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Twisted around a cautious allegory Meaning nothing, complicated at zero Burning darlings, attenuated to a fibre Listening to Elvis not an afterthought. Slow pints become the demeanour of the day Depressed afterburn on the mantel-piece Advertising disgrace in one’s own time Handling danger like a rigid grenade. Enslaved flowers dot the mediocre table Counted to embrace the local tealights Games for killing time associate fast Fashionable decorum shining in shadows In time for the soundcheck, pre-emptive strike Kissing on the quiet a perfect gesture Contributing to a reward, stream of unconsciousness Latest song rehearsed to a higher beauty. Loudspeaker democracy commands attention Selling favours for keepsakes, authentic fire Skirting around boards a trite dissolution Happy nonetheless, service where it is due. Formulaic requests, boiled down to nutrition Waxen sculptures reflect on a broken eye Otherwise duties stalled for the moment Illuminated beer-mats twist for entertainment. About Patricia Walsh: Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland.  She has previously published a range of poetry in publications across Ireland, the UK, and the US, and one collection of poetry, Continuity Errors, with Lapwing, and two novels, The Quest For Lost Éire, and In The Days of Ford Cortina, in 2013 and 2021 respectively.  She lives in Cork City. A further novel, Hell for Beginners, is scheduled for release in 2024.

It all happened because of Dair Dockery. If he hadn’t been in Tulsk that day and if the skies hadn’t opened, forcing him to spend the night at his sister’s house, and if he hadn’t met the Shannike, then there would be no story to tell. The Shannike looked old. How old was difficult to say, but he had a gently creased and weather-beaten face. His bushy gray hair spilled out from under a red stocking cap. He wore a long black coat, which he would never remove, over what looked like hand-woven dark wool pants. A sturdy pair of well-worn brown boots completed his outfit, save for the canvas bag he carried slung over his shoulder. The women, much more so than the men, remarked on his bright blue eyes that seemed at the same time to be warm and welcoming yet also piercing, as if they could see right through a person. It was a very special occasion when a Shannike, a mysterious mendicant storyteller, came to town. Everybody in Roscommon, even if they had never actually heard one speak, knew of their ability and skills. Children from infancy learned the stories of Irish ancestors from their grandparents and parents, who in turn had heard them directly from a Shannike. And if Dair hadn’t been so bold as to ask if he would come to Four Mile House, this story would never have seen the light of day. Of course, Four Mile House was not a house as anyone in Roscommon would tell you, it was almost a village. The land was mainly peat bog and flinty soil. Life was harsh, the only comfort coming from being close-knit families. The people were so poor, so uneducated and the place so small, no Shannike had ever paid them a visit. Nobody would have dreamed that it could ever be possible. The man only asked two questions. “How many families are ye?” “Seven,” Dair answered. “And what’s your name?” “Dair Dockery, sir.” Then, with a faraway look, the Shannike said, “So, your name is the seventh letter of the alphabet (Gaelic), and it means oak. You are the seventh son of the seventh son.” And laying a hand on his shoulder continued, “The ladybug has seven spots, the number of planets with the sun and moon is seven and so too is the number of the colors of the rainbow. On the day of seven weathers there will be high wind, rain, frost and snow, thunder, lightning, and sunshine. Tomorrow will be that day. So, I will come. I will spend seven days with you.” After rushing home to share the news, the excitement was palpable as the heads of each family squeezed into Oonagh Dockery’s kitchen and in almost disbelief discussed the Shannike’s coming. They were poor, but their welcoming would be rich. They were determined he would take away happy memories from Four Mile House. He would spend one night in each cottage, but the last night would be with Dair, Oonagh, his wife, and their seven children. Sensing their inquisitiveness, on the first night, the old man—no Shannike ever had a name—said, “I will allow one question or request from each family.” But nobody dared respond save one small child who innocently asked, “Why do you wear a red hat, sir?” “Red is the color of magic,” he replied, “and it has been so since the beginning of time.” As darkness came, his story telling began. Nobody wanted to sleep. People were overawed and enthralled as the man effortlessly shared one fantastic tale after another. It amazed everybody that in the morning, after only a little sleep, they felt fresh and energized. Each night, after he had told his last story, the Shannike offered a piece of wisdom to that household. Nobody in Four Mile House could write, but the head of each family tried to preserve what he heard by sharing it with the neighbors. “There are two things not easily controlled and they are hunger and jealousy,” Fintan O’Flynn recalled. “Trees are silent guards, they are listeners, and they hold knowledge mankind has long forgotten,” repeated Cahir Mulloy. “Don’t sell your hen on a wet day,” Aidan O’Connor recalled with a frown of incomprehension. But everybody else just nodded in false profundity. When he walked around the village watching them at work, people smiled and waved. Since his arrival, everyone’s spirit had changed. Moira Cronin believed that her one cow gave more milk than ever before, and families were happier while children cried less. After that first day, the weather changed, turning to blue skies and sunshine. He noticed an old, dirty white cart horse, its bones sticking out and its coat coarse and patchy, pulling a plough. Then he saw Dair behind it. “Is that your horse?” the Shannike asked, approaching, and touching the horse's face. “It is, sir,” he replied. “Then feed him well tonight. He’ll be traveling soon.” Not fully understanding what he heard, but nonetheless unwilling to contradict the old man, he did what he had requested. The seventh night filled them with mixed feelings, knowing it would be the last time the Shannike would be with them. However, excitement grew as he told the stories of The Dream of Aengus, where the 'Dagda' cast a spell to make the sun and moon stand still for nine months, so Aengus could be conceived and born on the same day. It scared the young ones when he recounted the history of The Children of Lir, where a Druid’s wand turned four children into white swans. Pausing between stories, the oil lamp caused a glint from the gold ring on his finger. Oonagh had noticed it the very day he arrived. It was unlike anything she had ever seen and was curious. “I have a question, sir?” His kindly eyes and a nod showed she could continue. “Can you tell us about your ring?” In a strong but soft voice, the Shannike began, looking around the room at all the faces hanging on his every word. “Long ago, a fisherman from the Claddagh near Galway, engaged to be married, was captured by pirates and sold into slavery. Taken to Algeria, North Africa, he became the property of a rich Moorish goldsmith, who trained him until he became a master craftsman and a free man. “Never forgetting the girl he had left behind, he fashioned his first Claddagh Ring in solid gold as a gift for her, then came back home only to find she had married another and left the town. He died of a broken heart. But his people adopted the ring. They always make it of solid gold and know it only by its Irish name of Fáinne Claddagh. It shows two hands holding a heart in the middle, and a crown at the top. The heart symbolizes love, the hands, friendship, and the crown loyalty and fidelity. If the heart points outwards, it means the person is courting a woman. If it points inwards towards the heart, it symbolizes marriage.” The old man held up the back of his hand so Oonagh could see it better. “It must be worth a fortune,” she replied. And then daringly she asked, “With the heart down, then there must be a woman in your life?” The Shannike’s eyes sparkled, and he paused as memories of another time flooded in. “You know, I cannot answer,” he said. “That would be a second question.” “But now I’ll tell you the story of Tir na Nog. Many years ago, there lived a great and noble warrior name Oisin, the son of Fionn MacCumhaill, the leader of the Fianna clan. While hunting, they saw an extraordinary sight. A young woman came riding towards them on a spirited snow-white horse. She was the most beautiful person anyone had ever seen. With long red hair down to her waist and wearing a pale blue dress, she seemed surrounded by light. “As she brought it to a stop, the horse's hooves struck some stones, sending small sparks into the air, and in a voice that sounded like the music of a harp she said, ‘I am Niamh, and my father is the king of Tir na Nog. I am looking for the noble warrior Oisin to invite him to return with me to the Land of The Eternal Young.’ Oisin stepped forward to greet her. As his eyes met Niamh's, it was love at first sight. “Come with me to Tir na Nog,’ Niamh pleaded. After only a moment's hesitation, Oisin swung up behind her onto the snow-white horse and together they crossed the sea to Tir na Nog. “Having grown up in Ireland, Oisin would never have believed that a more beautiful land existed. In this magical place, Niamh and Oisin's love grew deeper as she shared the treasures of her enchanted homeland. Three hundred years passed as though it were but a single day. No one in Tir na Nog fell sick. Nobody knew of sadness. Nobody aged. They lived in endless, youthful moments filled with happiness. “Despite a life of pleasure, and his deep love for Niamh, a small part of Oisin's soul was lonely. Such feelings were unknown in Tir Na Nog, but his longing to return to Ireland overwhelmed him. Niamh couldn’t ease his loneliness and reluctantly allowed him to go, agreeing because she loved him. ‘You must go and ride my snow-white horse there,’ she said, but then added a serious warning. ‘If you ever get down from my horse or set foot on Irish soil, you can never return to Tir na Nog.’ “Riding the snow-white horse, Oisín reached his homeland and found everything had changed—to him it felt as though just three short years had passed, but it was actually three hundred. His family and friends had long passed away. The Fianna no longer hunted in the hills, and the castle he once called home was now in ruins. In his quest to find his family and his grief at their loss, he forgot to care for the beautiful snow-white horse. Despite its hunger and fatigue, the mare continued to respond to Oisin. Finally, with a sad heart, he turned the horse back toward the sea to return to Tir na Nog. “He came upon a group of men working in a field, and as the mare reached them, her fatigue caused her to stumble. Her hoof hit a stone. Oisin bent down to pick it up, planning to take it to Tir na Nog. He felt certain that carrying back a piece of Ireland would ease his sadness. But as his hand grasped the stone, the straps holding his saddle broke, and he fell to the ground. Within moments, Oisin aged three hundred years. Without her rider, the mare reared up and rushed into the ocean, returning to Tir na Nog and her beloved Niamh. “The men in the field witnessed something that amazed them. Not only had they seen a young man age before their eyes, but they also saw a tired old plough horse race into the sea. Rushing to his aid, the men carried him to St. Patrick. When he met the Saint, Oisin spoke about his family history, his love for Niamh and the Land of Eternal Youth, Tir na Nog. But St Patrick could not console him, and the old man simply lay down and died. “Even to this day, the fishermen and lighthouse keepers still tell of foggy nights when the moon is full, and they see a shimmering snow-white horse dancing in the waves along the shores of Ireland. Some say that the beautiful red-haired maiden, in a pale blue dress who rides the horse, still searches for Oisin.” There were gasps around the cottage as he finished his story. Children just stared in awe at the Shannike, not fully taking in what they had just heard. Men looked shocked. Women wept. When everyone had left, and the children put to bed alongside the animals, knowing they would be warm there, Dair said, “We have prepared our bedroom for you. Let me show you where it is.” “Thank you kindly, Dair, but I’ll not be needing it. Rest there with your wife and young ones. I’ll sleep here in the rocking chair next to the fire. If you would throw another piece of turf onto it, I’ll be just fine.” At that moment, Oonagh came in and stood quietly listening. “Before we sleep, let me give you both a final word for your kindness and generosity. ‘Running water reveals the sounds of the Otherworld, to those who know how to listen.’” As the night noises nursed everyone to sleep, the Shannike listened. The wind gently rustling through the thatched roof and the faint tap tap of the loosely fitting shutters provided the music he needed. It was time to go. He’d prepared for this moment. As the red glow from the peat fire warmed his body, the Shannike felt himself slowly being transformed. First his feet began to melt, then his legs and next his torso stopping just below his heart. Life stood still for one last second as he smiled and nodded, then he was gone. All that remained was a pool of wax on the rocking chair which turned into water. But as it evaporated, something else was lying there. Shining brightly from the light of the fire was his Claddagh ring. When Oonagh came in to replenish the fire in the morning, she saw the empty chair and the ring and wondered. There was no sign of the Shannike. Then she heard the sounds of their white plough horse galloping into the distance, and she knew. The END About Michael Barrington: Michael Barrington, writes mainly historical novels: Let the Peacock Sing, The Ethiopian Affair, Becoming Anya, The Baron of Bengal Street, No Room for Heroes. Passage to Murder is a thriller set in San Francisco. His most recent book, Magic at Stonehenge is a collection of 42 short stories. He also blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net.

I. A medical diary for a medical man. This is a surgical mind of the utmost cleanliness/I will not impede myself by succumbing to the irreverent acts of the more ill-educated ilk/those with their silver and stethoscopes/their glinting glasses and whitewash coats. II. A new patient for a patient man. This name is unimportant and the first I will remove/among other things. There is much that is unclean about our anatomy. III. New blood for the bloodied mind/his arm strikes clean 'cross iron/no silver for precision or cleanliness/I must make do with what I have. (iii) I need to make do with what I have. There isn't much time/time flew from my hands and over the fence/where the angels dwell and I cannot tread. (iii-a) it burns IV. New heart for the hearty soul/it strips clean with measured sounds and viscera. It beats for me/looks at me/paints my walls clean because these are dirty and grey and need color. (iv) red is the color of children and heaven. V. New heartbeats for the beaten man/I placed it back into its bone cage. I locked the door and ate the key yet he still looked at me with his shiny eyes/blue eyes/eyes that remind me of the sky though I have not seen it for many months. (v) he won't stop looking at me (v-a) make it stop (v-b) why won't he stop VI. Wicked liver for the wicked soul/it looked at me and called me father/it is alkaline and tastes like dust and lonely Tuesdays/wretched/i am wretched (vi) i buried him with his mother i know he fancied her (vi-a) i can still feel him staring/his eyes have burrowed upwards and their optical nerves took root upon my windowsill VII. new hide for the hidden man. i am brazen/i am unclean/i reek of antiseptic holiness and white paint. i took his skin and knit a new coat from the threads of his muscles/they sing me to sleep with harp-string serenades (vii) but i know i am wretched and wicked and sour and his eyes follow me around the house. the roots are now in the woodwork that his eyes may sink into the oak at their own behest/and rise once more where they may better see me (vii-a) i sit at this desk and see him/sky-eyes/pressed into the wall before me. there are lips too now, mouthing the words i write as they appear on the page VIII. Newly-turned soil for the filthy man. I dug him up today and dragged him back to my surgery. I put him together/even the liver i took/i forced them out of me/i searched through the sewerage/and i put him back together. (viii) the eyes would not budge from my walls and the lips closed around my fingers before i could properly reach around them (viii-a) there are teeth (viii-b) and a tongue IX. A call for help from a helpless man/but the authorities are blind/they took me/maybe/safety/no/i can still smell him and today i found his gallbladder under my tongue (ix) they placed me in my bone cage/won't work X. the cell has eyes/blue like the sky (x) for the watched man About Valerie Valdez (in her own eloquent words): "At my core, I’m a goat singer, the Greek name for a story-teller. Curiosity is my alter ego. Born on a US Army base in Germany, my life revolves around words. Due to autism, I didn't speak until the age of five. Two years ago, I retired to pursue writing full-time. The best decision of my life! After forty years working for the US Army, NBC, and PBS stations, and teaching theatre, film, and TV college classes, plus as an office manager for architects and engineers, I just want to write. So far, I’ve published half a dozen poems and stories in various online magazines: Goodcompanylit.com, Northwind Writing Award by Raw Earth Ink Books, and CultureCult Press Anthology. Recently, I completed a six-month online course in writing a musical. My topic - life of Madame Marie Tussaud, of the wax museum, during the French Revolution."

Black forests cover the depths of orbs, deep brown wells beneath ridges that question my sanity. It's been three lifetimes of planets since my voice twitched your lobes. Four spans of the universe's collapse, since I begged your forgiveness. Imploding once more, I implore, Young-keeper-of-all-that's-inane, five moments of tears for those years. Black locks confirm what brown eyes deny ... my betrayal. Deep brows and deaf ears hear my true sorrow. Sara, I'll come back for you. About Valerie Valdez (in her own eloquent words): "At my core, I’m a goat singer, the Greek name for a story-teller. Curiosity is my alter ego. Born on a US Army base in Germany, my life revolves around words. Due to autism, I didn't speak until the age of five. Two years ago, I retired to pursue writing full-time. The best decision of my life! After forty years working for the US Army, NBC, and PBS stations, and teaching theatre, film, and TV college classes, plus as an office manager for architects and engineers, I just want to write. So far, I’ve published half a dozen poems and stories in various online magazines: Goodcompanylit.com, Northwind Writing Award by Raw Earth Ink Books, and CultureCult Press Anthology. Recently, I completed a six-month online course in writing a musical. My topic - life of Madame Marie Tussaud, of the wax museum, during the French Revolution."

Jeremy awoke from his slumber, unsettled by a dream that he could not remember, except that he was certain it dealt with his lack of confidence in his ability to extricate himself and those he cared about from a dangerous situation. Such a dream came as no surprise since it was the fifth night of sleeping in the mouth of a cave on an unidentified island for Jeremy, his sister, and his uncle. They were stranded, having lost their pleasure boat to the ocean's ever gaping and tumultuous throat. Jeremy wrapped himself in his arms, reminded of parental embraces that had steadied his nerves on many previous occasions during his fifteen years of life. He had been resting well under the circumstances, but it was cooler on the island than the previous night. Jeremy instinctively sat up and looked around for something to pull over him for warmth before realizing that such efforts were futile. He resolved to make the best of the night's sleep, but before he could drift back into the realm of dreams, something bizarre caught his eye. A soft light shone from somewhere in the depths of the cave. At first, he thought that it must be an optical illusion of some kind. Perhaps the moonlight was seeping in at just the right angle to reflect off of something in the rock. Jeremy rose to investigate, walking further into the cave. The further he advanced, the surer Jeremy became that this phenomenon was more than a reflection of some kind. The deeper into the cave he walked, the brighter the light became. When he arrived at a point slightly beyond the reaches of their daytime explorations, Jeremy saw something that stunned him. A gem embedded in the rock was shining as if it were a light bulb. Another such gem was only a few feet away from where he stood.  Light emanated from it as well, but it was covered in something that significantly dulled its brilliance. Jeremy was taken aback by what he saw and moved deeper into the cave to explore the second gem. Suddenly, nothing supported his weight. He was falling. Too stunned to cry out for help, he grappled with the walls for something to grab onto. The walls seemed oddly smooth, not allowing him to halt or even slow down his descent. When he landed at the bottom of the shaft, Jeremy blacked out briefly from the impact, but he soon awoke to find himself in a passageway well-lit by the same gems he had witnessed above. Jeremy fought the sensation of shock that attempted to overwhelm him. Keeping a clear head could make the difference between getting back to Lester and Rosalind before dawn and spending the rest of the night in this hole. Jeremy reminded himself that he wasn't stuck in the bottom of a dark oubliette. A tunnel extended into the recesses of the cave. He knew his companions would hear him if he were to scream, but an instinctive desire drove him to explore this discovery. He expected that crying out for help in the middle of the night could create a potentially hazardous situation for his sister and uncle. They had no idea where he was, and if they did make it safely to the edge of the hole, Jeremy would have no plan to offer for his rescue. Daylight would be a safer time for them all to act. Reasoning in this fashion, Jeremy determined that he would at least explore the mysterious passage before him. As he walked along, Jeremy was comforted by the presence of the glowing gems in the wall. The tunnel was so well-lit that Jeremy expected sixty-watt light bulbs would not have done a much better job of illuminating it.  How could their light be almost as bright as bulbs in an electric lamp? Jeremy was so preoccupied with this question that he did not even notice at first that he had just reached the end of the passageway and stepped into a small chamber. If the brightness of the gems had amazed him, what he saw now perplexed him more than anything he had ever experienced. The light grew even brighter, due to a greater concentration of gems in the walls and ceiling. The light revealed a room that had once clearly been used for some purpose by human beings. A large panel, carved out of the rock itself occupied one wall. Two ancient chairs sat in front of this panel. Even from across the room, Jeremy marveled at their exquisite craftsmanship. In several places, the rock of the walls seemed to be blended with a metallic substance. Messages were carved into each of these smooth rectangular areas. The words were in a foreign tongue that Jeremy did not recognize in the slightest, although the look of the language made him feel it must be as ancient as the rock surrounding him. Jeremy walked toward the curious panel with great caution, as if the answers to all the mysteries of the world waited for him there. He was sufficiently afraid to be paralyzed by what he saw around him, but his need to understand what he saw pressed him onward to the wall with the panel. Wonders did not cease, as he arrived at his intended destination. The panel was inlaid with one gem of its own, and a few inches beneath its light were three round knobs. There were also two raised pieces of metal that he would swear to be buttons, as if they were on and off switches for a piece of machinery. He paused. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or had he just discovered something for which there was no possible explanation? He plopped down onto one of the chairs, too puzzled to appreciate their beauty any longer. He knew there was only one way to discover what he was dealing with, but he was afraid of what the results might be. What would it do if anything? At that moment, Jeremy noticed yet another surprising feature of the panel. A small drawer protruded from the center of it. Inside were three of the gems that were so abundant within the walls. He took one of them in his hand and examined it. This gem was like the others in appearance, but it did not give off light. As Jeremy wondered why this would be the case, he repeatedly tossed the gem in the air and caught it in his hand. Strangely enough, it made an odd noise each time it flew upwards. He laughed softly, too dumbfounded by what he was hearing to receive it with anything other than stunned humor. It was static; He heard static! Whatever purpose thing may have been built to serve, it was indeed some sort of radio. Jeremy could not seem to locate the devices that the static was emanating from, but he knew that there were several of them. He began juggling all the gems. The crackling hum filled the room around him. Jeremy decided that he must experiment with the knobs located above the buttons. He let the gems rest for a moment. The first knob could be rolled to the right or left, but neither direction produced any noticeable results. In stark contrast, the purpose of the second knob quickly became clear to Jeremy. It was a volume control. He moved it slightly to the left of where it had been set, reducing the volume somewhat. Jeremy then reached for the third knob, eager to discover its function. He rolled it to the left until it stopped. Aside from a few fluctuations in the intensity of the static and an occasional beeping noise, nothing dramatic occurred. He turned the knob rapidly to the right, listening carefully for any hint of a signal. Nothing happened. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the curiosity. The static drove into him like an insult, threatening to steal away all hope that this astounding machine could be of any help to him. Then he remembered that the first of the three knobs was set at the extreme left position. Perhaps it would make a difference if he tried moving it again. He pursued this course of action with surprising results. As he moved the first knob to the right and further manipulated the third knob, a signal could be heard with sharp clarity.... a voice! It was a radio operator on a naval ship. Jeremy was astounded. He stopped himself, asking silently the rhetorical question, "What good will it do us?" He knew the man on the other end of the transmission could not hear him. Listening to someone's chatter was not helping them out of their predicament. Putting his head in his hands, he cried, "What good will it do us?" Jeremy trad not been expecting a reply, but he received one anyway. The operator from the ship had heard his cry of frustration. There was a distinct crack in Jeremy's voice as he began to have the most wondrous conversation of his life, explaining the circumstances of their wreck to the sailor whose voice filled the room through an ancient and mysterious sound system. The naval ship set course to the island immediately. The only explanation Jeremy offered to the radio operator in regard to the source of his transmission was that he had discovered an abandoned military radio on the island. The next morning, Lester and Rosalind heard his cries for help and managed to lift him up from the tunnel with tremendous difficulty. He explained what had taken place to them, noting the concerned looks on their faces. Perhaps they thought he had suffered a severe concussion from his fall, but when the ship arrived that afternoon, Lester and Rosalind knew that Jeremy had solved a perplexing mystery while they slept. About William Mullins: Will's poetry, short stories, and guest blog articles have appeared in Half Tones to Jubilee, Riverwind, REAL: The Journal of Liberal Arts, Limestone, Cyclamens and Swords Magazine, Scrittura Magazine, California Quarterly, Off the Coast, On the Veranda, Orange Coast Review, Rune Bear, Rye Whiskey Review, Salmon Creek Journal, Ripples in Space, State of Matter, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Theme Park Magazine, Startup Nation, Submittable's Guest Blog, and the Institute of Internal Communication's Guest Blog. His novella Miller's Ridge is available from World Castle Publishing. His novella Darius Dimension and the Seventh Pillar of Elpis is available from Alien Buddha Press.

Theo, an aspiring cat from the land of Somewhere, has desired nothing in his life except for two things--to have a castle of his own and become the perfect king. Upon his wealthy and doubtful brothers telling him otherwise, Theo decides to embark on a journey through the land of Nowhere to prove his potential. Along the way, he discovers many oddities and interesting characters who show him a life he has never known. This is the surreal tale of overcoming differences, friendship found in the most curious of places, and a cat determined to search for his dream. All, in a land of Nowhere. Somewhere Across Nowhere: A Tale Of The Odd And Wondrous - Kindle edition by Packard, J.R.. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

This version is tacitly the best. I am in the morning sun when the artist arrives. My pair of pajamas sleep in frozen still patterns. I turn my face oriental with my poems. Cherry blossoms, I turn inside out light pink to white, brevity, for a short time then walk alone, then die. I hear the sound of notes in my ears approaching on silent footprints. I enter the monastic life; abandon untimely meals, vulgar songs, and dance, mime statuette toss garlands, toss racy clothing, abstain skunk of perfumes abstain no visitors. I leave all sinful shadows behind. But I am of this world, not out of this world. I swear way too much and pray too little. The way of Zen and Jesus is a boxing match. Crack and smack a curse— twigs break silence. About Michael Lee Johnson: Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 300 plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 45 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 7 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 453 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.

Axton takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. Creed, observing him and the woman at the same time, does the same. Creed nods to him and he nods back. Muscles tense, ready for action. “No!” A whoosh of movement, and pain slams into Axton’s hand. The knife flies from his grasp and clatters to the floor a dozen feet away. Axton spins to confront his attacker. Dillon stares back, face racked with tension, about to raise the conduit pipe again. Axton grabs the other end of the pipe as his mind tries to grasp what happened. “What the fuck, Dillon.” “I won’t let you,” Dillon snarls. “Are you...?” Axton doesn’t recognize the man in front of him. “How could you? After all I've done for you, all we’ve been through.” “I won’t let you hurt her.” “Dillon?” the woman calls out. The betrayal stuns Axton. He stares at his friend in horror. Dillon jerks at the pipe, but Axton wrenches it away from Dillon. The woman calling out Dillon’s name intensifies the betrayal, the anger that flares up in Axton. Axton cocks back the pipe, ready to swing it at Dillon. “You back away. I don’t want to hurt you, Dillon.” “Then don’t hurt her.” “Are you defying me?” “I will not let you hurt her,” Dillon utters through gritted teeth. He has his fists in front of him in a boxer’s stance. “I ought to cudgel your brains out with this pipe. Please, Dillon. Turn and walk away. You are out of your league, boy.” “No!” “You think you’re a man? Fuck it, Dillon. You want a fight.” Axton tosses the pipe across the room, where it clatters and clangs, loud and echo-y. He pulls off his overcoat and tosses it to the ground. “You know you’re no match for me.” “Let’s have at it,” Dillon replies, as he whips off his own overcoat, and puts his dukes back up. “I treated you like a brother. I protected you. And you throw it away on that tramp.” Axton spat his words as he and Dillon began the dance with fists ready to strike. Fist to fist, fists smacking at the enemy’s face and body, the most primal contest to see who is the better man. Axton should have seen it earlier, when they met up. Dillon’s reluctance to go into details when he and Brand asked Dillon why he’d been absent. Brand needling Dillon about women, and Dillon sullen and recalcitrant. When they went to talk to Creed, Dillon had sat back and added nothing to the conversation. Dillon had planned this betrayal, head twisted up by the woman’s lies, Axton surmises. She is using him to destroy Creed. Dillon was one of few Axton thought he could trust. Axton hates the woman even more, and that hate flowed into his arms and legs as he faces Dillon. He hates Dillon too, for being so weak and gullible. But he will teach Dillon a lesson, not the one he intended. Dillon is no fighter. Stupid to even attempt a fistfight with Axton. Why would he even try? Axton smiles, knowing it will be no contest. # What was he thinking? Dillon knows he’s no match for Axton as he faces him. He didn’t want it to come to this, and yet in the back of his mind, he knew there would inevitably be a showdown. He tried to avoid it. Headed toward the theater earlier, he cursed himself that Axton arrived first. As Dillon approached, he ran the conversation in his head, to convince Axton they should not get involved, let Creed deal with his own problems. When he reached Axton, his courage wavered, and the words refused to come out of his mouth. Dillon was livid that Axton brushed him off. Nothing he said would stop Axton, and he couldn’t walk away and desert Eden. Now, he faces Axton at fisticuffs, and he thinks, even if it came to this, maybe he can win, simply because he has fairness on his side. In movies, the underdog overcomes at the crucial moment at the climax. All he needs is one good swing at Axton’s smug mug. One knock-out blow. Axton leers at him behind a pair of steady fists. Dillon lunges with a quick right-left combo that Axton easily deflects. Axton swings back, so fast Dillon barely dodges the first one and the second hits him on the side of the chest. He reels back as Axton advances with right and left hooks. Dillon glances over at Eden, who still has the revolver on Creed, while Creed hovers over the other gun, inches from his reaching hand. Creed glares back at him for a moment before fixing his eyes back on Eden. “What the fuck is going on?” Creed snarls. “I think we found the rat who was fucking your girl behind your back,” Axton boasts, and feints with a fist. “Dillon? Fuck!” Creed mutters loudly. “Never trusted the little punk.” “What did she tell you, Dillon?” Axton asks. “She told me enough,” Dillon replies, trying to sound tough but his voice quavering. “About Creed. About you.” “Lies! She’s using you. To turn you against us.” “Not true, Dillon,” Eden calls out. “Don’t believe them.” “What did she tell you, Dillon?” Axton asks again. Dillon looks at him with hatred. One good smack to the head to bring Axton down. Dillon’s hands shake as he skips around on his feet. Axton rolls his fists slowly, bringing them in and out. Axton  looks over at Creed, his mouth beginning to open. Dillon strikes with a left jab, throwing it as hard as he can. As his hand brushes past Axton’s jaw, a fist comes in too fast for Dillon to dodge. Sparks explode in front of his eyes at impact, followed by black. He jolts awake as he hits the floor. He begins to sit, shaking consciousness back into his painful head. Axton leaps on top of him before he can sit upright. Axton has his hands around Dillon’s neck, pushes him back on the floor. Fear grips Dillon as he struggles to pull free. “You drop the gun, girl, or your friend gets strangled,” Axton yells out hoarsely. “You let him go or I plug Creed,” she snaps back. “You try, and I make sure you die too,” Creed replies. “You shoot Creed and I’ll put you on the ground before you get off another shot,” Axton gloats. “No way out of this, girl. Put the gun down and we go easy on you.” “Do what he says, Eden,” Creed says. “Drop the gun. Or someone gets hurt.” “Like I believe your bullshit?” she replies. “Like I can trust you and that asshole?” # She can’t bear the thought of Dillon being strangled, and yet if she lets down her guard, Creed will grab the other gun. Every time she darts her eyes at the two men on the ground, Creed’s fingers inch closer. Desperation and despair sink into her, like she’s falling down inside herself even as she’s aware she’s still standing, still holding the gun. She feels as if she will faint or simply drop the gun, which grows heavier in her outstretched hands. Why does it have to end this way? Fear buzzes down her arms, to make them unsteady, the gun moving from one side to another, and the more she notices it, the worse it gets. Why did it have to end this way? Her happiness the last few weeks was too good to be true. Those days she spent with Dillon, the way he made her feel. Even that day she met him at the Hellfire Tavern where they all hung out. She had come into town, and she was scared of being by herself. A silly fear, and she had chatted with Dillon, they shared a like for movies and theater. But she ended up going with Creed. Creed was older than Dillon, more in control of his life, and played the piano, plinking out simple tunes on the badly tuned upright in a back room of the Hellfire. When she saw Dillon at the table with Brand and Axton, laughing at a joke Axton was telling, she wrote him off. She could see that Axton was a narcissistic thug, and Dillon one of his acolytes. After that first day, she never forgot Dillon, and he never forgot her. When they ran into each other a few weeks ago and started talking. She’d already reconsidering her options, ready to leave Creed and blow town. The city was dirty with coal, but the mines were almost played out, so the city was dying. She had enough of Creed’s mediocre sex and his jealous accusations whenever she went outside. And then he’d defend Axton when Axton made crude gestures towards her. But she didn’t know if she could trust Dillon. Even when he talked excitedly about leaving with her, seeking out some new place, she didn’t know if he was being honest, honest with her but even more, being honest with himself. “What if you have regrets, once we get there?” she whispered to him, as they snuggled together in the back of a motion picture theater, waiting for the feature to begin. “Regrets? Why would I have regrets if I’m with you?” He kisses her for emphasis. “You’d no longer be around your friends. You’ve known some of them since childhood.” “I can come back and visit them.” “They might be upset with you. Some of them will be with me.” “We’ll make new friends.” “You’d really run away with me?” “Sure,” he said. “Where you want to go?” “I don’t know. Anywhere is better tan here. This place is dying.” “I’ll go anywhere with you.” She wasn’t sure if she believed him. She didn’t think he had the nerve to stand up to Axton, but he proved her wrong on that count. They have train tickets to the capital for the next day, where he knows where to sell the papers, and they’d have money to go somewhere far away. Not that it did any good. All those dreams are gone; Axton has downed him in a fight, and now has him pinned to the ground, strangling the life out of him. “It’s over, baby.” Creed says. “Drop the gun and we go easy on you.” “We? Like I trust that bastard over there!” “You lost, Eden. There’s nothing to do but accept defeat. And with lover-boy gone, you can come back to me.” “Never!” she hisses. His face grows hard as he glares at her. “If that’s the way it’s going to be. I thought I loved you but…” She glances down at his hand, quivering above the gun, as if itching to grab it. She has never seen so much hate in his face, it makes his skin boil red. She watches him move his hand on top of the gun as he continues to face her. # Doom washes over Dillon as he lies on the floor. The hands tight on his throat, and he can’t do anything to stop it. The world starts to get blurry. “I hope it was worth it,” Axton hisses above him. “Throw away your best friends for that cheap tramp. You stupid little punk.” He can’t reply. He can’t tell Axton how for a long time he resented him. He no longer wanted to be Axton’s stooge. Even Eden questioned him on this. “Do you like me?” she asked that morning, as they lay together on the mattress on the floor of his room. “Or are you using me as a wedge to get away from them?” “I love you, Eden. How can you question that?” “But this guy Axton. You grew up with him.” “Because he had more money than me or Brand, I thought he was somebody. I don’t think that now.” “I think he’s trying to get Creed to kill me. I’m scared, Dillon.” “Tomorrow we take the train out of here. Leave this all behind.” “Until then?” “I’ll protect you. Maybe I’ll talk to Axton. This is between you and Creed.” “I hate that guy. He’s worse than Creed.” “Axton is?” “Yes. He was at our place. Creed goes down to the basement to fix more drinks, and you know what that pig did? He told me to pull up my top so he could see my...” She shudders. “Did you tell Creed?” “Yeah. Soon as he returned with the drinks.” “What did he say?” “He just laughed. They both laughed at me. He said it was nothing, that Axton was playing around. Like I need that bullshit. That’s when I knew I had to leave the bastard. Him and his fucking friends. Except you.” “I only know Creed from Axton. And I’m sick of Axton. Like I told you.” “I don’t know how this will end,” she said. “Like I said. Maybe I can talk to Axton. Convince him not to get involved. And I’ll lend you my gun, to defend yourself.” “You would do that?” she asked. “Sure,” he replied. “You’re sweet, Dillon.” She kissed him. “Why do you hang around these people?” “We grew up together. Me, Axton, and Brand. And Axton’s dad had money. Brand and me: we thought the world of Axton when we were small. I didn’t know better. He’s ruthless. A thug.” They continued to lie in each other’s arms. Outside the window a crow cawed, and another further away replied. “When we make love,” she said, “I forget all this. I forget how scared I am.” Those words echo in his head. They hurt when he thinks he might never make love to her again. He opens his eyes to see Axton above him, a savage smile on Axton’s face. Axton and the room begin to waver as Dillon’s mind shuts down from lack of oxygen. The room swims below him and he feels himself float up from his body. Axton with his hands tight around the throat of a man on the ground. Eden, frozen in place, her panic thundering through her torso and limbs, her finger hesitating on the trigger, unable to shoot the gun trained at Creed’s head. Creed in a crouch, his fingers now graze the grip of the other weapon and inch closer to the trigger guard. His own fear clamped down in his tough exterior as he glared at her with hate, waiting for the right moment. The moment she turns from Creed, spins to aim at Axton to stop him from strangling Dillon. Or the moment she simply looks over, lets her guard down. Creed thinks he can shoot her before she kills Axton, and if not, at least he can kill her before she kills him. Axton, eight feet away from her, watching her closely as he pushes his fingers into Dillon’s throat, watching her fear build, waiting for her move, ready to leap up if she shoots Creed, and pounce on her before she cocks the gun and fires again. Her finger trembles on the trigger. Creed feels the gun beneath his fingers, knows exactly where it is and that he can pick it up and fire in less than half a second. Axton prepares to take action, knowing the deadlock is about to end. Dillon sees all this in his head as he lies helplessly on the floor. # Eden bites her lip as she clutches the gun. Time stops, every second slowed to an agonized crawl. Creed stares into her eyes, waiting for the moment. His lips tighten in a grim smile. She stares back at him, trying not to lose focus. The moment she loses focus, looks away, he will grab the gun. Her fear begins to numb her into a state of hopelessness. Dillon on the ground being strangled. And behind Creed, the upright piano with its lid propped open. If she’d entered the room any later, he would have found the papers, tucked against the strings in the bowels of the upright. It was a stupid place to hide them, she thinks now. She should have avoided this theater, because it was only a matter of time he’d figure it out. The dream once so close, now slips further and further away. The plans Dillon and she had, of fleeing the city, finding a new life. Dillon on the floor, strangled by Axton. If she turns and aims and shoots at Axton, Creed will grab the other gun and shoot her. There’s no other way. Then again, why would she want to live if Dillon is dead and she didn’t stop it. At least she can take Axton down, or can she? Can she aim and fire before Creed shoots her. Because she can see in his eyes, that Creed will do exactly that. His face is cold now, no longer seeing her as a person, but an obstacle. Each second of indecision only makes things worse. Her finger tightens on the trigger. # A gun fires. The blast reverberates through the empty theater. A body crashes to the ground, a chair topples over, and a heavy piece of metal clatters on a hollow wood floor. The pressure on Dillon’s neck vanishes. He sucks in air as Axton leaps off. “Hold him, Dillon!” she screams. Dillon grabs at something above him, Axton’s leg, and he clamps both hands just above the ankle. “Let go of me!” Axton yells furiously as he yanks hard at his leg. “You’re abetting a murder!” Axton twists half around towards Dillon. The other foot slams into Dillon’s shoulder. Dillon winces in pain but continues to grip. Through bleary eyes he sees the free leg cock backward and swing down fast at him. The pain this time is too much and he lets go. He hears a gun cocking, the whir and click of the cylinder as another bullet slips into place. Above him Axton spins to face the woman. The gun blasts. What if she misses, Dillon thinks, or merely grazes Axton? There will be no time for her to get another shot off. He stares up at Axton. From the corner of his eye he spots Eden, with the gun pointed toward something above him. Fuck! He panics as he hears the bullet smack into something, a wet thunk, and then there is no sound at all. Eden is frozen in space, still holding the gun. Axton is still above him, half turned to face the woman. For a moment no one moves, everything is still, and Dillon is unsure what has happened or if he’s simply died and this vision, this last thing is frozen in his mind, as if this is what happens after life expires, the image of that last moment becomes eternity in one’s awareness. He even wonders if in her fear of cocking the gun and firing, she shot him by mistake. Axton slowly starts to move, and faster, as he topples over. Blood spurts from the side of his head, behind his right eye. The eye dangles half out of the socket. The body smacks loudly next to Dillon. He rolls away from it, and slowly climbs to his feet, shaky and groggy. Creed lies on the stage, his body flung over the toppled chair, the gun next to his hand, a bullet in the middle of his forehead leaking blood. “Fuck!” Eden sobs. She begins to take deep breaths. “You okay, Dillon?” “I think so. You?” “I don’t know. I can’t believe I did that.” “You saved both our lives.” “I’m fucked. When the police get here...” “Police don’t need to know.” “Did you hear that?” He’s about to reply but she hushes him. A man yells in the distance. “Axton! Dillon!” “Fuck!” he says. “That’s Brand. I forgot about him.” “This is what he wanted. If he couldn’t kill me, he’d send me to prison for murder.” “No.” He wraps his arms around her. “Listen, Eden. We have to be strong.” “How can we? I just committed double homicide and you can barely walk and that guy will be here in the next minute.” “No,” he says. He glances down at Axton’s corpse. “Give me that gun.” He grabs the gun from her and kneels down to push it in Axton’s fingers. “Make it look like they shot each other at the same time.” “That won’t work. Both bullets from the same gun.” “You have a better idea?” She shakes her head. “Now get over there, behind that piano on the stage. Keep out of sight. Let me deal with Brand.” # Brand thinks he hears a shot as he reaches the intersection. He stops and listens. The howl of the wind, and a dog barking in the distance. He puts his hand on the handgun in his trench coat pocket. A moment later he hears another shot, from the abandoned theater. He pulls out the gun and walks slowly towards the theater. It’s probably nothing. He knows he’s late and the others are inside. He reaches the door. “Hello!” he yells. “Axton! Dillon!” He waits for an answer, but can’t hear a thing. “Where is everyone?” he yells. He steps inside. The lobby is dark and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the light. He walks slowly towards the main doors to the theater, with his gun in front of him. He can see light flickering inside, but he can’t hear any sounds. He steps through the doorway. At the other end of the room, a man faces him. “Brand? Is that you?” “Dillon!” Brand pockets the firearm and starts down the sloping floor. “Where the hell have you been?” “Got held up.” Brand notices the body on the stage and another on the floor near Dillon. A couple more steps he recognizes both dead men, Creed and Axton. “What the..?” “They shot each other,” Dillon says. “I thought that only happened in movies.” Both Axton and Creed have guns in their hands. Drilled each other in the head at the same time. Brand stares in wonder. He realizes one of the corpses is Axton and he starts to tear up. “I can’t believe he’s dead. What the fuck happened?” “Axton was the one who was cheating with Creed’s girl,” Dillon says. “Axton? No shit. Didn’t think he’d do that. Maybe joke about it.” “Creed found out. And they tried to kill each other.” “Tried. They succeeded. You called the medics?” “Not much an EMT can do at this point.” Brand notices Dillon’s limp and his bruised face. “You look like you could use an EMT.” “It’s nothing.” Dillon looks away. “Who bashed you up?” Brand asks. “Creed? Axton?” “Rather not say.” Brand stares at him suspiciously. How can Dillon, one of his closest friends, keep a secret from him? “Come on, Dillon. You can tell me.” A thought comes into Brand’s head. “Where is the girl?” He chuckles. That’s why Dillon has clammed up. “It was her, wasn’t it? She beat the shit out of you to escape.” “You can think what you want, Brand.” Brand glances over at Axton. It still has not quite hit him in the gut his friend is dead. “We should call someone.” “I don’t know, Brand. Maybe keep the cops out of it. They ask questions. You were on the Brimini job with Creed and Axton.” “You’re right.” “There’s a small yard in the back. I think we should bury them. For your sake, Brand. And then we can give Axton a proper funeral service, and Creed too, show them how much we respected them.” Brand nods. “I think you’re right, Dillon. You always had smarts, maybe as much as Axton. Maybe more, since he got in that stupid to mess with Creed’s girl. Will you help me drag them out there?” “Of course I will, my friend,” Dillon replies with a slight smile. “We have a long night ahead of us, good buddy.” THE END About Rolf Semprebon: For 15 years Rolf Semprebon (he/him) wrote scripts for a monthly radio theater show, The Ubu Hour, on KBOO Community Radio, and has also published music reviews in several publications. The Oregon Writers Colony awarded him honorable mention in their 2019 Fiction First Chapter Contest. Rolf grew up in New Hampshire, graduated from Oberlin College, and lives in Portland Oregon.

At the intersection Axton lights a cigarette and waits for the others. This part of the city has been forgotten for decades; boarded-up buildings, empty lots of overgrown weeds and rusted chain-link fences. The sun at dusk casts an eerie glow on desolate streets, the only other life, several crows on the rim of a caved-in rooftop. Their harsh squawks eat at him, and he needs his nerves. If he had his gun, he’d shoot a few to scare the others away. If the others don’t get here, I’ll go in alone, he thinks, as he looks down the street that dead-ends at the abandoned movie theater. The remains of a cinema marquee clings to its front, while the doors beneath are covered in graying plywood. Dillon or Brand or both will show up soon. Dillon is more reliable, though recently family troubles have made him absent from the usual meeting place, the Hellfire Tavern. Brand is easily distracted, thus less reliable, but better in a tough situation, a fighter, brawn to Dillon’s brain. Down the street, Axton sees a shape hunkered in an overcoat approach quickly. Axton blows out a wisp of smoke and chucks the rest of the cigarette. The man reaches the intersection, out of breath. “At least you’re here, Dillon,” Axton says. “You bring your gun?” Dillon shakes his head. “Next time, don’t forget. Probably won’t need it. I got a knife. Creed’s got my gun. He needs it more than me right now. You’re back up. And a witness, depending on how things go.” Dillon nods. Axton detects hesitancy. Poor Dillon. Only a couple years younger than Axton, and he still acts like a kid. He needs action like this, what could be a life or death, to mold him with its impact. Every culture has this same ritual, a jolt to punch a boy into a man. Axton pats Dillon on the shoulder. “This will be easy. We’re just here to make sure the crazy bitch don’t pull something stupid. Keep everything safe.” Axton scans down all three streets that don’t dead end. “Do you see him?” “Brand?” Dillon asks. “Late again. You ready?” “Why not wait? Brand will be here soon.” “We don’t need him. Brand can clean up. Just you and me, buddy.” Axton gives Dillon another pat on the shoulder. “Get Creed out of his dumb-shit mess and he owes us. We own him. “You ready?” “I guess.” “Follow me.” Axton heads down the dead end street towards the theater with Dillon beside him. Their shadows dance on the cracked pavement in front of them. Their footsteps echo off the facades of boarded up hulks. “So what’s the deal?” Dillon asks. “This crazy woman Creed got deep with. I warned about her and Creed ignored me. I told you boys this. Never let them latch their hooks in. Those claws ripping out your heart to steal everything you own.” “I mean, what’s our deal in this?” Dillon whines. “You don’t need details. Stay in the background. Do what I say. Got that?” Dillon grunts a reply, something about Creed. “These others, they don’t know priorities. Creed getting fucked over this woman. But you’re smart enough to know, friends are more important. You know priorities.” To think that morning Axton had worried about Dillon, having not seen him in several days. How silly those worries; he can count on Dillon in a pinch, ever has since they were in grade school. They reach the entrance of the theater, where the plywood has fallen half off to leave a gap large enough to step through. “Okay. Quiet,” Axton says softly, as he looks beyond the plywood into the lobby. “What do you see?” Dillon whispers. “Nothing yet.” Axton steps inside. Bits of light slip in from the holes where there were once windows. His eyes quickly adjust to the darkness. At one time the roof had caved in. and the floor is covered with debris, much of it pushed to the sides, so that a trail runs towards the pair of opened doors to the theater. The two men step quietly along the trail on the floor. Hope we’re not too late, Axton thinks to himself. “Don’t think I can do this,” Dillon says, his words almost lost in the whir of the wind through the gaps in the roof. Axton turns to look at him, sees the nervousness. “Don’t worry. You’re only a backup. Me and Creed can handle it. Grab a weapon.” Axton points to something sticking out of the debris a few feet away. Dillon looks down, and moments later he stoops over and pulls out a two-foot long metal pipe. “Not that you’ll need it,” Axton whispers. Grasping a weapon will instill confidence in Dillon, Axton thinks. Dillon is smart and hard working, but not tough. When they were younger, he had protected Dillon from schoolyard bullies. Dillon needs to learn what to do when the dicks come out. Axton steps closer to the doors to the theater. “No! You back away!” He freezes at the sound of the woman’s voice. His hand on the hilt of the knife, he slips through the doorway. # Dillon walks along the street listening to the crows that fly past in the darkening sky. At dusk they talk among themselves with strident caws, and gather for the night. Are they warning him or trying to bolster his courage, he wonders. Up ahead he sees a shape standing near the corner, a dot of red from a cigarette being sucked on. He curses to himself that Axton arrived first. In his mind he tells Axton they should not get involved, let Creed handle his own problems, but as he approaches, his determination flies away with the crows. He takes deep breaths as he strides the last half block. “You bring your gun?” Axton grunts, his face stony. Dillon shakes his head. “I was thinking…” he starts to say, but Axton interrupts to tell him Creed has Axton’s gun, and Axton is armed only with a knife. “You ready?” Axton barks. “Aren’t we waiting for Brand?” Anything to delay entering the theater. Axton brushes him off, and pats him on the shoulder. “What’s our deal in this? Why are we..?” Axton interrupts him, to say something about Creed and the woman. “What’s our deal in this?” he asks again. Axton becomes agitated. “You don’t need to know. Just do what I say. Got that?” Another patronizing pat on the shoulder. Good dog. Filling himself with anger, Dillon tries again. “I don’t see why we should get involved in Creed’s bullshit.” Axton ignores him. They approach the theater. The weathered marque has the word “LOSE” on it, having lost a C in front and D behind. Soon they are inside the dimly-lit lobby. The air smells of mildew and dust. The wind howls outside above the holes in the roof. Dillon’s chances to dissuade Axton rapidly diminish. Dillon takes another deep breath, and raises his voice. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.” Axton turns to him. “Don’t worry,” Axton says impatiently. “You need to buck up. We just need to handle it.” Axton narrows his eyes as he peers at Dillon in the darkness. “Grab a weapon.” Dillon looks where Axton points. A piece of plumbing on the floor nearby protrudes from the clutter. I’ll show him I’m not a coward, Dillon thinks, as he grasps the end of the pipe, and wrenches it free. Even with the pipe firmly at hand, Dillon is scared. He’s not ready for what is about to happen, what he wanted to avoid. His efforts to dissuade Axton have failed, and Axton is now at the doorway of the theater. Dillon’s final hope is that she is not there. “No! Back away!” Her voice jabs ice into his spine. Dillon clutches the pipe tightly and follows Axton into the theater. # Axton enters a room larger than the lobby, with a floor that slants downward to a stage. Most of the theater chairs have been unbolted from the floor and pushed into large piles on both sides. An upright piano gathers dust at the corner of the stage. The room is lit by a couple of flame lanterns that hang at each side near the front. A woman stands in front of the stage, her back to Axton. She has a gun aimed at a man on the stage. The man, Creed, stares back at her, his body bent forward in a crouch, and his hand reaching out for an item on a metal folding chair in front of him. He is frozen in this position, as the woman is frozen with her hands on a gun pointed at him. The item he’s reaching for is Axton’s gun. Axton turns to see Dillon has followed him. “Just in time,” he whispers. “You stay here.” Axton pulls out his knife, a four inch blade, and begins to toe quietly towards the woman. She is  unaware that he and Dillon have entered the room. Slow quiet steps down the sloped floor. All Axton needs to do is get close enough where he can rush her. If she turns to point the gun at him, Creed can grab the other gun off the chair and plug her full of holes. If she shoots Creed, Axton can stab her before she can cock the gun, aim, and fire another shot. It will be to save Creed’s life, and he will have Dillon to back him up on it. A smile creeps across Creed’s face as he eye-contacts Axton over her shoulder. The woman senses something, and she begins to turn to look behind her, but snaps back to Creed as he lurches his hand an inch closer to the gun on the chair. Axton detects her fear, the gun in her hand quavering as she clutches it. We’ve got her. She knows she’s in a trap. Only a matter of time to bring her down, and hopefully no one else gets hurt. Then she’ll be sorry she messed with Creed and Axton. # In the late morning Axton, joined by Brand and Dillon, met with Creed at the back table of the Hellfire Tavern, mostly empty that time of day. Creed had some deep scratches on his face, from above his left eye to his cheek, as if attacked by a wildcat. A wildcat named Eden Rose. “She’s cheating on me,” Creed told Axton. “Last few weeks. Sneaking off somewhere. I just know it. If I find that son of a bitch she’s fucking...” “I told you she was no good,” Axton snapped. “You should’ve listened to me.” “We got in a fight this morning. She went bat-shit on me. Don’t know what she’ll do next.” “You can’t let a woman treat you that way,” Axton said calmly. “What about the guy?” “The guy?” “She’s… ahem.. wang-doodling with.” “Don’t know.” Creed shook his head. “She won’t tell me.” “We’ll make her tell. Then we teach the good boy a lesson.” “A lesson he won’t forget,” Brand chuckled. “We’ll run him out of the town.” “Worse than that,” Axton replied. “He’ll wish he skipped town when we get done with him. And Creed here needs to keep his woman under control.” “It’s not just that.” Creed pauses to take a drink, his face sweaty though the bar is cool and clammy. “She stole something.” “What’d she take?” Axton asked. Creed beckoned Axton in closer. “Some papers.” “Papers?” “The ones from the Bimini job.” “Oh, fuck!” Axton raised his voice. “You were supposed to burn those.” “I was going to.” “Those papers will incriminate you, Creed. Now it makes sense. She plans blackmail, and once a blackmailer gets their hooks in, only two ways it ends.” Axton knew since he’d been on the taking end of three blackmails, one still paying off, another committed suicide and the third ended with the man losing career and marriage when he stopped paying and the photos showed up. But on the other side of the blackmail, there’s one way out without paying money or having the secret divulged. One had to neutralize the blackmailer. “Know where she is, Creed?” Axton asked. Creed shook his head. “I might find out. A few different places. She likes theaters.” “Theaters?” “Plays. Moving-picture theaters. Where lies are told. I should’ve known what a liar she is.” “I told you…” “You don’t have to tell me again, Axton.” Creed stared down at his beer, a miserable look on his face. “It hurts to see you this way, Creed. When you find out anything, let me know. Listen, take this. You might need it.” Axton pulled his gun out of the holster beneath his arm and handed it to Creed. “At least until we settle this.  You know how to use it?” “Sure.” Creed examined the gun. “This is one of those new ones. Automatic reload.” “That’s right.” Axton stood, gestured to Brand and Dillon, and walked out of the bar. As they joined him outside, he turned to them. “You see that. That’s why you never let them get their hooks into you. I hope Creed learns his lesson. What a mess he’s put himself in. This woman…” # When Creed arrives at the theater, gun in hand, he finds it empty, no sign of habitation. He assumes the information is wrong, that she has been hiding here. With the chandeliers lit, he glances around and wonders what she would see in a place like this. He spots the old accompaniment piano, pushed to the back of the stage, and remembers when he used to play. Those were happier days, making money pounding out barrel house blues in boozy gin joints. But then he had to get greedy, and fall in with thugs like Axton and his gang. More money. Trying to be a tough guy. And now he has a damn gun on him. Placing the gun on a chair, he walks up to the piano, flexing his fingers. The piano, a cherry-veneer Chickering, is coated in dust, but when he opens the fallboard, the keys are intact. He hits a couple notes, and nothing. He’s opening the top lid when he hears a noise behind him. Eden enters the theater. She freezes when she sees him. She pulls out a gun. “Seriously, Eden. A gun? Do you even know how to use it?” “You don’t want to find out,” she replies, trying to be tough. He sees through the toughness. She’s terrified. Clutching the pistol with both hands. She won’t shoot him if he’s unarmed. He knows that much about her. It’s a matter of time, talk to her and hopefully get her to drop the gun before the arrival of Axton and his boys or her lover boy. It shouldn’t have come to this, he thinks, as he stares at her from his vantage point on the stage. He takes a step closer. Some slick-talking charm-boy put crazy ideas in her head, poisoning her against him. When Creed finds out who it is, he’ll hurt the man, and he’s not sure if he’ll kill him, Creed hates the man that much. She wasn’t supposed to have a revolver. She must have borrowed it from her secret lover, another reason to hate the guy. Creed tries to get her to divulge the name, but she refuses. At least the man didn’t show up with her. A lot of those sweet-talkers, they like to brag about themselves, but when it comes to a showdown, they turn tail. Maybe she’ll see this, and realize her big mistake, dumping Creed for a loser. “I can change, Eden. I don’t want to lose you. I’ll do what it takes. Please put down the gun.” She shakes her head. She continues to point the weapon at him. If only she would be more reasonable, he thinks, so he can be reasonable too. But she refuses to budge from her stance. His anger flares up. “Goddamn it, Eden! Don’t be stupid! I don’t want to hurt you. I would never want to hurt you.” “Then why did you show up armed?” she replies. Creed steps slowly towards the chair and she steps closer to the stage. At forty feet away, there’s a chance she would miss when she fired the gun, but now at thirteen feet away, that’s far less likely. She has it aimed at his face. Her hand is steady, but he can see in her face she is as afraid as him. The gun on the chair is almost within grasp. But does he even want to pick it up? If she dropped the gun, he would kick over the chair, to de-escalate the situation. As he talks to her, trying to distract her and convince her to drop her gun, he slowly worms closer to the other one on the chair. Each time she glances down or away, he inches nearer. The gun is almost within reach. He watches her face intently, waiting for her attention to flag, for that gap from her determined gaze, so that he can grab the gun. Once he has the gun, can he convince her to put hers down? He wishes he never brought the gun. It was Axton’s idea, and if he had not brought it, maybe they would not be in this deadlock, with her holding the gun at his head. He shouldn’t have listened to Axton, and in fact Axton is mostly to blame. He should have listened to Eden when she said she didn’t like Axton, instead of brushing her off. Axton got him into this mess as much as anybody. Axton and the mystery lover boy. She refuses to listen to reason. She spits at him. She refuses to even lower the gun. Axton’s revolver is so close he can almost feel its heft in his hand. He notices movement from the entrance, over her head a shadow at the far end of the theater. He tenses, prepared to either jump for the gun or simply hold up his hands in surrender. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if lover boy has arrived. A second shape joins the first. Lover-boy too afraid to come alone. The first shape moves slowly out of the darkness. It’s Axton, and one of his lackeys. Creed has a sense of relief. Axton got him into this mess, at least now Axton will help get him out of it. How soon before she realizes men are behind her? That it is over and she has lost. Creed tries to keep a smile off his lips as the men quietly creep down the floor towards her. # Axton takes another step closer, knife held out in front of him. Only two more steps before he reaches the sweet spot he’s mentally marked out on the floor, where he can run at her and grab her before she can swing the gun around to him and aim and fire. Creed, on the stage, is still frozen in place, reaching for the other pistol on the chair, as if he’s an actor in an avant-garde theater piece that’s meant to piss off the audience with its obtuseness. “Don’t get any closer,” the woman says. “Put the gun down and no one gets hurt.” Axton eases his foot down, a board in the floor creaks. “Get away,” she says, with her focus still on Creed. “This is between me and Creed. One more step and I shoot.” “You kill Creed, you got two witnesses to murder,” Axton replies. “Send you up for life. Maybe even the chair. Put down the gun. Game over. Checkmate.” Axton is at an angle now where the side of her face is partially visible, the arch of her neck to her pale cheek, the edge of her lip and her eyelash. An attractive woman, the type of woman that can tie a man like Creed into knots. Treacherously attractive. She darts a fearful look at him. She probably sees the glint of the knife blade from the corner of her eye. Her arm holding the revolver trembles, as her other hand tries to steady the wrist. Creed tightens his body, ready to dive for the other gun on the chair. Not quite yet, though. Every minute will further fray her nerves. Get her nervous and her hand shakes more and Creed’s head becomes a more difficult target, increasing Creed’s odds of survival, even if he loses an ear or part of his face. “Back the hell away or I shoot him!” she says. Axton takes another slow small step closer. He’s close enough now he can rush her and slap her to the ground before she gets off a shot. Wait another moment, let the fear build in her, to the point of panic where she will freeze up or drop the gun or try to drill Creed with a fear-shaking aim. Axton is confident now that he will get Creed out of this alive, with no one else hurt. No one but her, he thinks with a smirk. # Eden Rose has never been so scared as she is now. She has the gun pointed at Creed as she moves down the tilted floor. On the stage he steps away from the piano, his eyes dart to a folding chair near the lip of the stage. She sees the gun on the chair. “Eden, drop the gun. Let’s talk this over like adults.” “How can I trust you? Coming here with a gun.” “Look who’s talking.” “You came here to kill me, didn’t you?” “How can you say that, Eden?” “Why bring a gun if you didn’t come to kill me?” “I was nervous. I didn’t know if your new boyfriend would show up armed. But he’s not here, is he?” “That doesn’t change me and you, Creed.” “We can work this out. I can change. Just tell me the guy’s name and give me back those papers and I will forgive you.” “Not giving you a name, and there’s nothing to work out. We’re through.” “Don’t say that. That hurts me, Eden, to hear you say that.” “Don’t step closer,” she says. He’s a few feet away from the gun on the chair. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you? I know you wouldn’t. You’re not a murderer.” He smiles nervously. She scowls at him. He’s right, she can’t pull the trigger if he’s not holding the gun. Much as he disgusts her, she can’t bear the thought of him dead, and even more so, dying in front of her. If he grabs the gun, she reasons, she might be able to pull the trigger. But she’s not sure. She came to the theater to pick up the incriminating papers she took from him. Wrapped up in a thick leather portfolio hidden at the back of the stage. If not for the papers, she’d have fled the theater as soon as she saw him at the piano. But now it’s too late. To try to flee now, he’d grab the gun and come after her. She trains the gun on his head, even if it’s less target than his chest, where she suspects he might be wearing a vest. She needs him to walk away from the chair. If she misses, or only wounds him, he’ll grab the other gun and shoot her before she can work the mechanism to spin the next bullet in the chamber. “You’re upset, Eden. We need to put the weapons down and talk this out.” He starts to lean forward slowly, to reach for the gun on the chair. “No!” she snaps loudly. “Back away!” “If you put the gun down I won’t hurt you, Eden. I’ll do anything not to lose you.” “I don’t believe you,” she says. She touches her finger to the trigger to see if it’s still there, caressing it as she faces him. He glares back at her. There’s a scuffle of a footstep somewhere behind her. He looks past her, and the look on his face becomes relaxed, as he tries to prevent a smile from creeping across his lips. She hears another quiet footfall behind her. She starts to turn, but snaps back as Creed lurches closer to the revolver, his hand three inches away. She takes a deep breath, to try to quell the panic which now intensifies. “Don’t step any closer,” she warns the person behind her. “Put the gun down or you get hurt,” coos a familiar voice. Her terror increases. He’s already most of the way down towards the stage, she guesses from the sound of his voice. He takes another step, this one loud, no longer worried about surprising her. “Go away! This is between me and Creed.” Not that she thinks that will help. Axton Lowe hates her. Axton Lowe is the last person she wants behind her. “You might as well drop the gun, Eden,” Creed says quietly. “Go ahead. Shoot Creed,” Axton says, eight feet from her. “You’ll get the chair for murder. The game is over. Checkmate.” His voice is mocking. She can almost see his shape from the corner of her eye, and he’s holding something, a gun or a knife. A knife, she guesses, or he would have already shot her. His gun must be the one on the chair, since Creed did not own a gun. Creed’s fingers creep closer when he sees her momentarily distracted by Axton. Her insides go weak. Axton is right. She has no more moves. But she can’t surrender, not with him in the room. That’s what he’d want, for her to shoot Creed and then he’d be on her. If she turns and tries to shoot Axton, Creed will grab the pistol off the chair and shoot her, maybe before she can draw a bead on Axton and pull the trigger. Tears form in her eyes. That would be worse, blurring her vision, weakening her aim. “Back the hell away or I shoot him!” she yells out, knowing it will do no good, but it feels better to yell than to sob. About Rolf Semprebon: For 15 years Rolf Semprebon (he/him) wrote scripts for a monthly radio theater show, The Ubu Hour, on KBOO Community Radio, and has also published music reviews in several publications. The Oregon Writers Colony awarded him honorable mention in their 2019 Fiction First Chapter Contest. Rolf grew up in New Hampshire, graduated from Oberlin College, and lives in Portland Oregon.

Gifted. Zara sees more than she can speak. Feels what others can’t. She is slow when speed is needed. Or quick when it’s not. No sync. She gazed at the vast sky. “Maybe its a place for me? Where my slow and quick make sense.” She climbed up a tree. Higher. The clouds pulled her inside. They praised her gifts. “What are they? I don’t know.” The clouds replied, “You will.” Teacher said, “All kids will paint a picture.” Noble masterpiece. Zara imagined a gorgeous pony with her as its rider. Other kids drew stick figures living in square boxes. Yawn. Her painting would hang at the highest spot on the wall. The other artwork would make the teachers and parents smile. “How nice.” But their eyebrows would arch at Zara’s painting. “A beautiful pony with a lovely girl rider. So amazing.” Mother would hug her extra tight. Then hang it in the family dining room beside father’s war medals. Zara painted the pony blue. She wanted his eyes yellow. But dipped the brush in black paint instead. Dark spots stared at her. Fail! Make it right. Clean the brush. She painted another blue pony. Clean the brush. She painted her figure in orange sitting on it. The brush slipped. It mingled with wet green paint. Colors turned into mud. Fail again! Fix it. Zara mixed more green to the dark spot. She added more orange to her figure, then more green. The lines grew fatter. Paper sagged. Make it right. Other children cleaned up. Zara asked for more paper. Teacher said, “Sorry, I haven’t got time.” Defeat whispered to her,  “You failed.” Everyone looked at her. Fear tightened her throat. No words. Paint dripped from the sagging paper. Mud puddle on the floor. But Zara refused. She grabbed the wet brushes and painted on the wall. A large blue pony with yellow eyes appeared. Teacher yelled, “Stop.” Zara refused, again. Other kids laughed. She smeared orange paint over her clothes. She whistled. The pony turned its head, looked at her. Jumped off the wall. Teacher and other kids gasped. Zara climbed onto its back. They trotted out of the school. Zara clung to its blue mane. The pony trotted quicker. Then slower. But it was her quick and slow. Now it made sense. Sync. The pony jumped into the air. A huge wind lifted them. Higher. Into the vast sky. The clouds pulled them up inside. They cheered. Proud of her. THUNDER! Her confidence exploded. “I painted a noble masterpiece.” The clouds replied, “First of many.” The blue pony stayed in the clouds. It would come to her. If she needed it, again. Mother washed the orange paint off her clothes. Zara put a piece of paper on the wall next to father’s war medals. Her parents said, “It’s blank.” But Zara shook her head no. “It’s a painting of me riding a blue pony.” About Valerie Valdez (in her own eloquent words): At my core, I’m a goat singer, the Greek name for a story-teller. Curiosity is my alter ego. Born on a US Army base in Germany, my life revolves around words. Due to autism, I didn't speak until the age of five. Two years ago, I retired to pursue writing full-time. The best decision of my life! After forty years working for the US Army, NBC, and PBS stations, and teaching theatre, film, and TV college classes, plus as an office manager for architects and engineers, I just want to write. So far, I’ve published half a dozen poems and stories in various online magazines: Goodcompanylit.com, Northwind Writing Award by Raw Earth Ink Books, and CultureCult Press Anthology. Recently, I completed a six-month online course in writing a musical. My topic - life of Madame Marie Tussaud, of the wax museum, during the French Revolution.

First, we start with Bach. The teacher plays with the sound system. Cords and wires. I lie on the dance floor. Sliding glass doors open. Sun warming my face. The Goldberg Variations. Play and it is thirty years ago. I am in N’s kitchen eating bortsch and black bread. Drinking too-sweet black tea from the samovar. Glen Gould was the best, N says. We close our eyes and listen to the man who would sit on a stool to play. Who shunned the public. Who erased time with his long bony fingers. I lie on the dance floor thirty years later. My back sore already from grey hardness. But I stay. Or rather I leave. We stand. Move joints. Next we go to breath. I am in and out of time. Remember to breathe says the teacher. All in black. Her t-shirt like a sheet. Glen Gould continues. About Tara Zafft: Tara Zafft has a BA from UC San Diego and Ph.D in Russian literature from the University of Bath, UK. She began writing poetry when she was thirteen, and only recently began submitting her work for publication. She has poems published in the anthology, Rumors Secrets and Lies, Poems about Abortion, Pregnancy and Choice, Write-Haus, and The San Diego Poetry Annual. She counts Frank O’Hara, Sandra Cisneros, Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton among her greatest poetic influences. She is interested in the big and small moments that make up our lives, in the search for self and the inevitability of change, and what distinguishes us and what unites us as human beings.

I guess I've always known I could travel through time. My first memory was when I was three and Mom caught me drawing on the wall with my crayons. She was so mad. I just stood there, about to cry, wishing I could get away. Suddenly I was outside my house, in the backyard. It was the week before I had been given the new crayons. The next time I remember I was six, in first grade. A couple of kids were teasing me and I wished I could get away. Poof! I was back home, hours before I had gotten into the bus. After that, it just became a normal part of me. Especially in middle and high school. We would be studying history and in the blink of an eye I could be there. It was the easiest 'A' I made in school. It just seemed like the normal laws of time and space did not apply to me. It was no surprise I had a strong interest in physics, now teaching at State University. The note caught my attention shortly after I arrived home one day. Propped up against the candlestick on the hall table, folded in half, it simply read 'A.J.' on the front. I stared at the date inside. January 28, 2014. 4:45 pm. Okay, what happens then? I wondered, concentrating on the date and time. Within seconds I felt that familiar lightheaded sensation that occurred when I traveled. “So what do you think? Murder and suicide?” “Could be. Either that or a double homicide. Won't know until I do the autopsies.” Leaning against a cold wall, I listened to gruff voices coming from around the corner. It sounded like something out of a detective movie. “Call us when you finish, doc. So long.” Hearing retreating footsteps, I slowly peered around the corner. No wonder I was cold, I was in a morgue. A big, balding man hunched between two bodies on twin tables, covered in blood and draped with thin sheets. One woman and one man. And... leaning closer...my fingers gripped the wall's edge as I tried to steady myself. It was my girlfriend, Sandi, and me! We were dead! The man, clearly a coroner, picked up a painful looking tool and held it to my... I looked away, back around the corner, sucking in a deep, shaky breath, my gut rolling.  Telling myself I didn't want to scare the guy half to death by seeing me, I really knew I couldn't handle seeing my own autopsy. I needed air. Leaning against the outside wall, dragging in deep breaths of cold air, I tried to push the nausea aside and think. January 28. What was significant about that day? Other than the day Sandi and I die. And who left me that note at home? Rounding the corner in my hallway, I ran into Sandi, smelling so fresh and smiling so pretty, it was hard to reconcile I just saw her bloody and dead in a morgue. Honestly, it freaked me out. “A.J., I wondered where you'd gone to,” she said, sliding her hands up to my shoulders. “I had something to check on,” I shrugged, gazing into those blue eyes. The eyes of a killer? Or someone I might kill soon? I tried to suppress a shiver. “What's up?” “Well, I thought we could go out Friday night,” she said, dusting my shoulders off. It was a habit when she was nervous. “Sure. Why?” “No reason. Does there have to be a reason?” she said quickly. I was getting more rattled by the second. “No, I guess not. So... Checkers? Six o' clock?” She beamed that pretty little smile at me, the one I'd fallen for when we first met two years ago. “Checkers,” she agreed. Kissing her fingertips, she placed them to my cheek. “Six.”  Turning around, she gave me a slow wink, slipping out the door. Once she was gone, I dropped into my chair, letting my breath out with a whoosh. My head was pounding. Maybe, hopefully, tomorrow this would all make some sense. There was another note on the table when I got home. Same handwriting. January 15.  Thirteen days before we die. For one moment I was tempted not to go. But I had to know. I was in a jail cell. It was just as disgusting as one might imagine. “Took you long enough,” a voice growled at me. Jumping, I noticed a lump sitting on a cot, watching me. Taking two steps closer, I came face to face with myself. “You're me,” I stammered, stating the obvious. “You look terrible.” “You won't look so hot in a little while either.” I looked at him, I mean at me. Weird does not even begin to describe this. In all my travels, I'd never run into myself. “I saw you.... myself dead,” I said finally. “Sandi too.” He...I mean I nodded. “That's why we're here.” He motioned around. “We?” “You. Me. Us.” Weird was getting a whole lot weirder. “You sent me those notes?” “Well, technically you sent them,” He… I said with a smile. “So did you...do it? I mean, did we...did I kill Sandi?” “Here, sit down. You look like you're about to pass out.” I felt like I was going to, so I complied, waiting for me to explain. “You and Sandi had a date set up. She never showed so naturally you went over to her apartment. She had been assaulted, her place trashed. You found her unconscious on the floor. As you were trying to wake her, the police barged in and wham-bam, here you sit.” I was absolutely sick, unable to process it. “So how is she? What happened? When was this?” “Don't know, she's still in the hospital. It was yesterday.” My head was killing me, but at least I hadn't killed Sandi. Not yet anyway. “So what are we going to do?” I asked weakly. “We aren't going to do anything. I'm stuck in here. It's up to you, A.J.” Somehow, seeing myself jailed for assault on my girlfriend was only slightly better than seeing us both lying on slabs in the morgue. This me, the me in jail, hadn’t died yet. The me I saw yesterday had already been to jail and somewhere along the line released. This was getting confusing. I grinned—the future me. “You have to appreciate the irony of this. Who would have ever thought you’d end up jailed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? I was too overwhelmed to appreciate anything. “You better go, before someone sees us together.” Wearily I climbed to my feet, staring at a haggard version of me. “Guess we'll both be looking pretty rough soon enough,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “Unless you can stop this.” “Good luck,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I wasn't back home ten minutes when the phone rang. Hoping it wasn't me calling, I reached for it. “A.J., glad I caught you.” It was my sister, Joanie. “I'd like to discuss Christmas plans if you have time.” Time? I almost laughed. “What about them?” I asked instead. “Are you okay? You sound tired.” Wincing at the concern in her voice, I wondered if I should tell her the truth. It was too much for me to comprehend, how would she react? “It's been a long a couple days. At work,” I added. “What's on your mind, sis?” “Well, I was thinking you and Sandi could come over here.” “Sandi might go back home this year,” I said, seeing the news shocked her. “Would you go with her?” “No. We need to decide what direction our relationship is going.” Did that include murder? “Some time apart might be good.” I could tell she was upset. Guilty at causing it, I quickly added, “Sandi and I will be fine. Whatever you want for Christmas is good with me.” Mollified, Joanie outlined her plans, with me murmuring appropriate noises as needed. Hanging up, I felt even more guilty at blowing my sister off. Gulping four aspirin, I dropped into bed. Now that I had some time to think about it, I wished I had asked the me in jail more specific questions. Maybe I could go back and get more information. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on January 15. Soon I felt that familiar feeling. The cell was the same, just darker. Probably later in the day. I didn't see me on the bunk. “A.J?” I whispered, feeling kind of stupid for calling myself. “A.J?” I was no longer in the cell. So I needed to go back earlier in the day. “You're back.” “I need more information,” I said, sitting back down on the bunk. “I came back a few minutes ago but it was later, and you were gone.” He...I nodded. “I phoned Joanie. She must post our bail soon.” I felt a sense of urgency now. “Tell me what happened yesterday. Give me times.” “We were supposed to meet at Checkers at five. She never showed so I got to her apartment about five-thirty.” “We're supposed to meet this Friday,” I interrupted. “No, that one turns out fine. It's a later one.” He...I went on to explain about the door ajar, mess in the house, Sandi unconscious on the floor and the police unexpectedly showing up within just a few minutes. “Do you think the neighbors might have called? There was bound to be noise.” “Maybe.” As we talked, doors clanked up the corridor. “Davidson!” A vice rang out. “Go! Joanie's made bail.” He...I whispered, pushing me off the cot. Immediately I thought of home. Finals at work kept me busy the next few days, too busy to try traveling. In the meantime the clock of my and Sandi's lives ticked away. Feeling more nervous than our first date, I slid into a booth at Checkers on Friday night. Drumming the table, my heart thumping, I waited for her. “Hi, how'd finals go?” she asked, sliding into the seat across me. “Fine. Just some grading this weekend.” She studied me, a look of concern on her face. Her hands reached for my drumming fingers. “Are you okay? You look tense.” No doubt I did. Shaking my head, I looked around for our waitress. “I'm fine. Ready to order?” I was getting really good at blowing off the girls in my life. First Joanie, now Sandi. Once our orders were placed, she started brushing imaginary crumbs from the table. “What's bothering you?” I asked, taking her hands I mine. Startled, she blushed. Suddenly her eyes misted, and I could not picture ever killing her. “I'm going home for Christmas. I leave tomorrow.” “Joanie had wanted us to go over to her place.” “That was nice. Please tell her I'm sorry.” She waited till I nodded before continuing. “I think it's time we separate for a little while.” Now it was my turn to gasp. “Separate?” I sputtered. “Yes. I need to work some stuff out.” Our orders arrived, stopping me from replying. “Can I please get this to go?” she asked the waitress. “A.J., we're at a point that I need to stop and see how I really feel. Do you understand?” No, not really. But I nodded anyway. The waitress arrived with both our meals boxed to go. Scooping up her box, she kissed her fingertips and touched my hand. “I'll call you when I get back. Merry Christmas, A.J.” I caught the sympathetic look from the waitress as Sandi headed for the door. I graded finals tests the rest of the weekend and held class two more days before dismissal until January tenth. Ironic, five days before I end up jailed. I spent Christmas with Joanie and her boyfriend, Pete. Joanie was all sympathy and coddling once I confessed about Sandi and I breaking up. Finding it harder to keep quiet about our upcoming deaths, I left early. I stayed holed up at home, waiting, trying to figure this crazy puzzle out, wondering where to go to next. Four days after I returned to work, I found another note waiting for me. This one was from Sandi and taped to my front door. A.J. Can we meet? We need to talk. Checkers. Tomorrow. Five pm. Call me. Clutching the note, I staggered to my chair. This was the meeting she never showed up at. Where I get arrested. Heart pounding, I wondered how to answer her. Apparently, I didn't have too many choices. Apparently, it already happened. Unless I could stop it. Could I go to her place earlier? I had a date, time and location. Steeling myself for that familiar feeling, a rap at my door took me by surprise. Swinging the door open, Joanie brushed by me, followed by Pete. Stuffing Sandi's note in my pocket, I pasted on a smile. “Hi, guys. What's up?” “We're worried about you,” Joanie announced without preamble. “We haven't heard from you since Christmas. Are you just sitting around here sulking about Sandi?” Seeing where this was going, I hastened to reassure her. Resting my hands on her shoulders, I pulled her close. “Joanie, I love you, more than anything in this world. But I am not sulking. I've just been...busy.” Her gaze narrowed. “Doing what? You just started back to work a couple days ago. What have you been doing for almost two weeks if not sulking?” “I've been staying busy,” I hedged. Pete did not know about my talent and I sure couldn't fess up to Joanie right now. She studied me, chewing her bottom lip, tears building in her eyes. Guilt rammed into my chest. “Please don't ask me to explain, okay. Just some silly little project I got hooked into lately.” I gave a small laugh. “Nothing interesting.” “I love you, A.J.  You are all the family I have left. You know you can share anything and I will understand.” Hugging her, I realized how much I really did love my sister. How I wished I could tell her everything now, before I had to call her in two days to post my bail. How exactly was I going to explain it to her then? I wondered. “I love you too, Joanie. Everything is going to be okay. I have a meeting with Sandi coming up.” I showed her Sandi's note and she relaxed. Looking over at Pete, I gave him a smile. “Now that everything's good, can I get you two something?” Later, holding Sandi's note, sitting in my chair, I wondered about going forward to her apartment before our date. Joanie's concern was touching me more than I cared to admit. I was feeling the pressure tightening as the days rolled by, especially now. If I failed to stop our deaths, Joanie was going to be devastated. If I faced murder charges, she was still going to be devastated. How was I going to save my baby sister that kind of agony in just two days? Only one way to find out. It wasn't quite dark outside Sandi's apartment. It was almost four-thirty. Her second story windows were lit, the blinds pulled. My heart pounding, I started moving for the stairs when a dark blur reached them first. A sense of dread stole over me as I stopped, watching the figure go upstairs and hesitate outside her door. The killer? What should I do? What if it were me? Well, I'd come here to stop this. Steeling my resolve, I slowly followed the figure. It was all I could do not to shout a warning as Sandi swung the door open. Pulse pounding, I watched as the figure rushed in, shoving Sandi back into the living room. Blood pounding in my ears, I mounted the last of the stairs just in time to hear a woman's scream and the crash of breaking glass. Rounding the corner, I burst into the room. Sandi was pressed against the wall, hands at her throat, eyes wide and a broken lamp at her feet. Seeing me, she cried out my name. The figure in a black hooded shirt whirled around, the hood falling back. “Joanie! What the devil?” Stunned, I was rooted to the spot. My shock turned to amazement as my baby sister drew up a gun from out of nowhere and leveled it at me. I tried to speak but my tongue was tied in knots, as was my stomach. Joanie? “How convenient, brother. But why did you decide to show up early?” She was thinking I was the brother still waiting back at the restaurant two days from now. Looking at her, I noticed an odd gleam in her eyes, a look of madness. It literally tore my heart out. Holding my hands spread out, I slowly took a step closer, hearing a gasp from Sandi. “Joanie,” I spoke softly, “lower the gun please. Let's talk about this.” She gave a harsh laugh, still keeping the gun on me. “Talk. I've nothing to talk about.” “What are you doing?” I tried again. “Isn’t it obvious?” she snorted. “I'm ridding the world of you and your little friend.” I shot a look at Sandi, who paled. I suspect I looked pretty pale too. “But why, Joanie?” I asked. Her pulling the trigger back and hearing the metallic click stopped my next advancement. “Because I hate you, A.J. I always have. You're the one who can travel. You're the special one,” she mocked, never blinking as she looked me in the eye. Nausea rolled over me as I processed her words. Hated me? Always? I felt as if a feather could knock me over. For one fleeting second I wished I could go back to two days ago when we held each other and cried how much we loved each other. Reeling, I saw it was all a sham. It had always been. “Joanie, listen to me,” I tried once more, hands still out. “There is another me. The one from today. He's still waiting at the restaurant for Sandi. I'm from two days ago.” I could tell I had her attention. “Remember when you and Pete came to my place a couple days ago? Look at my shirt. It's the same one from there because I just came from there. For me, that was just a few hours ago.” “You lie.” “Am I?” She thought it over, then shrugged. “No matter. Once you're dead, you'll be dead in all times. Here and wherever else you might be. And so will she.” She looked back at Sandi, still pressed against the wall. Sucking in a breath, I took advantage of her distraction. Lunging forward, I grabbed her hands, wrapping my hands over the gun. Grunting, I was surprised to feel her knee in my groin and the room swam before my eyes. “Joanie!” I gritted out, holding on. “Quit it!” She screamed something, trying to kick, bite and claw like a wild animal. The gun fell, skidding across the floor. “Sandi! Grab it!” I yelled. She did, lifting it even with me and Joanie, holding it with a shaky grip. Too preoccupied to process her intentions, I just hoped it did not go off. Finally I got my arms wrapped around Joanie, holding her in a breathless bear hug. “Sandi?” I asked, my tongue thick as I noticed she still waved the gun at us. “A.J.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I was going to end it with you tonight. For good. I found someone else.” Gasping, I stared at her, feeling the blood roar in my head. “Who?” I heard myself ask. “Joanie.” She nodded at my sister. It took me a full minute to process it. My girlfriend had fallen in love with my sister? My sister was trying to kill me. And her. Feeling Joanie relax slightly, I spun her around, seeing a smirking smile on her face. “So if you'd stolen my girl, why were you trying to kill her too?” I demanded. “She was only bait to get to you,” Joanie shrugged. “She never meant anything to me.” “Why you---!” Sandi started. “No!” I shouted, too late. The shot ricocheted, echoing around the small room, as Joanie slumped in my arms. Going to the floor, I held her, rocking, feeling the blood seep over my fingers and hearing her breath come in rattles. “A.J.,” she whispered, blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth. “Shh, it's okay. I still love you.” She smiled, her gaze fixed and then she stilled, the light in her eyes slowly fading. In the distance I heard sirens. Police.  The ones who were supposed to arrest me for assault. Next, I heard my voice shouting Sandi's name from downstairs. The me coming from the restaurant. Reluctantly I released Joanie's body and stood back behind the door. Suddenly cold, I watched as I burst into the room, followed by two police officers, each skidding to a halt at the sight of Sandi holding a gun and Joanie dead on the floor. I watched me drop to Joanie's side, sobbing, shaking her. The officers closed in on Sandi, taking the gun from her grip. Not able to watch any more, I closed my eyes, needing to get away. Two days later I paid a cabbie to deliver a polite note to Sandi at a specific time. Instead of going to Checkers, I stayed home, waiting for the hunter to come to me. Joanie knocked at my door. Heart in my throat, I swung it open, trying my best to appear natural and relaxed. She came in, moving around the rooms, prowling like a caged lioness. Leaning against a doorjamb, I watched a moment before calmly asking, “Looking for your gun?” Spinning around, she glared at me, that same cold look of insanity I saw two days ago. “I took it today from your nightstand.” “You had no right!” “Since you planned to use it to kill me and Sandi tonight, I had every right.” She hissed at me, falling back against the wall. I advanced. “I was there when Sandi confessed to being in love with you,” I said. “Because you tricked her. She ended up with your gun, shot you and you died in my arms. All things considered; I think things are working out better this way.” Crossing my arms, I leveled her a curious look. “What I still don't understand is where this hate comes from.” “Your ability!” she snapped, eyes flashing. “You're such a stupid fool if you can't see that.” “Guess I am,” I agreed. “Your gun is in there.” I nodded to a basket on the table. She dove for it, flinging the basket over and pulling up the weapon. “So how long have you hated me and just pretended to be my loving little sister?” “Fool!” she spat, leveling the gun at my chest. “Always!” Something inside me reeled at the words, the venom behind them. I swallowed it back. “So you were just biding your time to do away with me Even after we lost mom and dad last year,” I paused, a sudden thought hitting me, reeling me back even worse. “Did you kill them too, Joanie?” I whispered. “Of course I did. Because they doted on you for being special. And I got away with it. Had you believing it was an accident.” “Yes, I did,” I agreed softly, my voice about to betray me. How much longer could I go on with this? “So are you going to make my death look like an accident too?” I remembered the me in the morgue, all covered with blood. She smiled, so wicked, so cruel, it tore my heart to shreds. “Sandi is going to break up with you and you are going to be so devastated, you'll steal my gun and take your life. Right after you go to her place, wreck it and strangle her.” Regret and hollow disbelief ripped through me. She had just modified the original version. “I don't believe you,” I said. “No one would believe that.” “Really?” Snarling, she pulled the trigger. I heard the click as an empty chamber fired. Hissing again, she fired again. This time the only bullet I'd left in the gun exploded, landing in the wall behind where I'd been standing. Jumping out of the way, I heard two police officers barrel through my front door. Right on time, I thought grimly. They swarmed the room, wrestling the gun away from Joanie and cuffing her. Hissing and spitting, she glared at me, cursing me with everything she had. “Thanks, sheriff,” I said as the other officer bodily took her outside. I watched, heart in my throat. She was still my baby sister, but she wasn't anymore. “Think the tape got what you wanted?” “Yes, it's all here.” I pulled the small recorder out from under my shirt, handing it over. Not that it mattered. I had gone ahead and seen where she plead guilty and avoided a trial. She was going to the state mental prison for many years. “You're shaking. You going to be okay?” The officer asked me. Was I? “Yeah. I just need a little time.” About Ryan Jo Summers: Ryan Jo Summer's work has appeared in trade journals and magazines since 2008, while his first novel was released in 2013. Many of his books and short works have been nominated and placed in national writing contests. "Wishing on Time" took second place in 2020 with Southeastern Writer's Association for their Vegas Award for Speculative Fiction.