The Red Car
By Patrick Whittaker
My one infidelity was a car, blood-red and beautiful. A vehicle for all occasions; it was Nemesis and redemption; a metal messiah, a stealer of souls.
Marjorie saw the potential. She spent the summer redesigning the car, sculpting obscure shapes on paper, transforming love into geometry.
Before I could even begin to share her vision of the future, she had already mapped our destination.
I close my eyes.
There is a movie playing in my head, a diorama of old memories, faded hopes. Marjorie is resting her head on the steering wheel. She should be crying but she will not allow emotion to dictate her course.
The radio is at full volume. Gene Vincent is singing. And she is thinking how it would be to walk across the sky with this cripple, this sad-eyed genius whose voice eased the pain of her adolescence.
I see them dancing. With broken glass, she is marking his skin, leaving scars that remind her of tyre tracks.
After they make love, they drive in the red car towards an exquisite destiny which will break Gene's heart and leave Marjorie unfulfilled.
She promised me the future.
The answers, she said, lie within the geometry of the red car. Chrome, plastic and steel define all possibilities. A new architecture is called for, a meeting of flesh and technology to bridge the gap between mind and machine.
I loved that car. Marjorie loved it more.
She gave me a photograph of it. On the back she wrote : Where Space becomes Time.
Our love-making was an impulse, a last desperate attempt to reach one another.
Marjorie filled the room with the odour of sex but was unable to relate to her own desires.
She was frigid.
She was the unbearable stars, the murmur of distant traffic, the subliminal music of vibrant pulsars, the sad soulsong of a dying universe.
So brilliant, so beautiful, she was everything I feared and wanted.
Then there was war.
That was the night her aloofness crumbled and her nails scored my cheeks and we surrendered to our hunger.
Marjorie screamed. When the world screamed back, she was alone.
Flesh erupted. Emotions exploded in bursts of white-hot glitter as I entered her and loved her with an acid paranoia. Embracing her catastrophe, I could at last perceive her hidden neurosis. Somewhere in the borderland between the mundane and the sublime, mouths foamed in a nuclear heat. Mangled corpses danced a slow choreography of decay.
The red car was our only hope of escape.
48 hours later, as we reached orgasm, World War III was over.
Her first cry of release split the sky, became a swansong for a world she had never known.
She did not speak as she took the car keys and left.
In my dreams I have seen her - lying naked and bruised on the bonnet of a burning car. The fire reflects in gentle pastels on the backdrop of her thigh.
And in the aftermath, she limps away, wounded and vulnerable, secretly rejoicing the multiple orgasm that propelled her through the windscreen...
After the war, I found the red car beside the ruins of a small cathedral. Its engine had been transformed.
I kissed the steering wheel. The taste of Marjorie lingered on my lips, reminding me of her promise.
A drop of blood fell from the dashboard as I turned the ignition key. Tears froze on the windscreen.
It was time to move on.
- - -
Biography: Patrick Whittaker is the proud winner of the 2009 British Fantasy Society Short Story Competition. He currently resides in Blackpool where he works a a government-paid nerd.
By Patrick Whittaker
My one infidelity was a car, blood-red and beautiful. A vehicle for all occasions; it was Nemesis and redemption; a metal messiah, a stealer of souls.
Marjorie saw the potential. She spent the summer redesigning the car, sculpting obscure shapes on paper, transforming love into geometry.
Before I could even begin to share her vision of the future, she had already mapped our destination.
I close my eyes.
There is a movie playing in my head, a diorama of old memories, faded hopes. Marjorie is resting her head on the steering wheel. She should be crying but she will not allow emotion to dictate her course.
The radio is at full volume. Gene Vincent is singing. And she is thinking how it would be to walk across the sky with this cripple, this sad-eyed genius whose voice eased the pain of her adolescence.
I see them dancing. With broken glass, she is marking his skin, leaving scars that remind her of tyre tracks.
After they make love, they drive in the red car towards an exquisite destiny which will break Gene's heart and leave Marjorie unfulfilled.
She promised me the future.
The answers, she said, lie within the geometry of the red car. Chrome, plastic and steel define all possibilities. A new architecture is called for, a meeting of flesh and technology to bridge the gap between mind and machine.
I loved that car. Marjorie loved it more.
She gave me a photograph of it. On the back she wrote : Where Space becomes Time.
Our love-making was an impulse, a last desperate attempt to reach one another.
Marjorie filled the room with the odour of sex but was unable to relate to her own desires.
She was frigid.
She was the unbearable stars, the murmur of distant traffic, the subliminal music of vibrant pulsars, the sad soulsong of a dying universe.
So brilliant, so beautiful, she was everything I feared and wanted.
Then there was war.
That was the night her aloofness crumbled and her nails scored my cheeks and we surrendered to our hunger.
Marjorie screamed. When the world screamed back, she was alone.
Flesh erupted. Emotions exploded in bursts of white-hot glitter as I entered her and loved her with an acid paranoia. Embracing her catastrophe, I could at last perceive her hidden neurosis. Somewhere in the borderland between the mundane and the sublime, mouths foamed in a nuclear heat. Mangled corpses danced a slow choreography of decay.
The red car was our only hope of escape.
48 hours later, as we reached orgasm, World War III was over.
Her first cry of release split the sky, became a swansong for a world she had never known.
She did not speak as she took the car keys and left.
In my dreams I have seen her - lying naked and bruised on the bonnet of a burning car. The fire reflects in gentle pastels on the backdrop of her thigh.
And in the aftermath, she limps away, wounded and vulnerable, secretly rejoicing the multiple orgasm that propelled her through the windscreen...
After the war, I found the red car beside the ruins of a small cathedral. Its engine had been transformed.
I kissed the steering wheel. The taste of Marjorie lingered on my lips, reminding me of her promise.
A drop of blood fell from the dashboard as I turned the ignition key. Tears froze on the windscreen.
It was time to move on.
- - -
Biography: Patrick Whittaker is the proud winner of the 2009 British Fantasy Society Short Story Competition. He currently resides in Blackpool where he works a a government-paid nerd.
Acapulco Trickster
By Liz Haigh
Consider the impact knowing the exact hour of your death would have on your life.
Sitting at a street side café, Mark Prestwick was considering this as he drank his strong coffee and fiddled with a breakfast burrito that he had no appetite to actually eat. So far, his wild weekend away in Acapulco had not gone at all like he had planned. The gorgeous girls with the raven hair whom he had been chatting with in the bar last night had disappeared as quickly as his wallet had, and he had no idea what was in those Devil’s Potion cocktails, but his head this morning buzzed like a room full of angry bees.
Drinking coffee in an attempt to clear his head, he remembered last night’s dream. Was it a dream? It seemed so real. It must have been the drink. It can’t have been real. The Mr Lucky clown with that silly yellow hat was a life-sized photo on the sign outside his hotel, not a real person. And yet in the middle of the night, Mr Lucky Clown, complete with his silly yellow hat, walked into Mark’s bedroom and announced:
“Good evening Mr. Prestwick. Luck is not on your side I see. I could change that for you. I could tell you the exact hour of your death.”
“Just go away” blurted Mark.
“Now just think about it Mr Prestwick. Think about how useful knowing that information will be.”
“Am I going to die now?” grunted Mark.
“No, of course not. It’s most likely you are not going to die for many years. But just think how useful it would be to know. Especially for a man in your business, you sell life insurance for a living don’t you?”
“What is the catch?”
“No catch at all. I am not the devil. I will return tomorrow night; and if you want to know the exact time of your death I will tell you. If not, I will just go away.” With that he had left. Mark rolled over and fell back asleep.
Drinking his coffee in the daylight, Mark dismissed his encounter with Mr Lucky Clown as a weird dream brought on by drink. But seeing as he lost most his money last night and didn’t have many options of what to do that day, he decided to consider the clown’s offer.
Knowing the exact time of your death would affect how you lived, your actions, your risks, your finances. Pension planning would be less of a gamble.
Mark decided that if this strange clown did visit him again and offer to tell him the hour of the death, he would take him up on the offer. Mark paid his bill and left the café. He was still thinking about the clown, so deep in thought he did not see the bus coming.
He stepped right out in front of it and was killed instantly.
Across the street a short figure in a silly yellow hat laughed and walked away.
- - -
Liz Haigh lives in Cheshire in the UK. She works at a university library which is her dream job because she loves books. Most of her published work thus far has been in Red, Prima, Woman and Home and regularly in Women’s Weekly (UK print editions). She has had some flash fiction appear, or about to appear in, Bewildering Stories, The Legendary, Story Garden 8, Foundling Review, Blink and Delivered.
By Liz Haigh
Consider the impact knowing the exact hour of your death would have on your life.
Sitting at a street side café, Mark Prestwick was considering this as he drank his strong coffee and fiddled with a breakfast burrito that he had no appetite to actually eat. So far, his wild weekend away in Acapulco had not gone at all like he had planned. The gorgeous girls with the raven hair whom he had been chatting with in the bar last night had disappeared as quickly as his wallet had, and he had no idea what was in those Devil’s Potion cocktails, but his head this morning buzzed like a room full of angry bees.
Drinking coffee in an attempt to clear his head, he remembered last night’s dream. Was it a dream? It seemed so real. It must have been the drink. It can’t have been real. The Mr Lucky clown with that silly yellow hat was a life-sized photo on the sign outside his hotel, not a real person. And yet in the middle of the night, Mr Lucky Clown, complete with his silly yellow hat, walked into Mark’s bedroom and announced:
“Good evening Mr. Prestwick. Luck is not on your side I see. I could change that for you. I could tell you the exact hour of your death.”
“Just go away” blurted Mark.
“Now just think about it Mr Prestwick. Think about how useful knowing that information will be.”
“Am I going to die now?” grunted Mark.
“No, of course not. It’s most likely you are not going to die for many years. But just think how useful it would be to know. Especially for a man in your business, you sell life insurance for a living don’t you?”
“What is the catch?”
“No catch at all. I am not the devil. I will return tomorrow night; and if you want to know the exact time of your death I will tell you. If not, I will just go away.” With that he had left. Mark rolled over and fell back asleep.
Drinking his coffee in the daylight, Mark dismissed his encounter with Mr Lucky Clown as a weird dream brought on by drink. But seeing as he lost most his money last night and didn’t have many options of what to do that day, he decided to consider the clown’s offer.
Knowing the exact time of your death would affect how you lived, your actions, your risks, your finances. Pension planning would be less of a gamble.
Mark decided that if this strange clown did visit him again and offer to tell him the hour of the death, he would take him up on the offer. Mark paid his bill and left the café. He was still thinking about the clown, so deep in thought he did not see the bus coming.
He stepped right out in front of it and was killed instantly.
Across the street a short figure in a silly yellow hat laughed and walked away.
- - -
Liz Haigh lives in Cheshire in the UK. She works at a university library which is her dream job because she loves books. Most of her published work thus far has been in Red, Prima, Woman and Home and regularly in Women’s Weekly (UK print editions). She has had some flash fiction appear, or about to appear in, Bewildering Stories, The Legendary, Story Garden 8, Foundling Review, Blink and Delivered.
Always Read The Instructions
By Kira Morgana
"You know this is brilliant, this thing."
"I've seen it advertised, but I thought it was a hoax."
"Oh no! It really does work. I tell you what, I'll give you a demonstration. Do you want a beer?"
"Yeah, ok."
"All I do you see is press this button here..."
"The one marked Beer?"
"That's the one. Now we wait."
"How long does it take?"
"Depends on how far away she is. Ah, here she is now."
"Honey, I thought you and Dave would like a nice cold beer."
"Thank you Sweetheart, we were just talking about getting one."
"I have to put out the washing now. I'll be back in a minute."
"Alright Lizzi."
"Are you sure that was her responding to the remote and not doing it by herself?"
"Uh huh. I've tried a lot of the different functions and they all work."
"What about that one?"
"Oh yes, I've used that one every night since I bought it."
"And she's responded - properly?"
"What do you think? But I'm not going to demonstrate that one."
"Spoilsport. What does that one do?"
"That's the mute function. There's a volume control as well."
"I could do with one of those. Say Pete..."
"No you can't borrow it. You have to tune it into her you see and you can't use them with other people."
"Hmm. I'll just have to buy one then."
"Pete baby, can you just pop out to Mother's and take her these cookies and cakes?"
"Lizzi, I've got Dave round, I can't just..."
"Please darling, I need to put the baby down for a nap."
"But..."
"Use that one on her, Pete."
"Ok, honey. Are you sure that you can't do it yourself?"
"Actually now that I come to think about it, the baby would fall asleep better in the car and I haven't seen mother for several hours so a visit would be nice. I'll see you later."
"That was close."
"Yeah, thanks mate. I never thought of the Mind Change button."
"What's that red button?"
"What, the one under the little clear flap with the crossed ring on it? I don't know, let me look it up."
"Why bother with the instructions. You said it would work at any distance, let's just press it."
"No wait Dave...I...I've got the manual down here, let me look it up."
"Oh come on Pete, live a little. Here, let me press it."
"No Dave! I just found out what it does!"
"It's done now mate. Come on it can't be that bad, looks like a cancel button to me."
"Well sort of yes. It says in here... oh my mobile's ringing hang on...Hello?"
"Who is it, Pete?"
"But Honey! Why? Lizzi please don't do this...she hung up. Dave you stupid f***ing idiot! That was the Divorce button!"
"Isn't there a button on here to bring her back?"
"Let me look it up in the manual this time. It says here - Do not press this button unless your marriage is absolutely on the rocks as this control is permanent and wipes out the tuning of the remote."
"Ah..."
- - -
Kira has been writing properly for 15 years and has had several stories published this year. She is a mother of two, Teacher of a couple hundred and fiancee to one. She is a member of several writing websites where she enjoys a small following.
By Kira Morgana
"You know this is brilliant, this thing."
"I've seen it advertised, but I thought it was a hoax."
"Oh no! It really does work. I tell you what, I'll give you a demonstration. Do you want a beer?"
"Yeah, ok."
"All I do you see is press this button here..."
"The one marked Beer?"
"That's the one. Now we wait."
"How long does it take?"
"Depends on how far away she is. Ah, here she is now."
"Honey, I thought you and Dave would like a nice cold beer."
"Thank you Sweetheart, we were just talking about getting one."
"I have to put out the washing now. I'll be back in a minute."
"Alright Lizzi."
"Are you sure that was her responding to the remote and not doing it by herself?"
"Uh huh. I've tried a lot of the different functions and they all work."
"What about that one?"
"Oh yes, I've used that one every night since I bought it."
"And she's responded - properly?"
"What do you think? But I'm not going to demonstrate that one."
"Spoilsport. What does that one do?"
"That's the mute function. There's a volume control as well."
"I could do with one of those. Say Pete..."
"No you can't borrow it. You have to tune it into her you see and you can't use them with other people."
"Hmm. I'll just have to buy one then."
"Pete baby, can you just pop out to Mother's and take her these cookies and cakes?"
"Lizzi, I've got Dave round, I can't just..."
"Please darling, I need to put the baby down for a nap."
"But..."
"Use that one on her, Pete."
"Ok, honey. Are you sure that you can't do it yourself?"
"Actually now that I come to think about it, the baby would fall asleep better in the car and I haven't seen mother for several hours so a visit would be nice. I'll see you later."
"That was close."
"Yeah, thanks mate. I never thought of the Mind Change button."
"What's that red button?"
"What, the one under the little clear flap with the crossed ring on it? I don't know, let me look it up."
"Why bother with the instructions. You said it would work at any distance, let's just press it."
"No wait Dave...I...I've got the manual down here, let me look it up."
"Oh come on Pete, live a little. Here, let me press it."
"No Dave! I just found out what it does!"
"It's done now mate. Come on it can't be that bad, looks like a cancel button to me."
"Well sort of yes. It says in here... oh my mobile's ringing hang on...Hello?"
"Who is it, Pete?"
"But Honey! Why? Lizzi please don't do this...she hung up. Dave you stupid f***ing idiot! That was the Divorce button!"
"Isn't there a button on here to bring her back?"
"Let me look it up in the manual this time. It says here - Do not press this button unless your marriage is absolutely on the rocks as this control is permanent and wipes out the tuning of the remote."
"Ah..."
- - -
Kira has been writing properly for 15 years and has had several stories published this year. She is a mother of two, Teacher of a couple hundred and fiancee to one. She is a member of several writing websites where she enjoys a small following.
The Florida Sick Children
By Bl Pawelek
the camera rolls the steps
one after another
the egret splashes away
and the night orlando lights
shine the child joy
of the sick
the red points
on the top of the world
bring god a bit closer
before they chase him away
with justified guilt
the non eye to eye look
the hand on the child's head
the tear falling
from the cheek to floor
- - -
Bl Pawelek has produced for decades but continually changes his mind about submitting his writing and artwork for publication. Currently, he is on a 'yes' streak. He loves his wife and two children in Southern California.
By Bl Pawelek
the camera rolls the steps
one after another
the egret splashes away
and the night orlando lights
shine the child joy
of the sick
the red points
on the top of the world
bring god a bit closer
before they chase him away
with justified guilt
the non eye to eye look
the hand on the child's head
the tear falling
from the cheek to floor
- - -
Bl Pawelek has produced for decades but continually changes his mind about submitting his writing and artwork for publication. Currently, he is on a 'yes' streak. He loves his wife and two children in Southern California.
RINGER
(Phase 1: In the Thick of It)
By John Walker
"Why are you here!?"
"Don't mind my presence. It won't matter in a few short minutes. So, you are going to tell me what this thing is?"
"It's a spaceship, an alien craft rumored to have crashed here a thousand years ago."
"Are they still on the planet?"
"Why would you want to know their location? You must be kidding me right?"
"No, I am not kidding, I just need to know where they are. It could settle things down around this town."
"Saving the world as per usual psychic?”
“Just want to give my employers the good news that none of this will happen.”
“Ha! They will never understand the true potential of the signal.”
“That signal could very well be the key that solves this riddle. If the signal is traced to somewhere outside the Milky Way, we could be in for one long fight..”
“We will get to the source faster than you will. You guys don’t hold a candle to what we have.”
“You know those TV hacks wasn’t the act of rogues. It was them, hiding amongst us.”
“The attacks in Britain and here were them. Then the people tried to duplicate the transmission.”
“They were trying to get to us, but they needed someone else to respond.. If we keep going down this path they…”
“Save it! I don’t want them to be here either. It could mean the downfall of civilization!”
“Falling, falling, falling.”
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just meaningless jabber. I get that occasionally as if someone is trying to pry into my mind.”
“So I’m guessing they don’t teach you much in that place eh?”
“The bloodstained floor in which you will lay upon is cold.”
“You…are starting to freak me out. Don’t make me kill you.”
“That gun won’t work against me. You know that right? Being a far more superior human than you has quite an advantage in battle.”
“So you are subject two eh? Never knew it would be you. Your family…”
“…They mean nothing. It’s all a ruse to reach my goal in finding them.”
“You won’t get away. We will find you.”
A gunshot is heard.
“No you won’t.”
Subject number two walks slowly away from the murder scene with no remorse in his eyes. He gets in his car, speeds out of the abandoned warehouse, and travels to headquarters. He turns into the underground parking lot, gets out of the car, and proceeds to the elevator. Subject number two hits the button “B9”, as the elevator descends into the unknown. He immediately presses the emergency stop button after thirty seconds.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s me. I’m opening up the panel to the hidden floor.”
The panel revealed a “BS9” button, he clicked it and the elevator descended. The elevator sharply stopped as the man walked into the grand reception hall.
“Right on time.” The girl behind the counter said.
“I told you I’d be here precisely. You owe me something.”
“Sorry hun but I don’t have sex with my co workers.”
“Hah. You’ll eat those words. By the way, is the doctor here?”
“Let me check, um yes he is. He’s in the morgue.”
“Excellent. We are going to have a little chat. Hope he has enough free time.”
- - -
John Walker is an independent writer born and raised in the great state of New Jersey. He is currently finding a career in voice acting, writing, and game creation.
(Phase 1: In the Thick of It)
By John Walker
"Why are you here!?"
"Don't mind my presence. It won't matter in a few short minutes. So, you are going to tell me what this thing is?"
"It's a spaceship, an alien craft rumored to have crashed here a thousand years ago."
"Are they still on the planet?"
"Why would you want to know their location? You must be kidding me right?"
"No, I am not kidding, I just need to know where they are. It could settle things down around this town."
"Saving the world as per usual psychic?”
“Just want to give my employers the good news that none of this will happen.”
“Ha! They will never understand the true potential of the signal.”
“That signal could very well be the key that solves this riddle. If the signal is traced to somewhere outside the Milky Way, we could be in for one long fight..”
“We will get to the source faster than you will. You guys don’t hold a candle to what we have.”
“You know those TV hacks wasn’t the act of rogues. It was them, hiding amongst us.”
“The attacks in Britain and here were them. Then the people tried to duplicate the transmission.”
“They were trying to get to us, but they needed someone else to respond.. If we keep going down this path they…”
“Save it! I don’t want them to be here either. It could mean the downfall of civilization!”
“Falling, falling, falling.”
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just meaningless jabber. I get that occasionally as if someone is trying to pry into my mind.”
“So I’m guessing they don’t teach you much in that place eh?”
“The bloodstained floor in which you will lay upon is cold.”
“You…are starting to freak me out. Don’t make me kill you.”
“That gun won’t work against me. You know that right? Being a far more superior human than you has quite an advantage in battle.”
“So you are subject two eh? Never knew it would be you. Your family…”
“…They mean nothing. It’s all a ruse to reach my goal in finding them.”
“You won’t get away. We will find you.”
A gunshot is heard.
“No you won’t.”
Subject number two walks slowly away from the murder scene with no remorse in his eyes. He gets in his car, speeds out of the abandoned warehouse, and travels to headquarters. He turns into the underground parking lot, gets out of the car, and proceeds to the elevator. Subject number two hits the button “B9”, as the elevator descends into the unknown. He immediately presses the emergency stop button after thirty seconds.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s me. I’m opening up the panel to the hidden floor.”
The panel revealed a “BS9” button, he clicked it and the elevator descended. The elevator sharply stopped as the man walked into the grand reception hall.
“Right on time.” The girl behind the counter said.
“I told you I’d be here precisely. You owe me something.”
“Sorry hun but I don’t have sex with my co workers.”
“Hah. You’ll eat those words. By the way, is the doctor here?”
“Let me check, um yes he is. He’s in the morgue.”
“Excellent. We are going to have a little chat. Hope he has enough free time.”
- - -
John Walker is an independent writer born and raised in the great state of New Jersey. He is currently finding a career in voice acting, writing, and game creation.
Tá Republique
By Amanda Firefox
Love, closeness.
I can see it in her smiles, her eyes, the gentle words. I can see it in the way she reaches out to touch me, to adjust the collar of my shirt when time leaves us standing alone on the barren tops of buildings. I admire her grace, her speed, the nimble movements of her fingers as they tap new life into old keyboards, setting the air aflame with the sublime beauty of a masterpiece of mathematics and sound. She is everything I have ever wanted in a consort, everything I could hope to find, but like the seraphim that flit incandescent in the halls of high heaven, she is the embodiment of an ideal that flies on, forever out of reach. In reality, she is the consort of another Alpha, untouchable, the betrothed of another leader among the men of this dusty Republique.
I know the man that she is betrothed to. He is a man who is brother to me in every way but in blood. I have lived among his people, his father is as my father, and I count him among my most trusted allies. I have seen the way she looks at him, the way the love that stirs between them manifests in smiles and kisses, gentle touches– but I have also seen the way her perfect lips pinch up in disgust when he destroys the things that she loves most as a show to others of the strength that he finds in his ignorance. Together, they stand incongruous, two shapes which could only connect in some impossible vision of the universe. She sings, and her voice becomes a heavenly thread which sews tapestries of feeling and tone that bring the tears only an artist of the soul can cry to my too-long-dry eyes.
But the eyes of my brother remain dry, stone-like, unmoved. His heart is a place that is full of knives. Only in the fires of the killing fields do I ever see him smile. Only amidst the cries of the butchered helpless do I ever hear his laugh.
As with others, I try to be happy to see them together, try to see the light in the love that my brother has fought so hard for, won so many of his own wars for. It doesn’t matter. There is a pain within me which refuses to be squelched, and even as the forbidden lion awakens in my heart at the raised hand my brother uses to sweep away and smash her isometric joys, I know it will not roar. The passing love of eyes and frightened, innocent touches is strong indeed, a hard-shelled seed which may nest and fester in the heart of one, but the love that binds brothers back to back in the fields of fire is a stronger love still.
The unspoken code of Alphas, the iron bond of unbreakable understanding, of mutual respect, is a rope of steel and wire that manacles and bites at my hands, gags my heart. Caught in a trap of my own design, my strength of will becomes a cage from which I can never escape.
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little blue-eyed brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
By Amanda Firefox
Love, closeness.
I can see it in her smiles, her eyes, the gentle words. I can see it in the way she reaches out to touch me, to adjust the collar of my shirt when time leaves us standing alone on the barren tops of buildings. I admire her grace, her speed, the nimble movements of her fingers as they tap new life into old keyboards, setting the air aflame with the sublime beauty of a masterpiece of mathematics and sound. She is everything I have ever wanted in a consort, everything I could hope to find, but like the seraphim that flit incandescent in the halls of high heaven, she is the embodiment of an ideal that flies on, forever out of reach. In reality, she is the consort of another Alpha, untouchable, the betrothed of another leader among the men of this dusty Republique.
I know the man that she is betrothed to. He is a man who is brother to me in every way but in blood. I have lived among his people, his father is as my father, and I count him among my most trusted allies. I have seen the way she looks at him, the way the love that stirs between them manifests in smiles and kisses, gentle touches– but I have also seen the way her perfect lips pinch up in disgust when he destroys the things that she loves most as a show to others of the strength that he finds in his ignorance. Together, they stand incongruous, two shapes which could only connect in some impossible vision of the universe. She sings, and her voice becomes a heavenly thread which sews tapestries of feeling and tone that bring the tears only an artist of the soul can cry to my too-long-dry eyes.
But the eyes of my brother remain dry, stone-like, unmoved. His heart is a place that is full of knives. Only in the fires of the killing fields do I ever see him smile. Only amidst the cries of the butchered helpless do I ever hear his laugh.
As with others, I try to be happy to see them together, try to see the light in the love that my brother has fought so hard for, won so many of his own wars for. It doesn’t matter. There is a pain within me which refuses to be squelched, and even as the forbidden lion awakens in my heart at the raised hand my brother uses to sweep away and smash her isometric joys, I know it will not roar. The passing love of eyes and frightened, innocent touches is strong indeed, a hard-shelled seed which may nest and fester in the heart of one, but the love that binds brothers back to back in the fields of fire is a stronger love still.
The unspoken code of Alphas, the iron bond of unbreakable understanding, of mutual respect, is a rope of steel and wire that manacles and bites at my hands, gags my heart. Caught in a trap of my own design, my strength of will becomes a cage from which I can never escape.
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little blue-eyed brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
A Problem of Narrowed Vision
By Mario Esquer
The massive chassis of the Caterpillar loader rocked and bounced as it broke free of the landslide and punched out onto the surface. Mikael thought he could make out the dull, stomach wrenching squish of soft body parts through the steel hull of the bulldozer. The louder pinging sounds he imagined were being made by the crunching of bones being ground to meal.
For three weeks the young miner worked alone, welding heavy metal plates to give protection to the small control seat of the bright yellow dozer. He had been successful in ramming his improvised tank through the cave-ins which had sealed him into the mine, however he had also unintentionally succeeded in mostly crushing his only means to see outside. He and the dozer were out in the open, but he would have to guess at what lay outside of the solid granite of the mines.
Mikael thought he could make out groups of stumbling awkward figures coming towards the rumbling contraption from across the scattered desert sands.
“Mein Got, I am zee only von left.”
The brilliant sun poured blinding through the tiny ruined view slot. Mikael, who had long since given up any sense of direction, couldn’t tell if the sun were rising or setting. The beauty of the yellow beam was caught in the swirling dust blowing into his small control space and it filled his heart and his mind with hope. He dropped the clutch, floored the gas, and headed across the valley, sure that he would find the safety of the mountains in a few hours...
Ten hours later, Mikael stared down at the black needle as it slowly passed the red portion of the gas gauge; at any second his rolling sanctuary would choke, sputter, and die. The mountains could not be more than another hour away, but there were probably hundreds of the things, following the rumble of his big diesel, out there in the darkness. Within his mind’s eye their ghoulish clumsiness was captured in the scant moonlight. The whole of the valley had echoed with the sound of his heavy metal and by now any zombie in earshot would be here, following and waiting.
“It vas vorth the try.” Mikael whispered, patting his canary yellow mount’s shifter as the choking motor ground to a final and abruptly silent halt.
The first muffled pounding noises started only a minute later. They had been closer than he could have guessed. With a resigned sigh the Afrikaner lit his last cigarette and after a long puff and longer exhale he held the red hot end to fuse he had improvised weeks earlier while he and the dozer were still deep beneath the ground.
28 seconds later the explosions of the acetylene welding rig and the rapid incineration of all the oxygen the tanks held was all but dulled by the thick walls of what was now Mikael’s steel plated tomb.
The armed rescue patrol which the huge bulldozer had nearly crushed in its escape from the guarded mine entrance had finally managed to catch up with the great engine. They had been trying for hours to signal it’s occupant with thrown stones and open handed pounding on the inch thick steel armor. For hours these men followed the dozer further into the desert; every moment they followed taking them further away from the safety of the quarantine zone.
It was only now the sun was rising that they noticed the tiny fingers of smoke wafting from the crudely armored front-end loader’s only smashed-in slit of a viewport.
- - -
Mario Esquer is a dreamer and student of social science. His proposed solution to society’s ills would include any or all of the following:
Zombie Apocalypse, Invasion by Martian Tripods armed with heat rays, a world wide Captain Trips pandemic, or giving every household on Earth Beatles “Rock band” and a coke.
By Mario Esquer
The massive chassis of the Caterpillar loader rocked and bounced as it broke free of the landslide and punched out onto the surface. Mikael thought he could make out the dull, stomach wrenching squish of soft body parts through the steel hull of the bulldozer. The louder pinging sounds he imagined were being made by the crunching of bones being ground to meal.
For three weeks the young miner worked alone, welding heavy metal plates to give protection to the small control seat of the bright yellow dozer. He had been successful in ramming his improvised tank through the cave-ins which had sealed him into the mine, however he had also unintentionally succeeded in mostly crushing his only means to see outside. He and the dozer were out in the open, but he would have to guess at what lay outside of the solid granite of the mines.
Mikael thought he could make out groups of stumbling awkward figures coming towards the rumbling contraption from across the scattered desert sands.
“Mein Got, I am zee only von left.”
The brilliant sun poured blinding through the tiny ruined view slot. Mikael, who had long since given up any sense of direction, couldn’t tell if the sun were rising or setting. The beauty of the yellow beam was caught in the swirling dust blowing into his small control space and it filled his heart and his mind with hope. He dropped the clutch, floored the gas, and headed across the valley, sure that he would find the safety of the mountains in a few hours...
Ten hours later, Mikael stared down at the black needle as it slowly passed the red portion of the gas gauge; at any second his rolling sanctuary would choke, sputter, and die. The mountains could not be more than another hour away, but there were probably hundreds of the things, following the rumble of his big diesel, out there in the darkness. Within his mind’s eye their ghoulish clumsiness was captured in the scant moonlight. The whole of the valley had echoed with the sound of his heavy metal and by now any zombie in earshot would be here, following and waiting.
“It vas vorth the try.” Mikael whispered, patting his canary yellow mount’s shifter as the choking motor ground to a final and abruptly silent halt.
The first muffled pounding noises started only a minute later. They had been closer than he could have guessed. With a resigned sigh the Afrikaner lit his last cigarette and after a long puff and longer exhale he held the red hot end to fuse he had improvised weeks earlier while he and the dozer were still deep beneath the ground.
28 seconds later the explosions of the acetylene welding rig and the rapid incineration of all the oxygen the tanks held was all but dulled by the thick walls of what was now Mikael’s steel plated tomb.
The armed rescue patrol which the huge bulldozer had nearly crushed in its escape from the guarded mine entrance had finally managed to catch up with the great engine. They had been trying for hours to signal it’s occupant with thrown stones and open handed pounding on the inch thick steel armor. For hours these men followed the dozer further into the desert; every moment they followed taking them further away from the safety of the quarantine zone.
It was only now the sun was rising that they noticed the tiny fingers of smoke wafting from the crudely armored front-end loader’s only smashed-in slit of a viewport.
- - -
Mario Esquer is a dreamer and student of social science. His proposed solution to society’s ills would include any or all of the following:
Zombie Apocalypse, Invasion by Martian Tripods armed with heat rays, a world wide Captain Trips pandemic, or giving every household on Earth Beatles “Rock band” and a coke.
