September 27, 2010

From “Eight Days to Ouagaduougou” by Travis Healey

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Benedict was seated on an ammo crate, feet up. The tropical sun reflected off his Ray-Bans and the foil highlights on the Metallica shirt that peeked out from under his body armor.

“I don’t get it. The sunglasses, the t-shirt, the sneakers,” Cameron said. “You’re a professional. Why don’t you dress like one?”

“Does it really matter what I wear as long as they’re dead?” said Benedict. Seeing that wasn’t going to satisfy Cameron, he continued. “There are exactly two kinds of fighters out there. Those that’re intimidated by a uniform, and those that aren’t.”

“I…don’t follow.” Cameron said.

“I’m not here to intimidate anyone. You want to pay me for intimidation, fine. I’ll pour myself into a uniform, but it won’t come cheap. Otherwise, it’s better for my peace of mind and your bottom line if you let me dress however I please.” The sneer on Benedict’s face said that he’d given that speech before, and enjoyed it.

Cameron swallowed. “Point taken.”

“You think Lassiter’s out there wearing some itchy uniform instead of fighting comfortably?” Benedict said. He picked up a nearby magazine and began filling it with 9mm rounds. “Not bloody likely.”

 

September 26, 2010

From “The Society” by Anna James Froul

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“You’re got to be very careful of the open sky,” Tugu said. “Step out in the open, and they’ll have your position in ten to twenty seconds.”

“Satellites?” Richard said.

“Yes. Anything line of sight will give them a lock, and fast.”

Richard felt sweat prickle along the back of his hands. “What about inside? Or in a car? Hell, this tree can’t be much of a shield.”

Tugu nodded. “Cover only delays the lock. Doesn’t stop it. Stay in any one place too long–twenty-four to forty-eight hours–and they’ll get a lock. Once that happens…well, I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Can’t we get the tag removed?” Richard said.

“Surgery takes time, and you’ll more than likely be caught by then. Of course a few people have tried, but it’s tied into your central nervous system in a rough way. Most of the time, if you’re lucky, you’ll be quadriplegic. If you’re lucky.”

 

September 25, 2010

From “The Demise of the Santa Mayo Run” by Rebecca Isadore

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The best way to sooth restive passengers, Kayleigh had found, was with a little humor. A quick internet search was enough to turn up dozens of corny lines which she jotted down on notecards and trotted out whenever the occasion demanded.

The run to Santa Mayo was always rough due to the crosswinds that constantly buffeted the island’s airport and Trans-Pac’s refusal to bring in smaller planes. Santa Mayo was increasingly popular with tourists, so a smaller jet or turboprop wouldn’t have been economically feasible, or so they said. But it wasn’t Trans-Pac suits enduring the bone-crushing landing and braking on every hop, either.

That day the flight had been particularly vicious, with heavy turbulence caused by an incoming weather front buffeting the plane as it made the trip. Kayleigh had gone through almost her entire stash of notecard air travel jokes to calm alarmed mutters from the passengers, winding up with her very last card as the jet came in for a landing which rattled her to the teeth.

“Welcome to the Santa Mayo Regional Airport.” she said, fumbling with a card. “S-sorry about the bouncy landing; it’s not the captain’s fault. It’s not the co-pilot’s fault. It’s the asphalt.”

A few snickers, but the tension in the air was still high. Kayleigh pulled out another rough-landing card. “We ask you to please remain seated as Captain Kangaroo bounces us to the terminal.”

 

September 24, 2010

From “Old Poems” by Kenny Idlewild

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The sheet was parchment-thin and brittle to the touch; my great-grandfather’s signature was barely visible at the bottom and half of the dedication to my great-grandmother had broken away.

Was that ever me?
The shining eyes, the boundless energy I see?
The playful spirit, wide-eyed innocence
I see in the little ones over the fence.
It could have been, long ago.
But is it now? I do not know.
Are we the same person as we grow?
Or do we change, and does it show?
If I were there now, over the gate
Would I play, or simply wait
Showing my age, and all that’s gone by
As the years between me and they did fly

 

September 23, 2010

From “Lights of New Providence” by Phil “Stonewall” Pixa

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“It was a lovely ceremony,” Patrick said. “He finally got in death what he lacked in life–respect and a decent suit of clothes.”

“Don’t, please,” said Tricia. “I’m finally starting to put things back together, and I don’t need your meanness making things worse.”

“And that’s exactly why I feel free to be frank, now that some time’s passed. I didn’t say anything at the funeral, after all, out of respect.”

“Stop it,” Tricia said.

“All right, all right,” Patrick’s face softened. “I can see you’re still too upset for me to be my usual crusty self.”

Tricia nodded. “A lot’s been going on.”

“Enough that you need a vacation, eh? Foreman’s been working you too hard?”

“No.”

“Well, then, I’m not going to beat around the bush, Trish. Why’re you here? It’s certainly not for the pleasure of your brother’s company, or the hard mattress in his guest room. The company doesn’t give days off lightly, especially when it means taking a skiff back mid-route.”

Tricia glanced downward, her hands on her stomach. She didn’t need to say anything; Patrick could read her face as if it were one of the Thoreau volumes on his nightstand.

“Oh my God,” he said. “How long?”

“Four months,” Tricia said. “At least, that’s the best the ship’s doctor could say.”

“Is it…?”

“Of course it’s his,” Tricia said. Seeing the look on her brother’s face, she continued. “We were engaged, Pat! ”

“It’s still a sin, Tricia, until the priest asks you that question!”

“Don’t be like that,” she said. “Please. I can’t take it.”

 

September 22, 2010

From “Whirlpools” by Sean Iversone

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As consistent as the flowing tides are, is that frail thing some call the human mind. A catch-all, a spiritual jar; look through it–you can’t imagine what you’ll find. I find, when i look deep into myself, objects forgotten, people and places.

All waiting for the right time to be heard.

This same time last week I spoke with a soul, and the conversation got out of hand. Our words took root and our heads took to flight and we spoke out our minds ’til dawn’s first light. From policies to fallacies and more, from jarred daffodils to gold dill pickles, from the weather report to the whether retort. Of hearts broken, aching, sometimes attacked, of knots and not-to-be’s, and honeybees, one idea melting into the next.

I’m always surprised at where we end up, but I never regret what I’ve said

Talks like these let you see the inside of another person; what makes them tick. You’ve shared a part of yourself; they have too

But I don’t have many talks like that anymore.

 

September 21, 2010

From “Illiad at Gascon College” by Travers Joernen

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Elections for homecoming royalty were always a hazard, McClernan thought. The groups of sorority girls, always clad in matching too-big t-shirts in bold primary colors, relentlessly pushed their candidate of choice on hapless passersby and streamed across campus roads in droves. Strategically placed groups of women blocked every access point to campus and every thoroughfare between major buildings.

They were everywhere.

And they were well-prepared.

Drilled in late-night sessions over the past month, the pledges were prepared for every dodge and evasion that McClernand could summon.

A group of girls canvassing for Phi Qoppa’s candidate jumped him on the way in. “Vote for Brandy!”

“I”m a professor,” McClernand said. “I can’t vote.”

“Tell your students to vote for her after class, then!” They formed a human phalanx and wouldn’t let McClernand proceed until he’d taken a stack of fliers to pass out to his biology students.

Another group hovered near the cafeteria at lunchtime. “I’m a graduate student,” McClernand volunteered.

“We have a candidate for Graduate Council too!” they said as different fliers were unleashed.

Walking between Hurley Hall and Davis Hall, another group accosted him. “I’m just visiting,” he said.

“Tell your kids to vote for Mindy and the Qop Sigs!” the lead girl said.

“I don’t have any kids,” McClernand returned.

“Well, when you have some, tell them to vote Qop Sig.”

“I don’t ever plan on having kids. Can I go through?”

The head girl fixed McClernan with a steely, patrician glare. “Nephews? Nieces?”

By the time he arrived at Davis, McClernan had promised his niece Susan’s vote to three different sororities in perpetuity, despite the fact that Susan was three years old and in Connecticut.

 

September 20, 2010

From “Morning Weakness” by Horace T. Kelvin

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I’ve noticed a condition I call “morning weakness,” and while some of my more macho acquaintances insist that there’s no such thing, others have confirmed to me that it is a very real medical condition. Now I’m not exactly Samson even at my prime, but it’s my experience that immediately upon waking, and for ten to fifteen minutes afterwards, I’m weak as a kitten (though an abnormally large kitten could probably overpower me too).

Ordinarily this is an annoyance more than anything. Let’s face it: the heaviest thing most people need to lift after getting out of bed is a toothbrush. But on occasion it’s put me at a severe disadvantage. My little brother, for example, had a habit when he was younger of jumping on me in bed and initiated a wrestling match that would invariable leave me pinned and helpless–a particular humiliation for someone four years older than him!

It’s also inconvenient when there’s an emergency. On the day in question, I was roused from my sleep by the whine of the fire alarm. Ordinarily there would be no problem; my room was right near the apartment’s central stairwell and safety.

No, the problem was my backpack, overloaded with books and my laptop computer. Morning weakness had set in and, try as I might, I couldn’t lift it or any of the items inside.

 

September 19, 2010

From “The Swamp Terror” by Harris Pleneth

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The Company had set Davis up in a hovel, a house on the very edge of Kariton that had been for rent by the day, fully furnished. The town didn’t have a hotel, or even a motel–too small–but the suits weren’t willing to pay for a car and gas to get to Heysley, a half-hour away and the closest polity resembling a city.

From what Davis had been able to tell, Kariton functioned much as it had before becoming a Company test market. People came and went all day using the mass-transit teleporters just like a city bus, resorting to their personal cars only for larger loads. A few luddites refused to use them at all, and kids under 18 were forced to walk thanks to the Company’s legal department–big surprise. As an outsider, Davis found himself treated coolly. People were polite to his face but never seemed to go out of their way to be so when he wasn’t looking. Still, there were plenty who’d cross the street to avoid an encounter, and even a few who furtively followed him about.

But nothing really disconcerting happened until Tuesday morning, when a harsh knock at the door brought Davis running. No one was there, but something had been laid on the welcome mat, wrapped in paper. It was a comic book he remembered from his youth, The Adventures of the Swamp Terror about a horrifying plant-man and a ragtag group of hunters who battled him.

A message was scrawled across the cover: “You are dead, and the Swamp Terror lives.”

 

September 18, 2010

From “The Icons of Mistra” by Basil C. Palaeologus

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The fortress in Mistra heard of the fall of Constantinople and the death of their Emperor in battle during the sixth month of the siege. The Turks gave them the news under a flag of truce, from the lips of a captured and bloodied Byzantine official dragged there for that purpose. No doubt they thought that the fortress would surrender honorably if this fact was known by the men at arm garrisoned there. Not a day later a message arrived by ship from the Venetians, saying that there would be no reinforcement and no rescue; the Turks allowed that messenger safe passage as well.

At a council of war, the commander asked his subordinates what should be done: with no emperor, he held their oaths absolved and was willing to surrender if they willed it. Not a single one advocated the position.

Instead, the surviving men at arms who could fight donned their armor and unfurled their flags. The relics were spread among the sick and injured for safekeeping. And, at dawn, the fortress gate was opened.

The commander and his men marched out resplendent, to the tune of a Greek march played by a few of the more able wounded on the ramparts. Weapons and armor glistening from a night of spit and polish, the defenders hurled themselves at the Turkish lines, ignoring the cannons and tens upon thousands of men arrayed against them.

They were slaughtered to a man, though the ferocious battle took many of the besiegers with it–far greater casualties than had been anticipated if the walls had been breached and the stronghold stormed. In retaliation, the men remaining within the fortress were slaughtered, with only the few women and children inside spared.

The icons were lost in the ensuing melee, and have never been recovered.

 

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