Contributor: Eric Suhem

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“Bill, what I like about you is your predictability, I always know what I’m going to get from you, and that’s hamburgers” said Bill Pleck’s neighbor nemesis Gene, peering over the fence as Bill barbecued hamburgers in the back yard on a summer’s evening.

Suddenly Bill Pleck tore off his barbecue apron and threw it down in disgust, stomping on it emphatically. Next, he poured lighter fluid on the apron, torched it, and reached into a shopping bag, removing a chef’s apron, on which was lettered ‘Mr. Enzyme’. “An enzyme is a chemical catalyst, an agent of change, and that’s what I will be! My new name is Mr. Enzyme, no matter what people say, even you!” he declared, gesturing toward Gene, whose eyes were glued to a pair of binoculars, focusing on the briquettes in the barbecue.

“I’m not pleased by this change in apron habits.” said Gene.

Mr. Enzyme approached his wife Barbara with his new plan for change. They both agreed that their lives up to this point had been unsatisfyingly predictable. Feeling ready for something new, Barbara agreed to a new identity as Mrs. Enzyme. They each talked of redefining their past. “I’ve decided that I’ve had a mysterious past in smoke-filled Mahjong dens,” said Mrs. Enzyme, staring wistfully into the distance.

“And I’ve had a past as a proprietor of a seedy motel on the outskirts of Los Angeles!” said Mr. Enzyme.

Their next action was to remodel one half of their house into a pink castle in the image of her childhood doll house, and modify the other half into a dark oak wood old British men’s club motif that he preferred. (“As part of our redefinition, we’ll also mix the two styles together, so as not to be restricted by gender roles!” said the Enzymes) As the workmen started demolishing one of the rooms of the house to convert it into a garish purple and pink puppet theater, and part of the green pastel kitchen was wrecked to make room for vigorous espresso-toned living quarters, neighbor Gene approached the house, chunks of concrete tumbling down around him. “Look Enzyme, or whatever you’re calling yourself now, there’s a building code!” said Gene, who was a rising player in the Homeowner’s Association.

“We’re within code, Gene,” said Mr. Enzyme, showing him the paperwork. As Gene stalked away, Mr. Enzyme called, “See you this weekend at the neighborhood pot luck!”

On the evening of the pot luck, Mr. Enzyme proudly brought forward the chicken wings from his barbecue, displayed appealingly on a platter. Gene moved forward, challenging Mr. Enzyme's pot luck offering. “What’s your game, Enzyme? I usually bring the chicken wings to this shindig, you usually cook hamburgers.”

“This is a part of our redefinition, Gene,” said Mrs. Enzyme, standing by her husband, letting her natural gravitas weigh in on the situation.

As the evening progressed, the neighbors showed an overwhelming preference for the Enzymes’ chicken wings, leaving Gene’s wings untouched. “We can be anybody we want to be, Gene,” said the Enzymes, munching on potato salad. “It’s a perspective on reality, a choice you can make.”

“But you can’t run away from who you really are. You’re Bill and Barbara Pleck, you cook hamburgers!” insisted Gene.

“Or maybe we’re beings in constant change, not everybody’s the same,” said the Enzymes.

Gene stared at them for a long time, but had nothing to say. He picked up his chicken wings and went home, as the Enzymes slowly morphed into green lizard aliens, their protruding tentacles inspecting the coleslaw.


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Eric Suhem lives in the orange hallway.

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: Bruce Costello

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She was bearded, shabby, alone, and struggling to pick up one of her walking sticks from the carpet. The minister, young and bald, broke off his conversation with a group of relatives, picked up the stick with a cheery hello and asked if Edward, the deceased, had been a friend of hers. The old lady replied but the minister did not catch what she said.
The mourners had gathered for afternoon tea – or, as funeral directors say among themselves, ‘the after match function.’ Adults were mingling. Children were sitting or running about and being growled at. There was lots of noise, and heaps of food, including asparagus rolls and pikelets with raspberry jam and whipped cream on top.
The minister pulled up a chair, plonked himself down beside the old lady, beamed and repeated his question.
“Edward was a great old chap, wasn’t he? How did you come to know him?”
“I’d like to sit outside,” the old lady commanded, peering up at the minister, looking very directly into his eyes.
The minister hesitated, then let her lead him through the crowd of mourners to the Funeral Parlour’s outside courtyard featuring cobbled paths and a tranquil lily pond with goldfish and frogs.
It was a warm autumn day. The two sat side by side in silence until the old lady began to speak. Her voice, though cracked with age, was full of life, unlike her body.
“Edward was just a tiny boy when I used to know him. He was about seven or eight then, that was sixty or seventy years ago, and I’ve not seen him since. His older brother Arnold was my fiancé. Arnold and I were very much in love. We had wonderful times before the war. We’d go by train, Arnold and I and all his family, there were five boys in all, to Hampden, where they had a holiday home. Arnold was the oldest one and Edward was very much the youngest, like an afterthought.” She chortled. “Little Edward liked me a lot. Arnold said I was the older sister that Edward had never had. But I reckon Edward had a crush on me. Such a dear little chap he was, way back then.” Her voice trailed off. “Way back then, way back then.”
She fell silent. A fat young sparrow landed on a fence nearby and began squawking for his mother.
“He looks big enough to be feeding himself,” she chuckled.
The minister smiled, ran a hand across his bald head, and waited.
“That blighter Hitler decided to take on the world,” snorted the old lady. “So Arnold joined the Air Force and went overseas. My own mother and father both passed away around that time. Mother with a heart attack and father a few weeks later of something or other. Arnold’s parents very kindly took me in to live with them. They had four sons serving overseas then. I think I was a comfort, and I helped to look after little Edward, too. Arnold was in Bomber Command, and a Squadron Leader by the time he was twenty-three.”
“Uhuh,” nodded the minister. “Uhuh.”
“Arnold was shot down over Hamburg by a Junkers 88 night fighter flown by Staffelfϋhrer Graf Hans von Stahlmeister between 0230 and 0250 hours on May the twenty-third, 1943.”
“Eh? I didn’t quite catch that,” the minister said, with wrinkled brow, and puckered lips.
“You look constipated, dear,” observed the old lady. “Are you eating enough bran?”
The sparrow’s mother flew in with a fat worm for her big baby.
“That’s made his day,” laughed the old lady.
The minister nodded, looking around towards the entrance gate.
“After Arnold was killed, I couldn’t stay with his family anymore. They wanted me to but I just couldn’t. I found lodgings on the other side of town and kept well away, which was naughty of me. Little Edward must’ve missed me something awful. I felt very bad about that. I married another Air Force chap, a flying instructor. I never loved him, though, and soon I hated him. He left me after a couple of years and I didn’t marry again.”
“And you’d completely lost touch with Arnold’s family, and your little Edward?” prompted the minister.
The old lady nodded.
“So you have been listening,” she said.
“Indeed. Indeed.”
She began swishing with her stick at the leaves on the cobblestones.
“I have this friend Patricia who does computer classes at the Senior Citizens club. She invited me along and much to my surprise, I picked it up easily, even Facebook and researching on Google. I looked up things, like war records. About a fortnight ago, when the rest of the class was at afternoon tea, I found Edward on Facebook. He remembered me immediately. We arranged to meet up last week.”
“Heavens above!” exclaimed the minister. “Just last week! After so long!”
“On the day we were to meet, I saw his death notice in the newspaper. I don’t often buy the paper. It gets expensive when you’re on the pension, and food is so dear these days, and electricity’s going up all the time. I was really looking forward to seeing Edward and catching up on his life and talking about old times." Her eyes sparkled through tears.
“I still love Arnold. And little Edward. And I know we’ll all meet up again.”
She began to sing. ”Don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day.”
The young minister looked towards heaven, eyes closed, and lips moving. His bald head glistened in the afternoon sun.
“The war might have ended a long time ago,” he announced, “but for a lot of folk, like your good self, its impact continues.”
“Could’ve been worse,” replied the old lady, with a chortle, tapping her stick on the minister’s knee. “At least we beat the bloody buggers.”


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New Zealander Bruce Costello retired in 2010 and began writing to avoid housework. Since then, he’s had 49 stories accepted by mainstream magazines and literary journals in six countries. He still does housework.”

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Author: Bruce Costello

Contributor: Jim Buck

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This is the last version. I commit it to light. This version, unlike any that preceded it, will be definitive. It may not be as scholarly, or flow as instantly as those other versions. The writer may use fewer words, which will allow room for pseudo semantics, when before, he just wrote and wrote, as though he knew everything and said nothing. This might not mean anything to anyone. This version may be criticized for being perfunctory, or for lacking sagaciousness; it may lack a hell of a lot of things. This version may be criticized for wasting the time of the critic. The critic may be right, his time may be wasted, but I hardly held a gun to his head and demanded he read it. If I had a gun, I would’ve held it to the head of the critic, but not to demand he read it. What does he want from me, anyway?
The teacher may decline from adding it to the syllabus. This could split parents both ways, but generally, the teacher will be applauded for burning this book.
The politician may have a copy hid under the luxurious mattress of his super king sized edge to edge sleeping palace 5000; he may read it by candlelight, with God beaming down on him; he may masturbate to it in the stall, with God beaming down on him; and though he may never concede to having read at least the dirty bits, he will force a bill through the Houses that ensures it never enters any of the schools in the western world, or the little heads of all the children that hibernate within.
This version might highlight just how sick a creature the politician has become, and it might ignite enough hatred in the assassin to take the man out of existence.
There have been many versions, but there’s only one version from now on. Maybe this isn’t the version that your kid read when he was bothered with reading, when you were thinking he was doing his needlework, or playing on his Station. Rather, he was plotting a litany of possible evils, and taking enough non-invasive hip drugs to enable him to deal with you and your misconceptions of what he was, and what he did to get through his childhood unscathed.
I don’t know which version’s my favourite, I don’t know if I have a favourite, or whether I care enough to decide; I know that you shouldn’t care either. I wonder why I wrote it, and I wonder if I’ll ever write anything else like it again.
I tell myself I should sober up. I hand out copies on street corners to anyone who wants to pay me for the pleasure of reading at least the title. Maybe I can do something with the money, like decorate my room, or eat better, or take up smoking for a week. Maybe I should slip it in between copies of an Edward Klein and a Janet Evanovich, and hope that someone might get all the way home with it and, instead of trolling or quick scoping, write some meaningless shit of their own, because they know they can do better.
I wanted to include everyone, but knew that kind of thing was impossible; some people would definitely have to be left out. Even the arc wasn’t all inclusive. There were those who drowned while others sipped pink lemonade and gazed over the bulwark at their sounding fists.
Choosing who went in became a chore. Indeed, there were more people I would have rather left out than invited in. But then, the people I would have rather left out were more interesting than the ones included. They had more chutzpah. They were dangerous, prepared to kill. They alarmed and rattled their good neighbour. Everything deteriorated into a kind of perversion when they were around, a demoralization of nerves. They knocked on the door so loudly, it became impossible to exclude the ones you loved to hate.
And I learnt that you can’t please everyone anyhow. It was better to be the wolf than it was to be the pig. You feel a sense of deliverance, of the river finally opening out into the ocean when you’re allowed to determine another’s fate. There ahead, the world. And cruelty, in the eyes of some, is the captain. Let there be no regrets, no cherry-cheeked suspicions that this was no more than men of straw blowing over the fields of Nebraska. Perfection was for pigs and their keepers. I was the keeper of wolves, and this was their story.


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To me writing is an exit door from the day-to-day of ‘keeping a roof over my head’. It is even better than playing GTA5. I live in one of England's forgotten fishing towns, its heritage now resides in a museum, and we all dream of leaving.

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Author: Jim Buck

Contributor: Dan Slaten

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Tim looked at the message one last time before clicking send. He’d read and reread the words so many times that they no longer made sense, but he still wanted to give it one more look before sending it to CrazyHotCoolGirl29. You could never be too careful or too thorough in matters of the heart, even when those matters were as trivial as an introductory message on an internet dating site.

Deciding he was as satisfied by the message as he was ever going to be, Tim clicked “send.”

Minutes later, Tim heard a girl laughing hysterically one table over. “Karen, you have to check this out,” said the girl. “Look at this message I just got from TimTime2000. Check out his profile – and his pictures. What a loser!”

“You sound really interesting,” said the girl Tim assumed must be Karen. She seemed to be mimicking the deep voice of an imaginary, generic man as she read Tim’s words from just a few feet away. “Like you I am a big baseball fan . . .”

The message he’d just sent out, the one he’d written and rewritten more times than he cared to think about, was nothing more than a joke to Karen and CrazyHotCoolGirl29. Tim wanted to reach into the internet and somehow retrieve the message, delete it, and eliminate its very existence from the face of the Earth and all corresponding digital realms in which it might exist. Of course, that wasn’t possible. Deleting his dating profile right now wouldn’t do him any immediate good either, although it might spare him from being the butt of more jokes in other restaurants around town.

Worse still, Tim was finished eating, and Karen and CrazyHotCoolGirl29 were sitting at a table between him and the exit. If he got up from his booth they would see him, and they would laugh some more at his expense. It would be a lot like all of his high school dating experiences from a pre-internet world.

Tim spotted his waitress and waved her over. “I’d like to order dessert,” he said. “Preferably something so large I might never finish it.”


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Dan Slaten writes short stories and poetry in small notebooks and on sticky notes.

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Author: Dan Slaten

Contributor: RD Wood

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There is a man who leaves for work each day, or so his wife and children think. He lost his job as a salesman at the insurance company on October 19th 1987 and has sat in the park ever since. The most painful hour of his day is the one before the park opens when he must wait in line with men he considers inelegant and gruff, ‘uncouth’ if he knew the word. His wife sometimes comments that his clothes never seem to grow old but he does not tell her that this is because he folds them away and does not work, that he sits all but naked in the park all day, always at the same place, which is a five minute walk from his old office and between the forgotten general who sits atop his horse with sword drawn and the poet with a frown and a book opened out.

After several years of this routine while on a school excursion with her youngest daughter his wife sees him and seemingly mistakes him for just another homeless man, though a fairly clean one, and hurries by with her head down ignoring the coins in his paper cup. The man just looks away.

They continue to live with this lie until the repossession company comes looking for them one afternoon. In her stress at the thought of being declared bankrupt and without her husband having heard of her extravagant shopping sprees, the wife is finally caught fucking the milkman the next day, as she had carefully done for years, by her youngest daughter who notices a resemblance to this naked man. The daughter tells the father, and relieved, he leaves them, free to get on with life and not compelled to pay child support.

He becomes a host on a cable show and bit by bit, day by day reveals all, reveals the sordid details of his double life. Everyone is disgusted by his demeanour on air. Yet, somehow this self-loathing performance works and he is a runaway success.


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RD Wood lives in Melbourne. He has had work published in Southerly, Jacket2 and Best Australian Poems 2013. At present he is working on a chapbook of concrete nature poems.

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Author: RD Wood

Contributor: Ava Wilson

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“You think he’ll be mad, Chris?”
“Course he will. We didn’t mean to be late though. Couldn’t be helped.”
“Yeah, he’s upset alright. Just washed the Caddy this morning, now it’s raining,” said Carl.
Chris pushed his matted hair off his forehead. Carl hunched further down behind a thorny rosebush.
“Why do you think he parked on this side of the street and not the driveway?”
“Don’t know,” said Chris.
“He whipped us something fierce last time we were late, the Caddy wasn’t even wet that night.”
“Yeah. I know numb nuts, I was there, too.”
“Think he loves that old car more than us, Chris?”
“Yep. Now shut your pie hole so we can sneak in.”
Chris looked from side to side. His clothes drenched, shoes squishing rain.
“If we stay low,” said Chris, “we can dodge the streetlights and sneak by the neighbor lady. She doesn’t like rain, so she might not be looking out this time.”
“Chris?”
“Hush up and come on.”
“Chris,” said Carl.
Carl smacked a puddle hard with his right hand. Mud splashed.
“Hey, what did you go and do that for?”
“I’m not ready, Chris. Can’t move yet. My legs won’t move. Think they’re nervous.”
Carl’s hand trembled in the mud puddle, his eyes as big and wet as the Caddy’s headlights.
“You have to be ready, Carl, or it’ll be worse. You know it will.”
Carl lowered his eyes. Touched his arm where the day-old cigar burn stung.
“Yeah, I know. Let’s go. Still don’t know why he parked there.”
“It doesn’t matter where he parked,” said Chris,. “All that matters is we haul ass in there somehow.”
“What if he already checked our room? Then what?”
“We say we were in the basement, you know, playing that hiding game like we do. Besides, we’re not real late. He just got in. I figure he’s in the kitchen talking to Ma. Eating shepherd’s pie or something. We can slip in the side door, he doesn’t pay attention to the side door.”
“What if he looked down there first?”
“Down where first?”
“The dang basement.”
“He didn’t. And— and I just said he’s talking, and eating pie, and— and not minding the side door remember? Weren’t you listening squirt? You never listen. Now pipe down, and stop asking questions. We have to go.”
Chris inched forward, crouched like a cricket. Carl followed close behind.
“You never listen, Chris. Told you we shouldn’t have gone across town, I told you.”
Carl smacked his forehead two times.
“Stop doing that. And now you got mud on your forehead. Good job Carl, if he catches us he’ll really know now.”
“How are we supposed to sneak in these wet clothes? Think nobody will notice we look like a couple-a seals?”
“There are dry clothes in the basement, genius.”
“But, but won’t Mom notice we changed? Chris, won’t she?”
“She never notices anything about us. Especially when he’s home.”
“But…”
Oh, just shut-up, Carl and come on. It’s getting later and later. You’re cutting our chances to zero, Carl, zero.’”
“Wish we could turn into that old Caddy, Chris. Wish we could. He’d love us then, you know?”
“What would you want that for? You see how he does Ma right after he says he loves her, don’t you? Not so good I think,” said Chris.
“But he’s nice to that old car. Maybe, maybe we could all turn into it. You, me… Ma. He takes real good care of it. Washes it every time the sun comes out, Chris. Every. Time. And he whistles when he does it, he whistles. When it snows, he covers it. And you see that smile while he cleans the inside, see how he is after it’s all shined up?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen it. If it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t know the old man had teeth or a sense of humor.”
“That’s why, Chris. Why I wish we could turn into the old Caddy. It gets treated real nice like. He’d never put a burn on that.”
“Alright, I get it, squirt. But we’ve got to get going now.


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Ava Wilson is currently acquiring her BFA in Creative Writing for Entertainment at Full Sail University. She is also a published author and illustrator of the children’s book entitled, Crunky McBunky, a published poet and playwright, her plays include, For the Love of Friends, and Feathery Heights. Ava is a professional spoken-word artist, and actor of stage and film under her stage name, Nailah Blu.

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Author: Ava Wilson

Contributor: Kenzie Cluster

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I arrived a few hours ago while it was raining. We came all the way from Las Vegas, and drove for two days straight to get back to Portland. The gaslight had come on six times: all remaining change was scraped from the ashtray and the sticky floorboards until there was no way to keep going. My driver punched my dashboard three times before exiting and slamming my door. I had watched him walk into the darkness, cursing loudly, without a second glance behind him to reassure me he would be back soon. Since the rain stopped, my engine is cold and I am lonely. I miss my driver.
I remember when we first met: it was a summer morning, and he came running toward me saying, “That’s her! I saw her in my dream, that Gunship Gray 1969 Ford Fairlane. She’s beautiful.”
He’d waited for my last driver to get out of the grocery store to offer him a large sum of cash to take me home right then and there. He quickly agreed, knowing that his angry lady would be happy I was gone. He would have given me up for any amount thanks to the angry lady.
My driver and I went everywhere together for a long time. He took me on trips just to show me off. He waxed me weekly and always polished away his fingerprints when the day was over. In time, he started letting people come and ride with him more often, but not as a treat to them, as a treat for him. We went to many trashed houses and ill kept neighborhoods.
He and his most frequent passenger decided to go on a long ride last weekend. He drove me very badly for the first few hours; he almost ran us right into a pole. Then we got to the bright city he frequently spoke of: there were lights in every direction, and people pointed at me and called out in admiration and jealousy. I felt like a golden woman, until he parked me in an alley and left for days.
Soon enough, a shifty couple came and tried to take me away, but my driver was smart: when the doors were unlocked and the key was in, my motor wouldn’t start. He always did this trick when we went fancy places. The man cursed but dare not hit me, and the woman cried silently as they snuck away. I was glad they left.
My driver and his passenger came back angry. He fumbled putting my engine back together and burnt his hand. We left the bright city in a rush, and I grew tired quickly. We didn’t stop for breaks this time. My engine sputtered to a halt twice on the way back, and my driver had filled me with the stored gas.
I’m here now with an empty fuel tank, and I don’t know when I will get a drink. I’m thirsty and tired, and as hard as I search, I can’t find my driver. The rain is falling lightly now, making me cold. Maybe this time my driver won’t come back, and I’ll be left here alone.


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Kenzie Cluster lives in Tooele, Utah with her husband and daughter, and is working on her Bachelor's degree at Full Sail University.

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Author: Kenzie Cluster

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Dexter Dalrymple had no idea why anyone would want to interview him. Who would care at this point what he'd have to say. Maybe his family and a few old friends, in deference to his age and wealth, hoping to find themselves in his will some day soon. But he had agreed to this interview and there he was now, at 82, sitting across from this financial reporter, a young lady, perhaps 22, the age of his granddaughter who had just graduated from college.

His granddaughter was the light of his life. He would leave all of his money to her if it wouldn't make everyone mad.

Dexter knew the only reason this young lady wanted to interview him was that he's worth roughly $5 million, the harvest of over 50 years of investing in the stock market, all on his own, with no advisor. A remarkable achievement, he realized, for a man who had dropped out of high school with more than a little shove from the principal.

"Investing in the stock market is easy," Dexter had once told a financial advisor who had sought his business, "provided you have the brains and the balls to do it right. It's no place for the chicken-hearted."

The advisor went back to the office without a new client but he had met someone he--and many other people over the years--would never forget whether they bought and sold stocks or not. Dexter was a character, right up there with W.C. Fields whose old films he loved to watch in his home theater.

Many times Dexter had told Penelope, his wife of 60 years, that the smartest thing he had ever done was to marry her and the second smartest thing he had done was to quit drinking and smoking.

"I may have had too many milkshakes since then but that's why someone invented statins--to keep my cholesterol down," Dexter would tell anyone in earshot, sometimes more than once a day.

Every man has at least one weakness or maybe two, and a daily milkshake at 3 p.m. was the last one Dexter would admit to in a long life of making big money, collecting cars and admiring women, not always from afar.

"What was the greatest moment in your life?" the young reporter asked in her opening question, pushing back the waterfall of auburn hair falling over her left shoulder.

Nice hair, Dexter thought, but not a very good opening question for a young financial reporter interviewing a millionaire. She was supposed to find out how he made all that money. He didn't plan to tell her everything--maybe a few things because she seemed like a nice person--but at least she could ask the right questions.

Dexter coughed and said, "I'll tell you the truth as long as you keep it between the two of us. The greatest moment in my life was the day I realized I was finally old enough that one woman was enough, that I could be faithful to one woman, my wife, and go back to the Church, and worship God the way I did when I was a kid in school and women weren't a distraction."

The young reporter looked befuddled because she had expected Dexter to tell her about some big deal he had made in the stock market. She knew he was one of the wealthiest men in America. He was a little odd, she knew, but in her young life she had already discovered that many successful men were a little odd in one way or another. But Dexter was on a roll now so she stayed silent and decided to let him finish.

"When I went back to the Church, " he said, "it was truly the greatest moment in my life. Better than making money or anything. To know that I could finally be faithful to my wife was a great satisfaction. I felt better doing that than making money. It's easy to make money. Not so easy being faithful. Not even with a milkshake every day.

"Remember now, this is just between the two of us. Don't put that in the paper and don't tell a soul. People will think I'm nuts. I know I'm nuts but why confirm it for the public."

The young reporter said there would be no need to include that information in her article. She simply wanted to know what Dexter had done to make millions of dollars without any formal education and without any financial advice.

"Most millionaires rely on a financial advisor to keep up with the stock market," she told Dexter. "What makes you different? Is it that you never give up?"

Dexter thought for a moment and then said that not giving up was very important because the stock market is the roller coaster the cliche would have it to be. One has to be in it for the long haul, know when to buy and when to sell. Never lose interest. Never stop, except maybe for a milkshake every day. And always keep an eye out for the next big opportunity.

"By the way, young lady, do you have any plans for lunch? I have a table over at the Mark IV," Dexter said, rolling his wheel chair toward the door.

"Years ago I owned that restaurant and sold it for a nice profit to a gentleman who said he would have a reserved table waiting for me for the rest of my life.

"Scallops are the special of the day on Friday. Or if you like steak, theirs is well marbled. Marbling is important, on steak or on a woman. But don't quote me on that.

"We can finish the interview over there. I hope you have a big notebook. I think I'll have quite a bit to say.

"My driver is waiting downstairs."


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby

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I watch the lavender blossoms drift in wind like soft brushes wet with paint, and I remember my knight. Tall, his jaw set strong, holding a smile beneath sky-blue eyes. I remember his voice, his touch, the press of his lips against my skin-- all strong, so strong. I remember the shine of his armor, the red of his crest, the gold edges of noble filigree vining across steel.

I remember it all, and as I remember, the tears bud and run from my eyes. The lavender blossoms that grow over his grave wave like pennants, like lances, and as I hold my heavy belly, quiet my heavy heart, I close my eyes.

I close my eyes, and in the caresses of the wind, I can almost feel him, almost feel his touch, his arms, his hands moving slowly over mine.


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I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love.

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Author: Lyla Sommersby

Contributor: E.S. Wynn


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The moment I slip into the ocean, I know that I am home.

I wasn't born here, on Nereid IV-b. The colony is only a few years old, and most of the settlers are early-gen spacers, migrants who've seen a thousand worlds, elected for sterilization centuries ago. It's something else, something I can feel in my blood-- about the planet, the ocean, something I feel like I've been searching for my entire life, trying to get back to.

Something about the gravity, the planet's proximity to the three stars that hold it suspended in the most elegant orbit I've ever seen on an inter-system approach, gives it the most placid, most serene seas I've ever seen. Clean and clear, there are no tides or currents in the wide oceans of Nereid IV-b, nothing to wear down the smooth, gray-glassy stone that sprawls on across the bottom as far as the eye can see. No life-- nothing beyond a few simple mineral constructions that might become bacteria before the planet's three suns burn out.

All of my life, I've been afraid of oceans, but not the oceans here. Earth's oceans are dark and deadly, oppressive and thick with horrors both real and imagined. Some planets I've seen are worse, have thick, sludgy seas teeming with tiny, violent carnivores eager to seek out human flesh-- others are better, their seas more serene and silent.

But none of them have seas like Nereid IV-b.

There are no monsters here, nothing lurking or hunting in the darkness, no danger, no unseen movements of water waiting to pull you under. Open your eyes under the surface and you can see for miles, know that there is nothing but the seafloor, the shore and you, you floating there in the middle of it all. With the right gill-breather you can float there for hours, close your eyes, meditate, drop away into the pleasantly cool embrace of pure water held together by the most minimal gravity field you've ever felt. There is nothing like falling asleep in the oceans of Nereid IV-b, waking up again a few hours later and knowing that you are safe, that the sea has supported you softly while you've slept. It's an incredible feeling, trusting your existence to an ocean, to an entire planet's stretching seas, knowing that no matter how deep you go, no matter how far from shore you swim, you will always be safe, always be home.

The moment I slip into the ocean, I know that I am home, and for a while, at least, I know I can forget everything but the sea, the endless ocean I love, the silver, serene waters that seem to accept all that I am, man-- flawed and imperfect. Shore leave never lasts for more than a few days, but some day, some day, I'll come back to Nereid IV-b. I'll come back and I'll stay.

And I'll never leave the ocean again.


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E.S. Wynn is the author of more than 50 books.

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Author: E.S. Wynn