She
By Michael Lee Johnson
Somewhere
she has lost
her shadow.
and now
she stands
still
with nowhere
to go.
-1969-
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
By Michael Lee Johnson
Somewhere
she has lost
her shadow.
and now
she stands
still
with nowhere
to go.
-1969-
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
Up the Spout
By Miriam H. Harrison
“The itsy, bitsy spider went up the water spout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. . .”
The soft singing comes from the next room. I doubt that my daughter understands the significance of those words, the too-perfect symbolism. But then again, who really knows what three-year-olds understand? They’re smarter than we are, that’s for sure. If children had been running the world, we wouldn’t be in this mess. But we had left the adults in charge.
The itsy, bitsy humans thought that they could do it all. We went too far, too high, too fast. Along came the pollution, the food shortage, the disease. We destroyed our world, and our world wiped us out.
Well, almost.
There are still some of us who have survived, and rumor has it that the latest pandemic has disappeared. Soon we’ll return to our cities, rebuild our world, pick up where we left off.
“. . . and the itsy, bitsy spider went up the spout again. . .”
- - -
Miriam is a writer of fiction and poetry living in Sudbury, Ontario, Canada. In addition to her publications, she has been a panelist at Toronto's Ad Astra convention and is currently the Sudbury Branch Manager of The Ontario Poetry Society, Vice-President of the Sudbury Writers' Guild and Vice-President of the Sudbury Hypergraphic Society, a networking and promotions group for writers.
By Miriam H. Harrison
“The itsy, bitsy spider went up the water spout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. . .”
The soft singing comes from the next room. I doubt that my daughter understands the significance of those words, the too-perfect symbolism. But then again, who really knows what three-year-olds understand? They’re smarter than we are, that’s for sure. If children had been running the world, we wouldn’t be in this mess. But we had left the adults in charge.
The itsy, bitsy humans thought that they could do it all. We went too far, too high, too fast. Along came the pollution, the food shortage, the disease. We destroyed our world, and our world wiped us out.
Well, almost.
There are still some of us who have survived, and rumor has it that the latest pandemic has disappeared. Soon we’ll return to our cities, rebuild our world, pick up where we left off.
“. . . and the itsy, bitsy spider went up the spout again. . .”
- - -
Miriam is a writer of fiction and poetry living in Sudbury, Ontario, Canada. In addition to her publications, she has been a panelist at Toronto's Ad Astra convention and is currently the Sudbury Branch Manager of The Ontario Poetry Society, Vice-President of the Sudbury Writers' Guild and Vice-President of the Sudbury Hypergraphic Society, a networking and promotions group for writers.
The Lost Cosmonaut
by Randal Schmidt
(Translated from original Russian)
Top Secret
Committee of State Security of the USSR
June 1, 1962
Moscow
Recommendations regarding
the recovery of failed Sputnik 4,
call sign Korabl Sputnik 1,
and transcript of last transmission.
Two years ago, on May 15, 1906, the test flight of Vostok spacecraft meant for manned spaceflight launched successfully. The flight carried a biological capsule with Alexei Petrov onboard which failed to properly reenter Earth’s atmosphere as planned. Investigation into the cause for the failed reentry is still ongoing, but consensus remains that it was caused by a misfiring of the guidance systems. The malfunction pushed the capsule out of its designated flight path, into a higher orbit and it was considered lost to recovery. The following transcript is of Cosmonaut Petrov’s final radio communication:
(Static) Yes. Thirty-five seconds. Flight is going as planned. (Static) What? Beautiful. The earth is veiled in clouds. Like cream. Yes. Twenty-five now. Guidance system engage. (Extended static, approx. 30 seconds) Reentry sequence has begun. I am coming home. I can (inaudible) understand (inaudible) Wait. Something is wrong. Reading’s off. Altitude increasing. What (Static) Course is off. Problem. Repeat, problem aboard Korabl Sputnik 1. I have lost control of craft, exiting reentry course. Higher. Oh God. (Static) Fired again. The rockets have gone again. I am twisting now. The earth is careening wild in the window. Oh God, I (inaudible). I cannot reenter. Moving away. Instruments indicate altitude increase. I am flying away from Earth. Oh God. (Static) Lost. Problem aboard Korabl Sputnik 1. Why are you not responding? What? (Static) Yes, I have tried. No response. Please. Oh. (Static) I am lost. Oh God.
Radio communication was lost with the capsule after this. In the last two years, the orbit of Sputnik 4 decayed and the spacecraft recently reentered Earth’s atmosphere. Among the recovered artifacts of the spacecraft was writing by Cosmonaut Petrov, reproduced below.
I am not certain now how many hours after failed reentry. After loss of radio contact, I began to transmit a distress signal by physical means. It will not matter if anyone hears it. I am dead. Oxygen is almost completely depleted. I will die soon, and no one will ever know of me. The world will never know what happened above them. My breaths are becoming labored. Death is near. I am alone in the blackness. Dear God, the emptiness. The first man in space. No one will ever know.
Due to the sensitive nature of this mission, this message presents a serious security issue. Recommendations of KGB are to immediately destroy recovered objects, the message, as well as recorded radio transmissions. The maintenance of official reports on Sputnik 4 is to continue. The official stance is to be thus:
· Sputnik 4 was a test of Vostok spacecraft for future manned space flights.
· As part of this test, a self sufficient biological capsule was flown, containing an artificial representation of a human being to determine effects of weight distribution, etc. on said capsule.
· Pre-recorded clips of a human voice were transmitted to test radio equipment.
· The failure of capsule reentry was due to malfunction in guidance system.
The presence of Alexei Petrov aboard this flight is to be hereby stricken from all records pertaining to Sputnik 4. There is to be no mention after this recommendation of a cosmonaut named Alexei Petrov, nor is his family to be identified and notified. Explanation of Petrov’s death should be handled by his directly superior unit commanders.
For your information.
Committee Chairman
V. Semichastny
- - -
Randal Schmidt is a proud member of the Fightin' Texas Aggie Class of 2011 and a writer for a local publication, Maroon Weekly. He loves reading and writing almost as much as he loves his fiancee.
by Randal Schmidt
(Translated from original Russian)
Top Secret
Committee of State Security of the USSR
June 1, 1962
Moscow
To The Central Committee
of the CPSU
of the CPSU
Recommendations regarding
the recovery of failed Sputnik 4,
call sign Korabl Sputnik 1,
and transcript of last transmission.
Two years ago, on May 15, 1906, the test flight of Vostok spacecraft meant for manned spaceflight launched successfully. The flight carried a biological capsule with Alexei Petrov onboard which failed to properly reenter Earth’s atmosphere as planned. Investigation into the cause for the failed reentry is still ongoing, but consensus remains that it was caused by a misfiring of the guidance systems. The malfunction pushed the capsule out of its designated flight path, into a higher orbit and it was considered lost to recovery. The following transcript is of Cosmonaut Petrov’s final radio communication:
(Static) Yes. Thirty-five seconds. Flight is going as planned. (Static) What? Beautiful. The earth is veiled in clouds. Like cream. Yes. Twenty-five now. Guidance system engage. (Extended static, approx. 30 seconds) Reentry sequence has begun. I am coming home. I can (inaudible) understand (inaudible) Wait. Something is wrong. Reading’s off. Altitude increasing. What (Static) Course is off. Problem. Repeat, problem aboard Korabl Sputnik 1. I have lost control of craft, exiting reentry course. Higher. Oh God. (Static) Fired again. The rockets have gone again. I am twisting now. The earth is careening wild in the window. Oh God, I (inaudible). I cannot reenter. Moving away. Instruments indicate altitude increase. I am flying away from Earth. Oh God. (Static) Lost. Problem aboard Korabl Sputnik 1. Why are you not responding? What? (Static) Yes, I have tried. No response. Please. Oh. (Static) I am lost. Oh God.
Radio communication was lost with the capsule after this. In the last two years, the orbit of Sputnik 4 decayed and the spacecraft recently reentered Earth’s atmosphere. Among the recovered artifacts of the spacecraft was writing by Cosmonaut Petrov, reproduced below.
I am not certain now how many hours after failed reentry. After loss of radio contact, I began to transmit a distress signal by physical means. It will not matter if anyone hears it. I am dead. Oxygen is almost completely depleted. I will die soon, and no one will ever know of me. The world will never know what happened above them. My breaths are becoming labored. Death is near. I am alone in the blackness. Dear God, the emptiness. The first man in space. No one will ever know.
Due to the sensitive nature of this mission, this message presents a serious security issue. Recommendations of KGB are to immediately destroy recovered objects, the message, as well as recorded radio transmissions. The maintenance of official reports on Sputnik 4 is to continue. The official stance is to be thus:
· Sputnik 4 was a test of Vostok spacecraft for future manned space flights.
· As part of this test, a self sufficient biological capsule was flown, containing an artificial representation of a human being to determine effects of weight distribution, etc. on said capsule.
· Pre-recorded clips of a human voice were transmitted to test radio equipment.
· The failure of capsule reentry was due to malfunction in guidance system.
The presence of Alexei Petrov aboard this flight is to be hereby stricken from all records pertaining to Sputnik 4. There is to be no mention after this recommendation of a cosmonaut named Alexei Petrov, nor is his family to be identified and notified. Explanation of Petrov’s death should be handled by his directly superior unit commanders.
For your information.
Committee Chairman
V. Semichastny
- - -
Randal Schmidt is a proud member of the Fightin' Texas Aggie Class of 2011 and a writer for a local publication, Maroon Weekly. He loves reading and writing almost as much as he loves his fiancee.
Conversations With Jimi Hendrix
By Theresa C. Newbill
I noticed you’re sleeping deeper,
more peacefully now, but I miss
you, man. My energy is just a bit
low today, so I’m practicing on
an old guitar tonight. Yeah, many
don’t even know I own one but
I got me a nice blue guitar at Sam
Ash that I named Jimi awhile back.
Focus, my friend, hope you’re
catching up with me. We always
have nice, quiet enjoyable times
together, don’t we? So I got this
natural swing in me, a gift from
Tequila and Meukow Cognac. But
there’s this one bottle of Cognac,
the one labeled Benedictine
Marques Deposees, too perfect to
open, know what I mean?
I’m feeling fine about having my
own space; like a rolling stone,
man, it gives me more freedom. I
was pleased to hear, changes ain’t
nothing to be concerned about, crazy
days move along to keep score. So I
guess you don’t know the latest
gossip, Jon and Kate got divorced.
Yeah, too bad huh? But hey, Lennon
had the same emotional release before
his beautiful relationship with Yoko.
I didn’t sleep at all last night, you
know how hard it is to maintain this
feeling of equal balance between the
two levels of my life now. Sometimes
the personal and the creative mesh and
that’s always cool. Hey Jimi! You
listening to me, Chief? The moon is
casting some strange light on the
windowpane. It’s always a good omen
when that happens. I guess it verifies
this music and me connect.
Hey Jimi, you think there will ever be
a time when the various facets of my life
will no longer be connected and balanced?
No? Me, either. So here I go, Jimi, you
still with me? Cool. Where are the words
in the shadow of deeds and hard work? In
initial dreams there is the sweetest of
songs. I sing along; in my head is truth
and a bar, and a tenement house, my brick
building on the back-drop of a purple haze,
this psychedelic paper representation,
imperfectly made, travels the wind in the
blindness of naïve skin that still
preaches, peace and love. I survey the
continual fall of man, the way people hate,
judge. I think it’s due to angry consciences
that sever happiness into fractions of
obligations and duties, some religious, some
political.But I pray that someday, someway,
they’ll tear their four walls down, and think
about the metaphor they've become.
Hey Jimi, how are you doing? I hope you know
you still shine with overflowing light, yeah,
it’s called fate. No man, it ain’t no curse.
You hold the key to grace divine, definitive;
you’re my black pearl of pride. How does it
feel? To be ripe and renown. I still mourn for
you, Jimi, and for the few who never saw the
flowing wonder of your ways and the beauty of
days. I could have been one of them if it
weren’t for you. And yeah man, I know you’re
all done with that sh*t; with the rising and
the falling.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
I noticed you’re sleeping deeper,
more peacefully now, but I miss
you, man. My energy is just a bit
low today, so I’m practicing on
an old guitar tonight. Yeah, many
don’t even know I own one but
I got me a nice blue guitar at Sam
Ash that I named Jimi awhile back.
Focus, my friend, hope you’re
catching up with me. We always
have nice, quiet enjoyable times
together, don’t we? So I got this
natural swing in me, a gift from
Tequila and Meukow Cognac. But
there’s this one bottle of Cognac,
the one labeled Benedictine
Marques Deposees, too perfect to
open, know what I mean?
I’m feeling fine about having my
own space; like a rolling stone,
man, it gives me more freedom. I
was pleased to hear, changes ain’t
nothing to be concerned about, crazy
days move along to keep score. So I
guess you don’t know the latest
gossip, Jon and Kate got divorced.
Yeah, too bad huh? But hey, Lennon
had the same emotional release before
his beautiful relationship with Yoko.
I didn’t sleep at all last night, you
know how hard it is to maintain this
feeling of equal balance between the
two levels of my life now. Sometimes
the personal and the creative mesh and
that’s always cool. Hey Jimi! You
listening to me, Chief? The moon is
casting some strange light on the
windowpane. It’s always a good omen
when that happens. I guess it verifies
this music and me connect.
Hey Jimi, you think there will ever be
a time when the various facets of my life
will no longer be connected and balanced?
No? Me, either. So here I go, Jimi, you
still with me? Cool. Where are the words
in the shadow of deeds and hard work? In
initial dreams there is the sweetest of
songs. I sing along; in my head is truth
and a bar, and a tenement house, my brick
building on the back-drop of a purple haze,
this psychedelic paper representation,
imperfectly made, travels the wind in the
blindness of naïve skin that still
preaches, peace and love. I survey the
continual fall of man, the way people hate,
judge. I think it’s due to angry consciences
that sever happiness into fractions of
obligations and duties, some religious, some
political.But I pray that someday, someway,
they’ll tear their four walls down, and think
about the metaphor they've become.
Hey Jimi, how are you doing? I hope you know
you still shine with overflowing light, yeah,
it’s called fate. No man, it ain’t no curse.
You hold the key to grace divine, definitive;
you’re my black pearl of pride. How does it
feel? To be ripe and renown. I still mourn for
you, Jimi, and for the few who never saw the
flowing wonder of your ways and the beauty of
days. I could have been one of them if it
weren’t for you. And yeah man, I know you’re
all done with that sh*t; with the rising and
the falling.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
New Earth
By Joshua Mauldin
It’s a weird feeling being born a twenty-eight year old adult. Or, at least what I think the equivalent of being born would be like. Awakening for the first time in your life is traumatic, to say the least. Senses and means of perception are overloaded. I like to think I handled it better than most, but worse than some; I was able to watch all the others wake after me.
Not knowing who or where I was – yet having basic human instincts, knowledge, and cognitive functions – I felt a deep tremble shake my core. My chest tightened and my eyes burned. When I tried to remember something, anything, prior to my pod “birthing” me, there was a stagnant white and nothing else. For all I knew, I could have been a pure-bred, born and raised human before the pod just as easily as I could have been an artificial cell, mutated inside a Petri dish of wires, nano-tech, and goo.
So I sat, shivering, legs pulled to my chest. I leaned back against my metallic pod and cradled my head. It hurt to even think. I tried to glance around again, but under the intense, platinum-white glow everything was blurry and distorted; my brain was getting more electrical impulses than it could handle, faster than it could process them.
I shut my eyes again.
As information clashed with knowledge, my world was painted with incomprehensible colors – like a blind man seeing flesh-pink clouds fading into a fiery yellow-orange sunset for the first time. He has information on what a sunset is, and an idea on what it looks like, but until he sees it for the first time, he doesn’t really know.
The pod across from me hissed, puffed steam around its edges, and the quicksilver convex lid slowly lifted. I peeked out of one eye, wincing in the fluorescent light, and saw what my brain processed to be a beautiful woman. As she rolled, falling, out of that husk of a womb, she coughed up goo and curled up into herself. As my sight adjusted, I saw her petite fingers tremble and twitch, clawing slowly at the cold steel beneath her. Her eyes flickered open for a brief second, and they flashed a brilliant shade of blue – a color I imagined a tropical ocean to shimmer coolly.
I noticed a small sign above her pod. Emblazoned in thick, black lines were three letters: EVE. Was that her name? The meek title by which people identify themselves? I turned to see if I had a sign. I did.
Mine read: ADAM.
I glanced across the way at Eve, and, despite being new to existence, felt a strange attraction to her. As I gathered myself to speak, a face abruptly appeared at the forefront of the room, on a holographic screen of some sort. To my bewilderment, it spoke.
“Greetings. If you are receiving this message, then you are all that survives of the Human race. You have been on a stasis ship for the past–” in an electronic voice from what I guessed to be an automated calendar, “twenty-eight years, seven months, fourteen days, twenty-two hours, five minutes and fifty-four seconds,” and the normal voice resumed, “orbiting the long-since destroyed Earth. You twelve are all that remain of a world-ending nuclear holocaust, and the sole purpose of your creation is for rebuilding a new world upon the ashes of the old. The history of New Earth begins today.”
- - -
Biography: I'm a college student, and I live with my two cousins and my cat, Sam. I love anything thought-provoking, and I enjoy sitting around and thinking up more science-fiction and fantasy stories than I can count.
By Joshua Mauldin
It’s a weird feeling being born a twenty-eight year old adult. Or, at least what I think the equivalent of being born would be like. Awakening for the first time in your life is traumatic, to say the least. Senses and means of perception are overloaded. I like to think I handled it better than most, but worse than some; I was able to watch all the others wake after me.
Not knowing who or where I was – yet having basic human instincts, knowledge, and cognitive functions – I felt a deep tremble shake my core. My chest tightened and my eyes burned. When I tried to remember something, anything, prior to my pod “birthing” me, there was a stagnant white and nothing else. For all I knew, I could have been a pure-bred, born and raised human before the pod just as easily as I could have been an artificial cell, mutated inside a Petri dish of wires, nano-tech, and goo.
So I sat, shivering, legs pulled to my chest. I leaned back against my metallic pod and cradled my head. It hurt to even think. I tried to glance around again, but under the intense, platinum-white glow everything was blurry and distorted; my brain was getting more electrical impulses than it could handle, faster than it could process them.
I shut my eyes again.
As information clashed with knowledge, my world was painted with incomprehensible colors – like a blind man seeing flesh-pink clouds fading into a fiery yellow-orange sunset for the first time. He has information on what a sunset is, and an idea on what it looks like, but until he sees it for the first time, he doesn’t really know.
The pod across from me hissed, puffed steam around its edges, and the quicksilver convex lid slowly lifted. I peeked out of one eye, wincing in the fluorescent light, and saw what my brain processed to be a beautiful woman. As she rolled, falling, out of that husk of a womb, she coughed up goo and curled up into herself. As my sight adjusted, I saw her petite fingers tremble and twitch, clawing slowly at the cold steel beneath her. Her eyes flickered open for a brief second, and they flashed a brilliant shade of blue – a color I imagined a tropical ocean to shimmer coolly.
I noticed a small sign above her pod. Emblazoned in thick, black lines were three letters: EVE. Was that her name? The meek title by which people identify themselves? I turned to see if I had a sign. I did.
Mine read: ADAM.
I glanced across the way at Eve, and, despite being new to existence, felt a strange attraction to her. As I gathered myself to speak, a face abruptly appeared at the forefront of the room, on a holographic screen of some sort. To my bewilderment, it spoke.
“Greetings. If you are receiving this message, then you are all that survives of the Human race. You have been on a stasis ship for the past–” in an electronic voice from what I guessed to be an automated calendar, “twenty-eight years, seven months, fourteen days, twenty-two hours, five minutes and fifty-four seconds,” and the normal voice resumed, “orbiting the long-since destroyed Earth. You twelve are all that remain of a world-ending nuclear holocaust, and the sole purpose of your creation is for rebuilding a new world upon the ashes of the old. The history of New Earth begins today.”
- - -
Biography: I'm a college student, and I live with my two cousins and my cat, Sam. I love anything thought-provoking, and I enjoy sitting around and thinking up more science-fiction and fantasy stories than I can count.
Regret
by Randal Schmidt
“And if I do that, what then?” he asked, “Say I go your way, I slave away in front of a computer for 8 hours a day. Maybe, just maybe beat the odds, luck into a promotion, make a lot of money, buy a new house, marry some woman I never see because I spend all my time in the corner office that overlooks the city? What, then?”
His father stared back at him. He hadn’t moved.
“I wake up one Saturday morning and realize I hate everything around me. Hate the bed, the sheets, the color of the walls, hate the way that east window always lets the fucking sun in so early and that’s why I’m up right now in the first place. Hate myself, because I took the respectable route, because I did what everyone thought I should and I never gave myself a chance. Never did what I wanted. Never said, screw it. I’m doing what I want. And every morning when I shave, I have to look at what I’ve done and talk myself out of cutting my own goddamn throat.”
- - -
Randal Schmidt is a proud member of the Fightin' Texas Aggie Class of 2011 and a writer for a local publication, Maroon Weekly. He loves reading and writing almost as much as he loves his fiancee.
by Randal Schmidt
“And if I do that, what then?” he asked, “Say I go your way, I slave away in front of a computer for 8 hours a day. Maybe, just maybe beat the odds, luck into a promotion, make a lot of money, buy a new house, marry some woman I never see because I spend all my time in the corner office that overlooks the city? What, then?”
His father stared back at him. He hadn’t moved.
“I wake up one Saturday morning and realize I hate everything around me. Hate the bed, the sheets, the color of the walls, hate the way that east window always lets the fucking sun in so early and that’s why I’m up right now in the first place. Hate myself, because I took the respectable route, because I did what everyone thought I should and I never gave myself a chance. Never did what I wanted. Never said, screw it. I’m doing what I want. And every morning when I shave, I have to look at what I’ve done and talk myself out of cutting my own goddamn throat.”
- - -
Randal Schmidt is a proud member of the Fightin' Texas Aggie Class of 2011 and a writer for a local publication, Maroon Weekly. He loves reading and writing almost as much as he loves his fiancee.
A Fear by Any Other Shade
By Maria Mitchell
He looked for a way to hide from the girl at the party who wouldn't leave him alone. He darted inside the closet and reeled back as his hand brushed against a long lock of hair.
"Who's there?"
"Just me."
"Who's 'just me'"?
"Just me."
"Great conversationalist," he seethed sarcastically. He took a long sigh while she focused her gaze on what little she could discern of his outline.
"What's wrong?"
"Some girl keeps trying to dance with me. She's a fat cow and smells like cat pee. I wish she'd just leave me alone."
"So you're trying to hide from her here in the dark?"
"Basically." He took a deep breath. "Though I'll be frank with you, I'm glad you're here. I'm kind of afraid of the dark."
"I'm afraid of the light," she replied.
"Do you fear the dark or the light more?"
"The light."
"Why?"
"Because everyone can see me. It's no fun because it's not very flattering."
"But in the dark you can't see anyone."
"Exactly," she asserted. "That's why I prefer it. I don't want to see anyone because I don't need to. It's doesn't serve my purposes."
"You're a strange chick." His brow darkened mischievously." Boogiemen lurk in the dark, you know."
"Exactly."
"What do you mean 'exactly'? And what's that awful smell? Smells like cat pee. You are-OHMYGOD-AHHH!"
"You know sir, you've enlightened me. Fear lurks in so many shades, dark or light, so what difference does it make? In the end you're no less dead. I think I'll use what I've learned here in the dark and head for that dance floor now."
- - -
Maria Mitchell is an illustrator, writer of speculative fiction, and composer of music for piano. She lives in northern California.
By Maria Mitchell
He looked for a way to hide from the girl at the party who wouldn't leave him alone. He darted inside the closet and reeled back as his hand brushed against a long lock of hair.
"Who's there?"
"Just me."
"Who's 'just me'"?
"Just me."
"Great conversationalist," he seethed sarcastically. He took a long sigh while she focused her gaze on what little she could discern of his outline.
"What's wrong?"
"Some girl keeps trying to dance with me. She's a fat cow and smells like cat pee. I wish she'd just leave me alone."
"So you're trying to hide from her here in the dark?"
"Basically." He took a deep breath. "Though I'll be frank with you, I'm glad you're here. I'm kind of afraid of the dark."
"I'm afraid of the light," she replied.
"Do you fear the dark or the light more?"
"The light."
"Why?"
"Because everyone can see me. It's no fun because it's not very flattering."
"But in the dark you can't see anyone."
"Exactly," she asserted. "That's why I prefer it. I don't want to see anyone because I don't need to. It's doesn't serve my purposes."
"You're a strange chick." His brow darkened mischievously." Boogiemen lurk in the dark, you know."
"Exactly."
"What do you mean 'exactly'? And what's that awful smell? Smells like cat pee. You are-OHMYGOD-AHHH!"
"You know sir, you've enlightened me. Fear lurks in so many shades, dark or light, so what difference does it make? In the end you're no less dead. I think I'll use what I've learned here in the dark and head for that dance floor now."
- - -
Maria Mitchell is an illustrator, writer of speculative fiction, and composer of music for piano. She lives in northern California.
