Round 1 // Challenge 7 - Entries
Story Title: We'll Take it One Day at a Time
Rating: G
Warnings: None
“If this was my last day on Earth…”
“And if it were?” I challenge, smiling.
“If it were then we’d have to figure out something unique to do,” he answers. He is frowning seriously, like the world could end any second. Or maybe like he might just go to sleep and never wake up again.
“Unique how?”
“I don’t know,” he says.. “You’re expecting some great answer like World Peace, right?”
“How do you do world peace?”
“I know how,” he says playfully, sarcastically. “I have the answers to all things, after all.”
I laugh because it’s funny. “Do you? If you do, you stole them from me.”
“Did I?” he asks, his mouth quirking slightly, “I don’t seem to recall.”
I scoff.
He’s playing with the fingers on my hand, and it’s kind of annoying and it’s kind of not. I don’t want him to stop.
“What would you do?” he asks. “If it were your last day on Earth? Would you do World Peace?” He says the last part in a booming, half-mocking voice. He’s being silly now.
“I don’t know,” I say. “How about this?”
And I kiss him.
Story Title: The Happiest Place on Earth
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Like most teens in the United States, Kara Robinson had lots of choices - 300+ channels to surf on TV, whether via cable or satellite; malls full of the latest fashions from Tommy Hilfiger or Eli Tahari, among others; fast food, designer coffee and convenience store chains on every other corner; any song from Britney Spears’ “Hold It Against Me” to Billy Currington’s “Let Me Down Easy” or albums from Eminem to Lady Antebellum, 50 Cent to Enrique Iglesias, all available for download onto her iPod; and a plethora of colleges - Ivy League, State, Community or Vocational - and career paths. The list goes on. Just the array of choices in any supermarket could overwhelm.
When she made the big decision - to live with Dad instead of Mom - she narrowed her options considerably. At Dad’s, she had to wear a uniform, fast food consisted of what you could make in a microwave, and, unless she moved back before then, college would happen via computer. Okay, so they did have some version of satellite TV and ability to download music, but giving up hour-long cell phone conversations and near-constant texting with her BFF Ally would suck. Big time.
Why go, then? She loved her dad and missed him like crazy. Not that she wouldn’t miss Mom, but her mother had a new career in real estate that kept her from home a lot of evenings and weekends, not to mention a new husband, who commandeered her attention when she *was* home. Honestly, Kara felt a little “in the way” around the newlyweds.
Besides, what Dad lacked in typical teen amenities he more than made up for in other ways, like a view to die for, all the newest technology and - ooh - really cute guys in uniform.
So while tonight she would fly to Houston and from there, first thing in the morning, to Dad’s, Kara had all of today to hang with family and friends. Mom and Jerry had said, “Anything you want to do - within reason, of course,” so she had picked Mickey and Donald and Cinderella. After all, Disneyland *was* the “happiest place on earth”, right?
The only ride on which she firmly stated she would not go? Space Mountain.
Kara refused to spend the day before she left for life aboard the space cruiser USS Kennedy at a theme park version of the experience. She considered everything else fair game and planned to go on all the rides at least twice. After breakfast at Goofy’s kitchen. Yes, her last day on earth - for however long she stayed with Dad - would be epic.
Story Title: The Sound of Wings
Rating: PG
Warnings: Uhhh, character death? Mentions of a car accident, an aneurysm.
The sky was overcast, the temperature was chilly, and the mood was somber. The only voice that broke through the silence was the priest's, and his voice was only loud enough so everyone could hear. The man was speaking about how wonderful a person Jessa was, and that she would be welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven with open arms.
Jessa herself stood amongst the mourners. Her mother was glassy eyed and statuesque, staring unblinking at the coffin. Her father kept shooting glances to the spot that Jessa stood at, red eyes fighting back tears, and it made the dead girl move away from her parents. She couldn't bear to see them like this, so she moved amongst the crowd. There were kids from her school there. Cousins and relatives she hadn't seen for years. Friends of the family.
She overheard one person mutter "It's not fair," only to be shushed by their neighbor a second later. Jessa felt a memory of an ache and had to leave the group.
The smell of incense and the sound of jingling jewelery were the first indication that the girl had arrived again. Jessa turned and saw her standing there, aviator jacket covered in pins and necklace as always. "They're right," she said before the girl could speak. "It's not fair."
She opened her mouth to speak. Jessa didn't let her. "This isn't fair. I was healthy and young and I had dreams. I was going to go to college." Jessa realized she was waiting for herself to cry, but remembered that she had no tear ducts anymore.
"Can I get a word in edgewise now?" The girl folded her arms and glowered at Jessa.
Jessa blinked. Then she shrugged. "Sure. Whatever. It's not like I matter anymore, anyway."
"Will you please knock the self-pity down a bit?" The girl snapped. "All you've been doing so far is complaining about how you're dead and how it's not fair. I've been trying to help you out and all you're doing is shoving me away, and when I can actually get you to stand around for more than a few minutes, all you do is tell me about how you had dreams and how you were going to be a doctor. You haven't even asked me what my name is or why I'm even here."
Jessa found her gaze moving closer to the ground with every word the other girl said. She was right. "Well," Jessa said, a defense forming, "wouldn't you be a little upset about dying?"
"Yeah, and I was. Everybody is. But really, you've been acting like a brat this entire time. Now are you going to let me talk or are you going to keep on ranting and raving?"
Jessa nodded.
"My name's Emma. And I can tell you right now, I understand what you're going through. It sucks. When I was twenty three, I was in an accident. It was nobody's fault, either - just a patch of slick ice on a dark road. And I wanted to blame someone for it. I blamed the city for not putting up lights. I blamed the county for not sending out trucks to salt the road. People told me that the sooner I just accepted it, the sooner I could go on. But it took me years until I accepted it. I only accepted it until a few days ago. When I saw this girl, laughing and joking with her friends in a mall, die of an aneurysm. Perfectly healthy, as far as I can tell. Just a random, unforeseen event."
Jessa clenched her hands for a second, but just said "Okay. And so what?"
"I realized... I realized that it really was nothing against me. That the universe didn't hate me or some cosmic being wanting to see me suffer. It was was just life. At that point, I realized I could go. I could go and maybe have an adventure like I'd never had before."
"So... why didn't you go?"
Emma said, soft as feathers falling on sea foam, "Because I realized that girl would be just like me. Angry and stuck here until she realized that it was nothing against her."
Jessa turned back to the funeral. Her body was being lowered into the grave. "But..."
"Life's no fun if you aren't participating," Emma said. "Why not make your last day on earth the first day of a new friendship?"
Jessa looked at the girl in the aviator jacket.
"What do you think is after this?" Jessa asked.
"Only one way to find out..."
Jessa took Emma's hand.
The sound of wings went through the cemetery.
Story Title: Away
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
“What’s that, dear?” the nurse asked, in her usual tone of forced cheerfulness. “Something about burning?”
Nora came back to the present with a start - she hadn’t even realized she’d spoken aloud. “It’s a poem, that’s all,” she replied, a touch defensively. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Oh, how nice!” the nurse replied, with that special smile that said, clear as words, I’m thinking of increasing your medication. “What’s it about?”
Nora winced inwardly, reluctant to answer. Perhaps this was a good time to pretend her hearing aid wasn’t working well, or that she’d lost track of the conversation. Heaven knew that happened often enough these days, but that, she thought acidly, was because so few people said anything worth listening to any more. Still, some imp of the perverse made her reply, even knowing the likely result. “’The Hosting of the Sidhe’, by Yeats. It’s about -” she sighed resignedly “- fairies.”
“Oh, how nice!” the nurse said again, with an even brighter smile.
Nora couldn’t restrain herself: “If you think they’re always nice, you obviously haven’t read much of the traditional lore! People called them things like ‘the gentry’ and ‘the good neighbours’ because they didn’t want to attract their attention. Some of them were downright monstrous, and even the brighter ones were fierce - beautiful like a forest fire, not like a flower. The sluagh, or host, were associated with the spirits of the dead, and - oh, never mind.”
Another nurse, one of the less vacuous ones, paused to listen, and commented to the other: “You know, Mrs. Flanagan was a noted folklorist.”
”Is, not was,” Nora retorted. “I’m old, girl, not dead! Retired I may be, but I keep up with the field.” But that was a half-truth - she’d been retired for 25 years now, and while she still subscribed to several journals, her eyes weren’t good enough to read them any more, and it was a lucky day when she could pin someone down to read a whole article to her. That grated on her nerves far more than the damned wheelchair, but there was no help for either one. Slowly but surely, she thought, her body was shutting down. No wonder her mind tended to wander these days - what did it have to come back to?
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair unbound,
Our breasts are having, our eyes are agleam.
All at once, she felt desperate to escape this claustrophobic, disinfectant-scented rabbit warren, and feel the wind and the leaves for real, her hair blowing - well, what was left of it. Thankfully, that was possible, at least for a short while. She forced herself to smile at the nurse. “Dear, would you mind pushing me outside? I’d love a bit of fresh air before dinner.”
“Of course, Mrs. Flanagan. But we mustn’t stay out too long - the sun’s nearly down, and it’ll be getting chilly.”
Sunset, Nora thought. The perfect time, really, to be contemplating Yeats and fairies. The Celts regarded liminal times and spaces, between one thing and another, as magical: riverbanks, seashores, hilltops, deep wells, and of course, sunrise and sunset. Come to that, this whole place was a liminal space, wasn’t it? All the residents caught between living and dying, biding time before crossing to the Otherworld, and half of them “away with the fairies” already, in the colloquial sense of not all there.
She sighed happily as a gust of autumn wind ruffled her thinning hair, and leaves eddied around her chair. One thing she did like about this home was the location -just outside the city, by a nature preserve, with many winding paths into the trees, some of them smooth enough for a wheelchair. Out here, she could lose herself in memories and dreams, no longer shackled to a body that was well past its best-before date.
“So, Mrs. Flanagan, do you believe in fairies?” The nurse’s voice brought her back abruptly to the here and now. Still, the wind and the trees had restored her enough that she didn’t feel the need to snap this time.
“Well, that all depends what you mean by believe, doesn’t it? When I was a girl I certainly did - though so did nearly everyone back home, even if most of them wouldn’t admit it. But my sister Kathleen and I were convinced we’d seen them, in the woods near our family’s farm in County Galway...” She trailed off, wishing she could be alone with her memories of Kathleen. “You know, dear, it is a bit cold out - would you mind fetching my shawl? It’s in my room, by the door.”
Well, that would buy her a few minutes of peace, at least. She gazed into the darkening trees at the very edge of the woods, as the sun touched the horizon, and remembered the adventures they’d had as girls, when the Otherworld seemed to lie behind every tree, around every bend in the path.
And suddenly it seemed she could hear the sound of rushing hoofbeats, and the chiming of bells. Perhaps it was just the wind and someone’s chimes - but no, woven into it was the sound of voices, and didn’t one of them sound like Kathleen’s? Then the trees parted, and the building behind her seemed very far away...
The host is riding ‘twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
She wondered briefly if the nurse, when she returned, would find an empty wheelchair or an empty body, but it didn’t seem to matter any more. She never once looked back as she moved to join the host.
Story Title: Storm a Comin'
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Edna watched the last of the boats leave, Charlie's little boat trailing in the wake of the William's brothers’ bigger boats. All three were fishing boats, old and battered, with makeshift patches of plywood and the big poles for the heavy gear sticking out every which way.
The water was choppy, the tide just starting to going out, and Edna breathed in the salty scent of sea and air and thought that maybe she was being foolish. Then again, she was 87 years old, and had no place to go on the mainland.
Well that wasn't rightfully true.
She still had one son living, and 17 grandkids, and 6 great-grandkids. The ferry to the island had stopped running twenty years ago, and she'd become content with what came on the mail plane, cards for each birthday and Christmas, along with the occasional phone call from her son. And each card and each call always carried the hint that she should give up the island, let them put in her one of those nursing homes.
It wasn't the thought of a nursing home that put her off.
Edna had thought about it plenty of times. How it would be nice to have a roof that didn't leak, and to be able to wear clean dresses every day, and have a toilet that flushed without having to pour a bucket of water in it. But Edna had been the oldest of six kids; she'd been taking care of others ever since her mother died of TB when Jimmy, the youngest, was still in diapers.
She couldn't quite take to the notion of relying on somebody else.
She stared across the ocean, watching the boats grow smaller and smaller, noticed that there were no birds flying and the waves were getting rougher.
Storm was coming.
Deep in her bones, Edna knew the weatherman was right. She'd seen a lot of storms, ice and rain and a few hurricanes, and this one was going be big. She couldn't put a finger on it, just nearly ninety years of living, and a certainty in her spine that this would be the storm, the one that finally washed what was left of the town into the ocean.
Not that there was much to wash away. Once the ferry stopped coming, the town had slowly ebbed, until it was only a few houses and fishing boats, and a handful of stubborn islanders. Edna's hand tightened on her cane as the boats disappeared into the horizon, and the wind kicked up some.
Nobody left now but her.
She turned, was about to pick her slow way up the rickety stairs that hugged the cliff, when she saw
a figure strolling down the beach.
He looked like he'd stepped out of one of those old time photos, dressed in a black suit, and a white, stiff shirt-oh, he was handsome, blonde hair and green eyes and a wide, generous mouth.
Edna clutched her cane tighter, her mouth going dry.
William Belman.
Charlie's great-great-grandfather, dead for over a hundred years. She’d never seen Ol’ Bill, but others had, usually strolling the piers or waving a boat off to sea. Some even said that seeing Ol' Bill meant good luck and good fishing.
The haunt slowed, gave her a sunny smile, "Morning, Miss Edna. Hear there's a storm a-brewing."
Edna had never been scared of anything, never had the time to be. She’d raised five siblings and then when her husband drowned in Cooper Cove, tangled in his own nets, she’d squared her shoulders and raised four sons, too. She pointed her finger, voice sharp, "In Jesus’s name, you get behind me, Satan."
Edna wasn't sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn't for Ol' Bill to tip his head back and let out a loud laugh. He dropped his hand on the stair railing, gave her an insolent wink, "If I go, who would you to talk to, Miss Edna? Nobody left but me and you on this island, and I’d like some human company in my final hours.”
She glared back, “You’re already dead.”
Ol’ Bill’s eyes turned sad, and a little wistful. “Neither of us will be here come morning. I’m tied to this island, same as you, and that’s the gospel truth. “
Ol’ Bill’s sweetheart had run off with another man, at least that what people said. He’d hanged himself, and his body had been buried with the unblessed babies in the field beyond the churchyard.
Edna found herself feeling sorry for him. “You can walk with me if you want.” She raised her chin, “As far as the gate and that’s all.”
Ol’ Bill’s grin was boyish, “As far as the gate, then .” He mounted the step, offering her his elbow. Edna took his arm hesitantly, found it solid enough, if cold. For a few minutes, they climbed and then he spoke, “Edna, do you remember when the old hotel was open? My sisters and I used to run down to the docks just to stare at all the fancy guests on the ferry.”
Edna remembered that, too. The hotel’s guests with their expensive clothes and heaps of luggage. She paused at the top to catch her breath. “My father used to fix the plumbing, and the cook would slip him leftovers, or extras from the garden. We always ate good in the summertime.”
Ol’ Bill groaned, “Don’t go mentioning the garden. I’d weed that garden sometimes, for an extra nickel. ‘Bout broke my back.”
She could see her gate from here, and she thought about how it would be, sitting alone on the couch with the power out, waiting for the storm to come. She gave the haunt a smile, “Can you take tea?”
Ol’ Bill looked down, giving her another of those boyish grins as she tucked her hand more snuggly in the crook of his elbow, “Been a while, but I think I could manage a bit of tea.”
Story Title: Last Day
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mild sexual themes; adult situations; character death; language
"If this was my last day on earth, I'd have sex with Benny Markowitz," Davina declared, looking up from a book. "I mean, if the Soviets launched nuclear warheads that were going to wipe out the whole east coast, I wouldn't want to waste my last day in a stupid car."
"Ew. Benny Markowitz," Steven gaged.
Ernestine looked at her children's reflection in the rear view mirror; she wondered why she hadn't left Steven at home. This was supposed to be Davina's day, but Steven would probably chase everything Davina said with negative commentary. Davina tightened her mouth like she was preparing to launch a missile of her own. A pre-emptive strike was called for. "Benny Markowitz? He's a senior this year, isn't he?"
"He plays football. That's why all the girls wanna get with him." And the boys want to be him, Ernestine thought. She often heard her one-hundred pound sophomore slipping down into the basement and trying to lift the weights his father had left behind.
"Mind your own business, one-nut."
Steven responded to the implicit threat. " If you tell anybody I've only got one testicle, I'll kill you."
"Oh yeah? Mom, Steven's stashing dirty socks behind the couch in the basement."
"Steven, are you hiding dirty clothes? Why would you hide socks?"
"Bitch." The young man's curse was barely audible. His sister laughed. "Hand Solo," she snickered.
"That's enough you two. Someday, you're going to be glad you have each other to depend on... " Such lives these children might have.
The future. Ernestine's future-apart from her children-appeared static, unchanging. Work and more work. An occasional vacation, perhaps. She and Henry had divorced amicably. They had to since neither wanted to dissolve their family practice; they worked too well together. It was unfortunate that Henry had decided to add excitement to his life by buying a blond and a Porshe, two things he could use more often if he were a bachelor.
Ahead, the Verrazano doubled as a parking lot.
Two men walked past. "Jumpers," one said to the other. "They're assholes. Fifty or sixty thousand cars drive to the city every day and one guy decides to take a dive and make everybody late for work."
Ernestine tried to ignore the siren and the people milling in the highway; she looked at her nails. She had painted them two days ago while she sat in front of the high school waiting for Bridgette. The activity was a ruse to avoid the harpies congregating on the sidewalk to squawk about their child's athletic achievements. Ernestine didn't want to think about Bridgette throwing her body around on the floor of gymnasium-not since she heard someplace that cheerleading was as dangerous for girls as football was for boys-and she certainly didn't want to talk about it. Somehow, Ernestine had missed a nail on her left hand.
She rummaged through her purse for polish. Ernestine had recently doubled her efforts to keep track of appointments and birthdays by buying a newer cell phone, one with calendar supplications or something like that. She let Bridgette set up the new phone, but Ernestine couldn't remember how to turn it on. She pulled the phone out of her purse and laid it on the passenger seat with a dozen business cards and envelopes containing bills she probably hadn't paid. Ernestine had misplaced her checkbook again. The last time Davina came home, she had found it in the drawer with the candles, Ernestine's good silver and the Kiddush cup.
"Ma. You should let me show you how to do your banking online. No one writes checks anymore."
Ernestine started to respond, but the bell rang and the students began oozing from the doors of the school.
"Hey, Grana. Where's the housekeeper?"
"I think he has the week off. I-"
"Cleo is a she, Grana."
"I forget." Ernestine turned to stare at the youth sitting beside Davina. "You must be Benny Markowitz. You, I remember."
The teens looked at one another and shrugged. "See. I told you that your hair is too long. Grana thinks you look like some stranger," the girl suggested. "Maybe a hippie rock star."
"It's still me, Grana." Ernestine looked confused. "David? Your grandson. Anyway, I if I'm going to be in a band, can it be the Gratefully Fed? Can we stop and grab a hot dog?"
"You're a little forward, Mr. Markowitz." Two hours later Ernestine gave up. She couldn't remember taking the children to get their hot dogs, but she must have. Why didn't I park the car, she thought. Surely Davina and Steven were old enough to go into a restaurant and get their food without her. Ernestine circled the block again. Eventually, the car ran out of gas.
Ahead, the Delaware-Memorial was gridlocked. A state police trooper startled the dozing woman. "I'm Trooper Maddox, Delaware State Police. Keep your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them. Have you been drinking, Ma'am?"
Ernestine had finally found her nail polish. Unfortunately, she spilled it in the floor. Someone smelled of urine. She tried to ignore the police officer. Such a nice man. He kept asking her questions. Are you sick? Are you lost? What did that mean?
"Ma'am, can you step out of the car?" The EMT opened the door and helped Ernestine to her feet.
"Proprioception," she said.
"What was that, lady?"
"Proprioception. Propriception. I used to know what that means. I used to know a lot of things, but every day I forget more and pretty soon, I won't remember anything at all."
"Sit right here. We're gonna get you checked out."
Where did the children go. "If those children come back, you take them wherever they want to go. I can't play with them now; I'm just waiting for someone to come take me home. This is my last day, you know, my last day on Earth."
Story Title: This Moment Will Last Forever
Rating: G
Warnings: None
The phone was ringing as Victoria opened the door to her apartment, but she didn’t bother hurrying to answer it. Her purse was falling off her shoulder, plastic shopping bag handles were digging into her hands, and her left shoe was coming untied; stumbling all over herself to grab the phone was not a priority. Instead, she made a beeline for the living room, setting down her bags on the table before slipping off her shoes. Rolling her shoulders helped to relieve some of the tension in her neck, but Victoria knew she wouldn’t be able to truly relax until she’d finished packing; the shuttle left at 7 AM the next morning, and all the last-minute arrangements were leaving stress lines scattered across Victoria’s face. The answering machine beeped as Victoria padded down the hallway, but she ignored it.
Victoria knew she was supposed to pack lightly, but it wasn’t like she was going to be away for a couple of weeks or even a couple of months; she was moving for good, the chance that she would return to her cozy Portland apartment slim to nil. There was packing lightly, and then there was packing lightly, and in trying to sort out the happy medium, Victoria had turned her bedroom into a near disaster zone. Clean clothes were piled on the floor next to dirty ones, waiting to be folded and washed accordingly. A half-full suitcase blocked the closet, while an empty one sat innocently beside it. A pile of mail was spilling off the desk, junk mail, bills, and personal letters mixed haphazardly together. In the corner, a column of precariously stacked books threatened to fall over at the slightest provocation. There was as much to clean up as there was to pack, but before tackling any of those matters, Victoria turned towards the one thing in the room that didn’t beg for attention at all.
“I notice you didn’t clean up while I was gone,” she said, sinking down on the unmade bed. When she didn’t get any response, she added, “You know, you could at least pretend you’re happy to see me.”
The black-and-white cat dozing in a tight circle on the comforter didn’t so much as lift its head.
“Yeah,” Victoria said. “I’ll miss you, too. Come on, Crusoe. You can help me pack.” Scooping up the cat, Victoria grabbed the empty suitcase and made her way back to the living room. Crusoe nosed around while Victoria retrieved her shopping bags, finally curling up on the sun-soaked bit of floor beneath the window. Victoria set the bags down by the suitcase and then dragged the answering machine onto the floor as well. A red 3 was blinking on the machine, and after settling down in front of the suitcase, Victoria hit the Play button.
“Hey, Vickie, it’s Christine!” A quiet smile bloomed on Victoria’s face when she heard her best friend’s voice. “I’m sure you’re really busy, but I just wanted to say hey, and see if you were free to get a drink or something tonight. I know you leave really early tomorrow morning, but if you’ve got some time, it’d be great to see you. All right, give me a call! Bye!”
Making a mental note to return her friend’s call, Victoria pressed Delete. The next message started playing as she arranged pairs of thick socks and packets of hair ties in the bottom of the suitcase. In the corner, Crusoe flicked his tail lazily from side to side.
“Victoria, it’s Mom. And Dad!” her father’s voice cut in, making Victoria laugh. “Sweetie, we just wanted to make sure you were all set for tomorrow. If you need any help packing or cleaning your apartment, we’re happy to give you a hand. Oh, and your dad wanted to remind you that- I wanted to remind you to leave some cat food on the counter so I know what kind Crusoe likes!” Victoria laughed again, but a pang twisted through her stomach at the thought of leaving her cat behind. “That’s all for now,” her mother continued. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning. Love you, sweetie.”
The suitcase in front of her was getting full, and Victoria reconfigured the contents to make the best use of the space before pressing the Delete button. Another shopping bag was filled with jeans and sweatshirts, and she got to work pulling off the tags as the final message began playing.
“Um, hi, Victoria. It’s Jacob. I just…” Victoria pressed her lips together, waiting out the pause. “I just wanted to let you know there are no hard feelings. I know I was upset when we broke up, but I’m not angry with you. I- I really like you, and this is gonna be an amazing experience for you, and…” His laugh was strained. “Uh, just give me a call when you get this. I want to say goodbye.”
Victoria pressed the Delete button quickly, not giving herself time to change her mind. She owed it to him to give him a call before she left- eleven months together wasn’t an eternity, but is was nothing to scoff at- but the tinge of sadness in his voice still set off a spark of guilt in her gut.
The shopping bags almost empty and the suitcase full, Victoria stood up and stretched. Her legs had fallen asleep, giving her a funny half-limp as she walked over to Crusoe. The pool of sunlight he’d claimed had almost completely disappeared, leaving shadows in its place. Outside, the sun was setting, and the sky was striped pink and blue. Bending down, Victoria lifted Crusoe from the floor and cradled him against her chest.
Victoria’s shuttle to the moon left in fourteen hours. There were clothes to wash and books to pack and people to call, but for the moment, all she wanted to do was watch the sunset and feel the warm, soft body of her cat.
Story Title: Mortal Coil
Rating: None
Warnings: None
It had stayed in human form for too long, and had forgotten what it is to be pure essence. Over the years it had lost the ability to communicate directly, it could only speak with the human tongue, it asked to be called by a name. It is tied firmer by language than by blood and flesh.
/I/ watch it, pacing up and down, its feet bound to the earth, obeying laws that /I/ had not created for it. The blades of grass are crushed underneath the soles of its feet. It is beautiful like everything is beautiful, and every word that it speaks spreads ripples of colours that it cannot see. It does not seem to remember that /I/ can separate light from dark, lies from truth. It beseeches /me/ to allow it to stay earthbound, it assigns /me/ a vanity that is all too human, it forgets that /I/ see everything, and there is woman a with the deep brown eyes that waits for it. It speak until its voice grows hoarse and desperate, until it begins to wonder if /I/ exist.
/I/ ask it to spread its wings.
It is puzzled when it cannot obey. Nothing grows from its back. The wings have broken, leaving only the vestige blades as proof.
It is too late. /I/ leave it fettered to its mortal coil.
It weeps tears of joy not knowing what it has lost.
It is at it was, is, and always will be.
Story Title: I Want You to Ask Yourself
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: swearing and serial killers
I held her hand, palm up, and traced her lifeline with the tip of my finger. She giggled, the yeasty tang of beer heavy on her breath. “So, Sarah, what I want you to ask yourself is, ‘If this was my last day on earth, what would I do?’”
Her head tilted wobbly to one side, a gesture meant to look coy but instead came off as lacking in muscular control. “You mean, like, if I was going to die?”
Yes, exactly that. “More like, if you could make one perfect day and you didn’t have to worry about the consequences, what would that day look like?”
“Con-se-quences?” She rolled the word off her tongue like a woman trying to fix a watch wearing oven mitts, and for a second I wondered if she was too far gone to be fun. But no, as long as she could scream, I could make it fun.
“Yes. For instance, would you have ice cream for breakfast? Go on a shopping spree and charge it all? Tell off your boss?”
“Oh, hell yeah!” Her eyes widened in delight. “Then I’d quit and spend the day at the beach.”
“What else?”
“I’d get that giant slice of red velvet cake from Magnolia Bakery and eat the whole thing.”
“Anything else?”
She frowned, wracking her pickled brain for more ideas. “Um… crank call my ex?”
Talk about an opening. “And tell him you’re having sex with some guy you just met in a bar.”
“Ha, is that a pickup line?” The way she leaned forward, exposing her cleavage, suggested it was a successful one.
I drained my glass and stood up. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
“Where are we going?” She slipped her arm into the crook of my elbow, leaning on me as we left the bar.
“Magnolia. At least we can do two of the things on your list. My car is this way.” And it’s got all my little toys in it. I led her to the corner and had to haul her back from stepping into the heavy traffic.
“Sarah!” The bellow from down the street made us both turn around.
“Rob, go away!” The girl let go of my arm to totter toward the beefy guy with the neck tattoo running at us. “You’re not the boss of me anymore! I got a new guy.”
Whoa, what? “No, wait. I-“
Neck Tattoo went from ten feet away to suddenly in my face, one toaster-sized hand wrapped around my collar. “So you’re the new guy.”
This wasn’t in the plan. “Hey, I don’t even know the bitch.”
“Bitch?” The girl’s screech was superseded by the blare of a truck horn just as Neck Tattoo shoved me back off the curb. I flailed as the sickening crunch of bone against metal faded into utter silence.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Was I in an underwater cave? The sounds around me were thick and blurred except for the staccato ping next to my ear, and my breath labored as if my lungs were filled with fluid. I opened my eyes to a dim, green glow, but it turned out to be institutional rather than subterranean in origin. I was in a bed, that much I could tell. I tried to move, to make sense of my surroundings, to shake off the weight that was pressing down on my chest and suffocating me. The beeping beside me raced even faster. A scream gagged in my throat which was stuffed with plastic tubes that rubbed raw with every swallow.
“There, there. Relax now.” A voice, a curious mix of grandmotherly comfort and brisk efficiency, penetrated my panic. A nurse’s face, middle-aged and homely, moved into my field of vision. “I know it’s a bit frightening, isn’t it? But it will all be over soon.”
My eyes pleaded for an explanation. Where was I? What had happened? She answered as if she’d understood. “There was a terrible accident. You nearly died. In fact, no one thought you would ever wake up. You’ve been asleep for months and months.” Her words grew dreamy and slow at the end, and then she dropped to a whisper. “It’s a shame, a fine young man like you, wasting away. I couldn’t bear to watch it happen anymore.”
Smiling, she stroked my face, caressing it like a lover. “You deserved to have one last day. I always like to wake them up for their one last day.” Her hand moved out of sight and returned with a needle and syringe, still in its package. She took it out and filled the syringe with air, then pressed the needle to my neck.
I shook my head and tried to speak, to moan, to beg. She pushed my chin aside as easily as paper. “Don’t worry, it’ll be over quickly. Try to think happy thoughts. Don’t fight it; accept it. I know this probably isn’t what you planned, but I want you to ask yourself, ‘If this was my last day on earth, what would I want to do?’”
Story Title: Mayfly
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
She opened her eyes in the light of a new day. Her name was the first sound she heard with her new ears, Ze, as she burst from her egg with happy enthusiasm. The sunlight pressed down warm on her back and wings, reflecting off the water to illuminate her shiny carapace. Across the water, tall grasses waved at the shore, touched in a hundred shades of gold and blue and green.
“I’m going to fly to the other side of the pond,” she said, rising in the warm morning air.
“No, silly!” her sisters cried. “We have too much to do!”
“But it’s my last day!” Ze protested. “Please…”
But they would not listen. They surrounded her, and Ze had to fly off with them, to do her duty as everyone had to. She flexed her wings and pumped her body up, and felt herself unfurl big and strong in the early sunlight.
The fronds from the far shore beckoned, promising a fascinating journey, but her sisters pressed close and took her with them. Ze learned to fly well above the water and on the near shore, avoiding spiders’ webs, frogs’ tongue, birds’ beaks, and fishes’ mouths. Some of her sisters were not so lucky.
Overhead the noon sun blazed with heat, and the far shore looked green and gilded and wonderfully cool. But it was not yet time. Her body cried out with new urges.
Ka flew in, powerful and insistent; it became a hot and torrid affair. How could she resist him, when all her sisters now had their mates? But he left again, as all the mates did, and Ze could do nothing but drop her eggs into the safety of the water. She felt old and weary as the last of them left her empty. By now, she was alone in the night, her sisters long gone.
The far shore beckoned, mysterious and beautiful with its sedges, cattails, and grasses waving in the pale, pre-dawn air. There was no one around to say no now, and Ze flitted across the pond, her wing feeling heavy and slow. Shuddering with exhaustion, she alighted on the grass of the far shore as the sun rose.
It was a beautiful place to spend her last day.
Story Title: Lessons in Flight
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Kirloa nervously crept closer to the cliff's edge. Her talons dug deeper into the soft earth underneath as she looked out past the horizon. The air was different up here; it lacked the substance and heavy scents found on the forest floor. It was colder, too, and she scrunched her head in closer to her body. This world was so far from all she had ever known, and her feet were still planted firmly on the ground. How did they ever expect her to fly?
The night before she had been in the nest-cave with her brothers and sisters, huddled close in the dark as their guardian-mothers kept watch for foxes and snakes. They were as they had always been, secure and comfortable among the dried grass and down. It was then that she made her decision. This would not be her last night as a groundling: she would fly just the once, then head straight back to the nest-cave. Adults could live off grubs and insects just as easily as the hatchlings could, and she’d allow a little bit of low gliding to catch a mouse or two. She had been perfectly content here, why should she ever want anything different? Kirloa held her molting adolescent head up high, making a stand she was sure would change the course of her species forever. Some of her fellow groundlings ignored her, but they were the ones who had practiced flapping while they were still too round and fat, long before their flight feathers came in. Other hatchlings joined her in her protest, but all of the guardian-mothers just ruffled their feathers and chittered among themselves.
Now it was daylight, and Kirloa wanted nothing more to head back to the nest-cave even before her first flight. But she couldn't walk down; the guardian-mothers were right behind them, pecking at any who slowed their pace. She wasn't even sure if she could find her way back, anyway, and besides. . . it wouldn't be the same without her brethren there. The cave was far too large for only her, and there's no way she could be able to keep watch by herself. She had no choice. The cliff's edge grew ever closer. She ran, spreading her wings just as a strong gust of wind went by.
Oh.
The ground flew by beneath her, alien in its distance. It took her longer to find the area around the nest-cave than she expected. Was that really where she spent her whole life? It looked so small now and there was so much else out there. She flew past it, racing for the next new experience. Her wing muscles ached gloriously, crying in ecstasy at their newfound freedom. Time clumped and stretched; seconds held an eternity of sensation, but hours passed by without a second thought. Her mind expanded, too-drinking in all the new sights, analyzing and adjusting to wind patterns by instinct. She had never felt so alive. She became tired all too soon and rested with her brethren upon the canopy’s branches.
The sky grew dark. Kirloa nestled down for sleep. The wood’s bark felt different underneath her talons than the grass and clay, but not unpleasant. She thought of yesterday and her last night on the solid earth. Who she had been then, all those hours ago. That version of her seemed almost unknowable now. Who would she become the next evening? The next week? The next month? There was only one way to find out. The next day, Kirloa took flight.
Rating: G
Warnings: None
“If this was my last day on Earth…”
“And if it were?” I challenge, smiling.
“If it were then we’d have to figure out something unique to do,” he answers. He is frowning seriously, like the world could end any second. Or maybe like he might just go to sleep and never wake up again.
“Unique how?”
“I don’t know,” he says.. “You’re expecting some great answer like World Peace, right?”
“How do you do world peace?”
“I know how,” he says playfully, sarcastically. “I have the answers to all things, after all.”
I laugh because it’s funny. “Do you? If you do, you stole them from me.”
“Did I?” he asks, his mouth quirking slightly, “I don’t seem to recall.”
I scoff.
He’s playing with the fingers on my hand, and it’s kind of annoying and it’s kind of not. I don’t want him to stop.
“What would you do?” he asks. “If it were your last day on Earth? Would you do World Peace?” He says the last part in a booming, half-mocking voice. He’s being silly now.
“I don’t know,” I say. “How about this?”
And I kiss him.
Story Title: The Happiest Place on Earth
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Like most teens in the United States, Kara Robinson had lots of choices - 300+ channels to surf on TV, whether via cable or satellite; malls full of the latest fashions from Tommy Hilfiger or Eli Tahari, among others; fast food, designer coffee and convenience store chains on every other corner; any song from Britney Spears’ “Hold It Against Me” to Billy Currington’s “Let Me Down Easy” or albums from Eminem to Lady Antebellum, 50 Cent to Enrique Iglesias, all available for download onto her iPod; and a plethora of colleges - Ivy League, State, Community or Vocational - and career paths. The list goes on. Just the array of choices in any supermarket could overwhelm.
When she made the big decision - to live with Dad instead of Mom - she narrowed her options considerably. At Dad’s, she had to wear a uniform, fast food consisted of what you could make in a microwave, and, unless she moved back before then, college would happen via computer. Okay, so they did have some version of satellite TV and ability to download music, but giving up hour-long cell phone conversations and near-constant texting with her BFF Ally would suck. Big time.
Why go, then? She loved her dad and missed him like crazy. Not that she wouldn’t miss Mom, but her mother had a new career in real estate that kept her from home a lot of evenings and weekends, not to mention a new husband, who commandeered her attention when she *was* home. Honestly, Kara felt a little “in the way” around the newlyweds.
Besides, what Dad lacked in typical teen amenities he more than made up for in other ways, like a view to die for, all the newest technology and - ooh - really cute guys in uniform.
So while tonight she would fly to Houston and from there, first thing in the morning, to Dad’s, Kara had all of today to hang with family and friends. Mom and Jerry had said, “Anything you want to do - within reason, of course,” so she had picked Mickey and Donald and Cinderella. After all, Disneyland *was* the “happiest place on earth”, right?
The only ride on which she firmly stated she would not go? Space Mountain.
Kara refused to spend the day before she left for life aboard the space cruiser USS Kennedy at a theme park version of the experience. She considered everything else fair game and planned to go on all the rides at least twice. After breakfast at Goofy’s kitchen. Yes, her last day on earth - for however long she stayed with Dad - would be epic.
Story Title: The Sound of Wings
Rating: PG
Warnings: Uhhh, character death? Mentions of a car accident, an aneurysm.
The sky was overcast, the temperature was chilly, and the mood was somber. The only voice that broke through the silence was the priest's, and his voice was only loud enough so everyone could hear. The man was speaking about how wonderful a person Jessa was, and that she would be welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven with open arms.
Jessa herself stood amongst the mourners. Her mother was glassy eyed and statuesque, staring unblinking at the coffin. Her father kept shooting glances to the spot that Jessa stood at, red eyes fighting back tears, and it made the dead girl move away from her parents. She couldn't bear to see them like this, so she moved amongst the crowd. There were kids from her school there. Cousins and relatives she hadn't seen for years. Friends of the family.
She overheard one person mutter "It's not fair," only to be shushed by their neighbor a second later. Jessa felt a memory of an ache and had to leave the group.
The smell of incense and the sound of jingling jewelery were the first indication that the girl had arrived again. Jessa turned and saw her standing there, aviator jacket covered in pins and necklace as always. "They're right," she said before the girl could speak. "It's not fair."
She opened her mouth to speak. Jessa didn't let her. "This isn't fair. I was healthy and young and I had dreams. I was going to go to college." Jessa realized she was waiting for herself to cry, but remembered that she had no tear ducts anymore.
"Can I get a word in edgewise now?" The girl folded her arms and glowered at Jessa.
Jessa blinked. Then she shrugged. "Sure. Whatever. It's not like I matter anymore, anyway."
"Will you please knock the self-pity down a bit?" The girl snapped. "All you've been doing so far is complaining about how you're dead and how it's not fair. I've been trying to help you out and all you're doing is shoving me away, and when I can actually get you to stand around for more than a few minutes, all you do is tell me about how you had dreams and how you were going to be a doctor. You haven't even asked me what my name is or why I'm even here."
Jessa found her gaze moving closer to the ground with every word the other girl said. She was right. "Well," Jessa said, a defense forming, "wouldn't you be a little upset about dying?"
"Yeah, and I was. Everybody is. But really, you've been acting like a brat this entire time. Now are you going to let me talk or are you going to keep on ranting and raving?"
Jessa nodded.
"My name's Emma. And I can tell you right now, I understand what you're going through. It sucks. When I was twenty three, I was in an accident. It was nobody's fault, either - just a patch of slick ice on a dark road. And I wanted to blame someone for it. I blamed the city for not putting up lights. I blamed the county for not sending out trucks to salt the road. People told me that the sooner I just accepted it, the sooner I could go on. But it took me years until I accepted it. I only accepted it until a few days ago. When I saw this girl, laughing and joking with her friends in a mall, die of an aneurysm. Perfectly healthy, as far as I can tell. Just a random, unforeseen event."
Jessa clenched her hands for a second, but just said "Okay. And so what?"
"I realized... I realized that it really was nothing against me. That the universe didn't hate me or some cosmic being wanting to see me suffer. It was was just life. At that point, I realized I could go. I could go and maybe have an adventure like I'd never had before."
"So... why didn't you go?"
Emma said, soft as feathers falling on sea foam, "Because I realized that girl would be just like me. Angry and stuck here until she realized that it was nothing against her."
Jessa turned back to the funeral. Her body was being lowered into the grave. "But..."
"Life's no fun if you aren't participating," Emma said. "Why not make your last day on earth the first day of a new friendship?"
Jessa looked at the girl in the aviator jacket.
"What do you think is after this?" Jessa asked.
"Only one way to find out..."
Jessa took Emma's hand.
The sound of wings went through the cemetery.
Story Title: Away
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
“What’s that, dear?” the nurse asked, in her usual tone of forced cheerfulness. “Something about burning?”
Nora came back to the present with a start - she hadn’t even realized she’d spoken aloud. “It’s a poem, that’s all,” she replied, a touch defensively. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Oh, how nice!” the nurse replied, with that special smile that said, clear as words, I’m thinking of increasing your medication. “What’s it about?”
Nora winced inwardly, reluctant to answer. Perhaps this was a good time to pretend her hearing aid wasn’t working well, or that she’d lost track of the conversation. Heaven knew that happened often enough these days, but that, she thought acidly, was because so few people said anything worth listening to any more. Still, some imp of the perverse made her reply, even knowing the likely result. “’The Hosting of the Sidhe’, by Yeats. It’s about -” she sighed resignedly “- fairies.”
“Oh, how nice!” the nurse said again, with an even brighter smile.
Nora couldn’t restrain herself: “If you think they’re always nice, you obviously haven’t read much of the traditional lore! People called them things like ‘the gentry’ and ‘the good neighbours’ because they didn’t want to attract their attention. Some of them were downright monstrous, and even the brighter ones were fierce - beautiful like a forest fire, not like a flower. The sluagh, or host, were associated with the spirits of the dead, and - oh, never mind.”
Another nurse, one of the less vacuous ones, paused to listen, and commented to the other: “You know, Mrs. Flanagan was a noted folklorist.”
”Is, not was,” Nora retorted. “I’m old, girl, not dead! Retired I may be, but I keep up with the field.” But that was a half-truth - she’d been retired for 25 years now, and while she still subscribed to several journals, her eyes weren’t good enough to read them any more, and it was a lucky day when she could pin someone down to read a whole article to her. That grated on her nerves far more than the damned wheelchair, but there was no help for either one. Slowly but surely, she thought, her body was shutting down. No wonder her mind tended to wander these days - what did it have to come back to?
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair unbound,
Our breasts are having, our eyes are agleam.
All at once, she felt desperate to escape this claustrophobic, disinfectant-scented rabbit warren, and feel the wind and the leaves for real, her hair blowing - well, what was left of it. Thankfully, that was possible, at least for a short while. She forced herself to smile at the nurse. “Dear, would you mind pushing me outside? I’d love a bit of fresh air before dinner.”
“Of course, Mrs. Flanagan. But we mustn’t stay out too long - the sun’s nearly down, and it’ll be getting chilly.”
Sunset, Nora thought. The perfect time, really, to be contemplating Yeats and fairies. The Celts regarded liminal times and spaces, between one thing and another, as magical: riverbanks, seashores, hilltops, deep wells, and of course, sunrise and sunset. Come to that, this whole place was a liminal space, wasn’t it? All the residents caught between living and dying, biding time before crossing to the Otherworld, and half of them “away with the fairies” already, in the colloquial sense of not all there.
She sighed happily as a gust of autumn wind ruffled her thinning hair, and leaves eddied around her chair. One thing she did like about this home was the location -just outside the city, by a nature preserve, with many winding paths into the trees, some of them smooth enough for a wheelchair. Out here, she could lose herself in memories and dreams, no longer shackled to a body that was well past its best-before date.
“So, Mrs. Flanagan, do you believe in fairies?” The nurse’s voice brought her back abruptly to the here and now. Still, the wind and the trees had restored her enough that she didn’t feel the need to snap this time.
“Well, that all depends what you mean by believe, doesn’t it? When I was a girl I certainly did - though so did nearly everyone back home, even if most of them wouldn’t admit it. But my sister Kathleen and I were convinced we’d seen them, in the woods near our family’s farm in County Galway...” She trailed off, wishing she could be alone with her memories of Kathleen. “You know, dear, it is a bit cold out - would you mind fetching my shawl? It’s in my room, by the door.”
Well, that would buy her a few minutes of peace, at least. She gazed into the darkening trees at the very edge of the woods, as the sun touched the horizon, and remembered the adventures they’d had as girls, when the Otherworld seemed to lie behind every tree, around every bend in the path.
And suddenly it seemed she could hear the sound of rushing hoofbeats, and the chiming of bells. Perhaps it was just the wind and someone’s chimes - but no, woven into it was the sound of voices, and didn’t one of them sound like Kathleen’s? Then the trees parted, and the building behind her seemed very far away...
The host is riding ‘twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
She wondered briefly if the nurse, when she returned, would find an empty wheelchair or an empty body, but it didn’t seem to matter any more. She never once looked back as she moved to join the host.
Story Title: Storm a Comin'
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Edna watched the last of the boats leave, Charlie's little boat trailing in the wake of the William's brothers’ bigger boats. All three were fishing boats, old and battered, with makeshift patches of plywood and the big poles for the heavy gear sticking out every which way.
The water was choppy, the tide just starting to going out, and Edna breathed in the salty scent of sea and air and thought that maybe she was being foolish. Then again, she was 87 years old, and had no place to go on the mainland.
Well that wasn't rightfully true.
She still had one son living, and 17 grandkids, and 6 great-grandkids. The ferry to the island had stopped running twenty years ago, and she'd become content with what came on the mail plane, cards for each birthday and Christmas, along with the occasional phone call from her son. And each card and each call always carried the hint that she should give up the island, let them put in her one of those nursing homes.
It wasn't the thought of a nursing home that put her off.
Edna had thought about it plenty of times. How it would be nice to have a roof that didn't leak, and to be able to wear clean dresses every day, and have a toilet that flushed without having to pour a bucket of water in it. But Edna had been the oldest of six kids; she'd been taking care of others ever since her mother died of TB when Jimmy, the youngest, was still in diapers.
She couldn't quite take to the notion of relying on somebody else.
She stared across the ocean, watching the boats grow smaller and smaller, noticed that there were no birds flying and the waves were getting rougher.
Storm was coming.
Deep in her bones, Edna knew the weatherman was right. She'd seen a lot of storms, ice and rain and a few hurricanes, and this one was going be big. She couldn't put a finger on it, just nearly ninety years of living, and a certainty in her spine that this would be the storm, the one that finally washed what was left of the town into the ocean.
Not that there was much to wash away. Once the ferry stopped coming, the town had slowly ebbed, until it was only a few houses and fishing boats, and a handful of stubborn islanders. Edna's hand tightened on her cane as the boats disappeared into the horizon, and the wind kicked up some.
Nobody left now but her.
She turned, was about to pick her slow way up the rickety stairs that hugged the cliff, when she saw
a figure strolling down the beach.
He looked like he'd stepped out of one of those old time photos, dressed in a black suit, and a white, stiff shirt-oh, he was handsome, blonde hair and green eyes and a wide, generous mouth.
Edna clutched her cane tighter, her mouth going dry.
William Belman.
Charlie's great-great-grandfather, dead for over a hundred years. She’d never seen Ol’ Bill, but others had, usually strolling the piers or waving a boat off to sea. Some even said that seeing Ol' Bill meant good luck and good fishing.
The haunt slowed, gave her a sunny smile, "Morning, Miss Edna. Hear there's a storm a-brewing."
Edna had never been scared of anything, never had the time to be. She’d raised five siblings and then when her husband drowned in Cooper Cove, tangled in his own nets, she’d squared her shoulders and raised four sons, too. She pointed her finger, voice sharp, "In Jesus’s name, you get behind me, Satan."
Edna wasn't sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn't for Ol' Bill to tip his head back and let out a loud laugh. He dropped his hand on the stair railing, gave her an insolent wink, "If I go, who would you to talk to, Miss Edna? Nobody left but me and you on this island, and I’d like some human company in my final hours.”
She glared back, “You’re already dead.”
Ol’ Bill’s eyes turned sad, and a little wistful. “Neither of us will be here come morning. I’m tied to this island, same as you, and that’s the gospel truth. “
Ol’ Bill’s sweetheart had run off with another man, at least that what people said. He’d hanged himself, and his body had been buried with the unblessed babies in the field beyond the churchyard.
Edna found herself feeling sorry for him. “You can walk with me if you want.” She raised her chin, “As far as the gate and that’s all.”
Ol’ Bill’s grin was boyish, “As far as the gate, then .” He mounted the step, offering her his elbow. Edna took his arm hesitantly, found it solid enough, if cold. For a few minutes, they climbed and then he spoke, “Edna, do you remember when the old hotel was open? My sisters and I used to run down to the docks just to stare at all the fancy guests on the ferry.”
Edna remembered that, too. The hotel’s guests with their expensive clothes and heaps of luggage. She paused at the top to catch her breath. “My father used to fix the plumbing, and the cook would slip him leftovers, or extras from the garden. We always ate good in the summertime.”
Ol’ Bill groaned, “Don’t go mentioning the garden. I’d weed that garden sometimes, for an extra nickel. ‘Bout broke my back.”
She could see her gate from here, and she thought about how it would be, sitting alone on the couch with the power out, waiting for the storm to come. She gave the haunt a smile, “Can you take tea?”
Ol’ Bill looked down, giving her another of those boyish grins as she tucked her hand more snuggly in the crook of his elbow, “Been a while, but I think I could manage a bit of tea.”
Story Title: Last Day
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mild sexual themes; adult situations; character death; language
"If this was my last day on earth, I'd have sex with Benny Markowitz," Davina declared, looking up from a book. "I mean, if the Soviets launched nuclear warheads that were going to wipe out the whole east coast, I wouldn't want to waste my last day in a stupid car."
"Ew. Benny Markowitz," Steven gaged.
Ernestine looked at her children's reflection in the rear view mirror; she wondered why she hadn't left Steven at home. This was supposed to be Davina's day, but Steven would probably chase everything Davina said with negative commentary. Davina tightened her mouth like she was preparing to launch a missile of her own. A pre-emptive strike was called for. "Benny Markowitz? He's a senior this year, isn't he?"
"He plays football. That's why all the girls wanna get with him." And the boys want to be him, Ernestine thought. She often heard her one-hundred pound sophomore slipping down into the basement and trying to lift the weights his father had left behind.
"Mind your own business, one-nut."
Steven responded to the implicit threat. " If you tell anybody I've only got one testicle, I'll kill you."
"Oh yeah? Mom, Steven's stashing dirty socks behind the couch in the basement."
"Steven, are you hiding dirty clothes? Why would you hide socks?"
"Bitch." The young man's curse was barely audible. His sister laughed. "Hand Solo," she snickered.
"That's enough you two. Someday, you're going to be glad you have each other to depend on... " Such lives these children might have.
The future. Ernestine's future-apart from her children-appeared static, unchanging. Work and more work. An occasional vacation, perhaps. She and Henry had divorced amicably. They had to since neither wanted to dissolve their family practice; they worked too well together. It was unfortunate that Henry had decided to add excitement to his life by buying a blond and a Porshe, two things he could use more often if he were a bachelor.
Ahead, the Verrazano doubled as a parking lot.
Two men walked past. "Jumpers," one said to the other. "They're assholes. Fifty or sixty thousand cars drive to the city every day and one guy decides to take a dive and make everybody late for work."
Ernestine tried to ignore the siren and the people milling in the highway; she looked at her nails. She had painted them two days ago while she sat in front of the high school waiting for Bridgette. The activity was a ruse to avoid the harpies congregating on the sidewalk to squawk about their child's athletic achievements. Ernestine didn't want to think about Bridgette throwing her body around on the floor of gymnasium-not since she heard someplace that cheerleading was as dangerous for girls as football was for boys-and she certainly didn't want to talk about it. Somehow, Ernestine had missed a nail on her left hand.
She rummaged through her purse for polish. Ernestine had recently doubled her efforts to keep track of appointments and birthdays by buying a newer cell phone, one with calendar supplications or something like that. She let Bridgette set up the new phone, but Ernestine couldn't remember how to turn it on. She pulled the phone out of her purse and laid it on the passenger seat with a dozen business cards and envelopes containing bills she probably hadn't paid. Ernestine had misplaced her checkbook again. The last time Davina came home, she had found it in the drawer with the candles, Ernestine's good silver and the Kiddush cup.
"Ma. You should let me show you how to do your banking online. No one writes checks anymore."
Ernestine started to respond, but the bell rang and the students began oozing from the doors of the school.
"Hey, Grana. Where's the housekeeper?"
"I think he has the week off. I-"
"Cleo is a she, Grana."
"I forget." Ernestine turned to stare at the youth sitting beside Davina. "You must be Benny Markowitz. You, I remember."
The teens looked at one another and shrugged. "See. I told you that your hair is too long. Grana thinks you look like some stranger," the girl suggested. "Maybe a hippie rock star."
"It's still me, Grana." Ernestine looked confused. "David? Your grandson. Anyway, I if I'm going to be in a band, can it be the Gratefully Fed? Can we stop and grab a hot dog?"
"You're a little forward, Mr. Markowitz." Two hours later Ernestine gave up. She couldn't remember taking the children to get their hot dogs, but she must have. Why didn't I park the car, she thought. Surely Davina and Steven were old enough to go into a restaurant and get their food without her. Ernestine circled the block again. Eventually, the car ran out of gas.
Ahead, the Delaware-Memorial was gridlocked. A state police trooper startled the dozing woman. "I'm Trooper Maddox, Delaware State Police. Keep your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them. Have you been drinking, Ma'am?"
Ernestine had finally found her nail polish. Unfortunately, she spilled it in the floor. Someone smelled of urine. She tried to ignore the police officer. Such a nice man. He kept asking her questions. Are you sick? Are you lost? What did that mean?
"Ma'am, can you step out of the car?" The EMT opened the door and helped Ernestine to her feet.
"Proprioception," she said.
"What was that, lady?"
"Proprioception. Propriception. I used to know what that means. I used to know a lot of things, but every day I forget more and pretty soon, I won't remember anything at all."
"Sit right here. We're gonna get you checked out."
Where did the children go. "If those children come back, you take them wherever they want to go. I can't play with them now; I'm just waiting for someone to come take me home. This is my last day, you know, my last day on Earth."
Story Title: This Moment Will Last Forever
Rating: G
Warnings: None
The phone was ringing as Victoria opened the door to her apartment, but she didn’t bother hurrying to answer it. Her purse was falling off her shoulder, plastic shopping bag handles were digging into her hands, and her left shoe was coming untied; stumbling all over herself to grab the phone was not a priority. Instead, she made a beeline for the living room, setting down her bags on the table before slipping off her shoes. Rolling her shoulders helped to relieve some of the tension in her neck, but Victoria knew she wouldn’t be able to truly relax until she’d finished packing; the shuttle left at 7 AM the next morning, and all the last-minute arrangements were leaving stress lines scattered across Victoria’s face. The answering machine beeped as Victoria padded down the hallway, but she ignored it.
Victoria knew she was supposed to pack lightly, but it wasn’t like she was going to be away for a couple of weeks or even a couple of months; she was moving for good, the chance that she would return to her cozy Portland apartment slim to nil. There was packing lightly, and then there was packing lightly, and in trying to sort out the happy medium, Victoria had turned her bedroom into a near disaster zone. Clean clothes were piled on the floor next to dirty ones, waiting to be folded and washed accordingly. A half-full suitcase blocked the closet, while an empty one sat innocently beside it. A pile of mail was spilling off the desk, junk mail, bills, and personal letters mixed haphazardly together. In the corner, a column of precariously stacked books threatened to fall over at the slightest provocation. There was as much to clean up as there was to pack, but before tackling any of those matters, Victoria turned towards the one thing in the room that didn’t beg for attention at all.
“I notice you didn’t clean up while I was gone,” she said, sinking down on the unmade bed. When she didn’t get any response, she added, “You know, you could at least pretend you’re happy to see me.”
The black-and-white cat dozing in a tight circle on the comforter didn’t so much as lift its head.
“Yeah,” Victoria said. “I’ll miss you, too. Come on, Crusoe. You can help me pack.” Scooping up the cat, Victoria grabbed the empty suitcase and made her way back to the living room. Crusoe nosed around while Victoria retrieved her shopping bags, finally curling up on the sun-soaked bit of floor beneath the window. Victoria set the bags down by the suitcase and then dragged the answering machine onto the floor as well. A red 3 was blinking on the machine, and after settling down in front of the suitcase, Victoria hit the Play button.
“Hey, Vickie, it’s Christine!” A quiet smile bloomed on Victoria’s face when she heard her best friend’s voice. “I’m sure you’re really busy, but I just wanted to say hey, and see if you were free to get a drink or something tonight. I know you leave really early tomorrow morning, but if you’ve got some time, it’d be great to see you. All right, give me a call! Bye!”
Making a mental note to return her friend’s call, Victoria pressed Delete. The next message started playing as she arranged pairs of thick socks and packets of hair ties in the bottom of the suitcase. In the corner, Crusoe flicked his tail lazily from side to side.
“Victoria, it’s Mom. And Dad!” her father’s voice cut in, making Victoria laugh. “Sweetie, we just wanted to make sure you were all set for tomorrow. If you need any help packing or cleaning your apartment, we’re happy to give you a hand. Oh, and your dad wanted to remind you that- I wanted to remind you to leave some cat food on the counter so I know what kind Crusoe likes!” Victoria laughed again, but a pang twisted through her stomach at the thought of leaving her cat behind. “That’s all for now,” her mother continued. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning. Love you, sweetie.”
The suitcase in front of her was getting full, and Victoria reconfigured the contents to make the best use of the space before pressing the Delete button. Another shopping bag was filled with jeans and sweatshirts, and she got to work pulling off the tags as the final message began playing.
“Um, hi, Victoria. It’s Jacob. I just…” Victoria pressed her lips together, waiting out the pause. “I just wanted to let you know there are no hard feelings. I know I was upset when we broke up, but I’m not angry with you. I- I really like you, and this is gonna be an amazing experience for you, and…” His laugh was strained. “Uh, just give me a call when you get this. I want to say goodbye.”
Victoria pressed the Delete button quickly, not giving herself time to change her mind. She owed it to him to give him a call before she left- eleven months together wasn’t an eternity, but is was nothing to scoff at- but the tinge of sadness in his voice still set off a spark of guilt in her gut.
The shopping bags almost empty and the suitcase full, Victoria stood up and stretched. Her legs had fallen asleep, giving her a funny half-limp as she walked over to Crusoe. The pool of sunlight he’d claimed had almost completely disappeared, leaving shadows in its place. Outside, the sun was setting, and the sky was striped pink and blue. Bending down, Victoria lifted Crusoe from the floor and cradled him against her chest.
Victoria’s shuttle to the moon left in fourteen hours. There were clothes to wash and books to pack and people to call, but for the moment, all she wanted to do was watch the sunset and feel the warm, soft body of her cat.
Story Title: Mortal Coil
Rating: None
Warnings: None
It had stayed in human form for too long, and had forgotten what it is to be pure essence. Over the years it had lost the ability to communicate directly, it could only speak with the human tongue, it asked to be called by a name. It is tied firmer by language than by blood and flesh.
/I/ watch it, pacing up and down, its feet bound to the earth, obeying laws that /I/ had not created for it. The blades of grass are crushed underneath the soles of its feet. It is beautiful like everything is beautiful, and every word that it speaks spreads ripples of colours that it cannot see. It does not seem to remember that /I/ can separate light from dark, lies from truth. It beseeches /me/ to allow it to stay earthbound, it assigns /me/ a vanity that is all too human, it forgets that /I/ see everything, and there is woman a with the deep brown eyes that waits for it. It speak until its voice grows hoarse and desperate, until it begins to wonder if /I/ exist.
/I/ ask it to spread its wings.
It is puzzled when it cannot obey. Nothing grows from its back. The wings have broken, leaving only the vestige blades as proof.
It is too late. /I/ leave it fettered to its mortal coil.
It weeps tears of joy not knowing what it has lost.
It is at it was, is, and always will be.
Story Title: I Want You to Ask Yourself
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: swearing and serial killers
I held her hand, palm up, and traced her lifeline with the tip of my finger. She giggled, the yeasty tang of beer heavy on her breath. “So, Sarah, what I want you to ask yourself is, ‘If this was my last day on earth, what would I do?’”
Her head tilted wobbly to one side, a gesture meant to look coy but instead came off as lacking in muscular control. “You mean, like, if I was going to die?”
Yes, exactly that. “More like, if you could make one perfect day and you didn’t have to worry about the consequences, what would that day look like?”
“Con-se-quences?” She rolled the word off her tongue like a woman trying to fix a watch wearing oven mitts, and for a second I wondered if she was too far gone to be fun. But no, as long as she could scream, I could make it fun.
“Yes. For instance, would you have ice cream for breakfast? Go on a shopping spree and charge it all? Tell off your boss?”
“Oh, hell yeah!” Her eyes widened in delight. “Then I’d quit and spend the day at the beach.”
“What else?”
“I’d get that giant slice of red velvet cake from Magnolia Bakery and eat the whole thing.”
“Anything else?”
She frowned, wracking her pickled brain for more ideas. “Um… crank call my ex?”
Talk about an opening. “And tell him you’re having sex with some guy you just met in a bar.”
“Ha, is that a pickup line?” The way she leaned forward, exposing her cleavage, suggested it was a successful one.
I drained my glass and stood up. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
“Where are we going?” She slipped her arm into the crook of my elbow, leaning on me as we left the bar.
“Magnolia. At least we can do two of the things on your list. My car is this way.” And it’s got all my little toys in it. I led her to the corner and had to haul her back from stepping into the heavy traffic.
“Sarah!” The bellow from down the street made us both turn around.
“Rob, go away!” The girl let go of my arm to totter toward the beefy guy with the neck tattoo running at us. “You’re not the boss of me anymore! I got a new guy.”
Whoa, what? “No, wait. I-“
Neck Tattoo went from ten feet away to suddenly in my face, one toaster-sized hand wrapped around my collar. “So you’re the new guy.”
This wasn’t in the plan. “Hey, I don’t even know the bitch.”
“Bitch?” The girl’s screech was superseded by the blare of a truck horn just as Neck Tattoo shoved me back off the curb. I flailed as the sickening crunch of bone against metal faded into utter silence.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Was I in an underwater cave? The sounds around me were thick and blurred except for the staccato ping next to my ear, and my breath labored as if my lungs were filled with fluid. I opened my eyes to a dim, green glow, but it turned out to be institutional rather than subterranean in origin. I was in a bed, that much I could tell. I tried to move, to make sense of my surroundings, to shake off the weight that was pressing down on my chest and suffocating me. The beeping beside me raced even faster. A scream gagged in my throat which was stuffed with plastic tubes that rubbed raw with every swallow.
“There, there. Relax now.” A voice, a curious mix of grandmotherly comfort and brisk efficiency, penetrated my panic. A nurse’s face, middle-aged and homely, moved into my field of vision. “I know it’s a bit frightening, isn’t it? But it will all be over soon.”
My eyes pleaded for an explanation. Where was I? What had happened? She answered as if she’d understood. “There was a terrible accident. You nearly died. In fact, no one thought you would ever wake up. You’ve been asleep for months and months.” Her words grew dreamy and slow at the end, and then she dropped to a whisper. “It’s a shame, a fine young man like you, wasting away. I couldn’t bear to watch it happen anymore.”
Smiling, she stroked my face, caressing it like a lover. “You deserved to have one last day. I always like to wake them up for their one last day.” Her hand moved out of sight and returned with a needle and syringe, still in its package. She took it out and filled the syringe with air, then pressed the needle to my neck.
I shook my head and tried to speak, to moan, to beg. She pushed my chin aside as easily as paper. “Don’t worry, it’ll be over quickly. Try to think happy thoughts. Don’t fight it; accept it. I know this probably isn’t what you planned, but I want you to ask yourself, ‘If this was my last day on earth, what would I want to do?’”
Story Title: Mayfly
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
She opened her eyes in the light of a new day. Her name was the first sound she heard with her new ears, Ze, as she burst from her egg with happy enthusiasm. The sunlight pressed down warm on her back and wings, reflecting off the water to illuminate her shiny carapace. Across the water, tall grasses waved at the shore, touched in a hundred shades of gold and blue and green.
“I’m going to fly to the other side of the pond,” she said, rising in the warm morning air.
“No, silly!” her sisters cried. “We have too much to do!”
“But it’s my last day!” Ze protested. “Please…”
But they would not listen. They surrounded her, and Ze had to fly off with them, to do her duty as everyone had to. She flexed her wings and pumped her body up, and felt herself unfurl big and strong in the early sunlight.
The fronds from the far shore beckoned, promising a fascinating journey, but her sisters pressed close and took her with them. Ze learned to fly well above the water and on the near shore, avoiding spiders’ webs, frogs’ tongue, birds’ beaks, and fishes’ mouths. Some of her sisters were not so lucky.
Overhead the noon sun blazed with heat, and the far shore looked green and gilded and wonderfully cool. But it was not yet time. Her body cried out with new urges.
Ka flew in, powerful and insistent; it became a hot and torrid affair. How could she resist him, when all her sisters now had their mates? But he left again, as all the mates did, and Ze could do nothing but drop her eggs into the safety of the water. She felt old and weary as the last of them left her empty. By now, she was alone in the night, her sisters long gone.
The far shore beckoned, mysterious and beautiful with its sedges, cattails, and grasses waving in the pale, pre-dawn air. There was no one around to say no now, and Ze flitted across the pond, her wing feeling heavy and slow. Shuddering with exhaustion, she alighted on the grass of the far shore as the sun rose.
It was a beautiful place to spend her last day.
Story Title: Lessons in Flight
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Kirloa nervously crept closer to the cliff's edge. Her talons dug deeper into the soft earth underneath as she looked out past the horizon. The air was different up here; it lacked the substance and heavy scents found on the forest floor. It was colder, too, and she scrunched her head in closer to her body. This world was so far from all she had ever known, and her feet were still planted firmly on the ground. How did they ever expect her to fly?
The night before she had been in the nest-cave with her brothers and sisters, huddled close in the dark as their guardian-mothers kept watch for foxes and snakes. They were as they had always been, secure and comfortable among the dried grass and down. It was then that she made her decision. This would not be her last night as a groundling: she would fly just the once, then head straight back to the nest-cave. Adults could live off grubs and insects just as easily as the hatchlings could, and she’d allow a little bit of low gliding to catch a mouse or two. She had been perfectly content here, why should she ever want anything different? Kirloa held her molting adolescent head up high, making a stand she was sure would change the course of her species forever. Some of her fellow groundlings ignored her, but they were the ones who had practiced flapping while they were still too round and fat, long before their flight feathers came in. Other hatchlings joined her in her protest, but all of the guardian-mothers just ruffled their feathers and chittered among themselves.
Now it was daylight, and Kirloa wanted nothing more to head back to the nest-cave even before her first flight. But she couldn't walk down; the guardian-mothers were right behind them, pecking at any who slowed their pace. She wasn't even sure if she could find her way back, anyway, and besides. . . it wouldn't be the same without her brethren there. The cave was far too large for only her, and there's no way she could be able to keep watch by herself. She had no choice. The cliff's edge grew ever closer. She ran, spreading her wings just as a strong gust of wind went by.
Oh.
The ground flew by beneath her, alien in its distance. It took her longer to find the area around the nest-cave than she expected. Was that really where she spent her whole life? It looked so small now and there was so much else out there. She flew past it, racing for the next new experience. Her wing muscles ached gloriously, crying in ecstasy at their newfound freedom. Time clumped and stretched; seconds held an eternity of sensation, but hours passed by without a second thought. Her mind expanded, too-drinking in all the new sights, analyzing and adjusting to wind patterns by instinct. She had never felt so alive. She became tired all too soon and rested with her brethren upon the canopy’s branches.
The sky grew dark. Kirloa nestled down for sleep. The wood’s bark felt different underneath her talons than the grass and clay, but not unpleasant. She thought of yesterday and her last night on the solid earth. Who she had been then, all those hours ago. That version of her seemed almost unknowable now. Who would she become the next evening? The next week? The next month? There was only one way to find out. The next day, Kirloa took flight.