by SJ Davis
“I asked what you are doing out so late and unaccompanied. This is not the time of night for a lady to be alone.”
I heard the worry in his voice, which was the only thing tempering my immediate reaction to balk at his unspoken accusation that I was incapable of taking care of myself, or that I needed a man to keep me safe.
If he only knew. I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time.
“I’m fine, but thank you for your concern. I’m just out for a short walk. I needed to clear my head, and the fresh air does me good.” I wanted to lean into his body heat, to have him wrap his arms around my smaller frame and engulf me in his embrace.
“Would you mind allowing me to escort you home, then?” One eyebrow twitched, as if he already knew my answer.
“I think you know my answer to that, Jackson. I’m a big girl, and though the years have not been so kind, I am still the same woman you knew so long ago.” My heart stuttered with the reminder of our shared years. We had sat for hours, staring up at the stars and talking of our plans for life. We spent all of our time together, laughing, joking, and just staring into space each night. I died inside a bit more each time I mourned for those years, those moments in time that had led up to the one night when I decided not to show up.
“I think the years have been more than kind to you, my lady,” Jackson’s velvety voice almost purred, awakening the woman in me.
I felt my cheeks redden, and my body warmed in a way it hadn’t for years. “I appreciate the compliment.” I wanted to stay in the street and talk with him all night, but it was torture. I knew he would listen to all of my problems, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t have the same troubles, and he had a loving wife to share the life I had wanted with him. Guilt crept in when I thought of her, and how she would be affected when I enacted my plan.
With a last look, memorizing his face to call upon for strength, I bid him goodnight and hurried to my home, sneaking in as quietly as possible.
“Where have you been?” Bradley demanded, awakened by my entrance, despite my cautiousness.
“I went for a walk to clear my head.” Which was technically the truth, I had, in fact, gone for a walk.
“Next time, be quiet when you come in. Some of us have to work, you know,” he reminded me. He never missed an opportunity to boast that he was the one that worked, while I was the one he had to support.
“Sorry, honey,” I lied as I climbed into bed and allowed my lids to close, praying my dreams would take me away.
********
Depressed that I hadn’t seen my best friend in over a week, I decided to give him a call. Jackson answered the door at my first knock.
“Hey, you.”
His voice brought a smile to my face. “Hey, my parents are being a pain today. Do you want to come over for a visit?” I hoped he wasn’t busy, because I had been fighting with my parents the entire day, and needed a friend. They had only let me out long enough to run next door to Jackson’s house.
“Sure, I’ll be right over,” he sounded as happy as I was to catch back up. We had rarely gone so long without spending time together, and he was my best friend, the person who knew me the best.
We sat on the back porch, talking, and I found the courage to ask him the question that had been plaguing me for some time.
“Have you ever thought about us? About how it would be if we were more than friends?” I carefully asked, my heart beating out of my chest and my hands sweating.
“I think about it all of the time,” his voice dropped and he looked into my eyes. “You know my situation, and I wish it was different.”
I did know his situation. He had been with a girl off and on for years, and she was unstable to say the least. He was afraid she would do something to harm herself, as she frequently threatened, so he always went back to her. They were in the off stage, but it was only a matter of time, and my heart hurt with the acceptance of it.
Without enough time to talk myself out of it, I leaned up on my toes and placed a kiss on his lips, soft but urgent, and felt my blood heat and my body warm. His lips were soft and pliant as he kissed me back, breathing into me. I sighed, the sound swallowed in our kiss, as we lingered. When I finally pulled away, my lips were slightly tingling, and I could feel the flush that no doubt matched his face.
“I’m glad that finally happened,” his reply broke the silence between us.
Suddenly, the dream fast-forwarded and jumped a year into the future, when I had made the decision not to meet him, in what would end up turning my life away from my plans.
“Hey, you,” I said, as I opened the door. He fidgeted with his hands and had a strange expression on his face.
“Hey. I wondered if you would come to the piano concert with me,” he had asked, and I felt a pang of regret. I was in a relationship with someone else, and in fairness to the man, I couldn’t, go with Jackson—even if I was the only one aware of my true feelings for him.
“I wish I could, Jackson, but William will be by to pick me up in just a bit,” I whispered, the heaviness weighing down my heart. I wanted to tell him how I felt. I wanted to tell him that I would drop everything and everyone to be in his arms, to be his lady, but was too scared to admit the truth aloud. It had been a year since our first and last kiss, and he had chosen to go back to the unstable woman and had broken my heart.
“I understand,” his eyes were downcast. “Catch you tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I agreed.
Little did I know that was my last chance to stop him before he would meet and fall for his current wife.
My eyes fluttered open, and the last part of the dream seemed to be on repeat in my mind. I tried to close my eyes, to hang on longer to the image of the much younger Jackson from the past, but the dream faded farther and farther from my grasp, until I resigned myself and finally rolled from the bed. Daylight had come, and the whistle, like every other morning, had awakened me. I set about doing the day’s chores, like every other day, waiting for my chance to sneak back into the factory that night.
********
I went through the motions, my mind preoccupied with the dream from the night before. All through the day and into the night, until my husband walked through the door, I seemed to float in a dark fog clouding my emotions.
“I see you had a non-productive day,” he mocked as he motioned towards the mess in the kitchen. “I guess you’re going to tell me you weren’t feeling well again.”
It took everything I had, but I kept my mouth shut and took his chiding, as he continued about how hard he worked and wanted a proper wife. I swallowed my reply and took it, all of it, knowing my days were limited in this life.
An idea struck me, and I couldn’t believe I had never thought of it earlier. “Hey, honey? Have you ever seen the mainline?” He worked in the main factory, and if I could glean any information from him, I might be able to save myself some detective work that night.
“Of course I have. I have to check it daily and make sure the men are monitoring it properly,” he waved his arm, as if it was common knowledge. I knew he was a master at the facility, but never really listened anytime he came home and droned on about work. Instead, I had simply nodded and smiled at the appropriate times, or gave the appropriate expression.
The plan formed in my mind, and my impatience for him to retire to bed became my constant companion in next few hours before he finally began snoring. I quietly crept into the room, reached into his breeches, and pulled the large ring of work keys from his pocket as silently as I could, holding my breath as they clanged against each other and his snoring stopped. I stood still, afraid he would open his eyes, but he simply rolled over and began snoring once more.
For the second time in as many nights, I crept from the house and headed to the factory in the downtown sector, keeping to the shadows and jumping at every noise or voice in the distance. Finally, I reached the gate, squeezed through, and headed back to the east side of the building. Breathing a sig
h of relief, I saw that no one had discovered my entrance. I climbed through the window once more and began my search.
I must have missed something in my rush last night. I just have to take my time, I thought as I made the first round of the first floor, looking for any entrance to the basement. A door that had been locked the night before stood out. It was marked as the lavatory, but I dug my husband’s keys from the folds of my dress and tried them all until one clicked open the door.
I had found it odd that the lavatory had been locked, but now hope bloomed in my chest. I held my breath as I opened the door and almost jumped with glee when a set of stairs was revealed. Slowly, I descended into the darkness, toward a golden glow at the bottom of the stairs. Careful to listen for voices, I stayed to the outside edge to avoid squeaking on the old wooden steps, I made my way to the bottom and stopped in awe.
The largest machine I had ever laid eyes on stretched for what seemed like miles. I wasn’t sure how I would find my cog in the entire town’s system, but felt myself being pulled down the right side of the machine, as if some invisible force was beckoning me forward.
Stopping when I no longer felt the pull, I turned and stared at the bright copper cog turning in conjunction with another series of cogs and bolts. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but the knowledge that the cog was my key to freedom couldn’t be denied.
With a shaking hand, I reached towards the beckoning cog shimmering in the light cast from the gaslights lining the walls. The mainline was much quieter than I thought it would be, and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears again, drowning out all other sound.
I gingerly pulled my cog from its gear, watching as the adjoining cogs stopped working, bringing the whole mainline to a stop. Panicking, I knew it would only be minutes before the authorities were notified and someone was sent to investigate. Without thinking, I placed the cog back in line, and twisted backwards with all of my might. Unsure of how far I should turn it, I counted under my breath to eleven, the number of years that had passed since that fateful night.
********
I heard a knock on the door and ran to open it. Jackson’s smiling face waited for me on the other side of the door. “Hey. I wondered if you would come to the piano concert with me,” he asked, fidgeting with his hands. My smile felt as if it would crack my face, and my heart swelled.
“Of course I would!” I exclaimed, perhaps a bit too enthusiastic.
“What has gotten into you?” He laughed, stepping aside and motioning for me to join him in the carriage.
“Oh, nothing,” I smiled as I passed, “I just have a feeling that this is going to be a wonderful night.”
Stranded Wings
Catherine Stovall
Treasures of Time
Jeannette Joyal
Out of nowhere it seemed a magnificent city arose.
From a land covered with sand as far as the eye can see.
Made simply out of straw, water and dirt.
Many wonder there must be more.
For no one has built such wonder with bricks before!
Ah but you see, the ruler of this land did have a secret indeed!
One night long ago he stumbled upon a secret tomb
Locked within a chamber from many eons ago.
In there, he found a curious box.
Within it, contained a strange glowing dust.
When he touched he discovered
It burned like molting lava.
Confused and intrigued,
Realizing the power he now beheld.
In secret gear and gadget were soon being forged
To build a city like no other in the world.
As time went on, his city was built indeed.
An oasis of beauty, a breath taking sight to see!
Like all good things, it came with a price.
For he later discover a curse was placed.
On the one who removed this Knowledge from its resting place.
The rest is history as you well know.
Until that time when, once again, one will discover the knowledge within…
The Angel
Sherwin Matthews
*This story is written in UK English*
I
A swollen and sickly sore in toxic skies, the bloated, blood red sun sat uneasily, teetering as it slowly dipped behind the smokestacks on the horizon. It cast a warm orange glow over the airships as they floated past, the smaller of their number like scuttling cockroaches, the larger engorged and obscene leaches.
—
When Jorge had first seen an airship as a boy, some ten years past, they had seemed magnificent, stately, and serene. As the first of them had taken to the air, he had cheered as loudly as any of the other children in the crowds that had gathered to see them, as loudly as all of the people that congregated wherever the new technological marvels flew on their business. After they had passed over, and the polite clapping and admiring waves had finished, his father had asked Jorge what he wanted to be when he grew older. Red faced and breathless with excitement, Jorge replied that the only thing he ever wanted was to fly on one of the giant metal behemoths, to see the world like a god would from high above.
All summer Jorge had daydreamed about the lands that he would visit on his airship. He made up fantastic names for new places, animals, the fine people he would meet, and the voyages that would dazzle his friends, leaving them clamouring around him to listen to his stories with rapt attention. His parents had smiled to see him so happy, given completely to the blissful abandon of a child's imagination.
Then the wars had come.
The faces of the impressment men had been hard and unforgiving when they had taken his father away. Jorge hadn't really understood what it meant at the time. It had all seemed a game, the soldiers in their clean, crisp uniforms, a grand adventure. Or at least it had, until his mother had started crying. Wailing and clasping her hands together around her husband's arm, begging him not to go. His father had been very proud, chin held high for his family. He simply donned his cap and shrugged his coat over shoulders, broad from working the fields, and had said some few whispered words to Jorge's mother.
To Jorge, he had said little, just a passing statement that might have been affectionate advice or wisdom. They were words that, if he were entirely honest, Jorge couldn't remember. In years to come he would be consumed by the injustice of it. That wasn’t how the stories were supposed to go. The heroes always made valiant speeches, stamped into the minds of those who heard them forever.
It had been the last time he had seen his father, Jorge's last memory was of the back of his father's coat disappearing into the night as he left their little cottage. The stories didn't usually end like that either.
The war had drained them all, and destroyed a generation of men in a pointless, bitter conflict that had not gained a single inch of land or territory for anyone. Mighty industrial buildings sprang up to support the war effort, obliterating the fields and farmyards, a blight on the landscape. Each was a towering eyesore made of blackened steel and ugly ironworks, with funnels that belched billowing clouds of poisonous smoke upwards into the atmosphere all day and night. The populace were forced into dormitories, cells built in the shadows of where they were made to work day after day, locked into an unending cycle of shifts. Every last one of them wore a perpetual grey mask, dragging leaden limbs with them whether on their way to start their labour, or just finished and staggering home to sleep before they could begin all over again.
Each day, as soon as his shift was over, Jorge had hurried on legs that couldn't move fast enough to hear the soldiers at the town hall. Every time he heard the same excuses, the same patriotic jingo about how the brave armies and armadas of the king's forces were driving the enemy back, and liberating yet more unfortunate victims from the harsh tyranny of their rulers. They always took great pains to impress upon him how the citizens in these countries were just like Jorge, undeserving of their forced enslavement, of how righteous the ki
ng and his people were for saving them.
After a time, Jorge had begun to wonder whether the people being freed truly were just like him, oppressed and miserable. The names of the places, so exotic and different to his ears, could have even have made up for all that he knew. It didn't take long after that for Jorge to stop caring altogether. He continued to return to the soldiers every day out of a sense of allegiance to his father, but would increasingly catch himself not listening as they spoke, unable to relay anything of what they had said later.
Five years later, at the war’s end, the same soldiers who had taken his father away returned. Their uniforms were dirty instead of clean, and they wore tired expressions to match. They had been apologetic, playing out a rehearsed speech that didn't sound even vaguely genuine, as they explained that his father had been killed. A hero in some valiant action, his proud and noble death had come as he fought the enemy for king and country on a vital battleground. There were no real details. A forgettable place neither Jorge nor his mother had ever heard of and a country that was even less remarkable to their ears. Jaded, he wondered if that was how everyone’s father, brother or husband had died in the war. The soldiers didn't even say if the war had been won or not.
Within two years of their visit, Jorge had run away. His flight had been forced upon him by an existence of hard, unyielding labour with no prospect of it ever ceasing, and the desperately exhausting effects of his mother's daily misery and despair. He knew he should have looked after her, consoled her, as she wept each night when she should have been resting, but he couldn't find the strength to do it. He knew that by comforting her weakness, the sadness and sense of loss, he would have likely admitted his own trauma. It was far easier to ignore her, growing resentful of what she represented, and then ultimately, run. Run far away from the source of his turmoil and never confront his father's anonymous and meaningless death, which had left them both with little sense of closure.