In this case, we got humorous fantasy. Who knew?

Many of you had problems viewing our July issue. There was some strange, Twilight Zone-type crap going on, but the problem has been solved, so no worries.

And some more important news: our September issue is filled, our October issue will soon be filled, and our November and December science-fiction issues are filling up nicely. We are officially stuffed. As of today, August 20^th 2009, we are no longer accepting regular submissions unless they are science fiction! If you submitted a non-science fiction piece to us before that date, you’re safe. We’ll be sending out acceptances/rejections soon. Regular submissions will resume December 15^th, 2009.

Anyway. Enough business. On with the pleasure! This month features eight stories by authors Bill Waters, Christi Krug, Mary Baader Kaley, Jude-Marie Green, Christopher Jacobsmeyer, Glen Batchelor, and Errid Farland, as well as two poems by Ann Howells. And if you didn’t catch Genevieve Valentine’s latest “Abridged Classics,” check that out, too. Enjoy!

—Andrew Kaye, editor-in-chief

When I’m bored, waiting for a client to show up, I’ll flick flame from my fingertips and light the candles on each table. A parlor-trick kind of power, completely useless back home, I use the Flaming Fingertips to dazzle people and light candles. That scary little Frenchman from Cirque loved my trick, and after some serious dickering, I sponsored a few of his acts. But that’s another story altogether.

I had just turned down a group of Goth kids. Black leather and vampire fangs fake or (shudder!) real won’t entertain a few dozen grouchy demons.  I was doing the kids a favor; disappointed demons exact revenge in ways Dante hadn’t ever considered. You’d never know it from the way they flipped me off as they slithered out of the bar. I sighed and waved to Pete for a fresh drink.

Pete set me up with a rum and coke, then sauntered off behind the bar.  He never bothers me, never charges me, and never complains about my clients. A long time ago I set up a gig for his useless brother-in-law, a street-corner magician whose tattered silk top hat was better than his act. The demons hated his show, but kept him as a pet. Pete’s almost hysterical in his gratitude.

“Russell, someone here for ya,” Pete yelled across the room.

I looked up and saw Joe, The Devil’s Messenger. Joe darted over to me. “Got a message for you, Russell,” he said, “from your brother.” He scrunched his face and somehow managed to look like my brother, the devil, Lucifer, the great Satan, yadda yadda yadda. “‘RUSSELL!”  Those damned pets of yours are clogging up the River and making one Hell of a mess. ‘Take care of it.’ End message.” He massaged his face. “”The messages from your brother sure hurt, Russell.  Oh, and that annoying demon Jasper wants to know when the next entertainment will be.”

I said, “A few salamanders are clogging up the Styx? Jeez, why is he bothering me on my day off?”

My visits home are short because I just can’t stand the heat.  A while back I came up with the idea of constructing a fire-proof suit. Hellbend-salamander leather would have protected my delicate skin; just a pair of gloves would have been an improvement, but I cancelled my plans to turn the creatures into leather. I just didn’t have the heart to slaughter them. I deposited them in the River Styx and hoped they gave old Charon the occasional fright.

Joe shook his head. “Not just a few. I flew by the area, to give you a report, you know? The water’s fairly boiling with them. Must be millions. They’re causing problems with Charon’s boat, and you know how he hates that.”

“Don’t sweat the salamanders. They’ll float down the River and over the Edge before long.” I leaned towards Joe and lowered my voice. “I heard Charon got a new boat recently,” I said. “He’s been keeping some of the fares for himself, hasn’t he?” I loved to dish the dirt with Joe. He knows all the good gossip.

Pete brought over another round of refreshments for us and we talked for a while. Finally Joe stood up.

“I’m being summoned,” he said. “What should I tell Jasper?”

I made a rude gesture. “He’s always nagging me and he’s never satisfied with the entertainments. ‘You call that funny, Russell?’ ‘I could do better than that, Russell.’  ’A damned soul could do better than that, Russell’. Phooey. Tell him to jump in the lake. That should annoy him sufficiently.”

Joe laughed. “Take care of yourself, Russell.”

I busied myself with flaming rum, a stupid grin on my face. It’s always great getting news from home. Even messages from my brother. I reviewed what he said, shaking my head. The Big Evil was upset about a few lizards. Then I considered what the message said exactly. “Those _damned_ pets of yours.”  Uh oh. This could be trouble.

I thought about how I’d planned to dispatch the salamanders.  “Hey Pete!  I need the services of that crocodile hunter. You still have the number?”

Pete has his ways.  He made a call and not ten minutes later we heard a motorcycle engine screaming in the parking lot. A few moments after that she walked into the room, backlit by the afternoon sun, a tall and well-built figure clad in jeans and a purple tie-dye Grateful Dead tee-shirt. She looked at Pete, who gestured to me. She walked over to my booth.

I don’t walk on cloven hooves. I leave that bit of drama for my brother. So when I say my first glance of Janthia Theophilus shook me to my toes, you know I mean it. My toes, five on each foot, shook.

I stood up to greet her, showbiz-like, with a big touchy-feely hug.

“Janthia,” I whispered into her delicate ear, “is that a knife?”

“I use this one to skin snakes,” she said as I stepped back from her. She disappeared the knife into a sheath on her thigh. “Snakes don’t get a second chance with me.”

“Oh. Erm.” I returned to my seat. I decided to dazzle her a bit with my powers. I lit up eight fingertips and two table candles, so she’d see me clearly.

She slid into the bench across from me. “Your nails are burning,” she said.

I shook them out.

“So what’s the gig? Pete wasn’t very informative.” She held my gaze with her liquid brown eyes.

I explained the situation to her. “They’ve got to go,” I concluded.

“You want me to go to Hell to dispose of these creatures for you?” She shrugged. “Okay. I can do that. My fee is payable upfront.” She named a figure that would bankrupt Midas.  My puny budget certainly wouldn’t cover it.

I countered with a fraction of that amount. “Of course, there is the fringe benefit of this job.”

She snickered. “What, the hot tubbing?” She slapped her leg and laughed. I itched to help her with the leg-slapping, but remembering the knife, I restrained myself.

“These aren’t ordinary salamanders. They’re Hellbend Salamanders. Their hide is fireproof.”

Her eyes squeezed into thoughtful slits. “Hellbends? They’re extinct. There was only one little creek in the Appalachians that supported them, and it was recently paved over for a fast-food joint.”

I said, “How’d you know that? Only a couple of extremist environmental groups knew about that.”

She ignored my question and said, “Okay, my fee will be the cash and my pick of the salamanders.”

“Deal.” I stuck out my hand, and when she grasped it and gave the traditional double-pump, I felt chills run up my spine. She’d look so good in a form-fitting leather suit.

Moments later we stood in the parking lot.  She donned her helmet and mounted the bike. The engine roared and revved. I stood there like a lox.

The engine idled down to a dull racket. “Get on,” she said.

“I haven’t done this before,” I said. I put my hands on her shoulders and swung my leg over the rear tire, but I didn’t quite clear it. I hopped back a few feet to regain my balance then I tried again. This time I managed to straddle the seat. “Where do I put my feet?” I screamed into her ear.

She pointed out the pegs sticking out from the side of the machine. I clutched her shoulders and stiffened my feet against the pegs.

She moved my hands to her waist. “Hold on!” Like she had to tell me twice.

The motorcycle leapt forward and I was sure I’d fall off the back, but I tightened my grip on her waist. She spun onto the road and accelerated. I concentrated; finding the onramp to the Road to Hell is mostly in the mind: if you know it’s there, it’ll be there. It appeared ahead of us and I thumped her on the shoulder, but she was already leaning into the turn.

The Road to Hell is as long as you want it to be.  I wanted to solve the lizard issue quickly, which meant a short Road; but I had my hands around Janthia’s waist and didn’t want to let go.

We ended up riding the pavement until her tank was almost empty. We pulled up to the dock across from the Gates of Hell.

We had a problem.

Janthia throttled down the motorcycle engine to a roaring idle and steadied us with her booted feet. I clung to her for balance. I didn’t think about falling off the bike and losing acres of skin and I stopped thinking about Janthia’s luscious body. I just stared at the River Styx in front of us.

The black surface of the River sparkled with a skim of ice, like a pond on a winter morning just after the first hard frost. The crystals washed gently on the far banks. Any other time that bank would show volcanic luff and shivered obsidian. Now slime blanketed the path and the Gates themselves hung open and slightly ajar.

We walked to the edge of the empty landing.  I was puzzled.

“Where’s Charon?”

The River at our feet bubbled and we both took a step back. A skeletal hand emerged and Charon pulled himself out of the Stygian water. His robes, never in the best shape, oozed water and mud.  He looked like a wet black kitten and he looked just as pissed.

“They capsized my boat,” he moaned.

Janthia laughed. Not some discreet giggle or chuckle but a full-throated burst.

Charon turned his back on us and uttered a few words in ancient Greek. His robes dried magically and he fluffed up like that same kitten subjected to a hair dryer.

My turn to laugh.

His spine stiffened as he held his hands out towards the River and muttered more words. Nothing happened.  He spoke louder, apparently urging the water to spit out his boat. Finally he stomped a foot and yelled, “Come forth!”

A nifty power boat, painted orange and green and sporting a brass bell on the bow, sprang out of the water. The name painted in gold was ‘Soul Cargo,’ the port designated ‘Hell.’

The boat eased up to the dock near Charon.  Janthia nudged me.

“What? Oh! Uh, Charon, could you give us a lift?”

He turned to me and intoned, “You may not ride.”

“Aw, come on, I need to get to the other side.”

He sighed. “You don’t want to go over there now, Russell. Those damned creatures of yours are causing havoc and your brother is, well, let’s just say he’s seeing red.”

Janthia nudged me again.  ”Give him a coin. He has to take you if you pay the fare.”

“Two coins,” Charon said.

I dug into all five of my jeans pockets and came up with two pennies. Janthia had a quarter and a golden dollar in her palm.

“Cheap seats and business class,” he said. “All aboard. Hurry up, I’ve got some real customers waiting.” Several forlorn souls huddled behind us on the dock, waiting for their trip to Hell’s Gates.

“Will my bike be safe here?” Janthia said.

“Who’s going to steal from Hell?”

We debarked from Charon’s boat and slogged through the gunk on the riverbank. The sticky mud clung to my loafers, and I almost lost them after just a few steps. Janthia’s boots conquered the mud easily. She looked at me impatiently.

“Hurry up, Russell, we’re right behind them!”

I caught up to her inside the Gate. She stood frozen, staring at Cerberus. I had forgotten about the dog. He usually stands outside the Gates, snarling and drooling at the new souls as Charon drops them off. He’s all show; anyone with enough nerve to scratch the dog’s ears will have a friend for life. The trick is scratching all three heads at once.

Each of his heads lolled on the ground, snoring. His breath was awful, smelling of fish and mud. Little bits of salamander lay scattered around his body. Janthia made a distressed noise.

“Those poor creatures! This brute ate them all!” She glared at the somnolent canine.

“Three mouths, one stomach,” I said. I pointed to his swollen tummy. “I doubt he could eat very many of them.”

I was right, damn it. The trail of the salamanders continued into Hell.  ”Let’s go,” I said.

I stayed on the edge of the trail, where the mud barely coated the cobblestones. Janthia strode up the middle of the road. I was pleased with her determination to find the creatures and dispose of them but sure wished she’d slow down. I didn’t want to slip on the filthy street. Damned souls would laugh at me… they don’t have much entertainment and any little thing sets them off.

But then I realized very few souls watched us. Every other time I’ve been on this road, they lined the edges to watch the new arrivals and guests. Demons would brandish whips and forks as crowd control. Today’s emptiness disturbed me; surely the salamanders hadn’t scared the Suffering Souls?

Joe the Messenger snapped into being in front of me. “Your brother’s on the way,” he said, then he snapped away.

I called to Janthia, “Hold up there, would you?” She came over to me at the side of the road.

With a whoosh of wind and gust of smoke, my brother appeared. He wore a thick white terrycloth bathrobe, belted in the middle, which showed off his bare legs nicely. Aside from the horns, and the pointy chin, and the deep red skin, and his 10 foot height, Luke actually looked a lot like me.

“Russell! What have you done? And how do you intend to fix it?” He snarled the words like only a big brother can and I felt the sibling resentment start.

“What did _I_ do? This is your fault, you know,” I said, but he ignored me.

“Millions of those damned things slithered right up Main Street. They’ve thrown themselves into The Fiery Lake of Doom and Despair and now it’s frozen.”

Janthia arched an eyebrow. “Hell froze over?”

“Just the one lake,” I said, irritated.”Luke, it’s your own fault,” but he continued to rant.

“The hotter the fire, the colder those salamanders get. And the FLODAD was extremely hot. The critters drained all the heat and now there’s the biggest skating rink you ever saw, smack in the middle of Hell. These souls are supposed to be suffering and instead we’ve got the Winter Olympics.”

“That’s where everybody is?” I laughed. “Luke, this is your fault. You damned the salamanders, remember? And when you damn creatures, they know they belong in Hell.”

He stood there with his mouth open. He sputtered a bit but I talked over him. “You have to un-damn them to get rid of them, big brother.”

“What? You would have me  bless  a lake full of salamanders?”  His wings spread out and shook with fury. Luke has marvelous wings, multi-colored like an Amazon parrot, and feathered, not the stretched leather of batwings. I spent a good part of my childhood collecting his molted feathers and trying to construct my own pair.

Out the corner of my eye I noticed Janthia’s reaction. She stared at his wings, and I would swear that I saw an ethereal outline of wings behind her own shoulders. The wings spread out, glittering, then suddenly faded away. Not soon enough, however; my brother had seen them.

“You brought an angel to Hell with you?” He spoke so quietly that all of Hell fell silent to listen. It’s one of his better tricks.

“I didn’t know!  Janthia, you’re a crocodile hunter!”

She glanced at me. “Things change, Russell darling. Five years ago I slaughtered creatures for a living. One day a crocodile slaughtered me. Now I’m a disciple of St. Francis and I intend to help these salamanders of yours. Let’s get on with it!”

Luke muttered darkly about angels and blessings but he followed us to the Fiery Lake of Doom and Despair.

In moments we crested a hill overlooking the FLODAD. Lava spewed from distant peaks. We were surrounded by desert sand and saguaro. In the middle was a frozen block of ice as big as the Great Salt Lake. Bigger, actually. Hard-boiled demons figure-skated in the middle; Suffering Souls lay on the ice and enjoyed the coolness on their baked, burned skin.

I peered into the lake and saw my salamanders, frozen almost motionless. They studded the ice like grapes suspended in jello. One rolled an eyeball at me and winked.

“What now?” Luke grumbled. He glowered at the cavorting demons who managed to ignore their Lord and Master while turning perfect triple Axels.

“You’ll need to bless the salamanders,” Janthia said. “So they won’t try to return.”

Luke pulled himself up to his full height. His teeth clenched as he raised his hands over the Lake. He spit out, “Bless the salamanders.”

Nothing apparent happened, but Janthia smiled. “Thank you, Luke. The creatures of God are pleased with you this day.” Luke snorted laughter and a little flame.

“Now’s it’s Russell’s turn,” Janthia said. “Russell, get to it.”

I said, “Huh?  What?” She gestured to the FLODAD’s ice and I realized my one power finally had a practical use. I squeezed off ten fingers of flame at the Lake and watched as the edges melted.

“This is going to take forever,” I said.

Janthia shook her head. “Just watch. The Lake’s already hot, you just need to tip the balance a little.”

I kept firing at FLODAD and sure enough the melting accelerated.  Ice-skating demons broke through the ice, and the Suffering Souls near the shore moaned as heated water caressed their bodies. My salamanders emerged from the depths of the lake, none the worse for wear, and I swear they were smiling.

“Luke, may I borrow your Suffering Souls for a time?”  She looked up into his eyes in her most appealing way.

“Of course, anything you want,” said my hard-boiled brother.

“Oh, and which way to the Flegeton?” I swear she batted her eyelashes.

#

Janthia was magnificent. She directed the Suffering Souls to each pick up one of those salamanders. Then she marched them to the River Flegeton. They pitched my slow-moving creatures into the river of fire.

The flames on the surface of the River Flegeton flared a bit as the salamanders dived in and sank.

“Won’t it freeze up, like the FLODAD?”

Janthia shook her head.  “I did the calcs, Russell. Flegeton moves constantly, and is constantly renewed with fire.  The salamanders won’t make a dent in its heat!”

Jasper stood at the river edge with a pitchfork and prodded the Suffering Souls back towards the now-defrosting FLODAD.

“Great entertainment, Russell!” He waved his pitchfork at me as he strode alongside the Suffering Souls. I’d never gotten a kudo from Jasper before. I grinned.

Janthia said, “Luke, I release the Suffering Souls back to your keeping. My charge is done here and I’ve earned my fee.” She hefted a canvas sack filled with her share of the salamanders.  ”I’m taking them to a nice secluded creek in the Appalachians.”

Luke said, “Not so fast. Russell has disturbed my Hell, and there’s a huge mess to clean up, not to mention the broken Gates need to be rehung. And you, you’re an angel who dared Hell without permission. I could have your wings for that!” He reached out his hand towards her shoulder.

I bristled. “Leave her alone! She’s under my protection!”

“And what’s protecting you, little brother?” Luke’s grin showed every sharp tooth in his mouth.

Janthia said, “Why, he’s under your protection, Luke. You employ him to bring entertainments to Hell, don’t you?” She smiled with all the glory of angelic innocence.

Luke glared at us.  He waved his arms and said, “Be gone!” We were swept out of Hell on a hot breeze and deposited gently on Charon’s landing.

Janthia mounted her shiny black bike. The parcel of salamanders squirmed on the rack behind her.

Before she could slip into her helmet, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and leaned forward to kiss her. I got her left cheek.

She said, “Hell didn’t freeze over, sweetie.”

She started up her machine and waved cheerily at Charon, who waggled his oar in her direction. The bike laid down a plume of smoke as she tore off down the Road.

I stood there with a stupid grin on my face until I realized that I was stuck on the wrong side of the Gates, with a long walk back to the bar.

Oh Hell.

The End

————

Jude-Marie Green is an unemployed beach bum living in Orange County, California. She reads Baudelaire but not Joyce and considers Dante’s Inferno a nicely-fleshed-out travel guide. She is Associate Editor at
http://www.abyssandapex.com Abyss & Apex Online Magazine.  Learn more at http://judemariegreen.wikispaces.com.

Closer, one could see figures. Two figures. One figure with a figure, and one that was shaped more like a splinter. It crawled up the tower wall. If splinters could crawl. And the other figure stood in the tower and made noises.

“Ooch!   Ow!   Ease up, won’t you?”   Rae puffed at a cobweb beside her nose.   She patted the top of her long, long, braid which hung down the length of her figure and then twisted around an iron hook, ran through a window and down the tower wall.

An old woman slithered over the window ledge, the black ribbons of her skirt fluttering. She crouched, glaring at Rae.

Another day, another Hate Look, thought Rae.   She had to admit the Hate Look was coming along just fine. Maybe needed tweaking around the evil-slanted eyebrows.

“You complain,” whispered the old woman.

“Not complaining, Aunt Hellgot,” said Rae.   “It’s just–”

The old woman held up a dagger, her fingers curled around it like sickles.   In the other hand she held a jar.

“I don’t think it’s homeopathic,” said Rae. She looked at the old woman, who simply returned her gaze with an empty, cold stare.

Rae sighed. She sat down on the stones and offered her arm for the Treatment.   Most days it was just a few ounces anyway.

When Hellgot had finished with the dagger and the jar, Rae groped to her feet. “But I do think it ruins the concept of Tower Living.   High-rise in prime location.   Spectacular views.   Please allow for daily bloodletting.”

The woman ignored her, clutching the clay jar filled with blood.   She began her spidery crawl downward.   Rae leaned back against the wall, absently humming while folding her threadbare blanket three times, once more into a triangle, and ending with a ritual pat. She lay down for her nap.

Sometime later, she thought she heard hoofbeats.

Rae rubbed an ear sore from the stones.   Peered into the mist.   Couldn’t see a thing.   It must’ve been Aunt Hellgot calling.

Aunt’s voice seemed off. Sinus trouble?   Inch by inch, Rae lowered her hair, but when the tug came, it was gentle.

“Aak!”   Rae stood stock still as someone came climbing through the window. “You are Hairy of Face,” she blurted.

The man frowned, getting his foothold on the stones of the Tower floor.   Slowly.   He was very slow.

“No offense,” she added.

The man was shaking.   “Are you an ench-enchanter?” he asked. His adam’s apple bobbed like it was in a party game.

“Me?   I’m a Tower Sitter. As the decree says,   ‘One human girl, preserved in a tower, to protect the land from dragon-raid, fire, flood, volcanic eruption, and miscellaneous acts of God.’”   She reached over, gave his chestnut beard a tug.   It really was stuck there.

“You have never left this tower?”   He took a step forward.

“Don’t step on the cracks!” yelled Rae.

“Pardon?”

“Bad things will happen.   No, haven’t left since I was five.”   She sighed.   “I can’t tell you how long ago that was.   Aunt Hellgot’s not big on sharing.”

The man wrinkled his forehead, opened his mouth.

“What is it?” said Rae.   “Why the sad face?”

“I can’t believe anyone would lock up a girl – with cheeks of powdered peach – in a cold tower prison like this!”

“It’s not so bad,” Rae said, rising to her toes.   “Naps?   Anytime.   Contemplative silence?   I’ve got loads.   Views to die for.   And hardly any housework.”

The man turned to measure his steps around the dark room.   The stone walls loomed starkly.   Here and there lay a discarded torch or a worm-eaten blanket.   “I will admit,” put in Rae, “it lacks that personal touch.”

He was inspecting a chink with his fingers. “It’s impossible to scale.”

Rae began coiling and heaving her hair into a high crown which fell past her heels.

“Like a thousand-strand cord,” he said, turning to her.   “Our land is known for fine silks, but your hair–”

“Some days can’t do a thing with it. Except rope tricks.”

“Beach Sunset Gold.   Or Buttery Caramel.”   He tapped his chin.   “Dewed Daffodil?”

She beamed.   “You talk nice!”

“I came through these woods and heard your songs.   Then that woman called, and your hair descended;   I’m Friedrick.”   He gave a slight bow.   “Assistant Secretary Tailor to the Prince of Thesa.”

“Secretary?” She was at a loss.

“A Secretary handles . . . a Prince is . . . oh nevermind.”   He shut his mouth.

“What do you do?”

“Silks.   I name them.   Periwinkle Blue.   Petal Pink.   Snowdrop White,   that sort of thing.”

“Where is Thesa?”

“Across the sea,” said Friedrick.   “For which I sail in three days.”

“Already?”

Friedrick grasped her hands.   “I am not leaving without you, fair Tresses.”   He glanced around the tower, chewing his lip.

What can it mean–to leave? Rae laughed at the ridiculousness of it.   “But you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Wilted Sorrel Gruel.   That’s what I get Mondays.   I think they’re Mondays.   Then there’s Mystery Crepe of the Week.”

Friedrick cleared his throat with significance.   “There is nothing here for you but loneliness and death.”

“Please,” said Rae.   “When it’s dark, I can show you the constellations. I’m quite literate in stars – especially the comics section.”

He did some calculations on his fingers.   “I will bring skeins tomorrow.”

“You’ll be back?”   Rae said, brightening.

Next evening, Rae wrapped hair around her knee. She looked up to find Friedrick watching her.   “Perhaps you could explain,” he said, “how you were taken by Aunt Hellgot.”

She examined a split end.   Number sixteen thousand, two hundred and four, to be exact.   “My parents left me with her when I was quite young.”

“What an awful fate!”

Rae blinked at him.   One could only ignore his strange remarks.   “A Tower Sitter is the highest calling a girl can have, both literally and figuratively.”

Friedrick wrinkled his forehead.   “But . . .”

“Aunt wants only the best for me.”

“H-how can you say that?”

“She said so.”   Rae stood up slowly.   “She. Can’t. Lie.   She touched a blue footed booby feather I kissed three times while thinking of my mother on a Sunday.”

“Huh?”

“Not to mention,” Rae went on, “the tower is covered in vines, warding off evil.”

Friedrick stared at her.   Finally he said,   “I brought your silk.   In Summer Fawn. Twist it like this–”   She copied his movements.   As the hour passed, they made elaborate braids and twists, knots any sailor would be proud of.     After a time, Friedrick glanced up at the sky.   “Stardust Navy,” he said.   “I must go.”

When he returned the third evening, Friedrick was downright jittery.   He glanced over his shoulder.   The moon glistened white hot.     ”Before we begin the rescue, I must ask: are you well?”

“Goodly.   Grand.”   Might as well show off a bicep, which she did.

“Bird’s Egg Blue! I can see the veins in your hands.”   He clapped a hand over his mouth.   “She’s going to put you into a Mystery Crepe!   We must not delay!”   Into her hands he thrust a gold skein of silk.

“I’m not–” Rae let the fabric fall with a swish, “going.”

“What?”

Rae peered at the sky.   “Last spring, bees nested under my window.   Flossie, the fat one–or was it Ferma?–once stung Aunt Hellgot!   Would have been hilarious, had I not felt so sorry for her.   The bee, I mean.”

Friedrick paced the floor, silk trousers rustling.   “The woman leeches your very life.”

“I don’t need rescuing by some Assistant Secretary Tailor,” Rae snapped.

“Fine!   Go ahead and rot up here!   Turn a nice shade of Luminous Lime!”

Rae sniffed, turned away. It took all her will to keep quiet until her braid went slack.

Late that night came the shrill cry.   Aunt Hellgot was soon crouching on the window ledge.   “Did I hear a man?”

Rae swallowed and looked away.   Cold terror spread in the pit of her stomach.   It had never occured to her what the woman might do to Friedrick.

“And were you–shouting?”

“Always shout.   Love outbursts.   Crazy!”   She dared a look at the woman’s face, and noticed her sprig of mole hair.   It was getting to be knee-length.   “About my parents,” she began.   Maybe you could elaborate sometime. Like now.   Just tell me–”

“Stop your chatter!”

“Who’s shouting now?”

The woman’s eyes blazed but her voice became cloying.   “All right,” she answered.   “A woman lived in the cottage next door.   She had a difficult pregnancy.   Craved garden greens.   From my garden.   Mine!”

The cold in Rae’s stomach sank deeper.

“I caught the husband stealing my greens,” said Aunt Hellgot.   “Being a generous soul, I gave them freely.   On one condition.”

Rae’s chest tightened.   “Condition?”

“That their child be brought to me one day.”

Rae’s throat was dry.   “You told it wrong.”   She forced a giddy smile, said loudly.     “Oh, quit trying to be funny, Aunt Hellgot!”

“And so,” Aunt Hellgot continued, while Rae covered her ears with her blanket, “the foolish, selfish, ignorant couple sacrificed their only child.”

Rae peeked out.   “They gave her into the honorable service of Tower Sitting!” she corrected, in a voice all too feeble.

“Pretend what you will.” The old woman said. She laughed a slithering laugh. She unbound the girl’s braid and flung it over the ledge.

Rae sprawled on the stones long into the night, not bothering to haul back her hair as it tangled and whipped in the wind.

Finally she rose and crossed the floor, ignoring the cracks.   She knelt at the crumbling pile of stones where she’d hidden Friedrick’s silk.

He was gone.   But he had left something useful.   Since she no longer had a high, important calling – or anything else to live for.

“Tresses!”

The silk noose was in her hand.   The man stood below her, arms outstretched.   Her hands flew to her mouth and she dropped the silk, lost her balance, and tumbled over the ledge.

There was a scream, a muffled shout, an enormous pile of hair and a soft thud.

“How good to see you, fair maiden,” breathed Friedrick from under the hair, but it sounded like, “Thow goo feeyoo fer mgn.”

“So sorry, Friedrick.”   She dug through the hair, found his foot and kissed it.   “You were right about Aunt.”

A whinny echoed through the silence with an eery chill.

“Something has frightened my steed,” whispered Friedrick through an airhole.

Rae froze in the act of hair-coiling.   Moonlight was shining into a pair of eyes pale as fish scales. They glittered as if to leap from their sockets and cling to her like leeches.

Aunt Hellgot stood over Rae and Friedrick, clenching her teeth, raising her dagger.   “Deceitful wretch!”

On the ground, the pile of hair thrashed and wriggled.

“You wicked spawn of a blubbering fool!” Aunt Hellgot shrieked.

Friedrick broke free.   “E-evil enchanter!”

“Ha!   Expect me to fear you, puny boy?”   Aunt Hellgot sprang on Rae, knife to her throat.   “I’ll kill you both quick.” She threw back her head and laughed, cobwebby skirts swishing above blue-veined calves.

Rae squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the prick of metal.

Friedrick burst out, “Blacker than Death!   Your hair is like Charred Bones!”

“What?” The woman tilted her head at him.

Rae could hear him take a deep, steadying breath.   “Your face is Burnt Ash.   Your skirts are Bat-Wing Black!”

Rae opened her eyes.   With each word, Friedrick seemed to grow taller as he stepped toward Aunt Hellgot.

“Stop it!” she said.   “Shut up!”   She squinted as if the moonlight was hurting her eyes.

“Your teeth are Pond-Scum Green,” he said evenly.   He advanced, shoulders square.   “The mole on your chin is Swamp Sienna.”

Aunt Hellgot was twitching violently.   Friedrick snatched her dagger and forced her to her knees.

Rae pushed herself to a stand.

“I’ll need something to tie her up with,” said Friedrick, looking around.

“I’ve got this 20-foot rope,” she said.   “In Dewed Daffodil.”

“Wait.   Forgot my blanket,” Rae said after they had run several yards.

“You’re not–” he began.

“I’ve got to have my blanket,” she said, and so they made for the tower to retrieve it.   This put them behind schedule.   Once they’d climbed back down the tower, Friedrick sawed off Rae’s hair at waist length. Finally they reached the shore, stumbling and out of breath. Friedrick’s ship was bouncing before them, a mile or so out at sea.

They had to swim for it.   When they reached Thesa, they were bedraggled and Rae had never felt so queasy in all her life – even the time Aunt had served Slog of Potato Eyes for supper.

“Come, my Tresses,” said Friedrick, stretching out a hand.   “Let me show you your new home.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, and promptly hauled herself up to the crow’s nest.   Her rags fluttered in the wind.   One, two, three seabirds fluttered overhead, settling in her hair.   Friedrick stood below, rubbing the back of his neck.   “Never rescue a woman whose hair is longer than her memory,” he muttered.

“For you,” he said, a few days later, hauling a gilded frame onto the deck.   “It’s a portrait of Prince Nevahrude. Doesn’t he look like a nice person?   Observe his wavy hair, in Burnt Maple Sugar.   Don’t you want to see his kingdom?”

Actually, no.   He didn’t interest her one bit.

Next Friedrick brought Rae gifts of flowers, candies, exotic pets in cages, silks in Festive Fuschia, and his mother’s chicken soup.

“Not bad,” said Rae.   “But I miss Slippery Elm Noodles.”

Then one evening Friedrick rushed on board, flushed and smiling.   “An idea,” he said, “has beamed brightly upon me.”

“Promise I’ll like it?” said Rae.   She packed her blanket, her gull-feathers and her hair-ribbon into a roll which she handed to Friedrick.   “You promise, now.   And if I don’t like it I can go back to the boat and live with the birds.”   She followed Friedrick from the gangway to dry land.

“I promise,” Friedrick said, nodding.

“And there’s no pressure for a commitment.”

“No pressure,” repeated Friedrick.

As it turned out, the lighthouse was a nice place to live.   Rae spent her days in the window, where she could see and be seen.   It was quite gratifying, as her hair grew, to set new trends in hair fashion.

As for Friedrick, Rae saw him every Friday evening.   Together they would share a Mystery Crepe, and afterward, read the night stars.

One day strolling the marketplace, Prince Nevahrude noticed the appearance of a tonic, imported from faraway lands.   ”Hellgots” had the power to grow hair, left a lingering, metallic odor and was rumored to attract vampires. Only $3.99 a bottle.

————

Christi Krug’s work has recently appeared in qarrtsiluni, Umbrella, VoiceCatcher, the Absent Willow Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, Colored Chalk and in her last bowl of alphabet soup. She thinks about the creative life and sometimes writes about it at christikrug.blogspot.com.

On a stroll yesterday with Henry and Fredrick, I told Fredrick, my parrot, to be sure to straighten his language a bit. His profanity was altogether embarrassing, though many marveled at his flair – - he could verbally outfox anyone with his erudite vocabulary peppered with competently placed cursing. He was expressing his bête noire for our little walks, inquiring why he had to partake when clearly he could fly. I requested he lower his voice. Henry, my leashed human-sized guinea pig, interjected, claiming he had to piddle. I reminded Henry that relieving himself was the main purpose for the trek. Fredrick became incensed at the interruption, resuming his colorful reproach.

A slight, a nip, a moral.

A tawdry chap coming from the opposite direction must have found Fredrick’s language a bit foul as he eyed us askant. A true gentleman would have passed without the discourteous intimation, so I motioned to Henry. My pig went a tad too far, gnawing off the fellow’s leg whilst Fredrick, in all his agitation, claimed the bloke’s left eye. I handed the poor soul an eye patch and fused his leg into place. It was a good thing I had a leash for my Henry, said I, lest he claim more appendages. As our new friend hopped off I was hopeful that he learnt his lesson.

A mirror, a dame, a panic.

I chastised Henry for his overreaction, but Fredrick started squawking incomprehensibly. Looking up I saw another gentleman approaching us, coincidentally walking with a parrot and guinea pig. Brilliant, I told my two. Fredrick quite agreed, as the other parrot was a hen, although her speech was much more vulgar than Fredrick’s and she lacked his lexicological mastery. Henry commenced a frightening bout of fidgeting and squawking, professing the other pig made him uneasy. Said it was big enough to swallow him whole; suggested we flee or at least cross over the boulevard. Peering once more at the oncoming trio, we noticed the owner bore an eye patch and sported a prosthetic leg. The strange guinea pig then swallowed a stray calico in one chomp. Henry was quickly winning me over with his pleas as Fredrick was working himself into an absolute hullabaloo.

A flirt, a jolt, a pearl.

Henry screeched for us to cross the boulevard, but Fredrick shot off my shoulder and flapped about his chickadee in a most flirtatious show. She and Fredrick flitted off into a nearby maple whilst my counterpart glowered at me, releasing his leashed pig. My heart quickened and Henry trembled. I implored him to take heart, to stand his ground. Just as the enormous beast was upon us, Henry stood upon his hind paws, gnashing and growling as I’d never seen before. I summoned a thunder clap for effect. The other pig stopped in its tracks just long enough for Henry to pounce, sending the frightful creature running.

A goose egg, a command, a loopty-loo.

Fredrick whooshed out of the tree landing on my shoulder sans his left eye. As I produced an eye patch, I asked if he indeed acquired the lady’s number. Bugger off, said he, momentarily stunned. He spat and cursed and demanded to go home. Though Henry was in favor of leaving, he reminded us he had yet to piddle.

————

Mary Baader  Kaley  has an M.A. in Counseling,  and enjoys writing short fiction and poetry of various genres.  Her work can be found in Salome Magazine, The Shine Journal, and in an upcoming issue of Stymie Magazine and Powder Burn Flash. She wishes each and every wizzard the best in all their future endeavors.

–Franz Kafka, “The Metamorphosis”

One night, when Grgrsmszzz woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his sleeping place into a horrible human the size of a bug–life inside the kitchen wall would never be the same again.

“Where’re my stiff, bristly legs? Where’s my shiny, brown carapace? My ribbed belly? My antennas?” The splintery hole in which he lay seemed unaccountably hard and uncomfortable. “What’s happened to me? I must be dreaming,” he thought and fell back to sleep.

Worried that her son had not yet risen, Grgr’s dear mother slipped into the hole where he slept and gently tapped him with an antenna. “Awaken, my darling son,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be scuttling around the kitchen, looking for tasty bits of garbage for us to eat? You know how hard it’s been to put food on the table since your father was almost squashed.”

“Blast! I’ve overslept!” Grgr yelled. How strange his voice sounded to those things on the sides of his head that passed for hearing membranes. Alarmed, he jumped up and startled his mother half to death. She reeled from the hole just as his father rushed to her assistance and peered over the edge.

“What has gotten into you, Grgr?” he shouted. Grgr struggled out of the hole and tried to explain things as best he could. Straining to understand his hapless son’s reply, his father said, “He speaks gibberish! And look at how he’s changed! Only four limbs now, no exoskeleton, no antennas–” He gave Grgr a series of pokes with his forelegs. “Get back in your hole, you brute!”

“Ow! Hey, knock it off, will ya?!” said Grgr as he retreated to the safety of his hole. For the rest of the night, he tried to amuse himself by exploring his sleeping place: a shaft-like knothole in a horizontal two-by-four about one inch deep and a couple of inches in diameter. Since he could climb vertical surfaces now only with the greatest of difficulty, after a while he simply sat at the bottom and sulked. Grgrsmszzz was depressed.

At mealtime, his loving sister tossed a delectable selection of edibles down to him, trying to tempt his palate with choice bits of decaying food and greasy gunk, but none of it appealed to poor Grgr. This went on for a couple of nights, but little by little his family’s mixed feelings of fear and sympathy had turned to indifference. The fact is, they were so busy trying to make ends meet that they no longer had time to think about him. Left alone in his hole, Grgr became thinner and weaker, living only on occasional drops of water and bread crumbs that somehow found their way into his sleeping place.

And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, Grgr’s father rented out his hole–his hole!–to some boorish beetles who drove him into a corner and heaped dust and debris on him. “Hey,” Grgr complained, “I’m still living here, ya know?” Then Grgr fell silent and brooded.

The hours flowed by, and after a couple more nights, Grgr’s transition was complete. He couldn’t understand a word any of these bugs said anymore, and, more important, he didn’t really care. First, he drove off the beetles with loud verbal abuse and shrewd pokes with a pointy splinter of wood. Then, after a rest to gather his waning strength, he used his strange limbs to climb the side of what was once again his hole. The time had come to confront the family.

Poking his head over the edge, Grgr saw that a meeting was in progress. “Good timing,” he thought, as he watched his mother, father, and sister talking.

He heard his mother groan. “How hard things have been since Grgr became so strange!” she said in cockroach.

“Yes,” agreed his father. “It’s not enough that he refuses to support us, he’s become so rude he scared away our boarders!”

“You want to know what I think?” asked Grgr’s sister. Her mother’s and father’s antennas twitched toward her. “I think he’s persecuting us. Yes, that’s it: he’s persecuting us!”

“She’s right! He’s turned against us,” said her father. It was at this juncture that they became aware of Grgr, crouched outside their little family circle.

“Stop persecuting us!” yelled his sister, who had become terribly fond of that word. “Get out! Get out!”

Her parents turned to face him and picked up the cry: “Get out, get out!” they all yelled.

Grgr may not have comprehended their words–they just sounded like a bunch of hisses–but he certainly understood their tone. “That’s it!” he shouted back at them. “I’ve had it with this two-bit hole in the wall! I’m outta here!”

-END-

————

Bill Waters has been writing one thing or another for years and is showing no sign of slowing down. Recent milestones include sharing the stage (sort of) at a poetry reading with Princeton University’s Paul Muldoon; watching his three-minute version of Hamlet being performed; being married for 15 years to the most wonderful woman he’s ever met; and self-consciously speaking about himself in the third person. He and his wife live in Pennington, N.J., with their three amazing cats.

They called themselves the Demihumans Three: Wild Weasel (halfling thief), Agnon (dwarven cleric), and Yerond (elven fighter). They were in a good mood, having just successfully dealt with the latest string of smugglings.

“Me stomach’s growlin’, and me feet are sore,” complained Agnon.

“Quit yer bellyachin’, McBelcher. We’ll be there soon enough,” Wild spouted.

Yerond cracked a smile. The antics of his two companions never ceased to entertain him.

Suddenly, a portal materialized in front of them. An oddly dressed man stumbled through, wearing a black suit of some kind. He looked strange in the fact that he had big ears, and he sported a stupid grin. “A low voter turnout is an indication of fewer people going to the polls.”

“Huh?” Wild gaped at the oddity before him.

“Stay on guard, my friends,” Yerond warned. “He’s not to my liking.”

“I was raised in the West. The west of Texas. It’s pretty close to California. In more ways than Washington, D.C., is close to California,” the stranger replied.

“And ye say that I drink too much. Someone’s cast a spell of insanity on this feller,” Agnon guessed.

“That god of yours – Pelorwhatshisname – works in mysterious ways,” Wild remarked sarcastically.

The stranger continued his ramblings. “Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?”

Yerond stared quizzically at him. “Do you have any other words of wisdom to impart, old one?”

The man eagerly replied, “What I am against is quotas. I am against hard quotas, quotas they basically delineate based upon whatever. However they delineate, quotas, I think, vulcanize society. So I don’t know how that fits into what everybody else is saying, their relative positions, but that’s my position.”

“Oh, ye just had to go and get him started again, didn’t ye?” Wild retorted angrily.

“Let him speak!” Agnon insisted. “Only Pelor knows what might be gleaned from listening to this gentleman.”

The smile on the stranger grew bigger, if that was even possible. “It’s clearly a budget. It’s got a lot of numbers in it.”

“Gentleman?” Wild cocked an eye at Agnon. “More like a ravin’ loony.”

The man approached Wild, arms flailing in eagerness. “One word sums up probably the responsibility of any Governor, and that one word is ‘to be prepared’.”

“Don’t ye be gettin’ started on me, you suited freak!” Wild pushed the stranger away from him and into the path of Yerond.

“Just because I’m the one wielding dual blades doesn’t mean that I have to be the designated speaker,” Yerond politely reminded the halfling.

“Bugger it. Deal with him anyway.”

Before they knew it, the man started running circles around them, spewing lines such as “If you’re sick and tired of the politics of cynicism and polls and principles, come and join this campaign”, “We must all hear the universal call to like your neighbor like you like to be liked yourself”, and “The most important job is not to be Governor, or First Lady in my case.”

Finally, the dwarf had enough. He reached out and grabbed the stranger and lifted him up with both arms. Before anyone could protest, Agnon heaved him back into the portal from whence he came. As he disappeared, the trio heard one last thing from him: “If people can judge me on the company I keep, they would judge me with keeping really good company with Laura.”

Wild smirked. “Looks like ye scared him off with yer stink, McBelcher!”

“Why you..!” Agnon cursed, and started pursuing the wily halfling down the path.

Toward the Wench. Yerond smiled. It was good to be returning home.

————

Introverted family man with an appreciation of giant space hamsters and a lack of respect for all other four-legged mammals.   ‘Tis no wonder that he wakes up every morning with coughed up furballs on his feet.   Wife often wonders how he became a family man in the first place.   Giant space hamsters wonder how he became introverted.

There was madness, Mrs. R. thought, in that wind and in the empty horizon. Madness enough to launch a level- headed man off a windmill. Frowning, she squeezed that thought from her mind and focused on freeing a row of sturdy beet tops from a blitzkrieg of sandbur.

Granted the wind was mad, yet today it was also a comfort. All morning it had been murmuring through the ragged shelterbelt, plucking a near melody from the rusted carcass of a 1917 Gleaner.

Within the wind there was the frantic skitter and plop of hoppers as they collided with tomatoes, beans and squash like a pinball game gone vegetarian. There was the musical table talk of a family of thrashers as they dined on the hoppers. And there was the indifferent whine of the bull racks as they raced eastward along Highway Fifty, a quarter mile and half the world away. Other than that, there was silence.

She straightened and stood, unfolding in sections, bracing her back with her gloved hands, like a woman far older than her thirty-four years. The Co Op thermometer by the back porch read one hundred and two. She had been weeding for an hour, unaware that day had turned molten around her. Fireworks exploded behind her eyes. She gripped the bean trellis to keep from falling.

After a moment she walked to the shade of the windmill. She ducked her head under the stream of clear water spurting into the stock tank and took a bandana from her bib pocket, soaked it in the tank and squeezed the bandana over her grimy face.

Through the porch window she glimpsed her uncle’s frayed panama hat,   on its peg by the back door. With that hat she could weed for another half hour, while her young daughters napped next to the family’s one oscillating fan.   The problem with grabbing the hat was the back door. It was on a precariously short spring. One bang and the girls would be up. All four of them.

The front door was more forgiving. If she could just sneak into the house through the front door, retrieve the hat and slip out the back porch, she could finish up the weeding. And then the afternoon would be hers, all hers, to while away reading, or listening to the radio, or . . .

“Hey! Lady!”

Two boys on rundown bicycles waved to her from the front gate. She motioned them to shush and then picked across the goat- head infested yard to confront them.

“What?” she whispered.

“We’re selling this stuff,” the smaller of the two boys answered in a hoarse whisper.

They looked to be about the same age. Although they had a comical fat and skinny disparity to them, she guessed them to be of the same family. Both wore faded t-shirts, ragged denim cut- offs, cheap sneakers. There was nothing unusual in this; the whole damn county was a pocket of economic distress.

“What stuff?” she asked.

“This stuff.” The smaller boy held out an old Nesbitt’s Orange pop bottle. It was filled with a dubious brown liquid, capped with aluminum foil, and secured with a rubber band.

She wrinkled her nose. “What is it?”

The bigger boy took it from the smaller boy and extended it over the gate to her. “The abuelo makes it,” he explained.

” Why?” she asked, having nothing to do with the proffered bottle.

The boys exchanged a puzzled shrug.

“What does he do with it?” she asked patiently.

“He puts it on stuff,” the bigger boy said.

“To make stuff grow,” the smaller boy coached.

“Yeah. To make stuff grow.”

“What kind of stuff?” she asked, now genuinely interested.

“Tomatoes and beans and … stuff. It makes stuff grow real big!”

“In our huerta the pepinos grow this big!”   His companion showed the size of the cucumbers with outstretched hands.

“And the tomatoes are like baseballs. And the melons are big as soccer balls!” the smaller boy bragged, nodding at her spindly garden. “The abuela has to chop the roasting ears in half to fit them in the pot!”

“Oh yeah?” Mrs. R. fought a grin.

“The abuelo’s corn is so tall we have to climb on the roof to pick it!”

“Cool. Does your abuelo have a recipe for this wondrous elixir?”

The boys exchanged a guarded look. “It’s a secret.”

“Oh. A secret.” She shrugged and turned to go into the house.

“But see, this bottle is for sale.”

“Yeah, Lady. One bottle, one time only,” the smaller boy added.

She took the bottle and held it to the midday sun. Squint as she might she could not see through the opaque liquid. “How do I know this isn’t ditch water?”

The boys raised their hands in aggrieved innocence.

“The abuelo made it just this morning,” the smaller boy testified.

“He said the words over it and everything,” the larger boy affirmed.

“He made it for the duraznos. They aren’t doing so good on account of the rain not coming. The abuela is worried. She says she won’t have anything to can up. They are turning ripe and only this big.” He showed her a circle about the size of a tennis ball.

“Well, I hope they snap out of it.”

“They are. They were swelling up when we rode under the trees. We could hear them,” the larger boy assured her.

With a frown she re-examined the greenish black liquid. “And your abuelo is willing to spare some of this miraculous elixir?”

“There was only the littlest bit left in the bottom of the bucket.” The bigger boy shrugged.

“So you want to buy it, Lady?” The smaller boy asked.

“How much?”

“Two dollars.”

“For a bottle of water? I’ll give you a quarter.”

“No way, Lady. This is valuable stuff.”

“Then you’d better pedal your peddling down the road.”

Shading their eyes with grubby hands the boys surveyed the length of the heat -warped road before them and sighed in unison.

The smaller boy reasoned, “Look, Lady, you’re new to the neighborhood.   This is my primo, Jorge.   I’m Efrain. Now Jorge and me, we want to give you a good deal so we can do business again. The abuelo would charge you five bucks for this one little bottle.”

“Maybe I’ll drive over and barter with the abuelo myself.”

An uneasy look passed between the boys.

“Lady, we want to go swimming.” The smaller boy pointed wistfully down the highway to the village of Pierceville. “The city pool costs a dollar to get in. Me and Jorge only got fifty six cents.”

“The river is free,” she answered, pointing to a line of broken cottonwoods snaking along the sand hills to the south.

“This is August. There isn’t even a mud hole left.

She nodded. This indeed had been the state of the mighty Arkansas the last time she’d crossed the bridge. Her eyes fell on her stock tank.

Efrain read her mind. “We been splashing in a stock tank all summer. School starts next week. We want to swim in blue water that goes over our heads.”

“With a sproingy diving board,” Jorge added wistfully.

The two dollars in question were two of maybe six dollars hoarded in her grandmother’s tea pot to take her own daughters for a day of blue water swimming and pizza. But the cousin’s fifty-six cents was so much closer to their two dollars, than her six dollars to the twenty she would need, that Mrs. R. sighed and fished two quarters and eleven dimes out of her bib pocket. “A dollar sixty?”

The boys frowned. She shrugged and pocketed the change.

“For fifty cents we can split an ice cream sandwich. We haven’t had ice cream all summer,” the smaller boy said quietly.

“Times are hard all over,” she observed..

“Lady…”

“Mrs. Riesinschlachter,” she corrected.

“Mrs. …Huh?”

“Riesinschlachter,” she said slowly, pointing to the new letters on the shiny mailbox.

“Wow! Is that really your name?”

“Well, it was my husband’s name. I guess he gave it to me.”

“Can’t he give you a dollar?”

“He died. A couple of summers ago.”

“Was he the guy who fell off the windmill?” Jorge asked.

“No,” she frowned. “That was my Uncle Jack. He died last September. He used to live here. I spent my summers here, when I was your age. When he died he left me this house, a quarter section of tumbleweeds, and 56 jars of dimes. This place is a little rundown, but a windfall for a poor widow. With solid planning and a little luck… well, who couldn’t use some luck? My husband was a good man, but grape headed when it came to the bones and stones of workaday life. Always blowing his principle on moon pies and dime whistles, Uncle Jack used to say. He left us pretty much…”

The boys were not listening. They were peering down the dusty road with shaded eyes.

“Look, L … Missus R. Lets do this.” Efrain snapped the foil off the top of the bottle, walked through the gate, and dumped the contents of the bottle on six spindly scarlet runner beans tethered to an old TV pole next to the house.

“Efrain, es too much!” Jorge hissed.

Efrain ignored him. “Now, L …Missus R., you give us the two dollars. And if you are not amazed, truly and absolutely amazed, at the results, me and Jorge will chop those goat heads out of your yard. Every one of them. And paint the fence. All that for a mere two dollars. If you are not one hundred percent impressed with the beans.”

An argument flickered across her mind but she let it pass. “Okay, but I’ll have to pay you in dimes.”

“Dimes spend the same as dollars,” Efrain reasoned.

She nodded at the wisdom of this and tiptoed into the house, past the bedroom where her daughters slumbered, and into the kitchen. In the pantry, from behind a flour sack curtain, she took one of the fifty-six jars of dimes. This one had a sauerkraut label and still packed a krauty wallop when uncorked.

Cautiously she counted out twenty dimes, making certain they were all FDR’s. She hadn’t gotten around to opening all the jars yet, but a couple or three mercury heads had turned up in each of the opened jars. She’d heard once that mercury heads were worth more. Someday she might drive into Garden City and see a coin dealer. In the meantime the mercury heads were setting on the kitchen windowsill in an empty film canister.

The dimes were an enigma. She could not remember seeing them as a child, but after her aunt died her uncle had grown downright peculiar. Each jar was labeled with a year, beginning in 1966. Some years had two or three jars; others had none. There was a method to their arrangement, and although she had not yet figured it out, she knew it was important. Her uncle had been a methodical man, even in his insanity. For a scant second she had a vision of him, dead and broken, at the foot of the windmill, his pockets full of dimes, a hatchet in his hand. She shook off the memory and returned to her bargaining.

“Gentlemen, here you are. Twenty dimes.” Officiously she counted them out. ” How about leaving me your phone number? Just in case.”

” We live over there,” Efrain pointed out a low huddle of greenery and outbuildings a good two miles down the road. “We don’t have no phone. The abuela, she thinks witches live in the wires. We’ll ride over tomorrow, to check on the beans.”

“Tomorrow? Isn’t that little early?”

“Not with this stuff.”

“You’ll see, lady.”

And they were off, down the gritty road on their way to the concrete pool and the ice cream sandwich.

She entered her house and took a weary seat on the worn, velveteen sofa that had once belonged to her grandparents. She tried to read, but the letters were wobbly and uncommunicative. Finally she dampened her bandana, swaddled her pounding temples with it, and stretched out on the sofa for a nap.

It was the shrilling of the cicadas that brought her back to the world of men and labor. And that world had grown murky. The palm frond wallpaper, the Duncan Fife dining room suite, the worn Persian carpet, the stifling silk drapes all seemed to have taken on an eerie, greenish cast. There was a note of alarm in the manic whirring of the cicadas. The starlings, perched in the cottonwoods, echoed that note in their frantic chattering.

She wondered if a storm might be brewing. The blue skies of western Kansas are infamous for turning sickly green without warning and dropping vicious, swirling assassins into the most innocuous of afternoons.

She pulled the drapes on the west-facing window and blinked hard. The entire window was blocked by something translucent, and green. She ran to the next window. That dusty pane had turned scarlet because an exotic scarlet blossom the size of a hibiscus was pressed against it. She rushed outside. Clutching the porch rail with white knuckled hands she took in the miracle.

The six bean vines had thickened and stretched beyond all credibility. They twisted in and around the old TV antenna; a tangle of lush green leaves, enormous eye- searing blossoms, tendrils as thick as cables. They twined right over the roof of the little farm house and into an ominous bruise -colored cloud.

She stepped off   the porch to confront the impossible. Tugging at the leaves she found enough footholds to carry an intrepid adventurer over the roof and into the clouds.

She sat on the porch step to think things through, but really the implications were clear. There was no sense burning daylight. Forty minutes and a bit of luck, was all she needed. She’d be home before the girls were up from their nap. If her luck was ever going to change this would be the afternoon to change it

“There comes a dime in the tides of men”, she misquoted softly, and then, just as softly, begged her dead uncles’ pardon for doubting his sanity.

She donned his old panama and tied it onto her head with the bandana. She slipped a hatchet into a hammer loop on her overalls. As an afterthought she picked up an old ball bat, tucked it into her bib, and began her climb.

————

s. smith says: “My name is Shannon Smith. I’m a fifth generation Kansan.   I teach high school Spanish (Hola). i am certified to teach English also, but the capitalization thing holds me back.   Back in the hippie daze folks called me Shakey.”

“Yes, a splendid brace, I do concur!”

Elvis glanced up from his sharpening. Unabashed he said, “Tessylwyg, how long have you been spying on me?”

“One need not spy when your thoughts speak so loudly, Dragon Slayer,” said the king’s magician. “It is no secret that Mammary’s globes are magnificently globular but to speak as you do is wishing for your own death.”

Elvis sighed, “If I could have but a few hours at her bosom, I would pay a hundred gold coins, yet King Todger has it all for free! Tessylwyg, there is surely no justice in the world.”

Ever wise to profit the magician tugged at the point of his sun-bleached beard as he pondered. “A hundred coins, you say? Elvis, you get paid as much for each dragon you slay, surely you would pay more for say, um, four hours at the queen’s bosom.”

Elvis lay aside his weapon, his eyes bright at the prospect. “Four hours and I would surely have my fill. That would be a once in a lifetime experience and something I would treasure till the day I died. For that I would gladly pay a thousand gold coins!”

“Very well, Dragon Slayer, for one thousand gold coins you shall have your life time experience. Let me retire to my rooms where I shall rake through my grey matter for a magic formula.”

Tessylwyg retreated, leaving Elvis to ponder the queen’s breasts as he polished his pommel until his erection returned.

It was while Elvis was taking his ablutions the following morning that he heard a knock at his roundhouse door. “Who knocks at such an hour? Does not the aroma warn that I am performing a task?”

“Yes, it is with deep regret that I call at such an ill-chosen time, but with such an urgent matter I thought haste would be at a premium, Dragon Slayer. The sooner you are at the queen’s breast, the sooner I can collect my payment!” called the magician through the door.

Elvis tugged up his breeches without wiping himself – Tesslwygs’s services, though expensive, were eagerly sought and difficult to acquire. “Please, wait a few moments,” he called. “Your coins are already warm in my palms!”

“I pray you have washed said palms, Elvis the Dragon Slayer, after you have performed your ablutions.”

Elvis opened the door to the grinning magician. “Judging by your smile you’ve been successful with the magic formula.”

“Indeed,” replied Tessylwyg, “here is the plan.” He produced a small pouch made of lamb’s leather from beneath his Hessian robe and jogged it gently before Elvis. “This powder, which I have instructed a certain lady-in-waiting to scatter upon the queen’s favourite dress, will produce an unbearable rash which can only a dragon slayer can cure.”

“But, Tessylwyg, I am not a physician, I know of no cure!”

“Oh, simple reptile killer, pray hush awhile; I will explain further. Of course I will convince the good Queen Mammary that only the saliva of a top quality dragon slayer will cure her malady. She would of course not know that my  €˜prescription’ would wear off after, say, four hours anyway.”

“And what of King Todger, would he suspect anything?”

“The poor man, though extremely jealous of his queen, is a simpleton and shall believe all that I tell him.”

Elvis had always feared his king, and equally his magician. But the powder that Tessylwyg had concocted was not magic, nor was it medicine. Tessylwyg was no more than a money-grabbing charlatan, thought Elvis. “How do I know your powder will work?”

“Shall we sprinkle some on your bottom hole to find out?” said an insulted Tessylwyg.

“That will not be necessary. I shall, however, keep my coins warm a while longer. But be assured: a dragon slayer is a man of his word.” Elvis snatched the pouch of powder and closed the door.

Whether magical or not Tesslwygs’s powder seemed to work. Elvis gorged himself at Queen Mammary’s magnificent bosom until his jaw ached enough to drop off and his tongue was as dry as ox leather, and still he lapped until finally the four hours were up and the Queen was cured. She covered herself and fluttered her eye lashes demurely.

“Thank you, kind dragon slayer; you have cured me of my embarrassing malady. If the unthinkable were to happen and it was to re-occur I will surely know where to come.”

Elvis drank greedily from a mug of water to moisten his mouth enough to talk. “It was a pleasure to be of service, Ma’am,” he said before bowing. This was more to hide his aching erection than courtesy, “Promise to call on me again; tis always a pleasure to serve the king.”

Elvis collected his tunic and left the Royal Chamber, only to be met by Tessylwyg. “All went well judging by you grin,” said the magician.

“Indeed,” agreed Elvis. “Now sadly my dream is over and I have nothing left to live for.” He stretched his jaw and massaged his jowls with his fingertips.

“Then, you have no reason to withhold payment further,” said the old man narrowing his eyelids.

“Very well,” Said Elvis, reaching into his pocket. “A hundred gold coins, wasn’t it?”

“A thousand! A thousand gold coins! What trick are you playing?”

“Trick, you say. You are the man of tricks. You are no magician, you are a fraud.”

“A thousand coins, Dragon Slayer, or you will be sorry.”

“You forget that I am now not only the Queen’s saviour but hero of the people. What will you do, magician; go to the king and spill all? Here, take one hundred coins and be grateful.” Elvis threw the fistful of gold to the ground, causing Tessylwyg to stoop to retrieve them.

“I’ll take these but not for me, the lady-in-waiting will need paying – again. And be assured, you do still have something to live for.”

Elvis farted loudly into the wind, mirroring Tesslwygs’s empty threat, and scratched his arse as he watched the magician retreat.

The memory of the week before was already fading, however much Elvis tried to maintain his grip upon it. He wished now that he could have behaved better towards Tessylwyg; then maybe he could have paid for further favours. But all his musings were chased away by a pounding at his door.

“Dragon Slayer, Dragon Slayer! Open up; the Queen calls you!”

Elvis’s hand went to his jaw in joyful memory of the ache – the queen’s malady had returned! He opened the door. It was the Royal Guard that greeted him. Elvis’s face was one of false sadness. He sighed, “Please do not tell me that the Queen’s malady has returned.”

“No, Dragon Slayer, your cure has been totally successful and the queen is free of all, ahem, irritation. No, it is King Todger. It seems he has contracted the malady about the, um, nether parts. It is he that requires your services.”

Elvis’s heart was as heavy as a rock as he spied Tessylwyg hovering close by. “This is your doing, magician!” he hissed.

“Tis nothing to do with me, Elvis, but, mayhap, there is justice in the world and at least you now have something to live for.” Tessylwyg touched Elvis’s cheek. “I hope these are in good shape – he is not named King Todger for nowt!”

————

Glen says: “I’m from the UK and Bard of Royal Leamimgton Spa in the English midlands. So far I’ve had over fifty stories published in the small press magazines including Dark Tales, Twisted Tongue, La Fenetre and Wortleberry Press. My debut novel, Waking Lloegr, is an Arthurian comedy fantasy and is looking for a publisher but till then is available at www.lulu.com. Some more of my work can be found at www.freewebs.com/glenniebatchelor“

RIDING HOOD

It’s ridiculous, an actor of my stature

appearing off-Broadway, but they lost their lead-

mugging or something-just prior to opening. My name

lends credence to a new company, new production.

We do that in theater. My name is synonymous

with the role, you know; I’ve toured seven countries

in it. Up for a Tony in ’53!   Played Three Pigs

at the London Palladium.

I was never given rewrites!

Was in my dressing room through Act I, on stage

when the curtain rose for II. Then, she jogs on in leotard

and tights! And, let me tell you, she don’t know wildflowers.

Thistles, she picks! Thistles! And, I’m allergic! But,

consummate professional that I am, I saved the scene.

Didn’t sneeze once.   Held it in.   And, this the critic calls

histrionics.   He knows nothing! The crowd was on its feet

when the curtain fell.

Act III opened on me in Granny’s nightgown. She

didn’t even question the size of my eyes, ears, teeth!

Didn’t give any cues!   Just, “You’ve eaten Granny!”

then turns, and … no Woodsman! Just a shavehead 

wearing metal enough for a chain-link fence!   I figure

he shot my predecessor!   Of course I scream-

though not like a girl, as the review says! Of course I faint!

And, this … this critic calls the production “avant-garde,”

calls it “fresh and original!” Fresh and original, my furry ass!

He praises that spandex bimbo! Praises the lout in leather!

Calls me “melodramatic,” “farcical,” “past his prime!”

The two of them must be sleeping with him! I’m synonymous

with that role! Didn’t get any rewrites, I tell you!

Wait!   Come back!   I’ve toured SEVEN COUNTRIES …

STANDING OVATIONS ALL THE WAY …

DON’T GO … LISTEN … I PLAYED THREE PIGS

AT THE PALLADIUM …

There’s never a shepherd around when you need one

Mary came to mistrust her little ovine friend.

Oh, sure, classmates adored his snow-white fleece,

laughed and played when he followed her to school,

lolled on the stairs outside English 321. Mary, flattered,

soon learned that big eyes miss no detail, big ears,

no conversation. Gifts appeared in her locked car,

apartment: chocolates first, and roses, later, lingerie,

sex toys. Mary asked for a restraining order, but police,

disarmed by his easy manner, dazzling fleece,

overlooked the ruff of thick, brown fur at his collar,

bristled tail tucked into trousers, pricking of pointy ears.

Did no one else hear the padding of lupine feet,

scritch of claws on terrazzo?   See the large teeth,

long tongue, slaver of drool as the fat sergeant

set aside soda bread and mutton to take a statement?

Mary moved frequently, installed deadbolts, alarms,

never went anywhere alone. Their first, their only date,

she remembered, had been delightful: his old-world

manners, keen attentiveness, avid listening. He seemed

like such a lamb.

————

Ann says: “I am a long time member of Dallas Poets Community, a 501-(c )-3 literary non-profit. I serve on its board and edit its semi-annual journal, Illya’s Honey. My work appears in various small journals, most recently, Avocet, Barbaric Yawp, Third Wednesday, and Main Channel Voices. Work is upcoming in Texas Poetry Calendar and Main Street Rag, as well as  an  anthology from  the UKs  Zocalo Press.”