September 1, 2010

From “Gazebo Memories” by Peter K. Leiding

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It wasn’t the safest place, or the warmest, or the one that stirred the most memories. Those were all spoken for.

But, nonetheless, it was my place.

I sat in the gazebo swing, watching tiny clouds of rust thrown up as the long-still chains moved–as silently as when they were new and freshly oiled. The early autumn sun came in streamers through the trees above and the gaps in the old wooden roof, illuminating a ballet of dust motes that swirled around me.

As a youngster, I’d never been able to understand Dad’s fascination with the gazebo–the long summer afternoons he spent building it, painting it, lovingly planting the trees that now dwarfed it. It had been many things for me growing up: a rocket ship, a fortress, a pirate schooner. But never just a gazebo in the furthest corner of our yard.

It wasn’t until he was gone that I got a better sense of the place. When the time came to clean out his things, Mom had let me do it–too many memories, she said–and I’d found a picture of Dad with his parents. He couldn’t have been more than four or five, and they were posing together on an old gazebo, the very twin of the one I now sat in.

They’d had to sell that house when things had gotten rough after the war, but Dad had seen to it that I had the chance for the same lazy summer memories that he did.

 

August 28, 2010

From “Reed Dolls of the Soul” by Nokin Kobayashi, translated and adapted by Irene York

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It so happened that the farm of Yuan Wei Tao grew prosperous in a fertile river valley. This prosperity gave Wei Tao the opportunity to indulge in his passions of basketry, pottery, and calligraphy. He was particularly adept at creating dolls out of reeds, which he would give small clay faces and wrap in a poem. Sold at the market in the nearby city, Wei Tao’s dolls were regarded as good luck charms and made particularly favored gifts for teachers, scholars, and firstborn sons. Despite success with his art, Wei Tao always considered himself a farmer first, and always worked his time in the fields before he would allow himself to indulge his fancies.

Wei Tao had a young wife named Xue Ying, and it was for her that the greatest and most intricate of the farmer’s creations were reserved. Though childless, they shared a great and noble love and could often be seen working the fields together alongside laborers and cousins. Xue Ying’s beauty was renowned throughout the river valley, as was the overwhelming devotion she showed for her husband and neighbors. But one day it came to pass that an ox broke free of its plow and trampled Xue Ying beneath his hooves, killing her instantly.

Distraught, Wei Tao withdrew himself from the world. He concealed Xue Ying’s death, convincing others that she was merely badly injured and under his care. In his despair, Wei Tao crafted the finest doll he had ever created and offered it to the Heavenly Grandfather with a poem begging to be honorably reunited with his beloved. His devotion moved the heavens, and a celestial doll appeared on Wei Tao’s doorstep wrapped in instructions.

Wei Tao created a reed doll in the shape and form of Xue Ying, and filled it with poems of the highest quality describing her life and nature. Then, using a process revealed to him by the Heavenly Grandfather, Wei Tao covered the doll in living clay. This new Xue Ying awoke, was to the eyes of Wei Tao as she had ever been. But the celestial doll had borne a warning: though possessing her form and imbued with her spirit, the new Xue Ying was still but straw and clay.

Wei Tao and Xue Ying lived their lives as they had before, but Wei Tao did not heed the Heavenly Grandfather’s caution and once again worked the fields with his beloved. As she carried heavy burdens, the living clay on Xue Ying’s back gradually thinned until a laborer noticed the bare reeds poking out from beneath her clothing. Thus was the doll’s nature revealed to the valley and also to Xue Ying herself.

 

August 25, 2010

From “The Storm Cell Inside” by William Thompson Gills

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All night I’d felt the beginnings of a panic attack…that lightness of head and tightness of chest, that feeling of being closed in no matter how wide-open the space, that sudden spasm of dread for things that shouldn’t be fearful.

Television didn’t help. I trembled too much to write. Pacing only made things worse. On the theory that fresh air might do the trick, I strolled all of five feet outside my front door to watch the cooling remnants of the sunset and watch Venus rise. It didn’t have the intended effect, especially not when one of the neighbors brought their unleashed rat-dog by. Having tiny, ceaselessly aggressive creatures about one’s ankles is only slightly less relaxing than the stoned twentysomething behind it who insists the squealing monster is friendly.

It wasn’t always like that. The last panic attack I could remember was at summer camp when I was fourteen; a violent tornadic storm blew in and I was convinced we were all going to die. We well might have too–a nearby housing development was ravaged by the twister that only brushed us. Compared to that, my house in the PM was a picture of safety and stability.

Maybe that’s what the rising bile in my throat was trying to tell me. It may be that, for the first time in my comfortable life, I felt suffocated by the very atmosphere I’d long sought to cultivate.

 

August 22, 2010

From “Long-Distance Grammar” by Tom J. Esteban

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I didn’t know his–or her–real name, but they were one of my favorite online correspondents–not least because they, like me, tried to maintain capitalization and punctuation even in the anything-goes milieu of the ‘net. Most of our conversations tended to revolve around spelling, pronunciation, and other lexical matters, come to think of it. Any other conversation tended to arrive at that point rather quickly.

daleksex89: I must admit I was impressed you got my username’s reference back in the dark days when so few Americans had seen the programme.

tiberiusjk01: “Programme?” I can’t get over seeing it spelled that way. All those unnecessary letters at the end. Couldn’t you spell it my way and save yourself two keystrokes?

daleksex89: Couldn’t you spell it the proper way at the cost of two necessary keystrokes? You make the effort for capitals and full stops, so why not spell properly while you’re about it?

tiberiusjk01: What’s incorrect about American spelling? It’s much more concise.

daleksex89: Oh, I think American spelling is adorable. So earnestly phonetic, like a child’s letters on an icebox door, with no regard given etymology and history.

tiberiusjk01: And I think British spellings are like an old bottle of snake oil patent medicine, all old-fashioned and hoity-toity just for the sake of appearances. It’s…what’s the word…quaint. Or should that be “kwaynt?”

 

August 20, 2010

From “The Headache Lands” by Travers Joliet

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The next morning, Kevin couldn’t find it in himself to crawl out of bed for so much as a glass of water. His temples pounded mercilessly in what he might have called an ‘uber-headache’ had he been able to so organize his thoughts. Half-hangover, half-migrane, it made the soft lights and sounds of the waking world outside the bedroom all but unbearable. Despite a parched throat and chapped lips, Kevin was too weak to get the bottle of water at his bedside, much less sip from it. And even then the sunshine streaming through the closed blinds and the rustling of the blankets would have been more unbearable than thirst.

People came and went downstairs all day–it was impossible to miss the nuclear detonations that accompanied each footfall, door slam, and idling motor in the driveway. No one could be bothered to check in on poor old Kevin, but in many ways that was a blessing in disguise. A conversation–or, heaven forbid, a hospital visit–would have reaped more in agony than it sowed in goodwill.

 

August 14, 2010

From “Dammerung” by Georg Schuller

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Matthias Becker had almost made it to the front door when his wife confronted him.

“Who are those flowers for?” she asked. Without allowing space for an answer, she continued. “Matthias, are you seeing someone?”

Her husband laughed. “Anke, I’m seventy years old. I’ve hair where it shouldn’t be and none where it should and I’ve got enough extra skin to make a small child with some left over. I’m not rich enough to be seeing anyone like this.”

“Then who are the flowers for?” Anke pressed.

She was getting to be like this more and more often, always suspicious and full of questions. “They’re for my father.”

“That’s awfully sentimental of you,” Anke said grudgingly. “Stop at the Edeka for some coffee on your way back.”

The handful of tulips from Matthias’ garden looked lovely in front of Uwe Becker’s headstone; his son couldn’t remember the last time he’d come to visit or gone to a service in the chapel in the distance.

“Surprised to see me, eh Father?” Matthias said. “I admit, I haven’t been by much, and I’m sorry. You remember how Anke and the boys and I used to come by after the mass, don’t you? No mass, and the idea just sort of slips our mind.”

The granite didn’t reply, of course, but Matthias envisioned his father seated behind it, semitransparent, silent and thoughtful. Not the husk that lung cancer had claimed in 1977, either, but rather the barrel-chested man that had always swept his only son onto his shoulders, even when the boy had outgrown it.

 

August 4, 2010

From “The Gemstone in Blue” by Alice F. Torvald

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Dan circled around the periphery of the group that had sprung up about Sandy. They were discussing her outfit for the evening–specifically the large, blue stone danging from a silver chain encircling her neck.

“It’s just so unique!” An onlooker said, ogling the jewel. “Is it a blue diamond?”

“It’s not just about uniqueness, but also value and perception,” Sandy said airily. “The price of diamonds has been kept artificially high for almost a century by the great southern African cartels. That, combined with a PR campaign worthy of any great commodity, has served to make them the Wal-Mart of gemstones: commercialized, callous, overpriced, even ruinous to some.”

The questioner, who sparked with several diamonds of her own, faded into the crowd. Dan tried to line himself up for a good, casual snapshot as Sandy moved under a good light source.

“This is benitoite, one of the rarest gemstones in the world,” Sandy said. “It’s only found in one place, and most of it is used for research. Only a tiny amount is gemstone quality; few are cut, and fewer still sold.”

She was lined up perfectly; what’s more, the stone glowed with an almost unholy light. Its blue overpowered the red tones in Sandy’s skin, giving her an elegant, icy quality through the viewfinder.

“This may just be the only gem-quality benitoite being worn anywhere right now,” Sandy said. “That’s what attracted me.” Dan’s camera snapped as she spoke, fixing the moment in amber. He should have been thinking about his editor, or the freelancer contacts he still had from the old days, and how much the snap could sell for.

Instead, he was entranced by the stone and its wearer, such that he all but joined the crowd of hollow worshippers thronging around her.

 

August 2, 2010

From “The Star Lighthouse” by Kendra Clementine Smith

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Isn’t it wonderful to sit out, late at night, and watch the stars?

Of course, you probably haven’t.

Few have, anymore.

The night sky is one of the things modernity has taken away from us, and the ever-lit nature of our lives is not going away. Let’s face it—darkness is frightening and dangerous. But like many such things, it is also beautiful, a windswept wonder spelled out by celestial candles.

After a fleeting glimpse of what few glowing points make it through the humming fluorescent veil, who hasn’t wished they could lay out in an open field away from everything? What a simple pleasure it could be, watching the night sky spin overhead with no distractions save those found in nature and a soft piano tune in mind?

 

July 31, 2010

From “A Gamer’s Thoughts at 5am” by Anonymous

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A certain young man once bought a video game, despite its glowing reviews and rabid fans on the inter-web. Putting it in, he soon noticed a curious occurrence–the hour and minute hand on his wristwatch seemed to spin somewhat faster than before, and the cosmic ballet above his humble abode proceeded to dance doubletime as night followed day dar quicker than it ought. The young man was as a starving man at a banquet, ever craving more until the last drop was savored and done.

Upon finishing and feeling the solemn pride that comes with victory (as well as the bittersweet taste that comes with the end of many things), the young man went outside and spoke of his experience to friends.

“You have wasted your time!” said they. “While you lolled about in front of a screen, you could have been composing a sonnet, or painting a picture. We have been reading great works, and singing songs, and living, while you have been shackled to your set with the vacant stare of a simpleton?”

The young man thought on this. At length, he replied: “The worlds I have visited are no less unreal than any I could read or create myself. They are all equal in their untruth. And I am as inspired as I have ever been; a dozen new worlds may have their origins in that which I have seen, those for whom I have cared, though they be not real.”

Some were swayed by these words, others not. But the young man soon acted on them, and proved, at least to himself, that he had spoken truly.

 

June 24, 2010

From “Elementalism and Other Small Town Activities” by H. J. Yorktowne

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Danya wasn’t terribly good with firearms, but the rules of her order forbade open use of elemental power among the uninitiated (she, along with many of the younger initiates, glibly referred to this as the “Harry Potter Rule”). Many cantrips involved a small projectile, a sudden burst of speed, and maybe a flash and crack for theatricality–not unlike a gunshot.

So by loading a pistol with blanks and heading down to the Rio de Janiero shooting range (creatively named after the January River that wound through downtown Sutton, Ohio), was a way to practice in public without much suspicion. And, if an assailant threatened on a lonely winter’s night, who could have told the difference between a clean gunshot and an Invocation of Stony Ignition and Animation?

She was enjoying herself, and attempting to draw a star on the paper target using Invocations of Base Metals From Air combined with Invocations of Airy Speed, when a shooter in the next booth leaned over.

“You have wonderful aim. Where’d you learn to handle a pistol?”

 

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