Author Archives: TC Editors

Three Poems

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Poetry
Ogu Nnachi

Photo of various fruits at a market. In the center are baskets of kumquats and guava which are marked with signs noting the price. In the foreground are passionfruits. A cut papaya is in the bottom left. In the top right are bunches of mint and bananas in plastic wrap. Behind the basket of guavas are mangoes and a red fruit (out of focus) to the right. Another bunch of bananas in plastic sits atop these fruits. In the top right are yellow fruits (out of focus).

Photo Credit: Aurelien Guichard/Flickr (CC-by-sa)

Soiled nappy smell woman

you smile
as you peer at hot Dominican bananas
stuck in plastic
£1.95 a bunch

As you pass by
I think of golden slush puppy faeces
wrapped around a baby’s bottom

Your irises
calm open coconut-coloured
point to the carrots
on that five-foot-six inches high shelf
I have to stretch to reach them

Your face splits open
and your stomach heaving perfume
drifts
then settles below my nose

I long for damp cotton wool fingers
to gently wipe your skin
drink your stool smell

I imagine you outside
soaked in a shower of baby oil
laughing as the liquid playfully
drenches your skin

As I pass by
your rankness
touches me gently
You
stand by the Valencia oranges
holding your twisted fingers.

 

Dark and Lovely

Now it is time
The soft leather armchair has been covered with an old cloth
The scissors and plastic gloves are on the table
The dye, ‘dark and lovely’ from Brixton
sits on a piece of newspaper
Her fingers hurt from unscrewing the lid

When he arrives
wrapper wrapped around his bare neck and chest
she signals for him to sit down
pours dye into her hands
shaking it slightly into her palms
as if measuring salt before sprinkling it into egusi soup

As she massages his curls
they become a green field of closely-cut grass
then damp moss which she firmly presses
Her thoughts take a dusty walk to Afikpo market
to buy yams and dried fish
She sees her Father and strokes his blind eyes

When she is done
she wraps her pink plastic shower cap from Boots
around Dad’s hair
And they wait
watching Jerry Springer

Mum says, “Dear, sit up, it’s time to go to the bathroom.”
She walks behind him
From his frilly cap
black dye is tickling the backs of his ears and sliding down his neck
like a stream of silent tears
She pushes the cloth up towards his hair to catch the black liquid

He bends his head towards the bath and his
chin gently kisses the rim as he drops his face into empty space
Mum reaches for the cold-water tap
Her swollen thumb aches and feels heavy
The water sounds loud and makes a shape like thick rope
as it drops down the plughole
Dad lets her push his head towards the water
This evening he will point to his empty cup for her to put away

The water slaps his head and the dye melts like butter crying in a frying pan
As it hits the bath the black soup becomes a shower of petals
Dad’s shoulders shudder as his coils greet the cold
but he stays bowed under the tap
lets her
rub the black liquid out of his black curls

“Give me the towel”
She passes the towel to him which is worn and grey
He rubs his hair and the cotton threads suck the black juice
“Nnena, what are we eating?”

I see Mum staring at Dad for a second
watch her
watch a spoonful of black liquid
slide from a batch of curls
and fall slower than a yawn
onto the pale carpet.

 

I Miss You

Unlike the metal in my right knee
Which will be separated from me
when I am melted bone then ash
I keep your ashes
in my shoulder blade.

Hands like steel detectors
will sift through my dust
trap clumps of cobalt
which will be cleaned and recycled

The iron bolts and screws
that kept me sealed
will be flung
into plastic bins

My pain
escapes in wafts of
unalluring perfume
as I endure another night of lonely sleep

Sometimes
we talk in whispers
You listen
Deep inside my body

We make thready silky plans
like the spider web that hangs outside
the kitchen window
held in place and guarded
by honeysuckle stems.

All I need to do is lift
the window
reach for the web
and drag its fibre of tears
in between my fingertips

Melt it
into a snot trail.
Brown spotty spider
Disappear
Like our desires

When it is my turn for my body
to face the fire
Who will take my ashes
And bore them into their shoulder blade?

pencil

Ogu is a mother of 3 children. She lives in London, England and is a full-time special needs teacher. She has written for a London Afro-Caribbean newspaper called The Voice, worked with female artists as part of a collective called Black Women in View and her short story was exhibited as part of the exhibition at Brixton Art Gallery. She was part of the London Performance Poetry scene in the ’80s and ’90s, an experience which helped her confidence to continue to write and perform her poetry. She has had a prose poem published in Mechanics’ Institute Review. She enjoys writing and finds it a meditative and calming experience. She attends work-shops and writing groups and appreciates the encouragement and support from other writers.

Two Poems

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Poetry
Vyarka Kozareva

Photo of a wicker basket of purple grapes. A few unripe (green) grapes are visible in the center. Light hits the basket from the bottom right and the background is in shadow. In the bottom right is a baguette beside the basket. A salt/pepper shaker is out of focus in the foreground.

Photo Credit: David Geitgey Sierralupe/Flickr (CC-by)

Reminiscent of Husserl

Every morning I read a note
The same
Again
Written in red ink
Left on my kitchen table.
My eyes keep skepticism.
I am afraid
I miss the essence of the writing
In the insipidness.
I must be scrappy pretending your pre-existence.
Regal
The grapes in the epergne
Wish
Their juice could turn your fingertips sugary.

 

Nocturnal

Wind-slammed,
At 3 a.m. I don’t sleep.
My left hand fingers, clung together,
Lock their unspoken loss.
Time sleeps on your armchair blanket.
In its ribbed chest
The caffeine warmth of your voice
Is folding dreams.
The middle piece of night plays chemin de fer.
My pockets keep balls of old stained paper,
Letters not readable,
On which rests absolution for every broken rule
If written indecipherable.
A single bird outside
Vigilant to fly off
With my split mind under its pinion.
I wonder when, if possible at all,
The grief will make my lunacy ennobled.

pencil

Vyarka Kozareva resides in Bulgaria. Her work has appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Ariel Chart, Poetry Pacific, Basset Hound Press, Bosphorus Review of Books, Mad Swirl, Ann Arbor Review, Fevers Of The Mind, Juste Milieu Lit, Trouvaille Review, Aberration Labyrinth, Triggerfish Critical Review, Sampsonia Way Magazine, and Synchronized Chaos Magazine.

Insignificance

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Poetry
James Croal Jackson

Monochrome photo of an empty coffee shop, looking toward the windows and door. Tall picture windows line one wall with double glass doors on the adjacent wall. Above both the windows and doors are transom windows. An EXIT sign is above the doors. A tall bar-height table with three chairs faces the window closest to the doors. Beside it is a two-person table with one chair visible. In the center of the photo are two two-person tables, positioned at an angle. In the foreground, a chair back is visible. The table tops and floor are wood. Outside the windows a stop sign and light pole are visible. The building across the street is shrouded in scaffolding.

Photo Credit: Roey Ahram/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

I watch the line of people accumulate,
a metaphor in front of me. Because nothing

can exist without some deeper meaning.
How people walk in and out of my life

in this coffee shop and I obsess on
the butterfly effect. I occupy a table,

but there are five open tables. I drink
from a mug, but there are many mugs.

How can everything mean anything
in such insignificance? The chatter

grows louder. I need follow-up reports
for every single person who steps

inside while I am here, especially
those who look and leave quickly.

I need to know how my insignificance
becomes significant—a small gust,

somewhere.

pencil

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. He has three chapbooks: Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022), Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021), and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights, 2017). He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, PA.

Four Poems

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Poetry
Jenny Hockey

Monochrome photo of a kitchen window. One side of the window is open. Outside the window, fog envelopes leafless trees and a low-rise building off to the left. Below the window is a radiator with a dish towel hanging from it. The right side of the image is in shadow; on the left are cabinets and a shelf with pots hanging beneath. Below is a sink. The wall between the cabinets and sink is tiled with subway tiles. On the sideboard next to the sink are various kitchen things: a cutting board, a container of utensils, some cups/mugs, dish soap.

Photo Credit: Mayastar Lavi/Flickr (CC-by-sa)

Change of Heart

It’s 7 a.m., says Radio 4
but I spare the kitchen light,

stretch out darkness
like tights matted in the wash.

Our kettle boils, gulps your words
but you just gruff, call me deaf

and let the cold get its foot in the door
as you leave—maybe for good.

It’s 8 a.m., says Radio 4
and I’m stuffing my briefcase with work.

Here you are easing our grandson’s pram
gently, tenderly back up the steps—

his Buddha smile derails me
as sun tumbles in through the door,

as you slide the car keys out of my hand,
put the kettle back on.

 

Shows You the Colours

The window in your back door
has grey lined up for today,

has you fumbling for keys
on your grey larder shelf
then stepping outside, what else,
for isn’t it always like this,

the valley’s gash of a river,
the everyday practice of sad—

or maybe you grab an orange coat
to climb up high through the park,
to stand and gaze into pink
flooding through clouds.

Pale yellow moonlight
sleeps on my 6 a.m. rug,
dirty old stop-out.

Remember the lakeside chalet
we borrowed the summer we met,
marigolds, orange like sunbursts,
ravenous geese at 6 a.m.,
the lilac sky as we almost held hands.

Wolf, Storm and Strawberry moons,
Milk, then Blood—or Blue,
a moon that makes her quiet way,
into a month where two full moons
have flowered, a full-term child
behind the belly’s stretch.

Run towards Forge Dam
into a tunnel of rust, drab,
brown—summer lost

till a startle of feathers, blue
and grey, shows you gold, orange,
red—lets autumn begin.

Ruby cyclamen
bloom on our garden table
after forty years.

 

September

relishes rain, embraces the sadness
of putting summer aside, folding away
the softness of cotton frocks.

September hangs around,
drenching a cyclist who scoffed
at a mac, making us sweat
in vests we put on too soon

or nudging a woman to raise
difficult Christmas plans
while lunching à deux by a lake
on Chablis and sole meuniere.

September slides its palm
from August’s humid grip,
welcomes the tug of October.

 

Thursday morning

and here comes my bed,
ambling across the page.

This time I’m stuck in the dark
with a Timex Light-Up Watch

that won’t, opening the curtains
to more darkness still

that pours in across the carpet
along with a wet sighing of tyres.

Has it been raining all night
or only just begun?

pencil

Jenny Hockey lives in Sheffield, UK. She belongs to Hexameter, The Poetry Room and Living Line, with poems in magazines such as The North, Magma, The Frogmore Papers and Orbis. She retired from Sheffield University as Emeritus Professor of Sociology to write and read more poetry and now reviews for Orbis magazine. In 2013 received a New Poets Award from New Writing North and Oversteps Books published her debut collection Going to Bed with the Moon in 2019. Twitter: @JHockey20

Two Poems

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Poetry
Marchell Dyon

Photo of a moonrise over lake. The moon is slightly to the right of center. The sky is scattered with stars. The blue of the sky deepens and the stars become more visible farther away from the moonglow. Moon and star light reflects off the lake's dark surface. The lake is surrounded by low, foliage-covered hills that are mostly in shadow. Behind them, in the distance, are taller craggy mountains.

Photo Credit: Patrick Vierthaler/Flickr (CC-by-nc)

Mirror, Mirror

By the pond near the fairytale where she lived
She fell in love with her reflection

Like the flower that considers the water
Her reflection a rippling mirror

She agreed with her reflection
That she was pretty, more than average

From behind a film of mist the moon appeared
Its cheeks blushed with the color of Mars

Like the fabled queen, she asked her reflection
Who was most beautiful, she or the moon?

Her reflection replied: you of course.
She stares again at both reflections as they rippled

Shimmering side by side on the water
She did not care that her reflection lied.

 

The Goddess speaks for herself

I am mother to womankind
I am full of purpose
Of tears born

I have abandon the house of my father
Faraway from the mansions of angels
Into the night sky
I am that beacon of light

My complexion is the color of milk
Before the world forever I shine
And at a distance I stand

Mankind has learned to walk my craters
Still to mankind I remain a mystery

The goddess of emotions
Watch as I wax and wane the night away

I am company for those lonely
Those who must finish their lives in solitude
For I too must travel this world alone

pencil

Marchell Dyon is a poetry enthusiast. She enjoys reading poetry wherever she can find it. Once she was nominated for the best of the net prize for her poem. She continues to write in Chicago IL. She can also be founded on Twitter @DyonMarchell

Two Poems

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Poetry
Darren C. Demaree

Monochrome photo of a worn leather armchair. There are wrinkles on the backrest and the seat cushion is lumpy and askew. The leather is worn down on the armrests. Behind the chair is a window and unfinished wood-frame (at the top) and brick (at the bottom) walls. The floor is unfinished wood planks. To the left of the chair, against the wall, is a toilet plunger.

Photo Credit: Will Nathan/Flickr (CC-by-nd)

On My 41st Birthday

I spent all day
yesterday
bleeding from my right heel.

My mouth
was in the garden.
My something dark

wrapped around my torso
like a bandage meant to hold
the vital pieces

of my life firm,
like they could dervish away
from me at any moment,

like gone meant buried
like I was swept up
in the beginning,

so I only had mourning
the ending left.
Let these groans

be a revival!
My body still processes
joy, slowly.

I don’t sleep.
I cut my heel
while sweeping

the kitchen too quickly.
The children know
my blood is an invitation

to chase
& to be chased.
It’s all there

to be taken from me.
The world isn’t waiting.
I’m stripped. I’m living.

 

that damn blue leather chair

the mass is
still
on his spinal cord
& i am waiting
for the wood
on those
fucking armrests
to melt
like an iceberg
for the ornament
& beauty
to dissolve
into that torn
& treated flesh, died blue
before barley slumped into the ammonia of his own piss
& the vet could only offer two shots
& i could hold
his weight
as it became weight only
& that nightwork
of a chair watched me
crumple back
to the mornings
when i was too sick
with alcohol
to make it up the stairs
& barley came
for me
to follow him
on all fours
& i did every morning
until i found my legs again
& he smiled,
smiled at me
because i wasn’t dead
& now,
as i try to figure out
why i tore some leather
off that chair
with my teeth
i think about all the stairs still in front of me right now
& i get back on all fours again

pencil

Darren C. Demaree is the author of eighteen poetry collections, most recently the luxury (Glass Lyre, January 2023). He is the recipient of an Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Award, the Louise Bogan Award from Trio House Press, and the Nancy Dew Taylor Award from Emrys Journal. He is the Editor-in-Chief of the Best of the Net Anthology and the Managing Editor of Ovenbird Poetry. He is currently living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children. Twitter: @d_c_demaree

Lumentation

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Savage Science Fiction / Fantasy Contest ~ Third Place
Mark Neyrinck

Scattered colored bokeh on a black background. The lights are mainly white on the bottom of the image, blue and turquoise in the middle, and gold at the top. At the far left, there is also some pink and green. The bokeh overlap, with some being brighter and closer to the camera, and others being farther back and more transparent.

Photo Credit: Olivier H/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

The salmon and turquoise wall-lights irritated Elton at first, but his mind grew accustomed to them. The man in front of him, in crisp, perfectly fitting sky-blue shorts and a yellow polo shirt, cleared his throat. The man’s headband effused a matching yellow and blue stream of lights suggesting sparkly warmth. His hand was outstretched, and Elton shook it.

“Jake, Crypto Team Lead.” He rolled his head around to indicate the room around them. “Pretty nice, eh?”

Indeed, the niceness of the room was palpable. Wooden cubicles, set off against the black chairs and trim, looked as comfortable as could be expected, and well-calibrated.

“Yeah,” Elton said. “The lights are—”

“Oh, you noticed those lights, too? Wow. Even I never did. You’re not just a cryptography star, but nice attention to detail! Won’t be able to slip anything past you,” he chuckled, and multicolored lights swirled madly around his headband, engaging in hijinks.

He started to lead Elton down the hall, but looked back with a smirk. “Elton Fucking Bishop. You don’t smile much, do you?” He pointed to Elton’s headband. “I can still tell from your activity you’re excited. Let’s go down to HR and see if we can dull that a bit.” The lights on his headband swirled again.

They walked in silence for a minute, but Jake stopped. A turquoise pattern wavered on his headband. “Tell you the truth though, it does make me a little nervous to work with someone who hasn’t been wearing a headband very long. I saw you’ve been working on a very promising crypto framework though, and you seem cool enough.” A little red swirl-flourish on his headband. “What was it like to be a headband-holdout?”

Elton had practiced the answer to this question many times. It was an obvious one at Lument, the company that had first introduced neuro-headbands several years ago.

He had decided to basically tell the truth. “Well, of course, I felt isolated,” Elton said. “My best friend finally gave in, and it started to be hard to interact even with him. And people avoid you on the street now if you’re not wearing them. But yeah, I’m still getting used to it, even after a year.”

“Yeah, man, it takes a while,” Jake said, resuming the walk and talk. “I had to get up to speed quickly, ‘cause my girlfriend was an early adopter of the headband. The connection you can get with your partner’s light-patterns is amazing. That was even before they got to be pretty much subliminal for me. You’ll never pry this baby off my head!” The headband sparkled with white fireworks. “And of course you practically can’t get laid without it nowadays, except with another… holdout.” A red and pink counter-streaming wiggle on his head, probably indicating that he had nearly used the word “shut-head” instead of “holdout.” He peered at Elton’s headband. “Whoa, sorry to bring up a sensitive subject!”

Jake was probably fully aware of Elton’s (lack of) romantic history. He slapped Elton’s back. “Just tryin’ to get to know you!” Green dots on his headband wavered and merged together into a green band, which turned solid indigo. He peered again at Jake’s headband. “You look a little overwhelmed, sorry. And you look like you have a question for me.” He stopped walking, and turned his head in invitation.

Elton took a deep breath. “I’m a little surprised myself that I’ve made it to this point of the interview process, as a holdout. There are other cryptographers that could do just as—nearly as—well, with more unquestionable brand loyalty to Lument.”

Jake nodded, and the indigo beam around his head broke into paler dashes that marched from the front of his head to the back. “Someone must have said this already, but we’re really looking for diversity in our employees. We want to bring people in who were hesitant to adopt the technology, so we can understand their perspective, and respect it—or, even try to convince them it’s as great as we know it is. It can really bring people together. And, a little cynically, I think bringing you on board would give us some credibility among previous holdouts.” He paused, surveying Jake’s light display again. “You still look dubious.”

“I’m also concerned you’ll take my true-quantum-random crypto technology and run with it. As I’ve said, I want to be on-board in its implementation, so I know it’s done ethically. No government or corporate back-doors.”

“Yeah, you’ve said so. Yep, that’s another reason we’re so interested in you; we really think the stuff you’re developing is amazing. And we’re totally committed to customer privacy, above all else. I hope you’ve gotten adept enough to tell I’m totally telling the truth!” Indeed, the soft blue background of his headband was almost impossible to mimic except by actually telling the truth.

“Thanks for the reassurance.” Elton thought he might as well ask his biggest question, directly. “What about transparency? Will the thought-to-light algorithm that you use to turn brain signals into light patterns ever go open source?”

There was only a momentary yellow throb in Jake’s light pattern. “Well, that’s not exactly my department, but I personally think we should release a lot more about how it works. You must know, though, that mimicry is a problem, and we can’t just release it all. People make their own illegal electrode skullcaps that go under the headbands… criminals and con artists could fake truth-telling and trustworthy patterns. We have to change things up from time to time to keep up with all that. We officially don’t even admit that we change things up in the algorithm. I hope my telling you that helps you to trust us!”

“Yes, I do see that point of view.” It was well known that they “changed things up in the algorithm,” so Jake wasn’t giving him anything he didn’t already know. Elton started walking again. Passing a Dali painting (maybe original?), he could see, reflected in its glass, dancing green lights on his head, probably broadcasting his incomplete satisfaction.

Jake’s headband went deep blue and steady. “I do like someone around who challenges me. Do you want the job or not? We already pretty much decided we wanted you, but I wanted to meet you and see you’re not a psycho!” A vigorous red swirl.

*

Elton was surprised at his relief, and even joy, as he left the building with his new job at Lument. The street commuters were, oddly, much more appealing than before. On his way home, random men and women, total strangers, waved at him, and offered thumbs-ups and even high-fives. They didn’t know he had just gotten a job, but could they read that he was particularly happy just from his headband signals? He had scoffed at this behavior before, seeing other glad-handers, but he felt affection to them, now. He even had trouble disconnecting from the joy in his head, and summoning his usual cynicism. He had to concentrate a bit even to notice that there were some shut-heads making their way along the sides of the crowd, some of them even hooded, heads without light.

On his way out of his building to head to the interview, he had seen a homeless man dealing with an apparently decades-old cash register, the man’s headband displaying tranquil forest-green. As as he walked by this time, the homeless man, still cash-registering, looked up at him. The man’s pattern turned to flashing blood-red, and Elton, repulsed, hurried into his building.

*

As his first few weeks passed at Lument, Elton slept amazingly every night. The efforts he was being employed for were going wonderfully. It did seem it would be possible to integrate essentially unbreakable, quantum-random encryption into their products. Even more, his bosses were refreshingly hands-off, and seemed to agree with everything he was doing. He was also getting along great with his co-workers, making friends, and there were maybe even a couple of romantic possibilities. He knew better than to pursue those, but still, the flirtation contributed to some remarkably happy weeks.

One day, as he was packing up to go home, he was surprised to find a slip of paper under his keyboard, with writing in his own handwriting, and a little Texas flag. “Remember the Algoro!” it read. He had no particular relation or affinity to Texas or the Alamo, but the joke did help to remind him that he had in fact written this himself. He was reminding himself to check up on his concerns about the algorithm. Overcoming some resistance, he removed his headband. He took a deep breath, which helped assuage the discomfort his head was experiencing from not wearing the headband. He scratched vigorously where the headband had been, displaying for anyone looking an excuse to take it off besides just not wanting it on. He thought he detected the lights in the room around him turning a bit blue, and caught a whiff of lavender.

He poked around on the system to see if he had any access to anything related to the thought-to-light algorithm. He got a sense of déjà vu from the exercise. But he had no access. As a new, maybe not entirely trusted employee, all he had access to was some encryption and security code they had used a couple of years ago to fiddle around with, trying to connect that to a suite of new quantum-random chips that he had worked with before, that they had installed in the data centers. His security department was entirely sealed off from the department that dealt with the algorithm that turned electrode signals into light displays. He put his note back under the keyboard.

As he made his way out, he tried to join the commuting throng on the street as usual, but they weren’t having it; people edged away from him or didn’t seem to see him at all. He wasn’t feeling as great as he had the last few weeks, but still felt good enough that it shouldn’t repel anyone. But then he suddenly felt the nakedness on his head. He quickly got the headband out of his bag, and put it on. Some eyes immediately went to him, and he felt a burst of inclusion.

In the happy commuting throng, he caught a woman’s eye. She smiled, and his mind fluttered with the rush of her stunning pastel green and pink headband light sequence. It was like a Beethoven (of whom he was a big fan) concerto. The interaction was soon over, though. He wondered if the headband pattern he managed to produce was nearly as attractive as hers. He scoffed at a serious thought he had, of practicing headband patterns in front of the mirror. He knew that lots of people did that, and it had always seemed a ridiculous waste of time. But as he cleared his thoughts, he now found himself in front of a mirrored window on the street with a few others, watching his headband light pattern. He shook his head and continued home.

*

Maybe a week later, after lunch, he found a different slip of paper under his keyboard. Written on it was the name of a directory on their system, and an apparent password. He wasn’t sure if it was his handwriting.

He explored what was there, and was shocked to find what seemed to be the thought-to-light algorithm. His head throbbed. In the screen’s reflection, he thought he could see a discordant brown and green pattern jerking across his forehead.

It was a surprisingly small code. Much of it was impossible for him to parse. One thing he was curious about, based on conspiracy theories that he occasionally found plausible before he convinced himself otherwise, was that the ostensibly totally passive electrodes that read the brain signals were capable of feeding back, influencing people’s brain signals in return. He found some hints of code that might be able to do that, but like objects in eye-corners, once focusing on them, he could find nothing of the sort.

He did find some other odd things: hints that the code could rewrite itself, which had been prohibited by the anti-artificial-intelligence charter. But again, when he looked closely, these hints evaporated. He resolved to look at it further, but instead he felt his eye drawn to a file that included “random-top-secret” in its name. This file was totally legible to him. It contained the random-number generating code. It was a bleeding-edge pseudorandom-number generator, but as far as he could tell, it was still entirely deterministic. In the quantum-random chips he was an expert in, there was a truly indeterministic random-number generator based on the random emission of light from fluorescent molecules in the chip. This meant that, unlike the pseudorandom code, even with access to all the code and specs, it was impossible for anyone or anything (except God? ha) to predict the random number the chip would report.

The existing pseudorandom code was ordinary enough that he couldn’t believe it was actually top-secret. As the holder of a random-number-generating hammer in constant search of nails to apply it to, he had immediately had the thought to replace this pseudorandom code with one incorporating the genuinely random chip. Before he was fully conscious of it, he was already well along in his plans to enact this replacement, with the new code nearly finished to interface with the random chips.

“Nice pattern there, Elton!” he heard a female voice behind him. It was Jenny, a colleague in the cryptography group, with glittery hair, carefully spiked to accentuate her headband. Her voice often oscillated quite a bit in pitch, but he had gotten used to it. The voice was closer now. “Whatcha working on?”

His mind jerked back and forth, at first dead-set against sharing his activities, but he found his mind acquiescing, as he peered at her headband and found it a calming, safe, deep green.

He started to speak, but had to clear his throat. He was hungry. How many hours had it been? “Oh, I found this…” he said.

“Oh, thought-to-light code,” she said. Her voice was more monotone now. Then suddenly high-pitch: “Cool!” with an orange headband-swirl, then back to the original pitch. “I’ve looked around in there. Management might actually appreciate some code-tweaking there.” She walked away abruptly.

This was against anything management had said; they were highly secretive of this code. Although her hair would have been considered super-wild several years ago, before Lument headbands, that hairstyle was pretty common now. He never got the sense that Jenny was at all rebellious; no reason to doubt her encouragement was truthful.

Before he knew it, he had finished the code to integrate his chips, and had pushed the changes. It all felt inevitable.

Jake came by; today’s polo shirt color was green. “Nice job on the cryptography integration! We thought it might take a year, but it just took a month! But don’t worry, there’s still a lot we need you to do around here; you basically have a permanent job here. But I’m gonna take the last few hours of the day off, and we should celebrate tonight. Still figuring that out; I’ll text you. See ya there!”

Jenny passed by just then, too, giving a thumbs up to the celebration idea. “Woo! Go Elton!”

What? He was working on that, but he himself thought there could be months left on the cryptography project, with all the tests that remained to do. He tried to call up the code that he was working on, but his password wouldn’t work. This was of course quite alarming, and he had an urge to call someone about it. But as he found himself mesmerized by his screen’s reflection of a forest-green light-waver that was happening on his forehead, he calmed down. Instead, he made a call to install more quantum-random chips, since the load on them was probably already too high. All this was more than a day’s work, and he got up to go. The walls throbbed tranquil blue and green.

Again, he was excited to join the commuters on the street, and head home to prepare for the celebration tonight. There were fewer than before, but today he saw absolutely no one without a headband. Now, instead of a cacophony of erratic light-patterns on each head, their light-patterns all streamed together, a glorious flow-symphony of blue, salmon, and outbursts of glitter-green. He set off a happy orange throb on his own head. People were arm-in-arm, and some of them kissing. It was like a war had just been won. He probably kissed a few himself on his way home. As he arrived at his building, he did see an antique cash register out of the corner of his eye, but failed to remember the homeless man that he had seen fussing with it.

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Mark Neyrinck does some research, art, and writing related to science!  Email: mark.neyrinck[at]gmail.com

The Cloudrider

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Savage Science Fiction / Fantasy Contest ~ Second Place
Robert Hanover

A black-and-white landscape. The sky, with scattered clouds that get denser near the horizon, fills most of the image. Mist obscures the foreground on the right hand side and envelopes the promontories on the left. The promontory in the bottom left corner is overbuilt with a large, irregularly-shaped stone structure with many small windows that steps up the cliff. A tower extends from the top.

Photo Credit: Artetetra/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

Oren’s steed galloped over the river shallows, racing the sunrise. Clouds coated the night sky. In this, the early stage of his journey, he knew to follow the river. With luck and the wind at his back, he would reach Altilia in time.

Just one hour earlier, Oren stood in the great hall of his family’s manor, roused from a warm bed long after nightfall, listening to Commander Rykan of the palace guard reveal to Oren’s father a horrible truth. The king was dead. Killed in his chambers. Stabbed in the chest while his guards lay slain in the hall, their blood licking the stone walkway as the king’s blood seeped into his bedclothes. The perpetrators escaped, but Commander Rykan knew who did it. The king’s brother, Pyran, next in line for the throne after the untimely death of the prince the previous winter. All over a squabble with a neighboring king.

Oren’s home, the kingdom of Gildamar, bordered the land called Altilia to the east. Upon visiting Gildamar one summer, the Altilian king, a man named Minar, fell in love with a noblewoman named Reen, and she with him. The Gildamarian king’s brother, Pyran, had his own sights set on marrying Reen, but she left Gildamar with Minar when he departed. Upon their return to Altilia, Reen married Minar. She became the queen consort. Her firstborn child would one day be the ruler of Altilia. None of this sat well with Pyran, and he begged his brother, the Gildamarian king Benquo, to attack their neighbor and bring Reen home. Benquo’s refusal became his death warrant. In the haze of his lust for Reen, Pyran would not be stopped.

“He’s ordered the army of Gildamar be assembled,” Rykan said to those standing in the great hall. “He plans to launch an offensive in the coming hours. Perhaps sooner. He’s ordered the palace guard on full alert. He intends for us to accompany him to Altilia and fight alongside him as he wins back Lady Reen.”

Oren’s father, Hydrel, listened but did not speak. As Rykan spoke, Hydrel stroked the long gray beard that hung from his chin and ended in a thick braid. Oren watched to see how his father would react. He would have his own beard one day, when he grew older, and he wondered if his own fingers would find it in moments of great distress. He imagined they would.

Rykan continued. “The moment Pyran summoned me from my chambers and told me of his plans, I knew I could not follow him. I knew our already uneasy alliance with Altilia must face no strain. We cannot allow an unprovoked surprise attack on our neighbor. I had to disobey Pyran. I had to tell someone of his plan. He left me no choice.”

“And what, pray tell, do you suggest we do, Lord Commander? If, as you say, Pyran has control of the army, then stopping him would be impossible. What he has set in motion will not be easily halted or even delayed. If he means to win back Lady Reen by starting a war, who am I, but an old man in the twilight of my life, to try to stop him? You need soldiers, Lord Commander, not ancient wizards.”

Oren winced at his father’s response, for he knew the true reason Rykan sought help from their family. Hydrel knew it too, but Oren understood why his father might play dumb in an attempt to ward off the coming request.

“You are correct, Lord Hydrel. We cannot stop the plan Pyran has started, but we can warn the Altilians of what’s coming. We must. Someone among us must ride to Altilia. If Gildamar launches an unprovoked attack and catches the Altilians by surprise, King Minar will send out their dragons, and every man, woman, and child in Gildamar will be burned to ash. You must help us, Lord Hydrel. You’re the only one who can.”

At this, Hydrel scoffed, turning his head away from Rykan but never letting go of his beard.

“In another age, perhaps you would be right, Lord Commander. Perhaps I would be the most sensible choice to put an end to this senseless violence before it gets started. But, as surely a man of your experience can see, I am not the man I once was. I possess none of the thirst for heroics anymore. That thirst was quenched long ago. It saddens me to say it, but I can no longer ride the clouds.”

“Your service to the kingdom will remain in the annals of our history for as long as the kingdom stands, Lord Hydrel. But the time to rise is now. Your son, Oren, can ride the clouds. I’ve seen him do it. Oren can warn the Altilians and save us from certain destruction.”

Oren watched in horror as every eye in the room focused on him. Sure, he’d ridden the clouds before, but only in his training. Never when he had to. Never with his life on the line. Or the lives of others. It made sense Rykan would want a cloudrider to make the trek to Altilia. With the goblinlands between the two kingdoms, no one else could complete the quest alone. But…

“…I’m not ready,” Oren said. “I can’t go.”

Oren studied his father, waiting for some reaction to Rykan’s suggestion, unsure what his father would say. Hydrel stood beside a burning lantern. The flickering light cast shadows dancing across the wrinkles on his face. When he spoke, his voice sounded gentle but firm. Like always, everyone in the room gave him their full attention.

“Sometimes, actions that must be taken do not take account of a person’s readiness. They announce themselves and demand to be heard. You can do it, Oren. The question is not in your skill or ability but in your willingness and confidence in yourself. Are you willing to take this challenge on?” He paused. When Oren didn’t respond, Hydrel continued, “You’ll have to pass over the goblinlands. No other route will allow you to reach Altilia in time. You’ll have a head start on the army, and a single rider of your skill will outrun the sun. You can be there before morning if you leave immediately. You can ride my steed.”

Oren nodded, hoping his nervousness would not be evident to those nearby. Before he could raise any further objection, Rykan hustled him from the room and to the stable where his father’s faithful steed awaited a rider.

“I wish to ride my own steed,” Oren said. “Over there. Windracer.”

Rykan glanced from steed to steed and then to Oren. It was clear he trusted Oren’s father and his judgment. He wouldn’t have sought Hydrel out for this most important task otherwise. He was also a man who followed orders. Oren feared his request might be denied. Instead, Rykan led Oren to the steed he preferred, his own steed, Windracer.

“Tell the Altilians all you’ve heard tonight. Hold nothing back. Tell them I sent you. And tell them to brace for attack but respond in kind. I am hopeful a proper warning and time to establish a defense will preclude the use of their dragons. I pray to the gods of war that I’m right.”

Oren saddled Windracer and climbed on. Rykan slapped the steed’s hindquarters, and together rider and steed took flight into the darkened countryside with nothing but the land and their wits guiding their path.

Before reaching the goblinlands, Oren eyed the clouds overhead. With so much of the sky covered, he had plenty of targets. Wishing to test his magic before he needed it to survive, he lowered his head, closed his eyes, and recited the incantation. One hand held Windracer’s reins. The other gently stroked the steed’s mane. Oren waited to feel the lightness. When it didn’t come, he opened one eye and felt dismayed to see his steed still on the ground. It would be a short journey once they reached the goblinlands if they couldn’t ride the clouds. A short trek with a grisly end. Oren rode on, more unsure of himself than ever before.

The goblinlands that lay between Gildamar and Altilia owed no allegiance to either side. Centuries earlier, the goblinlands stretched from sea to sea, encompassing the land now called Gildamar and the land now called Altilia. Over time, the Gildamarians claimed more and more land to the south while the Altilians claimed more and more land to the north, squeezing the goblins into the land in between. For many generations, the goblins survived on their own, living off their remaining land and the occasional highjacking of wandering travelers. What happened to those travelers often served as a warning to others not to pass through the goblinlands on your own. Dismembered bodies were sent back to their kingdom of origin, their hideous remains a sign of what could happen to the next wayward traveler.

The first goblins Oren saw came from a cave near the roadside. Where there was one, there would be many. Swarms would descend on Oren if he couldn’t escape to the clouds. For the second time that night, he closed his eyes and whispered the words his father had taught him, the words uttered by generations of cloudriders before him. His idle hand reached out and caressed his steed’s neck. He felt himself growing lighter. Wind whipped through his cloak. Afraid to break the spell, Oren kept his eyes closed. But he was doing it. He was riding the clouds.

He didn’t get very high on this, his first cloudride outside the training grounds behind his family’s manor, but he reached far enough into the sky to escape detection by the goblins. For the first time that night, he felt like he might actually be able to complete his quest. He might actually be able to save Gildamar and Altilia from all-out war. He continued to feel that way, right up until the moment he reached the top of Mount Fidal and the final pass of the journey to the valley that held the mighty kingdom of Altilia.

Standing atop Mount Fidal, Oren looked down on Altilia. What he saw shocked him. The city was burning. There were fires everywhere. Huge black plumes of smoke reached up to the clouds. Oren didn’t know what to do. With what had happened in his own kingdom of Gildamar earlier that night and now this, it was clear something more was happening. Something terrible. He had made it this far. He kicked Windracer’s hindquarters, and he and the steed descended the mountain.

Inside the city, Oren realized the situation was far more dire than he saw from the top of Mount Fidal. Entire city blocks were burned to ash. Buildings large and small lay in ruin. The smell of burning wood filled his nose. He found no survivors.

As he wove through city streets strewn with the wreckage of whatever awful thing had happened here, he had one goal on his mind. He had to get to the castle and—if she was still alive—he had to save Lady Reen.

As he rode, he scanned every house and shop for any sign of life. As the minutes passed, the horrible truth that their entire world was under some sort of attack became apparent. But from what force? And why? He got his answer when he spotted between two clouds a dragon diving toward the city with flames bursting from its mouth.

Oren kicked Windracer into a higher gear. If Lady Reen had not been killed already, Oren knew only he could save her. He’d never ridden the clouds while carrying another before, but he knew it could be done. His father had done it once. To save a younger Oren when a cave troll attacked their caravan. Of course, the clouds may not be the safest place with a dragon flying amongst them. Even if he had to go the whole way back on foot, carrying Lady Reen on his back, he would do it. He would not leave a fellow Gildamarian behind.

At King Minar’s castle, Oren found the front gate toppled. He raced into the courtyard, where he found many from Minar’s palace guard burned and dead. They would’ve stood no chance against a dragon, but they died defending their king and their home. Who would do this? And why didn’t the Altilians unleash their own dragons in defense? Perhaps, Oren thought, the attack caught them by surprise the same way his father and Rykan feared an attack by Gildamar would. But this was more than an attack. This was destruction.

Inside the castle, Oren found the first door in Altilia still standing. The door to the castle’s keep. Oren dismounted his steed and pounded his fists against the door. If anyone survived the attack, they would be behind that door. From his own time spent in castles during his training, Oren knew the keep as the last refuge during a siege. He had to get inside, where he prayed he would find Lady Reen.

“My name is Oren, son of Hydrel of Gildamar. I come in peace. I mean no harm.”

He heard movement behind the door. As it swung open, Oren braced himself for attack. Despite his reasons for being there, Gildamar and Altilia still had a complicated history, and the response to a Gildmarian trying to access the keep of the Altilian king would almost certainly be met with bloodshed, even in a time of so much bloodshed.

When the door finally opened, Oren stood face to face not with surviving members of the palace guard or even with Lady Reen. Instead, he stood face to face with the king himself, King Minar, whom he recognized only from memory of having seen him once long ago during his visit to Gildamar that set many of the night’s events in motion.

“Your majesty, you’re alive?” The words blurted out before Oren could think to bow. The king didn’t seem fazed by this. He held a short blade, which he extended immediately toward Oren’s throat, nearly piecing his skin.

“What in the name of Atil are you doing here, Gildamarian?”

Oren realized in sudden horror that the king may think this the very attack Oren had ridden to warn him about.

“Your majesty, I assure you Gildamar is not responsible for what happened here tonight. For what’s happening. We have no dragons in Gildamar. You know this. I don’t know who is responsible, but it isn’t my people.”

Minar watched Oren carefully, finally lowering his sword and stepping back into the keep. Over his shoulder, he said, “But it is your people, Oren, son of Hydrel. The one riding the dragon over our heads, the one destroying the great kingdom of Altilia, is originally from Gildamar. She’s also the queen consort of Altilia. You likely know her as Lady Reen.”

Oren and King Minar talked for several more minutes, each learning more of what the other knew before coming to the same awful conclusion. This was a coordinated attack, years in the making, between the new king of Gildamar, Pyran, and the woman he loved, Reen, to destroy Altilia forever.

“What about Altilia’s other dragons?” Oren asked. “You can ride one. You can stop her.”

“The others are dead. She made sure of that before she started her assault. There’s no one left to defend Altilia. No one can take down a dragon from the air. How would you even get up there?” Oren looked at the king, who didn’t seem to remember Oren’s lineage.

“Your majesty, I might be able to help.”

Together, they laid out a plan. Minar even offered Oren his family sword, but Oren refused. He had his own blade, while not as sharp or well made as Minar’s, it would get the job done if he could get close enough.

He rode out. Back in the courtyard, he heard the dragon before he could spot it. And, for the first time, he spotted Lady Reen riding atop it. The dragon dove at the castle, flames hotter than anything ripping through stone. Oren closed his eyes and recited the words he knew now he’d always feared growing up. For whenever he spoke them, it meant his life was in danger, that he needed to act to save himself and others. But it was his calling. He was a cloudrider. One of many in a line as long as time. He could do this. He was ready.

The dragon rose back up to the sky. Oren followed. Windracer danced over the clouds.

Oren thought they might get behind the dragon, attack before Reen saw them coming. He twisted the reins and maneuvered them to make an attack. At the last moment, Reen looked over her shoulder and spotted them coming. The dragon dove, turned, and came back up facing them. Oren braced himself for the flames. He hugged Windracer’s neck and told her he was sorry for bringing her here, for what was about to happen.

The dragon opened its mouth. Oren felt the heat of the flames. Windracer rose higher. The fire shot out but below them. Windracer whinnied. They were safe.

With newfound courage, Oren gripped the reins tighter and urged Windracer even higher into the clouds. They rose and rose until the dragon appeared beneath them.

“Trust me, old friend. I know what I’m doing.”

Oren leapt off Windracer’s back and plummeted toward the dragon. As he fell, he drew his sword. Lady Reen grew larger in his sights. He was close.

He landed on the dragon. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He nearly dropped his sword. Reen turned to face him. She looked shocked to see anyone alive. That shock was the last thing she felt. Oren buried his sword deep in her gut.

“For Altilia,” he said, and he meant it. No longer would their two peoples, whoever was still alive, allow petty squabbles to separate them. They would be one. And when the history books told of this day, they would tell about the one who saved it.

The cloudrider.

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Robert Hanover writes horror and fantasy fiction. He lives in Pennsylvania, where he works by day and writes under the darkness of night. Email: rhanover158[at]gmail.com

In for a Penny

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Savage Science Fiction / Fantasy Contest ~ First Place
Susan Smith

Corner view of a room with high ceilings. On the left side is a tall multi-paned window with inside shutters and window seat over a radiator. A book is open on the window seat. The walls have wide crown molding and wainscotting. On the right side, maroon draperies cover the wall from below the molding to the floor. Part of a chandelier is visible in the top right corner. A pale blue upholstered armchair is in front of the draperies. Behind it is a rocking horse tricycle. An upholstered ottoman with a blue blanket and pampas grass tossed on it is in front of the chair. The chair and ottoman are on an area rug with a pattern that looks like tile. The floor is unfinished wood.

Photo Credit: Sweef/Flickr (CC-by)

“Hey, hotshot,” Mike was already there when I arrived, several drinks lined up on the table. He handed me a glass as I sat down. The bar was busy that night, electro-pop thumping through the speakers, neon strip lighting oscillating between red and blue.

“So?” he asked. “How is working for the Magic Bureau? Did you have to wipe any warlock arses yet?” He gave me a dig in the ribs, causing me to spill half my drink.

“Ew. No, I told you, I’m just in the records department. No meeting of the actual powerful and mighty.” Something I was grateful for. The thought of coming face to face with one of them filled me with more than a little dread.

“Still, you’re rubbing shoulders with the elite now.” He threw a shot back and slid one across the table to me.

“I haven’t finished this drink yet,” I protested, waving the now slightly-emptier glass at him.

“Well, speed up!” He threw a second shot back.

I drained my first drink and he gave me a joking thumbs up.

“Go on then—any gossip?” he slid his chair conspiratorially closer to mine. “Did you hear any rumours about what any of them are up to?”

“I can’t tell you that!” I picked up my first shot, swirling the lurid green liquid around the glass.

“Come on, I can see it in your face. You found out something pure gold, right?”

I struggled to hide a grin. In truth, reading through some of the personal files had been more than an eye-opener. “Okay, okay,” I lowered my voice. “This is just between you and me though, right?”

“Sure.”

“I’m deadly serious.”

“Scout’s honour.” He smiled.

 

The following morning my head thumped in rhythm with the buzzing of my alarm clock. I slapped at buttons until it fell silent. Midweek drinking was never a good idea. I groaned and, knowing that calling in sick on my second day of work was not an option, dragged myself out of bed.

Forty-five minutes later, my shoes squeaked across the polish-scented floor. The sight of the atrium was never going to get old. Sunlight streaming in through the thirty-foot-high windows, spiralling colonnades stretching up to the ceiling.

I made my way towards the elevators, pinching myself that I was actually working there. It had taken four years of evening classes to get the relevant qualifications and then another two before I was successful at an interview.

As the elevator door slid open, I was met with the impassive stare of a tight-jawed security guard.

“Good morning,” I offered, stepping to one side to let him out.

He didn’t move, but instead reached forward and took a tight grip behind my right elbow, leading me inside.

“We ask that you don’t make a scene.” He kept his voice low and calm, but he had an air about him that suggested non-compliance was not an option.

I watched as he hit the button for the top floor—the executive suite.

“Is—er—everything okay?” I ventured, my stomach flipping from more than just the speed of the elevator.

The look he gave me suggested it wasn’t.

The bell pinged as we reached our floor, and as the doors glided open, I found myself frog-marched down the thick pile carpeted hallway.

“We’ll take it from here.” The company CEO in her several-thousand-dollar power suit and shoes ushered me into her office, where two other executives were already sitting behind the long dark oak desk I’d been interviewed at only three weeks before.

“Sit.” She pointed to a chair in the centre of the room.

I sat. Somehow I got the impression they weren’t about to offer me a promotion.

“Trust,” she began, seating herself directly opposite me. “Trust and discretion is at the forefront of this company. And you,” her hands clenched into fists, “have betrayed us in one single goddamned day.” She spun her laptop round, showing an array of headlines plastered across the internet.

Ancient Warlock Family Legacy Lie

The Great Galdini’s Half Human Heritage Revealed

Fraud—Purebred Propaganda

“Posted anonymously late last night, picked up by the media first thing this morning.” The CEO slammed her laptop closed, a murderous look in her eyes. “As you are the only person to have accessed his file in the last six months, do you care to explain?”

I felt sick. I knew exactly what had happened. How could Mike have done this to me? “I didn’t…” My voice faltered. Whether by my hand or not, it was my fault. “Are you going to call the Police?” I asked meekly instead.

“And ruin our reputation by revealing where the leak came from? No. This has been dealt with internally.”

“Has been dealt with?”

“Mr Galdini asked who was responsible, and we told him.”

“You—you told him it was me?” A literal boulder lodged in my throat.

“I would suggest you relocate.” She gave a justified smile. “Though I’m not sure even the moon would be far enough.”

After that I was escorted off the premises, my whole body numb and heavy. I had to get out of the city. My mind flitted between fear of what would happen if the warlock found me and anger that Mike had leaked what I’d told him. He’d deny it, of course, but come on. I tell one person outside the company and suddenly it’s headline news? There’s no way that was a coincidence. I cursed him out loud. When I got somewhere safe, we’d have more than words.

I could feel myself beginning to panic. I had nowhere to go. Maybe my cousin’s house in the north? But then would that be putting them in danger? I leant against the wall of the Bureau for a moment, the cool of the bricks sending a shiver through my body. My future was screwed, that was a certainty. The job I’d worked so hard to get was gone. Calm down, think. I took two deep breaths. Then two more. First step, I’d need supplies.

Thirty minutes later and laden with a large bag of food, I shouldered open my apartment door. Fifteen minutes to pack essentials, then I’d be on the road. I kicked the door shut behind me, wondering how many changes of clothes I should take.

“Good morning.”

I froze in horror as the warlock melted into view in front of me.

In desperation, I threw the bag of groceries straight at him, then turned and grabbed for the front door handle. As my fingers took grip, the metal of the handle began to liquefy, dripping between my fingers and seeping through the gaps in the floorboards.

I fought the urge to vomit as I turned back to face him.

He pointed me towards the armchair. “If you’d be so kind as to take a seat?”

I obliged, picking my way between the scattered food and supplies now littering the floor. As I sat, it occurred to me how much I’d never liked the chair, with its faded blue and white pattern, threadbare armrests. But I’d had little money when I’d moved in and the people across the street had been throwing it out. And now, it was the chair I was about to die in.

Mr. Galdini stood and regarded me for a good minute, his eyes burning into me. “Have I wronged you in some way?” He said at length. “Caused you to hate me? To seek revenge?”

“No,” I mumbled, not daring to meet his gaze.

“Then why?” he snapped, the room seeming to reverberate with his voice.

“I’m sorry,” I gabbled. “This was all a big mistake. If I can just explain, you see, it wasn’t—”

He held up a hand for silence. “My reputation is ruined. Not only am I the laughingstock of the whole world, I am now deemed a half-breed. Do you understand what that means?”

I nodded. It meant ostracization from both sides. I glanced towards the window and the fire escape beyond it. Could I make it if I ran? Could I get the window open in time?

“You won’t make it.” He seemed to read my mind and a moment later, invisible cords started winding around my chest, binding me to the chair. I struggled against them, but with no avail. It was one thing to accept that you couldn’t untie knots, it was another thing entirely to not even be able to touch them.

“Any other secrets of mine you’re planning on exposing? Any further humiliations?”

“No, I swear.”

“What else did you learn about me?”

“Nothing.” The cords were making it hard to take more than shallow breaths.

He considered for a moment. “I can’t take that risk.”

“You’re going to kill me?” The words came out barely above a whisper.

“That would be far too merciful.” He knelt down in front of me.

I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or more scared. “Then what?”

“I’m going to wipe your memory. Stop you from doing any more damage.”

“My memory? Of working at the Bureau?” Losing only a couple of days wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’m going to wipe the lot.” He reached forward and clamped his fingers painfully tight on my temples.

“What? Please, no. Please.” The thought of knowing nothing, of losing everything I’d ever been terrified me.

“Be quiet, I’m concentrating.” He began murmuring a spell under his breath and black tendrils of fine smoke began to encircle me.

“Please don’t,” I begged. The room began to grow darker as the cloud of magic grew thicker. My thoughts scrabbled for a way out of this. Losing my memories was as good as dying. There has to be something. And at that moment, one treacherous idea came to mind. A bargaining chip. “Wait! Stop!”

“I can do this with you unconscious,” he growled.

I spoke quickly. “You know Magda the Invulnerable? You have a feud with her, don’t you?”

“I do. She is someone I hate more than you.”

“Well, it—erm—turns out she’s not, you know, invulnerable.”

He gave a half-smile and the black mist began to fade as he let go of the spell. “I’m listening.”

Two hours later and a hundred miles down the road, I heard the news break on the radio, the excited chatter of yet another exposé. I switched stations, flicking through until I found one that still had music playing. I cranked the volume up and sang along as the endless green blur of the rolling hills streamed by.

Integrity, I decided, was overrated.

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Susan Smith is a graduate in Creative Writing from the UK, with a passion for both reading and writing science-fiction and fantasy.

Two Poems

Posted on by

Beaver’s Pick
Judith Taylor

A diptych of two black-and-white images. The top photograph: a woman with long, slightly messy hair leaning against a white wall. She's wearing jeans and a T-shirt and has a bandana wrapped around her wrist. Her legs are bent with knees up in the foreground. The bottom photograph: a woman lying on her back on a made bed on a comforter with a striped pattern. Her left arm is raised, elbow up, with her hand placed over her right eye. Her face is slightly turned toward the camera and her left eye is closed. She's wearing a plaid shirt. The rest of her body is out of frame.

Photo Credit: ashley.adcox/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

Cycle

The body adapts to dearth.
Starve it of food and it will struggle on
consuming itself, as long as self remains to it.
Starve it of sleep, and it tries
—good body—to please you

adapts to papery eyelids, sugar cravings;
that feeling of running hot, as if your skull
has become a light source and you can’t switch off;
that tendency to weep.
It only needs a little training

—staying up late, rewriting lists
from all you haven’t achieved today
into what you’ll achieve tomorrow;
or scrolling down your phone screen
for a change of news—

and the body will take what’s given it
for the new normal: wake you
after two or three hours, as if
it’s had enough; and never allow itself
to dive down into the deep waves

between your frittering dreams, as if it’s fearful
it might never regain the surface.
You can teach yourself to be
terrifyingly, constantly alert this way.
People do. Not just in wars:

there’s a kind of politician who boasts
in their memoirs, of their appetite
for the tough task; of their iron will.
How they trained themselves to exist on
two or three hours of sleep. And nobody

cuts in to say the obvious:
that living like that will make you sick
in the end, will make you
borderline mad. Like us, in bodies we force
to stay awake beyond endurance

afraid of what’s being done, that we’ll have
to surface to. Another day
to scroll down through, our eyes dry
and painful. Another list. A bad dream
we are too lit up to wake from.

 

Daughter

In the dream, he says get out of here
and don’t come back. I think it’s a joke:
he likes to do the stern Victorian patriarch.

It’s an act, he says
—confronting us with our own bourgeois morality
for our own good, since we’re too weak in the head
to be led on rational lines.

I play along
but I think about that business with the earrings
and that he’s a hypocrite too. Oh
that teenage word!
—but who can you use it on if not your father?

In the background,
in the dream, my mother frowns. She knows this game
is going to make me late in leaving
and she’s seen too much, all these years,
to find it funny now.

It’s only once I’m awake I realise
that I called her up about as grey as she is now,
and as cynical. My father, though
I must have dreamed at least a decade younger.

Still arguing, for the sake of it, still maintaining
black was white, too, if he thought it likely
someone would answer back
and give him a chance to overbear them. Not

in the slightest doubt of himself.
Not hesitant
yet. Not fragile.

pencil

Judith Taylor comes from Perthshire, in eastern central Scotland, and now lives and works in Aberdeen, where she is one of the organisers of the monthly “Poetry at Books and Beans” events. Her first full-length collection, Not in Nightingale Country, was published in 2017 by Red Squirrel Press, and she is one of the Editors of Poetry Scotland magazine. Email: j.taylor.09[at]btinternet.com