good name?"
"Thank you. Actually, I have registered it this morning. You know, her name is really special. I took it after
this girl whom occupied a big part of my heart. I really missed this girl, you know? I hope my daughter
will be a sweet kid like her."
I'm not really paying attention to what he's saying. I just want to end this conversation. So I ask:
"What is this sweet kid's name, sir?"
He replies: "Julianne."
The Pencil
by Karl Hinrichs
(Green Bay, Wisconsin, United States)
It was firmly stuck to his fingers. He opened his hand and spread his fingers until only it contacted a
single finger. But it was still holding fast. He tried shaking, bumping, and finally prying, but it wouldn't let
loose.
He pushed on it with a finger of the other hand, the skin moved with it until it was becoming painful. The
thought occurred to him that he could slice a single layer of skin, and it would have to release with his
piece of skin, but the pain was something he couldn't take, at least he didn't think he could.
His hand moved to the top of the paper as made some marks. But it wasn't random scribbling. It had
made a tall circle, then a line next to it. He noticed the vertical line it had made was very straight. Then it
followed with two small dots, one over the other, forming a colon. Moving his fingers in a circle, a tall
oval appeared, then another. It was finished by a short series of dots, like it was waiting.
Moving below the reference to time, a minute to be exact. He began writing the first thing he thought of,
his name. It moved easily, as though the pencil was lubricated in some way that it didn't have any friction
with the paper. The four letters came out very precise and neat, much better than his own handwriting.
After the four letters, he wrote the the letters "jr", and finished it with a period. The numbers at the top
of the page faded quickly and the pencil dropped from his hand. He was left wondering what would have
happened had he not beaten the timer at the top of the page? It had been at a single second.
A Story About-
by Kaitlyn Curtis
(Croton on Hudson, New York)
Rummaging through the pockets of his coat for a cigarette as he stepped onto the now deserted streets
of Uncertainville, his brows pulled together in annoyance realizing he’d finished the pack earlier. Had it
really mattered all that much? What satisfaction would someone like himself receive from smoking
anyway? As he took in the cool air from outside, his irritable expression remained.
“Hey! Did you even know those guys in there?” The blonde asked with great curiosity as she trailed
behind, undeniably drawn to him.
With her sudden interjection into his thoughts he turned to once again meet the familiar face from
inside the pub. Though she was seemingly interested as to how he’d initiated such chaos among people
he’d never met before tonight, he simply shrugged, the tension in his muscles slowly releasing while his
mind slipped away from his cigarette crisis. “Eh, I know them,” he admitted in a casual tone. “Don’t
you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes enough to get a reaction out of her, an odd look even. Although he
could have waited for a response, he continued with his questions. “I bet you’ve at least dated the
drunken one, haven’t you? If not you, your friend or your sister has given him a go… or was it your
cousin? Anyhow, one way or another you’re connected to him is what I’m saying. You know?” As his gaze
rolled to the concrete sidewalk, he lightly scuffed the sole of his shoe against a small ridge in it. “If you
watch people long enough you’ll realize they’re all pretty much alike. We may not want to think so, but
it’s not a suggestion, it’s simply nature.”
With a slight frown all she asked was, “You really believe that?” Not wanting to agree with his cynical
outlook she wished to contest, however she knew how difficult it was avoiding Certainty.
Cold Salt Water
He comes in with his shirt splattered with blood, and I say, 'Honest to God, Kieran.'
'Don't fuss, Mum,' he says like it's nothing to walk in the house with your nose spread across your
face.
'What in Jesus' name happened?' No answer. 'Who were you with?'
'John and Chris.'
'And are they hurt too?'
'Leave it, Mum.'
I put my hand up to his face, but he dips from it. 'It's a rough old place, that dancehall. Tiffany's was
it?'
'It's a disco, Mum, not a dancehall.'
And then his father's in the doorway, and I say, 'Will you look at the state of Kieran?' But he's three
sheets to the wind himself, so I send him off to bed.
Well, I try to whip the shirt off the boy, but he holds it close around him. So I get a bucket ready: cold
water with a good dash of salt. 'Come on now, Kieran,' I say, 'Let's have that shirt.' It's one of his good
ones, a Ben Sherman. He unbuttons it. There are bruises like footprints on his chest.
'Did you get a look at them? Could you describe them to the police?'
'Please, Mum. It doesn't matter.'
'You've bruises all over!'
He flinches as I touch him. I can see that he's trying to hold on to the tears. I know the wobble in that
lip, like when his father used to tell him that boys don't cry, so he'd sniff the snot back up into his nose,
and pretend he was all right. But a mother knows. But a mother only knows by rummaging in his chest of
drawers when he's out, through the piles of pennies and silver in the top drawer from his turned out
pockets. I go in there when I'm short of money for the milkman, or need a 50p when the electric's gone.
He doesn't like the rattle of the coins in his pockets, and how they spoil the line of his trousers. So they
pyramid higher in the drawer, silver on copper, and slip like the coal in the bunker as the drawer opens,
heavier each time I pull it out. And that's where I found that thing once, from a packet of three as they
call it, and only the one left. I told him what Fr Westland would say. He just laughed. Though there have
been times when I've thought, wouldn't we have been glad of one?
He's been worse since he's been working, acting like he's man of the house. Home at six, he slams the
back door open against the kitchen dresser – there's a hole in the hardboard now – then he shouts,
'Where's my dinner?' When he was small, I could slap him across the back of the legs, but now he stands
above me. I need to stand on a chair to look him in the eye.
'I'm off to bed,' Kieran says. I watch as he climbs the stairs, every step an effort. Whether he sleeps or
not, I don't know, but I lie awake next to his snoring father. Every time I close my eyes, I can't stop seeing
the footprints on my boy's chest.
In the morning, he's so stiff he can hardly raise an arm, so I knock at Mick Bennett's house, and ask
would he tell them at the factory that Kieran won't be in. Then I run Kieran a hot bath to see would it
ease him a little, and make him egg and bacon when he's out and dressed. Although it hurts to see him
like that, it's nice, in a way, to have my boy to myself, with Jack and the children off for the day.
I've the radio on in the kitchen, and the news headlines come over, of the latest from the IRA, a pub in
Guildford, not ten miles up the road. I know there'll be hard stares when I ask for the veg at the
greengrocer, when I open my mouth to speak, as if it was me that laid that bomb. 'Are you ready to tell
me?' I say, as he wipes the yolk of his egg off the plate with a half-bitten slice of fried bread. He holds up
his mug, and I pour some more tea. 'Shall we go to the police?' He half-drains the mug, then slams it
down on the table. The tea splashes up the sides then settles again. 'Or was it you that started it? I know
your temper.'
The full story of the bombing comes on the radio. 'Switch it off,' he says.
'God knows why your father stands up for that lot,' I say, 'it doesn't do us any good, those of us that have
to live here.' He stares at his plate, his fingertips pressing into the edge of the table. 'Is that what the
fight was over?' I say.
'It's nothing to do with me, what the Irish get up to,' he says, 'I ain't Irish.'
I wipe my hands on a tea towel and turn to him. 'Only every ounce of blood that flows through your
veins.'
'It don't make me Irish.' He butters a slice of bread. I can see how it's bothering him to eat, with his
top lip split. Part of me wants to slap him, and the rest of me wants to cradle him. I picture him lying on
the ground as the heavy boots hit his chest. And I think of how he's stopped going to the Tara club, how
it's Tiffany's on a Saturday night, out with his packet of three: Durex, approved to British standards.
I go to the bucket where I'd steeped the shirt the night before. The water is pink, the blood seeping
into the crystals. I drain the bucket into the sink, rinse the shirt, then run more cold water into the
bucket, emptying the remainder of the packet of Saxa into it. I watch the shirt sink, pushing it down so
it's covered.
John Riha
We'll Be Returning
May 29
Thanks so much for sharing your darling cottage in the woods. The views of the lake are just
spectacular and the cottage is very warm and charming. We loved sitting on the deck in the evening with
a glass of claret, watching the ducks and listening to the crickets and frogs. The beds are very
comfortable and the furnishings are nice. We'll definitely be back.
Mary & Ted Blackledge, Grand Rapids, Mich.
June 11
First time in Wisconsin, so beautiful, your darling hobbit house has made our trip here memorable.
Everything comfortable and clean. And the lake! I went for a swim but Abel is squeamish about seaweed,
I wore those darling water sandals that you so thoughtfully provided by the back door. I don't even think
about weeds because when I was a girl growing up in Ohio we always went swimming in lakes (although
I think they're all polluted now) and there were weeds and we got used to them, but Abel grew up
coddled and sun-averse and now has skin like boiled matzah. However, your lake is divine! The kitchen is
wonderfully equipped, love the little Canadian geese ceramic tiles behind the stove, where did you get
those? I'll have to email you. Already planning a return trip.
Faige and Abel Behrmann, Clayton, MO The Show-Me State!
June 19
We'll always remember this beautiful little house in the woods where Rolland and I first made love.
I've never made love with a man but it was indescribably romantic and thrilling, even though it hurt a
little at the beginning. Rolland says he's going to leave his wife but it's difficult to say, they have so much
history. I'm hopeful, writing this on the last day of our adventure, bright sunlight on the lake cut into
chevrons by the wake of a loon. Thank you for sharing. Our hearts are full. We're going to come back
here.
Samuel Corso and Rolland Jule
June 25
Spent a great weekend here with hubby and kids — they loved fishing off the pier and eating peanut
butter sandwiches on the porch swing. Samantha caught a catfish but hooked it through the eye and
when we put it back it floated belly up. The eye came out and it was hard to get off the hook. Too bad,
but fun! We'll be returning!
Margeaux and "The Boston Six" (the McAllisters)
July 18
We like your house and all the trees and the lake but when we tried to sit outside at night the
mosquitos were so terrible we had to go inside. I wish somebody had told us about the mosquitos or
maybe you could have mentioned something on your website. And Henry noticed a chip out of a tile
toward the back corner of the bathtub surround? You might want to get that taken care of so there's no
water leakage, then you'd get mold in which case you'd have to close down your rental until you could fix
it and, as I understand it, mold mitagation (spelling?) is quite expensive. I'm not being a ninny, just letting
you know a few important things that you might want to know about. Other than that and the lack of
cell phone reception I thought the house was very acceptable. You have a nice selection of DVDs.
Rosalind Curry, Des Moines, Iowa
July 22
Sitting in the dark, writing by candlelight. All around a million frogs are trilling for mates. Will they all
be successful, or will some perform unrequited melodies until the cooling night stills their blood? The
forest has dissolved into a black fog of leaves and limbs, barely lit under a moonless sky. It doesn't look
like Rolland will come. Perhaps there is an explanation, an unpredictable unfolding of events. His wife
was taken ill. One of his children broke a toe. A boss demanded weekend hours. These things happen.
Thank God I brought the pinot. No scent of him like wet stone and cedar. No hazel eyes with their
archipelagos of gold. No hardness pulsing its molten heart. I do love this cabin. You should know that. As
I live and breathe, I'll always love this cabin.
Samuel Corso
August 6
The snuggliest little place in the world! The porch is peachy, we just put on a lot of DEET and sat
outside well into the night and never had any mosquito problems. All the stars came out — You have so
many stars up here in the Midwest! And may I add that we could not find the crack in the bathroom tile
that Rosalind Curry (above) mentioned, so I suppose you fixed it and if you did, kudos to you for prompt
service! We'll definitely think about coming back this way again if Toby goes into remission.
Dorothy and Tobias Sistrunk, Mayfield, Louisiana
August 19
Thank you so kindly for making available this little house in the woods to travellers such as us! We had
a such a good time with the kayaks and playing Trivial Pursuits. So nice to spend some summer. Very
Sorry about the septic tank problem. I will assure you that Wilmar will not be doing that again!
The Klein Family, Flensburg, Germany
September 19
Please forgive me, little sanctuary in the woods. I'm sure within these compact walls is a surfeit of
happiness, left by those who have stopped here, smelled your peeled pine, built a fire in your limestone
hearth, heard the sun slide into the waters. You deserve such an innocence, but that is why I've come
again, to still my heart's unanswered trill in the ringing clarity of your cool waters. I'm going down to the
lake now. Forgive me for not returning.
— Samuel
James Ross
In Country
'That it then?'
I nodded, and Derek the removal man turned back to the van, gave a wave to his driver and went to
the back to lift the ramp, close the hatched and seal up the contents of my previous life.
You don't really want removal men to be efficient and clean; you want them to be burly, and surly,
beer-bellied, with pie-breath and greasy flat-cap. You want them to pause, rub their aching back and take
a sharp intake of breath; 'dunno about that guvna. Isn't on the manifest.
You want chipped cups, splintered furniture, mashed boxes, lost boxes. Delays. Traffic jams. Running
over time. Running out of time. You want stuff stored in the wrong rooms, too-heavy-to-move tea-chests
dumped in the passage, stuff left behind to be collected, or not, three shame-faced weeks later, after
seven increasingly irate phone calls from the new homeowner. You want inefficiency, damage and loss.
In fact, if you were in my position, you would want the removal men to simply forget to arrive; you'd
want the estate agent to lose the contracts shortly before the exchange takes place; you'd want the
utility companies to forget to switch.
And you'd want your wife not to have left you.
Derek snapped shut the padlock on the back of the van, nodded in my direction and walked round to
climb into the passenger seat. With a cough of blue smoke the diesel engine fired up and the driver
wasted no time in crunching it into gear and thrusting it out amongst the blaring horns of midday
London traffic. Some of what was in the back of the van was coming with us to our new home, but a lot
more was to be dropped off at the auction house later. The way I felt at that moment, it could have all
been taken direct to a landfill.
This is not what I asked for, I told myself, as I slipped the door keys into an envelope, sealed it and
pinned the envelope to the wall just inside the front door. Then, after folding my copy of Derek the
removal man's manifest and slipping it into my pocket, I took one last look along the hall, past the front
room door, past the dining room door, to the kitchen, where we'd breakfasted every morning for years,
first as man and wife, and then man and wife and child, and lately, as father and son. On impulse I
stepped back inside, walked along the hall to the kitchen door and took one last look inside, imagining us
some seven years ago, seeing again the chaos of a young, happily married couple and their baby boy,
eating breakfast, getting ready for work, talking, being a family. I saw this picture in my head, felt the
anguish of what I'd never have again, and then, having faced my grief, it faded. Quietly, almost
reverentially, I closed the door and, taking a purposeful deep breath, I walked back along and out
through the front door, turned and slammed it shut on my old life.
Feeling somehow lighter, I walked down the steps from what had been my front door and across the
road to the car, to where Danny was sitting absorbed in his book. I opened the driver's door and got in;
'Ready for an adventure?' I asked him, fastening my seat belt, adjusting the wonky rear-view mirror until
it seemed prepared to stay in one position long enough for me to be able to ascertain that we weren't
going to be crushed by a speeding juggernaut or a fire-engine while driving along the Queen's Highway,
and turned the ignition key.
He nodded, still looking at his book, 'Sure,' and reached over and patted my hand.
'What's that for?' I asked.
He looked up at me, 'I'm on your side, dad. That's all.'
'You're eight. You don't get to be on someone's side at eight.'
He smiled knowingly, and went back to his book.
On the third attempt, the engine of our brand-new, seven-year-old Fiat managed to fire up; I adjusted
the mirror again, signaled and pushed out into the traffic. We drove out of the street where we'd lived
for nine years without looking back. Though that could have been because the rear-view mirror had
slipped down and sideways once more, giving me a clear view of the passenger side dashboard air-vent.
'I like adventures,' Danny said, after about ten minutes.
I rubbed his hair, 'So do we all.'
'Don't muss up my hair,' he told me. 'It's got gel on.'
'Sorry.'
''S ok.'
'When did you start wearing hair gel?'
'Daaad!'
We drove south, across the river, and the traffic was lighter than usual, this still being the school
holidays. Danny looked up and asked, 'Where are we?'
'Adventure country,' I told him.
'Cool.'
A few minutes later he said, 'The sign says Peckham.'
Fifteen minutes later we turned into a cul-de-sac that contained a row of large but fairly dilapidated
Victorian houses surrounded on three sides by large equally dilapidated blocks of 1960's neo-brutalist
social housing. Our apartment was in the basement of the house with the removal van parked outside. I
pulled between the removal van and a skip, jerked on the handbrake, and turned off the engine. 'Come
on,' I said.
Danny climbed out and went for a look round while I went to unlock the door for Derek and his
assistant. Then I went and sat on the wall watching Danny running around.
From this vantage point, I could look up at the back doors and broken windows of the council flats
opposite; I could count the satellite dishes and scan the walkways and stairwells where, no doubt, the
feral underclass would prowl of an evening, dealing drugs, stealing phones from pregnant fifteen year-
olds, and stabbing each other.
Danny was running off some energy, exploring nooks and crannies around the cul-de-sac, and I was
letting the removal men do their job, and the sun was setting behind a tower block.
'Don't go too far,' I shouted.
He ran over to me, 'What?'
'I said, don't go too far.'
'Ok.'
I went to muss his hair but remembered his warning about the hair gel, so instead asked, 'Well, what
you think?'
He looked around as the glooming evening spread from shadow to shadow; streetlights were
flickering on at random, doorways and corners beginning to look threatening. He looked back at me and
whispered, 'Bandit Country,' his eyes glittering, and then he ran off to explore some more.
Maria Goodin
Someone To Care For
My friend Natalie can't see the point in you. She says that all you do is burp, fart, dribble, grin inanely
and emit a series if unintelligible noises. Admittedly she hasn't seen you at your best, but I still think
that's a little harsh.
The first time Natalie came to visit you were asleep on your back, gurgling little spit bubbles, a thin
strand of drool running down your chin. Natalie just stared at you as if you were a creature from another
planet. She made no secret of the fact that she wasn't impressed.
The second time she came to visit you crawled across the carpet towards her and vomited on her
expensive new shoes. I tried to make light of it, explaining that it's mainly just liquid and wipes off easily,
but she really did look quite appalled.
Natalie likes being a career woman, rushing between meetings in her power suit, clutching her
Starbucks Coffee and her laptop. She's never wanted a husband or a baby, but if she could see you on a
good day I'm sure she'd feel differently. If she could see the way you clap your hands and squeal with
excitement when Scooby-Doo comes on the telly then she'd find you just as adorable as I do.
Instead she thinks you're smelly and have a strange shaped head. She looked revolted when I said you
like putting your toes in your mouth, and finds it disturbing that you're always staring greedily at my
breasts. It upsets her even more when you stare greedily at her breasts. I tried to explain that you're a
man and that's what men do, but she wasn't having any of it.
If I'm honest, I think you could have made a bit more of an effort when Natalie first visited our house.
I know it was the morning after Spongey's stag do, but I thought you could have at least lugged yourself
into the bedroom instead of lying sprawled on the sofa in a curly wig, a pair of women's shoes and a t-
shirt with a photo of Spongey's bare bottom on the front. If you'd had some trousers on it might not
have been so bad. Natalie and I were comfortable enough perched on the wooden chairs, but it was
quite distracting to have you snoring over our conversation, and I think Natalie was a bit uncomfortable
when you started mumbling and fiddling with yourself.
When Natalie left, giving me a kiss on the cheek and a look of pity before rushing off for an
appointment with her personal trainer, I removed your stilettos, covered you with a blanket and wiped
the drool from your chin. Later, when you woke up screaming about a pain in your head which you
assumed must be a brain haemorrhage, I gently explained that you had simply consumed an excessive
amount of alcohol. I then sat by your side, holding your hand and stroking your forehead in a bid to
reassure you. Three days later when you had recovered, I firmly reiterated this link between lager and
suffering and said I hoped you had learnt your lesson. You looked ashamed, said you wouldn't do it again
and then promptly went out and got wasted.
I'd secretly hoped that things would be better the next time Natalie came to visit. I thought she might
like you better if you had your trousers on and were conscious. To be fair you didn't let me down on
either of those counts, but if I'm going to be picky then I wish you'd been sober and hadn't vomited on
her.
I assumed that when I told you she was coming for dinner you would come home from the pub before
ten o'clock, but of course you bumped into Spongey down at the Queens Head and the two of you
decided to celebrate the fact that you were wearing the same socks. I understand how important these
things are to you, and I do appreciate the fact that you phoned me from the pub six times with a string
of terrible excuses, but could you not have come for the Chicken Chasseur I had prepared? Instead you
fell through the front door three hours late, addressed Natalie as Bob, crawled towards her on all fours
and then chucked up all over her feet. It wiped off just as I said it would, but I don't think that made
Natalie like you any better.
Once Natalie had left - which she did at great pace - I cleared up the mess and sat you down at the
kitchen table. You clutched my fingers tightly and tried to put one of them in your mouth, mistaking it for
the digestive biscuit I offered you. I should have been furious, but when you grinned stupidly at me, your
mouth surrounded by biscuit crumbs, my heart softened and I forgave you. At the end of the day,
however badly you behave, you're mine and I still love you.
I can understand why Nathalie thinks you're an idiot, but it's easy for her to judge. She already has
everything she ever desired. I never wanted the impressive job title, the sports car or the big flashy
house. All I ever really wanted was to be a mother. You might not be the most sophisticated man in the
world, but you have a good heart and all the other necessary parts to help me fulfil that dream.
I know exactly why having a baby is so important to me: I want someone I can take care of. I find it
incredible that another flailing, helpless human being could rely on me to look after them. Babies are so
utterly incapable of looking after themselves, so dependent on others for their wellbeing. From their
failure to control their bodily functions to their inability to use their tiny undeveloped brains, they are so
completely useless without someone to care for them. I want to be needed like that.
Natalie says I don't need a baby to fulfil my dream. She says I'm already there.
I have no idea what she means. I just don't think these career women understand.
Esther Claes
The Star
When the world started to end, you were ashamed of yourself for weeping bitterly in your bedroom for
an entire day. You saw the president crying and begging on TV and it sent you into a panic. You lay in bed
with the blankets pulled up to your nose, crying, refusing to answer the door when the maid, your
manager, your assistant, and finally your parents begged you to come out.
After twenty-four hours, your father took the door off its hinges and dragged you down the stairs into
your sunken living room with the white carpet and leather couches. You kicked and screamed until he
had to pick you up and carry you over his shoulder. You called him a motherfucker and threatened to
take back the Mercedes you'd purchased for him last Christmas.
Your mother sat solemnly on the couch, her hands clenched into fists on top of the newspaper in her
lap. She said it was all over.
You glowered and glared; you asked what the hell is happening, and will you still be on the talk show
circuit next month?
The television stations are all color bars and static. Your father says that the talk shows are all gone,
and not to worry. He tells you that there are far more important things happening right now. How can
you not worry? You were supposed to debut your new fragrance next month to coincide with the release
of your latest album.
Your mother tells you that the album isn't going to happen, and she clenches her fists even tighter
than before. You can't believe what she's saying. How can she say that? There will always be an album,
and there will always be television. You tell your parents they're idiots, and that this will all blow over in
a few days, as soon as they replace that pussy of a president.
Your mother says that the world is ending. They dropped bombs, she says darkly.
There are diseases and radiation poisoning spreading all over the country, your father says.
Not in LA you shout defiantly.
Your mother holds up the newspapers one at a time. WAR is on the cover of each one, along with
speculations on the doomed fate of the country, including LA. You feel sick, you're dizzy. You want to
know what you did to deserve this, and how anyone could possibly do such a thing before you had a
chance to accomplish the things that mean so much to you.
*
Two days later, your mother and father are discussing survival, and filling jugs with water from the tap
just in case. Your father is worried about the electricity holding out. You sit in the living room wondering
why all the servants quit the day before, and if your assistant is ever going to call you back. The only
connection to the outside world is the radio, and it's hard to get real information between the crying and
praying on almost every channel. On the pop station, the dj says over and over that it's only a matter of
time. Your father tells you to switch to the AM band because they have more sense on AM, goddammit.
You hear reports of death and destruction all over the country, and all you can think is that you hope
LA is okay. Even after reports of people dead in their cars, you imagine Rodeo Drive the same as it ever
was, untouched by nasty things like war, sickness and death. How could a place a beautiful as Hollywood
ever be destroyed? No one messes with LA, you say, and your father won't look you in the eye.
When the electricity goes out that night, your eyes fill with frustrated tears, and you light the scented
candles you'd been saving for a special occasion. The radio runs on batteries, but they won't last long.
Your father tells you to conserve them, and stop leaving the radio on so much. You tell him to shut up,
and that you can afford thousands of batteries. The man on the radio says that much of the east coast is
destroyed, along with Detroit and Chicago. He says that the radiation is coming west at an alarming rate,
and you wish you had a map so you'd know what that meant. Instead of worrying, you get out that
limited edition pink nail polish and give yourself a pedicure. It isn't until you spill the bottle, and nail
polish gets all over the carpet that you realize you can't stop crying.
In the morning, your dad tells you that your mother is very sick, and he doesn't feel so well himself. You
roll your eyes and tell them to take some pepto, but on the inside, you can't deal with the possibility of
them dying and leaving you alone, so you go back to your room and sit in front of the window. Your yard
looks the same. There is no death and destruction on your property, but you wonder what's changed
outside of your front gates.
In the afternoon, you bring your four gold records and three Grammy awards up to your room so you
can look at them. Your finger traces your name on the awards over and over, and you can't comprehend
how someone who has accomplished so much in such a short time should be allowed to go through
something as horrible as this. You're a star, for God's sake, you deserve better than this.
Your father is calling your name in the hall. He sounds sick. His voice breaks repeatedly, and he's
gagging between words. You don't want him to throw up on the carpet in the hall, but you keep your
mouth shut. If he does, the cleaning woman will take care of it tomorrow. You pull the blankets up to
your chin and close your eyes. Your father's voice sounds farther and farther away now as you clutch the
Grammy close to your chest and squeeze your eyes shut.
Tomorrow you'll wake up and things will be better. Tomorrow you'll be on the Tonight Show, and be as
charming as ever. Tomorrow your agent will apologize for not calling. Tomorrow you'll still be a star.
The Donkey
by Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893)
There was not a breath of air stirring; a heavy mist was lying over the river. It was like a layer of cotton
placed on the water. The banks themselves were indistinct, hidden behind strange fogs. But day was
breaking and the hill was becoming visible. In the dawning light of day the plaster houses began to
appear like white spots. Cocks were crowing in the barnyard.
On the other side of the river, hidden behind the fogs, just opposite Frette, a slight noise from time to
time broke the dead silence of the quiet morning. At times it was an indistinct plashing, like the cautious
advance of a boat, then again a sharp noise like the rattle of an oar and then the sound of something
dropping in the water. Then silence.
Sometimes whispered words, coming perhaps from a distance, perhaps from quite near, pierced through
these opaque mists. They passed by like wild birds which have slept in the rushes and which fly away at
the first light of day, crossing the mist and uttering a low and timid sound which wakes their brothers
along the shores.
Suddenly along the bank, near the village, a barely perceptible shadow appeared on the water. Then it
grew, became more distinct and, coming out of the foggy curtain which hung over the river, a flatboat,
manned by two men, pushed up on the grass.
The one who was rowing rose and took a pailful of fish from the bottom of the boat, then he threw the
dripping net over his shoulder. His companion, who had not made a motion, exclaimed: "Say, Mailloche,
get your gun and see if we can't land some rabbit along the shore."
The other one answered: "All right. I'll be with you in a minute." Then he disappeared, in order to hide
their catch.
The man who had stayed in the boat slowly filled his pipe and lighted it. His name was Labouise, but he
was called Chicot, and was in partnership with Maillochon, commonly called Mailloche, to practice the
doubtful and undefined profession of junk-gatherers along the shore.
They were a low order of sailors and they navigated regularly only in the months of famine. The rest of
the time they acted as junk-gatherers. Rowing about on the river day and night, watching for any prey,
dead or alive, poachers on the water and nocturnal hunters, sometimes ambushing venison in the Saint-
Germain forests, sometimes looking for drowned people and searching their clothes, picking up floating
rags and empty bottles; thus did Labouise and Maillochon live easily.
At times they would set out on foot about noon and stroll along straight ahead. They would dine in some
inn on the shore and leave again side by side. They would remain away for a couple of days; then one
morning they would be seen rowing about in the tub which they called their boat.
At Joinville or at Nogent some boatman would be looking for his boat, which had disappeared one night,
probably stolen, while twenty or thirty miles from there, on the Oise, some shopkeeper would be
rubbing his hands, congratulating himself on the bargain he had made when he bought a boat the day
before for fifty francs, which two men offered him as they were passing.
Maillochon reappeared with his gun wrapped up in rags. He was a man of forty or fifty, tall and thin, with
the restless eye of people who are worried by legitimate troubles and of hunted animals. His open shirt
showed his hairy chest, but he seemed never to have had any more hair on his face than a short brush of
a mustache and a few stiff hairs under his lower lip. He was bald around the temples. When he took off
the dirty cap that he wore his scalp seemed to be covered with a fluffy down, like the body of a plucked
chicken.
Chicot, on the contrary, was red, fat, short and hairy. He looked like a raw beefsteak. He continually kept
his left eye closed, as if he were aiming at something or at somebody, and when people jokingly cried to
him, "Open your eye, Labouise!" he would answer quietly: "Never fear, sister, I open it when there's
cause to."
He had a habit of calling every one "sister," even his scavenger companion.
He took up the oars again, and once more the boat disappeared in the heavy mist, which was now
turned snowy white in the pink-tinted sky.
"What kind of lead did you take, Maillochon?" Labouise asked.
"Very small, number nine; that's the best for rabbits."
They were approaching the other shore so slowly, so quietly that no noise betrayed them. This bank
belongs to the Saint-Germain forest and is the boundary line for rabbit hunting. It is covered with
burrows hidden under the roots of trees, and the creatures at daybreak frisk about, running in and out of
the holes.
Maillochon was kneeling in the bow, watching, his gun hidden on the floor. Suddenly he seized it, aimed,
and the report echoed for some time throughout the quiet country.
Labouise, in a few strokes, touched the beach, and his companion, jumping to the ground, picked up a
little gray rabbit, not yet dead.
Then the boat once more disappeared into the fog in order to get to the other side, where it could keep
away from the game wardens.
The two men seemed to be riding easily on the water. The weapon had disappeared under the board
which served as a hiding place and the rabbit was stuffed into Chicot's loose shirt.
After about a quarter of an hour Labouise asked: "Well, sister, shall we get one more?"
"It will suit me," Maillochon answered.
The boat started swiftly down the current. The mist, which was hiding both shores, was beginning to
rise. The trees could be barely perceived, as through a veil, and the little clouds of fog were floating up
from the water. When they drew near the island, the end of which is opposite Herblay, the two men
slackened their pace and began to watch. Soon a second rabbit was killed.
Then they went down until they were half way to Conflans. Here they stopped their boat, tied it to a tree
and went to sleep in the bottom of it.
From time to time Labouise would sit up and look over the horizon with his open eye. The last of the
morning mist had disappeared and the large summer sun was climbing in the blue sky.
On the other side of the river the vineyard-covered hill stretched out in a semicircle. One house stood
out alone at the summit. Everything was silent.
Something was moving slowly along the tow-path, advancing with difficulty. It was a woman dragging a
donkey. The stubborn, stiff- jointed beast occasionally stretched out a leg in answer to its companion's
efforts, and it proceeded thus, with outstretched neck and ears lying flat, so slowly that one could not
tell when it would ever be out of sight.
The woman, bent double, was pulling, turning round occasionally to strike the donkey with a stick.
As soon as he saw her, Labouise exclaimed: "Say, Mailloche!"
Mailloche answered: "What's the matter?"
"Want to have some fun?"
"Of course!"
"Then hurry, sister; we're going to have a laugh."
Chicot took the oars. When he had crossed the river he stopped opposite the woman and called:
"Hey, sister!"
The woman stopped dragging her donkey and looked.
Labouise continued: "What are you doing--going to the locomotive show?"
The woman made no reply. Chicot continued:
"Say, your trotter's prime for a race. Where are you taking him at that speed?"
At last the woman answered: "I'm going to Macquart, at Champioux, to have him killed. He's worthless."
Labouise answered: "You're right. How much do you think Macquart will give you for him?"
The woman wiped her forehead on the back of her hand and hesitated, saying: "How do I know?
Perhaps three francs, perhaps four."
Chicot exclaimed: "I'll give you five francs and your errand's done! How's that?"
The woman considered the matter for a second and then exclaimed: "Done!"
The two men landed. Labouise grasped the animal by the bridle. Maillochon asked in surprise:
"What do you expect to do with that carcass?"
Chicot this time opened his other eye in order to express his gaiety. His whole red face was grinning with
joy. He chuckled: "Don't worry, sister. I've got my idea."
He gave five francs to the woman, who then sat down by the road to see what was going to happen.
Then Labouise, in great humor, got the gun and held it out to Maillochon, saying: "Each one in turn;
we're going after big game, sister. Don't get so near or you'll kill it right away! You must make the
pleasure last a little."
He placed his companion about forty paces from the victim. The ass, feeling itself free, was trying to get
a little of the tall grass, but it was so exhausted that it swayed on its legs as if it were about to fall.
Maillochon aimed slowly and said: "A little pepper for the ears; watch, Chicot!" And he fired.
The tiny shot struck the donkey's long ears and he began to shake them in order to get rid of the stinging
sensation. The two men were doubled up with laughter and stamped their feet with joy. The woman,
indignant, rushed forward; she did not want her donkey to be tortured, and she offered to return the five
francs. Labouise threatened her with a thrashing and pretended to roll up his sleeves. He had paid,
hadn't he? Well, then, he would take a shot at her skirts, just to show that it didn't hurt. She went away,
threatening to call the police. They could hear her protesting indignantly and cursing as she went her
way
.
Maillochon held out the gun to his comrade, saying: "It's your turn, Chicot."
Labouise aimed and fired. The donkey received the charge in his thighs, but the shot was so small and
came from such a distance that he thought he was being stung by flies, for he began to thrash himself
with his tail.
Labouise sat down to laugh more comfortably, while Maillochon reloaded the weapon, so happy that he
seemed to sneeze into the barrel. He stepped forward a few paces, and, aiming at the same place that
his friend had shot at, he fired again. This time the beast started, tried to kick and turned its head. At last
a little blood was running. It had been wounded and felt a sharp pain, for it tried to run away with a slow,
limping, jerky gallop.
Both men darted after the beast, Maillochon with a long stride, Labouise with the short, breathless trot
of a little man. But the donkey, tired out, had stopped, and, with a bewildered look, was watching his
two murderers approach. Suddenly he stretched his neck and began to bray.
Labouise, out of breath, had taken the gun. This time he walked right up close, as he did not wish to
begin the chase over again.
When the poor beast had finished its mournful cry, like a last call for help, the man called: "Hey,
Mailloche! Come here, sister; I'm going to give him some medicine." And while the other man was
forcing the animal's mouth open, Chicot stuck the barrel of his gun down its throat, as if he were trying
to make it drink a potion. Then he said: "Look out, sister, here she goes!"
He pressed the trigger. The donkey stumbled back a few steps, fell down, tried to get up again and finally
lay on its side and closed its eyes: The whole body was trembling, its legs were kicking as if it were, trying
to run. A stream of blood was oozing through its teeth. Soon it stopped moving. It was dead.
The two men went along, laughing. It was over too quickly; they had not had their money's worth.
Maillochon asked: "Well, what are we going to do now?"
Labouise answered: "Don't worry, sister. Get the thing on the boat; we're going to have some fun when
night comes."
They went and got the boat. The animal's body was placed on the bottom, covered with fresh grass, and
the two men stretched out on it and went to sleep.
Toward noon Labouise drew a bottle of wine, some bread and butter and raw onions from a hiding place
in their muddy, worm-eaten boat, and they began to eat.
When the meal was over they once more stretched out on the dead donkey and slept. At nightfall
Labouise awoke and shook his comrade, who was snoring like a buzzsaw. "Come on, sister," he ordered.
Maillochon began to row. As they had plenty of time they went up the Seine slowly. They coasted along
the reaches covered with water-lilies, and the heavy, mud-covered boat slipped over the lily pads and
bent the flowers, which stood up again as soon as they had passed.
When they reached the wall of the Eperon, which separates the Saint- Germain forest from the Maisons-
Laffitte Park, Labouise stopped his companion and explained his idea to him. Maillochon was moved by a
prolonged, silent laugh.
They threw into the water the grass which had covered the body, took the animal by the feet and hid it
behind some bushes. Then they got into their boat again and went to Maisons-Laffitte.
The night was perfectly black when they reached the wine shop of old man Jules. As soon as the dealer
saw them he came up, shook hands with them and sat down at their table. They began to talk of one
thing and another. By eleven o'clock the last customer had left and old man Jules winked at Labouise and
asked: "Well, have you got any?"
Labouise made a motion with his head and answered: "Perhaps so, perhaps not!"
The dealer insisted: "Perhaps you've not nothing but gray ones?"
Chicot dug his hands into his flannel shirt, drew out the ears of a rabbit and declared: "Three francs a
pair!"
Then began a long discussion about the price. Two francs sixty-five and the two rabbits were delivered.
As the two men were getting up to go, old man Jules, who had been watching them, exclaimed:
"You have something else, but you won't say what."
Labouise answered: "Possibly, but it is not for you; you're too stingy."
The man, growing eager, kept asking: "What is it? Something big? Perhaps we might make a deal."
Labouise, who seemed perplexed, pretended to consult Maillochon with a glance. Then he answered in a
slow voice: "This is how it is. We were in the bushes at Eperon when something passed right near us, to
the left, at the end of the wall. Mailloche takes a shot and it drops. We skipped on account of the game
people. I can't tell you what it is, because I don't know. But it's big enough. But what is it? If I told you I'd
be lying, and you know, sister, between us everything's above-board."
Anxiously the man asked: "Think it's venison?"
Labouise answered: "Might be and then again it might not! Venison?--uh! uh!--might be a little big for
that! Mind you, I don't say it's a doe, because I don't know, but it might be."
Still the dealer insisted: "Perhaps it's a buck?"
Labouise stretched out his hand, exclaiming: "No, it's not that! It's not a buck. I should have seen the
horns. No, it's not a buck!"
"Why didn't you bring it with you?" asked the man.
"Because, sister, from now on I sell from where I stand. Plenty of people will buy. All you have to do is to
take a walk over there, find the thing and take it. No risk for me."
The innkeeper, growing suspicious, exclaimed "Supposing he wasn't there!"
Labouise once more raised his hand and said:
"He's there, I swear!--first bush to the left. What it is, I don't know. But it's not a buck, I'm positive. It's
for you to find out what it is. Twenty-five francs, cash down!"
Still the man hesitated: "Couldn't you bring it?"
Maillochon exclaimed: "No, indeed! You know our price! Take it or leave it!"
The dealer decided: "It's a bargain for twenty francs!"
And they shook hands over the deal.
Then he took out four big five-franc pieces from the cash drawer, and the two friends pocketed the
money. Labouise arose, emptied his glass and left. As he was disappearing in the shadows he turned
round to exclaim: "It isn't a buck. I don't know what it is!--but it's there. I'll give you back your money if
you find nothing!"
And he disappeared in the darkness. Maillochon, who was following him, kept punching him in the back
to express his joy.
A Horseman in the Sky
by Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914)
One sunny afternoon in the autumn of the year 1861, a soldier lay in a clump of laurel by the side of a
road in Western Virginia. He lay at full length, upon his stomach, his feet resting upon the toes, his head
upon the left forearm. His extended right hand loosely grasped his rifle. But for the somewhat
methodical disposition of his limbs and a slight rhythmic movement of the cartridge-box at the back of
his belt, he might have been thought to be dead. He was asleep at his post of duty. But if detected he
would be dead shortly afterward, that being the just and legal penalty of his crime.
The clump of laurel in which the criminal lay was in the angle of a road which, after ascending,
southward, a steep acclivity to that point, turned sharply to the west, running along the summit for
perhaps one hundred yards. There it turned southward again and went zigzagging downward through
the forest. At the salient of that second angle was a large flat rock, jutting out from the ridge to the
northward, overlooking the deep valley from which the road ascended. The rock capped a high cliff; a
stone dropped from its outer edge would have fallen sheer downward one thousand feet to the tops of
the pines. The angle where the soldier lay was on another spur of the same cliff. Had he been awake he
would have commanded a view, not only of the short arm of the road and the jutting rock but of the
entire profile of the cliff below it. It might well have made him giddy to look.
The country was wooded everywhere except at the bottom of the valley to the northward, where there
was a small natural meadow, through which flowed a stream scarcely visible from the valley's rim. This
open ground looked hardly larger than an ordinary door-yard, but was really several acres in extent. Its
green was more vivid than that of the enclosing forest. Away beyond it rose a line of giant cliffs similar to
those upon which we are supposed to stand in our survey of the savage scene, and through which the
road had somehow made its climb to the summit. The configuration of the valley, indeed, was such that
from out point of observation it seemed entirely shut in, and one could not but have wondered how the
road which found a way out of it had found a way into it, and whence came and whither went the waters
of the stream that parted the meadow two thousand feet below.
No country is so wild and difficult but men will make it a theatre of war; concealed in the forest at the
bottom of that military rat-trap, in which half a hundred men in possession of the exits might have
starved an army to submission, lay five regiments of Federal infantry. They had marched all the previous
day and night and were resting. At nightfall they would take to the road again, climb to the place where
their unfaithful sentinel now slept, and, descending the other slope of the ridge, fall upon a camp of the
enemy at about midnight. Their hope was to surprise it, for the road led to the rear of it. In case of
failure their position would be perilous in the extreme; and fail they surely would should accident or
vigilance apprise the enemy of the movement.
The sleeping sentinel in the clump of laurel was a young Virginian named Carter Druse. He was the son
of wealthy parents, an only child, and had known such ease and cultivation and high living as wealth and
taste were able to command in the mountain country of Western Virginia. His home was but a few miles
from where he now lay. One morning he had risen from the breakfast table and said, quietly and gravely:
"Father, a Union regiment has arrived at Grafton. I am going to join it."
The father lifted his leonine head, looked at the son a moment in silence, and replied: "Go, Carter, and,
whatever may occur, do what you conceive to be your duty. Virginia, to which you are a traitor, must get
on without you. Should we both live to the end of the war, we will speak further of the matter. Your
mother, as the physician has informed you, is in a most critical condition; at the best she cannot be with
us longer than a few weeks, but that time is precious. It would be better not to disturb her."
So Carter Druse, bowing reverently to his father, who returned the salute with a stately courtesy which
masked a breaking heart, left the home of his childhood to go soldiering. By conscience and courage, by
deeds of devotion and daring, he soon commended himself to his fellows and his officers; and it was to
these qualities and to some knowledge of the country that he owed his selection for his present perilous
duty at the extreme outpost. Nevertheless, fatigue had been stronger than resolution, and he had fallen
asleep. What good or bad angel came in a dream to rouse him from his state of crime who shall say?
Without a movement, without a sound, in the profound silence and the languor of the late afternoon,
some invisible messenger of fate touched with unsealing finger the eyes of his consciousness--whispered
into the ear of his spirit the mysterious awakening word which no human lips have ever spoken, no
human memory ever has recalled. He quietly raised his forehead from his arm and looked between the
masking stems of the laurels, instinctively closing his right hand about the stock of his rifle.
His first feeling was a keen artistic delight. On a colossal pedestal, the cliff, motionless at the extreme
edge of the capping rock and sharply outlined against the sky, was an equestrian statue of impressive
dignity. The figure of the man sat the figure of the horse, straight and soldierly, but with the repose of a
Grecian god carved in the marble which limits the suggestion of activity. The grey costume harmonised
with its aerial background; the metal of accoutrement and caparison was softened and subdued by the
shadow; the animal's skin had no points of high light. A carbine, strikingly foreshortened, lay across the
pommel of the saddle, kept in place by the right hand grasping it at the "grip"; the left hand, holding the
bridle rein, was invisible. In silhouette against the sky, the profile of the horse was cut with the sharpness
of a cameo; it looked across the heights of air to the confronting cliffs beyond. The face of the rider,
turned slightly to the left, showed only an outline of temple and beard; he was looking downward to the
bottom of the valley. Magnified by its lift against the sky and by the soldier's testifying sense of the
formidableness of a near enemy, the group appeared of heroic, almost colossal, size.
For an instant Druse had a strange, half-defined feeling that he had slept to the end of the war and was
looking upon a noble work of art reared upon that commanding eminence to commemorate the deeds
of an heroic past of which he had been an inglorious part. The feeling was dispelled by a slight
movement of the group; the horse, without moving its feet, had drawn its body slightly backward from
the verge; the man remained immobile as before. Broad awake and keenly alive to the significance of the
situation, Druse now brought the butt of his rifle against his cheek by cautiously pushing the barrel
forward through the bushes, cocked the piece, and, glancing through the sights, covered a vital spot of
the horseman's breast. A touch upon the trigger and all would have been well with Carter Druse. At that
instant the horseman turned his head and looked in the direction of his concealed foeman--seemed to
look into his very face, into his eyes, into his brave compassionate heart.
Is it, then, so terrible to kill an enemy in war--an enemy who has surprised a secret vital to the safety of
oneself and comrades--an enemy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for its numbers?
Carter Druse grew deathly pale; he shook in every limb, turned faint, and saw the statuesque group
before him as black figures, rising, falling, moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. His hand fell
away from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until his face rested on the leaves in which he lay. This
courageous gentleman and hardy soldier was near swooning from intensity of emotion.
It was not for long; in another moment his face was raised from earth, his hands resumed their places on
the rifle, his forefinger sought the trigger; mind, heart, and eyes were clear, conscience and reason
sound. He could not hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him would but send him dashing to his camp
with his fatal news. The duty of the soldier was plain: the man must be shot dead from ambush--without
warning, without a moment's spiritual preparation, with never so much as an unspoken prayer, he must
be sent to his account. But no--there is a hope; he may have discovered nothing--perhaps he is but
admiring the sublimity of the landscape. If permitted, he may turn and ride carelessly away in the
direction whence he came. Surely it will be possible to judge at the instant of his withdrawing whether
he knows. It may well be that his fixity of attention--Druse turned his head and looked below, through
the deeps of air downward, as from the surface to the bottom of a translucent sea. He saw creeping
across the green meadow a sinuous line of figures of men and horses--some foolish commander was
permitting the soldiers of his escort to water their beasts in the open, in plain view from a hundred
summits!
Druse withdrew his eyes from the valley and fixed them again upon the group of man and horse in the
sky, and again it was through the sights of his rifle. But this time his aim was at the horse. In his memory,
as if they were a divine mandate, rang the words of his father at their parting: "Whatever may occur, do
what you conceive to be your duty." He was calm now. His teeth were firmly but not rigidly closed; his
nerves were as tranquil as a sleeping babe's--not a tremor affected any muscle of his body; his breathing,
until suspended in the act of taking aim, was regular and slow. Duty had conquered; the spirit had said to
the body: "Peace, be still." He fired.
At that moment an officer of the Federal force, who, in a spirit of adventure or in quest of knowledge,
had left the hidden bivouac in the valley, and, with aimless feet, had made his way to the lower edge of a
small open space near the foot of the cliff, was considering what he had to gain by pushing his
exploration farther. At a distance of a quarter-mile before him, but apparently at a stone's-throw, rose
from its fringe of pines the gigantic face of rock, towering to so great a height above him that it made
him giddy to look up to where its edge cut a sharp, rugged line against the sky. At some distance away to
his right it presented a clean, vertical profile against a background of blue sky to a point half of the way
down, and of distant hills hardly less blue thence to the tops of the trees at its base. Lifting his eyes to
the dizzy altitude of its summit, the officer saw an astonishing sight--a man on horseback riding down
into the valley through the air!
Straight upright sat the rider, in military fashion, with a firm seat in the saddle, a strong clutch upon the
rein to hold his charger from too impetuous a plunge. From his bare head his long hair streamed upward,
waving like a plume. His right hand was concealed in the cloud of the horse's lifted mane. The animal's
body was as level as if every hoof-stroke encountered the resistant earth. Its motions were those of a
wild gallop, but even as the officer looked they ceased, with all the legs thrown sharply forward as in the
act of alighting from a leap. But this was a flight!
Filled with amazement and terror by this apparition of a horseman in the sky--half believing himself the
chosen scribe of some new Apocalypse, the officer was overcome by the intensity of his emotions; his
legs failed him and he fell. Almost at the same instant he heard a crashing sound in the trees--a sound
that died without an echo, and all was still.
The officer rose to his feet, trembling. The familiar sensation of an abraded shin recalled his dazed
faculties. Pulling himself together, he ran rapidly obliquely away from the cliff to a point a half-mile from
its foot; thereabout he expected to find his man; and thereabout he naturally failed. In the fleeting
instant of his vision his imagination had been so wrought upon by the apparent grace and ease and
intention of the marvellous performance that it did not occur to him that the line of march of aerial
cavalry is directed downward, and that he could find the objects of his search at the very foot of the cliff.
A half-hour later he returned to camp.
This officer was a wise man; he knew better than to tell an incredible truth. He said nothing of what he
had seen. But when the commander asked him if in his scout he had learned anything of advantage to
the expedition, he answered:
"Yes, sir; there is no road leading down into this valley from the southward."
The commander, knowing better, smiled.
After firing his shot Private Carter Druse reloaded his rifle and resumed his watch. Ten minutes had
hardly passed when a Federal sergeant crept cautiously to him on hands and knees. Druse neither
turned his head nor looked at him, but lay without motion or sign of recognition.
"Did you fire?" the sergeant whispered.
"Yes."
"At what?"
"A horse. It was standing on yonder rock--pretty far out. You see it is no longer there. It went over the
cliff."
The man's face was white, but he showed no other sign of emotion. Having answered, he turned away
his face and said no more. The sergeant did not understand.
"See here, Druse," he said, after a moment's silence, "it's no use making a mystery. I order you to report.
Was there anybody on the horse?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"My father."
The sergeant rose to his feet and walked away. "Good God!" he said.
THE CASE OF THE FOUR AND TWENTY BLACKBIRDS

I sat in my office, nursing a glass of hooch and idly cleaning my automatic. Outside the rain fell steadily,
like it seems to do most of the time in our fair city, whatever the tourist board says. Hell, I didn't care. I'm
not on the tourist board. I'm a private dick, and one of the best, although you wouldn't have known it;
the office was crumbling, the rent was unpaid and the hooch was my last.
Things are tough all over.
To cap it all the only client I'd had all week never showed up on the street corner where I'd waited for
him. He said it was going to be a big job, but now I'd never know: he kept a prior appointment in the
morgue.
So when the dame walked into my office I was sure my luck had changed for the better.
"What are you selling, lady?"
She gave me a look that would have induced heavy breathing in a pumpkin, and which shot my
heartbeat up to three figures. She had long blonde hair and a figure that would have made Thomas
Aquinas forget his vows. I forgot all mine about never taking cases from dames.
"What would you say to some of the green stuff?" she asked, in a husky voice, getting straight to the
point.
"Continue, sister." I didn't want her to know how bad I needed the dough, so I held my hand in front of
my mouth; it doesn't help if a client sees you salivate.
She opened her purse and flipped out a photograph. Glossy eight by ten. "Do you recognise that man?"
In my business you know who people are. "Yeah."
"He's dead."
"I know that too, sweetheart. It's old news. It was an accident."
Her gaze went so icy you could have chipped it into cubes and cooled a cocktail with it. "My brother's
death was no accident."
I raised an eyebrow - you need a lot of arcane skills in my business - and said "Your brother, eh?" Funny,
she hadn't struck me as the type that had brothers.
"I'm Jill Dumpty."
"So your brother was Humpty Dumpty?"
"And he didn't fall off that wall, Mr Horner. He was pushed."
Interesting, if true. Dumpty had his finger in most of the crooked pies in town; I could think of five guys
who would have preferred to see him dead than alive without trying.
Without trying too hard, anyway.

"You seen the cops about this?"
"Nah. The King's Men aren't interested in anything to do with his death. They say they did all they could
do in trying to put him together again after the fall."
I leaned back in my chair.
"So what's it to you. Why do you need me?"
"I want you to find the killer, Mr. Horner. I want him brought to justice. I want him to fry like an egg. Oh -
and one other little thing," she added, lightly. "Before he died Humpty had a small manila envelope full
of photographs he was meant to be sending me. Medical photos. I'm a trainee nurse, and I need them to
pass my finals."
I inspected my nails, then looked up at her face, taking in a handful of waist and Easter-egg bazonkas on
the way up. She was a looker, although her cute nose was a little on the shiny side. "I'll take the case.
Seventy-five a day and two hundred bonus for results."
She smiled; my stomach twisted around once and went into orbit. "You get another two hundred if you
get me those photographs. I want to be a nurse real bad." Then she dropped three fifties on my desk-
top.
I let a devil-may-care grin play across my rugged face. "Say, sister, how about letting me take you out for
dinner? I just came into some money."
She gave an involuntary shiver of anticipation and muttered something about having a thing about
midgets, so I knew I was onto a good thing. Then she gave me a lopsided smile that would have made
Albert Einstein drop a decimal point. "First find my brother's killer, Mr. Horner. And my photographs.
Then we can play."
She closed the door behind her. Maybe it was still raining but I didn't notice. I didn't care.
***
There are parts of town the tourist board don't mention. Parts of town where the police travel in threes
if they travel at all. In my line of work you get to visit them more than is healthy. Healthy is never.
He was waiting for me outside Luigi's. I slid up behind him, my rubber-soled shoes soundless on the
shiny wet sidewalk.
"Hiya, Cock"
He jumped and spun around; I found myself gazing up into the muzzle of a .45. "Oh, Horner." He put the
gun away. "Don't call me Cock. I'm Bernie Robin to you, Short-stuff, and don't you forget it."
`Cock Robin is good enough for me, Cock. Who killed Humpty Dumpty?"
He was a strange looking bird, but you can't be choosy in my profession. He was the best underworld
lead I had.
"Let's see the colour of your money."
I showed him a fifty.
"Hell," he muttered. "It's green. Why can't they make puce or mauve money for a change?" He took it
though. "All I know is that the Fat Man had his finger in a lot of pies."
"So?"
"One of those pies had four and twenty blackbirds in it."
"Huh?"
"Do I hafta spell it out for you? I... Ughh..." He crumpled to the sidewalk, an arrow protruding from his
back. Cock Robin wasn't going to be doing any more chirping.
***
Sergeant O'Grady looked down at the body, then he looked down at me. "Faith and begorrah, to be sure"
he said. "If it isn't Little Jack Horner himself."
"I didn't kill Cock Robin, Sarge."
"And I suppose that the call we got down at the station telling us you were going to be rubbing the late
Mr. Robin out. Here. Tonight. Was just a hoax?"
"If I'm the killer, where are my arrows?' I thumbed open a pack of gum and started to chew. "It's a
frame."
He puffed on his meerschaum and then put it away, and idly played a couple of phrases of the William
Tell overture on his oboe. "Maybe. Maybe not. But you're still a suspect. Don't leave town. And Horner..."
"Yeah?"
"Dumpty's death was an accident. That's what the coroner said. That's what I say. Drop the case."
I thought about it. Then I thought of the money, and the girl. "No dice, Sarge."
He shrugged. "It's your funeral." He said it like it probably would be.
I had a funny feeling like he could be right.
"You're out of your depth, Horner. You're playing with the big boys. And it ain't healthy."
From what I could remember of my schooldays he was correct. Whenever I played with the big boys I
always wound up having the stuffing beaten out of me. But how did O'Grady - how could O'Grady have
known that? Then I remembered something else.
O'Grady was the one that used to beat me up the most.
***
It was time for what we in the profession call 'legwork'.I made a few discreet enquiries around town, but
found out nothing about Dumpty that I didn't know already.
Humpty Dumpty was a bad egg. I remembered him when he was new in town, a smart young animal
trainer with a nice line in training mice to run up clocks. He went to the bad pretty fast though; gambling,
drink, women, it's the same story all over. A bright young kid thinks that the streets of Nurseryland are
paved with gold, and by the time he finds out otherwise it's much too late.
Dumpty started off with extortions and robbery on a small scale - he trained up a team of spiders to
scare little girls away from their curds and whey, which he'd pick up and sell on the black market. Then
he moved onto blackmail -- the nastiest game. We crossed paths once, when I was hired by this young
society kid - let's call him Georgie Porgie - to recover some compromising snaps of him kissing the girls
and making them cry. I got the snaps, but I learned it wasn't healthy to mess with the Fat Man. And I
don't make the same mistakes twice. Hell, in my line of work I can't afford to make the same mistakes
once.
It's a tough world out there. I remember when Little Bo Peep first came to town... but you don't want to
hear my troubles. If you're not dead yet, you've got troubles of your own.
I checked out the newspaper files on Dumpty's death. One minute he was sitting on a wall, the next he
was in pieces at the bottom. All the King's Horses and all the King's Men were on the scene in minutes,
but he needed more than first aid. A medic named Foster was called - a friend of Dumpty's from his
Gloucester days - although I don't know of anything a doc can do when you're dead.
Hang on a second - Dr. Foster!
I got that old feeling you get in my line of work. Two little brain cells rub together the right way and in
seconds you've got a 24 carat cerebral fire on your hands.
You remember the client who didn't show - the one I'd waited for all day on the street corner? An
accidental death. I hadn't bothered to check it out - I can't afford to waste time on clients who aren't
going to pay for it.
Three deaths, it seemed. Not one.
I reached for the telephone and rang the police station. "This is Horner," I told the desk man. "Lemme
speak to Sergeant O'Grady."
There was a crackling and he came on the line. "O'Grady speaking."

"It's Horner."
"Hi, Little Jack." That was just like O'Grady. He'd been kidding me about my size since we were kids
together. "You finally figured out that Dumpty's death was accidental?"
"Nope. I'm now investigating three deaths. The Fat Man's, Bernie Robin's and Dr. Foster's."
"Foster the plastic surgeon? His death was an accident."
"Sure. And your mother was married to your father."
There was a pause. "Horner, if you phoned me up just to talk dirty, I'm not amused."
"Okay, wise guy. If Humpty Dumpty's death was an accident and so was Dr. Foster's, tell me just one
thing.
"Who killed Cock Robin?" I don't ever get accused of having too much imagination, but there's one thing
I'd swear to. I could hear him grinning over the phone as he said :
"You did, Horner. And I'm staking my badge on it."
The line went dead.
***
My office was cold and lonely, so I wandered down to Joe's Bar for some companionship and a drink or
three.
Four and twenty blackbirds. A dead Doctor. The Fat Man. Cock Robin... Heck, this case had more holes in
it than a Swiss cheese and more loose ends than a torn string vest. And where did the juicy Miss Dumpty
come into it? Jack and Jill - we'd make a great team. When this was all over perhaps we could go off
together to Louie's little place on the hill, where no-one's interested in whether you got a marriage
license or not. 'The Pail of Water', that was the name of the joint.
I called over the bartender. "Hey. Joe."
"Yeah, Mr. Horner?" He was polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days as a shirt.
"Did you ever meet the Fat Man's sister?"
He scratched at his cheek. "Can't say as I did. His sister...huh? Hey -- the Fat Man didn't have a sister."
"You sure of that?"

"Sure I'm sure. It was the day my sister had her first kid - I told the Fat Man I was an uncle. He gave me
this look and says, 'Ain't no way I'll ever be an uncle, Joe. Got no sisters or brother, nor no other kinfolk
neither."
If the mysterious Miss Dumpty wasn't his sister, who was she?
"Tell me, Joe. Didja ever see him in here with a dame - about so high, shaped like this?" My hands
described a couple of parabolas. "Looks like a blonde love goddess."
He shook his head. "Never saw him with any dames. Recently he was hanging around with some medical
guy, but the only thing he ever cared about was those crazy birds and animals of his."
I took a swig of my drink. It nearly took the roof of my mouth off. "Animals? I thought he'd given all that
up."
"Naw - couple weeks back he was in here with a whole bunch of blackbirds he was training to sing
'Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before Mmm Mmm.'"
"Mmm Mmm?"
"Yeah. I got no idea who."
I put my drink down. A little of it spilt on the counter, and watched it strip the paint. "Thanks, Joe. You've
been a big help." I handed him a ten dollar bill. "For information received,' I said, adding, "Don't spend it
all at once"
In my profession it's making little jokes like that that keeps you sane.
***
I had one contact left. Ma Hubbard. I found a pay phone and called her number.
"Old Mother Hubbard's Cupboard - Cake Shop and licensed Soup Kitchen."
"It's Horner, Ma."
"Jack? It ain't safe for me to talk to you."
"For old time's sake, sweetheart. You owe me a favour." Some two-bit crooks had once knocked off the
Cupboard, leaving it bare. I'd tacked them down and returned the cakes and soup.
"...Okay. But I don't like it."
"You know everything that goes on around here on the food front, Ma. What's the significance of a pie
with four and twenty trained blackbirds in it?" She whistled, long and low. "You really don't know?"
"I wouldn't be asking you if I did."

"You should read the Court pages of the papers next time, sugar. Jeez. You are out of your depth."
"C'mon, Ma. Spill it."
"It so happens that that particular dish was set before the King a few weeks back .... Jack? Are you still
there?"
"I'm still here ma'am." I said, quietly. " All of a sudden a lot of things are starting to make sense." I put
down the phone.
It was beginning to look like Little Jack Horner had pulled out a plum from this pie.
It was raining, steady and cold. I phoned a cab.
Quarter of an hour later one lurched out of the darkness.
"You're late."
"So complain to the tourist board."
I climbed in the back, wound down the window, and lit a cigarette.
And I went to see the Queen.
***
The door to the private part of the palace was locked. It's the part that the public don't get to see. But
I've never been public, and the little lock hardly slowed me up. The door to the private apartments with
the big red heart on it was unlocked, so I knocked and walked straight in.
The Queen of Hearts was alone, standing in front of the mirror, holding a plate of jam tarts with one
hand, powdering her nose with the other. She turned, saw me, and gasped, dropping the tarts.
"Hey, Queenie," I said. "Or would you feel more comfortable if I called you Jill?"
She was still a good looking slice of dame, even without the blonde wig.
"Get out of here!" she hissed.
"I don't think so, toots." I sat down on the bed. "Let me spell a few things out for you."
"Go ahead." She reached behind her for a concealed alarm button. I let her press it. I'd cut the wires on
my way in - in my profession there's no such thing as being too careful.
"Let me spell a few things out for you."

"You just said that."
"I'll tell this my way, lady."
I lit a cigarette and a thin plume of blue smoke drifted heavenwards, which was where I was going if my
hunch was wrong. Still, I've learned to trust hunches.
"Try this on for size, Dumpty - the Fat Man - wasn't your brother. He wasn't even your friend. In fact he
was blackmailing you. He knew about your nose."
She turned whiter than a number of corpses I've met in my time in the business. Her hand reached up
and cradled her freshly powdered nose.
"You see, I've known the Fat Man for many years, and many years ago he had a lucrative concern in
training animals and birds to do certain unsavoury things. And that got me to thinking... I had a client
recently who didn't show, due to his having been stiffed first. Doctor Foster, of Gloucester, the plastic
surgeon. The official version of his death was that he'd just sat too close to a fire and melted.
"But just suppose he was killed to stop him telling something that he knew? I put two and two together
and hit the jackpot. Let me reconstruct a scene for you: You were out in the garden - probably hanging
out some clothes - when along came one of Dumpty's trained pie-blackbirds and pecked off your nose.
"So there you were, standing in the garden, your hand in front of your face, when along comes the Fat
Man with an offer you couldn't refuse. He could introduce you to a plastic surgeon who could fix you up
with a nose as good as new, for a price. And no-one need ever know. Am I right so far?"
She nodded dumbly, then finding her voice, muttered : "Pretty much. But I ran back into the parlour after
the attack, to eat some bread and honey. That was where he found me."
"Fair enough." The colour was starting to come back into her cheeks now. "So you had the operation
from Foster, and no-one was going to be any the wiser. Until Dumpty told you that he had photos of the
op. You had to get rid of him. A couple of days later you were out walking in the palace grounds. There
was Humpty, sitting on a wall, his back to you, gazing out into the distance. In a fit of madness, you
pushed. And Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
"But now you were in big trouble. Nobody suspected you of his murder, but where were the
photographs? Foster didn't have them, although he smelled a rat and had to be disposed of -- before he
could see me. But you didn't know how much he'd told me, and you still didn't have the snapshots, so
you took me on to find out. And that was your mistake, sister."
Her lower lip trembled, and my heart quivered. "You won't turn me in, will you?"
"Sister, you tried to frame me this afternoon. I don't take kindly to that."
With a shaking hand she started to unbutton her blouse. "Perhaps we could come to some sort of
arrangement?"
I shook my head. "Sorry, your majesty. Mrs. Horner's little boy Jack was always taught to keep his hands
off royalty. It's a pity, but that's how it is." To be on the safe side I looked away, which was a mistake. A
cute little ladies' pistol was in her hands and pointing at me before you could sing a song of sixpence. The
shooter may have been small, but I knew it packed enough of a wallop to take me out of the game
permanently.
This dame was lethal.
"Put that gun down, your majesty." Sergeant O'Grady strolled through the bedroom door, his police
special clutched in his ham-like fist.
"I'm sorry I suspected you, Horner," he said drily. "You're lucky I did, though, sure and begorrah. I had
you trailed here and I overheard the whole thing."
"Hi, Sarge, thanks for stopping by. But I hadn't finished my explanation. If you'll take a seat I'll wrap it
up."
He nodded brusquely, and sat down near the door. His gun hardly moved.
I got up from the bed and walked over to the Queen. "You see, Toots, what I didn't tell you was who did
have the snaps of your nose job. Humpty did, when you killed him."
A charming frown crinkled her perfect brow. "I don't understand... I had the body searched."
"Sure, afterwards. But the first people to get to the Fat Man were the King's Men. The cops. And one of
them pocketed the envelope. When any fuss had died down the blackmail would have started again.
Only this time you wouldn't have known who to kill. And I owe you an apology." I bent down to tie my
shoelaces.
"Why?"
"I accused you of trying to frame me this afternoon. You didn't. That arrow was the property of a boy
who was the best archer in my school - I should have recognised that distinctive fletching anywhere. Isn't
that right," I said, turning back to the door, "...'Sparrow' O'Grady?"
Under the guise of tying up my shoelaces I had already palmed a couple of the Queen's jam tarts, and,
flinging one of them upwards, I neatly smashed the room's only light bulb.
It only delayed the shooting a few seconds, but a few seconds was all I needed, and as the Queen of
Hearts and Sergeant 'Sparrow' O'Grady cheerfully shot each other to bits, I split.
In my business, you have to look after number one.
Munching on a jam tart I walked out of the palace grounds and into the street. I paused by a trash-can,
to try to burn the manilla envelope of photographs I had pulled from O'Grady's pocket as I walked past
him, but it was raining so hard they wouldn't catch.
When I got back to my office I phoned the tourist board to complain. They said the rain was good for the
farmers, and I told them what they could do with it.
They said that things are tough all over.
And I said. Yeah.

Going Forward
by Lisa Coruzzi
It’s bloody freezing. Margaret reached out a thin, leather-gloved finger to activate the handicapped
access. She pressed hard before replacing her hand underneath the blanket draped across her lap. She
shivered and wished her husband would hurry up parking the van; Margaret dreaded going into this
doctor’s office more than any other, and she’d rather not face it alone.
The door didn’t open.
Irritation drove her hand forward again with more effort. Nothing. Margaret craned around from her
spot in the chair to see if Gerald was nearby, but he wasn’t. Panic crawled from her stomach to envelope
her heart; she didn’t know what to do. She felt stupid calling for help and a glance at the windows
revealed how exposed she was to strangers’ stares. Worse, even without seeing them clearly, she knew
the pity-ripples that would cross their faces. Margaret had seen the look from many people since her
accident, and it always made her feel like a child, as if she were incapable of doing anything without
assistance.
“Help.” She said with an impatient eyeroll, and not nearly loud enough, she knew.
Where is he? She turned her head to look for Gerald but still, no sign. Margaret couldn’t understand;
he’d left her at the entrance, and the disabled space was what, fifty feet across the parking lot? She
released the brake and wheeled around, pushing tentatively toward the curb. From the edge she would
be able to see the van, and Gerald, who was probably fussing over something inconsequential like the
elastic netting in the back, or maybe righting one of his work folders that had come loose from its place
in the stack on the back seat.
The van wasn’t there. Neither was Gerald.
Panic flipped to fear. Margaret couldn’t wheel the chair any further forward without falling over the curb,
and where the sidewalk joined the tarmac seamlessly was too far down the side of the building. She
couldn’t comprehend, and prompted by alarm bells inside; she felt the heat wave rising in her face
followed by the crest of tears.
Taxed by the whirl of emotions, Margaret grimaced with the effort of moving the wheelchair back to the
entrance. There, she repeatedly jabbed the button, choking out unintelligible words of confusion. She
glanced from the door to the road until finally, after hurtling through imaginings so terrible, of a life of
paralysis without any help, Margaret cried out.
The door opened.
Margaret propelled herself forward without question, creating a ragged scene inside, but her breathing
calmed when she noticed the warm and inviting atmosphere. It was definitely not the doctor’s office.
Serenity settled in and she understood that Death, who had previously missed his opportunity, had
returned for them. How it happened was unimportant; she knew with absolute clarity that this was her
crossover point. Margaret rose and took a step forward.
It’s true then, that the soul goes unencumbered by anything physical. She smiled and walked to meet
Gerald at the light.
Trapped In A Bottle
by Ruben Michael Molina
The sun sizzled the soft tanned skin of Alison Bailey, as she lay comfortably on her favorite azure beach
towel; the soft gurgle of the ocean tide lulling her into a peaceful slumber. The beach was a place that
Alison visited when felt the world shatter around her, when the gratifying constants of her privileged life
disappeared and the capricious nature of reality surfaced its ugly head. In many ways Alison was an
escape artist. When at the throes of thick emotional turmoil, she had always been able to locate a
trapdoor that would lead her to depths of blissful ignorance. There she remained in those depths the
past five years, any desire to escape swallowed entirely by years of repression; no longer blissfully
ignorant, just ignorant.
Alison opened her eyes and frowned. An irritating tapping sound was emanating from somewhere in
front of her spot. Raising her head up slightly, she looked down her legs, past her feet, and saw a seagull
pecking a half-buried glass bottle. Stupid bird thinks it’s food, she thought and laid her head back on the
towel. The seagull continued pecking at the bottle with such irritancy, that Alison sprang to her feet and
shooed the bird away.
She watched it soar in the air, and then turned to the partially excavated bottle; it was a wine bottle, and
an ancient one at that. Carefully, she dug the bottle out and held it in her hands. It was smooth with
wear, and through the murky, greenish glass she could see that something was trapped inside. A note,
she thought romantically. Alison yanked off the decrepit cork and tipped the bottle emptying the scroll
into the palm of her hand, she looked at it with growing curiosity—a message in a bottle.
Unraveling the scroll carefully, she saw barely legible scratchings and began to read:
Father, I write to you now as ocean water fills the bowels of the Dorado—I will not make it back. You
once asked me if I was capable of happiness, if it was possible to clear away clouds of apathy and
depression that long colored my personality and soul. I can finally answer, yes. Looking now through
Death’s spyglass, the answers reveal themselves with blinding clarity; I am swollen with regret. I must go
now to be with the remaining crew in solidarity so I will leave you with this—in my brief twenty years I
feel as though I’ve been loved a lifetime over.
Tears welled in Alison’s eyes as she finished a man’s final thoughts. She rolled up the parchment and slid
it back in the bottle; reaching down into the sand she picked up the cork, stuffed it back in the opening
and threw the bottle into the ocean. Making her way to the beach towel, she pulled out her phone and
looked through her contacts for a number. A phone number she had not dialed in five years.
The Steadfast Soldier by Hans Christian Andersen
There were once five and twenty tin soldiers. They were brothers, for they had all been made out of the
same old tin spoon. They all shouldered their bayonets, held themselves upright, and looked straight
before them. Their uniforms were very smart-looking—red and blue—and very splendid. The first thing
they heard in the world, when the lid was taken off the box in which they lay, was the words “Tin
soldiers!” These words were spoken by a little boy, who clapped his hands for joy. The soldiers had been
given him because it was his birthday, and now he was putting them out upon the table.
Each was exactly like the rest to a hair, except one who had but one leg. He had been cast last of all, and
there had not been quite enough tin to finish him; but he stood as firmly upon his one leg as the others
upon their two, and it was he whose fortunes became so remarkable.
On the table where the tin soldiers had been set up were several other toys, but the one that attracted
most attention was a pretty little paper castle. Through its tiny windows one could see straight into the
hall. In front of the castle stood little trees, clustering round a small mirror which was meant to represent
a transparent lake. Swans of wax swam upon its surface, and it reflected back their images.
All this was very pretty, but prettiest of all was a little lady who stood at the castle’s open door. She too
was cut out of paper, but she wore a frock of the clearest gauze and a narrow blue ribbon over her
shoulders, like a scarf, and in the middle of the ribbon was placed a shining tinsel rose. The little lady
stretched out both her arms, for she was a dancer, and then she lifted one leg so high that the Soldier
quite lost sight of it. He thought that, like himself, she had but one leg.
“That would be just the wife for me,” thought he, “if she were not too grand. But she lives in a castle,
while I have only a box, and there are five and twenty of us in that. It would be no place for a lady. Still, I
must try to make her acquaintance.” A snuffbox happened to be upon the table and he lay down at full
length behind it, and here he could easily watch the dainty little lady, who still remained standing on one
leg without losing her balance.
When the evening came all the other tin soldiers were put away in their box, and the people in the
house went to bed. Now the playthings began to play in their turn. They visited, fought battles, and gave
balls. The tin soldiers rattled in the box, for they wished to join the rest, but they could not lift the lid.
The nutcrackers turned somersaults, and the pencil jumped about in a most amusing way. There was
such a din that the canary woke and began to speak—and in verse, too. The only ones who did not move
from their places were the Tin Soldier and the Lady Dancer. She stood on tiptoe with outstretched arms,
and he was just as persevering on his one leg; he never once turned away his eyes from her.
Twelve o’clock struck—crash! up sprang the lid of the snuffbox. There was no snuff in it, but a little black
goblin. You see it was not a real snuffbox, but a jack-in-the-box.
“Tin Soldier,” said the Goblin, “keep thine eyes to thyself. Gaze not at what does not concern thee!”
But the Tin Soldier pretended not to hear.
“Only wait, then, till to-morrow,” remarked the Goblin.
Next morning, when the children got up, the Tin Soldier was placed on the window sill, and, whether it
was the Goblin or the wind that did it, all at once the window flew open and the Tin Soldier fell head
foremost from the third story to the street below. It was a tremendous fall! Over and over he turned in
the air, till at last he rested, his cap and bayonet sticking fast between the paving stones, while his one
leg stood upright in the air.
Away he sailed … down the gutter…
The maidservant and the little boy came down at once to look for him, but, though they nearly trod
upon him, they could not manage to find him. If the Soldier had but once called “Here am I!” they might
easily enough have heard him, but he did not think it becoming to cry out for help, being in uniform.
It now began to rain; faster and faster fell the drops, until there was a heavy shower; and when it was
over, two street boys came by.
“Look you,” said one, “there lies a tin soldier. He must come out and sail in a boat.”
So they made a boat out of an old newspaper and put the Tin Soldier in the middle of it, and away he
sailed down the gutter, while the boys ran along by his side, clapping their hands.
Goodness! how the waves rocked that paper boat, and how fast the stream ran! The Tin Soldier became
quite giddy, the boat veered round so quickly; still he moved not a muscle, but looked straight before
him and held his bayonet tightly.
All at once the boat passed into a drain, and it became as dark as his own old home in the box. “Where
am I going now?” thought he. “Yes, to be sure, it is all that Goblin’s doing. Ah! if the little lady were but
sailing with me in the boat, I would not care if it were twice as dark.”
Just then a great water rat, that lived under the drain, darted suddenly out.
“Have you a passport?” asked the rat. “Where is your passport?”
But the Tin Soldier kept silence and only held his bayonet with a firmer grasp.
The boat sailed on, but the rat followed. Whew! how he gnashed his teeth and cried to the sticks and
straws: “Stop him! stop him! He hasn’t paid toll! He hasn’t shown his passport!”
But the stream grew stronger and stronger. Already the Tin Soldier could see daylight at the point where
the tunnel ended; but at the same time he heard a rushing, roaring noise, at which a bolder man might
have trembled. Think! just where the tunnel ended, the drain widened into a great sheet that fell into
the mouth of a sewer. It was as perilous a situation for the Soldier as sailing down a mighty waterfall
would be for us.
He was now so near it that he could not stop. The boat dashed on, and the Tin Soldier held himself so
well that no one might say of him that he so much as winked an eye. Three or four times the boat
whirled round and round; it was full of water to the brim and must certainly sink.
The Tin Soldier stood up to his neck in water; deeper and deeper sank the boat, softer and softer grew
the paper; and now the water closed over the Soldier’s head. He thought of the pretty little dancer
whom he should never see again, and in his ears rang the words of the song:
Wild adventure, mortal danger,

Be thy portion, valiant stranger.
The paper boat parted in the middle, and the Soldier was about to sink, when he was swallowed by a
great fish.
Oh, how dark it was! darker even than in the drain, and so narrow; but the Tin Soldier retained his
courage; there he lay at full length, shouldering his bayonet as before.
To and fro swam the fish, turning and twisting and making the strangest movements, till at last he
became perfectly still.
Something like a flash of daylight passed through him, and a voice said, “Tin Soldier!” The fish had been
caught, taken to market, sold and bought, and taken to the kitchen, where the cook had cut him with a
large knife. She seized the Tin Soldier between her finger and thumb and took him to the room where
the family sat, and where all were eager to see the celebrated man who had traveled in the maw of a
fish; but the Tin Soldier remained unmoved. He was not at all proud.
They set him upon the table there. But how could so curious a thing happen? The Soldier was in the very
same room in which he had been before. He saw the same children, the same toys stood upon the table,
and among them the pretty dancing maiden, who still stood upon one leg. She too was steadfast. That
touched the Tin Soldier’s heart. He could have wept tin tears, but that would not have been proper. He
looked at her and she looked at him, but neither spoke a word.
And now one of the little boys took the Tin Soldier and threw him into the stove. He gave no reason for
doing so, but no doubt the Goblin in the snuffbox had something to do with it.
The Tin Soldier stood now in a blaze of red light. The heat he felt was terrible, but whether it proceeded
from the fire or from the love in his heart, he did not know. He saw that the colors were quite gone from
his uniform, but whether that had happened on the journey or had been caused by grief, no one could
say. He looked at the little lady, she looked at him, and he felt himself melting; still he stood firm as ever,
with his bayonet on his shoulder. Then suddenly the door flew open; the wind caught the Dancer, and
she flew straight into the stove to the Tin Soldier, flashed up in a flame, and was gone! The Tin Soldier
melted into a lump; and in the ashes the maid found him next day, in the shape of a little tin heart, while
of the Dancer nothing remained save the tinsel rose, and that was burned as black as a coal.
Helping Me Up
by Bruce Ransom
“Are you going to be my new daddy?” she asked directly.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking down at the flowery dress squirming beside him on the edge of the living
room couch. “I like your mom, but to get married you have to really, really like each other.”
“You mean love each other” the little girl corrected.
“Yes,” he laughed nervously. “You have to love each other.”
“Do you love my mommy?”
“Uhh … I don’t know, honey,” he stammered. “It takes time for two people to figure out if they love each
other.”
“Why?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly. It’s very easy for you kids to love someone. You either do or you don’t. But
adults have a way of complicating it. Sometimes they make it difficult to love each other.”
“Why?”
“Welllllll…I’m not sure,” he dodged, his eyes meeting the inquisitive brown ones that looked up at him.
“Maybe it’s because they are mean to each other sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Well, I don’t know, really. They just get mad or scared, or both, and wind up hurting each other.”
“You mean like when someone pushes you down?”
“Yes,” he said, quickly moving his eyes away from her gaze. “Yes, honey, like when someone pushes you
down,” he said quietly.
“Did my mommy push you down?” she persisted.
“No, no, of course not” he clarified. “I think if your mommy saw someone push me down she would
come over and help me get up. Your mommy is very nice that way.”
“Did anyone ever push you down?”
“Well, everyone at some time …,” he started to say, then stopped. “Yes, honey. Someone pushed me
down” he said quietly.
“If I saw you pushed down I would help you get up.”
He looked down at the child straining her neck to look back up at him.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I know you would,” he said, and reached out to stroke back the hair from her
forehead.
“I know you would” he repeated.
She rewarded him with a grin of total contentment, then scooted back in the couch and asked, “Can you
read me a story?”
“Yes,” he said under his breath. “Yes, I can read you a story.”
My Daughter’s Best Friend by Michelle Reynolds
“Here you go Missy.” Elizabeth hears her daughter say as she enters the kitchen. Brooklyn is sitting at the
table, pouring milk into the empty glass in the seat beside her.
“Who are you talking too Brook?” Elizabeth asks as she approaches. She feels a shiver run up her arms,
the room much colder than she remembers. She’ll have to turn up the heat when she has the chance.
“Missy. She’s my new friend.” Brooklyn gives a smile too big for her face, revealing her missing tooth.
“Your imaginary friend?” Elizabeth asks.
“No silly, she’s sitting right there.” Brooklyn points to the seat next to her, “Can’t you see her?”
“Brooklyn baby, there’s nobody there,” Elizabeth says lightly, though her patience is wearing thin.
They’ve had this talk before. Brooklyn is six, she is too old to be having imaginary friends, especially
when this neighborhood is filled with other, real, kids.
“She’s got four arms mamma, you can’t miss her,” Brooklyn giggles before leaning over in her seat. Her
eyes downcast and it’s as if she’s listening to someone tell her a secret. Brooklyn nods, “Missy says you
can shake her hand if you’d like,” Brooklyn says but when Elizabeth doesn’t move, Brooklyn sticks her
bottom lip out in a pout, “Don’t be rude mamma.”
Elizabeth looks at Brooklyn, she doesn’t know if she should entertain this idea or scold her. This has gone
on too long. But looking at her daughter, those big eyes now turning glossy, she can play along just for a
little while longer.
Elizabeth sticks out her hand and grasps air. She pretends she’s grabbing someone else’s hand when she
feels the softest of pressure grab back and beep, beep! Elizabeth jumps at the sound, a gasp flying out of
her mouth until she realizes it’s her watch.
Brooklyn stares at her with a worried expression and Elizabeth has too looks away from her gaze. From
here she can see herself in the mirror that hung against the wall. She looks like she always does except
the slight reddish flush creeping up her cheeks.
Looking down at her watch, she sees what time it is. She clears her throat, “Brook, it’s about time you
head to the bus stop,”
Brooklyn nods and gracefully slips off her chair. She grabs her stickered covered bag and slips it over her
shoulders, “Come on Missy we’re gonna be late,”
Elizabeth looks at the table, seeing two plates covered in crumbs and two glasses of milk, both now
empty. Elizabeth’s head snaps up as Brooklyn jogs past the mirror, her unruly curls bouncing with every
step, her backpack too big for her small frame. Brooklyn’s reflection disappears and following after her
daughter in the mirror Elizabeth sees a hunched figure, with four limbs and a fur covered body and
suddenly the air is sucked out of Elizabeth’s lungs. Her legs are wobbling, her hands are shaking, and she
is freezing with terror.
The Message on Emily’s New Phone by Charles Lee
Bradley wanted a smart phone for her tenth birthday. Her mother and step-father had been reluctant to
give her one because they felt it was a luxury for a child to have, but finally agreed to surprise her with
one for her birthday.
At bedtime, as Emily laid the phone on the stand beside her bed, she noticed a text message on the
phone. She was surprised because no one knew she had a phone.
She picked up the phone and read the message. “Good news. Now we can talk.”
For some strange reason, Emily couldn’t tell who sent the message. And she couldn’t respond because
her parents told her to not be on the phone after nine o’clock and it was now ten o’clock. But she was
dying to know who sent the message.
She was about to turn out the light when she noticed another message. “Please respond. Important.”
Emily decided to take the risk violating her parents’ rule and respond.
“Who are you?” she texted.
“Your brother.”
“I don’t have a brother.”
“Yes you do.”
“You’re wrong. Who are you?”
“Your brother. I’m dead.”
Emily almost dropped the phone. Someone’s playing a mean prank, she thought.
Another message appeared. “Sorry to shock u.”
Emily sat in disbelief.
“My name is Brogan,” the next message said.
Emily got upset. This has gone far enough, she thought.
“Stop,” she texted. “This isn’t funny.”
“He killed me.”
Emily became frightened. A lunatic had somehow gotten her number.
Another message appeared. “U MUST believe me. Your life’s in danger.”
Emily began to tremble but felt herself being drawn into this strange mystery on her phone. She decided
to respond.
“If u r dead how can u text?”

“My body’s dead….my spirit isn’t.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Trust me. My spirit can create text messages on your phone.”
Another text appeared. “Come to Bexley Cemetery after school. Bring your phone.”
“Why?” Emily texted.
“To prove I’m your brother.”
“If you’re trying to frighten me…u r.”
“Sorry. Just trying to save your life.”
The next day after school, Emily dreaded the idea of going to the cemetery alone but was too curious not
to go. As she got to the cemetery, a text appeared on her phone.
“Come to large oak tree in center.”
Emily walked to the large oak tree.
“Read the headstone,” the text said.
Emily looked at the inscription. It said: Brogan J. Bradley.
The year of the death was the year Emily was born.
“See. I’m your brother. He killed me. Made it look like an accident.”
“Who?” Emily texted.
“It’s too late. He followed you.”
“Who?”
“Our step-father.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“He did it for insurance money. Sorry, I tried to warn you.”
Emily heard a voice behind her. “It’s too bad you got the phone, Emily.”
Emily turned and saw her step-father. He had a cell phone in one hand and a rope in the other.
Charles Lee is a retired college professor who now enjoys creative writing, oil painting, volunteering, and
gardening. He lives an active lifestyle with his wife in a retirement community in Tallahassee, FL. are
shaking, and she is freezing with terror.
The Deceased’s Wife
by Charles Milton Lee

Three elderly women stood huddled in a corner of the funeral home, whispering and glaring at the
deceased’s wife.
“Just look at her,” whispered one. “It’s her husband’s wake and she’s traipsing around in a bright
muumuu and thongs. What a disgrace.”
“Well, truth be known, she supposedly never loved him and it shows,” said the second lady.
“Rumor has it she’s going to get over a million dollars from his life insurance,” said the third lady.
As Betsy Green drove home from her husband’s viewing she sang an upbeat song. She had never been so
happy. Her husband’s death was ruled an accident and it happened just two days after he signed his new
life insurance papers. It was all so perfect.
Of course, she would have to use some of the insurance money to have the defective valve in her heart
replaced, but her cardiologist said it would be a piece of cake. There would be plenty of money left over
to go to Europe, go on cruises, and live a life of luxury — things she had secretly dreamed about for a
long time.
Once home she pampered herself with a relaxing bubble bath and a glass of wine, followed by another
glass before crawling into bed. She looked forward to a good night’s sleep, maybe the best sleep in a long
time.
About 1:00 a.m. she was awakened by what she thought was someone humming. She recognized it
immediately as a Hank Williams song — “You’re Cheatin’ Heart.” Her husband was always singing Hang
Williams songs. But he was dead and soon to be buried. So who could it be? Finally, after some nervous
fretting, she told herself it was all a bad dream and tried to go back to sleep.
But the humming didn’t stop. It got louder. “Your cheatin’ heart will make you weep, you’ll cry and cry
and try to sleep.” It sounded exactly like her husband, but…..it simply couldn’t be. The humming
continue. “But sleep won’t come the whole night through, your cheatin’ heart will tell on you.”
She was convinced that someone was standing at the end of her bed humming that song. Someone was
trying to play a trick on her. And it wasn’t funny. She peered into the darkness and was certain the figure
was a man. If it wasn’t her husband, who was it? Who could it be? She started to panic. She wanted to
jump out of bed and run but she was too frightened to do so. She could feel herself trembling as she sat
up in bed. Her throat tightened but she managed to say , “Who’s there? What do you want?”
As the humming got even louder, her trembling got worse. She could feel the whole bed shaking. She
started gasping for breath. What…..what if he wasn’t dead? But he had to be. He was in the casket. But
what if his death was a prank? It was Halloween. He always played pranks on Halloween, practically
scaring her to death. But this was more than she could handle. This was too much. She could feel her
heart pounding in her chest and pain shooting down her arm.
What….what if his death was a hoax and he actually wanted to scare her to death? He knew she had a
bad heart. And, after all, she signed life insurance papers the same time he did. Coughing and gasping,
she reached for the light by the bed but her heart gave out before she could turn it
Monday the 28th of August
By Dean MacAllister
Today is the worst day I have ever experienced. But it’s not over yet. It’s not going to end for thousands
of seconds. Thousands of raw, grating seconds.
I know, I’m the one with the problem. Not you. You have coping mechanisms. Your brain has worked out
that to experience every second of every day would quickly lead to insanity. You are capable of
distraction. You have work, hobbies, families, TV shows, internet, barbecues, sport, bills, holidays, social
media and relationships. If you don’t have enough of your own problems you latch onto the problems of
others, suffering vicariously, or if that doesn’t suffice you invent new problems, living in a world you
build in your mind rather than the one that you exist in.
I’m not attacking you, don’t get me wrong. I want what you have. Maybe I don’t have the right mix of
chemicals. Maybe I am too self-aware. I have a decent IQ, maybe that just adds to the problem. They say
that the line between genius and insanity is thin. Although it could be just lucidity that they are talking
about. The pain of feeling yourself wearing your skin as a suit. The boredom of counting of your breaths.
The monotonous rhythm of your heart. The horror of feeling time itself as it simultaneously exists and
does not.
Your lips aren’t moving, but I can see what you want to say. Drugs and sleep. And I agree.
Unconsciousness is probably my only hobby. But it ends. No one pays you to sleep. Doctors are reluctant
to place volunteers into comas. I wouldn’t want to ask them anyway. They would probably just lock me
up in a self-harm-proof room if they knew what I feel. Then time itself would double. Every second
would feel like two. Every minute, hour, day, month and year would stretch out without end.
I am living through a sort of reverse insomnia, I guess. Where the painful part is not the lack of sleep, but
the exhaustion of being awake. I feel no connection with the people around me. They are other entities,
other planets in orbit that I can see but cannot understand.
I don’t want you to think too much about this. I sometimes worry that even breaching this subject might
make my condition contagious. Like a tune that you hate that gets stuck in your head. An ear-worm. A
bad idea that can’t be forgotten. A verbally transmitted disease that would snap you out of the fog of
comfort that you enjoy and pull you out screaming into the harsh light of reality.
Even by letting you know all this I have only wasted a couple of hundred seconds and this day has still
not ended. But today is only my penultimate fear. Do you want to know the worst part? The thing that
scares me the most? The name of my most extreme phobia and inevitable fate?
Tuesday.
Night of Fire and Glass
by Justin Bendell
The freaks are out again tonight. I hear them howling. I hear branches cracking off trees.
There were out last night, too. It has been warm and heat draws them to the streets. It’s been like this
since the war, or since the raids, but really it started with the slave ships.
There they go again. The screams. I think of looking out the window, but it’s best not to draw attention.
They look to maim, and they don’t care who you were when jobs meant a thing. Last week, Ben went
out to challenge a man tearing out his garden and got his gut split open like a sack of rice.
The hospitals keeping running out. Supplies come by medical chopper but the freaks overpower the
guards and steal the meds and needles.
The glass was always half full. That’s how I thought it best to describe out short time on Earth, but that
glass is getting damn small, and half full ain’t much more than a thimble’s worth, and I’m really
beginning to think it’s time to make a run for it.
But where? If we make it out of the city core the cameras in the ring will spot us; if we make it to the
desert the drones will identify us; so that, when we arrive to a new locale, we will be expected, and
there are few places a black man and a white woman can go these days without fear of blades and
bullets.
It’s like the old days, my grandfather’s days, as if things ever changed, they say. But I’m telling you, they
did. We were moving in the right —
Someone is knocking at the door.
No one knocks anymore. They hammer, they hit, they maim. Knocking is an artifact.
My wife sits in the dining room, candlelit, watching the door.
The knock comes again. Shave and a haircut.
She whispers. I can’t hear her.
No one knocks these days, not at night.
I move toward the door. I am holding a blade, a kitchen blade. Seems I’m always holding it.
I hear screams in the night. I hear glass shatter up the street. I know there are fires. These are the nights
of fire and glass. These are the nights of vengeance, of retaliation for all that moving forward, nights to
cull the days.
If I open the door and there are men there, we will die.
But what if it is not men. What if it is my sister? What if it is Ben? What must I sacrifice to protect
myself?
But I can’t ask for a name. If it is men and they hear my voice, it will make them mad with desire, the
desire that grows in mobs like a cancer cell.
I look to my wife. I see a face full of fear and certainty and hope and sadness and hope and hope and
hope and I open the door.
Telekinesis for Beginners
by Michelle Lee
Step one: Believe in yourself.

At the ripe age of 21, Ariel lives in failure of that first step. She’s filing papers now, an administrative
assistant at the Dropbox headquarters in the heart of Silicon Valley. She watches the computer engineers
check in and out behind the front desk on the third floor, and all day this plagues her with a sense of
inadequacy. She thinks about her upbringing in an upper-middle class suburb in San Jose, growing up
with a cohort of soon-to-be computer engineers in her high-achieving high school. What went wrong
with her?
Step two: Concentrate. Focus is key, as it is the medium through which all telekinetic force is channeled.
Ariel’s life was marked by a lack of focus. In kindergarten, she was hyperactive, running around in circles
when playtime was already over, when the other children were sitting crisscross-applesauce politely
without her. Ariel was a straight C student in high school, went on to community college, spent three
years there instead of two, and ended up filing papers at Dropbox. She makes mistakes, this and that
paper gets miscategorized, she’s too slow, gets distracted, gets scolded.
Step three: place a #2 pencil on the table before you. Direct all your concentration onto it; convert the
powers of your focus into force and will it to move. With practice, you should be able to roll the pencil up
and down a few centimeters, and within a week you should be proficient in rolling it across the table.
Despite skipping the first two steps, Ariel proceeds as the webpage says; her Excel spreadsheet of weekly
lunch favorites is disregarded in the background. She wills her force at the poor pencil so strongly that
she is squinting by now, her eyes narrowed into slits, her line of vision blurred. In this obscurity, the lines
of the pencil seem to waver, and she is bestowed the perception of motion.
Step six: You are now ready to practice with the objects around you: be it lifting papers, crushing bottles,
or bending water. The world is in your hands.
Ariel decides that the best use of her day is practice. Sitting there, she wills the corners of the flat papers
on her desk to lift, fantasizes that one day she may use the ability to sort her files, that one day she
won’t even need to. That she may go on shows, be researched by scientists, have a talent that is her
own.
She sees her boss walk towards her briskly, but Ariel does not budge: only looks at him intently and uses
the psychic energy to push him backwards: an image of him attempting to walk toward her but sliding
back at the power of her force.
In the end, the article is a sham: Ariel’s boss reaches the desk, rests his hands on the surface, leans his
weight onto it authoritatively.
“You haven’t been doing your work, have you?” he accuses.
“No,” Ariel responds, “I haven’t.”

Disclosure Optional
by Keith Nunes
A middle-aged guy in a dark jacket and a patterned shirt sitting at a bar, a woman of a similar age in a
deep purple dress walks over and sits next to him.
She says peering into him, red lipstick glistening: “What are you drinking?”
He says glancing and glancing again: “I buy my own drinks, but thanks.”
“Waiting for someone, something?”
“Just the next cliché.”
She smirks, her blue eyes staring at him in the giant mirror behind the bar and his blue eyes staring at his
drink.
He says, holding her eyes in his and then looking back at his drink: “Hey, look sorry I’m just flowing along
nicely in my own miserable little river of self-pity and you don’t need this.”
“Best not tell me what I need.”
“Yeah, well, don’t we all need the same things?”
“I’ve had the same things for way too long.”
“That caught me out,” he says, “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be surprised.”
“I surprised myself, not often I feel I can be honest around a man without setting off a booby-trap.”
Hands around his drink: “Lately I’ve been told I’m no man at all so I guess you’re still not really being
honest around a man.”
She smiles and runs her hand through her mink-coloured hair.
He smiles, glances at her and away: “I feel like telling you my name now … how do you feel about that?”
“Well, if you prefer make it a pseudonym.”
“The name on my birth certificate says Jacob.”
“They’ve been calling me bitch for a while but I prefer Tess.”
They sit quietly, Herbie Hancock jazz drifting through the bar.
“I write for a struggling magazine and I’m not of any great use as a functioning male role model, this is
my first drink in five years and I’m not enjoying it, I was hoping to spiral down rapidly … sort of make a
decision without making a decision, that’s me.”
“I’m an Olympic fencer and I stab people in the back.”

They both laugh like they haven’t for years.
“I guess I’m waiting … odd,” she says, “I’ve always known what I wanted … and I got it, I made damn sure
I got it but what the hell it was I don’t know.”
“My wife is waiting too, waiting for me to either focus on the marriage or leave, ‘just fucking make up
your mind’.”
The woman is covered in a wry smile as she steps off the stool beside him: “So my lovely husband, are
you coming home?”
He eases onto his feet, kisses her cheek, takes her arm and they leave with more than a hint of swing.
The Storm
by Kristin Leprich
Describe the storm for me, would you?

My brother speaks to me in a hushed tone, as if the shaking echo of a louder voice might break the sight
in front of us. We sit on top of the tallest hill in our plain Midwestern subdivision, surveying the
damage,or, in his case, the heavenly view. Tornado warnings had been striking our area for ten hours
yesterday, and my brother is blind. Suffered from untreated glaucoma at birth. He’s been asking me to
paint pictures in his head ever since he lost his last ounce of vision. It’s my fault, at any rate. Not for the
blindness itself, but for tricking him into thinking that storms are a type of beauty that can’t even be
replicated in the movies. I told him despite my fear of all things related to destructive nature. Now I’m
trembling and trying to keep myself calm for what’s to come. The worst of it is over, at least.
The wind is still blowing, I tell him, though not as hard as before. The wind is trying to touch every inch
of the town, so it can roll into other towns to share the scene. Fences are torn, but we don’t mind
because when the pieces are put together, they form words that indicate good fortune. After all the rain
that we thought was annoying, the sun has taken its place, as well as a rainbow that stretches for miles
and miles. And if you look at the sun long enough’it’s not good for you, but who cares’ you can see
angels looking down at us, smiling.
I sigh and stop because I can’t think of any other lies.
Wow, he says. That sounds great. He doesn’t say it, but I know he wishes he could see. I would, too, if I
were in his position. His unknowing self breathes evenly, and I feel tears well up in my eyes.
I don’t tell him about the boy who was killed when a pole rammed straight through his chest. I don’t tell
him about the endless span of clouds that line the skies, a sign of more things to come. I don’t tell him
about the devastation of several houses that took so much time and effort and money to build, or the
crying that those families must be doing, as if it’s still raining. I don’t tell him about the lost memories,
the homeless animals, the scars. I don’t tell him these things because he’s young and he can still be
spared.
Really, truly, honestly, it looks like death.swing.
The Magic Spot
by Jeffery Bennett
A story inspired by Giorgio de Chirico’s “The Melancholy of a Beautiful Day”
He lay in the grassy median of a road which bounded one side of a large inner-city university. How he
had come there, nobody knew. From his looks, though, his path had been a cruel one. His body showed
the signs of a life wracked by insupportable pain. His face was hollow and sallow, his eyes vacant, except
for a glint that reflected a fading desire for mercy if not kindness. His ribs bowed outward like the bars of
a birdcage draped in thin gauze. Scars and fresh cuts blended with welts delivered from an unknown
hand.
He had come during the night and now that day had come he lacked the strength to move on.
It was mid-fall; the weather pleasantly cool. The cloudless sky was an intense blue, and a soft wind
drove some dried reddish leaves down the median, swirling over his head.
He took no more notice of these than of the passing cars and students. They–the drivers and students–
took no notice of him. The students were by turns animated, self-absorbed, rushed. But all had plans,
plans encouraged and confirmed by the beautiful day.
At last, one student did take notice. She stopped, abruptly grabbing the hand of her companion. “Look!”
she cried. “Look there on the median.” He did look. She continued, “What should we do?”
He answered uncertainly. “What can we do?”–with more uncertainty: “Nothing I suppose”.
She persisted. “Of course there’s something we can do.”
He–the same lack of conviction as before: “He’s too far gone.”
“But we can at least give him some food and water.”
“He won’t–probably can’t–eat.”
“He will”.
Her friend relented, seemingly glad to have been convinced. They made to a small convenience store on
the squalid outskirts of the campus. It was a dirty little store with bars on the windows. Here they
purchased a bowl, a jug of water and some cooked link sausages.
They returned to the object of their mission. He was still there. They crossed the road to the median.
She approached to within a foot of him and poured some water into the bowl, tentatively pushing it in
front of him. He ignored it. Her friend laid the sausages before him. No response–but only for a
moment. From what mysterious fount sprung that energy? He fairly leapt from the ground greedily
snapping at the sausages, swallowing each one whole. He turned to the water and frantically slaked his
horrible thirst. He laid back down, exhausted.
The students felt relief, the relief which stems from fulfillment of an onerous, unasked for obligation.
They left and walked to their little apartment not far from the convenience store.
That night they worked on a common assignment; neither said much regarding the events of the day.
Before going to bed, she said quietly, “We’ll bring him more food tomorrow morning before class.”
The setting of the sun had brought an uncomfortable drop in temperature. He shivered alone during the
course of the night. He had shivered–always alone–during the course of many nights.
The morning came; they returned to the dirty little store and then to the median. He was gone. A slight
depression in the grass remained. They looked at each other and again felt relief; but this time it was the
relief at the cessation of an obligation which both feared would go on. Guilt followed on relief, a guilt
short-lived. For these students too had plans, plans encouraged and confirmed by the beautiful day.
Strutters’ Ball
by Barry Basden
Cleaning out my father’s things I found an old black and white photo, one I’d never seen before. Hidden
away all these years.
The photo was taken in some kind of hall, a gentlemen’s club perhaps. Joyless carpet, somber
wainscoting, a small mirror propped on its rail. Patterned wallpaper and two nondescript paintings
flanking a pendulum clock. The time was 11:45.
Eight young men grouped together, one standing behind the others. The rest sat on wooden stools or
straight back chairs, casually touching so you could tell they were friends. Dark suits. White ties. Stark
white gloves. They wore fedoras mostly, though there was one wide brim and a derby.
And blackface. They all had on blackface. The whites of their eyes stood out.
I picked out my father straight away. He sat in front, right in the middle of the group, the only man
without gloves. Instead of a hat, he wore a Gatsby newsboy cap. His blackface shone. His pale hands
were in his lap, one holding the fingertips of the other. The man on his right was turned slightly toward
him, a gloved hand on my father’s shoulder, the other on his forearm.
My father. His crossed ankles and scuffed shoes, the whites of his solemn eyes. He gazed up and to his
left, away from the camera. As if he didn’t know what he was doing there.
I like to think that anyway.
Escape
by Murdock O’Mooney
“We got to get out of here,” I tell her. She tells me she knows and that she’s waiting for the right time.
“You saw what he did to Johnny- he’s got a black eye and fat lip… he’s all beat up.” She says that it’s none
of our business. I stare at her like she’s stupid, though I know she’s not.
She smokes a cigarette and looks at her old blue car. She named it Faith. It made it here from Ohio. Can it
make it out of here? I imagine her thinking. The dirt roads are rough and impassable when muddy. She
takes the last drag and puts her cigarette out in the dirt. Her toes are wrapped in Teva sandals. She’s
worn them ever since I can remember.
Later that night, I hear them having sex. It sickens me, but also excites me. I don’t want to hear, but can’t
help it- we are all sleeping in the same old army tent. Including his two sons, there’s five of us.
The next day he walks outside and brushes his teeth, spitting white toothpaste all over the ground. He
also urinates in plain view, with one hand on his hip. He’s the king of this domain and wants everyone to
know it. He’s a coward except for the 38 Special on his right hip. The gun makes him a tough guy. He
beats his kids. He’s racist. He murdered his wife and son, and although no one has ever proved it,
everyone knows he did it.
We never saw his dark side until after living with him. I can tell she is embarrassed that she put us in this
situation. I still love her though and have to be strong right now. I have to be the man she needs. I have
to help her get away.
In the late afternoon, as the sun goes down over the high desert, we are playing. His youngest son and I
get in an argument. He runs off crying to his dad. He calls me over.
“Did you take his toy?” I say I did, but by accident. I thought it was mine.
He raises his arm skyward, and brings it down quickly onto my face. I fall to the dirt and begin to cry. But
I don’t let him see this. I stay strong, for her. She yells and grabs him, but he hits her and then she goes
down.
The next day he takes his sons to town. Her and I are left at camp. She moves quickly and loads our stuff
into the car. “We’ve got to move quickly,” she tells me. “We’ll go the back way, towards Santa Fe.”
As we drive down out of the mountains, the night stars become visible. She lights up a cigarette and
blows smoke out the window. “You should quite smoking, mom.” I say.
“I know,” she says. “One thing at a time.”
Nobody Shall Sleep
By T. Dem
I’m lying down on the bed. Naked. Carefree. One hand thrown carelessly behind my head propping me
up. The other playing with my belly button or any small indent on my skin within a comfortable radius. I
don’t even notice the neuroticism. In this corner of the world, in this cove of the Montenegrin coastline,
the sunsets is out of this world. Like it doesn’t belong to the world.
Instead, I’m watching the white, translucent drapes flutter in the wind coming through my open balcony
door. Mesmerized by the light of the setting sun. I’m relaxed. Carefree. Bored a little. I remember the
small table and two chairs in the corner pushed together. But there is only me here. I’m the only one
that came. In a car. By my own hand. I smile to myself.
Eyes close. Fingers rub my face. Slowly over my eyebrows, down my neck, past my shoulders, and bare
breasts and to my breathing belly. I miss other hands on my body. Another woman’s hands on my body.
Touching. Pushing. Her smell. Softness. Warmth.
I stand up. Face myself in the mirror. 37. Shoulder length hair. Brown. Eyes too. 178 cm tall. Large
breasts. Small waist. Round hips. Decent legs. Mostly flat belly. Nice looking. But they don’t see me. I’m
an invisible in our world. The curse of blending.
My hands cup my breasts. Squeeze. I feel so much want. Down my belly. Over my shaved pussy. Inside
my lips and over my clit. I press a little. But it’s not satisfying. I take a deep breath and brush my hair
back. Dress. Long white pants and a print tee. Hair still wet, I head out.
Down the stairs of my hotel. Down the hill. Past the casino. To the waterfront littered with restaurants
where groups of people sit. Talking. Eating. Smiling. I stroll. The feel of my white pants soft against my
skin. My shoulders tender from the afternoon sun. Soft Balkan music filling the air with the sound of
bagpipe and violins. The moon glistens on the water. The boats, medium and small, sway softly, tied to
some anchor that can’t be seen in the black waters. I scan the scene. Aim for a table near the corner.
Perfect.
I cast my eyes. Everyone smokes here. Like in a movie. They dress well too. Especially the women. I lean
back in my chair. Finger the menu. I know this restaurant has English translations. Grilled octopus. White
wine. I tell my waitress who has brought me some fresh bread and a mix of olive oil and vinegar. Napkin
on lap, I break bread and dip and taste. Lean back in my chair. Feel the softness of the bread in my
mouth. The silky oil. Tart vinegar. Refocus my eyes. Two couples ahead of me. Well dressed. Smoking.
Smiling. Joking. Finishing dinner.

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Very Short Stories

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Very Short Stories - Lengths a power of 2.

It had been years—nine, ten, something like that—since he’d taken a

“Um. Well. I’d prepared something.”

What Did People Do?

Salty, Uncomfortable Stains

The Snake Killing

Could You Die With That?

It Never Bloomed for Babcia

The Family Portrait

Christmas day, 1977 my family posed for a picture taken by Mr.

STORY BYTES • ISSUE #41 • SEPTEMBER 1999 • PAGE 5

STORY BYTES • ISSUE #41 • SEPTEMBER 1999 • PAGE 6

"Health is Wealth" - A Short Moral Story for Kids

The Blind Man with a Lamp – Short Story

The Lost Camel– Short Story

Going To Law– Short Story

The Patient Little Girl– Short Story

The Milk Maid– Short Story

Count not your chickens before they are hatched.

The Arab and His Camel – Short Story

Nip the evil in the bud.

The Selfish Dog– Short Story

"Almost Heaven" as in "Falling Short of"

"Let me see the head guy," I demanded.

A short story by Josef Essberger

"You don't have to be French to enjoy a decent red wine," Charles

"Come on, Charles, it's simple arithmetic. Nothing to do with race or

"Yes, General. Bags!"

"Really?" said one of the guests, a German politician.

"Personally, before I uncork a bottle I like to know what's in it."

"But how? How can anyone be sure?"

"A matter of pedigree, Charles," said the other politician.

"This fellow," continued de Gruse as though the Dutchman had not

De Gruse paused to check that his guests were being served.

"Well?" said the Dutchman.

De Gruse and his wife exchanged glances.

"Do tell them, mon chéri," she said.

"Darling," she sighed, "what shall we do?"

"But, darling, I'm going to have a baby."

The guests shuddered visibly and de Gruse paused in his story.

"Of course," he continued, "Sixty-five was a bad year for red

The general's wife cleared her throat.

"But, surely," she said, "you didn't taste it?"

De Gruse gazed impassively at the Englishman.

"Heaven forbid, General," he said slowly. "Everyone knows that the

With his headache becoming more acute, he contemplated crossing the

And after – doctors visits, surgery, chemo, hair loss, pain.

She is puzzled at first. Then remembers, of course, the business conference in

Dinner squirms in the daughters' stomachs. Now comes that what-if-I-threw-up-

The Use of Force

See You There

"Hello, Julianne?" It's a familiar voice on my phone.

THE CASE OF THE FOUR AND TWENTY BLACKBIRDS

Things are tough all over.

"What are you selling, lady?"

In my business you know who people are. "Yeah."

"I'm Jill Dumpty."

"So your brother was Humpty Dumpty?"

"And he didn't fall off that wall, Mr Horner. He was pushed."

Without trying too hard, anyway.

I leaned back in my chair.

"So what's it to you. Why do you need me?"

"Let's see the colour of your money."

I showed him a fifty.