Contributors

Nicholas Ozment

Nicholas Ozment teaches English at Winona State University. His science fiction stories and poems have appeared in Weird Tales; Blood, Blade and Thruster; PseudoPod: The Horror Podcast; Sussurus: The Literature of Madness, Mythic Delirium, and many others.

Sargam Garg

Sargam Garg loves writing poetry and listening to jazz, but it is being married to a scientist that keeps her sane.

John Grey

John Grey is an Australian-born poet, playwright and musician. His latest book is What Else Is There from Main Street Rag, and he was recently published in Cape Rock, Weber Studies, Writers Bloc and The Connecticut Review.

Murat Süyür

Murat Süyür was born in 1984 in Istanbul, where he continues to live and work. Murat was always “in tune with advertising and creative work,” but he picked up his first camera only 3 years ago. He describes his style as a “mix of expressionism and futurism. All kinds of imaginary things and metaphor I like to see.”

His work has been seen in Cosmopolitan, Arena, T2, Cosmogirl, and Esquire, and in ad campaigns for numerous companies. Mermaid first appeared in Trendsetter Magazine. You can see more of his amazing art on his website.

Contributors

Mark Teppo

Mark Teppo like to invent things. Upcoming inventions are the novels Lightbreaker (from Night Shade Books) and Psychobabel (from Farrago Press). The remainder of his time is spent avoiding his lawn, moving books around in his library in a vain attempt to fit them all on the shelves, and wondering if the rain will ever stop. His website is, rather prosaically, markteppo.com.

Joseph Conat

Joe Conat was born in a farming community. It’s a good thing his mother moved to a slightly larger city as his propensity for reading sf, comic books, and books on cryptography, quantum physics or whatever random weird subject popped into his interest may have gotten him burned as a witch otherwise. He is a lazy, slothful writer who is currently meandering his way through writing his first book and has a few dozen half-assed short story and novella ideas “percolating” (read: languishing) in the back of his head or in scraps on his hard-drive.

He’s a Capricorn, though he doesn’t hold much truck with astrology, doesn’t particularly like pina coladas, and dances like a walrus with a closed-head wound. Somehow he still managed to marry a gorgeous woman and contribute to the creation of an equally wondrous daughter.

Kathleen Wallace

Kathi Wallace is a member of the speculative fiction writer’s group, Zentao7 and credits them with helping to hone her skills. Assiniboin Girl, coming soon from Drollerie Press, is Kathi’s second book accepted for publication–her first book Keeper of Memories will be released soon from Swimming Kangaroo books. Her short stories have appeared in Blade, Blood & Thruster, Alienskin, and Flash Me magazine.

Вита Лапковская

Вита Лапковская is an artist from Belarus who goes by Zzaarr on Deviant Art. You can see Zzaar’s amazing gallery of strange (and often disturbing) things there.

Jody Gore

Raised in Minnesota, Jody Gore has traveled and lived throughout the U.S. with her husband and two children. She is now settled in Louisiana where she enjoys warm weather, her family, and her art. A diverse artist, Jody works in charcoal, graphite, chalk and acrylics. Her favorite drawings, murals, and general works include mythological and fantasy creatures, humans and fantasy realms. To learn more about Jody, visit her website.

Lida Broadhurst

Lida Broadhurst is a multiply published author. Her credits include stories in Mythic Delirium, GUD, Nemonymous #1, Star*Line, and many others.

Contributors

Isabelle Santiago

With three years of experience directing musical theater under Isabelle’s belt, the world has invariably become her stage. It’s a strange, twisted little place, though it never lacks interesting characters. Granted, not everyone lives the Tony award winning musical that’s in her head. In an alternate life, Isabelle may have been an Art History major, or perhaps even a museum curator. For now, she serves coffee at a local Barnes and Noble (the only way to feed her reading habit).

Living on the New England Coastline, her favorite time of day is midnight, with a Vanilla Creme in her hands and the glowing light of the computer screen shining in the darkness. That’s when the world is quiet, except for the occasional sound of rain falling on the skylight of her loft apartment.

Aurelio Rico Lopez III

Aurelio Rico Lopez III is a self-diagnosed scribble junkie from Iloilo City, Philippines. His poems have appeared in various venues such as Mythic Delirium, Star*Line, Sybil’s Garage, Black Petals, Steel Moon Publishing, Tales of the Talisman, Kaleidotrope, Electric Velocipede, Wanderings, and The Shantytown Anomaly. He is also the author of the chapbooks Jolts</a>, Shocks, and Oddities from Sam’s Dot Publishing. You can reach him at thirdylopez2001 @ yahoo.com.

Cecelia Chapman
and Jeff Croush

Cecelia Chapman is a graphic artist who makes short videos. Jeff Crouch is an artist and the art editor of The Houston Literary Review. Sideshow is their first collaboration.

Cindy Lynn Speer

Cindy Lynn Speer loves books and the written word, and has spent much of her life involved in them in some way, from working as a librarian to freelancing as an editor. She’s also written several book reviews and articles. Her first book, Blue Moon, is out from Zumaya Publications. If you want to find out more about her, please visit her website.

Cristy Shauck

Cristy Shauck’s poetry has appeared in High Grade, Whosoever, Platypus, and Elevated Living. She has published articles in magazines and newspapers in California and Colorado. Her book The Healthy Lunchbox, co-authored with Marie McClendon, was published by Small Steps Press, an imprint of the American Diabetes Association, in 2005. She resides at the base of Mt. Galbraith in Golden, CO and is finishing up her first mystery novel. Intuitively Speaking is based on an interview with a medical intuit.

Eden Hail

Eden Hail is a tea-addicted Dr Who fan, who lives outside of Manchester in England. She is a member of Writer’s Retreat and the Abico Club. More of her work can be seen on her blog.

Contributors

Kajsa Wiberg

Kajsa Wiberg is a freelance writer and horse trainer. Her stories have appeared in The River Walk Journal, Long Story Short, Prose Toad, Chick Lit Review, The Rose & Thorn, Shred of Evidence, DiddleDog, Flash Shot, Every Day Fiction, Why Vandalism?, Big Pulp, Clever, Dark Fire, Aoifeʼs Kiss, Eskimo Pie and Insolent Rudder. She is a script reader for Blue Cat Screenplay, and a book reviewer for Eclectica. She lives in Cardiff-by-the-Sea, CA, where she is at work on her second novel.

David Sklar

David Sklar writes in the spaces between the impossible magic of legend, the inscrutable magic of dreams, and the breathtaking everyday magic of the world in which we live. His first novella, Shadow of the Antlered Bird, will be published by Drollerie Press as an e-book in 2008 and as a chapbook in 2009, and he has short fiction slated for publication in Space & Time and two upcoming Drollerie Press anthologies. David’s published works include poetry in several publications, including Blue Light Red Light, Wormwood Review, and Paterson Literary Review;, and satire in The Cynic, The Wittenburg Door, and The FarceHaven Tribune. He lives in New Jersey with his wife, their 2-year-old son, and a retired housecat from Cleveland. Visit his website for more fiction and poetry from David Sklar.

Amy J. Benesch

Amy J. Benesch has published twelve short stories, in Aboriginal Science Fiction, Midnight Zoo, Short Stuff, Space and Time, Tales of the Unanticipated, (issues 14, 18, and 20), Millennium Science Fiction & Fantasy, The Darklands Project, and peridotbooks.com. Her story, “The Crone’s Tale” is archived in the on-line magazine Lorelei Signal, and she has a story in the anthology Into the Dreamlands, which came out in May 2007 from Simian Publishing. The story from Space and Time was cited in the Honorable Mentions section of The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror Seventh Annual Edition, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. She’s also been known to write poetry from time to time. She lives in Yonkers, NY. More of her work can be found on her web site.

Reynaldo Molina

Wire Sculptor, Artist, Graphic Designer. Reynaldo Molina started working with wire 5 years ago. He enjoys working with such a versatile and malleable medium. From conception to reality, he has created scores of figures, from mermaids, to monsters, to Hollywood characters and stars. For more incredible wire art, check out his website, reynaldomolinawire.com.

John Hayes

John Hayes appeared recently as Al Lewis in The Sunshine Boys and as a peanut vendor in Love and Peanuts, a one act play he wrote. He exhibits his sculpture wherever he can find an outlet and likes to read poetry at open mikes. He has been published in such magazines as Thema, BareBone, Carleton Arts Review, Cemetery Moon, Lynx Eye, Niteblade, and Hungur. Visit his web site to see his sculpture and more poetry.

Erika Jahneke

Erika Jahneke learned all she knows about faith, rounding out the third generation (on her mother’s side) of yellow-dog Democrats, in her family in Goldwater Country. This is also how she’s kept stocked in homicidal impulses, fueling her ambition to be the Pelecanos of the Southwest. She started writing Crip in the Game the week she got her first calls from bill collectors, but she doesn’t endorse the drug economy as a route to economic independence. Her work has appeared in disability and pop culture journals and she’s working on a second novel while waiting for the call from HBO.

Reviews

Spotlight!

Cindy Lynn Speer, author of Blue Moon from Zumaya, two short stories out from Drollerie Press, and a new novel coming soon, talks about the influences on her very imaginative brain and how she began to write.

Author Spotlight! Cindy Lynn Speer

Mark Teppo takes us farther into the jungle of The Weird.

Genre Spotlight!
The Shamanistic Techniques of World Weirding

This issue we spotlight the “pods”, EscapePod, PsuedoPod and PodCastle, in a special interview with Rachel Swirsky of PodCastle. Rachel was a lot of fun to talk to, and unfortunately, I couldn’t transcribe everything or I would have worn my fingers out. Make sure you check out PodCastle for more information about who she is and what they’re doing over there.

Website Spotlight! PodCastle

Poetry

Supernatural transformations are one way to change dramatically. Time and circumstance are another. In this issue’s poetry, we take a look at both.

Next up, Cristy Shauck examines time and transformation in a different way, while Aurelio Rico Lopez, III writes about the transformation of repurposed items.

Intuitively Speaking

Borrowed

On Page 11, we have two Johns (Hayes and Grey) who take a look at the transformative wolf in strikingly different ways.

News of the Day

The Condemned

Flash Fiction

Flash fiction is a tough art. Making a story from so few words, but with real impact, takes special skill.

Kajsa Wiberg’s flash fiction transforms its protagonist in just 311 words.

Intermission

Gar Lipow’s transformation is even faster, though no less strange, at just 105 words.

Palely Loitering

Finally, Joe Conat provides us with a chilling little vignette with a decidedly sci-fi feel.

The Suit

Media

Cecilia Chapman and Jeff Crouch provide us with an entirely weird Sideshow at the bottom of Page 5. I’ve watched it a number of times and I’m still not sure what’s transforming. Let’s hope you have your voyeur glasses on.

On the bottom right of our Spotlight! on PodCastle is a link to one of their stories, Run of the Fiery Horse by Hilary Moon Murphy.

Check out the rather creepy art of Scott Gray, both Terrified, ably illustrating Deborah Grabien’s story Sunrise, on Page 13, and his Wicked Baby on Page 9.

I’m not entirely sure what Guardian–a pencil sketch by Jody Gore–is actually about, but it’s certainly interesting. Check it out on Page 16.

Don’t miss our mermaid art, the wire sculpture by Reynaldo Molina and the mermaid photo on Page 1.

We also have a few other images scattered through the pages. I hope you’ll look for them.

Don’t forget to click on the still art and photos to bring up the lightbox. It improves the viewing tremendously.

Fiction

Ken Goldman lends us a creepy tale of transformation. This story first appeared in Storyteller Vol. 6, Issue 3 (Canada/December 1999), and then in Mooreeffoc Magazine #2, (Winter 2000-2001), Virginia Adversaria Vol. 3, No. 1 (fall 2002), and SciFantastic #4 (UK/April 2006). It holds up well.

A Tale from Captain Andy

Nathalie Boisard-Beudin provides us with an unusual look at shapeshifting in her story.

Shifting Away a Shifter

Isabelle Santiago’s story is a sensual whirlwind, as is only proper when you’re talking about the siren’s song.

Siren’s Song

Lida Broadhurst’s story is chilling; a can’t miss tale of betrayal by transformation.

Benjira’s Bride

Ennis Drake takes us on a wild ride through the eyes and mind of a young man who sees wonders and terrors beyond his imagination, but who cannot transform himself.

Lost Coast. Lost Seohl.

Visit the seaside with Kelsie, in David Sklar’s disturbing tale of that jagged place where the unknown meets the known.

Inheritance

in Nicholas Ozment’s story, “Frank” finds himself in a brand-new, adventurous life, and MST3Ks it for us as the adventure unfolds.

Frank Hunter vs. the Crawling Brains

Eden Hail takes us to another time and place with her charming changeling tale.

A Secret in the Cellar

Shifting Away a Shifter, continued from Page 59

That was the end of him.

Oh he did not crash, but you see, in his panic, he had forgotten about rule number two: once you have been through a shape, there is no turning back.

He could not become an ant anymore. So he became what fitted best to his hastily thought up definition: sturgeon eggs.

And it is as caviar that he ended his existence, on earth and everywhere else, on the canapés served during a 14th July buffet at the French embassy.

“Splendeur et Décadence.”

Mermaid (wire sculpture) by Reynaldo Molina

Shifting Away a Shifter, continued from Page 58

That other snail had finally reached him and was now proceeding to caress him with its—EYES? Eeeewww! That slimy touch was creepy (our fellow was a tad fastidious about these things) and although he tried to back away, the other one seemed quite bent on engaging him for its own wicked purposes (to him, anything THAT slimy was bound to be wicked, a preconception that might have originated from his passage as a vegetal).

After a few clumsy attempts at stating that he was not that sort of creature at all, and at asking what was the other one taking him for, he had to resort to retreat into his chambers. Firmly convinced that he was only trying to play hard-to-get, the admirer gallantly led siege to his mansion.

A few days passed.

Athanox was getting hungry when he was saved by the providential intervention of a bird, who seized his paramour and flew away with its prey.

Our hero hesitated for some time but, motivated by hunger, tried a sortie, one eye at a time. Nothing seemed to be moving around him, so he ventured out completely and marched—well, slithered—upon the nearest green patch.

He was just finishing a light lunch of tender grass shoots when he felt himself seized and airborne: he had been captured by a bird! He was watching his captor in fascination when he realised that this one had let him fall, with the obvious scope to break his shell on a rock. After a moment of panic, he managed to concentrate briefly and, just as he was about to collide with the hard stones underneath, became a bird himself.

He contained his fall just so—and a few centimetres from the ground too—but his subsequent landing was NOT a dignified one.

It’s all good and grand to sprout wings on demand but they do not come with a user manual and our little alien found himself in the position of a hatchling trying to fly for the first time. Which was ludicrous, given he was an adult size specimen.

Nearby sparrows started to poke fun at him and he soon found himself in the midst of birds off all kind, dropping by to watch him as he, again and again, failed to fly off but instead bashed his frame on the ground.

In the end, a compassionate hen did give him a few lessons and so he managed to, at least, not hurt himself by falling repetitively.

But it took him almost a week to finally ascend above the field where he had been hiding. A week during which he had to feed himself on bugs—he refused to eat worms after the first one, they were not slimy but the feeling of having your food wiggling down your throat was too much for him to bear—and to hide from foxes, cats and dogs. So it was a relief for him to finally start to fly in earnest.

He did find it an exhilarating sensation and began to swoop between trees at vertiginous speed and height, pouncing on unsuspecting butterflies and bees for snacks and creating havoc in various bird formations, thus exacting revenge for all the sarcasms he had to endure.

He felt supremely happy, so—obviously—it could not last.

He changed shape once going from a pigeon’s to that of a falcon and with the power afforded by his new wings starting to ascend to higher planes. The first cumulus he flew through did surprise him—it was wet! —but he soon got addicted to cloud bursting. And it was during one of these games that he was assaulted by a new predator.

It was huge and scaly, noisy and breathing fire.

Mmm, no: not exactly breathing fire, come to think of it. More like: farting fire.

And it threatened to swallow Athanox in one of its lateral mouths in a single big sucking action. Incapable of resisting the attraction, our little friend tried to once more resort to his favourite defence technique: i.e. becoming a sibling of his aggressor.

However, I am sorry to inform you that this was not successful.

Oh, his change happened, and it was as satisfactory as a change should be.

However, because of the synergy caused by the suction of the mouth of the monster, he was much too close to it when transforming. Becoming another identical plane—because that is what the other creature was—within meters of the other one’s left motor was disastrous.

They crashed in mid air.

Athanox’s nose broke, the other plane lost a wing and its tail and exploded little time afterwards. Our hero caught fire and started spiralling down. He tried to flap his wings, using the new science he had got from his life as a bird, but discovered to his utter horror that his new set of feathers was rigid and unmovable. The ground was getting closer and the heat unbearable. Athanox once again panicked and tried to think of another form he could change into.

In his agony, he ran through his mind all the creatures he had seen or been and even found himself thinking with some melancholy about his time as an ant.

It is at such a time that, forced by urgency to make a choice, he formulated the following injunction: He wanted ever so much to be “this little living creature made of little blackish beads!” Suffocated by the heat of the fire raging on board the cabin, he even added: “and let it be in a cool environment!”

Continued on Page 60

Shifting the Shifter, continued from Page 57

He was horrified.

You see, on his planet, the political regime—if one can refer to their social organisation as such—was rather liberal, what would, in our world, be passed as the equivalent of a mild form of socialism with a hefty dose of individualism.

Finding himself under a totalitarist administration was a far greater shock than all the blows he had received. He needed to escape. This became his immediate—and most frantic—goal as the days started to reproduce the same nightmare, over and over.

One day however, the workers were led out to bring back goodies to the store. Athanox was so desperate that he focused on the first thing he saw and articulated that he wanted to become “this tall slender green living thing”.

And so became a shoot of grass.

Not even a full clump. No: just one individual of a small five leaf bunch. He was soon to learn that “individual” was to be the operating word there.

You’d think: a tuft of grass, sharing the same root would automatically share the same identity between its components. But no. No single leaf was the same as the other. They all had seemingly different dreams and ambitions: One wanted to grow taller than the forest, the other wanted to make the best whistle in the world, one wanted to dance gracefully and mindlessly in the wind and another yet wanted to be greener than its colleagues.

Athanox only wanted to be left in peace.

He did soon discover however, that they all shared a common objective: survival. Apparently, they were under permanent attack.

Either that or his colleagues were suffering from acute paranoia.

They did disagree however on the best way to defend themselves. That they had to fear different predators might have accounted for the variety of defensive means devised by the vegetal beings, but their various ambitions also leaked into the debate. Because they had vicious debates about the issue. Or ANY issue.

Being all separate individuals, each and every one of them had socially the same weight and same authority (or lack thereof) upon its fellow “clumpers”. So each discussion was turning into a co-owners committee meeting from hell.

That one who wanted to grow the tallest was naturally concerned about land mowers and wanted barricades to be placed in order to choke said mechanism. That solution was horrifying to the others as it made use of dead leaves and dried fellow grass. The aspirant giant was not so much concerned on grounds of ethics. For that chap, that solution was the most efficient and had the added value to protect their roots as well as providing nourishment to the whole plant.

Now that last argument might have tilted in its favour the comrade who was cultivating its greener self, but this fellow was, in fact, more concerned with slugs and snails attack and for its part supported the production of massive poisonous lymph in order to defeat the enemy.

The whistle material chap would have supported that solution—not being keen on being used for snacks by various monopods—but it did conflict with the whole point of growing at all (in its humble opinion).

Ditto for the solution offered by the dancing partner, who proposed to make themselves as sharp as razor blades in order to deter cows and rabbits from nibbling on them.

Our little shape shifter was appalled to find out that what he had first contemplated as offering the best vegetative life could be both dangerous and—given the incessant debates on the part of his mates—extremely frustrating and infuriating.

He was constantly being dragged into cell disputes and bullied by his comrades into voicing opinions that were immediately seized upon, denigrated, contested and thereafter thoroughly ignored.

He had to admit to himself that living in a community was not for him and started to think about evolving again.

Until then he had only seen other bunches of grass and a few insects, none of which appealed to him as a suitable alternative to his present predicament.

But then one day, a strange creature appeared.

His first reaction on seeing it was “Fancy ! What is Asghartil doing here ?” for he had mistaken it for a prepubescent mate from his home planet.

However, shrills of horror from his fellow grass stalks informed him that THIS was one of the fierce enemies that had been mentioned over and over during the committee sessions.

While Mr. Green was screaming “Poison! Let’s produce poison!” and the others debated whether that was the best, most acceptable way, Athanox reviewed the creature and decided to become another one of its kind.

Now that went rather fine and he soon found himself snacking on his ex-comrades, who—it must be recorded—went down still debating.

He had become a snail.

And a happy one too. It did take him some time to get used to the strange contraption on his back, but once he settled in, he found it a rather cosy accommodation.
What was not so pleasant was the attention he suddenly was getting from the other snail.

Remember? The one that had caused all that frantic shrieking in the first place?

Continued on Page 59

Shifting Away a Shifter

Nathalie Boisard-Beudin

Athanox was a shape shifter.

Well, it might feel like fancy stuff around here, but let me assure you that it is a very mundane thing on HIS planet.

In fact, you could not be more ordinary: EVERYONE there was a shape shifter.
Those beings are hatched without a shape and go through their existence evolving into different bodies or creations.

It was very simple to do, provided you kept two important rules in mind:
1 - The new shape is acquired by speaking the name of the form you want to achieve or by formulating a description for it, when no name is available.
AND
2 - There is no going back to a shape that has been already used.

Such concept of species’ evolution would of course have been a puzzle for our Darwin, but all in all it rather did well for the shape shifters.

Who, incidentally, have a very sophisticated name of their own, deriving from that of their home planet. We just cannot have it printed here because our alphabets are just not up to the sounds involved.

And really, it does not matter.

Athanox, obviously, is in fact called something much more complex but I have tried to make an estimation of what his name would sound like and that is the best I managed to come up with.
But, again, all this does not really matter.

It was depressed.

Of course, it is easy for us to think that a sentient being that must be referred to as a “IT” has all the reasons in the world to feel depressed, but all in all that is just a misconception caused by our in-build programme for evolution of our own specie. Athanox was bored to tears. And even if it had no eyes to cry, it thought life was treating it cruelly.

Look, I’m having problems calling the poor creature a “IT”: Let’s refer to it as a “HIM” instead. No gender inequity or latent chauvinism intended, rather an easy way out of a sticky situation.

So HE had an issue with life.

His companions were blaming it on adolescence. He had not yet evolved from his natural blank state to a more defining adult shape. The problem being that he could not make up his mind as to which form he should develop into. All the shapes available locally seemed already overused and standard: he did not want to grow into the shape of his elders; he had a craving for something new, something radical, something ORIGINAL.

Now, here on earth, he might have dyed his hair purple and adopt a few piercing and tattoos, but there was no such alternative on his planet. And besides that, tattooing or piercing a non existent body is a rather difficult business. So he was lingering in his prepubescent form, seeking a new himself in the limbs of cosmos beyond his home, ignoring the nifty remarks of his companions, when he found US.

His tracking device had intercepted the signals of a military observation satellite, and EARTH started to fill his field of perception. A new world of shapes and colours opened to him from that moment on and he started dreaming about coming over.

That was not as difficult as you might think. His lack of form did allow him to make use of molecular travel (yes, if you must know, a bit like in Star Trek, la!). So he signalled goodbye to his friends—I’m not really sure they were friends actually. These creatures are rather individualistic; let’s call them “relatives”—and disappeared.

Shortly before his arrival on our planet, he had to select a body to evolve into. Now that created some type of problem because he had no idea what earthly creatures were called nor what were their individual functions. In fact, he would have had problems differentiating between a living creature and an object or an inanimate being.

He had observed earth at length though, and spotted a few creatures that might offer a suitable body model for his new avatar. So when faced with the task of stating in what form he should progress, his decision was to look like “one of those small, living creatures, hanging out in groups and ruling the earth.”

I think he meant US, actually.

What he did end up as, however, was an ant.

That surprised him quite a bit, since he had more legs than he had hoped. But the shape was definitely classy and he had antennas! He was in fact using them to orient himself in the gallery where he had been dropped, when another ant came up to him and started yelling at him. He had not yet recovered from the shock when the other creature started to whip him too. It seemed to tell him to get to work and kept pushing him further into the gallery. A bit further they joined a column of workers that soldiers were keeping at their task with the use of tools that, in our sphere, would have been banned by the Geneva Convention. They did not chain him, but he did feel like a slave or a prisoner. He, who had led so far a purely intellectual and rather idle life, was put to work in the most violent manner and all day he toiled and toiled, carrying this and that this way or the other, building galleries and transporting more stuff along. He did collect a few blows on the way and ended up the day in such a state of despondency that his fellow workers—who had had their own share of misery—started to caress him with their antennas.

Continued on Page 58

A Tale From Captain Andy, continued from Page 55

“Say th’ name with me, children, will y’?”
The three children whispered the name along with the captain.
“Mee-ra! Mee-ra! Mee-ra!” they chanted.
And then they suddenly stopped.
Their eyes fell on the fish scale pouch in the captain’s palm.
They heard a splunk! Something inside the pouch moved!
Captain Andy held the pouch-covered container, its contents still concealed, before them.
“I made this covering from th’ fin she offered me. I’ve kept it with me f’r all these years, right here close t’ my heart . . .”
Impossibly, the golden fish skin shimmered in the light with more brilliance than before, seeming to catch fire before the children’s eyes. The twins’ mouths hung open.
“But what’s inside?” asked Beth.
“Tell us! Tell us!” the twins begged, watching as the pouch splunked yet again.
Captain Andrew J. Doohan could only smile at the question.
“What’s beneath th’ pouch, children, is th’ wish Meera granted me . . .

“. . . I called her name for six nights runnin’. Receivin’ no reply, I felt certain th’ she-creature had either died or had forgotten th’ promise she made.

“But on th’ seventh night th’ seawater b’fore me suddenly broke and there she was, as young and beautiful as th’ day I’d seen her last . . .

‘I’ve come, Andrew, just as promised . . .’

“Seein’ her I was barely able to contain my happiness as I spoke.

‘“I’m decided upon a wish, Meera, no longer a young man with so many wishes yet t’ be made, as y’ can see. But this wish is th’ same as I might’ve asked over sixty summers past when first we met. I would’ve eagerly asked y’ to remain with me forever then. But I w’s a man with a dear wife who’s now gone to her grave. What I’m askin’ of y’ this night . . . what my wish is, then . . . is this . . .

“‘Will y’ change for me, Meera? Will y’ no longer be th’ incomplete she-creature I see b’fore me so you can join me by my side? And will y’ find in your heart th’ means to leave the sea and stand by a lonely old captain for th’ remainder of his days?’

“I’d feared th’ laughter of a woman so fresh and beautiful. But she gave no reason t’ doubt her. Instead she smiled, radiant as th’ sun.

“Will you understand, then, Andrew, if I am to be with you I can never remain the same creature you now see before you?”

‘“I understand, Meera . . . Yes, I do understand,” I told her.

I couldn’t tell whether th’ moisture in Meera’s eyes at that moment was a tear or sea water. I’m of the belief that perhaps there was a bit of each.

“Andrew, the sea has always been my home, and so it must remain even while I spend my days with you. Do you understand what I’m asking of you?”

I had but one response to that. “Be with me, Meera,” I said.

‘That is your wish, then?’

“‘Th’ only wish I’ll ev’r ask of y’. ’

“And with not another word Meera disappeared beneath th’ waves . . .”

“Forever?” asked Beth.
“No,” answered the captain. “Not forever . . . but isn’t that your mother turnin’ th’ corner this very moment?”
“Awwww,” the twins groaned.
Beth was more succinct.
“Damn!” she said.

Sondra Marchette clearly had indulged herself during her visit to Pier 2. Laden with three bags she performed an indelicate balancing act when she returned to the captain’s fold-out table for her children.

“Magic’s what this must be,” she said to Andrew Doohan. “Pure magic. I’m gone not a quarter of an hour and all three of my little ones are sitting here like you’ve got them enchanted. Will you share your secret, captain?”

Captain Andy’s smile took a moment to appear. “What shall we tell her, children?”

Sean, Mariel, and Beth laughed.

“Th’ secret lies in the container beneath this old fish scale pouch, Missis. Do y’ care to take a peek inside?”

The twins and Beth rushed forward. They made a circle around the captain as he opened the pouch wide enough for all of them to see the contents of the tiny glass bowl it concealed.

“Why, it’s simply beautiful. So delicate and graceful,” Sondra said. “Is it some type of goldfish? I’ve never seen one so exquisite.”

The captain nodded, the smile fading from his face like melted wax while the children’s mouths fell open.

“There’s none her match, Missis. I would ne’er give her up for all the lost gold in the seven seas.”

Beth clapped her hands, giggling with delight.

“She found a way, Captain Andy, didn’t she? Meera found a way to stay with you!”

Andrew Doohan managed a grin, though his eyes remained sad.

Sondra’s attention was elsewhere as she examined the small fish more closely.

“Such a shame, though,” the young mother said. “One of the poor thing’s fins is torn . . .

A Tale From Captain Andy, continued from Page 54

“Children, within that floatin’ casket I found no corpse, ‘though I’ve spent th’ better part of sixty years often wishin’ I had…

“I’m thinking, ‘Now that’s some large fish I’ve uncrated’, b’cause I dug out th’ bottom part first and spotted only fins. Not ugly dark ones, no, not th’ sort belongin’ to most sea creatures. These were delicate, almost smooth, like those seen on a goldfish that might’ve grown large to accommodate th’ pinewood box containin’ her. With bleedin’ fingers I dug into th’ ice coverin’ th’ top half on her, expectin’ a fistful of scales for my effort. But this was no fish of any sort I’d encountered. This was a woman, a golden haired woman more beautiful than any creature I’d seen walk dry land.”

“A mermaid!” Mariel cried out. “You found a mermaid, Captain Andy?”
“I suppose I did, missy,” he answered.
And then from Beth, “Was she dead?”
The old man almost smiled, but did not.
There was no doubt now.
Andrew J. Doohan had the children, he had them good . . .

“I couldn’t prove her livin’ nor dead, Beth. She felt stiff and insensible. I knew only th’ poor creature’s fate had married itself to m’ own. She could not remain where she was within th’ coffin, nor could I without. And so I rocked th’ casket ‘til she tipped over, spillin’ her into th’ sea, not knowin’ whether I was returnin’ that golden woman to freedom nor to a watery grave.

“Th’ remainin’ ice quenched my burnin’ thirst, though th’ contents of that liquid had unquestionably mixed with th’ essence of th’ creature I’d so unceremoniously tossed over. But, for such thoughts a man with thirst has no time. Climbin’ inside that empty crate I experienced a sense of hope that I might just find a way out of th’ night’s misfortune. And I had only th’ magnificent sea creature to thank for my extraordinary twist of fate.

“I slept th’ sleep of th’ dead within that casket, slept with that single thought takin’ me there . . .

“I awoke b’lievin’ I was still in a dream. A distant voice called to me from a sea now becalmed and glitterin’ like a great jewel in th’ sunlight of a new mornin’ . . .

“The she-creature was alive! There she was, frolickin’ in th’ sea before my very eyes like a lovely apparition! She dove under without so much as makin’ a ripple, that majestic fin at first there, then gone b’neath th’ surface, her smilin’ face reappearin’, laughing and callin’ to me again, “Sir! Oh, Sir!”

“‘Awake, sir!’ it called as if singin’ th’ words. ‘Please, sir, awake! See the life you have restored to a creature forever in your debt!’”

“The sun shone so golden on that woman’s hair it seemed heaven must’ve flooded with salt water . . .

“‘I am no man to purloin credit not rightfully my own, Miss!’ I called back to her. ‘Your gratitude more properly belongs elsewhere! I am Andrew J. Doohan, a poor soul an’ a coward whose only concern is his own flesh, a far cry from th’ sort you would believe me as bein’ . . .’

“Children, I can say little regardin’ th’ stubborn nature of a fish, but I’ve since learned much concernin’ th’ stubbornness of a woman, even one comes from th’ sea . . .

“‘I see no coward, Andrew, only the man who has rescued a poor creature from those who would have made her their prisoner! The deed ensures my debt to you, not the reason for the deed about which I care not a bit! Whisper the name Meera into the sea, and if it is in the sphere of my ability, your wish shall I grant! Until then, remember me with this . . .’

“She tore off a fragment of her golden fin and handed it to me.

“In th’ next moment she disappeared b‘neath th’ surface.

“My view of all things possible altered considerably durin’ th’ course of those few moments. I tucked th’ golden fin into th’ ragged garment I wore swearin’ to keep it with me always, knowin’ there was but one thing I might’ve desired of Meera . . . and as a married man with a good wife waitin’ at home, knowin’ as well how th’ askin’ for it was unthinkable.

“From nowhere a brisk North wind stirred up and carried that coffin directly to th’ shores of Halifax. T’ this day I’ve no doubt th’ she-creature Meera had some hand in that . . .

“Returned safe to my young wife Mollie, I never spoke nor a word of Meera. And together we lived happily for many long years ‘til th’ cancer took her three winters b’fore last.

“Over sixty years passed since that night, but with Mollie in th’ ground and th’ seasons changin’ without her, I b’lieved maybe th’ time had come to return to th’ sea and state my wish to Meera . . .

“Not far from this very site on a cold winter’s night I stood upon a long jetty and whispered th’ name that sounds so like th’ wind herself, whispered it right into th’ sea just as th’ she-creature told me . . .

“‘Mee-ra . . . Mee-ra . . .’

Continued on Page 56

A Tale From Captain Andy, continued from Page 53

Andrew Doohan looked over his shoulder to determine the prudence of continuing. He stared at the small fish-scaled container for a moment, caressing it as if he held a chalice brimming with precious stones. The children leaned forward like three puppets’ heads on a single string, but he covered the object entirely in his large hand and would not permit them to see more.

“Well, th’ Mollie B. went down, all right, th’ whole of her durin’ th’ fiercest hour of that tempest. Dis’ppeared into th’ salt with nor a trace into those black waters while th’ men’s lifeboats tumbl’d over th’ side and bust’d up durin’ that storm’s fury. Hearin’ th’ crewmen’s screams and feelin’ useless as a man with his hands tied behind him, I’m clingin’ to th’ rail of th’ flyin’ bridge while awaitin’ fate’s worst. Th’ quarterdeck cracks open like a gapin’ maw, and into th’ deep I tumble down, down, and down. Wrestlin’ with that whirlin’ vortex below me for passage back to th’ surface, with lungs’ ready t’ bust, I’ve a mouth so full of seawater can’t scream for help when I get there. Not that screamin’ served th’ others much purpose. I know there’s only m’self clingin’ to life in those dark waters like a lone dog drownin’, my body so froze I don’t feel I b’long to ‘t.

“But there in th’ pale wash of moonlight I see some object I can’t quite d’termine. A big chunk of th’ Mollie’s debris is driftin’ like a raft, and she’s bobbin’ on th’ waves. Paddlin’ to that chunk of wood I’m a man gone mad. I pull m’self up on that crate crazy with fear or tiredness, not knowin’ which of th’ two might take me first.

“But I keep holdin’ on to that piece of wreckage, and fin’lly durin’ th’ mid hours of th’ night th’ storm subsides and some semblance of calm returns to th’ world enough f’r me t’ find some breath.

“That’s when, b’neath th’ full moon, I see what she is I’ve been driftin’ upon, th’ floatin’ object what’s reclaimed me from th’ grip of those icy waters . . . “

Here the captain paused. He looked hard at each child.
“Y’ won’t tell, then? On your honor, promise me y’ won’t .”
“We won’t tell!” from Sean.
“We promise!” from Mariel.
And from Beth, the last to speak, “Cross my heart and hope to die!”
Captain Andy smiled.
“All right, then . . .

“ . . . a coffin, it was, a floatin’ casket I’m holdin’ on to in that icy water. She’s part of th’ Mollie’s cargo I’m haulin’ to a port in th’ midst of some ice-capped nowhere called Twillingate in Newfoundland. Whoever lay within that coffin I’ve not a clue. A ship’s cap’n learns when time comes t’ question th’ full contents of what freight he carries, and where dead bodies is concerned, that time is never.”

The twins looked confused. They probably had no idea what a casket was.
But the eight year old, Beth, she knew. The captain could tell just by looking at her that she knew.

And that was enough.

“Th’ coffin was weighted too heavy t’ stay afloat takin’ on water as she was. For cert’n, either her contents or m’self were gon’ into th’ sea. But she was hammered tight, and I needed to pry her open else th’ remains inside would be escortin’ me to th’ ocean’s bottom. I had but my bare hands for removin’ her lid, and a man’s flesh is no match against thick pinewood . . .

“ . . . But a man’s mind, now there’s another matter entirely . . .”

Here the captain smiled enough to show yellowed teeth. Without releasing the fish-scaled pouch he unbuttoned his thick whaler.

“A sea man’s belt buckle saved th’ day. This metal catch might pop a dozen nails when a man’s got his wits ‘bout him, assumin’ that man’s given th’ choice b’tween thinkin’ clear else becomin’ a feast for th’ sharks.”

The three children laughed. Children always laughed at this part.
The captain paused, savoring the moment.

“‘Course, I felt considerably uneasy concernin’ that coffin’s contents, knowin’ I’d be feedin’ someone’s corpse to th’ Atlantic to save my own sorry skin. Pullin’ th’ lid open I determined to have just one look, my penance bein’ to memorize th’ face of that unfortunate soul I’d consigned to th’ deep . . .

“I had a look within . . .

“Ice! Th’ casket was filled with ice!

“Somethin ´- I could not begin to guess what - was froze solid inside that coffin!

“I clawed through those icy chunks not carin’ that I was shreddin’ my fingers in th’ act, ‘til I found what lay b’neath.

“Th’ thing was froze all right, preserved by someone intendin’ to keep her fresh . . . and to keep her secret inside that box!

Continued on Page 55

A Tale From Captain Andy

Ken Goldman

Sondra almost missed the sign while leaving the Rite Aid, the twins in either hand. She was tracking Beth, their older sister, who was already charging ahead to the Beanie Babies display behind the Toys R Us window. Luckily Beth’s eight years were not enough to permit too much physical distance between herself and her mother for more than a few minutes tops. Sondra had learned to rely on her older daughter’s natural insecurity while juggling all three kids during Stuart’s infamous X-treme Fishing Tuesdays. She steered Sean and Mariel towards the old man in the black whaler knowing Beth would follow.

The captain was not of the Kangaroo or Hook variety who might win over a child simply through posturing and costume. But he looked grizzled enough to be the real deal if appearances were any indication. Dressed as if expecting a typhoon to descend that afternoon on the Jersey shore, Andrew J. Doohan could have come from Central Casting had there been a cattle call for The Wreck of the Hesperus. He appeared in bad need of a shave, a haircut, and maybe some skin grafts. The wispy hair tumbling down the seaman’s forehead clearly had not seen a comb that morning, and his white stubble fell maybe three days’ short of a respectable beard.

There was something ridiculous about discovering Ahab’s clone in the middle of a South Jersey shopping mall, but for now the old guy was the proverbial port in a storm.

Approaching the man seated behind the fold-up desk while restraining her natural tendency for making a wise-ass introduction, Sondra introduced herself. “Captain Doohan, you’ve just thrown one tired woman a badly needed life preserver.” Still holding the twins’ hands, she eased each forward. “I’m Sondra Marchette. Mariel and Sean here are five, and that’s Beth, a world-weary eight, closing up the rear.”

The old salt pushed himself from behind the desk and approached them. He was much taller than Sondra had expected, an imposing six feet at least, and for one terrible moment she felt certain all three children might bolt and run off screaming. The seaman’s smile assuaged that fear. He knelt down, studying the face of each child while addressing the parent.

“Cap’n Andy’s th’ name, M’am, and it’s always a pleasure t’ meet th’ young ‘uns. Sean, Mariel, and Beth, eh? Those are fine names. Fine names, each n’ all. And how are y’, then?” Having completed the niceties with the children, he extended his hand to their mother. The old man’s long fingers almost swallowed hers.

“I’d a bit more vigorous grip in younger days when captainin’ freighters carryin’ bulk from the textile mills in Portland out of th’ deepwater of Casco Bay to points North,” he told Sondra. Listing his credentials with parents seemed part of his storytelling package, likely the idea of whatever Pier 2 yuppie employer who had hired him. “Recently I’d done simple lobsterin’, only a bit less back breakin’ f’r an ancient seaman, settin’ my traps out of Scarborough thinkin’ I hadn’t much to say to whatever wasn’t a shellfish. But watchin’ kids like these changes a mind quick. There’s no worse way of seein’ out a man’s remainin’ twilights th’n seein’ them out alone.”

Sondra nodded, surprised at the sailor’s openness. She couldn’t place the mariner’s accent. It seemed an odd chowder combining the shores of New England with some exaggerated inflections lifted from vintage Popeye, likely useful for holding kids’ attention. Chances were the man had never sailed far beyond the coast of Long Beach Island, a chartered group of Jersey accountants turned weekend fishermen his only cargo. It didn’t matter. Old Captain Andy won the twins over before he had completed his introductions. A giggling Sean and Mariel took the man’s hand while Beth remained behind her mother and said nothing.

“Will y’ be wantin’ a story from th’ Cap’n, then, Missis?” he asked, standing upright again. He towered over Sondra as if he might complete the moment with a salty joke about bowl legged sea men and the requisite Har! Har! Har!

“That we will.” She felt amused at how easily she had been charmed by the ancient sailor enough to mimic the rhythms of his speech. “Have you got one that runs, say, fifteen minutes or so?”

. . . without the commercials? she almost added, noting the man’s tip jar. These mall promoters could be slick with kids when there were dollars to be made. Andrew J. Doohan, after all, was Pier 2’s summertime answer to Santa.

The man rubbed the whiskers on his chin and grinned. “Oh, I think I might be able t’ whip up a tale or two of sea serpents and ghost ships, with your kind permission, Missis. That is, if y’ don’t b’lieve it’ll toss too much of a scare into th’ little ‘uns.”

I y’am what I y’am and that’s all what I y’am . . .

All right, so maybe the old coot was laying it on a bit thick for a mall employee. The fact was, Sondra had fallen into the spirit of this thing and felt tempted to remain for one of the old guy’s yarns.

Continued on Page 53

A Tale From Captain Andy, continued from Page 52

[ . . . then again Stuart had mentioned his partiality to a silk pair of pink crotchless panties she had spotted last week at Frederick’s of Hollywood, and if the bluefish were running off Barnegat Bay and her husband was feeling his oats tonight after the kids were tucked in, well then . . . ]

“You’re not a real sea captain!” Beth interrupted.

The crotchless panties would have to wait. Sondra had become used to keeping her apologies for Beth at the ready. But the captain was one step ahead of her.

“Seein’ isn’t quite th’ same as believin’, is it, missy? Well, Beth, I’ve a tale for y’ which may set a doubtin’ Thomas t’ thinkin’ otherwise . . .”

He winked secretly to Sondra using the universal code shared among all adults. His repertoire might tweak the kids’ world a bit while a mother left them in his care, but there was no danger in Andrew J. Doohan’s overturning it. In the shorthand parlance of parentspeak the motion was Sondra’s cue. Shopping time had arrived and she was on the clock.

“Mind your manners with Captain Andy, you young ‘uns,” Sondra advised her brood. She kissed each, flashed a quickie smile at the seaman, then walked off in the direction of Frederick’s. The old man fell suddenly silent as the three children took their places on the colorful gum ball assortment of floor cushions before him. He waited until the young mother had made the right turn to the Southern wing of the mall, waited until confident she was out of sight before his attention returned to the children.

His smile was gone. The captain’s eyes bored in on each child, the twins first, then Beth. His stare remained fixed on her.

“I’ve a tale to tell, oh yes. But I’m not feelin’ cert’n that it’d be to your mother’s best likin’ if she was t’ know th’ one I’ve in mind, a tale concernin’ what I’ve got hid here inside this pouch.” The old man reached beneath the table, producing some sort of small pouch that looked as if it were sewn together from the scales of a fish the color of the sun. Although gone to tatters with age, the pouch glimmered like burnished gold sparkling with elegance even in the mall’s artificial light. It might have more properly belonged to royalty than to a grizzled sea captain, its contents containing riches beyond anyone’s imagining. The fish skin was wrapped around some unseen jar-shaped object which he dangled before the children. “Do y’ follow th’ drift of what the cap’n is tellin’ y’?”

The twins looked at the round pouch, then at each other. Beth’s eyes never left the old man’s.

“You’re saying we can’t tell her!” the girl shouted. She covered her mouth when the aged sailor leaned toward her as if she had revealed a terrible secret.

“That’s what I’m tellin’ y’, missy.” He turned to the twins who had practically huddled together. “That’s what I’m tellin’ each of y’. Now, are y’ ‘greeable to th’ terms of hearin’ th’ cap’n’s story, then?”

The twins silently nodded. Beth nodded too, although her consent took a moment longer. Satisfied, Captain Andy began.

“Picture in your mind’s eye th’ finest ship t’ sail th’ sea. Twelve sheets from stem to stern, she was, th’ last of th’ western commercial sailin’ vessels b’fore th’ fleets moved entirely t’ oil. With masts climbin’ to th’ sky and sails which danced like angel’s wings ‘gainst th’ four winds. A queen, she was, a young cap’n’s complete schoolin’, capable of turnin’ a man’s head ever’ time she glided into port. Th’ Mollie B. that vessel was called, christened with th’ name of my young wife. A terrible storm took that ship from me durin’ th’ summer of ‘35 jus’ as cert’n as th’ loathsome sickness took her namesake many years after.

“And one lunker of a storm she was. Thirty odd miles off th’ coast of Nova Scotia, she came. Lightnin’ an’ thunder that might’ve cracked this world in half, and a sea swelled so high no man livin’ could see th’ top on her. Hadn’t no fancy ship-to-shore pinball games on board t’ warn me, not in those days. That wind come blowin’ early one Sunday evenin’ catchin’ me with my crew of some thirty-three strong, each to a man off his guard. A howlin’ gale, she was, and didn’t take her leave past th’ middle of that night when th’ Mollie B. might’ve just as well been a naut’cal mile’s worth of match sticks. All night thirty-three good men are gon’ into th’ drink, each hollerin’ at th’ full moon for some heavenly intervention. But God, He didn’t lift nor a pinkie. Durin’ th’ full measure of th’ Mollie’s last hours, I’m cert’n of one fact. Only t’ watch us die that night is all God intended . . .”

“You shouldn’t talk about God like that!” Mariel shouted.
“Shut up!” Beth told her younger sister, then turned her attention back to Captain Andy.
Sean, usually the first to fall asleep seated anywhere for more than three minutes, remained wide awake.
“Yeah, Mariel. Shut up,” he warned his twin, mimicking his big sister.

Continued on Page 54

A Secret in the Cellar, continued from Page 50

Distantly, the sound was repeated, and the seal before her—Liam—twisted his head to look at the river. Mel looked too, but there was nothing to see. She looked back at the seal. She couldn’t believe it was Liam… but… she moved cautiously closer, inspecting its muzzle. There was a scar across its nose—like Liam’s.

“Liam… you turned into a seal?” Her voice sounded stupidly high pitched—but considering what had just happened, it was the least of it.

The seal looked up at her and gave a grunt that shook its whole, massive body. Then it—he—jumped. The movement was ungraceful but it shuffled him forwards. He did it again and again, and Mel saw it wasn’t so much a jump as a ripple that started at his tail and travelled up to its head. He splashed into the water, stirring up the silt and mud in a cloud slowly carried away by the lazy flow.

The scarred seal had vanished under the water. Mel walked to the edge, searching the water for him. He surfaced in the deepest part of the river, looking back at her. A moment later, another seal surfaced close by. She was right, Mel thought surreally—Liam was larger. They ignored her then, greeting each other with nuzzles, twisting around in the current.

The smaller one snorted and dived, Liam following without looking back. Mel felt a sharp twinge of loss.

They didn’t resurface.

#

Mel took Liam’s clothing back to his house. The door had been left open, so she locked it for him.

After that, she went home. What else could she do?

She ate her birthday cake, and opened the gifts her mother and brother had given her.

Her mother didn’t ask about what happened, and Mel didn’t offer to say.

Later, when the sun had set, she went out again, heading for Liam’s house.

Of course he wasn’t there, but the disappointment still weighed heavily on her.

She took the champagne she found chilling in the pantry and carried it with her on her walk back through the woods. She stopped under the beech tree, and sat where Liam had been earlier that day.

She pushed at the cork, listening to the river and the faint sounds from the campsite. What a birthday.

The cork shot out with a cheerful pop, vanishing from sight as it sailed over the moonlit river. Cool fizzing liquid spilled down her fingers and dripped onto the skirts of her dress, but she didn’t care. She lifted the bottle to her mouth and took several swallows, looking at the stars between the leaves.

From the darkness came the remark, “You’re meant to sip it.”

Mel nearly choked on a mouthful, coughing hard to get rid of the bubbles in her nose. “Bloody hell, Liam!”

He laughed and came closer, dropping the heavy skin gently then sitting on top of it. He was wet and still naked. He took the bottle from her hand and leant in, kissing her deeply. She was too shocked to do anything for several seconds, but when his tongue slid into her mouth she kissed him back.

He pulled back after a few moments and hummed softly in contentment.

Her hand lifted of its own compulsion to stroke his hair. It was damp and hot and slick, like a seal’s. “Will you stay?”

He nodded and said, “Only for a while.” Her face fell, and he added, “But I’ll always come back.” His mouth found hers again, quieting her questions, if just for the moment.

A Secret In the Cellar, continued from Page 49

“What are you doing?” Mel yelled at him, moving back up a step.

“What I have to,” came the low, emotional response.

He was scrabbling at the wall, where the casket had been flush against it. The paint was coming off in flakes, and the plaster under it was dark – so there was damp down there. Liam clawed at it like an animal, chunks of plaster coming away, but instead of stone under that, there was a glint of metal.

Liam gave a cry of victory and increased his efforts, his fingers soon becoming bloodied but he paid the scrapes no attention. A few moments later and he pulled back, bringing with him a steel box. It was over three feet long, two feet wide and another two feet deep and rusted in places, but still formidable.

He tried to open it, straining at the lid, then kicking the hinges to try and break them off, but nothing he did seemed to weaken it.

Mel clutched the key in her hand, its teeth biting her palm. “L…Liam. Here.” She walked forwards, edging around the toppled barrel, and extending her hand. He looked up at her, uncomprehending, and then spied the key in her grasp.

He took it, surprise on his face. “I… thank you.” His dark eyes met Melissa’s for a second before his attention retuned to the box. The key fit into the lock, the lid springing open as he turned it. He pushed the lid up, and gave a harsh but joyous laugh.

Mel peeked into the chest at what was in there–expecting something horrendous like a collection of human bones. She frowned, not understanding what she saw. Liam stroked it with a shaking hand, and it glimmered in the lamplight, like hair. A fur?

His hand grasped it, pulling it out of the box. It was large, and a mottled grey-brown that was strangely familiar. “It’s whole,” Liam said, wonderingly, draping it onto the casket to stroke it with both hands. Mel reached out and touched it herself. It wasn’t wet, but it was otherwise exactly like the seal’s fur.

Liam laughed again, and jumped forwards, his arms wrapping around Mel as he hugged her tight. Just as fast, he released her and pulled the pelt from the barrel, folding it over an arm. He started towards the stairs, then stopped with a jerk. He turned, and said, “Come and see, Mel. Come and see what this all means.”

With that, he took off again, running up the stairs, apologising to her mother for the mess. Mel chased after him, up the stairs, through the kitchen, her mother’s face a shocked blur, and then out of the house. She sprinted after her friend, not knowing why but desperate not to lose him as he shot across the garden and into the woodland that surrounded their houses.

The run was wild but she kept up, if barely, her legs burning with exertion and her breath desperate, skirts hitched to her knees. She hadn’t run this hard since childhood. Luckily for her, Liam didn’t go far. He followed the path down to the river, where the bank turned into a gravely beach.

She caught up to him as he was shedding his clothes. She doubled over, gasping to get her breath back, tilting her head to watch Liam’s actions.

Liam had dropped the pelt on the grit next to him, and his shoes were already on the damp silt, his jacket then shirt joining them in quick succession. Melissa couldn’t keep her eyes off his back, his muscles stretching smoothly under his evenly tanned skin. His hands went to his breeches, opening them with an impatient jerk. His underwear went too, and after a moment of awkward kicking, the trousers were free of his feet.

Melissa couldn’t keep from staring at his body, now completely nude. She couldn’t help but notice his tan was unbroken, and his backside was round and perfect and oh-so-squeezable.

Liam’s chuckle brought her gaze up. She was already flushed from running, so he probably couldn’t tell she was blushing profusely. “Why are you naked?” she asked in a worried tone. He wasn’t the first man she’d seen unclothed, but it was still a surprise.

“I’m going for a swim.” He turned and stepped closer, Mel straightened up though her eyes glanced down. He was tanned there, too. He cupped her cheek and said huskily, “Mel, I can’t explain, but please watch.”

He stepped back from her, stooping to pick up the skin. He wrapped it around himself like a blanket on a winter morning, the fur on the outside. She watched, like he asked, worrying he really had gone insane.

Just when she was about to say something, the fur rippled. No, shivered. It seemed to close around him, then bulge outwards. Liam grunted, and dropped to his knees, then to the ground, the skin swallowing his feet and head. Mel backpedalled in horror. It was over in a few more moments, not giving her time to scream or think.

Where Liam had been, there was a seal.

It looked exactly like the one from that morning. Bigger, perhaps. It lifted its streamline head, looking at her with dark eyes. Its mouth opened, showing pointed teeth in a pink mouth. It gave a series of rasping barks in quick succession. It sounded like laughter.

Continued on Page 51

A Secret In the Cellar, continued from Page 48

Take the key to Liam, bring him to the house. Tell him that it is in the wine cellar. He will know. It has to go as it was gained.

Please, if you find out what I did, forgive me. I did not mean to keep him so long.

Love you always,
Your Father

It was dated two months before her father’s death. It didn’t make much sense, and the last part about forgiving him… what had her father done?

She looked at the key, picked it up. Do not open it, her father had written. Why did he have to write that? Temptation coursed under her skin. Why couldn’t she look? What was he hiding? Fear rose as her imagination filled in the information missing in his letter.

Her father had told her to go to Liam. He must know what was in the cellar. Was that a good thing, or a bad thing?

He was her friend. He had been her father’s friend. Yes, she’d send for him.

She pushed away from the desk, pocketed the key and walked swiftly out of her father’s study. She heard her mother’s voice and Mr Kendal’s laughter as she moved through the hallway, so she stuck her head into the kitchen as she passed. There was a wonderful scent of cake, and she saw her mother daubing a freshly baked sponge with chocolate icing. Mr Kendal was leaning on the counter close by, holding a steaming mug.

“Mother, I’m going to invite Liam over,” Mel announced, and they looked over to her, her mother inquisitive. Mel shrugged, “I have to talk to him,” she said by way of explanation.

Her mother smiled and said, “You don’t have to ask me if you want Liam to visit.” There was an almost predatory look in her eye, one she got when she was about to talk about eligible bachelors.

Mel quickly said, “All right, I’ll send Jill with a note,” and ducked out again, shaking her head at how determined her mother was to see her married.

The happy scene in the kitchen had briefly banished her feeling of dread, but it started to creep back, chilling her skin and quickening her pace. She exhaled, trying to push her fear out with the breath, and returned to the study.

Using half a sheet of paper, she scribbled:

Liam,

Come to the house. Mr Kendal brought a letter from my father. My father asked me to tell you ‘it is in the wine cellar’, and said that you would know what he meant.

Melissa

Wafting it in the air to dry the ink, Mel went to find the young maid to take the message to their neighbour.

#

No more than fifteen minutes later, there was an urgent knock at the door. Mel had been waiting in the kitchen, twisting the key in nervous fingers and listening to her mother gossip to Mr Kendal. She jumped up at the sound and hurried to answer it, the conversation faltering.

Liam all but pushed his way inside. “Wine cellar?” he panted, a frantic look in his eye.

Melissa shut the door, staring at him. He was more agitated than she had ever seen him, his hands fisting and flexing, eyes darting and sweat beading across his upper lip and temples. “You know the door is in the kitchen. Liam, what-” she started, but Liam was already rushing down the hall.

Mel followed, confused and afraid of his reaction.

Her mother and Mr Kendal looked startled when Liam ran in, looked around and bounded to the cellar doorway. Mel shook her head at her mother’s shocked face as Liam opened the door with an impatient jerk and flew down the stairs.

A moment later, he barked, “Light!”

Mel moved to the door and took down a paraffin lamp, lighting it and lowering the protective glass tube over the flame. She carried it to the stairs just as Laim rushed back up to claim the lamp and clattered down the steps again. Mel didn’t want to go down there, but she had to. She had to know what her father had done, and what Liam was going half-insane over.

As she descended the stairs, hand gripping the banister, she heard something large and heavy being dragged across the floor–the only thing that heavy must be one of the ancient, long-emptied wine caskets. A pair had been pushed against the far wall for aesthetic purposes, though her mother had hinted it was to hide a damp patch.

Melissa came down another few steps, and ducked her head, seeing that Liam was pulling out one of the caskets, grunting and giving massive jerks as he gripped the rim. The casket would slide a few inches, the wood screaming over the stone floor as it went. Mel stood watching him, not knowing what to say. She looked back up the stairs, seeing her mother and the old solicitor standing there. Mel waved them back, and went down the last steps. “Liam?”

He didn’t respond. She repeated his name louder, and he threw a look at her. He gave another tug, then moved forwards, leaning over the barrel to peer into the gap. “That bastard!” he yelled, his voice ringing in the enclosed space. He scrambled onto the empty barrel and dropped behind it, putting his back to the wall and bracing his legs on the casket. He gave a shove, and the casket toppled with a hollow boom.

Continued on Page 50

A Secret In the Cellar

Eden Hail

Melissa leisurely kicked her feet, staring up at the sky. The sedate water carried her downstream, cradling her, cooling her over-warm body. It had been a long winter and a cold spring, but now the waters were just right, stroking her through her thin dress, tugging at it lightly as it took her further and further from home.

She shut her eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the sun. Then, she felt something drift into her, against the flow of the water. It was too solid to be the water and too soft to be wood debris. She gasped just as the thing pulled back, thinking it was another swimmer - and felt a buffet of water as it moved away. She struggled upright, treading water as she looked about her.

She saw no one – but heard a splosh behind her, a few feet away. She twisted around, her breath coming quicker. The water was rough for a few seconds, then calm again. There was something in the water with her, something big, something alive.

What on Earth could it be? Was it another person messing about?

Something hard and warm clamped around her toe.

She screeched and kicked, and it let her go. She whirled for the nearest bank, and froze. The thing surfaced in front of her. It had large eyes bulging out of its skull, and a small muzzle with long cat-like whiskers. It snorted loudly, its nostrils opening from slits, grey-brown fur gleaming in the sun.

It was a seal.

Mel stared at it in surprise. She had never seen one before, yet here one was, close enough to touch. It blinked at her, stretching its sleek head towards her inquisitively.

“Oh,” she breathed. The artist’s impression in her nature book didn’t do it any justice. It was so, so beautiful. What was it doing so far upriver? The estuary was miles away.

She wanted to reach out and touch it, but it was a wild animal, not a dog, no matter how friendly it looked. But… her hand reached out anyway. Its fur was hot and slick under her fingertips. The seal blinked again, and she drew her fingers down its belly slowly. Its dark eyes shut and it sighed out of its nose, as if it enjoyed the touch. A second later it twisted away and dove back into the water. Mel snatched her hand back, and she looked to see if she could follow the seal’s direction, but it didn’t resurface. It was gone.

Disappointed it had vanished, exhilarated it had been there at all, she let out the air in her chest and swam to the riverbank. Much further and she’d come to the gypsy’s campsite. They weren’t terrible, otherwise they would be forced to move on, but they were excitable. And her in a soaking white dress … well.

She struggled a little to get up onto the grass, the mud smearing her dress in the process. She groaned, but knew she’d have to wash it anyway after her short swim. A bit more mud hardly mattered.

She started to shiver, so she headed quickly along the riverside back to where she’d left her towel, picking her way along the dirt path. A friend of the family owned the grounds she was on now. It was a few more acres until her land began so no fences to climb or hedgerows to crawl under. Small mercies.

She just hoped her luck held, and that Liam hadn’t come for a stroll.

Luck however, when counted on, rarely stays.

“Mel!” The call came from a shaded nook as she rushed past. It surprised her, but the speaker was familiar to her.

She suppressed a sigh, and almost decided to keep going. But… like with touching the seal, she couldn’t resist. Liam had an air about him that sent excited chills over her skin. She’d never pursued it, and Liam had never given an indication he was interested in her. And still…

She turned, crossing her arms over her chest for modesty’s sake. “Liam,” she said with an embarrassed smile. “I, ah, drifted a little too far. You know I daydream…”

He smiled, and said, “I know you love the water, enough to get your reputation ruined.” He got up from his lounging spot under a copper beech, and Mel’s eyes couldn’t help drinking him in. He was taller than her by an inch or so, almost eye-level with her. He was slender, dark haired, dark eyed and fine featured. She remembered seeing him for the first time when she was fifteen, standing with her father. He hadn’t changed. He was almost breathtakingly handsome. A savage scar across the bridge of his nose saved him from being too striking. Even so, her breath caught in her throat and his Scottish accent made him a pleasure to listen to.

His dark chestnut hair gleamed in the sunlight as he moved out of the tree’s dappled shadow, looking her over once before turning his eyes away. “Am I going to be hearing any complaints about you over at the campsite?” Liam questioned, laughter in his voice.

Mel grinned and shook her head, though she felt heat creep across her cheeks. “I didn’t get that distracted…”

Liam grinned too, eyes flicking towards her then away, as if he was struggling with his resolve to be a gentleman. “Ah, well, pity for them.”

Continued on Page 48

A Secret In the Cellar, continued from Page 47

“I have to go. Mr Kendal is coming, and I can’t meet him like this.”

“Mr Kendal… ah, your father’s solicitor. Fair enough – I’ll see you later. I have a bottle of champagne with your name on it.”

Melissa grinned, shifting her feet on the warm dirt path. “You remembered!”

“Like I’d forget. Go on, Birthday Girl, get dry and decent.”

He turned to go, but Mel called after him, wanting to share her encounter. “Liam! There’s a seal in the river!”

He stopped and turned, looking at her with surprise. “A seal? This far upstream? I’ll keep an eye out.” He waved, and continued on his way. Mel felt dejected that he hadn’t seemed interested, but he was a busy man. Though, if he was suddenly busy now, why had be been lounging under a tree?

Mel watched him until the woods swallowed him, before turning herself and heading back to her home.

#

Melissa tried not to fidget as she sat across from Mr Kendal and watched him shuffle through a sheaf of papers. Her father’s study intimidated her – she made a point of avoiding it when she could. Sitting behind the heavy desk made a small difference, but the whole room was a memorial to her father. Seeing it was difficult still, her grief crushing her chest and burning her eyes.

Her fingers touched a bronze paperweight in the shape of a Chinese dragon. She remembered when he unwrapped it, twelve Christmases ago now, and the look of delight on her father’s face. Mr Kendal cleared his throat and Mel jerked her hand back guiltily, attention snapping to the solicitor and meeting his dark grey eyes. He smiled sadly at her, crows feet crinkling as he said, “Your father left specific instructions in his will. He asked, should he die, that I come and give over to you this letter on your twenty-first birthday.”

He held it out, and Mel blinked before taking it from his hand. It was heavy, and she felt something loose slide around inside. “Thank you. Is that all?”

“Well, he also wished for you to inherit the shipping company, but that storm devastated his business before the deeds could pass to you. All the money the insurers paid out went into your account in London. Your mother received the land and houses, your brother got his stocks and shares.” His tone was apologetic, but Mel didn’t care who got what. Her father’s death wasn’t something she wanted to gain from.

“Ah. Thank you anyway, Mr Kendal. Will you stay for dinner? Or a cup of tea, at least?” She moved to rise, but he waved her down.

“I will take you up on the tea, but don’t put off reading that letter. I’ll catch up with your mother. I haven’t seen her in years.” He stood, and pushed the chair neatly back into place before packing away his papers. “Ah, if you would just sign this,” he intoned, sliding one paper forwards. Mel read it quickly—it was just confirming the letter had been delivered. She signed and handed it back to the older man. He nodded and slid it into his briefcase before showing himself out of the study.

Melissa examined the envelope in her hands. Her father had written this… for her.

It didn’t have any writing on the envelope. She turned it over, an eyebrow rising at the light brown ring on a corner. Had that been her father, or Mr Kendal? Her father, she decided with a smile. He would put his teacup on anything that stayed still long enough.

She picked up the envelope opener from the desk and slid it in, cutting through the top crease easily then putting the opener down in its place.

She tipped the heavy, loose object out onto the desk, then picked it up. A key? It looked old, rust gathering between the teeth. It was unremarkable – she had seen hundreds of keys like it. It could open anything. Her attention turned to the letter.

Her father’s handwriting was careful and slow – she knew he had difficulty with writing longhand and usually preferred dictating. The ink was a watery grey, in some places bleeding into the paper where the pen lingered too long. It read:

My Melissa,

I hope this finds you well. I have no idea what I should say, but I know you’ll bear with me.

You were never very interested in the family business, seldom questioning how we paid for our houses or your private school. I discouraged any discussion, not deeming it suitable for your young mind.

I pray I won’t have to tell you, and I hope this letter is never delivered. But I am not strong enough to do what I will need you to do. I cannot give back what was taken. I tried, but I only ended up hurting Liam. I’ve not tried again, though I dream of it.

I re-read what I have written, and it barely makes sense, though I know what I’m trying to say. Melissa, it doesn’t matter. What I say now, you must do. It has to be made right.

The key you will find enclosed is for a chest in the cellar.

Do not open it.

Continued on Page 49

Frank Hunter, continued from Page 45

“Hays Code?”

“Oh, that’s something you had to worry about if you were in a movie prior to around 1963. But I’m a twenty-first-century kinda guy.”

She shook her head in bewilderment. “You’ve been talking so strange since the amnesia. But I like it—it’s the most you’ve talked to me since back when we were first courting.”

“Well, I just needed to get some brains!”

“You’re a goofball,” she chuckled.

“And this goofball is ready for a happy ending. The world is saved; the menace is ended. Cindy, it’s time to start contributing to the Baby Boomer generation.”

She blushed and batted her eyelashes coyly. “Baby—you mean—?”

“Yes, I mean it’s time for me to see if your boobs are really shaped like that.”

She looked at him quizzically. “You’ve seen my breasts before.”

“I have? Oh, can you believe that’s one of the—two of—the things I’ve forgotten.”

She cocked an eyebrow, her lips curling into a wry smile. “Then we’d better jog your memory.”

And with remarkable speed she lifted her sweater, unstrapped her bra, and—Frank suddenly felt like he was in a ‘50s B movie not so much. This is getting rated X, he thought, but perhaps that was too contemporary. The moment possessed a sort of raunchy innocence—like an old stag movie: They were, after all, a married couple, about to do what comes naturally—separate beds or not.

How are we getting away with this? Frank wondered. This is turning into the sort of scene that would get a theater raided by the FBI.

Then something caught Frank’s eye—a shadowy, scrolling reflection on the wall. He glanced over his shoulder just long enough to see that the credits were rolling at his back.

We’re on the other side of the credits. Movie’s over, but I’m still here. Looks like now I get to live the part the movies left out. I’m all right with that.

And we’ll have to leave him there, because this is

The End

Masked by Deena Fisher

Frank Hunter, continued from page 44

“Hello, Mr. President…Yes, I am a big-game hunter—how’d you know?…Your men did a background check on me? They’ll be happy to note I have no ties to the Communist Party—at least I don’t think so. What? No, no, it’s a joke…Yes, I’m sorry, it was in bad taste…Well, yes, you could say that—I just figured out the most effective way to hunt these buggers…How does it work? This is only a theory, but you ask ‘em if they exist and, well, they’re highly developed brains, so they have to think about it. That’s how they answer the question—by thinking. It’s the old maxim, ‘I think; therefore, I am.’ They prove their existence by thinking, long enough for us to whack ‘em out of existence…Yes, thank you Sir. I am honored.”

During the conversation, Cindy stared at him with wide-eyed admiration. He handed the phone back to an officer and turned to her with a grin.

“Thank God I was the lead,” he said. “As long as George Romero didn’t direct this, I think I’m safe.”

All-points bulletins flashed around the globe: Ask the brains if they exist. Question their existence out loud. “Do you exist?” was flashed from loudspeakers and radios and TV sets across the nation. The bemused brains were picked off one by one, until only a couple were left—trapped alive for posterity, perhaps to end their days pondering the meaning of existence in an exhibit.

After the initial shock and horror had subsided, American consumerism flooded pop culture with product tie-ins that paid homage to the invasion.

A new kid’s cereal, “Brain Puffs,” boasted “11 essential vitamins and minerals for growing young brains.”

The pop song “I Love You for Your Crawling Brain” hit the Billboard Top 100.

The game show “Do I Exist?” enjoyed a season in prime time, but was cancelled when general audiences found the questions too esoteric.

On the academic front, doctors of philosophy published treatises on the implications of the brains and their self-defeating self-awareness.

But in the immediate aftermath a hero came home and pushed two single beds together.

While Cindy was in the kitchen fixing up a hero sandwich, Frank slipped down into the trophy room. She found him down there staring at the glass eyeballs of a brown bear. He still felt a little queasy at the thought of killing furry critters. When he was shooting those man-eating brains full of holes, he didn’t know he had it in him. But it wasn’t him. It was Frank Hunter. Did Eddie Reed still exist? Had Frank Hunter always been inside him?

She set down the tray with its sandwich and glass of lemonade.

Frank asked, “You know what the last thought was that went through that bear’s head before he was shot?”

“Can bears think?” she asked.

“Sure. This one thought, ‘I sure picked a bad spot to shit in the woods.’”

“Frank—the language!” she scolded, slapping him playfully on the shoulder.

That was strange, Frank thought to himself. There’d been an audible beep when he said Shit that drowned the word out.

“You’re not going to wash my mouth out with soap, are you Mrs. Reed?” he teased, snatching at her sides to see if she was ticklish.

“Who’s Mrs. Reed?” she asked. She was not laughing.

Oops, he thought. Grabbing her around the waist, he confidently said, “Oh, you know, that TV show where the kid always gets his mouth washed out with soap.” He rubbed his nose against hers affectionately.

“I’ve never had a TV, Frank,” she said. She pulled away from him, gazed into his eyes and asked, “Frank, has any of your memory come back?”

He tried to give her a reassuring look. “Darling, more and more of it’s coming back all the time.” Then he looked at the bear again. “It’s gonna take some adjustment though…I used to be a member of PETA.”

“Isn’t that a kind of bread?”

He laughed. “Yes, and speaking of bread…” He picked up his sandwich and took a bite. “Mmm, thish ish good. Didn’t know what I was missing with all that fake tofu shi—um, sorry, stuff.”

“Frank, don’t talk with your mouth full. I’m going to get some cleaning done. Holler if you need me.”

He followed her up the stairs, admiring the sway of her hips in her tight knee-length skirt. She walked into the bedroom and let out a gasp.

“What is it?” he asked, following behind her. “Did we miss a brain?”

“Frank, why’d you move the beds around?”

From behind her he wrapped his arms around her waist. “Easier access.”

She rotated in his arms to face him.

He kissed her and added, “And tomorrow I’m ordering a new bed with a California king-sized mattress—Hays Code be damned!”

Continued on Page 46

Frank Hunter, continued from Page 43

“Over there!” he yelled. He and Cindy reached the truck just as the brain reached them. Frank grabbed a wooden handle and yanked it out. A floppy leaf-rake. “Damn!” Fanning the brain away with the ineffective weapon in one hand, he reached back for another handle. This time he fared better. He dropped the rake and took the shovel in both hands, swinging it like Barry Bonds on a steroid rush. The brain exploded like an overturned bowl of wet dog food.

“Cindy, grab a shovel and let’s clean up some brains!”

As Cindy rummaged through the tools, he backed up to the cab of the truck and glanced in. There was no key in the ignition. Cindy pulled out a hoe. A swarm of brains had now gathered around them—a dozen at least. Cindy backed up next to him. They were surrounded.

“There are too damn many of them,” he muttered as the brains flocked around them like geese honing in on a kid with a loaf of bread.

He muttered his frustration at the oncoming crawling brains. “How can you exist?”

The brains kept clicking inexorably closer, hissing like cockroaches.

Despairing, he cried aloud. “Do you really exist?!”

Suddenly they all stopped in their tracks. Each brain reacted in the same manner: its spine-tail went rigid behind it, balancing it on its spindly legs, and its eyestalks waved hypnotically.

“You paralyzed them!” Cindy gasped. “What did you do?”

“I think—I think they’re thinking!” Brandishing the shovel, he stepped toward the nearest one and smashed it into braincake. “Took too long to answer the question you bastard!”

He began smashing the brains like a man possessed. Cindy joined in, and soon they had made cheese of the brains that had been immobilized in their immediate vicinity.

Then Frank ran over to where a brain was buzzing around a corpse like a carrion buzzard.

“Hey, do you exist?” he yelled at it. It landed on the corpse’s chest and settled into what Frank assumed was contemplative repose, its eyestalks waving rhythmically. Frank gave it a good ten seconds to think before delivering the crushing blow.

“This way!” he yelled to Cindy and they jogged to a lone police squad car.

“Officer!” he yelled. “Get somebody important on the horn—I’ve figured out how to end this deadly menace!” Wow, he thought, he was even starting to speak like a B-movie actor.

But as he neared the officer, he noticed the cop was wearing a spine-tail necklace. The cop stumbled around, revealing a brain lodged onto the back of his head.

“Hey Brainiac!” Frank yelled. “Do you exist?”

The thing uncoiled its tail and dropped to the ground. Frank immediately performed brain surgery with a shovel.
The cop had dropped to his knees and was holding his neck, which was covered with angry red welts. The CB radio dangled on the grass next to the idling squad car.

“Car 54,” a voice crackled from the dash. “Car 54, where are you?”

You gotta be kidding, Frank thought. What are the odds?

He snatched up the CB and pushed the button. “Hello, dispatcher, ‘officer down’ here. We’re at a park. Listen, I need to talk to the chief—I know how to defeat these things.”

“I’m sorry,” a woman’s voice crackled back through the static. “The chief is unavailable. We have officers down all over the city—we can’t send in medics until the area is secure—it’s anarchy out there!”

“Tell me what I don’t know; I’m out here! But I think I’ve found a way to stop it!”

Suddenly the CB was wrenched from his hand. It was the cop, wheezing hard but back on his feet.

“Dispatch, this is Officer O’Reilly. Patch me to the chief; I’ve got something…I don’t care—do it or it’ll be your job, got it?”

A pause of half-a-minute, then…

“Chief? Officer Ted O’Reilly here. I’ve got a guy here who has a way to stop these things…Yeah. He saved my life.”

He handed the CB back to Frank. “Here. Tell him.”

“Tell your men to ask, ‘Do you exist?’…No, not you, the brains! Repeat the question to the brains; ask them if they exist—it freezes them up long enough to take them out… ‘Take them out where?’ No, I mean kill them!”

Orders were relayed to all officers still in contact with the station. Frank helped O’Reilly into the passenger seat of the squad car, Cindy climbed into the back seat, and Frank drove to the station with O’Reilly navigating.

There they heard reports coming back in from the field that Frank’s strategy was working. Frank soon found himself on the phone with the President—it usually went straight to the top in these flicks.

Continued on Page 45

Frank Hunter, continued from Page 42

“Grab a cleaver and make like it’s a head of lettuce.”

He ran out into the street. Too late for the man, who lay facedown in the road with the brain perched on the back of his head. Frank aimed the gun at the brain and fired. I