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 17, 2010

From “Chance Trajectories” by C. G. Iverson

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Things had a funny way of happening in town, and this was as good an example as any you’re likely to find.

“Slim” Whitemore, a local stockyard worker, was out leaning on the local Greyhound bus building. He’d just gotten what was left of his paycheck after alimony and garnishments and was nursing a forty in a plain paper sack as local statutes demanded. Thing is, he was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans he’d bought secondhand–not unlike the outfit favored by one Davis Cunningham, especially when you throw in the John Deere cap and long afternoon shadows.

The brother of Davis’ ex-wife happened to be passing by on the other side of the street, and mistook Slim for his erstwhile brother-in-law. This led to some rather uncomplimentary remarks being exchanged. Slim, never a particularly subtle man even when sober, responded in kind. Then he pulled out the .45 revolver he kept for putting down diseased stock at the yard, and things started getting interesting.

A pistol’s not too accurate at that range in the best of circumstances, and tipsy trigger finger doesn’t do much to improve things. Despite emptying all five loaded cylinders, Slim didn’t come close to hitting his target. And if that had been all there was to tell, it might not have gotten any further than that–a story people told when they saw Slim sauntering into Carrie’s Red Dot, maybe.

But Slim and Davis’ ex-brother-in-law weren’t the only people on the square that day.

 

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 6, 2010

From “The Shameless Beggars of SMU” by Kelly Clarke O’Donnell

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“This is the Southern Michigan University Alumni Association calling for Geraldine Thompson. May I speak with her?” Kelly ran through her spiel by rote, flipping through the list of people still to be panhandled.

One name in the J’s popped out immediately: Gregory Johansen.

“Shit!” Kelly said, forgetting that her headset was most definitely not muted.

“I beg your pardon?” Geraldine Thompson huffed. She’d been in the midst of a long-winded denial that Kelly had tuned out.

Eyes wide, Kelly killed the call. “Damn you Johansen…not just content to ruin your own call, are you?

Johansen’d had a rough time at the university, attending as he did from 1966-70 for undergrad and 70-72 for his MBA. SMU had been a minor center of the counterwar and counterculture during that time, leading to violent protests and the suspension of most facets of campus life. There’d been no homecoming in ’67, ’68, or ’69, no football games in ’68 or ’70, and the graduation ceremonies in ’68 and ’72 had been canceled due to bomb threats.

As a result, Johansen bore a heavy grudge against SMU as an institution and against his fellow students, past and present, in particular. His wide-ranging diatribes to SMU Alumni Association solicitors to the effect that they could have his money when he got his stolen pomp and circumstance back were legendary for their ferocity. But he was an alumni nevertheless, and loaded to boot, and so remained on the list. For all his venom, Johansen’s number was openly listed; Kelly was of the opinion that he relished the opportunity to bring the “hippie students” soliciting funds down a peg or two.

 

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?

 

June 19, 2010

From “Ownership” by Gale S. Meyers

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Mack was the kind of person who always walked around in a cloud of cigar smoke–as if the other business he was involved in wasn’t enough, he loved to clench death-sticks between those fat lips of his and give people cancer. I sometimes wondered if he even really smoked at all, or if he just pulled out a cigar, as big around as his fingers and just as brown and weathered, to impress people. A cigar says power, money, influence. A cigar says ‘I’m the kind of guy you don’t screw with–you default on one of my loans, I break your kneecaps and shove this stogie in your crotch.’

None of that would bother me, of course, if I hadn’t been trying to kick the habit myself. Cigars and cigarettes aren’t the same, as any smoke snob will tell you, but that aroma was enough to make me reach for my empty breast pocket, where the cowboy-killers used to be. I rolled a stick of gum up and stuck it where a cig should have gone.

Mack laughed, dredging up a gallon of phlegm from deep inside his stout frame. “Ain’t you gonna light up?” he said. “Them Bubble Yum brand cigs, they sure pack a wallop.”

I laughed too–with Mack, you laughed when he did, whether what he said was funny or not.

“So, anyway, the old prick drops dead. Literally. Right there in his goddamn workshop. His kid found him there the next morning, at the bench, lookin’ like he was asleep.”

“Heart attack?” I asked, trying to sound interested, even though I didn’t know Karol Kazdemu from Joan of Arc. It’s always a tragedy when somebody dies–in the abstract. But if you don’t know ‘em, the most people can muster is a vague sorry feeling before they forget all about it. It doesn’t pay to dwell too much on death anyway.

“Stroke.” Mack gestured at Sunday’s Times, crumpled on his coffee table. “The obituary was very specific–I bet that was his doing.”

“Terrible tragedy,” I replied. “What’s it got to do with us?”

Mack took a fresh drag from his cigar and exhaled, filling the room anew with that sweet, dusky smell. My mouth tightened; God, I wanted a cigarette.

“For most people, yeah, stroke’s a terrible tragedy all right. But not Karol. For him, a stroke means he weaseled his way out of payin’ me back.”

 

June 12, 2010

From “The Resurrection of Bethany Mitchell” by Sonya Bridget Pierce

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Everything was bright colors, smiling faces, and infectious salsa music.

Donovan stood up on the bar to address the assemblage. “My friends!” he cried. “Through adversity and times of utmost trial, we have persevered. Now is the time to wash all that away with laughter.”

I weaved my way through the crowd, unable to keep from grinning or bobbing a little to the music. Sanderson was there, and Lowell, still arguing over their silly real estate development. Mary’d had her baby, finally, and Sean was beside her with pictures, flashing them to all passersby whether or not they demonstrated a speck of interest. Even Richard sat at the bar, having an animated conversation with some minor functionary while liquor flowed freely into glass after glass.

The person I’d most wanted to see, though, wasn’t at the bar or on the dance floor but on the balcony outside, alone.

“Tell me something, Bethany,” Karl said at my approach. “How do they do it? Celebrate in there, after everything that’s happened? Everyone we lost? Is it wrong that I don’t want to drink and dance after that?”

I handed over my drink, which he gratefully drained, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “The way I see it, they’re all in there with everyone else. Kim’s at the bar ordering another one of those ridiculous mixed drinks of hers, the kind with no alcohol. Mark’s hitting on anything without a ring on as well as a few that do. The others as well. I think you can see it too, if you look hard enough.”

Karl nodded. “If there was anyplace out there they’d be, at least in spirit, it’s here,” he sniffed. “They wouldn’t want me out here moping like a refugee from a spring prom.”

“I don’t either,” I said. “C’mon, let’s go back to our friends. Alive or dead, everyone’s together tonight.”

 

June 11, 2010

From “The Goddess in the Woods” by Angela Balment

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“Why do you think everyone is being so cagey? They’re protecting something.”

Kevin waved his arm, but the fever-addled could manage only a feeble swat.

Fiona continued, never breaking her gaze. “This is bigger than you realize. Maybe bigger than you can realize.”

“You…you’re just a fever dream…” Kevin mumbled weakly.

“Who’s that you’re talking to?” Marcia said in the next room. “You need your rest!”

“No. This place, that’s the fever dream. The tortured hallucinations of something we can’t comprehend.” Fiona approached, hand outstretched. “Come with me.”

“No…no,” moaned Kevin. “I’m not listening anymore. Even my own subconscious won’t give me a straight answer.”

Her stare didn’t waver, but Fiona began to grow agitated. “I’m trying to save you, can’t you understand that? What does the truth matter if you can’t understand it?”

“No…”

Marcia entered the room carrying a stack of hot towels. “These’ll have you right as rain soon enough. Who were you talking to?”

“F-Fiona…”

“Well, you’re in a bad state now, but not so bad as to be talking to the dead.”

 

June 10, 2010

From “The Stripe” by Kevin MacCullen

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The city was beautiful at night. At precisely 7:00, the lights would switch on and shine into the darkness, creating an island of light. They glinted off the calm waters of the bay, they cascaded over the low buildings, and they cast eerie shadows on the hill overlooking the city. One structure in particular, tall and thin, cast a gigantic dark line over the hill and the complex of buildings perched atop it. Because of this, the inhabitants called the whole area “the Stripe.”

And standing on the Stripe, illuminated from ahead by the city lights and behind by the rising moon, stood a lone man, a sentinel. A casual glance would’ve revealed nothing aside from his alert pose, but a more discerning observer could’ve noticed his sharp military tunic and the rifle slung over his shoulder. A cigarette, its tiny glow accentuating the contours of his face, completed the picture.

He’d been on watch for hours, and wasn’t to be relieved for another three. No one in his unit wanted the graveyard shift; it was dull and cold. He always volunteered for it, though: the graveyard shift was quiet, and nothing ever happened. The “sunshine shift,” however, was another story. The guard smiled, thinking of his mates dealing with the crowds that invariably formed around the compound gates. Along with jeers and insults, the malcontents usually threw stones too.

It was odd, he thought. His unit guarded the Stripe, but no one knew what it was they were really protecting. He had his own ideas, of course, but they were of the un-soldierly type: research lab, weapons development, government offices, and so on. That was one odd thing about the job, the guard thought again. No one knew what they were guarding.

A sudden movement to the right caught the sentry’s eye. Unslinging his rifle, he took one last puff on his smoke and crushed it with his bootheel.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

As if in response, a loud clatter sounded to his rear. Whirling around, he fired blindly into the darkness. Cursing himself for wasting ammunition, the guard fumbled for his flashlight. Its brutal, high-powered beam revealed a metal can, old and rusted, lying on its side with a bullet hole through it.

He’d only been staring at the can for a moment when he heard a soft but distinct “whump” behind him. The guard turned, only to see that a small dart had embedded itself in his forearm. He yelped and ripped it out, trying to illuminate it with the flashlight’s beam. Even as he did so, his eyes began to water, and a feeling of calm passed over him. He struggled to aim as a figure stepped into the beam, but collapsed in a heap as another figure appeared at his back.

 

May 22, 2010

From “LD 50” by Harriet Osborn

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The victim was splayed out in the short grass next to the cornfield, just short of a grove of trees. The scene buzzed with activity as half a dozen people swarmed around the body, taking photographs, making notes, occasionally looking away as the view became too graphic.

Dr. Theodore Danna was onsite, moving slowly through the tumult and dispensing observations and advice. The group was raw, no doubt about that, but they went about their work with a wet-behind-the-ears enthusiasm that brought a thin smile to Danna’s face.

Rusty brakes squealed behind him as an official-looking vehicle move up the farm’s long, winding drive. Danna quickly pulled one of his crew aside, wanting to look busy. Whenever the higher-ups could bring themselves to visit (it did take a strong stomach), it was always best to be talking to someone, using plenty of scientific terms, so the interloper would be quite sure Dr. Danna was on the job instead of kicking back to watch corpses decompose with a tall drink at his elbow. After all, somebody who worked with them had to enjoy the gore on some level, right? Nevermind that TNT showed worse on its movie-of-the-night.

“So, Paula,” Danna said to a young woman hovering near the head of the victim. “What’ve you observed so far?”

Paula was always uncomfortable in the field; she’d come in with visions of sexy adventure right out of TV’s CSI, and the mundane yet alien quality of corpses seemed to shake her. “Well, I’ve noted quite a few Sarcophagidae, a few Staphylinidae, and Calliphoridae on the clothing. Flesh flies, rover beetles, and blowflies, if you want layman’s terms.”

“Always better to keep the two together,” Danna said. “It helps you sound smart without losing people. What would you estimate for the post-mortem interval? How long since the little guy bit it?”

Pamela squirmed, and Danna saw an approaching figure in a uniform from the corner of his eye. “I’d give a PDI of sixteen to eighteen hours.”

Danna was about to reply when he heard someone clear their throat behind him. Turning, he saw a thin, pasty-looking man in a Department of Natural Resources uniform a few paces away.

“Dr. Danna?”

“That’s me. And you are…?”

“Shapiro, Nate Shapiro, Tecumseh County DNR. I’m…not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, no, of course not. Just letting the kids have a go at a murder victim.”

Shapiro glanced at the figure on the ground. “It’s a monkey in a track suit.”

 

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