The west is no place for a werewolf, Cheney thought as he sniffed at the tracks of a stagecoach long since passed.
His ears swiveled towards the sound of riders approaching on horseback; lips peeled back over teeth glistening at the promise of flesh other than rabbit for the first time in weeks. He crouched behind a bend in the trail, legs bunched for the fatal spring that would inevitably end in a terminal scream of horror.
There were two of them, a ten-gallon man on a pale horse and beside him an Indian astride a spotted palomino. Cheney snarled and leapt but the big man cleared leather in the span of a thought; bullets winked through the air, moonlight glinted from their silver surface an instant before they slammed home.
“The west is no place for a werewolf,” the big man said.
J.C. Towler spins tales of mystery and science fiction, and is particularly fond of scribbling a chilling horror tale. While delighted to write about other people going into scary places and being devoured; not so keen on that adventure himself. The Outer Banks of North Carolina is his home which is odd since he’s afraid of swimming in the ocean and doesn’t eat fish. He can be summoned through outerbankswriter@gmail.com.
How dare they?
Lyle gripped the glass bowl, white-knuckled, teeth clenched. He took a slow breath, fighting down the urge to smash it into a thousand pieces. Six years of faithful service. Getting up in the middle of the night to set up the kitchen. All for when that fat bastard waddled in at seven, wearing that ridiculous hat and picking god-knows-what out of his mangy attempt at a mustache.
Images on the television shifted relentlessly, bright colors drawing his attention. The upper left corner of the screen still read MUTE from his mother’s visit weeks ago. She’d informed him the deafening noise was too distracting. He’d only smiled. All he cared about was the news scrolling along the bottom, summarized in five and six word sentences.
He sighed and placed the bowl next to the cooktop. Light erupted outside as another rock slammed to the ground somewhere nearby.
UN peacekeepers roll into Gaza. President under fire from Congressional opposition. Meteorite “INVASION” continues despite FEMA assurances.
He whisked an ounce of whole milk into the bright orange yolk. These new, exotic types really did produce a more vibrant color. He stuck the tip of his finger into the glass mixing bowl and flicked a gooey bead into the frying pan.
A week ago, they’d brought him into the office. Social Services had sent over a girl, not more than fifteen, to translate. He’d seen chimps that could sign better, but the message was clear despite her best efforts to muddle it up.
Chez Neuf no longer needs you, she’d signed. People just don’t normally eat out during a crisis. Etienne has seniority. They’ll call you when things settle down.
The droplet hopped and danced silently along the hot stainless surface, burning to a tiny cinder within seconds, lost in the grain of the steel.
Almost, he thought.
Lunar mining causing meteors, critics say. NASA denies liability for damaged homes. Murder rate up in NYC.
The fist-sized rocks had rained down all over the world for weeks. Lunids, the astronomers had dubbed them. All the news services were excitedly reporting they’d been spotted on every continent now, even Antarctica. Some places in high concentrations.
A columnist in the morning paper had joked that the earth was being salted and peppered by evil alien intelligences, hungry for fresh flavors.
Oh, yes. Pepper.
He took the pepper from the spice rack above the recessed television, stirred the bowl again and scraped a heaping gob of butter from the spatula into the pan. The butter ran to the middle, bubbling around the edges. The rich smell filled his nostrils.
Oh, yes. They’d regret keeping Etienne. He’d shop this recipe around. Someone would recognize his talent, his genius.
FEMA teams dispatched with hearing protection. Hotel heiress arrested in Milan. SETI director resigns after hotel scandal.
Hearing protection? He laughed. Never been so good to be me.
The FEMA crews were having a devil of a time collecting the meteorites, all of which were roughly the same size. Something about a piercing tone they produced whenever anyone got within a few yards. Made a few people lose it completely. Sent them running like frightened children, clutching their heads.
Craziness. What are you gonna do about it anyway? You really gonna stop rocks falling from the sky? You go, FEMA.
Got to be a better way.
He dumped the contents of the bowl into the waiting pan, sliding it back and forth to prevent sticking, and let the rush of smoke pour upwards into his face. A little shredded cheddar and a half-filled cup of maple-flavored sausage chunks.
Oh, yeah.
Droplets of hot butter splattered up onto his hands and arms, each little sting causing him to wince.
Middle school steroids — special report tonight. Oil scandal rocks United Nations. Meteorites have thick crystalline shell.
Tilting the pan above the oscillating glow of the cooktop, Lyle slid a spatula under the omelet and flipped the edge inward, folding it. Seconds later, he let the steaming creation slide from the pan onto a plate and switched off the electricity.
Toast already spread with jelly and orange juice poured in a frosted glass. All arranged on a small wooden tray, fork and napkin included. A feng shui breakfast.
Nice.
Picking up the tray and turning, his elbow bumped the mixing bowl and it tumbled to the floor, smashing, tiny shards of glass biting at his bare legs.
With a sigh, he began to place the plate on the counter in order to clean up his mess, but reconsidered.
No. Breakfast first. Then clean.
Wind and rain pummels Midwest. Caruthers pulls out of Senate race. Lunid contents are complex organic compounds.
He stepped out onto the deck, almost tripping over a wayward claw hammer, and sat on the steps leading down to the lawn. Tray resting across his legs, he breathed deeply and slowly. Peace in, anger out. A cool autumn breeze softened the sunlight beating on his forehead and thinning hair. Beautiful day.
He’d left the television and closed captioning unit on but that could wait. Wait with the shattered bowl on the floor.
Dead leaves danced noiselessly, caught in a little whirlwind at the base of the steps. The grassy slope swept downward towards the bay. Rays of yellow light glinted on the water and little rainbows sprung from the dozen or so meteorites scattered around his yard. They really were everywhere.
The hollow shell of yesterday’s morning entrée lay behind him near the kitchen door. Compost or rock garden? He couldn’t decide.
A whole week with no ill effects. A masterpiece bigger than this petty disaster.
Taking a mouthful, he began to chew.
William Wood dreams of the day when he can rest upon his laurels in a beautiful mountaintop fortress, surrounded by a library of his own greatest works. Until then he lives in the Shenandoah Valley with his wife and children — who are very tolerant.
Charlie was an ancient negro gentleman who lived in a shanty by the railroad track in Greensville, North Carolina. He had spent his life working for the railroad laying track all over the state, and when he retired he bought himself a small piece of land near the track and built his wood shanty there. He always greeted everyone with a friendly smile for, though he had been born shortly after the civil war and had experienced all the indignities of the segregated south, he bore no ill will toward anyone.
Charlie had a dog named Tender. The dog stayed with him for thirteen years until it died of old age. Charlie said the dog wasn’t really his. Tender just hung around because he wanted to and that was fine with Charlie. He never tried to put a collar or a rope around the dog’s neck. “I never would bother,” Charlie said, “Since he wouldn’t do what I told him no how. But if I wants him to do somethin’ I asks him, and if he wanta do it, he do it. An he know the difference too. When I tells him, he don’t do what I tells him, but if I asks him, most times he do.” It was an arrangment that suited both dog and man.
Tender, being an unusual name for a dog, caused many people to ask why Charlie had named him that; Charlie explained that when he had worked on the railroad he had worked a lot on a tender which was a small car attached to a steam locomotive that carried wood or coal to fuel the locomotive, and that it just sorta hung on behind which was what Tender the dog did, so Charlie called him Tender. Charlie would always go on to tell the listener that working on the tender had been some of the best times in his life.
Tender had one bad habit. He liked to chase the trains as they rolled by. Charlie asked him not to do that because he was afraid the dog might get caught under the wheels and crushed, but Tender ignored that request and kept chasing trains his whole life. He had a special knack of knowing when the train was coming even before it came into sight. Maybe it was the vibrations in the ground or the position of the sun in the sky. Charlie never did figure out how the dog knew, be he always did. When Tender was young he would chase the trains for miles, but toward the end of his life the dog didn’t really chase them anymore. He would sit beside the track and when a train came along he would stand and take a few steps, but then give up and sit down again. Later he would just sit and watch the trains pass and fade into the distance as though he still wanted to chase them, but just didn’t have the energy anymore.
After Tender died Charlie didn’t hang around long, as though Tender’s death had soured the shanty for him. One day he walked out onto the track, looked up and down then began walking. No one knows if he walked fifty miles or five hundred but he never came back to the shanty by the tracks, but the one thing everybody knew was that Charlie and Tender loved trains.
G. Lloyd Helm is the author of the Science Fiction novel DESIGN and the fantasy novel OTHER DOORS. He is also the publisher of the Antelope Valley Anthologies, which are gatherings of poetry, essays, and short stories from local Antelope Valley Authors. These books are available from www.mouseprintspublishing.com.
The stars hung in the black sky like fireflies and the sea was glowing white. The crew of the Wild Goose crowded the rail, staring at a sea as flat and pale as a vast sheet of ice.
‘Battersea’ Bill Dawes shouldered his way between the sailors. “What is it?”
“Singleton, he says he knows what it is,” said Tom Fry. “But you know how it is with him. There’s been too much saltwater in his grog these many years.”
Singleton leaned over the rail, his long beard wagging at its reflection in the white sea. “Joe,” said Bill. “What is it?”
“A milk sea,” whispered Singleton. “Bill, it’s — they call it a milk sea. Back in the earlies, when I was a boy, they used to say when a ship sailed through a milk sea, it had left the world of men.” Singleton pointed at the phosphorescent water. “Tonight’s the twenty-third — there’s a full moon tonight. But where is it? It’s under there now. We’re on the other side of the looking-glass.”
“This entire latitude is bewitched it seems.” Bill handed Singleton a chart and pointed at the island breaching the horizon off their port side. “Joe, that island is not supposed to be there.”
Singleton glanced at the chart. He looked at the island. “It’s not supposed to be there either.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s coming straight towards us. That island is moving, like a ship riding before the wind.” Singleton’s face was white. “Bill! You don’t think it’s…”
“Joe, look!” Bill pointed at the island. A man stood on the beach, waving his hat over his head.
The keening of a fiddle drifted in on the breeze. The sounds of men’s voices and women’s laughter echoed across the water. Bill smelled wood smoke and roasting meat.
Tom Fry laughed and waved his hat at the man on the beach.
“It’s Fiddler’s Green,” said Singleton.
“No, that’s just a myth,” said Bill, “an old song…”
Tom Fry cried out, “We’ve sailed to Paradise, boys, or Paradise has found us!” The men raised a cheer, “Fiddler’s Green, huzzah!” and tossed up their hats.
“Fiddler’s Green is the place where sailors go when they die,” said Singleton.
The current swirled, slapping white foam against the ship.
Bill tossed his cigar in the sea. “Joe, we can expect a land breeze as that island approaches — we’ll need men in the top yards ready to trim the sheets if the winds change.
“Joe,” said Bill. “Your watch is on duty. Order your men aloft.”
The wind shifted. “Singleton!” said Bill. The sails cracked and the ship’s nose turned three points to the east. The island scudded by their port side.
Tom Fry unlatched the nearest boat and swung her out to launch. “C’mon boys! Our work here is done. We’re going to Paradise!”
Singleton grabbed Tom’s arm. “Look!”
The man on the island ran across the beach and dove into the surf.
“If I were in paradise,” said Singleton, “I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to leave.”
The sea in the island’s wake had become violent. Bill wrestled with the wheel, turning the ship’s nose into the wind.
Tom Fry twisted from Singleton’s grasp and dove into the sea. His body clove a black divot in the water, splattering black dots on the glowing waves.
“Tom! Singleton, do something!”
Singleton shook his head. “No, Bill. Let him go.”
The man from the island was now just a pair of arms and a hat floating between the waves. Tom Fry swam toward the drowning man, a black wake splitting the milk sea behind him.
“He’s gone, Bill,” said Singleton, “and if we’re lucky, he’ll be the only one.”
The drowning man and his hat disappeared. Tom Fry dove into the front edge of a white wave and he too vanished.
Only one man came up.
The swimmer treaded water for a moment, as if getting his bearings. He turned towards the island and began a strong breaststroke in that direction. The black wake followed him, an inverted black V tearing a jagged rent in the glowing sea.
The milk sea shimmered and broke. A thousand white flames edged a thousand black waves, and then the sea was dark.
The swimmer made the beach, staggering through the surf. He turned and waved his hat at the Wild Goose.
“Tom!” cried Bill. “We’ll send a boat. We’ll come for you!”
The man on the beach returned his hat to his head and walked off under the trees. Bill heard a cheer, as if a body of men were welcoming a long-lost friend. The unearthly fiddle began playing again, this time the bawdy song, ‘The Keyhole in the Door.’ No one aboard the Wild Goose could deny that it was Tom Fry’s voice singing the lyrics.
“Tom!”
“Bill, Tom’s dead,” said Singleton. “We’re still alive.”
The island drifted to the south, disappearing into the night. The whine of the fiddle faded. The Wild Goose bobbed in an empty, black sea.
Nick Logan lives and works in Woodstock, Illinois.
From the Editors
Welcome to another month of Every Day Fiction.
You can always be confident that the editorial team at EDF is staying on the cutting edge of the craft of writing. As you read this, managing editor Jordan Lapp is at the prestigious Clarion West writing workshop — for anyone who’s interested, he’s blogging about it at Without Really Trying. Meanwhile, in similar news, slush reader K.C. Ball is currently attending Jim Gunn’s Science Fiction Writers Workshop, and she’s blogging about that at A Moving Line.
Our last editorial was so full that we didn’t have a chance to mention that Gay Degani is no longer reading slush, as she has her hands more than full with our Flash Fiction Chronicles blog. If you have something to say about flash fiction, check out the blog submission guidelines. This also means that we’re short one slush reader, so we’re taking applications — and if you’re worried about not being able to submit stories to EDF, bear in mind that the commitment is only for three months and offers a valuable learning experience for any writer (though you don’t have to be a writer to read slush).
For Readers:
Unfortunately, we don’t have anything as special features for Canada Day or Independence Day or Bastille Day (or Pi Approximation Day, for that matter), but we wish you happy days wherever you are and whatever you celebrate in July. We do have a great mix of stories for your reading pleasure, with returning favourites including Nicholas Ozment and Frank Roger, as well as newcomers to EDF such as Priscilla Kipp and Jeremy Lightner.
For Writers:
We can’t do holiday features if you won’t send us holiday stories! Remember, 60 to 120 days in advance of the holiday month is our ideal window for special-date submissions, so start thinking about those Halloween stories now…
July’s Table of Contents
| July 1 | G. Lloyd Helm | Tender |
| July 2 | William Wood | Recipe |
| July 3 | J.C. Towler | Legends Collide |
| July 4 | Walter Giersbach | Death in the Afternoon |
| July 5 | Grant Bergland | “I Love You” |
| July 6 | Marc Bona | Shakers |
| July 7 | Tapes | Alice |
| July 8 | Aaron Polson | Inked |
| July 9 | Glenn Head | On/Off |
| July 10 | elissa vann struth | A Little Bit of a Good Thing |
| July 11 | Angela Carlton | The Songbird |
| July 12 | J.P. Tioga | The Only Thing Left To Do |
| July 13 | Jon Gibbs | Wild West Justice |
| July 14 | Jeanne Holtzman | When the Moon is in the Seventh House |
| July 15 | Lia Molly Deromedi | Leftovers |
| July 16 | Elizabeth M. Thurmond | Modern Love |
| July 17 | Nicholas Ozment | Two Roads Diverged in a Wood |
| July 18 | Rhonda Parrish | Why Are the Clocks Melting? |
| July 19 | Anne Brooke | The Skeleton Wood |
| July 20 | Paul A. Freeman | A Gothic Adventure |
| July 21 | Jenny Schwartz | No Enemy But Time |
| July 22 | David J. Rank | A Giving Heart |
| July 23 | Priscilla Kipp | Amen |
| July 24 | Jeremy Lightner | Ramon-3 |
| July 25 | Therese Arkenberg | Firebringer |
| July 26 | Andrew S. Fuller | Adrift |
| July 27 | Frank Roger | The Big Farewell Party At The End Of Time And Other Historical Documentaries |
| July 28 | J.A. Matthews | Cocooned |
| July 29 | Scott W. Baker | How Quickly We Forget |
| July 30 | Joshua Tate | Cat Lovers |
| July 31 | TW Williams | Squatter’s Rights |
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