Fireside Magazine

by Howard, Blackmoore, Grintalis, Kerr, Walker, White

  She didn’t know then what it would do.

  A few days later, her stepfather had collapsed in the back yard. The doctors had called it a rare, aggressive cancer, but Violet had known they were wrong. The malignant cells hadn’t eaten him away from the inside. Her hate had.

  Let me out.

  She dropped the knife back into the drawer and slammed it shut. It bounced back open with a little jingle, offering her a hint of the silverware within.

  “No!”

  She took several long deep breaths. She would not do it. Not now. Not ever. She recited the names. Once. Twice.

  “I am sorry, I am so sorry.”

  Words. Useless words. Her stepfather had said them so many times.

  He wasn’t really sorry. You weren’t either.

  STANDING IN FRONT of the green house, Violet noticed the white letter sticking out of the mailbox. She stepped closer, casting quick glances over both shoulders. The letter was out far enough for her to make out a name: Kevin Turner.

  With her mouth set into a thin line, she turned and walked back to her own house, the name a heavy weight inside. She couldn’t hate him. She didn’t even know him.

  You could if you wanted to. He’s just like your stepfather.

  She didn’t know that. The woman could have fallen down. How many times had she done something stupid, something that —

  Excuses, excuses. You know you want to. That’s why you looked at the letter.

  No, it wasn’t that way at all. She wouldn’t do anything. She’d promised to leave it all behind. For Anthony’s sake. For her own sake.

  SABRINA OGDEN had been her best friend all through grade school. In their first year of middle school, Violet had spoken of what her stepfather had done. Sabrina had told another friend who told another and on and on. The whispers had followed Violet through the hallways. The shame had burned like a brand.

  When the dark voice had whispered, Violet had tried to hold it in, but she hadn’t been strong enough.

  The doctors hadn’t been able to cure Sabrina either.

  Tears burned in Violet’s eyes.

  If she’d been your friend, she wouldn’t have told anyone. If she hadn’t —

  “Violet?”

  She jumped and the paring knife in her hands clattered into the kitchen sink. She stared at the blade for several long moments, her mouth dry. She didn’t remember opening the silverware drawer. Did she?

  You know you want to. I’ve been waiting for so long.

  She slipped on a smile and turned around.

  “You looked like you were a million miles away,” Anthony said.

  “Sorry, I was woolgathering.”

  She went to him and rested her head on his chest.

  IN THE DARK, she stared up at the ceiling. Recited the names.

  Joey, who’d tried to take advantage of her at a party in high school. Sarah, that same year, who’d blackened her eye and fractured her wrist for telling the principal about the smoking in the bathroom. Christopher. Laura. Matt. Jake, who’d broken her heart. Peter, who’d shattered it. Ryan, who’d promised to love her forever. He hadn’t deserved to die such a terrible death.

  And so many more. She wanted to forget them all, but she held tight, fearing she would.

  My fault, my fault. All of them, she thought.

  Every time she’d carved a name, the darkness reappeared, a slithering shadow she could only see as a human-shaped haze in the air. Did they see it come for them? Did they taste its fate in their breath?

  And did they know she’d sent it?

  JUST ONE MORE time. Please.

  “Stop it, stop it, stop it.”

  She didn’t want to hurt anyone. She was a good person now. She was.

  VIOLET SAW THE LITTLE GIRL again, playing in the front yard of the green house. She was digging in the dirt with a stick, singing softly to herself. When she heard Violet’s footsteps, she looked up and Violet saw bruises on her forearm, four finger-shaped marks. Violet’s hands curled into fists. Her heart beat heavy in her chest.

  We can help her.

  No, it was not her problem. But her steps were heavy on her walk back home.

  AN IMAGE OF THE GIRL’S bruises floated in Violet’s mind, and her fingers tightened on her open book.

  One more time. I promise I’ll go away.

  Why wouldn’t it just leave her alone?

  You know you want to help her.

  But not in that way. She would call Child Protective Services in the morning. They could help the little girl.

  What if they don’t?

  The words on the page swam into a blur. She recited the names. Ran the tip of her finger over the edge of a scar. Recited the names again.

  Her cup of guilt was deep, the brew within thick and bitter. No matter how many swallows, she could never drink it all down. Not in one lifetime or ten.

  “Honey, are you okay?”

  Violet looked up from her book. “Yes, why?”

  “You had the strangest expression on your face.”

  “I was just focused on the story, I guess.”

  He touched the back of her hand.

  “If something is bothering you, you can tell me. You know that, right?”

  “Of course I do.”

  She put her hand atop his. The words gathered in her throat, but she swallowed them down. Anthony was the first, the only, good thing in her life. If he knew the truth, the things she’d done, he’d run as far away as possible.

  VIOLET PUT THE PHONE down, her mouth set in a thin line.

  They won’t help her and you know it.

  But they would. The woman on the phone said they would send someone out. A snippet of memory crept in. A woman from CPS came to her house once. In spite of the bruises on Violet, she hadn’t done anything except write a report, but things were different now. They took bruises more seriously. The little girl would be okay.

  But you can make sure of it.

  Violet sagged against the counter and groaned into her hands.

  “Leave me alone, please, just leave me alone.”

  Never.

  But she already knew that. It would never go away. Never give her peace. She was broken. Wrong. She yanked the silverware drawer open and grabbed a knife.

  “Is this what you want?”

  Yes. You know you want it, too.

  No. She wanted to be well. To be happy.

  She made a tiny cut.

  Yesss …

  “No! I will not do this. I will not.”

  She threw the knife down, sank down with her back against a cabinet, and put her head in her hands. Recited the names. A harsh sob bubbled up from deep inside her chest. The names. The deaths. All her fault. She was a monster. With a grimace, she scrambled for the knife.

  You want this. You know you do.

  She slashed at her skin, her grimace turning into a smile at the sharp, beautiful sting of the knife. Even that was wrong. It never hurt enough. She cut again and again, the letters distorted. Wet, red mouths dripping crimson pearls. When she finished, she threw the knife down.

  “Are you happy now?”

  And there, on the delicate skin of her wrist: Violet.

  One last name, one last death, to pay for them all.

  What did you do? You stupid, stupid woman.

  Tears blurred her vision as the blood dripped to the floor.

  “Please forgive me, Anthony,” she whispered, her voice small and insignificant in the quiet. “It’s so much better this way. You deserve someone so much better.”

  No, no, no! You can’t do this. You cannot!

  She had to. It was the only way. Her limbs filled with lassitude, her mouth dropped open, and her breath came long and slow.

  A shadow emerged from the wound like a ribbon, taking shape as it grew. It slipped free slowly, ponderously, its weight feather-light, its stench thick and heavy. It caressed her cheek in a hideous lover’s pantomime. She took a deep breath, steeled herself against the pain to
come, yet the shadow slithered across the tile, moving away from her without a sound.

  “No, no, no.”

  She reached out, but her fingers passed through the darkness. She grabbed again and again, caught nothing but a kiss of air against her skin. Then the shadow slipped beneath the door, and she sobbed into her hands. She didn’t understand. She’d carved her name. Why didn’t it take her? She rocked back and forth, her arms wrapped around her knees. No voice whispered in her mind. Only a strange, calm silence. Could it have been that easy all along? But all those deaths …

  No. It had to come back for her. It had to make her pay.

  AMBULANCE LIGHTS cut the night with slashes of red and blue, and Anthony’s hand gripped Violet’s tight, his skin warm against hers. The neighbors watched from their porches, their eyes filled with curious alarm, as the paramedics wheeled a stretcher out of the green house.

  “I wonder what happened,” Anthony whispered.

  Violet rubbed her finger along the cut on her wrist, still in the pink of healing. A few moments later, the dark-haired woman stepped out of the house, her face expressionless, the little girl by her side. And on the girl’s ankle, not quite covered by a white ruffled sock, Violet saw the name carved into her flesh: Daddy.

  No, oh, no. A chill raced down Violet’s spine. Her mouth went dry.

  Anthony tugged her hand.

  “Come on, let’s go back home.”

  Violet heard his voice as if from far away. She couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes away from the little girl.

  “Violet, honey, what’s wrong?”

  The little girl met Violet’s gaze, her lips curved into a dark, familiar smile. A smile laced with hate.■

  About the author

  Damien Walters Grintalis lives in Maryland with her husband, two former shelter cats, and two rescued pit bulls. She is an Associate Editor of Electric Velocipede, a staff writer with BooklifeNow, and her debut novel, Ink, will be released in December 2012 by Samhain Horror. Find her online at damienwaltersgrintalis.com and on Twitter @dwgrintalis.

  “Scarred” © 2012, Damien Walters Grintalis

  Backers illustrated: Foreground, from left: Dottie and Zoey Hunter (daughters of Jason Hunter), Anna Dancer (daughter of Brad Dancer). Standing: Amy Sundberg.

  Rhapsody in Blue Shift

  STEPHEN BLACKMOORE

  California

  When I met George Gershwin I was cleaning up D Deck. The gravitational retractors had gone offline, sending clothing, magazines, a thousand odds and ends into the air. When they finally came back down it was my job to clean up the mess.

  D was the refugee barracks where the captain of the Don Pasquale kept the “unscheduled” passengers. Normally we’d pick up passengers from planets along one of the main tourist routes, heading out of Phalanx or l’Avignon, under contract from one of the cruise lines.

  Until the war changed everything. Now we carried desperate mothers, frightened children. We got them to neutral ports, but there were just so many of them.

  We had to convert D just to lodge them. Half of C became a hospital ward. There was talk of tripling up bunks so we could expand further. We were drowning in a sea of refugees, the tide rising even as we bailed.

  We cleared the deck when the gravity shut down to keep folk from being hurt. I pulled three mewling toddlers off the ceiling. That and my cleanup duty as a Janitor 3rd Grade would net me good overtime.

  That’s why I was in the maintenance halls of D Deck, all alone, when George Gershwin walked in.

  I didn’t know it was him, of course. I just saw a middle-aged man, with short dark hair thinning atop a long, hangdog face. He was wearing a suit and tie, something I hadn’t seen since I was a kid. My great grandfather had been a historian, and we’d watch old vids from a couple centuries past together. People dressed like that in those days.

  But no one would ever do it aboard a starship. Too many things that can snag a finger or a foot, let alone something as ridiculous as a tie.

  I stopped my vacuuming and looked up at him. His face was long and weathered. Though he smiled, there was sadness in eyes set small beneath thick bushy brows. Still, he seemed happy to see me. Usually the refugees would scowl when I came down to fix a clogged toilet, a busted shower. I was one of the hated elite. I was Crew.

  “Mornin’, Sid,” he said, stepping through the iris valve door behind me. His voice was thick with a hint of Old Brooklyn in it.

  “Morning. This area’s off limits until cleanup’s done, sir,” I said, ignoring that he seemed to know my first name. “You’ll have to go up to C. Only another hour or so.”

  “Why would I want to do that? I came all this way just to talk to you. I can’t very well do that sittin’ up on some hospital couch with a popsicle stick in my mouth, now can I?”

  “Me, sir?” I’d gotten into the habit of calling everyone who wasn’t part of the crew “sir.” Be polite to everyone, my momma taught me, and you can’t go wrong.

  “Got wax in yer ears?” he asked, still smiling. “Sid Cooper, right? Good Ol’ Sid. Janitor 3rd Grade. Gonna be a hero some day, that Sid Cooper. That’s the talk I hear.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve got the wrong guy. I clean toilets and vacuum trash.”

  He gave me his hand to shake. My momma always told me to never trust a man with a weak handshake. His handshake was strong. Momma never told me whether to trust that kind of man.

  “Name’s George, Sid. George Gershwin. Tin Pan Alley man from way back.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gershwin. If you don’t mind, though, you really need to be up on C.”

  “Oh, I know. Just wanted to pop in and say hello. Sort of by way of introduction. You listen to music?”

  “Some, sir.” Mr. Gershwin made a face.

  “Some. Huh. Listen, can you do me a favor? Can you hang around B Deck near the communication relays for the environmental modules in say,” he glanced at a small, rectangular watch on his wrist, “half an hour?”

  “I suppose so,” I said. Another ten minutes and I’d be finished.

  “Thanks a million. I’ll go head on up to — ” he gave me a knowing wink as if I was in on a joke, “ — C Deck.” He turned to leave and stopped.

  “Oh, and one other thing, Sid, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Bring an 18mm optical pump with a double tier connection.” I looked at him, confused. “Might be a good idea.” He winked at me again and stepped out of the room.

  “Hey, Sid.” I turned back to see Wally, trundling into the room with that goofy walk of his. “You almost done?”

  “Almost,” I said. “Mr. Gershwin came in, and I was talking to him for a minute.”

  “Gershwin?” Wally asked.

  “I think he was one of the refugees,” I said. “Dark-haired guy. Weird looking clothes? Must’ve walked right past you.” Wally frowned, his whole face drooping. He look back. Nothing but a long stretch of sectioned halls behind him.

  “Didn’t see nobody.”

  My momma told me to never trust a man who uses a double negative. “Then you weren’t paying attention,” I said. “He was right here.”

  His frown deepened, which on Wally was a heck of a sight, believe me.

  I pointed to the headphones hanging around his neck. “Probably listening to your music. Got distracted.”

  “Yeah. Must’ve been it. You done, yet?”

  “Almost.” I turned back to my work and paused. “Wally, you know where I can lay my hands on an 18mm optical pump with a double tier connection?”

  “Dunno. Maintenance on B? What do you need it for?”

  “No idea. Just know I’m supposed to get one.”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER I had the pump. It was a small black box with a connection on each end and a set of interlocking rings surrounding them. It was as plain a piece of machinery as they came.

  They were scattered throughout the Don Pasquale like rats in a ghetto. Every time I o
pened up a panel to clean some gunk lodged in between the vent piping, there they were. They were part of the communication system passing signals back and forth through the ship. Without them the ship couldn’t function.

  I made my way to B Deck, near Environmental. The relays that Mr. Gershwin was talking about were between Engineering and Water Reclamation.

  I wasn’t sure about Mr. Gershwin. He was about the oddest thing I’d seen on board, and with a hundred passengers per trip and three times that in refugees, I’d seen plenty.

  Probably should have reported him to my shift supervisor, but I didn’t know where Leo was, and I didn’t have time.

  If Mr. Gershwin had done something on B that I could have stopped, I’d feel awful. Not to mention, probably dead. The environmental modules control the air mixture, pressure, lighting, the works.

  This section of B was pretty quiet. My shift, Blue, had ended a few hours ago, and Red shift was already on C Deck. I’d only been up because of the gravitational retractors.

  So when the alarms went off and the intercoms started squealing, I was the only one there.

  I could hear panicked calls from Engineering for maintenance assistance, and saw blue smoke coming from the panel in front of me.

  They were already losing pressure in sections of C Deck.

  I pulled off the panel, put out the cable-chewing flames with one of the extinguishers seeded throughout the ship.

  The primary and secondary couplings were toast. It was their optical pumps. I’d seen it before. There was suddenly too much traffic for the relay to handle, and the optical pump had routed over to the secondary.

  But the load was too heavy. So much so that it burned itself out. With the primary pump gone the remaining traffic had flooded the second, which tried to do the same thing as the first. And now it too had failed.

  The tertiary pump was beginning to smolder.

  These were 9mm pumps. The quantum drive computers that shove the Don Pasquale through folded space use 18mm pumps. If there’s so much traffic that it can’t be handled by an 18mm pump then you’ve got bigger problems.