South Carolina Comic-Con was in a few weeks’ time. The new comics he’d bring home would put a green look of envy on the boy’s faces when they met up to trade on the weekends and he’d sure have fun spending the money he’d saved from the paper route.
He baited his hook again and threw the line into the water and shifted his weight against the boulder. Was there more to life than this? Was this as good as life gets?
Brodie enjoyed the silence, until the mosquitoes began to bite and the emptiness crept back in.
***
Each day on the paper run was a little warmer. Each day Sally Benning met him out the front of her house with her ready smile, and Brodie gave her two copies of the Charlotte Observer. Each day Sally Benning hummed that merry tune from the days before Harold, spread the newspapers on the pile of junk beside the recliner, and opened the windows to let the bad juju out.
***
It had taken them an hour and a half to reach Greenville from the suburbs of Charlotte.
“Y’don’t even read books.”
“Books suck, Pa. Comics are cool,” Brodie said.
“Comics, my ass,” his dad growled. “Gonna waste the whole day taxiing you around so you can look at a bunch of picture books. Don’tcha know how to read? Maybe you should try reading one of those damn newspapers, paperboy.”
Brodie’s dad liked to grumble, but this was Brodie’s birthday present so he had little choice but to drive him all the way to Greenville. Today was the big day.
They arrived at the con, and his dad tousled Brodie’s hair and then kicked him out of the truck, promising to be back late afternoon.
Brodie was in awe of the size of the TD Convention Center and the sheer number of people attending. There were dozens of comic stalls; he didn’t even know where to begin. But what really blew him away were the people. There was every kind of person he could imagine—suspender-wearing pimple-faced nerds; beefy alternative types with their buzz cuts and piercings; cos-players with their wigs, and makeup, and spandex.
A big bearded guy wearing Wonder Woman’s red corset and boots stomped past, hand in hand with a pallid female Sith lord bearing a glowing red lightsaber, whose beautiful face had been made hateful with eyeshadow and corpse paint. Brodie would never be caught dead dressing up like that, although he liked to look at everyone else. But he mostly just wanted his comics; Avengers, Judge Dredd, The Walking Dead. He loved zombies. He’d made sure he’d picked the best day to come, the one with the zombie panels.
Brodie browsed his way down some of the aisles, taking in the atmosphere. So many stalls. So many people. So much awesome.
When he reached the end of the aisle, he was drawn into a crowd of people who were filing through a set of heavy doors and into one of the conference rooms. The room was full and he found himself stuck in the back. He wished he had a better view. The crowd buzzed with anticipation. Maybe it was a zombie panel. He might get to see someone from the Walking Dead. He prayed it would be Rick or Daryl. Or maybe even Merle. Merle was a real badass.
It was none of them. A guy with the microphone stepped onto the stage and introduced a smiling Sally Benning. She stepped onto the stage carrying some sheets of paper, took the microphone and smiled for the crowd. Camera flashes blinked and the room was lit with a brief strobing of light.
Brodie hadn’t even known there was a famous writer living just three streets away.
The moment before she spoke seemed like an eternity. An eternity of blinding light. Words, feelings, emotions seemed to blaze forth from her, reaching out to all corners of the room as though they would set the hall on fire.
Brodie squinted and shaded his eyes. Couldn’t anyone else see it? What the hell was happening?
No one moved. No one made a sound.
Sally began to read.
***
The vibration of Sally’s final words seemed to hang in the air for a moment before disappearing. She smiled beautifully. Her reading was perfect. She’d absolutely nailed it. Sally Benning was back in business.
The emotional response her reading had elicited from the crowd was about to boil over. A misty-eyed fan stood and clapped furiously. Another rose. Within moments the entire hall was on its feet, two hundred writers, geeks and bloggers cheering.
“…so moving…”
“...gut-wrenching!”
“Perfect. Just perfect!”
The moderator pushed his glasses back on his head and spoke into his microphone.
“Holy moly!” he said and clapped his hand against the mic, eliciting a heavy thud-thud-thud through the speakers. “I’m not even sure where to begin. This is new material?”
“That’s right, Bob—unpublished and unadulterated. It’s a small excerpt from one the projects I have on the boil now,” Sally said as the applause petered out.
“Amazing. Any hints as to what it’s called or when it’ll be out?”
“I can’t give you any more than that, Bob. My agent would kill me. I’m sure you understand.” Sally laughed a merry tinkle.
“Now, Sally, we don’t often get the chance to chat, so can I ask you a personal question?”
Sally’s frown was a just a momentary wiggle of her eyebrows, before being banished by her smile once more. “It’s okay, Bob. Ask away!”
“Well, we all know that you’ve got a lot on your plate right now especially regarding your separation...So, where have you found the time and emotional strength to write such amazing work? Revolutionary work, even!”
“It was a little tough for a while, Bob. What can I say? I guess I just found my spark again,” Sally said. The crowd applauded, some of them even rising to their feet once more. Sally clutched her hands to her breast and laughed, tears of joy trickling down her face.
The interview wrapped up and the crowds began to disperse. Fans began to line up by the stage for autographs. Sally signed the first few books as the mass of people began filing out of the conference room. She felt no sense of elation, or validation. No sense of connecting with her fans, and nothing like the inexplicable connection she felt when that paperboy, Brodie, passed her the Observer every day.
***
A week inched by and that empty, itching feeling was stronger than ever. Brodie tossed and turned in bed at night, unable to get to sleep. No quantity of warm milk or sheep counted brought the sandman to visit. He hated warm milk, but his ma always swore by it. Once, he even stole one of his dad’s cigarettes and snuck out back to smoke it. Whenever his dad was on edge he took to smoking, so Brodie figured it was worth a shot. He wouldn’t be trying that again. He was flushed and nauseous by the time he finished it and spent the next ten minutes brushing his teeth before crawling back into bed.
He thought about Sally’s reading Comic-Con, and the strange light that seemed to blaze from her. About the way her glow seemed to be fading each morning that he’d seen her since. Why did she always take two copies of the newspaper before swishing back inside that sad-looking old house?
And it was sad-looking. He couldn’t pick out why. His own home was the same. As though the shadows that fell upon the doorstep and the window sills were somehow deeper. Darker. So dark that his mom’s fire engine red lipstick and Sally’s fluffy, pink dressing gown couldn’t brighten either place.
***
When Brodie’s bike skidded to a stop out front of Sally Benning’s house, Sally wasn’t there to greet him. No sad smile. No fluffy, pink dressing gown. Brodie fished two copies of the newspaper from his saddlebag and leaned his bike against a tree by the curb. The front door was open.
“Ma’am,” Brodie called through the open door. He was just about to leave the papers and go when a rattle and bang echoed from inside.
“Mrs. Benning?” he called. Still nothing. He cursed and stepped into the front hallway. It had polished wooden floors and several doors branched off it.
Brodie went through the nearest door and into a living room. It was large and lead into the kitchen. A stale, rancid smell fill
ed the room, like something had died a long time ago. There was a couch, a coffee table, a big TV and a leather recliner. The windows were open wide and the curtains flapped in the morning breeze. By the recliner was a pile of junk covered in broad sheets of newspaper. The mound buzzed with flies.
Sitting on the end of the coffee table closest to the recliner, was a spark. He didn’t know why he chose that word to describe it. He didn’t know what else to call it. It was a tiny bolt of lightning, as big as his palm, that radiated warmth and light throughout the room. It beckoned him to pick it up, told him a hundred stories in a single glance. He took an involuntary step forward, placed the newspapers on the table, and grabbed it. It was warm.
Where did it come from? Why had it chosen him? He must have it.
He clutched it to his chest, and gasped as he took it into himself.
Rattle. Crash. Rattle. Crash.
“No, no no no no. Where is it? It was just here.” It was Sally Benning. Her voice echoing from the other room.
“Mrs. Benning,” Brodie called as he stepped into the door way. “It’s Brodie.” The words died in his mouth when he saw her.
Sally Benning was standing in the middle of the kitchen, naked. Her limp hair fell across her sagging breasts. The last vestiges of her amazing glow were gone. Her pale skin was dull and lifeless. Every cupboard door was open. Cutlery, pots and pans, broken crockery littered the floor. “Gone,” she said, her voice a breathy sigh.
“Uhh…I’m so sorry, I’ll just… leave your papers in here on the table,” Brodie said, moving back into the living room. His instinct was to run, to get the hell out of there.
Sally stepped towards him. “I never thought it’d come back after Harold died, but it did. Don’t know how some people just find it, why some are given it. Or do we just take it from others?” Her face was painted with confusion and longing.
“Ma’am—”
“And now it’s gone. It shouldn’t just come and go, come and go, come and go…” Her head lolled about on the end of her neck. “You have it! I know you do!” She moaned and stepped towards him, her wrinkled hands grasping.
“Really, I don’t have anything. Just your papers,” Brodie said and backed straight into the pile of junk by the recliner. The junk spilled away behind him and his shoe squelched on something. He looked under his shoe and discovered a man’s hand, a bunch of stick-like bones wrapped in rotting, grey flesh.
***
He barreled through the front door of his home, tears streaming down his face and blowing like a racehorse. It took his parents fifteen minutes to calm him down enough to get an explanation. The warmth of the spark went unnoticed while Brodie breathed into a paper bag. His dad picked up the phone and dialed 911.
***
Sally hadn’t been well. She knew that. It had all been so hard since Harold left, but she was getting better now. When they came to take her, she hadn’t wanted to leave. At first she’d been infuriated by all the questions and the tests, but she was forced to admit that even a couple of weeks at the hospital had worked wonders. She dutifully took all her medications and really felt much better.
Everyone here was so nice. They said she’d be moving to a new place soon. A hotel. Five star, they said. She’d have her own room, lots of people to take care of her, and plenty of time to write. She liked the idea of that. She liked it very much, although she felt a little strange. Like she had an itch she couldn’t scratch. As though there was something she was forgetting, or something she was missing.
***
There was a knock on the bedroom door. “Brodie?”
He looked away from the newspaper and sighed.
Again a knock. “Brodie! Dinner is ready”
“Alright, Ma,” he said, and folded the newspaper and put it back on the desk. He made his way out to the kitchen where his parents sat at the table. A pot of steaming crawfish sat in the center and his dad was busy spooning some onto his plate.
“Caught some big’uns, didn’t ya?” he said, smiling as he sat.
“Yeah, I guess,” Brodie said and ladled one onto his own plate.
“Going out again this week?”
“Nah. I have a story to write for English class.”
“English!” his dad exclaimed, and poked at his crawfish with a set of pliers.
“You haven’t ever shown any interest in English before,” his mom said, arching one finely plucked eyebrow.
“Yep. I’m writing a speculative fiction piece, focusing on themes of creative inspiration.”
“Of course y’are, son.” His dad laughed and shook his head in disbelief.
“Are you okay, baby? Are you upset about that poor woman? Do you need to talk?” Concern showed plainly on his mother’s face.
“I’m fine, Ma. Really. I’m just feeling a little creative, is all.”
“Y’know she didn’t kill him, don’t you? The police say they investigated it. He had a heart attack and something just broke in her. She made it up in her head that he’d just split on her, or something.”
“Ma! I said I’m fine,” Brodie snapped. His mom shrugged and went back to eating her food.
Brodie finished his meal in silence, while his parents bantered about work and the gossip from the salon. He placed his dishes in the sink, excused himself and hurried down the hall to his room.
He shut the door, leaned against it for a moment, and gulped a deep breath. His desk was clean, but for a few sheets of paper and a felt-tip pen. All the comics and wallets full of trading cards were piled in the corner next to his gym gear and fishing net—out of the way and already forgotten. In his chest the spark blazed hot and the words infused him, till he was sure he would burst unless they were released. Gone was the feeling of emptiness, that itch he could not scratch. He felt truly alive for the first time in his life.
Brodie sat down, picked up the pen and began to write.
***
From her vantage point at the nurse’s station, Carrie-Ann could see right through the open door in to Sally Benning’s room. Carrie liked to watch her. It blew her mind that someone famous was in here. Usually CMC-Mercy psych ward patients were average people or junkies with a screw loose. They’d never had a celebrity before, even if she was only a writer.
A psychiatric nurse’s job wasn’t easy, and while Carrie hated to administer the neuroleptics, they really did calm the schitz ones. Without them Sally would rant and rave about how she’d lost something and had to get it back. In her darker moments she slipped into some kind of verse, sung to the tune of some old song that Carrie couldn’t quite pick.
“Why did it come? Where did it go? Can anyone tell me? Nobody knows.”
Between rhyme and verse she’d curse someone called Sheckley, claiming she wished he’d never given it to her to begin with. Whatever it was. Then, when the clozapine kicked back in, she’d sleep or she’d sit on her bed and stare at her chair fondly, as though it were her prized possession. That was possibly the weirdest part of all.
Sally Benning was as bad a case of paranoid schizophrenia as Carrie had ever seen. No matter how many times she said her name, Sally always called her Maud.
Such a waste. Such a pity.
Sally was sitting at a stark metal table typing on an old Remington. There was a slow monotonous click-clack, clickity-clack of keys, followed by the occasional bing signaling the end of a line and the carriage return. There was no paper in the typewriter. Dr. Jorgansson had fished the machine out for her, thinking it might occupy her, but CMC-Mercy Hospital was on a shoestring budget and they didn’t have the resources to actually give her paper. Not that it mattered. Sally never even noticed.
Carrie sighed once again about the shameful waste of talent, withering into nothingness in a place like CMC-Mercy. She thought about her evening chores and whether she could find a way out of them. Maybe she should organize a girls' night out or get a DVD from the store and order takeout. Yeah, that was a good idea.
“Finished,” Sally Benning
said with a note of pride, as she rolled the sheet of invisible paper out of the old typewriter. She made a big deal of placing it on the imaginary stack of paper beside her, and then picking up the imaginary manuscript and tapping the paper against the table to shuffle the pages straight. She looked through the doorway at Carrie-Ann. Dark circles ringed her eyes and the smile on her face was wan and joyless.
“I think I’ve done it, Maud. I think I’m back in business.”
UNDER THE WEIGHT OF SOULS
Amanda J. Spedding
‘Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always.’
Ivy was no longer dead, but she wasn’t alive either. She was a mere echo of who she’d once been. Now, she existed in middleness, a bleak and wretched in-between that skirted the boundaries of life and death. There were monsters in this neither-world – true faces behind human masks, terrifying to behold.
Beneath Ivy’s fingertips her face felt like her own. But what monster was she in this almost-world? What lurked beneath her skin? She glanced at knuckles bruised and raw; for monster she now was.
Answers had been fragile things: snippets of conversation, rumour and superstition. But against a maelstrom of punches, a monster in priestly garb had given her directions to the one word that filtered between this world and that. Slipstream. Hope and revenge for her wrongs lay within this Slipstream; Ivy knew it, deep within bones grown accustomed to this world.
Tonight, she stood before a nondescript brick building as unremarkable as those on either side. But under the dour light of the crescent moon, distorted shadows darted like wraiths across this one. The roughly-painted crimson door seemed to thrum beneath her gaze. Right place.
Inky clouds reclaimed the moon, and she looked up to the sound of footfalls. A young couple approached in the gloom, arms linked. An intimate laugh passed between the two – a carefree sound that had the shadows writhe. For they saw what Ivy did; what the man did not.
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