HOME NEWS WHO ARE WE? WEBZINE ARCHIVE MAILING LIST FREE ISSUE / SURVEY FORUM SUBMISSION GUIDELINES CONTACT COPYRIGHT LINKS			Sorcery & Science Magazine April 2005   To Reach the Gates of Avalon Short Story by Eric S. Brown River Daughter Poem by Thomas Zimmerman 20.10 Unleaded Short Story by Beth Meko Sunny's Ball Short Story by Adam Heskett Minstrel Liar's Lesson Plan Poem by Vittoria Cupaiuolo Playing with Fire Short Story by Pamela Karavolos   You can read the webzine in pdf format , and/or save a copy to your hardrive and read it offline or print it out and snuggle up with hot cup of your choice. If you don't have Acrobat Reader, download it here for free.     A few words from the crazy creator   Welcome to the first edition of Sorcery & Science Magazine! When I conceived the idea for this webzine in December last year, I didn't think things would progress so quickly. I'm glad they did. I registered Sorcery & Science at Ralan's Webstravaganza and posted on the Forward Motion Writer's Forum at the end of February and a few days later, I had my first submission: A story by Eric S. Brown, a very talented, published and kind writer. I was honored and thrilled. I received more submissions, among others from Thomas Zimmerman and Adam Heskett, one a poet and the other a writer, both very good at what they do. I also received a funny and lyrical poem from Vittoria Cupaiuolo, and a hot, sizzling tale by Pamela Karavolos. And last but not least, I received Beth Meko's story about a visit to a strange, strange beach. I can't express my gratitude to these talented contributors enough. Thank you. I hope you enjoy what we have wrought and please feel free to comment on the site and the webzine, either at the Forum or via e-mail. Sorcerous Regards, Jessica Taylor (Publisher and Editor-in-Chief)       To Reach the Gates of Avalon By Eric S. Brown   Mer’eck sat Indian style by the fire of the small camp, happily whittling a branch into another shaft for his quiver. The later summer evening chill was not intolerable. Pausing in his work, he glanced at Marcus, as the other man lit his third cigarette. The flare of the lighter illuminated for a brief moment the shrunken eyes and pale face. “You should go easy on those,” Mer’eck offered. Marcus scowled, blowing smoke at the elf. Clyde came stomping from the trees, an armload of kindling tucked against his massive chest. He stood nearly eight feet tall, every inch of his flesh covered by crudely constructed leather armor. Not a one of the group had ever seen him remove a single piece of the suit that hid his supposed deformities. He threw the kindling down as Mer’eck scurried out of the giant’s way. Clyde’s bloodshot eyes focused on the elf through the rough leather slits of his mask seeking approval. “That be enough?” Mer’eck nodded, hastily adding a piece to the fire. Laughing , X371 rose from where he lay stretched on the grass at the far side of the camp. He leaned his frail form onto his steel crutches and hobbled toward the archer. “He still gets to you, doesn’t he?” the albino whispered. Mer’eck’s ears twitched despite themselves as he met X371’s pink eyes and gazed down at him. Mer’eck shook his head hopelessly, “More than you know, cripple. More than you.” Clyde settled beside Xiel’s sleeping form, watching her chest rise and fall peacefully. He reached out a monstrous hand, gently flicking a strand of her long red hair from her face. She stirred slightly, rolling to nuzzle into his leg. Captain Cook sat his book aside, pulling the gray trench coat together about his body as he moved to join Mer’eck and X371 at the fire. “Better get some sleep, boys. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day,” he ordered in a voice like stone. X371 suppressed a laugh as he did every time he noticed the archaic symbol on the captain’s armband, the silver crow on Cook’s sleeve glowed in the firelight. The sun rose early, though the camp was already a bustle of activity as its first rays made their way through the canopy of leaves overhead. Marcus awoke to the sight of a black boot inches from his face. “Good morning, Captain,” he said without looking up. “I told you to lay off the whiskey, Marcus. I’m not going to have you screwing up and getting someone killed.” Marcus rolled onto his back, stretching like a waking cat, as Cook stood above him. Cook turned away in disgust. “Get the hell up, soldier. There’s work to be done.” Marcus scratched an itch on his side, for a moment debating whether or not to shoot the old man in the back. His gaze drifted to Xiel’s much more aesthetically pleasing posterior as she performed her morning ritual of the blade. Her katana flicked through the air, as she engaged phantom opponents. “Don’t waste your time,” X371 chided. “If Clyde catches you staring, I may not be able to put you back together.” Marcus swatted a crutch from where he lay, sending the albino sprawling to the dirt. Mer’eck helped X371 to his feet as Marcus readied his gear for the day’s march. In a matter of minutes, the group was on the move. Clyde carried the bulk of their rations and equipment strapped to his back, serving as the company’s packhorse. Mer’eck and Xiel took point, as the others trouped along behind in a loose formation. Cook stayed close to X371, helping him along. Marcus gloomily brought up the rear, cursing himself for the lack of a morning smoke. Maybe he should’ve listened to the elf last night. He possessed no delusions about bumming one from Cook, the group's only other smoker. The need for survival makes strange friends, yet Mer’eck wondered if they all would not turn upon each other before they ever reached Avalon. The elf understood little of the world in which he now lived. X371 assured him everyone felt as he did. No one had asked the reality storms to shatter time and space itself, yanking them from their worlds and lives to deposit them here. Their only hope of returning home lay in the distant city where the “great” scholars had built their device, the shield that was to protect the earth for the coming of the Devourers, blocking their city ships from entry into the planet’s atmosphere. It struck Mer’eck as ironic that the Devourers had gained entry to the world through the fractures in space time which caused the reality storms, created by the shield itself. Devourer armies roamed the lands in search of flesh to feed their beastly urges. No one alone could hope to stand against the demons, so their tiny group had found over the last months, always traveling westward toward the city. Always, praying each day would not bring them face to face with the demon hordes. Mer’eck turned his mind away from such dark thoughts, focusing on his task. He scouted farther ahead of the group, leaving even Xiel behind, as he bounded over fallen trees, and cut courses through the underbrush. His heightened senses were at one with the forest, searching for the demons’ presence. He depended on the group but they also depended upon him. Several times before only his skill had averted the carefully laid ambushes of the Devourers. Xiel watched the elf pull further away, sniffing and examining the foliage as he ran. Something did not feel right in the morning air, perhaps today would be the day when she met the spirits of her ancestors. She stopped, raising a hand to halt the others behind her. Cook pushed his way forward to stand at her side, his MAG-10 unslung from his shoulder, ready in his grasp. Seeing her expression, the old man did not speak. Together they waited for Mer’eck to return. Xiel’s blade trembled slightly in her hands. She hoped the elf knew what he was doing. The sharp crackle of a Devourer’s lightening force sounded in the distance. The old man was already seeking cover, as Mer’eck came sprinting toward them. Clyde cast away his burden, reaching for the morning star on his belt. X371 squeaked as Marcus shoved him to the ground, stepping over him. He drew twin 9mm handguns, walking calmly forward. The first Devourer to enter Xiel’s field of vision was nearly cut in half by the Captain’s modified sub machine gun, even as its insectoid head snapped backwards from Marcus’ carefully placed shot. Its companions were not slowed down by the death of their comrade. They came flooding toward the company in unimaginable number. Each stood six feet tall, hulking juggernauts of jagged exoskeletons and muscle. The claws of those without lances clicked eagerly. Unable to ready his weapon in time, Clyde grabbed the first to reach him, tearing off its arms like a child playing with a captured insect. Xiel spun, sparks flying as her blade struck against the torso of the nearest Devourer. Mer’eck turned quickly, loosing an arrow at his pursuers. Marcus became a blur of movement too fast for X371’s eyes to follow. Devourers fell as his guns blazed in unison. “Fall back,” the old man yelled over the clatter of his own submachine gun. Still the Devourers came. One creature threw its lance with inhuman strength. The weapon pierced Clyde’s armor sending the giant reeling, clutching at the shaft protruding from his chest. Mer’eck passed Marcus, pausing only to pull X371’s ninety pounds onto his back. Marcus and the Captain gave ground slowly, leaving Devourer corpses in their wake. With a lucky blow, Xiel beheaded her assailant and fled as quickly as she could, X371 and Mer’eck already long gone. “Where’s your God now?” Marcus shouted as he came shoulder to shoulder with the Captain, surrounded by the creatures. “He’s with us,” Cook muttered. Marcus sneered. “Let’s hope so,” as he reloaded. Clyde ripped the lance free, blood spurting. With a howl of fury, he launched himself at the Devourers, charging into their midst. He swung the lance like a bat, shattering a Devoure's face. “That guy’s too dumb to even realize he’s dead,” Marcus giggled. “Shut up,” the old man spat. “You better thank the Almighty he’s so stubborn.” The two men, finally, broke and ran as electric bolts streaked after them, setting the forest ablaze. Over a mile away, Mer’eck collapsed to the ground panting, sending X371 rolling. “Jesus!” the albino cried as a tree brought him to a sudden, painful halt. Mer’eck struggled to catch his breath, as X371 pulled out his small .38 revolver, staring over Mer’eck’s shoulder. Scattered gunfire could still be heard in the distance. Mer’eck barely managed to slap the albino’s gun aside as Xiel burst into the clearing. Xiel’s eyes grew wide as she saw this. “By Kali’s breath, were you going to shoot me?” “How the hell was I supposed to know it was you?” X371 answered. “We’ve got to move,” Xiel said, glancing over her shoulder. “The captain and Marcus can catch up later if they survive.” Mer’eck looked at Xiel. “It’s your turn then.” Xiel grunted jerking X371 up from where he lay. “Maybe we should just leave him.” “Hey,” X371 cried, “I can hear you, you know.” Xiel grinned, putting an arm around the albino. “I was only joking. You’re too valuable to leave behind.” X371 pouted, not entirely sure he should believe her. “Come on,” Mer’eck urged, before disappearing into the forest. A day later and reunited, the company made camp once more. Marcus sat by himself, counting his remaining bullets. The old man, too, was withdrawn, lost inside his own thoughts, speaking to no one. Xiel spent her time mourning Clyde and sharpening her katana vigorously. Only X371 seemed cheerful, he bounded around the camp as best he could trying to spread his joy. His latest calculations showed Avalon to be only a day’s travel away, the fact that it was under siege by several legions of Devourers did nothing to bring his spirit down. If Avalon fell, all hope was lost. Not just for the company but for this hellish world as well. Mer’eck unfolded the latest maps, gleaned from the albino’s acting as the head of Avalon’s recon drone network, and studied the company’s position. Twenty thousand Devourers stood between them and Avalon. The albino came to stare over his shoulder. “We can slip through their lines, no problem,” X371 pointed out gleefully. His white fingers stabbed at a dry riverbed on the map. “There. You see, it runs all the way into the city. The Devourers won’t go near it. They’re afraid of things like that. Their world had very little water. It holds a strange place in their religion.” “How do you know so much about them?” “Hey, man, I am the best scholar ever produced from the X3 line. There was no expense spared in creating me, buddy. I’ll know more than you’ll ever realize.” Mer’eck shook his head. “Right, and I’m the being of the Silver Vale.” “What?” “The greatest city of my world. A forest eternally green, which stretched for leagues. It was the seat of the council and the greatest achievement of my people, before the reality storms destroyed it.” "Yeah, whatever, I’m right. We can make it through, Mer’eck. You just need a little faith. If you’d like, I can get the old man to give you a sermon.” “No, thanks,” Mer’eck laughed. “Aw, come on, you know you want to hear some more about the Almighty and the glories of the chosen people in the church.” Mer’eck glanced down at the map, his finger tracing the outline of the river. “You really think it’ll be that easy?” “Bet on it,” X371 smiled, ambling away to harass someone else. The company’s journey to the point where X371 suggested entering the riverbed was largely uneventful. Mer’eck managed to steer them clear of the Devourer patrols. The bed was over twelve feet deep, its parched surface cracked and dusty. Mer’eck leapt in first, landing with agility. He scanned both directions, half expecting a mob of the demonic creatures to be awaiting them. He gave the all clear, flicking Marcus’ light once in the darkness. He hated to do so because the small fire messed with his vision, leaving burning red dots dancing on the insides of his eyelids. The others, unable to see in the darkness clearly, made their way down, lowering X371 carefully. Mer’eck did not know if the Devourer's magic gave them the ability to see in low light as clearly as his people could, but he hoped they would be as blind as his companions. A new energy seemed to grow amidst the group, overcoming their weariness and fears. Avalon, a chance to go home, lay so close ahead of them. They marched onward toward the resting place of their hopes. It was easy to tell when they reached the Devourer's lines. The night turned a sickly pink from the glow orbs the Devourers used among their tents. X371 explained the technology in whispered, fast sentences. No one cared, but X371 did not seem to notice as he rattled on excitedly. The team picked up the pace as they drew nearer to the city; the crackle of the Devourers' massive electrical cannons seemed to shake the earth itself. The scholars, safe behind defensive shields, returned fire with energy weapons of their own. A badly aimed Scholar bolt struck the western edge of the riverbank. Dirt and rock rained like shrapnel over the company. Xiel was the worst injured. A larger stone sharpened by the erosion of the long dead river cleaved off her left arm neatly at the elbow. She screamed as the old man wrestled her to the ground, trying to use the cloth of his armband as a tourniquet. Marcus drew his weapon before realizing Xiel’s screams had gone unheard amid the chaos of the battle outside. X371 leaned over to help the captain frowning. “There’s no way we can treat this out here,” X371 said sadly. “The shock alone will probably kill her.” The Captain grabbed the enfeebled scholar by his tunic pulling him close, “We leave no one behind. Is that clear?” X371 began to reply, but the Captain shoved him away, focusing on Xiel. The young swords mistress was now unconscious, and still bleeding despite the old man’s best efforts. Mer’eck looked terrified. “They’ll smell the blood,” was all he managed to say before the first Devourer appeared above, on the embankment, clicking loudly in its native tongue. Mer’eck loosed an arrow, which struck perfectly where the heart would have been, had they been human. It stumbled and fell into the riverbed. The old man leapt with the speed of a man thirty years younger than he appeared, planting a Vibro- knife deep in the thing’s throat. It gurgled loudly, thrashing against the old man’s hold before expiring. Two more arrived, above, to take its place, firing down at the company with energy lances. “Run!” the Captain yelled, returning fire. Mer’eck picked up X371 flinging him onto his shoulders in a piggyback fashion. Despite the added weight, the elf left Marcus far behind. The Captain shouted orders for Marcus to wait but the younger man kept running. Sweeping the bank with a burst of fire from his gun, the old man tried desperately to hoist Xiel up into his arms. The day’s march had taken its toll on his strength. He could not carry the girl. Cursing, he rolled away from her lax form as several beams of electricity fried the spot he had recently occupied. Cook crossed himself, muttering a prayer of forgiveness. He aimed carefully, putting a burst through Xiel’s forehead. More bolts rained down, one slamming into the soil by his face. The old man fired upwards, emptying the gun’s clip, then ran after the others. In his mind, he swore Marcus would pay, for the girl had not needed to die. Mer’eck reached the metal grill through which the river had once flown, nearly running into it before he could stop. He sat the albino down. “Don’t touch it,” X371 warned as Mer’eck scavenged the scattered corpses for the numerous Devourers some still smoking as if they’d been cooked alive merely seconds before. A Devourer leapt into the riverbed between the two men. It slung one of its armored barbs at Mer’eck’s head. The elf evaded the blow, ducking under the attack. Mer’eck threw his weight against the creature catching it off balance, the pair went sprawling, a tangle of limbs. X371 struggled to get his revolver free of its holster. Marcus arrived, guns blazing. Bullets tore through elf and Devourer alike, as he ran to the scene of the struggle. Marcus stopped just short of X371, his guns leveled at the near invalid. “Don’t even think about trying it, wimp.” X371 managed to pull his revolver free but in the process lost his grip on the weapon. It went skidding along the dusty ground. X371 stared at Marcus in horror. “Open the gate,” Marcus ordered. “But…,” X371 stuttered. “Now!” Marcus shouted, gesturing threateningly with one of his handguns. X371 stumbled over to a panel hidden in the side of the riverbank. He brushed dirt from its controls, before placing his hand on the waiting screen. “DNA check confirmed. Welcome home, X371,” a monotone voice droned. “Voice code, please.” X371 turned facing Marcus. “We should wait for the Captain.” Marcus fired a single round, shattering the fragile bone of the albino’s left knee. X371 collapsed his eyes burning with tears as he clutched the wound. “I’m not going to ask you again.” Marcus growled. As the captain came into view of the pair, he threw himself into the dirt hoping they had not noticed his approach. Lying prone, he awkwardly clutched the crucifix about his neck, and began to pray. His form shimmered as light bent around him. In seconds he was unperceivable to the human eye. He rose then, walking calmly toward Marcus, drawing his remaining knife. Marcus stood, oblivious to the old man’s approach as X371 spoke. “Voice confirmation code: Zeta-X3-Mark2-7.” The grate folded inward, clearing the way into Avalon. X371 watched as Marcus flung a hand to his throat. Blood spurted from his slit throat. Marcus raised his other gun at the albino but an unseen force knocked it from his grasp and hauled him from his feet. X371 wasting no time crawled toward the open grate. “Good you could join us, Captain. Where the hell have you been?” The old man materialized, standing over Marcus’ corpse. “Xiel’s dead.” “So I gathered,” X371 grunted, “A little help here?” The captain pulled X371 to his feet as the albino threw an arm around his neck. "So Captain, I guess you're more than ready to get home?" Cook laughed. The pair entered the gates and navigated the corridor upwards. Cook felt as if he were walking into Heaven itself. The streets of Avalon were filled with silicon towers and even the walls of the city seemed to crackle with energy. The Albino's science was so far advanced it seemed like magic to Cook. The war-torn world he was from had nothing to match its beauty. A group of other albinos came rushing forward to greet them when they saw the unlikely pair emerging from the tunnel. X371 pulled away from Cook and fell onto the ground. The others rushed over and began to care for him right there on the street waving some kind of small metal box up and down the length of his wounded leg. X371 rolled over to face Cook. "I guess I need to tell that you were brought here for a reason. All of you were. You see, we could never win this war on our own but by grabbing hundreds of people like you, Marcus, and Xiel, and stranding them behind enemy lines it created enough chaos for the Devourers to force them to guard their back and flanks rather than concentrate on the city of Avalon with all their forces. It gave us the time we needed to complete our work on dimensional shift weapons and now the Devourers will feel what those weapons can do. As we speak, above us on the towers of the city we are preparing a little trip for the Devourer armies, straight into the heart of a sun many parsecs from here." "I don't understand," Cook said watching a heal X371 raise to his feet and stand before him unaided. "You were a pawn, Captain. And now, your usefulness is at an end I am afraid." The albino giggled like a girl as two of his companions pointed small triangle shaped energy weapons at him. Cook dove to the side as they fired and beams of blue energy vaporized the ground he had been standing on. Cook threw his knife at one of the albinos. It wedged in the man's throat and he fell gargling on his own blood. But X371 joined the fight, producing a beam weapon of his own. Its blast took Cook full in the back as fled towards the tunnel and out of the city. A huge hole blossomed in his torso. Cook looked down in disbelief as his eyes so suddenly heavy shut of their own accord. His body dropped to the cobble-stoned path and lay still, his wound smoking and already sealed from the heat of the weapon's discharge. X371 walked over and tore the cross from Cook's neck. Clutching it in his frail white hand, he laughed loudly as he and his brothers headed into the city of dreams and nightmares untold.   Would you like to write a review of this story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!     The Author Eric S. Brown has had his short fiction published over 300 times in the last four years in both print and online magazines. Some of his stories have been collected into paperbacks including Space Stations and Graveyards, Dying Days, Portals of Terror, and Madmen's Dreams. He is a columnist for The Horror Writer magazine and his first novel, an epic zombie tale entitled COBBLE, is due out this Fall from Mundania Books. He is also the author of the chapbooks Dark Karma, Bad Mojo, Flashes of Death, Zombies: The War Stories, Still Dead, Blood Rain, and As We All Breakdown (due out this summer, 2005). His work has been praised by such writers as David Drake, Brian Keene, Scott Nicholson, and Mark Mclaughlin among others. He just turned 30 years old and lives in NC with his wife Shanna where he spends his free time collecting The Fantastic Four and trying never to miss an episode of the new Battlestar Galactica. Read his newest book "Madmen's Tales" out today! Did you enjoy "To Reach the Gates of Avalon" ? Here is a link to the anthology Dying Days containing this stunning tale and more of Eric's stories! Back to Index       River Daughter By Thomas Zimmerman   A face in the water: Daughter? Me? A wreath of eyeless fish, a diadem of weeds. I’m alive, tolerant of pain, accepting the fact that I’ll die, energy and matter merely recombined. But what of you? What tumbling of cosmic locks opened the portal to let you through? Green-skinned girl, my features I see in the deep cold water, not living but rich, strange, changed, inhumanly free.   Would you like to write a review of this poem? Read the Review Rules first! Review this poem!     The Author Thomas Zimmerman teaches English and directs the Writing Center at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, MI. His poems have appeared recently in Simulacrum and Quietus. Back to Index       $20.10 Unleaded By Beth Meko   I hummed, snapped my fingers, and talked to my dog Gambit, rubbing him behind the ears just the way he liked as he gazed out the passenger window at the mountains. I figured I owed him that much, since he had been listening to my guy troubles for two hours now. I had set the radio to scan, but it just kept coming back to the same classical music station, and even that was fuzzy. My cell phone wasn't working much better. An hour ago, I had spoken to my mother to let her know I was halfway home from college for summer break. The last thing I had heard her say was "Drive safe, I'll be expecting you around five." Then static had drowned out her voice altogether. I stretched, opening and closing my mouth several times. This far up in the mountains, I always felt like my head was full of wet cotton, and I desperately wished for my ears to pop. I fished around in my purse for a stick of gum. I can't wait to be back on flat ground, I thought, and suddenly I heard a ding. Gambit's ears perked up and his head swiveled in my direction. The red fuel light on the control panel was glowing, indicating that I needed to stop within the next twenty miles. Where was I going to stop and get gas here in the mountains? There were a few exits scattered throughout this part of the drive, but I couldn't remember when the next Bumpkinville was coming up. For all I knew, I might have blinked and missed it. I was starting to wonder if Gambit and I might run out of gas soon and have to hoof it, when I saw a green sign. "Fox Run, 2 miles," it said simply. I felt a little hope, but not much. Did "run" mean "town"? I wasn't sure. It most likely meant a long, country dirt road with not much more than a few farms. If a run was named after a wild animal, I was almost sure that was the case. I decided to check it out anyway. I got off on the Fox Run exit and came to nothing but an intersection. I could turn left or right, and there didn't seem to be much either way. I decided to turn right, and when I went around a bend in the road, I passed a couple run-down houses set back from the road. A man was standing at the end of one of the driveways, with the hood up on his blue pickup truck. I stopped beside him, and he looked at me. He was wrinkled and gray, with a dip of tobacco protruding in one cheek and a red hat cocked back on his head, so far back that it looked like it would fall off if you blew on it. He checked out my new silver car with its sunroof, spat, and eyed me suspiciously. "Excuse me," I said, feeling awkward, "but is there a gas station anywhere around here?" I suddenly felt as if I had asked a ridiculous question, like which way to the Fox Run branch of Six Flags. He kept looking at me with his mud puddle eyes, turned and spat again, then looked at me again. He had no expression whatsoever. Just when I thought he wasn't going to answer me at all, he jerked his hand up and pointed behind him, in the direction I was going. No words were needed, just a point. "Thank you," I said, feeling relieved. "Yup," he said, and spat again. I saw that he had about twelve teeth, and that was a high estimate. I left that charmer by the side of the road and drove on. Sure enough, there was a little red-roofed gas station just around another bend in the road. If you could call it that—it was basically a shack with two dirty pumps standing outside. The pumps were the old-fashioned kind, with rolling numbers rather than digital. The parking lot was dirt, not paved. I wondered why they didn't advertise more—at least put up a sign pointing its way. They could get a lot more business—but if everyone in this town was like the guy I had just met, maybe they didn't want it. I opened the door, and Gambit sat up and whined, looking around with pricked ears. He probably needed to stretch his legs and go to the bathroom. I decided to put him on his leash and walk him after paying for the gas. The numbers rolled up slowly, like eyes rolling with boredom. I looked around as I pumped. The only other vehicle in the parking lot was a rusty orange Ford pickup that someone could have driven there today, but looked more like it had been sitting there for months with mice nesting in the front seat. The front of the building was peeling white wood, with dusty windows in the front. There was an old Pepsi machine squatting at the entrance, the kind that only takes coins, and it looked like it had probably been out of order for some time. When the pump handle finally clicked, my total was 20 dollars and somewhere between 9 and 10 cents. I guessed that that meant 10. I headed inside to pay. The inside of the gas station smelled like motor oil and dust. A lazy fan on the counter swirled the stale air around. Old country music played from a radio set on the windowsill, radio waves fading in and out. There was a small cooler in the back, and several shelves stocked with a few snacks. They had Coke; they didn't have Pepsi. They had a few six packs of beer, but it didn't come cold. They had Snyder's potato chips, and if you didn't like those, they had a few Moon pies set up on the counter, which looked like they may or may not have been there since 1965. I grabbed a cool diet Coke from the cooler and stretched, popping my neck. How do people live here? I wondered. I had been here for ten minutes and I was already so bored I was ready to jump out of my own skin and yell "Boo". Surely the people who lived here have lived here their whole lives—I couldn't imagine why anyone would decide that a move to Fox Run was a good one. Did the people who lived here dream of better things and bigger places, ever feel like just packing up and moving far away? What kind of person works at a nameless gas station in Fox Run? I wondered curiously as I set my diet Coke on the counter. No one was behind the counter. There was no noise in the room except for the whir of the fan and the country music, which had found a wave and was riding on it for a while. Apparently, the singer was upset because his girlfriend had left him, and then his dog. On top of it all, his tractor had broken down. This all sounded pretty tough, but I wondered where the gas station attendant had gone. Surely he or she had heard me come in. I waited for a while, and no one came. "Hello?" I called. There was no answer. The fan whirred on. The radio faded for a minute, then the song was back, with the singer whining in earnest now. His mama had died, and boy how he cried. Damn, what a lot for a guy to deal with. I felt for him, but I wanted to get this show on the road. "Anybody here?" No answer. I felt a mild sense of impatience. Sure, this was a little two-bit town, but couldn't they at least have someone behind the counter to check me out? There was a door behind the counter that I assumed was the office, and I knew they must be in there, if they were here at all. But maybe something was wrong. Maybe the employee or owner, whichever was which, had had a heart attack in the back office. Maybe a passing traveler had decided to rob the place and they were dead in the office, a bullet in their head. I could see the headline now—"Something Finally Happens In Fox Run!" But I pushed it out of my mind. Something could be wrong. I called "Hello" one more time, then went behind the counter and stopped at the door. It was wooden and painted white, with all the paint worn off the doorknob. I knocked. No one answered. So I turned the doorknob and pushed. The first thing I heard was the sound of the ocean. This didn't make sense. I was deep in the Appalachian Mountains—the ocean was several hours away. But I heard it like I was standing 10 feet away from it. So I pushed more, and what I saw made me lose my breath. The ocean was there, right in front of me. I took a step forward and was standing on glistening white sand, staring at the aquamarine water. I could see girls with bronzed, perfect bodies in the distance, surfing the waves. Salsa music played from somewhere nearby, and everyone on the beach, most of them wearing grass skirts, swayed to the music. The girls were all blond and had perfect figures. Everyone was laughing and having a great time. A snack bar stood nearby, and I could smell the hot dogs and hamburgers cooking, hear them sizzling above the roar of the ocean. I smelled the salt in the air; felt the sand rubbing at my feet and the saltwater slapping playfully at my ankles. "20.10 unleaded? You get 20.10 unleaded?" I turned to see a small guy sitting in a leather sofa next to the ocean and grinning up at me. A metal nametag reading "Chuck" was attached to one leg of his blue swim trunks. He was maybe forty or forty-five, with a receding hairline and a beer belly that stuck out over his waistband. His arms were around two women—blond, of course, perfectly tanned, and topless. He held a Budweiser in one hand and fingered one girl's nipple absently while he spoke. "20.10 unleaded? I'll fix yer up. Yer from outta town, aint'cha? Yup. I can tell by how yer dressed!" Then he threw back his head and laughed. I saw that he was missing a few teeth, and the ones he did have were twisted and yellow. The blonds laughed, too, tossing their heads back, then kissed him on the cheek. One pulled out a bottle of suntan lotion and started to rub it on him. Chuck whispered something in the girl's ear, and then turned back to me. His eyes were desperate and haunted, and I wanted to scream. "A man hasta dream, y'know," he said, and I bolted. I ran back through the door and slammed it. I stood there, staring at the door, my mouth dry and my heart thumping in my chest. I could still smell the ocean. I wondered if I had just fallen asleep for a second, exhausted from the long car drive, but I was still standing there, doorknob in hand, salt still stinging my eyes. I cracked the door again, heard a seagull cawing, and saw the ocean spread out before me. I slammed the door. Maybe I was going insane. That was one explanation, though not one of the more attractive ones. The last thing I wanted to be doing right now was standing outside a door in a gas station, going insane in Fox Run. I ran back to my car and sat for a minute, panting. Gambit was whining, but I took no notice. I had forgotten everything but what I had just seen in there. After a few minutes, I started the car and sped out, kicking up dust behind me. It was the first time in my life that I left without paying for the gas. In the next town that I came to, I stopped at an old car wash to vacuum the sand up from the driver's side floor. Digging for change in my purse and in the seats for change, I realized that I didn't have enough quarters to run the vacuum. I went inside to ask for change for a dollar. There was no one behind the counter.   The Author Beth Meko is 24 years old and an English Major at UNC Charlotte. Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!     Back to Index       Sunny's Ball By Adam Heskett   With “Sweet Georgia Brown” playing over and over in his head, David Heller ran. It would normally have been a comic scene if not for the fact he had to escape the park. And fast. David glanced over his shoulder down the wide tree lined path. He couldn’t see anyone but he knew that would change if he stopped. He heard a branch snap to his left, but he could’ve sworn he saw a shadow dart behind a bushy fir on his right. David picked up his pace. His lungs burned. He felt a stitch on his side. How could he have been so stupid? All he wanted to do was break into journalism. None of the local papers gave him the time of day because he had no relevant experience or schooling. Then he stumbled upon an interesting story that would help remedy all that. A story that turned out to be much bigger than anyone would’ve expected. *** It all began innocently enough at the Halifax Jazz Festival Main Tent on the corner of Queen and Spring Garden. “Could you fetch me a Caesar, dear?” someone asked and tugged at David’s elbow behind. “I’m sorry”, David turned to see a flushed old lady in a floppy sunhat. “A Caesar, dear. You’re taking orders, aren’t you?” She motioned a sluggish arm towards David’s notepad and pen. David opened and closed his mouth like a fish. He’d been here to cover the festival and try to sell it to a newspaper. “Are you daft, young man?” she slurred, “The waiters here are horrible. Probably some homeless kid off the street.” The woman nudged her neighbor sitting at the next table. The guy’s nose crinkled from the aroma of hard liquor wafting from her translucent skin. From the looks of the four empty cocktail glasses on her table, it made sense. David caught his eye and shrugged. “I’m not a waiter, miss,” David nervously clicked his pen. The woman stumbled from her chair and drilled a wobbly finger into his chest . “Are you calling me a liar, young man?” “No, um…” “Don’t you know who I am?” David did recognize her from somewhere. Her voice echoed familiarity even inebriated. Her face was a caricature of someone he knew. David’s face, on the other hand, remained blank. “Of course you don’t,” she huffed, “No one does anymore.” The woman knocked over her plastic chair. David saw her eyes moisten. “Hey lady,” David gulped, “I’m sorry. I’ll get you a Caesar.” She held up a slender calloused finger. “Don’t insult me. I don’t need your charity.” That finger. That hand. That lone structure of carpals and metacarpals. David recognized it before. That hand gesture. No, it should be two fingers up…and that hand was younger. V for victory. Or peace. “Sunny Clemens?” David held his breath. It couldn’t be. The woman’s features softened into a weeping smile. That was the day David met Dixie “Sunny” Clemens, the world-renowned jazz clarinet player. She was elusively reclusive and out of the public eye for countless decades. She was his exclusive foot-in-the-door to journalism. The most intriguing person he ever met and dangerous to no end. Though David didn’t know that at this point. But she could play a mean “Sweet Georgia Brown”. *** Sunny Clemens set down her clarinet upon its stand in her cluttered living room. It was hardly the way David had envisioned a jazz legend to live. Dusty vine plants hung from a pot in the ceiling and lined the sill of the only window in the place. Magazines stacked atop magazines in a little city of skyscrapers. Outside, rain slapped the street below as if a million mini-hands clapping together. David sat silently in a plush peach recliner. Awe was the best word for it. “Sweet Georgia Brown” echoed magically in his temples like an exquisite wine that massaged his palate with smooth texture. “I’m a little rusty, sorry,” Sunny looked beautiful though being 50 years his senior, “I haven’t played much as you might imagine.” “No, no, it was…” David saw Sunny waiting in anticipation, “divine.” Sunny laughed, “I apologize for earlier. You are a dear sweet boy.” David felt juvenile jealousy swell that he allowed to fade. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was nearly 23. “It’s all right,” David shrugged, “We’ve all acted silly by drinking too much.” Sunny waited for him to say more. When it didn’t come, she got up from her chair and went to her open kitchen in her cluttered bachelor apartment. “Speaking of which,” Sunny took a bottle of red wine from the fridge and dangled it playfully. “Yeah, that would be nice.” She pulled down two wine glasses from the cupboard, poured them half-full, and handed one to David. “So,” she sat down holding her glass on her lap, “You’re here for an interview, aren’t you?” David placed his wine glass upon a stack of National Enquirer. “Ghost of BatBoy haunts Maine Coast,” the cover read. David took out his notebook, placed his tape recorder on the shoulder of the recliner, and clicked his pen. “I know all about your history,” David began, “Tell me how you found yourself in Halifax.” “Right for the jugular. All right,” she took a sip of wine. *** David’s tape recorder had clicked to a stop several hours ago. His writing pad long forgotten. David’s face hurt from laughing as Sunny brought out a third bottle of wine. For a senior, she could sure handle her liquor. “So you and Ray Eldridge,” David put his hand to his face in disbelief. “Nary a word outside this room. I’m a respectable woman,” she winked then poured him another tipsy glass without asking. Nor did he mind. He was living a dream. Laughing and talking life with his favourite jazz icon. He collected every of her albums. His most cherished picture of her was of her in her 20’s smiling beautifully cradling her clarinet like a baby while making a peace sign after her first big concert. This was in a time before the gesture meant peace and instead meant victory. She was declaring victory on the world. She made it. “I want to show you something,” Sunny popped him from his memory bubble. She left the room and returned with a rosewood box. It looked like a jewellery box adorned with gold Chinese characters along the sides and a dragon on the top. The box was no bigger than a paperback book. Sunny took a silver key that hung around her neck on a small chain on a small chain and unlocked it. Inside was a purple velvet inlay on which sat a small silver ball. It was Sunny’s ball. Sunny was smiling as widely as she did in that picture so many years ago. David was perplexed on why she was so excited about a simple metal ball bearing. “I’ve never shown anyone this, David. Meeting you made me realize that it was time. I’m getting too old. Forget about what I told you about myself. This is the real reason why I’m here. This drew me here.” David set down his wine glass. David waited for a punchline but her flushed face didn’t give away one. He feared that she just maybe be a lonely and crazy old lady. It explained why she disappeared from the public eye for so long. David eyed the door out of the apartment then decided to follow his journalistic instincts and ventured deeper. “What do you mean ‘drew’ you here?” “I found it traveling the southern U.S. on my final tour. It was in this antique shop. Its polished shine caught my eye. It was so exquisite. It sat on a shelf in this Chinese box between a musty stuffed rabbit and an old creamer almost like an afterthought,” Sunny sat back down in her chair, “So I bought it.” “How did it draw you here?” “It whispered to me when I held it.” David glanced at the doorway again. If it were anyone else besides Sunny Clemens, he’d have been halfway home by now. “I know you think I’m crazy,” Sunny looked hurt, “I’ve been afraid to share this with anyone. Afraid of the awkward looks. I’m not stupid. I saw you eying my door. But I thought you’d be different.” David shifted nervously in his seat, “I really should go…” “If you must, you must,” Sunny said down-trodden, “But if you could humour a crazy old coot like me and hold it then you’ll understand. If you don’t, you can leave. I’ll close this box, you’ll have your story, and we’ll never speak of this again.” David wasn’t sure if it was the two and a half bottles of wine but he figured there was no harm in touching the ball. Just once. He rose from his recliner. The floor felt wobbly. He kneeled before Sunny as if knighted before a queen. His hand slowly swallowed the ball. He felt its electric coolness spread through his hand up his arm to his entire body. Then he heard “Sweet Georgia Brown” play as if he was more than only listening to it. More than experiencing it. He became the song. The sweet melody of rising crescendos and plucking smooth baseline. He was, for a time, “Sweet Georgia Brown”. *** A wet tongue enthusiastically licked David’s face. Warm beefy breath blew across his cheeks. David opened his eyes to a wet brown nose poking at his mouth. He pushed the dog away. “C’mere Cody, leave the man alone!” an invisible woman’s voice shouted. The Retriever looked up, ears cocked forward, and darted over David’s limp body. The last thing he remembered was being at Sunny’s house drinking a lot of wine. Sunny told him she had something to show him. It was a metal ball-bearing in a velvet Chinese box. He touched it and got lost in a euphoric nostalgia that would normally be reserved for the best leisure drugs. Now, he was here. David sat up. His head throbbed. He was in a grassy field surrounded by pine and birch trees on all sides. The night was long gone. It was overcast threatening rain. Thunder rolled in the distance. “We had quite a night, David,” Sunny walked into his field of vision. “What do you mean?” David asked groggily. Sunny pointed at his hands. Dried blood caked his fingers and palms pooling in a mild stickiness in his life line and fate line. David quickly wiped them clean in the wet grass. “What happened last night?” he demanded. Sunny gave a grandmotherly grin, “The first time is always the most shocking. But it gets easier. Almost second nature,” she held up the small metal ball. David felt every fiber of his body wanting to touch it again “It’s allure is hard to ignore,” Sunny looked sad, “It’s my fault. I thought I would be strong enough to overcome it again. That’s why I kept it in the box. Out of site out of mind.” “What did I do last night?” A tear rolled down the wrinkles in her cheek like a river down an eroded canyon. “All I had to do was not get lost in its powers. Not to get lost in a memory. When you touched it, it happened so fast. You became what I’ve been hiding from. Something I can still become but had locked it away for too long.” “What did I become?” David jumped to his feet. He believed and feared that he knew. A murderer. When Sunny told him, what he believed and feared wasn’t what he expected. It was much worse. Sunny’s ball twinkled knowingly. *** Most people can’t handle the change,” Sunny winked, “They usually black out. But there’s the rare few like you and me that can.” Sunny’s ball glowed a light blue between her fingers. “The ball is an energy magnet. It needs it to live. It feeds on energy from living creatures,” Sunny’s face was bathed in the light as she opened her hands, “I was afraid of its power. It needs people like us to travel. I kept it locked up when I realized what it was doing to me. I was shunned by society because of my difference. Alone. But I don’t have to be any more.” “What did I become?” David whispered. “Those of us who can survive the ball get rewarded. I’ll show you,” Sunny lifted her thin pock marked arms above her head. The ball glowed like a full moon. The light flowed down her arms to her body like a slow waterfall to her feet. She inhaled the glow. She appeared ethereal, almost floating. David was frozen in its beauty. Her beauty. He yearned for his feet to run but they stood fast. He wanted to feel it again yet he had no business being involved in this. “Yes you do, my dear,” Sunny’s voice echoed in his head, “You have more business than you know.” She walked towards him hovering as if the blades of grass held her weight. She placed the ball in his hand. “Your turn.” “I don’t know…” the ball’s glow began to fade. “Of course you do,” Sunny floated above him as a crow flew from a tree towards her, “You must relax and think of beautiful Sweet Georgia Brown.” Sunny touched the crow in mid-air. It fluttered to the ground and lay motionless at David’s feet. This was wrong. All wrong. She’s an energy vampire. David’s jazz idol was nothing more than an energy junkie prowling on creatures for her next big fix. He looked at his hands. He could still see traces of blood on them. Had he killed someone last night for their energy? “No, David, it was an accident. The first time is always messy,” Sunny lowered back to the ground, “When you start, you assume the soul is on the inside and you have to tear it open to get it like a nutshell. But it’s really on the outside. The aura.” “You steal people’s souls?” “Don’t be daft,” Sunny looked heartbroken, “I sample them. I leave enough so it can be replenished. Like a haircut. The soul needs cutting sometimes. So I tend to it. It grows back.” The crow stirred and slowly rose to its feet. Sunny’s ball began to glow stronger as David heard “Sweet Georgia Brown” play silently from somewhere. “That’s it,” Sunny smiled, “Together we shall be happy. I will never be alone again.” David couldn’t explain why he started to run away at that moment. Maybe it was a slow reaction to what he wanted to do earlier. Maybe primitive instincts overruled his cerebral cortex that was being lulled by the ball. Whatever it was, he was thankful…and very afraid for his life. “Where do you think you’re going, young man?” Sunny appeared in front of him floating down from above. Escape seemed futile. David stumbled backwards afraid to touch the baby blue glow that surrounded her. Afraid of what might happen. He scrambled along the ground littered in pine needles and cones to the foot of a large pine tree. Sunny knelt before him. “Oh don’t worry, dear,” Sunny reached out to touch his face, “It won’t hurt at all. It warms you up inside like cocoa on a winter’s day. I forgot how good it felt.” David batted away the hand. The split second their skin connected he felt that comforting warmth try to leech on to him but the connection broke too fast. “Stay back or I’ll destroy this,” David held up the metal ball to smash it against the tree. David knew it was an empty threat. Sunny laughed. “Dear, I was afraid too, at first. I resisted but its warmth felt like…home.” Sunny’s hand closed over David’s holding the small sphere. He struggled at first but then he felt the warmth…and the jazz. He felt himself falling into the void. “Allow your happiest memories to flow. Live in those moments. It’s all it wants,” Sunny brought his hands down. The ball was all light. It enveloped his hands and accentuated hers. David wanted this so bad. Yet, he knew it was wrong. But what harm could one little taste be? “Exactly,” Sunny hissed as the blue glow traveled slowly up his arm. *** It was like being wrapped in a warm fuzzy blanket on a cold night. That was what it was like to accept the ball’s endearing glow. David could feel all the energy around him and craved to ingest it all. Sunny smiled angelically. “Sweet Georgia Brown” grew stronger in David’s head. It was Sunny’s rendition, as always. He wanted to hear more. To do that, he had to fall deeper into that baby blue. David looked down at Sunny’s hands holding tightly on to his hands around the ball. There was dried blood encrusted around the cuticles of her fingernails. Sunny was hiding something worse from him. The truth dawned on David Heller sitting beneath a pine tree in some unknown park. He no longer wanted this warm fuzzy glow. He didn’t want to become like Sunny. She was more than an energy vampire. She was a vampire in a more classical sense and David wanted nothing to do with it. “I am a Makii and soon you will be as well,” Sunny whispered into his ear, “You are right, dear, this is a little more complex than simple energy gathering. This orb is the last artifact of a past race. The Makii. It holds the energy of their race. The ball’s purpose is to share its creator’s history. Would you deny a chance for knowledge? What better way to experience the Makii than to become one?” Sunny licked her lips, “Then you and I can feast upon this world until the end of our days while we find others to join our cause.” David saw a cruel race in his mind’s eye. A race that meant to enslave those who weren’t accepting to the Makii’s influence. He imagined burning cities and charcoaled ruins lorded over by the Makii. He learned that Sunny’s ball was an artifact this civilization planted upon any sentient planet to hypnotize its beings into willingly forgo its worldly resources. David felt his heart cool. Terror is a powerful manipulator. It will make a person believe in things that aren’t there. It will also give that same person the strength to defeat those same things where he normally wouldn’t have. Terror was what made David hit Sunny in the chin with the ball. Old woman or not she was a threat. He threw her against the trunk of the pine tree and ran. He didn’t even bother to turn around to make sure she was still there. *** David stumbled over a root sticking out of the gravel path. His knees buckled beneath him sending him sprawling to the ground. The small metal globe no bigger than a golf ball escaped his grasp. David’s reflection warped into some large nosed cartoon upon its silver surface. He held his breath. Those of us who survive the ball get rewarded, David recalled with horror. David’s hand crept over the top of the ball like a reluctant spider. He grasped its coolness. The energy was gone, for now. David heard a crash in the forest in front of him. He jumped to his feet. There were footfalls crunching along the path behind him. He shook his head and peered down at the small sphere in his hand. Over this. He was going to die over some ancient ball from a race he had never heard of. David slid the metal ball back into his jacket pocket. He held it tightly as he heard brisk footsteps walk up behind him on the crushed gravel path. David shut his eyes fearing the worse. He should’ve been surer that he wasn’t being followed. He was foolish to think that he could escape. David turned to accept his fate and opened his eyes. A young woman with an apprehensive smile walked past with her golden retriever in tow. There was a blank nod. The kind you get when you acknowledge someone out of courtesy wishing they wouldn’t talk to you. David returned an awkward two-fingered salute. He scanned the trees for anything out of place. He sensed nothing. He heard less. Just the silent rustle of the wind through trees. The quiet was discomforting. He had no doubt that it would be back. That she would be back. David saw the woman up the path. It was best to follow her. It seemed that Sunny didn’t like an audience. That could be a useful advantage. David would try his best not to be without an audience until this was over. *** David followed the young woman with the golden retriever around the park for over a half hour. She took quite a roundabout route to leave the park. Most of the time she talked on her cell. David didn’t dare lose her to go out on his own. He didn’t know exactly where he was or what park he was in. He couldn’t risk getting lost in the park with some monster (that’s what Sunny was, simply put) lurking around for his soul. He almost lost the woman at one point but quickened his pace to catch up. But now, thankfully, she was finally leading him out. David saw a police car sitting at the path’s entrance. He couldn’t have been happier to see the police in his life. The woman flipped closed her cell and nodded to the officers inside. David felt relief. He briskly trotted towards them. The two officers opened their doors. One of them, a tall bulky man with a thick handlebar mustache, held his hands up in front of him. The other, a blond plump woman, stood back gripping her belt. The young woman stood beside the female officer. “Sir, my name is Officer Roy MacDonald. May we have a word with you?” Macdonald said as David approached. “Yeah,” he had nothing to hide. “Sir, were you following this young lady?” he nodded over his shoulder to the frightened woman. David could see that her eyes were red from tears. “No, well…” David stuttered. “She says different, sir. She called 911 on her phone and said you’ve been following her since she ran into you in the park.” “No, officer, I was going the same route,” David knew how guilty that sounded as soon as it came out of his mouth. “That may be well and dandy, sir, but we know from her that she tried losing you. But you caught up. Care to explain that?” MacDonald took a cautious step forward. “I, well…” MacDonald looked back to his female partner who rolled her eyes. The female officer gave the young woman a card then sent her off. “What’s your name, son?” MacDonald asked. “David Heller,” it was hard not to feel guilty for what he did to the woman even though it wasn’t his intention. “Hey, Cin,” MacDonald whistled for his partner to come over without taking his eyes off David, “Must be our lucky day or his unlucky day. This is David Heller. We’ve been looking for you.” “What for?” “Questioning. Please get into the car.” Cin opened the back door of the police car. “Questioning for what?” “Theft and alleged assault of Sunny Clemens,” MacDonald explained, “And now the apparent stalking of that young woman.” David tried to explain but saw that the officers weren’t entertaining any excuses. They’re job was to bring him in for interrogation. They frisked him and confiscated Sunny’s ball. For the moment, David remained silent glad to have wiped that blood from his hands. *** Miles Davis played on the police car’s radio. David didn’t recognize the tune but that tender trumpet could be from no other. “You like jazz, Mr. Heller,” MacDonald turned up the volume as Cin tapped on the steering wheel to the beat, “I love the festival in town. I go every night.” “Yeah, I like jazz,” David was glad they decided not to put cuffs on him. He hadn’t been charged with anything. It was only for questioning they kept reassuring. David didn’t believe that for a moment. “I’m sure you just get off on a little Dizzy Gillespie, or Eartha Kitt. All the old timers. Kinda like you did on Sunny Clemens, didn’t ya, kid?” David ignored the absurd assumption and peered out at the passing houses and endless shrubberies. Miles’s trumpet danced around the silence. “Just what I figured,” MacDonald nudged his partner, “He’ll have plenty of time to get off in prison, won’t he, Cin?” Cin chuckled and turned onto the highway towards Halifax. Suburbia disappeared behind them to give way to a forest on both sides. “I saw you last night, Mr. Heller. At the Jazz Festival tent. You caused quite a scene with Miss Clemens. I will testify to that. Open and shut, throw away the key.” “I didn’t do anything,” David spat back. He noticed for the first time that Sunny’s ball was in MacDonald’s hand. “And all you wanted was this,” he tossed the sphere into the air and caught it, “It must be something valuable for Miss Clemens to want it back and for you to beat her up and steal it.” “I didn’t beat her up.” Cin snorted and rolled her eyes at David in the rearview mirror. “You hear that, Cin, he didn’t beat her up?” “Sound like we gots ourselves another innocent, Roy,” Cin mocked, “Should probably let him go.” MacDonald laughed and sat forward, “Nah, we ain’t judges. We’ll let them decide.” They both fell silent. They became mesmerized with the empty highway. There was nothing more to say. David sat back when he saw Sunny’s ball begin to glow blue. He snapped his seat belt down across his shoulder. Macdonald and Cin were lost to the world and David feared this drive wouldn’t end pretty. Less than ten seconds later, the police car slid off of the highway into a deep ditch. Miles Davis’s trumpet blared as David fell unconscious from the impact. *** When David awoke, he was lucky to find the backdoor ajar from the crash. He wasn’t certain how long he’d been out. It couldn’t have been long. There were no concerned drivers to check on the police car sitting nose first in a ditch. He unfastened his seatbelt and kicked the door open. On a day like today, he needed some good luck. David reached over MacDonald’s lap for Sunny’s ball. MacDonald and Cin were breathing deeply. Blood trickled down the side of Cin’s face. He’d call for help as soon as he was clear from here. David took the ball and placed it, now tarnished with sweat and blood, into his jacket pocket. He had to get back into the city. That was the only way to end this. He had to return the ball back into that Chinese rosewood box. There it would be locked away for good from Sunny Clemens and the world. Then he would leave Halifax and hide it. His secret until he died. David zippered his jacket dreading the return to Sunny’s apartment. David scanned the sky half-expecting Sunny to come flying down. He cautiously made his way to the forest that lined the highway. There, at least, he’d be sheltered from view as he made his way to the city. *** After a long walk dodging the police and glancing at the sky for a flying old lady, David arrived at Sunny’s apartment. David jiggled the doorknob. Locked. He placed his ear against the door and listened. He prayed Sunny wasn’t around. Still indisposed with the cops falsifying a crime, he hoped. Either she was there, or she wasn’t. The ball was too dangerous exposed. With a couple of well-placed kicks, the door swung open. The apartment wasn’t anything like he remembered it. It looked like a hurricane blew through it. Magazines were thrown every which way. Chairs toppled over. Shards of glass from broken wine bottles and glasses on the floor. The window overlooking the street was open. A mild warm breeze breathed through. David sensed that he was responsible for this carnage as much as he hated to admit it. He walked in through the doorway and closed it gently behind him. Somewhere in this mess was the Chinese box. David searched under a few magazines. Nothing. He turned a chair upright and sat down. The mess was overwhelming. Where could it be? “I suppose you are looking for this, David?” Sunny appeared from the darkness of the kitchen. There was dark bruise on her chin where he hit her. Her blue glow was fading. And in her hand was the rosewood Chinese box. In retrospect, David wished he had finished the job. Sunny stood before him in her apartment cradling the box. “Give me the ball, David.” “I can’t.” “Don’t be silly,” Sunny stumbled forward. She looked tired. Older. Her blue glow fainter. “It’s hurting you.” “It helps me. When I walk down the street and no one recognizes me, that hurts. I didn’t turn to drugs to cope. I turned to the Makii ball.” “You were drunk when I first met you.” “Only because I denied the ball’s power. It’s healthier than drinking. It’s not the same thing.” “It is the same thing.” “Please, the ball, David,” she coughed harshly and fell to the floor. “I can’t,” David hated seeing someone he idolized fading away like this, “You called the police on me.” “You stole my property.” “This?” he pulled out the ball, “Only because you showed me what it does.” “You’re scared. I understand, David,” she pulled herself upon the cushioned stool beside her clarinet. “You’re right I’m scared. I had blood on my hands from something I can’t remember. Don’t you get that?” “You didn’t kill anything, David. You tried. But I stopped you,” Sunny lifted her sweater revealing a claw mark on her side. “I hurt you,” David went to touch it but recoiled, “See. See! That’s why I can’t let you have this. To protect you; and me from you.” Sunny lowered her shirt. Her glow had all but disappeared. David could tell that she was tired. “You win,” she set the Chinese box down on the floor, “Please sit.” Apprehensive, David remained standing. “I won’t bite,” she smiled, “Do you think I’d try to overpower you again after this?” She gingerly touched her side and the dark welt under her chin from. It was true. He had youth, strength, and quickness on his side. Also, he wielded the ball. Sunny shrugged and picked up her clarinet. “Stand, sit, stay, go. Makes no difference to me, dear. If you go, take care of that thing. Don’t be greedy. Keep it in the box. I’ll always have my baby,” she hugged her clarinet then brought the reed to her lips. Melody flowed from it like a rushing tide that settled into a calm rhythm. It was a song he had heard before but could never remember the name. It didn’t matter. It was about the music. It was about Dixie “Sunny” Clemens pouring her soul through the reed and sharing it with the world instead of leeching from other people’s soul. This was pure. Soon David found himself sinking into the same peach recliner he sat in before lost in the clarinet’s silky wail. Sunny tapped her foot on the floor. All was forgotten. David closed his eyes. There was really nothing to fear. Jazz can truly heal all wounds. It was a timeless band-aid. He felt the comfort and warmth it brought to the room. He felt the closeness like being one with the music. By the time David realized what Sunny had done it was too late. David fell deeper into the ball’s allure than before. *** It took a couple days for David Heller to recall what happened and how Sunny had gotten away. Where exactly she went was another matter and he might never find out. David woke up in Sunny’s apartment a few hours after she had played her last song. She was gone. So were the ball, the Chinese box, and the majority of her personal belongings. All that was left where her discarded magazines and, most surprisingly, her clarinet with a note taped to it. “Take good care of this for me, David,” it read, “To the only person who had not forgotten me. I don’t know who’d be more deserving of this gift. Much love, Dixie “Sunny” Clemens.” In the days that followed, David learned that the charges laid against him were dropped including the ones from the young woman in the park. The police officers, MacDonald and Cin, mysteriously never mentioned that they had caught David. Only that the accident was due to slippery road conditions. David believed somehow Sunny was responsible for making those things happen. David ended up writing an intriguing expose on the reclusive Sunny Clemens, which opened many journalistic doors. He was even offered a regular column on local artists in a community newspaper. An offer he accepted but he found his memories kept dwelling back to Sunny. Maybe she’d return someday. If luck was on his side, she might even still be in town hiding out and he could run into her again. And when he handed her the clarinet, maybe, just maybe, she’d do him the pleasure of another rendition of “Sweet Georgia Brown”.   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!   The Author Adam Heskett is an up-and-coming writer who has been published in a monthly online column located at Aspire2Write.com writing about his mishaps and personal successes.   Back to Index       Minstrel Liar's Lesson Plan By Vittoria Cupaiuolo   No, don’t sit down with me beside the fire! I haven’t come to drone out tired lays, The same old demon-lizard/good-old-days. I loathe them and I’m sick of being called Liar. So go away ’til you can stand the name, ’Til you’ve out-walked what you already know, And listened for the telltale wind to blow Forgotten songs of talon, and of flame. Go walk in bygone days of numb and cold, Before the sky knew dragon spark or slash And choke down acid fumes and silky ash… Then come back, my true stories to be told. (When I went back, I saw light was begun by dragons taking wing into the sun.)   Would you like to write a review of this poem? Read the Review Rules first! Review this poem!       Back to Index       Playing with Fire By Pamela Karavolos   You’ve all seen me. I’m that grumpy old homeless dude camped out under the main street overpass. But you know, I wasn’t always like this. A lifetime ago, I was funny and popular; smart too. Too smart. I thought that made me better than everyone else. Instead, it made me ripe for recruitment. So, on a summer evening much like tonight, I accepted the quest. I’ve been carrying the secret scroll for nigh on forty years. I’m getting old. The worse part of it is that I don’t scare the young toughs anymore. They scare me. “Hey, old man,” The one with the green Mohawk and red tattoos put his arm around my shoulders. The alcohol on his breath enveloped both of us like a cloud. I pulled away and began gathering my things to move on. Too bad I had already set up for the night and even had a small fire lit. “No, stay, don’t leave because of us,” urged the other one. This one had so many body piercings on his face that he looked like a voodoo doll gone awry. I packed quickly and started to shuffle away, but they caught up with me and grabbed my bag. It ripped and spilled its precious contents. I scrambled to pick up the parchment before the punks did. “Hey, lookie,” shouted the one with the green hair and tattoos. “It’s a dead sea scroll, just like the one on TV the other night.” I grabbed at the parchment, but was too late. He had broken the seal and unrolled the scroll. There was only one word on it, and he read it out loud. A single flame flew off the page and hungrily began to consume him. I could feel no heat from where I was standing, but it must have hurt horribly judging from his frantic keening and unintelligible screams. The pierced one ran off into the darkness, yelling for help. In the mayhem, the parchment dropped to the ground. “Exstinguere,” I murmured. The flames were immediately doused, but too late to save him. From the light of my small fire, the small tufts of burnt green hair looked like dust mites floating lazily in the draft. All that was left was his shoes. I didn’t pause to see if his feet were still intact. With a sigh, I picked up the parchment and slipped away into the darkness. The police arrived moments later. “Fire, Ron was on fire!” The pierced one kept shouting. The police shone their powerful flashlights over the ground. “There!” He knelt by the shoes. “Ron? Ronny?” His voice rose to a hysterical shriek. The officers shone their flashlights over the scene, and paused when they saw the concrete wall. Ashes from the body had stuck to the grey concrete in the shape of flames, fused to the surface like paint in red, black, and green. “Stupid kids. I suppose they didn’t’ know spray paint was flammable.”   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!     Back to Index   All contents Copyright © 2005 by Jessica Taylor     Webmaster Privacy Policy Copyright