Down in the Dirt Revealing all you Dirty Little Secrets... Cut Up the Women Michelle Greenblatt “It’s a story as common as a penny, son-- I don’t think it’s worth anything to anyone.” Ani di franco At 78 rapes per hour i’d say as a country we’re coming Along nicely If you’d like to cut Up the women that’s 1.3 a minute I’m a cut up woman Undone and unstitched the man (men later on ) was so unsorry i was 31 per cent of the women who suffered Rr-ptsd (rape related-post traumatic stress disorder) the first man I’d say after i was pretty stressed but after the second year it was rather Routine the second man i was just delirious i think i was seeing things Definitely i saw a Gun I was twice One Of 1/3 of women who will be assaulted in her life as a country We’re doing quite nicely we’re well acquainted with our rapists 78 per Cent of us know us our attackers that’s nice for us at least we can say hi 3.24.2005 Statistics taken from the help line, usa inc. I Don’t Belong Here Cheryl Lynn Moyer Drunk on home-grown whiskey mash and hate He spat in my face, “You don’t belong here” From thin quivering white lips and bulging red eyes He waved his loaded revolver directly at my head Testing the length and breath of my resolve Sadly - I consoled him with the truth You have nothing to fear When they finally receive their government checks They will be forced to deposit them in white-owned banks Once the funds clear, they will spend it on Cars from white-owned dealerships Clothing, appliances, furniture, groceries, and construction materials All from white-owned businesses Then they’ll be back to struggling for survival again With all that sweet government money In your accounts, not theirs He slowly smiled with rotting teeth and lowered the gun He offered me a nice job, if I wanted to stay around awhile I thanked him but said no, he was right the first time I don’t belong here The Thought Sandra E. Waldron Lisa held her hands to her ears; hot tears slid profusely down her cheeks. If only Rob would hush. No matter how hard she tried to please him, nothing was ever good enough. Right now, he was yelling because the dinner she’d slaved for hours over was cold. But whose fault was it? -- certainly not hers. He had come home late, drunk, as usual. He was far from perfect. So, what gave him the right to yell at her?” “Get in here and take my steak and warm it!” he bellowed in his hateful – despised by her – voice. She sucked in air. “Yes … Yes … ” His gritty-red eyes met hers with a glare. “What ya snifflin’ at? Some kind of wife you are … can’t keep my dinner warm. “It was hot when I cooked it four hours ago,” she snapped, not believing her sudden burst of courage. She’d never spoke up to him before. She had been too afraid. “That does it!” he snarled. “I … I didn’t mean it, Rob. I’m sorry. Please!” She ducked automatically, expecting to be hit. “I didn’t mean it.” “Too late. You already said it. Think you’re smart, eh? Well, I’ll take care of your grocery money from now on. Never trusted ya with it anyway.” “But … But …” she knew he would blow it on beer, and Timmy needed new sneakers for kindergarten. “Rob!” “Shut up! Get in there and warm my steak!” With shaking white hands – fork rattling against the porcelain plate – she took the dinner to the kitchen. If only she had one of those microwaves, it would make life a little easier, then she wouldn’t have to listen to him nag about his supper being cold. She rinsed out the skillet, plopped the steak back in, spooned the mashed potatoes into their pot and turned the burners on. Something in the sink sparkled – reflected sunlight from the kitchen window – so bright it blinded her temporarily … all silvery and shimmering. She closed the blinds so she could see. It was the butcher knife Rob had given her for Christmas. That was all he’d given her. He never bought her anything she wanted, desired, or needed – always something for the kitchen or house, something for wifely chores. Rob’s mumbling brought her back to the here and now. “Stupid female,” he said. “That woman ain’t worth the money it takes to feed her. Whimperin’, snifflin’, little slut.” More tears glossed her eyes. He was drunk! How dare he! The knife twinkled, enticingly, as though saying “take me”. She stared, hypnotized. It was actually a work of great art, of beauty, so smooth and bright. She envisioned herself picking it up and slowly, ever so slowly, walking to the living room, then, when Rob wasn’t looking, she would come down with it, stab him in the back, neck, chest, legs, any and everywhere. Her hands flew to her face. “Dear God! What am I thinking?” “What’s takin’ ya so long, woman?” She jerked and turned. He had slipped up behind her. Not fair. He’d been so quiet. How could a fumbling, stumbling drunk be so quiet? “It’s almost ready, honey,” she said softly, not looking at him, feeling guilty for her dark thoughts. “Now, it’s honey, is it?” he snorted. “Ya know ya ain’t gettin’ your money – God only knows what ya blow it on – you’ve decided to be nice.” “I never blow money!” “Yeah? Yeah? Tell me why there’s never enough to pay the bills?” “Your beer.” There, she thought. She had finally said it. “Bull!” He snatched a cold one from the refrigerator. “Buy the cheapest off-brand there is. Ya ain’t gonna blame me!” He thumbed his chest and swayed at the same time. Another beer is what you don’t need, she thought, wishing he would fall. “Where’s Timmy?” She’d been waiting for him to ask. “He’s spending the week with my mother. She picked him up early this morning.” He swaggered around to face her. “Without asking me if it was all right?” “I really didn’t think you would care.” “Look … I’m his father.” “You never pay any attention to him. Unless it’s to yell at him.” He gave her an icy stare, laid his head back and gulped down half his beer. It drooled down his unshaven chin. He straightened his head to normal position, red-veined eyes still glaring. She turned away. Disgusting! “Feeling high and mighty today, aren’t ya?” Her eyes fell to the sparkling knife again, so pretty and smooth, so keenly sharp. She wondered why she’d never realized how beautiful it was, until today. “You haven’t answered me!” “It’s the last week of summer vacation, Rob. He’s been wanting to stay with Grandma all summer. I didn’t see any harm. Besides, it’ll do him good to get away for a little while.” “Get away from me, ya mean. He stumbled off to watch TV. Exactly what I mean, you drunken slob! After she took Rob’s supper in to him, she went to take her bath. She stepped into the silky warmth and laid her head against the cool surface of the tub. She’d barely closed her eyes when she thought of the knife. It was like it was beckoning to her, wanting her, to use it. The thought scared her. Crazy! She wasn’t a murderer. No matter how much she hated Robert, she couldn’t kill him – or could she? She tried to push her mind into other things. The knife always returned, as though it had a will all its own. Again, she found herself thinking of what it would be like to plunge that fine blade into his alcohol-saturated, reeking body. She could picture crimson liquid spilling out of his torso, open wounds gaping raw, could see him lying in a pool of his own blood. And there would be a look of absolute horror on his face. The corner of her mouth crooked up in a little smile. It would be so pleasant if … No! She had to stop this. Stop it now! She yanked the chain on the plug and got out of the tub. Rest was what she needed. She’d take a couple of Advil and go to bed. Tomorrow, she would feel better, be able to think clearly. She wasn’t a killer. No … nonsense. Rob had fallen into a drunken stupor on the sofa. She was glad. He stunk. She went to bed. For some reason she wasn’t sure of, she woke in the middle of the night. All was quiet. She couldn’t even hear Rob snoring his inebriated snore. She flipped back her covers and pulled herself out of bed. She stopped. The knife! Lying on the dresser! How did it get it here? She raised her arms, suspending them momentarily, halfway between her waist and shoulders, then drew them up, placing her fingers to her temples, pressing hard, trying to think. Her mind was still a fog from sleep. Rob! Yes! He put it there. But then … if he did, he knew what she’d been thinking. No! That was impossible. Still, how did it get there? Now, she was mad. She snatched the knife up and went to the living room. All was still dark. She relaxed when she saw Rob was still asleep on the sofa, looking all gray and cool from the moonlight drifting in through the windows. Maybe she had taken the knife to the bedroom and left it on the dresser? Her nerves. Yes. It was her nerves. Stress. Made a person do weird things. God knew she suffered from far too much. Sure, she must have taken it there. She went to the kitchen to get more Advil. She stood silently in the kitchen, watching soft shadows dancing on the night walls, drinking water to wash down the pills. The knife was still in her possession. A trickle of moonlight hit the lovely blade. Now, it would be so easy … she thought. But – Yes! It would be over so quick, just a few minutes, seconds maybe. She’d wipe the blood off. Say someone broke in the house while they were asleep. They’d believe her – the police. She’d never done anything wrong in her life. Her friends and family would support her. She would be free! It was as though her feet made her mind up for her. Slowly, her right foot slipped a bit forward, then her left. She found herself inching into the living room, arm raised, knife high. She approached from behind his head, which was resting on the arm of the couch, covered by his blanket. He was so still. She knew she must not wait any longer. She took a long, slow, deep breath, then furiously drove the knife down into his chest. Again and again, she stabbed, crying, laughing, crying then laughing, cackling. Then she stopped. Something wrong. He’d never made any sound, not even the faintest of moans. She grabbed the blanket and yanked it back. “Noooooooooo!” Nothing but pillows. “Looking for me?” he said from behind her. She swung around wildly. “You! You knew!” “Yes, Lisa.” “How? I don’t understand. How?” She shook violently. Now, she’d never be free. Never! He’d have her locked away for good, forever, and he’d have Timmy. God! she thought. He’ll have Timmy! “You can come on in, now,” he said, seeming to speak to someone other than her. He was staring at the front door. Now, she was really confused. The door swung wide and two policemen stepped in. Enraged, she screamed like a banshee and flung herself at Rob with the knife, desperately trying to stab him. He caught her wrist. She couldn’t pull away; he was too strong. “Timmy! You can’t have Timmy!” she screamed. “Lisa, you don’t remember, do you?” “Huh? Remember what?” “Timmy’s dead. Timmy and your mother. You killed both of them. You told me you did. Remember?” She was still and silent for a moment, grasping to understand, then said, “No! You’re crazy!” “I thought about covering for you … but I can’t.” “Liar!” She kicked him, but he didn’t flinch. “They didn’t go anywhere. You stabbed them with this knife and stuffed them in you mother’s car, drove it to the edge of town and took the city bus back…. Remember?” “No! No! No! No!” She pulled back and forth, side to side, flapping like a fish out of water. His grip was far too strong. “I knew something was wrong when I couldn’t reach your mother on her cell last night. She always answers. And, she’s always home. When I expressed my concern, you told me that you had killed them.” “Idiot! You killed my son! I’d never kill my own kid … or my mother!” She tried to pull away again, couldn’t, then tried to stab him while he held her wrist. “No … Lisa,” he said firmly. “Not I. You! You imagined I was drunk … imagined it because you wanted to believe it. I should have taken Timmy away from here years ago – but I’ve always loved you so much. I couldn’t. Now, I wish, I had.” He shook his head sadly and looked at the policemen, expectantly. “You’ve seen enough, haven’t ya?” The officers nodded, grabbed her, snapped handcuffs on her wrists, then led her out the door. After the black-and-white pulled away, Rob went to the refrigerator. “Ah!” He helped himself to a cold beer and went to the living room, flipped the television on and sat back in his favorite recliner. Slowly, a grin spread across his face. Lisa didn’t speak to the policemen. She didn’t speak to them in the station, either. She never spoke to anyone again. Secrets William Wright I feel like I can trust you. Or maybe I’m just not concerned about hurting you, or being hurt by you, since I don’t really know you. We’ve never even slept together. I’m uncircumcised. I used to mind, but now I kind of like it. It gives my dick character. I’m addicted to nasal spray. Jester Jaime Anastasiow He lay on the cold marble table. His face was twitching, his paws fitfully moving as if chasing a mouse in his dreams. He wasn’t an animal to her; he was her life. Some women went home to their husbands, or children, or both, she went home to her cat. It was the best time of Vera’s day, the best time of her life really. She couldn’t be happier with the way things were. Vera figured being married would just muck up her plans. She was slowly climbing the corporate ladder. She wanted her own house; she even had her cat’s room all planned out. Jester would have a windowsill to sit on during the day so he could bask in the wonderful California sun. She would come home to the blissful music of a purring, sun kissed cat. He was the most unique cat she’d ever encountered: beautifully striped and strong like a sphinx. His soft fur trailed from his eyes down to the tip of his nose in a white and brown pattern, which left a brown spot like a soft furry freckle. His paws were framed with white like little mittens. She watched Jester breathe as his body moved up and down, rhythmically. This was truly a creature of God, she thought. So beautiful, lean, and strong like a loving protector of a kingdom. Vera dreamily thought that with a cat there’s no embarrassment, he can be in the bathroom with you, or in your room at the most intimate of times and it doesn’t matter, you know he’s watching you, but you don’t care. She’d always felt that way. She told co-workers, “I’ll need to take vacation time when my cat eventually dies.” “How old is he?” They would ask her. She replied, “About 12... You go home to your husband and kids; I go home to my cat. It may sound strange to you, but that’s who I go home to and he means as much to me as a husband would.” No one said anything to Vera’s reply. She didn’t care if they understood or not. In some ways she was going home to more than they were. Vera always believed that when a woman was married and would wake up in the night crying and distraught her husband would probably sleep through it, whereas a cat would come and cry with her, rubbing against her, nuzzling her. A cat was a comfort that couldn’t be replaced. Husbands were replaced every day. “I wonder what he’s dreaming about?” Vera said, talking to herself, as she pensively stared at the cat. She cradled the cat in her arms asking him, “What are you thinking about, Jester?” He replied by rubbing his head against her hand, enticing her to pet him. His soft fur felt like cotton against her skin. His favorite spot was underneath the covers with her on a cool winter night. He curled against her body feeling comfort and warmth like a child in a womb: safe and secure, hidden from the dangers of the outside world. At least Vera thought so. He was born in her basement. She even had what she jokingly called ‘baby pictures’ of him. He was her baby. Maybe I’m crazy or maybe the world’s crazy. But is it crazier to be bonded for life with a man laying next to you that you barely know, or to love an animal that will sit there with you providing comfort if you wake up at 3 a.m. and can’t go back to sleep? Vera wondered that but knew the answer before even thinking the question. She had thoughts like these often. Vera came home from work one night and saw her apartment complex brimming with bright red flames, flowing through all the windows like liquid. She asked one of the firemen in front of her complex about her cat, hoping he was or would be saved, hoping the fireman cared. “I’m sorry ma’am, we found no cat and there’s still a boy in apartment #3 that’s unaccounted for.” The fireman told Vera in one monotonous stream. She dropped to her knees as a small noise escaped her lips. She seemed to forget how to speak. ”I’m sorry ma’am,” The fireman repeated looking down at Vera. She looked up at him with swollen red eyes that aged her. Her makeup was smeared and she was still on her knees in the dirt, immobile. Her hands fluttered to her face and she looked at them as if they belonged on someone else’s body. “I’m sure there are plenty of cats that would be lucky to have you as an owner, why don’t you go to the shelter and save one, as well as yourself?” The fireman asked her, now looking up at the burning building. She looked over at him with vacant eyes and replied, “Husbands can be replaced, but a cat is forever.” His face contorted as he walked away speechless. Vera awoke the next morning in a strange bed by a man she didn’t know telling her she was going to be late for work. “Who are you?” She asked, clasping the sheets over her naked body. Before he had a chance to reply she cut in, “Where is Jester, my cat?” She glanced around the room and then looked up at him. “We’ve never had a cat sweetheart, remember I’m allergic?” His voice trailed off as he walked toward the bathroom. “Hurry up or you’ll be late,” he said, his voice echoing through the hall. Vera looked over at the nightstand still disoriented, and saw a wedding picture of the strange man and her. Vera rolled over tightly shutting her eyes, rubbing her hands over her face as if washing away a bad dream. The next thing she knew she was waking up in a hospital bed. “What happened? Where am I?” She asked the nurse. “Oh dear. You’ll be ok sweetie, it’s just going to take some time.” The nurse replied. “Time for what?” Vera asked. She looked up and the nurse was gone. She noticed a clipboard at the foot of the bed, grabbed it with the tips of her fingers, barely reaching it, and laid back down to read it. The vocabulary was foreign to her. Within the contents of the paper she was able to make out: Patient admitted and received Ativan intravenously for sedation...severe memory loss, psychotic episodes, and possible psychophrenia. Patient will need psychological evaluation for release... “Where’s my cat? Where the hell is my cat?” Vera screamed hysterically from her bed. A nurse came running in, “Honey, we’ve been trying to tell you, there never was a cat.” “He was in a fire at my apartment complex, but was never found.” The nurse looked at Vera and said, “Honey you don’t live in an apartment.” “But my cat...” Vera’s voice trailed off as she looked out the window starring at nothing. Direct Line Ken Dean Alan Beretti had arrived early to work that fateful day, around seven AM. He passed the usual security personnel and service workers who were just coming on shift as he headed for the elevator. There were some items he wanted to get an early start on. Legal contracts needed to be finished today if he wanted to continue to succeed and move up in the prestigious law firm where he was presently employed. He pressed the one-hundreth floor button after entering one of the South Tower elevators. The elevator didn’t stop at any other floors since the bustle of the daytime activity hadn’t begun yet. He exited the elevator and headed for his office. As he walked down the hallway on the way to his office he passed Lucy Pavorini in her secretarial cubicle. Wow...didn’t realize she came in this early! Luckily he had landed an office space with a window facing east which let him see some of the city and the water beyond. A great view like that sometimes helped put things in perspective. Alan unlocked the office door and proceeded to set his satchel by his desk and shed his overcoat, placing it on the chair in the corner. He was just about to get out the work that required immediate attention when his cell phone rang. It was in his overcoat pocket, and he had to rush over to grab it out. Flipping it open automatically answered the call. “Hello”, Alan said, “Who is this?” He hadn’t checked the caller ID before answering. “Get out, Alan”, the voice on the phone said. “You have to get out quickly.” “Get out? Who is this? And how do you know my name?” Alan answered in a puzzled tone. “All I can tell you is that you have less than two hours to get out of that building or you will die. I know it for a fact. You only have time to grab your laptop and satchel on the floor by your desk. Then get out quickly...in fact, get on the subway and get out of Manhattan altogether...you live far enough away to be safe.” Alan was getting chilled now...how had the stranger on the phone known those details? “How can I trust you?” Alan asked. “This could be a crank call.” There was something peculiar about the voice on the phone. He could hear a strange background hiss along with a slight echo...as if both speakers were at opposing ends of a tunnel made of tin. “I’ll give you one minute to verify that I know what I’m talking about. I know a secret about you that only you know...you’ve shared it with no one else.” The voice shared the secret to Alan. Alan suddenly felt faint...no one else could have possibly known what the stranger had shared! “You see Alan...I’m you...no one else could have known what I just told you. I’m you calling from about six months in the future.” “Don’t faint Alan...I felt the same way when I received this very same phone call six months ago.” The voice on the phone continued. “After the turmoil of that day was over, I started to wonder...how exactly do communication transmissions work? Is it possible that they may cross over to another dimension, time, or existence? So I tried to call my own cell phone number at 7AM every morning, but wasn’t able to make a connection until now. I knew that I would eventually get through...because I am still alive today in the future. I’m not sure if it will ever be possible again. But I will keep trying. I may be able to reach you again.” “I’ve spent too much time talking!” the future Alan said, “Get out and away now!!” Alan flipped the phone closed. He was shaking. If all this was true and it really was himself on the phone...then he must move quickly. He left everything as it was except for grabbing his satchel, overcoat, and of course, his cell phone. He left the office, walking hurriedly down the hallway past Lucy’s cube...Wait!! “Lucy!” Alan tried to keep calm as to not cause her to be overly nervous. “You have to get out of the building and as far away as possible now! It’s not safe!” “Why?” Lucy asked. “Everything seems OK.” But he had to try to get her out! “Could have sworn I heard a fire alarm.” Alan lied. Hopefully she took his advice. “No Alan, I’m not going to leave! Maybe you’re having a panic attack about work or something.” OK...Alan thought. I guess there was no convincing her. Alan hurried into the elevator and punched for the ground level. He rushed out into the lobby walking as fast as he could while trying to warn everyone he encountered that the building wasn’t safe and they should get out now. Looking at his watch, he realized that fifteen minutes had passed! He hurriedly found the nearest subway entrance and boarded a subway car heading towards his apartment near Atlantic Ave. in Brooklyn. After arriving home, he quickly found a vantage point and used his binoculars to watch towards the World Trade Center. He watched in horror as the planes exploded into the two buildings and their ultimate collapse. He had averted disaster thanks to his future self. But he was deeply saddened at the loss of life in the attacks. Some of the people he had warned must have survived to tell the tale of the strange man warning of disaster, for he was eventually questioned and cleared by the FBI. He had no ties to any terrorist organizations. Lucy Pavorini was never heard from again...she was counted among the missing. How he wished she would have left also. Alan should have been a hero and forced her out. He didn’t know if the future Alan Beretti would ever be able to reach him again. But from that day forward he always made a point to try his own cell phone number occasionally...especially at seven AM. Words of wisdom can come down from the future. Alan made it a point to always check his voicemail. Misery Mary E. Rose Mary Flemming picked up the telephone and dialed the bar nervously. What if Maxwell weren’t there—or worse, what if he was? The thought made her shiver, even though the sun, which had just set, was still sending out its last few warm rays. “Hello, Pete’s Tavern,” greeted the crisp voice on the other end. Suddenly losing her nerve, Mary put down the receiver. She scanned the room anxiously, letting her eyes rest on the Wireless set that Herve had bought to listen to reports of the war in Europe. Now it sat quiet, dusty and unused, the war having ended three years ago and Herve’s suicide the same year. Mary’s mother was in the kitchen staring at the stacks of bills and slips of paper spread out on the table. At once, she burst into the living room. “Well, what did Maxwell say? Does he have the money?” “I didn’t call,” Mary said softly. “Well we’ll be needin’ that money soon; Billy will be here in less than an hour!” “Oh I know! You think I don’t know?!” retorted Mary, almost in tears. She regretted ever having gotten involved with Billy—but at the time, he seemed like their only hope. They’d needed a large sum of money quickly, and he’d been willing to make the loan. “Well call!” With that Mrs. Flemming returned to the kitchen. Suddenly the house seemed icy to Mary. The old clock up on the wall was ticking off the minutes extra loudly, it seemed--or was that just the pounding of her own heart? Mary picked up the phone again. How had she gotten herself in this mess? She forced her trembling fingers to dial the numbers. “Pete’s Tavern,” answered the voice on the other end. “Is M-Maxwell McFaren there?” She heard the bartender put his receiver down and call out “Is Maxwell McFaren here? Telephone!” Mary thought she could hear Maxwell’s own voice next: “Is that Mary? Tell her I’m not here.” “He’s not here, ma’am,” the bartender spoke into the phone. “Oh—well—thank you,” Mary said softly and slowly replaced the receiver. What would she do now? Mother strode back into the room. “Well? What did he say?” “I called the bar and they said he wasn’t there,” Mary answered. “What are we going to do now? Billy’ll be here any minute! What are we gonna do?” Mrs. Flemming wailed. “I don’t know!” Mary covered her face with her hands and began to cry. “Well, crying’s not going to fix this! We’ve got to come up with a plan!” Then they heard a rapping at the door. Maxwell bringing the money? Mary thought hopefully, practically skipping as she went to answer—but it was Billy come early. What was Mary going to do now? “Billy! We weren’t expecting you this early!” Mary exclaimed. “Yeah, well, I was in the area.” Billy got to the point quickly. “Do you have my money?” “Where are my manners? It’s too cold tonight to make you stand out on the front porch; won’t you come in?” Billy removed his greasy Fedora and came inside. “Mother’s still in the bath,” Mary lied. “I’m not really here to see her; I’m here to see you. Do you have my 10 G’s?” Suddenly, Mother came into the room. “Billy! What brings you out on a night like this?” “We all know why I’m here, Mrs. Flemming. Don’t play dumb with me. I’m here to collect the ten grand you ladies owe me.” “The money’s in the kitchen; I’ll get it.” Mrs. Flemming left the room. “You get it and I’ll just make myself comfortable out here,” Billy said, lowering his weight onto the davenport. Hatless and relaxed, Billy looked even uglier than before—if that was possible. Mary had been married, briefly, to Billy years ago. At first everything was fine and they were both dazzled by each other and Billy’s get-rich-quick schemes. But the schemes never seemed to work out. Mary, with her limited education, was forced to take a series of menial jobs to support them, while Billy stayed home and planned his next move. When Mary got pregnant and was ordered to stay off her feet, they had to start borrowing money from relatives and a few friends—something Mary hated doing, but what else could they do? The miscarriage was almost a relief. The subsequent divorce left Mary feeling as if a great weight had been taken off her shoulders. Billy, very bitter, swore he’d get even with her some day—and now, here he was... What was Mother up to in the kitchen? Mary wondered. She heard the teakettle being filled and set on the stove. Poison? That’s brilliant, thought Mary. Mary smiled to herself. Things were going to work out just fine, thanks to Mother’s cleverness. But Billy must have had the same thought, for when Mother returned with the tea tray, he said abruptly, “I can’t stay. Just give me the cash and I’ll be on my way.” Mary’s heart sank. What would they do now? Suddenly there came another rapping at the door. Could it be Maxwell at last? Mary thought as she went to answer. Billy stood to his full six feet and waited with his arms folded over his chest. “There had better not be any funny stuff,” he hissed. “Oh ÊMaxwell! Am I glad to see you!” exclaimed Mary, giving him a quick hug. “Did you bring the money?”ÊÊÊÊÊ “Not all of it—but enough for a down payment,” he answered.ÊÊÊ “We can give Billy what we have now and pay the rest later.” “Oh that’s fine!” cried Mary. “How much do you have?” Billy growled. “Most of it. Eight thousand five hundred. In small bills.” Billy snatched the cash and counted it himself. “That’s good for now, I guess, but I have a business to run. When can you get the rest?” “I’ll get you the fifteen hundred in a few days.” “Two hours. With no funny business,” Billy stated firmly. “I’ll be back later tonight.” “But that’s not enough time!” Mary protested. “Two hours it is, then; that’ll be fine,” Maxwell said, escorting Billy out the door. Mary turned to Maxwell. “What are we going to do? He’ll be back at 9!” “I’ll think of something,” Maxwell promised. “You mean you don’t have a plan now? You sounded so confident when you talked to him.” “That’s the way you gotta do with guys like Billy.” “Well, we need a plan,” said Mrs. Flemming when she rejoined the others in the living room. “I know that! But what, what?” Mary was again near tears. Maxwell put a comforting arm around her. “We’ll figure out something. Just try to stay calm.” “I’ve got it!” Mrs. Flemming shouted. “There should be some money stashed in the cookie jar.” She rose and walked quickly into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned “I guess we spent that money. Oh, this is hopeless!” “No; at least you’re thinking!” Maxwell said encouragingly. “We’ve got to be creative!” “Didn’t Dad always keep his stash under his mattress?” Mary asked her mother. “Yes, but I think we used that to pay for your typing classes,” Mrs. Flemming remembered. “We’ve got to come up with something else.” The trio was silent for a time as they thought. Finally Mary spoke: “We do have Uncle Herve’s old printing press out in the shed, and his inks.” “Print up our own money?” Mrs. Flemming was clearly appalled. “That might be our only choice, since we don’t have much time.” Maxwell considered the idea. “But do you know how to use it?” “I watched Uncle Herve use it hundreds of times! I’m sure it’ll come back to me in no time! “Come on!” Mary took Maxwell’s arm and led him out to the shed. Herve had been a man of big dreams who’d enjoyed several years of real prosperity in the ‘Teens and ‘Twenties when the stock market was going like gangbusters. He’d dreamed of starting a small newspaper, so he’d rented a building and equipped it with typewriters, telephone sets, tables, and a modern hot-lead press. Unfortunately, the venture never really took off. Item by item had to be sold off to pay creditors. Finally, heartbroken and bitter, suicide seemed to Herve the only logical next step. The old press was all that remained. Billy could barely suppress a grin as he drove his ancient black Packard down the road away from the Flemming farm. The gods seemed to be smiling on him for a change. Soon, he would have enough money to go far away from this crummy old town and start over. Mary had really stung him when she’d asked for the divorce—like a fly with its wings savagely torn off—but having the Flemmings finance his Second Chance seemed like the perfect poetic justice. Suddenly, a deer emerged from the wood and started to lumber across the road. Billy swerved to miss it—butÊ lost control of the car in the process, sending it onto the strip of red dirt that broke off into cliffs. He pumped the brake frantically--but too late: the car kept going forward, hit the rocks with a crash, and spiraled down, down, down into the ravine. It was several days before some kids hiking along the ravine found the mangled sedan and the body of the driver inside. Spanish Influenza Sharon Ellis Mrs. Carpetti says that if the flu is coming for me, it’s going to get me no matter what I do to stop it. She’s old and Italian, so when she’s gone from the hallway my father does an impression of how she talks. His voice goes up three octaves and into an irregular lilting singsong. He says, “A-coming for you,” and “A-going to get you,” but she doesn’t really sound like that. Mrs. Carpetti has hardly left the North End since 1891 when she came to this country, but that is longer ago than when my father came over from Ireland. That doesn’t matter to him. He swears he hears her Italian accent spread thick over every word, like butter over bread. He likes to do comical impressions of the neighborhood Italians in a loud voice, right here in my apartment when he comes to visit. The walls of the tenement house are thin, and I have to keep telling him that there are more Italians in this neighborhood than Irish, so he’d better watch his tongue. My father can’t understand why I stay. He thinks I should move back in with him since Shane is hardly ever here. My father says that in the rare moments when Shane is here, he is nothing but a no good drunken bum, but I tell him that I can’t just pick up and leave my husband. I remind him of my sacred marriage vows and he says, “Rubbish to your sacred vows.” I recite a quick prayer to Saint Joseph, the patron saint of fathers, and my father rolls his eyes. Except to pass me to the priest through the church doorway on the day of my christening, my father has avoided all things sacred since my mother died. My father tells me that if I don’t have the sense to leave Shane, I should at least live in familiar surroundings, among our own kind of people, but I shake off his talk as foolish. I’ve become attached to neighbors like Mrs. Carpetti, and I kid my father that the Italians are not so different from us. An Italian drunk off wine is just as good as an Irishman after too many pints. “Have some respect,” he snaps. I end the discussion saying that either way, this is a good place to live, and it couldn’t be closer to Shane’s job with the distillery. Shane works just across the street. From our small window on the second floor I can see through the shadows of the elevated train tracks running down Commercial Street to watch the men walk out into the street in the evening, on their way home for supper. That way I have a plain view of Shane’s back on the nights when he turns the other way, letting me know that he has decided to make a detour in search of gambling, or women, or drink. In all this time it hasn’t once occurred to him to glance back at my face in the window. Or maybe he is only pretending it hasn’t. This night, my father is visiting because I have invited him to celebrate Shane and my wedding anniversary. Maybe I knew all along that Shane wouldn’t come home, and that’s why I invited my father. Last year, on the day of the wedding, I was worried that January was a bad month to get married, but my father reminded me that he and my mother were married in June, and that didn’t stop her from dying from an infection after childbirth. “Besides,” he said, “you should be more concerned with who you’re marrying than when.” I was in love. My father knew as well as I did that he had a better chance of stopping a tidal wave than of talking me out of marrying Shane, but that seems like a long time ago now. Today, on my first anniversary, I think constantly about the fact that I will forever be associating my marriage with ice and snow. I worry still that I have made a dreadful mistake by getting married in the wrong month, but my father says that I shouldn’t be insulting fate by troubling myself with silly superstitions. He believes that whatever is meant to happen will happen, come hell or high water. I usually bake cakes only for birthdays, but early on the cold morning of my anniversary I rubbed my swollen belly and told myself that the heat of the stove would do the baby good. I decided on a molasses cake, but when I had the ingredients laid out on the table with the mixing bowl, cake pan, and wooden spoon, I noticed that I was short of molasses. I went to the window and called and called for the boy in the next building who runs my errands for me, but he never came. I had my heart set on molasses cake, so for about an hour I sat at the window looking across the street at the molasses tank. It dwarfed the other buildings around it like a giant tree stump in a field of delicate wildflowers. The railway sheds, the blacksmith, the fire station, even the railway tracks and the harbor itself, seemed to be gathered around the tank at attention, as though they were waiting for it to speak. In one of the increasingly rare moments in recent memory when Shane had decided to be sociable at home, he talked about the distillery’s vat of molasses. He told me with no little amount of pride, as though he had something to do with it, that the massive cast iron tank is the largest storage tank of its kind in Boston. He said that with any luck the whole lot of molasses will be made into rum just in time, before they pass, what he calls, “the goddamned prohibition.” I asked him how they do that, make molasses into rum, but he didn’t know, so he complained about my cooking. That night I had a nightmare about sinking into that vat and drowning in molasses, all warm and sticky. In the dream they didn’t notice I was in there, and I ended up trapped inside a bottle of Shane’s rum. Looking up at the tank and thinking hard of molasses cake, I willed the molasses to find its way down the street and rescue me. It was a nonsensical thing to do, like hoping for time to pass more quickly, but no more lacking in sense that not allowing myself to leave the apartment for fear of the Spanish Influenza. In the end, I sweetened my cake with sugar. Shane doesn’t come home for our anniversary dinner. My father and I both watch him turn his back and walk casually up the street away from us and out of sight. My father stiffens his lip in a gesture that is meant to tell me that he is doing me the favor of restraint, but this movement is only a disguised lecture on how much effort he has to exert in order to hold back all he has to say on the subject. I suggest to him that we celebrate my anniversary by eating the cake before our supper. My father’s expression turns itself over on its head and he forgets his opinions on Shane in his eagerness to eat dessert first. I mention to my father that it was meant to be a molasses cake, but I couldn’t go out for the molasses, and I know right away that I have made a mistake. He says, “Well, why didn’t you go out and get some bleedin’ molasses, then?” I can’t explain it. “Well?” he insists. “You know perfectly well why not,” I remind him. “I know why. It’s just a whole lot of nonsense. Spanish Influenza my arse,” He says. I know that my father will never understand. He is the kind of person who will have the speed and reflexes to jump out from in front of a speeding train, where I am the kind of person who will wring my hands worrying about speeding trains with such intensity that I will not notice the roof caving in above my head. My father says I don’t make any sense, but sense has nothing to do with it. “The longer you have that baby in you, the stranger you get,” he says. I say, “I’ll have you know that I am perfectly normal,” but I think to myself that I am not. At the beginning of my pregnancy I thought a great deal about what it would mean to be a mother. I thought about things I would never say out loud, like how I often believed it irresponsible of my mother to die so soon after I was born. I thought about the things she could possibly have done to prevent it. Perhaps she should have washed the birthing sheets a little more thoroughly beforehand, or taken better care of her health. In my mind there were a thousand possibilities. It made sense to me, while I sat awash in the glow and excitement of my maternal prospects, in the happy days before swollen ankles and back pain, that it was my responsibility to do everything possible to be here as long as I could, and to ensure that my child would be as well. I heard the stories after armistice came in November. There were boys who had fought across France as heroes and were finally on their way home, but who had died on the way of Spanish Influenza. Some right here in Boston harbor, just feet from their own front doorsteps. There was talk of people in the neighborhood who were struck down with the disease at church, or at the grocer’s, and had died within the hour. This was a bad strain, people said, the worst ever. Influenza was often accepted as something only small children and old people caught, but I heard that this time it could take anyone, no matter what age or how able. I reasoned that if I stayed as close to home as possible, I could keep my baby and myself safe. At first I kept my errands to a minimum, running out early in the morning long before even the housewives ventured out for their morning milk, and running home as quickly as I could. Soon that was not enough, and I wore a kerchief over my face when I went out. Finally, I gave in to the pull of the safety of my stuffy little one-roomed home and paid the neighbor boy a few pennies a week to do my shopping for me. Shane yelled at me on and off for two days over the extra expense, but finally caught himself up again in his other activities and forgot all about me and my fears. I fully realized how little sense it made to think that by staying home I would be immune to disease. I was willing, on milder winter days, to cast open my window and share the air with the outside. I stood face to face inside the apartment with whoever decided to visit, but I had it firmly planted in my head that as long as I remained within the four walls of my own home then no harm, no Spanish Influenza, could come to me. I tried and failed many times to explain this to my father. “What if my baby turned out to be a boy,” I said carefully to him one day, “and he was destined to be a great man, but I went out one day to buy eggs, and the man at the grocery was carrying the Spanish Influenza but didn’t know it, and as a result I died with the little one still inside me? I would have forever robbed the world of the great man my son could have been.” “Well, if he’s never born I don’t suppose he’s destined to be much of anything.” “What if it’s my job to save him?” I ask. “Believe your old man for a change when I tell you that if God wanted the child saved he would find a way to do it.” “What if he’s meant to be a great president who will stop all of the wars in the world?” “Ha!” my father laughed. “An Irish president? Not likely! It’s not too long ago, I’ll have you know, that an honest Irishman was hard put just to get work in this city. And you talk of an Irish president!” I had heard this lecture before. I sighed and told him he was missing my point. On the night of my anniversary my father and I finish the cake quickly, and he gets up soon after for his long walk home. He hugs me in the doorway and says that one of these days I’ll want to come back home without Shane, and when the day comes he’ll be there waiting with open arms. I’m glad the hall is dark enough that he can’t see me crying. Shane comes home so late that night that I have already been asleep and can’t guess the time. He has the sweet-stale smell of hours of drinking, which almost hides the stinging scent of cheap perfume. In the morning I make Shane’s breakfast without a word. He eats and leaves the apartment equally silent. I stand with the door to the hall open and lean on it while I listen to Shane’s steps fading away down the stairs. Mrs. Carpetti is there in her doorway, but I hear her before I see her and she startles me. “You are such a nice girl. Why don’t you get out of this house and find a nice Italian boy who will take good care of you?” I shake my head and smile at her as I always do when she calls out her advice. The day is warm for January, especially compared to the stinging cold of the days before. My feet and ankles are swelling with the change in temperature, so much so that by mid-morning I feel as though they are ready to burst and I have to sit down by the window and prop them up on the other chair. I breathe in the breeze from the harbor and feel grateful. My apartment may be small and dark, but the window is a luxury that makes all the difference. I know that the Carpettis don’t have one, and neither do two of the four families upstairs. I have asked Mrs. Carpetti a hundred times to come and sit by the open window with me, but she says that she has too many things to do to sit around sniffing at the air. I know she is proud and thinks of my offer as charity. Mrs. Carpetti sees herself as the kind of woman who gives charity, not the kind who accepts it. I pass the rosary through my fingers and the baby rolls around in summersaults. I listen to the sounds of the street. I hear the horses’ hooves and their drivers yelling to each other. The tracks of the elevated train hum and clang with each passing car. As it gets close to noon the workers begin to straggle out into the street, looking for a nice place to eat their lunches outside on a rare mild January day. I hear one man say to another, as he pulls a hard-boiled egg out of his lunchbox, “It’s nothing but luck to have a day like today, and that’s for sure.” His companion says, “I would say it could be almost as favorable a day as when the Red Sox won the World Series.” The first man nods so hard in agreement that he almost drops his egg. I wonder how long it will take for them to forget about that victory. It’s already been four months. I am sitting and listening for so long, and with such concentration, that I barely notice my water has broken. When I finally do feel it and see it, I look out into the street and see that the men eating their lunches have vanished. I call out a feeble and tentative, “Hello?” to the street from the window, but there is no answer. I shuffle to the doorway with my knees together in an effort to slow the inevitable, and call down the empty hallway to Mrs. Carpetti. Nothing. I drop my rosary and I am out in the street in a housecoat and stockings. I have no fear or thought of Influenza, and think only of finding help. A wagon rolls by, but the hooves of the horse pulling it pound the snowless pavement with such force and speed that the driver cannot hear or see me as he rolls past. I think that I must find Shane, but I am turned around in pain and urgency, and before know it I am running in the opposite direction from Shane and the molasses tank. All I can think to do is climb the hollow steps up to the train tracks, looking for help. Above the street, on the platform along the tracks, I find a moment of calm between contractions. When I look down there is Shane below me in the shadows behind the blacksmith’s, throwing dice. Instinctively, and without thinking that he cannot see me, I wave and call his name, but I cannot even hear my own voice over the sound of the train approaching from Battery Street. In the second before the boom, I think Shane sees me and I wave harder. There is a loud dull noise. I think at first that the vibration coming up from my feet and through my whole body is the train, but when the train is just past me the rumble grows stronger, not more feeble, and I know it must be something else. The ground seems to growl. Down below, Shane has a look of surprise on his face. I laugh for a second at his confusion before the scene sinks in. Shane disappears beneath the tide of the sticky river that rushes past me only a moment later, under the tracks and trellises beneath my feet. The thin winter sunlight grows momentarily thinner, and everything is sucked from sight by the force of the brown and bubbling beast. The firehouse is pushed towards the water, and pauses at the edge as though it is trying to decide if it will go in for a swim. Not far away from me there is a crash, and a nearby building is tossed towards me, riding high on a thick wave. It smashes into one of the tall legs of the elevated track, which buckles, bends, and breaks. The train grinds to a halt and stops just short of careening headlong into the street as the track ahead of it sinks down to the ground like a sapling under heavy snow. Horses and men shift and sink in the wave below me. I don’t know what is worse: the ones that scream as they are pushed and pulled by the boiling mass, or the ones who are sucked under quickly and silenced. Machines, homes, and hardware bob and dip below me until it all grinds slowly to a stop and all that I can see of the city is suffocated. When it becomes quiet, the unmistakable scent of molasses comes up to me in a thick and overpowering swell. People try to climb out and away, only to be sucked back down the more they struggle. The rescue squads come, but lose their boots and socks to the bog of molasses now settled silently on every street. The rescue men have to rescue each other when they struggle to walk through the mess. Horses yell and strain to move from their sticky prisons. They are quickly put down in favor of ending their pain. I watch for as long as I can before a policeman sees me and knows that I am only minutes away from parenthood. He breaks me from my trance by carrying me away in his arms as fast as he can. The baby comes only seconds after I arrive screaming at the hospital. The damage is devastating. Twenty-one people are dead, and dozens of others are injured. Tumbling metal and other debris have crushed and broken what is not smothered with molasses. When I go back to see it days later they are still hosing off the street with gritty salt water pumped in from the harbor. I stand in the sand they have spread on the street in front of my old building and look up at what I once thought of as the safest place in the world. All the windows below the third floor have been smashed in with the force of the tidal wave of molasses. I look at my window, which has been sliced in two by a long, arced piece of jagged metal. Through the hole the metal has made in the window and wall, I can see that it goes all the way back inside and is held aloft above the street by its own weight, anchored to the back wall of the room. I find Mrs. Carpetti with a neighbor. She cries when she sees me, and tells me that the day of the molasses flood she was six blocks away in her church, praying for the healthy birth of my baby. Shane is not found until the week after the accident. When they recover him they tell me that I am better off not having to see him “like that,” but I hear rumors later that when he was found both his fists were clenched tight. One held dice, and the other held a half-filled flask of rum. My father and I bury him quickly and quietly. There is ample blame after that, but nobody wants to take responsibility. The distillery blames the collapse of the vat, and ensuing flood of more than two million gallons of molasses, on sabotage, or the stress of quick changes in weather. The inspectors point to the company, and the company points back to the inspectors. Although I will later be counted among the survivors to seek and receive compensation, I never think anyone could truly be found culpable for such a thing. It seems too big a mistake to be human. Sometimes since then, on hot summer days when I walk hand in hand with my son in my old neighborhood, I can smell the distinct, sweet odor of molasses. When the familiar scent hits me I look down at my perfect son and think of one of the few things I know now for certain: if God wants a tide of molasses, he’ll have one. THE WATCHERS Mel Waldman I Prelude I am the author of the “Letter to the Editor” and poem-“A,” whose consequences I cannot conceive. My intentions were honorable, and certainly in this age of terrorism, racial profiling, and mass paranoia, I consider myself an all-American patriot. Indeed, I wrote a song praising our police officers and firemen as true-blue American heroes. Yet I am also the author of “A,” a poem that explores a young man’s innocence and quintessence, illuminating the ironic, poignant symbolism of his American heroism. Although I do not overtly point blame at the officers who murdered him, the tragedy of A’s death is obvious, with frightening implications. I am compelled to ask the reader: “Have the policies of the police department changed as a result of A’s death? Will others be saved from similar fates or will this tragedy be perpetuated? Will it?” II Letter to the Editor Dear Editor: In this time of national trauma and uncertainty, I believe it is necessary to honor and celebrate the lives of individuals who embody the transcendent principles of peace and love. Recently, after appearing on a cable TV show about problems confronting our youth, I met Dr. C. Dr. C, a dynamic pastor, also has her own TV and radio shows, and is collaborating with A’s father on a book about A. When Dr. C discovered I was a poet and writer, in addition to being a director of a mental health program in the Bronx, she requested I write a poem about A for their book. Enclosed please find the poem-“A,” enlightened by the apocalyptic information I obtained about his life. Both in life and in death, he is the avatar of the hero, a spiritual zephyr passing over humanity. He is also the quiet voice of the Muslim community, reminding America that terrorists are the fringes of any religion, never the quintessence, never the true, gentle core. A is, indeed, an American hero. He embraced the innocence, purity, and vision of the American dream when he lived. It is our responsibility to continue the quest for ubiquitous justice, freedom, and peace. Sincerely, M.W. III “A” “A” is written in invisible ink and encrypted. A cryptologist is needed to determine its meaning. IV Aftermath “A” is an innocent poem. But the only response to it is a blue wall of silence. I have catapulted it to magazines and newspapers of different political persuasions, including a black newspaper in the city. No one wants to touch it. Is it because A was a black Muslim? Do they wish to forget? “A” is untouchable. And what about A, the man? Perhaps, I too will be buried in a Waste Land of the Forgotten. That is okay. I love what I do. I save lives! Yet I must confess I have experienced some “healthy paranoia” about the consequences of my writing the poem-“A” and launching it into our community. What will They do? Who are THEY? It may be much safer to run a mental health program for the underserved who live with trauma and violence every day than to write a pretty poem that points to... Well, it points to something-real and terrifying. At the other side of the poem is an infinite, labyrinthine wall of silence. Still, I write. I send “A”-out there. And I wait. V Postscript Dear Poet: We are watching you! We know your history, demographics, favorite authors and books, and... We have total access to you. Yesterday’s blood pressure reading. All medical, academic, and financial records. Your honors. Your failures. Your dreams. Everything! You can’t hide! You can’t run! Be careful what you say. And what you write! Maybe you ought to write children’s books. Don’t step over the line! You say you are a patriot. Don’t associate with certain individuals of questionable... We hate freakin’ liberals! Don’t screw with us! We can alter your “clean” identity or simply obliterate you. We think you have a dark side too. We’ll find it-or create it! We were here! We could have killed you! We chose not to. But if we discover that you are part of a cabal, we will. And if we suspect... We wait too. THE WATCHERS This is Yesterday’s anonymous letter that was slipped under my door. It vanished this morning. I think they were inside my home last night. I slept for only one hour. Still... I wait. (Should I call the police? The FBI? The CIA? You?) I think. (What a heavy price for freedom of speech!) Later, I grin sardonically at the distant face in my mirror hanging in the bathroom. I whisper: “But it’s such a pretty poem. Really!” Killer Instincts Mark Phillips William McBride couldn’t remember what he was doing. Well, he was driving that was true enough and he could do that. In fact he thought of himself as quite a good driver. The thing that he was having a problem with was exactly where he was going. He supposed that it was home but it suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know where home was. He looked around trying to figure out what he could remember. Outside of the car was a macabre sight. He was driving through a forest. The trees were knarled, twisted and leafless. They looked as if they might reach out and grab hold of his car. He could imagine himself being pulled into the gapping maw that would appear in the center of the tree and it made him shudder. It was night that much was clear. Yet the forest seemed to be illuminated by a strange glow that William couldn’t chalk up to moonlight. Although he couldn’t remember where he was going he supposed that it would be obvious when he got there for the dirt road that he was traveling on was only big enough to occupy one car and must surely be some sort of private drive. Or cabin, he thought. That thought something sparked in his mind. He was on to something but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. It was the same feeling that he would get when he smelled some odor, a perfume or some food that he couldn’t quite place. It was familiar and he would almost be able to do it and then his mind would throw him off in a different direction entirely. That’s it, I’m going to a cabin. But whose? He couldn’t answer that. In fact, he couldn’t answer many questions other than his name. He didn’t know what he had been doing right before he’d gotten in the car. He didn’t remember buying the car. He only knew he was William McBride and he needed to keep driving on this road. His eyes rose to the rearview mirror, looking to see if there happened to be any cars behind him so he could stop and ask where he was. When his eyes fell upon the rearview mirror he didn’t see a car. He didn’t even see the road. The entire mirror was taken up by the visage of a man, or what appeared to be a man. He wore a knit black ski cap. The thing that William focused his attention on was the large blade that the man held raised. Thoughts ceased and he just reacted. He jerked the wheel to the left and heard the thud as the man struck the back passenger door. The car struck one of the trees hard, so hard in fact that the tree fell over. William jumped out of the car and began to run in the direction that he had been traveling. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that the man with the ski mask was exiting the car and steadfastly walking in his direction. William had hoped that he’d been at least dazed by the crash but it appeared as if he was in good condition. “Damn!” He cursed. He ran off the road and into the forest. His hope was that he would be able to lose the man in the foliage. Behind him came the steady crunch of leaves under foot and William knew that he’d been followed. He didn’t understand how the man was able to keep up with him when he was walking and William was just about falling over running. He kept taking furtive glances behind him paranoid that the man in the ski mask would be right behind him ready to run him through with his knife. There was a break in the trees ahead and not fifty yards away was a large log cabin. That’s where I was headed. I bet there’s people there that can help me. His feet pendulumed up and down with rapidity that he never would have credited them with. All the while he strained his ears but could no longer hear the man’s progress behind him. It appeared as if he was able to outrun him after all. Still he didn’t slow down as he entered the clearing and crossed the gravel driveway to the house. The cabin was large standing against the night. On the second floor a dim yellow light shown out the front window. There was a yellow convertible in the driveway. The car seemed to jog something in William’s mind as well but he dismissed it. He ran to the front door praying that it wouldn’t be locked and by some miracle it wasn’t. The first thing he did after plunging into the cabin was slam the door behind him. The darkness was immediate and complete. His eyes had been so focused on the light in the upper room so he hadn’t noticed that the downstairs was completely dark. He turned around and fumbled with the lock. For an agonizing moment he thought that he wasn’t going to be able to get it in the blackness and then his fingers slid over the rounded knob of the latch and he turned it. The pleasing sound of the bolt sliding into place set his mind at ease. He looked around the room but was barely able to make out much more than shapes. He walked blindly forward with his hands stretched out in front of him towards a squat rectangular shape that he hoped was a table. On it was a long slender shape that he further hoped was a table lamp. When he got there he wasn’t disappointed. He ran his hand slowly up the cool metal, when he reached the top he found a hard plastic circle. He turned it and suddenly the room was illuminated. It was a rather large but otherwise perfectly ordinary room. The lamp that he had turned on sat on a small brown coffee table. Parallel with the table was a fireplace with a few burnt logs sitting on top of the gray ash. Above the fireplace was the head of a large buck. William couldn’t remember if he was a hunter or not but he knew that the buck was a twelve point. “Must have been a big one,” he muttered to himself. In the silence that followed his speaking he heard a distant noise. In his excitement to lock the door and then get the room lit he hadn’t noticed it. It sounded like a light rapping almost as if someone was tapping on a window in the back of the house. William slowly walked through the living room into the kitchen. There were a great many empty beer cans lining the sink in there. Potato chip bags and other snack wrappers littered the floor and counter. Must have been some sort of party in here. Why the hell can’t I remember it? He was trying to distract himself from the noise that was taking up all his attention. At the end of the kitchen was a small hallway, which lead to a staircase. In front of the staircase was a glass door. The door was hanging wide open and banging against the wall. William rushed forward and slammed the door shut turning its lock at the same time. He feverishly calculated how long he’d been in the cabin, how fast the man in the ski mask had been going and how far ahead of him he had been. He could have done it. He could have made it here and in the back door. The sound of footsteps walking down the staircase came clearly to his ears. William’s eyes opened wide. He turned around and saw a closed door he tried the knob, found it open and then darted in. He closed the door quietly behind him hoping that the man in the mask didn’t hear. The light was already on and William could see it was a bathroom. Across from the toilet was a bathtub with the curtain drawn. William sprang over and drew the curtain. When he looked down he saw the tub was filled with blood. Presumably the blood of the young lady who was lying face down in the muck. William wanted to scream but he knew that would be a very bad idea. So he cupped his hand over his mouth hoping to both suppress the scream and the vomit that wanted to rise. Behind him he heard the footsteps and he knew there was only one thing to do. He climbed into the tub and threw the curtain back. He pressed his face against a relatively clean portion of the tub and closed his eyes. He heard the door open and though he wanted to look up to see who it was he kept himself as still as possible. The footsteps moved forward slightly and William held his breath. Suddenly he didn’t want to be there at all, he felt completely trapped but it was the only thing he could think of to do at the time. He kept his eyes closed and his face pressed against the tub, smelling the sweet smell of the blood around him. The footsteps stopped but William could feel the presence of someone in the room. He waited there for nearly twenty seconds. Seconds that, to William, felt like days. Then the footsteps turned and walked out of the room closing the door behind them. William got up feeling awful. His entire lower half was covered in the sticky blood and he felt as if he wasn’t going to be able to control the vomit this time. He stood breathing in deeply trying to catch his breath after holding it for so long. He looked around the bathroom and saw a knife sitting on the edge of the sink. He couldn’t remember if it had been there when he entered the bathroom but he didn’t care. Nor did he care about the streaks of blood on the silver blade. He picked it up hoping that he wouldn’t need to use it. He opened the door to the bathroom and crept out. The back door was open again and banging slightly with the wind. William walked over to it and peered out. He looked left then right but could see nothing it was too dark. He turned around to examine the inside of the house but when he did he was face to face with Ski Mask. Ski Mask had his own knife raised high in the air about to bring it down into William’s flesh. William surprised the killer by lunging forward and plunging the knife deep into his stomach. Ski Mask stumbled backward and fell over. William was on him in an instant and stabbed his chest over and over and over. He stabbed until his arm was tired. Then he threw the knife aside and rolled off Ski Mask. He collapsed on the floor crying. After a half a minute he stood up warily. He began to walk in the direction of the living room to look for a phone so he could call 911 but that was when Ski Mask stood up again. “You can’t be alive!” William shouted both shocked and scared. “I killed you!” Ski Mask slowly shook his head and William ran. He ran around the corner and up the staircase remembering the light and hoping that someone was still alive upstairs. “Someone help me!” He screamed. He got no answers. The upstairs couldn’t have had a more simple lay out. It was one hallway with five doors. Two on each side of the hallway and one at the very end of it. All the doors but the one at the end of the hallway were open and they showed horrific signs of brutality. As William ran past he could see blood smeared on the walls, people lying dead and body parts strewn about. He hit the end of the hallway and turned the handle. He slammed the door closed and looked around for something to bar the door with, there was nothing. The room was bare; it didn’t contain a single piece of furniture. The only things in it were the door and an open window across from it. William backed himself up keeping an eye on the door. The handle turned slowly and Ski Mask walked in slow as ever. He began to walk towards William and William moved backward at the same pace. He was only eight feet away when William’s back hit the window. There was nowhere to go but down. He glanced out the window and quickly put his odds at surviving a jump at a thousand to one. He turned around and Ski Mask was only five feet away and closing. William put his right leg on the ledge and was about to swing his left leg out when he heard a shout behind him. “Cut!” William turned around unable to comprehend what he’d just heard. When he did, Ski Mask was gone. “What the hell is going on here?” “Cut!” Someone shouted again and this time William saw something. It was a short man with a good-looking black beard coming towards him. William moved closer to the ledge. “Don’t jump,” the man said and his voice was both comical and alarmed. William put both of his feet flatly on the ground. “Where is the guy in the mask?” “He’s gone,” the man said in a reassuring voice. Then he turned his head and yelled. “Will someone get Peter his shot!” “Who the hell is Peter?” “You are.” “No my name is William.” “Just take your shot and you’ll see.” William wasn’t sure what the man was talking about until he saw a man in a white lab coat carrying a long syringe. “Oh no,” William said raising his hands. “I’m not taking anything you shoot into my body.” “Peter,” the short man began “My name is William!” “Let Dr. Bishop give you this shot and you’ll understand everything.” “I will not!” “Pe...I mean William if you don’t let him do it I’ll just call security to hold you down and he’ll do it anyway.” William looked into this man’s eyes and saw that he was every bit of serious. William lowered his head. “You’re going to kill me.” It wasn’t exactly a question. “No,” the short man with the beard said, laughing. “Everything will be clear in a minute.” For some reason William did believe him. He pulled up his sleeve and let Dr. Bishop stick his needle in. The pain was sharp but short. He felt woozy at first and thought he was going to fall over and then all of a sudden his head hurt badly. It was as if he had suddenly contracted a huge headache. He shook his head and some of the pain went away but not enough of it. Then the most odd feeling came over him. It was like waking up again from a dream. Only this dream, he knew, had been part of reality. Suddenly he knew what his name was, it was Peter Stefan. He knew where he was born, where he went to high school, who his parents were, what he did for a living. “Oh my God I’m an actor,” Peter said. Doug nodded. “And you’re Doug Sherman,” Peter said. “You’re my director.” Doug nodded again. “Everything coming back to you. “Yes it’s all there. We’re shooting a horror movie and you had an idea to make it more real. You gave me a drug so that I could...” Peter broke off. “There I’m sort of hazy.” “We gave you a drug that temporarily erased your memory while at the same time leaving you open to suggestion. It’s almost like a hypnosis drug. Dr. Bishop here invented it.” Peter turned to Bishop who smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” Peter said, with his hand on his chin. He was thinking hard to earlier that day. “The way it was supposed to go was that Dr. Bishop here would shoot me with his needle and you would implant my character on my psyche. Then the entire thing would seem real to me. That way we could make the most real horror movie ever, completely devoid of those normal horror movie clichŽs.” “Exactly,” Doug said. “How did the drug work? Did you remember anything about yourself?” “No,” Peter said. “Actually I think it worked a little too well. I couldn’t really remember anything about my character except for my name.” “Yes,” Dr. Bishop spoke up. “I thought that maybe we gave you a slightly large dose. Next time we’ll have to lower it slightly.” “That could explain why you screwed up the scene so much,” Doug said. “What do you mean? I thought I did okay.” “You still did the same things that the victims do in every horror movie. You ran upstairs to try and get away when you know there’s no way to escape. You didn’t even check the back door. I mean hell; you almost fell in the woods. God would that have been a disaster.” “Well I’ll do it better next time.” “Yeah, I think we can get one more try in today if Dr. Bishop is ready with his formula.” “I’ll just have to measure out a new batch it shouldn’t take but a minute.” The three of them began to walk back downstairs towards the starting point of the scene at the beginning of the woods. “This stuff is totally harmless isn’t it doc?” “Of course,” Dr. Bishop said. “Cause I’ve got,” Peter paused and realized that his headache was now completely gone. “Well I had a headache anyway but it’s gone now.” “Just a minor thing,” Dr. Bishop said. “It’s from the rapid return of your memory. It’s nothing really and as you said it doesn’t last very long does it?” “No I guess not.” “Well you better get the dosage right this time doc,” Doug said. “I don’t want to be here all night.” “How many times have we done this scene?” “Ten.” “And I haven’t gotten it right yet?” “Nope but we’ll get there. Don’t worry this one will be clichŽ free I can feel it.” The Waning Moon Courtney Hill You have to keep on running! She could hear the roar of motorbikes behind her, like the howl of starving beasts after their prey: always hunting, always searching, always hungry and never tiring. She tripped over a root, grunting as her side slammed into the ground. She clutched the offended area as she stood back up. Blood seeped through her fingers. Damn wound reopened again! She had little time to dwell on this though as the sounds of the engines grew closer, forcing her on. She stumbled into a tree, almost blacking out. I can’t keep going on like this, she thought as she pushed herself past the evergreen. I’ve lost too much blood. She walked into a small clearing, desperate to find a hiding place. She spotted a fallen tree overgrown with tall ferns, and while certainly wasn’t the ideal spot, it would do the job. She stumbled over to the trunk and managed to crawl over it. Pressing her belly to the ground, she closed her eyes and took a few resting breaths, slowing her rapidly beating heart. Okay Artemis, she told herself, you can do this. You just have to focus. Just focus. The motorbikes tore into the clearing and screeched to a halt. Artemis wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t had time to cover her tracks and, of course, the Doctor had sent only his best. She clutched her pistol, ready to use it if necessary, but pushed the thought aside though as she concentrated on the task at hand. It would be hard with the drugs still in her system, but she could do it if she concentrated... “Where tha hell tha bitch go?” one of the bikers asked. “I see tracks over there!” another said. What you see are animal tracks, Artemis thought with the strength she had left. They are animal tracks heading off into the forest. “Those are just some damn animal tracks Tweeker,” the first man snapped. “Animal tracks headin’ into Tha Forest. You should fuckin’ know better then that.” “Yeah...you’re right,” the second man agreed, confused. “I-I don’t know how I missed that.” “You’re an idiot, that’s how,” the first man growled. “Can anyone see where she took off too?” Artemis took another deep breath as she formulated another thought. You see a shadow running to the west in the shape of a girl. “Hey!” the second man, Tweeker, cried. “I see a shadow running to the west! In the shape of a girl!” Sweat began to bead on her forehead as the effort needed to influence their thoughts began to take its toll. You decide to chase after it. “I see it too,” the first man said. “Let’s ride!” With that, the three men started up the chorus of their motorbikes and headed into The Forest. As they took off towards their imaginary shadow the third man, the one who had not spoken, turned his head straight towards Artemis. Artemis gulped as he left, sure that if he had his visor off he would have been looking at her right in the eye. But he left, and Artemis was allowed to heave a sigh of relief. That was all she had time to do before she passed out. The little girl ran fast, as fast as her small legs could carry her. Her breath was ragged and her white uniform covered in blood. So much blood. She hadn’t realized humans had so much of the stuff in them, or it would feel so terrible to watch the look in their eyes as it poured out. She had to go, she had to get away. Get away from the blood, from the pleading looks, from the cold metal gun that felt so heavy in her tiny, tiny hands. But his sightless eyes watched her, following her no matter where she went, no matter how fast she ran. His sightless eyes were always there. “You’re mine,” those sightless eyes said, “and no matter where you go, no matter what you do I will find you, and I will have you.” The girl screamed as the floor beneath her opened up and she fell into a pool of black blood. She struggled against the weight sucking her in, but it was too heavy with all of that guilt pulling her down. She looked up as she fell deeper and deeper into the pool of blood and above she could see those sightless eyes, knowing he had her. Even in death. She woke up with a start, her heart pounding. Silly girl, she scolded herself as she took a calming breath, letting yourself getting worked up over a dream. She peered out from her hiding place and looked up at the sky to find it was almost dark, and that she had been out for at lest a couple hours. She cursed herself as she bandaged up her wound as best as possible. She had to get out of here. The three men she had manipulated weren’t stupid, and it wouldn’t take them long to figure out her shadow was exactly that. She left the tree and headed northeast through the woods. Her body was drained, and she didn’t have much strength, so all she could manage was an unsteady walk. She felt hot and cold at the same time too, and her vision was blurred. She couldn’t allow herself any more time to rest though. She had to push on. I might actually make it, she thought as she fumbled through The Forest, the idea giving her strength. I might actually be free! Suddenly though, she heard noise up ahead. Talking. She pulled out her pistol and hid behind a tree, peering between the branches. The figures made their way through the woods and Artemis tensed, sure it was her pursuers returning for her. I can’t run, she thought as she cocked her pistol, I’m too weak. I have to stay and fight. As they came into her view though, she realized they weren’t her pursuers at all, just four civilians. One was a tall black man in his forties, and somehow Artemis thought she should recognize him. He had sharp blue eyes, wore a simple black shirt tucked into blue jeans, and had a shaved head that showed the tattoo carved into the back of it. Next to him was a blond girl in her late teens, her long hair falling past her shoulders in golden curls. She was beautiful in that wholesome sunny way, with milky white skin, flushed cheeks, and sparkling green eyes. The white dress with little flowers she wore showed her perfect frame off. Then, there was the boy. Artemis was momentarily stunned by what she saw. He was perhaps the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. He was about the same age as the girl with jet-black hair that fell across sky blue eyes, and a handsome face that bore a small scar above his right brow. She was so busy staring at him, she didn’t notice the dying sunlight glinting off her pistol, but the older man did. “Hello?” he called out. “Whose there?” Artemis’ eyes went wide. Her wound had made her weak and sloppy. She pointed the gun at the man, trying to keep her hands from shaking. “Stay back!” she yelled. The three creatures froze, looking at this odd girl in surprise. She was slight, like a wisp of stardust, with long silver hair and large violet eyes. She seemed out of place in the bulky army fatigues she wore, as though she should be wearing spider webs and petals instead. “Holy...” the boy began. “Kyle, keep Andrea back,” the man ordered. “But father...” the girl protested. “Just do as I say,” he barked then turned to Artemis. “What’s a young girl like you doing out here in The Forest alone?” “None of your fucken’ business,” Artemis snapped, trying to keep herself from seeing double. “Father, she’s wounded and looks feverish,” the girl said. “I can see that Andrea,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on Artemis. “Now, why don’t you give me that pistol before you hurt someone...” He took a step forward. Artemis shot the gun, the bullet landing in a tree inches from the man’s head. The girl screamed as the boy pushed her to the ground, but the man didn’t even flinch. “Don’t you fucking patronize me!” Artemis yelled. “Take another damn step forward and the next one will be to your head.” “Ray, watch it,” the boy said. Ray held out his hand to silence them. “Look kid,” he said to Artemis, “no one here is gonna hurt you, okay? Now, you got a nasty wound there that needs to be looked at...” “I can-I can take care of myself,” she said, amazed at how slow and blurred her own words sounded to her ears. She didn’t even notice Ray taking another step forward. “Father don’t!” Andrea protested. Ray shook his head. “The kid’s just scared, that’s all. If she wanted to really hurt me she would of done so already. Isn’t that right?” But Artemis didn’t get a chance to respond. Artemis was passing out. And her whole world became darkness as she landed on the forest floor with a thud, pistol lying forgotten. The three men rode out of The Forest to the edge of The City. The City was a large place, filled with tall golden towers and web-like bridges. It was the only sign of human civilization on this world, the rest of the planet uninhabitable due to the pollen of the Moonflower that lived in the heart of The Forest. Just outside of The City was a tall white building to which the three men were headed. It bore no decoration, had no windows, it was just a large rectangular block with a single black door at the bottom. The three men walked up to that black door, taking off their helmets as they did so. The first was a tall mercenary looking man, with shaggy red hair and cold steel eyes. Several scars marred his rough face, one curling his lip into a permanent snarl. The second man was thin and wiry, with wild bug eyes and green hair. He kept looking around nervously, as though he expected something catastrophic to happen at any minute. The third man, the quiet one, had neatly kept brown hair and emotionless blue eyes. “Please state identification,” a robotic voice requested from the black door. The first man stepped up and said, “Steel Mcnabb, level blue clearance.” A green light emerged from the door and scanned the man. “Identification confirmed,” the voice said, “you may enter.” The black door opened and let him through, closing behind him. The second man followed the same procedure. “Uhm, Billy Twig, level orange,” he said, one eye twitching. “Identification confirmed,” the voice said, letting him through. The third man stepped up to the door. “Dr. Taylor, top level clearance,” he said. Inside, the tower was just as blindingly white. The only object to break its harsh glare was a black desk set between two elevator doors. “My I help you?” a colorless woman asked from behind the desk, her voice as lifeless as the machines outside. “We’re here to see the Doctor.” Steel said. “You are the three working on the Reclamation of Project Artemis?” she asked. “That’s us.” She pushed a button. “Then you may head straight up.” One of the elevators opened and the three men crowded in. “Aww, man,” the bug-eyed man said, “we’re dead. We’re sooo fucken dead.” “Shudup Tweeker,” Steel snarled. “We ain’t dead.” “But we lost her,” Tweeker continued. “We lost the girl! The Doctor’s gonna be pissed!” “It couldn’t be help,” Taylor said. “Her powers would fool even the most well trained of men.” “I just don’t get it how she got ‘em back so quick,” Steel grumbled. “Tha bitch was suppose ta be drugged.” Dr. Taylor shrugged. “Project Artemis was trained to be an assassin, a spy. She could have not been taking her medication for months and we wouldn’t have known. Not to mention we are making drugs for an alien creature whose physiology we know very little about. Her metabolism could have shifted, she could have developed a resistance. It is difficult to say.” The elevator stopped and the door slid open. “Yeah, well lets see you say that to the Doctor when he finds out we didn’t come back with the girl,” Tweeker said as they stepped out. They stepped into another white room with another single black door, where two large men in black uniforms stood on either side, genetically engineered soldiers of the Doctor’s Lab. The three men walked past the guards and through the black door. The floor and ceiling of the room they stepped into were stark white, and in the center was an all black counsel. Television screens lined all the walls of the large room, black and white security cameras watching over every aspect of the Doctor’s world. The above-mentioned man was sitting there in the counsel when the three men walked in, looking up at them with his sightless eyes. It was said the Doctor had gone blind when he had contracted Moonsickness, an epidemic that killed hundreds of people each year due to the pollen of a flower native to the planet, and that it had been then the Doctor created the antidote to the disease, an antidote he had used to gain his current power, and still used to control The City. Only he knew how to create it, and made sure to keep it a closely guarded secret. “Well?” the Doctor asked as the men came in. He wore a harsh white uniform, not baring a single stain or wrinkle. His was skin pale from lack of sunlight and worn from old age. Yellow fingernails curled from his fingertips, reminding one of the claws of a beast. “We lost The Project in The Forest,” Dr. Taylor said. “She threw an illusion at us. By the time we realized we had been tricked, she was gone.” The Doctor frowned. “Her medication is wearing off already. This isn’t good, isn’t good at all.” “She is severely wounded Doctor,” Taylor said, glaring at Steel from the corner of his eyes. “Even Project Artemis could not have gone far without needing to seek some aid.” “I told you The Project was to be captured without harm,” the Doctor snapped. “She is the last of her kind. If The Project dies, then all we’ve worked towards is lost.” Steel shifted slightly and frowned. “Believe me Doctor, I know,” Taylor said. “Do you know where you lost her?” the Doctor asked. “Yes,” Taylor replied. “In the northeastern corner of block twenty of The Forest.” The Doctor frowned. “Those are The Outskirts.” “Yes,” Taylor said. “There are a few permanent settlements in that area though. We plan to scout them starting tomorrow.” “Good, go do that,” he said, and the three men turned to leave. “Oh, and gentlemen.” “Yes Doctor?” Taylor asked, turning back to the old man. “If Project Artemis dies because you two idiots shot a hole in her side then you better not bother coming back because you’ll be dead too,” the Doctor snarled. “Taylor, do try to keep a tighter reign on your men.” “Yes Doctor,” he said, and with that the three men left. “What are you doing Dr. Taylor?” a young Artemis asked as she sat on a steel table. He attached electrodes to her forehead. “These are going to measure what is going on inside of you when we do our tests today,” he replied. The little girl made a face. “I don’t wanna do the tests. I don’t like them.” Dr. Taylor sighed. “I know Artemis, but you know you have to do the tests, and you know you shouldn’t complain. It irritates the Doctor when you complain.” Her large violet eyes looked at one of the many cameras that were the all-seeing eyes of the Doctor. She shivered and kept quiet. She dodged the bullets, pulling out her gun and shooting to take out her targets. One bullet each. Nice and easy, don’t waste the ammo; you don’t know when you might need it. Someone reached at her from behind, but the target barley had time to move before she had broken it into a million pieces. She didn’t bother to check her targets to see if they were innocents or not before she fired. That was not part of the drill. She came up to a single red button and hit it, the lights coming on to reveal a lone girl standing in a plastic town filled with dead plastic targets. The ten-year-old girl looked up at a booth in the corner with eyes far older then they should be, holding the gun with frighteningly casual ease in her one hand. “Good job Project Artemis,” the Doctor said from the booth. “Now run through it again. I want you to finish faster.” “Yes Doctor.” Artemis said, as she walked back to the starting point. It was useless to argue with the Doctor, it brought nothing but trouble. She sat on a steel table as Dr. Taylor went through the physical: drawing blood, checking her pulse, and taking X-rays. The Doctor sat in a white chair with a strange man in a blue suit Artemis had never seen before. The blue suit. It seemed so bright and loud against the black and white lab. “Say ah.” Dr. Taylor ordered. She obeyed. “Yes, already at her young age she is stronger, faster, and better then any of the genetically engineered soldiers we use,” the Doctor said to the man in blue. “I thought the Ancients had psychic powers, what about them?” the man in blue asked. “In the interest of everyone’s safety, we suppress them with drugs. If she’s going to do a mission, we take the medication away about a week before so she has some abilities.” “She must be quite useful. What about the DNA code? Have you cracked it yet? An army of soldiers like her would be powerful.” “No, I haven’t. But we keep on trying.” “All right Artemis, now take a deep breath,” Dr. Taylor ordered. She obeyed. She brought the target into her scope, following the suited man with the intensity of a honed athlete. Easy Artemis, the twelve-year-old girl told herself, just nice and easy. His head centered in the cross hairs and she squeezed the trigger, lodging a bullet in his brain that killed him instantly. As easy as that. People screamed and ran and blood pooled beneath the dead man, a shocking shade of red. Artemis was momentarily stunned. This wasn’t like practice. This wasn’t like the obstacle courses she had to run again and again. He wasn’t plastic or wood, he was real, and she had really killed him. “Good job Project Artemis,” Steel said into her headphone. “Now head back to base, the Doctor wants to see you.” “Yes sir,” Artemis replied. Then, taking one last look at her first kill, she vanished into the shadows. When she woke up she was in a strange room with wood walls, some rickety furniture, and a small window. She was glad that the window was open. She wasn’t fond of closed spaces. She sat up in the bed, looking down to realize she wasn’t wearing her own clothes, but a nightgown. She instinctively went for where her gun should be, but of course, it wasn’t there. Where am I? She thought, remembering the people in The Forest, her passing out. Artemis looked at her injury and found a clean white patch placed over a neatly stitched wound. They had healed her. But that didn’t mean they were friendly. She pushed the sheets aside and moved to get out when her knees when weak and her vision hazy. She quickly scratched the idea and pulled herself back into bed. I must of been sicker then I thought. Just then the door to the room opened and the boy from the day before walked in carrying a tray. “Hey, you’re awake,” he said. Artemis felt her heart rate quicken and looked away from him. “How-how long have I been unconscious?” “Two days,” he replied. “Not very long considering the hole you had in your side, and the fever.” Artemis was stunned at how long she had been asleep, the rest of his words melting away. Two days. That was more then enough time for the Doctor to organize a search for her. “Where am I?” she asked. “You’re in the town Foxglove, in The Outskirts,” he said. That at lest was good news. The Outskirts were a loosely tied gypsy-like community with few permanent settlements. People came, people went, most of them bandits, and no one bothered to keep track. They lived outside the grip of The City, on the edges of The Forest where The Patrol didn’t go. Dr. Smith would have a difficult time tracking her down out here. “But hey, you shouldn’t worry too much about that stuff,” the boy said, interrupting her rapidly racing thoughts. “You’re safe now. Whatever happened, whoever was chasing you, they’re not gonna find you here.” He set the tray in front of her. “You need to worry more about getting better.” Artemis looked down at the soup before her, not sure how to deal with all of this. First of all, the only food she had ever consumed was the nutrient shakes and bars The Lab had given her. She had never had what a normal person would call real food. Secondly, she didn’t know how to deal with the boy. No one had ever really been nice to her except for one person, and he had been killed because of it, and there he was smiling at her, as she looked at him with perplexed, mistrusting eyes. “Go ahead,” he said, “it’s not poison, though I can’t promise it’ll taste decent. If we wanted to kill you we would of just left you in The Forest, you weren’t too far from dead.” Artemis wasn’t sure why, maybe she was too tired to fight, or maybe he was just too pretty for her to tick off, but she went ahead and picked up the spoon. She had seen it done enough times before, and it wasn’t too difficult. At lest she managed use it without spilling soup all over herself. “So whadda think?” the boy asked. Artemis wasn’t sure she knew how to respond. The nutrient supplements that had been her whole source of food since she could remember had been chalky and tasteless. This was something quite different. “It is adequate,” she said. The boy smirked. “Well, Andrea will be glad at lest someone thinks that much about her cooking. By the way, my name’s Kyle.” Artemis nodded her head. “I know.” Kyle waited for a second, and when she didn’t offer it, asked, “What’s yours?” “My what?” She asked, confused. “Your name.” Artemis froze. She hadn’t planned for this contingency. She couldn’t tell him her real name, not when the Doctor was looking for her. But what would be a suitable female name? “It’s all right,” Kyle said, Artemis realizing she had taken too long in answering. “A lot of people around here don’t want everyone to know their real names. We do have to call you something other then ‘the girl who nearly blew Ray’s head off’ though.” Artemis felt blood rush to her face. “Oh. I, uhm, suppose I should apologize for that.” “Don’t worry about it too much, you weren’t exactly lucid when we found you,” he said. Artemis played with her soup for a moment as she thought. “I suppose you could call me...Jane,” she said. It seemed like a normal enough name. The closest to a normal name she could think of anyways. Kyle grinned. “Jane Doe, huh? That’s appropriate.” Artemis didn’t understand, and just kept quiet as she looked at him with those large eyes. “Never mind Jane,” he said, getting the feeling that this girl wasn’t exactly used to dealing with people. “You just eat and get some rest. I’ll let you be.” He left the room and Artemis picked up a roll, sniffing it before taking a bite. When she woke up again it was night, and there were voices coming from behind the door. Cheerful voices. Artemis sat up, more careful this time when she slid out of bed, and found her legs were steady. She fidgeted uneasily in the lacy nightgown, used the uniforms of The Lab. She stood there for a moment, looking at the door. She wondered what she should do: go out the door or the window. Either one had their risks. One left her at the mercy of these people who had been kind to her but yet she barley knew, and the other left her alone in the outside world once again. You have no real idea where you are, she thought, or how to act in this world. Plus your wound is still healing. These people have shown no signs of hostility, they have done nothing but help you, and this is the perfect place to hide from The Lab. You may as well stay until you have gotten your bearings. Not to mention she found herself intrigued by the small group, especially the boy. With that she clasped the doorknob and turned it, walking into the room beyond. The small living was like the bedroom she had come from: warm, cozy, and clean, but worn, with old furniture and the decor limited to a few pictures. The three people from the day before looked up at her. “Ahh, so you’re up and moving,” Ray said. “Kyle told us you had woken up earlier today.” “You shouldn’t be walking around though,” Andrea protested. “Your wound was deep and very infected...you need more rest.” “I’m fine, thank you.” “Well I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Ray said. “You gave us quite a scare there for a while.” He took a sip from his mug. “Looks like you had been running for mile with that bullet in you.” Artemis remained quiet. “Hey,” Andrea exclaimed. “Why don’t you take my seat while I make you something to eat.” Andrea then fluttered off in a flurry of cream and pink. Artemis sat down. “So...Jane,” Ray said. “What exactly were you doing out in The Forest all by yourself? Not a very safe thing for a little girl to be doing.” She didn’t even bat an eyelash. “I was being chased by soldiers from The Lab.” “Really, why?” “I don’t know, maybe I was stealing weapons.” She looked at him from the corner of her eyes, wondering what sort of reaction she would get from him. He grinned. “My, we watch our news, don’t we?” “I had wondered why you looked familiar earlier,” she said. “The Doctor hates you, you know.” Ray shrugged. “The Doctor doesn’t care for many of the people who live here in The Outskirts, and the feeling’s mutual. This is, after all, the only place where you can escape his control.” Just then Andrea flitted back into the room. “Dinner’s served!” “Well Jane,” Ray said, looking at the bowl Andrea placed in front of him dubiously, “you can stay with us as long as you need to. Anyone who is an enemy of The Lab is a friend to us.” “Oh! We can go into town tomorrow and pick up some new clothes for you!” Andrea exclaimed obliviously. “It’ll be fun!” “You’re such a girl Andrea,” Kyle said “Is there suppose to be something wrong with that?” Artemis didn’t know what to think of all of this. She was so used to the cold impersonal glare of The Lab, that this warmth and overabundance of individuality was alien to her. “Do you think you’ll be strong enough to go out tomorrow?” Ray asked as Andrea and Kyle continued to argue. “I should be fine,” she replied absent-mindedly. “Yeah, shopping tomorrow at ten then!” Andrea giggled. She was trapped. Trapped in a small, dark place like the cell with no light, no human contact, no room to breath. Artemis’ breathing became irregular and shallow as panic settled in, throwing common sense out the window and driving her to madness. I-I have to get out of here! I can’t breathe! She began to claw at the walls that held her, not caring about the blood that poured from her fingertips. The wall started to crumble, but instead of freeing her, the rubble trapped her feet as more moved in to take its place. Wha..what is this stuff?! She then looked down and realized she was looking at human bones. Artemis gulped, turning back to the wall and seeing it was made of nothing but a pile of dead bodies. Bodies of people she had killed. One of the rotted faces blinked and came to life, looking at her with a twisted smile. “Hey there Artemis, care to join us?” it asked and laughed hysterically. Artemis screamed as the walls grabbed her and began to pull her in, deeper and deeper into the darkness. Artemis bolted out of bed when she woke up, sweat plastering the nightgown to her body. She leapt out the sheets, walked over to the window and pushed the curtains aside, taking in a large breath of fresh air. Calm down Artemis, she told herself, it was just a dream, only a dream. She got very little sleep that night. Artemis sat outside the small house that morning, watching as the sun rose above the horizon. The house she was staying at was small and neat, not at all pretentious with neat little garden full of bright blossoming flowers that filled the air with their sweet scent. Beyond the tips of the evergreens of The Forest, the clouds were blushing a delicate pink as the sky turned from velvet black to silken blue. The moon that still hung in the sky was now painted a light gold, still visible, but paled under the sun’s growing glory. She watched with tears in her eyes, he beauty of it almost enough to chase away the memories of her dreams from the night before. Almost, but not quite. The door to the house opened and Ray stepped out carrying two large mugs. Artemis quickly wiped away the moisture and turned to him as he walked over to where she stood. “Here, have some coffee. Need it at this gawdawful hour in the morning,” he said. “What the hell are you doing up at five?” She took the cup. “I am used to being up early...Plus I wanted to see the sunrise.” She had never seen a real sunrise before. She took a sip of the brew he had handed to her then looked at it in surprise. “I tend to make it pretty strong,” Ray said. “Too much?” “No, no...I like it,” she said, taking another sip. “Yeah, let’s you know you’re alive.” He took a drink from his own cup. “So Jane, you got any family?” She shook her head. “No, they died shortly after I was born.” “How?” The Doctor had told her they had died from illness, but Artemis knew otherwise. “They were murdered. The Lab killed them.” “I’m sorry.” She gave him a curious look. “For what?” Ray shook his head and grinned. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He then asked, “so how did you know who I am? Not many people do.” Artemis had known because The Lab had targeted him for assassination for stealing weapons. Artemis was told she would have to kill him if he returned to The City. “I know a lot of things.” He watched her. “You know, they say the Doctor has one of The Ancients in The Lab. A girl. She’s suppose to be about your age too. The last living survivor of the race that once inhabited this world. They say he’s training her to be an assassin, using her telepathic powers for his gain.” “Yes, well, people also believe in god. But as far as I’ve discovered it’s nothing but heresy.” “Ouch, bitter,” he said. “The thing is though, I can’t help but notice what an uproar The Lab has been since we found a certain girl in The Forest with a hole the size of a fist in her side.” She glared at him. “So, are you going to turn me in then? Because I would die before I would let anybody take me back to that place.” Ray didn’t doubt her for a second. “No, I hate The Lab, so why would I help it get back its most powerful weapon?” Artemis frowned. That’s all she was. A weapon. An object for people to use to gain power and control, even out here. “Besides,” Ray added, “we don’t turn each other in here in The Outskirts. It’s important to help your fellow man. If we don’t, then who will?” “I don’t understand you,” she said. Ray patted her on the back, the touch startling her. “Give it some time kid.” The town Foxglove Andrea had so excitedly talked about consisted little more of a few poorly built shops looking like they were ready to fall to the ground with the next breeze. A small community of portable tents and vehicles was settled at the edge of this gathering of makeshift structures, where squatters came and went as they pleased. Artemis spotted a boy amongst the squatters as they walked into town, his face smudged with soot. For a moment her heart stopped. He looked so much like him. But she shook herself and continued on. It couldn’t be him, he was dead. Besides, he would have been older then herself by now if he was still alive. Andrea grinned. “It’s a perfect day for shopping, don’t you think Kyle?” “You guys can go shopping, I’m going to the bar,” he said. Andrea scowled as he walked off. “Sour puss.” Artemis looked over at Andrea. “He works for Gun, the owner of the bar, as a bouncer. Without The Patrol out here to keep an eye on things, Gun is pretty much the only form of protection we have.” They walked into the general store, Artemis staying quiet as she simply took everything in. “Hmmm,” Andrea mused as she looked Artemis over. “Better stick to cool colors with you. More emeralds, sapphires, and amethysts.” “Just not black or white,” she said. They emerged from the general store two hours later, Artemis’ arms loaded with boxes. “I think that will do for now,” Andrea chatted obliviously. “And I am telling you, that dress I made you get is fabulous...” “Get back!” Artemis yelled, sensing the danger that Andrea had failed to see. “Andrea! Jane! Stay back!” Kyle yelled from the bar. Andrea screamed as a spray of bullets flew their direction, Artemis dropping the boxes and pulling the girl into the store. Artemis went up to the door and looked out. There were about ten men out there all riding beat up motorcycles. They carried cheap, makeshift weapons with them, firing them wildly into the air. “Who are they?” Artemis demanded. “Outlaw Gangs,” Andrea replied, her voice trembling. “They go around intimidating and robbing people in The Outskirts who don’t have anyone to protect them.” Artemis watched them for a second as they exchanged gunfire with the few fighters in the bar. “Amateurs,” she hissed, then turned to the store manager. “Hey old man! You gotta gun in here?” The man behind the counter looked at her with large eyes. “Y-yeah, but it has no real ammunition. Just rock salt.” “That’ll do,” she said. “Just get it for me, along with all the rock salt you got.” Andrea watched as Artemis grabbed the gun and loaded it. “Wha-what are you going to do?” “Get us out of this mess,” she replied. “You two get to the back of the store, find some cover. Do not move until I tell you otherwise.” Andrea and the shopkeeper scrambled to the back as Artemis crept up to the side of the door, peering out. The bikers had barricaded themselves behind a fallen tree, and were still warring with the holdout at the bar. They hadn’t bothered to guard themselves from the other stores, probably assuming the bar was all they had to worry about, and the general store just happened to flank the bikers, offering Artemis the perfect opportunity. Damn this thing is old, Artemis thought as she cocked the shotgun, bringing it up so she could look through the sight. She took in a deep breath, calming her mind. Okay Artemis, focus. She watched the bikers, opening up her other senses, and as she did so she found she could read the biker’s moves, could predict their actions a second before they saw them through. Artemis was momentarily stunned by the strength of the feeling that poured into her. The Lab had always made it so she could use her powers on missions, but they had always been diluted from the drugs still in her system. This, this was more power then she had ever felt before. She shook herself and turned her attention back to the enemy. She picked her target, looping her finger around the trigger. She watched him for a full second before firing. Not blinking, not flinching, sitting still as a rock as she sent the salt flying. It hit the guy right in the shoulder and he yelped in pain, causing enough damage to make him drop his weapon, but not killing him. Artemis cursed. “Piece of shit.” She picked another target and fired, this time catching one of the bikers in the chest. By now the others were beginning to realize they had new problem to deal with and were turning to the general store. She ducked behind the door as they opened fire, Artemis quickly reloading. Only four more. Shit, better make ‘em count. She sensed a pause in the barrage and turned around and fired, hitting a guy in the face. She ducked back behind the door, waiting for another pause to come. When it did she fired again, two times, each one finding their mark. One bullet left, and there were still four able-bodied shooters out there. “Andrea! Old man!” she yelled. “Is there a back door?” “Yeah,” Andrea replied. “It leads out into The Forest.” “Go! Now!” Artemis ordered. “Go back at lest two hundred feet and lay in the undercover until I come and get you!” “But what about the Moonflower?” Andrea protested. “It’s either that or a bullet! Now move!” They didn’t argue further. Artemis remained by the door, waiting. Sure enough there was the sound of footsteps as the men approached the store, rightly assuming she was out of ammo. As soon as the first man came up to the door she thrust the butt of her gun into his stomach, and he dropped his weapon as he doubled over. She shot the other man in the chest and kicked the first man in the chin. She picked up the fallen gun and shot the third man in the knee, then turned to the two left behind the tree and shot them. Hindering them and causing a lot of pain, but not killing. The gunfire stopped, the entire town silent but for the wounded groaning in pain. Kyle emerged from the bar and walked over towards Artemis while several men quickly went to constrain the attackers. “Where’s Andrea?” he asked. “In The Forest with the shopkeeper,” she replied. “Let’s go find them,” he said, and looked over at her as they walked towards The Forest. “I don’t know where the hell you learned to fight like that, but damn, I’m sure as hell not gonna piss you off.” Andrea sighed as she looked over Artemis’ wounds back at the house. “Well, you managed to pull a few stitches.” “Nothing that won’t heal,” Artemis said. “Yes, well, they won’t if you keep on doing stupid things like that,” Andrea retorted. “I still can’t believe you took them on like that,” Kyle muttered, shaking his head. “You know, Gun is convinced you’re trained by the military. He wants you to work for us at the bar like you wouldn’t believe.” Artemis shrugged, not knowing what to say. After all, Gun was right, she had been trained by the military. “Not until she finishes healing up,” Andrea said, “and that could be a good week or two.” “I should be fine...” Artemis began. “No,” Ray interrupted, “Andrea’s right Jane. You need to let that thing heal.” Artemis scowled, but didn’t say anything else. She wondered what she could possibly do for two weeks to keep from going insane from boredom. It was a week after Artemis had received her order to rest, and she was sitting in a chair watching the sun set as Andrea dug in the garden. The young woman hummed as she pulled out weeds and pruned bushes, the sky above turning from pale blue, to bright pink clouds, then to lavender in the east. She had to admit life with these people was rather nice. It was nice to have someone know her secret, to not be alone with some burden for once in her life. Plus the small family seemed to be genuinely kind. All these people seemed to be genuinely kind and that was something she wasn’t used to. There had been only person in her life who had shown her such kindness, and her eyes misted over as though about Tommy It had been the first time she had ever left The Lab, it’s varying shades of black and white all she had ever known. The ornate over abundance of carved gold, crystal, and gaudy colors were enough to send her into visual shock. Not to mention the room full of people so different from the lifeless doctors. She sat at a table next to the Doctor in her stark white uniform, watching the people consume food quite different from her protein supplements. The Doctor was talking to a large man sitting next to him. “I understand you have decided to invest quite a bit of money in the alternative energy business,” the fat man commented as he stuffed his face. “Old energy resources from earth aren’t going to last us forever, I’m surprised they’ve kept us going this long,” the Doctor replied. “We have to find an energy source from this planet that can sustain us for the future.” The fat man smiled. “In other words you want to find it so you can control it.” The Doctor smiled back. It wasn’t a very convincing gesture. “Why my dear sir, what would ever make you think that? You know I only have the welfare of our good City in my heart.” Beside her, someone chuckled. “Would you listen to them? Talking politics like what they do now is really gonna matter in fifty years.” Artemis timidly looked over at the boy sitting next to her. “Yes, I’m talking to you,” he said. Artemis quickly turned back to staring at her placemat. “Project Artemis is prohibited from speaking to the guests,” the Doctor said with a frown. The boy looked at the fat man with large, if not so innocent, eyes. “Papa...” he began. “Oh let them talk,” the fat man said. “Thomas isn’t going to corrupt her.” The Doctor scowled. He knew he couldn’t say no to one of the most influential men in The City, that was why he would have him killed a year later. “Fine,” he consented. “Talk.” Tommy smiled mischievously, an expression Artemis soon found he wore quite often. “So, Artemis huh?” She nodded her head. “Ye-yes.” “So Artemis, you dance?” Tommy had been her first real friend, the only person who had treated her like an actual living being instead of an object. He had sat with her the entire night, telling stories of the politicians there and making fun of them. Tommy was always causing trouble. He showed up at every event she went to after that, much to the Doctor’s chagrin. Even after his father died he did so, always sitting next to Artemis and chatting in his quick, sarcastic manner. He had even talked of helping her escape, to be free. “Gosh darn it!” Andrea exclaimed, stirring Artemis from her reverie. “Stupid azaleas!” Artemis looked over as Andrea tore the offending plant from the ground and tossed it aside. She blushed when she saw Artemis staring at her. “I-I’ve planted azaleas here every year for five years straight, and every year they just die. I mean, I give them fertilizer, I water them, I cover them when it gets cold outside...but they just shrivel up.” Artemis stood up and walked over to the plant, picking it up. She didn’t know if it was because the drugs were wearing off, if it was due to her new situation or what, but suddenly she felt a connection to the plant. It was as though it was talking to her. Well, not really talking, but letting her know its feelings. Letting her sense the needs and desires, the joys and sorrows, it possessed. This connection grew to not just include the plant she held, but the dirt, the other flowers in the garden, and even into The Forest. Artemis turned the azalea in her hand. “Plant them in the eastern corner, they’ll thrive there. Then move the peach tree right here, it’ll be happier.” “Oh, you garden?” Andrea asked. “Not really.” She then turned to the house, the overwhelming lull of the connection dulling her wits. “Kyle’s coming.” Just then Kyle walked out of the house, Andrea looking at Artemis in surprise. “Hey Jane, I was going into town and was wondering if you wanted to go with and meet Gun,” he said as he walked over. “I’ll go,” she replied, dropping the plant. “You wanna go Andrea?” Andrea shook her head, still staring at Artemis. “N-no, I’ve got some transplanting to do.” Kyle shrugged. “All right then,” he looked at Artemis, “let’s go.” They started down the road to the small town. “So Miss Jane, whadda think of our little town?” “Nice,” she replied, not sure what else to say. Kyle was quiet for a moment. “Here for a week, beat the crap out a blood thirsty gang, and that’s all you can say?” Artemis shrugged. “Well, I guess you don’t need words when you can beat the shit out of anyone.” Artemis grinned slightly and shook her head. “You know, I think that is the first time I have seen you smile. You should wear it more often, looks good on you.” Artemis felt blood rush to her face and quickly looked away. “So, you were a solider from The Lab?” Kyle asked. Artemis looked at him sharply. “Ray told you...” “No, I figured it out myself,” he said. “The army fatigues you were wearing, the highly trained fighting style...not too hard to make a good guess.” “Well, yes then. I was an assassin.” “You seem pretty young to doing that kind of work,” he commented. “I was.” Kyle winced. “I shouldn’t of brought up, should of I? I’m sorry, can you forgive me?” Artemis managed a weak smile. “It is forgotten.” “Hey, I’ll buy you a drink when we get to Gun’s. He makes a mean Blood Mary.” Artemis grew alarmed. “A bloody Mary? He beats up a girl?” “Oh dear Jane, you have quite a bit to learn, don’t you?” Several hours later Kyle and Jane stumbled out of Gun’s bar, leaning on each other for support. A large man with an eclectic collection of tattoos leaned out the door way as they left. “Yeah Jane, you can come back whenever you’re ready ta work! ‘Till then, heal up!” “Thanks!” Artemis yelled back a little too loudly. They turned down the pathway back to the house, walking unsteadily. “Dude, dude, I cannot believe you beat Gun at arm wrestling. I just can’t, I just can’t believe it. It blows my mind,” Kyle said. Artemis giggled and drank from a bottle in her hand. “I love this alcohol stuff, it’s quite delightful. Makes my head feel like bubbles.” “That’s another thing I can’t believe. You’ve never drank before. What? The Doctor had a rule against fun?” Artemis snorted. “No shit. Damn bastard wouldn’t let me piss without a goddman report.” “What about your parents? Didn’t they have anything to say about all of that?” he asked. Artemis frowned slightly. “I-I never knew my parents, they died right after I was born. The Doctor raised me.” “That sucks. How did they die?” She shrugged. “He always told me the outside world killed them. But then, just about everything he told me was a lie.” “My parents died when I was young too,” Kyle said. “Though mine died from Moonsickness, my little sister too. We couldn’t afford to buy The Lab’s antidote and the Doctor, being the warm soul he is, wouldn’t give us any. So I stole it. But by then it was too late.” “And you made an enemy of The Lab.” Kyle grinned humorlessly. “Yeah, it’s amazing how much interest they can develop in a twelve-year-old boy in a city full of crooks and murderers. So I came to the Outskirts and Ray took me in. Been here ever since.” Artemis clumsily handed him the half-drunken bottle. “Want some more?” “Nah, I’m good. Can barley walk as it is.” Artemis took another drink. “This stuff makes everything feel warm and fuzzy.” Kyle smiled. “Yes, yes it does.” They came up to the house and stopped, Kyle looking up at the night sky. “Full moon tonight. Isn’t it beautiful?” Artemis just followed his gaze, continuing to suck on the bottle. “You know, you kinda remind me of the moon. Cool, quiet, all stardust and moonbeams.” Artemis just froze with the bottle in her mouth. She really didn’t how to respond to that. “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?” he said with a sloppy smile. Artemis just shrugged as she kept sucking on the bottle, feeling more blood rush to her face if that was possible. Kyle sighed. “And I’ve drank way too much. Come on, let’s go inside before one of us passes out here in the cold.” She crawled through the duct system with a sniper’s rifle strapped to her back, the girl dressed in gray with her hair shoved into a cap. She came to a grate and pried it open, jumping out of the duct to land on a rooftop in the middle of the city, her eyes scanning every shadow. “Position acquired,” she spoke into her headphone. “Good,” the Doctor replied on the other end. “Now, go to the west wall. There you will see the Edgemont Building across the street. Target acquired?” “Affirmative,” she said as she stepped up to the ledge, pulling her gun off her back. “Good, now scan to the third floor up. Through the window you should see a formal gathering.” She spotted the brightly dressed dancers through the large window. “I see it.” “Your target will be a sixteen-year-old male,” the Doctor said. “Blond hair, blue eyes, six foot three in a black tuxedo escorting a blond woman in red.” Artemis peered through her scope and spotted the target. “I have a visual...” the words died as she recognized the young man in the tuxedo. “T-Tommy?” “Artemis,” the voice on the other end said, “if target is acquired then shoot. You understand me? Take out the target.” Artemis watched as the only friend she ever had glided across the dance floor, oblivious to the danger that loomed over him. “Negative. Negative on target. There’s been an error,” she said. The voice on the headphones became deathly calm. “No Project Artemis, there has been no error. You must kill him.” “No!” Artemis cried. “I can’t kill Tommy! I won’t!” “You can and you will Project Artemis, because I told you to,” he said. “Do you think he actually cares for you? Are you such a fool that you think you are something other then some bauble for this rich boy to play with? He’s human Artemis, and you are far from such. He has no real sympathy for you, an alien creature he couldn’t possibly understand. You are nothing more then some curiosity he took a moments interest in, and once he’s bored with you, he’ll toss you aside like an old rag.” “No, that’s not true. Tommy’s my friend...” “Things like you don’t get to have friends Project Artemis,” the Doctor said. “He’s a distraction, and he must be taken out. Either you do it, or I’ll send someone else after him.” “No! I won’t let you hurt him!” “You don’t have a choice,” he said then the speaker died. “Doctor?” Artemis called. “Doctor!” She then looked at the building, at the ball, at Tommy wearing a large grin as she realized what was about to happen. “Oh God, please no.” The aftershock of the explosion knocked her to the ground, a cloud of gray dust washing over her as the building collapsed to the ground. As she sat back up and looked down at the charred remains of the Edgemont she knew there was no way anyone could have survived. Tommy was dead. That was the first time she had ran off. The Lab had found her a couple hours later in state of shock and when she had returned Dr. Smith had locked her in solitary confinement for a month, with food and water as her only contact to the outside world. It had driven her mad. She was useless for a full year after the incident, until rehabilitation brought her sanity back. But even then she never was fully the same. They considered her ruined due to the claustrophobia she suffered ever sense. She woke up feeling sick the next day, her skull pounding and stomach gurgling. She supposed the hangover had been enough to block her delicately growing psychic sense, which was why she never sensed the danger coming. Ray burst into her room. “We have to get you someplace safe.” She got out of bed, sensing his urgency. “The Lab’s here,” she said. “And looking for you.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her through the house. “I got a place where you can hide.” “Ray, let me go. If they see you here with me, they’ll kill you,” she said. “Well, they just won’t see you here then, will they?” he replied. “And don’t even think about giving me that sort of talk. I don’t give up that easy.” They walked out the back door and into The Forest, behind her Artemis could hear the roar of engines as The Lab’s men pulled into town. “Kyle...” she murmured. “Don’t worry, the kid can take care of himself,” Ray said, pulling her deeper into The Forest, to the point where the tiny house vanished from sight. “This is around where we found you,” he commented as he pulled a small remote from his pocket. He pressed a button and suddenly the forest floor opened up, revealing a secret chamber beneath. “You go down there and hide,” Ray said. “I’ll come back to get you when everything’s safe. There’ll be a light switch to your right, and some provisions under the far bench.” Artemis gulped as she looked down at the large black hole, so much like the cell she’d been kept in for so long, and Ray saw the fear in her eyes. “Hey, don’t worry kid, I won’t forget ya.” She nodded and quietly went down into the chamber, not having much of choice unless she wanted to fight The Lab. She looked back up at Ray as he closed the steel doors. “Like I said, don’t worry. I doubt I’ll be gone longer then five minutes.” She nodded her head, then the doors closed behind her and she was left alone in darkness. Okay Artemis, she told herself, stay calm. This isn’t the cell, this isn’t the Lab. You’re safe here. But even as she told herself this, she could feel the undeniable panic settle in and begin to take over. Her breathing grew rapid and shallow, her heart pumped in her chest loudly, sweat started to form on her brow and her body shook. The light switch, I have to find the light switch! She began to feel the walls for any hint of the object. “Dammit!” she sobbed. “Where’s the mother fucken light switch!” Suddenly she felt a knob and she pushed it. The room filled with light, and Artemis sighed with relief as she leaned against the wall. Then her jaw dropped at what she was. The entire room was filled with weapons. Guns, grenades, rocket launchers, swords and bows all lined the walls; some of the stuff he had she’d never even seen before. “Well, looks like someone has been busy.” He wasn’t back for her in five minutes. In fact he wasn’t back for her in five hours. And while the light had provided enough relief to keep her panic at bay, she still felt uncomfortable, and the prolonged stay in the small, crowded room was beginning to take its toll. She decided to meditate to try to keep her mind from the growing pressure, but all she could think about was how crowded it was in the cell. Even the array of fascinating weapons couldn’t keep her thoughts from it. It was getting so hard to breathe. She had to get out, soon. The only thought that kept her from running out there was a fear even greater then the sense of being trapped - The Lab. Artemis nearly sobbed with relief when the door finally opened, Kyle standing on the other side. “Whoa, hey, take it easy there,” he said as she all but stumbled out. Artemis ignored him and sat on the ground with a thud, just breathing and grateful to be out of the dank hole. “You okay?” Kyle asked, his brows knit with concern. “I...I...don’t...care for...small spaces,” she managed between labored breaths. “I can tell,” he said, walking over to help her stand up. She was still shaking. “Come on, let’s get you back home. Those guys finally left.” She nodded her head and let him help her along. It was then she noticed the bruise on his face. “They attacked you.” “Yeah,” he said, “they got a little rough.” Artemis looked away. This is my fault, she thought. “Hey,” Kyle said, “don’t get that ‘if I wasn’t here none of this would of happened’ look on your face. They’re The Lab, they’re assholes. They’re always looking for an excuse to rough someone up. Besides, no one got really hurt. Just a few bruises here and there.” Artemis still wasn’t happy. “Jane,” Kyle began in a singsong voice, “you better said that I’m right.” “What?” “Say that I’m right Jane, and you have nothing to be moapy about.” “Why?” “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna poke your shoulder until you do.” “Poke my...” she began, when he started to poke her shoulder with his finger. Artemis scowled. “Is that suppose to do something?” “Annoy you,” he said as he continued. Artemis continued to scowl, getting more irritated because she soon realized he was right. “You can stop that now,” she said. “Not until you say it.” Artemis shivered. “Okay! All right! You’re right!” “About what?” he asked as she continued to poke. “I have nothing to moap about,” she added then pawed him away. “Now please, stop that!” “Okay,” he said, “just wanted to hear that I was right.” They started back towards the house. “I don’t understand you people,” Artemis muttered under her breath. “Oh, and being a seventeen-year-old claustrophobic ex-assassin makes so much more sense.” The weeks passed by as Artemis healed with no further incidents, and the odd girl began to get used to the life in the little town in The Outskirts, even began to like it. She had readily taken to gardening with Andrea during her recovery and found she a green thumb. Of course it helped she could talk to the plants. She also found a mutual interest with Ray when it came to his weapons, and they would often go to his hidden room and talk over his collection. Well, Ray mostly talked and Artemis mostly listened. She soon was even well enough to start working for Gun, who was a friendly ex-mercenary with a big voice and plenty of crude jokes. She wasn’t exactly used to his ways, and didn’t understand any of his jokes, but he was a nice man and that was all she cared about. The job wasn’t bad either. Only occasionally did large gangs attack like they had her first day in town, and even that had been subdued by The Lab’s recent burst in activity. Most of her duties were restricted to breaking up fights and escorting the overly drunk home. Plus after the bar closed she, Kyle, Gun, and a few other workers would usually sit around and have a couple drinks, discussing the day’s events. Her and Kyle had gotten to the point, between working and living at the same places, where they spent quite a bit of time together. And Artemis found she didn’t mind it. Kyle was witty and outgoing, always doing or saying something crazy, and always quick with a comeback. Quite the opposite of herself. Artemis found more and more she enjoyed having him around, and regretting it when they had to part. Obviously everyone else noticed it too, and Gun was always making cracks that Artemis didn’t understand, Kyle always blushing (which was unusual for him) and telling her to never mind. It had gotten to the point where Artemis felt so integrated into her new life she had even stopped referring to herself by her old name, and instead started using Jane. There were times though, when she didn’t feel so a part of everything. Like when she would be sitting in the bar after work, listening to their conversation and realize she had nothing to say. She had no exciting stories to tell, well, none that she would want to tell, and the only group of friends she had ever had consisted of a dead boy. Not only that, but she didn’t understand half the jokes anyone told her, cultural references confused her, and her conversation skills were so severely retarded they might as well not exist at all. Assassins didn’t need to know how to make good conversation. Plus her psychic powers were growing stronger everyday, and while she did her best to hide them, it was difficult. Ray just ignored her little slip ups: knowing what he was going to say before he vocalized it, wanting something and suddenly having it move across the room into her hand. But others weren’t so collected about it, including Kyle. It just about killed her every time she slipped up in front of Kyle. He would always try to laugh it off but she could tell it bothered him, and every time one of her slip ups occurred everyone would get so quiet, giving her that same knowing look. They knew what she was, and she didn’t need telepathy to understand that. At times like that she felt alien. She felt as trapped and lonely as though she were back in that cell. But most of the time she didn’t feel that way. In fact she felt pretty good. Most of the time. “Well, that’s the end of another long day,” Gun said as the last drunkard walked out the door. “Anyone care for a drink before they head home?” “Sure,” Kyle said as he sat at the bar. “All right then, a beer for the guy, and a scotch on the rocks for the little lady,” Gun said as he handed them their usuals. “You better watch out Kyle, she’s gonna start out drinking you here in a little bit.” “She’s already meaner then me, tougher then me, and stronger then me,” Kyle said. “Can’t you let me hold onto the last illusions of my manhood?” “Ahh, you like ‘em like that and you know it,” Gun said with a wink. “Hey, next Saturday is Founder’s Day. Got any plans?” “Oh the usual. Drink, blow shit up.” “Well why don’t ya do that here? I kinda got a little party goin’ on,” Gun said. “Sure,” Kyle said, then shot him a glare. “Just keep your paws off the girls you dirty old man. Both of them.” Gun chuckled. “What, you think I gotta a death wish? Ray’d kill me if I touched Andrea, and Jane here can just plain kick my ass. Though I have to say, I do like ‘em a little on the rough side.” Kyle shot him a dirty look and Gun laughed. “Just joken’ man.” But Jane wasn’t paying attention to the conversation, hadn’t even touched her drink. Her thoughts were else where. “Gun,” she said. “Yes my little angel of sinful delight?” Kyle gave him a weird look, and Jane just ignored it. “That shot gun in the back loaded?” Both Kyle and Gun looked at each other. “Yeah, why?” Jane unstrapped her pistol from her side. “Go get it. Now.” Gun didn’t even give it a second thought and followed her orders immediately. Jane walked up to a window. “What is it?” Kyle asked. Jane could sense it, could feel it coming. “Trouble,” she said, “bad trouble.” They both looked out the window to see a group of ten or twelve men come into town on motorbikes and A.V.s. They wore patched up armor and carried guns, all painted with the symbol of a red skull and bones. A flag that hung from one of the A.V.s carried the same symbol. Kyle swore. “What?” Gun asked as he came back with the shotgun. “The Red Skulls,” Kyle replied. “Mother fucker!” Jane looked back at Kyle. “Bad?” “Yeah, real bad,” he said. “The Red Skulls are known particularly for not being real nice guys.” Jane looked back to the window as the two men talked. Strapped to the back of one the A.V.s was a white wolf trapped in a cage, his eyes a startling blue. He looked starved and crazed, his body inflicted with wounds and his fur matted with blood. Jane realized, to get him to be a fight dog. Jane looked into those eyes, and something inside her snapped. She knew then and there she would free that wolf, and beat the shit out of anyone who was stupid enough to get in her way. “We have to get Ray,” Kyle said as Jane moved away from the window. “There’s no way we can take these guys on ourselves.” “Agreed,” Gun said then looked up as Jane walked over to him. “Hey Jane, could you...hey!” Jane grabbed the gun from his hands then walked over to the door with her pistol in one hand and Gun’s shot gun in the other. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Kyle cried. “Beating the mother fucking shit out of some punks,” she snarled, cocking the shotgun and kicking the door open. “Jane!” Kyle yelled. “I know this may be not the time, but she’s pretty hot when she’s pissed,” Gun said. Jane walked up to the gang and they laughed as they took notice of her. “Look whose come here to stop us,” one of them said, “a little girl.” Jane fired the shotgun, blowing the man’s arm off. He screamed and fell to the ground, clasping the gushing wound. The others looked at their fallen comrade in shock, and Jane took advantage of this, shooting two men in the knees with the pistol. By then the others were up in arms, ready to fight. The first shots missed her, Jane able to predict the bullet’s paths and deflect them using her psychic energy. Suddenly there were shots coming from behind too, and Jane looked back to see that Kyle had left the bar to help her. “Gun’s getting Ray!” he yelled as he fired. “Shit!” Jane cursed, seeing the bullet heading towards Kyle’s skull. She deflected it with her powers, but in doing so let down her own shield. A bullet landed in her thigh and she hissed in pain. She fired the shotgun at the man who shot her, the bullet landing in his leg and taking his calf off. He collapsed to the ground. By now the Red Skulls were beginning to realize they weren’t dealing with a normal human being as Jane continued to dodge and deflect bullets. Five of their men were down, two with missing limbs, while she continued to attack with a bullet lodged in her leg. Jane fired, shooting the tires out of the A.V. that carried the wolf and putting bullets in the driver’s arms. Gun and Ray came into view, Ray with a grenade launcher. “I brought the cavalry!” Gun yelled. The Red Skulls took one look at the grenade launcher, another at the unearthly girl, and decided it was time to get out of there. They quickly picked up their wounded and drove off leaving the ruined A.V., and the wolf, behind. Jane limped up to the snarling animal, Kyle following closely behind yelling. “You fucken crazy bitch! What the hell did you think you were doing?! You coulda gotten yourself killed! Hell, it’s a fucken miracle you didn’t...Jane! Don’t open that cage!” She ignored him and shot off the lock, the wolf snarling as she opened the door. For a moment she looked into those blue eyes, and suddenly the wolf calmed down, becoming complacent and allowing Jane to touch him. “Is that was this was all about?” Kyle cried, exasperated. “A dog?” Jane picked the animal up. “No being should be treated like this,” she said quietly. “Jane, it’s a damn animal...” he began, when she cut him off with a glare. “No being should be treated like this,” she snapped. “Starved, beaten, caged. Taken away from their people and their home. Spirit broken and abused. And for what? For what?! To serve someone else’s sick purpose? To do their dirty work? No. No being should have to go through this. Human or not.” Tears began to fall down her face. Kyle’s temper cooled. “Agh...you-you’re right. I’m sorry. No creature should have to go through that. Could you let me carry the wolf though, you got a bullet in your leg.” Jane looked into the wolf’s eyes for a moment before passing him to Kyle, the animal showing no sign of protest. “Come on Jane, we’ll bandage him up and take care of him. And you too.” She nodded her head as she wiped the moisture from her eyes. Kyle looked up as Ray and Gun walked over. “Looks like we have a new pet.” Jane sat there as Ray finished patching up her wound, Andrea taking care of the wolf. “Ray, can I ask you a question?” “Ask away.” “How did my people die?” Ray looked up at her, then back at her injury. “The Doctor never told you?” “No.” “Well I guess that makes sense, we’re the ones who did it after all.” She looked at him with startled eyes. “Yeah, you see we humans, we aren’t native to this planet. Your people were, and we just happened to crash land here. “As you can tell we have fairly similar physiology, in fact nearly identical as far as genetics are concerned. Which is why I guess the Doctor has yet to figure what makes you different from us. Your people, the Ancients, lived in a fairly primitive hunter gatherer society but possessed extremely advanced cognitive abilities such as telepathy, and those powers could be enhanced by the Moonflower. “Unfortunately, as is typical of two isolated cultures meeting for the first time, we brought disease. Wiped out most of your people in the first ten years, but it also turned out we humans have a deadly reaction to the Moonflower that we call Moonsickness, and it killed us by the thousands as well. “Humans, in our typical manner, killed what we couldn’t understand. We slaughtered what was left of the Ancients, who we were convinced were poisoning us. They were no match for the finely tuned ‘death machines’ of my ancestors. The few that lived went deep into The Forest to slowly die off. The humans then built The City, the only place on this planet free from the Moonflower.” “So your people killed mine?” she said in half-disbelief. He nodded his head. “Does that make you angry at us?” She looked at him with confused eyes, as though she didn’t know the answer. “I suppose it doesn’t make me happy. But, you didn’t specifically kill them; you’ve shown me nothing but kindness. It was someone from a long time ago whose dead already. No point in being angry at you for what a corpse did.” “Are you angry at the Doctor for not telling you?” The cold, questioning look in her eyes melted away to fire, and for a moment Ray was startled by the intensity of the hate in that glare. “Oh, I am angry at the Doctor, but for many reasons other then that.” “Why are you angry at him?” “Why?” She repeated incredously. “Why? Because he trapped me in that damn prison, that’s why. Because he bent me, manipulated me, and twisted me into his damn perfect solider. The only time I was let out of the training facility was for him to show me off to his cronies, or kill them. The only time I ever talked to anyone, besides doctors, was when political officials were permitted to ask me questions. And if anyone seemed to get too close to me they were called a liability and killed. Do you think I chose that life? Do you think that was what I wanted? I wasn’t a living being, I was a tool. I wasn’t a little girl to him, but a weapon he could use. You ask me why and I tell you because before I came out here I had never even seen a damn sunrise.” She turned away, her knuckles white. “I want to hurt him. I want to make him pay for what he did to me. I want to make him bleed and watch the light fade from his sightless, ugly eyes.” Ray gulped, watching her sit there as she trembled with rage. This girl was one big mess, and he had a feeling it was going to take a long time to fix her, if she ever could be. “Hey, take it easy,” he said. “You’re no longer there, you’re here, and you’re not going back.” “Damn right I’m not going back. I’d shoot a fucken bullet in my brain first.” Within the week both Jane and Wolf, as she plainly called him, had healed up well. Wolf had become a part of the group just as Jane had, and was just as mysterious as his rescuer as well. Jane fidgeted uneasily as Andrea looked over her wound. “Once again Jane, you have healed amazingly quick,” she said. “Just no dancing for you little missy.” “I don’t think you have to worry about that under any circumstances,” Jane commented wryly. “Is that a joke I heard coming from you!” Andrea exclaimed in mock surprise. “Oh dear Lord the Apocalypse must be coming!” “Funny.” Andrea smiled. “I have to say, you look very cute today. All dressed up for Founder’s Day.” Jane squirmed in the little blue dress she wore, not yet used to the concept of them. “You think so?” Andrea nodded her head. “Of course! You’ll have all the boys staring at you.” Jane blushed slightly at this. “And I know Kyle will love it.” Jane turned even redder as Andrea giggled. Andrea knit her brows. “There is something missing though...A hah! I’ve got just the thing!” She walked over to a vase and pulled out a flower. “A flower for your hair, a blue Lilly.” She tucked the white and blue Lilly behind Jane’s ear and heaved a sigh of contentment. “There, perfect.” Just then Ray and Kyle walked into the house. “You two ready to go?” Ray asked. “It’s almost dark out and the party’s about to get started.” “Oh father, you have no patience,” Andrea said. “But yes, we are ready to go.” “‘Bout time,” Kyle said, “thought you two were gonna take all night.” “You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Andrea teased. “Now come on Jane, let’s go.” They left the house and headed down the road. “Wolf!” Jane called, and suddenly the white wolf came bounding out of The Forest and ran over to her. He was a magnificent creature now that his wounds had begun to heal and he had gained weight. He was also gigantic with his large head coming up to Jane’s chest. Andrea found some excuse to get herself and Ray further ahead, leaving Kyle and Jane walking alone with Wolf. “You look nice tonight,” Kyle commented. Jane blushed and fidgeted with her dress. “Andrea helped.” Kyle grinned wryly as Andrea kept glancing back to see what they were doing. “Why am I not surprised?” The small town of Foxglove was filled with people, all laughing and talking around a large bonfire. Colorful paper lanterns were strung from every eve of every building, music filled the air, and already sparkles danced in the darkening sky as the festivities began. “Come on, let’s hurry up before the fire works start,” Kyle said. Jane followed him into the crowd, and before she knew it food was crammed into one hand, beer into another, and a seat had been found for her so she could take the pressure off her wounded leg. Even Wolf had managed to get a hold of a couple of hot dogs. “You okay sitting over here?” Kyle asked. Jane nodded, enjoying the warm summer night and the atmosphere of the party. “Sure you don’t wanna blow something up?” he persisted. Jane smirked. “I’ve done enough of that in my day.” “But these have pretty colors,” Kyle said. “And I know how you love pretty colors.” “I think that I will be quite all right with my beer and my sparkler,” she said. Truth was, even though she did love pretty colors, she was nervous about the fireworks. Too many bad memories. Kyle saw that look in her eye, and knew to back off. “Fine then, sparklers it is.” He pulled a lighter from his pocket and set a sparkler off, handing it to her. The party lasted well into the early hours of the morning, and it was late before Jane headed home, Kyle helping her walk so she wouldn’t put pressure on her leg. “You sure you’ll make it?” he asked. She nodded her head. Her leg was sore, but not debilitating. “I’ll be fine.” “There’s a log where we can sit for a sec,” he said. “If not for your sake then at lest for mine. I’m getting tired lugging you around.” They came up to the log and sat down, Kyle leaving his arm wrapped around her and holding her close. They sat in silence for a moment, looking up at the stars. “That was fun, wasn’t it?” “Until you and Ray tried to blow up that A.V.,” she said. “Ahh come on, it’s just been sitting there with bullet holes in it. Besides, I think Wolf liked it,” he said. “Yes, that was why he left as soon as Ray pulled out the M-80s.” “He did? I don’t remember that.” “That’s because you were too busy looking for gasoline.” Kyle laughed nervously. “Well hey, they’ve been meaning to put a hole there. A very large, deep hole...” “Oh,” Jane said, taking him seriously. “Well then, I suppose you did give them that.” Kyle snickered. “What?” “Nothing,” he said. “Just don’t...” “Don’t what?” Kyle just smiled and shook his head. “Never mind.” A shooting star streaked across the sky, fading into the horizon. “Quick, make a wish!” “A wha...” “Just be quiet and make a wish.” He looked up at the sky and remained quiet. Jane wondered if he had gone mad. A few seconds later he turned back to her. “Whadda wish for?” “I don’t understand how making an arbitrary request on a random natural phenomena will...” she began. Kyle rolled his eyes. “Oh just shut up and kiss me.” “Huh?” She began, when she was quieted by Kyle’s lips pressed against hers. “So, whadda think about that?” He asked after he broke the kiss. Jane giggled inanely, babbled something then fell over. Kyle looked at her lying on the forest floor. “I’m gonna be optimistic here and take that as a good sign.” The tattooed kid sat in the black and white room lined with televisions, looking at the blind man who sat behind the counsel with dread. The Doctor sat there calmly as he bored into the kid with those sightless eyes, as though he could see into his very soul. “So, you and your comrades were beaten up by a girl. And what has this to do with me?” the Doctor asked. “Man, that crazy bitch didn’ just beat us up. She was-she was...it was like she wasn’t human or somethin’. She knew every move we’d make before we did! I shot her five times and I coulda swore each’d hit, but they just bounced right off her! It was creepy I tell ya.” That caught his attention. “Really? Did you see what she looked like?” “Hell ya. I’m sure as hell not gonna forget what that bitch looked like for long time,” he said. “And she matches your thing. Silver hair, purple eyes, short.” “And where exactly did this incident occur?” the Doctor asked, voice calm but knuckles clenched white. “Ugh, some Outskirts town. I think it was called Foxglove or somethin’.” “Very well, thank you for your information...” the Doctor began. “Uh, doctor?” the kid said. “I heard there was a reward...” He waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Yes, yes. Go and leave your contact information with my receptionist. If your assistance leads to Project Artemis’ capture you’ll be rewarded accordingly. You are now dismissed.” The kid didn’t lose anytime getting out of there. As soon as the boy left, Steel walked in. “Well?” “Tell Tweeker to take his men to Foxgolve, search for her there,” the Doctor said. “We’ve been there already, found nothin’,” Steel said. “Then search harder. I don’t care if you have to burn the place to the ground, I want her found,” the Doctor snapped. “Yes Doctor.” “Oh and Steel, don’t bother enlisting Taylor,” the Doctor said. “It seems as though he has been sympathetic with out little runaways...cause.” “He dead?” “No...just in place where he can think about the consequences of his actions.” She clipped flowers from a rose bush, handing then over to Andrea who took them and placed them in a basket, talking as she absent-mindedly petted Wolf. “So anyways, I told Samantha she should just dump that jerk Skyler. I mean, if he can’t bother to spend five minutes with her, why should she waste her time? Don’t you agree?” “I have no idea,” Jane replied truthfully. “Oh Jane, you may be genius when it comes to gardening, and you may able to beat up multitudes of bad guys, but when it come to people you are quite silly.” “Hey there,” Kyle said as he came over, wrapping his arms around Jane’s waste and giving her a kiss. “Whatcha two doing out here?” “Oh, just trimming the rose bushes,” Andrea said, “and gossiping. Though I think I’m doing most of the gossiping and she’s doing most of the gardening.” “Gossiping about what?” he asked. “Oh, nothing but local drama,” Andrea said. “Just enough to keep myself entertained. “No offense Andrea, but you could find a way to entertain yourself by watching paint dry,” Kyle said. Andrea stuck her tongue out. “Better to be happy with what you got then always wanting more.” Kyle and Andrea continued with their light banter, but Jane ignored it, something else catching her attention. Wolf perked up, following her gaze. Something’s coming. “Jane,” Kyle said, “hey Jane. You listening?” She turned to him. “Get Andrea into the house.” Kyle frowned. “What is it?” “The Lab.” Kyle turned to Andrea. “Get Ray.” She left without another word. Jane pulled out her gun and cocked it. “Aww hell no, you aren’t gonna fight them.” “Too late to hide,” Jane said. “They’re already here.” Kyle looked up the road to see a group of soldiers coming from around the corner, a thin man with green hair in the lead. “Who is...” he turned to Jane and the words died on his lips. Her eyes were narrowed, her jaw clenched, her firsts clenched tightly. “Tweeker,” she hissed. “Well, well,” Tweeker said as he walked up to the house. “Looks like the punk was right, you were hiding here.” “I’m going to give you the chance to turn around and leave Tweeker,” Jane said. “Go and tell the Doctor I wasn’t here, and we can both leave this alive.” Tweeker laughed. “Or what? You and this kid gonna fight us? I think you’re a little outnumbered.” “No, I’ll fight you.” “Jane...” Kyle began. “A little over confident aren’t we Project Artemis? Big girl now that we’re out in the big world. Reality check bitch. You’re an alien, a freak. There isn’t anyone in this universe, any place in this world, where you’ll belong.” “She belongs here,” Kyle snapped. Tweeker grinned. “Do you even know what Project Artemis has done? What she can do? I’ve seen her kill men with her bare hands, take them down in a single shot. She’s an assassin, a murderer. Ever since she could walk Project Artemis has been taught one thing-how to kill. Isn’t that right?” She didn’t look at Kyle. “Her name isn’t Artemis asshole, it’s Jane.” Kyle snarled. Tweeker laughed. “That’s great! Jane. What, ya gonna go bake some apple pie now Jane?” “I said to leave,” Jane hissed. “Oh I’ll leave, but you’re going with me.” “I’ll die before I let you take me back.” “Trust me, if I had a choice, that’s the way it would be.” He reached for his gun, and suddenly she knew what he was planning. “Kyle!” she cried, pushing him to the ground as Tweeker fired his gun. She dodged the bullet, and as an automatic reaction fired her own, a single bullet lodging itself between Tweeker’s eyes. “You...” Kyle began, when all hell broke lose. “Run!!” Jane yelled, raising a psychic shield as the soldiers fired. “Get into the house!” “But...” “Just go!” she screamed, and then next thing Kyle knew it he was back in the house, sitting next to a stunned Andrea. “How did you...” Andrea began. “Jane!” Kyle cried and ran up to the door. “I can’t open it!” “It must because of Jane,” Ray said. Outside Jane was battling the soldiers, firing her gun and doing her best to keep her shield raised. She could feel herself beginning to lose it though. Between her anger at The Lab, her concern for her friends, and Tweeker, she could feel herself starting to slip. She couldn’t let them do what they did to Tommy to her new friends, she just couldn’t take that, she had to protect them. One of the bullets hit her arm and she cursed, focusing her attention on the shooter. His heart exploded in his chest and he fell to the ground dead. Jane was stunned for a moment by the horror of what she had done. But they didn’t give her time to think as they continued to fire. Jane felt closed in, trapped and scared. She could feel their hate and fear, and their emotions melded with hers, causing the long suppressed pain in her to flare up fresh and raw. She clasped her head. “Why won’t you just leave me alone!” Suddenly the jeep exploded, causing a soldier to fly through the air and the others to catch fire. Jane turned to the few stupefied soldiers left, unable to stop herself in her panic. Their brains exploded in their heads and they fell to the ground dead, blood spilling from their eyes, ears, and noses. Jane looked at the bloody scene in stunned horror as her breathing slowed and sanity returned to her. Kyle ran out of the house, took one look at the bodies then got sick. “Jesus Jane, what did you do?” She slowly looked back at Kyle, shaking as the words Tweeker had spoken played through her mind. She’s an assassin, a killer. Ever since she could walk she’s been taught one thing-how to kill. “I’m so sorry I did this to you,” she said, tears running down her cheeks. “I’m sorry I brought this upon you.” His alarm grew when he saw her take a couple steps back. “Jane...” he began. But she didn’t hear him. “You all would have been better off if you had just left me to die in The Forest.” With that she turned around and ran. “Jane, wait!” Kyle called after her, but she was gone. She ran. Ran as fast and as far as her legs could carry her. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t care, she just wanted to get as far away from that scene of bloody destruction as possible. Finally she collapsed to the ground from exhaustion, lying on a bed of moss dotted with delicate white flowers. Tears fell down her cheeks as she stared up at the sky, the white puffball clouds reflected in her eyes. I was a fool to think things could ever work out, she thought. That I could have a life in this world worth living. Tweeker was right. I’m an alien, that last of my kind. Who was I to think I could find a place where I can belong? True, Kyle had known she was an assassin, but how could he not look at her differently after seeing that? Besides, now that The Lab knew where she was, they would stop at nothing to get her. What would that bring to her new friends? Nothing but death and pain just like Tommy. Soon Jane began to realize everything was becoming hazy and blurred. Wha... She then smelled the light scent fill the air as her body crushed the flowers beneath her. Moonflower, she realized, I’m lying on a bed of Moonflower. The pain in her arm and leg subsided, and her body was filled with a sweet buzzing sensation. She smiled as she laid on her back, feeling as though she were floating, allowing the delicately scented Novocain to lull her into a deep, deathlike sleep. “Doctor,” the voice of the receptionist said over the speaker, “ we have lost communication with the Foxglove group.” The Doctor frowned. That could mean only one thing. “Thank you,” he said. “Contact Steel for me. Tell him I have an assignment for him.” Kyle sighed as he finished off his scotch, looking through the window at the night sky. Wolf whimpered. “Yeah, I know. I’m worried about her too.” “Don’t worry Kyle,” Ray said. “I’m sure she’ll show up.” “You shoulda seen the look on her face, it was so sad. I’ve never seen anyone so sad.” Kyle shook his head. “I feel so guilty. Just sitting here while she’s out there all alone.” She ran into The Forest Kyle,” Ray pointed out. “She can survive the Moonflower, we can’t.” “Besides, I bet she’ll be back before we know it,” Andrea added. “I hope your right,” Kyle muttered. Suddenly Wolf leapt up from the ground and stood with his hair on end, growling. “What’s the matter with Wolf?” Andrea asked. Kyle knew, Kyle knew with all the growing dread in his heart. “The Lab. The Lab’s back for...” There was a loud boom, and all became spinning chaos. When Jane woke up, she felt as though she had emerged from the most pleasant and peaceful sleep she’d ever had. No nightmares had tormented her, no dark shadows pulling at her from her past, only sweet dreams of happiness filled her memory. She smiled and sat up, the problems before her suddenly not seeming so problematic. So she was an alien. She had found a group of people who accepted her despite of that. And while the incident with Tweeker and The Lab had been terrible, it wasn’t as though she had set out to hurt them. She had defended herself and her friends. The Lab had left her little choice in her actions. She was standing up, convinced she had her problems under control, when the worst feeling hit her stomach. It sent shivers up and down her spine and she knew, with terrible certainty, something very bad had happened back at Foxglove. She looked up into the sky and saw it was smudged with smoke, thick and black, carrying with it the scent of death. “No!” Jane cried and ran back to the village, heart pounding and mouth dry with fear. As she got closer to the town the pungent smell of smoke grew stronger, fueling her desperation. She burst from The Forest, into the town, and was stunned by what she saw. The entire town had been burned to the ground, slaughtered bodies lying in the open air to serve as food for vultures. “No...” she gasped, when she spotted one of the bodies. “Wolf!” She ran over to the dead animal and buried her face in his thick, white fur. “Oh no, Wolf,” she moaned. She looked up to wipe her tears when saw another body, her tiny world shattering. “Kyle!” She crawled over to where Kyle laid, his stomach torn up and entrails on the ground. “Kyle, oh Kyle, you have to wake up.” She sobbed, cradling his head in her arms. “You can’t die Kyle, you can’t. Oh please Kyle, just wake up.” But of course, he didn’t. She dropped Kyle’s head to the ground, her eyes glazed over and face lifeless. Dumbly she walked over to the house that for so little time had been her home. Her heart shattered into a million unfixable pieces. “Jane...” a voice whispered, so low she almost missed it. “Jane...” She turned to the voice and found Ray. Most of his body was crushed beneath a stone slab, but he was still alive. “Ray!” she cried, and ran over to him. “Oh Ray, I’m so sorry! So, so, sorry! None-none of this would have happened if it wasn’t for me...” “That doesn’t...matter now,” he said. “They took Andrea...you have to save her.” “Andrea...” she murmured, then narrowed her eyes. She found a new place to put all her grief and sorrow, into her thirst for revenge. Ray nodded his head. “Move the stone...take the remote from my pocket...use my weapons...my armor.” “But moving the stone right now could kill you,” she protested. “I’m...already dead Jane. Just...just save my daughter.” She could see he was telling the truth, and nodded her head. She removed the massive slab, revealing Ray’s destroyed body beneath, then found the remote in his pocket. She looked at the small, black square. This was all her fault, this death this destruction. If she hadn’t come here they would still be alive. Kyle would still be alive. Death just seems to follow you wherever you go. She knew The Lab’s capturing Andrea was a trap. They wanted her to go after Andrea that was the only reason why they kept the girl alive. She didn’t care though, she would make them pay. She would make them pay so dearly. “Save her Jane,” Ray said. “Save her for me.” She turned back to Ray, pulled out her gun and cocked it. She placed the barrel against his head and Ray closed his eyes. “My name’s not Jane,” she said with tears falling from her cold, barren eyes, “it’s Artemis.” With that she pulled the trigger and Ray’s body went limp, his soul going to join Kyle, Wolf, and the others in the smoke. The receptionist sat in the black and white room calmly writing in her books and filing away papers. She looked up in mild surprise as the door exploded in, scattering large blocks of rock across the room. Artemis stormed in; shooting the guards that appeared, the girl wearing black body armor and carrying enough weaponry to run an army. The receptionist hit a button that sounded an alarm, Artemis promptly shooting the woman in the chest. “Bitch,” Artemis snarled, walking past the dead body to the elevators. She pushed the button to the top floor, knowing exactly where to go. Of course she knew. She had lived her entire life in this building. The elevator stopped between floors. This didn’t slow her down though. She knocked the top of the elevator off and climbed out, grabbing a hold of one of the cables and proceeding to climb up the building. She came to the Doctor’s floor and pulled out a large gun. She cocked it and pointed to the elevator door and fired. The bullet left a large dent in the door and caused her to swing on the cable, but she ignored this and fired again, leaving another large dent. After the fourth shot the door collapsed completely, and she leapt through to the other side. Artemis shot and killed two guards that came at her. She came up to the door to the Doctor’s room and knocked it over, but inside Artemis found nothing but an empty chair. The Doctor was gone. “Well, well,” a familiar voice said. “Look who decided to show up?” Artemis turned around to see Steel flanked by Lab soldiers. Artemis narrowed her eyes and the men around Steel began to fall to the ground, clasping their heads as blood gushed from their noses. “Holy shit!” Steel yelped. Artemis held out her hand and suddenly Steel was floating in the air. He moved through the air, against his will, towards the girl and stopped inches before her with his feet dangling above the ground. “Where is Andrea, and where is the Doctor?” she demanded. “You can go and just try to mind read me you little cunt, ‘cause I ain’t sayin...” he began. “Yes you are, because I want you to say it” Artemis hissed, her voice ice. “You are going to tell me even if I have to slowly break every bone in your body, if I have to shatter every one of your teeth. Even if I have to skin you alive, pry back your finger nails, or rip you limb from goddamn limb you are going to fucken tell me WHERE THEY ARE!!” Her voice cracked and a few of the monitors exploded. Steel gulped, knowing she meant what she said. The Doctor had pushed her too far. She had snapped. “Allmount Square,” he said. “He plans to publicly execute her for harboring you.” She released him, and he fell to the ground. She cocked her head to the side, as if she was a radio honing in on a frequency then turned back to him, eyes glowing with quiet fury. “You lead the attack on Foxglove,” she said. He knew there was no point in lying. “The Doctor ordered it.” “You killed Kyle,” she said. “You killed them all.” She raised her gun and Steel closed his eyes, grateful that at lest his death would be quick. She fired and red blood splattered across the black and white room. Calmly, she walked through the sea of bodies and took the stairs to go down to the basement. When she reached the basement she walked into a corridor of windowless steel doors, the guards looking at her in terror as she walked down the hall. Artemis ignored them. She came up to a button and pushed it, the doors sliding open to reveal tiny dark cells. Dr. Taylor walked out of one of those cells. “Artemis?” He exclaimed. “Wha...” “Get out of here, I’m going to blow this place up,” she said. “Artemis, you’ve been hurt,” he said. She looked down and saw he was right, some of the bullets had found their target. Funny how she hadn’t noticed. “Never mind that.” “Artemis, you need medical attention.” “What I need is to destroy this place and kill the Doctor,” she said. Taylor looked at her, and then sighed. “I’m sorry Artemis. I had hoped if you had escaped, you might be able to find some happiness.” Her eyes softened. “I did for a while. For a while my name was Jane,” she whispered. “But that’s over now.” “Is it? Do you have no other choice? Is this suicide mission the only way?” “I died a long time ago Dr. Taylor,” she said. “This body is just a ghost from the long distant past.” “Artemis...” he murmured. She went cold again. “Go, get everyone out of here,” she ordered. “This place is going to blow in ten minutes.” Ten minutes later Taylor stood at the edge of The Forest with the few ragged survivors left. They looked up as a loud explosion shook the sky and a series of bright orange blasts erupted from The Lab as the white monolith collapsed, sending a plume of gray dust into the sky. Taylor watched as the building fell, a symbol of cruelty and tyranny that had dominated The City for so many years. “Good luck Artemis,” he whispered. She walked through the streets as she headed towards Allmount Square, blood streaming from her wounds and fire burning in her eyes. Cars honked at her as they swerved to avoid her, but she paid them no mind, all her attention focused on one goal. One headed straight towards her and she waved her arm aside, her psychic energy knocking the car out of her path. She stopped when she came to a large building. “Allmount Square,” she hissed, and went up the stairs. She pulled out her guns as she kicked in the door, firing away. Obviously the Doctor had planned on her coming, for the place was filled with The Lab’s men, and Artemis was forced to raise a shield and fall back. Ahead she could see the Doctor standing at a podium, Andrea bound and gagged beside him. Artemis narrowed her eyes, the sight of Andrea’s frightened face filling her with rage. She pushed her shield ahead of her and plunged into the sea of soldiers, everything blurring in Artemis’ mind as she battled, some other part of her taking over and pushing her on. Bullets flew across the room and blood pooled on the cream marble. A series of bullets hit Artemis in the chest and she grunted in pain, but her suicidal fury pushed her on. At one point she ran out of ammo and had to pull out two swords, falling to her knees as she swept the blades before her, cutting the legs out from under the soldiers. She finally came to the podium, the last man screaming as she rammed the blade through his chest. She leaned on the blade for a moment, panting, drenched in so much blood she looked as though she had been stained red. “So Artemis, you came,” the Doctor said. “Go to fucking hell,” she snapped and stabbed him in the chest with her other sword. He looked down at the mortal wound in shock. “You...killed me,” he gasped then collapsed. Andrea was shaking as Artemis stumbled up to her and clumsily began to undo her bindings. She was dying. She could feel it. She just had to hold on for a little longer, just had to make things right. “Jane!” Andrea cried as she was untied. “Oh Jane, you’re hurt!” “Never mind that, you have to listen to me Andrea. I don’t have much time.” “Jane no! You can’t...” she began. Artemis silenced her. “Andrea, listen to me! This is important.” Hands trembling she pulled a vial from a compartment in the bottom of her boot and handed it to Andrea. “This is the cure for Moonsickness. I want you to take to a Dr. Taylor. You understand?” “No Jane, I don’t. Why can’t you take it? Why...” Tears streamed down her face. “I’m dying Andrea. I’ve sustained too much damage to live much longer,” she said. “You-you must do this for me.” “No! You can’t!” Andrea sobbed. “You can’t leave me, you’re all I have left! Ray, Kyle...they’re all dead. You can’t leave me alone in this world! You can’t!” Artemis threw up blood. “I really don’t think I have much of a choice.” “Jane, I can’t do this. I can’t be responsible for this. I’m not strong like you.” Jane pressed the vial in her hand, smiling slightly. “Oh silly Andrea. You’re far stronger then I could ever hope to be.” She leaned over and kissed the blond girl on the forehead, leaving a smudge of blood on her brow. “Jane, no!” Andrea cried as the other woman stood up. Jane just smiled, turned around, and left. Andrea ran after her, stopping in the streets as she watched Jane enter The Forest. She clutched the vial to her chest as the girl’s slight figure disappeared in the trees, Andrea knowing she could not follow. She never saw her again. TOGETHER Ashok Niyogi Life did a good job to soften me up, but that was brawn, now that thunder sounds and it is dark, I await the onslaught of the brain in this worldly alliance. With sensory insinuation , with sound and silence, laughter and tears, with light and shade, just lonely thoughts in darkened rooms, assessing the solidity of four walls. Distorted imagination; no comfort of the herd, now that I am not bovine. I am like a mutilated ant that the kind schoolboy (schoolboys will have their fun) has kept alive; antenna working, head sensing, just crazed with pain jaws still looking for food, still thinking of loss and gain. It is, after all, a logical world, feet firm on mountain ground, it makes a living, it gets around, it moves on and walks its pets, even grieves for an ant just crazed with pain. AFTERNOON Ashok Niyogi The emaciated stray cat had just birthed a litter. It lived in an empty neighborhood flat with a broken window pane. But the kittens were perchance born under a parked car, in cool shade. When I actually saw the cat, it had a kitten in its mouth, and was rushing to the safety of its house. I was out walking my dogs. Now my girl has a thing about cats, becomes violent, strains at her leash. And cats in the neighborhood know. The cat saw my dog, I thought apocalypse had come, but my girl was nonplussed at the wiggly little thing. The cat dropped her kitten and ran for life, retreat from attack, survival overtook maternal instinct; the wiggly little thing stayed wriggling on the ground, too young to run, too young to even stand. What was I to do? I was a poet, a chronicler, not an action hero; I turned, and walked my dogs the other way. Now I surmise, why I am almost sure, that because I walked the other way, the mother must have returned to take her kitten away. The Rocky Road Ronald M. Rowe The rocky road passed by trees laden with Spanish moss; she was like a shining cord wrapped around a Christmas tree. And the road was bordered with rough shoulders, like women wearing necklaces of agate stones. You may find that she will quench your thirst for the grace of earthy elements, like the urn of Aquarius pouring forth pristine waters. The rocky road hummed with automobile wheels, vividly reminding me of the folk-singing of Dave Van Ronk: (“lGreen, green rocky road...”) And like a talisman she made me remember my twenty-third year, when I became vegetarian and traveled unto an imaginary star, (discovering the intoxication of youth). The rocky road seemed to promise an infinite expansion in a meek voice of stone, (as humble as a child offering a flower unto Jesus). Like a scripture mouthing words of scattered quartz, she refracted the rays of the sun with a promise of adventure and rational purity, (emblematic of the qualities of thunder and twilights blending a trail unto a new day). Man With Guitar Douglas Holder And when he riffed his girth was no obstacle. He rose like beckoned from above. His head craned like a meaty swan following the music like some driven Egyptian hieroglyphic-- face twitching as if it was synchronized. His eyes tightly locked on the singers. And all I could see were his agile, manic fingers. Peter the Great Richard Thieme “Which way do I do it then? Do I bring this three up and over? Carry the seven? Or what?” Peter Bellerophon looked amazed at her dumb-assed face. The girl was twelve, for Crissake. Peter had shown her twice already. How many times did he have to go over the same goddamned thing? She wasn’t even his, but here he was, spending his time telling her things she never got anyway. Let her stupid-assed father show her how to do it, if he ever shows up. He pushed the book and pencil and paper out of his face. “Stop asking so goddamn many questions,” he said. “Figure it out for yourself.” Ellie burst into tears and ran down the hallway. The door slammed, then he could hear her crying through the closed door. She always ran, but never far enough, not for him. “There you go again,” Bonnie said, sticking up for the girl for a change. “You’re so nice.” Peter lowered the newspaper, which he had opened as soon as Ellie ran out of the room, and stared at the woman. She was standing at the ironing board, one of his shirts hanging down, six of his shirts hanging clean and pressed on the rack. She wore the cut-offs he liked and one of his old plaid shirts, long tail-ends tied in a knot around her midriff. She wasn’t wearing a bra, he could see, which he guessed must irritate hell out of her nipples. The thought of her nipples sore against the shirt and the sight of her chest between unbuttoned buttons turned him on. “Hey lady, you want to fuck?” Bonnie just looked down at the shirt. “Fuck yourself.” Peter was thinking of the scene in Body Heat when Ned Racine comes over the lawn but instead of finding Mattie Walker in the gazebo, it’s the other girl, the one who it turns out really was Mattie Walker. It’s this great scene where he comes across the lawn and says, “Hey lady, you want to fuck?” and this dream-girl turns around, he steps back when he sees it isn’t the broad he’s been banging, that’s the scene he’s thinking about, thinking too of getting into Mattie or Mary Anne or whoever she is from behind, her fists squeezing the sheets, hearing the girl in her room crying, thinking too how Bonnie’s nipples are irritated, hurting, which had to turn her on as much as it did him, so when she said that, standing there bent over and ironing with those hard short strokes that said she was pissed off, he didn’t expect it. He didn’t know where in hell she was coming from all of a sudden and he didn’t deserve it. He dropped the newspaper. “What the fuck is that?” He stared across the room, waiting for something to come back at him, something he could whack back, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction and he sighed. Here we go again. We certainly have been here before, haven’t we? When he doesn’t want to hear another word, she can’t shut up, but now, when she ought to say something, when he wouldn’t have minded a little conversation, she stands there ironing, pressing her lips in that tight line. So he gave her the benefit of the doubt. He waited. But the woman did not say one goddamn word. “Hey,” he said. “Bitch. I’m talking to you.” She kept ironing, not looking up. So he has to get up out of the chair, letting the newspaper slide onto the floor, and take a step toward her. In his mind, he is a dinosaur, a Tyrannosaurus Rex, old T-Rex himself, the one in the movie that chases the car. He sees himself huge, a predator stalking prey, striking fear into the animals running for cover. The smart ones, anyway: the smart ones run for cover. “Goddamn it! Are you listening to me?” She looked up this time, pulling the shirt on the board. He saw a flicker of fear in her eyes before her eyes got hard again. That turned him on even more. “Don’t start with me, Peter.” She kept her voice cool, making him pause. He saw in that split second, though, how if he stopped now, she’d have him by the balls. Let her stop him just once in his tracks with a word or look or tone of voice, that’s all it would take for prissy little Peter to be pussy-whipped for the rest of his life. Help me with the dishes. Yes Ma’am. Don’t track mud in. No Ma’am. Carry the groceries. Yes Ma’am. Where would you like them, Ma’am? He turned over the ironing board, knocking the hung shirts over, the rack banging the table before crashing to the floor. “Goddamn it!” he said. “Now see what you made me do!” She backed away, raising the hot iron in her hand. He could see the fear in her eyes, a jolt of adrenaline hitting him hard. His heart pounded and he got a hard-on. Then he went into his karate stance, moving his hands in front of her face. Bruce Lee in torn jeans and a pot-belly tee-shirt. “Come on,” he said. “Try it. Make my day.” She backed into the hutch and stopped. The iron was still plugged in. The cord pulled in the socket like a dog on a leash. The wall to the right was a few feet away, then a chair with the table blocking the way to the dining room. He watched her look left: the picture window, and through it, the birdbath frozen over, the bird feeder hanging on a wire line, the clear blue sky of winter. Snow on the patio, snow covering the lawn. Her eyes came back to his face. He knew she knew what was coming next. First he would hit her in the face, then grab her hair and throw her down on the floor and kick her. If the girl screamed, so much the better. That was just more music for dancing. Jack him up all the more. Then rip away the shirt and bite her nipples until she screamed. Then jerk her jeans down and fuck her on the floor, maybe from the back. When he finished he would leave her there, wiping himself on her stomach, then tuck his balls with care back into his tight jeans. She brought the iron around in front in both hands and held it toward him. “Good,” he said, eyes shining. “Try it.” He gestured toward his face. “Come on, come on and try.” She thrust the iron into his face, pressing it hard against his cheek. It took him a minute to realize she was doing it, not just threatening. His momentum pushed him forward until his T-Rex brain registered that his face was on fire. He smashed her arm down with his fist, the iron thudding to the floor, and then he was howling, holding his face, feeling his skin puff up and blister. Bonnie ducked under his arm as he whirled and ran down the hallway, grabbed her daughter and hauled her out of the room, the girl still crying but wondering, what’s the noise? where’s Peter? what’s happening? running with Ellie out the door, barefoot over the snow to Mary Louise next door who let her in and locked the door and called the police. Now, this is what amazed him, after they came and got him: Bonnie was the one who tried to kill him. Bonnie was the one who scarred him, branded him a limp-dicked wimp who couldn’t control his women. She was the one who taunted him, made him feel like shit, made him doubt himself, wonder what he was fucking alive for, he was such an asshole, you listen to what she says, and he did listen, boy, did he ever. After she bought the cordless phone, whenever she used it he would go out into his pick-up truck for a smoke and plug in his scanner and listen to her telling Mary Louise or Darla what a prick he was. He sat there in the truck, blowing out clouds of smoke, listening to this woman tell the neighborhood he was the worst of the worst, the original Mister Shithead. And he was supposed to sit there, take it all in, then come back and act as if he was living in some sitcom where everything is a joke. She must have thought he was from the psychic hot line, the way he knew everything; he would drop little hints here and there and watch her squirm, act like she didn’t know he knew what he knew, laughing to himself inside, her so stupid she never did figure it out. But now, and this is the point, she was doing all this shit to him, trying to kill him, making him sick, so sick he’s vomiting in the squad car with the pain of his face, wondering why they didn’t call an ambulance instead of throwing him onto the back floor of the squad car, the white cop telling him puke on his own goddamn shoes, pushing him down onto the floor, pushing the back of his neck down hard so he vomits onto the floor, then putting his feet on his back and holding him there for the ride downtown. At the station they made him clean up his mess with a towel, his face feeling by then as if something’s eating it from inside out, and finally they put some cream on the burn. But this is what amazed him, this is what got him: after all that they took him back to the station and the sons-of-bitches arrested him. They arrested him. Bonnie and Ellie and Mary Louise must have told the cops all this bullshit, but naturally, she’s wearing cut-offs with her hand circling on her bare stomach and the plaid shirt tied around it and she’s barefoot, there’s something about a good-looking barefoot woman on a winter day that makes everything she says sound like the truth, and of course she was crying, crying here and there while she puts out her story, Ellie crying quietly in the background, Ellie the violins to Bonnie’s vocal, Mary Louise walking the length of the living room with this other cop, the big stupid-looking black bastard, telling him all kinds of shit she doesn’t even know if it’s true but believes what Bonnie tells her, women always believe each other, ask and there’s never two sides to a story, the cop writing it all down and the son-of-a-bitch comes back and puts the cuffs on him, then walks him out to the car. By now a crowd of the neighborhood curious are out there gawking at the cruisers, those goddamn bright lights would pull a crowd anywhere but especially there where nobody has anything else to do but stand around and watch the neighbors battle it out on the front lawn. One night he caught this fifteen year old kid in the bushes looking in Ellie’s window and broke the asshole’s nose with one punch. Then he told him, if he ever says who hit him, he’ll have him arrested for peeping. Kicking his ass down the street, the kid trying to run away and hold his nose at the same time. That’s the kind of people he has to live with, that’s the kind of neighborhood she lives in, but she had the house so he didn’t really have a hell of a lot of choice, now, did he? Choice is a kind of meat, that’s all. The game’s not the same for everyone: that he figured out early. The game had different rules and you better learn what works. What difference did it make if he knew the rules that only worked for some rich kid whose old man bought everything he wanted? People like that live on a different planet. Their rules didn’t work for him, not when he had to go to work at eleven, get the shit kicked out of him sneaking a smoke or cutting out early, watching the old man tomcat around, the old man not caring who he fucked as long as he could talk about it. Always came home and told his wife what a great fuck so-and-so was, what a great big powerful fuck, the woman home with the kids all day, up to her ass in screaming kids. Peter remembered diapers reeking in a portable washer hooked up to the sink and the foul water flowing out of the hose, a hose that bucked like a thick snake when she hit the spin cycle. He remembered his sisters screaming, somebody always sick. He was the oldest; he had three sisters, eenie meenie and minie he called them because he didn’t want no mo. He couldn’t wait to get the fuck out. He tried six times before it was legal. The day it was legal and they couldn’t go get him any more and bring him home he put everything in a duffel bag and went to live with his friend William in a ratty apartment, a house broken up into two-room flops where they shared a bathroom and one stove with two other families. His mother left when he was ten. One day she was there and the next day gone. He never saw her again, never heard one word. Not even a note, just his kid sister crying in the livingroom, Mama’s gone! Mama’s gone! through her choking sobs. She said someone came for mama in a beat-up Packard, more rust than finish, the trunk tied down on mama’s suitcase. His father came home and raged all night, drinking and breaking things until he passed out and the kids got dinner. After that he wanted out of that crazy house. Get into the world and make his own way, work or get drunk or whatever, nobody telling him what to do and nobody but nobody kicking the shit out of him for no reason at all. He met Bonnie one night in a bar on the highway. He was barely legal; she was well into her twenties, but he didn’t know that then. He didn’t know she had Ellie when she was seventeen. Didn’t know she had Ellie at all, in fact. He watched her line-dancing in tight jeans and a cowboy shirt and shiny new boots going heel-toe, heel-toe in time to the music. Coyote Moon was on that night. He liked that group. They had this lead singer, a dark-haired girl, he got hot watching her cuddle the mike in her cupped hands. He leaned back on the bar and sipped his beer and watched Bonnie stick out her tight little ass, turning this way and that, slapping the sole of her boot, cute as hell. By the time he bought her a drink he knew he wanted to live with her forever. She didn’t say nothing about Ellie, didn’t mention the girl until the week before he moved in, which should have told him what kind of woman she was. Of course he hadn’t mentioned his drunk-and-disorderlies either or the suspended sentence for assault and battery and having to sit through a lecture from do-gooder dykes: if it happens again, you’ll do hard time, you get it? This bull dyke with hair pulled back, tight behind, looking at him through wire rimmed glasses like he was some kind of animal, trying to pretend to listen when all she did was tell him what a prick he was. Yes, he got it. Thinking about Harrisonville, stories he’d heard. Harrisonville was no picnic. So he guessed they had both held things back, but he got the worst of it, having to put up with the girl, whining and crying, Christ, he had left to get away from that shit, not get into it. Ellie had a stupid face that drove him nuts. It was like there was no brain in her face. She looked like a big baby. She looked like a Cabbage Patch Doll, one that nobody would ever buy. Bonnie told him what was wrong, it had a name he couldn’t remember but Ellie got it from the guy Bonnie fucked, the guy took off when he heard about the kid. So he moved into the house with the two of them, bringing his pick-up truck and everything he owned, some clothes, a boombox, a little television set. Things were bad at the start but got worse. There was no way to live with the woman, even before she burned him, but then, get this, then they had the balls to tell him to stay away. Were they kidding? They think he was nuts? They think he was out of his fucking mind? Nobody had to tell him to stay away from a bitch like that, he had enough of her long ago, enough for a lifetime. But doesn’t that tell you how it works? She could do all that, burn him and all, and still they line up on her side. Women run the fucking world, that’s all there is to it. So they got his stuff, put it in his truck and had it out back when they let him out. They counted the time spent in jail against him, telling him again he better stay away, telling him too he better show up at the clinic and talk to the shrink and he better go to these meetings for people who were fucked up like him. Did he get it? Yeah, yeah, he got it. Better say yes than spend another goddamn day in that cell. Thinking he was too stupid to figure it out, saying if he missed two meetings he was going straight to Harrisonville for a year-and-a-day and they meant a year-and-a-day of hard time, not some goddamn vacation. Trying to scare him, the black cop telling him turn around, yeah, that’s right, there in your cell. Stand the fuck up and turn around. Laughing as he turned slowly in the cell. Sure enough, the cop said, first time you hit the showers, you’ll take it in the ass. Hole in one. Ha ha. Everybody laughing at his skinny little ass and pot belly and the dark wedge on his face as he turned in a circle. Okay, he got it. He got it the first time. So exactly how long does he have to go to these meetings? They said they’d let him know. Their blank faces looking like bars of a cage. The bastards had him by the balls and knew it. So this guy Mitch shows up at the Big Boy to look him over before the meeting. Mitch is a winner, all right. His haircut looks like that prick on the news, he’s wearing a suit so expensive-looking Peter asked him where he got it. Mitch not even batting an eye, saying he buys his clothes in Hong Kong. Oh yeah? says Peter. Why’s that? Cheaper, the guy says. Telling him this with a straight face, sitting over coffee in a corner booth, the sky in the window behind him dark and cold, night coming on, a few flakes in the air in the streetlight, Peter in jeans and his windbreaker and a black t-shirt, Mitch sitting there smoking and having a cup of coffee and telling him by the time you buy five or six suits, you’ve paid for your plane ticket. Then he looks at the waitress, lifting his eyebrows, and the woman rushes over; Peter could have hollered and stomped, she wouldn’t have fucking moved, Peter behind a big open menu, thinking he might as well order a special and let this rich prick pick up the check, he can fly to Hong Kong and buy clothes, he can buy him fucking dinner. The waitress wants to know what he wants. OK, he’ll have, let’s see, he’ll have T-bone steak with fries, yeah, the big one, onion rings, rolls and butter, soup first, no salad, and a piece of that chocolate pie up there in the case. And more coffee, OK? Mitch orders a cup of soup. He’s through telling Peter about his clothes, telling him he works in a bank downtown, he won’t say which one or what he does, he doesn’t want Peter to show up some afternoon looking for his buddy Mitch. Peter keeps looking at the Lexus out at the curb under the streetlight, snow blowing through the light and coating the car. Mitch looks around at other people in the Big Boy, the usual crowd of losers, an old couple eating early, and all of a sudden he tells him he has two kids from his first marriage, a boy and a girl, but doesn’t know where they are; his first wife took the kids and disappeared. Some kind of underground railroad got them out of town. For all Mitch knows she’s in another country, raising his kids with a different name. The second wife, he knows where she is, but he goes anywhere near the woman, they’ll pick him up. Peter wondering, why is he saying all this? Peter hasn’t got a wife and no intention of getting one. Peter asks him, why does he even give a shit where they are? The guy stops looking around and looks at Peter and says, well, they are his kids, and he’s thinking now after all these years he might want to get married again, making Peter spit out his soup, coughing and wiping his face with a napkin. You fucking nuts? You been burned twice and you haven’t learned? Hey, I got a bridge I’d like to show you. Peter grinning but the guy doesn’t smile. He says real quiet, no, Peter, he’s not nuts, not any more. He knows, he says, he knows now why they left. Getting serious, looking through his reflection in the window at the snow really coming down now, people hustling from the bus-stop, heads down, holding their coats closed at the collar. Peter pushes through his meal like he hasn’t eaten in a week. Mitch is doing all the talking, telling him things he did to his kids, why his wife left. Peter keeps on nodding and eating, letting the guy talk. The guy jumps from one thing to another, Peter trying to keep the wives straight, the guy talking about trips to Bangkok, things he did there. When the waitress brings the check, Mitch says he’ll get it this time, making Peter laugh, like next time it’s his turn, steaks all around. Mitch pays and they leave the restaurant, hunching in the cold. The meeting was in the basement of a church. Mitch told everybody, here’s a new guy, Peter. Then the meeting started. Peter sat there, learning the ropes. Learning to say, I’m Peter and I’m a goddamn batterer. Everybody saying, hi Peter! like that was the prize. Listening to guys talk about their shitty lives. So what else is new? He has to sit on a metal chair in a cold basement with ten other guys and listen to this shit. They talked about their parents. Shit, he could hardly remember what his mother looked like. When it came his turn, he tried, but it felt like someone was rubbing sandpaper inside. He tasted something bitter metallic in his throat and turned to the guy beside him, saying, was he fucking finished now? Could he go out now and have a smoke? They taught him to say, instead of that, I pass. Then another guy talked, and he drifted into some vague dark waiting place, waiting for the meeting to finish, thinking of a beach. This one young guy Judd was in the middle of talking when Peter heard him say his mother had left, what an asshole his father was, and Peter sat up. “Hey, wait a minute. What is this bullshit?” They all looked at him, Judd stopping talking. Peter gave him a stare. “Who told you about me? Huh?” Somebody laughed and Peter came out of his chair ready to fight but they pushed him back down. Judd said, “Take it easy, Jesus. Take it easy. I’m talking about me, Peter, not you.” Peter said, “Oh yeah, well, bullshit, because that’s my father you’re talking about and my mother.” Mitch said, “Peter, nobody knows you. Nobody met you before. How does it sound like you?” So Peter told them about his old man and his sisters, his old man knocking his mother around, when suddenly he remembered his mother making a cake and handing him a wooden spoon with batter on it. He remembered licking the batter off the spoon. He remembered looking up at her face at the bright light diffused through her hair and her hair glowing like an autumn fire, making her look like an angel. Then he was back in the room, noticing how quiet it was. They were sitting in a circle, the bright fluorescent light on their faces. Something tried to come out that he didn’t know how to say and they sat there waiting. Instead he shouted, “You sons-of-bitches! If I knew what the fuck it was I’d say it!” Then turned toward the wall so he wouldn’t have to look at their stupid moron faces. Peter shivered but shivered from more than cold. Something was awake inside him. It felt like an alien inside his chest, looking for something to eat. Whatever he had put together inside over the years was a falling-down house getting ready to collapse. He thought of the house he grew up in. He remembered holding himself when it got cold. The furnace was in the basement. He thought if he went to the basement, it might be warm. He remembered going down and stopping on the stairs. It was so dark, he couldn’t see anything at all. He felt like he was walking a plank. He felt if he kept walking down into the darkness he would die. In his mind there appeared a faint image of his mother’s face. Her face still shone in the kitchen light but instead of hair, snakes coiled and hissed in a tangled mass on her head. He stood up, ready to run. The men in their chairs surrounded him like a noose. To make it to the door, he would have to slip between that fat guy and Mitch. The door was right there. All he had to do was get the fuck out now while he still had a chance. He looked frantically from face to face. They waited for him to fall. They might as well have all been standing under a tree chanting “let go, let go” while he clung like a child to the trunk. The door was unlocked. Beyond the door was a hallway and then a flight of stairs. In the darkness, the heads of the snakes were illuminated by the light of his mother’s countenance. Their tongues flickered in and out of their mouths. There were millions of them, writhing and hissing, waiting for his next move. # # # St. Pauli Girl Pamela West Nazi Occupied Poland---August 1942 Ena Lang closed her eyes as the stiff, warm breeze vibrated against her soft, pale skin. Alfred still hadn’t told her where they were going; only that it was an urgent mission, so as the Police Battalion Commander, he had to be there. “Please, I want you with me,” he cajoled her out of their honeymoon bed, and into the back of his Benz staff car, for a pre-dawn, top-down ride through the countryside. She sighed. “If I must.” But later, as she slid into the leather back seat, she said, “No sitting in a school gymnasium like last time. I didn’t come to Poland to watch you berate locals for not cooperating with the Reich.” “I promise, I promise,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender before closing the car door. So off they flew in the wine red and black convertible, but only after she made him promise that his car would lead the way. The last time he took her out on an urgent mission, his car was at the rear of the convoy, and she got sick on petrol fumes spewing from the police transport trucks that lumbered ahead of them. What was he thinking? The last thing she needed right now was to breathe gas emissions. She sighed, thinking: At least, there’s a morning breeze. And really, anything’s better than sweating and waiting for Alfred’s triumphant return from a day at the office. Some honeymoon. But what could she do? He couldn’t take another leave. He’d already taken one to woo her in the spring, then again for their quick June wedding. No, there was no choice. If she wanted a honeymoon, she had to come to him, and it had to be in Poland. Poland, she thought, Who the hell honeymoons in Poland? You do, that’s who. This wasn’t the way her new life was supposed to begin. Then again, why should her new life be any different from her old life? Stop it! She quieted the thoughts in her head. Because it is different; Alfred’s different. She pushed away the strawberry hair strands and opened her eyes just as the sun’s yellow-orange halo peered over the horizon. She had seen so many sunrises lately that her body clock was now fine-tuned to the event. Suddenly, she saw tree branches thrusting out of the gray-darkness pursuing the new light, the way a ravenous baby groped for his mother’s breast. She shuddered, and her eyes grew big. Her face became hot, as she felt the butterfly twirl in her stomach. It seemed the butterfly’s body clock was fined tuned as well. She let out a nervous giggle, grabbing her stomach. Alfred reached for her hand, “What is it?” She turned way, “Nothing.” He turned toward her, moving in close. “Don’t lie. I know what my St. Pauli girl is thinking,” he whispered in her ear, while rubbing her hand softly with his fingers. She pushed his hand away, while whispering her scold. “Never call me that. Besides,” she motioned her eyes toward the front of the car, “the driver is watching us.” Immediately, the driver cut his eyes away from the rearview mirror and toward the road. Alfred laughed, trying to rub her hand once more. “It’s ok. He knows we’re on our honeymoon.” Ena pushed his hand away once more. “Stop it.” She folded her arms across her stomach and turned away from him feigning disgust. He continued to laugh, but she knew he would leave her alone now. She took a deep breath, trying to relax, hoping the butterfly would go back to sleep. She hadn’t let him feel the flutters yet. He knew about it; he said he was glad. That’s why he wanted to marry so quickly, that, and the fact, the Reich look favorably upon young officers who repopulated the Fatherland. But she hadn’t let him feel it twirl and whirl about in her stomach. She knew that would make it too real for him, and he would start seeing her as a mother, not his bride. No, there was time enough for that reality later. Not now, not on their honeymoon, not when she still wanted him and needed him to woo her and touch her the way he always had; the way a man touches his bride so that she burns, quivers and sighs. No, she thought, men only touch brides like that, never mothers or St. Pauli girls. The sun had climbed halfway out of its hiding hole, and she could see the fir and beech trees more clearly now. They were swollen with lush, wet green leaves. The long grass that bordered both sides of the road was thick and stiff, but not an unruly, tangled mess; intermixed with the long blades were purple and yellow wildflowers. She smiled, surprised by the quiet beauty of country side and wondered why she hadn’t noticed before. Then, just as quickly as it came, her smile vanished, as she chided herself for being surprised. Why wouldn’t Poland be beautiful? Because Papa said it wouldn’t. Remember, the Polocks and Jews destroyed it after the first Great War. Of course, they did. He wouldn’t lie. Because, if anyone knew desolate, barren ugliness, it was Papa. Ena wished she could dismiss her father’s ignorance by saying he’d seen too many of Goebbels’ films, but he didn’t watch his films or anyone’s films for that matter. Just like he didn’t read books or magazines or even listen to music. No, No, she thought, that’s not true. He listened to music: whiskey soaked piano bar concertos that reverberated from the cabarets and whorehouses on Reeperbahn Street. Ena swallowed. That music. She hated that music. Every hour on the hour, every day of the week, except on Sunday mornings when the bars closed for church services, the pianos belted out ragtime operas. And she hated how she could still hear it playing so clearly: if she was six-years-old standing on the back porch of her St. Pauli district, brown brick, fish market home. “Dance, Ena, dance,” her Papa Gunter had clapped. “Faster, faster.” Ena twisted and stomped to the piano clatter while her mama flayed the day’s catch just brought home by Papa. She moved carefully in and out of the fish baskets. The last time he made her dance, she knocked one over, and he smacked her on the leg, leaving a huge palm print. “Clumsy clods never dance in the cabaret.” The morning sun had been a fully exposed throbbing, pungent orange. Sweat trickled down her face, while her dress fluttered in the warm, sticky wind as she spun. Papa’s blue fishing cap bobbed up and down on his bald head as he clapped. “Yes, that’s it. Keep it up, keep it up.” She was so hot; her checks felt like fiery cherries. “Mama, please, can’t I stop?” Her mom pounded the cleaver against the flopping fish. Thud! Then, she threw the fish head into a bucket, sloshing bloody fish guts on the porch. “Come on Gunter, can’t you see the poor child’s tired?” Her father smoked his pipe and ignored their pleas, “Faster, I said, faster, my little St. Pauli girl.” She hated him for always making her dance. She didn’t want to be in the cabaret, and she never wanted to be his little St. Pauli girl. Ena’s world was a dizzy patchwork of sweat stinging, blue, white and cracked brown images. Suddenly, she became nauseous and closed her eyes so she wouldn’t vomit, but the hot, salty perspiration burned too much and she had to open them again. God, she wanted to scratch her eyes out, scratch out the pain and make the spinning world stop forever. A hot gust of wind whipped across the back porch, stirring up curdled, dead fish. The odor blasted into her nose, making her more nauseated. She stumbled about like a drunkard, splashing into the bloody puddles on the back porch and staining her bare legs a putrid pink. As the cool water doused her legs, her queasiness subsided. Her senses were awake once more, and she realized the music and her father’s laughter had merged and twisted in the hot morning wind, keeping time with her pounding heart and fading in and out of her ears. In between beats, she heard a bird chirping, and she knew what she must do: spin faster, faster than the world, so fast that her fluttering dress would catch the wind and lift her into the air, turning her into a bird. Then, she would fly far away where Papa would never see or torment her again. Her heart pounded louder, as she spun faster and faster, drowning out the music, Papa, everything. The world became a slow motion blur. She knew her plan was working because she felt lighter, somehow, and believed at any moment she would be air born and free. As she prepared for liftoff, another wind gust came up from under the porch boards, blowing her dress up, over her head. Startled, Ena fell backward and knocked over a fish bucket. She slipped in the slosh and hit the porch with a horrid thud, covered in fish guts, a grounded, wounded bird. Instantly, she heard Papa’s rage, as he stomped up the porch stairs. “Stupid, clumsy whore,” he said, boxing her about the head before pulling down the dress to hide her stained legs and bloomers. “Do you want the neighbors to see?” “Gunter,” her mother yelled, as she came to Ena. “What’s wrong with you? The child fell for God shake.” He backhanded her mother across the mouth, knocking her down the stairs. “Clean up this filth. We have a market to open.” Her mother waited for the screen door to slam before she ran to her. “Baby, you know how he is.” She pushed her mother away, got up and straightened her dress. “You heard him. We have to clean up the mess.” Yes, Mama, we both knew how he was. We both knew, and you couldn’t protect me. Ena swallowed hard and quickly flicked the tears away; she could feel herself slipping into despair. Enough, she had to silence the fears. You escaped, and he can’t ever hurt you again. “Ena, Ena,” Alfred lightly squeezed her shoulder. “What is it, my pet?” His soft voice and gentle touch brought her back to reality. She turned toward her husband; his soft blue eyes made her feel safe once more. “Nothing,” she let the words escape before she could think of anything else to say. “Oh, Ena, you’re crying.” He put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her close, then rubbed away the remaining tears from her bright pink cheeks. “Don’t cry now. I can’t stand it when your pretty blue eyes are all red streaked.” He kissed her left eye, then her right. “It’s this war, this damned war. It’s not fair you should have to honeymoon like this.” He kissed her forehead, then said softly. “It’s just--you’re so beautiful that I always want you with me.” Ena laid her head against his chest. “And I always want to be with you. I’m just tired, that’s all.” Alfred held her close. “Not much farther now. Miedzyrzec is just a few more kilometers, and when we’ve done what we must, you and I will fly home for a candlelight dinner,” he paused, lowering his voice to a wanton whisper, “for two. Maybe, we’ll dance? You like to dance, uh?” Ena smiled, “Maybe.” The sun had finally escaped the horizon, losing its orange tint and emerging a vivid, creamy yellow. She rested against Alfred, content once more. Somehow, he always knew what to say and what to do. This is why you married him, she thought, even when Mama warned you not to. “You’re too smart for this,” her mother said, as she placed the cup of tea down in front of Ena. “You’ve got a good job at the library. You haven’t been there a year, and you’re already night manger. For heaven’s sake, you’re only twenty. What’s the rush?” Ena flipped the gold teaspoon in and out of her fingers as she watched the steam twist and curl from teacup toward the kitchen ceiling. The off-white porcelain teacup set and gold teaspoons were the finest things her mother owned. She kept them in a wicker picnic basket hidden under the steps and only brought them out for their secret tea parties when Papa was gone. “You see,” she always told Ena, as she sipped tea with her pinkie fully extended, “they’re an heirloom, the only link I have to my Grand-Mama Greta from Bavaria.” Then, they’d giggle, pretending to have tea with a Duchess. That’s how they spent her childhood, keeping secrets and pretending. “Ena, are you listening?” Ena took a slow sip of tea, then said. “Yes, Mama. I heard you.” It was remarkable how her mother seemed so small to her now, so old, shriveled and gray. What had she been afraid of? She took another sip, then said coolly. “I’m not asking for your advice or permission. I’m telling you that Alfred and I are getting married.” “Child, you’re not thinking. He’s-” “I’m not a child anymore.” Her mother shot back. “Then quit acting like one. For Christ’s sake, you’re running off with the first uniform that comes along, and he’s not even a real Captain. He’s a Police Captain stationed in Poland. Poland! Once the war’s over, then what? He comes back to Hamburg to walk a beat, directing traffic. You’ve worked too hard and been through too much to settle for a policeman. You don’t have to marry him!” Suddenly, her mother’s tone became softer as she sat down next to her, gently touching her hand. “You deserve better.” Ena snatched her hand away and stood up, knocking her cup over as she did. Tea ran down the side of the table, forming a puddle on the floor as her voice shook with rage. “I do have to marry him, Mama, just like you had to marry Papa. And we both deserve better. Only, you don’t believe it, so you stay, even after everything Papa did to us, to me, you stay. Well, I won’t stay another minute. I’m escaping, because I know I deserve better.” Now, four huge troop transports sped ahead of the Benz, kicking up road dust exhaust and exhaust fumes. Ena quickly covered her nose and mouth with her shirt collar. “Alfred, you promised.” He smiled. “I’m sorry my pet, but we must hurry now. You know the damn, drunken Hiwis. Why the Reich ever bothered recruiting these Ukrainian fools? Well,” he patted her arm, “You know. If I’m not there to supervise, there’s no telling.” After a few moments the dust settled, and Ena could see the flaps on the back of the last truck waving back and forth as it lumbered down the dirt road. Every so often she saw the soldiers bouncing up and down in the back like green and brown specters. Poor Bastards, she thought, what a God-awful ride. Alfred pounded the driver on the shoulder. “Sich Beeilen!” The car quickly sped up, turning the light airy, breeze into a hard, raw wind that pounded against Ena’s face and mangled her hair. She felt her cheeks flush and knew they’d look like beets by the time they reached town. She pushed the hair from her eyes just in time to see a huge flock of Red Breasted Flycatchers scatter to the west just above the tree lines; their shrill creeps made Ena shiver, as goose pimples prickled over her arms. Before she could catch her breath, the Benz had bounced and jerked its way across a rock bridge and down the hill toward Miedzyrzec. She saw cottages dotting the countryside, then the brown brick row buildings lining the Town Square. Police and troop transport trucks bordered the both sides of the road leading into town. Ena had never seen this many transports before. As soon as the Benz reached the bottom of the hill, it entered the transport truck tunnel and headed for the Square. She saw Alfred’s police squad popping out of the back of the trucks like grasshoppers, swarming toward the masses gathered. Then, she heard the pop, pop of shots and understood Alfred and his men were here to do much more than berate the locals. The Benz driver took a sharp turn to the left, sliding the rear of the car and jarring them. The tires skidded while grinding and spitting out rocks as the car spun in a complete circle before shuddering to a stop. Dazed, Ena clawed through the matted hair about her face to find she was alone. Alfred and the driver were already out of the car. Trembling and dizzy, she stumbled out of the Benz, trying to regain her bearings. Smoke hung in the air, turning the brilliant morning sky into a choking, thick gray canopy. The Miedzyrzec Square below was littered with rummaged suitcases and discarded clothing. The hoard, a ragged patchwork of blues, browns, greens and faded yellow stars, moved slowly, ever so slowly to the crackling sounds of The Fairies blaring from a phonograph on the back of transport truck and gun fire. POP! Ena turned to find Alfred standing over an old man, lying on the ground, flailing helplessly about. Her husband’s hand went POP! POP! And the old man’s jerking body went limp, and Ena watched, as the red puddle next to his head gradually grew bigger and stained his soft white beard. Her heart pounded. Then, the wind changed directions, whipping from the west, and she smelled sweat and blood, and before she could stop herself, Ena was on her knees vomiting breakfast on the dark, red dirt. Now, above the broken, music and moans, she heard Alfred yelling, Zum Zug! She wiped her mouth and looked up to find her husband pointing toward the thick gray smoke funneling above the rail station in the eastern part of town. Alle Juden zum zug! A sudden wind gust picked up a dingy white handkerchief, swirling it quickly about her head before dropping it like a stone at beside her. She slumped against the Benz, sobbing, clutching her stomach. The butterfly danced as the little St. Pauli Girl watched Alfred calmly direct traffic. A chill shivered up her spine, making her shake, and she wondered how she would protect her child from the Fatherland. Don’t Tell Stanley M Noah Trees want to leave their roots and run away like young lovers behind closed doors. Waiting For The Dead To Float By Christopher Barnes, England There’s 5 sponsors beneath that offscum and all The Insurgents ever begged was a little backyard love, political recognition. He tightens a sphere-of-influence arm quill-driving the aquarium’s guest book, threatens. It’s framed exhaustively with spoilage from the canal. FROM THE ‘SPOOKS’ POEMS AUNT ESTHER AND HER JAPANESE STATUE John Grey She passes around an ancient Japanese fisherman carved from a walrus tusk, head missing but neck intact. Everyone’s just keeping traditions alive, she says. She can still bake a pecan pie from a recipe her grandmother learned from her grandmother. She can still point a headless thing in the direction it’s not looking. Reduced Speed Ahead Raud Kennedy His bottle of e.d. pills rolls across the dash as they speed through the turn in his new red Porsche. His heavy ‘girlfriend‘ has frosted hair instead of gray. Middle age is a washed out memory in the rear view mirror as the Grim Reaper leans over the backs of their seats and glances at their speed. My Baby Boy Laine Hissett-Bonard I’ve been watching my son very closely lately. No, I don’t believe that there is anything wrong with him, necessarily, although some might disagree with me there. After all, this is the boy who is at his happiest when he’s hurting himself, whether by scraping his knees and elbows on countless football or baseball fields, play-wrestling with his friends, flipping ATVs, or following any other meaningless and self-destructive whim that might possess him. I don’t, however, think that there is anything exactly wrong with him... he’s just different. And if what I suspect is true, then maybe “different” isn’t the word some might use. Queer, maybe. But that’s not a word I’d want to use. No matter what choices my little boy makes, I’ll never deprecate him like that. The only thing that matters to me, aside from Cole’s safety -- which, evidently, is too much to ask -- is his happiness, and to be honest, I’ve never in his entire eighteen years seen him as happy as he has been for the past several months. He may never admit to me the reason for his frequent, dreamy smiles and the ever-present sparkle in his baby blues, but I’m his mother, for goodness’ sake, and I know him well enough to see what’s going on here. My baby boy is in love. It wasn’t until I mistakenly opened his phone bill that I finally got an inkling for what is really going on, though. Now, we get two phone bills since Cole had his own line installed when we moved into the new house -- well, not really that new anymore; we’ve been here since last summer -- and really, Cole should be paying both of them, because his friends use our phone more than Paul and I do. I hardly ever call anybody out of state, and most of our family, including us, lives within a twenty-mile radius of Pittsburgh. Anyway, the point is, I accidentally opened Cole’s phone bill one afternoon. It was mixed in with the rest of the mail, stuffed between a Pottery Barn catalog and a Yankee Candle flyer -- both mine, of course -- so, not even looking at the name beneath the plastic window, I slit open the envelope and unfolded the bill, my mouth dropping open at the figure marked “Balance Due.” “Five hundred sixty seven dollars?” I screeched, turning the bill face down on the kitchen counter, rubbing my eyes with my free hand, and picking up the sheaf of papers again. Yes, I was right the first time. Five hundred sixty seven dollars and forty four cents, in fact. “Dammit, Jason, you better not have been calling those nine-hundred-number Playstation hotlines again,” I muttered, flipping through the sheets of paper to the long distance section, sure I would find the culprit there... and I did. Blinking, I examined the pattern that unfolded before my eyes. Toronto... Toronto... Toronto... Toronto... “What’s five hundred sixty seven dollars?” my husband asked, meandering into the kitchen and placing a steadying arm around my waist. Apparently, my voice tends to carry. Turning to him, I waved the phone bill in the air, growing animated. “Paul, look at this phone bill! Those boys have been calling God knows who --” “Let me see that,” Paul said in his most soothing voice, and I subsided, silently handing over the papers, folding my arms over my chest and staring at him as he examined the bill. “All of these calls are to Canada,” he finally reported, and I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I got that far,” I snapped, but he held up a hand to silence me. “They’re all to the same number,” Paul continued, frowning lightly. “It looks like at least every other day, all after midnight... what the hell do you think they’re doing?” “They’re all to the same number?” I mused, chewing my lip and accepting the bill that Paul handed back to me. He was right. So which of the boys was calling Canada every day or so, and who was he calling? “Amy,” Paul said softly, tapping his chubby finger on the top of the first page. “That’s not our bill.” “What?” I exclaimed, my eyes snapping to the address portion of the bill. He was also right about that. The bill was addressed to Cole B. Magliaro... better known as my younger son. This was his phone bill... he was the one calling someone in Toronto every couple of nights, and, apparently, spending a couple of hours at a time on the phone, judging by the duration of the calls. One hour and thirty six minutes here... two hours and fourteen minutes here... two hours and twenty one minutes here. “What the...?” “So if it’s Cole’s bill, it doesn’t really matter who he’s calling, and why,” Paul said, plucking the bill from my fingers, folding it up, and stuffing it carefully back into its envelope. “What are you doing?” I cried, grabbing for the envelope, but he held it out of my reach. “It’s his money, Ame,” Paul said gently. “And it’s his life, so whatever he’s doing is none of our business. If he saw you poking your nose into his stuff like this...” “Oh, he’d throw a fit,” I agreed, rolling my eyes again and snatching the envelope back. “But it was an accident.” “What was an accident?” I jumped at the sound of Cole’s voice, turning on my heel to face him where he stood in the kitchen doorway, a skateboard under one arm. “Hi, honey,” I said brightly, smiling my best Mom-does-no-wrong smile, but, of course, he saw right through it. “What did you do?” he asked suspiciously, leaning his skateboard against the kitchen cabinet and approaching me. “Did you back into my car again or something?” Paul chuckled, shaking his head as he left the kitchen, mumbling, “I’ll leave you two alone.” “Fink!” I called after him, and then Cole was standing in front of me, his hands on his hips, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “Ma, what did you do?” he repeated grimly, so, rather than stalling him any further, I decided it was best to just come clean. “I’m sorry -- I accidentally opened your phone bill instead of mine,” I replied sheepishly, handing over the torn envelope, which he immediately snatched from my hand. “Did you look at it?” he asked, his face turning inexplicably red, although he didn’t appear angry, exactly. “No,” I fibbed. “Well, when I saw the balance, I looked at the name because I knew it couldn’t be mine.” “Oh.” Cole bit his lip, stuffing the phone bill in the pocket of his jeans, his curly, dark hair hanging in his eyes. “What are you making for dinner?” “Um... I was thinking about cooking on the grill,” I replied, relieved that he had let the matter go so easily. “Okay.” With that, Cole picked up his skateboard, hanging it behind his shoulder, and left the room. I heard him pounding down the stairs to his room a few seconds later, and I paused for a moment, gathering my thoughts. He’s acting very weird, I thought, my brow creased in contemplation. The crudely-drawn band logo on the bottom of his skateboard had spurred a train of thought that had never really occurred to me, but now that it had, it seemed all too plausible. I turned quickly and began to dig through my desk drawer, and when I turned up the address book, I flipped quickly to the tab marked “UVW.” “Oh my God,” I murmured, my eyes wide. Yes... it was Billy Varney’s number printed all over Cole’s phone bill. It was Billy with whom my son was spending inordinate amounts of time on the telephone late at night when everyone else was asleep. As I stood there in the middle of the kitchen, late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, my eyes flickered to a photo magneted to the refrigerator door, and I took the picture down, placing it on the open page of the address book. It was a picture of Cole and Billy, standing chummily close, Billy holding a cigarette to his lips with one hand, his other arm wrapped possessively around my son’s neck, the broken heart tattoo on Billy’s wrist exposed... the heart that identically matches the one Cole has tattooed on his own forearm. So that was it. It made perfect sense, now that I thought about it. The Street Creatures paraphernalia everywhere was more than just a silly obsession with the Canadian indie band. The photos and pulp magazine cutouts all over Cole’s room depicting Billy, usually shirtless and pouting into the camera in that sultry way of his, were more than just decoration. The reason Cole talked about the Street Creatures -- and about Billy -- all the time was not simply because he loved the music and idolized the singer, or because they’d been friends since Cole spent the summer with his grandparents in Toronto two years ago. Oh, God, and the reason Cole didn’t show up until nearly dinnertime the day after his eighteenth birthday was not because he and Billy, who was visiting for the weekend, went off and got drunk that night and needed the day to recuperate, as they had claimed... he was with Billy, all right, but I suddenly realized that alcohol had nothing to do with it. Their eyes had been too bright and clear, their color too high and their smiles too wide, for their absence to be explained away by hangovers. My son was in love with another man. The pieces to a puzzle I had never known I was trying to put together suddenly fell into place, and I abruptly found that I had to sit down. Cole’s best friend, Nick, found me that way, crumpled in a chair with my forehead in my hand and my hair hanging in my eyes. “Amy? You okay?” he asked, approaching me warily, and I glanced up immediately. “Oh, hi, Nicky,” I said, forcing a smile. “What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes flickering to my address book, where Billy’s telephone number and address were printed in my own neat script at the top of the page and the photo of Cole and Billy lay exposed next to it. I quickly snapped the book closed. I might have guessed the truth behind Cole’s recently heightened spirits, but I at least owed him the respect of keeping it to myself. I opened my mouth to respond -- something about writing letters to old friends -- but the expression in Nick’s eyes stopped me cold. He knows something, too, I suddenly realized, shocked. Nick’s wary gaze remained trained on me as I fumbled for a response, any response at this point, something to cut this tension that hung in the air between me and the young man I sometimes referred to as my third son. “I was...” “Does he know you know?” Nick whispered, and I swallowed hard, feeling my hands begin to tremble. So it was true. “I don’t know anything,” I replied briskly, rising to my feet and tucking my address book back into the drawer from where it came. “All I know is that I’m going to throw on some burgers and steaks. Can you light the barbecue for me, Nicky?” Nick blinked at me for a second, then nodded slowly. “Yeah... no problem.” So that’s how I discovered that my son is -- what is he, exactly? I’m not even sure right now. Are he and Billy dating? Are they “seeing each other,” whatever that means these days? Are they just sleeping together? I wonder if I’ll ever know. Cole’s not exactly the most forthright guy when it comes to matters of the heart. God, I didn’t even know he and Jaime, his girlfriend of two years, had broken up until three months after the fact, and if he’s that close-lipped about a breakup, imagine how he acts about a full-fledged relationship... and one with another boy, no less. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve always liked Billy. He’s only a year older than Cole, and he’s intelligent, soft-spoken, and well-mannered; he’s a very talented singer, too, and of course, he’s extremely good-looking. The perfect package; the kind of guy you might not mind your daughter bringing home. But... your son? It’s going to take some getting used to, but as I said, the most important thing to me when it comes to my children is their happiness, and it’s quite apparent to me that whatever it is they’re doing, however they might define their relationship, Billy Varney makes my baby boy very happy... and what more can I ask? Ten Minutes in Norwegian Ti Minutter Jeg vokter en karikatur hvor en gutt fanget shoplifting han stjal et spill for seg og han laget opp til hans mamma for det ved å få et bilde av seg i en ramme inn og hans mamma var slik stolt og all som jeg tenker på var at jeg stjal noe en gang og mine foreldre fått meg til meg som helvete for det og jeg fikk ikke et spill for meg selv Jeg fikk dem Jul presanger alle fått meg til meg som om jeg bruker som mye pengene som alle ellers og alle hatt ellers en jobb og var en voksen og jeg var en kid og jeg var tolv og jeg hatt femten folk kjøpe presanger for men jeg fikk DEM overrekker fordi de fått meg til meg som jeg er mere enn en voksen konkurrere med dem konkurrere for dem og det vunnet aldri og jeg vunnet aldri og jeg er enda ikke vinnende Det er også denne delen av hvorfor jeg er derfor messed opp? det er også dette hvorfor jeg er en overachiever det er også dette hvorfor jeg gjør det mye det er også dette hvorfor jeg føler behovet Alltid lykkes? Jeg gjør alltid, Men er det alltid på mine kostnader? Ten Minutes (in Dutch) Tien Minuten Ik keek een karikatuur Waar een jongen stelen gevangen werd Hij stal een spel voor zichzelf En hij maakte op aan zijn mamma voor het Door krijgen van een afbeelding van zichzelf in een omlijsting En zijn mamma was zo trots En alle, die ik zou kunnen denken aan Was dat ik iets eenmaal stal En mijn ouders maakten mij voel zoals hel voor het En ik kreeg geen spel voor mezelf Ik kreeg hen Kerstmis geschenken Iedereen maakte mij voel Alsof ik uitgeven moest Even veel geld als iedereen anders En iedereen had anders een baan En anadult was en ik was een kind En ik was twaalf En ik had vijftien mensen om geschenken voor te kopen Maar ik voorstellen HEN kreeg Omdat zij mij maakten voel Zoals ik meer dan een volwassene zijn moest Om met hen te wedijveren Om voor hen te wedijveren En het won nooit En ik won nooit En ik win nog niet Bijgevolg is deze deel van waarom ik zo messed op ben? Bijgevolg deze waarom ik is een overachiever ben Bijgevolg deze waarom ik is zo doe veel Bijgevolg deze waarom ik is, voel de nood Altijd te slagen? Ik doe altijd, Maar is het altijd aan mijn kosten? Ten Minutes Alexandria Rand I watched a cartoon where a boy was caught shoplifting he stole a game for himself and he made up to his mom for it by getting a picture of himself in a frame and his mom was so proud and all I could think of was that I stole something once and my parents made me feel like hell for it and I wasn’t getting a game for myself I was getting them Christmas presents everyone made me feel as if I had to spend as much money as everyone else and everyone else had a job and was anadult and I was a kid and I was twelve and I had fifteen people to buy presents for but I was getting THEM presents because they made me feel like I had to be more than an adult to compete with them to compete for them and it never won and I never won and I’m still not winning so is this part of why I’m so messed up? so is this why I’m an overachiever so is this why I do so much so is this why I feel the need to always succeed? I always do, but is it always at my cost?