Writers of the Future: 29

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “You know they got men for guards here? Sometimes one of ’em dozes off, and I get just a taste.” She ain’t angry, she’s hungry. “Least when I was out and about I could pick who I fed on. Tried to always pick the bad ones.”

  “I know you did.” I keep my voice soft.

  “They gonna try to keep me here forever.”

  “Mama, you’re gonna get a trial.”

  “What, you think I’ll walk outta here?”

  “Sure, maybe someday.”

  Must be one lie too many, ’cause her lips curl back, her whole face goin’ tight. This what she looks like to those men before she kills ’em? She hurls the phone at the window. I must’ve jumped up, ’cause I’m standing ’bout three feet away, watching Mama make a spectacle of herself, tearin’ and slammin’ at everything in reach. The glass don’t break, but her phone’s in little black pieces, all over the table and floor.

  She gets a hold of herself before the guards come and get her. I thank God, Jesus, Buddha, anyone I can think of that she does. I don’t wanna watch her kill no one else.

  I bite into the back of my pencil, taste the wood and paint in my mouth. I try to focus on the numbers on the page, but it ain’t easy. Finally, I toss the pencil onto the table. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Sure you can.” Josh gets up and comes ’round to my side. “You’re smart, Alexis. You just need to concentrate.” He puts the pencil next to my paper.

  “You really think I’m smart?” Maybe I can do this—be just like all those other teenagers.

  “Of course I do. You learn much faster than most of the kids I tutor.”

  “Am I gonna be ready once school starts?”

  He tilts his head to the side, purses his already-thin lips. “Maybe, maybe not. You’re making a lot of progress. Just don’t be afraid to make mistakes.”

  The breath goes outta me and I remember why I couldn’t think in the first place. I am afraid. I’m terrified. I don’t know why I’m sittin’ here with Josh, acting like I’m a normal girl learning math. Seventy-five percent chance I ain’t normal. Fifty percent chance I ain’t anything close to normal.

  “Hey, did I say something wrong?” He wrinkles his brow.

  Daddy. Mama. The flip of a coin and a gun in the drawer of the desk in the study. “If I asked you to shoot me, right in the head, would you do it?”

  His brow wrinkles even more, like he’s one of them pug dogs. “Alexis, why would you say something like that?”

  I suck on my upper lip, run my teeth down it. “Don’t know,” I say finally.

  I wake to the sound of tappin’ at my window. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat. In two seconds I go from sleepy to wide awake. I’m trying to calm down, tellin’ myself it’s just a branch or a bird or a raccoon, when I hear it again.

  I hear it a third time before I decide to get up. A fourth time before I actually do. When I go to the window, I’m breathin’ through my mouth. Can’t seem to get enough air through my nose. I draw back the curtain.

  I don’t see nothin’.

  But then a hand pops up, the nails tapping ’gainst the window. They’re not painted no more. They gleam ’neath the light of the moon.

  “Mama?” I whisper. I open the window, just a crack, so she can hear me. “Mama, that you?”

  She rises from where she’s been crouching under my window. “Alexis, honey.” Maybe she tried to clean herself up before she got here, but there’s still dried flakes of blood on her face. She’s got on that undershirt the prisoners wear ’neath the jumpsuit, and a pair of jeans. “You were right, they let me out this mornin’. I walked all the way out here just to see you. Took me damn near forever.”

  I didn’t hear nothin’ on the news. She must’ve broke out tonight, and took someone’s car. Probably killed ’em too. “Mama,” I breathe out, “you can’t be here.” I keep real still.

  Mama’s swaying back and forth, like she’s drunk. Daddy must be sleepin’, and she’s close enough to eat his dreams. She’ll want the whole thing, and I can’t let her have it.

  “But I came so far,” she says.

  “Can’t you come back tomorrow morning? I’m still sleepin’.”

  Her face goes hard. “No.” She closes her eyes, takes a breath and looks calmer when she opens ’em. “You should come with me, honey. Now I’m out, you don’t have to stay here no more. Could be just like it was before.”

  Maybe I can stall her somehow, grab the phone, call 911. “Can I grab a few things, Mama?”

  She sways harder, like she needs to piss. “I can’t wait no longer.” She licks her lips. “Did you want me to come in and help you?”

  I don’t want her any nearer to my daddy. “No, no. I’m comin’. I’ll come right through the window. Just like old times, right? You, me, and a beat-up truck.”

  She lets out a low laugh.

  I open the window all the way, and find the edges of the screen. My fingers tremble. I probably won’t see Daddy again. I won’t be goin’ to school in the fall, neither. But maybe that’s the way my life’s gonna be anyways. Me ’n Mama—a couple of dreameaters.

  A click sounds behind me. “You leave Alexis alone,” Daddy says. He’s got the gun in his hand, and he points it at Mama. I move to the side, outta the line of fire. I get a trickle of shame in the back of my throat, but I don’t wanna go with Mama, not really. Daddy’s hand shakes a little, but I look in his eye, and I know he won’t budge.

  Mama’s face goes tight, like it did when I visited her. She flexes her fingers. “She’s my daughter too. I raised her.”

  “You gave her life, Linda. Doesn’t mean you own her.”

  She looks at me, her eyes cloudy. “Honey?”

  “I just don’t want you to hurt Daddy,” I whisper. “Please.”

  But she’s too far gone for that. She snarls, and shreds the screen with one swipe of her hand. She leaps into the house, like the wall below my window ain’t any obstacle at all. Daddy’s still got the gun pointed at her, but he shakes harder now, and he don’t pull the trigger. Maybe he’s thinking ’bout what I said earlier, thinking ’bout how Mama and I look kinda alike.

  He kneels, real quick, and slides the gun away. Then he rises, and goes to meet Mama, his jaw set, his hands in fists. He swings at her hard, and gets a hit on her. She flies back, hits my closet, the doors cavin’ in like they’re made of cardboard. I may be stronger’n I look, but I ain’t that strong. Nothin’ I can do but watch.

  Mama pushes herself outta the broken doors with a growl, and launches herself at Daddy. She swipes at him, like a cat at a toy. He jumps outta the way, but the third one catches him ’cross the ribs. He lets out a grunt—the green shirt he sleeps in ripping and goin’ dark with his blood. While he’s distracted, she rushes him, shoving him with her shoulder. He falls ’gainst the bed, one hand to his side.

  Before she can get too close, he kicks her in the stomach. She don’t go back as far this time. She’s prepared. Daddy can’t get up from the bed ’cause she’s standin’ over him. He tries to shove her. His hands connect, but she’s quicker. She grabs his wrists, her nails slidin’ ’neath his skin. He don’t grunt this time, he groans as the blood starts running down his arms.

  I can’t just watch no more. The gun’s slid under my desk. I start crawling towards it. Daddy groans again. He can’t die. Not my daddy. I’m not gonna let Mama do it. Seems like a lifetime, but I finally close my fingers ’round the cool metal and scramble to my feet. Mama’s standin’ over Daddy, and his wrists are bleeding onto my blankets. She got her hands ’round the top of his head.

  I lift the gun. “
Mama, you get your hands off my daddy.”

  She turns, but don’t move her hands. “Alexis, what you doin’?”

  “What’s it look like I’m doin’?” My words are tough, but I’m shakin’ way harder than Daddy did. Now I know why he couldn’t shoot her. I’d never have forgiven him if he did.

  Her eyes narrow. She turns back ’round, and slides one nail ’neath the skin of his forehead. Daddy screams.

  I squeeze the trigger. The gun goes off.

  Mama’s absolutely still. Then blood blooms on the back of her shirt. She crumples to the floor.

  “Mama?” I must’ve dropped the gun at some point, ’cause I got both hands on her shoulder. I turn her over and grab her head. “Mama?”

  She’s still breathin’, and some of the fog’s gone outta her eyes. “Alexis,” she whispers, “you remember, I done the best I can.” Her eyelids start to close.

  “Mama,” I say. Her eyes open a bit. “You know I love you, right?”

  She don’t answer, but she smiles a little, and then she’s gone.

  Josh comes barrelin’ in the door to find me with my dead mama, and Daddy in a bad way. Turns out he called 911 soon as he heard the gun go off. He helps me put pressure on Daddy’s wounds ’til the ambulance gets there. Daddy’s sorta out of it, but he tries to give me a smile as the paramedics load him into the ambulance. They let me sit with him on the way to the hospital.

  They whisk my daddy away once we get there, and make me stay in the waiting room. I still got his blood on my clothes, and Mama’s. Smells strongly of copper and antiseptic.

  After what seems like forever, someone comes for me—a lady in green, a surgical mask ’round her neck. Her sneakers squeak ’gainst the linoleum.

  “Your father’s going to be fine,” she tells me. “He lost a lot of blood, and he’s going to have scars, but he’ll be up and about in no time.”

  I sink into the chair with a sigh. She starts to leave, but then turns and looks at me, like she just seen the blood all over me.

  “Are you okay?”

  I don’t even know how I’m s’posed to answer that question. I’m not okay, not sure I’m ever gonna be. I’m thinking ’bout how I maybe only got four years, how I had to kill my own mama, how I’d rather put the gun to my head than be a dreameater. But then, I might not be a dreameater, I might have more control’n Mama, or Daddy’s brother might come up with a real cure. “I ain’t hurt,” I say finally. It’s close as I can get to the truth. She gives me a quick smile and leaves.

  I lean my head back, lookin’ at the white ceiling panels and the fluorescent lights, their pattern stuck into my head. They swirl in front of me, like snow bein’ blown by the wind. Been a long night. I close my eyes, intending to open ’em a second later, but I don’t. I’m in a blizzard, but I ain’t cold at all. I’m grabbin’ the flakes as they pass me by, and they gather on my fingertips, glowin’ bright as the moon. I can’t stop laughing—it’s the craziest and most beautiful thing I ever seen.

  For the first time in my life, I’m dreamin’.

  Master Belladino’s Mask

  written by

  Marina J. Lostetter

  illustrated by

  TIFFANY ENGLAND

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The open skies and dense forests of the Pacific Northwest are ideal for growing speculative fiction authors—or, at least, Marina J. Lostetter would like to think so. Originally from Oregon, she grew up with a mother whose idea of a great family outing was half a day at the bookstore, a father who placed The Hobbit in her hands when she was nine and a brother who insisted that she’d publish one day—even before he’d read anything she’d written.

  Now she resides in Arkansas with her husband, Alex, who is the most supportive and understanding partner in the world. After Marina graduated from Southern Oregon University with a history degree, she expressed a desire to do something crazy: write fiction for a living. Alex insisted that she jump right in, and Marina has been writing full time ever since.

  This marks Marina’s third finalist story in the Writers of the Future Contest, as well as her second professional publication. Her work has also appeared in Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show, Mirror Shards: Volume 2 and Penumbra. You can visit her online at lostetter.net.

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  Tiffany England works from Los Angeles doing freelance illustration and art restoration. She is a recent student of Jim Garrison and Laguna College of Art & Design, where she received her bachelor’s in illustration. Her work has been shown at the Society of Illustrators Student Competition as well as at galleries from coast to coast. Artistically, she takes her inspiration from various styles of artists from the Golden Age of Illustration, such as Arthur Rackham, Edmund Dulac, and Gustaf Tenggren. Classically trained, Tiffany finds that art history provides a firm foundation for her technique and illustrative ideals, making it possible to combine elements of representational form with effective storytelling and design sensitivity. Recently she has been apprenticed by Aleksei Tivetsky in the fine work of icon painting and construction, using old master techniques and materials. Currently she is creating a secular illuminated manuscript, an amalgamation of her knowledge of character and story with the delicate work of writing an icon.

  Master Belladino’s Mask

  The chiming of the store’s bell smacked of luxury, like everything else in the city. Bells in the country always tinkled with a tin echo that indicated they were made of lesser things, just like the country people: their rolling drawl was the calling card of an unrefined upbringing.

  Melanie was all too aware of this when she opened her mouth to address the clerk. “I’m interested in a mask,” she said, as crisp and clear as possible. And saving my mother, she silently added.

  His dull eyes traced her from mud-crusted skirt up to moth-eaten best hat, his lips maintaining a scowl the entire way. He had a long, lithe torso, with the limbs and nose to match. When he answered, he answered slowly. Melanie wasn’t sure if it was because it took a long time for the words to climb out of his lengthy chest, or if he considered her dull-witted.

  “You are in a mask shop. I’d expect you’re interested in a mask. What kind?”

  She sneaked glances left and right. On the walls hung carvings of every possible shape and design. Bright and dark colors made sweeping patterns, twisting together to tell a variety of stories. Exotic animals displayed gaping maws. Demons grinned through grotesque, asymmetrical features. Human likeness twisted into caricatures through exaggerated expressions.

  She hunched her shoulders, shrinking from their cold, empty stares. They watched, waiting expectantly for her to choose. So many dead faces. A shiver crawled up her spine.

  “A healer’s mask. His name was August Belladino. Is he here?”

  The clerk grinned, as if he knew something she did not. A private joke, perhaps. “He is. Were you looking to rent, or buy? The knowledge of Master Belladino does not come—” he frowned deeply—“cheap.”

  What did he consider cheap? Any sort of magic carried a hefty price in the country. But city and country definitions of “expensive” weren’t the same.

  “I’d like to rent,” she said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out all but a few vials of minutes. “Is this enough?” In the country the ratio was usually 60:1. One hour of use for every bottled minute.

  She glanced down at the time, a little guilty. She could have given it to her mother. But, no, that wouldn’t be proper. What were a few more minutes of agony when she could have years of health?

  The store bell rang again, and Melanie glanced over her shoulder at the new patron. He was a dark-skinned young man, about her age. He looked as if he belonged in the city—all sharp edges and clean lines.

 
Her cheeks grew hot. Melanie felt embarrassed to have her exchange with the clerk overheard.

  The clerk glowered, and his annoyance intensified. He opened his mouth to say something to the man, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he counted up Melanie’s minutes. “Enough for a day and a half.”

  Her heart sank. “I’d hoped for three. The healer in my town said I’d need three.”

  “Then come back when you have the full fare.” Impatiently, he drummed his fingers against the countertop.

  “Please,” her voice shook. She gulped. “I don’t have time to raise more.” She dumped the rest of the bottles from her purse. The last minutes were meant for the innkeeper, but the mask was more important. Melanie and her mother could sleep on the streets a few nights, if they had to.

  “Still not enough,” he said coldly.

  Smooth skin brushed past hers, and a dark hand laid a generous pile of time beside hers. “That should cover it,” said the young man.

  Deep, black eyes held Melanie’s gaze for a moment. She opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say.

  “I told you not to come in here again,” the clerk said. “You scare away my customers.”

  “I’m not scaring anyone,” he said indignantly. “I’m helping her pay. I’m giving you money. Are you refusing to rent to her?”

  Without another word the clerk stomped from behind the counter and over to the far wall. Taking great care, he lifted one of the wooden masks from its hook—one of the animal effigies. “Master Belladino’s mask,” he said, offering it to her. “Covered for a week.”

  “It’s so light,” she said, balancing it delicately. In the country people had to carve their death masks out of cedar or pine instead of imported balsa, and no one she knew could afford paint, let alone enchantment. Clutching it to her chest, she turned to the young man. “Thank you,” she said, “I’ll repay you, somehow. I’ll come up with the time—or I can work the minutes off straight. I might not look it, but I can plow fields all day, or clean house, or—”