Hold Your Fire

by Lisa Mangum

  Good.

  Oseye flung her arms into the air and roared at the Grootslang as she charged after it. Startled, the monster’s back arched up like a cat. It swatted at Oseye, but the huntress slid underneath the creature, grabbed her second spear, and scurried up the tree. She climbed with the grace of a dancer, despite her wounded arm and leg.

  The Grootslang leapt, swiping at her, but it couldn’t reach her. The wound she’d inflicted on its shoulder had split wider.

  This was far from Oseye’s original plan, but at least she was still alive. For now. Though the monster was hurt, a wounded four-legged creature could still outrun a wounded two-legged person like her. Her only hope now was to outclimb it.

  Oseye could see the entire extent of the canopy upon reaching the top of the tree. She tried to catch her breath, but the trunk suddenly wobbled as the Grootslang dug its claws into the wood. She clamped onto the tree with both hands, her spear falling to the jungle floor.

  As it neared, the creature seemed to grin at the trapped Oseye, as if knowing it had won the game.

  Oseye closed her eyes and took steady breaths, refusing to panic. “Dearest Agé,” she said aloud. “What would he do?”

  A sudden breeze whooshed by the huntress, leaving what sounded like a gentle tune in its wake. Then it brushed by her again, as if an unknown presence was behind it.

  “Strike,” she heard the wind whisper.

  Oseye tightened her grip on the tree. “What?”

  “Little Oseye, strike now!”

  She looked around at the emptiness surrounding her. “Agé? Is that you?”

  When the tree shook again, the huntress glared at the monster, angry that it had the audacity to toy with her existence. She wouldn’t give in. She couldn’t. Maybe it just wasn’t in her nature to do so. How interesting.

  Oseye balanced her weight against the tree trunk, readying herself.

  “I’ll always believe in you,” the voice in the wind declared.

  “And I will not become the hunted,” she shouted to the Grootslang. “Conquer or die!”

  Oseye, taking faith in the whispers of the wind, leapt from the top of tree and toward the monster, arms extended, knocking it off its perch. Branches exploded as the huntress and the monster plummeted through what felt like a bottomless pit until the creature crashed into the ground with Oseye atop of it. She tumbled and rolled across the ground until her body came to a halt.

  Lying on her side, her heart pounded against her chest. Was she alive, or had her spirit crossed over too quickly to notice? The sudden ache in her ribs suggested it was the former. Oseye tried to stand but fell over as soon as she put weight on her right leg. A simple ankle sprain, and perhaps a few broken ribs. Fair enough, all things considered. She stood again and shuffled to the motionless creature, grabbing her dropped spear along the way.

  “Don’t worry,” Agé said, appearing next to the Grootslang. “It’s dead.”

  Oseye dropped her spear and fell to her knees, exhausted. “That could’ve gone better.”

  “And it could’ve gone worse.” Agé sat in front of Oseye, crossing his legs. “I knew you could do it.”

  “But I had to see it for myself,” the huntress concluded. “This lesson would’ve been much more pleasant had you just said it.”

  “I believe I did, though the most valuable lessons are often born from experience not words, my Little Oseye. I’m glad this was to be the final lesson I could teach you. I would call this a fitting end between the two of us.”

  Oseye’s jaw dropped. “A fitting end?”

  Agé’s smile seemed forced as he blinked tears away, and the huntress grew light-headed, knowing what he meant.

  “You mean you will leave me this time … forever. But I thought your absence was just for a brief period!”

  Agé crossed his arms, somehow appearing more human than Fon; he was shaken, disheartened, and filled with sorrow.

  “It’s for the best,” he said, his voice cracking. “You’ve taken the first steps in becoming a Mino who can defend her people. Since I have nothing more to teach you, it is only fair that I put my eye on one who truly needs me.”

  “You mean another child,” the huntress said.

  Oseye wanted to tell Agé how she couldn’t journey through the passage called life without him, how she was too weak, too afraid. Then she glanced at the Grootslang—the creature she had managed to defeat on her own—and sighed.

  “I hate it when you’re right,” she joked instead.

  Agé chuckled and grabbed her by the hands, kissing them both. “Though you may no longer see me in the flesh, my spirit will always be with you in every path you take.”

  “And I can hear your voice in the winds if my heart is willing, right?” Oseye wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. “Thank you, my dearest Fon Agé, and know that you will forever be my most beloved friend to the end of my days.”

  Agé laughed. “To the end of your days. Now, that’s the spirit.”

  The two embraced for another few moments, as if Agé was just as scared to let go of Oseye as she was to let go of him. She knew that walking in the presence of gods was one thing, but to be in the company of a true friend was a gift few had the privilege of experiencing. Yet somehow, Oseye of the Dahomey Kingdom had been blessed to have had both, if only for a brief chapter of her life.

  The huntress tensed when a lovely breeze from the west passed by. She shut her eyes, feeling the fabric of Agé’s robe fade away beneath her fingers.

  “Goodbye, my Little Oseye. And remember, I’ll always believe in you.”

  The Mino warrior picked up her spear and hobbled deeper into the jungle. It was a glorious summer afternoon in the country of Dahomey. Day one of the trial was complete with eight more to go. She figured she’d manage. The wind, after all, had told her so.

  About the Author

  When drawing fanfic graphic novels was no longer fulfilling enough as a teen, Jordan ventured to greater adventures in storytelling. Now, when he isn’t busy saving the world through the trusty arsenal called “video games,” the author fancies creating new worlds and adventures for others to enjoy.

  He’s expanded these adventures through his podcast Stories for Nerds, where he collaborates in writing sci-fi and fantasy adventures with authors Abby Goldsmith and Scott Parkin.

  To stay up to date with Jordan’s latest projects,

  visit StoriesForNerds.com or RaphyelMJordan.com.

  Take Me for a Ride

  Mike Jack Stoumbos

  It was the brightest light I’d ever seen, and it stung tears in the corners of my eyes.

  Then again, it might have been the sweet sounds of Leslie on the brass. Trust me, the way he played could have convinced anyone that French horn is indeed the language of love.

  Yes, sir, the High-Dive stage might not have been the most glamorous venue, but when those lights warmed your face and that music reached your ears, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. And tonight, the walk onto this stage would be a massive step in my career.

  To paraphrase good old Neil, it was a small step for this man but one giant leap for his music.

  I was just finishing the number that had first put me on stage: “Not a One-Trick Pony, I’m a One-Man Band.” Of course, there were cheers and hollers from the crowd. I grinned at them. Wasn’t hard to put on the grin. Didn’t have to fake anything for this group. They gave the kind of energy that would have had me pure pickled if I’d had more than a thimbleful to drink that evening.

  Letting my guitar hang comfortably from my shoulder, I took the microphone in both hands and said, “This one goes way out there. To the stars.”

  Of course, the cheers grew louder. They knew what was coming next.

  Now, “One-Man Band” might have gotten me front and center on the High-Dive stage, but it was “Take Me for a Ride” that would take me right to the top.

  I knew it. The rest of the band knew it. My soon-to-be-agent knew it, and I was getti
ng pretty practiced at saying the A-word.

  It’s easy to lose yourself in a fantasy while on stage, but I had a job to do. So I closed my eyes, breathed in, and sang out the opening, as if I was trying to reach the flying saucers themselves …

  I wanna kick that dust right off my heels

  And go to a place where I can feel

  Lighter! Lighter than air.

  My fingers started working the strings without my having to tell them to, accompanying me as I went on,

  I wanna clear my head and set my mind

  To leaving this whole world behind

  Away! Oh, way out there.

  I could hear the hi-hat behind me, that shimmering tinsel sound marking time, then speeding up. Having switched his timbre to tenor, Leslie joined me on the sax, just as I slid into the chorus.

  Yes, I plan on flying far

  And my aim is to the stars

  I don’t know how I’d get there if I tried

  They say you can’t get there by car

  So pick me up, and take me for a ride!

  I liked that folks sang along. I do love that spotlight, but I have never minded sharing it, even in the days when I truly was a one-man band or playing backup. But tonight, I got to front with a loyal brass-and-winds boy, a lovely lady on the keyboard, and an ever-ready, super-steady drummer. Not to mention a chorus of people on their feet, crowding the dance floor in front of the stage. I could barely make out their faces through glare and the dust, but every expression I caught was smiling, and every voice I could hear was singing, especially on the refrains.

  Just one day on the radio and a few more online, and I had more than a handful of strangers who knew my lyrics, whether or not they’d ever seen my show in person. My informal manager had said it would help sell me to the real-deal agent. Tonight, I was determined to give them something new, something they couldn’t get from a radio performance.

  So as soon as I finished the second chorus, I slipped away from the microphone and jetted backstage at a lightning pace. I knew I had a full sixteen measures of Leslie going to town while dear Miss Garcia-Grey vamped the chords that kept him in line. It was more than enough time for me to effect my quick-change.

  Take off the guitar strap, pop on the helmet and cape. Then wait for the gentleman with the cymbals to start the crescendo—by now, we called it “the takeoff.”

  At the cue of the big crash, I ran out on stage again, fists forward like Superman, an open-faced space helmet on my shoulders, and an attached American flag flapping behind me.

  The crowd squealed and laughed and hooted with delight.

  Taking the mic again, I said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! Give it up for my man, Leslie, on the saxophone.” I gestured to Leslie, who gave a flourish, his Edgar-Winter-white mane tossing as he worked the tenor. “And of course, Miss Garcia-Grey on the keys.” G.G. did a sweeping glissando and led me right into, “Who could forget big Tony on the drums?”

  In about two seconds, Tony slammed out something I can’t describe and dropped right back into the hi-hat beat.

  “A very special thanks to our lightboard designer and all-around tech gal, the unmatchable Jerrilee.” Though I couldn’t see her, I suspected Jerrilee gave the loudest whoop of appreciation at her own mention.

  “Had a great time playing for you all this evening. Remember to tip your bartenders and head on home safely. With my head above the clouds, I am Spaceman Mort. Now, one more time, ladies and gentlemen. Sing along if you know the words.”

  We went through the refrain again, a little slower this time, and as far as I was concerned, the whole club joined in. A bass drum hit, and I dug into the coda, that signature end and my favorite part of the song:

  I wanna be the guy that sings

  For intergalactic queens and kings

  So pick me up …

  Leslie blared on the sax.

  Yeah, pick me up!

  G.G. swept the keyboard.

  Well, pick me up, and take me for a ride!

  I was out among the crowd within minutes of the finish. Folks of all ages were paying me compliments, and some of the younger snapped selfies, which were easy to tag and link now that my songs were online. I grinned and laughed through the whole procession as I made my way toward one of the VIP booths and the collective brains that had already launched my song through the stratosphere.

  “Hey, Mort! Mort!” called Jerrilee, as if I hadn’t already seen her and might be in danger of going deaf. Jerrilee was the kind of natural redhead who dyed her hair redder so no one would forget it, and who wore her denim like she was showing on a Milan catwalk. She waved me over with both arms and pulled up a chair for me on the edge of the booth.

  Her wild enthusiasm couldn’t have been in greater contrast to Dale Bishop, who sat with both forearms on the table, his sharp nose practically carving lines in his scotch tumbler. He wore glasses and a sport coat, even on a warm night, and had styled his dark hair like something you only see in magazines and movies. But Dale also wore a pleasant smile, his eyes glinting behind his glasses.

  “Mortimer,” he said with a nasally New York accent. He half stood and shook my hand. Felt like a practice handshake instead of the real thing. “It was a great set. I’m pleased to have heard it.”

  “Thank you, that means a lot.” And I meant it too.

  Jerrilee sat back down and, leaning perhaps a little too close to Dale, said, “He gets that kind of reaction every night he performs here.” I almost expected her to punch him in the arm, like she would have done for me. But, exuberant as she was, my good friend and personal promoter was determined not to get in the way of this deal.

  Dale played it cool. “You don’t have to keep selling me. Mortimer, I think you’ve got a great style and sound. Feels a little like Frank Sinatra meets John Wayne.”

  “Well, Dale, I believe Frank Sinatra did meet John Wayne.”

  They both laughed at that, then Dale sidled into business. “I’ve checked off everything on my list. Do you have any questions for me?”

  I shook my head. “No, sir.”

  “Then let’s hit the paperwork.” Dale opened his briefcase and took out the relevant folders and pens.

  Jerrilee squeezed my shoulder before donning her own reading glasses to give the contract a final pass.

  They talked through the laundry list one last time as a kind of formality. Now, I’m not going to claim I’m particularly schooled nor that I’m particularly dumb. I did my due diligence by talking it over with Jerrilee, my interim manager and the one solely responsible for YouTubing the demos that first caught Dale Bishop’s ear. For the contract, she had enlisted one of the bartenders, who’d just wrapped up an online accounting degree. After a fine-tooth-combing hit no snags, we all decided the contract was on the up-and-up. Plus, according to the professional, it was in his best interest to keep me happy and making good music.

  The fellow was about as sharp of mind as he was of nose. He’d already proved his salt, beyond what Google could tell Jerrilee about him, by getting me on the radio before I was even signed. It was a no-money deal, so no need to handle a percentage, but he wanted to show me he was bona fide.

  I think he also wanted to see how I’d play on the morning drive time. I played so well, the morning folks requested me clear into the evening.

  According to Jerrilee, my social media standing soared more in that one day than it had in weeks under her management, so she completely stood behind the decision to work with Dale.

  Tonight, he had a couple more orders of business to address, which we took care of right there while the staff closed down the bar. I let the agent do the talking and tried not to show my nervousness.

  “This one is a ‘Protection Clause,’” he said, handing me another sheet of paper. “Essentially, you acknowledge that you are not intentionally misleading or offending anyone with your lyrics. There’s a note to say that views you express online are your own and do not reflect the firm that represents you.”
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  Jerrilee nodded. “Like for social media.”

  “So it’s a CYA clause,” I observed, hopefully demonstrating that I wasn’t totally out of my depth.

  “It’s to cover all of our assets, Mortimer,” he amended, with a slight chuckle on his own joke.

  Jerrilee chimed in, “Well, you don’t have to worry about anything from Mort here. He doesn’t have a controversial bone in that big, lovable body. His only vice is his science fiction obsession.”

  “Well, hang on now, I wouldn’t call it a vice.” I wondered if I should have objected to the words fiction or obsession instead.

  But Dale Bishop took it well and agreed. “Neither would I. Now,” he went on, smoothly transitioning, “as of today, we’re doing a bit of a write-in for a travel clause, to be renegotiated at a later date. This says it’s to be handled on a case-by-case basis, but the general agreement is that, barring emergency or late notice, you will do your best to meet booked appearances, and that expenses, including time away from other scheduled work, would be covered. Pretty standard.”

  I looked to Jerrilee, who gave me a not-at-all-covert thumbs-up.

  “As long as you’re not gonna ‘take me for a ride,’ Dale.” We shared another laugh.

  With everything in order, I licked my finger, turned the page, and clicked that pen to life. I initialed and dated each of the highlighted sections with a fair degree of giddiness. Finally, on the pivotal dotted line, I put down my John Hancock, which had the good fortune of including “John” right in the middle of it.

  “Mortimer Johnston” stared right back at me in black ink.

  We shook hands, and that, as they say, was that. I was an agented musician.

  G.G. set the tone as soon as I entered the greenroom. Longtime piano player, Miss Garcia-Grey wrapped her arms around me and squeezed harder than I’d imagined she could. “Oh, we’re going to miss you so much, Mort!”

  I tried to laugh it off. “What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”