by Anthology
And flips them the bird.
***
This time I seek out the shadows. Instead of darkness, I end up in sunlight. The airfield is as it was the day we visited, same light breeze, same roaring jets, but it's not my memory. My parents are gone and Matthew James stands by himself, his white-blond hair falling into his eyes and a toy airplane clutched to his chest.
He squints at me in the bright sunlight and smiles. For the first time I see he has dimples. "You came," he says.
He seems shorter now because I'm at my full adult height. I feel like myself again.
"Can I talk to you?" I ask.
He nods and an airplane flies overhead. He looks up and grins back at me, cocking his head toward the plane and raising his eyebrows in delight.
"Do you know who I am?"
"You're Natasha," he says, his voice stronger than I'd expect from a little kid. "My dad wanted you to take care of me."
"I guess you could say that."
"Are we trapped up in space?"
"No. We're exactly where we're supposed to be."
"I don't like little places."
"It's not little here," I say, squinting up at the sky.
"But we aren't here," he says. "This isn't real."
"You're a smart kid." I study him for a moment as he watches the takeoffs. "Big fan of airplanes, huh?"
He nods. "And flying. When I get big enough Dad says he'll take me hang-gliding." He doesn't give me a chance to respond before he frowns and tosses his toy plane to his feet. "I heard that old lady. I know I'm dead."
"You're no more dead than me." I reach out my hand. "Want to help me explore Goldilocks?"
***
The metal shell that has encapsulated us for decades creaks open and a slit of light expands to the entire brilliant blue sky. Our six-foot-tall robotic probe uncurls and we stand upright. The tingly itching of our sensors fades away to processing the real input of a cool sixteen degree Celsius breeze with the warmth of Alpha Centauri B warming our gray synthetic skin. My processors translate the chemicals to smells as they were trained to do back home—earthy dirt, grassy and something pungent-sweet I can't place, but that my chemical analysis translates as carbon-rich. The rolling landscape is filled with high grass swaying in the wind like a purple ocean.
We didn't need Mission Control's authorization to land the ship, but they gave it to us anyway. Now that I know Matthew James is there, the extra noise in my processes make sense. He's less scared now, which helps our underlying feeling of panic, but it doesn't make up for everything. We spent two days getting to know each other and teaching our mind-construct how to deal with two uploads. At our processing speeds we had the malfunctions under control within hours.
We reach down and collect a sample of the candy-colored grass for the Little Guys to analyze later.
Back at Mission Control, Commander Cook watches us explore our alien world, brow furrowed. "Remember your protocol, sample collection should wait until after all your systems are online."
"They're online already," I tell him. My avatar—back to her old self—stands beside the Matthew James avatar on the Mission Control screen.
His blond hair falls into his avatar's eyes just as it did in life. "We're the pinnacle of scientific advancement for our time," he says, borrowing a line from a marketing video in my memory banks.
Cook almost cracks a smile.
***
A month after our landing we walk over squishy orange moss to the edge of a four thousand foot cliff and see the ocean far in the distance. Below us is a valley of plant-covered rock formations filled with fins and spires like a massive purple castle.
One part of us imagines that exploring it will be like a giant jungle maze with imaginary pirates and dragons, while the other is already working on a theory that it'll provide a shelter base for a human settlement, perhaps even a city one day.
"Valley survey commencing," I tell Mission Control and Matthew James' excitement zings through us as he realizes the plan.
Mission Control pipes in. "But, how—? No, no, no, no, no. Your flight ability is for emergency use only. Find another way down."
We leap and extend our sails, catching an updraft. Forty-two thousand useless sensors light up so it almost feels like the wind is hitting real skin. The "oh-man-this-is-so-blasting-awesome" part of us gets guidance from the "let's-be-sure-we-land-safe" part.
And we fly.
Hope Erica Schultz
http://tlenajade.wix.com/hope-erica-schultz
Mr. Reilly's Tattoo(Short story)
by Hope Erica Schultz
Originally published in Fireside Magazine, Issue 18, December 2014
Mr. Reilly was my first patient. I was the only male CNA, and the nurses warned me that some patients would have a problem with it. Sure enough, when I knocked on his door he met me with a fierce glare.
“You’re a man.”
I started as though in surprise. “You’re right—I am!”
He didn’t smile. “You might be gay.”
I nodded. “I might. If I am, it isn’t contagious. Regardless, you can rest assured that you’re not my type.”
He gave a bark of laughter at that, and he let me help him with his shower.
One of the unexpected things about aging is what it does to tattoos. I saw a lot of misshapen anchors, illegible names, eagles like hippogriffs. I never saw anything like Mr. Reilly’s tattoo. It was a skull-faced grim reaper, hands reaching as though to tear out Mr. Reilly’s heart. That first time, it was entirely on the right side of his chest.
“What’s that for?” I asked as I helped him shower.
He gave that same bark of laughter. “That was a mistake. One I can’t fix.”
It was months later, after he got out of the hospital following a heart attack, that he told me more. I was cleaning the EKG tabs from his chest when I noticed that the reaper’s hands had reached his sternum.
“Is that—” I stopped, embarrassed. I was working towards my RN by then; fantasy was for children.
“Yes, it’s moving,” Mr. Reilly said. He paused, and I buttoned his pajama top. When I began to lotion his feet he started again.
“I loved a girl, before the war. She said she’d wait for me. When I was in Korea she sent me a letter that said that she was no longer free. I got roaring drunk, and woke up the next morning with the tattoo. My buddies said I’d gone to an old tattoo artist, told him that my girl was tearing out my heart, and damned if I’d let anyone but Death do that to me. He took my money and inked this on me. Back then the hands were at its side. They didn’t start moving for a few decades.
“The worst part is that when I got home I found out why Lorena had jilted me. She’d been dying, and hadn’t wanted me to know. Thought it was better, safer, for me to be angry than sad.”
He paused again, and I pulled socks on his bony feet to keep them warm. He looked up at me, and smiled. “Thanks, John.”
It was the first time he’d admitted that I had a name.
I saw him off and on after that, on weekends while I went to school during the week. There were three other men in the class of fifty, and Chris and I started dating. It was insane, both of us combining work and school and building a relationship, but somehow it worked.
Chris had been a tattoo artist, had gotten interested in helping people while injecting ink beneath their skin. I wanted to show him Mr. Reilly’s tattoo, but there were limits to the tolerance of the elderly. Suspecting I was gay and knowing it were two different things.
One day, though, Chris brought me to work, and Mr. Reilly brought it up himself.
“Is your young man coming to pick you up as well?”
I hadn’t lied directly to anyone about my sexuality since I was fifteen. “He is.”
“You bring him by, then. I want to meet him.”
It was almost like introducing Chris to my Dad. Like Dad, Mr. Reilly was cool about it. They talked for a bit, Chris’s old job came up, and Mr. Reilly
paused a moment and then unbuttoned his shirt. “You ever see anything like this?”
“No, Sir,” Chris breathed.
I closed my mouth. The hands were reaching past midline, almost to the heart.
Mr. Reilly’s crooked smile said that he knew. “Don’t mess it up, Son. Boys, girls, I guess we’re all human first. Don’t give up on what you’ve got.”
I nodded.
***
A few months later, during my first shift as a brand new RN, one of the aides ran to get me. “John, Mr. Reilly’s worse. He’s calling for you.”
I knew that he’d never married, that a nephew was his closest relative. I went, hoping my presence would help.
He was sitting up in bed, gasping. “No hospital,” he said, his eyes fierce. “It’s going to be soon. I just wish…I wish my heart was going to Lorena, where it belongs.”
I got him nitro, held his hand, listened to his heart. The Reaper’s hands were curved now, into claws. When Mr. Reilly was calm, I left him, promising to return soon.
My first call was to Mr. Reilly’s nephew. The second was to Chris.
***
Chris arrived just after the nephew’s signed consent, and I explained what I needed him to do. He went in himself to explain it to Mr. Reilly, to get the consent there. Then he went to work, and I returned to med passes and vitals.
An hour later it was done. Mr. Reilly stared at the new tattoo, tears in his eyes; Chris had covered it with a clear dressing, so the heart was easily visible, with the words ‘Tom loves Lorena FOREVER’ emblazoned across it.
He grasped my hand. “Thank you. Now I’m not afraid to go.”
“There’s no hurry,” I teased gently. “I hear we’re having French toast for breakfast.”
He gave his bark of laughter, and closed his eyes. “We’ll see.”
The aide came to get me just at dawn, to do the pronouncement. I opened the pajama top to confirm the lack of a heartbeat, and then stopped.
The new heart was still there, but the hooded figure bore the face of a young, smiling woman. Hands, not claws, cradled the heart. The words, still in Chris’s flowing script, proclaimed: Lorena loves Tom. FOREVER.
The Princess in the Basement(Short story)
by Hope Erica Schultz
Originally published by Diabolical Plots, June 2015.
I woke when the boy came through the window.
He looked about eight, all dark eyes in a brown face. “Don’t touch the floor.”
He startled. “Why not?”
“The monster under my bed will get you.”
He relaxed. “I’m too old to believe in monsters. You need a better lock for your window. And bars. Everybody in the neighborhood has bars.”
I tried to imagine bars on the window. Would it be more a prison?
“It’s not safe for you here. You need to go home.”
He shrugged, settling cross-legged on the dresser below the window. “My parents are fighting. I’ll go home in a few hours.”
It was dark outside. It was always dark when I woke. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Carlos. I’m the youngest. What’s yours?”
“I’m Jane. I’m the youngest, too.” Or I had been.
Carlos swung his legs. “You don’t talk like you’re from Boston.”
“I’m not, originally.” Was Boston even in England? Where had my curse taken me?
“What’s on your leg?” He hopped to the floor, and I cried out. Furst rumbled from under my bed, and Carlos jumped back onto the dresser. “What was that?”
“I told you.” I swallowed hard. “You need to go, now, Carlos. This isn’t a safe place for you.”
He opened his mouth, and one green claw came out from under the bed. It could have encircled a cantaloupe, or a man’s head.
“Go,” I repeated, and he went, out into the night.
I slept.
***
I woke when the man entered the window. Moonlight glinted against a knife in his hand. He slipped to the floor and Furst slid out from under the bed, scales glinting green. Furst unhinged his jaw, grasped the intruder with his claws, and swallowed him whole. The knife clanged against the floor, but the man never had a chance to scream.
I slept.
***
I woke when the boy came through the window. It was Carlos, grown older.
“I thought perhaps I dreamed it all, but you’re still here. I don’t think you’re any older. Is the monster still here, too?”
There was a tiny rumble from Furst under the bed, and I smiled reluctantly. “You shouldn’t have come back.” I hesitated, fighting curiosity. “How long has it been?”
“Four years.” He leaned forward, carefully. “There was something around your leg. I tried not to remember that, but I did.”
I shrugged. “There’s a monster under my bed, and you’re worried about my legs?”
He looked at me with the straight look I remembered, although his face had grown to fit the eyes. “It looked like a chain.”
I sighed. “It is a chain, Carlos. It’s mostly for show; I’m only awake when someone enters the room, and Furst won’t let me leave the bed.”
His brow wrinkled. “Furst?”
“It means Prince. My guardian, my jailor…my monster.”
He nodded as though that made sense.
“I’ll be back,” he said, turning to go.
“You sho—” I began, but he was gone.
I slept.
***
He was older again. He tossed me a small cloth bag.
“They’re lock picks. I’m going to teach you how to use them.”
I blinked. “Why?”
He shook his head. “Chica, it’s easier to get out if you’re not chained.”
I looked at the bag, at him. “How long?”
“Another four years. I had to learn how, so I could teach you.”
“Will you be hanged, if you’re caught with these?”
Carlos shook his head. “We’re not much on hanging people.”
He demonstrated the picks and I struggled to mimic him. The lock resisted my best efforts, but he only nodded. “I’ll be back,” he said again.
I slept.
***
The next few times he brought me locks to practice with. When I conquered the easiest, he replaced it with a harder one, and one harder still. I noted that his clothing changed—light clothing to heavy, then to light again. A mustache had grown in on his upper lip, then a small beard. He was man now, not boy. Furst would kill him without hesitation.
The night that I opened my manacle he carried a leather bag. I stared at my free ankle. “Now what?”
“Will Furst hurt you, if you touch the floor?”
“No, he’ll just carry me back to the bed.”
“Good.” He opened the bag, pulled out a hammer. “Catch.”
I caught it, then a box of nails. Last he sent the edge of a rope ladder. “You’ll need to nail this into the bed frame to anchor it.”
He demonstrated and I mimicked him, nail after nail. When I pushed against it, it held my weight.
Carlos waited as I pulled myself up onto it. A step, two—I slipped, and my foot brushed the floor.
Furst erupted, tail lashing, and gathered me up in his great claws. I smelled carrion on his breath as he set me gently onto my bed. My prison.
I was angry, suddenly, and barely waited for Furst to settle before starting again. One step, two, three, four. I slipped but held on grimly, regaining the rung with my bare foot. Five, six, seven…then Carlos caught my hand. I scrambled up beside him onto the dresser, then up, out, through the open window.
The night was cold but brilliantly lit with balls of fire perched on metal trees. Carlos closed the window behind us and led me to a strange low carriage without horses.
“Where are we going?” Should I have asked before? Did I even care?
“To my mother’s apartment. Mom always told me a woman didn’t need a
prince to rescue her. She needed a friend, to help her rescue herself.” He grinned. “You already had a Prince, and he didn’t look like a keeper to me.”
No kiss, no guarantee that there would ever be one. No castle, no piles of gold. I sighed happily as he helped me into the carriage.
Effie Seiberg
http://www.effieseiberg.com
Re: Little Miss Apocalypse Playset(Short story)
by Effie Seiberg
Originally published by Fireside Fiction, February 2016
To: LMAmerchandising
From: LMAmarketing
Hey folks, I know it’s a tight squeeze for the manufacturing deadline for the Little Miss Apocalypse playset, but we got new market research results on the pony names.
Please make the following updates on the packaging: Pestilence is now Sniffles, Famine is now Om-nom, War is now Punchy, and Death is now Bonesy. We’ll be updating the voiceovers for the show accordingly when we introduce the characters in the fall TV season.
We’ll want Little Miss Apocalypse next to Bonesy on the front packaging, since he rated highest in the ages 5-8 demographic.
I know it’s a tight deadline, but we really need to make the numbers for the holiday season! The CEO is counting on this
–Anna
To: LMAteam-all
From: CorporateResponsibility
Hello LMA team,
As part of the company-wide “Yes I Can Cuz I’m A Girl” social awareness and empowerment campaign, we need the playset to let kids actually do something functional.
We’re pulling out the chemistry kits and the My First Robot Repair toys from the edutainment line as top examples, and we’d like to tie in Little Miss Apocalypse to give the campaign a more fun vibe.
–Mac