Contributor: Brandon Barrows

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“Thirty-five is not enough!” Kayla scrunched up her face and pouted, transforming from a pretty, newly-eighteen, young woman into a little girl once more.
Eve sighed, closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead all at once. She is your daughter. She is still a child. You love her dearly. It had become a mantra of sorts over the years.
“Kayla, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“A what?”
Picking up her needlepoint and settling into the nearest window seat, Eve sighed again, almost silently. “Never mind. It’s just an expression.”
“Mother!”
“Look at it this way, darling: thirty-five is more than you had this morning, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but-“
“How many did you have when you woke up today?”
“None, but-“
Eve smiled on the inside. Maybe it was petty, but she loved shattering the girl’s tantrum logic. “And why, exactly, is thirty-five not enough to your mind?”
“Well,” Kayla began, looking at her feet and trying to hide the oncoming blush rising to her cheeks. “All my friends will make fun of me,” she finished quietly.
The older woman nearly laughed, but caught herself before she could ruin whatever progress she’d made with her daughter. “That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone make fun of you?”
Kayla shuffled her feet, still refusing to look at her mother, but not retreating, either. This “issue” apparently did mean something to her. “It’s, you know, just not very many. Abby already has forty-nine and Raina’s up to sixty-one since her last birthday.”
Putting aside her project, Eve pursed her lips and waved a hand, gesturing for the girl to join her at the window seat. Kayla approached, but it took a hand on her shoulder to guide her down and take a reluctant seat.
Eve raised her daughter’s gaze with a gentle hand beneath her chin and said “Kayla, listen to me. Both of those girls have a head start on you by at least a year or two. Your grandfather was very generous to give you what he did. He has many, many children and grandchildren and he didn’t have to give you anything. It was a lovely birthday gift.”
The glow in Kayla’s cheeks reddened. “I know,” she said softly.
Eve smiled encouragingly. “You know, nobody gave your grandfather anything and see what he ended up with? He worked and planned and fought hard for every single thing that he has.”
“Yeah…”
“But you know what else? You’re starting way ahead of where he, or your dad or I was at your age.”
Brightening somewhat, the red of her cheeks subsiding just a bit, Kayla allowed the barest hint of a smile to tug at the corner of her mouth. “That’s true…”
“So what do you say we look at this as sort of a starter kit, a chance to show everyone what you can do given a little bit to work with?”
The dam broke and Kayla’s lips split into a grin that could light up a room if she so chose. “Okay. Yeah, you’re right.”
Kayla threw her arms around her mother, pressing a cheek to her shoulder as they embraced. “Thanks, mom. You always know how to set me straight.”
Eve returned the hug, then drew back and held her daughter at arms-length so Kayla could see she was sharing her smile. “That’s what I’m here for, sweetie.”
“Thirty-five’s not so bad at all. I bet with some planning and a little luck, I could get all the way up to fifty in a year or two.”
Retrieving the needlepoint pattern from where she’d left it, Eve nodded and said “I bet you could at that.”
Kayla grinned even wider. “Thirty-five planets of my own. Not a bad way to start an empire…”


- - -
Brandon Barrows writes comic books prodigiously and is dipping his toe into the waters of prose fiction. His award-nominated detective series JACK HAMMER is published by Action Lab Comics, and his graphic novel VOYAGA was recently published by AAM/Markosia.

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Author: Brandon Barrows

Contributor: Shihab Noor and Dekript Pakpoom-Shihai

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This last golden day, of this golden week, begun like gold. Not quite shimmering exactly, not gold dust to be sure, but the homogenous dulled gold that marks the mornings of my life. Was it this morning, I asked myself? The answer repeated itself a million times over in my hollowed-out skull.

Not yet.

My feet touched the floor, and I placed my hands on my knees tentatively. They still ached from the previous days labor. A golden, fruitful labor it was. The gold coins I left on the dresser still shone with their hard-day’s satisfaction. Of what more could I ask?

The day’s golden moon lights streets and falls golden in through windows upon hands touched with gold rings, embossed with golden rubies. It’s time for work! Excitedly I snatch my golden jumpsuit out of the dresser drawer and fumble with the zipper as I pull it up over my shoulders. The words “factory man” embossed in gold varsity lettering shine on the front of the jacket, broadcasting my profession to the golden streets ahead of me. This was gonna be a good day…

I step out the door, a golden smile on my face. From across the street I see “bag woman,” in her wonderful jumpsuit. She grins, “Hello!” Yes, she is my favorite neighbor. It is written in the book! Out onto the golden streets I go, and into the golden light I grow, and onto the golden bus, whose golden driver, “driver man,” I know. Today is a golden day, I know.

Gold bus skips down the street, stopping to pick up such friends as “birdtender woman” “Grave man” “Scholar man” and “Old mann.” A quick glance out the window reveals fields of gold boys and gold girls twirling and shouting in a golden meadow. The future! The bus drives through Bisch district, the last stop before the “FACTORY” and as I stare out the glass of the window I see something different. At the exit point of the Bisch district sewer was a man standing. He stood, his eyes wide, his arms stretched, and his teeth bore. This man was known only in the golden tales. Silver man. Shining with the sheen of a thousand sons, “Silver man” bellowed at my bus. “Old man” seemed startled, but “driver man,” well he’s a good man, and he kept on driving to the factory! It looked like “Silver man” saw me through the window, but what do I know!

The golden bus pulled up at the “FACTORY” and let all of its remaining passengers out. I gave “driver man” a kiss and stepped off the bus and into the “FACTORY” parking lot. I saw my friend “Assembly line man” and I waved to him; a friendly wave, with no animosity intended or received. We went on our ways, I into “gold door A,” he into “gold door B.”

Today’s a good day. I see “factory man” on the factory floor, his hands grabbing at a golden box moving along a curving, gold conveyor belt. And there, at the other end, is “factory man,” one of my closest friends at the “FACTORY.” It is written in the book!

Now I standing next to “factory man,” doing the work! I move this box to this belt, and that tube to that slot! My hands move quickly! I like to think that I am the fastest “factory man” there is, but what do I know! I am a “factory man,” and I move golden boxes!

The factory is hot. I perspire and gold sweat begins to drip off of my face and fall in small puddles on the golden floor. Now I am next to “factory woman”. She is not a pleasant woman and she is of the texture of golden eggs. It is written in the book! I notice a golden pustule on her forehead. To her, I turn, and I shout, “factory woman, this is not part of protocol.” She makes a quizzical sound, but before she can do anything I reach for her head and squeeze. The pustule pops, golden pus oozes down her face. Her tongue flashes out, hoping to lap up the golden nectar before it evaporates in the sticky factory air. Golden youth returns to her countenance.

We work on silently. No one speaks on what just happens. All the better for little old golden me! Ears perk up, ring of the bell,

LUNCH TIME.

I wait patiently in line for my Texas Toast Grilled Cheese Sandwich and Chips Lunch. Everyone murmurs to each other about this and that. My shoulder is tapped. I turn and find myself looking at “boss man”, a fat old gold man wearing shining gold robes emblazoned with gold birds.

“factory man, you made a big mistake. There’s a seat in my orifice office for you, go now and you may be speared.” My eyes widened, a darker shade of gold cast a pall over my face. Uh-oh, spaghetti-o’s.

“boss man’s” orifice office was small damp and wet. It’s shade of gold was not pleasant to the eyes or nose. As I sat in my chair I recalled my sins. They shone golden in the dark recesses of my mind.

A window appeared above the office door. I saw “boss man” appear and smile a wide toothy grin. He held up four fingers and said “four days, bad boy, you got a lot of work to do.” His laugh echoed through the office. I shivered. The laugh continued, and only now did I realize it was not “boss man” laughing at all. Out of the shadows in the corner of the room stepped a sculpted, looming, nude, figure.

Silver man.

His smile widened in conjunction with his eyes as he strode towards me, making a cyclical motion with his hands directed at my junktrunk.

------------

To this day if anyone tells you Silver Man does not exist, say “no” he touched factory man. Who am I now?


“Ya Johnny!”


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We are two twins from, but not in blood, though we love each other. We are from Kulu, but frequent the towns of Baltimore and Philadelphia. America is like a second home to us! Our friction and pottery has been published in such places as “Seafood Dinner Surprise”, “Cook’s Cutlery”, and “Chief Fundamentals”. We find history a very interesting thing. Enjoy our readings and books! This one’s for you!

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Author: Shihab Noor and Dekript Pakpoom-Shihai

Contributor: Harry Noussias

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Every man has his destiny.

He suddenly awoke with that uneasy feeling. This was quite unusual for the coldhearted, uncaring, ruthless, businessman. No sense in trying to go back to sleep. Something just wasn’t right. Fluffing the pillow or turning over on his other side wasn’t going to help. The uneasiness was just too overpowering.

Maybe a walk before going to the office would help.

On a bridge not far away stood another man staring at the murky water below. He too had an uneasy feeling. To jump or not to jump, that was the question.

As the businessman exited his home he could see in the very far off distance, in that other side of town, the dark cloud which was belching out of the smokestacks of his factory. Normally it would have been a joyous sight for him. Production meant money, lots of money.

This time it was different.

For the first time he noticed the slight stinging in his eyes from the very fine nearly imperceptible layer of dust particles that covered all surfaces everywhere - the tree leaves, the mail boxes, his BMW, everything. Why hadn’t he noticed it before?

The ruthless businessman was noticing everything. The other man, the one on the bridge, was noticing almost nothing. He stood on that bridge not paying any attention to the birds joyfully singing or to the beauty of the wild flowers that lined the river’s banks. He only stared at the murky water flowing beneath. To jump or not to jump, that was still the question.

Why did the businessman choose to walk over the bridge instead of walking in some other direction? Perhaps it was destiny.

Destiny cannot be changed.

The troubled businessman stopped dead in his tracks. It took less than a thousandth of a second to process the information about the contemplator with emotionless eyes and a sorrowful face about to end it all. He sensed determination. If it’s one thing that he understood, it was determination.

Maybe this explained that uneasy feeling. Something was causing him to be here at this exact moment, something that instilled purpose and meaning within him. Here was an opportunity to act unselfishly and do some good for someone else. It was a philosophically profound revelation from within the depths of his being.

Surely he could talk this man out of self-destruction. It’s just a matter of knowing how to negotiate. Ruthless businessmen are keen negotiators and he was an absolute master.

The conversation began. Things cannot be that bad. You have a lot to live for. What about your family? Think of them. There is always help available. God loves you. Just step away from the railing. He watched as he spoke but noticed no change in expression on his listener’s face. It wasn’t working. None of it was working.

Giving up is not an option. Never give up. It’s just a matter of trying a different approach. So the conversation took a different turn. You’re not the only one with failings. My life hasn’t been perfect. I’ve used and abused people. I’ve been heartless, callous and often cold-blooded toward my fellow man. I am unloved and lonely. I’m very lonely. This was working. His listener was showing sympathy. He could see tears coming from his eyes and a smile, a warm compassionate, understanding smile. It was over. The man promised to come off the bridge.

The businessman walked away feeling good with the promise from the man to come off the bridge. The experience had touched and changed him deeply in a profound and irrevocable manner. Things were going to be different. He was going to be a better person. Today all his employees could take the day off with pay.

But, he would always be a businessman. That was his destiny. And even though things had changed. Destiny itself cannot be changed.

The man that contemplated ending his life would keep his promise to come off the bridge. He had shown kindness to a stranger. He too was changed by the experience. He too would fulfill his destiny. Destiny cannot be changed.

The man on the bridge smiled as he watched the businessman walk away. He paused for a moment to gaze at the beauty of the wild flowers and to listen to the birds singing and then… he jumped.


- - -
Harry Noussias is a writer of short stories, plays and poetry. His works may be found in print and online magazines including Linguistic Erosion’s sister site Daily Love.

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Author: Harry Noussias

Contributor: Jon Moray

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Rusty “The Crusher” Crusheda stood outside the batter’s box, took a few practice swings while eyeballing the pitcher on the mound for the Kansas City Royals. The pitcher, Lefty Nolan, the ace of the staff and the reigning Cy Young award winner peered back at Rusty, with eyes beckoning him into the batter’s box. He was no ordinary pitcher and Rusty was no ordinary hitter. And this showdown was no ordinary showdown.
It was the last game of the season and Rusty was a homerun away from breaking the single season record. The stadium was overflowing with fans, hoping to witness an historic night. Lefty had something to gain from this game as well. He was going for the league’s lead in wins, trying to notch number 25 under his belt and all but guaranteeing a second consecutive CY Young award. A reporter asked him before the game whether he was going to pitch to Rusty, to which he replied, “I am coming with my best and we’ll see if his best is better than my best.” Lefty’s best featured a fastball clocked as high as 105 mph. Rusty’s best was destroying a fastball. Something had to give.
Rusty stepped into the batter’s box, while a ball boy handed the home plate umpire a special hologram marked baseball to authenticate the identity of the potential record setting baseball. No one in the stadium was sitting. Flashbulbs were popping as Rusty prepared to bat. Networks broke away from their regular programming to cover Rusty’s every move at the plate.
Lefty bore down, focused on the catcher’s signals. He shook off a curveball and a waste pitch outside before agreeing on his bread-n-butter, the fastball. Lefty went into his wind up and hurled the baseball toward the plate. The pitch went right down the middle and Rusty swung as hard as he could. He made contact and the ball skyrocketed off his bat and into the chilly autumn night, gradually elevating up and over the right field upper deck façade. The ball looked like it was going into orbit as it disappeared out of the stadium. Suddenly, it was gone, vanished, out of thin air. Everyone that saw the ball thought they lost sight of it in the dark. Fans that were outside the stadium and were situated in the vicinity where the ball would’ve landed, reported never seeing it make land fall. They did report seeing a flash and a vibrating blur in the direction where the ball was leaving the stadium. The ball would never be found, becoming the strangest and most unsolved mystery in modern history.
Unknown to any of Earth’s scientists, the flash and the vibrating blur represented a portal to another dimension, into a world in its infancy in regards to evolution.
Oog worked diligently on sharpening his rock into a point when a thump behind him startled him and drew his attention. He turned and saw a white foreign object lying in the dusty tan terrain. He cautiously hunched over to the object and surveyed it curiously. He hopped around it several times before kicking at it lightly. He gathered enough courage to grasp at it and pick it up. He felt the texture of the red stitches as he brought the sphere to his mouth. He instantly spat, disgusted at the beaten leather taste.
Several other inhabitants converged upon him, wanting to examine the new object. Oog ran off in defense and was able to distance himself from the crowd, suddenly becoming protective over his new souvenir. Gretch, the biggest and the most feared among the natives, picked up a large club and stomped over towards Oog. Oog, fearful of the giant, backed away and in his haste tripped over a large stone, dropping the sphere in the process. Gretch made up ground, while Oog quickly shot to his feet, and retrieved the orb. As Gretch grew nearer, Oog threw the sphere at Gretch in desperation and Gretch instinctively lifted his club in a swinging motion to defend himself. The ball met the bat and careened off of it about two hundred feet. They both looked on in wonder at the flight of the object and grunted at their discovery. Oog retrieved the ball and again tossed it at Gretch and a new pastime was born.


- - -

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Author: Jon Moray

Contributor: Kristen Keckler
- -

Pam and Jerry arrived at the Eden pool, the adults-only section of the resort, expecting to see flesh—the website had alluded to “European-style bathing.” So when they’d found everyone in swimsuits, Pam was relieved. Jerry pretended to be disappointed but he wasn’t. He just wanted to be, didn’t want to worry about anything, nothing, not even tits.
“Isn’t this classy?” Pam said as they claimed two in the line of chaise lounges. She’d never seen an infinity pool—the pool’s tiles shone like opals, the water flowing over into a tile-lined moat. But instead of lining up with the ocean, the edge only lined up with the fence.
Green hammocks hung from poles among raised queen-size mattresses and pruned palms with bark like the skin of pineapples. A clutch of yuppies from Jersey sat on the ledge, debating St. Martin over St. Barts, the casinos, golf, and “natives.”
“Listen to them,” Pam said. “The one in the purple thong is a doctor—surgeon, cardiology.”
“You miss nothing,” Jerry said.
“I miss you,” she said.
Jerry laughed—she was right—and stroked his scruffy gray goatee. As Pam rubbed milky sunscreen into his back, the faded eagle tattooed on his deltoid flexed. Still laughing, he returned the favor, and when he lingered over the familiar constellation of freckles on her shoulders, she said, “Get under the straps?”
She adjusted the front of her pink one-piece, arranged the skirt-thingy that hid her uppermost thighs. Jerry watched her tuck her champagne blonde hair under her floppy hat.
“Another margarita?” he asked.
“Let’s try that thing,” she said, stacking her magazines.
“That the lady at breakfast was talking about?”
“She was a teacher.”
“With a mouth like that.”
Pam grinned.
A Dominican waitress suddenly materialized, clad in all white, like a nurse, the outline of white underpants showing through tight slacks. She listened to his description, some piña colada daiquiri concoction.
“Miami Bice,” she said.
“Bice,” Jerry repeated, and kept repeating as the afternoon wore on.

#

Pam lowered herself into the pool, pushing the water in circles. “Look, Jerr, I’m a mermaid!” she called out, then crossed and rolled her eyes. She did a dance for him, stringing her fingers through the air like a belly dancer, the way she had years ago at Hogs and Honeys—she’d had a good little figure back then. Jerry still liked it, even if she didn’t.
He had that grin. He rolled his shoulders to the ambient music, winking at her, sipping his drink.
“Come in!” she said. “It’s refreshing, the water, it’s like caresses,” but he shook his head, took another sip. “Bice,” he said.
Their waitress—Luz—brought another round.
Under the surface, Pam slipped out of her top, felt the water flow over her nipples, tried to get Jerry’s attention, but he was studying the fence. She felt reckless, silly, even a little spurned, like she had the first time they met, at that dive bar watching some cover band. She licked the salt off her lips, waded to shallow end.

#

The sun had moved beyond their umbrella, and they squinted at the light glinting off the pool, something profound about it.
“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” Pam said.
“Are you crying?” Jerry glanced at her, then around the deck. “You’re not fucking crying.”
Two women in the chairs next to them were reading, one from a thick hardcover, which she lowered to her tanned stomach, as if she’d lost her thought.
“I’m just happy,” Pam said, rolling her body toward him. “Drunk and happy! Twenty-four years, and our little Jonah, that Tina actually married Jonah’s dad, and that Billy isn’t dead. Remember, we thought he’d be dead.”
“He’s a fucking dentist,” Jerry said.
“He was a wild man.”
“But Jonah,” Jerry said. And felt his own eyes welling. He said, “I never got why women cry, then say they’re happy.”
“It’s like men drinking,” she said.
“I never said I was happy.”
She held up the issue of People in her lap. “All these people who have so much more than us, private planes, infinity pools, Miami Vices every day. But they don’t have, I don’t know, anything real.”
Jerry sighed, stared at the supposedly infinite edge of the pool, kept staring.
“You deserve this vacation more than anyone—Jerry Conners, you deserve this!”
“Infinite my ass.”
“Especially after what happened on your birthday.”
He hefted himself up and lumbered over to the pool, the waistband of his trunks hanging low under his gut, waded in, waded away from her, jaw set, Bice high in the air. He dunked his head—shock of coldness.
Eyes closed, she counted her breaths, one through ten, trying to bring back the moment. When she opened them, he was beside her, dripping puddles onto the nice stone deck.

#

The sun now only hit the hammocks beside the fence, and the mattresses were scattered with damp towels abandoned and twisted into lumps. The wind had picked up, carrying a hint of chlorine and fryer grease. Luz appeared, asking, “You like something else?”
“No,” Pam said.
“Gracias,” he said, fumbling with a wad of bills, sliding several off for a tip.
Pam stood and looked at the pool, now empty. “See, Hun?” she said, pointing. “A petal from this morning!” There’d been lots, she’d heard, all colors of roses, when the pool opened that morning.
She dipped her feet in, and as the petal drifted across the swells, peach as a swatch of flesh, she imagined hundreds floating, spilling over.
Some waiters were wheeling in carts of flowers for a wedding, orchids, birds of paradise, and he noticed then, as if for the first time, the carefully landscaped plots along the fence, the lemon yellow lilies with orange freckles, the papery purple bougainvillea spilling over raised beds, and even his wife, hands stretched behind her neck, rising from the pool like a lotus.


- - -
Kristen Keckler's work has appeared in the Iowa Review, Prick of the Spindle, Ecotone, and other magazines. She currently teaches creative writing at Mercy College in the Bronx and is obsessed with basketball, astrology, flip-flops (sandals) and cats.

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Author: Kristen Keckler

Contributor: Ray Daley

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Some intact statues of The Last Mighty One still existed in the smaller outer provinces.

A few desperate people still left their votive offerings at the various altars in the vain hope that life would return to them one day.
That was the function of The Last Mighty One.

To bring life to the lifeless. To restore energy to the exhausted. Power to the powerless.

No-one truly understood the nature of his form.

Why wasn't he Human, like his devotees?
Obviously at some point in time people had known why he had taken that particular form.

The Great Rabbit.

Worship at his feet, prostrate, genuflect.

The Mighty Duracell.

Hear our prayers.

Bring the power back, light the darkness.
Save us from ourselves.


- - -
Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he's been writing since 1986.

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Author: Ray Daley

Contributor: Sean Crose

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In truth you prefer the dry harvest to its more colorful counterpart. Who wants to work with water outdoors in November? Besides, the dry harvest allows you to mostly work alone. It's just you, nature, the gas-powered picker, and the cranberries.
Naturally such solitary manual labor causes one's mind to wander. You tend to think of two things as you work your way across the rows of hard earth: the past and your ambitions.
In a distinct way you see them both as being connected, since you never actually fulfilled the promises you made to yourself back in the day. You wonder what some of your peers would say if they saw you now, toiling in soiled jeans at six-thirty in the morning.
Would they be embarrassed or would they simply turn to one another with “I told you so” looks? Of course you'd tell them that you love the work and are still planning on attending law school. Yet, being almost forty, that bold proclamation doesn't carry that much weight. You wonder if you even have the ambition to attend night classes anymore.
And so you continue on with your dry harvest, toiling under the awareness that others are thriving. On some mornings you find yourself wondering if your endless youth has finally morphed into belated adulthood. You've yet to come up with an answer to that question. You know only that all dry harvests come to an end.


- - -
My work has appeared in such publications as FICTION 365, CRACK THE SPINE, THE COPPERFIELD REVIEW and, of course, LINGUISTIC EROSION. I live in Connecticut with my wife, Jen, and Cody, the world's greatest cat.

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Author: Sean Crose

Contributor: Christopher Grey
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The heat seemed worst after dusk, as if the layers of summer piled on top of each other under a thick, humid, blanket. That is why he sat on the roof of his building, enjoying a cigarette and flipping through a magazine. The last of his beer was consumed half an hour ago and so he was thirsty, drowsy and fighting a headache.

Still, it was cooler up there.

He heard sirens below and rose to look out over the street, but stopped. There was lavender in the air and so he knew she was there.

"The girl I can't forget," he said without turning.

She didn't respond.

"Do you remember our song?"

His mind fluttered away for a moment, recalling their time in Madrid. Candlelight hovering above the plaza. Red wine. The scent of lavender.

"The melody only," he lied.

He felt her breath behind him and gentle fingers squeezing his arm, running down to his hand and to the tips of his fingers.

She began humming softly, the music entering from deep inside conjuring it all. The war. The lost battle on the mountain. The scimitar driving past the breastplate and icy pain splinters piercing into his core. He remembered seeing the red cross on white flags above the horizon, collapsing underneath smoke and fire.

"Why New York?" She asked quietly.

"So I'll forget."

"But you can't."

He turned to her. She had the same radiance she did three centuries years ago. Dark skin and green eyes. Improbable perfection in her eastern face.

"How did you find me?" He asked, but didn't need to. She always found him. Even before Spain, before Gaul. When Iberia was a colony and the ships arrived in their majesty from the Atlantic continent. She found him then. She found him in Athens. And in Thebes. In Alexandria and in the wastes of the Bavarian winter.

"I can see your heart," she said.

"Then you know I am lost."

"It's the saddest it has ever been," her voice was just above a whisper.

He held her hands and brought her close.

"You have to take me to him?" He asked, but didn't need to. She didn't answer, only took his lips with hers. Lavender spilled into him and for a moment he could feel nothing else.

When they released her eyes softened and she said, "It is time."

Behind her, he saw the masked man, dark overcoat whipping and cracking in a wind that didn't exist.

"Where will I be the next time?"

She lead him to the masked man, gently holding his hand.

"We don't know if there will be a next time."

He stayed silent, understanding. It was all coming to an end. His role was finished. He was unnecessary. As lost as he thought he was. When he closed his eyes, he pictured rising through the light, swimming through the sea of fire that created the light, and dissolving into the dark abyss that separates mankind from God.

The masked man was cold and quiet, as he always was. He held a revolver in a gloved hand. A far cry from the old days when he carried a scythe or trident.

She was quiet too, unable to look him in the eyes. Even in the dark heat of the New York summer, she was beautiful. He would have said "I love you" before the masked man shot him, but he didn't need to.

His lifelong trial was at last over and he rose through the light, swam through the sea of fire and dissolved into the abyss before God.


- - -

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Author: Christopher Grey

Contributor: Ray Daley
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I'm sitting there alone on a park bench with nothing but the fading remnants of my thoughts and dreams for company when the bomb finally goes off. There are children who are still playing on the swings, people are walking their dogs too. A little way down the path a couple are walking, holding hands, probably on their first date.

On the pond, ducks and swans are competing for space with the model boat enthusiasts. Underneath the shady Oak trees a family is bonding over a picnic lunch.

And this is the way the world ends.

No countdown timer, no ticking clock, nothing visible to defuse. It's the ultimate weapon.

You can't disarm what you can't see.

When it happens it's the biggest bang since the first one.

***

And yet all around me they carry on with their lives as though nothing has changed for them, the kids swinging higher; determined to get over the top, sandwiches being passed around amongst friends and family, dogs refusing to let go of interesting sticks and ducks glaring at model yachts.

Because this is how my world ends.

Not with a bang, nor a whimper. The only victim of the fallout is me.

I sit alone on the bench where she just walked away, still holding the ring after she said no.

The bomb was dropped.

No.

The emotional time-bomb exploded. And this is how my world ends.

Wounded by rejection, death by broken heart.


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Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he's been writing since 1986.

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1 comment

Author: Ray Daley

Contributor: Portia Dawn

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It has happened again. The species of Earth has once again come to its turning point. Humans, animals, and plants. They all think they have what it takes to survive. But nobody can escape the inevitable. All things must come to an end.
But how have things survived so long? Because of women like us. The Mothers of Nature. There used to be hundreds of us.
Each time humanity needed us, one would step up to save them. In order for them to live, one of us must die.
I am the last one of many. Humanity has been given too many chances. I'm not going to fie for them.
I'm not afraid of death. They just keep making mistakes they can't fix. Polluting water, waging wars, and making even more decisions that could kill them all. After this last one, who knows if they'll survive without my help.
So I have only a little advice for humanity " Adapt or die."


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I enjoy books.
I love to write.
I would love to meet all my heroes.

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Author: Portia Dawn