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They swam like fish folk in the waters of their mother’s womb… sharing thoughts like nutrition, until a shadow fell into their world, a sanctuary where no shadow should fall.

What’s he doing here?

They knew, of course, still remembering the bony imprint of his fingers upon their souls from the last time.

He’s here for one of us.

Unease cooled the fluid around them. Hopeful sat nearest to the channel through which they both must pass.

It will be me.

Hopeful shivered.

No no no no no

Hopeful had passed through a dark channel of flesh such as this one on three previous occasions, to draw breath under different skies. He wrestled with vague dreams of past debts that must be paid this time. And then he struggled against his brother. The channel into this world opened and closed, but Hopeful was held back by the tangle of his brother’s limbs, tugging, keeping him fast. A woman’s scream, ragged and incomplete.

And still he waited.

One of us.

The channel winked and wavered, closing again. Hopeful withdrew, exhausted to the farthest corner of his mother’s womb.

Another day dawned.

Another night fell.

His brother had beaten him to emerge head first into the Egypt of Moses’s final plague. No cry, after his robust performance of the night before.

Hopeful followed, sliding out into the midwife’s arms, missing Death’s Angel by a whisper and a sigh.

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Carine Engelbrecht plays guitar, writes and creates art. She has been a waitress, barlady, call center operator, craft market stall holder and film extra. She is a member of the Adamastor Writers Guild, a small Cape Town based group dedicated to promoting greater awareness for fantasy, science fiction and horror.

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The clothes on their backs, a few hundred-thousand air miles on the brink of expiration, thirty-eight dollars in assorted bills, and a brown paper bag filled with quarters.  That was the sum total of what they had left.  That and their memories.  It was all pretty much worthless as far as she was concerned.  She had been wearing the same outfit now for the past three days.  It was beginning to reek, and she couldn’t even use the quarters to do laundry because they belonged to Edward’s state quarter collection.  He’d been gathering them up ever since Delaware rolled off the assembly line in 1999, and, only last week, he had shouted in triumph when the cashier at the 7-11 gave him an Oklahoma with his change.

She pictured herself at the bathroom sink rinsing out her one set of underwear and then hanging it over the shower rod to dry.  She hadn’t done that since she was in graduate school and living off student loans, and she hadn’t expected to do it ever again.  Should she offer to hand wash Edward’s underwear while she was at it?  Perhaps not.  Perhaps it was time her husband finally learned that laundry was a more complicated process than the detergent commercials on television let on.  At the thought of Edward shifting for himself for once, she twisted her lips in a wry smile. But she had to be practical.  She had real fears he would break the plumbing and flood her mother-in-law’s house if he so much as turned a faucet without supervision.

Edward’s daily life was filled with more disasters than a Charlton Heston movie.  Car crashes, bankruptcies, broken bones.  The fire that destroyed their apartment and everything they owned was only the latest catastrophe.  And, here they were, staying for the time being with Edward’s mother, who despised her so intensely she feared she would be executed on the spot if she dared ask to borrow clean underwear.

To Edward, this most recent tragedy was merely an adventure, a game of “how will we manage this time?”  It was as though they were camping, and he was working on his scout merit badge in survival skills.  She suspected he had never had so much fun as he was having right now.  He was delightedly plotting their next move, which, no doubt, would involve another hare-brained business scheme doomed to failure.

Side by side, they had watched the flames consume their home.  Edward had made no effort to disguise his fascination with the flames — with the way they leaped and growled and fought with one another like little tigers.  She instantly recognized the signs of wonder in his face — the wide eyes, the slack jaw — and she had barely managed to suppress the urge to beat him to the ground with her fists.  She could have done it, too, if she’d really wanted to, reduced him to a whimpering heap of bruised flesh and watery snot.

When she began bemoaning the loss of her books, her jewelry, their wedding photos, the antique quilt her great-grandmother gave her, Edward had put his arm around her and cheerfully remarked that they still had their memories.  As he comforted her, the reflection of the fire turned his brown eyes a warm orange, and she could tell he was sincere.  He had memories, good ones, and that was good enough for him.

She could remember good times with Edward, and she knew she must have been happy then, but when she reviewed the memories in her mind, they played like old silent movies faded from exposure to the elements.  She thought memories must be similar to light bulbs, full of radiance at first but reduced to dull, dead things that simply took up space once their energy had been exhausted.  Why were the memories enough to sustain Edward but not enough for her?  Maybe she had left hers on too long, and they had just worn out.

So she was left with the air miles and the $38.  The $38 would cover a cab ride to the airport, and the air miles would get her a ticket back to New York.  The prospect of admitting defeat, of going home to her own mother’s “I told you so’s,” galled her.  But at least she would have a change of underwear.

The airline’s online reservation page was open on the computer monitor in her mother-in-law’s den.  All she had to do was click on the “Redeem Miles Now” button and then call the cab company.  She could leave now while Edward and his mother slept.  No tears, no goodbyes, no pleas for her to give it one more try.

A sound, or the shadow of a sound, distracted her.  A snuffling passed through the paper-thin walls like steam.  Probably Edward snoring.  Yes, this very minute, Edward was sleeping peacefully in the next room. He always slept peacefully. Sleep was one of Edward’s special talents.

She remembered the expression of glee on Edward’s face as he turned the Oklahoma quarter over and over in his palm.  She acknowledged, as she had done a thousand times before, that Edward was so caught up in the childish enjoyment of his everyday disasters that he had no idea how unhappy she had become.  She pictured him waking in the morning to find she wasn’t there, his hand continuing to grope beneath the sheets, seeking the reassuring solidity of her body, long after his brain had already concluded that she had left him.

She shut the computer down.  She was tired, too tired for a night at the airport.  In the bedroom, a pillow had been readied for her, blank and white and clean, and, next to her husband, a warm, blanketed space waited to take her in its embrace. There was no need to hurry. In the morning, nothing would have changed. It would all still be waiting for her. She could make this decision tomorrow.

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Bonnie Walker writes in New York, USA.

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It was a tall tree, taller than our three story house. I looked up and up, bare branches, angular divides, twigs stretching like fingers into the space beyond the tree’s grasp. It wanted more. It wanted everything, all the air, the sky itself.

The roots were just as bad, clawing between the rocks permeating our lot, doing battle with worms, heaving sidewalk squares up. Who needs frakking when we have this tree? I thought.

“Up you go,” my wife said.

“I don’t even see him now,” I said, facing her. She was squat and dumpy, with coal black eyes and prominent brows. A smile would break her face.

“It’s up there,” she said.

“Maybe he went in the squirrel house,” I said hopefully. God knows I would have, were I a squirrel.

“It did no such thing,” she said. She raised an arm. I flinched even though I was out of reach. “There,” she said.

I saw him then, a spray of brown fur tucked into a niche between branches.

“Maybe he has a nest,” I said.

“What it has,” my wife said, “is a bloody squirrel house. And it will use that house, or I’ll know the reason why.”

“Yes, dear.” I let my shoulders slump. The tree would not appreciate me scrabbling up its bark.

“I didn’t say tomorrow,” my wife said. I felt her moving closer.

“Right.” I launched myself up. Bark scraped my wrists. My fingers became claws. I grasped a branch, another, and pulled myself higher.

“Hurry,” my wife said. “Before it moves.”

Blood slicked my hand. I lost my grip. I was falling. The feeling that came into me was unusual, not fear, not longing, but some hybrid of the two.

Branches caught me. I found myself sitting in a clump of interwoven twigs.

“Well?” my wife said.

I edged back to the trunk. The squirrel house was only a few feet higher. A week earlier I had screwed it to the trunk with black multipurpose screws. I’d borrowed a ladder from a neighbor then. Why hadn’t I thought to do that now? I glanced down at my wife impatiently tapping her foot on the crooked sidewalk. Question answered.

A foothold, a handhold, and I was at the squirrel house. From a higher branch, the squirrel started chattering, tiny hand pointing at the hole in the house’s side.

I peered in. The interior was furnished with a table and two chairs. One looked to be a recliner like the one I preferred in our house.

“I–” I looked again. A lamp stood between the chairs, spilling golden light. I wondered where he had found a bulb to fit it.

More chattering. The squirrel gestured emphatically.

“Inside?”

He nodded, teeth showing. They were rectangular, and quite yellow.

“I can’t fit through there.”

“Grab that rodent and force him in,” my wife demanded. “Do I have to come up there?”

“No, dear,” I said over my shoulder. “Okay,” I whispered to the squirrel. “I’ll try.”

It was easier than I thought, a matter of pulling myself over the hole’s lip and sliding in.

“What are you doing!” my wife screamed. “Get out of there!” Her voice reached a higher register, like the wicked witch in Oz.

The table held a series of blueprints spread one atop the other. I sat in the recliner. It fit my body perfectly.

Something clapped the outer wall. I sat up straight.

“She’s throwing my walnuts back at me,” a new voice said. It was gentle, like water easing over stone. The tree?

The squirrel came in. A frantic chatter came from his mouth.

“He says you took long enough,” the tree translated.

“I didn’t know it was possible,” I said.

“All things are possible when you stand up for yourself,” the voice said. Another slap hit the house. I heard my wife talking to herself.

“We’re glad you came here,” the tree said. “She’ll have to find another weapon now.”

“Weapon?”

“Shall we discuss strategy,” the tree said. The squirrel nodded. His tail flicked.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“We’re going after her garden,” the tree said. “An outflanking maneuver. We have allies among the birds and insects.” The squirrel made a fist.

I chuckled. “You don’t know my wife.”

“We know that she means to dominate,” the tree said.

“And you don’t?”

“We are of Nature. It is our destiny to dominate.”

“You poor fools,” I said. Even as the words left my mouth, there came a subtle shaking, followed by the hacking sound of an axe applied to wood.

“Hey,” I said brightly. “At least you tried.”

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Stephen V. Ramey‘s work has appeared in a variety of places. He also edits the Triangulation anthology from Parsec Ink, and trapeze, a twitter zine. He lives in New Castle, PA USA, where he regularly visits the odd ducks that live along the river.

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Podcast EDF062: Captain Quasar and the Popularity Contest on Goobalox Five by Milo James Fowler read by Folly Blaine

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“Captain Quasar and the Popularity Contest on Goobalox Five” by Milo James Fowler was originally published on February 6, 2012.

Milo James Fowler is a junior high English teacher by day and a writer by night. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Daily Science Fiction, Shimmer, and Macmillan’s Criminal Element. In his spare time, he collects rejection letters.

Folly Blaine is a writer living in Seattle, Washington.

 

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When the doctor declared Rose in remission, they celebrated with a second honeymoon.

Avery sat up in the hotel bed, squinting at the light streaming in from the open balcony. Rose, naked except for a towel she held to her chest, stood at the open sliding door, her back to him.

He reached for his glasses and felt a morning erection coming on. What was once automatic, had now became a pleasant surprise.

“What are you doing? Someone will see you.”

“No one can see from up here, except the moon. Come see how beautiful it looks.”

“Yes, beautiful. The moon in the sky, too.”

“You need your glasses, old man.”

“I’m wearing them. I also need my sleep. What is it? Six-thirty?”

“I showered and made coffee with those horrible little packets the hotel provides. You want some?”

“You bet I want some.” He patted her side of the bed.

Rose laughed and climbed back into bed, letting the damp towel drop to the floor as soon as she got under the covers. “You’re really taking this second honeymoon seriously, aren’t you?”

After making love, Rose rested her head on Avery’s chest and ran her hand over his white chest hairs. He reached under the covers to caress her hip. Her flesh felt voluptuous, reminding him of a Rubens’ nude. He tried recalling what she felt like when they had first married.

“You’re thinking about something,” she said.

“You can hear me think?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Then why ask?”

“You’re thinking about the young woman you married, the one with long hair and breasts that bounced when she walked.”

“Actually, I was thinking how much more beautiful you are now.”

Avery knew she didn’t believe him. He propped himself up on his elbow. “I love you more than ever. Don’t forget that.” He kissed her lips. “I’d show you, but at my age twice in such a short period of time could be dangerous.”

“You still make me laugh.” Rose kissed her husband. “Thank you for that.”

“I have an idea. Let’s take a bath together.”

“A bath? This is your big idea? Maybe you are getting old. I just showered.”

“So this time you’ll bathe.”

It took some cajoling and a compromise, but they agreed to share a shower. Getting in and out of a tub was too much effort.

“I just washed my hair,” Rose said. “Try not to get it wet.”

Avery arranged the showerhead so it would hit his wife on her chest. Using a hand towel, he soaped her body from the neck down. She started to cry.

He kissed her tears. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry. You put up a good front, but how could you love me the way I look?”

He washed some of the soapsuds from her newly healed mastectomy scars and kissed them. “This is your most beautiful part. It means there’s no cancer.” He looked up at her with tears in his own eyes. “It means you’re still with me.”

In a torrent, it all came back to him: the lump in her breast, the doctor informing them it was malignant, the operation, the radiation treatments, her hair falling out in clumps. Through it all, Avery kept his sense of humor, trying not to let her see what he knew she was feeling.

“This is what love is,” Avery whispered as he patted her with a dry towel. “But I need coffee.”

Rose kissed him, slipped into a nightgown and poured two cups of leftover coffee, handing one to him.

Avery took a sip and wrinkled his nose. “This is terrible.” He put down the cup, called room service and ordered a fresh pot, orange juice and rolls.

Rose tried to wrestle the receiver from him. “Do you know what that costs?  We could go downstairs and have a full breakfast for that.”

“I don’t want a full breakfast. I want to sit with my wife in our hotel room, sip good coffee, and enjoy the view.”

Rose returned to the balcony. In the morning light, her nightgown became transparent.

Staring at his wife, Avery recalled her fifty years earlier, standing before the moon in a peignoir her sister had given her for their honeymoon. He remembered how he squinted then to see through her garment, excited by his new wife’s body, not knowing if he were capable of loving her forever.

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Wayne Scheer has been locked in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne’s, not the turtle’s.) To keep from going back to work, he’s published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He’s been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.

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