Three New Story Previews

It skips a generation

 So you’ve just discovered that you’re a witch/wizard! So? That might have been an issue a few hundred years ago, but that got kind of old right quick when the less-magically-inclined realized they couldn’t kill the legitimately accused. From dissonance came begrudging acceptance which—in the present year of 2014—has long since turned to apathy.

 Maxwellian Longacre shares this apathy so acutely that it almost registers. His parents were magically gifted, as were his maternal grandparents, but not his father’s father. No, Grandpa Ehrlich Vesuvius Longacre was entirely lacking when it came to his family’s line of wizardly heredity, exactly like Maxwellian; Ian for short. Ian’s father died rather blandly when Ian was barely a toddler, so it’s always been him and his mother, Cindrella. Unfortunately, that changed last year when his mother remarried, to a wizard with two daughters positively beaming with magical ability. Thanks to a hasty move across the country and a bureaucratic mix-up, Ian has been enrolled into the Erudite School of Casting with his step-sisters. Suddenly his apathy isn’t enough anymore.

 This isn’t tattling, Ian told himself. This is bringing up a valid point. That point being it’s not cool to be eaten by one’s blanket. Ian came to a stop outside his parent’s bedroom door, took a deep breath, and then knocked.

 “Yes?” His mom said in her usual lilting voice.

 “It’s Ian. Is it okay if I come in?”

 “Of course, I’m just doing my hair is all.”

 Ian entered, utterly nonplussed by the myriad of floating brushes and self-contained, hot gusts of lilac scented wind that were styling his mother’s glittery blond hair. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

 “Of course, Ian. What’s up?” She looked to him without turning her head.

 Ian knew he had his mother’s undivided attention, despite the hair styling theatrics, which made it ever so slightly more difficult to say what he wanted. Still, “Delia has been enchanting my bedding to either eat me or attack me in some way when I wake up.” definitely needed to be brought to her attention.

Issued

 Alexandria Gibson slipped quite nicely into the role of hired killer. As valedictorian of her graduating class, Ivy League acceptance letters in hand, she had the next eight years of her life as neatly appointed as a Victorian era sitting room. Which made her sudden decision to join the Marine Corps the night before graduation all the more baffling. And just so we’re clear, she appreciates her life’s parallels to Grosse Pointe Blank, though she appreciates you not bringing that up even more. It took her 11 years to question the decision she made that May night all those years ago, but as she stares into the eyes of the 10 year old boy she just failed to kill she wonders now why she didn’t question it sooner.

 “I missed.” She said, still aiming the firearm at her target.

 Ethan could barely hear her words over the pounding of his heart and the driving rain. Against his better judgment he asked the woman to repeat herself. “What did you say?”

 “I said I missed. I never miss.” She looked at her hands. They were still as ever.

 Ethan gulped. All that surrounded the terrifying figure before him was a blur. He spoke haltingly. “Are you… are… are you gonna try again?”

 “I should.” She said, weighing the weapon as if it had suddenly become her destiny. “I really should… but I won’t.”

 “G-g-g…good.” Ethan said as even the woman began to blur.

 “I think so, too. So now you need to calm down, get up, and come with me.”

 “What?! NO!” Ethan attempted to scramble to his feet as the woman holstered her weapon and approached him, gliding forward like elegance personified.

That was then and so is this

 Avery Gingham is having a slight problem. It’s a Thursday, and while that’s great and all—Thursday never hurt nobody no how—it’s been a Thursday for near as long as he can remember. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. It’s been Thursday going on four months next, well, Thursday, but that’s a whole hell of a lot of the same day! And it is the same day every time. Occasionally there will be slight differences that Avery notices, and while they appear to be related it’s impossible to keep a running tally or catalog of them in anything but his memory. Every person and physical object resets come midnight, so writing it all down is an exercise in futility. Yet Avery knows it’s possible to escape this benign cycle…

 “Checking the mail?” Jerry said, tilting his head in passing interest as he watched Avery continue to walk on. “Where are you going? Could be something important in there.”

 “Two flyers for appliance store sales, a too soon invite to join AARP, four utility bills—three incorrectly addressed—and a key to possibly win a sports car I couldn't afford the taxes on.” Avery said without breaking stride, though he did walk a bit slower to get it all out.

 Jerry tilted his head a bit more. “You sound pretty certain, pal.”                                    

 “Certainty hasn’t a thing to do with it Jerry.” Avery said under his breath, though he raised his voice for what he said next. “Take a step to your right.”

 “A step to my wha-OWW!” Jerry reached for the back of his recently dented head. “Dammit, Junior! What did I tell you about throwing your Frisbee without looking?!”

 Avery remembered laughing the first few times this exchange happened, but it had since lost its luster. Which was a shame, because he was an ardent supporter or physical comedy.

When the Zetas fill the skies - Preview

“Communications?” 

“Down.”

“Visuals?”

“Down.”

“Defense.”

“Down. Look, when I say everything is down, I mean everything.”

“…well shit.”

“You don’t need to tell me, Marqus.” Dr. John Anderson pulled his coat tighter around him. The space station’s heating systems were also included in the ‘down’ department. All that kept themfrom crashing was the Earth not being where they were currently falling, though it wouldn’t be too long before that changed. Dr. Marqus Quandary’s pacing put John on edge more than crashing however.

“Would you please sit down, Marqus? You’re using more air than is needed.”

“Pacing helps me to think.”

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but this isn’t a problem that will be solved by thinking. We’ve tried what we can but there is zero response.” John made a circle with his thumb and index finger. “Zero. Phobos Station is dead and we can’t bring it back.”

Marqus paused midstride and gave his friend a look of sarcasm. “Well I’m glad sitting on our hands is the plan we’re going with then.” He resumed his pacing. “Much less tension that way.” 

“We’re waiting, yes, but for our orbit to decay enough for Earth-bound trajectory. Re-entry will power the emergency thrusters and land us safely.”

“I get that, but I want to know how in the hell this even happened! Don’t you, John? We’re scientists and suddenly ‘I dunno, it just happened’ is a good enough reason?”

John sighed, his breath a faint cloud before his face. “Of course it isn’t. But we don’t have the tools-”

“Forget the damn tools!” Marqus rapped his temple. “We’ve got all we need up here. Now are we gonna sit around until we gently crash or figure out the why behind it?”

“Youthful impertinence disguised as optimism… so what do you think happened?”

“Well I’d like to start with that initial explosion.”

As if cued, another explosion rocked Phobos Station and sent Marqus sprawling to the floor. Every system rebooted instantly, flooding the station with light and loud warnings of a detected collision. Strapped to his chair, John witnessed a flux of activity across the monitors. Sensor readings maxed out before plunging below nominal levels only to max out again. Errant satellite feeds of random television channels aired and changed every half second as if being surfed through by a hyperactive child. Geometrical data of the station’s relative position to Earth warped erratically, over and over again, causing a series of inordinate shifts in power to the thrusters. 

More impressive than all of that was the surveillance footage. Stars appeared to rip themselves from the massive, inky backdrop of space and swelled to insane proportions. The expanding bodies converged and formed a chaotic, shining white layer that blotted out the universe beyond. From the vantage point of the camera, it appeared to have no limit; because it didn’t. In mere seconds the Earth had been encapsulated. John stared in awe at the phenomenon until another blast shuddered through his isolated, increasingly insecure home.

...After Dark

 Shriveled leaves tumbled in droves down the street, driven by the chilled winds of an early fall. Some had been caught in oily puddles then continued to pile up and shiver in particularly strong gusts. Dusk had already set in, but the streetlights remained dark, giving the tall man’s surroundings a murky ambiance. Flood lights bolted to the walls of crumbling cinder block buildings yielded patches of sickly yellow glow; this made utter darkness a more appealing option. The tall man pulled his long coat tighter and walked on.

 He needed to find a bar known to locals and lowlifes—one and the same to most people—as Mad Jack’s. By all accounts he should have already found it. On this street, what businesses remained hadn’t invested in actual names, as monikers as simple as Pawn Shop, Market, Irish Market, and Bail Bonds stood out in neon and backlit plastic signs. Still, the tall man had yet to locate his objective. A car hobbled and sputtered by, its tailpipe occasionally skipping on the asphalt and kicking up sparks. “…enough of this.” The tall man muttered, and a streetlight next to him flickered on, quickly followed by the rest of them.

 As if a hidden pathway had suddenly been illuminated, an intrinsically familiar presence made itself known. The tall man walked to the nearest intersection and turned left. There, sticking out like a too-tall book set horizontally on a shelf was Mad Jack’s. Only the sign read, Jack’s Family Bar & Grill. “Eh, same thing.” He said, quickening his pace until he stood on the adjacent sidewalk. The OPEN sign wasn’t on, even if the posted hours showed it should have been. Shutters on the inside of the door pointed downward, but light spilled out from between the cracks. He placed his hand on the cool brushed metal of the door and walked in, a cliché tin bell signaling that a patron had entered. If a family had ever set foot in there before, it was certainly the last and only time.

 The place was empty, though a not insignificant amount of shuffling could be heard coming from the kitchen. The tall man gingerly took a few more steps inward and surveyed the scene. The stools, booths, and tables hadn’t been disturbed for at least a couple days; the same could not be said for the myriad bottles of liquor that lined the mirrored wall behind the bar. A loud crash and louder expletive came from the kitchen. Moments later, the source of both barged through the swinging door.

 “Oh. A customer. I’ll be damned.” He said, sucking on his index finger. He inspected the finger and, apparently satisfied, wiped it on his jeans. “Green glass cuts just as neatly as clear if you weren’t already aware. So what can I get for you?”

 “A spritzer, if you’re able.”

 “Well, I’ve had some tonight already, but I’ll manage.”

 “Sorry, I meant if you’ve got the necessary ingredients.”

 “Oh, right.” He pointed to his obscene liquor collection. “Not the kinda stuff you’d call austere, by any stretch. But I’ve got what’ll fix ya.” He bent over and rummaged around in a refrigerated cabinet beneath the bar until he brought up an old bottle of white wine, winking as he set it to the side. In moments, the drink was made and set firmly in front of the tall man who sipped it cautiously.

 “I must say, this is rather better than I thought it would be. No offense to you, of course.”

 “Oh certainly not, mister…?”

 The tall man paused a moment, wishing he’d rehearsed more. “Haggard.”

 “Ahh, now there’s a name for a place like this.” He laughed harder than he should have and plucked a bottle with a ripped label from the wall. “Mine’s Jack, if the faded sign out front hasn’t made that obvious.”

 “So you own this place, yes?” Mr. Haggard asked. He took another sip of his spritzer and gently set the glass down.

 “Ohhh, yeah. Bought, paid, and ulcer’d for.” Jack took a swig then replaced the bottle, taking down another random one immediately after. “Keeps a man busy! Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Haggard?”

 “I would have to agree, if I’m being honest.”

 “Oh yeah?” Jack downed another gulp. “Honest. Hmm. Alright… but agree? Like you agreed at the funeral?”

 Mr. Haggard pushed his drink away and stood up. “I’m sure I don’t-”

 “Damn right, you don’t! I might not have said it to the one you’re wearing now, but you agreed to never show your face around me again.”

 Mr. Haggard let out a deep sigh and waved a hand across his face, revealing a wizened visage and a trimmed white beard. “I have to speak with you, Jack.”

 “You have to get the hell outta here.” Jack tossed the empty bottle onto the bar and walked to the far side of the room. “Place is closed.”

 Mr. Haggard watched as Jack went through a creaky door and down a flight of steps. With a flick of his finger, he locked the entrance then went downstairs as well. Two pool tables sat crammed together by the far wall, their felt at various stages of ripped and shredded. A few stained glass lamps hung from the ceiling, but they offered little light that wasn’t tinted orange or green. Jack stood behind a minibar, pouring himself a drink from an art deco crystal decanter.

 “Now this is the good stuff.” Jack said, his voice suspiciously calm. “Makes pocketing all those Spanish gold coins worth it.”

 “I didn’t know you had done that.”

 “Not surprising. Though, really, how else do you think I managed to afford this place? Inheritance? Low interest loans?” Jack broke into laughter at the last part and knocked back the dark amber liquor.

 “Are you trying to prove a point? Is that what all this is?”

 “There’s nothing to prove here, old man.” Jack poured himself more bourbon. “This is all a coda that will eventually eclipse the movement it succeeded. Beethoven would be so damn proud of me.”

 “Oh, I’m certain he would have been.” Mr. Haggard dusted off a backed stool and sat down on it. “Not if he saw you now, however.”

 “And there ya go, Merlin! The deaf sonuvabitch won’t ever see me again because I’m never going back. And before you ask, yes, that includes everything more than five seconds ago.”

 “There are a lot of people who would do whatever they could for that kind of gift.”

 “Gift? Is that what you really think?” Jack waved his hand in dismissal. “Exactly how warped you are I will hopefully never know.”

 “The largely unfulfilled wish to travel to the past, to witness historic events as they unfold, should not be marginalized in any way.”

"You don't understand!" Jack shouted, bourbon sloshing out of the glass and onto his trembling hand. "I was 10 when I met Lincoln--THE Abraham Lincoln--and I could have warned him!"
 "Jack, it doesn't work that way. Never has."
 "You think I don't know that!?" Jack threw the nearly empty glass against the wall. The shards reflected what little light there was in the dingy basement. "You think I'd forget after Pompeii? DO YOU!? They were already dead and they didn't even know it... they didn't even know..." Jack lifted the crystal decanter, disappointed, yet unsurprised, to see it empty.

The two men sat in silence, both unwilling to make eye contact or be the first one to restart the conversation. The wind blew especially hard outside, making the building’s foundation creak more than it should have. Dead leaves had collected against the basement window, forming a crumbling layer that completely blocked a view to the outside. It was unquestionably a dark night outside regardless.

 “How did you know?”

 “How did I know what? That you were you? You’re talking to a guy who was sent all over the world to solve riddles and puzzles. Seeing through this one was easy.”

 Jack disappeared behind the minibar. Merlin heard the clinking of glass and crystal as the man he came to see scrounged for another drop of forgetfulness. Raindrops began to pelt the building, filling the basement with soft echoes that sustained until they became a unified murmur of static. It had been years—long, dreary years—since the two men had seen each other last. Now that they were in the same room together it may as well have been a week that passed, which made the transformation Merlin saw in Jack all the more discomfiting.

 “I think nature sees through it, too and was trying to warn me. Stupid as that sounds.” Jack said, reappearing with a can of beer that didn’t react when he opened it. “Huh, flat. Oh well.”

 “You’re right. It rained then, too.”

 “Not what I meant, but close enough.” Jack pointed at Merlin as he tried to finish off the beer in one go. He couldn’t. “Firstly, watch your step, gramps. Secondly, I mean the trees giving up too soon. Leaves don’t just pop off and shrivel up like they’ve been doing.”

 “Indeed they don’t, which brings me to why I am here.” Merlin stood up and took a cautious step toward Jack. “Something rather serious has come up that you can help with.”

 “Piss off.”

 Merlin held up his hand and took another step forward. “I won’t say you need to come back, but you will certainly want to if you listen to what I have to say.”

 “I said, piss off.”

 “Just let me speak. Annie-” Merlin suspected as much, but he was still caught off guard at the sight of Jack pointing a revolver at him.

 “I’m almost positive I was clear enough at her funeral.” He fired a round, killing a derelict pinball machine. “You don’t ever talk to me again and you sure as hell don’t ever say her name. Now I’ve been pretty lenient about the first rule so far, but you’ve only got another five words left before I switch gears.”

 Merlin looked unflinchingly at Jack, to the revolver, then back again. Without a word he held up his index finger to signal he wasn’t up to any funny business. He then loosened his long coat, reached inside, and pulled out a worn and frayed book. Its spine curled at the edges and the binding looked fit to fail at a hint of errant breath. “You can save Annie, Jack.”

to be continued

Pond

Eliot Steven Saunders. His mom had used his full name as he ran out of the back door of their house by the woods. He honestly had no idea that the cookie jar would make such a noise when it fell to the stone tile kitchen floor, he only knew that he really wanted a cookie. It had been hours since lunch and dinner wouldn’t be served until who knew when. If he were to ask about it for a seventh time he would only get yelled at. Being eight years old afforded Eliot the wisdom of knowing that if you’ll be scolded, it’s best if treats are involved; hence the cookie.

Crumbs and a smear of chocolate on his lips would have been the only evidence, easily licked away at that, if not for the broken container. He felt a pang of remorse when his mind circled back to the broken mess on the floor. He really liked that jar and not just because of what it usually contained. It was ceramic, tall and in the shape of a fat, happy cat. Paint had rubbed off in some spots, so Eliot knew it had to be old. I just wanted a cookie he thought. Chilly winds whipped past him as he ran, bringing a slight welling of tears to the corners of his eyes. It would be light outside for another 30 minutes; not nearly enough time for things to blow over at home. At the very least he felt he could stop running.

His backyard technically stopped at the chain-link fence, but the woods just beyond were included as far as he was concerned. There were easily found trails so he could find his way home just as easily as he could get lost. This allowed him to go just about wherever he wanted as long as the sun was still up. He decided he would poke around for another 20 minutes or so before heading home and facing his punishment. It couldn’t be any worse than the other times he’d broken things around the house. A hand mirror, his electric toothbrush and a wooden coat stand had all fallen victim to his carelessness. He never once intended to break any of those things and they had all been accidents, obviously. After so many instances of accident however, it began to resemble less innocent reasons.

Eliot didn’t doubt that he could convince his mother that his latest crime was more about bad luck than ill intent. He did, after all, always like that cookie jar and she knew it. Maybe if I stay out past dark she’ll get worried he thought, weighing his options. He had the uncanny foresight to be wearing his jacket and hat before running from the house, so it would be a while before it got too cold. As long as he stayed close to home he wouldn’t need to worry about getting lost in the dark either. Those two factors settled it. With his newfound, if short lived, freedom, Eliot decided to quickly get lost.

He jumped away from the trail he’d been following and ran through the trees. Whenever he saw another trail ahead he quickly turned and ran away from it. After a couple minutes he no longer needed to change direction, though he did need to slow down as there were more trees. Years ago during a similar run through the woods he had fractured a bone in his arm after tripping from running too quickly. The trek back had been so miserable that it was weeks before he entered the forest again. With the denser collection of trees, less light came through. He knew he still had time, so he pressed on. Sounds of life were harder to miss this far in, making Eliot really feel like he’d gotten away to some secret place. He looked upward, through the spindly branches and the leaves that stubbornly clung to them. Such a sight took away from his concentration and he slipped, barely saving himself by clutching an old tree with craggy bark.

His heart raced as he put himself upright, blowing on his scratched palms to soothe them. In those tense moments, the sun had finally set and only peripheral light remained. Eliot took a final look around, intent on finding a path and heading home, when he saw a warm glow from behind the craggy barked tree. I’ve still got a minute he thought and carefully made his way to get a better look. Twigs and dried leaves crackled beneath his feet, the sound somehow amplified like the cookie jar shattering. The odd glow receded even as he circled around to a better vantage point. He had time to inspect it, but he didn’t have time to be toyed with. Irritated, he plodded forward. Instantly the forest in front of him deteriorated and rebuilt itself around the glow, seeming very much the same but inherently altered. He looked back to see how the change impacted the rest of the woods, but they were entirely familiar. It wouldn’t be especially weird if not for the semi-noticeable seam that existed where the two states joined.

Eliot resisted his every urge to touch it, fearful of what might happen if he did. Given his history of breaking things he could only imagine what would happen if he broke this. Before he could properly examine it, the seam faded and the glow regained his attention. It emanated from the ground, forming a perfect dome. Much like when he circled it before, the light diminished the closer he got. The apex vanished first, like a lid being removed from a cast iron pot. From there the perimeter steadily melted until he could see inside, as if the light had been hiding an object of value. The glow vanished completely when Eliot set foot at its former edge. All that remained lacked any kind of observable significance; a pond. Shallow and still with specks of frost on the far end from when it had frozen a few nights before.

Eliot hunched down and gazed into the water, rather nonplussed by the darkening reflection within it. All that spectacle for the sake of a little pool in the middle of the woods that didn’t do anything but exist. There was no way to break a pond as far as he knew, so he gently dipped his right index finger into it. Except his finger didn’t become wet. It didn’t even feel cold. There wasn’t as much as a single ripple from the point of contact and that wasn’t even the oddest thing that happened. In the far end of the pond, just by the frost, a small point of light grew in intensity and spread out. Like the dome revealed the pond as it disappeared, the pond revealed an extraordinary scene that Eliot could hardly believe he was seeing.

Buildings of shining ivory stood tall but had foundations that plunged far below the surface, down to bustling city streets full of cars and pedestrians. Elevated trains rose above the hustle and provided a fantastic view for the passengers within. They were fantastic to watch as they circulated throughout the city. Even so, they couldn’t hope to compare with the myriad of pure white zeppelins that lazily hung about with the tops of buildings. All of this entranced Eliot to the point of taking away his ability to even breathe. The city below and within the pond functioned silently and smooth as the finest clockwork. He took in every facet of the spectacle with delight until he realized his finger remained in the water. Immediately he pulled away and fell backward. When he righted himself he saw the city begin to fade. His eight-year-old mind panicked for a way to keep the city in the pond so he could watch it for a little longer. The only thing that made sense was to touch the water again. So with no apprehension he plunged his right hand into it. The effect was immediate as the city reappeared, vibrant and real.

However, the pond reacted unlike it had before. Thin columns of water stuck out and froze in place, each capped with droplets that shimmered in the glow of the ivory cityscape. Eliot eyed them closely and followed them back to where his hand had entered. Abject terror struck him when he realized that he had collided with several buildings and part of the elevated rail. No no no, not this too! He thought and removed his hand again, but the buildings and rail had been untouched. As the city faded again he once more put just a finger tip into the pond. It proved to be enough to keep the city from disappearing and the pond from reacting as it did when his hand was in it. For such a marvel to be hidden away in a forest surrounded by homes gave Eliot pause. He didn’t want to leave it. A stern but plainly worried voice snapped him out of his trance.

“Eliot! Eliot, where are you?” His mother called him, trying her best to remain calm. “Please answer me, Eliot! You’re worrying me!”

Eliot debated whether he should answer. He would be in trouble when she found him and he might not ever see the ivory city again. She called again, losing her calm with every word.

No, he thought, she can keep looking. I don’t care. He kept his finger in the pond, and watched the city as his mother’s voice became quieter. This miracle needed him and he would foster it. He then saw something familiar at one of the train stations. A little boy standing all alone in a crowd of people that either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he existed. This scene was as silent as the rest of the city, but Eliot didn’t need anything more than the sight of it to know what was happening. The boy wanted to cry, but he was so scared that the tears refused to come.

The beautiful city no longer glowed like it had, all of its luster coalescing onto the singular spot where this lost little boy stood. The urgent need to help came over him, but he saw before that his only possible interaction with the city was watching it. As the light continued to dim, Eliot wished that the boy would be found. His own mother’s voice continued to dwindle, and he felt his own predicament mirrored the boy at the train station. Please don’t leave him he thought. All the light now centered on the boy whose tears couldn’t come, until another pulsed as it came closer. His mom Eliot thought, as he watched the boy get scooped up and hugged tightly by his mother.

Once again the city glowed brightly and went about its perfectly tuned business. Eliot felt it no longer needed his services and so he withdrew his finger and watched as it turned back into a simple pond.

“MOM! I’M OVER HERE!” he yelled.

“Eliot Steven Saunders!” His mom yelled back, obviously furious and relieved.

Eliot knew that kind of yell. So in an attempt to make it worth it, he poked the pond again and was supremely delighted to see the same point of light glow. He then ran off to meet his mother and his punishment.

Other Worlds Than These by Cody Tilson. Inspiration for this story.

Desert Manufacture

The horizon burned though it was not on fire. Heat rose in translucent waves from the golden desert floor, mingling and merging with the clear blue sky. Jarvis walked toward that mixture and though he’d made no progress in the time he measured and the time he hadn’t, he pressed on all the same. He knew before he began this journey that his options consisted of escape and insanity, each at the cost of the other.

“Sobering thought, ain’t it?” Elias spoke between mouthfuls, sending flecks of bread and spittle on the hard consonants. “Y’know, the desert? How it don’t end? So they say at least.” He bit off another chunk.

“It’s not endless. Nothing is.” Jarvis flinched away from his cellmate who burst into laughter.

“Speaking in absolutes, huh? Shit like that’ll get you offed.” Elias took a messy swig from his victory grog and wiped his mouth and chin clean of the foul smelling drink. Jarvis grimaced as he watched the man revel in his meager opulence. He wished for a larger window if only to have something else to focus on.

Elias irritated to the point of Jarvis wishing the Pitch would take him. Maybe then he would get a cellmate more like himself, quiet and reserved. With a nice collection of books, he thought. With his rotten luck he’d get another just like this one as they seemed to be the only demographic in the population; not counting himself of course. When Elias began pawing at his groin to relieve a pesky itch, Jarvis thought happily of trading the bigger window for a chance to kill the slovenly mess before him.

“What’s that look for?” Elias said.

“There’s no look. You’re seeing things.”

“Yeah, I’m seeing that look you’re giving and I don’t like it.”

“Makes two of us then, doesn’t it?” Jarvis rolled his eyes at the confused glare of his cellmate. “Just eat your winnings already. Making me sick.”

Elias responded with some quip about jealousy and its relation to physical stature, but Jarvis could no longer remember it.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 3

Surrender by Steven Belledin. Inspiration for this story.