Contributor: E.S. Wynn

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These caves go on forever.

Be seated among the brethren, the memory of an absent light breathes, speaks in eldritch whispers which presuppose that God is not dead.

Be seated. We are at rest.

I avoid the caverns that scream, the caverns that lurk, the caverns that step through the darkness, hunting, waiting just beyond reach, waiting like sharks until a stumble, a blind groping. When they come, they come with teeth. They come to swallow. I flirt with the death therein, touch it, dance away.

I walk the dusty caverns. I pick the depths that open without footsteps, that offer unpolished stone and a gathering of shadows. On and on, these caverns roam, deeper and deeper, dropping into vistas, cities unlike anything on the surface, the sunlit structures that crumble with the slightest glance, prodding touch. There is more to see and understand in the depths than any one man could paw through in a lifetime. There is more in the depths than one mind could hope to hold, but all the cities hold the same statues, the same heroes. I give myself a glance at each, move on.

Occasionally, I find a box shuffled away in a crack, a fissure in the stone walls, and my hope surges. Most are empty. None of them hold water. None of them hold the water I need. None of them bring the manna I hunger for.

In the dark, I shape stones as I walk, drop them when they dull. In my mind, I draw pictures of caverns as they might progress, as they might meander, drop them when they turn to dust at the touch of shadow. Still I walk, still I hope, study, create, ignore the voices that whisper louder and louder with each passing day: you are a fool. Die, fool.

Die, fool!

Alone, I carve my wooden pocket-wand. I shape it as my soul tells me to, cut it and bind it and burn it and etch it until there is nothing left but the wand I see in my mind. Chaos lives here, it whispers to me, and I know that the void which echoes in its voice is the darkness I must rise to avoid. Chaos lives here, it whispers, and I know that the void in its voice is the womb of creation, that birth lies in the hands of annihilation. All around me, the caverns yawn, open. To them, this is ancient knowledge. To them, it is a realization long past.

To me, the past is just beginning. The now is my forgotten sepia photograph.


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E.S. Wynn is the author of over thirty books and chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. Find out more by visiting www.eswynn.com

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Author: E.S. Wynn

Contributor: Okey Fitz

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“I am a down to Earth girl. I know that money doesn’t grow on trees and that in order to have something in your life you need to work hard to get it. I know that you get a job and then get fired from it after twenty years of dedicating work. I know that people meet, fall in love, fall out of love and then meet someone else and everything starts all over again. I know that marriages fall apart and Happily Ever After is for five year olds. I know that people are born, grow, get old and die. They also poop, fart, burp and masturbate. No one is perfect. A lot of them try to be but fail. Because we are weak and we always have someone else to blame. We see sins of others but never notice our own. We go to Church and pray every day, calling ourselves Christians but then limit our children and judge everyone else who is different. I don’t ask God to make me a good person, I do everything possible to be one. I don’t like when people pretend to be my friends and then talk behind my back. I don’t need the appreciation of the whole world. I am who I am and I feel good about it. I am a realist. And reality comforts me because I am always ready for the worst”.
I sat back in my chair, holding onto the glass of Red I had in my hand. I took a sip, let it sit in my mouth for a few seconds and then swallowed it. I wish I was smoking. I bet the combination of wine and cigarettes feels great. Making your body relax to the point where the thoughts and emotions you never thought you had before are coming out and forming this magnificent circle and dancing, dancing, dancing. Oh, wait, no, it’s when you smoke weed. My bad. I sure do miss smoking weed sometimes. Having a pothead boyfriend had one advantage – I got to smoke whenever I wanted and for free. But I am glad I got rid of him. He wasn’t a good influence. He made me wear hills.
I looked at the computer screen where I just typed a short description of myself for this interview I am having on Thursday. I read it again, and then again. It is not how you write cover letters. I shouldn’t be sending that if I want to get the job, I thought. From my own experience, there are not a lot of people out there with any kind of humor. I am not even talking about a good one. I kind of like it, though. It is a perfect two hundred and thirty five word picture of real me. Most of the time, I try to be considerate because it is another downside of being a realist. I have to understand that I live in a society of approximately seven billion people and I need to be nice to get what I want. And in order to get this job I better write something like “I look forward to contribute my ability and experience in your company”.
“Tell them what they want to hear, smile and be nice” - I can still hear the voice of my mom. Poor Mother, she already gave up the idea of me getting married and having babies. “The last thing you owe me is to show that you can take care of yourself” – same voice again. I guess she is right. I am such a disappointment. I never did anything right, or at least not the way she wanted me to. Some of it because I did what I thought was right for me and some of it is to piss her off. Mostly, piss her off. Christian to the marrow of her bones, she was trying to make this ladylike brainless manikin of me for a future husband to “love, and care, and bring home money”. Not so fast, dear Mother. I think Jesus understood way before you did my real intentions. I wanted to write books, publish them, get famous and travel. But until my future bestsellers are published I need to feed myself, and pay rent, and afford gas. And that’s why I am about to write something sweet and wonderful for my employer so he can hire me.
I suddenly started feeling the positive energy coming through me. It felt very good and refreshing to have something to hope for. I got so excited I smacked my right hand palm against the desk, and my left hand shook and wine from the top of my glass got spilled on the keyboard. I said “shit” multiple times and tried to wipe it off with the tissues I usually keep on my desk but today they somehow traveled all the way to the nightstand beside my bed. So I pulled the bottom of my T-shirt and started cleaning the buttons one by one to catch as much liquid as I could. I stopped after five minutes and realized two things. First – I will have to buy a new keyboard and second – I accidentally hit the Enter button while flipping out about the spill. I felt this unexplainable shivering down my spine. It was the only interview I got out of fourteen applications I submitted for the past two months. I wanted to scream and cry. I wanted to break something. But the only thing I could do was to sit down and breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. Oh well, I thought, at least I wrote “Sincerely yours”.


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I was born in Western Ukraine. Grew to love mountains and Ukrainian culture. Came to America in 2010 and slowly building my life here, secretly missing home. I have a wonderful ten month old daughter and a husband who is also my best friend:)

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Author: Okey Fitz

Contributor: Alina Yudkevich

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“Huh. How ‘bout that,” he said, turning off the weather report. “Grandma dies, and a month later we get Tropical Storm Josephine.”

“That crazy bat would share a name with a natural disaster,” his fiancée said, quickly adding, “Sorry. She hated me.”

A week later, the storm raged on. On the day of their wedding, its status was upgraded to hurricane.

The garden arch blew over and fell neatly around the minister, whose shriek wasn’t heard over the roaring wind. The guests swarmed the gazebos when the torrential downpour started.

Weighed down by her waterlogged gown, the bride plodded slowly behind, sniffling.

The hanging church signs flapped violently, hurling letters and wooden debris in all directions.
A bronze P knocked the bouquet clean out the bride’s hands, and what remained of HOPE sideswiped her seconds later.

“Classic Granny Jo!” yelled the groom. The flower girl howled with laughter.


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Alina Yudkevich is a 17th grader at the University of Georgia, studying English and Film Studies and working part-time at a particle accelerator lab. She enjoys pugs, video editing, running, b-horror, and exploring the unknown via Google street view.

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Author: Alina Yudkevich

Contributor: John Laneri

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Hours after the fire, people continued to wander the ruins – their thoughts lost in the swirling wisps of smoke drifting from blackened rubble and scattered debris. They were in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth and each of them knew that life was about to change in their town.

In the saloon, Vernon Carter's eyebrows lifted heavily. “As mayor, I’m tellin’ you gents we have a serious problem confronting us. We need to get our brains together and think out a solution.”

He paused a moment, his eyes moving from face to face, studying the other two men on the town council.

“In fact,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “Our town will dry up to nothing unless we come up with some serious thoughts. As I see it, things are about to change faster than a fellow can spit.”

Across from him, Roscoe Sayers, the newspaper editor, looked up, his lips quivering. He was a skinny, little man with bulging eyes and a balding head. “The community may never recover from the loss. It's a calamity that perverts the goodness in nature.” He turned away, his features grim.

To Roscoe’s side, Sheriff Matt Carson sat slumped with his head bowed and his boots propped on the back of a chair. Ordinarily, he was an easy man with a confident attitude. He opened an eye. “I feel like the world’s coming to an end. The Lord has truly forsaken us.”

“I hear what you’re sayin’,” Vernon replied, as he reached for a bottle of whiskey then poured a shot. “I haven’t eaten all day – no appetite. With her house gone, she doesn’t have reason to stay in our town... says she’s taking the girls and movin’ on.”

“Taking the girls!” the Sheriff said, coming to his feet and kicking the chair aside. “My God... it's worse than I thought. If we lose the girls, our community's doomed. We’ll see more brawling about town, certainly more gun fighting. Hell fire, we’re talking about Aunt Jillie's Boarding House, the finest establishment west of Fort Worth. Fellows can get powerfully restless when faced with a dry spell.”

With those words, a lengthy silence followed as each man searched for direction – anything to lift the weight of reality from their shoulders. Life, as they knew it, might never return to normal.

Finally after several minutes, Roscoe cleared his throat and edged forward, his eyes beginning to dance with that spark of energy only seen at Aunt Jillie's. “As reasonably intelligent men, we might consider other alternatives.”

“Like what?” the Sheriff asked, turning to him. “Most of your ideas are about as far fetched as using dynamite to clean outhouses.”

Roscoe glanced about, his manner turning cautious. “Maybe they are, but I’m of the opinion that we need to put some of the money from our Courthouse Building Fund to good use. It’s just sittin’ in the bank doing nothing."

The Sheriff returned to the table and lowered his voice, his words directed to Roscoe. “Are you talkin’ about using the town's tax money to build a new establishment for Jillie and the girls?”

“That seems the reasonable approach. We live in the present. The future can take care of itself.”

“Won’t the town people object?” Vernon asked, as he stepped into the conversation, his neck coloring. “You fellows are talking about taking money from the community coffers and using it for your own. That's almost criminal.”

The Sheriff turned to him. “Hold on a minute, if we take a positive attitude, the people won’t question our motives – they never do. And like Roscoe was sayin', the money's just sitting in the bank collecting cobwebs. For what it's worth, a courthouse isn’t all that important. What we need is a wholesome place offering the kind of services fellows appreciate – something to make life worth living.”

Vernon tapped his whiskey bottle on the table. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but what I’m hearin’ from you gents is that you want the community to provide the money to build a new establishment where Aunt Jillie and her girls can continue to enlighten fellows in a proper manner.”

The Sheriff and Roscoe looked toward one another and nodded their heads in agreement.

“Then as mayor, I'll make it an official. Our town needs to move forward. And, for the record, my two boys can build exactly what you fellows have in mind, provided of course, the town pays them a healthy price.”

“They're hired. We'll pay 'em full fee. And for your information, I’m already startin’ to feel like a new man. Dodging bullets is not my idea of clean livin'. What do you think, Roscoe?”

“I’m getting happier by the minute. Now, I’ll still have a place to sleep when the little lady throws me out in the streets.”

Vernon reached for the whiskey bottle and poured another shot. “You fellow make me proud to be a part of this town. For awhile though, you had me worried... thought maybe I'd have to go back to sleepin' with the missus. And, let me tell you, waking up to her is a mighty cruel way to face the day.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

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“Doctor Williams!”

Gerald glances up from the ragged chunk of glassy-smooth sediment in his hand, lets it fall, unremembered. Eyes rise through the bioplastic of his helmet, focus on the distant silhouette of a figure waving arms where a dip, perhaps a crater, breaks the monotony of the stone-scattered wasteland.

“What is it, Dinsmore?”

“Something interesting,” comes the vague response.

“There's nothing interesting on this rock.” Williams grumbles, unwilling to budge. “Nano-survey said there would be fossils. All I see is a lot of pyroclastic breccia.”

“This is way more interesting than fossils.” Dinsmore persists, and the sound of the grin in his voice makes Williams squint. Briefly, Williams considers calling up to the orbiting ship, requesting a Q-anchor to portal them back to the gate-bay. Childlike curiosity keeps his finger hesitating at the panel on his hip, unwilling to tab the comm key.

“I'll bet you a hundred Creativity Units this is going to amaze you.”

A hundred CUs? Williams considers. Half a month's allotment. Enough to print the paint, brushes and vellum canvases he's been putting off in favor of bioprobes and testing rigs.

Bioprobes and testing rigs ultimately wasted on too many dead planets.

Williams lets his eyes fall to the ground. 100 CUs is enough to keep him sitting in orbit of KP-1138, playing chess against Dinsmore for sixteen more standard planetary rotations if he loses the bet.

In the end, he says nothing. KP-1138's weak gravity gives him a drifting, skipping gait as he crosses the wasteland to Dinsmore's dip. Overhead, one of the planet's twin moons races across the sun, drops a shadow over everything that leaves as quickly as it comes.

And then Williams sees it. He sees it, and his irritated features open in wonder. Dinsmore's laugh comes choppy, static-laced over the comm channel.

“Dismore. . .” Williams breathes, crouches where the dip drops away suddenly into sprawling, cavernous depths. Almost immediately his eyes find the glass spires, the glittering meshwork towers, the crystalline domes stretching endlessly into the darkness, impossibly huge, all glowing, all lit from within by some internal light source.

A city, Williams thinks. No, a nation.

A civilization.

A civilization, just beneath the surface.


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E.S. Wynn is the author of over thirty books and chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. Find out more by visiting www.eswynn.com

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Author: E.S. Wynn

Contributor: A@ron What

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“No, you have the wrong number.”
A reasonable conclusion. As far as I know, that is not my name. My name is Character Label. I am a background description living in exposition. Of course, this could all be just some big misunderstanding. Perhaps, through some elaborate series of mix-ups, I am Xaiver Figueroa after all and this phone call was meant for me.
There are two reasons I pick up. First, fuck you, it’s none of your business. You’re just the reader. I don’t even have to acknowledge your existence. Second, I don’t know. I’m drunk.
“Could you please remove this number from your list?” Mid-sentence, the voice, this “person,” goes from words to sounds to hallow cadence to this stupid, repetitive, muffled bass line echo, thumping relentlessly, vibrating the floors, walls, everything, and I just . . . I want to hang up, but it reminds me of this. . . and I miss . . . and even though I know that, at the time, it was far from perfect, occasionally I just wish things were more like then, when you could . . . or urinate without worrying about the next guy putting your junk on the internet or. . . or have the power to destroy someone with a glance, but choose not to because it was the right thing to do. The truth is, I can’t hang up. The thing about a conversation is . . . because without human interaction, life is . . . excitement is that at any moment, they can sever this connection I’m talking about—it’s not like you can call back. Think of it as an opportunity. This one shot. And because of the infectious nature of an idea, it only takes one because it will spread from that person to the next person to the next and (assuming the validity of hope as a general entity) soon you, this previously insignificant faction, have made some difference—no matter how small—and you might not even know it, but still, it was you. Not the next guy. You.


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A@ron What is a future person (from the future). He or she publishes for the purpose of documenting his or her presence in our timeline, so that colleagues from the future will send a retrieval force.

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Author: Aaron What

Contributor: Miles Gough

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For a change of scenery, the Grand Fiend took me to an abandoned hunting lodge. We sat well above the city, that was now engulfed in flames. From our vantage point, it was hard to determine who were the humans and who were the marauding monsters. “Conflagrations are so beautiful to gaze upon and consider the joy of it all, don’t you think.”

I was just happy to not be in chaos below so I had to agree. We watched for several minutes and I asked, “Do you know what the monsters are?”

“I am sad to admit that I am not quite certain, though really, I think they are doing a fine job, a little on the grandiose side, but isn’t that anyone's prerogative? Monsters can interpret the job anyway they so desire.”

Watching further, I began to see glints of light reflecting off some of the marauders. “Look at that, I think those monsters are metallic. Its possible that what we are watching is a robot attack.”

“Robots,” the Grand Fiend pronounced the word slowly, as if testing it on his tongue. “That is slightly disappointing. Shouldn’t this be a job for living monsters? Another instance of automation taking over jobs.”

“I’m confused, what is your opinion on robots? Do you feel they are monsters or are they not to be considered one of your ilk?”

“Now that is an interesting debate and a divisive one in the extreme. Most monsters look at them with disdain. I think it is because they are created and originally maintained by humans. Its like food that create their own assistants. Imagine if you will, a hamburger who decides that being a hamburger is too difficult a task and needs to create a metallic semi sentient hamburger to help them in being hamburgers. Its absurd. We monsters are own creatures, we do not conform to the whims of our food supply.”

“But,” I interjected, “don’t vampires and werewolves come from humans as well? They were men and now they eat men.”

“And that’s why the issue of robots is so problematic. Yes, the similarities between vampires, zombies and lycanmorphs and the robot horde you see below you are evident. Perhaps the difference is that robots were created to be subservient to humans, while we nether creatures were never anyone’s beasts of burden.”

I cleared my throat, “I hate to be contrary, but wouldn’t being forced to be the servant to humans give robots a better reason to hate and attack them?”

“If I must consider that, I would say that you are correct. But we are monsters, we are fiends, we have the right to be discriminatory. I am a master of fear and attack. I am the beast you wake up screaming about, and I do not want to be compared to a toaster with a foul disposition.”
I opened my mouth to add one more thing, the Grand Fiend gave me a shake of his giant head and I knew to remain silent. “Let us not worry about who is doing the killing. Let us just celebrate that killing. They are proving themselves worthy by deeds. Let’s just revel in the sheer artistry of this messy anarchy.”

From our vantage point, the smoke was almost complete, though when the wind was favorable, we were still allowed to hear the faint screams of the survivors. The Grand Fiend smiled and quietly said, “Robots.”


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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: Matt Shaner

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The apartment building is three floors, a converted house next to a river. The storm started the day before and now the four of us sit in my living room. Rain still hammers the windows. I’ve spread four candles in the corners with the remaining light coming from a pair of cigarettes. We lost power two hours ago. The smoke hangs in the room since I can’t open the windows. Lightening punctuates our sentences.
“This is shit,” the girl says. She’s just out of college, blonde, wearing a sweatshirt and shorts. “I’m losing sleep.” Her apartment is flooded.
“Sleep? This is like a movie. I wonder if the foundation will hold.”
“Oh stop.” This is the couple below me. They are elderly and made their way to my place long before the sky darkened. I fed them dinner before we lost power and the water is now nearing their windows. He is a war veteran, retired from factory work and she was a nurse. They have family in California. He smokes despite her objections.
“More drinks? Anyone need anything?” I ask. I’ve started on the whiskey and attempted to get the others to join. The girl takes a beer and the old couple sticks with water. No one answers my question. The building shakes. Suddenly I think the guy’s concern about the foundation is valid. A spotlight crosses the ceiling. The girl gets up and runs to the window.
“It’s a boat.” She starts to hit the glass.
“They’ll never hear you,” the old guy says.
“Shut up.” She keeps hitting. I can barely make out the motor against the wind and rain. She strikes harder and I picture the boat getting closer. She starts to yell. “Hey. Hey, help us!” She sinks to the floor.
“See,” the old guy says. His wife is asleep.
“Fuck you.” She leans her head back against the sill. The house shakes again.
“Listen, we’re probably here for a while. We should just relax.” I say this and can see the words take shape into the humidity. The room is a jungle. The girl takes off her sweatshirt and a t shirt under to reveal a black sports bra. Her skin shines in the candle light. Her hair hangs in wet strands on her face. She shuts her eyes.
Thunder.
I down the rest of the Beam in my glass and attempt to sleep. It seems to be the theme of the moment. Sleep pulls at my senses. The air could be cut and served for dinner. I dream I can hear the water, dream of jumping out the window and enjoying the cold waves. I see the girl getting up, walking to me and stripping off the rest of her clothes. We kiss. She pushes me on the couch and forces herself on my body. We exist together in the moment. I hope she doesn’t see my arousal. Just before falling under, I realize I’ve never spoken to these people in my life.
A scream cuts through the room.
Wind blows the candles out. The moon is the only light. Rain soaks the carpet.
“Who opened the window?” I try to take inventory. I stand and reach for the old couple. They are on the couch. That leaves one person. No way.
I go towards the window, raising my arm to block the rain, soaking my clothes.
The river is alive, pushing against the house. Her skin looks gray in the night and her arms fight the current. I shut the window and sit down, not lighting the candles.
The house shakes again and the floor shifts, boards crack, stone gives way.
The couch starts to slide.


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I am a writer outside of Reading, PA with twenty short story publications online and in print included one selected for anthology by Fantastic Horror. My novel The Reserve and novella Life After Death are available through amazon.com and Eternal Press. I am currently a student in Fairfield University's MFA program.

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Author: Matt Shaner

{EAV:36ae30e2bba7c18a}
Contributor: Alina Yudkevich

- -
“You will sail to Havana and you must never look back,” his mother told him on his last night in Rotterdam.

“I’m going to rip your tongue out, you ungrateful…” his father started to tell him, but died before he could make his final wishes known.

“You gotta fuck the pain away,” a blonde at the bullfight said to nobody in particular, and he married her later that year.

“SHORTAGE OF RADIOLOGISTS AT KEY WEST MARINE HOSPITAL,” the notice read, and he had always loved the beach bum lifestyle so he went to the corner store for two American passports, a musculoskeletal imaging guide, and some sunscreen.

“I wish to see you again,” he told the raven-haired apparition that began visiting him in the night after his wife died in labor. “You are so very beautiful.”

“Tuberculosis, it looks like,” the orderly told him. “She’s that cigar maker’s daughter. Sexy little firecracker.”

“It’s you,” he said, standing over her hospital bed.

“¿Cómo te llamas?” she asked.

“I will give you all the jewels and worldly pleasures,” he said to his love. “I will save you.”

“OUT!” yelled her parents. “She does not need an x-ray!”

“I did my best, mi princesita,” he wept as the nurse pulled the sheet over her face.

“An above-ground mausoleum? That’s gonna cost you, buddy,” said the tombstone salesman.

“It must be so cold in there,” he said to her ghost as she serenaded him with a slow Spanish melody. “I will save you.”

“The shovels are in aisle 7,” said the girl at the hardware store. “Not sure about the formaldehyde...”

“I’m piecing you back together, mi amor,” he said, gently weaving wire through brittle bones, rolling mismatched glass eyes between his fingers. “My little doll. Now you will be beautiful forever.”

“I heard the most awful rumor,” said a stenographer on her lunch break.

“I reckon I smelled some stench,” his neighbor said to the police, the morning his heart broke a second time.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, last I checked, being a hopeless romantic is not a crime,” his court-appointed lawyer said, the day before he was released on a technicality.


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Alina Yudkevich is a 17th grader at the University of Georgia, studying English and Film Studies and working part-time at a particle accelerator lab. She enjoys pugs, video editing, running, b-horror, and exploring the unknown via Google street view.

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Author: Alina Yudkevich

Contributor: Chris Sharp

- -
I was resting in the Gentlemen’s Lounge when she came in. By resting, I mean I was doing what we do when we’re not herding cattle. The Gentlemen’s Lounge was at that time the only bar in town before she came and changed the name into “Ladies and Gentlemen.” When she got it going it was no longer a bar, or a saloon, but a “club,”
At that time there were over a hundred cowboys in town. At any given time, about a third of us were with the cattle, moving them here and there and trying to keep them perky and healthy so they could feed the entire Western Territory with good beefsteak. We had the only cattle for hundreds of miles, so we were all flush, with a lot of new greenbacks and not very many places to spend them.
She sneaked in on a coach. One of the regulars happened to be gazing out the window seeing nothing when suddenly the coach landed in from of him. “It’s a wo-man,” he said. “She’s a coming off the coach with a bag in both hands. Now she’s a putting one bag down, and she’s a giving the driver a tip of money. Now she’s a looking at us. She’s a looking right at me. She’s a got her bag again and she’s a stepping toward here, boys.”
“Why would a woman come here to see us hellhole cowboys?” I said, to no one especially, because to be honest I hadn’t dressed and washed to see any woman that day. The only one at my table was Whitey, and he had been tending to a nosebleed. “Fix your nose, Whitey,” I told him. “We got some kind of company, the female kind, without any warning.”
There had never been a woman in our town before, at least none that I had ever heard of. But the town was less than six months old, and if something stands around even for a few days, the odds have to better that it would be found by a woman. That’s why you could never hide anything from your mother even for just a few days, but we boys all assumed our mothers were two thousand miles away.
The woman burst through our swinging vintage-pair doors all covered in a heavy purple dress that rustled and flounced all over her. She looked around at us even as she was still stepping in. Then she eyed the mysterious piano that had just recently been mysteriously carried in by four big boys. Those big boys carried the piano in from a wagon and mysteriously left it here.
“Hello boys,” she said at last, smiling and looking at every one in a sisterly manner. “You try out that grand piano yet?”
“Ma’am, is that your piano that was left here?”
“It is my piano,” she said. “Now I intend to try it out after it’s been bumping over the prairie for so long.”
At first she touched the keys real carefully like she was picking up some rattlesnake skin but wondering if there was still a live snake inside it. Then for the first time in our town’s six-month history living music came out amongst us. It was good. It was real good.
“The song was written by a man named Stephen Foster, boys,” she told us. “He was a genius. He wasn’t a German genius or a French genius. He was an American genius.”
We boys just looked at each other.
The next song was another good one.
“Ma’am, who in tarnation are you?”
“I’m the new owner.”
“The new owner.”
We boys all looked at each other again.
“In the next couple of days, my husband will be coming in on the Pullman. He’s an official with the new railroad. Until then you’ve got me.”
“We’ve got you, huh.”
It was like we caught some strange new hiccup that kept us repeating her last words.
“Now I’m going to tell you about the new rules.”
“The new rules,”
We sat there and listened to “the new rules.” That was all that happened, us boys just sitting there, period. Our brains could only take in so much in one day. And right then, our brains were still taking in “an American genius” and “coming in on the Pullman,” without us taking a breath in between them.
So the woman in the big purple dress kept talking.
We just sat there, thunderstruck.


- - -
In addition to five other stories in Yesteryear Fiction, I have authored “Dangerous Learning: The New Schooling in California.” I am a public school teacher in Menifee, California. My wife Debbie and I have two children in the form of a Persian cat named Dr. Spooner and a talking parrot named Dr. Shana.

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Author: Chris Sharp