The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly

edited by Joshua Goudreau

Compilation Copyright © 2007 by Lost Cause Publishing Group

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. All submitted works remain the sole property of their creator. Published May, 2007 Table Of Contents

Foreword

Issue #1 – October/November/December 2005 The Ghosts Of Sulir by A. S. Pritchard 3 Brother No More by Demi 9 Mercury Tours by Rose Owens 14 400 Words by Rhea Walker 16 Alone At Night by Richard Beserra 18 Unforeseen Consequences by Scott Snell 24 Murder. by Rebecca Allen 29 Early September, 1883 by Meredeth Beckett 31 Lost Ambition by Jonathan Lin 37 A Wizard’s Advice... by Tara Taylor 44

Issue #2 – January/February/March 2006 Jane by Megan Reilly 51 packet loss by Kathy Kachelries 53 Welcome Back by Jeff Fraser 55 I Was Wrong by David Lynch 63 For Now... by Weihui Lu 65 Jennifer by Rebecca Allen 71 Willow Wand by Colin Steele 75 The Price Of Love by Richard Beserra 86 Checkmate by skiein 91 Soft Boiled by Jacob Caffey 94 Memoirs Of An Afflicted Demigod by Rose Owens 97 A Flavor I Could Never Define by Leah Angelo 104 Shatter by Ora N. Jeffreys 107 Blood is Red by David Henderson 113

Issue #3 – April/May/June 2006 A Wolf at the Door by Stephen Bush 119 Mixed Signals by E.J. Wesslén 127 March by Kat 133 Jane and John by Sha Hwang 138 Laurent Kabila by Thomas Wright 141 The Voices In His Toe by Weihui Lu 144 Lawrence 1: Torture by Lena Melyakova 147 Any Other Sunday by Claire Askew 150 Wolves Of Mars by Neco 155 The Bop by Megan Reilly 166 Enter the Hunters by Tim Derr 168 Loyalty In Question, Part I by Ricky Lee McCullough 184 Perception by Christian Sarkis Graham 196 Doctor Stevens by Rebecca Allen 199 A Single Scream by Valerie 202 Your Best Sunday Dress by girlchildAGLOW 205 This Poor Youngling by Rose Owens 207 The Alien Child by Jenny Treherne 216 Tori Kaiga by Heather Webb 219 Swing by Robin Wilke 222 Awaiting Dawn by Reji 224 Crazy by Deana Rustin 228

Issue #4 – July/August/September 2006 What Will Be, Will Be by Rose Owens 235 “Myth” by Julia Stryker 244 Bully by Marc Bartkowiak 247 Love Always, Love Always by Megan Reilly 253 Closer To God by Vicki Goodwin 255 Deirdre and the Kirin by Lillian Csernica 260 A New Regime by Charlie de la Vega 265 Larry The Dog by Adrian E. Stone 272 Irene For Life by Ora N. Jeffreys 279 A Soundtrack To Armageddon by Mihalis Georgostathis 284 Lawrence 2: Colony by Lena Melyakova 287 High Tea by Alyssa Cormier 290 The Cellar by Tim Derr 302 Dead Time by Neco 308 Loyalty In Question, Part II by Ricky Lee McCullough 325 How Phil Met Lorelei by Teela Brown 338 Sweet Apple Pie by Erik Varela 341 Pink Triangle, Star of David by Michael Lefkowitz 343 The Eyes Of The Beholder by Stephen Bush 346

Issue #5 – October/November/December 2006 Quality Control by Tim Reinhart 355 10,000 VOLT SNAPSHOT by Joel Brown 372 Just A Passenger by Jonathan Asby 377 Hey God. It’s Me, Chelsea by Carolyn Adams 380 What Is Ode by Tim Derr 384 The White Room by Amanda Langdon 407 Laraia’s Lyre by Lone Wolfy 409 Fairydust by Therese Kai Foxx 413 Teddy Fiend by Saffron van Helsdingen Brink 416 Evening Tea With Death by Patricia McEachin 428 In The Dark Hour Of Daylight by Bronagh Feagan 430 Fearless by Jason R. Wallace 440 Rumors by Lisa Bartling 444 Nobody’s Died In The Shower Today by Erik Varela 448 Chocolate by Michael Hossler 452 Vincent Curtis and the Pure Form by Lazy Line Painter John 457 December 23rd by Flutterbies 463 Lawrence 3: Freedom by Lena Melyakova 465 Wanted by Hallucinated Light 470 Young Minds At Play by Robin Wilke 474 Walking In The Dark by Jenny Sloan 477 Broken Toilet by Zach Morway 482 Fragments by A.S. Pritchard 489 Listening To Skinny Puppy by Megan Reilly 496 Three Thieves by Stephen Bush 499 Grandpa’s Story by Rose Owens 504 The Sheppard by Wiebke Pandikow 506 The Last Night On Earth by Joshua Goudreau 510 The Ballad Of Sanctity And Shadow by Richard Beserra 518

Issue #6 – Spring 2007 Euphoria and the Black by Hedwig-Mae Bryant 529 A River Measured In Time by Abhishek Sengupta 536 The Longest Winter by RaenSilim 539 The Angry Troll by Liz Cross 544 Cancers by Stephen Bush 546 Underneath by Ronald Damien Malfi 556 The Determination of Light by Lisa Hascall 560 Relativity by Ryann Wohlgemuth 563 The Funeral by Clayton Hayes 569 Street Talk by Rose Owens 573 The Devil May Take You by Megan Reilly 578 Gladiator by Kailey Mortell 581 Restriction: Color by Ana 583 Under The Rain by Stephanie Braun 588 Anywhere by Dexandré Riley 590 Blinded Love by Dzafirul Haniff 595 One Star Motel by Jonathan Lin 598 Razing The Shadows by Joel Brown 602 An Unhappy Graduation by Andrew 606 Witness To A Murder by Quinn Tyler Jackson 612 The Never-Ending War by Kadie Taggart 624

Author Biographies

Foreword

SITTING HERE LOOKING AT A YEAR AND A HALF OF effort compiled into one massive volume nearly makes me all dewey eyed. So many people poured forth so much effort and support to see this project through. Lost Cause may no longer be producing Quarterly but the love that went into it is still uplifting. All told Quarterly produced 6 issues containing 115 stories by 84 different authors. That’s 84 authors who found a market for their work who may not have otherwise. To me, that mans that Lost Cause has succeeded in its mission to provide an accessible market to authors who may not have found a home for their stories. We were glad to have them. Many authors returned to us once they were included with many becoming regulars. All were dedicated supporters who did more then just submit fiction. They told their friends, they posted it on weblogs and forums. They got the word out there. It is because of the support of everyone involved that Quarterly was able to achieve so many copies distributed per issue. Of course, credit must be given where it is due. The first two issues were compiled entirely by myself but as I moved on to issue three I enlisted the aid of Richard Beserra and Weibke Pandikow who helped out with hunting down stories for inclusion and editing. Without them this project may have fallen apart long before it did. In October of last year we decided to release a special 1-year anniversary issue and in it we returned to each of the featured authors, some who had become regulars and some who had not been seen since. We also included an editors contributions section containing, for the first time, work by the editors. This anthology contains every single story from each issue presented as it was originally released. Also included here is the previously unreleased Spring 2007 issue, the final issue of Quarterly. This anthology features the following stories: The Ghosts of Sulir by A.S. Pritchard A young mage and her entourage flee from the men that have mortally wounded her. The group struggles to unlock the secrets of Sulir before it is too late in this ethereal and haunting tale of fantasy and magic. Jane by Megan Reilly Jane is a transgressive and surreal individual who is portrayed with such care and devotion. We are shown every flawed and dirty aspect of her personality with a loving, sweat stained gleam. A Wolf at the Door by Stephen Bush Never before has the story of Little Red Riding Hood been portrayed with such gristle and eroticism. Rose, as she is called, is a manipulative and seductive little girl on a journey of discovery though what the wolf teaches is not what she expects. What Will Be, Will Be by Rose Owens In this tale of love in its truest and most pure form we see what can be and what should never be. We are shown with brutal honesty that what is best may not always be what we want. Quality Control by Tim Reinhart Richter is a man haunted and tormented. He plays the part of the flippant and uncaring man but inside he doesn’t know how to truly live. When he begins to learn to cope with his Social Anxiety Disorder he begins to look at the demons of his past and learns to live again. Euphoria and the Black by Headwig-Mae Bryant Sometimes play can go too far. Sometimes play may exist as a means of covering up the sins of the past. Sometimes the blood and the blade are not the answer. But is it even possible to overcome something so tragic and horrible that it drives us to do horrible things.

This project has been an enjoyable and enriching experience. I have been glad to be part of it and I cannot say I am not sad to see that it is over. So for one last time, heft up this volume, sit back, kick off your shoes and enjoy. Joshua Goudreau Lewiston, Maine May, 2007

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 1

Issue #1 October/November/December 2005

edited by Joshua Goudreau 2

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 3

~Featured Story~

Ghosts of Sulir by A. S. Pritchard

MY HANDS WERE SHAKING UNCONTROLLABLY. I held the wound tremulously and felt the blood flowing between my fingers. I watched it drop into the blue water and spread in inky clouds. Fish stirred below, pale and slimy, their eyes wide and hungry. The sting of the bite was lessening. It was frightening to realize it was all fading away, the pain, the cold, the feeling. Time was fading too. I didn’t have much left. “Cordeye. Here.” My brother sat beside me, his face wan. He tore a piece of cloth from his shirt and wound it gingerly around my bleeding hand. “You’re shaking the whole boat, girl,” the man in front said testily, his arms bulging with the effort of rowing. Hawthorne’s usual brunt nature was at odds with the pale concern on his face as he looked over his shoulder at me, beady black eyes squinting in the half-light. My brother put his arm around me and pulled me to him, trying to still my trembling. “We must go faster, Ash,” I whispered to him, feeling that familiar pull at my mind urging me forward in haste. An echo reached us from across the still waters. Hawthorne cursed and increased his pace. We could not see our pursuers in the gloom. We were hard-pressed to see anything at all as the sun hid behind a solid gray wall of clouds, probably setting somewhere at our backs. The fog that rimmed the lake only added to the eerie atmosphere. I could hardly remember anything being beyond the glassy surface and the shadow-shapes that played beneath it. I began to think that perhaps there was nothing beyond the lake. Maybe it just went on forever. I shuddered at the thought. This place would see the end of me. edited by Joshua Goudreau 4 Ash moved again beside me and tore another piece from his shirt. I looked down at my hand and the dirty, tattered cloth wrapped around it. It was soaked through. “Why won’t it stop?” Ash muttered desolately, his voice catching slightly on the words. He took my hand and made to tie it up again. I pulled away and shook my head. “You should help him row.” He stared at me a long moment, then nodded resolutely and moved toward the front of the boat. I moved along the bench to the side and wrapped my blood-stained hands around the wood of the old boat, letting my blood run in crimson lines down the painted side. There was no name painted on the prow. We three sat in an ill-luck craft and had no fear of it, not anymore. Only three, I mused. We set out with scores more. There would only be two at most to return or maybe none at all. Our enemies were cunning. Of us all they feared only myself, the seeing- witch, the knowing one. I’d begun our expedition on an inkling and a vision and I’d killed many men in the doing, men on both sides. But they’d killed me now with a snake hidden in the stern of the very boat in which I sat. They knew the superstitions very well. They believed the ghost serpent was the witch’s bane. I had believed I was invincible. I had been sorely wrong. The dead snake still lay where Ash had struck it, its blood stark against its own pallid scales. We had left it there, its skull crushed, in our hurry to leave the shore where our pursuers were charging. Now I picked it up gently and wrapped it in a torn piece of my blood-red robes. I felt strangely respectful of it. It had been beautiful once and vicious. I had been the same. With the limp body of the snake in my lap I peered over the side of the boat and into the murky depths of the water, my mind going blank, my vision going in and out of focus as the serpent’s venom ran smoothly through my veins. Our small craft made little disturbance on the lake and my reflection stared up at me from the water, my face ghostly pale and my white- blonde hair hanging in stringy clumps before my eyes. A small scratch on one cheek stood out against the pallor, livid red and shallow. I looked gaunt and old and much the worse for wear. My eyes were glassy, dark, only feebly resembling the piercing, ice blue gaze that used to frighten everyone but my brother. I looked half-dead already. I sucked in a shuddering breath suddenly as another face swam into focus beside my own reflection. It shifted and changed, silvery and insubstantial as a wisp of smoke. I looked up sharply. There was nothing floating above the surface of the lake save the fog, far away yet closer than it had been. There were shapes dancing all across the surface of the water, near and far, reflections of ghosts drawn to the dying like invisible moths to a blood-red flame. I could hear them singing, as though their voices were carried to me very faintly on a weakening wind. It was unearthly and sorrowful and more The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 5 beautiful than any living voice I had heard before. But it faded suddenly and there was a pull at my thoughts. I turned to look behind. A boat parted the fog some distance away, now visible even on the darkening lake. There were only four shapes huddled in it, black and menacing in the fog and rowing furiously. I was about to shout to Hawthorne and Ash, entreat them to go faster, when one of them gave a cry. “I can see it!” It was Hawthorne and I turned back again to see him rowing feverishly, Ash no longer aiding him. My brother moved up beside me, standing precariously, his favored longbow in hand with an arrow notched and a murderous gleam in his eye. He loosed the arrow abruptly and it hit the man in the prow of the other boat squarely in the chest. He cried out and fell bodily into the water. Another joined him just as he hit the lake. The others in their boat ceased rowing and huddled lower into their craft, shouting unintelligibly. But they had no more to fear from Ash as he lowered his bow with an oath and went back to rowing with Hawthorne. I watched his back knowingly, my unharmed hand resting on his empty quiver, which he had shoved hastily into the boat with us. He’d only had two arrows left. Now he had none. “We’re nearly there, Cordeye!” Hawthorne called over his shoulder, puffing and sweaty from his labors. His graying hair was disheveled and loose and the lines of his old face were more prominent than ever, but his eyes were shining with excitement as he nodded his head toward the prow of our craft. There I looked and was unsure for a long moment if what I saw was really before me or if I was looking again on my vision. A spire reared up out of the mists, ten stories tall, its point glowing with a blue fire. It rested precariously on a layered platform and a staircase descended into the blue, very near now and coming closer. I stared in awe at the tower, black as onyx in the fog, the seat of a shadowed queen, and thought perhaps it would not be so bad to die there. “They are recovering,” Ash grunted abruptly. I looked back at the other boat where the hunched silhouettes of our pursuers were rowing again and picking up speed. A shadow fell over me. Toward the prow, our boat thudded against the sharp corner of a carven stone step with a jolt. The old wood splintered and the lake began pouring in. I looked up, feeling sluggish and faint as Hawthorne moved swiftly onto the black stair. I took the covered snake gingerly in my hands and tried to stand. My legs wobbled feebly and I prepared to tumble into my own liquid grave. But of course Ash would not allow that. He swept me up and carried me off our sinking craft and swiftly up the wide stair, Hawthorne following silently. The stair began to spiral upwards and still we kept ascending, the oldest of the edited by Joshua Goudreau 6 three breathing heavily and slowing involuntarily. After several solid minutes, Ash stopped to let my feet down to the stair. I put one arm around his shoulders to keep myself upright and we went on tumbling up the stairs, my brother half-dragging me along. Without warning, the stairs stopped. I stumbled in the absence of the next step and put out my hands to stop myself from falling face-first onto the floor. I gasped as the coolness of the stone slammed roughly against my palms and stared, entranced, as the blood slowly pooled around my right hand, marring the exquisite floor. It was a sign of his shock that Ash did not move immediately to pick me up. He stood stock-still behind me, staring around with parted lips and widened eyes. I was just as dumbstruck as he. We had heard of the treasure rooms at Sulir; it was our motivation, our reason for braving the journey my vision foretold. But we never expected it to be like this. The floor stretched out before me, a bizarre and magnificent puzzle of flat-faced gems. Lapis lazuli, blue tourmaline, tanzanite, aquamarine, sapphire, blue opal and zircon, and more turquoise than I’d ever seen. The floor’s surface was polished to a shimmer, a perfect replica of the lake that surrounded the tower. My eyes traveled across the room - which seemed to stretch the entire width of the tower - and my breath caught as I saw the walls, covered and glittering with thousands more cut gems. Onyx and obsidian had been cut and shaped to imitate the spindly branches of trees, silhouetted against a pale sky full of clouds and stormy intent and wrought of purest silver and clearest quartz. I felt faintly the sting of tears falling over my wasted face and settling along the scratch upon my cheek. This, then, was my final resting place. I had thought of the lake and the mist and obscurity and turned my nose up at the thought of dying here. Now, in the midst of this glorious tower, kneeling and weeping before the beauty of it, I did not feel worthy to dance among the ghosts of the people who’d crafted this legendary monument. My resolve hardened. This was going to be my tomb - that fact was inescapable now - but I would share it only with the dead and my brother would not be of our number. There were still things to be done. “They have only one boat.” My voice was deathly quiet. Hawthorne and Ash looked at me. I looked down at my hands, the one still bleeding profusely, both still cradling the snake. Its gored head lay free of the cover of my robes, jostled about by the ascent and my fall. My brother looked down at the unmoving snake and back up at me. His eyes shone brighter, but he would not allow himself to weep. Not even for me. “The water is dangerous,” I said at length. “You can’t get back to shore without a boat. The rest of them won’t make it here without a boat. You must commandeer their craft.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 7 “And you?” Hawthorne asked quietly. “I would hinder you in a fight. I would be dead before you rowed ashore. There is no point to that, as you must already know. You have to leave me here.” Ash bore this in silence for a short moment then shook his head at me, saying nothing. “You can’t linger here for too long.” As if to prove me right, a shout echoed faintly into the room from far down on the stair. Hawthorne produced a dagger from some hidden pocket of his coat and put a gentle hand on Ash’s shoulder. My brother did not look at him and his eyes stayed fixed on mine. “I should never have allowed this.” His whisper was only barely audible. I smiled thinly. “We are family, you and I, and more alike than you will admit most times. We both wanted diamonds and gold and all the riches the legends promised. You were no greedier than I and no less.” My smile became a smirk. “And you delude yourself if you think you could’ve persuaded me not to go. If it’s true that we’re both greedy, it has never been that you are more stubborn than I.” “Few are,” he mumbled, the smallest smile playing about his lips despite the onset of his grief. Hawthorne turned his back to us abruptly and stared at the arched doorway and the stairs that descended from it. I stared at him and he swam in my vision and became little more than a blur, the faded, patchy black of his long coat and the hunch of his shoulders making him look oddly like standing boulder. Then my vision shifted again and came sharply into focus. There was a dull aching in my head now. I closed my eyes and listened as footsteps sounded heavily on the stair, still faint but growing nearer. I reached out and grabbed my brother’s hand. “Go!” I croaked. Ash hesitated a moment. Then he squeezed my hand, kissed me gently on the cheek and moved quickly away. I saw him draw his dagger and, with a last anguished look at me, he disappeared down the stair, Hawthorne barely a step behind. I slumped down to the floor, a scarlet stain on the polished blue surface, and let my exhaustion envelop me. The white serpent still cradled carefully in my left hand, I stared out across the floor with glazed eyes and failing vision and listened as the sounds of confrontation echoed on the black stair. It was difficult to think. I felt as though I had to trudge across the muddy bottom of the lake, the water clinging to and weighing down my robe, just to get to a single coherent thought, a sort of apparition that shimmered above the surface, dancing and singing like a ghost of Sulir and just as untouchable. The sounds on the stair began to fade and distort, sounding muffled and unintelligible, like a voice heard from under water. I didn’t take much notice at first when the floor began to shimmer differently, thinking it no more than a trick of my dying eyes. The ghostly singing that I’d heard before came back edited by Joshua Goudreau 8 to me again as the floor rippled outward from my bleeding hand, a stirring on the surface of the lake. Something cold and strange touched my hollowed cheek and I struggled to roll away from it, thinking for an insane moment that it was death who’d come to claim me. But I was too weak. I fell back, more drained than before, and stared up at the ceiling in despair. Then the floor turned to water and I sank down through it, the surface of the lake closing over me, cold and blue and terrifying. And so I died my first death.

I drifted along the bottom of the lake for a long while, watching in silent wonder as the drowned world within the lake moved around me, unheeding. Many hours after my dying breath, I came to the surface again, naked and cold. But I didn’t shiver. The cold had become a part of me, a part of my new existence. I had been reborn from the waters, a strange, scaled creature, unbreathing, unliving. A stillborn child of the lake, a queen among the ghosts of Sulir. I crawled to the sandy shore just after the death of the sun and curled up to watch the reflections of the dead on the surface of the lake and to hear the songs they sang to the water. After me came the white serpent, whole and alive, slithering and eerie against the dark sand. There was a pull at my mind, familiar and strong, an exhortation that I could not ignore or refuse. I stood up and walked slowly and deliberately back into the lake, my feet leaving soft prints on the sand. I let the water close over me again and breathed it in like precious air, swimming through it lithely as a fish. And in the deathly chill waters of Sulir, the ghosts came to swim with me.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 9

Brother No More by Demi

THE PROMISE OF EXECUTION LOCKED BROTHER AGAINST sister. “So it was you I sensed,” said Yukimi. When he didn’t answer, she continued, “You shouldn’t have come.” Jie stood with the vigilance of a warrior, head bowed in contemplation of the kill. He held the sword in his right hand and the gleaming black sheath in his left. With a corrupted smile of delight, Jie adjusted his grip. Though slight, the movement caused the blade to sing. Cynically, he replied, “How could I do anything else but? He personally assigned this mission to me and all that the Emperor desires will be done. Surely you expected nothing less of him? After all, were you not once his shining familiar, the true voice and vessel of his all-sacred verdict?” She sensed the age-old bitterness beneath his words. Never the less, she refused to rise to his taunts. “That part of me is dead.” “No,” he said, lifting his gaze. “Your dying has only begun.” She expected an attack but still, Jie remained motionless. Despite his immaculate suit, Yukimi knew all too well that when he chose to strike he would do so with great speed and impeccable accuracy. As a diplomat Jie might lack subtlety but as a warrior he was exceptional. “I’m surprised he gave you the honor,” she confessed, “but having said that, I also understand why. No matter which one of us dies tonight, he will rid himself of at least one disloyal progeny. Unless we manage to kill each other.” “Do you think you can kill me? I doubt that you can, little sister,” said Jie, drawing a breath not for air but in anticipation of blood. “Only two meager edited by Joshua Goudreau 10 years have past since the Emperor gave you his gift. A trifle when compared against my Immortality of two centuries. Besides… Xian and I may have had our differences but the only death he seeks is yours.” “After everything you’ve done I wouldn’t be so sure.” “My actions were justified. I am his son by blood and I have a right to the throne. Immortal or otherwise, no Lord can rule a kingdom forever. However, I do believe he’s since realized his error. What if I tell you that he promised me the throne in exchange for your death?” Suspiciously, Yukimi studied her brother but his mind was sealed tight against her. Forced to rely on her wits she replied frankly. “I wouldn’t believe you.” “Then maybe this will change your mind.” Jie held the sword in front of him bringing the weapon to her attention. “Take a closer look.” The moment her eyes fell on the sword she saw more and more of the weapon’s detail was revealing itself. It was as if an invisible curtain was finally lifting. Her eyes widened with chilled recognition. “Mortal Bane,” she whispered, naming the Emperor’s most treasured possession. “The one and only,” said Jie, moving the sword masterfully through the air with careful admiration. Light traveled with liquid smoothness along the surface of steel, occasionally catching on the gold Mongolian-like script embedded upon the blade. It was the greatest sword the Emperor had ever handled and here it was in the hands of her executioner; her own brother. “Do you believe me now?” “Yes,” said Yukimi, watching the blade dance. “But,” she added sharply, “I’m not ready to die.” The movement halted. Jie locked his concentration on her, his smile vanishing in disapproval. His fingers curled tighter around the pure-white ivory of the handle and a faint echo of Mortal Bane’s song drifted between them. “This time, you will not stand between me and the throne. The Empire belongs to me.” With a swift fury Jie leapt onto the table and sprinted towards her. Yukimi reacted with a fighter’s instinct, reaching deep into the left sleeve of her kimono to withdraw a short sword concealed there. The shattering ring of fine china heralded Jie’s approach as he trampled her porcelain cup and swung Mortal Bane at her neck. Yukimi bowed backwards under the sweep of the blade. She heard its deadly hiss as it narrowly missed her by an inch before fanning safely out of range. When she pushed herself upright she was greeted by another attack. This time she deflected with her own sword. The blades clashed and sung loudly in their conflict. Yukimi took advantage of an opening and swung her The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 11 sword for Jie’s knees. Effortlessly, he leapt over her weapon and returned with an abrupt thrust for her heart. Luck prevailed and Yukimi blocked with her sword. Her weapon groaned against the weight and angle of Mortal Bane as Jie bore down on her. Yukimi watched as her own desperate reflection stared back from the surface of steel. The lower Mortal Bane edged the more sparks flew from both blades. Quickly, Yukimi locked her eyes on Jie and threw her power at him. He baulked and she plucked a dart from her robes and flicked it for her brother’s left eye. With a heavy grunt Jie twisted out of harm’s way. The dagger scratched his cheek as it whistled past until it was stopped by one of the teahouse’s wooden supports. Seeing her chance, Yukimi flew safely beyond Jie’s reach. She drifted back against the corner of the ceiling, defying all gravitational pull as she gazed down at her brother. Jie brushed the blood from his cheek and scowled at her. The wound was already closing over, becoming whole once more. “Such pathetic tricks. You can’t even fight honorably.” “Honor belongs only to heroes,” she retorted. “You and I, we are far darker things.” “Then you will die without honor.” With those words, Jie sprung powerfully into the air, Mortal Bane firmly clasped in his hands. Yukimi used the advantage of her ability to soar out of his way but her brother responded just as quickly, pushing off the opposing wall to change his momentum. Their blades danced dangerously. Jie made his attacks from floor level while Yukimi defended from air. Jie delivered a cunning stroke and wounded Yukimi’s right shoulder. She tried to retreat back but Jie wouldn’t allow it. He pursued her with tight, carefully-intended strikes until she became careless in her distraction. In a great display of stealth, Jie used his free hand to deliver a series of power-enforced jolts to pressure points in her neck, chest and abdomen. The excess energy flooded Yukimi’s senses with metaphysical pain. She momentarily lost control and crying out, she plummeted to the floor in a flurry of silk. Without a moment’s hesitation Jie advanced towards her crumpled form. She tried to lash out with her sword but Jie struck back with savage strength. The sword was knocked out of her hand and it skidded loudly across the tearoom’s floor. In an act of sheer brutality, Jie stamped on Yukimi’s right wrist. She screamed as she felt the bones splinter and slice through tendons. Victorious, Jie straddled her. In horror, Yukimi watched her brother’s elated expression as he held Mortal Bane above her. She had waited for judgment but Gods; she hadn’t wanted her death to be like this! Xian, I deserve better! I deserve more! Jie’s eyes were zealous with the fever of vampire hunger. To see the torment of his only sister, laid out so beautifully in all her ruined finery... It edited by Joshua Goudreau 12 damned near rolled his sanity. He couldn’t look away from the slope of her white neck and wrestled with desire. Finally, his most bitter enemy was at his mercy yet how her precious blood called to him. It pulsed in dark offering, leaving nothing in its wake but the needs of his thirst. He gave a battle- charged cry of anguish and drove Mortal Bane down. Yukimi gasped as the blade plunged towards her and missed. Instead, it quivered beside her face; planted deep into tearoom floor. Jie’s hands were all over her. He balled a fist-full of her hair while the other tugged down the collar of her kimono. She twisted against him, revolted by both his touch and his arid breath upon her skin. Her struggles only made him laugh. Cruelly, he jerked her hair back so that her neck was exposed and taunt before him. When she wouldn’t be still, he slapped her so hard that the blow split her lip. This time, she didn’t cry out for his pleasure. As he groped her body and buried his face in her scent she only allowed herself one bitter tear of regret. Suddenly, a wave of unforeseen anger consumed her. It caused her to tremble and Jie mistook it for fear, sneering as he took a long slow lick of her neck. “Oh, Yukimi. How I’ve waited to see you so fragile, so vulnerable,” he said hoarsely, twisting strands of her hair tighter into his fingers. “I told you how this would end… You can’t beat me.” Her eyes traveled up the towering length of Mortal Bane. It called to her, in all its darkness and potency. Her mind could hear the anguish tremor of the abnormal weapon. Jie had promised it death but he had failed to deliver. The sword was eager for blood. It practically sung with its necessity. Yukimi smiled bitterly in understanding. “You are a fool, Jie.” “Your words mean nothing to me. I will have you… all of you. I will take your body and drain every last drop of vitae until finally, I will drink your very soul. Just think, our souls bound together for all eternity. Never again will you escape me.” The notion was so offensive it prompted Yukimi into instant action. She reached out for the darkness of Mortal Bane, her last hope now. My brother has betrayed your very nature but I won’t make the same mistake. I will deliver true death and satisfy all that you are. Hear me, Mortal Bane. Hear me. Jie was so immersed in her vulnerability that he failed to notice the sword glowing with ethereal agreement as it accepted her vow. Her pact with death was sealed. During those very seconds, Jie’s mouth lowered upon her neck. The glimpse of his sharpened fangs was accompanied by the thrill of his telepathic voice. You are mine. “Never,” Yukimi spoke out loud and called to Mortal Bane. The sword responded to her power and wrenched itself out of the floor, flying into her The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 13 uninjured hand. In one fluid motion she drove the blade down into her brother’s neck and straight through the chambers of his heart. His blood sprayed across her face. Yukimi watched as Jie hovered above her in paralyzed shock, eyes wide as he absorbed what she’d just done. She buried the blade deeper. As his limbs jerked and convulsed piteously, Yukimi’s lips curved with dark satisfaction.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 14

Mercury Tours by Rose Owens

HOW MANY MORE YEARS DO I HAVE TO SPEND FERRYING people around? I am so tired of this shit. My legs hurt from pressing those damn pedals over and over, and that man won’t even give me a tip. I ask you, how much is a 56 year old bus driver supposed to stand before he completely loses his mind and drives the entire bus with all of it’s contents off a fucking cliff??? Christ...I need a beer.

He thinks this is going to get me to sleep with him. Sure, I agreed to come along on this ride, but only to preserve appearances. He thinks I don’t know about him and his hussy. Hah. That’s a laugh. How many times can some woman with a sultry bedroom voice call your house asking for your husband without some kind of idea being formed? This truly is laughable. He sits there, smug in his idea that his male dominance is safe. Not if I have anything to do with it. He doesn’t own me, that’s for sure. And after this trip to this goddamn museum, he’s going to find out how little he actually knows. I’m just waiting to escape. He doesn’t even see it coming. I wasted the best years of my life with him, and for what? He won’t even see it coming.

I took the last pill in the container today. I wish I could say that gave me relief, but it doesn’t. I don’t see this going away anytime soon. It’s so hard to be aware of your present situation when your doctor has fed you as many drugs as possible to keep you from falling apart. I keep going in and out of reality, which is hard when you are on a tour trying to understand what people are saying to you. They all try to help you think that you are doing fine, even though everyone (including yourself) knows you are not. My hands The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 15 shake so, and it embarrasses me. You never appreciate your youth until you are old and feeble. And alone. I wish... I wish I knew how to organize my thoughts.

That little bitch. I’m trying to have a conversation on my cell phone and she is completely incompliant. My god. I get the picture, Jorge, just get me my damn garden with the gold plated fountain and the crystal bench. Little curly-haired skank. She has no idea how rich I am or much attention and care I deserve. Take my fucking card, you little trollop. Yes, I’ll flip the other one at you to show that I mean business. No, I will not deign to have a conversation with you, I’ll just let my husband smile confusedly at you, while I manage my much more important and influential life. Where is good help when you need it?

Rush rush rush rush is Bernice here today? I have a group of 65 people each with their own wants and needs and petty problems but I smile throughout it all because my job is to do that I was raised poor and sparingly in New York in the 1940’s my father sold milk but as soon as they had bigger trucks and less need for people he was laid off he died shortly after my mother and I were sad but had no time to mourn that's how it goes when you are an only child you have to take care of what is happening and never worry about yourself I worked hard at school trying to get good grades and make my mother happy oh my goodness rush rush rush rush I was married to my childhood sweetheart Doreen who died of an aneurysm 10 years ago I was left broken hearted but what could I do I had to struggle on my time with my mother taught me that and now I rush rush rush rush to set up this tour for all of these people oh there is Stephanie I know her thanks a lot good bye

edited by Joshua Goudreau 16

400 Words by Rhea Walker

“WHAT’RE YOU DOING HERE?” SAYS A. “I don’t know,” says B, “I just turned up.” “It’s awfully blank. We’re the only color.” “Actually, black is considered an absence of color.” “Anal.” Pause. “We’re in a story,” says B suddenly. “What?” “We’re inside someone’s writing. Where are the other characters?” “Well, X, Z, K, Q and V have formed the League of Rarity, because they feel left out.” “Bloody elitists,” says B, “just because they’re worth more in Scrabble.” “The situation has E pissed, because X thinks that E is used everywhere, like a common whore. And look at the spread legs on Y, who's just waiting to get in on the vowel act.” Pause. “I don’t like this one bit,” says B, “I’m too linear; too like a cipher. Help me.” “I can’t find you. I haven’t any eyes to see you with.” “There’s no lexical landscape to move around in. We’ll have to navigate by dialogue. Proselytize at me. I’ll follow the speech.” “I’m a bit restricted by my vocabulary, sorry,” says A. Pause. “We’re stuck. It’s one-dimensional narrative. Dear God, there’s no personality exposition.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 17 “Calm down,” says A, with no expression or nuance. “I'll not calm down,” says B, “I am not bloody calming down. I’m breaking out of here. I’m going to smash into the writer’s world and break his neck. I refuse to be a one-bit character. I am not just a representation of impotent fury. Give me that punctuation. I’ll soon put a stop to this.” B throws a period at his side of the story. It bounces off and rolls down the page. A comma follows, piercing small holes in the fiber that separates narrative from reality. Trails of ellipses mark the wound… Beams of light shine through the gaps. Shadows form. The comma is discarded and land’s upside down in an inappropriate place! B batters at the veil with an exclamation mark club. Then he tosses it aside in favor of a question mark hook and scrapes at the membrane, which begins to tear. Warmth, color, scent, shape, sound, sensation and taste surge through, breaching the fabric of fiction and physics. B senses freedom, summons matter, grows, coalesces, threatens. The plot thickens; the text surges at the crest of climax. Inky fingers crook, paper pulps and fiber stretches. He reaches out… And then, letter by letter, I begin to erase the writi

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edited by Joshua Goudreau 18

Alone At Night by Richard Beserra

THERE ARE EXACTLY 4,127 WHITE DOTS ON MY CEILING. Don’t look at me like that. Maybe someday when you realize that you’re laying naked on your bed at half past two in the morning counting the dots on your ceiling, you can give me that look. Of course, if you ever find yourself in that particular situation, I doubt you’ll want to. I don’t. In fact, I don’t want much of anything anymore, except to close my eyes and have them stay closed, even if it’s only for a while. 30 years. 262,800 hours, 15,768,000 minutes, 94,608,000 seconds and never in all of it can I remember being so tired. But there’s a world of difference between tired and sleepy. I didn’t used to think so, but I’ve learned my lesson. I read somewhere that people who stay awake for long periods of time start to hallucinate. They just kinda go buggo. I have yet to see any pink elephants doing ballet on the floor, or hear little malicious voices telling me to save the manatees, but it doesn’t mean I won’t. Cheery thought. How does someone deal with the knowledge that they could lose their mind, might in fact be already losing it and not even know it? You’re probably wondering why I haven’t gone to see a doctor yet. Well, doctors treat diseases and I don’t have one. I suppose some people might beg to differ by calling it insomnia or some such thing, but I know what insomnia is, and I’m pretty sure this goes far beyond it. Hence, there’s not much a doctor can do, no matter what they claim. And after all, who would know my body better than myself? The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 19 For a while, my stash of weed gave me catnaps. Blissful catnaps of ten or fifteen minutes, even a whole hour once. I even have the burn hole in my sheets to prove it. After a few days though, even that stopped helping. Near the time I ran out, chain smoking didn‘t even get me drowsy. Hah. Big loss there. The medication that litters the bathrooms of this house didn’t help dick either. It says on the labels you have to be “willing” to sleep for any of it to work. American placebos. I wonder if whoever made those pills ever suffered a single sleepless night in their lives. They say it like it’s that easy, just tell yourself you wanna get some sleep and, by the power of suggestions and good marketing, it shall be so. Give me a break. At first, I thought maybe it was my dog keeping me awake at night. Faro is the most loyal golden retriever you could ask for. I know all dog owners say that about their dogs, just like all mothers believe their babies are the most beautiful babies in the world. It’s true though, Faro actually went out and grabbed the paper for me in the morning and brought it back to my doorstep. Didn’t mind curling up at my feet and keeping me warm on cold days either. I liked Faro. Her only fault, if she could be said to have one, is that she was a dog who never quit barking at a reasonable hour, when normal people are trying to get some shut eye. At first I didn’t mind, I figured since I’m gonna be wide awake anyway, she can at least give me something to listen to when it’s dark and lonely. Then two nights ago I thought to myself: “What if it’s her? Could it be? Is she keeping me awake all night with her barking, and stupid me not even realizing it? Could she be the reason?” How dare that mangy mutt. I gave her a home, gave her food and exercise, raised her from a blind, whimpering puppy, and this is how she thanks me? By robbing me of my sleep with her incessant barking aimed directly at my window? Well that was okay. She made the worst mistake of her life by thinking she could drive me out by depriving me of rest long enough. I’ve stood fast in the path of lawyers and board execs worlds tougher than that bitch, and I wasn’t about to give in now. Or at least that’s what I thought. Lord, I thought her barks outside were loud enough. When I started on her she would’ve woke the whole neighborhood if I hadn’t clamped her muzzle with my hand. Fortunately it didn’t take long. Forty-five seconds at the outside, and it was over. I put the hacksaw down and picked up the pool cue, and that was that. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t the best idea, but it’s like an old chemistry teacher of mine once said: “Even eliminating possibilities helps.” So now I know for certain she wasn’t the cause of my sleeplessness. I’m glad too. I want my Faro to have a good place in my heart. I don’t want to hate my dog. You keep looking at me like that. I’m only trying to find out what my problem is so I can cure it. And there is no more surefire way than edited by Joshua Goudreau 20 methodically removing possibilities until only one is left. I think Einstein said that. It may take a while, sure, but it leaves nothing to chance. Now that I think about it, another possibility just popped into my mind. At the count of three, there will be food in this refrigerator. One, two, three. Nothing. Just a lonely potato and a jar of jelly. I wouldn’t touch that potato with a ten foot pole. They say there are actually millions of microscopic disease ridden germs that swarm over its innocent looking skin like locusts, and they’re so small you can’t see them. Not so very innocent now are you, my spudly friend? Well this is one person you won’t be fooling with your outwardly healthy appearance. I know your game, you’re just waiting for me to reach out and grab you, to cut you to pieces and shove you in my mouth, chew you into mush and digest you in my stomach. Because then, it’ll be like the landing at Normandy for your crawling friends won’t it? It won’t take you long, so don’t sit there and tell me it it’ll be days before you get started. I watch Discovery, I read Medical journals, I know all about you. All you need me to do is reach out and touch you, just one little touch, and you’ll have me squirming on the floor for my foolishly misplaced trust, wallowing in my own shit like a pig as I hug my stomach for dear life. Well, I’m no pig, and I’m no fool. You can sit there and rot on that middle shelf ‘till hell’s a skating rink for all I care. Bam! There goes the light, and quite unexpectedly too. Pretty sad that that’s the most exciting thing that happened here lately. The only thing shining in my kitchen now is the glow of the open fridge. Have you ever noticed how the light of the icebox in the middle of the night looks so alien? When all the other lights are off, and it’s just beaming light like a door to someone’s room, it seems so out of place in all that darkness. And it always suggests sleeplessness, no matter where you’re at, or what you’re doing, standing naked in front of your fridge in the middle of the night, staring at it’s contents says you’re awake when you shouldn’t be. The fridge is always so welcoming too. Doesn’t matter what time of night, you always know you can open the fridge in the pitch blackness of your house and it will immediately pour light into the darkness, as if it’s saying to you: “Hello again old friend, can’t sleep either?” Then there’s the jar of jelly. I think I have some bread here somewhere, maybe upstairs in my bedside fridge. Those things are so neat, little mini fridges that plug in the wall and sit right next to your bed. God bless the Taiwanese, or whoever invented them. So lemme get this straight: I’ve gotta go back up the stairs, past the pool cue with Faro’s head on it, down the hallway, back in my room, just on the off chance there might be some bread up there? Forget it, I’ll go hungry tonight. Since I’m already down here, though, I guess I can find something to do. Which reminds me, my goldfish need food. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 21 Fragile little buggers, those fish. Get their tank too warm or too cold, even by just a few degrees, and they bob on the surface like buoyant turds. Give ‘em too much food, or maybe not enough, and once again they keel over. I have to wonder, if there is a God, why would He make such a pitiful life form? Personal amusement? In fact, now that I think about it, goldfish really don’t do much for us, do they? They’re never gonna bring me my paper in the morning, or nuzzle up on my feet and keep them warm. Of course neither will Faro anymore, but that’s beside the point. All they do, day in and day out is swim obliviously in their tank, waiting for their next meal and for the next person to tap their tank so they can swim into the glass like idiots because for some reason that’s cute. What a life. Don’t I feed them? Don’t I keep their tank nice and comfy so it’s like living at the Four Seasons for them 24/7? Don’t I even do that disgustingly cute tap bit so they can injure themselves on the glass when they’re bored? I think I deserve a little something for my tireless efforts. It’s not too much to ask of them to actually be a pet to me for once, since they’ve taken advantage of my goodwill for so long. These guys are hard to hold on to. Got him again. Now which one is this, Barry? Bert? Mathilda? Who cares, they all look alike anyways. Yes, you twist and turn all you want, you know what’s coming, I can see it in your beady, black little eyes, and I wonder, are you gasping for air, or is it in fear? Well my friend, you have every reason to be afraid. Everyone’s bill comes due, yours just happened to come due a little sooner than the others. Down the hatch. I can feel it flopping around on my tongue and it tickles. It really tickles in fact. Mmm... that takes care of that. I honestly didn’t expect a goldfish to be this juicy, or crunchy. It tastes kinda… I don’t even know what to compare it to, it’s just a strange taste. I don’t think it’s blood, fish don’t have blood, at least not goldfish. Wait a second… yeah, that was a distinctive squelch I felt. I think it might’ve been an eyeball, not that there’s really a way to tell now, is there? Well, that was filling, more so than that jar of jelly, or that potato. Except now I gotta go brush these scales off my teeth. I’ll do it in a little while. So far, I’ve managed to kill two hours, as it’s now 4:30, and as usual, I don’t feel even the least bit goddamn sleepy. I look terrible. Eyes are all bloodshot, hair’s a mess, and I have bags and crow tracks on my face now. I look like Nick Nolte probably did when he was still stumbling out of bars. Ugh. According to my clock, as it now reads 4:36, I have been awake for 338 hours and 36 minutes straight. I could probably claim that as some kind of record, if I felt like booting up my computer and checking. Which I don’t. edited by Joshua Goudreau 22 Music doesn’t help any. I’ve listened to every CD and record in my possession, at least five times each, and none of it has helped yet. Maybe I’ll just be awake until I die. I’ll be walking to the fridge one night, muttering to myself, since by then I’m fairly sure I’ll be off my rocker due to sleep deprivation, and I’ll just kick off right there in the middle of my living room. No famous last words, unlike Pancho Villa, who at least said: “Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.” No dramatic gesture of defiance to the last, I’ll just be shuffling, and then be taking a quick trip to the floor. If I could only get some sleep. I wanna dream of making love in my bed, tearing off clothes with my teeth. 5:01. I am the only person in the world standing naked on my second floor balcony at 5:01 a.m. with a pool cue that has my dog’s head on it and my goldfish digesting in my stomach. If I look closely, I can actually see the world turning and the horizon moving, ever so slightly. It’s maddening. Seeing all those houses with their lights out and their inhabitants zzzing away the night while I’m forced to exist outside sleep, watching them obliviously taking advantage of it’s sweet embrace. So unfair. A day before, except for my kitchen and bedroom light, I smashed every bulb in this house to bits with a broom handle. I went from room to room, like a serial stalker going through the house, and shattered every single one of them. Some of them I even unscrewed and broke on the ground so I could hit the pieces a couple more times. It was actually quite refreshing, not to mention stress relieving. Back to my room then, digging through boxes and boxes of junk, trying to get it all organized and neat. Hello, there’s something I didn’t expect to see. This picture of me and my wife, excuse me, ex-wife, when we visited Niagara Falls, back in the summer of ‘98. I haven’t thought about her for years, ever since we had our little falling out. From what I understand, she and her new husband were quite happy for a while, with three children to their name. Seeing this picture memories. Could I have done something different to make her want to stay with me? Might we have lived happily ever after? Maybe I could’ve been there for her a little more, and then I'd at least have someone to share this hellfucked situation with. Oh well. What’s done is done, and cannot be undone. I’m not sure who said that, somebody important, but whoever it was certainly pegged it right. “What’s done is done and cannot be undone.” I love the finality of that statement. The sheer adamant aggressiveness of it that completely resists all argument and negotiation. If only more people could live by that saying, then maybe we’d all sleep better at night. I’m tired. That goes without saying. Not just physically, I’m tired of seeing things that aren’t there. I’m tired of waiting for my mind to crumble away out from under me. Tired of closing my eyes and feeling nothing. Tired of having The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 23 this house to myself day and night and night and day. Mostly though, I’m tired of sunup and sundown, watching the two of them pass me by relentlessly without a thought. What a predicament. I can’t sleep, therefore I’m always thinking about what could have been, or what might be, and because of that, ignoring what is. On the other hand though, if I could sleep, I think I know what I’d see, and I don’t like it. I have a solution. Even as you read this, I’m loading my .38. Not with six bullets mind you, who the hell wants to go out like that? No, I think I’ll play a little Russian Roulette with my last night here. Always wanted to. I was usually just too afraid of dying. Well that’s at least one problem that has since been remedied. Death doesn’t scare me so much anymore, not nearly as much as having to continue on in this house like this, steadily creeping towards insanity. Six chambers, one bullet, let’s spin the barrel and see if I get lucky. Wham. There’s goes chamber number one, and the dead click that accompanies it. Click. I live to write another day. I wonder what my wife would think if she saw me doing this? If she walked in the door right now, walked in on me with a gun to my head, would I turn to her, shocked and surprised, like a kid who gets caught doing weed by his mom for the first time? Or would I simply keep going, unphased? Click. Nothing so far. My luck could very well be so bad tonight that I just happened to pull the one dud out of a box of 100. Wouldn’t that be a joke? I make it all the way to that sixth round, close my eyes in eager fright and anticipation, and squeeze the trigger with a shaking hand, only to hear

edited by Joshua Goudreau 24

Unforeseen Consequences by Scott Snell

“IS ANYBODY OUT THERE? PLEASE RESPOND. THIS IS colony designation Alpha Centari 14,” I called through the microphone desperately, trailing off near the end. It had been over 5 years since I started at this job, which since the day of the Grey Plague, was less of a job and more of a desperate effort to prolong my life as well as the lives of the other few survivors out there. The self replicating nanomachines had run rampant through the planet, there was very little in the way of resources left, just enough to support the 200 survivors for another 5 years at best. Those that lived through the death of half a million counted their blessings, but still prayed for another miracle to help them survive at least another decade. How long ago was it, that day which will live in infamy? Oh yes, 2 years 6 months ago. Ever since the day we stepped off the ship, we had problems with the nanomachines all of us carried to supplement our relatively weak immune system. Back on Earth, before the great migration, they kept people from getting any kind of cancer, fixed unwanted mutations and generally kept people healthy and extended lifetimes to about 300 years.

Waiting and going to the Doctor’s office go hand in hand. First, you arrive in the waiting room and wait for your name to be called. Then you go to a small white room crawling with tiny machines constantly fighting against the onset of bacterial colonies. All the while, going through your head are thoughts of the worst. What can you possibly have wrong with you that your Immune Assistance System couldn’t handle? Or, Gods forbid, is there something wrong with the IAS. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 25 Finally, the door opened and Dr. Felps walked in. He attempted to hide the apparent concern on his face behind a smile, and if he had not recently shaven his moustache he would have gotten away with it. With his upper lip bare his fake smile betrayed his thoughts beyond giving me my diagnosis. If I had the time to think I probably would have made the connection between his apparent distraction, the longer than usual wait time and recent health problems my friends had complained about. As it was I was too nervous to think and simply waited with baited breath for the diagnosis. “Well, Ri’ahn, I have some bad news. The chest pains you’ve been having are a malfunction of your IAS. At this point, the buggers are treating you as if your lungs are riddled with cancer. Luckily, they are acting ineffectively and really not doing that good of a job. At this point we have a couple options for you to consider as far as treatment goes: I can reprogram the bugs, or I can remove them from you completely if you’d rather.” “How much time do I have to decide on the course of treatment?” “24 hours, after that there won’t be enough of you left to work with.” I thought on it for a few moments. I didn’t really need any more time to decide. I could think of a few horror stories I had heard recently about people’s bugs going crazy, I didn’t want to be another story for people to talk about around the replicator… “Take ‘em out. Kill them, smash them, whatever it is that you do.” “Are you sure son? It will mean living without an IAS for the rest of your life.” “Yeah. If they’re still in there I’ll be nervous about this happening again as long as I live.” At this point the good doctor took a small remote out of his pocket similar to the kind one would use with a home entertainment console when you didn’t feel like using voice commands and couldn’t afford the thought reading model. He pressed a few buttons, in an instant the burning sensation was gone, and I felt healthy as a spotted owl. “That’s it?” “That’s it. Now if you’ll lay down for a bit, I can use a tissue regenerator and fix the damage that was done. Thank you, now hold still….” After that, I felt a heck of a lot better. At first I missed the sense of security the bugs gave me but that vanished when I saw my friends going to their physicians on a monthly or even weekly basis to get treatment for a laundry list of mysterious ailments, most caused by a malfunction of the IAS. People began to wonder that maybe mankind wasn’t meant to leave the Solar System, maybe we were meant to deal with issues of overcrowding, maybe we were meant to figure out some kind of way to survive after we had literally run out of all the Solar System’s resources. edited by Joshua Goudreau 26 I was never the type to give in to paranoia, but hey, maybe if I still had the bugs in me I would. At any rate as best as I could figure something in the atmosphere, some kind of reaction to this planet, was making the bugs go haywire. Gods, how I wish I was wrong. If only it was like crazy Erl said. He swore that it was a conspiracy of the Earth Government, no matter that we hadn’t heard from Earth or any of the colonies in the Solar System since we left. Well, technically, we don’t know if they contacted us because we were all sleeping, but most likely they wouldn’t have said anything to a ship full of sleeping people. Then, almost 7 years after we started the colony, it happened. When I was on my way out of my building, I noticed that the walkways were fairly empty and when I glanced up to the sky to see it was gray and a bit muggy looking. I took the fast way to work, skipping the scenic route, to avoid the rain. Once I entered the anti-EMF field surrounding the ETCA compound anything I thought of as unusual was forgotten. The shimmering static field that reduced interference from all the electronic noise of the city was a comfort to me after seeing it for 2 and a half years. Around lunchtime the first refugees wandered in. Erl’s hypothesis wasn’t anywhere near correct. The situation was much, much worse. The bugs that kept people so healthy and disease free had been unable to defend against one nefarious alien that people in the Solar System had never even considered: silicon-based viruses. Apparently the planet had quite a few silicon-based lower life forms and some silicon viruses had evolved as well. Don’t ask me to explain how they work, I’m no biologist, but they are somewhat like carbon based ones. They reproduce with the help of a host and, sometimes, damage it or kill it. As it turns out several varieties of these viruses had adapted to attack the nanobots, wreaking havoc on their programming. At first they had errors similar to the ones in me, causing harm to the host but not death. However, on 6/12, as that day was later known, one or several nanomachines had been reprogrammed to reproduce without limits and not deconstruct after a set amount of time. The unmodified machines fought their former co-workers in an attempt to save the person they were in. The brave little guys were soon overwhelmed, just like all the other forms of life on the planet. People were reduced to wisps of gas as nanomachines transformed what parts they could use into more and more of themselves. The sky grew darker and darker until a black cloud hung above the colony. Thousands upon thousands died horrible deaths in the span of one day. The survivors, numbering around 200, were those who removed the nanomachines once they suffered some ill effects. The bugs haven’t crossed through the static barrier yet. Most of us assume they simply can’t see in here because it likely looks to them like there is a bubble or vacuum of some kind. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 27 If only we hadn’t given them a solar-power backup, we could just wait them out. As it is, if we ever leave this planet, the nanomachines will still be living here eons after we are gone. Perhaps after we as a species are extinct. Which may be sooner then anyone may think given the great success this colony has proven to be. Literally tens of thousands of colony ships were sent out during the great migration but who knows how many landed safely, their inhabitants creating new pockets of civilization among the stars. We had a good start to things, our libraries fully intact, our cryo-stasis units functioned perfectly and we only lost about 1% of our initial population. Not that it did us any good, look where our medical technology got us…

“…This is colony Alpha Centauri 12, we copy you 14. I didn’t think anyone else had established a comm. center this quickly, we’ve had nothing but static for months now! Over.” Lost in my thoughts about the past, my legs jolted out and I ended up falling backwards in my chair, thankful for the fact that I worked alone. I snapped back up and grabbed the microphone. “Sorry. Yes, I’m here! Sorry to cut straight to the point, but do you have a working FTL shuttle over there? We haven’t any, and we have got to get off this rock ASAP! Over.” “Wait a minute, 14. I’ll check with the inventory manager. Over.” I got my seat back under me, and settled in. I knew how these things went; it could be a few minutes before my contact at AC12 got back to me. Knowing this didn’t lessen my excitement; in fact I waited on the edge of my seat straining to hear from my new best friend. What’s that? I thought to myself. I heard a faint buzzing sound in the distance, it sounded like radio static, but more mechanical. It wasn’t just the noise of the stars and distant electronic devices; it was more like thousands of small insects screeching. The screeching got higher, and higher… “Oh Gods.” The walls around me suddenly disappeared as they were transformed into new nanomachine constructs, within seconds the light that had flooded me was drenched in darkness by the mass of creatures. Consumed by utter terror, I felt them crawling on my skin; into my ears, into my nose, down my throat. Before long I could no longer see, I could barely hear, I could no longer feel the cloud of artificial insects eating me alive. I heard one last thing before my ears stopped working completely. It sounded distant through the mass of creatures in my ears, but I knew what it was quite distinctly. edited by Joshua Goudreau 28 “AC14, we have good news for you! We have a FTL craft primed and ready to go! We’ll be sending it over in about 5 tics…”

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 29

Murder. by Rebecca Allen

SHE SPENT DAYS WORKING UP TO IT. FEELING THE RAGE and despair boiling inside until it finally broke free like a torrent. Over the months his temper had worsened as his drinking increased, turning her life into a living hell. She was tired of the beatings, bruises and broken bones. Nobody believed her flimsy excuses of clumsiness anymore, and their pitying looks just increased her feelings of guilt and shame. She felt so degraded and worthless these days. It had not always been this way, they had been happy once when both of them were working. Always going out together and having fun, and exchanging little gifts of love made life worthwhile. Money was never an issue, troubles were rare and the future looked bright. They even planned to marry after living together for several years, and their wedding present to each other was to be their new house. Many happy hours were spent planning the wedding and designing their dream home. There were even plans to hold the wedding and reception in their new home just to really make the day special and put their mark on the house. However, everything had changed overnight when the company he worked for was sold and closed down. The new owners simply paid all the workers exactly what they were owed, closed the doors and sold everything off for a quick profit. The workers were not even given the chance to get rehired. Then had come the heartbreak of applying for job after job simply to be turned away: “We are sorry to inform you that your application has been unsuccessful at this time….”, “We feel that you are over-qualified for this position….”, “We regret to inform you that the position has been filled by a more suitable applicant….”. edited by Joshua Goudreau 30 The constant rejection led to dejection, apathy, and then ultimately to despair. Shortly after his despair had set in the drinking started. At first it was only a couple of drinks each day, which then grew into a few, then became a constant binge. As the drinking got worse he became prone to outbursts of temper, and eventually the physical abuse had started. At first he was horrified that he had actually hit a woman, his woman. Then he felt that she deserved it for whatever offence he saw. After that it just became standard practice because she truly deserved to be treated like that. Now the day of retribution was here. Quietly she crept down to the kitchen and slid the razor sharp carving knife out of the block. The light shone along the honed edge like diamond. Slowly she retraced her path back upstairs, quietly entering the room. Slowly she placed the knife next to the neck. Her hand was trembling but she was determined to go through with it. She pressed the keen blade against the warm flesh. With a sudden and forceful movement she forced the blade in and down, severing the jugular vein and carotid artery in one smooth slash. The blood pumped and flowed thickly down the neck like a red river, staining all in its path of death. Slowly her eyes began to droop and her body went limp as it bled out. Her dying thought was “I wonder if he will be sorry now that I am dead?”

© Rebecca Allen 31/01/2005

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 31

Early September, 1883 by Meredeth Beckett

THE SUN WAS SETTING OVER A WARM DAY AS A LONE woman climbed the staircase and wove between the iron posts of platform number 4, making her way towards train number 4, express from Port Huron to Chicago. She quickened her pace, two small leather bags dangling from her shoulder, and dashed across the platform, sliding into a car as the train rumbled to a start. With a sigh, she relaxed and looked around. The place was stuffed with people, mostly vacationers returning from the year’s last summer outing. The only remaining seat was a booth at the far end of the train car, above which she stowed her bags. The man already seated there didn’t stir. She arranged herself across from him and allowed herself the pleasure of a brief stare. The man was decked out richly, in a mauve striped French-collared shirt and a tailored burgundy velvet overcoat. His cuffs and lapels were flamboyant; nearly three inches wide and decorated with swirls of gold and green. The man himself was as beautiful as his clothing. His thin, almost womanly, face was topped with dark hair that shone in the evening sunlight, making it seem as if his head was topped with strands of precious metal rather than hair. He was perhaps in his late 20s, his chin shaven, and his skin pale and smooth. Behind thin, gold-rimmed spectacles, his eyelashes were quite long, almost feminine, and his eyes were a stormy gray-blue color, focusing on her own with the same impatient energy she sensed from the rest of him. “Oh!” she exclaimed, turning red and looking away. “I’m terribly sorry.” He smiled faintly but with a gleam of knowing in his eyes, as though he was used to people's stares. edited by Joshua Goudreau 32 “Quite alright,” he said. His voice was quiet but firm, in a tone that reminded her of the velvet on his overcoat, and he had a slight Irish accent. Eager to start a conversation, she said, “I was just thinking, you must be warm in that coat.” “Unfortunately,” he answered, “I’ve always been susceptible to the cold. Poor blood circulation.” “Winters must be hard for you.” “Turns out I rather prefer the cold.” His smile became positively radiant. “Gives me an excuse to get close to someone.” She returned his smile. “You don’t look like you have much trouble in that department,” she said. For a moment he simply held her gaze, but then he stood and retrieved a small sheaf of papers from his suitcase. The next several hours of the journey continued uneventfully. From Port Huron to Chicago was twelve hours, even by express train. The woman occupied her time by studying the rest of her fellow passengers and guessing at details of each person’s life. An avid reader, she was fascinated by Arthur Conan Doyle’s new tales of a detective who solved crimes using only his considerable intellect. Amongst her things today was a book entitled Carmilla, one in a recent wave of vampire-related novels. Having bored herself of her fellow travelers, she retrieved it from her carryon and began reading. She had barely gotten past page five when she thought she heard a small laugh from across the table, but when she looked, he seemed completely engrossed in his papers. By midnight, she had finished the book. The man, she noticed, had only turned three pages. Either he was a very slow reader or he wasn’t reading at all. “What are you reading?” she asked, putting her book down. “History,” he said. The oil lamp suspended from the ceiling cast sharp shadows over the table, hiding his eyes. “I’m a professor, doing research for my next book.” “At the University of Chicago?” “In Massachusetts actually,” he said. “A small college outside of Boston.” “If you’ll pardon me, you hardly look old enough to be a professor.” His papers came down to reveal the formation of another bright smile. “How old do you think I am?” She told him of her earlier estimates. He laughed, a sound she found even smoother and more attractive than his voice. “That’s very kind of you to say. No wonder you assumed I was such a ladies’ man.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 33 Their conversation was interrupted by a waiter, from whom the professor ordered a bottle of port. The woman ordered a turkey sandwich and a club soda. As the waiter left, she asked, “You’re not hungry?” His eyes flicked back from where they had been following the waiter as he made his way to the other passengers. “I’ve never been known for my appetite,” he said. “A fact no doubt connected to your circulation.” There was that slight but knowing smile again. “No doubt.” The professor picked his papers back up and the two of them were silent until their food arrived, some five minutes later. The woman dove into her sandwich, famished, but the professor poured his wine slowly, carefully, as though to lose a single drop would render his life’s work useless. Indeed, from the look of concentration on his face and the gleam of anticipation in his eyes, this might be his first drink of alcohol in years. As he brought the glass to his lips, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, revealing a long, pale neck. The woman watched him in frank amazement while he downed the entire glass in three swallows and put it down without opening his eyes. He sighed in a shaky, satisfied way and sat back against the bench, his head still tilted back. After a moment, he licked his lips and opened his eyes. The woman was still staring, her mouth hanging open. Regaining control of herself she said, “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone drink in that fashion before.” The man gave his customary slight smile. The two of them sat there for a moment, eyes locked, before the woman blinked and turned back to her sandwich. “What takes you to Chicago?” the man asked. “Business,” she said. “And pleasure. I’m a photographer. I’m doing a series on national landmarks for my publisher.” He nodded. “How’s it going so far?” “Oh quite well. I’ve already been to New York and Philadelphia. Boston, too. I’ve always loved that city,” she said, smiling. “We lived there for a few years when I was a child.” She decided she was done with her sandwich and took a drink of the club soda. “Where is it that you teach?” “Woodall College. It’s a sort of training ground for future history professors.” “One of my friends lived in Woodall,” she said. “I used to go there every weekend. I don’t recall there being a college there.” “It just opened, about five years ago. Actually, we’ve been so busy, this is my first trip out of town since opening day.” They shared a smile. “What are you writing about?” the woman asked. His smile broadened, becoming pleasant in a way his other smiles hadn’t been. edited by Joshua Goudreau 34 “Vampires,” he said. “They have a wonderful folklore library in Chicago. After that, I’m off to the National Archives in Washington.” “Vampires?” That explained the laugh at Carmilla. “Undead creatures. They sleep during the daylight and prey upon humans during the night. They drink blood.” The woman nodded. “Charming.” He laughed, that warm sound again. “I find the subject quite entertaining.” With nothing to say to that, the woman let the conversation lapse. Rather than go back to his book as she expected, the man turned to look out the window. After a while, he had another glass of port, pouring and drinking it in the same peculiar manner. The waiter came and collected the woman’s dishes and the man remained leaned back, his head tilted. She was beginning to think he had fallen asleep when he poured and downed a third glass of the red liquid. The conductor came through to inform them that they were five hours from Chicago. Most of the passengers were sleeping. The man downed yet another glass and turned back to the window. “They can’t come out in the day time,” he said. His voice was so quiet she had trouble hearing him. “So I’ve heard,” she said. “Sunlight sets them ablaze on contact.” “That would tend to hamper day trips.” He gave a short laugh and turned to her. “They don’t have reflections either. In mirrors. So you can’t take pictures of them. And they have a severe allergy to garlic.” “Garlic?” “It does something,” he said, waving his hand as if wafting a smell towards his nose, “to their sinuses.” “The little white, round vegetables?” she asked, holding her fingers in front of her, slightly apart. He nodded. “Vampires have an incredible sense of smell. All of their senses are enhanced, but none so much as smell.” He was no longer looking her in the eye. Instead, his eyes were roaming all over her body, never stopping for more than a second. “That’s odd,” she said. “That their sense of smell would be so much better.” “It turns out people are more easily identified by smell,” he said. His voice had taken on an ethereal quality, as if he was speaking to her in his sleep. “Each person has a unique smell. Even more than they have a unique look, or a fingerprint.” “So a vampire at the front of the train could smell someone at the back of the train? And, if he knew him, identify the man?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 35 “Oh yes, easily. Although, too many people in one area does tend to confuse the senses.” He shrugged. “It’s difficult to pick one person out of a million.” The woman finally hit upon what was so creepy about this conversation. “You certainly have done your research,” she said. His eyes snapped back to hers and his voice came back to reality. “I find the subject quite entertaining.” After a moment, he picked his papers back up. She retrieved a second book from her bag, The Vampyre, which elicited another laugh from her partner. She let this laugh pass without comment, and they continued on in silence through the early morning hours. By the time the conductor came round about 7:30 to say that they were approaching their destination, the woman had finished her book. She put it back in her bag and double checked that her things were in order. The professor was still engrossed in his papers. He seemed at least to have read them this time. “Excuse me,” she said, sitting back down. He looked up from his work. “Yes?” “I don’t mean to sound rude,” she said, “but I have been admiring your good looks. I was wondering if perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting me take your picture.” That bright smile of his crept over his face and he started laughing. He threw his head back and she had another opportunity to study his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to stop his laughter. “I’m sorry. I would be honored to sit for you.” “Wonderful!” “Although I’d prefer we do it in the train station if you don’t mind,” he said. “Oh, that’s no problem.” And so the two of them disembarked together at Chicago Station and found a relatively unoccupied platform, where the woman set up her equipment. She could feel the man studying her as she opened her tripod and mounted the camera. She could still feel him as she prepared the glass plate and slid it into the back of the camera. And as she peered through the viewfinder, she could see his dark eyes staring directly at her. He seemed amused by something, with a sparkle in his eyes that said he was only just preventing himself from laughing out loud. “Okay, now, don’t move,” she said, and pulled the shutter cord. The flash went off and the glass was etched. “Perfect! Thank you.” He strode over to pick up his suitcase from beside the camera. “You’re quite welcome. Your company on the train tonight was a welcome distraction. Do you need any assistance putting your equipment away?” “No, thank you, I’ll be fine.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 36 “Alright then,” he said, and nodded his goodbye. She watched him walk away into the crowd and shook herself back to reality. After putting her supplies away, she made her way straight to her employer’s Chicago headquarters, where she was shown to the darkroom. She worked as fast as she could. When she brought it out into the daylight, however, her face creased in a frown. The platform and its environs were clear enough, but the man himself was missing from the shot.

fin

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 37

Lost Ambition by Jonathan Lin

“LISTEN TO ME ANGELA... YOU’VE JUST STARTED SCHOOL yesterday. Demands from work will get much harder this year, but your mind still hasn’t returned to study!” “What’s the big problem Dad? Why do you always think I’m not concentrating in school?!” The fiery conflict had sparked for only a few seconds, but it wasn’t difficult for the flame to develop into a raging inferno. Seated on opposite sides of a small wooden table, it was the only thing separating the two figures from launching at each other. Just beginning her third and final year in middle school, Angela was more than happy to see her classmates after the long two-month gap separating her from the rest of the world. Her holiday was no more than a condensed version of living within a jail cell. Without any siblings to accompany her, she was the only child in the family. Never letting her out of the house unless it was an emergency, her parents kept her under tight supervision. And for what reason? So Angela would be able to concentrate on her extra summer studies. It was the most pathetic thing she had ever heard of. The start of school was more of liberation than just the beginning of senior high – it was a ticket straight to her simple salvation. But nothing stopped things from getting worse. A year earlier, she had taken an immense love to writing. It was never something passed down from her former generations: her parents both had their strengths settled in areas of mathematics. It was just a gift born with her blood – and she was determined to keep it from running to waste. With a mind more open to creativity than the repetitive layouts of math sums, she drifted away to spend edited by Joshua Goudreau 38 time honing her writing skills. Shopping for cosmetics, going out with friends and seeing movies were no more than things that wasted time. She found herself riding cloud nine whenever teachers set creative writing assignments and pretty soon she started heading down a completely new road: seeing if there was any chance of real publication of her novel. Life got busier, but it didn’t prevent page after page adding themselves to the end of her drafted manuscript. Soon rising in tens, the hours and hours spent writing and editing drained her physically, but spun a web of enjoyment within her emotions. Her life lay in her novel – nothing else mattered. But her parents had other ideas. They were somewhat surprised to see their only daughter take such love to writing. Half-heartedly encouraging her at first, the tentative support quickly developed into apathy. They saw how much time she could have been using to enhance her mathematic skills, but it was spent instead on a novel that saw very little chance of publication. Even with a novel in print, her parents still realized that it was extremely difficult for universities to accept a student with no qualifications other than a hard- copy book. She needed the knowledge of mathematics – she needed to study more. The pressure had been constantly rising during the past few months, but the start of school was the final straw for Angela’s parents. Seeing her in no mood to drop her obsession for writing a few paragraphs a day, they decided her novel wasn’t the most important thing in her life. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Angela,” Her father hissed through clenched teeth. “Why can’t you start doing some more studies to catch up? You know that-” “Dad, I already know that I stink at math!” She yelled, abandoning the idea of having a peaceful dinner. “You don’t need to say it anymore – I know I suck!” “Which is why you should be doing extra… to start making up for all the lessons you’ve missed out!” Angela narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean: making up for lessons I missed out?! I didn’t skive school or anything!” Her voice was loaded with pure venom. But her father wasn’t intimidated in the least – he had a moral to deliver. “Why can’t you follow the examples of your friends? Kathryn, Sarah…they’ve all been doing extra studies at home! Tutors go to their houses to teach them! But what do I see you do? Nothing but writing your story!” “What the hell is wrong with that?” Angela yelled, thinking the reason for this conflict was beyond insane. Why did parents always seem to pick the The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 39 most useless causes to start an argument? How could something as innocent as writing a book seem as catastrophic as the end of the world? Her father lowered his voice to a bladed whisper. “You watch your language, Angela…” She rolled her eyes, taking excruciatingly long on the movement to let her dad see every last detail. “I’m listening…” She hummed, forcing her mind to wander elsewhere. “Good, because there is a lot you need to hear.” Something in the tone of his voice made Angela think this argument wasn’t going to end well. “I am going to set you some new rules for this year. There will be no more typing until the next holiday. On weekends, when you have extra time, do some additional math. At least one to two hours minimum. Your story can wait…it is not the most important thing right now.” The end of his phrase made Angela shivering with rage. Her father’s shallow voice was almost enticing her to launch a punch for his jaw. ‘Your story can wait?!’ What kind of statement was that?! The four words alone were gripping enough to shock her. And an extra ‘one to two hours extra math?!' What did he think she was – a walking human of time? She had other things to do, and certainly they were way more important than arithmetic. Out of all her classes, mathematics was the one she detested the most. Lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, she stared with a blank face. Something was clearly wrong here...how could he do this to her? “W….what did you say?” She asked, dreading the final answer. Her father replied without remorse. “Your story must stop. Do you realize how difficult it is to get a book published? Thousands of people have failed. I know you are determined to do this, but you must have the math skills first. Otherwise, there is no-” “I already have math homework!” Angela persisted in a helpless tone, hoping she wasn’t hearing what her ears were feeding her. “Doesn’t this already-” “Look at how little it is!” Cutting her off with a bitter look, Angela gulped down the tears painfully, staring at the floor. “Everyone else does extra – why can’t you?” “BECAUSE NO ONE ELSE HAS A STORY TO WRITE!” Angela shouted, not caring whether the whole neighborhood could hear their argument. Her father had started the whole thing…it was him that deserved the blame. “YOU LOWER YOUR VOICE ANGELA!” Her father bellowed, making his daughter’s voice seem like a whisper. “No one else has something like this…” Angela struggled to contain the anger in her voice. “No one else wants this as badly as I do…” edited by Joshua Goudreau 40 Her father stared at her with eyes that could cut steel. “Your studies are so much more important! If you were on an equal level…” His tone made Angela think she was inferior to everyone else. “…with everyone else when based on a mathematic level, then you could possibly write a book to present to universities. Your book is just a bonus. For now, you still have to concentrate on the basics!” “I AM FREAKING SICK OF THE BASICS!” Angela screamed, feeling the warm tears dribble down her cheeks. “THIS IS THE WORST THING YOU’VE EVER DONE TO ME – WHY DO YOU HAVE TO STOP ME FROM WRITING?! IT’S THE ONLY THING THAT HAS EVER CALMED ME DOWN! IT’S THE ONLY THING THAT MAKES ME FEEL HUMAN!” Fully enveloped within the storm of her rage, she grabbed the nearest handheld item she could find: a glass cup. Not caring about the consequences, she picked it up and heaved it with all her strength towards the floor. Like a director overlooking a cinematic being played frame by frame, the pieces of glass shattered as slowly as a frozen nightmare. Seconds later, the cup was nothing more than a few glittering pieces of debris. Her father’s expression was not far behind. As though lost in a lapse of time, his face contorted into shock with excruciating slowness. Eyes not leaving the remnants of glass on the floor, it took him a full minute to finally comprehend the situation. He pointed a trembling finger of rage towards the hallway, and said in a deathly cold whisper, “Go into your room and think about this Angela… I will talk to you later.” Still not feeling the knives of anger let her go, she glared vehemently at her father, and yelled in his face, “Suits me just fine!” Without waiting for an answer, she stormed out of the dinning room, and soon found herself locked in the safety of her room. Keeping the lights extinguished, she took a few moments to catch her breath. How could they do this to me... Angela seethed with silent hatred. How could parents be so... so fuc- She blocked the word from her mouth. No point swearing now – it wouldn’t get her anywhere. Fingers switching on the small lamp on her desk, she whipped out some scrap paper, feeling the need to release the odium from her system. There was no need to think hard about a specific topic… it had already been granted to her… Smiling with her tear-stained lips, she grabbed a spare pencil, tested its reliability on the corner of the paper, and set to work.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 41 Burning My Ambition BY ANGELA

Something thumped on the other side of her door. Knuckles rapping against the hard surface of the wood, her father’s voice quickly penetrated the material and reached Angela’s ears. “Angela…Angela! What are you doing in there?!” The doorknob twisted, but the lock held in place. The thumping grew louder and more frantic. “Open the door!” Not on your life... Angela’s thoughts were coated in venom. Using the tension as an advantage to spur her thoughts, she filtered out her father’s shouts, and started writing out line after line.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ 'Is shouting meaningless words all you do?’

“You had better open that door, Angela!” Her father warned, giving the doorknob another violent twist. “Or else you won’t-” Just shut the hell up... Angela continued to write, completing her first stanza.

‘If I had the chance I would make you beg,’ ‘For mercy and forgiveness as I took your head.’

“Angela, answer me!” Suddenly her father’s tone changed from a loose cannon to the sympathetic pleas of a helping parent. It made Angela hesitate for a moment, drawing her poisonous thoughts to a close. “Please... open the door – I can’t simply talk to you like this,” her father continued. “Why are you being so stubborn? Can’t you see that you have to stop writing your story if there’s any chance of getting into a good university?” The soft tone struck her heart, imbedding a cleansing wave of truth that threatened to wash away her anger. Was her father correct? Was he making sense? Did she really have to smash the glass cup in her fury? “Come out here!” Seeing no change in Angela’s reaction, her father decided there was no point wasting anymore time. The shouting returned. “Why do you not even listen to your own father?! Why are you so stubborn right now?!” “Who’s the one that’s stubborn...” Angela muttered under her breath, tearing herself away from her father’s fake mask of empathy. A clear and rational, yet almost reckless image lay crystalline in her mind. Before she edited by Joshua Goudreau 42 could be reminded of the consequences, she had already settled herself on a decision. Nothing would make her turn back now…

‘Maybe my life isn’t heading the way you want,’ ‘But it doesn’t give you the permission to taunt.’ ‘I see a demon laughing behind those eyes,’ ‘Your filthy phrases are nothing to me but lies.’

Something droned outside the door. Angela paused as she finished the second stanza, her ears trying to pick out sounds from the other side. Mumbling in a quiet monotone, her father seemed to be communicating with someone else. Freezing herself, Angela stretched her hearing abilities as far as she could. Her father was talking to someone on the telephone. Any other details besides that were totally lost. Wondering who he could be calling at a time like this, she turned back to the tear-stained paper. The image in her head was so clear… but it stung her heart so badly. Why did it have to come down to this? Angela shook her head hopelessly. No... she thought to herself. I’m not going to tolerate this anymore... Taking up the pencil once more, she had just put the graphite tip on the paper when there was a frantic knock on the door again. Her father had finished the phone call. “Angela... I just got a sudden call from the office. I have to go and pick up something. Can you stay here for half an hour? I’ll be as quick as I can.” The words entered her ears with tingles of surprise. Someone calling her father back to the office? What kind of bluff was that? Obviously it was a lure… But as Angela strained to hear more, all that responded was the slamming of her front door. Heart pounding furiously, she switched off her desk lamp, letting the room fall into an eerie darkness. Slowly drawing the curtains open, she peeked outside, and saw the tall lean figure of her father enter the red minivan parked against the curb. Seconds later, with a soft growl from the engines, the vehicle sped away. Was God staging the perfect opportunity to help her plan succeed? Either way… she was going to take it… Still feeling the tears openly flow down her cheeks, she leaned down underneath her bed and pulled out an old shoebox. Lifting off the cover, Angela felt a wave of comfortable warmness seep through her, as a stack of paper with seemingly scribbled writing met her eyes. The total of one The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 43 hundred and ten pages was worth hours and hours of work, where she became lost in the unexplored regions of her imagination. Taking the whole manuscript from the box, she quickly bonded it with a dark blue ribbon, then gathered together a few belongings. Her wallet. House keys. A coat, just in case the chill was too unbearable. Her decision lay solid in her mind, but every passing second was another chance given for her to change her mind. It was so easy to just stop and reconsider it. It was just so easy to– No... I’m not going to suffer this anymore... Cautiously, she opened the door of her bedroom. The dinning room was bathed in a dim wash of depressing light, making the shadows extend from all corners. Gripping her manuscript tightly under one arm, she made her way to the front door. Taking a painful breath, she spared one final glance at the room around her. Two plates of unfinished salad lay like ghosts on the dinner table. She switched off the light and exited the house. Minutes later, she was out in the night. Her neighborhood was a calm and serene environment, one that she had grown up in for fifteen years. Her tearful eyes looked back up at her house… but all it did was tighten the knot in her stomach. Her future was not looking bright… that is, if she actually had a future… Goodbye... she whispered in the hollow shell of her head. You won’t ever see me again… Taking the house keys out of her pocket, she held them firmly in the air. Then her fingers opened up, letting the jangle of metal fall into the drains without a sound. Gripping her story, she turned and left… feeling lost… without ambition.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 44

A Wizard’s Advice... by Tara Taylor

“TAKE ME THERE,” I WHISPERED ALOUD AS I CLUTCHED the crystal in my hand. I closed my eyes as the familiar sensation of falling at great speed assailed me, and then the welcome sound of bird song washed through my senses. I smiled as I opened my eyes. I was there. I looked about. I stood in a meadow of tall lush grasses filled with beautiful wild flowers, which stretched up a slight incline ending dramatically at a firm cliff. I walked slowly up to the edge and peered down several hundred feet onto a sandy beach dotted with seaweed strewn rock pools. Gentle waves lapped up against the shore and I ran my gaze out to the glistening horizon, up into a cloudless azure blue sky filled with screaming gulls. Sighing wistfully I looked to my right, where the rugged coastline curved against the ocean, disappearing into the far distance. To my left, the land sunk in slightly creating a deep cove, before returning to mirror the right. Inland slightly, mountains sprang up, cloaked with dense forest and I could see a snatch of glinting water – a waterfall – high up through the trees. I turned away from the cliff edge and looked back down the meadow. I had two alternatives. On the one hand the meadow continued to blanket the land, stretching far into the distance, but to the right of it was a mature clump of woodland that began quite narrow but widened out as it greedily devoured the countryside. A small melodically gurgling stream divided the two. After a moment’s hesitation I began to head for the forest following a well-trod path that snaked through the meadow and continued on beneath the canopy of tall trees. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 45 It was darker beneath the trees, but not unsettlingly so. It was cooler too, again pleasantly so rather than uncomfortable, especially after the unrelenting summer heat that bore down upon the cliff top. Sun light beams pierced through the outstretched branches lighting up my path as I walked and I smiled as I allowed them to guide me through the twilight world…towards the unknown? My smile deepened. Only it wasn’t the unknown for me. I had been here many times before. And I knew exactly where I was heading on this occasion, although my visits offered me varying options each time, different places to go and different friends to meet. But today I wanted to visit Galwin. Today I needed the wisdom of his words. The path continued to lead me through the labyrinthine world and as I passed my favorite trees I gave them a gentle pat of warm greeting. Birds sang vibrantly upon the branches above whilst the hum of insects filled the air with their own sweet melody. Finally Galwin’s dwelling came into view. Situated in a small clearing, dotted with bright pink foxgloves, stood a small quaint cottage. It had no garden, for the forest was a garden in itself, and it was painted a soft white with a yellow thatched roof and a blue painted wooden door. To my delight the door was ajar. Galwin was home. His cat, Hislop, greeted me at the door, gyrating around my ankles as if he hadn’t seen me in years. I stroked his sleek black coat, tickled him beneath the chin and then stepped into the cottage. Galwin was in the kitchen, bending over a cooking pot that was bubbling away in the chimney alcove. He turned with a smile when I softly called his name, hurrying over to embrace me with his usual loving kindness. I noticed that he was wearing his full wizard’s robes, rather than his usual simple peasant garb, and I wondered if he had anticipated my arrival. He gestured me through into the living room. The living room was actually his consulting chamber, filled with all manner of strange and bizarre curiosities as well as the more traditional wizard ware: scrying balls, crystals, piles of rune stones and hundreds of ancient books. Blazing candles surrounded the area alongside burning incense. I realized that he had lit my favourites: patchouli incense and apple blossom scented candles. Together they mingled to produce an intoxicating fragrance. He gestured to a black overstuffed cushion that he had placed in a cleared space on the dusty ground. “Please sit. Tell me what is on your mind.” I nodded and did as he asked, making myself comfortable on my unusual seat, crossing my legs and resting my hands in my lap. He grinned mischievously as he made himself comfortable on a cushion opposite me. “Well?” I smiled sheepishly. “I turned thirty today.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 46 “Happy birthday!” But he frowned as he noticed my melancholy air. “Or not so happy?” I shrugged. “I’m thirty,” I despaired. He raised an eyebrow seeming slightly vexed. “Yes, I heard you the first time. I may be centuries old but I’m not deaf dear.” But the mischief was still very clear in his pebble black eyes. “You know what I mean,” I continued. “I’m getting older. I don’t like it. I want to be twenty again.” He laughed loudly. “You’ve been getting old from the moment you were born! That miserable face of yours is not going to slow it down one little bit. If anything it makes you look older.” I instantly stopped frowning. “I know. I understand whet you’re saying. But I feel that I’ve reached a sort of pinnacle in my life, and don’t know what’s the next step. I feel stuck in a rut.” He stopped smiling and turned serious. “So, you have reached a pinnacle. Now the only thing you can do is step down from it and get on with your life. Stop being so melodramatic about everything.” “So what you’re saying is being thirty is no big deal?” “Being any age is no big deal. It’s just a number. It does not mirror the true age that is in your heart and soul.” “What age would that be? The age you actually feel? Like, I feel no different to how I did when I was seventeen.” He shook his head. “No, that is the age your brain is telling you to feel. I’m talking about an age you are not even aware of until you have seen the true nature of all things, internal and external.” My brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “Well, how old is that?” “Infinite,” he gushed excitedly. I sighed quietly. “Now that makes me feel even older.” He chuckled, seeming to delight in my annoyance. “Time is an illusion. Accept that and you will see all things for the wondrous beauty and seductive mystery they really are.” I forced a frustrated smile. “I don’t know why I come here. You don’t answer my questions, you just give me more.” He looked at me sadly but at the same time stretched an arm to his left and retrieved a burning candle. He placed it between us. I stared at him curiously. “The candle is you,” he stated seriously. “The flame your burning desire. Your desire for answers, perfection, youth, material wealth and a whole host of other insignificant and unnecessary delusions.” “Okay,” I returned, intrigued. He looked up from the candle flame and stared deep into my eyes. “Blow out the candle.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 47 I puffed out my cheeks and blew, gutting the candle flame. “There,” he exclaimed with a grin. “You have extinguished your desires. You are now free to live.” I scowled, staring down at the unlit candle. “Ah, but the candle doesn’t look half as pretty without the flame,” I pointed out, trying to sound clever. “Ah,” he mimicked teasingly. “But neither is the candle melting beneath the heat. It remains whole; the fire cannot consume it now.” He smirked smugly but his face was still warm and kindly. As his words washed over me I gaped at him. “I think I understand.” “No, you don’t,” he disagreed firmly. “But you have taken the first step towards understanding. Always remember that a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.” “So?” I implored. “So,” he answered. “Stop worrying about life - irrelevant things like age - and start living it. Because when you are worrying, time is passing. Even illusionary time!” I smiled and nodded. “I’ll try.” “Try is a word invented by people afraid to actually do,” he insisted with a pointing finger. “Okay!” I snapped, grinning. “I will! I’ll stop worrying and start living.” “And you will say that to yourself each morning in the bathroom mirror until the action is as fluid as water and as natural as breathing.” “Yes sir!” I mocked teasingly, and we both laughed. “Ah, she laughs!” Galwin teased back. “What a heart warming sight! Now you are living.” We rose from our cushions and embraced. I found myself hugging him tighter than I had ever dared before. “Thank you,” I whispered into his ear. As we parted he nodded casually but remained silent. I suddenly found myself asking him, curious: “How old are you anyway?” “As old as the stars, the moon, the starlit sky…” he sang humorously. “So, there’d be a lot of candles on your cake then?” I pointed out dryly. His eyes glinted knowingly. “But unlit candles,” he insisted jokingly. “So as not to melt the chocolate.”

edited by Joshua Goudreau 48

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 49

Issue #2 January/February/March 2006

edited by Joshua Goudreau 50

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 51

~Featured Story~

Jane by Megan Reilly

JANE IS MY FAVORITE. She’s a catatonic, spineless, fifty-cent slut with happy STDs and painkillers. And I love her. Jane was never conceived. She just appeared one day full grown, shimmering and shaking, ageless before she was even supposed to have an age. Immaculate conception. She’s nice, really. Jane writes poetry in lipstick and eyeliner. She uses magic markers to put makeup on. She broke her radio to listen to the static. Jane is solitary, a solitary whore. Nobody can touch her. There is a boy. He might be gay, or bisexual at least. He loves Jane and lets her give him head and recite haikus while she sucks him and rubs his balls. There is a girl. She’s too pretty to be a lesbian. Jane likes to play with her little clit and stroke her blonde pubic hair. Sometimes she plays games with the girl and boy. It’s fun for her. She likes to have them both at once. No sex, just touching. Jane gets orgasms from peeing her pants. She doesn’t touch herself. She just stands, goes, and moans. Jane is really sweet, though. She makes tea when you’re sad. She pierces you with a big needle that she sterilizes in alcohol. It hurts, but it’s happy time. Jane gives you painkillers for when you’re in a mood. You can become completely saturated. Jane’s outfits never match. I love that. edited by Joshua Goudreau 52 She wears boots and men’s boxers. Wifebeaters and little girl’s panties. Jeans that are always too big or too small. But Jane always wears big, dark sunglasses. The light hurts her eyes. I love Jane. Not like that, though. I’m not into that. We’re just friends. Jane never sleeps. We stay up all night. If I fall asleep, she’ll let me sleep and stay awake smoking, singing, and counting her toes over and over again. We chain smoked and sat on a bridge. She talked about how she wanted to move to Poland or Germany. She drew a swastika on her forehead, stripped, and screamed naked into the night that she was Hitler. I laughed. We pretended that we were Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud and made fake absinthe out of vodka and food coloring. We got drunk and set fire to a tree. I love Jane. I really do. Everyone does. It’s too bad that she’s catatonic inside. She lives, but has never been held when she cried. I don’t think she ever cries. She made a wind chime out of tin cans and antique medicine bottles. Jane hung it in her room and fell asleep. Everyone loves her. Except herself.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 53

packet loss by Kathy Kachelries

THE FEEDS ARE NOT FOR THE NEWS. THE FEEDS ARE THE distraction, the feeds are the facade. The news is contained within them, invisible to the naked eye, downloading itself as cookies, slipped into meta tags. Sometimes, Anna wondered who controlled the news, who encoded it so carefully before covertly disseminating it to a throbbing public that would never be able to read it. “Six civilians reported dead after recent bombing,” the scrolling headline told her as she slapped a post-it above the monitor.

It is a crime to open up your computer. Computers come fully assembled: white cubes with no seams, glowing power button and white cord. You had to buy a saw, the kind used for cutting pipes. It was a tedious process. When Anna was thirteen, it took her five hours to get through the half-inch of white plastic and the quarter-inch of metal beneath it. She was disappointed at the interior, which consisted of shiny green boards pricked with bits of copper. It was too mundane to be forbidden, she thought. She resented the laws for tricking her into wasting her time. The newsfarms were self-contained as well. The boy who lived down the street told her that the buildings were empty, operated by machines. Machines made the feedsites, and machines maintained them. That was why they had no doors. “How do we know they’re telling the truth?” she asked, squinting at the windowless building. “Machines can’t lie. They don’t even know what lies are.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 54 In the cafe, Anna inserted a small black cartridge and cut off the auditory alarm with a few keystrokes. The computer could recognize ‘malicious code.’ She glanced up to the innocent-looking post-it note attached to the top of the monitor. The usercamera was the first line of defense, and it was the first one to be neutralized. Now, it was busy converting the image of the yellow paper to digits, which were stored and immediately printed by the DHS for deployment. Their enemy is the color of dandelions, she thought, smirking at their waste of yellow ink. The front of the square said 10.12.01.

Judith had been a few years older than Anna, and lived in the apartment beside her. Judith’s apartment was sealed like a newsfarm, there was a door, though, Anna had never seen it open. Eerie blue light flickered from the space between wood and tile. The first and last time she saw Judith was a week before she graduated from high school. Anna answered the door at three am, mostly because her mother told her not to answer the door at three am, and Judith shoved a box into Anna’s arms. “This is for you,” she whispered breathlessly before turning and running down the hallway in a mess of curly hair and toffee-colored skin. The police arrived three minutes later.

Confident that the computer’s safeguards had been bypassed, Anna opened the program on the disk and stared at the black window for a second before filling it with white letters and numbers. Another window opened, and the guts of the feedsite spilled out into black and white as numbers and letters. Anna hit print, then eject, then yanked the cord out of the wall and replugged it. Pocketing the disk, she looked at the startup screen. “Shit!” she said, loudly enough for the clerk to hear. He glanced up. “It turned itself off,” she explained. “Do you need-” he started, then the phone rang, exactly on schedule. “One second,” he said, and picked up the receiver. Anna grabbed the stack of seventeen freshly-printed pages and exited while his back was turned.

Sitting in the diner, drinking her fourth cup of coffee, Anna worked over the pages with a ballpoint pen. Eighty-three people had died, not six. Their names were half-assembled as letters trapped in little blue circles of ink. “You shouldn’t do puzzles in pen,” the waiter said, refilling her coffee. “What if you want to erase something?” “I don’t like erasing things,” she responded without looking up. He walked back behind the counter and she circled another letter, frowning.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 55

Welcome Back by Jeff Fraser

PASSENGER ELLIOT LARKIN BLINKED. WHEN NOTHING happened, he blinked again. With each movement of his eyelids, the likelihood of him opening them again to be greeted by the completely new and fascinating view of reality he expected slipped away. Still he blinked. Still nothing happened. The experiment had failed, and he knew it. P. Elliot looked around at a room full of blank expressions, many as astonished and vacant as his own. Eyes went wide, apprehension clinging to the air like an invisible, rancid odor. Where there were usually congratulations, where there were usually smiles and impressed satisfaction, there was an eerie knowledge that something, somewhere, had inexplicably gone wrong. The facility was dead silent aside from the oblivious beeping of nearby displays and consoles, declaring without exception that everything was as it should be. But everything was not as it should be. P. Elliot was still standing, inert, on the platform, a bulky, obscure, and massive white form in his vacuum-sealed, bleached suit. In each and every other test of the machine, the current passenger had vanished, to appear days or weeks later in the same physical position he had left. No trace was left on the platform; no matter, or energy, or any material of any kind was left behind – especially not an entire human and all of his equipment. The timer on the wall beeped loudly, announcing target plus five seconds. Slowly, the room was beginning to stir. Whispers began to flutter back and forth. Commander Samuel Jefferson stuttered and lifted a hand to direct action, but no words came. His weak jaw failed to register what his mind told edited by Joshua Goudreau 56 him he needed say. A squeaking noise echoed as someone in the second row of consoles cleaned their glasses. Behind his gleaming glass visor, acceptance was beginning to dawn on P. Elliot. He made a move to step clear of the platform, to announce with his single motion the complete and final failure of the experiment, and faltered. He froze, suddenly intensely cold, and a thick, jelly-like sweat burst out across his brow. Nausea erupted within his gut, washing over his entire body, and pain racked him in currents. Moments later, he was on the ground, writhing and screaming violently in his soundproof helmet. Around him, his colleagues stood stunned, until finally a shocked cry out of one of them broke the silence and spurred them to react. P. Elliot was lifted onto a stretcher, and carried away. The hall detonated. “What happened?” “What went wrong?” “What’s wrong with him?” “Why didn’t it work?” “What,” bellowed Senator Harry Timpson into the ensuing commotion, “was that?” His voice was filled with authority, with disappointment, and anger – anger at wasting billions of government tax dollars on an already questionable program that had metamorphosed, in an almost immeasurable instant, into a monumental fiasco. The threatening tone with which he composed the demand and the tranquil, solid and firm way in which he held his delicately dressed, business-like form was enough to invoke tense silence in the team of scientists, devolved by the situation to no more than a confused mob. Commander Jefferson was barely articulate. The blood had drained from his face. The air of leadership he normally commanded had flitted of somewhere into a dark corner where he, nor those around him, could find it. “It . . . it didn’t work,” he stammered weakly. His voice was barely above a whisper; but in the dead quiet of the control room, even the Senator could hear his reply. The response came in the form of a narrow, irritated glare. “I mean,” C. Jefferson said, more confident this time, “I don’t know sir. Most likely a malfunction. We know all the other test runs worked spectacularly. You’ll recall the end of week, and end of year jumps were all successful.” The obviousness with which the Commander stretched the program’s earlier successes to cover this disaster served only to further deprive the program of its reputation. Recognizing his error, C. Jefferson continued quickly, “I’ll have a full report for you ASAP. I’m sure there is a The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 57 perfectly explainable, and fixable reason for this . . . this . . . ” His voice trailed off, searching for the right word to use. The Commander was a burly individual, prone to overreaction, the opposite of smooth, adaptive reflex – highly unprepared for the new situation thrust upon him. He appeared as a walking contradiction; intellectual and sophisticated, but without the fragility of antisocialism. Stubbly face and small, round spectacles were locked in eternal combat for superiority with each other across his visage. “This . . . incident,” he completed. His renewed conviction brought sense back to the room, and presently there was movement. The other scientists shuffled hesitantly at first, dimly aware of the reverberating consequences that this day would bring not only to their work, but to the political and economical backing imperative to their success and – and – There was something intuitively illusive, haunting about the whole affair; as if its true significance lay not in what appeared at the time most important. “Will Passenger Larkin survive?” asked the Senator, laden with exasperation. His hard, strong tone betrayed no sympathy for the unknown condition of the poor man who had broken on the platform. His intent was plain; determine the extent of the damage, full stop. Objectivity was the only constant of a man who studied war as an art and with cold certainty decided the fate of hundreds of lives on a daily basis. “That has yet to be determined,” C. Jefferson replied with only the slightest hint of shakiness, betraying a measure of doubt. “We still have to figure out what’s wrong with him.” “You mean, what the machine did to him,” the Senator corrected, his gaze blatantly accusatory. The Senator’s expression was both annoyed and dangerous, alerting all to the notion that heads would soon be leaving their disgusting marks on the immaculate floor of the facility. “I wouldn’t presume to know that – ” “You wouldn’t presume anything, dipshit. You have no idea what just happened.” Anger flashed across Senator Timpson’s features. “Would you like me to tell you what just happened?” The Commander, taken aback, swayed. “I – ” “You just wasted four hundred million taxpayers’ dollars, is what.” “Sir, I – ” “No excuses, Commander. Find out what the hell went wrong. Then fix it. Don’t report to me until you do. If,” the Senator paused for effect, “you want to keep your funding, that is.” The Senator, followed by his security, stormed out of the control room angrily. He could be heard muttering curses until he was well outside in the edited by Joshua Goudreau 58 hallway. The room was silent again, dumbfounded, left with the creeping realization that they were all in a desperate situation if no answers were to be had. Soon.

Passenger Elliot Larkin, removed from his suit, lay breathing heavily on the operating table. He blinked. Blearily, he looked around the room. He wondered briefly whether it was his own vision that was out of focus, or if it was everything else that was fuzzy. The room was bright, everything a shameless shade of pure white. Even the doctors stood clothed in gowns of white. Only the metal glimmer of instruments stood out in this, his blurry vision of stark medical precision. An IV was attached to his arm – most likely, he deduced, injecting a small but steady dose of morphine. One of the doctors was speaking now. It sounded far off and distant, as if someone were calling to him from beyond the horizon. Calling him into wakefulness, into reality, into the world that he had always known so well. Then he was awake. The doctor’s words were clear, his vision purged of inconsistencies. He sat up, indistinctly aware of a dimly aching pain throughout his entire body – the dying echoes of a much greater excruciation that painkillers were only partially able to suppress. The doctors crowded around him, and his nearby monitors, enshrouded in a professional sort of silence. One of them lowered her mask and spoke. “Welcome to the world of the living.” P. Elliot nodded weakly. “We have no idea why you experienced that sensation,” she stated, matter- of-factly, her thin, long face prim with what might be called annoyance. “You’ve had all the normal effects of a jump – to the extreme. What you felt on the platform,” she went on, “was what you should have felt had the jump actually happened.” P. Elliot blinked. “But the jump didn’t actually happen?” he asked, a hint of incredulity seeping into his voice. “Not as far as we’re aware.” P. Elliot eyed the much older doctor. “As far as you’re aware?” The doctor, seeming to be permanently shrouded in irritation, pursed her lips and stared at him, a piercing gaze that could have frozen mercury. The doctor’s expression spoke a thousand words: You, Passenger Elliot Larkin, have just ruined my day. Do not expect me to be grateful. She looked away and began to peel her gloves off of her forearms. “Come with me,” she muttered, picking up a long and stiff stride across the room, leaving the question unanswered. “Someone wants to see you.” The tap of her heels on the floor was comparable to a slow drilling into P. Elliot’s brain. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 59 Obediently, he swung his legs off of the bed and slipped onto the polished white floor, a slow and labored motion. The other doctors watched him intently, their expressions hidden behind masks, their eyes quizzical, their movements distracted. A small, mouse-like man rushed forward to remove his IV drip, before backing away cautiously. The doctors were hushed with an air of expectant curiosity, their former work forgotten. The disgruntled time traveler was now the sole the focus of their interest. Like insects, they were. The doctor led him out of the room and down the hall wordlessly. P. Elliot half-staggered after her, drawing the attention of several inquisitive nurses pushing trolleys and equipment past him in the hallway. The smell of chlorine bleach dominated the corridor, the scent of perverse medical cleanliness causing P. Elliot to feel as a smear across the pristine white building. His bare feet slapped across the glistening white tile. Suddenly the doctor stopped, turning perfectly on her heel and standing, straight-backed, before a large, nondescript white door marked ‘204’. From a pocket within her gown she withdrew an enormous collection of keys bound together by a simple bronze ring and chain. After a moment of searching, she withdrew from the mangled stack a stubby, dull gray key, and inserted it carefully into the lock. There was a clicking noise, and the door swung open soundlessly. Without waiting for a confirmation from her patient, she stalked into the room. P. Elliot followed curiously. Commander Jefferson, a number of techs, and one or two fellow scientists were stationed in a befuddled mass around what appeared to be P. Elliot’s suit, each clambering over it with confused interest. To the side, P. Elliot recognized the Senator Timpson and his escort, observing wordlessly, with an air of impatience about them. As the door opened, the room, in one massive sweep, turned to acknowledge the presence of the bewildered Passenger. “He’s here,” the doctor announced needlessly. She turned and swept out of the room without a further word, the door closing and clicking behind her. The room was shrouded in silence. Even the Senator looked on with intense interest, the black shadow of his anger for the moment forgotten in light of the newcomer’s appearance. P. Elliot was slightly puzzled as to how and why that effect seemed to follow him wherever he went. He saluted automatically, and the greeting was returned by the Commander. “Passenger Larkin, good afternoon,” Commander Jefferson spoke tentatively, approaching the traveler cautiously. Wasting no time sidestepping, he drove straight to the point of the encounter under the steady gaze of all present. “Are you sure you never left the platform earlier this morning?” edited by Joshua Goudreau 60 P. Elliot was taken aback. He had expected some remark about his condition, how he was feeling – a short, meaningless introduction to his debriefing. This question was ridiculous. What kind of response did he expect? “No, sir. I remained in the room for the duration of the experiment.” He wasn’t sure what else to add. C. Jefferson frowned. Curiously, the Senator’s expression did not change. “Not,” the Commander went on, “according to your suit’s status monitor.” P. Elliot was even more confused. “Sir,” he began incredulously, “I’m not sure I understand. I know what I saw, sir.” C. Jefferson frowned ever deeper, and waved forward one of the attentive scientists, this one balding, clad in a white lab coat with thin, flattish spectacles perched on the bridge of his long nose. Momentarily surprised, the fellow took several seconds to respond. His voice was harsh and nasal. “Mr. Larkin, the internal navigation unit’s built in atomic timer is broken,” he said, eliciting a response that was even more astonished than before. “As far as we can tell, the device overloaded. It ran out of available timing capacity, and failed.” He paused, his face screwing into a weird knot. “The unit was built to withstand a recorded time count of up to one trillion years. We felt that there was no point in holding capacity higher than that – it would take up too much space elsewhere needed, and, besides that, the longest jump we ever expected to have was well under one hundred years. We thought one trillion was quite liberal, in fact.” He stopped, withdrew a silk handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wiped his glasses squeakily, unaware of the tense, expectant silence that towered above the room in the absence of his nasal tone. He looked back at P. Elliot, and continued. “It has been tested, and tested again. It has never, in all its previous uses, failed before, and we should have no reason to think it ever would. In fact,” he indicated the suit with a gesture, “we are definitely sure that it hasn’t. The device overloaded, according to the diagnostics we ran. There was absolutely nothing else wrong with it.” P. Elliot looked around the room, his helpless eyes resting on the Commander. “What . . . What are you saying?” he asked weakly, usual military etiquette absent from his words. He already felt he knew the answer. You did not become a pilot for the most prevalent scientific institute in the world without being astute. “You went forward in time this morning, Passenger Elliot,” the Commander broke in. “More than one trillion years. How much, we can’t say.” P. Elliot blinked. “I’m still here, sir, in Washington State, in 2034, aren’t I?” he queried, this direct contradiction blatantly shouting in the face of the The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 61 factual proof that he was, in fact, not there at all. “How can I have left? How can I not have seen, or known anything about leaving? Sir?” The room was silent for a moment. “Mr. Larkin,” the scientist piped, slowly and hesitantly, in his squeaky voice. This time he was aware of the mood he created by destroying the tension. “You know what infinity is, don’t you?” One hand met the other in front of his lab coat, and he began to fiddle with his fingers. The time traveler blinked once more. “Yes,” he said simply, any other words stolen from him before they could roll off his tongue. “And would you agree,” the scientist asked, fidgeting wildly now, “that there are only a finite number of situations in the universe?” The responding expression prompted further explanation. “With all the conditions in the universe right now, with everything that is happening right at this second, with uncountable billions of events occurring everywhere in the universe at this exact moment in time, considering all the specifics of this exact moment in time on a universal scale – it would appear that those exact specifics of this exact moment have never happened before, and will never happen again. Correct?” P. Elliot nodded wordlessly. A slight murmur passed around the room. “But,” he continued shakily, “even with the size of the number of possible exact moments in time, it is still a finite number. It still has a beginning, and an end. There is an exact, whole, and certain number of combinations of situations that could be happening in the universe at one point in time. Agreed?” P. Elliot nodded again. “However,” the scientist went on. He paused, collecting himself, before continuing. “If the number of moments in time is infinite, while the number of possible combinations of events that could be occupying each moment is only finite, it is impossible for every possible moment in time to have happened only once. In fact, it is impossible for every possible moment in time to have happened any finite number of times. A finite number of moments cannot fill an infinite space, unless it repeats an infinite number of times.” The scientist paused to, again, wipe his glasses. The murmur grew louder. “Mr. Larkin,” the scientist announced, with an air of finality, “this morning, you traveled from one point in time well over a trillion years ago, through every possible exact combination of events in the universe, until the exact moment in time you left repeated itself – the exact moment in time when P. Elliot left to travel through all the finite number of possibilities to the next occurrence of that moment. A picture of a picture of a picture. Ad infinitum. Mr. Larkin – you have, in effect, proved that time is infinite.” The entire room was encapsulated in never-ending soundlessness. edited by Joshua Goudreau 62 P. Elliot blinked. The implications of that statement dawned cold and dark on his heart. “Thank you,” he said to no one in particular. There was a lengthy, drawn out pause. “I’ll be going now,” he finished. His numb limbs carried him out the door and out of the building. He never came back.

Not long afterwards, the room was only shared by two inhabitants. The suit lay gutted and forgotten in a corner. “I don’t understand,” Senator Harry Timpson said finally. His anger had dissipated with the knowledge that the Passenger was going to be fine, and that the experiment had, in fact, worked, if not in the way it was expected to. Disaster had been avoided, and now he had something to tell the public about their tax dollars that was new and important. Politics, and science, had together been served. He saw the success and was content, but wholly quizzical. “I don’t understand,” he repeated. “Why is everyone acting as if the world has ended?” “Because it has,” replied Commander Samuel Jefferson sadly. “An infinite number of times.” The Senator’s usual irritability peeked out from behind his accomplishment. “What is that supposed to mean, Sam?” C. Jefferson looked at him, his eyes filled with emptiness. “How can you not comprehend? The enormity of what has been discovered here today will echo and re-echo throughout the course of humanity’s existence. Everything that anyone has ever done or even will do has been done an infinite number of times in the past, and will be done an infinite number of times in the future. Everything that happens to you, to me, to anyone – our relationships, our accomplishments, our histories – has all happened before, and will again. Does that mean nothing to you?” Senator Timpson looked back at him, the expected apprehension absent from his gaze. His rigid, expensive suit proclaimed loudly experience, taste, importance – and ignorance. “Sam, are you trying to tell me that the program was pointless?” The voice, the tone, the words, the eyes, the posture, and the entire being of Commander Samuel Jefferson was saturated with more than a billion times his lifetime’s worth of despair, regret, anger, depression, and every negative human emotion speakable and unspeakable ever felt by anyone. He took off his glasses, looked at them as his scientist colleague had done earlier, and rubbed them in a noncommittal way. “No, Harry,” he replied. “I’m trying to tell you that life is pointless.”

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 63

I Was Wrong by David Lynch

THERE ISN’T MUCH TO SAY ABOUT ANGELA. SHE’S ordinary. Blonde hair; medium length. Not tall, round face. She’s pretty, but in a way that makes her blend in. I’m only writing about her because I’ve nothing better to do. Wait, I think something’s happening. No, she’s still there. In her bedroom, sleeping. This is getting creepy – Jump forward four hours.

Angela’s the popular one, or at least her friends are. She’s really the pretty one you’ve never talked to. There’s never been any need. Angela’s got new jeans on today. They look exactly the same. There’s usually someone with her, but today she’s on her own. You’re already in class when she walks in. You look up, noticing her, but think, it’s only Angela. She gives you a smile, awkward and nervous, eyes raised. She’s pretty, why not? You go over to her to talk to her. New jeans? Lucky guess. You find her interesting and funny. She has a dry wit that you appreciate. You ask her out. You know that no one has ever bothered to ask her out, she’ll be compliant. A boy just asked her out. She’s excited, and why shouldn’t she be? She doesn’t tell anyone, mainly because there’s no one to tell. She could tell Jessica, but this is such an indifferent situation to her. You’re at the cinema. There’s not much talk, but it’s not awkward. You might actually like this girl. You buy her a coke, nothing for yourself. The movie starts, but you hardly care. edited by Joshua Goudreau 64 Angela’s having a great time. This is the first guy to ever pay this much attention to her. He’s invited her back to his house. This could be a lot of fun. She’s not sure about his intentions though. But he’s got a trusting smile. You’ve told her your parents are away, hoping she’s taken the hint. You think she has, either that or she’s as naïve as you think. She makes a joke and you laugh honestly. You’re not sure about this. Angela’s drinking wine. She uses the excuse of using the bathroom to fix her hair. You really like her. You say you’ve never had a girl in his house before. She looks fine, but she’s not convinced. She puts more make-up on. She’s finished now, and returns to a full glass of wine. Handed to her by you. You move close. She feels dizzy. You put your arm around her shoulders. She must have drunk too fast. You place your hand on her head, guiding it towards your own. Suddenly she’s kissing you, and her stomach feels funny from the nerves.

She wakes up beside you. Oh God. She’s done something really awful. You’ll never respect her after this. You wake up not long after. Refreshed. You show her the door. You take a shower. She’ll call in about an hour. She’ll have left her purse. She’ll want to come round. Damn.

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For Now... by Weihui Lu

HER WALLS WERE COVERED WITH MANY PICTURES mounted on brightly colored paper; mother wouldn’t let her paint her art directly on them. She covered the pale green walls with small, light hearted sketches: mermaids twisted together in tender love, angels beckoning the darkness of an eclipse, unicorns purifying dark pools of polluted water, dragons flaming as they defended their beloved hoards, safe behind vaults of stone. She drew centaurs, butterfly fairies, flaming phoenixes, anything and everything her hands brought to life, from memories of past books, movies, and dreams. Colored pencils, watercolors, pastels, paints, or even just a simple Number 2 pencil sufficed as she melded the shadows with the light, wove the blues with soft sea green. Every time she brought a friend home, she would show them her wall and be modest. Compliments would fly and that dark stirring deep inside her would stop for a little while. They were very pretty, showed so much talent, she was an artistic genius! She knew they were lying. They were just playing the game like everyone else, keeping her happy. Keeping her from freeing it. She knew that instinctively, but the system worked. She never tried to delve deeper and see the true art in herself. She told herself she wasn’t good enough to make them, they weren’t meant to shine for her. She never tired of those simple sketches and meaningless doodles colored in neatly that everyone pretended to love as much as she did. It was her entire world, and she saw nothing else, heard nothing else. Slowly, her interests shifted to writing, something she grew to adore, but could not bear to share with anyone else. She loved it, but with no one to edited by Joshua Goudreau 66 reassure her, the nature of her writing changed. It began to open up something, unlocking a door temporarily that the compliments for her art kept shut. It showed her the truth inside herself, but as the end cover of the books closed, as the top of her smooth black laptop closed, that door swung shut as well. She wasn’t ready for it, for admitting its too real existence once she left the wild free world of make believe. She called it her ‘writing moods’, rare instances where that spirit took over her mind and soul, flooding her being with strange words, strange ideas that she could barely keep up with, often leaving inexplicable tears in her eyes or an ache in her heart. Without realizing it, her fingers grew swift as they flew over the keys; her mind grew agile as it slipped between the glaringly obvious truths that she could not admit. But once the power is acknowledged, It does not give up easily. It grew like any other, drawing on her fear and despair. She felt It, she knew It, and slowly the dam began to give in. Lightly whimsical random dreams tore and toppled under the might of violently cruel nightmares that haunted her night and day. She worked herself into a half mad frenzy, suddenly all too eager to rid herself of It. To free It. Now, it was the truth of her death that she could not accept. To free It would mean the death of everything innocent and pure within her, everything that made her who she was. She only worked harder, trying to drown one truth in another, ignoring everything that was once so dear to her. The world began to see the change. Dark circles appeared from lack of sleep, torment and fear hid in the depths of her black eyes. She became reclusive, numb and uncaring. Her grades dropped to the point that teachers who once loved her ‘talent’ sighed and took her for a lost cause. Her parents bowed down before her failure, stunned beyond any idea of helping her. Her sister and all the friends she’d once treasured drew away from her, instinctively, the way animals know to avoid being dragged down by a fellow drowning creature. They saw the storm brewing in the danger that had replaced the easy humor once in her eyes, but just like her they could not accept the truth. A guy must have dumped her. Maybe her parents abuse her. Is she suicidal, does she need help? I think she’s a junkie now, look at her face, she should be in a mental hospital… Rumors circulated, wisps of useless smoke adding to the chaos of her life, but she no longer cared. While people gossiped and whispered about her and her family frantically tried to find a solution to the problem. She let It out. Her stories dripped with hate, death and pain, her paintings grew in violence and anger until they were unrecognizable in their menacing dark colors and swirling emotions. It was as if all the terrible things she held inside became magnified, exaggerated beyond recognition, feeding It as It waited, waited for her to weaken enough to give It her body. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 67 Her mother was the first to pull out of the strange stupor. She understood this darkness in her daughter, though she had never been strong enough to let it out of herself, nor had her mother or her mother before that. She remembered the dark horror stories her grandmother would tell her about the family curse, the monster that would one day awaken, perhaps in one of them… Stories that she had never believed, never allowed herself to believe. She knew it was hopeless now to try to drag the last vestiges of the one who used to be her daughter back, but she did her best by her duty as a mother. She hid the paints, she tried to talk to her daughter, she tried to drag her back into the light. The girl began to paint with her blood on the walls, locking her door so that mother could not come in and stop her. Starvation no longer mattered to her, physical discomforts no longer felt. All she could do was hold on to herself as it flowed out in a black torrent of evil. Her mother grew desperate, forcing her father to see reason, and they knocked down the door. Her father was the first to enter, the one to shine the bright beam of light onto her face. He staggered back when he saw the inhuman snarl on her pallid face, skin unnaturally white from the dark, the black of her pupils that took over her eyes until there was no longer any white, the streaks of dull brown blood on her ripped white shirt and on the walls, her beautiful dark walls… The light blinded her for a second, as long as the sight of her transformation startled her father. They reacted at the same time, him backing away and pushing her mother to the side while she leap forward, unnaturally sharp teeth bared. She had lost all power over herself, lost consciousness from exhaustion, It overwhelmed her fading strength in its lust for fresh life. Her father managed to flee downstairs, but her mother could not leave her child. She screamed and howled in grief when she saw what her baby had become, hated with true frustration at all the chances she had to warn her daughter but did not use, and realized for the first time how much she really loved the girl, for all her faults. That love became courage as she faced the monstrosity, all fear evaporated from her old and wrinkled face. She only sighed when her daughter ripped into her throat and drank her blood, knowing as she died that she’d done her best, but past regrets could not be changed now. The girl returned as the darkness moved aside for her to see what she’d done. Her mother’s blood flowed over her, her jaggedly ripped face lay in her lap; the gentle and forgiving smile on her face etched itself into her memory. Now the girl tore at her hair in anger and unimaginable agony of guilt and loss. Strength grew in her, because now she had a real reason to see that what she thought was the truth was wrong, and she’d done a terrible thing by letting it out. Finally, she too was forced to understand that past regrets could not be changed. She tore and fought the force with renewed vigor in her mind, vowing not to die without revenge. But she was a mere human, with edited by Joshua Goudreau 68 human strengths and human limitations. She couldn’t do more than watch hopelessly as her legs straightened and her body began to move toward the stairs, toward where her father laid huddling and shuddering in fear as he stared at his wife’s remains. His eyes had dilated from shock; his mind had fled to insanity. He was only an empty husk, and It had no interest in that. There was no longer any life to destroy in that body. Now that It had a taste of blood, the hotness of life on It’s lips and drunk the pain of the dying girl residing in the same body, It could not resign itself to meager paintings and horror stories. A click, keys jingling, lock tumbling into place, unoiled hinges squeaking as the door opened. She grinned, admiring the reflection of the hunch backed, wild haired monster leering back at her and stepped forward. Her sister screamed when she saw It, a scream of pure human terror that only drew the ardor in It’s body. It moved forward faster, flying down the stairs to land on the girl’s sister. They had never been close, as sisters, squabbling over little things, fighting constantly. But she loved her sister as she had loved her mother, and the sure knowledge that if she didn’t do anything her sister would die stimulated her. For a moment, she was in control. “Go…” A soft whisper, hopelessly brave as it pushed the half crazed girl away. “Go somewhere safe, so I will never be able to find you…” Humans are very strange creatures. Herding instinct makes them clump together in large cities, but few get along with each other. They have so many faults, one their surety of superiority. Cruelty and darkness resided in every one of them, greed, jealousy, deceit, hate all common in their societies. But deep down, beyond the simple logic or desire, there is bravery. An instinctive bravery that keeps them going when they know there is nothing left, a primal need for survival that flows beyond reason. A selflessness that allows sacrifice from the most seemingly selfish person. The girl was never nice, not deep down. She held all of the human imperfections. She was vain, insecure, selfish, greedy and she was not above lying to her beloved family or wounding others with her words in anger, but there was one thing about her that was unique. She loved. She could love with her entire heart, without any reserve. Grudges never survived with her, and forgiveness ran in her veins. So now, as her sister lay under her claw like nails, gasping for breath, eyes rolling in fear, the monster lost control. Unlike the girl, it had no heart. It was helpless against her love and her strength born of that love, and it knew when to give in when the game was lost, if only to return later. The girl stood up and helped her sister up, pushing her urgently out the door and locking it firmly. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 69 “Never let me see you…” She told her fiercely, human tears leaking down her bloody cheeks. Understanding flowed through her and she knew where the darkness came from. She knew of that ancient promise made out of greed with the devils, knew the price that woman and her descendents have had to pay, the bloody price the world paid once. “Never have children unless you want them to become this… Call the police, but do not tell them of the darkness. Tell them I’m insane…” She felt herself slipping. The emotional turmoil weakened her hold and the darkness knew it, rearing up eagerly, ready to tear the door open and gorge on the life beyond it. “Go!” She shouted with her remained strength and staggered back, away. Her frantic fingers touched upon a kitchen knife lying on the cool marble counter. Before the darkness could stop her, she plunged it into her own breast, repeatedly. She had loved life just as much as anyone, felt pain just like anyone. She was the little girl who loved bright colors and fantastical animals, loved furry pink slippers, the one who spent rainy days curled up on the couch reading and sipping steaming herbal teas. She was the one who would hug little children when they cried; drawing their frustration and anger into herself so they could remain happy and pure as long as possible. She who wanted to be a doctor when she grew up because she could not bear the simple pains of illness and even less the pain of watching others suffer from disease. She who always had the patience to do things nobody else wanted to. She who would willingly spend her lunch money buying food for any starving, homeless beggar sitting in a piteous dirty heap on the street. It rose despite her dying body, unimaginable and ancient power pulling it along, breaking all the Laws of Nature without a backward glance. Another body was all that it needed, another body that was so close, just outside of that door, sobbing loudly; fumbling with her useless piece of plastic called a cell phone. Suddenly, dread deadweight in her chest, the girl knew it was useless. Her sacrifice would amount to nothing and all the living creatures would eventually die a twisted, tortured death by her hands. Righteous anger rose in her destroying the cool peace on her fevered brow. It rose beyond her and rammed into the darkness, too sudden and passionate for any defense. What right did it have to make her just a tool? A tool of death and pain? No right! It had no right to destroy her life, her family, her soul without paying a price!!! A terrible, grating keen rose from her lips, a death keen as It was sucked back to its prison, knowing that it had failed again in its attempt to return to the world and wreak havoc. She was so tired, too tired to struggle as the edited by Joshua Goudreau 70 whirlwind darkness clawed at anything within reach to keep it from falling further. Peace stole over her finally, letting her rest, a gentle caress that wiped away all her pain and guilt for killing her mother, oh, but she had killed her mother!!?!… The darkness won in its desperation, drawing her into the eternal, burning cycle down to hell. “9… 1… 1… I, I’m on 27th Av, 121-56… there’s been a, a mur- mur…der.” She choked and gasped, the dying sounds of her sister’s struggle still ringing in her ears. “Yes, than, thank you… Pl-please come fast, I don’t know, Dad might be, bblood all over the place, yes, she had a knife…insane…yyes…” The panic in her voice slowly died as peace stole over her as well, momentarily calming her. The world stopped for a tiny moment to catch its breath in relief, relief that one menace was temporarily resolved. The wind rustled gently through the autumn leaves, whispering… it’s gone… it’s gone… she’s gone… she’s gone… forever… it’s gone… for now…

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Jennifer by Rebecca Allen

JENNIFER IS YOUR USUAL TWENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD WOMAN. She is fair of complexion, hazel eyed, with long brunette hair and of average height and build. She is the girl next door, all smiles and sunshine. Jennifer was known and liked by all the neighbors, and could often be seen chatting with them as she went about her daily routine. She is just the girl next door, if you happen to live next door to The Pines asylum for the insane that is. Nobody really knows what happened that night, three years ago. A regular police patrol was driving past Jennifer’s house late at night when they noticed the broken front window and the open front door. There were no lights on. Thinking it may have been a break in they went to investigate. Entering cautiously they found that everything was normal, except for Jennifer sitting on the couch in her nightgown all covered in blood. She was just staring off into the distance with no idea what was going on around her. After a quick search of the house they found her husband in a pool of blood on the bed. There was a gaping hole in his chest and half of his face was missing. Neither weapon nor motive was ever found, but Jennifer was committed to The Pines as she would not say a word but just stared into space. Nobody was sure if she had killed her husband or not, but the judge was taking no chances. The asylum would be her home until such time as they could find the truth of the matter. Now, day after day Jennifer sits at the enormous bay window, staring through the bars at the woods. She is smiling on the inside because they think she is just staring vacantly at the trees. The fools do not know that she is studying their reflections, listening to every word and sound, planning her edited by Joshua Goudreau 72 next move. Waiting patiently like a spider in her web, knowing the time to strike will come eventually, watching for the moment to arrive. This morning Jennifer passively allows the nurse to unlock the door and guide her to the shower. She is quite content to let the nurse wash, dry and dress her so she can go to her counseling session before adjourning to the dining hall for lunch. From there she will be led to Art Therapy where she will just sit and watch. She never participates, just stares or wanders aimlessly around the room. Eventually the day draws to an end and Jennifer is escorted back to her “room”. She looks at her sparse surroundings once again. The room contains a steel single bed, steel bedside table and steel chair, all painted cream to match the walls. The only other feature of note is the armored glass window set into the locked steel door. She lays on the bed and waits for the first round of patient checks to be completed. Now the light is out Jennifer takes from her underwear the metal pen she has stolen. The Art Therapy counselor had not even noticed it missing from her bag. As she fondles the pen she remembers seeing a movie where some spy kills a man by stabbing him in the temple with a pencil. Killing one of the nurses is not really what she wants to do, but she needs to get out of here before she completely loses herself. Each day Jennifer is finding it harder to remember her name, harder to remember the world outside. As time goes by the black spots in her memory grow larger and blacker, erasing her from the world. The next day, during the afternoon rest period Jennifer slips the pen out of her pillowcase and hides it in her pocket. She knows that she is the last patient on the wing to be brought to the recreation room. Now is the best time to act. Her hand slides into her pocket and grasps the pen as she walks past the nurse. Then, like a striking snake she spins and drives the pen into the nurse’s temple. He drops to the floor dead without making a sound. Quickly, she grabs his keys and drags him into the room before relocking the door. Getting quickly to the end of the corridor she takes a few moments to find the right key to unlock that door. Conscious to relock the door behind her, Jennifer moves to the side door that leads to the lower levels of the building. She cannot help thinking how ridiculously easy this all is as she crosses to the elevators to go to the basement level. Jennifer knows that there is a door leading to the outside located in the laundry. By using this door she can by-pass reception and security on the ground floor. As it should be, the laundry is deserted. She sees the roller door for deliveries up ahead and runs to it. Beside the roller door is a smaller access door. Another search locates the right key, and then she is through and outside. Crouching low Jennifer runs swiftly across the expanse of lawn to the woods. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 73 Staying just inside the tree line she circles to the back of the building. They will be expecting her to leave from the front and make straight for the road. Slowly, she makes her way through the trees until she reaches the rear of the building where the bay window is situated. Stealing one last look back at the window Jennifer freezes in horror. She sees herself sitting at the bay window looking out at the woods where she is now standing.

© Rebecca Allen 30/10/2004

edited by Joshua Goudreau 74

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Willow Wand by Colin Steele

AISLINN AWOKE WITH A START, THE MANY-VOICED whisperings and haunting music of her dreams fading away into the morning’s gray reality. She sat up from her leafy bed of soft ferns with some alarm, for she knew that she had stayed out too late. The dawn had come, and she would be missed. Passing unsteady fingers through her wild mane of tangled auburn hair, Aislinn looked about and found the battered leather bag that she always carried with her. Clutching it to her breast, she quickly stood and looked around nervously. They had gone once again. Not a trace of them was to be found in the sheltered clearing with the little pond of dark, deep water. No shadow of any size could be seen peering out from behind the thick boles of the tall, lichen- covered oaks. Aislinn found that she was holding her breath, and quickly released it in a rush. Her grip tightened on the strap that held her bag and her heart started to pound. Aislinn forced herself to breathe slowly as she carefully peered into the battered and worn sack. The items were there: an acorn, a clutch of red rowanberries, and a small, slender wand of willow. Aislinn’s heart skipped a beat and she found that her shoulders were shaking. She bit her lower lip hard and tasted blood in her mouth. Breathing a silent prayer of thanks, she quickly closed her bag and hastened from the clearing. She paused only once as she passed the largest and most ancient of the oaks. She slowly knelt before the venerable giant and bowed her head once. Then she rose and hastened down the barely- discernible path, her bare feet scarcely touching the ground.

*** edited by Joshua Goudreau 76 Liam was splitting firewood as she approached the house, stopping in mid- swing as Aislinn approached. His dirty, unshaven face regarded her with a leering grin as she walked slowly up the path. She tried not to meet his eyes, and almost succeeded until he stepped forward to bar her way. “Where have you been, girl?” he demanded. Aislinn hated that he never used her name. None of them did. It was either ‘girl’, or worse. “I…I fell asleep,” she said “in the wood.” Liam laughed coldly. “Well, you’ve a beating coming, that’s sure. But, not from me. You’ll get what’s coming to you soon enough when Miach comes home on the morrow.” Aislinn turned to walk past him, but Liam reached out and took hold of her hair, pulling her head back until his rancid breath whispered hotly in her ear. He roughly squeezed her breast with his other hand as he spoke, and Aislinn knew better than to resist. “I’ll see you tonight, my sweet little sparrow.” Liam laughed again, and released her. Aislinn slowly walked up to the house, not looking back. Osla was waiting for her when she came inside. Aislinn couldn’t help but notice that the fat older woman held a leather strap in her hand. This was to be expected, she reminded herself. Osla was a head shorter than Aislinn, but she somehow managed to tower over the young woman anyway. Her high- pitched voice was quick and sharp. “Where have you been, you little slut? Out frisking in the brush with some village boy, I suppose? You little heathen witch, your body isn’t worth the rags we dress you in, though I daresay you managed to entice some fisherman to wiggle between your legs for a time.” Aislinn was silent. She knew Osla was simply building herself up to the inevitable beating she was to receive, so she didn’t see any point in wasting words. Osla’s eyes were piercing. She advanced a step. “We paid good money for you,” she said, advancing still “though, I was against it from the start. Liam deserves a finer woman. Finer than some clumsy forest witch who’ll more than likely bear him rotting stillborns instead of strong sons. Miserable wretch! I don’t know what Liam sees in you, but you will learn to do as you’re told. Oh yes, you filth, you will learn!” Aislinn turned, and just narrowly avoided taking the strap across her face. The strap fell on her shoulders instead, and then her back. Aislinn bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out in pain at first, but eventually could not help herself as the strap tore her already ragged dress to shreds and lay ruin to the soft skin beneath.

*** The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 77 The cool water rolled noisily over her feet as she stood in the shallow part of the brook that ran down alongside the house to disappear into the dark wood. Aislinn tore strips from her ruined dress and wet them in the water. Now she had only one other dress to wear, and it was hardly better than the one she had on, being stained and soiled so many times before she had worn it that it’s original color could no longer be guessed. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the small jar of salve and smeared some on the strips from her dress. She winced as she tied the strips over her back, but exhaled with relief as the harrowroot salve soothed the burning welts from her beating. She sat down on the overhang of the bank, turning to look wearily at the large basket of laundry she was to wash. A seething anger began to grow in her stomach as she looked with contempt upon the clothes that would go on the backs of those who mistreated her so. She had thought more than once of rubbing nettles against the fabric or simply casting them into the water to let the water carry them away. But Aislinn knew better. It would only earn her another beating. She trembled at the thought of Miach’s return in the morning. He was always worse than Osla or Liam. Always. It wasn’t that he was more brutal. It was that he was smarter. Miach could be cunningly cruel when it suited him. Aislinn remembered the first and last time she had tried to run away last winter. Liam had caught her, and Miach had taken a horsewhip and made her run naked through the snows until she collapsed from exhaustion and the freezing temperature. Aislinn put her face in her hands and began to weep softly. Could she be strong enough for them? Would they keep their promise? It would start tonight, they had told her. If it succeeded, she would finally be free. If it failed… Aislinn wept by the brook for long moments. At length, the wind picked up, bringing with it the scent of apples and rain. Aislinn stopped weeping and raised her head as she heard once again the telltale whispering and light laughter on the wind. She did not turn, but could feel the soft footfalls all around her. She closed her eyes and stood still as tiny hands patted her cheek and small voices whispered soothingly in her ear. They were on her shoulders now, and in her hair. They laughed and sang softly. “Aislinn, Aislinn, Moon’s Daughter,” they sang. “Do not weep, do not sorrow!” Aislinn felt tiny lips press to her forehead and her cheek. She could not help but smile through her tears as she felt a garland smelling of apple blossoms being placed gently upon her head. The whispering continued in her ear, intermingled with laughter and song. “Remember the Oath, remember the Word!” “Remember the three, and you will be free!” edited by Joshua Goudreau 78 “We will not falter, we will not faint, dear Aislinn!” The tiny voices drifted away on the wind, and Aislinn sensed that she was alone once again. Slowly opening her eyes, she looked and saw a chain of pale blue forget-me-nots in her lap. The basket of laundry at her side was washed, dried, and folded. Her hair had been plaited with daisies and her back no longer pained her. Without looking, Aislinn knew there would be no scars. She smiled gratefully, dried her tears on her tattered dress, and silently changed into her only other dress. She then sat down, reached into her bag and pulled out a needle and thread. Taking one of Osla’s dresses from the basket, Aislinn began to sew.

That night, Aislinn waited in the tiny bedroom in the back of the house. The blankets on the bed were dirty and riddled with fleas, but they were warm at least. She forced her breathing to remain relaxed while she waited for Liam. He eventually threw open the door and stumbled in, drunk as usual. He chuckled wickedly as his bleary gaze fell upon Aislinn in the bed, his hand fumbling at his belt as he threw back the coverlets to reveal Aislinn’s naked body. Aislinn silently endured his painful thrusting within her, his foul breath hot against her as he grunted and drove himself roughly into her again and again. She closed her eyes and once again drew her thoughts away from Liam. Away from his drool running down her neck, his filthy hands groping her, and his wicked laughter when he hurt her. At length, he was finished. He grunted and rolled off of her and laid his head back upon the dirty pillow. Aislinn stared upward at the ceiling, her heart pounding in her chest. She closed her eyes in silent thanksgiving when his deep snores could be heard at length. Liam hadn’t noticed the lump under his pillow where Aislinn had placed the acorn.

The morning sunlight shone in through the dirty window when Osla pounded on the door to the bedroom. “Get up, Liam! There’s work to be done!” Her highpitched voice was sharp, as always. There was no answer. “Drunken sot,” Osla grumbled. “It’s a wonder he doesn’t drown. Get up, you lazy lout!” She pounded upon the door once again. Listening for even a groan of protest and hearing none, Osla pushed open the door. Flies buzzed around inside the tiny room. Great, bloated black flies that hung in the air lazily. Osla smelled foul air in the room and wrinkled her nose. She went to the bed and gripped the coverlets. “Pig! If you’ve puked in your bed again-” She threw back the coverlets. Liam’s lifeless eyes stared up at her in helpless, rictus horror. His skin was gray and his mouth hung slackly open. Osla couldn’t even scream as she saw The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 79 the hard branches of oak growing up out of Liam’s mouth. Here and there, the branches had punctured through his chest, his arms, and his legs, giving him the appearance of some ghastly spider. His hands and feet were elongated shoots that wound around the bed frame. His blood was black and oily on the coverlets. Osla finally shrieked. She fled the room, her breathing coming in labored gasps. She threw open the front door and ran out onto the porch. She forcibly calmed herself as she looked out from her porch. The morning sun was caught in the tiny droplets of dew that clung to the green grass, giving the small patch of yard before the wooden fence a bejeweled appearance. Ignoring this, Osla’s eyes scanned the yard nervously. The girl! Where was the girl? Osla’s gaze fell on a dark, black form perched upon one of the wooden fence posts. It was the largest crow the fat woman had ever seen. The fathomless black eyes regarded her as the razor sharp beak opened and closed silently. Osla found she was unable to breath when she looked into the creature’s soulless eyes. Her heart began to pound with renewed panic in her chest. She stood rooted to the porch, unable to move. Unable to breathe. The giant crow suddenly shrieked, its ear-splitting cry breaking the spell. Osla stepped back and gave a terrified whimper as she gasped. Tearing her eyes from the crow, she searched wildly about for some sign of where the girl had gone. This was faerie magic if ever there had been. The girl was a fey- witch; Osla had always suspected it. She sobbed and drew the sign against evil across her chest. Liam was not dead. The faerie witch had stolen his soul and spirited it away to the Daione Sidhe, the fey-folk. Osla knew enough tales from her childhood to know that her son could be brought back if the girl could be found. At least, this was what all the old tales suggested. Osla sobbed again and knew that she could not walk past the great crow that still perched upon the fence post, regarding her with its hellish empty eyes. The brook! The girl has gone to the brook! The sudden thought caused Osla to giggle with nervous apprehension. She moved off to the side of the house, never taking her eyes off of the crow, and then ran down the dirt path to the brook. The crow watched her go, silent and unmoving. Osla slowed as she approached the bank, the raised hairs on the back of her neck telling her that she was not alone. She stifled another sob and tried to walk quietly. The babbling water of the brook splashed over the smooth stones as it wound its way downward like a sinuous serpent. The slender birches and rowans appeared to be the only other occupants on the banks of the laughing little brook. Osla cautiously approached the water. There was no edited by Joshua Goudreau 80 sound. Even the water seemed to be strangely hushed, as if it were watching her somehow. Or waiting. Osla looked up and down the banks of the little brook, finding nothing. Her fear began to wane and slowly give way to her characteristic sharp temper. She knew the girl was here, somewhere. The witch was watching from behind a tree or hidden behind a tussock. Osla’s eyes narrowed and her fists clenched at her sides. “Well, witch?” She shouted. “Show yourself, you little slattern! I’m not afraid of your spells and charms! I know how to deal with you, you little fey whore! You’ll pray for death once Miach returns! If you return Liam, you’ll only get a beating. I promise you that. They burn witches in the village, you know! Come out now and make it easy on yourself!” There was no sound. Only the quiet splashing of the water. Only the stillness. Osla grew more angry still. “Where are you?” She shouted at the top of her lungs. “Where are you?” A tiny voice mimicked, and there was much giggling and laughter. Osla whirled around and saw only empty birch and rowans. “Come out!” She cried, her heart pounding in her chest once again. “Come out!” More giggling. Osla spun around, her eyes wide in terror. “Stop that!” “Stop that!” “Come out!” “Come out! Come out! Come down! Come down!” Osla’s gaze fell on the water. There was… something there. She bent to look in… Two pairs of beautiful gray-green eyes regarded her from faces too comely to be human. Muruadh. Women of the water, Osla thought. Fey folk! Long, green hair wafted in the current, and their slender arms held something that struggled. Osla bent closer, her face lit by wonder. The struggling thing held in the Muruadhs’ arms turned, and Osla saw her own lifeless face staring back at her. Waterweeds grew from her eyeless sockets and worms wriggled in and out of her ears. The Muruadhs gazed up at her, their grip tightening on their captive. “Come down!” their fair voices called “Come down!” Osla screamed and fell back against the bank, her head cradled in the browncaps, mushrooms, and toadstools that grew there. She turned, and as she did so, the largest of the toadstools turned to reveal a tiny, wizened brown face underneath. Dark eyes with no pupils regarded her. Osla screamed again, lunging forward, away from the faerie toadstool. The wizened little face smiled, and regarded her silently. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 81 Suddenly, Osla felt eyes upon her. She turned and saw only the rowans, their spreading limbs tipped with clutches of red berries seemingly reaching out for her. She stumbled back and felt the hard boughs of another rowan behind her, its berrytipped fingers grasping at her. She screamed and fought back, her arm coming up to ward off the terrible grasping thing. She caught a flash of red on her chest and quickly looked down. There, cunningly sewn into the bodice of her dress, were three small rowanberries. A faerie charm to call the treespirits. Osla looked up in horror as several of the rowans uprooted themselves to surround her. She found no voice as strong, wooden arms grasped her shoulders and forcibly guided her to the brook. When she dug her feet in and resisted, gnarled roots wound around her ankles and tripped her to fall into the waiting branches, tipped with red. Osla found herself lifted and her head held above the water. She stared down into the eyes of the Muruadh in voiceless terror. “Come down!” they said. “Come down!”

Miach stood with his bony mare at the top of the hill and looked down at the house. He had been standing there for some moments, his eyes scrutinizing every detail. He was no stranger to trouble, having seen a battle or two in his day. He had developed a feel for such things. He knew that something was wrong. The pile of firewood he had set Liam to splitting before he had left was almost finished. Almost. Liam knew better than to leave a task that Miach had given him unfinished. They all knew. The door to the house stood ajar, the heavy oaken door swaying back and forth on its hinges in the breeze. There was no sound. The hair on the back of Miach’s neck stood straight up. Miach nodded inwardly and slowly drew the rusty sword from under the mare’s saddle. He surveyed the scene once again and his eyes fell on the large black crow that sat on the fence post. The warm spring breeze sent Miach’s dark hair flapping in the breeze. The crow’s feathers were not so much as ruffled. “Witchery,” Miach breathed. He slapped his mare’s rump and sent it trotting off toward the house as he took a diagonal direction to come at the house from the side. His ears strained to catch a sound. Any sound. But, there was nothing. His eyes fixed on the crow as he slowly came up to the front door from the side. The crow regarded him with its baleful gaze and split the silence with its piercing cry. The great black wings stretched, and the crow flew slowly off. Toward the dark and silent wood. edited by Joshua Goudreau 82 Miach watched the crow disappear in the distance and slowly eased his way in through the front door. The rusty broadsword was held out before him like a divining rod. Beads of sweat rolled down the sides of his face, losing themselves in the matted curls of his dark beard. A few moments later, Miach was stumbling from the house, vomiting and cursing loudly. He shouted for Osla again and again. Hearing nothing, he faced the house, his senses desperately searching for some explanation for the horror he’d found inside. Suddenly, he felt, rather than knew that this had something to do with the girl. Osla had never trusted her. Not from the day Miach had brought her home, bound and struggling with barely a stitch of clothing on. He’d said that she was a slave he’d purchased in the village – a suitable wife for their son, Liam. He’d had to come up with some excuse for the disappearance of so large a sum of coin from the family coffers, after all. A three-day drinking stint would not serve as an explanation to his shrewish wife. He’d thought he’d gone completely mad when he’d come upon the girl sleeping in the wood. The Witchwood, some called it. She was alone, barely dressed, and easy prey for the large Miach. She’d resisted him at first, of course. Women always did. But, Miach’s size and strength proved to be more than a match for her. She had wept and cried out, but then had subsided into tortured silence as Miach raped her. After that, she’d been relatively easy to break and train. Liam obviously appreciated the soft young form in his bed, and Osla didn’t mind the extra help around the house, though she complained about her every chance she got. And, of course, Miach didn’t mind having his way with the girl when Osla was feeling waspish. Yes, Miach knew this was somehow connected to the girl as he slowly backed away from the house. The girl was nowhere. He’d find Osla later. After he’d retrieved the girl. Miach’s eyes narrowed as he guessed where the girl had obviously fled. The wood. The forest was dark, dimly lit by the filtered sunlight that pierced through the heavy boughs of the ancient oaks. Miach walked slowly, his sword held at the ready. Thick wisps of fog periodically obscured the faint trail the girl had left. Miach was counted a fine hunter in the village, and he used his skills now like a wolf on the trail of a wounded deer. His grimy face broke into a grin when he heard the faint echoes of a female voice singing a haunting melody from deeper into the wood. At length, Miach found himself in a clearing surrounded by the thick boles of massive, ancient oaks. A small pond of dark water lay off to one side. And there, sitting in the midst of a ring of toadstools, was the girl. She stopped her singing as soon as Miach stepped into the clearing. Her hair was wild and tangled with leaves and twigs. Miach held his sword at the ready. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 83 “You’ve done a very bad thing, witch,” he said, taking slow steps toward her. “I suppose I don’t mind all that much that you did away with poor Liam. He was never worth a piss anyway. Takes after his mother too much. But you shouldn’t have run off, my girl. You belong to me.” As he spoke, Aislinn had stood. Despite the pounding in her chest, she did not tremble. Not here. Not now. Her dark eyes regarded Miach, and a faint smile touched the corner of her mouth. “I never belonged to you,” she said. Miach smiled, circling Aislinn. His eyes scrutinized her stance. “And what do you think you’re going to do?” he asked. “You think to use some of that witchery of yours on me? Bah! You don’t frighten me, bitch. I’ve all the protection I need against you.” He tapped the blade of his rusty sword. He took a confident step forward. Aislinn drew herself up and held out the slender rod of willow in her hand, her eyes determined. Miach laughed loudly at her. He took another confident step forward. Aislinn’s lips began to mutter something he couldn’t quite make out. He lunged for her, and she leapt out of his way. She continued to whisper words that seemed to drift away on the breeze that had suddenly sprung up. “Your spells won’t save you from me, girl,” Miach growled and lunged for her with his sword. Only to strike something as hard as stone and as visible as thin air. Miach stumbled at looked where he stood. A cold chill tripped its way down his spine. Aislinn smiled. Miach stood in the exact center of the toadstool ring that Aislinn had occupied only a moment before. She walked around him, the slender rod of willow still held firmly in her grasp. Her voice when she spoke was calm. “Not spells,” she said, “I was telling them that you are ready.” Miach’s blood froze. “Them?” he asked. In answer, the wind picked up, sighing in the trees and stirring up the leaves on the forest floor. Now Miach could hear whisperings and soft voices on the air. The water in the pool began to turn lazily in a counterclockwise direction. Inexplicably, a great bonfire sprung up from out of nowhere off to the left of Miach’s strange prison. And now, Miach fancied that there were things moving amongst the trees – dark eyes and fair faces regarded him from in between the boles and branches of the oaks. Laughter was in the wind. Miach screamed as the toadstools around him began to writhe and squirm at his feet, moving in the same direction as the water in the pool. Aislinn’s face was lifted to the sky as the brown and gold leaves of the forest floor fluttered and spun in the wind. She laughed and held the willow wand aloft. edited by Joshua Goudreau 84 The water spun faster and faster as Miach spied figures running around the clearing. Short figures, tall figures. Some with knobby horns, and others seemingly made of leaves. They danced and capered around Aislinn as she laughed joyously. The water spun faster still, and the toadstools looked up at their prisoner with wizened brown faces and intelligent dark eyes. The trees began to sway and move in the breeze until they looked as if they, too, were dancing. Then, a void opened up in the center of the spinning pool and a tiny procession rode up out of the water. Before Miach’s astonished eyes, the procession grew in size until they stood before him: tall, beautiful beings of air and light astride horses the shade of dawn and dusk. And at their head, a great silver champion astride a powerful gray stag with mighty, branched antlers. His eyes were piercing in his shining helm, and a long pale sword sheathed in a scabbard traced with leaves hung at his side. The sidhe-king urged his beautiful mount to stand before Aislinn. All that were in the clearing bowed before him. “My love,” he said, his voice like the sound of the wind in the heather “At last I have come for you. The mortal realm is no place for my beloved.” He turned to regard Miach. He removed his helm to reveal a strong, handsome face with eyes of the palest green. Anger and outrage boiled in their depths. “Is this he who has violated you in so many ways?” was his somber question. Aislinn nodded slowly, still grasping the willow wand in her hand. “Then let it be done,” said the faerie-king. Taking the wand from Aislinn, he struck the invisible wall surrounding Miach on three sides and then motioned to the water. The waters once again began to spin and swirl in their counterclockwise direction. The faerie-king regarded Miach before taking Aislinn’s hand and lifting her onto the back of the stag. “The Green Lady never belonged to you, mortal. As you have stolen, so let you repay!” The faerie procession rode swiftly around the clearing seven times before riding into the void that had once again opened up in the spinning pool. Miach found that he could move, albeit stiffly. He looked around for his sword, not remembering when he had dropped it. His limbs ached, but he ignored the pain. Where was the sword? His arms felt oddly stiff and then his back began to twist and writhe. Miach screamed in horror as his skin turned rough and bark-like. His fingers and toes split as tendrils grew outward and into the earth. He tried to scream again, but found he had no voice. His arms and legs froze at weird angles as his hair began to grow and change The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 85 color and texture. He stiffened one last time and then stood still – a green willow overlooking the pond. The waters slowed their spinning as ethereal laughter echoed from their depths. And then the waters were still and silent. And the forest kept its secrets and told no tales. Save to those who can hear the laughter on the wind.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 86

The Price Of Love by Richard Beserra

NATALIE SNIFFLED IN THE BATHROOM OF HER HIGH school, her recent bout of sobbing done, for now. The bathroom was clean and well lit, white tile walls and red doors on the stalls that had just been put in this year. She didn’t see any of that now though, didn’t see her backpack slumped in the corner behind the toilet, or the gray floor divided into squares just like the walls. She didn’t see the scars on her legs where she cut herself, and only distantly heard her own sniffles. The only thing she really saw was the small alarm clock in her lap, and the bomb it was attached to. Tick tock went the clock. Her fingers brushed the small red button on the side, the kill switch. Feeling it made her think of how she had built it, attaching lead after lead in her bedroom, long after her Mom was asleep bed. Thinking about that made her think about why she built it, and that twisted a sudden knife in her belly, making her cry again. Abby, oh my god, Abby. Why had it been so hard? Why couldn’t everyone just leave them alone? They hadn’t bothered anyone, she certainly hadn’t, and neither did Abby, so why couldn’t they just be left alone? She remembered her Mom’s face when she told her. How disgusted she looked, how disappointed. She saw it, and wanted to hide from her for the rest of her life. She knew her Mom was a devout Christian, but she had really believed that love, true motherly love, would conquer something like that, or at least convince her to make an exception. Why did we have to be trash? Why couldn’t we just be in love? The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 87 A whimper escaped her throat when she thought of her “friends”, when they threw rotten fruit at her on her way to work. She had to walk all the way back home and change, and by the time she made it to McDonald’s, she was an hour late, and the manager fired her for it. She had called him, and told him what happened, and he sounded fine over the phone, but when she got there, all of a sudden he never heard from her, and apparently she had missed two days already, at least according to him. Because I can’t choose who I fall in love with, or who loves me back... She should’ve known it was coming anyways. Ever since he saw her and Abby kiss after work that night, he changed. He hated her, and she hated him right back. The people she worked with found reasons to fuck up her life after that too. She didn’t care though, she had Abby, which was more than any of those people did. All those people on TV, the preachers and the teachers and the people who were all about the healthy household, who said all those awful things about lesbians. They said the word like it was a curse. Like love was a crime. As if they knew. She wasn’t a bad person, she tried to help, to be nice and to give a helping hand to people who needed it. So did Abby, her warm, caring, Abby. They gave money to homeless people and the Red Cross just like anyone else. Yet they weren’t allowed to walk into the school hand in hand, not without being suspended for a week. Abby... She remembered, Abby wanted to go to college, to be a Pediatrist. She absolutely loved kids, and would've made a great mother. But every scholarship and grant she applied for was inevitably turned down. The college wouldn’t even give her a loan when they found out she swung the wrong way. That was okay though, she loved her Abby, and didn’t mind working as hard as she could at McDonald’s for twelve hours a day, six days a week. She wanted Abby to be able to go up to those stuck up loan officers, throw a wad of cash in their faces, and then take classes without their help. She loved Abby, and she wanted her dream to come true. She looked at the clock. Ten minutes. Once again, her fingers brushed the kill switch on the side. She had always thought of herself as a good person, someone who only tried to do right. Then she asked herself again, how doing something like this made her good? How was this the actions of a good person? But the pain, it hurts so much... Her mother had finally kicked her out. She wasn’t gonna have any dyke for a daughter. She wasn’t allowed to come back until she had broken up with Abby, and started dating some nice boy, or whatever the hell her mom thought was normal. So she went downtown with a backpack full of clothes, edited by Joshua Goudreau 88 and slept in a shelter for runaway teens, on a wooden pallet with blankets thrown on it. She remembered wanting Abby so badly then, needing her by her side. She cried herself to sleep eventually, alone of course, and got up the next morning to go to work, wondering how she was gonna make it without a home or a car, and then just brought Abby to the front of her thoughts. Her baby, Abby. She would find a way, she had to, Abby was counting on her. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she sniffled again, feeling the snot at the end of her nose. All those people at school, the ones she used to be friends with, people she thought would stay with her forever, the way they treated her when they found out, the way they acted. The worst of it was that some of them didn’t even have a problem with it, but their friends, the ones who did, they made sure everyone did. Her so- called friends, they saw what happened to people who were in love, or at least in love like her, and they didn’t want any part of it. Before she knew it, she was all by herself in the world, all because of who she loved. And her “friends”, well it didn’t take them long to stop knowing her and to make new friends. A thin smile crossed her lips as she thought of the day she and Abby rode the Carousel in the mall, sitting in one of the carriages. She felt so safe that day, Abby holding her close and stroking her hair, singing softly to her. She had never felt so safe, and so happy. Abby had paid for them to ride the Carousel all day, round and round, and she just closed her eyes the whole time, and let Abby hold her, listening to her sweet, soft voice. It was one of the best memories she had, one of the only times she had felt so loved, so happy. Five minutes. Five minutes to make a decision. She felt the tears welling up in her eyes again, and a lump in her throat. Five minutes to change a thousand lives, one way or another, and each second was another chance that faded away. Wouldn’t be long before her last chance faded for good. She felt herself crying again, and didn’t try to stop it. Abby and that girl, it was burned in her mind, she couldn’t forget no matter how desperately she tried. All she wanted was to surprise Abby, give her a kiss after a hard night of work and tell her she loved her. She saw them kiss, a kiss Abby had never given her, a kiss she didn’t know Abby had. Why didn’t I leave later? Why did I have to leave at all? Why...? She was truly alone now, alone in a world that hated her, that would always hate her, and before, she could’ve accepted that as long as she had her love. Without Abby to think of though, or come home to, it was too much. She didn’t even want to live anymore. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 89 Her mom believed her when she said she and Abby were moving away, and gave her old room back as a going away present, at least for three days. Apparently she hadn’t hated her completely yet. “Then I never want to see you again.” she said. Her mom didn’t quite seem to understand when she said, “Don’t worry, you won’t.” There she built it. Here she sat with it. Two minutes. Once again, she felt the kill switch on the side, and pressed on it lightly, not enough to stop anything, just enough to think about it. She remembered the times her friends, and even total strangers had said she was good, she was kind, she was a nice person. One old man at the Red Cross even called her an angel after she brought him a bowl of soup. She pressed just a little harder, wondering how much more pressure it could take, pressing harder, and harder. Good people didn’t do things like this, that’s why they were good. Just a tiny bit more pressure, and she could just walk away. Then she thought of Abby again, and stopped. She took her finger away and hugged the bomb like it was her only friend, rocking back and forth as she cried and cried, feeling that stabbing, wretched pain twisting in her heart and gut. Everything was taken away from her, everything good, everything she ever loved. No matter how hard she had tried to hold on to it, it was always taken away. It was only fair right? She didn’t think she could live without Abby, didn’t even want to, so it was only fair, to give as good as she got. They would probably be happy to read about it in the paper, or see it on the news. Dyke bitch dead. And the people that died with her would be hailed as heroes, heroes for driving one more sinner out of the world. One less muff diver. “Abby,” she whispered. “I love you...” Zero.

“Mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters lined the sidewalks today, searching through the survivors and the rubble for their children and siblings. For the lucky few who were able to find them, and find them alive, we give thanks. Unfortunately, most have not been so lucky. Over five hundred bodies have been found so far, and firefighters expect to comb through the wreckage for at least three more days. Today, as just a person and not a reporter, I witnessed the most heartbreaking scene of my life. Hundreds of mothers and fathers, sobbing over the loss of their children, or even worse, the unknown fate. Police believe that the explosion was caused by a bomb of some sort, although whether it might have been a terrorist act or not is too early to say. However police suspect this girl, Natalie Reed, age 18, may have been responsible for this tragedy. Natalie had been showing signs of deep depression weeks before the explosion, and police say that materials found in her room by her mother could’ve been used to build a bomb capable of this magnitude of destruction. Natalie was in the school at the time of the bombing, and is believed to be dead. edited by Joshua Goudreau 90 Regardless of who or what is responsible for this terrible disaster, it will do little to help the suffering and grief of those gathered around the school today. I can only imagine the hardship these families will have to endure in the coming months. From all of the people at the Rising Sun, our hearts go out to you. May you find peace.” - Tony Cample, reporter for the Rising Sun.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 91

Checkmate by skiein

HIS HANDS RESTED LIGHTLY ON THE KEYS. PIANO KEYS. Stark black slapped almost barbarically on white; a seductive trail of dark sins marring perfection, lingering over a perfectly arched neck and tracing the hollow at one’s throat, where soft white skin is found to be exposed and vulnerable. He smiles, captivated by her pain. Yes, sweet pain, the eventual root of his demise, the eradication of all the pieces of his soul. Her pain, captured in his eyes. His pain, reflected in hers. He could never tell whose was whose anymore. Perhaps it was all hers… or all his. His soul was in pieces, each singular existence intricately woven into a tangled web of errant gossamer threads too thin to deduce one true color. Resembling nothing of the iridescence of transparency but neither mirroring the unfathomable black of his being, and certainly not white. White was always too innocent, too ghostly. The death pallor. White was eternity, and black was hell. He knew this, thus he knew of the misconceptions. No, dear little ones, Hell wasn’t red; Hell was embedded in these keys, softly and silently until with a slam of finality the smooth, elegantly curved black lid bites down on one’s fingers, fingers which had once run feverishly over the entire length of the piano, tainting white with grime, oil, dirt, forgetting that the partial can be more than the whole. Fingerprints from hell. He observed now, then in one sudden fluid motion uncrossed his ankles and stood up, pushing away from the piano and almost knocking over the small leather topped stool. Almost, but not quite, he thought, proceeding to languidly brush himself down. And now, ever the observer, he saw. edited by Joshua Goudreau 92 Black droplets sliding off the smooth skin of his pale, translucent arm. Blue veins too evident on the inside of his wrist, dripping languorously into the recess of what lay beneath. The ripples of which sliding outward as silently and stealthily as the steps of a predator hunting its prey. drip [One day, I want to hear you play the piano] Dark waters as beguilingly calm as the looking glass of vanity, mirroring his every move, action, intention, but it wasn’t vanity imprinted on his mind, she was. He loved the way she thought him a manifestation of evil in raw, physical form. Each note, each key, each tone, each pause woven into a rhythm that pulsated with every rise and fall of her breath. Oh yes, he knew she was troubled by it. Her large, haunted eyes showed it; her sensitive snow white skin betrayed by the sizzling of a red hot coal poker, by the poignant smell of charred flesh that slid like a thick, dark honey down one’s throat. She said he had betrayed her. But then, she was the one who had willingly taken away his blank, white mask to reveal the grotesque malfunction of the immorality that had once lain happily dormant beneath it. She had pulled out the monster with her own hands, such small hands, so gentle, delicate, so easily… crushed. He was the sole figure of guilt riding into the haunts of innocence. drip [I want to hear you play death] Death was a tough game to play; death was everything. It was, in a strange way, like God. It was a part of every conceivable object ever to be imagined, seared into their destinies like black writing on a pristine white page, until with a sudden jerking motion, that page is either ripped out of existence, or into existence much like the way a black hole rips into the universe, leaving only a jagged torn edge in the little black book of their lives as a forlorn reminder of the page that once was. He took up chess, and the stake was her life. She had laughed it off, trusted him completely, eyes almost as soft as her skin, lips vulnerable as a child’s, slightly chapped, with a single indent in the middle of the top lip- the old description fitted like a glove. Roses filled with snow. Smiling, she had reached out, ignoring the hunter’s stalk of ripples sliding out in ever expanding spheres… that is, until they had slid over her. He took a white chess piece, an ironic parody of the knight in shining amour, twirled it deftly in his fingers and with a powerful flick of his wrist slammed it on a black piece, crushing it so only splinters remained. Force was power. It was then that he thought it was a pity, had he known the piece was made of wood perhaps he would have been more careful. Now the piece was broken, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 93 irreparable as no one had the patience to stop, pick the splinters up and glue them together. There were too many of them. She brushed the splinters off with her hands, hands not unlike his own. She had always loved neatness- another angle on the conceptual purity. She had thought that there were many pieces like that left, that each piece was the same. A single insignificant element of a whole to be disregarded and easily replaced. drip [I want to read your soul] He leaned forward, observing the other player, the opposition, the nemesis, and hearing, as though in accompaniment to the lingering echoes of falling droplets and the quintessential melting away of his soul… the piano. He heard the piano player. He wasn’t the player. Lilting music spoke of the desolate emptiness, which signified nothing, drawn out notes bittersweet and resonant, echoing within the dark confines of his twisted mind, urging him over the brink. So simple, just one, little step and60 It was then that he realized, he was the one who had been branded. Chosen. Special. The word was bitter on the tip of his tongue. Long, pale, slender fingers flashing fast. A blur of white, a smudge of grey, a tone that was all the more definite under the harsh lighting. The black band around her ring finger flashed mockingly at him. The darkness wasn’t his, it had only slid over him, carrying him along with the current, and she, the creator of the mask, had watched. Silently. The prey never knew it was being hunted. He realized in that singular moment that injustice and immorality, death and hell, pain and suffering, they weren’t always black. They weren’t always ugly. It was sometimes an aching tangible beauty, bathed in soothing white warmth, a corporeal thing, a touchable sustenance so close and yet always dancing just out of reach, so frustratingly far away. If only he could stretch a little further, he could reach out with trembling fingers to learn a lesson best left to the unknown, a lesson learnt too late. Almost. To be burnt like a moth drawn irresistibly to a dancing flame. Appearances deceived, only the soul spoke of indefinite truths. Betrayal. He stared at the antagonist. Death leaned over the chessboard. [Checkmate.]

edited by Joshua Goudreau 94

Soft Boiled by Jacob Caffey

“COME ON, YOUR WALLET, ASSHOLE!” His voice is harsh, raspy, the voice you would expect a mugger to have. A guy with a voice like that, it’s almost destiny for him to turn to a life of crime. For that, I am almost understanding of him robbing me. But not quite. I can feel him blowing hot cigarette smoke onto my neck, and I crave the nicotine. It’s been a long time, two years… almost three. But emphysema, lung cancer, birth defects, and things like that shouldn’t be my main concern right know. The gun in my back is a little more pressing. I think about doing the whole hero thing, spinning around in a flash, delivering a roundhouse to the scarred face of the criminal. I haven’t seen his face, but if it’s anything like his voice, it’s scarred from years of life on the streets. Teach the bastard a lesson, Chuck Norris style, yeah, that’s what ill do. But… why? To save the 23 dollars in my wallet? No, that’s not it. No, I’d do it because it would make a damn good story for the guys at work tomorrow. “Hey Steve, how was your weekend?” They would ask. “Oh, not bad, I just kicked the shit out of some mugger, you know, the usual.” They wouldn’t believe me, and I would be forced to show them the newspaper clipping of the police report. Maybe it would be more than just a few lines in the police report column though. Maybe it would be front page news. There would be a picture of me, smiling from ear to ear, shaking the hand of the police commissioner or the mayor or some big shot like that. ‘Local Man Stymies Mugger!’ or something equally important and exciting The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 95 sounding emblazoned across the cover. I would grin, and after work me and the guys would share some beers and laugh about it. Yeah, that would be62 “What are you, some kinda fuckin retard? Gimme your damn wallet!” Right, my mistake. That seems to happen often, my thoughts running away with my mind. I always seem to think the most when I should have nothing to think about. Slowly, I reach for my back pocket, remove my wallet, and hold it up behind me. The leather is torn from my fingers, followed by the patter of feet on the concrete, and then, silence. As soon as he’s gone, I hate him for pointing the gun at me. I hate him because he didn’t pull the trigger. I don’t necessarily want to die, I just want to have a good story to tell at the pearly gates. Somehow working a steady job for forty years, retiring, and passing away quietly one night in my sleep doesn’t seem to have the blockbuster appeal to keep Saint Peter interested, or even amused. He’ll probably consider pulling the lever and opening the trapdoor in the clouds beneath my feet, sending my soul to the blackest depths of hell, just because I was such a boring son of a bitch. Hopefully, though, he wouldn’t. That would probably be considered bad form up there, and generally frowned upon by the big guy. Walking home, I imagine how much more exciting the life of a mugger is than the life of a Junior Executive. I envision the gang of muggers meeting in their underground base after a long, hard day of mugging, pillaging, robbing, and generally being bad apples. They share a cigarette and examine their haul for the day in a scene with an oddly Oliver Twist sort of feel. They cheer for the Rolexes, the pearl necklaces, the wads of rolled up 100 dollar bills. My mugger is jeered at and spat upon when he reveals his winnings, 23 dollars and an expired library card. He resolves himself to work harder, to mug more, to become a mugging god! He’ll show them, the bastards! So maybe that’s not exactly what happens, but it makes me feel a little better about losing my lunch money. With every passing moment, I feel better about getting mugged, and worse about everything else. The story of my life probably wouldn’t fill a half hour sitcom, and it sure wouldn’t be funny. Well, maybe in a sad, ironic sort of way, but that’s not exactly what I’m going for. Suddenly, the booming voice of the movie trailer man erupts in my head. “THERE COMES A TIME IN EVERY MAN’S LIFE WHEN HE MUST MAKE A CHOICE…” God damn, even my teaser trailer is nauseatingly clichéd. But he makes a good point. Maybe it is time to dig myself from the pit of corporate redundancy. To make something of myself! Not necessarily a criminal, I don’t think I’m quite cut out for that sort of thing. No, just a man…with a purpose! An actor maybe, or a political activist of some sort. Really make a difference in the world, you know. Yes, it is time! Tomorrow. Well, no, edited by Joshua Goudreau 96 tomorrow is pretty busy. Friday sounds better. Yeah, I think Fridays are good days for personal revolutions.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 97

Memoirs Of An Afflicted Demigod by Rose Owens

HIS FINGERS NIMBLY BRUSHED THE WALL AND FLICKED on the light switch. A sickly light came on, and wavered for a while. The room was spotted with patches of this anemic light with darker, foreboding corners. This was what he had. This was all he had, besides the memories. His fingers massaged his tired eyelids and then dropped to his sides. They then attempted to find a weak solace in his frayed pockets. Searching for some kind of treasure to lift him from this desolation, the thin rods of skin and bone found instead a bottle of pills. He took the container out and threw it to the ground. The bottle, glass in make, shattered and left sharp fragments over the floor, scattering pale oblong pills everywhere. A lump began to well in his throat, but he pushed it back with a fierce determination. Not now. I can’t start now. I just finished that. He wearily fell back onto his bed. The signs of his addiction surrounded him. Syringes and other bottles were scattered around the room. Oh, man. Why did it have to turn out this way? He tried to peer back into his mind and search for some answer. All he could find was the dirty and crumbling room he was in. Try to focus on something else, he thought. Something, something, something, something that could pull away from the present. He got up and looked for his records. Music always pulled him out of this before. It found a way to reach into his soul and pull out the sweet essence that he had seen in so many others. His idols looked back at him and sang out. Bowie and his beautiful glam rock drew through him, taking him to a land of glitter and joy. Velvet Underground and its memory of Lou Reed singing to the child inspired the man who dreamt. Iggy Pop and his Lust for Life gave him a will edited by Joshua Goudreau 98 to live. Roxy Music had made him strive with its creative genius and magic words. Glorious in its power, the music of his idols had made his trials worth it. That was what he had strived for, making an impact on someone, somewhere. Something changed. Perhaps the lighting dimmed, or a chill swept through the room, but a desperate and lonely feeling suddenly filled him. The girl on the Roxy Music cover laughed at him, mocking his failure and degradation. You tried to play what we did, and you shamed it. You killed yourself in the music, and you didn’t even know it. You ruined your chances with your junk and drinking and despicable lack of talent. You make us sick, you pathetic wasted fool. He tore his eyes away from the cruel beauty. Shut up, he thought. I tried, I tried to stay with the music and leave all that behind, but I couldn’t. I didn’t expect that things would happen the way they did. I was left alone, with no other choice. It’s not my fault! He looked back, and saw that the girl was changed. You poor dear, you did try. We are sorry for your loss, and we wish we had given more support. You tried as hard as you could, but you had no foundation. It wasn’t your fault. You never meant for any of it to happen. Her once malicious face was now soothing and pitying. He found a sweet kindness that tried to relax him. He fell back onto his mattress, with the records in his hands. He looked at the ceiling and in it saw the faces. The faces of the ones he had loved and the ones who had loved him peered into his eyes. They each brought their own tales to tell. Ziggy Stardust sang, his reddish orange hair flickering. The glitter cascaded off of his words, sweetly sung into open ears. “Stone Love- she kneels before the grave…a brave son- who gave his life to save the slogans”… and then he remembered his mother. His mother had always been there for him and always putting up with his idolatry of his gods. She had even understood when he went off to try to fulfill his dream. “My beautiful boy, you are going to become someone special,” she would say. She always supported him and stayed in contact with him until the end. The end was when she had died, alone in his childhood home. His father had died long before, and so his mother had spent her last years alone. The heart attack ended it soon enough, though. He curled up into a fetal position, missing her more than ever. Ziggy kept singing all the while, his mellifluous voice dancing around the room. “Didn’t know what time it was, the lights were low… I leaned back on my radio…some cat was laying down some rock n roll…there’s a starman, waiting in the sky, he’d like to come and meet us, but he thinks he’d blow our minds”…He remembered the first time he had heard the music. It had been a spring day, and the air was soft and warm. He had been sitting in his room, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 99 idly looking out the window. Suddenly, the radio had flickered and then the most beautiful melody floated out of the speakers. It was like he had transcended to a new world, a paradise. The tree outside seemed to sparkle with colorful light. The whole room became a beautiful place, where voices of unimaginable loveliness echoed. He knew, then and there, that the glam world of glitter and beauty was for him. He must have been 15, or somewhere near that age. It seemed so very long ago… Ziggy faded away and in his place came Iggy. Iggy and his dirty blond hair swept through the aura, showering light onto the bed. “Here comes Johnny Yen again, with the liquor and the drugs, and a fast machine…He’s gonna do another strip tease…well, I’m just a modern guy…of course, I’ve had it in my ear before…I have a lust for life, ‘cause of a lust for life…got a lust for life”…Walking down the new and yet tired streets, he had encountered London at a peak of beauty. He had rented a flat, and worked tirelessly as a waiter. He was waiting, all the time, for his break to appear. He knew it had to at some point, but it was taking its time. He got together with various girls, and had relationships that seemed fulfilling, but the music was still missing. He had been working hard. He worked at Schism, a nightclub that was always filled with beautiful people and their beautiful music. He waited on tables, took orders from people who he would have loved to just talk to, but that was not his place. He just stood there, mutely writing words on paper, with his hair flickering in the flashing lights and his eyes shining brightly. The days seemed to blend together, only set apart by the intermittent appearance of the musicians and actors who intrigued him. Then it happened. One day he was just taking a regular order, writing down the drink that his customer wanted. The man kept staring at him, and becoming more and more interested in his waiter. The pen left the paper and he looked up. “Is there anything else you would like, sir?” “Yes, young man. There is something else I would like. You know, has anyone ever told you that you look like a star?” The man smiled at him. He bent his head and blushed briefly. He had been told that, by his girlfriends, his mother. He had found himself looking in the mirror in his apartment and seeing a sensitive face, beautiful and enticing. “Like some kind of god,” they had said. “Sculpted and handsome.” “You know, young man, you have a talent. I can see it. It’s trying to escape, but it hasn’t been able to yet. I bet you like to sing. Don’t you? I thought so. I bet you have a great voice, too. I bet you’ve dreamed of doing something more with your life. I bet that you have been waiting for something to change. Well, I am here to make all your dreams come true, my boy. I am going to change your life forever.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 100 The man was a music producer, and he liked what he had found in the waiter at Schism. The producer knew that he had happened upon a hot property and so he did all he could to embellish the young man who radiated talent. Not only had the producer been inspired, the Star also became a muse to songwriters and designers. In no time, he had songs to sing, glamorous clothes to wear, and magic to put forth. It was all he had ever wished for. The fans lined up outside of the theatres for miles, and his music was snatched up like it was going to disappear. Iggy pouted and left. Soon after, more sweet lyrics poured into his mind. Marc began to sing. “If I could have grown all up on my own, if I could have grown I grew, if I could have grew I do…If I had a throne, you could call it home...If I cry, my tears are yours, to open any frozen doors”…He had found his place and was singing. He was covered with beautiful clothes, and given words of love and joy and uncountable emotions to share. He sang and danced and lived in a world that he had thought unreachable. Then something new happened. He met Pan. Pan was handsome and kind and had an allure that was tantalizing to anyone around him. Pan knew this and played off of it as much as he could. His voice was a liquid gold that melted everything around him. They were equal stars, making beautiful music and creating legends. Then they met, and found each other. When they had first met, they couldn’t believe that the other was really there. Eyes melted into eyes and hearts immediately joined as one. Time had stopped and forged an affection that was unbreakable and unstoppable. “Hey let’s do it like we’re friends, let’s do it do it, hey let’s do it like we’re friends”…It was like a paradise. They saw nothing else in the world except for each other, and they fell into it. It was two souls joining like nothing before. Their hands seemed fused together and always connected. Each one singing of the other, Pan never left his mind and he never left Pan’s mind. They would hold one another and enjoy the life that they had created for themselves. They worshiped each other and knew that this was the ultimate joy. The entire world was covered in glitter and beauty and light and it seemed too wonderful for words. The best part was that no one condemned them for their love. It was celebrated by all as an example of real love, which would last until the end of time. An undying love… It was a cold day, misted by rain and clouds. They were sitting, looking at the world outside. They had been inside for many days and decided to go outside and walk. They got dressed and went outside, holding hands. Talking and dreaming of the future, they trudged through the mud and wet. They walked by a rushing river, which gurgled and ran over sharp rocks. He had a new record coming out and a new tour ahead. Pan was excited The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 101 about this and was already dreaming of what they would do. Pan kissed him and a warm fire burned in the collective heart. Suddenly, Pan slipped. Pan’s hands flew up and the Star tried to reach them. But Pan fell back and into the running water. He was flung against rock after rock and fell further down stream. He tried to swim to shore, but the raging water wouldn’t let him. The Star ran and ran after him, trying desperately to keep up. They kept calling to each other, words of comfort and worry. The Star started to hyperventilate. He couldn’t let this happen. This was not happening. This couldn’t be happening. Pan suddenly had a look of realization come over his face. It was sad, but fully aware of what was going to happen. He called to the Star and spoke to him. “No! No! I won’t let this happen! I’m getting you out of there! Hold on!” Pan smiled sadly, but shook his head as the cruel water carried him along. “This is it. I love you.” “No!” “I love you.” “No-I… I love you too.” There was a sickening crack, as Pan’s neck snapped against the large rock. He had seen it coming and knew that it was unstoppable. The water closed his eyes. “NO!” The Star searched frantically for something, something to pull away from the present. This wasn’t happening. He found a stick and grabbed it. Then he tried to get as close to Pan as he could without being swept into the water. The river was wide and deep and smacked the stick back and forth, splintering the edge. He forced the stick forward and finally under Pan’s jostling body. The body came loose, and drifted downstream. The water became calmer and calmer and finally the body washed up against the bank. He ran up to it and placed its head in his lap. “No” he cried, “no…” He bent over the body and held it tightly, covering Pan’s wet face with tears. All was quiet except for his cries and the rushing of the river. Marc Bolan left and was replaced by Bryan Ferry. His sad eyes cried mournfully. “Buttercups, daisies and most anything, they wither and fade after blossom in spring. Time conquers innocence, pride takes a fall, in knowledge lies wisdom- that’s all”…The funeral had been one of the most painful experiences ever. He had stood there in shocked silence as Pan’s cold and stiff body was lowered into the ground. The faces surrounding him tried to console, but left nothing in his now lonely heart. The desolation was only made clearer when he entered the house, now silent and empty. He had just sat there, doing nothing, with his mind frozen in pain. Now his body was wracked with sobs as the melody drifted across the room. edited by Joshua Goudreau 102 The liquor and the drugs had interspersed in and out of his career. But in the end, they took him over. He tried to shut out the pain with any drug he could find, but it was useless. However strong the hit or concentrated the liquor, nothing could rid him of the unbearable ache. “Hopelessly grounded, I walk through the streets, remembering how we spent time. Hopefully yearning that someday we’ll meet, but when will we, how could we, why?” Bryan cried along with him. So it had come to this. Years had passed, but nothing had changed. Nothing, that is, except for the new desire, the desire to end this suffering. The desire for love was still there, but he only knew one way he could find that love again. He knew now that there was nothing else left. As Bryan Ferry faded away, one last idol began to sing. Bowie was back, but this time he was shadowed and quiet. The guitar opening began to play. He got up, slowly. He was committed to this. He placed his records to the side and collected himself. “Time take a cigarette, puts it in your mouth. You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette”…He looked around the room, seeing it for the last time. “The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget”… He walked to the door. He opened it, stepped out, looked around and then closed it behind him. “You’re too old to lose it, too young to chose it, and the clock waits so patiently on your song. You walk past a café but you don’t eat when you’ve lived too long”… He walked to the door at the end of the hall, which read “Fire Escape”. He thought about all he had seen, all he had experienced. He remembered the love, the love that kept him going, and which was making him act now. He climbed up the stairs and reached the roof. “Chev brakes are snarling, as you stumble across the road, but the day breaks instead so you hurry home…you’re so naturalreligiously unkind”… He saw that Bowie had left, and in his place, Pan was singing. Pan was smiling and looking at him with the kindness and love he had always had. He knew that Pan loved him and was reaching out for him. “Oh no love, you’re not alone! You’re watching yourself but you’re too unfair, you got your head all tangled up, but if only I could make you care! Oh no love, you’re not alone, no matter what or who you’ve been. No matter when or where you’ve seen…I’ve had my share, I’ll help you with the pain, you’re not alone.” He saw Pan and knew that this was the way they could be together. He knew that though many people would take this the wrong way, there would be the substantial few who would recognize its meaning, the meaning of love is that it is what saves you, it is what keeps you. That was what he was doing, letting love save him. As he stepped to the edge and saw Pan singing out in front of him, he knew that love was all that was left for him and that was what he was reaching. “You’re wonderful, gimme your hands, because you’re The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 103 wonderful, just gimme your hands because you’re wonderful”…and as he reached his hands out, Pan reached back and held on. Together, together they fell and as they fell, the love blossomed and flew.

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A Flavor I Could Never Define by Leah Angelo

EVER SINCE I LEARNED TO READ, I’VE ALWAYS HATED fairy tales. Why did the heroine always have to be a princess with long golden hair and blue eyes? Why did they always have to be rescued by a prince on a stupid horse? Why did they always have to end happily ever after? It was ridiculous! I disliked fairy tales so much; I recall flinging numerous storybooks to the floor in frustration. After a little while, I would reconsider what I did, and reposition them to be caves for my troll dolls. Then I would resume playing pirates in my own little world, where there were no blue-eyed damsels-in- distress, only self-sufficient petite Asian archers. I’d always believed in standing on my own two feet, with no dashing heroes to save me. I hated to be helpless. In second grade, there was this kid who never let anybody else take a turn on the swings. I tried to reason with him, but he pushed me. So I pushed him back. Some kid told a teacher, and straight to the principal’s office I went. I told them I was sorry, and explained that he wouldn’t share the playground. Nobody believed me. No one ever believed me. My mama was a teacher at my school, and I was branded a disgrace. A no- good-dirty-rotten-pig-stealing disgrace with a capital D, at that. The kids at school avoided me then, saying I was a “warfreak” and other hurtful names. They told me that their mothers warned them that I was a “bad seed and not supposed to be their friend.” I told them that their mothers were liars and looked like Rumplestiltskin. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 105 I got sent to the principal’s office again and the same series of events followed. But now, even my mama avoided me. Nobody loves a no-good-dirty-rotten-pig-stealing disgrace with a capital D. My single friend in second grade was Mark Fajardo. He was a year older than me but in the same class. “They think I’m stupid, but I just don’t like answering their stupid questions,” he would tell me privately, a disgusted smirk playing across his Fil-American face. He was just like me; we both enjoyed reading, playing chess, and the Mask, except Mark liked the Mask a million more times than I did. He was the one who taught me the words “fuck”, “shit”, “hooker”, and “fart.” I loved that Mark. One time in third grade, I did my math homework hurriedly. One of the problems was 21×5. In haste, I wrote 105 that looked dangerously like 106. When my teacher marked it wrong, I explained that it was 105. She stared sternly and scolded me, “Getting the wrong answer is not a reason to tell a lie.” No one ever believes me. I cried to Mark and he comforted me, saying Ms. Melba looked like Rumplestiltskin. “Listen, it’s not anything to cry about, okay?” He pulled a hand through his brown hair, smiling sheepishly. “Why? What if I am a liar?” “You’re not,” Mark shrugged. “To me, you’ll never be a liar, because you’re my friend. “I’ll always believe you, Leigh.” Tears threatened to flow from my eyes again, but this time, from happiness. Somebody believed me. “Come on, we’ll play pirates to cheer you up. We can pretend we found a genie’s lamp. We can take turns wishing,” Mark suggested, holding up a rusty tin can. The way the light bounced from the can to him illuminated his angelic face perfectly. I smiled back at him, knowing secretly that as long as he was here, there was nothing else that I could wish for. “Mark?” “Yeah?” “Thanks for being such a good friend.” We embraced each other and promised to be best friends until we were a thousand years old. edited by Joshua Goudreau 106 A year passed after that incident, and November trickled quickly into March. It was the end of the school year. Mark and I were at the playground eating popsicles. Mine was orange, his was chocolate. Popsicle drops stuck to our hair and clothes, glistening in the white sunlight. Suddenly, Mark hugged me. He was shaking visibly. When he pulled away, I noticed wet spots of liquid on my shirtfront, and realized that he was crying. “Mark, what’s wrong?” I peered into his face, worry etching into my young features. “I’m leaving.” No! My mind screamed. We had known each other for barely two years! Tears likewise spurted from the sides of my eyes. “B-but why?” “Mother says we are going to move to America. To live.” “Why?” My voice rose an octave higher. Before he could answer, I took his hands and cried into them. “No…! Who am I going to play chess with? What about our books? About Louis Sachar? What about our old fat cat in the park? What about Ms. Melba? What about-what about the Mask? What about me, Mark?” I choked on my words. “Please, Mark, don’t go. You’re my only friend.” He wordlessly pried his hands from mine and quietly told me to close my eyes. I hesitated, but I looked into his face and saw that he was dead serious. “My mother told me that if somebody wanted to spend forever with someone, they tell each other ‘I love you’ and kiss and marry. Umm… Leigh, I love you, and when we are older, I promise I’m going to marry you.” My eyes opened in surprise, and I felt his arms grasp me by my shoulders. He smiled and kissed me on the mouth. I’ve hated fairy tales even more since then. I believe that the greatest love stories of this world don’t end in ‘happily ever after.’ Mark would agree with me. They simply never end, leaving a permanent popsicle stain on our hearts, for us to taste whenever we remember. I could never define my first kiss’ taste, even if I tried to. I would only fail. Its chocolate-and-orange flavor of sweetness and youth can only be found in that moment at the start of the summer, when two souls overlap.

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Shatter by Ora N. Jeffreys

THE MIRROR TELLS THE TRUTH. WHENEVER SHE LOOKS into it, the pain inside festers, raw and acrid in scent. The mirror shows her Abby, her twin sister. She remembers the wake. Seeing herself inside the coffin. A pale, ghastly reflection on a satin pillow. She thinks, “That was the last time I saw myself, dead.” She remembers, during the funeral, staring at the polished onyx surface of the casket, its silver trim engraved with roses. She had stayed at the graveside pondering the creamy pink granite, ‘Abigail Aurora Martin’ cut across it in block letters. She was numbed by her loss and remembers a security guard with dirty brass buttons on his uniform forcing her to leave Abby’s grave. Now she pushes her hand against the frigid bathroom mirror, trying to wipe away the expression of anguish on Abby’s face, wanting to break the mirror. She wants to feel the pain of the glass cutting, slicing, shredding her palm. The glass does not give in to her desires. She gives up and runs cold water in the sink, then splashes it onto her face. The night before this she was ‘Marla.’ Two nights ago she might have been ‘Betty,’ but she was too drunk to remember. “Tonight,” she decides, “it’s Delia.” She applies make-up to her face. Her violet eyes, she dresses up until she decides she looks like Cleopatra. A deep velvety red lipstick goes on her full, heart-shaped pout. She attempts to hide her frown lines with extra “age- defying formula” foundation. Delia is a gorgeous and extravagant woman with alabaster skin, black curls, arched eyebrows, and almond shaped eyes. edited by Joshua Goudreau 108 She thinks, “Vogue Magazine would love Delia, if only she could bring herself to vomit.” She prefers her womanly attributes to a waxen Prada model. “Delia,” she purrs to the mirror. Abby isn’t looking back at her, for the moment. Delia chooses a red dress. It resembles a flamenco dancer’s dress. The ruffles billow to the middle of her calves and are gathered up on her right thigh. She puts on a pair of open-toe stilettos that tie around her ankles with black satin ribbons. A worn jean jacket completes the character that is Delia. “I am Delia.” She tells her cat, “Good-bye, Puss,” and leaves her apartment a leggy Egyptian queen. She has no trouble hailing a taxi outside.

She sits at the bar smoking one of her Turkish cigarettes and sipping a whiskey sour. The sea of sweaty bodies behind her flows with the roar of the music. Delia has already been asked to dance three times. She turned them down. They were too old, too scrawny, and too ugly. She scours the room for the man she wants to spend the night with. She wants the built ones, the men who take care of their physique. The men seemingly plucked from the glossy page of an ad for Stetson cologne. Tonight, she is Delia and she has chosen him. He stands at the end of the bar, looking at her. He comes over and sits in the empty space at her right. He has blonde curls and blue eyes and looks as if he is his late thirties. The two sides of his square jaw join together by a cleft chin. Crows feet accompany a wide smile when he starts to speak. He tells her his name. She takes in his physical appearance and the small gut poking over the waist of his too tight jeans. As he talks about himself, his arms attract her attention. His biceps fill the sleeves of his blue t-shirt when he gestures with his hands. “Strong arms,” Delia thinks, sips her drink, and smiles. He is wearing a silver crucifix on a silver chain. It follows the motion of his breath. Delia tells him many things that aren’t true, weaving her deceitful web. She smokes three more cigarettes and he buys her three more drinks, two whiskey sours and a cosmopolitan. He shows her the tattoo on his right shoulder, a green dragon, wings spread, engulfed in the azure flames of a phoenix, rising from its ashes. She tells him she took a taxi to the club, this is the only sliver of truth to her silken and fragile web. He invites her to his place. He tells her he rents a flat above a bakery from an old Russian couple. Delia follows the man ascending two flights of rusting, creaking stairs. The smell of sugar and Crisco seeps through the walls. He leads her halfway The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 109 down a dimly lit hallway before pulling keys from his pocket to open the door. Delia stares, her hands in her pockets. One wall is covered by floor to ceiling length mirrors. She utters a small cry of concern; he explains that the flat used to be a dance studio. To the right of the open door is a kitchenette. The green Formica counter springs like a jungle from a plaster cloud. There is a window lopsidedly cut above the sink. A bed, sheets jumbled, and a milk-crate night stand attempt to hide beside the kitchenette, close to the mirror wall. A window, cut in the same amateur fashion, above the bed blinks with a neighbor’s neon sign. ‘Open,’ the orange and blue letters breathe into the room. An entertainment center and a couch with threadbare, colorless fabric sit awkwardly to the left of the flat’s door. The bathroom had been built where the mirrored wall and its plaster companion joined, opposite the bed. Boxes lay about; most of them only half empty, many of them unopened. He explains how he is in the process of moving in, apologizing profusely. Delia insists there is no reason for him to apologize. “I don’t mind the boxes,” she thinks and scans the mirrored wall for traces of Abby. Delia goes into the bathroom. The mirrored wall continues along the space. Now, closer to the glass, she catches glimpses of Abby. A counter caulked onto the mirror wall only extends half of the room’s length. Delia sits on the counter and props her feet up on the lid of the toilet. She knows Abby has her back turned to her. She likes it this way. “I am Delia, no Abby,” She tells herself, passionately, wanting to believe it true. He knocks on the door. She cracks it, peers out, and lets him in. He turns on the shower, face close to hers. The hot water runs down Delia’s neck. It sends shivers through her every molecule. Her senses are heightened and he does things to her body that make her blood burn and her breath spark. Her body explodes at his touch. She follows, with her violet eyes, the steam from the shower as it floats from the muscles in his shoulders. Her gaze chases it until it melts with the rest of the steam clinging to the ceiling like a storm cloud ready to burst. Her vision pursues the vapor wave until it breaks upon the mirror. Abby is standing at the edge of this sea, face marred by the smeared black mascara of Delia. “No Abby,” her mind whispers. Delia turns her face away from the mirror, back to him. She says something to the man about being in bed. She isn’t sure what she says because a star is exploding in the color of her vision and she relaxes against him. He turns the shower off. edited by Joshua Goudreau 110 In his bed the dim engulfs her, but she has seen the emerald and amethyst lights of elation and felt them zip through her body like an electric inferno. His arms are soft and hold her close. “Delia and him bubble and simmer in light of the neon sign,” she thinks as their bodies intertwine. Open, Open, the flickering glow beckons her. His lips brush and dwell on the sensitive flesh of her throat. This man likes to linger there. Tiny beads of gold fall through her vision, thick as New Year’s confetti. It is his hair, damp with sweat. She can smell him above her, cinnamon mixed with basil. He looks down at her, pleasure in his sapphire eyes. The little crucifix is a dangling star on a moonbeam, sending white hot pulses through her chest. The dragon breathes the azure fire into the heat of his kiss. She thinks of Abby. She lets out a startled gasp that he silences with his mouth on hers. The thought flits away in a wave of liquid crimson. Rainbows arch, crescendo, and flow through her brain as she becomes ensnared by the symphony of their hips. Now he sleeps with his head resting on her shoulder. Delia strokes his blonde curls. The colors in her vision start to dissipate; dripping, splashing, trickling down in drops as her body relaxes. The sweet and spicy scent of Stetson, sweat, and sex fill her lungs when she takes a deep breath. “Good enough,” she thinks. Reality is coming back to her in wisps, like a thin filmy fog. She dozes but only for a few minutes. Each time she wakes, she guesses at the hour. She knows she must leave sometime, but the indigo dark is a lazy kind of comfortable. When she opens her eyes again, dawn is starting to creep into the flat. The neon light no longer burns through the lopsided window. Mouth open and grinning, the dragon on his shoulder peers at her above the bed sheet. The sunlight moves across the floor in a slow unheard waltz. She turns over to her opposite side, staring in wonder for a minuscule moment, before realizing what has happened. Delia has vanished during the night and Abby stares through the mirror. She gets out of the bed and goes to her sister. She presses her forehead to the icy glass. “You weren’t supposed to see how bad I’ve gotten without you,” it comes out half groan half sob. Abby’s face stares, accusingly. It’s so cold, frozen in reflection. The man in the bed behind her rolls onto his stomach, groans, and buries himself between the bed covers. She goes into the bathroom, Abby following her in the mirror. “Do you know how much I miss you?” Her breath fogs the glass. “You, know, I never cried at the funeral. I said I’d be strong. It’s been almost a year. Two more months.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 111 She turns her back to the mirror and sits on the floor. She puts her head on her knees and sobs. The tears roll down her chin and onto her thighs, even now she tries to hold them in. Her web begins to unravel, the fraudulent existence flies away in weightless sprays, until the last gossamer shred is swept into oblivion, into nothing. She faces the mirror. Abby is crying too. “I can’t be strong anymore,” palms pressed against the mirror, words cracking with tearful gasps, “All I ever see in the mirror is you. “I know what you’d say right now. You’d tell me to go see a doctor. I’ve done that. Mom made me go. After the funeral, I went into the bathroom and swallowed a fistful of mom’s pills. They had to smash down the door to get me.” She touches Abby’s hand and leaves the bathroom. Methodically, she searches the flat. Her hands tremble as she opens drawers and cabinets, but doesn’t close them. Nothing seems to be of any use to her. She looks about, stumbling over boxes in the dim light of dawn. No pills, no chemicals, no knives. Something, an unusual shade of chartreuse, lying on top of the entertainment center catches her eye. It is the handle of a big flat-head screwdriver. White words printed in block letters proclaim, ‘¼ inch.’ She locks the bathroom door behind her. The handle of the screwdriver makes the glass crunch with a high sharp pitch. Tiny shards, the size of gnats, bite into her arms, across her cheeks, and into her chest. The man is awake, beating fiercely on the locked door. She stares at the fragmented mirror. The cracks spiral out in a web. She forces her fingertips onto the broken glass. Sharp rubble cuts into the ends of her fingers. An iridescent sparkle of blood descends down into the fissures of the busted mirror. She pulls away her hand. Her thumb instinctively dances over the wounds. The pain in her fingertips makes her shudder. “I’m afraid…” she whispers. She jams the screwdriver between two fissures intent on removing a chunk of the mirror, but she can’t make the swift motion that would remove a large shard. Again, she stares into the fractured glass. The banging on the doors makes the sound of a frantic heartbeat. She squints and feels like a coward because she does not want to die, but a brave because she can’t. “If I die, who will be there?” she wonders. Her legs shake like wet string and her skin is cold. Goose bumps prickle down her right side and she imagines that Abby is there, telling her a secret. The banging on the door drifts into her stomach and her tongue goes sour in her mouth. She sees in the broken glass, two violet eyes brimmed with long black lashes, one higher than the other. The forehead, luminescent white, splits edited by Joshua Goudreau 112 with six faults in the mirror. Half of a heart-shaped mouth turns upward in a vertical smile. Its other half rests in the alabaster glow of a divided cheekbone. The Picasso-like reflection fractures into a ten sided circle. The banging on the door becomes a slow rhythm. Around the decagon, flurries of black hair wind themselves in the shape of rose petals. She sees someone who is not Abby. In her head, she pictures part of the man’s tattoo, the azure phoenix, the creature destined to be reborn from its own ashes. She remembers numbly standing and contemplating creamy pink granite, Abby’s headstone, until a security guard with dirty brass buttons told her to leave. Now the numbness leaves her. She finds herself locked away behind the door of ‘Delia,’ ‘Marla,’ and countless others. “Those aren’t me, I am,” she thinks as she savors the taste of her own name in her mouth, sweet. Stepping back from the mirror, she takes in the sight of herself, not Abby, and rolls it on her eyes and back into her brain. The door opens with a loud crack. From the reflection rises whole, shattered, herself, Amber Phoenix Martin.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 113

Blood is Red by David Henderson

JACK WOKE LATE AGAIN. HE OPENED HIS EYES AND gazed blearily at the clock. It was 9:08. His vision cleared as he realized what the time was, and leapt out of bed. “Oh shit!” He said. He had twenty-two minutes to get to class. He dressed quickly, went to the toilet, washed his face and put on some deodorant before grabbing his bag and heading towards the door. He did a quick check to make sure his video was inside. It was. Good. He needed it for his final film assignment. He opened the door and left, letting the door close behind him. He got to the gate and stopped. He'd left his keys inside. He repressed the urge to scream. Fuck it, he thought, I'll deal with it later. He flung the gate open and walked out, pulling a bulky package from the mailbox as he made his way down the street to the university. Lucky for him it was only a ten minute walk. He looked at the package. It was addressed to him. He gave it a shake. No sound equals padded bags. Must be breakable. He checked to make sure there were no cars coming as he crossed the road. Ripping open the end of the package he looked inside. He put his hand inside and pulled out a videotape. He checked the title. ‘Blood is Red.'’ “What the hell?” He asked himself quietly. He was still a little groggy. He shrugged and put the tape in his bag. He’d better hurry up or was going to fail. Again. He started to run.

Jack arrived at the lecture hall with a few minutes to spare. He got to the door and was about to yank it open when he saw a notice with big red lettering. ‘Film lecture will start at 10:00.’ He dropped the handle. edited by Joshua Goudreau 114 “Oh, fucking hell.” He swore with relief. He looked and saw there was no one around. He paused. Dear God, what was that smell? He lifted an arm and smelt his armpit. He reeled back in revulsion. “Man, I fucking stink.” He checked his watch. It was right on nine-thirty. He decided to head down to the gym. Hopefully he could have a shower there. He didn’t want to stink out the lecture hall. Jack made his way down to the gymnasium, borrowed a towel from the sports store and went and cleaned himself up. He didn’t like using the showers in the gym. They were always filled with human movement students who spent most of the time looking at each other’s bits. It always struck him as being funny that they called him a fag for looking the way he did, yet they were the ones who showered together and grabbed each other’s bums. Strange people. He ran through the shower quickly. There weren’t any other people in the showers at this time of the day, but he didn’t want to press his luck. He was, after all, rather shy about having his body exposed to dozens of other guys. He dried, dressed and dumped the towel in the laundry chute before making his way back. He still had another ten minutes until it started so there was no need to hurry. Jack pushed open the door to the lecture hall and stopped. It was full. It had never been full before. At least, not with students in this unit. He made his way slowly down to the front. The lecturer was standing behind a mass of videotapes, making sure they all had names on them. He reached into his bag and pulled out his tape, placed it on the desk, then took a seat in the front row. The lecturer picked up the tape and looked it over. “Jack, you didn’t put your name on here.” She looked over the top of her glasses at him. “Really?” He asked. “I thought I did.” “Nope. You’re lucky I prepare for things like this.” She stuck a piece of masking tape on the video and wrote his name down. “Be more careful in future.” Jack nodded. After a few minutes of sitting and listening to the chatter around him, the lecturer called for silence. After a few minor technical difficulties the videos started to play, one after the other. Most were really artsy. Not really to Jack’s taste, but enjoyable nonetheless. After about three quarters of an hour the lecturer announced his film. He stopped. What did she just say the title was? That didn’t sound right. He checked inside his bag and found a second tape. This one had his name on it. “Fuck me.” He said quietly. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 115 He’d handed over the wrong tape. Ah, it was too late now. It started playing.

The film was old. It looked like it was taken back in the mid 1980s with one of those dodgy home video cameras. It showed a patch of grass and a pile of pebbles. The pebbles started to shift and move around the grass, forming the words ‘Blood is Red.’ After the letters had set in place red droplets started to fall and cover parts of the words. It flashed to a picture of a small boy with wavy, blonde hair. He was holding a couple of cue cards. The only sound the film had was some faint piano music tinkling in the background. ‘Hello.’ The first one read. He dropped the card. ‘My name is Jack.’ Read the second, which then fell to the ground. ‘This is me.’ Read the third. The scene changed to a close up of Jack’s face. He was pulling faces at the camera. First he was grinning, then dropping his bottom lip as though he was about to cry. Then he started to pull some really silly faces. The people in the audience laughed. Jack just stared at the screen, mesmerized. “Is that really me?” He thought. The scene changed. Now he was sitting on his grandmother’s knee, chattering madly and holding up a small bug that he’d found. He rolled his hand over as it crawled. Then he let it crawl onto his grandmother’s hand. She said something, then stood and walked with little Jack to the garden. She placed it on the leaf of a bush and they watched it disappear amongst the foliage. Jack’s face was one of awe, as though he’d never seen an insect crawling before. The scene changed. It was a close up of his sleeping face. The camera zoomed out slowly, revealing a mass of sleeping cats. They surrounded him. It was almost like a feline blanket. Some of the people in the audience went ‘aww’. Jack was a little older now. He was walking in the park, holding the hand of a young girl with long, curly hair. They looked down at the ground shyly, stopped and faced each other. They looked up into each other’s eyes, smiled, and moved in closer. They kissed. Again, the audience went ‘aww’. One of the girls sitting beside him reached over and touched Jack on the arm. He tore his eyes from the screen to look. She was smiling at him. “This is beautiful.” She said. Jack paused, not sure what to say. “I don't remember any of this.” He managed. The girl gave him a quizzical look before turning back to the screen. Why didn’t he remember any of this? He looked back at the screen to see that the scene had changed again. He was lying on his bed, crying. His mother came in and tried to get him out of bed. She pulled him out and stood him up, but edited by Joshua Goudreau 116 as soon as she let go and he tried to take a step he dropped to the floor. She ducked down beside him and picked him up. She held him close to her and ran out of the room. The scene changed. Jack’s mother and another man were standing in the hallway of a hospital, pacing back and forth. A doctor approached them. He looked very serious. He spoke to them for a few moments. Jack’s mother covered her face and started to cry. The other man tried to comfort her, drawing her towards him. Jack lay in a hospital bed, tubes poking out everywhere. He was struggling to breathe. The camera zoomed in closer. Everyone in the audience was transfixed. There were a few sniffs and shuddered breaths behind him. The scene changed. Jack’s mother and the other man were in Jack’s home. They stood in the kitchen. They were yelling at each other. His mother had tears running down her face. The man yelled even more before slapping her. She fell to the floor, holding her face and crying. The man stormed off. The camera zoomed in on his mother and held there for a few seconds. Jack was lying in his bed, struggling to breathe. The room was dim. The man entered the room. He stood over Jack and spoke for a little while. Jack looked up at him. He was nodding slightly. Then, the man pulled out a gun and put it to his own temple and pulled the trigger, sending blood and brains across the room. His body dropped to the ground, lifeless. Everyone in the audience jumped, and horrified gasps filled the air, even from Jack. Jack and his mother were at the hospital. Jack looked a couple of years older. He was missing all his hair and was extremely thin and pale. His mother looked worn. A doctor came into the room and spoke with them for a few seconds. Jack and his mother looked at each other. They started to smile and laugh. They hugged each other tightly. The screen faded to black and the piano stopped playing. The entire room was silent. Tears were trickling down Jack’s face. He put his face in his hands and started to cry.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 117

Issue #3 April/May/June 2006

edited by Joshua Goudreau 118

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 119

~Featured Story~

A Wolf at the Door by Stephen Bush

‘ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A LITTLE MAIDEN...’ THIS way it would begin and always begin and then begin again, usually in the love-blind eyes of parents... and... a sweet little maiden... and... whoever laid eyes upon her could not help but love her... The statement slices two distinct ways in these modern times. Nowadays, Little Red was a lolita or a feminist re-molding. Little Red wasn’t a little girl anymore. Nowadays... nowadays... Little Red was a woman in all but hormones. She was innocent until proven... twelve? It wasn’t easy being the personification of pre-pubescent female development, of course, but Little Red Riding Hood was trying; her aunts and lady friends of her mother all had told her, all had seen it in her, reliving their maturation from the inside of her head, guessing at how she looked out. You’re not a girl, they’d say, but not yet a woman, you’re... sex. Development and growth. Simply sex. Or sexual, perhaps. The intermediate; experimental and able to take any route. That was all there was to it. Life was complicated enough, though, Rose had considered, without being handed the burden of sexual maturity right now, a load weighty with aches and blood, her mother pulling her aside one evening and explaining an issue she’d tentatively referred to as a “coming trial,” while wringing her hands and tugging hair sharply behind her left ear. She’d smiled her distinctive smile and agreed heartily, sighed in the right places, graciously accepting the maternal advice and the quiet words. “You’re going to be a woman,” she'd been told, her mother thinking ‘glamorous victim,’ the world thinking ‘probable vixen’ and Little Red merely concealing her thoughts behind emerald eyes and rich auburn hair. Be it girl edited by Joshua Goudreau 120 or a rag doll: it could go both ways, vixen or victim; playing to her strengths or playing on others weakness. She’d smiled her distinctive smile, thought of innocence and its use, and instead was largely focused upon the possibilities. She was already proficient at the eyelash flutter. All she needed was the chest and the hormone flood and the power transference from gender to gender would be complete. The hymen had already been dispensed with. Lithe, slender and courteous, the sweet little maiden who fostered love behind all eyes that fell upon her. Little Red even had the name for it. She’d read the cautionary tales, of course, their morals flowing as freely as the ink of the writer. Don’t overstretch oneself and don’t be cocky, she’d been taught from these books. The wolf was the predator, wrote Perrault, and Little Red had paid attention. “Children, especially attractive, well bred young ladies, should never talk to strangers, for if they should do so, they may well provide dinner for a wolf.” This piqued her curiosity. Surely not all strangers were dangerous? Surely this would mean the only safe place to be was here, now, and the only company you could keep would be your own? “I say ‘wolf,’ but there are various kinds of wolves,” she read on. “There are also those who are charming, quiet, polite, unassuming, complacent, and sweet, who pursue young women at home and in the streets. And unfortunately, it is these gentle wolves who are the most dangerous ones of all.” Disguise was how people got through life, Little Red knew: everybody wore masks. Mother with her lipstick as war paint. Father with his special smile just for his boss. A pretence, a face over the face, a different mask for different people and different situations - to exchange, perhaps, was love, was deep friendship - a thing for the adults. The mask of the young was the one mask to suit all, nobody need take it, nobody would want it... for a time. Little Red was young, and she knew what came with this: physical weakness, fragility, but that greatest mask of them all: youth. And all the world could fit neatly within the space of her head! Charisma and influence... the mental strength that would offset the lacking of brawn, perhaps? They make things happen, but there is no magic in the world, she knows; there are only people, what people do and how you make them do it. Little Red was an area-of-effect weapon. She started to smile, and bat her eyelashes. It was almost too easy. It only left the unasked, the riddle she’d have to resolve herself: Just how far could she go before age and circumstance caught up with her? She rolled her eyes: What’s the moral, Red? It’s easy - there’s one in all things and we’ll call it experience and then call it wisdom. One must be cautious. One must play to ones strengths and know ones limits. What’s the fucking moral? “Come, Rosie,” said her mother, calling her to chores. The house was spotless, the dirt well hidden. Even the beds were made. “Take this piece of cake and bottle of wine and bring them to your grandmother,” she was told. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 121 “She’s sick and weak, in a feverish sleep so hard to wake her from, but this will strengthen her.” Her mother handed over a hamper, of healing herbs, freshly baked cakes garbed in cinnamon, and spiced wine. Grandmother was a crone, a rheumy-eyed witch with no kind words; no working limbs, either. Little Red was never overjoyed at hearing her cackle, her maiden-mother-crone allusions and the “unity” of the family she’d prattle about. How she, her daughter and her daughter’s daughter made a set, all joined together. The linkage, however, between her and her mother’s mother was, to Rosie, tenuous. The generations had carved a rift she couldn‘t readily cross, but to stay cordial - overly polite, even - did have its benefits. “Of course I’ll do it!” she smiled, lifting the load. “Anything to help!” She started early, before the sun rose to it’s peak and cast the world with infernal gold. Around the corner from the house, she broke open the wine, and started out upon the forest path. It took one wide loop, and then the trees moved into an orderly position, a density of greenery, concealing the pathway from view. Little Red even started singing. It was, after all, a pleasant day; warm enough for people to work without breaking into unsightly sweat blotches and wheezing, clammy enough for the woodcutters to loosen their dungarees. Their muscles moved in a workaday rhythm, settling into a pattern of tension and release as they hefted their axes in unison. As the sun rose higher, there were butterflies, the release of nectar capsules invisibly onto a gently running breeze, a susurration of deeper life in the enveloping green. There was, as there had to be, a wolf. “Good morning to you,” he said, stepping from behind a tree. “A wonderful day, isn’t it?” Little Red was not stupid. She read books and watched television. “You’re a wolf,” she said. “You eat people.” “Don’t be silly; if I was going to eat you, I wouldn’t talk to you first. Words don’t exactly enhance the flavor of the meat.” “That’s not a nice thing to say.” “I’m a wolf. I’m not supposed to be nice, am I?” He gave Rosie an accusing glare. “I’m sorry, Wolf. I think I misjudged you. I get your point.” He waved a paw dismissively. “Happens often; I don’t mind. I must say, you’re quite brave for a little girl, talking to a wolf.” “I’m not a little girl!” “I apologize. A little woman, Miss…” “Call me Rose.” She curtsied. ‘Call me’ was one step removed from direct command! Dress it up with a bow of politeness and speak it through puppy dog eyes and nobody noticed, everybody obeyed! “A pleasure to meet you, Rose. My name is my scent, so it might just be easier to call me Wolf.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 122 “Well then, hello Wolf! I’m sorry we got off to a bad start.” “Please, don’t mention it! Where are you off to on this fine day? You’re bearing gifts?” He gestured curiously at the hamper, his claw turned upon itself - pointing outwards with the stump of a paw but keeping his blades running backwards along his wrist. Little Red rolled her eyes; her large, well-framed eyes. She batted an eyelid against the sun. “For my grandmother,” she sighed, hefting the hamper. “She’s ill.” Nonchalant, devil-may-care, and yet showing a heart: not reluctant to do this good task, but treating it with a life-is-for-the-living attitude. Little Red congratulated herself on her tone of voice. She even stepped back a little coquettishly. The Wolf was so lean and muscular! “Not serious, I hope?” he asked. He hadn’t leaned forward when she’d shifted. If he’s a predator, he’s keeping a lid on it. So he’s quiet, he’s charming, he’s polite and he’s unassuming. There are woodcutters hefting axes all over this section of forest, thinks Little Red. Besides, there is a feeling - yes, a sensation in the stomach and the skin, slinking to the heart - he’s genuinely friendly. I did genuinely insult him, after all. “Oh no, not at all. She sounds like she’s sleeping, really.” “She’s in no pain? Oh, that’s good to hear!” “I’m sure she’ll be fine...” said Little Red coyly. I’m sure she’ll be fine, so I’m in no real hurry... He didn’t rise to the bait. “Have far to go?” he inquired politely. “Oh, just a little over that way; the hollow by the three oak trees and the line of hazel bushes. So quiet in that part of the forest.” “It is very peaceful here,” the Wolf smiled. “It may sound clichéd, but do you walk around here often?” “Not as often as I’d like...” “The flowers that grow here bloom with more vivid colors than in any other part of the forest!” the Wolf announced with pride. “The nectar here charms and soothes more exotic birds than those who roost anywhere else, and they sing all the sweeter as a result.” The Wolf surveyed the scene with pride, then lowered his voice. “Exotic nectars, aphrodisiacs and balms for weary brains. Liquefied pleasure, they say. Treat the petals as a cup, and to sup from such a potion is a salve for the mind, and perhaps the lips. Just listen to the birds next time you wander past. You‘ll see.” He winked, and then straightened up. “The forest is such a wonderful place. Sssh, though. Don’t tell anybody I told you! I must be off, at any rate. A pleasure to meet you, Rose. I do hope your grandmother feels better soon.” Little Red leaned back. She hadn’t realized she’d moved closer to his words. Reminding herself that she wasn‘t entranced, she shook her head as if to clear it. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 123 “I do hope I’ll wander into you again soon, Mr. Wolf.” “Please, not so formal! And I’d like that; it sounds nice.” (And which part of me you’ll walk into remains between the lines, unsaid but lingering in thought.) She watched him go, pistons of thigh muscle beneath such groomed fur, not walking with any passion for his place in the world but as passion; something of the night, something of the bestial - the wild and the untamed and... and yet... A rogue, yet restrained. A beast, yet a gentleman. What sights he must have seen! What deeds he must have wrought! And his paws: marked with time and with work done, and yet so gentle when desired - the way he’d kept his claws out of sight, for fear of inspiring terror - she wouldn’t have been afraid anyway, of course, but it was his intention to guard her. So gentle when desired! When desired... She could make him desire! Not love, but lust; not building bridges but breaking boundaries! It was a beautiful day. A butterfly shot against the sun; a branch-shadow draped to cool sleeping leaves. The morning had sung out; happier now. The wolf must be somewhere in the deeper or the deepest forest at that pace, she reasoned, deeper, always deeper - there’ll be a line in the green where the brave stammer and turn back, but he - in his might - would just amble past regardless. A line of briars and creepers and snaring tendrils that rend the flesh and sink scented hooks, but here, nobody attacks the King: they‘ll stay, the strangler vines, hugging their trees in malice and fear, and letting him pass unhindered. Grandmother’s cottage was a sanctum, a beacon burning out of the green, of thickets of witch hazel and white sage ringing a neatly painted fence, calmly marking her nest of old stone and older memories, of roof thatch that nested summer fireflies and moonbeams on a clear winter night - starlight that filtered suspended dust from the crisp country air, while giving gentle illumination to that grandmother smell. Through the windows of the cottage, looking out at owls and tree shadow; in the room, all fine lace and a brass clock, ornaments that could be counted in the generations and memories of heirlooms and memories of dead friends, memories of worlds and peoples past, and memories of memories. The door was ajar. The creak wasn’t a poorly oiled hinge, the creak was the door being pushed against and into the flooring; it was broken but intact, only the bottom hinge held, the wood pulled away from the seal. There were gashes and splinters, carefully brushed aside but visible through the doorwall crack. At first appearances, it should all have looked so normal. And... what was that peculiar smell? Something was wrong. “Good morning, Rose! A pleasure to meet you again!” edited by Joshua Goudreau 124 There was an emphasis on ‘pleasure;’ a subtle shift in terms. Pleasure taken, not pleasure given. Something was wrong... Something was very wrong. Rose swallowed, then corrected herself. Her beam was radiant; she didn’t even break sweat. She opened her mouth to speak, to bluff and bluster and unleash the cavalcade of half-truth and... And yet... was this failure? Was this what it was to be ignored? The wolf continued. He didn’t even acknowledge her face. He narrowed his eyes, Rose a silhouette now, a ghost of reflected light, a target set against an unnecessary backdrop - this world; that grass; this cottage - it was all as one, and she was in the center. “What am I to you, Rose? A rogue, perhaps... yet restrained somehow? A stalker, a hunter, or a beast to be broken?” One piston thundered, one paw stepped forward with deliberation. “You’ve humanized me, Rose! You may as well treat me as a dog.” “I...” “Be silent, Rose.” “You...” “Take in words rather than saying them, Rose. Learn. Learn quickly!” He gestured one paw in a lazy arc. It was a signal. It spoke volumes - it spoke of a story, something underlying its meaning, how it came to be. To someone, somewhere, it meant something. Rose? A voice, treacherous, base of the mind; normally quiet but distinctive at this time - echoing the sentiment: you’re not the narrator now. You’ve lost that power, you gave it away just by doing what you always do, and so what do you define yourself by now? “There are no lone wolves here!” he laughed. “The villain of the piece isn’t the minority; the victim is! There are always more of us than there are of you. The wolves are at your door!” Little Red stepped backwards. The King had called his subjects, she knew. She could smell their hair, rank and stale: a wolf pack with dried-on blood. They were outside, she was sure, but out of view; the wall hid the sight, but not the image: not baring teeth, not poised to strike, merely waiting. Watching. How many were there? Around the room, her eyes reached the unkempt sheets and torn linens, a stirring from beneath the mattress, a protrusion of fur and crimson. She swallowed. The crimson wasn‘t just a color, it was a texture. “A wolf... in... in the bed!” The crimson wasn’t just a color... It had gristle, it had clottings, poolings and coagulations - blood, cloying and sticky and adhering to the memories, the room, all that was in it: the memories of the memories. “Only my son, Rose. Learning to conceal and to deceive. Best taught when young; I’m sure you understand! The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 125 “To learn to put on masks of your own, to recognize them in others, to mimic voices, perhaps; to mimic attitudes, certainly. To hide in plain sight, to see that which others would conceal... to merge with the shadows, to walk as a ghost in midnight fog... You must fight with your brain before you grow brawn.” Rose didn‘t need to say it. She knew, but she had to hear, the ears an anchor to reality. “And grandm--” “No resistance.” Coldly, deliberately. She watched him watch her. Moving her head to follow his eyeline; she should have known she was playing into his hands. The morning light cast onto the far walls, thin lines on the wallpaper, red lines on the wallpaper - beginning here, at head height, casting upwards and backwards, diagonal stripes as something collided there with force, knocking that red out and over. “My son!“ He called over happily. “What big arms she had!” (To hug me with me, she thought.) “Yesss... father.” “What big legs she had!” (To run with me, to keep up, to play with me.) “Yesssss...” “What big eyes she had!” (The windows to her soul, those circular lakes with the black hole centres, that bored down to everything she was.) The wolf turned back to Rose, leaned forwards with his snout, probing towards her face, smiled savagely. “All the better to feed us with!” he roared. She stopped that tear. The sluggish, contended, full, bastard son. “Yess, father!” he rasped, worming his way to become more comfortable on the blankets. His father poised to move; gave explanation. “I’m a pack animal, Rose.” He stepped forward calmly. Behind him, a pack brother stepped into the space he left vacant. The scent was the mark of the wolf. There was a mingling of scents here... the father... the son... the family? She stopped thinking after the word ‘multiple,’ choked on a rogue tear, froze on a rogue thought. “I’m a territorial animal, Rose.” He gestured around himself, through the windows, from the direction of the pathway into the deepest green she could see. All this was his; all this was his to do with as he wished, as this was an extension of his will. “There are hunters and woodsmen...” “Indeed there are, Rose... Make the distinction between there and here.” He stepped forward once more. Rose’s back pressed into the wall, cold timber and unyielding. edited by Joshua Goudreau 126 You’re violating his territory, Rose... extrapolate that, Rose... you’re violating him and all he stands on and for by extension... You’re one step removed from a rapist... aren’t you? “I’m an animal, Rose.” In the end, the wolf’s son remembered only fragments of the speech; words remained when images of the everyday had gone. The everyday happened all the time, obviously, but speeches were lessons and came only once. Beautiful and terrible. His father would teach him a lot. The Wolf was talking, menace to improve the meat. “I smell you bleeding, Rose, and I’ve yet to cut you! So apt, Little Red, so apt... But when I’ve had my fill, Rose...” He gestured lazily towards his pack. They were smiling. They had the stamina. “My strength is defined by your weakness, Rose.” He leaned that little closer. “Learning yet, Rose? Learning quickly? All that is relative, though; I hope this’ll resolve itself in your mind before... before I drain it from your skull, I should suppose. Alas that my teeth are more of a physical thing, Rose! Such is the nature of power, you see? Nature is neutral; it is beautiful and terrible...” He stepped closer, her senses shrinking from him; his scent is his name and his purpose. “...as am I,” he said. Scent defined his boundaries. They overlapped with Rose’s. He smiled; there was something of a chasm in it. “Your soul will endure, your body cannot. Not ‘will not,’ Rose: you are out of your depth, pretty girl!” He sighed. “All humans ever have is time and a range of pretences.” There was disgust in his snarl. All humans ever had was this; all humans ever were was meat. The dinner does not think its way from the plate. They catalogue the ways they fight back, but their only weapons are sharpened metaphors. “You don’t have to eat me,” she tried bravely. “I may look like a little girl, and it’ll fool the adults - I do that all the time - but you’re a different person entirely! I’ll confide this to you, because I respect you and I think I could learn from you and you seemed like such a nice person, I’m sure you are, really, and I’ve experience - yes, I could show you, or do – experience with...” He stopped her. Frightened girl in the big bad world, acting bigger and if not bad, then misguided. “I really do like your mask, Rose! I want you to know: I don’t have to see through it. I just don’t care that you’re wearing it.”

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 127

Mixed Signals by E.J. Wesslén

THAT DAY WHEN IT ALL BEGAN, I SAW HER WALKING down the hall and I had never wanted anything so bad before in my life. Those exquisite feet of hers were trapped in high heels clicking against the floor with every step she took. Her hair was down, the volume of it partly hiding her face. She was in a black suit, the jacket cut so it was pressing up on her tits, and she was wearing something low-cut underneath. I wanted to reach in and place my hand on one of those firm breasts, feel the weight of it, be near her skin. I needed to have her. We had noticed each other from the very beginning. I could see in her eyes that she – saw me, which was big, which was really big because girls like her don’t usually see anything but their own reflections. Girls like her get eyed wherever they go, and I could have been no different. She held my gaze for what seemed like forever and in that time, every word we’d never said to one another was shared in silence. Every time I saw her I saw every fault and every strength in her, and I wanted all of that to be mine. It was late afternoon and she was walking towards me in the empty corridor on the second floor. Her steps across the stone were all that could be heard. She didn’t really notice me, I think, until I turned around and she snapped out of whatever reverie she was in. I expected her to give me half a smile and continue up another flight of stairs, like she always did, but this time was different. By some reason she stopped dead in her tracks, and we just looked at each other, both of us quiet. Something passed between us, some kind of understanding. Something in me was set free, and suddenly I was kissing her, we were making out and I pushed her up against a wall, and edited by Joshua Goudreau 128 we were breathing in unison. We felt that something in both of us was fierce and yearning; what before seemed like still interest on the outside was really raging fires of desire within. Out of boredom, we had both decided on something to crave and we had been longing for each other. It became so clear in that moment, we should have been strangers but oddly, we weren’t. After that rendezvous, we were linked together somehow. I fell in love with her, and she fell in love with me, because there was not much else to do in a particularly snowy February. Valentine’s Day was nearing and you saw couples everywhere you went. Our passion was so selfish, we took everything we could from one another and we were both left bare, exposed. I teased her, playing her hot and cold and she ended up loving me so much it made her crazy, and in return she did the same to me. To anyone outside, we had the most bizarre relationship, but to ourselves everything we did made perfect sense. Unanswered phone calls and ‘forgetting’ about dates was expected, she was always flirting with other guys and I would sometimes ignore her for days. We drove each other insane, but only because we wanted one another’s love so bad. We were afraid that if we didn’t play these cruel little games, maybe one of us would get bored and walk out. So we kept up the torture. I kept pretending disinterest, but in truth, I adored her, she was supreme in my eyes. Every little detail I laid on my mind, I knew everything, like what scent she wore, a designer perfume that smelled like the way she spoke, and what she ate for breakfast every morning and in what order she made it. It would surprise her when I did these small things for her, like buy the right toothpaste, when it seemed like I didn’t care about her when I left town for days without telling her. It was a hard game to play. We would only on occasion drop the act and show our true emotions; passion is unbearable if taken in too high doses, and the charades were necessary. In the space that was the silence where we never told each other what we really felt, our love was like still explosions, the result of strain on our minds when we just couldn’t hold it all in. We had to live through all the marvel it meant to be lovers, but we were not able to express it. She once found a stack of papers on my desk. They were drawings of her in the falling snow, flakes settling in her hair, running to get to the warmth inside – she was always wearing too little clothes. Her bent over work, in the library, sitting on the edge of a chair. Her naked on a bed of roses. When I should be doing other things I’d be sketching her, getting acquainted with her features, with the curve of her thighs, the expression on her face. She never asked about it so I never had to explain. Other people could not appreciate her beauty as I did; just watching her would be enough to fill my mind for all times. I think she knew, because when we were together, we would not speak too much; words become redundant when you can let your body do the talking. But sometimes, we would lie in bed, and she would just The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 129 quietly listen to me. I wouldn’t really be saying anything, I’d be describing the sky that day in detail, or tell her about exactly how it smells in the market hall. She said she loved the sound of my voice, the deep tones of it, she claimed that it was what made her fall in love with me. In the morning she would place her fingers on my lips and we would have sex on the kitchen counter or the bathroom tile. Beautiful girl that she was, she was so pure and every time I slept with her I got to soil her, I took her honor and virtue. It’s an amazing feeling, to corrupt the innocent, although she was really not all that innocent when I met her. But it didn’t matter as much as just being with her, breathing the same air as she did. That made it the best time of my life. No matter how intense my love for her was, my awe and wonder, it was difficult. So challenging to crash into her mind of steel with mine of stone. Maybe people like us shouldn’t mate, maybe the playful cruelty we share always turn bad. To us, I think it was too much, the constant competition for how far you can take your indifference. I remember one night we were at a party, and I had been ignoring her for the longest time, sometimes biting out an insult of one kind or other. Everybody had noticed. She was wearing a white halterneck dress, cut low in the back, her hair intricately styled. All night she was talking to people, being witty like she always was, laughing and dancing. She looked like an angel and I just loved her too much to be kind, cruelty was much easier, but painful when she kept giving me these sad smiles. There was this guy there, about ten times as gorgeous as me, who kept flirting with my girl, and she flirted back. I know I shot him the darkest look when he put his hand on her thigh, but he just looked confused because he didn’t understand we were together. Later that night, she seemed to have had enough and she was angry with me, annoyed by the way I was treating her. I could tell she wanted to go home with that guy. It made jealousy run through me in waves, the mere thought of someone else having her made me want to tear him into pieces. I ended up dragging her out of the party, it was late and I was forcing her along with me down the deserted street. She sulked, but somewhere deep in her eyes, I could see satisfaction flicker. This had been a test. No matter how much of an asshole I’d be, I would always guard her like a rabid dog. That is a quote of hers. I remember the height of summer, people were always calling, asking what we were doing that night and they were saving us a seat, a ticket, they were putting us on the guest list. And I know I didn’t know any of those people and the girl said she wasn’t sure. They were calling us, and I kept forgetting their names and she would be talking with them for hours, remembering voices better than faces. She never introduced me to her real friends, saying they would be so cruel to you, and I never introduced her to mine knowing they would just try to sell her coke or tell her about my exes. edited by Joshua Goudreau 130 There were other times, like once we were just a few people hanging out, and there was this tension between her and I that I couldn’t quite handle. When it felt too awkward, with the pauses and the strange remarks, I went out to take a leak with this other guy. This boy, this beautiful boy, we had been an item a few months before I met the girl, but it ended when he cheated on me with his ex. Standing outside the bar or wherever we were, he lit a cigarette and we started talking. One thing led to another and when she stepped outside to see why we were taking so long, he and I were making out. The boy looked at her and I think he saw the same in her as I did, and I know the smile he flashed was a luring grin. That night, the three of us went to my place together. She was hesitant at first, but she learned to appreciate being with us. The three of us ended up spending some time together, weeks or months. It was good for us, because there was for a while someone else to lift some of the weight of the brutality we shared. Eventually, I took it too far. Before that, I don’t think I had really hurt her, because it was all part of the game. But I had to go hit that one place that would bleed the most. She had been annoyed, distracted and detached for some time, and it was getting to me, though I wouldn’t admit it. It was just one of those evenings and we were walking home, she a few feet ahead of me. She kept bumping into people on the street, and they wanted her to come with them but she told them no, I’m heading somewhere else although she really wasn’t. Stopping at a corner shop that was open all night, we bought fruit and water that sparkled like champagne. Eating an apple the color of her lipstick, she seemed focused on something just behind me. I think I started babbling about moving to, I don’t know, some place far away and she just shrugged. It hurt me though in retrospect I can’t remember why. I guess I wanted her to be upset that I talked about leaving. I went home, but on my way I met this girl I sort of knew. Attractive, mildly funny. Using all my charm, which often isn’t much, I managed to get her into bed. Normally I would never think about cheating on my girl, but this time I was so infuriated and I wanted to tick her off. We got sloshed in my apartment and I only vaguely remember what we did. The next morning my girl came to my door, and I wasn’t thinking, letting the doll from last night open it. She was in just her knickers and one of my shirts that my baby likes to wear when she’s here. It could have all been a misunderstanding, but it wasn’t, and no one could pretend it was. So she ran back down the stairs, and from behind me when I was considering calling out for her, I heard “Oh my god. Are you her boyfriend?” I was only staring into space, not really comprehending. The voice I didn’t care about seemed distraught. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 131 “Why did she never tell me? I didn’t even know she was seeing someone”, she said and hearing those words I got vaguely lucid. “Is she a friend of yours?” I think I responded, incredulous, fear creeping up on me. “I thought we were. I really thought we were.” There was a quaver in her voice. “Fuck, she’ll never talk to me again. I can’t believe I didn’t know about this…” This mistake of mine hurried to dress, and I didn’t even need to throw her out, she rushed out the door. I was thinking, this may be it, this may be it, the end. What if this was too much? I threw myself onto the bed and I was trembling. Was this the end? I called the girl later, ten times before she picked up the phone without a word. We didn’t even say anything about what had happened and decided to meet. Getting into town, I was trembling, wondering if it was the end? We sat at a café, she had hot black coffee but I couldn’t get anything down. We didn’t speak. There was some kind of silent agreement, I think, of the same sort as in the beginning of this ride. A quiet communication, saying it’s over. Without a word, I left. Back in my apartment I was crying. I never thought I would take it this hard, and she was probably still at the coffee shop, with a blank face, not thinking anything. I was thinking this is the end. Days later my mind was numb and I decided to go out. I was walking down the streets, it was after midnight and my mind was numb. If I had been able to think or feel, I’d have wondered if she was getting private revenge with some guy in her bed, and I’d be furious. What if she didn’t care anymore, what if she never cared? It was September, it may have been September but we were never really sure about those things. I couldn’t remember how long we had been together, six months, or a year and a half? It felt like it had always been the two of us, but it had been too short a time. I remembered, once we were at some place in an endless line of parties, and everything in the room seemed gray, except her, she was colors the human eye can’t see and I may or may not have been high but I think not. I whispered in her ear; “The Universe made us for each other” and it was the only truth I’ve ever spoken. This night when I was aimlessly wandering, out of a clear sky flocked with stars, thunder came. It was pounding on the windows of the atmosphere, and the glass that broke beat down on me as rain. Out of nowhere, it was like the world was speaking softly to me, telling me in confidence about the girl lying edited by Joshua Goudreau 132 in bed, crying so hard it was like she was having seizures. It told me about her pain and fear as bottomless as mine, about how none of us would find love this great again if we didn’t at least finish what we started. It told me I should go, go, that there was still time. For long seconds I was still. Then I ran all the way to the concrete landscape where she lived and up the stairs and I was soaked through. When she opened the door after a few minutes, I was dripping, my hair plastered onto my face, my hair that she was always telling me to wash. She was draped in this silk robe I had given her and her hair was a mess and her eyes swollen. Nothing could be read from her expression. It was like everything since that day in the empty corridor, when we decided we should belong to each other, everything had been leading up to this moment, when I was standing before her like a drenched kitten. Her on the other side of the door, showing all the obvious signs of her grief, and me in the stairway, presenting my insanity. I had come here by command from voices in my head. We were both so quiet for the longest time but suddenly she yelled “So say something! We never spoke for months. Say something now!” She stressed me, there had never before been any need for words, but if our love was not going to die, something needed to be said. Panting, I squeezed the words out. “I will make amends.” Her eyes were saying I don’t trust you. “I will make amends”, I repeated. Her jaw was clenched saying your promises are empty. “I will make amends.” Last time around I was begging. Something in her face softened, giving in. Her lips formed around the words “No, you won’t”, and she let me come inside.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 133

March By Kat

APRIL 15, 1942, 10:02 AM

The sun shone mercilessly on the province of Bataan, in a small cluster of islands known as the Philippines. All 7,107 islands had been under American rule for quite some time, until World War II broke out and the Philippines succumbed to the Japanese. The American and Filipino soldiers had fought bravely, but by the 9th of April, General Edward King surrendered in this place called Bataan, and the Japanese conquerors now had roughly seventy thousand soldiers under them. They were forced to march to San Fernando, Pampanga, where a train would be waiting to take them closer to their destination – a prison camp. It had been six days since the surrender. The remaining captives were still walking under the heat of the sun, with no water, no food, no shelter, with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and the constant threat of death. The Japanese sentries would kill anyone who dared fall behind or complain, and sometimes they just shot randomly. Sure, they had rest periods, but they were so crowded against each other that these “breaks” barely counted. One such victim was a certain Lt. Michael Hayes, whose blond hair had been bleached by constant exposure to light and lost its sheen. His skin, which was snowy white when he left his beloved California, was now tanned in some places and sunburned in others. His blue eyes had dark circles underneath them and were always drooping from lack of sleep. Meanwhile, his entire body looked more like a stick every day due to a lack of nourishment. edited by Joshua Goudreau 134 With every step he took, his leg muscles felt like screaming. Michael did not dare yell or mutter, for fear of the Japanese suddenly prodding him with a bayonet, perhaps hard enough to kill him. He tried to walk fast so that they would not accuse him of falling behind, but as he put one foot in front of another, it was torture. Sometimes he would rather be killed than continue, but he thought of his wife and children at home, at Sacramento. “I think I’ve got a sunburn in places I never knew existed,” whispered a voice beside him. He turned to see a comrade, Captain David Crandall, who was looking as worn as he was. His brown hair, usually thick and lying flat on his head, was straggly and dripping sweat into his emerald eyes. “Hang in there, buddy,” said Michael softly. He did not know if the Japanese would punish anyone talking during the march, and he wasn’t about to find out. “I feel like I’ve jogged the entire area of the United States, and this itty-bitty archipelago isn’t even half as big!” Before they could say anything more, the crowd of soldiers suddenly dissipated, huddling on the sides of the road they were traveling. It was a rest period, a short one. Then they would all be pushed back onto their path. David sat with his comrade as they chose an area behind a bush. Several Filipinos – recognized by their dark hair, dark eyes and overall Asian appearance – were around them. Some were picking stray blades of grass to eat while none of the Japanese were looking. Others foraged for even puddles of muddy water to drink. Michael pointed to a small hole shaped by what looked like sticky mud. “Water,” he said, as a few of their fellow captives came and drank from it. “Isn’t that where the water buffalo... they call ‘em carabao... you know...” “It’s still water, Mike. Better that or nothing.” They crammed themselves among the group and cupped their hands, lifting the brownish water to their lips. It tasted like they expected it to, but they didn’t care. As they returned to their bush, they found that someone else was now sitting at their spot, nearly concealed by the crowds. Michael and David crawled their way through and saw that this stranger was short enough to be hidden, unlike the two Americans who were nearly six feet tall. “You, there,” called David. “We were there a moment ago.” “Pasensya na, at hindi ko alam,” mumbled the man. He had black hair that was slowly growing to his shoulders, streaked with sweat. He had a bloody wound on one arm – the result of a Japanese bayonet. His dark brown eyes glanced up from where he was holding something with beads in his dry, callused hands. “Say what?” asked David. He turned to his friend for help, since Michael was better at Filipino than he was. The lieutenant whispered the translation before turning back to the Filipino. “Nakakaintindi ka ba ng Ingles?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 135 He nodded. “Then why didn’t you just say so?” asked David. “It was the first thing I thought of,” replied the stranger. “I’m sorry. It’s usually my fellowmen who speak to me, since I don’t mingle much with guys like you.” Michael shrugged. They heard one of the sentries barking orders to get back onto the road, and watched the man stand up. He stood a head shorter than both of them. “What’s your name?” “Adrian Reyes. And you?” “I’m Michael Hayes, but you can call me Mike. This fellow here is David.” The Japanese blurted out a swear word in English as he bellowed for the captives to stand up and carry on. The three decided to walk together, squashing themselves within the mass of men so that none of the enemies could see them. “Maybe if we talk, it can take our minds off how tired and hungry and thirsty and hot we are,” said David, noting that the sun seemed to be getting hotter. It was nearing noon, and none of the Japanese had said anything about getting closer to their destination. “Hopefully,” said Adrian. “During breaks, I don’t take any chances of drinking dirty water unless I really can’t take it. The rest of the time, I just pray. Especially during the march.” “Pray?” Michael’s eyes grew wide. “As in, to a God?” “Yes,” was the soft reply. “I believe that God will soon deliver us from this horrible ordeal and take his beloved Philippines away from the cruel conquerors.” David raised an eyebrow. Since he was somewhat a skeptic, he shot Adrian a question. “Okay, so if He’s supposedly going to deliver us, why doesn’t He do it now?” “Oh, I bet it is a plan. Maybe he has something in store for us, and perhaps now is not a good time to save us. We must wait, and be patient.” His voice was ragged and hoarse, but it didn’t stop him from talking. Michael grunted. “Ooookay... don’t you find this whole marching thing a pain in the neck?” Adrian laughed mildly. “If I didn’t, then I must not be human. Of course I feel a lot of pain. Just recently, I was bayoneted for no reason at all. I was trying my best to keep up, and I was doing nothing wrong.” He gestured toward the wound on his arm, which was ringed with dried blood. “That must hurt,” said David with a shudder, immensely grateful that the Japanese hadn’t found a reason to hurt him. edited by Joshua Goudreau 136 “Oh, it does,” answered Adrian. “And it got infected, too. But I prayed to the good God to save me, and He did. It wasn’t too bad, and maybe now I can have a scar to show my family and friends.” “If you survive,” supplied David grimly. He nearly tripped over a pointed stone and shook his head. “I bet when we get to this camp thing, we’re all going to fall over and die.” “And maybe we won’t. Let us think positive; good things can happen too, you know. If we die, let’s just say that God has chosen people to live and tell this dreadful tale, and we are part of yet another unknown bit of His plan.” David and Michael traded a glance as Adrian attempted to crack a grin with his parched lips. They bled slightly, but he simply wiped it off with the back of one of his hands as they went on, mentally cursing the wrath of the sun. “This guy is mental,” whispered David. “He’s more skin and bones than we are, and he could have been killed by a bayonet, and he’s still hopeful for this God who’s going to come down and save us.” “He’s an optimist, Dave. But you have to admit, we should just think of the positive side instead of focusing so much on the fact that we’re all on the verge of becoming walking zombies...” “What IS that beaded necklace he keeps holding on, anyway?” asked David. Adrian turned. He had been walking ahead of the two Americans. “You mean this?” He showed it discreetly so that not even the people beside them could see. “It is a rosary, a string of prayers that I often recite when in dire need. This counts as dire need, so I pray it all the time.” “Does it work?” asked Michael. “Work? Why, this was the reason why I survived the past battles. I always kept it with me and prayed before every fight.” David raised an eyebrow. “How’d you keep it from the Japanese? They confiscated everything we have except our clothes and shoes, so they would probably take that rosary too.” He smirked. “I hid it in a secret pocket in my shirt that not even they can find out about. But don’t go telling those crazy guys, okay? I really can’t live without my rosary.” Both the taller men nodded as they plodded on. Michael gritted his teeth to keep from releasing his pent-up anger against the Japanese, for fear of suddenly getting shot. David did the same, as they watched Adrian’s back, which was moving ahead of them. His head was bowed down, and his hands seemed to be holding something at his chest. Probably his rosary. They kept silent, apparently having found out that talking had a tendency to use up their energy as well. It was already noon – at least, they thought it was – and the heat was close to the point of becoming virtually unbearable. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 137 In fact, Adrian looked as though he was in a worse state. His steps slowed down a bit, enough for Michael and David to catch up and position themselves on his left. “Are you all right, buddy?” asked David. “Shhh,” said Michael. Adrian’s mouth was moving; he was uttering a prayer. His brown-haired compatriot got the message and shut up. Once again, there was silence between the three. Unfortunately, it would be broken by the last sound a captive would want to hear. A gunshot. One loud shot that made some of the captives jump and the others cover their mouths before yelling or gasping in shock. David was one of the jumping; Michael’s hand had flown to his mouth before he could exclaim. Adrian was sprawled on the road, bloody and dying, his hand still on his rosary and a dark stain blossoming on his back. A Japanese sentry came and tried to wrench it out of his fingers, but he held onto it. “He is dead,” said another guard. “Don’t waste time.” “March,” said yet another, gesturing to the onlookers who had gathered to see who had been the next casualty. But before they parted to move on, Michael and David had heard Adrian utter his last few words. “God’s plan... for me... for my country... so... be... it...”

Nine days after the ninth day of April 1942, the remaining prisoners would be taken by train to Capas, Tarlac, where they would walk the last legs of their journey to the camp. In the end, very few would actually survive to tell of their experiences. But thankfully, a few years after the Death March, WWII would come to an end, and so would all the hardships the Philippines suffered in the hands of their cruel conquerors. Now, in the Philippines, April 9 is always set aside to commemorate the brave souls who participated in the Death March, whether they survived or not.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 138

Jane and John by Sha Hwang

JOHN’S FIRST NAME WAS KALIA, BUT HIS PARENTS WERE sensible parents so they told him that he could go by his middle name, John, if he wanted to. John liked trousers and girls, but since trousers were easier to woo John mostly bought trousers instead of fancy dinners. The trousers came in handy, though, because Jane thought John looked good in trousers (her first name was in fact Jane, and she had no middle name, though her parents were quite sensible as well). John thought Jane looked good in clothing in general, but never told her so. John just stared at Jane in class, with nothing much to say in his mind or his mouth. Jane knew that John stared at her in class because she had eyes on the back of her head (actually, she just had many friends with eyes on the fronts of their heads who sat behind John). As she did her classwork, Jane smiled, but never told anyone why, least of all John. They went on this way for a while, staring and smiling, until one day John decided to not buy those fantastic gray corduroy trousers and, instead, try to win Jane’s heart. This was no light decision, of course, and John had mulled over his situation for several days before coming to his conclusion. He walked up to Jane the next day after school, as she was just saying goodbye to some of her many friends, and proceeded to win her heart. Unfortunately, John thought that all the smiling that Jane had done during class was a sign of her passion for Advanced Placement Physics, so he began with a comment about thermodynamics. Jane, however, did not understand much of Advanced Placement Physics at all, but luckily remembered thermodynamics had something to do with heat. “That’s hot,” she said, smiling that smile of hers at him for the first time. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 139 The battle won, John then told her how radiantly beautiful he thought she was, and how she was like some Greek or Roman deity (one of the ones that was beautifully radiant). John did not know he could say those sorts of things, and neither did Jane, so they both stood silent for a moment to contemplate John’s romantic outburst. “I like your feet,” Jane said. Jane was being honest; she did in fact adore John’s feet. Jane liked the way John’s trousers fell about his ankles, and the way his toes bunched around the ends of his sandals. John did not know what to say. His burst of creativity had spun out, and now he was confronted with the prospect of examining his feet to find what she liked in them, or searching her eyes to figure out if she was lying. He chose to look at a car that drove by, then another, and back at the school towards a boy who fell down on his skateboard. All of this made Jane very impatient, as she was used to waiting, but not being made to wait. John started staring at a tree on the other side of the parking lot that had started to sway in the wind when Jane turned around and left. Because there was no one to see whether John followed, she walked quietly. John felt her move and watched her as she began to walk away. Time seemed to slow down (though Jane was just walking very slowly). John tried to move his feet, but all of the slow motion had made them heavy and useless, so he just watched her until she got into her car. Once she got into the car, though, everything sped up, and soon John was alone in the parking lot. That was not the first time they had ever spoken to each other (that was a time in third grade neither of them remembered), but it was the last.

Time passed rather steadily after that, neither faster nor slower, and both John and Jane went to respectable colleges and graduated with a much better grasp on life’s happenings. During that time John, now Kalia, found several girls that he thought looked good in clothes in general, and even a few that he thought looked good without clothes at all. It was with one of those girls that he began to live with in a sunny apartment where they always kept the blinds closed. Her name was Jane as well, but John, now Kalia, simply called her Jay. They were lying together on a couch watching an old movie from the 80s or the 70s when the main character began to profess his love to a girl who was walking away. He told her how radiantly beautiful he thought she was, and how she was like some Greek or Roman deity (one of the ones that was beautifully radiant). This made John sit up a little. He laughed, not a lot, but enough to make Jay wonder why Kalia would laugh at such a romantic outburst. The real Jane, or rather, the Jane who had walked away so slowly that day in October, had never seen that movie, and if she had she probably would not have laughed. Jane, in fact, still sometimes thought of John (she did not edited by Joshua Goudreau 140 know that he was now called Kalia) and his trousers and the way his feet looked poking out from his trousers. She also sometimes thought of that day in October when she had walked away so quietly, and often wondered why she had not heard John’s footsteps even though she had listened so carefully for them.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 141

Laurent Kabila by Thomas Wright

HE KNEW, NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES HE TOLD himself otherwise, that it was true. Despite everything that had been lost in the struggle, they asked him this. “I do not understand why I must do this.” His voice was soft, on the verge of silence, yet the words seemed loud in the dark room. The metal table was cold beneath his fingers, and the smell of his own sweat swathing his body, covered the room like a sheet. “Nor is understanding needed, just your co-operation. Unless you are saying no…” The slow, measured voice stopped and the accompanying eyebrow rose slowly, flickering to the door behind the man. A solid click reverberated through the room, filling him with a dizzying fear. “N-no, it will be fine.” He left a wet trail over the table as he withdrew his hand. “Good. Everything you will need is enclosed. Half there, the rest when you have done the job.” A toothy, decidedly fake smile broke over the face as it stood up, sliding an envelope over the table. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Two figures left the room, closing the door behind them. They left him alone with the brown A4 envelope and the suspended light bulb. Left him alone with thoughts that he could not stomach.

Laurent Kabila stood in front of his people, the podium giving him an orthographic view of his their faces, looking up in adoration. His bodyguards stood a few feet away, their very presence warding away any hostility. Often, when he stood there, he could feel his power like a palpable force. He knew that his soldiers would commit themselves to an early grave if he willed it so. edited by Joshua Goudreau 142 Soon his nation would be like that: utterly obedient, ready to die. It was a fanaticism he would not take lightly. Already, the blood of too many soiled his conscience. But, what less would he have done for this throne? No, this was worth it. He took a step forward and a roar smashed the silence. His face remained impassive, but his soul stirred, soaring on thermals of exultation. Despite the complexity of the words he had been preparing for this very moment. Words he had been preparing for three years, he glided through the speech, finding wonder, even in his detached state for the intensity of their reaction. Even he had not expected their tears of relief and love. He took a step back, extricating himself from the heavenly. He smiled down on his audience, their cheering resounding over their newly taken country. Their tears consecrating the soil and claiming it as their own.

Laurent closed the door quietly, his warm fingers leaving marks of condensation on the metal surface. He stood for a moment, his hand holding his face and his back to the door. He had been forced to make a decision today, one that no prime minister should be forced to make. He pushed himself away from the door and set himself. His wife had always told him ‘Don’t bring your work home with you’ and, this time, he was going to take her advice. He smiled and walked down the hallway, the smell of cooking sliding subtly through his thoughts and reminding him that he was home. That night, he ate with his wife and son. He thought of his work twice during their evening. Both times, he dismissed it, convincing himself that he would tell them later. His son, Joseph had come home on army leave, on Laurent’s request. They spoke into the night, of many things. But never about their work. Their work was left outside, in the warm night. When, finally they retired, Joseph slept in his old room. Laurent and Kristina in their own room, where they made love quietly, so as not to wake the boy.

He told her the next morning, before Joseph left. It pained him to tell her, and although his business tone made him cold, indifferent, he suffered everything with her. As every husband should. “Kristina. I’ve been putting this off since last night, as you will probably have been able to tell.” His wife blanched from his words. She had known but her preparations crumbled before his careful tone. “I have to go away for a while. To stay in the city and conference with the other world leaders.” He looked at her helplessly and she loved him for that break in resolve. Power tempted even the strongest man but not hers. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 143 “I understand, Laurent.” Her hand came to his cheek and her thumb moved over his skin, warmly. No condensation formed. “Your people need you. Nearly as much as I do.” Her smile creased her brow and she kissed him softly, before turning away. She went to her room and slept in the double bed, on her own. As she would, for a long time to come.

The cogs worked their mechanical magic, slicing time into manageable sections as he worked. His hands did not shake, nor did they make a wrong move. He pieced together the tripod, clicking every section into its predestined place. Finally, the bulky contraption stood before him. The obtuse barrel an ugly deformation on its otherwise smooth, sleek frame.

Laurent settled into the chair, it was comfortable enough. He was sure that in only a few hours he would sit in this chair and call his wife. The room was simple, holding a table with a glass surface, coffee rings scarring its polished surface and a single bed, the sheets gently yellowed. The window had a panoramic view of the city. Sheer gray faces scraped the sky before him, cars rushed to their destinations, only to arrive early. All the while, Laurent knew it was his.

The metal beneath his cheek had warmed, grown slippery beneath it. His finger rested on the curved trigger, daring him to continue. He blinked, his eyes refocusing and his arms shifted down slightly. His breathing quickened as his finger caressed the trigger. The muscles in his finger were all that separated his target and peaceful rest. The sounds of the street faded gently, only to be replaced by his breathing, amplified beyond reason to a deafening bellows. Again, the cross came to bare on black skin. He squeezed the trigger once.

Laurent fell slowly, his eyes blurring with his own speed. The window he had just been looking through followed him, in glimmering Technicolor. He felt the floor on his back a moment later. The floor seemed to enfold him, reminding him of the womb. As if rain was falling, he felt the slow descent of the shattered rainbow window. The light fell in a much similar way, showing him the dark chair he would call his wife from. His hands lay beside him, as would a lover. He closed his eyes, blocking out his world momentarily. The moment stretched before him slowly. Such is the miracle of a moment.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 144

The Voices In His Toe by Weihui Lu

“WHATCHA DOING THERE, KIDDO?” The man squatted down, trying to look as harmless as possible with a fake, awkwardly bright grin. The effect was completely ruined by his sly darting glances at the mansion on the hill and his rugged, black outfit. The little boy, object of his attention, did not notice a thing – he was staring with great concentration at his left foot. Looking a bit more nervous, he tried again. “What’s your name, sonny?” He shifted his weight onto his other leg with a small grunt. The thought this is not going to be as easy as I thought were practically written in his eyes. The boy did not look up or show any other signs of acknowledgment. “Look, kid, you’re testing my patience here.” The boy opened his mouth abruptly and brought his head up, the movement stiff and almost robotic. The man moved back involuntarily when he saw the blank, hazel eyes starkly out of place in the small, childish face. Something about the seriousness in his eyes, the dark pupil, and the baby fat still hanging adorably on his cheeks simply did not match. “Shut up, you scatterbrain!” The voice was very high pitched, but not remotely childish. In fact, its shrillness was practically feminine, the crinkly voice of a grouchy old lady. You could imagine her tottering along shaking her cane at the grumbling taxi drivers as she crossed the street when the light was green. “Stop it!!” The man hissed. Let’s call him Stan. Stan was getting a little bit scared of his target, but the money weighing down the right pocket of his cargo pants was incentive enough. Or, they reminded him of his true incentive – getting another wad of it, just as thick and pungently green. He rather liked the smell of fresh The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 145 money, and had sniffed it for a few long, heavenly moments of incredulous disbelief when the first batch arrived in his mailbox, unsigned and taped together with a tiny note of printed instructions. “Oh shut up yourself – and who are you to call me a scatterbrain?!” Lower now, almost more vibration than the tiny, thin ribcage could take, but still with a feminine tone. The voice mocked Stan, whirled around in his head with the heady scent of hundred dollar bills as he stared at the kid. Now he regretted agreeing, almost regretted accepting the money. But only almost – it was money, after all, and he was unemployed. Sometimes he wondered why they chose him, of all people, and before he had wondered at such a long amount of payment – how hard could it be to nab a shrimpy little seven year old walking to school? “And what is that supposed to mean, you...” The voices squabbled on and on, different ages and volumes and pitches, as chaotic and unique as the occupants of a crowded coffeehouse. Stan tried to stand up, now he was really afraid. “Who are you?” The soft, low voice, so different because of its normality, seemed to take all of the child’s energy. He sagged down, his body drooping and limpifying. Maybe he is a George, maybe he is from a rich British family having vacation in their American mansion, and maybe he is a bit strange. “I…” How does a seven year old render an ex-con speechless? Now you know. Stan couldn’t do more than stare at the child and scream silently at his legs to move and take him out of this place, away from this kid, to anywhere, anywhere, just away... “It’s alright, really. They’re just the voices in my toe.” The words again slipped out of him, like a small and quiet sigh, but they still managed to carry a vague sense of concerned explanation. Stan gaped at him. His brain had already shut down, only blabbering a string of ‘awayawayawayaway’s. “Do tell the poor dear to sit down, he looks rather peaked.” “Yes, do, the poor man!” “Oh my, he does.” The cacophony of voices chorused their mutual opinion. George’s face was bright red from saying so much without taking a breath. The words had caused Stan to sit down – or rather, his legs had obediently collapsed at the words. For a blissful moment of silence, they stared into each other’s eyes, dark brown to hazel, sane but old, and weary beyond his seven years into bordering insane panic. “Where did you say?” Stan had no idea where the words came from. edited by Joshua Goudreau 146 “In my toe. The second one. It’s rather crowded in there, but it’ll probably get better as I get older and my foot grows bigger, you know.” George explained, quite calm for an about to be kidnapped child. “Here, take it, take it all, I don’t want it.” He reached in his pocket, fumbling in panic as he tugged the heavy wad out and shoved it wildly at George. The boy spared him another quick, almost final glance and turned away. He didn’t flinch when the money hit his back with a small thunk, didn’t look up from his resumed, concentrated stare at his toe, didn’t pause in his slow, shuffling walk. He didn’t even hear Stan’s screams, wasn’t aware of the man’s half hearted struggles as the security guards, two huge muscular brutes in navy blue uniform dragged Stan towards the mansion. He was too busy listening to the voices in his toe.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 147

Lawrence 1: Torture by Lena Melyakova

THE DARKNESS OF THE DANK DUNGEON EXCITED HIM. HE could feel the airborne scum mingling heavily with the thick mist. As he trudged forward, straining against his handcuffs and leader chains, the viscous air pulled down his coarse linen shirt and settled into his scars. His captors led their prisoner into a candlelit room. In some places along the rock walls, metal spikes protruded, draped with blood-soaked lace like light strings on Christmas tree boughs. Instruments of torture hung on the wall across from the metal door, so they could be seen as soon as one entered. “Down!” barked the largest of his black-hooded escorts, shoving him forward onto a stone slab in the center of the chamber. His cheek scraped the rough rock surface, and his handcuffs caught on two stubby iron bars jutting upwards from his new designated torture sofa. The hair on every inch of his skin prickled, and he slightly arched his back, squeezing the bars in front of him, to sedate his tingling spine. The man who had spoken walked slowly to the opposite wall and lifted a curved steel blade from its hook. The other three men backed away. “We were wondering, boy, why you wear this,” said the lead captor softly, his deep voice dripping with honeyed power. He let the blade rest at the prisoner’s neck for a few seconds before slashing open his shirt. Lawrence shuddered as the blade tickled his skin. Then he heard soft but commanding laughter from behind him. The lead captor ran a finger tantalizingly over one of the gruesome discoveries on Lawrence’s back. “Stock?” he asked. edited by Joshua Goudreau 148 Lawrence made no reply. The lead captor jerked his body into a kneeling position by his prisoner’s head. Leaning over, and retaining his deep and threatening oratory, he whispered in Lawrence’s ear: “Listen to me, boy. You are not a prisoner of war. You are a prisoner. We will get your information if we have to torture you all night.” From the opposite wall, he took a handsome, sturdy leather whip and tightly gripped the handle. His hood twitched, and Lawrence could tell he was grinning. Mockingly, the question came. “What are the coordinates of your base?” The prisoner remained silent. The whip’s coils dropped to the floor behind him. “What are the coordinates of your base?” Still no response. Any minute now, thought Lawrence. Seconds blew by like an Arab wind. A firm hand found the space between Lawrence’s shoulder blades and pressed down hard. “What are the coordinates of your base?” “You’ll never get them this way.” The thought made it through Lawrence’s lips amidst a groan. The whip’s handle fell to the ground. “Oh really?” Without lifting his left hand, he moved his right one, which had been holding the whip, above Lawrence’s back. It brushed the erect hairs beneath it ever so lightly, without touching a single cell of skin or scar. “What,” asked the lead captor, “are the coordinates of your base?” Lawrence opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Yes?” asked the lead captor. He casually dragged one finger across a scar – Lawrence closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the iron bars – before lifting his hand and driving in his fingernail. The dark room exploded. The prisoner squeezed the bars so tightly that his nails dug into his palms as a spasm of electricity shot through his spine. “Thirty-seven degrees north, 110 degrees east!” – he couldn’t control the sounds that issued from his throat like bullets from a machine gun – “Thirty- seven, 110! Thirty-seven, 110!” The lead captor laughed once more, a sound that filled the chamber and bounced off the walls. He took a heavy candle from its holder and dripped a bit of hot wax over his prisoner’s lower back. Lawrence moaned as he listened to it sizzle. Then, as a lazy afterthought, he asked, “What is your TQ?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 149 Lawrence’s heart sank just as quickly as it had risen, like a full and weary red sun. Every psychiatrist, neuroscientist, molecular biologist, and doctor in Lawrence’s America was trained to perform the TQ test. TQ, or Tolerance Quotient, was derived from the amounts of endorphins released in response to various stimuli. Then the tester performed a series of calculations more painful than most of the stimuli to arrive at one two-digit number. 25-50 was the normal range for women, 35-60 for men. Anyone with a TQ under twenty required special therapy. Anyone with a TQ over 80 would win a lot of bar fights but probably wouldn’t get married. TQ was supposed to be confidential, but a lot of employers, insurance salesmen, and private school admissions officers found some way into the private medical records. The Army bluntly asked recruits for their TQ’s on a mandatory form. After escaping a traveling therapy circus at age twelve, when he was “really starting to get valuable,” he applied to a private school and received a full scholarship, complete with room and board. He enjoyed a home and a quality education until graduation, when he joined the Army. To avoid being sent back to the therapy circus, which after age twelve or thirteen became all about the circus and much less about the therapy, he had lied on his application to the private school (he voluntarily gave a TQ because he suspected that it would be checked if he chose not to). He used the same false TQ on his Army form: seventy-five. Borderline, but good enough for most. However, he knew that he couldn’t lie to these people. They already knew what they were dealing with. Taking a deep breath, he admitted, “Ninety- six.” “Take him to the colony,” ordered the lead captor, and the other three pushed him off the stone slab. They pulled him up by his leader chains, and escorted him back out the door.

To be continued...

edited by Joshua Goudreau 150

Any Other Sunday by Claire Askew

HE STOOD AND WATCHED THE GREY BLADE OF RAIN sweeping inland from the distant stripe of brown sea. He stood and watched as it slowly settled over the city, creeping in through the industrial estates, amongst the scattered high-rises and into the old town. It would reach him almost last, and in this knowledge he felt oddly smug. He lived on the top floor in one of the numerous, identical Victorian sandstone terraces at the top end of the city. The golf course lounged between him and the old town like a wide, green moat. He stood and watched as the rain reached the far edge and, momentarily, seemed to balk. And he smiled a dull, weary smile as the raindrops began to clatter against the glass. It was a Sunday morning, just like any other. In actuality, it was a Sunday afternoon, around 1.30pm. Matthew was making coffee, like he did every Sunday at about this time. On Sunday mornings, he and Alex avoided one another. It was an unspoken agreement they had. They’d rise from their respective beds at about the time that most people would be tucking into their Sunday roasts, and they would then ignore one another until evening, when Matthew would sit and rant over the Sunday papers while Alex listened with his dull, weary smile, maybe propping the kitchen window open to smoke and look out over the city. That was how it worked. So right now, as usual, Matthew was making coffee. Along the narrow corridor, Alex was running a bath, waiting for the tub to fill and staring out of the small, square attic window at the rain. Matthew listened for the distant, familiar sounds as he shuffled around, carefully measuring out two heaped teaspoonfuls of instant, searching around The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 151 for the sugar. Matthew liked his coffee strong on Sundays, and black – just one day out of seven. Just like Alex. Every other day, the shower would do, but on a Sunday Alex retreated behind a locked door and soaked for hours in a tub filled to the brim. So it was just like any other Sunday. The window clouded and the rain-soaked city became a vague gray mess beyond the green. The room was now filled with steam, the water scalding hot and close to overflowing. Alex tested it for temperature, swilling it around with one thin, white arm. In the kitchen he could hear Matthew dropping his teaspoon into the stainless steel sink with a clatter; he heard him cross the floor, five even paces, to sit at the table below the window, flicking the radio on as he went. Its low, monotonous drone reached his ears, and it was just like any other Sunday. Matthew drained his coffee cup, and it joined the spoon in the bottom of the stainless steel sink, still steaming. He pulled on his coat and, turning off the radio, shuffled out of the kitchen and along the corridor. It was nearly two o’clock now – so he’d walk the few hundred yards to the 24- hournewsagents, and pick up the Sunday papers before they sold out. He wasn’t really a newspaper reader, but every week he’d buy the Observer, and maybe the Sunday Herald – just because it was a Sunday. He paused as he passed the bathroom door. Silence within. He considered knocking, calling through the door that he was going out for five minutes or so. He considered doing this every week, but never did. It would be an interruption, breaking the code of silence – and besides, Alex would know, as Matthew went out every Sunday at this time. And every Sunday as he passed the bathroom door it occurred to him that maybe Alex didn’t know at all – for how could he? And yet, Matthew never knocked. Alex lay back and watched the steam curl around the room; warm water tricked down the window and the woodwork and the white tiles. He closed his eyes, hearing Matthew’s coffee cup come to rest in the sink, the kitchen door open, close; the soft, even footsteps along the corridor. He held his breath and listened to the nothingness that was his friend standing in contemplation on the other side of the door. And as he heard the front door click shut, locked, he smiled his dull, weary smile. It was just like any other Sunday. Time passed. Alex watched the curling steam until his eyelids grew heavy. The rain stopped and the sky hung gray and threatening over the city. It was dark when he woke again, shaken into consciousness by a distant, shrill sound. He lay naked and freezing, up to his shoulders in icy water, shivering with cold and shock, and awe at the fact that he hadn’t drowned. He pulled the plug and stood shakily, forcing his fragile limbs to support him as he climbed out of the bath and dripped his way over to the window. His breath made a cloud in the glass, but through it he could see the streetlights, edited by Joshua Goudreau 152 headlights and distant windows, softened by the condensation. They were set in a bed of black and dark red. It had got late. Alex dressed quickly and blinked in the light as he flicked on the switch and stood, wide-eyed, beside the bathtub, now empty and guiltless. The distant, shrill sound reached his ears again and this time he recognized it as the buzzer, by the door in the corridor. Somewhere, in the dark, on the communal doorstep four flights down, someone wanted to come in. He didn’t care. He was too numb to move, to make himself think of anything other than what might have befallen him. He imagined himself suddenly waking, lungs filled with cold water, weak and struggling – or worse, just not waking at all. The bell rang again, and anger prickled in the dark space behind his eyes. Why wasn’t Matthew answering the door? And, come to think of it, why, when Alex had been barricaded in the bathroom for – well, it must have been five hours at least – had Matthew not realized…something? Surely he must have noticed the disruption to their routine – surely he’d noticed the time ticking by, noticed that Alex didn’t emerge, didn’t prop open the door to let out the steam, didn’t hang up his towels on the radiator in the corridor, and disappear into his room to write? Anger at his friend’s obvious disinterest shook him from his momentary state of shock. But then, standing in the square of light that the bathroom door threw out into the black corridor, Alex realized. Matthew was not in the flat. No search was required – Alex could tell. There were no lights on; the place was cold. But there was something more than that – the air was too still, the silence too thick. Alex turned off the bathroom light and stood in darkness, feeling the anger seep away; feeling it replaced with confusion and a quiet, creeping terror, like nothing he had ever felt before, or would feel again. He opened and closed his eyes in the dark; it made no difference either way, and as he fumbled down the corridor for the switch, he remembered being a child, standing in a room in the darkness and pretending to be blind. It had frightened him for no good reason, such thick darkness – and now he felt that fear again. No switch. He began to shake. Where was the fucking switch? And then the bell rang again – close by, the buzzer was somewhere near. He lunged towards the noise, but swayed crazily and found himself face down, his cheek against the cold wall. And it rang again. Matthew – it had to be Matthew. And even then, as he hauled himself to his feet and groped in the dark for the buzzer – even then Alex found himself wondering why the hell Matthew didn’t just let himself in. His trembling hand hit plastic, and he took the handset from its hook, relief surging in his veins. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 153 “Yes, hello? Matthew?” Silence. “Matthew.” A crackle. “You there? Matthew? Is there anybody there?” A car engine in the street, a tiny, far-off buzzing sound. He shivered. There was nobody there. He swore under his breath and reached into his jeans pocket – a match provided him with the brief, two-second flare he needed to find the light switch, and then he was gone, keys in hand – he slammed the front door of the flat and raced down the four flights of stairs to the lobby. It was gloomy down there, lit by a flickering strip-light and the soft orange glow of the streetlamps outside. He crossed to the main door, breathless, and peered through the grimy glass panels. There was nobody there. People didn’t come and go on Sundays – he knew that. It couldn’t have been anyone but Matthew. The door creaked and slammed closed on him as he staggered out, down the steps and into the street. The rain came down in cold, wet needles, soaking his thin clothes and matting already damp hair, plastering it to his forehead in shiny strands. The street was empty – nothing moved. There was no wind, not even a curtain twitched – it was a Sunday night, like any other. And no sound disturbed the turning of the world except the sigh of the rain and the vague, harsh song of the city. And Alex sat down on the wet concrete step, and wept. Matthew had been to the 24-hour-newsagents, and he had bought his papers. “An Observer and a Sunday Herald, just like always.” Jessie was an American exchange student who worked there at weekends. She came from Washington; her voice was nasal and her hair looked like brown straw. It had taken Alex three weeks to get enough strength together to go into the shop – to go anywhere, really. He stood outside for a long time, pretending to smoke and going over exactly what he would say to her and how he would say it and how he wouldn’t look her in the eye, quite. “Just like always,” he echoed, and paid for his packet of tobacco with shaking hands. “Hasn’t been in since then,” she pointed out as she counted his change, agonizingly slowly, so as not to chip her shiny red nails. “Is he ill, or something?” He froze. “Matthew’s… gone away.” He took the change and she scrabbled for a receipt. edited by Joshua Goudreau 154 “Oh, a holiday?” But he had already gone. And he ran all the way back to the flat, spilling pennies on the tarmac and not looking back. In the flat he poured a slick of vodka over the table and into a glass, and swallowed it vowing he would never go in the shop again. “Just like always.” And nothing was just like always ever again, though Alex tried. He never told anyone about Matthew, and after not long enough people stopped asking. After six months they began to suggest that he move into a smaller place – the rent was a struggle for just one, and if not a move then why not a lodger? Someone was bound to take Matthew’s room. And Alex would nod and do nothing. The bath was an old-fashioned ceramic one with four feet. Alex ripped out the plumbing himself, and had two blokes from downstairs whose names he didn’t know carry it out for him. It paid a month’s rent and it meant he didn’t have to look at it anymore. But the coffee cup and the teaspoon remained in the sink. They eventually stuck there, and Alex could not have moved them if he wanted to. He filled the kettle carefully and washed up in the bathroom basin. He never went in Matthew’s room – not even to take back the Bob Dylan album he’d lent him, all that time ago. And on Sundays, Alex slept, right through until the evening, when he’d rise and sit propping the kitchen window open to smoke and look out over the city. Sometimes he’d cross town and buy an Observer or a Sunday Herald, if there were any left. They’d lie unread on the kitchen table for a few days, just in case.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 155

Wolves Of Mars by Neco

THIS WAS PROBABLY A BAD IDEA. No, this was definitely a bad idea. Worse yet, I didn’t even know why I was going through with it. It’s an unspoken rule among Vere’nati that outsiders don’t infringe on a pack’s territory, and even though I knew that this stranger was a loner like I was, he was still dangerous. Hell, if what the crows told me was true, there should be a couple smilodon lying outside of his den with their throats torn out. And, unfortunately for me, though I was big, I was half the size of those kittens and my own canines were a pathetic excuse for the twenty-two centimeter fangs they sported. The ground flashed away beneath me as I brought my starship closer to the rising red hulk that was Olympus Mons, where the crows said this outlier had made his new home. The trees and other growth that had been transplanted after Mars was dubbed the new Earth had grown up in abundance around the wide base of the volcano, but nothing had taken root up its sloping sides and a small ring of cleared ground ran the circumference of the giant base. I hovered nearly two dozen kilometers from the beast, ran a scan for any signs of life around the base and came up with a hit. For the moment, he was still, lying at a southern point at the volcano’s base, either sleeping or feeding, two of a Vere’nati’s favorite pastimes. At this distance, it would be impossible for him to hear my ship, but I had no desire to fly closer. If I went in there in a human-made ship, I wouldn’t be making any friends and I really didn’t want another Vere’nati against me when pretty much the rest of them were at this point. I would have to walk edited by Joshua Goudreau 156 the twenty-four klicks to his den, which would leave me exposed to an ambush if he smelled me coming too soon. Another reason why this was definitely a bad idea. I brought my ship down in a relatively clear patch in the maze of trees, maneuvering so that whatever my cammo tarp failed to hide the leaves did. Not that I really expected someone to try and steal a nine-ton starship, but humans were sneaky little bastards and might go reporting an unregistered ship to the local Federation station and then I’d be pretty much screwed until my next paycheck. As I dropped down from the closed canopy of my ship, the tarp clipped into place, a low croak caught my attention but only for a second. I ignored the rush of wings that followed as I entered the thick growth and brushed off the second irritated caw as I dropped to all fours and set out on paws instead of boots. Immediately, the stink of crow filled my nostrils and I growled softly as the caws that had been only white noise as a human burst into full phrases as a wolf. “Cross-wolf! It’s Cross-wolf!” “She’s just like my cousin said!” “She’s heading to Cat Killer’s lair!” “I wanna tell him! Can I go tell him?” “Don’t,” I snarled, pausing to look up at the myriad of glinting eyes that stared back at me in surprise. “Tell him and I’m likely to end up dead.” “You show up and you’ll be deader!” a crow piped up as I resumed walking. “He’s a Vere’nati; he has a nose,” I retorted. I leapt over a fallen log and broke into a trot, head low in case one of the resident crows decided to take a dive at my head, since the ones in my own territory seemed to have so much fun doing it. “Cat Killer’s dangerous, Cross-wolf,” an older and only slightly wiser crow said, keeping pace with me in the maze of tree branches. “He told us he was death-cursed and didn’t want to deal with Vere’nati.” “Then we have something in common,” I growled, hoping they would shut up, knowing they wouldn’t. But they had inadvertently given me a good piece of information, for all of their less-than-endearing qualities. This Cat Killer was cursed like I was, which now gave me a solid reason as to why he had decided to choose Mars as his new home, much as I had done eight years ago when I had been driven out. Though Mars was one of the smaller inhabitable planets among the different systems in the Arm, it was largely controlled by humans and couldn’t support a full pack of Vere’nati on its own without the humans finding out. A loner or two could make a territory and never meet a human The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 157 in its life, which was probably what Cat Killer had reasoned, as much as I had. Too bad that reasoning was subject to death upon viewing one of the Capitals and realization set in that no matter what, you would be dragged into the human system. The kilometers fell away as my trot brought me ever closer to Cat Killer’s territory, until I passed a particularly stunted tree and was hit with the powerful musk that was Vere’nati. I paused for a moment, nosing into the branches of the broken tree, then snorted and shook my head. Great. Healthy, young and definitely in his prime; ready for a fight in whatever form it took. This was going to be a pain in the ass, but the only person I had to blame for getting myself in this mess was myself and I cursed my own damnable curiosity for going through with this. Several klicks later and the vegetation simply stopped, leaving a twenty meter dash from here to the base of Olympus Mons. No doubt Cat Killer had already smelled me, as the wind was ruffling my fur the wrong way and itching like hell, but nothing I could do about that now. I turned south and loped to where I thought he had his den, pausing every now and then at a tree or rock where he had left his mark to assess his state a few more times. The closer I got to his den, the stronger the scent and the clearer it became that this Vere’nati wasn’t an idiot, and that his pack had probably had a very good reason for throwing out a hunter in his prime to the mercy of humans. I also found the head and spine of a smilodon, complete with tooth marks all too similar to my own on the back of its skull partially buried near one of the markers. Well, if I was going to die, I might as well face it, and I broke from the relative cover of the trees and stalked toward the volcano’s base. A gaping hole had been dug into the rock, bearing all the signs of a stonecutter, and had probably been some human’s private fort before Cat Killer had taken it over. I stopped a few meters from the entrance and waited, head between my shoulders and ears forward, and was rewarded by the shuffle of paws on rock and the low growl of a very annoyed wolf. He appeared at the entrance, his body nearly filling the mouth, then slowly stalked from the darkness. My nose hadn’t been wrong; Cat Killer was a Vere’nati at his peak. He was heavier by at least ten kilos, his fur gray with a dark saddle on his back and a splash of white on his chest and right forepaw. His yellow eyes never left my blue ones as he circled and I pivoted to keep him in sight, my hackles starting to rise. “You must be Cross,” he growled, letting his eyes flick once over the black brand on my back and shoulders that had given me my name. “Listening to gossip, Cat Killer?” I retorted. edited by Joshua Goudreau 158 “The name’s Grey, but ‘Cat Killer’ has a nice ring to it,” he said, continuing to circle. “What are you doing here, wolf?” “Same question for you, but I think I got an idea,” I replied, baring my fangs a little. “Mommy and Daddy kick you out?” Grey (or Cat Killer, since that seemed more fitting once he opened his mouth) snarled, his ears and tail coming up. “This coming from a lapdog to humans. You think you’re so much better than the rest of us since you live in the city?” “At least I have a pack, even if they are humans,” I growled. “You’re nothing but a puppy playing grown-up all by himself.” He lunged low and fast, snapping at one of my forelegs; I twisted and bounded away, snarling and digging in as Cat Killer charged. His fangs were aimed at my chest, and I darted to the side, only to find him slide with me and slash at the fur on my shoulder. The pain was dull, my fur too thick for the off-balance hit, and I snapped back, barely missing his nose. He leapt back and snarled, his hackles making him look even larger, but I wasn’t about to be intimidated. I had fought aliens that were uglier than him for cash and had won, and I wasn’t going to let this outlier outdo me when it was my job to kill. I bolted to the right, flipping my tail in front of his face and he couldn’t ignore the target. He came after me, reached my flank in two strides and struck, only to find empty air. I had slid and came back off of a rock, colliding with him and managing to roll him from sheer momentum instead of weight. He howled and snapped at my forelegs, catching one of my pads and slicing it open, but I struck back, effectively bitch-slapping him across the muzzle with a paw. Not really a sanctioned move in Vere’nati fights, but after eight years among humans, you learn a few tricks to trip up the other guy. Cat Killer seemed surprised at the hit but recovered before I could take the advantage and he flung me off, landing a solid kick to my ribs and knocking the breath from me. I let out a squeaking snarl in retort then lunged blindly forward, snapping on nothing but air. A shoulder connected with mine and I was effectively bowled off of my feet for a second time, but this time I kept rolling and sprang up just as Cat Killer would have pinned me. I jerked my head to the side, fangs bared and jaws clenched, felt my canine connect with his nose and heard his squeal of pain. I allowed him to back up as I caught my breath, flanks heaving as I glared at him with my lips still wrinkled. He stood there for a moment with his head low, a low rumble in his throat, then rushed in almost faster than I could react. I managed to leap out of the way, but he grabbed my tail and I shrieked as I fell short, then twisted so that I connected with his body. He staggered to the side and released my tail, then slashed at my flank and laid The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 159 open a shallow gash on my leg. I ignored the pain and spun, closing my teeth on his shoulder and wrenching as my momentum carried me over his back. He bellowed and fell with me, then over me as I kicked out. Rolling to my feet, I drove forward as he regained his and shoved my shoulders beneath his chest, then heaved upward. He gave a short howl as I lifted him onto his hind legs, then snapped upward. I caught belly fur and pulled, he shrieked and twisted to get away; I pulled the other way and slammed my flank into his off leg. Overbalanced, Cat Killer crashed to the ground and I was flung on top of him; he scrabbled with his legs to get free. I lunged out of reach, though one of his claws caught me on the side of the muzzle and drew blood. I twisted as my paws hit the ground then leapt for Cat Killer again, crushing his forelegs beneath my shoulder and closing my teeth over his throat. He immediately froze, his breathing now shaky as he realized just how close my fangs were to his jugular, and, slowly, relaxed. Cat Killer was giving in, losing to a deathcursed Vere’nati when he had easily taken out the smilodon that had given him his name. It was probably humiliating and I could’ve easily ended it by biting down. But I didn’t. I may be a murderer in my real job, but I wasn’t about to kill another kinsman. Fighting among the Vere’nati was common and the easiest way to settle things. Deaths weren’t usually the result, since we knew better than to deprive the pack of a member in a petty dispute and even outliers like Cat Killer weren’t killed on the average. This had been more of a test than anything, a dominance battle between two lone Vere’nati and I had managed to come out on top. I released my hold and retreated several paces, watching wordlessly as Cat Killer rolled to his feet and shook himself out. I had barely done anything more than pull out a few hairs, but I had quickly learned after my exile that there were more ways to disable an opponent than blood loss. Cat Killer looked at me, a welt on the side of his nose where my tooth had hit, and began to huff with laughter. “Just like the stories said.” I growled. “More bird gossip?” “Mercenary,” he replied and I stiffened, hackles rising again. I had created the reputation of being somewhat vicious in the underworld of the mercenaries, but the image had been carefully cultivated to be human, not one of a Vere’nati. “A woman named Cross with superhuman strength and speed that completed any job you gave her,” Cat Killer continued, his tail wagging once. “Lives on Mars in the Central Capital, and for a fee will do anything from repo to murder.” Then he gave me a sidelong glance, his ears canted to the side. “Nothing like the proud hunter of Avalon I’ve heard about.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 160 “Hunters disperse, idiot,” I snapped, unease running through every vein my body. How the hell did this mutt know so much about me? Were the rumors that bad they were reaching all the way back to my pack on Avalon, one of the most backwater planets in the Arm? “But become mercenaries?” he replied. “The cursed aren’t much good for anything else,” was my rejoinder and Cat Killer gave me a long surveying look, which I met squarely. There was nothing about defeat in the posturing of his body and I was beginning to wonder if he wanted another fight, when he broke the eye contact and padded past me toward his den, turning his back on me as if I was nothing more than a pup. “Turning your back on the winner,” I commented with a growl. “Isn’t that dangerous?” “No,” he replied, pausing and looking over his shoulder at me. “Since I know you won’t attack.” I bared my teeth. “You hear that in the rumors, too?” “Your pride won’t let you.” He turned and padded back into his den, not bothering to look back to see if I would follow, and I hated myself because I knew I would, if only to find out why he knew so god damn much about me. I stood outside of the entrance for a moment, shaking with rage and pain that I wouldn’t let out come out in a keen more fitting to a puppy than a hunter. That bastard knew that I came from Avalon, knew that I had been ousted from my pack, and, worse yet, had come to Mars to meet me, and I had played right into his plans by showing up after just a few days. I was stupid, had let the life I had lived among humans dull my senses and dampen twelve years of life among the Vere’nati as nothing more than unwanted memories. It didn’t matter if I had won the fight; I always did. But this definitely wasn’t the way I wanted things to turn out. I stalked into Cat Killer’s den to find him already sitting in the enlarged chamber several meters back, not as a wolf but as a human. He looked the same as every other Vere’nati I’d seen in my life: black hair, reddish-bronze skin and gray eyes. He even wore the loose pants and shirts they always sported, even when death-cursed, apparently. Obviously he really believed my pride wouldn’t let me kill him if he was sitting there like a master waiting for its pet, and though I wanted to, I couldn’t prove him wrong; my pride wouldn’t let me, just as he counted on. Of course, that didn’t mean I had to play the good guest and give him every answer he wanted. I dropped to the ground across from him, back to the wall and not bothering to change into my human form; I wouldn’t give him the The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 161 satisfaction. He waited a moment and when he realized I wasn’t about to show him my face, he drew his eyebrows together and opened his mouth but I cut him off. “What do you want from me, Cat Killer?” I demanded, hackles on end. “And how do you know so much about me?” “It’s hard not to when your name’s known through most of the Arm,” he replied calmly. “And my name’s Grey.” I bared a canine at him, ignoring his correction. “So what? You came to see if I’d do a job for you?” I growled. “Sorry, I don’t work for dogs.” Cat Killer’s eyes flashed at that. “You call me a dog when you’re the one working for humans?” “At least I don’t sulk in the woods waiting for another Vere’nati to come along,” I retorted. “It worked, didn’t it?” he replied, a shadowy smirk crossing his face. I snarled. “You’re on my planet, mutt. Why wouldn’t I come to drive you out? If you forget, I won out there.” “That was one fight.” “You want another?” When he didn’t reply, I added another point to my growing scorecard. “If you want a job, do it the traditional way and go to the Capital. I don’t make house calls.” I rose to my feet and Cat Killer reached out as if to grab me, but I snapped at his hand and he jerked it back. He glared at me for a long moment, his eyes unreadable as I waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, I snorted and turned toward the entrance. “Why were you death-cursed, Cross?” he said abruptly and I froze. That was the last question I was expecting and I slowly turned, lips twitching in a snarl. “If you lived on Avalon, you should know why,” I growled. “If you’re so proud about all the info you’ve got on me, then you should know why I was thrown out of the pack and why I didn’t kill you when I could’ve.” Cat Killer fell silent again and I knew then that he was only playing with me, testing to see how much he could push me before I did swallow my own pride and tear out his throat. Well, he was getting pretty close to his goal and I was beginning to get sick of being played with like a mouse; it was my turn to ask the questions, and I took a stiff step forward, catching his attention. “What about you, mutt?” I demanded, baring a canine. “Why were you death-cursed?” He stiffened and shifted as if he was getting ready to jump at me. “Who told you that?” I sneered. “I have my sources, too.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 162 I thought I had him at that moment, but his next words knocked the satisfaction from my tail. “I’m not death-cursed. I only told the crows that to get you to come here.” The shock shook loose my control and my senses dulled some as my wolf fur fell away to be replaced by skin and clothes as I crouched on my knees before Cat Killer. His face registered some surprise as he looked at me, but I ignored it, my mind stuck on the fact that he had lied about being deathcursed. A death-curse is not given out lightly in a pack, and to lie about it was one of the gravest sins among the Vere’nati, especially if you were caught in it. It was punishable by death, and I found myself shaking at the audacity of this loner lying about being exiled. There was no reason for anyone to even lie about it anyway. To the wolves of your pack and anyone else who had heard about it, you were dead, nothing but a ghost and you weren’t even acknowledged if you came across another pack. It was as if you weren’t even there to them and for the Vere’nati, a solitary lifestyle is certain death. I don’t know how many times I had considered suicide before I made it to Mars and realized that there was no point to dying when I could live on my own among humans, no matter how degrading it may be. I lunged forward and slammed Cat Killer back against the rock, hand at his throat and knees pressing into the joints of his thighs as my other hand went to the pistol at my hip. I pressed the muzzle against his forehead, eyes blazing as I brought my face almost against his, feeling him twitch in surprise at my speed. “You lying mutt,” I hissed, tightening my grip on his throat. “You think you can play me so easily and not expect to get caught?” He glared at me with burning eyes, as if I had no right to be pissed. “I’m not playing you,” he managed to wheeze out, his voice steady. “Then what do you call pretending to be death-cursed?” I snarled. “I never came out and said I was,” he snapped back. “You told the crows, so I think that means you were pretending!” “Can I even explain myself?” “Can you give me a reason to think you’re telling the truth?” He abruptly shifted, grabbing my right wrist and twisting the gun away from his head; I pulled the trigger and the bullet shattered on the rock beside his head, stilling his movement. I bared my teeth. “Never seen a gun before?” I sneered, then jerked my arm from his wrist and flung myself back from him. I could see the bruises I had left on his throat but I didn’t care; I rose to my feet and stalked out of the den, wincing at the bright sunshine. Footsteps scrabbled after me and I whirled around, snarling and lifting my pistol as a ward to keep Cat Killer back as he came out of the den. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 163 “You know, if I shoot at you, that means ‘fuck off,’” I snapped. “Why do you care if I pretended to be death-cursed?” Cat Killer retorted. “You’re not part of a pack.” It was true; I was death-cursed, I didn’t have to live by Vere’nati rules. But twelve years in a pack had ingrained thousands of years of Vere’nati folklore into my brain and it’s hard to wash that stuff out. It had always been understood that the death-curse was not something to use as a joke, a ruse, anything other than what it was, and here Cat Killer was throwing it around like a dead rabbit. I wanted to punish him like a pack would, make him roll over in surrender, but he had lost once and I could tell he wasn’t ready to lose again. It wasn’t just the pack’s teachings either. Feelings that I had bottled up for almost a decade were still roiling beneath the surface, ready for the excuse to pop out so I could use them against another Vere’nati and that opportunity was standing in front of me, waiting for me to say something. I wanted to rail and scream and howl about the loneliness, the suicidal thoughts, the despair, the depression, the all-encompassing ache of being cut off from the rest of your kind and knowing you could never go back. You would always carry the taint of the curse with you wherever you went, and it just as clear as the mark on my back of what I was. I hated it, wanted to fight it, hated myself because I knew I couldn’t, and I wanted to scream this all out at him, and force him to understand. But he wouldn’t. He was still part of the pack even if he was on Mars, and he wouldn’t understand a damn thing I said to him about it. He was just another selfish Vere’nati that was trying to use me for his own means and that disgusted me more than anything any human could’ve done. “You really are an asshole, you know that?” I snapped. “I’m not trying to be,” Cat Killer retorted. “You’re doing a good job anyway,” I spat back. “You didn’t even let me tell you why I was pretending to be cursed.” “Why should I care?” “Because I want to help you,” Cat Killer growled, baring his teeth. “Or did you forget kin are supposed to help each other out?” I snorted and tapped my pistol against my hip. “If you wanna be a merc, go make a name for yourself somewhere else. Mars is my turf.” “I don’t want to be a mercenary, damn it!” he snarled. “I’m trying to help you, not your stupid reputation!” “Help me with what?” I snorted. “Didn’t you ever want to get back into your pack?” he asked. “I’m death-cursed, mutt,” I retorted. “You can’t go back if you’re dead.” “What if your curse was reversed?” “It can’t.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 164 “How do you know?” “I’m still on Mars, aren’t I?” Cat Killer snarled, obviously frustrated with my oh-so-helpful attitude. “Don’t you even care about your people anymore, Cross?” “Does it look like it?” I replied and spread my arms. “They’re the ones that abandoned me, not the other way around. You should try that attitude sometime, mutt. You might end up living longer.” I turned around and stalked back toward the woods, effectively ending the conversation far later than I had wanted to. Cat Killer, however, wasn’t done; I heard his footsteps but couldn’t evade him in time. He grabbed my shoulders and spun me around, ignoring the snarl and slap of cold metal against his arm as he glared down at me. “Don’t you even care that your curse can be reversed, Cross?” he demanded. “Don’t you want to go back to your pack?” I coldly shook him off and stepped back several paces, letting him see my blue eyes, pale skin, my hair and clothes were cut after human styles instead of Vere’nati. “My pack left me to die. I’m not about to go back to dogs that throw out their own without a second thought.” I spun and threw back over my shoulder, “Go back to your mommy and daddy, Grey. This is my territory and I’ll kill you the next time you cross the line.” I stuffed my pistol back into its holster and traded my human skin for a wolf’s, then broke into a run that took me away from Cat Killer’s den as fast as possible. What the hell did he know anyway? He didn’t know a god damn thing about being cursed. A death-curse was final; you can’t make a ghost whole again. Believe me, I tried to in the beginning, but everyone looked through me as if I wasn’t there and I gave up trying real fast. I was happier living as a human, free of the restraints of the pack and able to make my own decisions for once instead of having to follow an alpha blindly, even if I thought he was wrong. In the pack, you couldn’t question the alpha, and if you did, you were promptly reprimanded and your place in the pack shifted to the bottom, where your opinions were ignored no matter who or what you agreed with. That was the one thing I hadn’t minded giving up and the one thing I wouldn’t let myself go back to. I stretched out my legs until I reached my starship, then quickly pulled off the tarp and jumped back into the cockpit in case Cat Killer had decided to follow me to try and press his point. I dumped the tarp into the only other seat besides the pilot’s and set up the ignition, rising swiftly from the forest floor and into the Martian sky, catching a glimpse of gray fur in the trees as I did. Cat Killer skidded into the clearing and stared up at me; I hovered in the air for a moment, meeting his yellow eyes from nearly ten meters in the air. It had been eight years since I met another Vere’nati and Cat Killer had roused every bad memory I had of them, from his pushy attitude to his The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 165 complete arrogance that I would go along with any plan of his to get back into the pack. I don’t deny that I can be cocky and a complete bitch at times, but even I know people take convincing before you can make them do anything; being a mercenary had taught me that real quick. I had spent too much time among humans to be swayed by empty promises made by wolves that couldn’t keep them. I broke the eye contact and rose higher into the air, swinging over the trees then turning on a wingtip and arcing upward to the faint stars lost in the glare of the sun. I had spent enough time on Mars for the moment, and there was no way in hell I was going back to the Central Capital so soon, when that damn mutt knew where I lived and could track me down. Instead, I gunned the thrusters and soared higher into the sky, then kept going as my starship shuddered against the grip of the atmosphere. I broke into the blackness of space, swung wide around the cratered bulk of Deimos and stared down at the now-green surface of Mars, knowing that somewhere down there, Cat Killer was looking back, helpless to chase me down. After all, I was the only Vere’nati that could fly.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 166

The Bop by Megan Reilly

THESE KIDS WERE REAL, THE KIND YOU DIDN’T FUCK with. They’d wave anti-capitalism in your face, beat you senseless, and think nothing of it. I wasn’t one because I was too old, but I earned respect because all of my piercings were self-done. Swilling beer and pills, the bop was going and it wasn’t even ten. A shitty punk band played, comprised of wide-eyed youths who probably had their mothers shave their heads into mohawks. I thought they were decent, even if all they played were tinny Clash covers and the easiest Misfits. Bass lines pulsed unevenly, making sternums and ribcages rattle. Between the sweat and the beeswax, futile loves blossomed to nervous groping with trembling hands and cold fingertips. Sticky juices clung to virgin thighs while anything past oral became deliciously forbidden. For kids, they knew what they were doing. It was only a matter of time before they knew how to do it well. Upstairs, older kids with stolen cars watched black-and-white movies. These were the ones with cigarettes and real tattoos. They welcomed me with a quick hug and a joint passed around like herpes. A bulldyke with pink hair and a crooked septum piercing was hitting on me. Toying with my hair and fingering fresh ink. I politely pushed her away because, well, I wasn’t into that scene. She got angry and went down into the hormone pool. My boy (the closest I’ve gotten to not fucking for the hell of it) admonished, and took me by the hand into someone’s bedroom. Obviously, then-absent adults slept in it; dressers and nightstands filled with baby pictures. It even smelled like KY jelly and talcum powder. Fingers The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 167 clenched together, we lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I prayed that, yes, everything would be okay. “You remind me of that actress.” “What actress?” “That actress from that show.” He was a bit drunk, and probably high. I forgave him, though. Sometimes it made him pathetically cute. People were filtering through the house, more than before. Someone turned Social Distortion to top volume, and the bop moved upstairs. He moved a chair to the door for privacy, and switched the lights off. “Let’s get married.” “Seriously?” “Yeah. Let’s.” He talked about running off to The City and getting an apartment. He would tattoo and do portraits on Canal Street and I could go to NYU. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, as long as I was still his. We’d save money (just enough to not get the power cut off) and fuck, ink, pierce, write, draw, drink, smoke, rock all we wanted. We’d have two (beautiful) children (a boy and a girl) that we could raise into real people. He said we would have it all. The noise was like a pulse through broken stereo tubes. He was willing me to be with him. I submitted with a borrowed diaphragm (she was the only girl I knew without an STD). All I could think about was getting the bed dirty. The kids were real, and so was their rebellious anthem. They’d cut a Nazi and lend a shoulder to cry on if you needed one. I wasn’t one and would never be because I was still too old. But I earned respect because I was self- pierced, wore suicide boots, and knew what it was to live and love. I walked slow, careful steps around the swimming pool. It was all over, and only the too-drunk or too-stoned stayed. Dewy concrete covered in shit, piss, and puke, a window smeared with pit blood. I chain-smoked like there was no tomorrow, a gooey contraceptive stuck in for too long. He went home, with girly cotton-candy promises that he would call, call, call (sometimes I thought he was more female than male). Things were going down, changing for the better (I hoped). I had nothing to show for it then, but a flat, naked chick belly and a degree to shove up someone’s ass.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 168

Enter the Hunters by Tim Derr

RHARI PULLED UP SHORT IN FRONT OF THE LOW, BRICK building and checked her PDA one more time. Yes, this was it, she’d circled the block three times, checked every address, every box. If the proof of her own eyes wasn’t enough, the numbers and streets all lies, the GPS console mounted on her dash confirmed it beyond doubt. A steady blip appeared, red amidst the whites and greens. ‘Destination reached.’ The text appeared, flashing. Then the console went dead. Rhari blew away a small curl of smoke with her cold breath. This was it. She pulled her car to the side and parked in the one of many empty spots that ran off into oblivion. The road, the block, the entire neighborhood seemed completely abandoned. Seemed, but she sensed otherwise. Blackness hid behind tight cropped curtains. Bikes, toys, automobiles; they all lay abandoned in drives and yards. There was a brown stain in the street. It ran for a block and vanished around a corner. The cop had been drug three city blocks before all of him made it loose of the undercarriage. There was no one anywhere. No one. Nothing. Nowhere. The streets were empty. It was daylight. She pulled the Ruger mini .44 from her duffel and slid it into the undershoulder clutch hiding beneath her jacket. Check. It was too hot for the jacket, it was too hot for the crossed knit blouse beneath it, but no one would notice. Not in this part of town. On Bright Avenue, wool knit turtle neck sweaters were a common commodity, for any time of year. Any time of day or night. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 169 The clutch was tight, uncomfortable, it wasn’t made to be worn over thick wool, but she’d forego comfort for safety. She might have been new, but she wasn’t an idiot. She slid a dagger into the spring clip hidden above each wrist and pulled the cuffs back down. Check. Her short brown hair she pulled into a tail and secured with a knotted bit of rawhide. Beads brushed her neck. She breathed in. She breathed out. She tapped the steering wheel with her forehead then ran her hands loosely over the rubber grip. She didn’t honk the horn. She breathed in, she— —climbed out of the car and released her breath is a sigh of pent up anxiety. Rhari circled the small Chevy, watching the low awning and ply-boarded windows from the corner of her eyes. Multicolored glass still sprinkled the street and the gutters. Someone had swept the sidewalk clear. She sensed nothing. That quiet calm that usually enveloped her during training seemed to have vacated the premises. There was a chill creeping down the hollow spot at the center of her back. Her skin was crawling. The hair on her arms was beginning to stand on end. Power. She retrieved a thin leather case from the trunk and dropped the lid. She slid the keys into an empty pocket, self consciously checking for the bottle of silver nitrate. Check. The leather was cool against her back, but it had to go inside her sweater to latch into the wild array of strapping that secured her vest. She felt it click, tested that the blade came free easy, and then relished the sound of the metal sliding back. It sent a new shiver down her spine. The front door was locked, as expected. Yellow police crime tape was still stapled over the opening. She slid on her gloves and peeled the tape loose. No prints. From inside a pocket appeared the lock picks, she knelt and went to work. Fifteen seconds later the door was clicking shut on a bright February afternoon. The room beyond wasn’t bathed in shadow, there has to be some kind of light for shadow. It was pitch black. Ichor. The color of the grave. The absence of everything. She could smell warm beer, whiskey, pretzels, corn chips, some kind of nut too stale to differentiate; a thousand other smells, but the ones that came through most clearly were wolf and rook. There was an underlying aroma of raven, but no master. Of course not. She shifted into hunter mode. Her eyes were blinded so she shut them. She didn’t need them, for the moment they were a hindrance. Ears locked onto the drip of water, the beep of some far off electronic device, the tick of the hands of a clock. She could taste fur, sweat, musk, blood, dandruff... lavender? edited by Joshua Goudreau 170 —Rhari shook her head, discarded the last before it could cloud the importance of others. All smells of the bar, the road, her car, of the infrequent human visitors dropped away. Beneath it were dry skin, decay, rotting flesh, dry soaps, cleansers, oils, bleach. Frozen meat. Electricity. Static. Ozone. Oh yeah, this was the place. She tried the switch next to the door and wasn’t any more surprised by the lack of response than she had been by the locked door. By all accounts the police had cut power before storming the place. The town didn’t have a SWAT team, so whoever’s bright idea that was... To her left was a body, no, a helmet. She could feel blood, something heavy; a flak jacket. They’d pealed the guys vest off to try and restart his heart, but he was already too far gone. The blood was from his neck. On the far wall there was more. They’d taken his arm out in a little plastic baggy. The cordite hit her briefly and she backed off, too much distraction, she didn’t need that now. The far wall was littered with bullet holes, the floor shattered glass from crystal wall sconces. The rich honey maple panels weren’t much more than kindling now. Miraculously a crystal chandelier still swung gently from bare, wooden eaves. The breeze was warm. She walked past the shattered remains of a double mirror that had made up the back of the bar. Bottles of Scotch and hard bourbon bled red over the hardwood. The beer taps were the only thing that remained untouched. She pulled herself a glass and sampled; Heineken. No additives, they either harbored humans as well, or let the local PD think they did. She ran the amber liquid over her tongue then let it rest on the sudden dryness in the back of her throat before her mouth redeposited it in the glass. Alcohol settled the nerves, it was too bad she couldn’t trust a shot of something stronger. Rhari dropped the glass to shatter on the floor and waited, listening. The head settled over the tips of her boots. Suds trickled over the floorboards and vanished through cracks. She could hear the distant taps as it struck dirt. She had nothing to hide, anything still here already knew she was coming. Heightening the tension was only a game they’d taught her to play. The room beyond was a kitchen, steel and chrome, porcelain tiled. Dropped ceiling. Pots and pans hanging from a long pipe rack that ran down the middle. There had been bodies in the freezers beyond, frozen blood. All gone now. The police had them. There were others who would take care of things on that end. Details that Rhari didn’t know and hadn’t asked. It wasn’t in her business to. The pilot lights were still burning, the smell of propane and cooking still lingered. Human cooking. Real food. Spices on racks hanging on the walls. The freezers were not for the rooks then, ravens or wolves; they were ones The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 171 who liked their meat raw. Still bleeding. There were exceptions. There are to every rule. She stepped past the doorway and looked at the clock. After a moment she was able to identify the hands. Quarter past three, she had at least four hours of daylight. She turned her back and retreated. At the far end the room bent into an ‘L’, dark, UV blocking windows covered the harsh glare reflected in off the street. The blinds were drawn, but it was still bright enough to burn the green cast that had taken her eyes. Rhari whimpered and then scowled as her hand sought to cover her eyes. She was completely open. She could have been dead. Rookie mistakes 101. If it had been permissible someone might have heard her swear, but she didn’t acknowledge the weakness. She cocked her jaw and forced herself to look back. All of the tables were clear save one. A partially finished cheeseburger, flat root beer. Someone had dumped the basket of fries onto the floor. The smell of lavender was stronger, but fading. It hadn’t come from here, but it’s source had stopped at the table for a while, perhaps talking, maybe only staring. The evidence didn’t support a fight. The two knew each other – So what, it wasn’t important. What was to a somewhat greater extent was the smell of dried herbs. Caraway and sesame, oregano mixed with some generic deodorant; another rook. Familiar, like the first, but the latter was stronger, maybe tied to a master; maybe drawing off the pack. The lavender was confusing. It was burning her nose, sticking in the back of her throat. She wanted to roll her eyes up and set down, the sockets hurt. She backed off. She returned to the kitchen and this time followed the beeping to the back. There was a doorway in the corner, wedged between a massive steel volume of fridge and a plastered wall. The beeping came from an alarm clock in the office beyond. Behind a second door stairs led upward. She checked the office first, rummaged through the file cabinets, EMP’ed the hard drive on the computer after hotswapping the data. There was an evidence tag on top, confiscation by the Black Mountain Police Department. Scheduled pickup was tomorrow; good thing she hadn’t waited until Monday. She found a small caliber Colt revolver under the false bottom of a desk drawer. There were silver rounds but the clip was empty. The owner was either careless or careful depending on how you looked at it. Rhari would have kept it loaded. She would have kept it on her. Who was she kidding, she would have thrown the cheap piece of shit away and bought a Ruger mini .44, replaced the standard silverpoint rounds with hollow tracers and bought a back up to stuff in the small of her back. It didn’t matter if the trigger guard chaffed. Safe was never sorry. Backup is your friend. edited by Joshua Goudreau 172 —then again, with the clientele this guy was catering to she probably wouldn’t have felt safe until she had a flamethrower strapped to her back and garlic coursing through her veins. A steel neck guard wouldn’t have hurt either. She dropped the clip and cartridges into the pocket of her slacks right above the mini hd then disassembled the Colt and spread the pieces amongst the debris of the office floor. Below where the gun had sat was a photo. In it two men stood on the front stoop of the bar. One was maybe 23, 6’1”, 200 pounds, well muscled, surfer physique – she stopped herself from profiling and got back to the basics – one side of his face was torn, covered in fresh looking scars – Rhari immediately identified them as lycanthrope; the tear pattern looked like wolf. From the extent of the wounds it was hard to imagine the man could have survived. The other was a young man, sixteen, seventeen, thirty in the eyes; the rook from the bar that smelled like herbs. She wasn’t sure how she knew. She didn’t need to. She crumbled the photo up and burnt it. She didn’t mess with the paper files, everything there looked legit. The IRS could handle the tax problems that would crop up. Rhari had been assured with the papers she’d slipped in there would be a complete investigation. The EMP on the drive was designed to look professional; Italian or Russian mafia, she wasn’t sure which, but one of them would get credit. Credit for everything else as well once she was finished. The next pocket held a hose, which was connected to a thin plastic bundle sewn into the lining of the expensive Italian jacket Rhari wore. When she twisted the end a combination of methanol, gasoline, diesel fuel and liquid fertilizer fuel began to spurt out. She splashed the room. The walls, the floor, the computer, the exterior of the metal filing cabinets. They were designed to withstand up to fifteen hundred degree temperatures, just under what the volatile liquid could produce. She sprayed the drawers of the desk, an antique bureau that might or might not have contained additional hidden compartments and documents, and the seams at the edges of the wall. The fires would lead upward, they wanted the collapse of the walls to smother the flame before it could do too much damage. Lastly she led a trail to the door as she stepped backward across the threshold. Rhari twisted the nozzle and put the hose away. She pulled the Heckler and Kosch .9mm from the small of her back and disengaged the safety. The porcelain still felt cool despite the three hour trip from the airport, the forty- five minute drive to an undisclosed location for recovery of her personal effects, and the trade of vehicles. Metal detectors had failed to pick it up and customs hadn’t bothered searching the contents of her luggage. Luck be a lady, tonight... It was the ploy that ever worked. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 173 She put her back to the wall and inched open the door to the stairwell with the tip of a boot. No one was going to miss the heavy groan of the hinges or the slap it made when it hit the wall. She ducked and rolled into the doorway, arms extended, weapon raised. There was enough light to show her the upstairs hall was vacant so far as until it emptied into a large, brightly lit room. She couldn’t imagine anything or anyone hiding up there, but it didn’t matter; it was her job to be sure. Besides, some of the wolves could handle the light, they lived with it, so she went up. It took her eyes a fraction of a moment to adjust. The pupils not so much dilating as narrowing and lengthening. Hues and textures wavered, but there was no pain or shock as there had been on the floor below. The world brightened into pigments of an off green, black and white, all diluted with the actual colors that surrounded her. For a second her eyes tickled, then the sensation passed. Something else that came easier with practice. She ascended the stairs two at a time, crouched. They didn’t make much noise, but the surface was slick and wet, growing wild with molds. A black ashy kind of fungus was growing at the tops of the walls, edging into corners, staining the single porcelain light fixture with choleric blotches. Her gun stayed up, aimed center mass, finger over the trigger guard. She could feel her heart beat and the ebb and flow of textures to the light throbbed with it. That wasn’t supposed to happen. She was taxing herself, but she couldn’t stop now. Instead she lowered her breathing, increased the depth, and kept moving. The flux became a pounding in her ears, but by the time she reached the top of the stairs her vision had settled. She shifted one foot to a lower step and took a stance that put her head just below floor level. From another pocket came a mirror. Plain. Unadorned. Small enough to fit into a persons palm. She kept her gun tight to her chest and raised it to the room beyond. Left, right, straight on, to each edge of the doorjamb. Beyond the small bit of covering objects everything appeared abandoned. Long abandoned. It was doubtful whether or not the police would have bothered searching the top floor, not with the goodies and horror stories they’d found below. Sure they checked it out, did a quick grab and run on evidence, maybe even called in the forensics nuts for a quick sweep if they had the resources, but it was truly doubtful whether or not they’d gone to the excess of what they should have. Rhari saw no powder, she saw no stampede of police issue heel marks, she saw no light smattering of evidence baggies or the unsolicited discarded cigarette butt that would never be owned up to. The fact was she saw edited by Joshua Goudreau 174 absolutely nothing to even show the police had even bothered stepping foot above the landing. It was just messy. Too messy to be an accident. With assurance that the way was clear she preceded upward. One step, then two. She brought her gun into her line of sight and used it like the targeting mark of a first person shooter arcade as she swept a line of fire beneath the bed, to the shallow closet, finally the dark shadowy spot behind a recliner. Nothing. The rest was open or open enough to dispel any thought of a hidden danger. She eased her breath out and raised the barrel back toward the ceiling. The floorboards sank as she walked so Rhari shifted her weight to the supports beneath. The rough planks were hidden beneath a dry green layer of rot that powdered beneath her feet. The walls were yellow and brown. The windows were mostly broken or shattered, or missing altogether. A cold wind swept in off the street causing Rhari for once to be thankful the elaborateness of her job demanded she dress so heavily. The breeze flapped the lapels of the jacket, tickled the back of her neck with the tiny porcelain beads, but could do no more. Rhari chanced a quick glance through the empty panes of wood and was startled to find the sunlight waning. Gray clouds flashed across the sky, moving fast, too fast. Shadows were lengthening before her eyes, darkness creeping into the corners between buildings. Already the day was growing colder, the night drawing nearer. Time was running short. After another second Rhari holstered the Heckler and Kosch and moved the few stray hairs clear of the sheath and her neck. She trusted in her reflexes enough to get either weapon clear long before anything cleared the stairs but she preferred to be safe. A quick search of the room turned up nothing. A slower, more drawn out search produced the same. There was no furniture past the single bed and recliner. No dressers, no stands, no bureaus. The closet didn’t even have a shelf. So far as she could tell none of the floorboards had been purposefully removed. More than a few were missing or broken, but all that was hidden beneath was empty space and cobwebs. A single adornment, a bathtub, rested at the head of the far wall, and it was here that again and again her search led her. The faint traceries of lines proved that once there had been walls to separate the old cast iron monstrosity from the rest of the occupancy, but for some reason they had been removed. The water lines were blue plastic, connected to corroded copper fittings that rose from a nearby corner. The spickets were clean, chrome, shiny and polished. The trap was still wet. When she tested it the water flowed regularly. It was so out of place it made her head spin, but finally she gave up. She retreated to the sagging doorway and crept back to the floor below. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 175 Rhari stepped clear of the staircase and instantly sprung the release of her wrist sheath. The gripless dagger shot out demon quick, fast enough and with enough force to bury itself to the hilt in its intended target. Rhari caught it in her hand, spun toward the empty kitchen. The warm breeze blew over her face— —dried herbs. Caraway and sesame, oregano mixed with some generic deodorant. It was strong enough to make her want to cough, the smell. The tips of her ears perked, finely tuned hairs shivered, but she fought them down. The blade made an empty pass through the air, then another. For the moment she couldn’t see it, but she felt it dance. Felt the air part. Heard it. It helped to steady her. She put the blade away and drew the Ruger. Slowly. Carefully. She stepped into the kitchen. Her feet made silent echoes not even she could detect. She silenced her breathing and detected nothing...... power. —Power. —wrong. The warm breeze was gone. Rhari inched backward, reached the doorway and stepped through. Nothing. Slow. She moved herself forward, edging over the threshold and back into the kitchen. Noth— —she stopped, mid stride, eased her self ever so gently, ever so slowly, backward. There. The warmth brushed at her face. Blowing her short bangs loosely over her features. Rhari stared at the crack where fridge met wall. She reholstered the Ruger and gave the fridge a shove. When it failed to budge she got her fingers between the polished metal and unpainted drywall and ripped the steel brackets holding it loose from the wall. The fridge did a sort of dance as it skittered out into the floor. It turned to face the aisle then fell on its face with an unbelievable crash. The Ruger was already back in her hands. Her vision returned. Rhari stared at the wooden door, the steel latch that secured it. Drawn from this side. The hasp and the not so circumstantial padlock. Her orders said everything. She pulled the slide of the Ruger and felt the round slip into the chamber with a satisfying click. Pulling the trigger would have produced the same effect, but there are some things that just have to be done by hand. She didn’t bother with the lockpicks. She took aim, averted her eyes, then shot a quick three spot burst. The sound wasn’t deafening. Just three quick pops. Like fireworks. The lock was just so much shrapnel. Rhari pulled the bit of shattered metal free and drew back the latch with a clack. She heard it echo into the depths below. edited by Joshua Goudreau 176 The door didn’t have a handle. She kicked it open and moved to the side. When nothing happened she crouched into the opening, took aim, and waited. She let her eyes wander. Let them move over the texture of the dark below. Let them grow, adjust, until the little light that reached past her became more and more, and the black turned to gray, the gray to shades of gray. Finally to discernable objects. She sensed no movement. She listened for breathing and heard none. —power. Yes, power, so what? What good was power if there was nothing there to wield it? There was something there all right. Something big. Something strong. Something... powerful. Something dead is what it was. Rhari stayed in her crouch but moved forward. With one foot she tested the stairs. They flexed, but held. Now for the tricky part. From the inside of her jacket came a small cylinder. Round and green. Numbers were painted on the side in a flat, US military issue, black. Like everything else, Rhari had learned not to ask how supplies were obtained. It was what was known as a flash grenade, or a flash bang grenade depending on the contents. She pulled the pin and lugged it through the doorway, then clenched her eyes shut tight and followed. She dove, cleared the stairs, rolled, and came up firing. Three rounds in every direction. Dive. Three rounds. Dive. The flash went off followed by the bang and she heard something scream. Roar was too pitiful a word. Roar implied some type of menace. This was pain. Pure and simple. Rhari threw three bursts and saw cover through her tightly squinted eyes. She dove for it and came up still unsure where the cry of pain had come from. The grenade fizzled and the room fell into darkness. Rhari waited for her vision, but she could already hear something moving. She couldn’t fire and give away her position, nor could she hide her breathing, or her scent, or detect from which direction the smell of burning flesh lingered the strongest. With the descent of its scream the basement fell into silence. How did she get herself into this mess? It was a cleanup. Simple. Sweet. First assignment and she gets a Lucky. A box overturned and Rhari pumped three shells into the direction the sound had come from. She dove and heard the clamor as her cover of packing crates disintegrated. She didn’t wait. She skittered through the darkness as fast as she could. No longer trying to be quiet, only trying to put space between her and the attacker. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 177 She passed through a doorway into another room and kicked the door shut behind her. The walls and darkness closed in, but for the moment the door didn’t open. She moved to the back. Kicking scrap furniture out of her way. Beds identical to the one above had been dismantled and discarded here. Chairs from the bar. Old booths. Even a jukebox. She moved into the deepest corner, as far from the doorway and as deep into cover as she could get. She still heard nothing. The door remained closed. Her heart was beating frantically and at last she remembered to check her clip. One bullet left. She pulled it out and let the cartridge fall to the ground. She reached for a second and— —strong arms exploded through the wall around her. She screamed and the Ruger clattered to the floor as she was pulled backward through the rotting plaster. She screamed. Artificial panic. And felt the grip loosen enough to for her to twist a wrist into position and spring the clip. Warm blood spurted over her fingers and the arms dropped her. She stayed down and rolled in time to avoid a swinging fist that wiped out a wooden support. Slivers of splinters stabbed at her cheek, but she was up and moving. Running. Whatever it was, man or beast, it was right behind her and coming strong. She dropped again at the last second. Lowered her head and jogged right in time to avoid a punch that would have crushed the back of her skull. She saw fur, deformed hands. Claws. Felt the fetid breath blow over the side of her neck. Not a man. She didn’t go for her backup piece. She didn’t have the time to draw it. Pausing for a second meant death. Her only option was to run – if all else fails... She caught a break when it missed a beam and collided head on with a thick steel support rod. The room filled with that faint metallic echo church bells make. Overhead the barroom shook. Glasses fell from their shelves. Shattered. Rhari had time to go for the HK. She pulled it free and dove, emptying the mag into the space where the wolf should have been. The muzzle flashes blinded her. She forgot to close her eyes, but she didn’t care. She kept pulling the trigger. The chamber clicked home on dead air. Again. Again. Again. Rhari pulled loose a spare clip and chambered it, catching the empty one before it had a chance to drop. She waited; listening. —silence... But that wasn’t all. —power. edited by Joshua Goudreau 178 Rhari felt it cascade across her. Over her skin. Smothering her. After a moment it became hard to breath. It was like water. Like being trapped beneath the surface with the pressure piling down on top of you. It grew, and grew and kept pressing down, shoving at her. It was testing her defenses. Probing. Acknowledging the presence it sensed there. Recognizing it. Drawing on it, drawing it out. Forcing it into the open and smothering it. Smothering until at last her own began to emerge. It flowed over her like a brownish red wave. Warm and deep and cunningly swift. Swelling in rich, deep waves of power— —but the others was pressing it back. The creature’s power slammed into her like a wall. Knocking the breath from her lungs and rattling the teeth in her mouth. They began to lengthen... No. She fought back. Pulling her beast in, trying to smother it before it could blind her, but it was already too late; it was growing. Burning. Hot. Her hand clenched over the trigger of her gun, spasming in the pain, and she was forced to holstered it in order to stop herself from inadvertently firing the weapon. Pulling the trigger, or worse, bending the guard and ruining the weapon. Hot liquid splashed over her, climbing from her, thicker than sweat or blood, and Rhari jerked away. Silently her reflexes screamed, screamed for release. They screamed to fight or to flee. To run and hide or turn and attack. But before she could acknowledge their request something clenched tight over her jacket. It clenched tight over her heart, but the flak jacket stopped it from going further. Now she fought back, struggling to move. Her feet kicked, struck something firm that gave the tiniest bit and she felt flesh tear away with sickening ease. Her stomach churned. Nothing alive should give so easily. She felt the metal in her vest bending, pinching. She kicked out a second time, aiming higher, and was rewarded with a shallow grunt. She had little time to rejoice. The hand tightened, managed to wiggle its way beneath the plate and she was jerked upward into a falling slab of pain. A fist splattered her nose all over her face. Cartilage twisted, breaking the skin. Instantly she was choking on the blood. Breathing in death rattles. Her breath came in gasps. Ragged. Shock started to fall over her and the warm flow of safety retreat. She was jerked upward a second time, more forcefully. Her head lolled to the side and it took a moment to bring the giant monolith rising above her into focus. The man had a hold of her jacket and he used it to pull her up from the floor. He drove his fist home again and again, and more of her nose shattered. He clubbed the side of her head, scratched her, spit on her. Rhari The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 179 was too weak, too rattled, too frightened to respond. Inside she screamed for motion, but her body refused to listen. Then he broke the wrist she’d used to free herself. She didn’t have time to respond. He simply grabbed it and twisted the offending member over backward. The crack of bone was startlingly brilliant in the musty air. He punched her in the mouth and she felt teeth shatter. They grated over the inside of her cheek and tore it open. More blood was flowing down her throat. She began choking. The man moved his grip from the jacket to her throat and suddenly it didn’t matter that she couldn’t breathe past the blood, because she couldn’t breathe at all. He didn’t wait for an ingratiating response on her part. He moved. She felt her feet dragging over the worn stone floor. Weakly she attacked the fingers, prying, clawing at them, but no, nothing, and then it was too late. He slammed her into a brace. Something in her back cracked. Above them the crystal chandelier dropped. The noise it made as it hit the floor was like an explosion. Kerosene splashed over her face, burning. Rhari’s eyes jerked open for an instant, spinning wildly, bloodshot across the vacant spaces of blackness as clarity fought to return. There wasn’t much light. What she could see was trapped beyond intelligible bubbles of pitch. Empty spots in her vision. The grip on her throat loosened, sweet heaven filled her lungs. Stars passed through her vision like the walls of a tunnel, lengthening, leading outward. She saw light, movement, dark shapes and moving shadows, and then she was being drug upward. She didn’t try to stop herself. She felt her feet leave the ground and knew trying it would be useless. If kicking him in the balls hadn’t worked kicking him in the gut wasn’t likely to illicit much more of a response. His hand tightened and she could feel each individual finger closing over her neck. Each one pressing into her flesh. Each of the empty spaces between them and the tiny fragments of air that were trapped there. He lifted her, dragging her back over the coarse wooden log and making sure she felt every knot, every protrusion where a limb had once jutted outward, on her way up. He moved her forward, toward him, loose of the log. Then he drove her back. Forward. Back. Forward. Back. Her teeth clapped together and Rhari narrowly avoided taking off her tongue. She wasn’t sure how and she wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t go for the Heckler and Kosch. Her hand strayed over one of the spare clips, perhaps with a mind and a purpose of its own, and it clattered to the floor. The man, this man, the one from the picture she’d burnt in the room above, slammed her hard into the log brace one last time before pausing. His eyes lowered, trailing over her bloody shirt, the torn jacket, lastly her pants with edited by Joshua Goudreau 180 the random bulges and velcro straps before stopping on the extended magazine. He didn’t wait long before returning his stare to her face. His face wasn’t human. It wasn’t beast. The skin was torn. Bubbling. Lecherous. Beneath the surface things moved. Things that shouldn’t have been there. Muscles that weren’t muscles. Veins that weren’t wholly veins; squirming. The look that passed over his features wasn’t pleased, and for a moment he looked on the verge of fingering his stomach. Rhari saw the spattering of empty holes marking center mass. The dark black splotch of arterial bleed. Also for the first time she saw that the blood she’s drawn wasn’t red. It was black. Black like pitch. Like grave dirt. Then the hand tightened. He raised her again. Driving her back into the coarse wooden log and this time not releasing the pressure. Power washed over her. Reeking, dead power. The things beneath his skin churned, twisting maddeningly, frantically. Rhari wanted to scream, but she still couldn’t breath. This wasn’t a Lucky. Whatever the hell it was it wasn’t even supposed to exist. Not according to the council. Not according to council law. Necromancy was a lost art. It was outlawed; no-no land by council creed. Things like this got their makers killed, Masters made raven, Hunters called in to clean up the mess... Shit... things dropped into place with a startling clarity. Her first assignment. The planning. The snap shots. The dossier. Even the fire. If she failed the mess would be cleaned up just as easily as if she’d never been there. Dead flesh burnt just as easily as old lumber, better sometimes. The man’s mouth opened and he breathed on her and somehow Rhari gagged. Her gorge rose in her throat but stopped, unable to get past his hand. He pulled her forward, closer, close enough to see the yellow puss that leaking from the empty sockets of his eyes. Then slammed her backward. Driving her into the post. Her head cracked into the support and her hands flailed loosely. She reached for the gun, but found it wasn’t there. Her right hand was a white sheet of agony. Her vision blurred again and she realized it was partially because she couldn’t open her eyes. Couldn’t hold them open. It was too much. They batted uselessly. She wanted to yawn, to stretch, but she couldn’t breathe. The feeling was going. The coldness. The warmth. The burning in her arm. It was all blurring. Blending into a drowsy plethora of inconvenience. She was slipping. Slipping closer to the edge than she should have allowed, but her body wouldn’t respond. It refused. It would not listen and she couldn’t make it. The dead man’s eyes opened, but there was nothing there. Nothing but open air and opportunity. Then his mouth opened, and the teeth, the teeth... Somehow, she wasn’t sure how, but she slapped weakly at the creatures chest. Her hand drug loosely over the rotting clothing, more of a caress as it The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 181 trailed over the line of a neck, over a cheek. Something slimy touched her palm, biting, but she couldn’t stop herself. She moved higher, higher. Touching hair. Soft. Blonde. Like a surfers. Strangely it is the only thing still alive. Her hand lowered back. Back to the cheek, searching, searching, and he drove her backward. Knocking her head again and again into the thick post. Her vision blurred. Doubling. Tripling. The dark spots reappearing as she traced lower, lower. He threw her backward into the post again and a warm feeling began spreading over the back of Rhari’s skull. Something ruptured. Something popped. Like cartilage. She didn’t care. She couldn’t feel it. She felt his cheek. The thick, unreal skin and the things crawling beneath it, her fingers traced over it lightly, tenderly, and the man looked back at her confused, misunderstanding. He hesitated. She triggered the spring clip and the dagger disappeared into the spot where his eye used to be. The creature screamed and was like nothing Rhari had ever heard before, and she didn’t care. It dropped her, clutching at its eye as its mouth yawned in pain. Rhari was screaming too as she reached into her pocket and pulled out the tiny glass vial. She clutched the thing’s jacket and the material ripped open beneath her palms, baring dry, rotting skin. Things were crawling out. Crawling over his chest, from between rotting ribbons of flesh, but Rhari ignored it. She could barely stand. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t breathe. There was too much blood. Too much blood everywhere. But she pulled herself upward, grasping at the tattered clothing, digging until she found something that didn’t rip or tear. She pulled herself upward, plunged the glass into its mouth, deep into its mouth, between widening, lengthening rows of teeth, then she drove its jaw upward with the butt of her wrist. There was a sickening crunch and a dark silvery liquid ran over her palm, down her arm. Black blood, grave dirt, dripped from the empty holes torn through flesh. Through bone. The thing screamed, pulling away from her. It dropped her. Dropped her and turned as though to make an escape, but instead it fell. It struck the hard cement and already it seemed as though it was crumbling, drawing in upon itself. It was shriveling, dying, its voice slowly muffling into a ragged whistle of pain. But Rhari heard none of it, she felt none of it. Only pain. Agony. She fell and there was nothing and no one there to catch her as she struck the hard cement. Her wrist twisted beneath her, she felt searing hot agony as the bone broke the surface. It was too much. Overwhelming. She blacked out.

*** edited by Joshua Goudreau 182 A dark figure slipped from the alleyway onto the seclusion of the unlit streets. It was limping slightly. One hand pulled tight against its chest. Fresh linens spread outward from the leather sleeves of a torn brown jacket. From its back, amidst the dark pilings and smatterings of trash stacked loosely about bins and cans came the light cackle of fire. A few loud barks, like knots in a pinewood log, split the still night air. The resulting flare lit the darkened windows of the structure behind it like bits of lightning. The figure did not respond; as though it heard nothing. So, save for the two of them, the tiny explosions went ignored. They might as well not have existed. Duvall watched the woman hesitate then, watched the unfavored hand shift lightly over the base of her neck. The night was rent by silent clicks. Through a series of jerky movements a long, thin tube emerged. Duvall watched her hands play lightly over the surface of her torn brown jacket, searching for the keys. He watched her find them, watched her open the door and toss the sheath into the rear seat. Then she removed her two guns, the Ruger and the Heckler and Kosch, and dropped them onto the floorboard. He wasn’t foolish enough to suspect she had left them loaded. She would know better. She should know better. They should have been disposed of in the fire or in some river immediately afterward. He wasn’t wrong to suspect one or the other held some sentimental value for the woman. Sentiments got you killed as easily as foolish mistakes. Or a botched assignment. He was still so very surprised that they had chosen her for one so deeply suspect as this. One so dangerous, so deadly to their cause. It showed great respect, great belief in her teaching and in her abilities; and in her will to survive. And great trust; as she was still alive, so perhaps it was not misplaced. The woman looked his way and he dropped back into the shadows. Duvall peered out through leopard eyes. Eyes that were stained in yellow and brown spots, not willing her to look away, willing her to approach, to have seen him. To come and confront him... and accuse him, but she did not. Instead she turned away, turned to her automobile and climbed inside. Her keys found the ignition and the vehicle rumbled to life.

As Rhari dropped her sword onto the rear floorboard she felt a second presence. A stronger one, coming from the empty space between buildings across the street. The space between her shoulders prickled, hair rose down the length of her spine, but she didn’t hesitate, she forced herself not to. The Ruger, then the Heckler and Kosch followed the sword into the back, though with more reluctance than she would have liked. She was defenseless. The chambers in both were empty. She wouldn’t have the time to load either of them if her guess was right. She’d only been able to retrieve one of her daggers, and she left it in the pocket where she’d placed it. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 183 Rhari put her hands on the roof, flattened them, then looked back over her shoulders. She saw him. Standing in the shadows, she watched him step back like he expected her not to see. She pretended she didn’t. His black jacket blew lightly about him. Like a set of wings. She climbed inside her car and shut the door. The streets were empty. Far ahead in the distance there were lights. Civilization. But for tonight they would not reach here. Not this street. Not this neighborhood. Not while there Hunters were in town. She shifted her legs, and felt the torn cartilage heal. Slivers of bone in her wrist tried to mend themselves, but she forced it to stop. They would need set and then a splint, or else they would have to be all broken again. She found the keys, then found the ignition. The engine roared to life and she pulled out into the street.

Duvall sank further into the shadows and watched her leave.

Rhari left Bright Avenue behind her. Warrens. Black Mountain, Michigan. The man with angel wings and leopard eyes. She found her rental car in the woods and drove it to the address of a doctor they’d given. The next morning she was on a flight to Rome, the next evening a train in Clermont- Ferrand. She rented a car and drove to Issoire. In a shady spot in the woods she vanished for a time and let the fox hunt.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 184

Loyalty In Question, Part I by Ricky Lee McCullough

IT WAS A BRISK, OCTOBER EVENING THAT FOUND ME IN AN unlicensed cab traveling in the direction of Hounslow. The weather, that most harped upon of English pleasantries, was frigid to the point of virginal, my errand was undesirable, and to top it all off, I happened to be late. My name is Lee McCullough, and I am (among other things), a Police Officer. It was in this capacity that my current endeavor was unfolding, and, as usual my journey would end -and case begin- with a corpse. I approached the crime scene as the bright, full moon lifted herself above the clouds and cast her silvery, mystical glow over the urban topography. The moon has always held an interest for me - yet the mammoth pull of her monstrous mass seems widely disregarded throughout modern society, and consistently underestimated. Shall we be frank about this? Anything that has the power to move entire oceanic bodies of water miles across the land should be taken very seriously. If gravitational pull can affect something with no will so profoundly, its effect upon a soul-bearing entity could prove to be staggering. In my hand rested a piece of paper on which I had hastily scribbled a street name I didn’t recognize, dictated to me over the phone by one my fellow (though lower ranking) officers. “It’s hot and heavy, mate,” he’d informed me, though he was unwilling to furnish the details, always a bad sign. We turned onto the street in question: flashing lights sitting atop squad cars illuminated my path in garish blue and red. We pulled up and I departed the cab without paying; the driver was sharp enough to realize pursuing me into a building full of policemen was too ambitious a task for his unlicensed pride. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 185 I queried the officers hanging around the vestibule and procured the location of the crime. It was a flat on the 4th floor, and the lift was broken. Hounslow: what a lovely area. My boss, Sergeant Jack Cody, was the first person I saw as I alighted on the 4th: lucky fuckin’ me. “I’m late, I know, I know, I’m sorry,” I apologized as I approached him. “I left four messages on your machine, McCullough,” he said, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, “where have you been?” I stepped past him into the flat, considering my response. It was a 1- bedroom abode, cramped, decrepit, a lush shade of shit brown. “I was… busy,” I told him evasively. Better to leave his wife out of this, I felt. “Better late than never, huh?” I added. “This is the third murder in the past three months perpetrated by this psycho,” he said, his face darkening as blood rushed to it, “and remind me, as lead investigator of this case, what you’ve got?” “You know what I’ve got. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. This guy kills like Manson, and vanishes like Houdini…” Cody allowed a silence to linger between us for moment; residing smugly between the lines was the comment that someone who was fucking up as badly as I was should be more punctual and less cocky. I chose not to acknowledge this. Snorting in disgust Cody turned and gestured me into the bedroom where the corpse resided. The victim had been a young, Caucasian male in his early twenties named Gentle Anderson. Software programmer by occupation, hedonistic transvestite by inclination, Gentle was one of an increasing number of repressed working-class, city inhabitants who took their pleasures in a woman’s clothes. Tokens of his secret, sensual, hidden life were littered around the flat; a layered peroxide hairpiece; prosthetic breasts on a mahogany stand; a packet of condoms, ribbed, for his pleasure. His alternative life had been clearly reflected in an alternative death; his body, naked, except for a brunette wig and mascara was suspended from a light fixture in the ceiling, his torso and stomach opened for casual perusal. It appeared the majority of his organs had been removed, exposing his body’s fleshiest intimacies for all to see. The lower half of the man was a dripping, bloody mess; a deep, full, reddish-brown stain adorned the carpeting for some distance beneath him. It has always amazed me how much blood a human body can contain. Around his neck, attaching him to the light fixture was something red and pulpy. This was (purely from an aesthetical point of view, you understand), quite tastefully complemented by his engorged, purple tongue, which lolled casually from the corner of his mouth. It was distressing to me. edited by Joshua Goudreau 186 Cody appeared mesmerized by the sight. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” he asked. “No,” I lied. “I mean,” he continued, “what is that attaching him to the ceiling?” “His small intestine?” I ventured, hoping the statement sounded ambiguous enough to come across as a question. I heard someone retch and gag as they registered what I’d said. “Shit… your right,” Cody said. He turned to look at me, scrutinizing. “Is there something about your past I should know?” he asked, forced jest adhering to his question, not quite masking the nucleus of seriousness housed at its core. I was formulating a reply when we were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was a young bobby I recognized, Adrian Kurtas. He seemed to recognize he’d caused a disruption, his voice trembled slightly as he asked: “Sergeant Cody?” “Yes, Kurtas?” “There’s a lady down the hall… she says she may have information pertaining to the… incident …” “Okay… we can’t question her while she’s ‘down the hall’, can we, son?” Cody said, enunciating every word. “Uh, no…” “So, can you get her, and bring her to me, please?” After a lengthy pause Kurtas admitted: “It’s not as simple as that, sir. She won’t come out of her flat.” The look of disgust on Cody’s face was impressive. “McCullough,” he said, looking up at me, “you have a reputation as one for the ladies. Go and see what’s wrong with this old bat.” I left the crime scene and walked four doors down to where a uniformed officer appeared to be talking to a door. As I got closer, I distinguished a woman’s shrill voice berating him; finally noticing me: “She won’t let me in,” he intoned in way of introduction, shrugging his shoulders slightly. I shooed him out of the way and knocked rather loudly before formally announcing myself. “This is Detective Lee McCullough, of the Metropolitan Police. May I come in and speak with you, ma’am?” The door opened, just a little, catching when the thin, metal security chain went taught. The woman peering at me through the gap in the doorway looked ancient; from atop her head sprouted an unruly mop of white-gray hair. “You sound like a nice young man, Officer McCullough,” she said to me, “your not going to hurt me, are you?” “You have my word,” I told the pensioner, “that no harm shall come to you.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 187 She studied me intently for a few seconds, her creased face breaking into a toothless grin as she assured herself of my integrity. “Come in Officer McCullough, come in!” The woman closed the door a little, and fiddled with the chain noisily; a few moments later there was a loud click as her arithmetic fingers solved the catch, and the door swung open. She stepped back, raised her arm and beckoned me into her home. The first thing to hit me was the smell; it was a musty, rotten smell, faintly reminiscent of a rubbish dump. The insidious aroma prompted a reflection in my mind – vision may lend itself more readily to comprehension, but smell is the hotline to memory – during the day previously I had participated in a chase: two robbers had fled across a semidemolished residential area covered in refuse –and smelling very much like this woman’s flat– finally attempting to escape apprehension in an old, derelict shoe factory; no such luck, the factory had been locked tight – a large, metal, solid-looking door at the entrance had ended their aspirations to wealth, though they were rich in time now. “McCullough?” Snapped from my reverie my face betrayed a brief and honest reflection of my surroundings; the woman either chose to ignore, or failed to see the wrinkles of distaste that adorned my face. Her sitting room was lined with newspapers, tens of thousands of newspapers, covering the walls from threadbare carpet to sagging ceiling. From where I stood, a partial view into the bedroom revealed a similar sight. “They’re all coordinated, you know?” she said, noting my ‘interest’. I harbored the impression there was little else this woman would willingly discuss, at least little else that was of practical use to my enquiries until some sort of tribute was furnished upon her ‘collection’. Okay, I’ll bite: “They are?” “Sure they are! Sorted by paper, year, and importance…” True enough, looking at the size and shape of the piles I could discern different brands of paper, and each pile had scraps of card poking out at various points detailing year printed in a spidery, slanted script. “Interesting. Very interesting, Miss…?” “Brooking, Lily Brooking.” “Okay, Miss Brooking, I have to say your collection is very impressive,” I lied. “It must have taken you a very long time to amass?” “25 years,” she stated proudly. “What a feat! That must have taken an incredible amount of organization.” Time to cut to the chase; the smell was beginning to make me nauseous. “Was it while you were tending to your papers that you overheard a commotion outside, perhaps?” edited by Joshua Goudreau 188 “Yes! Well, no. I was actually coming back from the shops with my daily ration of papers,” she said, gesturing to a small pile of newspapers stacked neatly on the living room table, “and I could hear these two boys behind me.” “Boys? Okay… What were they saying?” “Most of what they were talking about was related to a young lady they both found very attractive. The things they were saying, oh, quite nasty boys!” she croaked. “Undoubtedly,” I replied. “They came into the building behind you. Did you get a look at them?” She fidgeted. “A brief one, yes. I couldn’t see them while they were walking behind me, of course, but I managed to snatch a glance as I was opening the door to my flat.” “Good,” I said, and took down the descriptions. There was nothing particularly revealing there, one white man, one white black man – both descriptions nondescript for the average male of their racial denomination. “Did they say anything unrelated to this lucky young lady that may had been to do with the crime? Anything suspicious, perhaps?” “So there’s been a crime –an attack– then?” “There’s been an… incident,” I replied, knowing the nature of the murder precluded any discussion of its finer points at this junction; God only knows how the media would react once they got their grimy little hands on it. “It must be quite serious for all these Policemen to be here!” Lily said, pleased by her powers of deduction. “That would be a safe assumption to make considering the circumstances.” “Well,” She said, “imagine that…” I checked the descriptions again. “So, Lily, I repeat: did you overhear anything that may have been related to the crime?” Lily met my gaze, her cheek twitching slightly. “This could be an incredibly serious incident, Lily. A matter of life and death, perhaps; it is of the utmost importance that you assist us in any way possible with our enquiries…” Lily paused. She opened her mouth to speak, and promptly closed it again. I opened my own mouth – tired now of her Alzheimer based rhetoric – did she not realize what a Health and Safety travesty this flat was? I could have her and her pathetic collection ejected from the flat with six words. What would she do with her precious papers then? Construct a house out of them? My tongue was stayed as she quickly muttered: “Well… I wasn’t going to say, I mean, I wasn’t sure I’d even heard correctly, it sounds so silly…” “I’m sure it won’t sound silly,” I said, flashing an encouraging grin. “Come on, Lily, try me.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 189 “Well… They were whispering to each other as they followed me down the corridor, that’s what aroused my suspicions… I stood behind the door when I came in and listened to them pass. They were talkin’ real low like, but I heard one of them use the phrase ‘Dragon’s Tooth’. I can’t imagine what they were talking about, out of this world on drugs, no doubt.” “‘Dragons Tooth’?” I repeated, frowning. It didn’t ring any bells with me, but I’d run the reference through the usual sources, see what I came up with. “That’s what they said, laddie. Of course when your lot turned up I was almost sure it was something to do with those boys. That’s why I called you…” I double checked my two descriptions and left Lily to her cataloguing.

I re-entered the crime scene as Cody delivered a scathing lecture on the nature of Basic Fingerprinting Procedure to a junior member of the forensic team; spotting me he dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. “What did she say?” he demanded. “We have descriptions of two possible perps–” “Finally! ” Cody interjected. “Jack, wait. It’s a basic description at best, and were not even sure that these two–” “But it’s something! Something to get on at last,” he ejaculated, his face flushing. “Your right,” I said, reiterating the descriptions to Cody. “There was something else though, something a little peculiar.” “Oh?” “The woman heard the guys conversing, and is positive she heard them make reference to a ‘Dragon’s Tooth’. It makes no sense to me, anything you recognize?” “Personally, no,” he replied, staring into the distance thoughtfully. “Run it through the system, mate.” “Will do,” I said, and left the room. The building was strangely quiet as I descended; the presence of Policemen always seems to inspire a certain texture of silence in the general public; I’d like to think this came from a desire to show respect for (and assist) any investigation that may be in progress, but understand it actually stems from the fear of discovery; the public ‘enemy’ are not enthusiastic about illicit dealings, they frown upon that. My mind wandered reptilian avenues as I descended; this phrase, or term, ‘Dragon’s Tooth’, what did it mean? Could it connotate some sort of weapon, perhaps? The boys, should they indeed be the murderers (which sat well in my gut) were discussing this tooth on the way to Anderson’s flat, and he’d obviously been cut to shreds with some sort of sharp instrument… It edited by Joshua Goudreau 190 was a possible line of enquiry; I’d have more precise info to evaluate (rather than speculate upon) once the forensics were in. What else could it be? Drugs, perhaps? A trendy nickname for some variety of Eastern narcotic? Entirely possible, I find myself constantly amazed by the creativity drug users will exhibit when naming their poison of choice – as if a glamorous label can help color their consuming addictions in some small, favorable light. Or a person? A man? Or woman? (We have to be very careful with issues of equality in today’s Police Force, even when it comes to the fuckin’ criminals; a lawsuit is a lawsuit.) Ah, shit. Who am I kidding? With no facts to hand, conjecture was almost entirely useless at this point, ‘intellectual masturbation’ I believe is the term; I’d find myself a telephone and start making calls. I reached the vestibule, a sparse thing, which housed a small pay phone in the corner. Upon inspection I discovered the digit ‘0’, as well as the coin return slot had been glued down. Typical. If memory served correctly, there was a working pay phone outside the newsagents only a few streets away. I went to investigate.

There was some sort of domestic disturbance unraveling in the newsagents adjacent to the phone box; a heavily pregnant young woman was gesticulating wildly to the Indian owners, while watched by a young man I assumed to be their son. I placed a quick call to the station, but there was no record of any ‘Dragon’s Tooth’ in the system; at least, no instantly recognizable reference that made sense in the context of a murder. There were still the paper records of course, that continent of information that had not been transferred to digital format. Assurances were made to me that many hands would make light work of this reference in the record room, but I had little confidence in this, which left my next point of contact. I dialed a number and waited. Three rings and my man picked up. “Speak.” “Larry? It’s McCullough. I need some information, mate.” There was a slight, methodical pause. “Yeah? What kind of information you need, pig?” I noted with curiosity he was in of his moods. “There’s been a murder in Hounslow, it’s hot, mate. I’ve got a reference to a ‘Dragon’s Tooth’. I need to know where it fits, how it fits, and who’s puzzle it is.” “‘Dragon’s Tooth’?” Larry said, “cant’ say I’ve heard the term before, coppa. Sounds a little melodramatic if you ask me.” I’d been afraid of this. Going through the files is arduous and time consuming. I’m not inclined to that type of shit at all; if it all possible, I’ll make my first port of call the street and the rats thrive on it. Information The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 191 procured here (should you have the right sources), comes quicker, is cleaner, and far more up-to-date than any of that bullshit that accumulates at the back of the station in the green suspension folders. Information on the street is a different kind of animal; it lives, breathes, squats and shits, but most importantly it evolves as events unfold. I’m told, excitedly informed no less, that the new computer databases are set to revolutionize the way we apprehend the criminally deviant, the dangerously insane. It’s possible I guess, but then again, I’ve seen with my own eyes (on multiple occasions) the database programmers changing data – evidence – because it didn’t fit cleanly or concisely enough with their preprogrammed data tables, and could potentially muddy the results when compiling statistics, or trying to form psychological profiles. Which is why I get so frustrated when my boys say, ‘I don’t know, McCullough.’ Larry is only the first of many of course, yet something about his disposition made me suspicious. “It does sound a little dramatic for the streets of Hounslow,” I threw at him playfully, “you sure it doesn’t ring any bells though?” “Listen, coppa, I ‘aint heard of no ‘Dragons Tooth’, claw, or any other part of its scaly atanomy!” “Anatomy. ” “Whatever!” Larry’s bad attitude served to rouse my temper. At times like these you need to put your grass in his place. “What. Do. You. Think.” I enunciated slowly, my voice edged, “the boys down Harlesden would do if they found out the rat behind the Kilburn coke crackdown was none other than Larry ‘The Magician’ Corbett? A lot of big names went down that day, Larry…” “Hold on a second, mate! There’s no need for that! I’ve always given you good info, right?” We both left unspoken the paradoxically challenging concept of a ‘loyal grass’. We’d done this dance before, and we’d do it again, no doubt. “Dragon’s Tooth.” I heard a resigned sigh: “Okay, you win. Where are you?” I told him where I was and dictated the number of the pay phone I was phoning from. “Stay by the phone, I’ll ring you back in ten minutes,” Larry said, and hung up. I stepped from the phone box and surveyed the street: empty and cold. The moon peaked out at me from behind a thick bank of gray cloud. I itched my face. Most normal people were tucked up in bed at this time of night, to sleep, perchance to dream – to fortify themselves for the following days form of socially acceptable slavery, or, ‘work’. My leg gave a sharp twinge as I strolled; it still gave me grief though it had been weeks since I had actually edited by Joshua Goudreau 192 sustained the injury. It had been during a case of course, a peculiar case. The criminal, a man named John Thorgood, had maneuvered himself into a rather delicate position with a local gambling baron, and had sought solution to his financial woes by trying to utilize the Dark Art of Necromancy to revive the essence of his dead grandmother, whom, it was claimed, had been granted (and hidden) a Royal boon by the reigning Monarch of the period, George V. I had apprehended Thorgood at Fortune Green graveyard as he exhumed the grave of his dead grandmother, her yellow bones spread about the gaping hole in a rather pathetic representation of a Pentagram. It was during my explanation of some of the more elementary reasons his ‘plan’ was unsound that he stabbed me in the calf, with, what I later learned was his grandmothers femur. All in a days work… Behind me the corner shop commotion had escalated into a climacteric confrontation; the boy I had assumed to be the fallopian-filling son actually appeared to be a customer, who fled from the premises as the shopkeepers wife pulled over a hefty display stand, emptying its contents over the back of her husband who was sitting on the floor with the pregnant child in his arms, crying like a baby. “Heh.” The domestic theatre had not improved any as the payphone started to ring. I picked up the receiver. “Hit me.” “The ‘Dragon’s Tooth’ is a new name on the scene,” Larry started, “a big name, or so I’m told. It’s the street name of a man. He’s from China, you know, an origami. Some kind of Martial Art’s Master, or sumthin’.” “Now were getting somewhere,” I said. “Where can I find this Oriental?” “I’m told he has a drum on West End Lane, a ground floor flat in the Inglewood Mansions.” He chuckled to himself. “Inglewood Mansions. Who said God doesn’t have a sense of humor?” “Anything else?” I asked. “Christian name? Known associates?” “For fuck’s sake, McCullough! Do you have any idea what a risk I’m takin’ even askin’ for shoppable details on the latest drug pusher on the scene? And you want me to get his – what was it? ‘Christian name’? Your lucky I even called you back!” I pulled my toe back to my side of the line. “You’re right. You’ve been a big help, Larry. If this pan’s out you’ll get your usual fee, mate. I’ll keep the source to myself, as usual.” “You’d better! If this gets back to me, I’m brown bread. ” With that he hung up, leaving me to contemplate the monotonic depths of the dial tone. I was a fair distance from West End Lane and would have to jump on the train. Not that I had any choice in the matter, I’d crashed my car the best part of a week before chasing a pair of armed pedophiles down the Kilburn High Road. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 193 ***

West Hampstead generally seemed a lot more upmarket than I’d expected, more like Kensington than Kilburn. A small café sat roughly opposite the ‘Inglewood Mansions’, which had about as much in common with splendor and wealth as a Brazilian shantytown. The words ‘immigrant’, ‘illegal’ and ‘flop-house’ came to mind fairly easily, in any combination you care to formulate. I procured a cup of coffee from the waitress and settled down by the window to watch the debilitated building, my surroundings prompting an almost unconscious patting of my wallet pocket every three of four minutes. By my fifth cup of coffee, I had very good reason to suspect that ‘Bruce’ was a dealer. Socially ‘challenged’ people entering and leaving his ground floor flat every ten minutes were testament to that. On my sixth cup I hit the bulls eye, along with an almost profound depth of caffeine-based awareness. Two men, roughly matching the description the odd, paper collecting woman had given to me entered the flat. True to form, they departed less than ten minutes later, heading left along West End Lane. Time to ‘earn my pay packet’ as Cody always put it. I got up, accepted the waitress’ mobile number and set off to follow the two young men. I trailed them at a safe distance, noting with interest the youths looked decidedly pleased with themselves. They chose to express these feelings of well being by kicking over rubbish bins and smashing car windows; yeah, classy lads. Where, I wondered, would a pair of losers like this go to hang out? I had my answer shortly: an old, abandoned shoe factory. In fact, the very same factory I’d chased and then apprehended the pair of robbers to the day previously. The factory was located at the center of a large area of open space; the buildings previously surrounding it had been demolished with varying degrees of success years earlier. The shoe factory had attained a temporary reprieve due to the fact it fell under the ‘historic preservation’ banner. In laymen’s terms this meant that because at some point in his or her life a famous person had taken a shit in the building, it was the law to leave it standing no matter how decrepit it got (and this building was fucked). To the horror of many a land development company, I’d wager, the factory was the only erect building in a fifty-meter radius; what a pathetic obstacle to have between you and a multi story car park, or shopping center, or whatever-the- fuck-it-is that land developers are exploiting history for these days. I hung back while the youths crossed the wreckage. I had to allow them quite a head start as they trudged in the direction of the factory; the terrain was too bare for me to follow them closely, I’d be spotted in a second. I followed them slowly, trying to utilize as much cover as possible from the pieces of concrete and metal littering the ground, many of which were large edited by Joshua Goudreau 194 enough to afford temporary shelter. I crouched, ran, crawled and dived through the wreckage, pausing, as I’ve said, behind the larger pieces, from whose vantage I was afforded glimpses of my quarry. My progress was favorable; past two broken washing machines, a bed-frame, and then a derelict fridge. I paused here, and glanced around the dirty plastic door to once again mark the positions of the two boys. My gaze caught them as they approached the front doors; this was strange – I’d been involved in a chase the day previously that had been terminated by those doors; they were large, metal bastards, dark brown in color, the type the council attach to vacant residences to deter squatters. Believe me, these doors were fuckers, the only way you were going to get a pair illegally open was with a serious array of tools, and a lot of patience. I know this from first hand experience. I climbed the fridge to see if I could obtain a clearer view of where else they could possibly be headed; the clarification that it was indeed the factories’ barred doors occurred in the same instant that the ground beneath the fridge gave way. I let out an involuntary yelp as I plunged through a layer of the wreckage, cursing myself before I’d even hit the floor. So much for the cool, calm professional. I came to a stop, my head resting on the bowl of a broken toilet. I dared not move; if the sudden collapse had not roused their suspicions, a continued rummaging certainly would. I lay completely still, straining my ears for any sign of sound, my eyes tracing a faded ‘–E SHANKS’ on the broken porcelain. I felt a pressure on my hand and looked down to see a rat staring back at me, its nose twitching in anticipation, seemingly sizing me up for its next meal. Disgusted, I groped around for a large piece of stone, and, rolling the vermin off my hand, bludgeoned it twice. Standing as slowly as I could, I pulled myself out of the collapsed heap and peered toward the building in the direction the boys had been heading. To my great surprise I observed they were gone. Confused, I made a quick scan of the whole site: nothing. “But the only place to go would be into the factory...?” I muttered to myself, climbing up and over the fridge and turning to orientate myself with the entrance. Sure enough, from this new vantage the factory doors appeared open. This meant they had a key. Where would they get a fuckin’ key to the factory? I dropped the matter for the time being, filed it away in the back of my head under the heading of: ‘inconsistencies to be ironed out at my desk: 1. Procurement of keys.’ Knowing my luck, one of the lads would be the son of a filthy-rich industrialist who bought large plots of land such as this one to use as leverage for political favors from local members of government; obtaining keys for such a property would be of little difficulty for the son of a man like that, a lot easier then, say, me obtaining a conviction for multiple homicides. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 195 I picked my way carefully to the entrance, my head still spinning from the impact and my hands shaking violently. My vision was swimming, and this was helped in no way by the fact that the doors appeared to be… gone. As I stepped through the doorway this notion was arrested. The doors were, in a manner of speaking, still there; they lay horribly ruined a short distance inside the doorway, buckled almost out of recognition. It was confusing: there were no blast or powder marks, so it was unlikely to have been explosives, plus the metal was cool to the touch. I glanced back out of the doorway from where I was squatted. This felt wrong. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the inclination to leave and call for backup, a consideration that would allow me a measure of security I sorely lacked as things stood. You may say it was stubbornness that stayed my hand on this, or, if you were more perceptive, greed. My recent job related performance was, to be blunt, a travesty. I’ve had my mind on much more, how can I say it, profitable endeavors of late; the seduction of Cody’s matrimonial partner being an adequate example. If I didn’t make this arrest and close the case myself, I was getting fired. If I did, I was (as well as still being gainfully employed), a hero. A powerful incentive, I think you’ll agree. Another reason to proceed alone, I reflected, examining the twisted doors in the ample lunar light, came in the shape of a nasty suspicion that had spent some time lurking at the back of my mind.

To be continued...

edited by Joshua Goudreau 196

Perception by Christian Sarkis Graham

‘MID-LIFE CRISIS’ INDEED… They warn you about it growing up – what with all the jokes and cheesy primetime sitcom cracks and such – but you never really know, or understand the idea of it until you’re pushing fifty, alone, and in a job of licking envelopes or squeezing erasers into pencils, making a profit of quarters after bills and food purchases are out of the way. It’s not as if life with paid bills and a ‘stocked’ fridge is even that much brighter. Brown-tinted tap water and daily meals of spongy microwavable pasta just accumulate to make a sharper pain in the ass on top of the other pressures one who leads a life of low income may endure. As you may tell, I speak from experience. I’m no philosopher... but I’ve been here, cooperating with these procedures of life for about half a century and I think this qualifies me for knowing what the point of it all is. I’d really like to buy a Corvette or Porsche; a red-hot flashy deal with all the bells and whistles – the kind millionaires get when they’re self-conscious about their genitalia. It always seemed silly to me as a kid – seeing old farts medicate themselves with crimson hot-rods... but now that logic makes a lot more sense. Still, there’s no real benefit in me finally gaining any understanding of this theory. I don’t have nearly enough quarters saved up to pursue it. It’s routine that keeps me going, really. I’ve done the same thing every day for so many years that my scheduled actions and habits have all become so simple... so vital. It’s beyond the regularity of even eating or drinking – it’s all involuntary... planted in my subconscious. It’s breathing. I need to drag my sorry ass out of bed in the morning, I need to clean myself up and go to work, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 197 and I need to end my day at Hennigan’s Tavern. That last one’s an absolute must. Hennigan’s shouldn’t be that important to me, but it is. I wish it wasn’t, but it is. See, I’ve taken to using the bottom of my drink glasses there as kaleidoscopes – things to make everything look real pretty. They work a hell of a lot better than what you’ll find in a toy store, let me tell you. Once you’ve looked through one, you like what you see so much, you don’t ever want to look away. It’s gotten to the point where I need them the second I set foot in this tavern. Walking in now, I need one on the spot. Without them, I feel the chill of every drop from this leaking ceiling on my pattern-baldness-victimized head. I hear the moans and cries for renovation from the floorboards, walls and support beams, closely followed by their foretelling of an unauthorized and most unexpected implosion that’s sure to occur if the restoration for which they so desperately cry doesn’t come soon. And I see... I see the roaches squeezing through the jagged lightning bolt cracks spilled across the floor, scrambling their way towards the fluids I fully intend to inject into my system; the hopeless boozehounds with no prospects, aspirations or logical trains of thought, all barking their endless shaggy dog stories about how they ‘got no respect,’ like they’re all suddenly Rodney Dangerfield – men who I can’t help but pity, despite the fact that I’m on the same boat. And the bartender; the thirty-eight-year-old siren of a woman who only cracks a sincere smile to the ping of a coin hitting the bottom of her grimy tip jar or the ca-ching of her rusty register door creaking open to the presenting position, displaying its filthy insides – a woman who most likely slithers off to an even uglier side of town after closing hours to turn a few tricks for some quick cash – a woman who medicates you with her drinks like it was cough syrup or Pepto Bismol, just so she don’t have to listen to your belly aching – a woman who eats up my hard earned quarters from my dead end job like she was a crappy arcade game. That’s what I see. But with my kaleidoscopes, I tell you, it’s quite a different story. After looking through a few separate lenses (it takes a few tries till you find one that works) my whole perception is changed. I only feel that warm feeling like you’re getting hugged from the inside by some long lost high school sweetheart. I only hear the music of the tavern piano man who’s not even there, who’s playing us all happy memories we don’t even have. All I see is the cozy home I’ve known every night for the past fifteen years – a home that’s been giving me my Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas presents for as long as I’ve known it. I see my loving family living there at the counter with me – all of my brothers, each wonderfully different and unique, edited by Joshua Goudreau 198 with their own exuberant tales about how they used to be king of the world... and how they’ll take that title back one day soon. And then I see my woman – the breathless beauty behind the counter who always knows just what to serve me when I’m down; who could get any man she wants with those spinemelting curves, luscious, ample breasts and the kind of eyes angsty teens write poems about – and she wants me. Sure we’ve never really gone out on a ‘date’ – or seen each other outside this room – but she wants me, I know it. I know by the way she shakes her little hips right before she gets me a drink; how she always throws me a kinky little wink every time I toss a bill in her jar, like I’m rubbing her just the right way; how she always keeps an open ear to my griping, and knows right when I need a refill as I’m doing it, so I don’t even have to break to ask. She knows me too well. The only thing that separates us two is that oak counter where my glass goes. We’ve got a bond most people just can’t understand – not even my brothers to my left and right. They all bust my balls when I say things like she’s my soul mate. What do they know? If our lives were just a little different, me ‘n’ her... I’m sure we’d run away. I can see just how it’d be through my kaleidoscopes. She’d be givin’ drinks to everyone in the world... we’d be traveling, you see. Everyone’d be jealous ‘cause I got such a fine woman who’s got all the drinks I’ll ever need... that’s how it’d be. It’s around this time, right ‘bout now when I start screamin’ to them all bout how it’s gonna be b’tween me ‘n’ her, and about how I can see it all through my kaleidoscopes, it’s around now that she calls me a cab and pays for my ride home a few blocks away. I always offer to walk but she says something about her ‘best customer can’t get lost’ or something like that... I’m the best... she told me so... I’m her best. She pays for my rides. She loves me. Those assholes at the bar don’t know shit. At this part of th’night, I’ve looked through so many kaleid’scopes that I don’t need any more new ones. I’ve mem’rized the way it looks. It’ll wear off sooner or later though, but I’ll come back tomorrow t’get more. This cabby’s my best friend... drives me home every night. Alls I gotta do is say my address and he knows the way home. He also warms ups the cab for me... it’s always warm when I get in. He talks to me sometimes too, when he feels like it. He’s my best friend. ‘Sgood to have friends... Life is good...

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 199

Doctor Stevens by Rebecca Allen

DOCTOR JASON STEVENS WAS A FORTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD General Practitioner living at the back of his surgery. Jason had been the resident GP of his small town for over the last two decades, and was well known and respected within the close community. To many, the good looking widower was a member of their families. He knew their personal and medical histories, strengths, weaknesses, fears, hopes and problems. Jason was concerned about their welfare and was always there with a sympathetic ear, sound advice or a prescription for what ailed his loyal patients. Little did Jason know what this sunny Friday morning would bring as he stepped into his surgery to greet Mary, the receptionist, and his patients good morning. First up was old Bill Williams, a recovering alcoholic. After chatting for about ten minutes to make sure Bill was all right Jason prescribed his Campral, and then saw him to the door. After Bill left Jason ushered Mrs. Williams in, and gave her the regular injection of Benztrop for her Parkinsonism. The old dear was feeling a bit lonely today so Jason spent fifteen minutes or so with her before taking her back to the reception area so that her daughter could give her a ride home. And so the first part of the morning passed in a procession of the usual daily complaints he routinely dealt with. Nothing out of the ordinary came along to upset the tedium of life in a small town, at least until Jenny Callum came in just before he closed for lunch. “Come in Jen, how are you today?” Jason asked as he guided Jen into the office and closed the door behind her. “To be honest Jason, I am worried. I really need your help with my dad.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 200 Jason immediately became concerned, “Is Harry alright, it isn’t his heart again is it? He has an appointment with me this afternoon.” Jenny managed to look nervous and guilty at the same time as she said, “I know, that is why I came to see you this morning. Dad is fine thanks, but I do need your help with breaking some news to him. As you have been dad’s doctor and friend for the past nineteen years, and brought him through two heart attacks and a quadruple by-pass, I thought it best if you broke the news to him.” “All right Jenny, but what is this news I have to break to Harry, and why are you so worried about it?” Jenny sighed and said: “Dad found a lottery ticket he bought a while back. Last week he asked me to check it for him, saying it probably wasn’t worth the effort. When I had the ticket checked they said it was the winning ticket! Dad has won eleven million dollars! Jason, I am too scared to tell him in case the shock kills him.” Jason looked thoughtful before finally saying: “I agree with you Jenny, this will be a great shock and we will have to break the news to Harry carefully. Thanks for coming in to tell me. Just leave it in my hands now, and I’ll find the best way to tell Harry about his winnings.” After Jason had seen Jenny and Mary out he went through to the kitchen for lunch. He picked at his salad in a desultory fashion, more concerned about working out how to tell Harry Callum he had just become a multi- millionaire than eating. Although Jason fretted all through his lunch break inspiration eluded him. There was just no easy way to tell a person that they had just won eleven million dollars. Unless handled correctly however, this windfall would most likely become a death sentence for the recipient. As he moved back into the surgery the worried doctor was no nearer a solution than he was before his lunch break. The afternoon seemed to hurry by, as time does when some onerous task awaits us. Several patients commented that the good doctor seemed distracted, and not at all his usual self. Jason dispensed advice and medication with his habitual efficiency, but without his customary warmth. One eye was always on the clock as the minutes and faces went by in a blur. Before Jason knew it his old friend Harry was sitting across the desk from him, wearing his winning smile. After exchanging pleasantries Jason took Harry’s blood pressure, measured his pulse, checked his throat and took some blood to be tested by pathology in the city. Once he had completed everything the doctor was still at a loss about how to inform his old friend about his new found wealth, and so decided to approach the subject obliquely. After steering the conversation around to life and fortune he finally found his opportunity to raise the matter. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 201 “So, Harry, just imagine you won the lottery. You are sitting at home watching the television when you hear a knock at the door. When you answer the knock some well dressed stranger congratulates you, and hands you a check for eleven million dollars! What do you think you would do if that happened Harry?” The old man gave a little chuckle, “Now wouldn’t that be something Jason? It certainly would let a man do a lot of things, and make himself pretty comfortable all right. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure what I would do. The one thing I am sure of though Jason, is that after being my friend for nineteen years and saving my life several times, I would give you half of it.” Harry couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched his old friend Jason clutch his chest and fall to the floor, dead.

© Rebecca Allen 27-11-2005

edited by Joshua Goudreau 202

A Single Scream by Valerie

SHE HUMMED TO HERSELF AS SHE SPREAD THE MINT flavored toothpaste on the bristles of her pink handled toothbrush. Ava loved being home alone. She loved the silence of the house when her siblings weren’t around to keep up the constant chatter. She smiled into the mirror of the bathroom and ran her fingers through strands of her wavy hair before washing her face and changing into her pajamas. Her bare feet padded out of the bathroom and across the cold wood floor of her bedroom. Slipping herself into her cozy bed, she pulled the blankets around her slender body trying to warm herself up. While winter was her favorite season, it could sometimes get to be too much. She shivered slightly before pulling her heavy white down blanket up to her chin. She checked her alarm clock, making sure it was set for the morning, and then shut off her lamp, leaving her in complete darkness. She never heard the sound of shattering glass from the basement. Sometimes being a hard sleeper was a curse. As she slept peacefully in her warm bed, a strange man wandered silently around the room directly outside of her bedroom, quietly rummaging through everything in his path looking for anything he could sell. His last stop was her bedroom. Neither knew of the other’s presence, until she opened her eyes and heard him at her vanity. Sitting up she screamed, trying to back away from his approaching body. She felt his warm hands cover her nose and mouth while something cold and hard pressed into her temple. She tried to scream, but couldn’t tell if she even made a sound. There had been a sound though; it just hadn’t been a scream. The next time she opened her eyes the sun was just starting to peek its way in through the colorful curtains that covered her windows. She sat lightly on The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 203 her bed, her legs pulled to her chest, looking down at the body on her floor. The girl’s blonde hair, stiff and matted down on her forehead, was covered in blood. Light, cast by the sun, danced through the crystal sun-catcher throwing rainbows across the body’s pale face. Her alarm went off at exactly seven, but she ignored it. She knew that at any moment, her parents were going to walk into her room, most likely her mother, except she wouldn’t be there, not really. Her body lay on the floor, cold, pale and covered in blood. Her spirit sat on top of her bed. She stared intently at her shadowed silver hands; she felt solid, she just didn’t look it. Standing up, she floated toward the mirror on her vanity. She’d read about the spirits and ghosts of people sticking around. She never believed it, until now. She heard her mother whisper her name through her wood door, “Ava.” Ava watched hopelessly as her mother turned the doorknob, the corner of the door slamming into the flesh of her side. She, of course, didn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything anymore. “Ava?” The voice of her mother said, alarmed. “Ava!” Her voice shouted. She watched her mother scramble toward her body, tears dripping from her mother’s cheeks onto her cold dead ones. “I’m sorry mom,” Ava whispered to herself. “I wasn’t strong enough. He was too big, too fast.” Plus, he had had a gun. Ava didn’t know how he had gotten in, or where he had come from. She just remembered waking up to him in her bedroom. Screaming had been her mistake. He wouldn’t have even known she had been there otherwise. He had been digging through her box of cheap costume jewelry she had worn for Halloween months before. When she screamed she had scared him. She had scared herself. Cupping his hand over her mouth, he pointed an 8mm pistol at her temple and then pulled the trigger. That was it. That was all she could remember. Next thing she knew she had been staring down at her own bloody body laying on her wood floor and he was gone. A great start to my day, she had thought sarcastically. It was supposed to be the first day back to school after winter break. Ava wouldn’t be going. Instead her friends and classmates were going to be hearing about her death. Hearing about her murder. Glancing away from her family, who were huddled around her body talking desperately into a telephone, she looked at her dresser. There were pictures of her three closest friends and dozens of birthday cards propped up. She had only been fifteen for a week; she hadn’t even used her Christmas or birthday money yet. She heard the faint blare of sirens and glanced back to her family. Her two older sisters were huddled together on the far side of the room; both had tears streaming down their faces. Ava walked over to them, putting a see- through hand on her oldest sister’s shoulder. Ava knew they were blaming edited by Joshua Goudreau 204 themselves. She had been home alone because they had left her there. Something they weren’t supposed to do. She knew her mother was blaming herself, telling herself she shouldn’t have gone to her work party, telling herself she should have checked on her daughter before she went to bed. She also knew her father blamed himself for staying out too late with his brother and their friends. Her younger sister blamed herself for deciding to stay out past curfew and her younger brother blamed himself for staying at their grandparent’s house. Ava wanted to tell them that it was okay, it hadn’t been their fault. They didn’t know. None of them had any way of knowing. She didn’t blame them. She blamed herself. She had been the one who screamed.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 205

Your Best Sunday Dress by girlchildAGLOW

ON MONDAY MORNING YOUR BEST SUNDAY DRESS SMELLS like rain and smoke. Yesterday you were someone else in someone else’s clothes. Today is Monday; today you are used. You are not you. Because he pulled your hem above your hips while a cigarette hung from his lips, you are someone new. Your pretty little dress took with it your pretty little mind as it fell to the ground. Now you are available for less hassle with the same guarantee, feeling fresh out of a secondhand store. His brown eyes, they’re misleading just like the rest of him. He’s a nice boy but less nice, a good kid except not. These brown eyes look sweet and sincere but his movements, they’re strong and unrelenting. His hands, they shield his cigarette from the wind and fold, with his arms, back into him. His mouth, it hangs easy with a smile. Sunday night brought a wet back alley with it, your dainty dress on the ground in puddles of gray rain, and yourself pressed between a crumbling brick wall and his unforgiving weight. His eyes, they’re watching the pain fill yours. His hand, it’s hooked under your knee and pushing up. Sure, he has his secrets, and you have yours, but right there, these secrets, they’re the same. (Good little girls don’t do this. Good little girls wear their dresses, press their dresses, put away their dresses. Good little girls don’t have gravel scarring their knees and someone else’s blood in their mouth. Good little girls don’t do this. Good little girls don’t let their most precious things share dirty pools of water with cigarette butts. This is how you know that you are someone new. You are not the good little girl you were.) edited by Joshua Goudreau 206 Your hands, his hands, your hair, his hair: they all smell like smoke and sweat and things that you didn’t mean to happen. (Things that good little girls and boys just don’t do.) And none of this really makes sense. (You’ll be in so much trouble for ruining your dress.) And you’re gasping for air or something or anything because this doesn’t feel like what they all said it would. You can only imagine the brown-pink-red-white-pale-bloodied color that your back must be, because these bricks are old and jagged and mean to the flesh of little girls. (Good little girls pray on these knees.) If it wasn’t so dark he’d see that you’re crying and he might take notice and say your eyes are a very, very pretty shade of blue. Because he’s staring at your face, but you know he can only see shadows. And either his hand’s in your hair or you’re caught on the bricks. And none of this really makes sense. (This isn’t how you’re supposed to feel.) And you don’t even know that he’s scared of how much he might be hurting you. But you’re the quietest you’ve ever been in your life and you don’t know if he should stop or not. He doesn’t know if he wants to stop even if you asked, but you don’t know that either. (You’ll catch a cold in the rain. It’s so cold in the rain.) You’re not who you were. You are not you. And then it’s over. His brown eyes are still sweet, and his arms, they wrap around you. He’s shaking, you’re shaking. (You’ll catch a cold. You’ll be in so much trouble. You’re shivering. And this is all so silly. And this is definitely not what good boys and girls do. Don’t tell anyone, okay?) Your dress is ruined.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 207

This Poor Youngling by Rose Owens

THE MOONLIGHT SHONE INTO HIS ROOM, GIVING ALL objects an eerie glow. In the bed, wrapped up in quilts, a boy lay sleeping. His blond curls glittered like a cherub’s and his face, though beginning to form some semblance of teenage handsomeness, still bore the telltale marks of childhood. His lips had a plush, feminine quality and his long lashes stroked his apple-like cheeks. The door opened slightly and a woman with a thin face peeked in. Her eyes were filled with worry, but they softened when she saw his face. Nodding her head in acknowledgement of his safety, she closed the door. The boy’s eyes flew open. They were wet with tears and he shuddered slightly. The covers flew back and he stepped onto the ground. The window beckoned him and he walked to it, drawn as if by a magnet. He placed his hands on the window and whispered. “Emma...” The next morning, the boy sat at the breakfast table with his parents. His father, a stern, tall man, with a distinct handlebar moustache of mustard yellow, studied the boy with a stern look on his brow. Carlisle Heatherton always spent every morning trying to find something wrong with his son. There was something odd about the child; that was certain. This oddity, whatever it was, would be squashed as soon as it was discovered, if Mr. Heatherton had anything to do with it. His mother, on the other hand, was not studying the boy, but her wedding ring. This eternal bond of love and friendship seemed so hollow to her. She tried to push away these feelings (if “honor thy spouse” had been a commandment, she would have been one of its most devout followers), but edited by Joshua Goudreau 208 they nagged at her. She stole a quick glance at her husband, whose eyes were still boring into her son’s face. The words to plead with him to stop attempted to escape her mouth. But it was no use. She couldn’t face up to him, especially when he flew into one of his rages. The only one at the table who was not affected by any of this was the boy himself. Sebastian stirred his porridge and stared into the pale lumps and swirls. He knew that soon he and his parents would be leaving for church, but he didn’t want to go. He wanted to be out there, there with the breeze and the birds and the sand under his feet. The porridge reminded him of that sand, so silky and enveloping. He loved to bury his face into the sand and nuzzle into it until he felt completely covered. He only did it when Mother and Father weren’t looking, of course. Maybe, just maybe, the lovely porridge would feel just as welcoming and warm. His face went closer and closer to the bowl, the smell wafting into his nostrils with abandon... “SEBASTIAN!!” The boy slowly lifted his head to see his father standing straight up, the man’s face a deep, deep maroon and his fists clenched like they were tied with iron. A single, solitary finger like a quivering and angry sausage rose and pointed at the boy’s face–his nose, in particular. Sebastian’s eyes lowered themselves and looked at the edge of his nose. A lump of porridge rested on it, shooting bits of steam into the air, and seemingly quite pleased with its new home. “WHAT–IS–THE–MEANING–OF–THIS? YOU–STUPID–STUPID– CHILD!!” Carlisle strode over, masterfully pumping his arms in anger, and grabbed the boy by his collar. He picked him up and lifted him until they were eye to eye. With a quick stroke, Carlisle flicked his hand across Sebastian’s nose, and sent the porridge dollop flying. It hit the carpeted floor with a slight noise and proceeded to melt into the Persian design. Mrs. Heatherton jumped up. “Carlisle!” His face swiveled dangerously towards hers. “Stay out of this, Madeline. You always mollycoddle the boy. He must learn what happens to stupid children who don’t obey.” With this, he strode out of the room and slammed the door behind him, still carrying Sebastian by the scruff of his neck. One would ask what exactly the boy had done to receive such a brutal reaction. The thing of it was, it didn’t matter to Mr. Heatherton. Any toeing of the line of ‘normal’ behavior was enough to set him off, and this was a prime example. To discover the roots of this short fuse, one could go back to Mr. Heatherton’s childhood. The pain that would be discovered there is too much to explain at this point in time; suffice it to say that Mr. Heatherton had not always been this way. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 209 The library door smashed open and Carlisle pushed into the room. With another quick motion, the door shut behind him, and his attention focused on the boy. “Why? Why do you continue trying to disgrace your mother and I? The holiness of God does not look kindly on this. He knows. He knows, stupid thing, that you are misbehaving. You know what he does to stupid brats who misbehave? You do, I know you do. Tell me what he does, you stupid, ignorant refuse!!!” Sebastian did not answer. His eyes stayed focused on the wall to his left. He read the book titles over and over and over. Dante’s Inferno, Paradise Lost, The Bible, and other such names met his eye– fitting books for this situation. Paintings on the walls stared back at him. Jesus, his fingers raised in adoration, met his gaze with fearful fire. The room began to get hot... “I’ll tell you what he does. He calls up the lord of Hell,” Carlisle grabbed the boy again, and his face loomed with demonic force. “Sends him to the misbehaving worm that had called his attention,” he lifted him in the air, and raised his hand. “AND HE SMITES THEM!!!! DO YOU HEAR ME??? HE SMITES THEM!!!” With that, the hand came smashing down. Sebastian had long ago given up any show of strength or defense against this abuse. He simply went limp and tried to stay calm until it was over. However, the pounds came again and again, each with more strength than the last. The room seemed to spin and screams of anger issued from his father. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes, but he would not cry out. After some time, Carlisle began to tire. He dropped the boy on the ground and walked over to the bookcase. He laid his arm against it and dropped his head. The hulking body began to shake, but no sound emerged. Sebastian just lay there, hoping, hoping that it was over. Carlisle straightened up and shook himself. He poured himself some port, and after gulping it down, he walked over to the small lump on the floor. He grabbed at Sebastian’s wrist and pulled him out of the room. Later, Carlisle came down the stairs to meet his wife. Her tear-stained face stared up at him. He held her by her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. “The boy is not coming to church. His soul is not fit to enter it. We shall go without him.” She nodded and sniffled slightly. They grabbed their coats and after a stiff nod to the maid from Carlisle, they left. The door shook as it shut and the noise echoed up, up, up to Sebastian. He held himself and sobbed. He looked up to his ceiling and wondered why. Why did his father do this to him? He knew that he didn’t deserve it. Something was very, very wrong. He knew this because of Emma. edited by Joshua Goudreau 210 Emma was a seal down by the beach. Sebastian had met her some time ago and had immediately felt a connection with her. Not only did she share his love and affection for the beach, she seemed to know everything he thought and felt. She had told him many times that his father’s abuse was inexcusable and that none of it was his fault. He had not completely believed her, being that she was a seal and could not know the ways of men, but he felt somehow that what she said was true. As he thought, he stared out of his window. He looked towards the beach and saw a small black dot on the beach. He knew it was Emma. Who else could it be? He looked away and thought. His eyes rested upon a sand dollar that he had in his room. He had found it the first day he had met Emma and always treasured it as a symbol of their friendship. He remembered what she had always told him. He remembered what she said he could do. As he picked it up, he was filled with resolve and strength as to what he had to do. Climbing quietly downstairs, Sebastian stole to the door. After making sure that the maid was occupied (and indeed she was, in the kitchen reading love letters from her beau), he creaked open the door. He closed it softly, and walked forward. After a quick look behind him, he ran off. The salty wind whipped his hair and beckoned him forward. He reached the beach in a matter of minutes and set to looking for Emma. The grass waved in the wind and the sand crunched satisfyingly under his shoes. He felt so relaxed, so peaceful in this place. He would have loved to just fall down and sink into the sand, but he had to find Emma and tell her what he was going to do. He found her, just sitting as though she had been waiting for him. He smiled, realizing that she probably had. Her eyes shone and spoke to him. I know why you are here. “Yes, Emma.” I know what you plan to do. You know that it will be hard. “Yes, Emma.” You know that you will suffer. “Yes, Emma. I must, though, I can’t stand it any longer.” And you shouldn’t. You don’t deserve to have to go through all of this. I’m so sorry, Sebastian. “I know, Emma.” He kissed her head. Know that I am here and I will come when the time is right. “Yes, Emma.” They stared at one another. Finally, Emma nodded and Sebastian turned to leave. Remember when it gets difficult, that I am coming. Remember that. “Thank you, Emma.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 211 Sebastian walked away, sad to leave the haven that the salt waves and sea creatures created for him. But he knew that he had to do this, or he would never be free. He trudged along for some time. Finally, he reached the imposing stone church. A gigantic crucifix was on top of it, and Jesus’ limp body seemed to see him. The gravestones in the accompanying graveyard cried out with the sorrows of the souls they housed. Who knows, he thought, how many others had suffered as he did for the ‘glory’ of God. With a final look into Christ’s stony and pitted eyes, Sebastian pushed the doors open. The inside of the church did not house the welcoming and kind air that all houses of religion should contain. Instead, it was filled with the sour and bitter pain of its parishioners. Not a single worshiper was joyful in their prayer to the Lord. All felt pinned down by the tyrannical and unloving gaze of a vengeful master. Despite this suffering that they felt, all continued the charade of fulfilled lives. None admitted to their secret hole in their heart and all furthered this painful act on future generations. So it was not a gaze of relief that met Sebastian as the doors opened, but a hateful and cruel stab of eyes upon his heart. The most disturbed of these gazes were those of his mother and father. However, the priest’s was a close second to their looks. He was not used to having one of his ‘helpful’ sermons interrupted and sputtered as the boy walked into the hallowed building. Sebastian walked up and up until he reached the altar. He then turned and faced the worshipers. The look in his eyes was so steely and determined that many feared what he was about to say. Was he going to voice their hidden grief? Was he going to blaspheme the room and its inhabitants? Or was he simply going to continue standing there, shooting the churchgoers with his fearful gaze? He raised his hands and looked out. Then, with a voice he had not known he possessed and a strength he felt shooting from his heart to his limbs, he spoke. “Your hearts are not fulfilled here. I know this. The joy and happiness you wish to seek with religion is not given to you here. You are living a lie that only hurts you. This man,” gesturing to the priest, “doesn’t care about you or if you feel better. He just wants power over you and to keep you locked up in here! There is a better place.” His voice now became softer and caring. “A place where one can go to really reach fulfillment. Outside of these cursed walls lies the true world from whence we have all come. This natural and sacred world wishes to receive you. I know that you will be worried and scared about entering it, but it welcomes you with open arms.” His arms stretched out towards the mass, taking them in... edited by Joshua Goudreau 212 SMACK! Carlisle’s hand left the boy’s face with a resounding noise. Sebastian blinked and shuddered slightly. He felt a warm trickle come down his cheek and tasted the warm, salty blood on his lips. He looked up into his father’s eyes, which were brimming with hate. Carlisle grabbed Sebastian by his wrist and yanked the boy off of the ledge. He pulled him with him as he stomped out of the church. As they passed the rows, Sebastian could hear faint whispers. “The boy’s mad, I tell you, mad.” “Heatherton’s done right. That child shouldn’t be in public.” “But what if-what if he’s right?” A woman began to speak up, when she was silenced by a stern look. “You keep your mouth shut, woman. You don’t know what you are saying. The boy’s insane and that’s all there is too it.” On that, the church door slammed shut. “I told you. I told you, didn’t I? But you wouldn’t listen. The grip of Satan is too strong upon you. I’m going to break it now. I’m going to break it so that you will never ever do such things ever again. If it hurts, so be it. The power of the Lord must be obeyed and it will be, by God. I don’t care what happens to you, so long as this blasphemy stops.” Carlisle spoke in a whisper, almost mumbling to himself. He trudged along, continuously dragging the boy behind him. They reached the house and went inside. The maid came up to Carlisle, her voice about to question what the master was doing back so early. Carlisle stopped it with a hand and went straight to the cellar. The door locked behind them, and Sebastian was faced with a vision of complete anger and frustration. His father walked towards him, slowly, menacingly. Sebastian kept his eyes open, staring his father down. She would come, he knew it. Despite the suffering and the pain, one way or another, she would come and rescue him. He repeated this to himself as he continued staring, only into his father’s eyes. The faith faltered for a moment as he felt something inside him break. He stifled a scream and looked down. His father’s hand vanished and he saw his wrist, dangling at a crooked angle, the skin bruised and pulsating. He closed his eyes for a moment, to let the tears wash over them, to soothe the burning pain that they were experiencing. She was coming... His father took out a book and began thumbing through it. The black leather cover shined and the white cross in the middle of it burned, like a brand in one’s flesh. Sebastian knew what was to come next. He had overheard his father speak of it many times to his mother. “It has to be done. Some day, I will do it and this will be over.” Carlisle grunted slightly and looked up at the boy. He grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pushed him onto his knees on the ground. He pressed The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 213 the boy’s head onto the floor, the cool stone of it meeting his forehead. The grip on his neck increased in strength as the mumbling began. This seemed to last forever. The pain in his neck was growing, as certain words were punched out, intertwined with his own thoughts. “...Sin” She’s coming... “...devil” She’s coming... “...redemption” She’s coming... “...God” She’s coming... “...our Lord” She’s coming... “...Jesus Christ our savior” The pain grew and grew until finally it was unbearable. Sebastian could not hold it any longer and began to scream. He screamed as he felt his bones breaking and his soul shattering and his heart dying in the belief that no matter what, despite the pain, she wasn’t coming... Then it happened. Everything seemed to move as if in a dream. There was a solid pounding upon the door and Carlisle, though not removing his grip, looked up. The door was pounded upon again and again. Carlisle stayed put. A soft glow issued from behind the hinges and the door crumbled to the floor. In the doorway stood a beautiful woman, with hair as long and luxurious as a seal’s pelt, flecked with seaweed. She was tall and had eyes that were like the sea, strong and yet soft and caring. She was clothed in a flowing gown of blues and greens and from her neck hung an emerald more perfect than anything in the world. She seemed to float as she approached Carlisle. He stayed crouched, gaping at this stranger. She looked down and placed her hand upon his. Sebastian felt a burning sensation issuing from that area and if he had been able to see on top of his neck, he would have seen a light coming from under the hands. Carlisle cried out in pain and released the boy’s neck. The woman bent down and turned Sebastian’s head towards hers. He saw the eyes, the eyes that had always been there for him, telling him and reassuring him. I told you I would come... The woman smiled and picked up Sebastian. He moaned slightly as his broken wrist was jostled. She held him with the greatest of ease, showing neither a struggle nor difficulty with his weight. She stroked his back and then turned towards Carlisle. edited by Joshua Goudreau 214 She needed no words to make her point. All in the room could hear her mind and easily understand her tone of voice. Of all of a parent’s greatest tasks, one of the most important is to nurture your child and show him love and affection. You teach him of the world and yet let him discover it for himself. In all of these tasks, you have failed. The love that you should have shown him was turned to hate and for that, he has suffered greatly. You attempted to destroy him with your cruel arms and your poisonous tongue. For this, you shall be pay dear, and you shall never, ever do this to anyone again. Her eyes narrowed as she peered at Carlisle. His eyes were wide in shock and he shut them in fear as he felt her gaze. He began to scream as his hands and arms began to disappear. His screams quickly became gurgles as his tongue started to vanish. The woman closed her eyes and the evaporation stopped. She then left the room, carrying Sebastian with her. Carlisle fell to the floor, armless and flailing as he gurgled and spluttered. He stopped suddenly and began to cry. Emma walked towards the door, with the maid beginning to protest and then giving up. Emma turned her eyes towards the young woman. You will have much explaining to do when Mrs. Heatherton comes home. I suggest you begin forming your answers now. The maid nodded slowly and Emma left the house. Sebastian stayed still in her arms, looking ahead as they walked along. He knew where they were going and welcomed it with all of his heart. He could hear her eyes singing as they walked along. Lully, lully, thou little tiny child, By by, lullay, lullay. Oh sisters too, how may we do, For to preserve this day. This poor youngling for whom we sing, By by lullay, lullay. Lully, lully, thou little tiny child, By by, lullay, lullay. That woe is me, Poor child for thee! And every morn and day. For thy parting Neither say nor sing, By by, lully, lullay. Lully, lully, thou little tiny child, By by, lullay lullay... As she sang, they approached the beach. They stood together upon the sand and looked onto the horizon. Softly, so soft that Sebastian almost did not notice it, Emma placed her hand upon his wrist. A warm sensation filled The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 215 his bones and as she removed her hand, his wrist became whole again. She smiled upon him. He let his head fall upon her breast, and closed his eyes. Then she walked and as she walked, she carried them both, lovingly, into the sea.

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The Alien Child by Jenny Treherne

THE MATHS CORRIDOR WAS A NARROW DINGY HALL WITH a gray carpet and gray blue walls. A few of the light panels in the ceiling were flickering, the bulbs close to the end of their lives. Kerry was sitting on one of the wide window ledges hunched over The Alien’s Child an ‘animorph’ book. It was a gray November afternoon and the large double doors that lead to the playground had been left open. Kerry tried to huddle into her coat, but she felt the fabric strain against her back and worried it might tear. She zipped it up and hugged herself, glancing up at the clock to see how much longer she had to wait till her maths class. It was still another twenty minutes away. Kerry wished again that she had been able to eat lunch with Lucy and Madeline, but they were eating with Emma. “Loner!”, someone shouted as a crowd of year seven kids ran past her laughing. She turned to look out of the window, tears burning her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cold window. Someone brushed her shoulder. She turned to see Lucy and Madeline standing behind her looking concerned as usual. She hoped her eyes weren’t red. “Hiya Kerry, how come you weren’t at lunch?” asked Lucy. Kerry just shrugged. Lucy and Madeline exchanged frowns and Madeline sat next to Kerry on the ledge. “You’ve looked a bit tired lately”, continued Madeline for Lucy, speaking softly. “I haven’t been able to sleep very well for a while.” muttered Kerry not looking at them. Lucy watched Kerry’s expression The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 217 “Is that all? Only me and Mads have noticed that you haven’t had lunch with us for a while. You’re not worried about your weight or anything are you?” Kerry smiled up at her. “Of course not, look at how skinny I am.” Lucy and Madeline looked at each other relieved and began to walk of down the hall, “Okay then, we’ll see you later. We have to get to class.” Kerry watched them walk away talking to each other. There was still another ten minutes until the next class. They think I’m anorexic, thought Kerry, don’t they realize that I don’t want to sit with them and be ignored by a girl who used to be my best friend. Kerry continued to read her book until the first bell went at which point she shoved it into her bag. She looked up to see a large girl called Habiba was standing over her. Habiba stared down at her. “Hi Kerry.” “Hi.” replied Kerry avoiding eye contact. “Why have you got grit on your face?” sneered Habiba. Kerry was wearing body glitter on her face. She was also wearing hair mascara, to dye her fringe red. Kerry felt her face growing hot and she looked at the floor not answering. She remembered that Habiba had stolen glittery nail varnish from her blazer during PE last month. Habiba then painted her and her friends nails with it and said to Kerry when she came back in ‘do you like my nail varnish?’ Kerry hadn’t asked for it back, it was so much easier to not say anything. Kerry rushed into the maths class as soon as the teacher came and sat by herself near the window. Kerry was very quiet in Maths, she didn’t want the teacher to notice she hadn’t answered any questions. Towards the end of the lesson the teacher announced that everyone in the class had to answer a question, and if they got five wrong they’d get detention. Kerry felt her palms grow sweaty, and prayed that no one before her would get a wrong answer. No one was listening. There had been four wrong answers when the teacher reached her. Kerry didn’t know the answer. She stayed quiet stared at the table. It was chipped and covered with graffiti. There was a print on it from her hands. Everyone in the room was staring at her. “Well?” persisted the teacher. “I don’t know” muttered Kerry. “Guess” encouraged the teacher. Kerry stayed quiet staring at the table. Her face was bright red. The other students were muttering to each other mutinously. “You’d better get it right.” Hissed someone behind her. Kerry’s eyes began to burn, and she couldn’t breathe. The student behind her poked her. Kerry suddenly burst into a flood of tears and ran from the edited by Joshua Goudreau 218 room. She slumped in the corridor and sobbed. After a few moments one of the other girls from the class came out into the corridor. “What’s wrong?” Kerry just sobbed harder. “We’re worried about you, Kerry.” The girl crouched down and tried to get Kerry to look at her. “What’s wrong?” she asked again gently. “I don’t understand the work.” wailed Kerry, feeling stupid. “Come back into the class. Sir doesn’t care.” The girl pulled Kerry upright and lead her into the classroom red eyed and hiccoughing. Everyone was staring at her. Kerry sat down and the teacher turned to the boy behind her and asked him a question. He got it wrong.

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Tori Kaiga by Heather Webb

THERE WERE ONLY TWO TIMES SHE EVER FELT AT PEACE: when she could be out in the middle of nowhere and look straight up into the sky, seeing nothing but the black expanse of the heavens dotted with glistening stars; or, when she was in an airplane, soaring through and above the clouds or through a clear sky with nothing to stop her. Sadly these opportunities were few and far between, because as a student at the Art Institute of New York City, Miaka Satoshi rarely had the time to leave the city, considering the course load she had each term. Not to mention the cost of an airline ticket, even from a small local airport, was something no college student could afford. At the end of the day, there was almost never a time when she could fall back and relax. Miaka was thinking of just such a thing one afternoon when she was sitting beneath a tree on campus, her project sketchbook open on her lap. The blank page continued to stare back at her, almost as if laughing at her in contempt. Her lips were pressed tight together in a grimace. She was angry as hell because her project on avians was supposed to be due at the end of the week, yet here she was on Monday afternoon and nothing was coming to her. Majoring in Fashion design it was critical that she be at the top of her class. This term she had taken an extra class that featured animals as inspiration, which she thought was quite influential in clothing these days. After all, look at all of the animal prints and designs that were appearing on the runways. Wasn’t that what she wanted? To be considered among the most fashionable? Maybe in a way it was, but what Miaka truly wanted was to create something that would stun everyone. She was still looking for the edited by Joshua Goudreau 220 inspiration for this piece and she had thought that this avian project would help her out; now she was beginning to think she had been wrong. Sighing, she turned her dark brown eyes to the sky, blowing her shaggy bangs out of her face in a quick outburst of air. Her hand, lightly gripping the pencil, rested against the still blank paper, trembling slightly from the pure sense of hopelessness that seemed to be flowing more rapidly through her body. Closing her eyes, she rested and tried to let it all go, to float out of her body and into the sky were there would be nothing to hold her back, nothing to tie her to the ground. By letting go, shutting out the sounds of the student body milling around her and of the city itself, Miaka was able to almost let her soul go. Deep inside, she felt the tickle of warmth that was her passion, which gave itself to her completely when she created her best works. As if a magnet drawn to a powerful source, her consciousness crawled into that corner, creeping in and curling up into a little ball, basking in it for just a moment. Then, as if at the epicenter of an explosion, things began to be thrown outwards. Miaka felt light all of a sudden, like she was floating in a great pool of water or falling weightlessly through the sky. She opened her soul’s eyes and looked around, smiling and trying to gasp all at once, which if she had been aware of herself would have caused some breathing complications. It was if she were seeing the world through another set of eyes, eyes that could magnify the simplest thing a thousand upon a thousand times so that each detail was incredibly detailed. The world she saw so far below herself looked like a child’s toy model of a farm. Things appeared to be so pure, untarnished by anything. Invisible were the dirty ponds, the crimes that people were committing against one another, and the general horridness the world held at times. Breathing in deeply, Miaka relished her time in this body, during this astral experience. The wind rushed past her cool and tingling, a magic stone rubbing against her skin. As her eyes peered down into the world and could both see and yet push off a million details, so were her other senses so heightened. If she concentrated hard enough, Miaka could almost imagine her body covered in the soft down of a bird’s body, the fragility of her bone structure. So infantile yet so powerful all at once. Thoughts were impossible when she felt this way, when she was soaring high above the ground so unencumbered. There was only the pure rush of adrenaline, the pure feeling that appeared in her body and mind. How she would explain it when she returned to her human body was an impossible feat, as she had thought before. However, she knew with an instinct born of experience and of something much older, that this would help her to tell the story within herself. With this gift of being able to see through the eyes of another, she always knew that The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 221 the doubt would vanish. It was a small thing compared to the rest of world. At first it was entirely frustrating and could have even pushed her to forget her special times, but always the song of the bird called her home to the skies.

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Swing by Robin Wilke

“DANCE WITH ME.” It’s not a question. The three most frightening words in the English language clumsily made their way through my reddening ears. My light blue ball gown cried unnecessary silken silvery teardrops. I snapped my head up to meet his brown eyes as I placed my left hand in his right. His right. It was his right to lead me to the center of the wooden floor with a sandy finish. He had long fingers and short legs, with disproportionately large shoes and straight, mousy hair. I asked him his major. “Physics,” he said as I wondered what to do with my hands. A stirring Vivaldi weaved and bounded through a ridiculous maze of unrecognizable students. I had come with Sarah, a dark-haired first violinist who lived next door to me. I didn’t plan on dancing, only on listening to the music and letting myself shimmer. I didn’t trust the student body. I didn’t trust myself. In a ballroom, only a folding chair on the sidelines knows its place. Its place. One of his hands found its place at my waist; the other reached out to the side. I took it, and squared my shoulders to him, trying hard not to trip on the hem of my dress. He stepped forward, then back. “What do you know about light?” he asked, softly but far from seductively. Trapped. He spun me around, the only dance he knew. Forward again, then back again, bouncing in a seizure. I admitted that I knew nothing. He smiled a coffee-stained smile and spun me again. I didn’t expect him to tell me the only thing I already did know: “You are not directly connected with anything you see. We are all merely flashes of light.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 223 Flashes of light. Sarah waited for me by her beat-up station wagon; all I remember are flashes of light.

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Awaiting Dawn by Reji

THEY SAY ONCE YOU LOSE THE WILL TO LIVE, YOU BEGIN to slowly lose your soul. Be known I do not believe this as I sit next to my friend. She still hasn’t woken up yet; the doctors believe she won’t either. I grip her pale, lifeless hand tightly. It’s been so long, nearly four months I think, maybe longer. I keep losing track each day I come by to visit her. I reach out with my right hand and push back a few of her bangs that fell over her eyes, she looks so peaceful like this. It’s like she sleeping, well she is but, she seems to be at peace for once. I just wish she’d open her eyes. She’s a good friend and I feel like it’s my fault. She told me what she wanted to do a day before but I didn’t talk her out of it. And the next day she told me she did it. She took a full bottle of pills, clearly set on destroying herself. I wanted so badly that day to take her and shake her and yell at her. But I didn’t; I didn’t do anything other than watch her walk away. It’s all my fault. I rest my head in my hands, close to crying again. This isn’t the time for me to be crying. I need to be strong; for her and for myself. She stirs for a moment, a fluttering moment, but I still saw her move. I sit up straight and keep watching her for a few minutes before slinking back down. If I told the doctor he’d most likely say it was just reflexes. A light knock and then the door slowly opens. I glance over my shoulder and see it’s only the nurse coming in. “Still no change?” she asks in a soft voice, coming to my side and handing me a glass of water. I shake my head no and take the glass of cool water. She nods and fluffs up my friend’s pillows. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 225 “I’ll give you another couple hours but then you have to leave. It’s nearing the end of visiting hours and I’m sure you have a lot to do.” she says softly before scurrying away. I barely nod to the retreating nurse as I look back to my friend. It’s been so long; I wish she’d open her eyes and say it was all a joke. But it’s only a dream as I sit here waiting. The door opens again and I ignore it altogether. “How is she?” a soft but deep guy’s voice asks me. I sit back up and glance over towards the door. I heave a sigh and my gaze returns back to my friend. “Will she ever wake up?” I ask quietly, talking for the first time in hours since I got out of school. I don’t see his look but I know he’s giving me a frown. “I don’t really know,” at least he answered honestly I suppose. But it still makes me feel bad because I knew what she was going to do. He walked slowly over to my side and places a gentle hand on my shoulder. I can feel through the way he’s gripping my shoulder that he wants me to get up and leave for a while. I know why he wants me to leave; a month or so ago he wanted me to go out with him. But I turned him down since Beth, my friend, hasn’t awoken yet. He may not consider her a girlfriend now since she’s not awake but he hasn’t dumped her either. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly, pulling out the second chair near me and sitting down next to me. I nod yes but we both know I’m not doing so well. I just refuse to acknowledge that and keep on going with my life. “You ought to get some rest, you look like you haven’t slept in days.” he’s right, totally right. But I still shake my head no. I stifle a yawn and lean back a bit to stretch my tired arms. I startled him out of his thoughts and for a moment, he looks icily towards me. I give him a dirty look back and his gaze instantly softens. “Could you do me a favor?” he asks quietly, glancing my way. I shrug my shoulders and he sighs along with me. “Go get a coffee. I need some time alone with her. Grab me one as well. Could you?” he asks quietly but intensely. I nod now, coffee sounds really good to me at the moment even though I never drink coffee. I stand and pop my knuckles before walking out of the room. I quietly shut the door behind me and I hear him whisper, “God, I wish you were still alive.”

I return twenty minutes later with two Styrofoam cups of coffee that are slowly beginning to cool down. I open the door to find him resting his head on her blanket, tears pooling in his eyes. I come in quietly and shut the door before clearing my throat. edited by Joshua Goudreau 226 “Any change?” I ask even though I know the answer. He shakes his head no and closes his eyes. He’s tired, I’m tired, we both know it but still, each day we come here right after school. I sigh and sit down next to him and hand him the cold coffee. He takes it and our fingers brush each other for just a second. I shakily run my fingers through my short hair and let out another heavy sigh. It’s been so long, it’s taken so much energy and now I’m tired. “She’ll wake up... One of these days...” he says quietly, glancing towards the floor. I mentally gasp because I can hear his pain in his voice. Heavy with guilt and anger; I could understand completely. I reach over with my left hand and pat his shoulder gently. I can feel his body shaking with unshed tears and he slowly falls apart, crying into my shirt. Darkness settles around us, breathing down our necks quietly and we no longer really cared.

Three a.m. when my cell phone rings loudly in my ear, jarring me out of my for once peaceful sleep. I roll over in bed and ignore the blaring phone, hoping the sound will fade away quickly. My wish is quickly answered but a minute later it rings again. This time I raise up on my elbows and reach over and answered in a groggy voice, “Why the bloody hell are you calling me at three a.m.?” I heard a cough in the background before he speaks quietly but quickly. “If I were you, I’d get my butt here at the hospital. She’s awake!” he sounded frantic and for a moment I wonder if for some reason he was drunk again and calling me for fun. I sigh and shut the phone before he could yell in my ear again. I sit up all the way and sleepily rub my tired eyes. Reach over and fumble with my wide framed glasses and rest them on my nose and swing my long legs over the side of the bed. I clap twice and my lights switch on. For a few minutes I sit on the side of my bed, just staring at my fingers, which I have extended out. I can almost hear and feel my blood rushing through my veins, hear my heart thumping loudly. It’s weird, as I sit here in the early morning, I realize how much I need my friend as much as she wanted me to be her best friend. My breath’s shaky but I control my onslaught of thoughts. My phone vibrates then rings loudly in my hands and it jars me from my rapid thoughts. I’m coming, I think softly as I rise quietly but dress quickly.

The drive to the hospital is long and quiet for me. Not something I’m used to this early. I reach over and flip on the radio and soft music greets my ears. I nearly sigh with relief as my thoughts calmed and settled into a mindless pattern sort of speak. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 227 The hospital looms darkly in my sight and I give a sigh of relief. I pull into the bleak and deserted parking lot and hurry on shutting off my car. I scurry inside, running past a nurse that is falling asleep at the desk from sheer boredom. The ride in the elevator is long but once it opens, I am flying down the hallway again. I burst into the small room quickly to be greeted by five doctors and her boyfriend. The very air in the room seems dense, heavy with tension as I try to read their expressions printed on their faces. He comes to my side, intertwining his fingers with mine. I sense he’s nervous and slightly tense. I turn towards him and stare him down, waiting for him to answer me. “Miss, I’m afraid…” one doctor speaks but lets his voice die away. I stare at them all again, waiting for someone to tell me what happened. “She awoke for only a short time….” “She asked for you but we couldn’t reach you in…” “She doesn’t have enough time…” “No more time left….” No more time… What does that mean? I grip his hand tightly before closing my eyes and letting my tears finally fall. He pats my shoulder but I shrug away from his touch. Then I wrench my hand from his and slowly move forward, smacking the helping hands from the doctors. I can see they pulled a sheet over her face. I reach out and pull it back. “She won’t be able to breathe like that…” I whisper, collapsing next to her bed. No more time left…

edited by Joshua Goudreau 228

Crazy by Deana Rustin

“I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF A SWORD FIGHT,” SHE NOTICED Mary’s sharp look, so she corrected herself. “I was in the middle of writing a sword fight scene between my main character Rissa and some... random bad guy, and she got a bit careless and the guy managed to cut her left hand... While I was writing that part, blood started dripping on my laptop. I was horrified when I saw that my left hand was cut in the exact spot! Then I heard a voice say: ‘Baby, if you don’t be more careful, you’re gonna be called Right-hand Rissa’! I raised my head and I saw... I swear, I saw Barrin in the middle of my room!” Mary frowned. “That’s Rissa’s sidekick, right?” Sarah nodded. “See, I too read your books.” Marry smiled just slightly. “Then what?” “I... I was so shocked I fell off my chair. When I looked up, he was gone, my hand was all right, and there was no blood on the keyboard... I took some pills to calm myself down and went to bed... I figured I was overworked... But... Next morning, I went to buy groceries. Just as I stepped out of the building, an entire horde of Skull Riders appeared out of nowhere and rode through the street! I swear, they were exactly the same as I imagined them! They wore their ugly skull masks and rode night black horses... I could feel the ground shaking from the hooves of the horses! God, I could even smell their stench! And nobody else saw them, no one made any reaction!” Mary placed her hand on Sarah’s, to calm her down. Her voice was sober and calming. “What did you do then?” “I just walked back in... I took some more pills... I slept for a whole day... And then everything was normal for a few days, so I thought I was just tired and that everything was back to normal. But this morning... I was in the The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 229 shower, I was coming out, and I moved the shower curtains, and Barrin was sitting on my toilet seat, grinning from ear to ear and said: ‘I’ve been all over Eridia, but I never saw hills like yours!’ I think the whole building heard me scream! When I opened my eyes he was gone again!” Sarah leaned closer to Mary. There was desperation in her eyes. “Am I loosing my mind? Am I going crazy? What am I gonna do?” Mary gave her a reassuring smile. “Calm down, girl. Those hallucinations might have a completely physical cause. Stay here, in the clinic for a few days, and we’ll run some tests... It will give us some time to catch up, too. Okay?” Sarah nodded uncertainly.

She was sitting in a small hospital room. The room looked cold and sterile. It reminded her of prison cells. “Why are you wasting your time here, baby? Why don’t you came with me, you know we have a planet to save.” The voice made her jump to the ceiling. Barrin was sitting on the windowsill. “You’re not real. You’re just in my mind...” She whispered more to herself. “Who can tell what is real and what isn’t, baby? How do you know that this ridiculous world you’re in right now is real? How can you prove it?” He shook his head. “Come with me to Eridia. You know you can’t be happy without a sword in your hand. Come with me!” “No! Go away!” She covered her face with her hands. Then she heard someone come in the room and looked up. Mary was standing at the door with a bunch of papers in her arms. She smiled at her. “Well, we can’t find anything physically wrong with you.” “Is that good, or bad? If it was physical, then you could have treated it, right? So this means I’m crazy?” “No, it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re crazy.” Mary smiled at her. “Come on, I have some time, let’s have some coffee in the cafeteria.”

“What if, there exist different worlds, and somehow, I can see into them? Or, different dimensions, and they are leaking into ours? Or aliens, or something? How could we really know that this that I’m seeing isn’t real? How can we prove our world is real?” Mary laughed lightly. “Listen to what you’re saying, girl! Writers are supposed to have wild imagination, but that’s just what this is, your imagination running wild on you! Y’know, often writers get too involved in their stories, especially if they use themselves as characters, that they cannot edited by Joshua Goudreau 230 distinguish them from reality anymore. But don’t worry.” Mary took her hand. “We’ll get you back to normal in no time.”

She was sitting in the corner of the common room. She was watching all these poor souls around her that didn’t know where they were, most of them heavy medicated, ranting incoherently... Some of them looked completely normal... Am I gonna be like them, talking to my invisible friends and screaming that there are monsters in the soup? Do I really belong here? “Of course you don’t!” By now, she has gotten used to his unannounced appearances. Barrin was sitting comfortably in the chair next to her, his legs crossed in front of him. “Look at all these silly people, how funny they look!” Sarah gave him a piercing glance. “Go away!” “Come now, Rissa baby, is that the way to talk to an old friend?” “If she won’t talk to you, maybe she’ll talk to me!” Sarah froze, hairs on her neck stood up, and her stomach turned. She turned her head, and right in front of her stood Lord Markael, his demon horns almost touching the ceiling. She could feel his foul breath choking her. He held his enormous saber in his right hand. “Or maybe with my saber?” He swung the saber towards her neck. She moved instantly, without thinking, escaping the blade. She lifted a chair and threw it on the demon. “Go away!” She started screaming hysterically. Everything she could get her hands on, she threw at him. Two medics marched in, one wider then the other, and took her by the hands. She was kicking and screaming. Only a doctor with an injection of sedatives managed to secure her. She could hear Barrin laughing his head off all the way.

She was sitting on the floor of the room with the soft walls. She was in restraints. “Now that wasn’t a very smart thing to do. But I love how you threw a chair on old Markael. That was hilarious.” “I’m glad you find this amusing.” She replied sarcastically. “That is so typical for you. You’ll always been immature.” “Now, Rissa baby, you’re hurting my feelings.” “And you know I don’t like you calling me ‘baby’!” “Really? You know you would miss it if I stopped.” Sarah turned to him and looked him in the eyes. “Barrin, be serious for a moment, please. Tell me what is going on here. Am I really going crazy? Or are you real somehow?” He returned the look. His face was serious for a moment. “I like to consider myself as real. But you, Rissa baby, are crazy as cabbage.” Sarah was confused. “What do you mean?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 231 “I exist, but only in your head. You made me up. And Markael. Whole of Eridia. By the comprehension of your friends outside, you are as crazy as they come. Loony. Wacko.” Her face fell. Her eyes stared at the floor. “So I’m gonna spend the rest of my life in this nuthouse.” “Not necessarily.” Barrin had one of his mischievous smiles on his face. “I have a far better idea. One that will give us a lot of fun. And probably a lot of money too.”

“I guess I was really exhausted, under pressure of keeping my deadline. I suppose I just snapped... But I feel okay now. I haven’t had any hallucinations in the last three weeks. I think I’m well enough to continue my life.” Barrin was sitting on a windowsill behind Mary’s desk, laughing like crazy. “If I didn’t know better, even I would have believed you! You’re a hell of an actress, baby!” Sarah was using all her self-control not to laugh with him. Mary nodded. “If you wanna leave, I can’t stop you. And I have to admit, you have recovered in the last three weeks. I would still like you to stay a little longer, just in case, but if you wanna leave...” She smiled at her. “Y’know, you really had me worried for a moment there, with that fit of yours.” Barrin put his fingers like horns on Mary’s head. “Don’t remind me.” Sarah laughed. “I was really out of it, wasn’t I?” “Just take your medications regularly, and you’ll be fine.” Sarah stood up, so did Mary. Sarah hugged her. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me.” “What are friends for? I’ll come by your place in a couple of days to see how you’re doing.” Barrin was already at the door of Mary’s office. “Let’s get out of here, baby.”

She closed her apartment’s doors. “God, it’s good to be home.” She pulled a bottle of pills from her bag and threw it in the trash. “Home? We’re not home yet... Shall we go, baby?” “Sure.” She sat at her laptop. “Shall we pick up where I left off?” “If you like to cut yourself, go ahead.” “Hey, I’m not perfect. I make mistakes too.” “Yeah, but getting beaten up from that nobody.” “I didn’t get beaten up. It’s just a scratch. Now shut up, I’m writing.”

*** edited by Joshua Goudreau 232 In the next month or two, they rode through Eridia together, they fought monsters, faced off Markael again, and again it was a draw.

“It’s nice to see our book in the windows. It’s selling quite nicely.” “You were right, Barrin. We did get to make some money. But above all, it was fun!” They were standing in front of a large bookstore. Sarah had gotten used to not looking at Barrin while they were in public and not talking to him out loud. He could hear her thoughts. “You should have put my name next to yours, baby.” Sarah laughed. “So that they can return me to that nuthouse? Besides, I was the one doing all the writing.” “But you couldn’t have done it without me, Rissa baby.” “True.” “And now, we exist. We are real…” “What do you mean?” This was one of the rare moments when he was serious. “You put us on paper. All the things we did, places we’ve been to. Made us real.” He laughed again. “Let’s go finish the next book.” “Not just yet. Come, there’s a t-shirt I wanna buy in that store over there.” “Which t-shirt, baby? Oh, I see it!” Barrin started laughing. “The one that says: ‘I don’t suffer from insanity, I enjoy every minute of it’!”

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Issue #4 July/August/September 2006

edited by Joshua Goudreau 234

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 235

~Featured Story~

What Will Be, Will Be by Rose Owens

I DON’T KNOW HOW ELSE TO TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED. I did what I did, and that’s as much as can be said about anything that occurred. I suppose what I could do, if pressed, is start from the beginning. As I don’t seem to have any other options, that’s just what I’ll do. The information may or may not end up being relevant, but as my sense of pertinence at the moment is fairly blurred, I will trust you to decide for yourself if this is worth continuing. I was born in New York State, to two people who couldn’t have cared less whether I was tall or short, blonde or brunette. This is not to say that they were neglectful or wished they hadn’t had me. Not by any means. No, this is to say that they were the most supportive, loving parents I could have ever asked for. They knew right from the start that I was going to be my own person, and they weren’t going to do anything to get in my way. In hindsight, that sounds very high-handed. Facts be known, this instilled a sense of competence and independence that would allow me to trust my instincts. But you know the story, so that shouldn’t be a surprise to you. My mom was one of those bohemian-types, always kept her long brown hair wrapped up in a cloth, with long golden earrings dangling from her ears. There was a constant smell of patchouli around her, which always made me feel relaxed, at home. She’d spend her days making flower remedies on the balcony of our apartment. The little brown bottles would sit in the sun, soaking up the nutrients to enrich their “powers”. She’d sell these on the counter at her job, which was waitressing at ‘The Elder Grower’, a small café for the Greenwich individual. edited by Joshua Goudreau 236 My dad wrote for a small underground newspaper called ‘The Constant Observer’. It prided itself on helping the little man get his voice heard, especially among all of the overpowering bureaucratic papers that were committed to stifling the collective individual’s voice. He would always come home with ink stains on his fingers, his hair tousled like it had been stirred up by all of the many winds that blew through New York City. Every night he’d read me to sleep from The Golden Book series. You know, stories like ‘The Pokey Little Puppy’ and ‘The Color Kittens’. I’d fall asleep with the fanciful illustrations dancing in my head, as my father’s mellifluous voice flew through the night air. I couldn’t have asked for anything as a child. I went to amazing schools, where teachers taught me to think, and question, and ponder about what I wanted to know. Yes, I learned the requisite mathematics, English, history, science, the whole lot. But I also learned the power of my own opinion, of how I saw the world around me. It was an education that was reinforced at home, where I learned to create my own opinions, and value others at the same time. I never quite knew what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t really want to waitress, or write for ‘The Observer’, or teach. Something I thought I was fairly good at was acting, but for some reason, despite my extremely supportive upbringing, I never felt confident enough to actually go up and perform. So all through high school, I just did odd jobs, helping out where I could to make some cash until I figured out what it was I wanted to do. So, even though I didn’t want to waitress, I would take a shift every once and a while, to help out my mom, to raise that extra money for myself. At ‘The Elder Grower’, they would have nights every once and a while where people could perform. It could be poetry, music, dance, whatever. Just as long as it remained somewhat safely within the public decency sanctions set by our city’s finest, it was kosher. We’d get a wide range of people, some good, some bad. Most were average, but sometimes, we’d get someone special.

Here’s a small diverting factoid that will seem inconsequential or even ridiculous now. Yet, who is actually telling the story here? Yeah, that’s what I thought. In any case, ‘The Observer’, in another one of its sweepingly liberal (and therefore, highly ‘objectionable’) moves, began to cover a series of events that were sweeping the nation. Young men of no distinctive difference from other young men around them were coming down with a mysterious affliction. Many doctors attributed it to a kind of lung ailment, but something didn’t seem to click. In short periods of time, these young men would die, and no one had been able to stop it. It was very bizarre, and ‘The Observer’ wanted to know what was going on. There were whispers of The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 237 a new disease, something strange that no one understood. Unfortunately, not many people wanted to talk about it, so it was getting pushed farther and farther into the back sections.

Now our story begins…it was a cooling Friday night in June, maybe around 7:30 in the evening or so. Picturesque, huh? It had been a pretty quiet night, with a couple of groups of protesters celebrating their latest victory over ‘The Man’. I was cleaning tables, and letting my mind wander, thinking about a paper that was going to be due in a week for my sociology class. That was when I saw him. He was standing in a doorway, talking to my boss, Amelia. Granted, something like this is not out of the ordinary, so that wasn’t what made me see him. Also, I’m not one to be emasculated by the appearance of a new guy, but he was something different. I can’t say what it was that caught my attention. He was a medium build, a bit on the taller side, but not too much. His hair was a dark brown, with hints of red and blond in it. His clothing was unassuming enough; black shirt, brown corduroy pants, and converse sneakers. There was nothing remarkably different about this guy. But… you know how sometimes, you see someone, and you just get this feeling? Yes, it sounds trite, but in my experience, it’s very true. Anyway, I felt that with this guy. Still cleaning tables, I tried to perk up my ears and see what Amelia was saying to him. “So you can still play, right?” “Yeah, of course. I just wanted to let you know.“ “Don’t worry about it. I completely understand.” “Thanks, Ame. I really appreciate it.” They embraced, and Amelia went back into the kitchen, while the stranger sat down at one of the tables. He opened up a guitar and took out a beautiful instrument. Starting to tune it, he lovingly bent his head over it, like I’d seen so many musicians do. I continued wiping the table (probably taking some varnish off with it), trying to come up with a way to a) get closer to the stranger and/or b) find out what his name was. After testing out different methods in my head, and finding all of them idiotic, I decided to bite the proverbial bullet and just go up to him. I looked around me at all of the clean tables, and then did what I had to do. Finding a chair close enough to him, but also positioned so I could watch the short man reciting Mexican Poetry, I sat down. “Nice night.” I looked up, not expecting him to be the first to speak. edited by Joshua Goudreau 238 “Yeah, it is.” I looked at his guitar. It had creeping vine designs along it, gracefully giving the instrument a unique touch. “You do that yourself?” I said, nodding my head towards the guitar. “Yeah, with a little help from someone else.” “Cool.” “Yeah, I like it.” I looked at it more, and saw a particularly interesting squiggle close to the strings. A word was carved in the wood, I was sure of it. But I couldn’t quite read it. It was almost written as though it was a secret. “So, are you going to play?” “Yeah, but only for a little while. I’m not really in the mood tonight, you know?” “Yeah, yeah,” though I actually did not know, as I had never really found a skill to call my own, and thus did not know what it felt like to ‘not really be in the mood’ for it. We continued talking, bantering back and forth about the weather, the current performer was onstage, and various other things. Here is where I run the risk of sounding ridiculous, but just wait to pass judgment. You know how sometimes, when you talk to someone, someone you have just met for the first time, you get a…god, this sounds so clichéd, connection? I don’t know what to call it that will even sound close, but Paul (that was his name) and I, something…just went together. We talked as though we had always known one another. I was completely at ease with him, like the fact that I was becoming more and more attracted to him as the minutes went by wasn’t even an issue. It was just so nice to find someone to talk to. Eventually, Paul went up onstage and played. I was one of a few who were still sitting in the audience, cheering for him. He had pretty good guitar skills, certainly not the best, but pretty darn good for someone who said he had no training. Beyond the guitar, though, was his voice. I couldn’t actually believe it when I first heard it, I mean, his speaking voice was quite charming, to be sure. But his singing voice…it was soft and calming. It was as though this blanket made of air just flew out of his throat and coated all of us with a relaxing but passionate feeling. Amelia stood in the back, nodding her head. She obviously knew that Paul was talented. I was only surprised that I hadn’t heard him before. He finished his set and came back to sit down next to me. “Paul.” “Yeah?” “Your voice is great.” “Thanks.” “No, really.” “Thank you.” He looked into my eyes, held my hand and smiled. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 239 ***

A few months passed, and I saw Paul many times throughout the weeks. Much of the time he would come to ‘The Elder Grower’ and talk with me. I discovered his great sense of humor and a clever wit that when unleashed, could be surprising. He played less and less as time went by, claiming that he didn’t feel well. He did appear more and more drawn and listless, to be sure. But I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Sometimes, we would spend days together, just sitting in a park. He would strum his guitar and I would try to recite pieces of Shakespeare for auditions that I would never go to. I felt closer and closer to him, and he felt likewise. I told him things that I could never have told my parents, despite our closeness. Another thing; he called me ‘darling’. It was like our code word, anytime that we were at our closest, whatever we were doing, he would just say ‘darling’, and we would both smile, knowing that we were as one. Other times, we would just share drinks and smoke joints into the wee hours. Of course, during times like that, we couldn’t stop talking. We shared a lot then. Among other things, I learned about his family life. He came from an upper jet-set type of family. His mother seemed to be affectionate enough, talking to him intermittently in a timid, quiet manner. Of course, I never saw her, but he described her very well, reenacting moments that he had experienced with her, voices and all. We’d usually fall about laughing at how ridiculous the dynamic seemed. His father was a different situation. A product of the Cold War, this man knew nothing outside of an authoritarian way of life. He couldn’t understand why Paul wanted to play his ‘sissy’ guitar and sing about ‘stupid, childish things’ that didn’t factor into a ‘real man’s world’. Those were direct quotes from the man who had always followed Paul like a dark shadow. His father had intended Paul to follow in the footsteps of his older brother, Frank, who had been a highranking soldier in the United States Army. Sadly, he had died in combat only a few years before I met Paul. Therefore, his mother, though not firm on much else, refused to allow her little boy to end up how her eldest did. That was the only thing that was currently keeping Paul out of the Naval Academy. Well, that and something else that if Paul’s parents knew about, they certainly did not openly discuss.

One night, when things were especially quiet, I was folding napkins in the kitchen. Paul was sitting on the counter, pulling at a thread on his jacket. He was nervous, fidgeting, anxious, things that he had never seemed before around me. Suddenly getting up, he walked to the door and closed it, conspiratorially. Then he walked towards me. “I have something I need to tell you.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 240 I put down the napkin, hearing the intensity in his voice. He looked into my face, his eyes piercing through me. “You know that design on my guitar, the one you noticed when we first met…” I stood there, waiting, not understanding what he was trying to say. “Yeah?” “Well, the part by the strings…” I moved closer to him, sensing his hesitation. “It says ‘Frank’.” I was silent for a moment, confused. Understandably, right? “Yeah… that’s your brother’s name, right?” “Yes.” “Paul, what is it?” “I was only about 12, Frank must have been about 17. My brother asked me if I could keep a secret, and of course, like any younger brother, I said yes. He then told me that he liked boys. I nodded, not really understanding what he meant. But then he told me that it was more than friendship, that he loved this boy in his senior class. I was the only person who he had told, and if I didn’t keep the secret, then he would get into a great deal of trouble. Of course, I promised.” “Of course. But that must have been a shock, after all that pressure that your father puts on you two to be, you know, ‘big tough men’.” “Yeah… I suppose. Before he left for the army, he told me that he had just been going through a phase, that he was actually interested in girls. Whether that was true or not, I don’t know. In any case, he wouldn’t make it an open issue in the service. After all, we all know their policy.” We shared a nervous laugh, but I knew that there was more that Paul hadn’t told me. He sat on the counter again, his knuckles white from clenching the top of the Formica. “Frank’s secret wasn’t a total shock to me. I had had some questions about myself for a while. With his admission, I started to look into my own feelings in regards to my sexuality. It helped me understand things that I hadn’t before about myself. Frank may have indeed been going through ‘a phase’, as he said. But I realized that this was not the case for me. I discovered that I did like boys, that I found them attractive. I hadn’t known what to call it before, and now I did. I’m sorry I had to tell you in this disjointed way, but I wanted you to know that I’m gay.” I stood still, not speaking. Paul’s news was hard for me to take; it was the last thing I was expecting to hear. Not only that, but I had cared for him so much, as more than a friend. I felt embarrassed—had I been obvious that I found him attractive? Was that why he was telling me this? Damn it, I thought, I’m such an idiot. He probably wanted to tell me that he just wanted The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 241 to be friends, and now I was in this uncomfortable situation. The problem with my upbringing was that I didn’t know how to deal with embarrassment. I was so used to not feeling any that as soon as I did, I felt lost. On top of embarrassment, I felt sorrow. This is going to sound condescending of me, but I felt very sorry for Paul, that he didn’t live in an environment where he could honestly express things like this. There was no way he could tell his father this without drastic consequences. I was the only one he could talk to about this, and here I was, thinking about myself, about my own stupid emotions, when here he was, telling me something personal and private. I felt like a stupid fool, not being able to reach out to him. “I wish that was all, but there is more. Something is wrong. I don’t know what. You know how I’ve said that I haven’t been feeling well? It’s only gotten worse. I feel horrible. I’ve tried going to the doctors, to find out what’s going on. They don’t quite know. They’ve done tests and haven’t come up with any affirmative results. What they have said… is that it looks very similar to those cases.” My head snapped up in shock. He didn’t have to say anything more than ‘those cases’, as I instantly knew what he was talking about.

…I saw my father, staying up late for nights on end, studying up on ‘those cases’. He had pulled me aside one evening, when I was especially groggy from a long day working (and an after-work drink with Paul). “Look. Look at this. Look at what I’ve found.” I rubbed my eyes, ready to collapse, but instead stood next to him, peering at what he was pointing at. It was a piece of paper that had various notes scribbled on it. The one that he was pointing to popped out because it seemed so out of place: ‘sexual history’. “It seems to be a link. Not to say that it is caused by homosexual sex, but that it is connected somehow. Interesting, huh?” “Yeah… interesting.” He looked up at me, my head nodding on my shoulders. “Sorry, dear, go on, go to bed”…

Paul got up off the counter and stood in front of me. He then grabbed me and pulled me close into a hug. I could feel his body shuddering as he cried soundlessly, his sobs stifled. I folded myself around him, beginning to cry myself. We both knew what this meant. It had been some time since Paul had begun looking ill, and none of the young men had lasted long once they began to show symptoms. He didn’t have much time left. “Oh Paul. Paul, I’m so sorry,” I choked out words, through my tears. edited by Joshua Goudreau 242 “Thank you.” He held me close, and then pulled his head away. There was a determination in his eyes that I didn’t understand. “I can’t do this. It’s going to sound cowardly, but I can’t go like they did. I can’t handle that. And if my father was to find out… it would be worse than death. I couldn’t do that. There is no way. I need you to do something for me.” I stepped away from him. “Paul, I can’t.” “I need you to. I can’t handle this. Trying to explain how I got the disease would be impossible. I don’t even know for sure how it happened, but I do know that I can’t handle this. It’s too much for me.” “Paul. You’re my friend, we can work through this. We can overcome this. You can live your life. I’m sure there’s a doctor somewhere, who could discover something to help you.” “It’s not going to happen. Not for some time yet. And I wouldn’t be in a state to receive beneficial help by that point. I can’t be a hero and just stick it out. It’s just too much. You’ve got to help me.” I turned away. I couldn’t believe that this was happening. Why would Paul want to retreat like this? This couldn’t be real. He touched my shoulder. “This is the way for me. I know it seems like I just want the easy way out, but I can’t try anything else. I don’t want to be ‘brave’. You’ve got to help me. Please. This is what I need.” I turned back to him, and saw that he was telling the truth. He didn’t want to live. He didn’t want this. He just wanted to leave. His life had never been easy… he had always told me that the time he had spent with me was the happiest of his life, and that he couldn’t imagine anything else. Because beyond the moment that we were in; it was either dying slowly in a hospital, where no one could or would see him, or facing his father, which would be without description. Lord knows it wouldn’t end in a way that would be any better than the hospital, and so there we were, in the moment. “Please.” “How do you want to do it?” “I want it to look like I was mugged.” “What?” “I don’t want my parents to know. My father would end up blaming my mother, and I couldn’t have that. Despite her faults, she was always kind to me. No one can stand up to my father, how could I expect her to? So I have this.” He opened a bag and showed the inside. I looked and almost fainted. I couldn’t imagine actually going through with this. I kept hoping, praying, that I would wake up from all of this. That this The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 243 had all been the after effect of a drink gone wrong. But I saw Paul standing there, as real as anything. And I knew it had to be true. I locked up for the night, shutting the doors and windows, the whole place clean and neat. We walked a way down the road, towards a dark abandoned alleyway. We stopped by the darkness, and as we did, he handed me his guitar. The guitar that had Frank’s name, carved in tribute. I started to cry, not believing this. Paul dug into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. “I want you to have these. Especially that,” he said, gesturing to the guitar. He held my hand, squeezing it tightly. Then he handed me the bag and a glove, saying, “put this on.” I pulled it over my trembling hand, astonished that he had gone this far, bringing a glove to protect me from being linked to his… I couldn’t even think it, though I knew it was staring me straight in the face. He stood in a pool of light, the walls of the buildings surrounding him like his coffin. It was too surreal and I felt as though I was going to vomit. I couldn’t go through with this, there was no way… “Darling?” I looked at him, tears running down my face. “I’m ready.” “I can’t-” I started to say frantically. “Yes, you can.” He calmly reassured me. As I lifted my arm, preparing to do what I hated to do, he caught my eye for a split second, and smiled. “Thank you.”

I’m not proud of what I did. I still believe that if Paul had chosen to, we could have helped him. Not out of being gay, because that wasn’t the issue. The issue was the intolerance that surrounded him, the inability to cure the virus that attacked his immune system and later became known as AIDS, or acquired immune deficiency syndrome, which then later became known as HIV, or human immunodeficiency virus. So I don’t ask you to forgive me for what I did, because it was heinous and I know that. I wish there had been another way for him. I wish that I had been able to do more. But most of all, I wish that he was alive today, so he could see the world around him and what has been done. It is not perfect, but he would know that, and with that quiet grace he had, he would turn to me and smile, the single word of our unity on his lips. “Darling.”

edited by Joshua Goudreau 244

“Myth” by Julia Stryker

AN: *THE INBETWEEN TIME: BEFORE THINGS WERE WHAT they would be, before they knew what they were, or could be. When all birds sang, when the sharp-toothed beasts spoke softly to their brothers, and before the crickets learned to chirp.*

Raven sat upon a fence post and contemplated the moon. Sooner or later, Crow came by and sat at his feet, staring up with him. For a long while, they sat in silence, those two white birds, bringing with them into the night, the crickets that never sang. “Why do you suppose,” said Crow, “You sit upon this here fence post, Raven, and contemplate the moon?” “I don’t suppose,” Raven said, his voice deep and slow, “I know.” “Well, then, Raven,” said Crow, “What do you know?” “I know that she’s been up there since before I first opened my eyes to the wide, wide world. And if that’s so, why, then, she must come down some day and talk to us little folk.” Crow wrinkled his black brow and looked up at his bigger brother, “Are we little? What makes you think that she’s so big, Raven?” “Why, she must be, because she’s awful big, compared to the stars and bugs, and I’ve watched Wolf try to reach her every night since he first opened wide his eyes, and he’s never done it. So she must be awful far away.” He paused, “Wolf’s got long arms, you know. And if she’s so far away, and still bigger than the stars and bugs, then she must be awful big.” They sat in silence, with the crickets that never sang. Then Crow got the itch to question again. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 245 “What makes you think she’ll come down, Raven? Especially if we’re just little folk to her.” “Why she must, little brother,” Raven replied, “If she’s holding herself up, then she must get tired some day. And if she’s not, well then, what is? And why doesn’t it get tired of holding something so big? Trust me, she’ll come down some day, and I don’t want to miss it.” “I see,” said Crow, his black brows knit close together like the threads of yarn blanket, because he didn’t see at all. “Raven,” he finally spoke again, “I’ve talked to Owl.” “And what did Owl say to you?” Raven never took his eyes from the great bright moon. “Owl said that she’s had her eyes on the night sky for as long as she can remember, which is longer than the longest king of snakes, and she figures that the moon is stuck up there like a cow in tar, or a patch in an old coat, and she’s never gonna come down until the day the whole sky breaks down on its little cousin the Earth. The Owl tells me lots of stories, like about the sky being a great egg.” Raven blinked his dark eyes slowly, and took his time. “I never did think much of old Owl.” “I see,” Crow replied, though he saw even less than he had the time he wandered in the Bear’s cave. They sat in silence while the crickets that never sing got about their quiet business sitting around them. “Raven?” Crow said. “Yes, little brother?” Raven replied. “What are you going to do when the moon comes down to see us?” “Why, I’m going to eat the rabbit, little brother.” “What rabbit?” Crow asked, maybe there was a hint of incredulity in his voice. “Why, the rabbit that’s stuck up in the moon. Don’t you see it?” Raven kept his eyes intent. “I don’t see any rabbit, Raven,” Crow said, peering hard into the light. “Besides, you don’t catch rabbits so well.” “That’s why I’m waiting, little brother. If the moon could catch it, it must be a slow rabbit.” “Yeah, but the moon’s so big, Raven. That must be one big rabbit.” “I reckon it’ll feed me well until I’m like Chameleon, and can live off air.” “What do you want to be like Chameleon for, Raven. He can’t even look straight, and much less fly.” “I know he can’t.” They sat in silence with the crickets who don’t sing, and the moon floated above them like a great shining prize. edited by Joshua Goudreau 246 Loping through the fence boards came the great Wolf, his silver shining fur catching like heaven under the moonlight. He sat at the feet of the birds and looked up into the moon. “What are you two doing here?” he asked, his voice as smooth and quiet as his footsteps. “Waiting for the moon,” Raven said. “To get to the rabbit,” Crow finished. The crickets didn’t say anything. Wolf looked distastefully at them the most. “If you wait much longer, Raven, you’ll loose your bright white feathers, and your silver sheen will leave you Crow, until you both look like soot caught in the wind as you fly. You’ll spend so long beneath her light that you’ll forget how to hunt, and you will become like the carrion eaters and berry birds. You can wait until your voices leave you, until there is no song left in your throats, and you’ll forget what it was you were meant to sing like Mocking Bird did.” “It won’t be so long,” Raven said. “She’ll come down,” Crow insisted. Wolf glanced up at her, the moon, and a great sadness crossed his lupine features. “I’ve looked at the moon,” he said. “I’ve called to her for many nights. I composed songs for her that no other creature could match, just to claim her down from the heights.” “Of course she did not come to you,” Raven said. “You are a predator. The rabbit she keeps would not like that.” Wolf looked over at Raven whose wide eyes stared still at the great orb. “I call to my brethren now, Raven. The moon will not come down from the sky, not because of what she holds, but because of what she is.” “What is she?” Crow asked, always wanting the answers to his questions. “Why ask him?” Raven said. “He’s given up on her.” “Just because I sing to my brothers now, doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what to sing about. I stared into the sky long enough to know. She is what all things hope. She will always glide above us through the long and cold dark nights.” “I see,” said Crow, but he did not see anymore than when he’d first looked into the night and tried to fly to his favorite star. Raven said nothing. Wolf padded away on his silent feet, his night busy with the things of wolves. The crickets started to chirp in the night, singing songs to the moon that they hid when they heard footsteps. They know it might be Wolf approaching. The crickets are too embarrassed.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 247

Bully by Marc Bartkowiak

DANIEL WAS SHAKING AS HE APPROACHED THE TALL, unkempt bushes fencing off Mr. Udantal’s house. Each morning previously this week, Hank had been waiting just past the hedge amongst the sparse trees lining an empty field that stretched out at the end of the neighborhood. Each morning, Daniel had been painfully persuaded to relinquish his lunch money to the older, larger boy. The field wasn’t big, but was isolated from view of anyone in the houses since, despite being halfway through October, the trees all still had their leaves, so Daniel had no hope of rescue by anyone not already on their way to work. Because of the freeway overpass past the dead end of the street, the only walking route to Danny’s school was past this field, so he had no chance of avoiding Hank’s chosen ambush point. This was Daniel’s first year in town; his family had moved here the week before school started. It never took long for a new kid at Weston Elementary to find out about Hank Douder. Thirteen, but still in fifth grade after failing twice, Hank was the biggest child in the school. It was an advantage that Hank enjoyed utilizing to torment those who had the misfortune of being half his size and forced to spend a large portion of their days near him. Not even a week after the start of the academic year, Andrew, Danny’s only friend in town thus far, had refused to relinquish his swing to Hank upon demand during recess. Hank’s response was to grab Andrew’s collar and slug the smaller boy in the gut. Daniel watched his friend curled in the fetal position, gasping for breath, and decided he would avoid pissing Hank off. He had been successful in not attracting Hank’s rage, but learned four days ago that a bully doesn’t always wait for a reason to spring an attack. edited by Joshua Goudreau 248 Monday, Danny was caught completely unaware as he strolled past the field. Hank was leaning on a tree, his smile revealing the gap between his front teeth. Danny tried to ignore him, but any hope of this meeting being incidental fell heavy in Daniel’s stomach when the bully stepped in front of him. Scuffed blue sneakers planted Hank’s thick legs to the ground. Wearing ripped jeans, a faded Metallica t-shirt that hung almost to his knees, and sporting a buzz cut, Hank probably looked silly to anyone possessing a driver’s license. To a sixty-pound, spectacled third grader, he was King Kong. Danny put up no resistance when instructed to donate his lunch money to the fiend. Hank punched him in the ribs despite his acquiescence before walking away. Doing his best to not think about the throbbing from the blossoming bruise on his side, Danny rose to his feet once the bully had disappeared and trudged the rest of the way to school, sitting quietly through the day, his young features distorting every time he took too deep a breath. The following morning, Hank was waiting again, this time seated on the ground behind a large rock and eating a candy bar. Danny didn’t notice him until he turned in response to the crumpled, empty silver wrapper that flew over his shoulder. As soon as the sight of that cruel grin framed in stubbly hair registered, Daniel tried to run, but Hank’s hands latched onto his shoulders, killing the escape attempt. The reassuring sense of solid ground beneath his feel deserted the young boy as his assailant tossed him casually through the air. All Danny could think of as he sailed along was how hungry he’d been the day before. The hard landing revitalized the bruise from the previous day, and the end of a fallen branch opened a cut below his right eye. Hank dropped onto Danny’s back, driving a knee into the boy’s kidney until a small hand rose with a green dollar and two quarters gripped inside. Even though his cheek had scabbed up by the time he returned home that afternoon, Daniel’s mother had chattered and cooed over the wound for hours. His dad, too, asked what had happened. Danny told both that he’d tripped and fallen, ashamed at having been defeated without a struggle. By the time Danny went to his room after dinner, his parents seemed to have forgotten his injury. When it was almost his bedtime, Danny set his book aside, turned off the radio, and made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. On his way back, thanks to the acoustics of the stairwell, he heard his parents arguing. “I got it because I think we need it,” his father whispered. “I can’t believe you did that. What about Daniel?” He could tell they were both trying to keep their voices down, but sound carried quite well through the living room entrance and up the stairs. “He won’t find out about it.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 249 Danny’s ears perked up at the prospect of something new and forbidden in his father’s statement, but it would have to wait for the following day. Tonight, he was in the mood for nothing but curling up in bed and trying take his mind off his aching ribs long enough to fall asleep. Wednesday, Danny had been more alert, catching a glimpse of the worn shoe tip peeking from behind a tree. He tried dashing back to the safety of his house, not thinking of the fact that his parents had already left. Two houses from his, Hank’s raspy breathing so close on his tail he could swear he could feel the heat of it on his neck, Danny stumbled over the mount where a diving board would have been two months ago. Unfortunately, the pool’s owner had not yet drained the water in preparation for winter, and Hank rammed hard into Danny’s shoulder, sending him splashing among the leaves floating in the chlorinated water. Hank hadn’t even bothered to get the lunch funds from him, but looking forward to actually eating that day was not enough to cheer the child as he shuffled home to change and afterwards suffered through the angry words of his teacher for being late to school. Yesterday, Hank hid up in the branches of a tree that hung over the sidewalk, leaping down when Danny passed below, punching the boy in the back of the head upon landing. Danny would have fallen on his face from the unexpected blow, but Hank grabbed him by the back of his underwear, resulting in a wedgie that Daniel would feel every time he sat down for the rest of the day. As he tried at lunch that day to urge a few kids into donating scraps to his cause after being mugged once again, trying not to wince at the pain in his crotch, Danny decided that he was no longer going to be an easy victim. He came up with a plan on the walk home from school, the return trip thankfully safe since Hank had detention after school for the week. Daniel would fight back, and hopefully be successful in getting Hank to leave him alone. Thursday evening, he prepared for the next morning. He filled a balloon with what was left of the pudding from dessert two nights ago, and poured in some anise oil before tying the balloon to cut off the smell. He took a paper lunch bag and stashed it in his backpack- it would have to wait for the next day to be filled, until Danny went through the Johnson’s yard next door. The last piece of his plan would have to wait until just before he left home. Friday morning, with his preparations complete after a furtive two minutes groping blindly above his head on the shelf in his father’s closet while his mother was occupied cooking pancakes, and a quick stop on his way through the neighbor’s backyard, Danny approached the end of Mr. Udantal’s scraggly hedges where the tail of a baggy shirt waved, quivering with anticipation at putting his idea to the test, and from fear it would fail. Four houses back, Danny had hidden the balloon next to a garden hose that lay behind a low brick wall separating the pale pink house with plastic flamingos edited by Joshua Goudreau 250 stuck in the grass from the pool Danny had involuntarily plunged into two days before. He carried the brown lunch bag in his hands, now freshly full. The final surprise was tucked away in the bottom of his backpack. “Morning, wimp,” Hank growled as he leapt in front of his prey. “I knew you was stupid enough to walk this way again.” “There’s no other way to get to school, Hank. Just leave me alone.” Danny hung his head, wringing his hands on the folded top of the bag. “I ain’t got money today.” “Fine. Give me your lunch and we’ll call it even.” “You don’t want it, Hank. Besides, if you take it, I can’t eat again.” He stared at a bright red pimple on Hank’s forehead, trying to maintain his courage. “Aww, I feel so bad for you. Guess you’ll just have to start eating a bigger breakfast. Give it here.” “C’mon, Hank, please? I’ll share it with you at lunch. I swear.” “You’ll give it all to me now.” Hank raised a fist. Danny showed what he hoped was an appropriately cowed expression and hung his head. Handing over the bag, Danny shuffled a few steps back as Hank opened it, the larger boy’s triumphant smile growing as he reached inside. Hank grasped what lay in the bottom and his smile vanished. Squinting and grimacing like he had just swallowed rancid milk, Hank drew his hand into view, covered with globs of still-warm dog feces. “I’m gonna kill you!” Danny was already running, dodging as though panicked, concentrating on reaching the brick wall perpendicular to the sidewalk fifty yards away. He dove behind it, reaching for his hidden projectile. The bully rounded the corner of the wall excitedly, expecting Daniel to be trembling in horror at what he’d done and ready for a handful of dog crap. Instead, he was greeted with the balloon breaking across the bridge of his nose, coating his face in thick pudding, gagging him with the smell of licorice. Danny picked up the hose coiled beneath the window. “You look dirty, let me help,” hooted Danny as he hopped around, giggling, soaking Hank with cold water, careful not to spray the pudding from the other boy’s face. Daniel laughed harder at the thud when the older boy slipped on the wet grass and went down. Seizing this opportunity, Danny dropped the hose, ripped a plastic flamingo out of the dirt by its thin metal leg, and smashed it over Hank’s head. “You little shit,” Hank screamed as he threw the broken lawn ornament. “You so should not have done this.” He was trying to wipe the reeking vanilla mess out of his eyes, but mostly just succeeded in smearing dog poop all over his cheeks. Meanwhile, Danny was busy digging in his backpack. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 251 “Danny, you are gonna die! I’m gonna rip you...” Click-clack. Hank didn’t need to see to realize what had just happened. He knew the noise of a round being chambered well from trips to the firing range with his father. It stopped the bully’s ranting as Danny revealed the final piece of his plan, pulled back on the top like he’d seen in movies, and leveled the weapon at the bully’s head. Looking through the gooey strands stretched between his eyelashes, Hank found himself staring at the wrong end of a 9mm as he rose on one knee, that gaping hole in the center darker even than the black metal around it. He felt warmth run down his leg as his bladder let go. “Damn bully. You’re not going to kill me. You’re not going to bother me ever again. You promise to leave me alone, right?” Danny hadn’t bothered to search the closet for ammunition, not knowing how to load the gun, and figuring the sight of it alone would be enough to get Hank to leave him alone. It appeared he’d been right as Hank swallowed hard and nodded. “Good. If you ever bother me again, I’m going to shoot you in the back.” Danny was going to walk away, but at that moment he noticed the stream dribbling from the bottom of Hank’s shorts that was too yellow to be from the garden hose. The weight of the gun gave him confidence, and he couldn’t resist a chance to further torment the older boy. “Now, let’s go to school. We’ll tell everyone that a little kid made you piss yourself, you chicken shit.” Hank snarled. “Wimp,” he bellowed as he leapt forward. Danny flinched, and in doing so, clenched his hands. His mouth gaped in shock at the explosion that drowned out the bully’s angry cry as it tore through the neighborhood. He watched through a haze of bluish smoke as Hank’s eyes widened for a flash before the left one disappeared, vaporized along with an irregular chunk of his head in a spray of carnage. Crimson mist filled Danny’s sight and decorated his face with angry dots. Something brushed past his open lips, landing on his tongue with a bitter splash. The young boy spat in disgust, recoiling as he watched a grey mass of Hank’s brain arc through the air. He crumpled to the ground, spraying his half-digested breakfast all over the short green shrubs. Birds scattered from trees and telephone wires. People not yet on the road towards their jobs were drawn outside to gawk, their interest further piqued by the repetition of, “I only meant to scare him. I didn’t know it was loaded,” in a trembling whisper from behind the brick wall. Curiosity turned to horror as each rounded the small barricade to see the corpse of a thirteen-year old boy sprawled in the grass, half its head still there, the other half coating the bricks and lawn, and an even smaller boy, face spotted with blood and an oozing glob of scalp stuck to one lens of his glasses, cowering against the house, rocking gently, gripping a gun, bawling. edited by Joshua Goudreau 252

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 253

Love Always, Love Always by Megan Reilly

I’M SICK AGAIN. IT COMES AND GOES, BUT YOU’RE ALWAYS there to hold my hair back. I smoke and drink too much, and you tell me that I need to quit. You know very well that I hate being alone, and I get myself ill and comatose when you leave.

Dear Elliott, I got pierced again today. I wish you were here to sterilize me and wipe away the blood. If I go to the hospital, tell my mother that I’m okay. There’s no need to call; the line is disconnected anyway.

I hope you’re back for good this time. You wanted to go to church and I said, “Okay”. I keep forgetting that you were raised Catholic. We drank wine from the chalice and smoked while you read Bible passages. I thought we were sinning, but you said it was okay, that even Jesus needed a rest.

Dear Elliott, I sent you the picture of us from last year. It’s the black-and-white one of me and my blonde hair. I took more pictures for some money, and I’m sure it will be enough to get you home. Please don’t be mad. I think I’m beautiful this time.

You’re doing it again, making me smile through paranoid tears. Wet kisses and groping fingers, love like kittens in baskets. The sheets ... oh damn, the ones my mother gave me. You’re delirious when you smile, my hair draped edited by Joshua Goudreau 254 over your knees. You’re never anxious and you let me take my time. We never have sex. No, no. We make love.

Dear Elliott, My mother wants me to come home. She thinks I’m pregnant or on drugs. People ask about you and I don’t know what to say. I heard cigarettes there are cheap, so get me a carton or two. I had to go to the hospital. I was afraid, but they said everything was okay. I needed a break, so I stayed for a few days. I went to church after I got out and was baptized. Three cheers for Clozapine.

This time, I can’t stop crying. Sitting on our bed, my mother’s sheets stained into oblivion. I’m smoking naked, yellow thighs and trimmed pubic hair like delicate wire. You touch my breast, fingers riding over nipple and jewelry. I’m going to get sick again. Maybe I’ll be in the hospital for good this time, only my mother saving me. It’s you and it’s me... it’s always us. You have to leave, and you’re not coming back. I sob and consider drowning myself in the ocean.

Dear Elliott, I heard about you and read what happened. Congratulations, I guess. I’ll try to be happy for you, but it’s impossible. Do you know how many pills they have me on? Enough. Straight pins work better than safety pins, but if you could get your hands on a needle, that would work even better. I hate to say it, but she’s pretty and suits you. Gorgeous, even. I don’t think you’ll ever forget the skinny, pale, titless girl who loved you more than words. Love always, love always.

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Closer To God by Vicki Goodwin

LUCY WAS A GIRL WHO WAS EMBARKING ON A LOVE affair with Jesus. She thought of him constantly and prayed that one day she would meet him, and that he would passionately fall in lust with her. Her love for Jesus had nothing to do with religious beliefs; she found the whole idea of faith a little sickening. Millions of people putting their trust in something that they couldn’t even see. It just seemed like a stupid idea, and she had little time for the bible bred hicks that thrived in her community. Lucy instead believed in fate and karma. She led a good life and cared deeply for her friends and family. Underneath all this sugar sweet goodness however, their lurked a girl who didn’t always do good for the benefit of others. Lucy was the type of girl who was out there for the rewards, and the reward she was hoping for was sleeping in the bed of Jesus Christ, and having him love her above all others. Lucy’s love affair with Jesus had started at an early age, and it was showing no signs of ceasing. As a child she had been dragged to church by her parents, who blindly followed what was preached to them each Sunday. At first she had tried to listen to the voice of the priest, but she’d found his tone too screechy, his face too lined and full of contempt for those who didn’t believe. She’d allowed her mind to wander, and as she fell into a dream like state, her eyes had met with those of a man who was nailed to a cross. Such sacrifice and passion had impressed her, and even though she had been young then, she knew how it felt to desire and want someone. The fantasies started soon after. Lucy was considered a sweet girl; she was someone to depend on. The fact that she went to church so often made her seem all the stronger. No one edited by Joshua Goudreau 256 knew that the only reason that she went there was so that she could stare at the huge crucifix nailed to the wall, whilst she fingered the one around her neck, and dreamt of things that most catholic girls shouldn’t even know about. She’d stumble out of the church in a lust crazed stupor and lock herself in her bedroom as she explored the depths of her fantasy in private. She ached for Jesus, her soul practically screamed out for him to come and take her. The desire that she felt increased week by week; it was a hunger that she had major problems satisfying. At first Lucy had been happy with her imagination alone. She’d spent many hours alone attending to her needs. Each shuddering orgasm bought her closer to heaven, and nearer to Jesus. Then one day she realized that wasn’t enough, that she wasn’t able to feel pleasure like she used to. At 15 she came across the idea of role play, and that’s when her fun really started. Her first conquest was a boy named Kevin. He was painfully simple, but that just meant that he was easier for Lucy to control. Kevin’s eyes had practically burst out of his head when Lucy offered herself up to him like some kind of sacrificial virgin. At first she let him do whatever he wanted with her. She just lay back and thought of Jesus. Then as orgasm after orgasm assaulted her body, she’d bite down on the shoulder of the person inside of her, just to stop from shouting out the name of Jesus Christ. These visits to Kevin happened regularly. She’d meet up with him during the night, in the old garden that lay behind the church, it seemed fitting after all. One day after a particularly well thought out fantasy had bought her to the brink of insanity; Lucy decided that it was time for her to start taking things to the next level. She’d never known exactly what it was about Jesus that she was so attracted to. Sure, he was a strong man with morals that couldn’t be shattered, qualities that are attractive in any man. But there was something more, and in the days since she’d met Kevin she’d not only been exploring sex, but her own mind and why she felt the way that she did. She’d wanted to talk to friends about her desires and dreams, but to her they all seemed like such children. She felt special, as if she was somehow marked for greater things than any of them could ever dare to dream about. Lucy felt as though Jesus had handpicked her to be the one woman that he wanted to physically express her love to him through. She liked to imagine that all the passion and lust that she felt for him was somehow transmitted upward, meaning that he too felt like she did. It was almost as if she was some kind of vessel for desire, and she knew that each time she came, he could feel it, and it made him want and crave her even more than she knew he already did. These sexual acts weren’t purely about her satisfying her own needs, they were about satisfying his, and finding a way to bind them together. Kevin was just a prop, something that Lucy used as a means to an end, and at this The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 257 moment in time she knew that a love like the one developing between her and Jesus, demanded greater displays of passion, and greater sacrifice. She’d first stumbled across the idea of sacrifice after one particularly heavy church session. As usual she hadn’t been paying attention to the priest; she’d been paying attention to herself. She always sat at the back now, away from her parents and everyone else. She said it was because being that close to the front gave her a headache. That she needed to be away from the front where the sermons weren’t quite as loudly received. No one blinked an eyelid as she moved to the back. Very few people choose to sit there. She guessed that they wanted to be closer to the action or something. She preferred it that way, as it meant that she was free to explore herself in private. These days she wore skirts or dresses to church, things that she could lift up easily. Her favorite part of church was when everyone knelt down in prayer for what seemed like ages. With there heads turned down in prayer, no one could see her. She’d leave her eyes open and turn her gaze toward the huge crucifix that she wished she could take home. As mind began to wander, she’d lift up her skirt and push her underwear aside. Then as her fingers found their target, she’d gently twist and rock her body, always careful to keep her breath from becoming too ragged and loud. She always focused on his hands now, liking the way they looked all covered in blood. She’d turn the crucifix display into a living, breathing man, who was dying in front of her. She felt like it was her mission to make sure she came before he drew his last gasping breath, and as she came in floods of waves, she’d hear him groan, then gasp, and finally become still. These solo missions were much better than anything she had going on with Kevin right now. Maybe it was the fact that Kevin didn’t bleed that made it seem less explosive. She found Kevin in the usual spot, and drew up to kiss him. Although of course it wasn’t Kevin’s tongue that she felt in her mouth, it was the tongue of Jesus. Hard and probing, making her soul rise to her chest. She pushed him back against the wall and told him that she wanted to try something different. In the half light haze of midnight, Lucy could see Kevin’s eyes full with lust. Good she thought, easier this way. They continued to kiss, and as they did, Lucy pulled out a knife that she had in her pocket. She told Kevin to spread out his arms, an order which he blindly followed. She leant in to bite his neck, and thrust the knife right into the palm of his left hand. His scream jolted her out of herself; she watched the blood flow with morbid fascination. It was so dark, like liquid fire. She touched it and found it hot and sticky. Moving her hand down, she found the seat of her desire and bought herself to orgasm as Kevin’s sobs hung accusingly in the air. They didn’t see each after that. Kevin avoided her on the street and looked away when she smiled. Still it didn’t bother her that much. He’d never tell anyone edited by Joshua Goudreau 258 about what had happened, not many 25-year-old men like to admit they’ve been fucking a 15-year-old. The memory of Kevin’s screams and volcanic blood flow satisfied Lucy for a long time. All she needed to do to feel closer to Jesus was remember the sacrifice that she’d made for him. She knew that he was satisfied to, that he hungered for her and was waiting for an opportunity to make his flesh real and take her himself. Lucy wondered how she could help him realize his dream. She spoke with him daily now, heard his voice throughout everything she did. It was the sexiest sound that she’d ever heard, deep and gravely. She could lose control over the sound of that voice alone. She began praying, properly praying, and asked what she could do, and how she could help to speed the process along. The voice answered back that he couldn’t do this alone, that he needed her, and that she needed to find someone who could help them both. The answer came to her in dreams at night. She needed another sacrifice, something bigger, something that would make Jesus come through. Sebastian was a choirboy, someone who Lucy had had her eye on for quite sometime. She was older now; her 17th birthday had come along with terrifying speed. There were a lot of things that she couldn’t remember; days seemed to melt into months and then years. She looked into mirrors, surprised by the fact that her face had aged. Her voice was different, deeper and stronger. Her body was perfect. She spent hours each day grooming and preening. Making herself worthy of such a deep connection with the divine. She sat at the front in church now, let her lust roar like a tiger, but she never gave in. She was saving it all for when her plan came together, and Sebastian was all she needed. Getting Sebastian alone had been shockingly easy. He was 16 and a virgin, perfect in every single way. She lured him to the sheds behind the church with promises of helping him discover his true self. She’d fed him wine and laughed at the ease in which her plan was going. When his head started to loll back, and she heard his tongue grow thick with alcohol, she knew that the time was right. He’d smiled so much when she first started to kiss and undress him. She led him to the wall and bent down to give him his real gift. His moans of pleasure made Lucy’s skin tingle. She finished before he came, and stroked his arms and legs as he drunkenly swayed around. Grabbing hold of his wrists Lucy had told Sebastian that she wanted to play something kinky and dangerous. Not believing his luck, Sebastian quickly blinked and nodded his head. Allowing Lucy to move his arms apart, he felt rope being tied around his wrists and joined to something wooden. His breathing intensified, and he felt himself feeling more and more on fire. Passion was rising up inside of him, threatening to explode. His feet were bound in a similar way; he was already enjoying this game. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 259 Lucy left Sebastian to stand for a few moments. She enjoyed the way he looked, bound to a crucifix. She wondered if he knew what he was bound to. A crudely designed crucifix, that she’d hurriedly made earlier that day. Something inside of her spurred her on, told her that the plan was nearly complete, that they would be together soon. She smiled and took out the nails that she had taken along. They were long and hard, and felt cold in the palms of her hand. She walked up to Sebastian, kissed him on the cheek and drove the first nail right through his hand. He screamed loudly, she hadn’t counted on that, so quickly gagged him with one of his socks that was lying on the floor. She took time with the remaining nails, savored the sounds of them crunching through bones. This was almost more than Lucy could stand. Sebastian was trying to scream, making chocking noises and strange gurgling sounds. His eyes were wide with horror and pain, tears flowed freely ran down his chest. Lucy was in ecstasy. She could hear the voice of Jesus saying that he was ready to come through, that there was just one more thing that she had to do. She didn’t have a spear, but she did have a knife. She told Sebastian that she loved him and that Jesus loved him to, then with all the power that she had, she drove the knife into his side and watched the blood flow all over her body. Lucy looked into the eyes of Sebastian and thought that she saw his eyes changing. The voice in her head told her that he was here and that they could now be together. Lucy positioned herself against Jesus and rocked wildly in lust, the kind that she had never felt before. She was whole, she felt satisfied and loved, protected and needed. As her orgasms came and went she looked into his eyes and noticed them closing. She felt okay though, now that she knew how to make love to Jesus, she was hardly about to stop.

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Deirdre and the Kirin by Lillian Csernica

“IT’S NOT LIKE I CAN TELL LARRY,” DEIRDRE SAID. “I MEAN, that’s the whole point. The secret. The terms.” Deirdre picked at a bowl of steamed rice while I doused my potstickers with spicy oil. I didn’t prompt her. The convenient thing about people who insist on being weird is how they have to make sure other people are noticing them. With Deirdre that usually involved a speech of some sort. “Don’t you just hate it when you’ve done something great for him, and all you want is just one ‘thank you’, but you know you’ll never hear it. And you can’t just ask him for it because then he’ll tell say you know he appreciates you, doesn’t he show you he appreciates you, why do you have to be told things all the time?” Her current man was a big gangly architect with an easy laugh. Sounded like Larry was going to be getting his pink slip. Too bad. I took a thoughtful sip of tea. “Would it make you feel any better to tell somebody, even if it isn’t Larry?” She stared at me. One iris was blue. The other was a weird sickly white. She wore a blue contact lens over it, the only effort she made to hide her strangeness. The threat of tears in her eyes made the lens shift a little toward the outside corner of that eye, so for a second she looked like some alien creature with one split pupil. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m really not supposed to tell any of--anyone.” She heaved another Ophelia-about-to-dive-in sigh, but it seemed a little too theatrical, just like her clothes. Today Deirdre wore a green velvet dress, sandals, and her usual ton of silver jewelry. “Patti, why do you always drag The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 261 me here? You know I hate Chinese restaurants.” She shuddered. “There’s that thing on the counter.” “It’s just a kirin, Deirdre. Like a Chinese good luck charm.” When I ate lunch at the Golden Phoenix alone, the owner, Mrs. Chang, would tell me stories about China. My favorite story explained the golden statue of the kirin that sat on a rosewood stand beside the cash register. It looked like a shaggy unicorn. Mrs. Chang said it kept her safe from the evil spirits. Deirdre couldn’t stand Mrs. Chang or the kirin. The feeling was probably mutual. “I hate it,” Deirdre said. “I can’t concentrate with that thing staring at me.” My one advantage in our weird relationship was the right to choose where we met. I had the day job and the lunch hour. If Deirdre wanted an audience, she had to play along. Nothing livened up a dull day of processing insurance forms like listening to one of Deirdre’s tirades. I suppose I gravitated to Deirdre hoping some of her weird glamour would rub off on me. I had curly brown hair that refused to obey, no flair at all when it came to clothes, and big brown eyes that made me look just like those inane Precious Moments figurines. Not exactly Catwoman, or even Miss Kitty from “Gunsmoke.” She sighed again. “Promise you won’t tell anybody?” I saluted with my chopsticks. “My right brain won’t know what my left brain is thinking.” “I’m homesick, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Larry’s such a jerk he wouldn’t care even if I told him everything.” “Homesick? You told me you hated living in Riverside. Too much traffic, everybody so normal, too many rednecks.” Deirdre rolled her eyes, making her contact slide around. That gave me the eerie feeling that other things might be sliding around loose in her head. “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Haven’t I told you that’s not my real home?” “Oh. Right.” “I want to go back to the Greenwood, to Faerie. But I can’t. Once I go back, I can’t leave ever again.” “I thought you said you could come here whenever you wanted, like a vacation.” “Well, I mean, that was true then. I thought it was only a vacation.” She sat back, her mouth twisting into a bitter frown. “I stayed because of him. Larry.” She stared out the window. “When I decided I wanted to stay, I made promises, promises that bind me.” She held up her hands, wiggling her fingers to make her silver rings glitter. Most were set with either moonstones or amethysts. “These are the symbols of my bondage. If I’m ever caught without these stones, I’ll be yanked back home so fast my teeth will rattle.” “You can’t go back just for a visit?” edited by Joshua Goudreau 262 “No.” Deirdre threw herself back against the seat in another sulk. “Too many rules. One thing or the other. Can’t have it both ways. They’d love to see me slip up, so they could drag me back and lecture me on why the worlds are kept apart.” “Who’s they?” “The Elders. They’ll haul me up in front of Queen Mab. I’ll have to explain where I’ve been and why I left.” “The queen won’t care about you being in love?” “With one of you? Hah!” “What’s that supposed to mean?” She rolled her eyes again. “You’re human, stupid. I’m not. We’re not supposed to consort with you people. It’s beneath us.” I stared at her, feeling my amusement and fascination burn away in the heat of anger. “So you’re just slumming, huh?” I asked. “Just out for a cheap thrill with the lower life forms?” Deirdre opened her mouth, saw the look on my face, and hesitated. “It’s my turn to tell you a story,” I said. “Once upon a time there was this pathetic, insecure little girl who wanted everybody to think she was special. She dreamed up this ‘promise’ about being a renegade from Fairyland that let her buy all kinds of fancy jewelry while wallowing in the drama of being a slave to love.” Deirdre’s eyes bugged out and her mouth fell open. “Time for a reality check, Deirdre. You don’t want to give up Larry’s money, even though Larry himself doesn’t thrill you anymore. You can’t face knowing you’re that shallow and greedy, so you have to keep playing this game.” She got that slit-eyed huffy look. “How dare you mock me! Do you know what I could do to you?” “I’ll bet you can’t do diddly without calling home for reinforcements. Can’t risk that, can you?” “I thought you were my friend! I thought I could talk to you. You’re just another stupid human. You can’t even see what’s sitting in front of you!” “Oh yes I can.” I took a long drink of tea. “I suppose I started out admiring you. You were so different, so weird, so determined to make reality twist into the shape you wanted. You were really something to watch.” Her anger faded a little as the actress in her preened. “I’ve wanted to be you,” I said. “All the parties, the coffee houses, hanging out backstage with your theater buddies. You were magic, you were a fairy, you were all the things I wanted to be.” I fished a few singles out of my wallet to cover the tip, then I slid out of the booth and picked up my check. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 263 “I guess the stories are true. Fairy gold does turn back to something common and ordinary the next day.” I walked toward the cash register. High time I got something resembling a life. Behind me a dish shattered. I looked back. Deirdre must have leaped up out of her seat fast enough to upset the dishes on the table. She stood there shaking all over, eyes wide. The drama of the pose was ruined by the steamed rice scattered across her sandals. “I will not be laughed at!” “Too late.” I turned away to hand the check to Mrs. Chang. “Stupid human!” Deirdre thrust both hands at me. “Suffer the wrath of Faerie!” She looked so crazy I jumped back against the counter, knocking the kirin off its stand. I made a grab for it, catching it in both hands. The afternoon sunlight flashed across the kirin, blinding me. It twisted out of my hands. Deirdre screamed. I stumbled away from the counter, shaking my head and blinking. Deirdre lay sprawled on the floor face down. I ran over and felt for the pulse in her neck. It was there, faint but steady. A puddle of red was spreading out from under her face. I eased her over onto her back. The eye with the blue contact was nothing but a bloody hole. Somebody started screaming. I crouched there, staring at the ruin of Deirdre’s eye. I thought I had the shakes until I realized Mrs. Chang had her hand on my shoulder. “You safe now,” she said. “But- what happened?” “Bad eye. She be good, no trouble. She be bad-“ Mrs. Chang shrugged her bent shoulders and shook her head. I scrambled up and ran past her to the cash register. Next to it sat the phone. I grabbed the phone off its cradle and punched the buttons for 911. A woman’s calm voice answered. “I need an ambulance! Her eye- The blood-” The woman asked for the address. I snatched up one of the to go menus and read it to her. She said something about staying there, waiting for the paramedics. I hung up in the middle of it. The kirin now sat on its rosewood stand. The tip of its golden horn was stained a sticky red. My lunch congealed in my stomach. I’d known kirin were guardians, but I thought they were supposed to be cute, playful creatures. Then again, fairies were supposed to be sweet little kids with butterfly wings. Outside sirens wailed, louder and louder. I knelt beside Deirdre. Had the kirin acted against her power, or just her craziness? Did it matter which? Either way, now she was doomed to living half-blind, probably inside some mental ward. If Deirdre really was a fairy, the kindest thing I could do for her edited by Joshua Goudreau 264 was send her home. I pulled off all her rings and stuffed them in my pocket, then gathered all her necklaces in one hand and lifted them off over her head. She still lay there. No sparkles, no little bells, no magic smoke. Nothing. Behind me somebody coughed. I glanced back to see the waiters huddled together, watching me, looking at the jewelry in my hand. I pointed toward the sirens. “They’ll get in the way. You know, in the Emergency Room.” One waiter nodded, translating for the others. He broke off, staring past me at Deirdre. I turned to look- Deirdre was gone. I nearly fainted. Mrs. Chang took me by the elbow, tugging me up onto my feet. The sirens were a lot closer, just down the street. “Go!” She pushed me toward the door. “I will tell them wrong address.” The waiters rushed to wipe up the blood and hide the spot with a table. I staggered out to my car, Deirdre’s necklaces still jingling in my hand. New phone numbers. Cold iron. Holy water. Maybe even a new apartment. I’d get them, and whatever else kept fairies away.

END

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A New Regime by Charlie de la Vega

MY WIFE, ARLENE, AND I WERE EXCITED THAT OUR LITTLE Johnny was finally beginning first grade. We drove him over to the building, hugged him, told him we loved him, and watched him walk away, his eyes scanning the crowd for some sign of his friends. His Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox hung weightily from one hand. My wife cried, and I hugged her. “I hope he’ll be okay,” she told me, wiping her eyes. I rubbed her shoulder. “Ah, don’t worry, honey. He’ll be fine. He’s only switching grades, after all. It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve had to do this.” She didn’t look at me. It was a weak attempt to console her, anyway. We watched Johnny mount the stairs, and vanish amongst the rest of the herd of children. I had to resist a ridiculous urge to start mooing. My wife could only be pushed so far, and God knows she’s had to deal with enough from me these past eight years. That is, if she even understood what I was doing and why. That was the problem with my sense of humor. It was lost on everyone but me. Still holding her shoulders, I led her back to the car. We were five minutes from home when she started tearing up again. I asked her what was wrong. “He didn’t do what I’d expected him to do, Ben,” she said. “What’d you expect him to do?” I asked. She wiped her eyes, and blew into a tissue. “To look back.” I stared at the steering wheel, and wondered why I hadn’t noticed. Time moved slowly, probably because we watched the clocks a little more closely than usual. The house seemed quieter, too. Well… no, not really. edited by Joshua Goudreau 266 Johnny never talked a great deal. Arlene always seemed bothered by it, but Johnny made up for it by appearing extremely keen. We had him listen to those Mozart CDs, after all. Brains by osmosis: the product of such an enlightened generation. Bah, it always seemed foolish to me. The kid just came out of kindergarten, after all. Ah, I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t listen to enough Mozart when I was a kid. Arlene came upstairs to my office and gave me a hug, her face somewhat troubled. “Still thinking about this morning, honey?” I asked her. “Yeah,” she said, “I don’t know why this is bothering me so much.” I wanted to tell her that there’s a little bit of sadness in everything, but I didn’t want to insult her adulthood, so I just nodded. I rose from my desk and hugged her again, and we just stood there in silence for a moment. And one day I’d learn to keep my mouth shut. My intentions were good, at least. “He won’t be a child forever,” I said, “we’ll be letting him go for longer and longer periods sooner than you think.” I should’ve stopped there after I felt her grip tighten on my shoulder, but I was too focused on helping her to notice that I really wasn’t. “High school will come fast, and that’ll mean big changes for Johnny to fit his bigger world, and then college will come even faster, with even bigger changes. His first day of the new school year is nothing compared to what— ” “Nothing!?” she shouted, throwing herself away from me. “How can you say that? This isn’t ‘nothing’! This is just the beginning of us losing him! How long do we have him for, Ben? Only eighteen years, legally!” She suddenly pointed at something behind me. “Look at him, Ben! Take a good look at him!” “Arlene, please…” “Ben!” I gave in, turning to look at the flat, 4x6 memory of him framed on my desk. Some part of me wondered just how he’d gotten such blue eyes. Another part of me wondered why his mother was making such a big deal out of this. “You and I both know that even eighteen years is a short amount of time,” I heard her say behind me. Her voice had softened. “Don’t you want to do as much for him as you can?” I turned back to face her, and our gazes met head on. My arms were crossed. “I do, Arlene. I do want to do what I can, how I can, and do it because I love him.” My brows furrowed. “But…” “But what?” Her hands were on her hips now. “But he’s not a pet. He’s our son. He will grow up to be his own person. We are here to make sure that person, our future son, will turn into a man, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 267 not just a big child. Gimmicks like drilling classical into his sleeping head isn’t parenting, Arlene.” It was at this point that something inside me told me to stop, that it didn’t like the blade my tongue was turning into. But I kept swinging it. “It’s just easy and insensitive.” She recoiled. One of my slices hit true, it seemed. “How dare you call me insensitive? After all I do for-” The phone’s ringing cut her off. We both turned to it, sitting on my desk. No one moved. It rang again. We looked at each other. I suddenly realized how melodramatic this would seem if someone were watching us and felt a little stupid for it. After the third ring, Arlene shot past me and answered it. “Hello? … Yes, this is Mrs. Curich. … What? Oh-oh my God! Yes, we’re on our way!” She nearly missed placing the handset back in its cradle. “What’s wrong? Who was that,” I asked. “Why are you shaking?” “The school just called… Ben, Johnny’s been hurt! He’s fallen down some stairs!” Those words plucked a tight string of fear in my chest. I glanced at my watch. It was a little after two. School would be ending soon. We hurried to the garage. About an hour later, all three of us pulled into the driveway, a red-faced Johnny sliding out of the car with a half-full book bag and a few assignments. I wasn’t sure how much I agreed with that. Homework on the first day of the new school year, and in the first grade, no less. Academic tyrants. Arlene and I continued to sit in the car and listen to the engine tick mechanically. One of her hands was a fist, and her eyes were focused on something between her feet. “Now, you know that the school faculty said they’re not exactly sure what happened,” I said. “It was too close to the end of the day to really guess. They said one minute he was with a group of kids, the next he was screaming in tears next to his lunchbox at the bottom of a short flight of stairs.” “Johnny knows,” she replied. The fist clenched a little tighter. “This is… this is just too strange to be an accident.” “Honey, I’m worried too, but it could’ve been much, much worse! I mean, he fell down a flight of stairs! He could’ve broken his neck! I think he’s lucky to come away with what happened.” Her eyes were tiny fires. “Rationalize everything when it’s somebody else’s kid, alright? This is inexcusable! Some little brat must’ve pushed him or something… Johnny’s not that stupid! We’ve got him listening to Mozart and everything!” It took every ounce of my being to keep from rolling my eyes. Why was she bringing that up now? I shook my head, stepping out of the car. “Alright, I’ll ask him about it later tonight,” I said. “I think the kid could stand to use a little rest, not us grilling him for the next half hour. C’mon, edited by Joshua Goudreau 268 let’s get everything where they need to be. We’ve still got some skim left, right?” “Yeah. I’ll pour a glass,” she said. “You call Dr. Reese and see if he’ll see us right away. He’s always telling us to call him in case something unexpected happens.” Then, as an afterthought, “Johnny’s not going to be happy.” I couldn’t hold back a chuckle, curse me. “Oh, right, like he’s on top of the world right now: Hey, guess what, son? Your first day of being in the first grade ended horribly, and now we have to hurry you to the doctor! We can’t stay too long though, because you’ve got math to do when you get home!” I heard a little puff of air escape her nose. She reached between her feet, lifted the broken remains of Johnny’s lunchbox, and headed into the house. I followed her, tossing my jangle of keys into a basket near the door, and headed for the kitchen and the phone. She was already there, pouring a small glass of skim milk. Unhooking the phone from the wall, I began cycling through the programmed list of numbers when I heard Arlene drop something into the milk, clinking against the bottom of the glass. I found the number for Reese’s Dentistry and hit the talk button. I wasn’t entirely sure what Dr. Reese did to save Johnny’s tooth. It sounded expensive. It was. My credit card felt heavier when I slipped it back into my wallet, but I knew better. It only felt that way because my bank account was lighter. I shook hands with him and thanked him. He handed me a prescription, a list of things for Johnny to avoid, and wished us well. The rest of the evening went rather well, considering. We ate; Johnny had a liquid meal. Arlene helped him with his homework, and I went upstairs to continue working. “Daddy?” I swiveled in my chair to see my son standing in the office doorway, holding one side of his mouth. I glanced down at my watch. Apparently two hours had gone by. “Hey, big guy,” I said, walking over to him and kneeling down next to him. “How’re you feeling?” “My mouth hurts.” He extended his words in that pitiful way children do. Hurrrrrts. “Ah, the medicine the doctor gave you must be wearing off,” I said, giving him a hug. I lifted him into my arms and headed back to my seat. “You’ll feel better in a few days. Eventually the tooth will set again, and things will be back to normal.” He didn’t say anything back, only pressed his head into my shoulder. I rocked him back and forth a bit. “That’ll be nice, right?” “I don’t like school.” Liiike school. I didn’t blame the kid. “No, no I suppose you wouldn’t.” “Do I have to go tomorrow?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 269 I patted his head gently. “Yeah, yeah I’m afraid so. You know how your mother gets.” I secretly regretted that statement. The last person to be a scapegoat should be your wife. “Why does she get so mad, daddy?” Cue cliché…now. “Because she loves you and wants the best for you, son.” Lectures on painful hours of labor seemed to me like they’d be lost on a six-year-old. Thank God we weren’t at that stage yet. Knowing her, though, they couldn’t be too far in the future. “She just worries about you, that’s all. Hey, don’t worry. Tomorrow will be better, I promise. Clean slate, and all that.” “Slate?” “Yeah, you know. A chalkboard.” “Chalkboard?” “They’re also called blackboards.” “The boards we have in school are white.” “Fine, clean whiteboard then. My point is tomorrow’s a new day.” “No it isn’t. Tomorrow’s Tuesday.” We sat in silence for a while. Soon Johnny fell asleep, a feat with that tooth, and I tried to justify in my mind how I just lost an argument to my kid son. …Mozart works, apparently. I just looked at him. Hearing Arlene’s voice in my head, I wondered just how long it would be until I couldn’t set him in my lap anymore. I carried him to bed, tucked him in, and kissed him goodnight. Arlene was already in bed with a book when I came in and undressed. I didn’t have to look to know what it was: “I Know All About Raising Your Kids” by Dr. Godly Advice. Okay, the sarcasm might be a bit harsh, but I never understood her obsession with doing every little thing right. But don’t misunderstand me. I want Johnny to turn out to be the best I can raise him to be, but I think if I needed to read up on how to raise my own son, I figure there’d have to be something wrong with me. Books couldn’t fix that sort of thing, unless you were the logical type of insane person. Go figure. I pulled the covers over me and turned my back to Arlene’s lamplight, closing my eyes and listening to the sound of turning pages. I thought of Johnny. Thought of his injury. Thought of Arlene. I worried about them both, and God knows I love them to death. I didn’t want my wife to worry, and I didn’t want anything to happen to my son. But the truth of it was, I just couldn’t control everything around him. I know that Arlene knew this on some level too, and she wanted to do the best she could with raising Johnny. She was just a bit more gung-ho about it. Things happen, whether you’re six or sixty. edited by Joshua Goudreau 270 I felt sleep coming on. I can only say this because I never really fell asleep. Arlene asked me a question. “Did you put on Mozart after you put him to bed, honey?” I blinked my eyes open and exhaled through my nose. “Oh, let the kid’s brains develop on their own for once. One night without classical isn’t going to turn him into a Neanderthal.” I heard her close her book… and not quietly, either. The back of my head began to singe under her gaze. “So what did Johnny tell you?” “What do you mean? Tell me what?” “Tell you what happened to him today!” Great. My eyes squeezed shut. The only thing that saved me was the direction I was facing. This was nothing I wanted to deal with right now. I really needed some rest to get my inspiration back for my book. There was only one other person who reacted as badly as I did to lack of sleep, and that was my muse. “Answer me, Ben!” I did. “Basically it was horseplay.” A pause. “What?” “You know, horseplay. Apparently he and his friends decided to play near the stairs.” “What game could they possibly play that involves being near stairs?” “He said they…made one up. Some cross between hopscotch and… pop goes the weasel. They called it… popscotch.” “Popscotch.” The edge in her voice was cold. “Yeah. Popscotch.” “So how did this… ‘game’ break his tooth and his lunchbox?” Oh, the lunchbox. “The game didn’t break either one. One of his friends did.” “What!?” I twisted over, waving my hands at her. “Shhh! You want to wake him up and deal with that, too? Let me finish!” I caught a glimpse of that fire in her eyes again, and somehow I knew it was all she could do to keep from stretching out her arm and giving me a red cheek. I looked her in the eye, assuring her I was being truthful. “He said one of his friends felt cheated during the game. He flew into a tantrum, jumped on Johnny’s lunchbox, and kicked its remains down the stairs. Johnny said he went after it, and the kid pushed him. He hit his mouth on the railing as he fell, and that’s how he knocked the tooth out.” “Oh my God, Ben! We’ve got to do something!” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 271 I rolled over. “We will, honey. First thing in the morning, we’ll call the school and talk to the principal… see if we can’t have them do something about that boy.” “No,” she said. Her voice was strangely calm. There was a pause. “What?” I asked. “I said no, Ben. That solution’s not going to work.” I rolled back over, propping myself on my elbows and stared at her the way a dog stares at something that’s made a noise it’s never heard before. She wasn’t looking at me. Instead, her hands were pressed together before her face, her eyes fixed on the wall before her. Something about that half-pious, half-predatory pose scared me. “I’m pulling him out of school, Ben. He can’t be around those other kids anymore. No. They’re bad children. Yes.” I’d never thought such a cool, collected tone could sound so menacing. I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of anything to say. She’s never acted this way before. She continued. “I will be his teacher. Yes. He’ll be home schooled. Yes. That’s the best way to solve all of this. Not being around those bad little children. No.” “Arle-” “Go to sleep, Ben. I’ll work everything out tomorrow. You need your rest to keep working on your book. You can’t write when you’re tired. No.” Dumbly, I rolled over to stare at the wall. All I could think about was what I’d just done. I don’t ever recall hearing Arlene move before I fell asleep.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 272

Larry The Dog by Adrian E. Stone

KATHERINE WITH A ‘K’ CALLS AND BASICALLY TELLS ME TO get lost. There is yelling and screaming and something about how she will get me. She implies that I am as dead as, well, dead. Her voice is a sharp whine that cracks and pops as it travels through thirteen miles of telephone cables to my phone. She swears that she is going to kill me. Any other day and this would be a complete surprise to me. When she usually sees me she gives me a kiss on the cheek and a hug that could kill a bear. Now, when she sees me, she will give me a knife to the chest. A kick to the groin. She will rip my throat out with her cavity-filled teeth and spit it back out into my mouth. I can’t say that I don’t deserve it.

It all started with that damn dog. His name was Larry and he was a border collie. He was not owned by anyone in particular, not anyone we knew. He would travel the neighborhood looking for food buried deeply in the bags of trash that would be left out for the garbage man every Monday night. He would knock over trash cans and rip open the bags, spilling the contents over a six block radius. I once found a giant red sex toy on my front porch. It had teeth marks in it. Larry, Steve Parsons gave him that name, would also cruise the neighborhood looking for things he could have sex with. The list of things he was apparently attracted to is comprised of: human legs, female dogs, male dogs, stuffed animals, children and half-deflated beach balls The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 273 One could be certain that if they saw Larry he would be eating something or screwing something. He was very predictable… for the most part. Sarah, the bitch, once suggested, after witnessing Larry humping the hell out of a male English bulldog, that we all call him Skippy the Fag. That was one of the many reasons that I left her. I also left because she never brushed her teeth, listened to John Tesh, ate mocha-flavored soy nuts, and had sex with Steve Parsons. The bitch. Skippy the Fag never caught on but everyone in the neighborhood was well aware that Larry had a human-like addiction for orgasms. Every Tuesday morning for three months, we would come out of our houses and find our trashcans on their sides and our white and black trash bags in shreds. Dirty diapers streaked with shit were licked almost clean and left in the gutters. Frank, my next-door neighbor, would find the homosexual men’s magazines that he had thrown away (an effort to hide his fantasies from his Mormon wife) spread across his front lawn. One morning Angel Pierce, the seventeen-year-old girl three doors down from me, knocked on my door, she was crying. Angel Pierce was the neighborhood, no, town slut. She slept with every man that would pull himself out of his pants and give it to her. She didn’t care if he had teeth or a wife or a venereal disease. She was seventeen and as happy as can be, living her life one erect cock at a time. Angel Pierce also seemed to forget that there were ever such things as condoms. She never had the man wear them. She loved to feel the warm skin and public hairs entering and exiting her, pistons doing their jobs. She once came to me while I was cooking burgers on my stainless-steel gas-powered grill and told me to fuck her as hard as I could. She told me that she wanted my chin in her. She sat down on one of my many floral-patterned lawn chairs and exposed the shaved crotch that rested under her plaid skirt. I saw large lips and a clitoris the size of the hope diamond. I saw purple bumps surrounding the tunnel of her vagina. I have pretty good eyes. I told her that she was a sweet girl and all, but that I was gay, which I am not, and that I had a boyfriend, which I did not. I told her that if I ever had the urge to taste a vagina then I would come right to her. She would be at the top of my list for girls-that-I-would-do. She bought it and, I guess because she thought I was a sensitive gay man, she decided she could tell me everything. And she did tell me everything. Like about the forty-seven-year-old man who was drunk on Wild Turkey and decided to empty his bowels while she was going down on him. Or the 13 year-old boy, who was also her first cousin, who liked it when she edited by Joshua Goudreau 274 squeezed his testicles until the hole at the end of his cock dripped blood and semen. Everything. It did not surprise me that she showed up one Tuesday morning with tears running down her face and begging me to talk. I let her in and let her sit on my couch as I fed my fish. I told her to tell me what was wrong. She told me how, about nine months ago, she had sex with a black man named Mr. Franklin. Mr. Franklin, as she would put it, was the sexiest damn teacher at James Garfield High School. She told me how she could see the outline of his massive member through his khaki pants every time she saw him in Art. One thing led to another to another to another and she found herself riding him in his Volvo. She found herself riding him until his testicles unleashed and he emptied himself into her well-worn vagina. It was very awkward after that she told me, he never answered her when she raised her hand in class. It was really awkward when her stomach started getting bigger. I do not know how her parents did not notice it. I do not know how that I did not notice it. But Mr. Franklin noticed it and two months ago he vanished. He left a note for his wife that said he was going for milk, and never came back. For the past two months Angel has had dozens of substitute teachers in her classroom, none of them even nearly as sexy as Mr. Franklin. She told me how, the night before, she had the baby. It was a boy with dark skin and bright blue eyes. She said how she cut the umbilical cord with her mother’s electric scissors. She said how the baby, his name was Jeremy, would not stop crying. How she needed him to stop crying or her parents would know that she had sex with a black man and would kick her out of the house. Damn it, why wouldn’t he stop crying? She told me how she held her Hello Kitty pillow over his face to muffle the cries and how she could still hear him. How she pushed the pillow harder and harder onto his face until his little body jerked and his cries stopped. She had killed him. She found that she was the one crying as her mind rushed to figure out just what the hell she was going to do. She knew that she could not tell her parents, and Mr. Franklin was long gone. She knew that if the police found out; she would go to jail. The newspapers would call her a killer mother, a sick-o, and a witch. What, she thought, will I do? Then she remembered that it was trash night. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 275 She put the cold corpse that was Jeremy in a pillowcase and then placed it in a plastic bag that came from the local grocery store. With her cheeks clammy from tears, she walked to the edge of her yard, to her trash can, and put the whole mess in it. A couple of Morphine pills and she would be fine, she thought, all will be well. Until the next morning. Until she stepped outside and realized that Larry had gone through the neighborhood and did what he always does. She noticed her trashcan on its side, the bag in half. She noticed the grocery bag that she stuffed Jeremy in was also torn. The pillowcase was gone. So was the body. I don’t know why I helped her. Maybe it was because she was an innocent girl who just did not know right from wrong. Maybe because I felt sorry for her. Maybe because I secretly wanted her to give me genital warts. I have no idea, but she asked for help, so I decided to. I needed to find Larry and figure out what he had done with the pillowcase and little Jeremy; thirteen-minutes-old. I found Larry behind the shed at the local community center. He was laying on the ground, his eyes open and his tongue hanging out of his big pink and black mouth. Larry was not humping or eating anymore. Larry was dead. The pillowcase was next to him. I reluctantly picked the pillowcase up and felt that it was slightly heavy. The sides of it were covered in a brown stain. I knew I had to look. I swear that I had to look. I did not want to, but damn it, I had to look. And I looked. Inside of the pillowcase was a puddle of red. There were tiny innards wrapped around themselves. A ribcage, each rib as thin as a tooth pick, could be seen. I could see Jeremy’s little head, his soft skull partially gone and his tiny brain exposed. I could see his blue eyes, they were red and full of broken blood vessels. I swear, I did not mean to vomit in the bag. Oh God, I swear. Sorry about that Jeremy. I grabbed the pillowcase and threw Larry over my shoulder. I walked home, hoping to God that nobody would see me. No one did, I don’t think. I put Larry on my work bench inside of my shed and the pillowcase on the floor, next to the lawn mower. I wanted to find out how Larry died. It seemed to me that Larry choked to death. I removed a very expensive flashlight from my wall of tools and pulled his mouth open. I peered inside and held my breath, he was starting to stink. Maybe he stank the whole time. Maybe that stench was just another odd little fact about Larry. The light edited by Joshua Goudreau 276 shined on the back of his mouth and the beginning of his throat, that is when I saw it. I used a set of industrial tweezers to remove the object that was blocking Larry’s throat. It was Jeremy’s arm. I did not think that dogs could choke to death. Then I noticed that Larry’s nostrils were completely clogged with dirt and sand and coagulated blood. I put Jeremy’s remains in my compost barrel and burned the pillowcase. Later this year, little Jeremy will be helping my flowers grow. I left Larry in my shed and told Angel that all would be well. I told her that she could hang out at my place while I went to the store to get booze. I told her that I had no desire to remember that day. I told her that she, definitely, owed me… big time. I went to the liquor store, the grocery story (for limes), the bank, and my friend Seth’s to cop a bag of pot. My fucking nerves, man. I told him how that was the worst day of my life without telling him why it was. He did not care, he just wanted my money. His eyes did not even stray away from the action movie that was playing on his television. When I got home Angel was gone and Steve Parsons was in my kitchen. Steve, no matter how many times he fucks my girlfriends, will always be my mate. He is a dumb redneck that was born in West Virginia and was raised on road kill that his father would bring home to cook. He has done everything that a human can think of when it comes to including in redneck jokes. He has had sex with his sister. He doesn’t have any teeth. He has made love with a sheep. Made love, his words, not mine. Steve is dumb enough to do just about anything for his friends. I mean, he may fuck the love of my life, but how many people do you know that will help you move? That is not the kind of friend I wish to lose. I can find another vagina anywhere. He told me that Angel had to leave. He said that she offered to give him a blow job, but he said no because his pecker was hurting due to him zipping up too fast in the Denny’s men’s room. He said that she would be back later to thank me. Damn, she even mentioned how I was the sweetest gay man she has ever met. I told Steve that I am not gay. That, I swear, I love women. I mean, I am just not gay. I asked him what he was making and he told me that it was chili, just like his mother used to make when they lived in the forests of West-by God- Virginia. He offered me some and I remembered Jeremy. I told him that I The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 277 did not have much of an appetite at that moment. He looked offended, but did not say otherwise. I told him that he should never, ever, ever, do anything with the girl that was just that. I told him that if he did his cock would turn black and fall off. I told him that I was not fucking kidding. He acted as if he understood, but I doubt that he did. Two days later Katherine came over to help me choose the new color for my living room. I had just bought a new sofa and love seat and I knew that my feng shui would be way off unless I did something fast. She said that she was starving because she rushed over as soon as she got off of work. She understood that a properly painted house was important. She knew that if things were not matched perfectly that the energy of the house would not flow correctly. She told me that bad energy, that stuff, that is how ghosts get in. I don’t fuck with ghosts. I offered her the chili that Steve had made. I told her that it was in the fridge, in the blue bowl... the blue bowl… next to the damn eggs. When eating it she commented how good it was. She could not believe that Steve was such a good cook. Neither, for that matter, could I. She saved the day by helping me choose that desire-yellow with a zesty- blue border was the only way to go. She said that if it worked for IKEA then it would work for me. The next day Katherine called me and told me how she was not feeling well. She said that she had been sitting on the toilet all day. She had to get off the toilet every three minutes just so she could turn around and puke into the bloody diarrhea that had been collecting in the bowl. She said that she did not know what was wrong with her. She told me that she was about to go to the hospital. I wished her luck and told her that if she needed anything…. anything at all.... not to hesitate. She told me that she would be all right. I received a call from Katherine later on that day. She told me that the doctors told her that she had become infected with a disease only known to exist in dogs. They asked her what she had eaten in the past few days. They wanted to know if she had been to Vietnam. I remembered Larry. She tells me that it was the fucking chili. She tells me that I fucking fed her a fucking dog. That I let her eat man and woman’s best friend. She asked me what the fuck kind of friend I was, to let her do that, to feed her Larry. I told her that it was not me, I did not know. She called me a liar. She said that Steve was a retarded fuck and that I was no better. edited by Joshua Goudreau 278 Fucking Larry. Fucking Steve. Fucking Katherine and her bleeding bowels. This was when she threatened to kill me. This is where you came in.

I should have known that Steve was cooking Larry. I should have known because I did not have any meat in the fridge, and that Steve loves the taste of dog. He told me that dog is good, better than cat, cat is too stringy. He told me that his father used to peel dogs off of the highway near his home and bring them home for his mom to cook. Steve once told me that a dog’s testicles were as sweet as candy. At this moment, I doubt Katherine gives a damn about what a dog’s testicles taste like. Katherine will probably calm down and figure out that I really did not know. She will probably forgive me and come over like usual to help me finish a cheesecake while watching romantic comedies. I wonder though, if she is mad about eating the dog, how mad would she be if she found out that she had eaten a dog that had recently devoured a newborn baby boy? How would she react if she found out that Steve used Larry’s stomach contents; Jeremy, maggots, trash, bile, and more; to make the broth? Steve is a good guy, but damn do those rednecks eat some weird things. I think Katherine would agree.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 279

Irene For Life by Ora N. Jeffreys

I TAPPED THE NO SMOKING SIGN ABOVE MY SEAT WITH MY knuckle. The faint orange glow irritated me to the point that I wanted to sneak off to the tiny airplane bathroom and suck down a Marlboro real quick. I knew Irene, my wife, wouldn’t let me do that. The emergency instructions printed on a shiny sticker above my head pointed out that my seat could be used as a floatation device. I felt like I was sitting on a rubber raft, and I hated it; hated the tugging of dry rubber on wet skin. I kept telling myself not to sweat so much, to quit being a temperature pussy. I’d seen hotter and been more miserable, but my balls were clinging to the side of my thigh, so I kept shifting around to re-adjust them. “Stop fidgeting,” Irene moved about in the seat next to me. She had on the perfume she’d asked me to get her for Christmas. It smelled like dead flowers before it mixed and faded into the scent of the fat man across the aisle, grease. I glanced over at Irene and she looked up from her magazine. “How can you read on an airplane?” I asked. Irene rolled her gray eyes far enough up into her head to make them disappear for a second or two. She didn’t answer me, but looked back at her magazine article. Irene was pretty, that’s why I married her. I never saw the sense in getting married to an ugly woman; pretty women always gave me an excuse to keep the lights on a little longer. I twisted around to see if I could get the attention of one of the flight attendants. There were at least three women in navy blue uniforms wandering up and down the aisles, a tubby redhead, a slim blond, and a black lady. edited by Joshua Goudreau 280 The slim faced black woman came towards me. She had her hair cut too close to her head. I never liked women with short hair, even the colored ones. When I married Irene, she’d had long brown hair, but now it’s streaked with gray and she blames me for it. I keep telling her it’s the kids’ fault, not mine. “Can I get a drink, something hard?” I asked. The flight attendant nodded her head and wandered off somewhere. I should have told her I wanted Wild Turkey 101 and a cigarette. “George, you shouldn’t be drinking, you’ll get sick,” Irene said and turned a page in her magazine. “Not from just one.” I got my Jack Daniels, ice, a bottled water with the airline logo on it, and a spiffy glass cup. Irene didn’t say a word, but I could see her looking up every time I took a sip of my drink and frowning at me before her eyes darted down to the air-sick bag. Irene’s face was tight so all the laugh lines became tiny canyons around her mouth and she let her precious magazine fall open on her lap. She’d been reading some academic piece of bull-shit about the economic effects of out- sourcing labor to factories in third-world countries. There was a glossy picture of some little girl with dark hair, leathery skin, and coffee colored eyes on the page. I don’t know why Irene reads that sort of stuff. I never do. It’s depressing. “You don’t need to be nervous,” Irene said. “I’m not nervous.” She picked up the empty glass from the tray in front of me and shook it making the ice click like it had something to prove. “You’ve never met him, and he’s your son.” I turned around, looking for another flight attendant. The slim faced black lady made another appearance. I looked up and started to ask her for another drink, but Irene jumped in. “He doesn’t need anything else,” she said all flat and dove back into that bull-shit article. “What do you mean I don’t need anything else?” My voice rose more than I meant it to and from the corner of my eye I saw the flight attendant start to walk to her haven of safety behind the stiff blue curtain in the rear of the plane. “You’re edgy and you don’t need to be liquored up when you meet Bert,” she said. “I never asked to meet him,” I said. “And no one asked you to sleep with her.” Her name was Eliza Simmons. I was supposed to marry her, but by the time I got back from ‘Nam, she’d vanished without a trace. Nothing, until The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 281 two years ago when I got a phone call at three in the morning. I remembered that first call. “Is this George Heartford?” the caller asked when I picked up the receiver. “Speaking.” My voice sounded like it was stuck between gravel and a truck tire, and the truck had bad brakes. “Do you remember Eliza Simmons?” My body went stiff at the sound of her name. Of course I remembered her. I thought of the way her brown curls twisted around my fingers when I touched her hair. I remembered an entire summer of our limbs tangled together like fishing lines and the way she smelled as she slept next to me, roses and vanilla. When my draft notice came, we cried together. I promised I’d marry her if I made it back alive. She promised to put carnations on my grave every year if I didn’t. “Do you remember Eliza Simmons?” The caller repeated again. “Yes.” “I’m sorry to tell you, but she’s dead.” I hadn’t expected less. Eliza had disappeared before I got back from the war. She had sent letters frequently at first and then by the end of my tour of duty there was nothing. A couple of weeks after I got home I went to her old house, her family had moved. Eliza never returned any of the letters I sent to the last address and so I went up there myself. She had written me from New York City and I felt as though I lost her somewhere in that jungle of people. “I’m your son,” the caller said. “You have the wrong number.” I clicked the phone back down and turned onto my back. Eliza’s letters had never mentioned a son. The plane lurched. I wanted another drink. Irene had closed her magazine and was starring out the window. There wasn’t anything out there of interest, just the slivery fluff of the cloud that the plane was cutting through. “I’m wondering how much like you he is.” Irene turned her head and looked at me. I thought she should have known, since she’d been the one to talk to him the most. Irene had told me all about Bert during dinner one night, just before she threw in the fact she’d gone ahead and planned our vacation; New York to meet Bert. “Do you think he will be anything like you?” Irene asked. The silver cloud in the window behind her opened up into a wide blue void and then the plane went into another cloud. I shrugged. “You loved his mother.” She turned her face forward and seemed to fix her eyes on the tray table in front of her, “I hope.” I stared straight at Irene. edited by Joshua Goudreau 282 She wouldn’t look at me, but instead picked up her glossy magazine and looked for another article to read. She picked the same one with the picture of the brown eyed little girl. I watched my wife, the way her eyes skimmed over the page too fast. She read the same paragraph seven times before looking back up at me. Her face stiffened, eyebrows arched, and nostrils flared. “Stop staring at me please.” “Do you hope I hadn’t?” “Hadn’t what?” “Loved her,” I said. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The magazine article became her mask and she hacked at the same paragraph, never flipping the page. One of the flight attendants came by with the drink cart and the plane hit a patch of turbulence. “I’m not stupid,” Irene said as she closed her magazine. “I didn’t say you were.” “Why did you love her?” “Why do you love me?” “There are infinite reasons,” she said. Irene and I had met in a bar in New York when she threw a drink in my face and called me a baby killer in front of her anti-war, free-love friends. She wasn’t counting on my throwing a drink back. I reached out for her hand. Irene laced her fingers in mine. She had pretty, fine hands with rounded finger nails. She never had dirt under her fingernails, at least none that I could remember. I had never thought about it, but her hands were the ones that did the dirty jobs around the house. Irene had the hands that had changed diapers, washed dishes, buried the kids’ dead guinea pig in a shoe- box coffin in the back yard, and planted rose bushes in the front yard. The seat belt light dinged on and the Captain made an announcement about landing commencing. My ears popped several times during the planes decent and I was hoping my ear drums weren’t exploding. Irene was opening and closing her mouth to stop the effects of the altitude change too. She reached in her purse and withdrew two sticks of gum and handed me one. Irene and I were one of the last few people on the plane and one of the last few to show up at the baggage claim. We were standing by the conveyor belt, watching for two of the ugliest bags in history. That was our trick to not lose our luggage, pick the fruitiest looking suitcases and pack all our crap in them. “What do you think would have happened if you’d have married her and not me?” Irene nudged me to pick up her suitcase as it came around. “You would have died old and alone with forty-seven cats and they would have eaten your dead body.” I picked up her suitcase. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 283 “You only wish.” She snatched her bag and set it down with a crisp thwack as the bag’s plastic wheels hit the tiled airport floor. “I meant about you.” “Well what do you think?” I asked. “I would have married a nice Doctor,” she said. “Then why did you marry me?” I stuffed my hands in my pocket and wondered where my ugly suitcase was. “You made me mad.” She nudged me again as my suitcase came around the circle. I turned to look at her and she smiled. At 53 she still looked good, even with long graying hair, which she kept tied back into a ponytail most of the time. Her hair and her laugh lines were the only things that showed her age. Irene wore a red sweater and boot-cut jeans, and the sloppiest pair of tennis shoes she owned. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed any of this earlier, and couldn’t think of a good excuse. I imagined she was twenty, standing in a bar, an empty beer glass in her hand and her shirt soaked with my beer. We had laughed at each other then, how stupid we both looked. “You’re a good woman, Irene.” I leaned over and kissed her. She kissed me back. “Your suitcase has gone around twice, you’d better pick it up, George.”

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A Soundtrack To Armageddon by Mihalis Georgostathis

SHRILL CRIES ASCENT Towards the burning heaven As Hellfires burn The Christian brethren Shrieked Asmorag. Tenebraum dropped the tempo to a crawling beat, as Demonized started playing a slow guitar solo. A cosmic cacophony A soundtrack to Armageddon Rasped Asmorag, while the final notes of the final track of Sun of Eschaton’s final album were recorded. The three men, faces painted white, their outfits black leather and decorated with tons of spikes, let down their organs and went to the console. “Well, it is done,” said Tenebraum. He was tall, bulky and the one overlooking the production. Overlooking being an overstatement, since the only thing he did was pressing play and stop during the recordings. The sonic ugliness that was their music did not need any frilly production. This was for the fake ones. The sound should be as ugly as the mood. And when talking about Armageddon, well, it should be as ugly as it gets. Demonized took the tape and put a label on it. He then put it in an envelope and wrote an address on it. “Time to send our message to the world,” he said. The recording was about to be sent to Plague Death Records, their recording company. As soon as the parcel was posted, the band gathered back to their garage-come-studio. There was something else they should do. They had been together for six years, started as three high school kids The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 285 imitating their favourite artists, recorded two demos, then signed a contract in an indie label for their debut record and finally signed for Plague Death, one of the top underground extreme metal firms. Their EP ‘The Bloody Feast’ had been the talk of the underground scene for a while. It had also been the threshold to the moment of clarity that led to the recording of their current project. They locked all the doors and the windows, then stood at the center of the room. Asmorag, his short, thin body tense, his shaved head glistering with sweat, Demonized relaxed and Tenebraum anxious. The gas container was in their midst. Joining hands on its handle, they turned it, the flammable gas hissing out of the container and into the room. Demonized and Asmorag picked up their guitar and bass respectively and Tenebraum sat behind his drums. Their faces shared a mad mocking expression. The first notes, if one could describe the noise they played as notes, of Sign 1: The Sacrifice Opening the Gates of Hell, the opening track of their new album. As I burn in flames of Hell my legacy of hate remains The mocking voices of christian sheep shall turn to cries of pain Rasped Asmorag, over a super fast sonic assault of eerie guitar riffs and pounding drums I offer myself as sacrificial black lamb As it foretold the message A black prophet in the skin of man Offered me a key to wreckage Growled Demonized. The man, if they should call Him man, has told them what they must do, how they would become the prophets of the Apocalypse. Death of the sheep of Nazarene Unholy reign of Satan The Hell armies do proceed Slaughter the kin of Adam Rasped Asmorag, his throat hurting. The gas was choking him, choking them, but it was the only way. Self sacrificed I am led to Hell’s unholy realm Yet I leave a message of signs sidereal He was croaking with all the life still in his soon-to-be empty husk called body. But only through ritual sacrifice would the audience be piqued to listen to their message. The man had told them so. The Gates open as me heart stops its unholy beating Soon the army of the damned shall make man weeping His voice was far croakier than it should be. He was dying soon, he knew that. Tenebraum was unconscious by now and Demonized was barely edited by Joshua Goudreau 286 standing. It was their price to pay. The news would spread fast: A band killed themselves. Everybody would just die to listen to their album. They would hear the message they prophesize. And then all Hell would break loose. Literally. To all of you who hear this prophecy of endings Go out and feast free of sin cause Armageddon’s coming Demonized was down, barely breathing. Asmorag was still standing, plucking at the chords of his bass and trying to remain conscious to finish the song. The man had told them: those who listen to the album would: Unleash the beast within to open up the gates Become an army of the wolves slaughtering all the cattle Rejoice as holy blood is shed upon the burning altars For Armageddon is coming fast its soundtrack you shall hear. Finishing the song he passed out, crossing the threshold to the oblivion of death.

“The crowed is shocked by the atrocious mass slaughter in a restaurant performed by a group of teenagers last night. The victims, numbering thirty and including small children, were killed, mutilated, sexually molested even post mortem and cannibalized. The teenagers claimed that they were influenced by the music of a band that killed themselves three months ago. They claim that Armageddon is coming. Right now, in the background you can listen to the band, called Sun of Eschaton. I did earlier this day.” The reporter turns the camera the other way. What it shows is a mutilated corpse. “Now I know the truth. Armageddon is coming. We shall die. We shall burn in Hell. So let us enjoy the bestial rapture of the End Times...”

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 287

Lawrence 2: Colony by Lena Melyakova

THE WHITE CLOTH PRESSED HARD AGAINST HIS forehead, digging into his cheeks and nose. They needn’t have bothered; his eyes were closed. The two captors in front of the prisoner pulled forward on his chains, and the man walking behind him on his left pulled back on the crude blindfold, forcing back Lawrence’s neck. The lead captor gracefully extended an open palm towards the cage, and Lawrence got down on his hands and knees to crawl inside. The cage measured two meters long by two meters wide by one meter high, similar to the ones in the therapy circus. ‘Keep the ceiling low, you’ll always have a show’ was a maxim of the business. “Hands in the back,” ordered one of the other captors in a harsh, jeering voice. Lawrence complied, and the man grabbed his leader chains, deftly securing them to the rear bars of the cage. “Just because I’m not locking this door,” said the tallest hooded man as he leaned over the cage, “doesn’t mean I trust you.” Lawrence heard a smirk in his voice. Then one of them – one who hadn’t yet spoken – heaved a bucket of water at the cage. It stung his back terribly; he licked it and tasted dissolved sodium chloride. He squeezed the bars tightly and tried to imagine that he wasn’t kidnapped, that he had a safe home somewhere – ah, the concept of home! – where he could lock the door and cease to live with so much fear. Furthermore – he sighed as this fantasy settled over his mind, and the salt sunk deeper into his flesh – he imagined that he no longer needed to hide, nor falsify records, nor keep his impossibly cumbersome secret under his mind’s lowest surface. Before his mind’s eye edited by Joshua Goudreau 288 spread a world where everyone – regardless of TQ – had a full right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Lawrence imagined… A sudden sound pierced his reverie. He froze, listening, refusing to turn in its direction. He heard it again, clanging from a shadowy corner, amplified ten times by the darkness, and ten more by the relative silence, and eleven times more by his presupposed solitude. Lawrence twisted himself slowly around as far as he could, and could just barely perceive a glint of another steel cage. He stayed silent, wondering who watched him from his back. “Excuse me,” came a raspy female voice from the corner. “I… I’m Natasha. But you can call me anything you like. We… we’re here for the same reason.” He squeezed his eyes shut nervously, then opened them. His heart raced; his palms moistened - did she know? “What reason is that?” Lawrence asked the voice he couldn’t see. “They want… to display us,” she responded, her crippling pauses becoming more obvious, “but it’s more than that.” She lowered her whisper, and Lawrence pressed his head against the cold steel bars at the back of his cage to hear it. “This is no therapy circus. They take us up into the light to an arena, and people watch, and… I’m not sure of it, but… when I was in the last show, some of us were separated and taken away, and… I think they sell us. To other circuses, as… as private slaves, who knows? But… as I said, it’s hard to be... be certian…” Lawrence felt overwhelmed. Why, he wondered, are men still property? Why, almost two hundred years after Lincoln freed the slaves, does the government still allow a form of involuntary slavery? He could accept that he was unusual, even abnormal or unnatural, but he could not accept being bought and sold, stripped of his own brand of dignity. “Did you tell them the coordinates of your base?” Lawrence asked gloomily. Natasha laughed. “Coordinates? What are you, in… in the Army?” “You’re not?” asked the newest prisoner, surprised. “No, I’m…” In a pause that differed from the others, Natasha consulted her conscience. “I’m a Bull Gypsy.” Lawrence strained his neck even further and focused his eyes until they watered, trying to catch sight of this mysterious creature. Genuinely fascinated, he admitted, “I thought Bull Gypsies were just a myth.” He heard her smile, or felt it carried upon the low-frequency sound waves that washed onto his skin and tickled his ears. “Every time one of us… disappears from the group, even for a day, we must move again. If someone goes out into the town and gets drunk, or… or gets picked up by someone… they could reveal our presence.” “So I suppose they asked you where the others were?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 289 “Yes. I… I did the safest thing. I gave the location they stole me from. The rest of the circle won’t come back there for a long time.” Lawrence marveled at the simple brilliance of the system. At the same time, though, greater anger rose inside of him like magma. In exchange for the ability to practice, to express themselves, the Bull Gypsies had given up contact with any world other than their own uncertain circle, consisting of whatever land they tread on and no more. A Bull Gypsy could not befriend an outsider, nor could he attend an outside social event or visit an outside bar. Natasha’s life of sleeping in a different place almost every night made Lawrence’s seem stable by comparison. Her situation sent a message to all those with high TQ’s: Choose exploitation, or choose exile. “How’d you… get into the Army?” asked his fellow prisoner. “Lied,” replied Lawrence tersely. He didn’t want to recall the whole dishonest procedure, fraught with anxiety and self-awareness. Natasha drew a slightly rattling breath, but the arrival of one hooded captor silenced her. He heard Natasha’s door open, and the sound of liquid sloshing. Then his own door opened, and the captor placed a dog’s bowl full of tan-freckled water on the floor of Lawrence’s cage, just barely within reach, so that the only way he could take a drink was to swing forward on his kneecaps, as if bowing to an emperor. The man left, his strong steps reverberating forebodingly upon the stone walls. Lawrence waited until the falls of the captor’s boots became his own heartbeat again before whispering to the opposite wall, “How many of us are there?” “It… it changes,” replied his unseen companion, “but right now, I’d say… twenty-five? Thirty? They call this… this place the colony.” But the information Natasha gave him ceased to register. The exhausted prisoner leaned back against the steel barrier to which he was bound. His heartbeat slowed; his breathing slowed. The cool bars amidst the sultry dungeon air seemed like an oasis. He couldn’t tell exactly when he closed his eyes, but he slept cradled in a pleasant imaginary breeze, to the sound of Natasha’s husky lullaby: Choose the strongest leather Choose the tarnished spoon And stay within the shadow of the moon... Suddenly, Lawrence’s eyes flew open. His ears came to rapt attention. He could feel his sweat freeze. Soft footsteps were scraping down the stairs.

To be continued...

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High Tea by Alyssa Cormier

DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. THE LARGE grandfather clock struck five o’clock and swiftly a form moved through the hallways of a large antique castle. Its gray walls held murals of the past and flashed with color against the dull setting of its bricks. Along the floors ran dark ruby carpets in which black clad slipper feet quickly moved across; flickers of a lace trimmed dress was seen trailing behind. Swiftly turning a corner, small hands pushed open a pair of double doors and rushed out onto a deck, the wind catching her shoulder long blonde hair and whipping it around youthful face. Turning her dark green eyes to stare at the person sitting at the table she grinned and quickly went to great them. “You realized that I’ve been waiting here for an hour. Inviting me here is one thing but making me wait is an entirely different matter.” Isabelle bowed her head slightly as she sat down across from Captain Gage Evans and peeked up at him through long blonde bangs. “My apologies, there were matters that had to be attended too.” Isabelle watched as the black haired man turned his face to the wind, her eyes scanning every detail of his face as his brow dipped and his steel blue eyes found their way back to her own. His frown drew darker and Isabelle quickly looked away, her slim black gloved hands moving to snatch up the teapot and began to pour them tea. “As you know the Castle will soon be moving over Tambre air space and with my father having passed away there it no way to truly operate the castle without help.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 291 “And why are you traveling in such an area again? You know, with the war this has become no place for a Lady, or a Castle for that matter. Things could seriously go wrong.” Isabelle quickly nodded as she picked up a plate of cucumber sandwiches and offered them to Captain Gage; the man simply gave the small finger sandwiches an offending frown and shook his head, declining the offer. Placing the plate back on the table Isabella took a sandwich in her lace trimmed gloves and began to nibble on it. “Unfortunately Captain this is a matter that must be attended too. Your assistance will only be needed for a few days and that is mostly in guarding or operating the castle’s defenses. Most I know but it needs multiple people… a person who knows the ways of a weapon would be preferred…” The Captain nodded and took note that the girl had avoided his question in a clever manner. Raising the small teacup to his slightly full lips, he sipped at the tea and made a rather disgusted expression before he placed the tea down on the table. He gazed towards clouds that surrounded the Castle and he took note of its position. This was Dryslwyn Castle, a rather infamous structure which once been used by several high-ranking officers of the Cyne Army. Most of them had been Walkers, the last having been Isabelle’s retried father, Derrick. Gage had been close to the man and had become deeply scared when he had died, after that, he had become rather distant, especially towards Isabelle. Moving to his feet he nodded. “You should hit the boarder in about a day; you should really have the place ready for any attacks that could be made against you. This really isn’t a time for sitting around having tea.” With a quick nod Isabelle moved to her feet, the ankle length white gown swirled around her feet. The edge of the gown was trimmed in frills and had an under skirt which was black. At her waist, a bold piece pattern came into play starting in thin strips just below her hips and extending upwards turning into bold strips. The two black strips stopped just below her breasts and extended around her, between the decorations was a criss-cross pattern. The bodice created was very much a promenade style dress with a high waist and a square neckline. The sleeves were black and fell off the shoulder. They were slightly large, with white trimming around the upper arm. The edges of the sleeves fell just to the knuckles and are trimmed with a lace. “Come, I’ll show you everything…” Gage nodded and followed the girl back into the large castle. To the naked eye, the castle seemed simple, bricks and stone but to those that understood the workings of Dryslwyn it was much more then that, much more. Gage’s steel blue eyes continued to wander back to the girl who practically floated down the hallway, he had known her for a large portion of his life. Isabelle had even been there for him when his father passed away and in turn he had edited by Joshua Goudreau 292 abandoned her when hers had. However, Derrick had been like a second father to him and to lose two such great men, his heart could not take it and from that day forward, he had vowed never to lose anyone close to him again and then meant never letting anyone get close. Even Isabelle, especially Isabelle. Coming to a pair of black doors Isabelle took the right door and revealed a control room, its panels were light up and a screen showed a schematic of the castle, several areas were colored with red while others were blue or green. There colors divided the defense system into sections, blue for weaker defense, perhaps for warning people off, green for an average attack, probably using a variety of bombs and red for a full on attack. The last itself was glowing orange; meaning that in its current state it could not do anything unless it was changed. Looking at the control panel more careful the young man frowned and looked to the blonde girl. “Tell me again why you can’t do this on your own?” A small frown of its own appeared on her brow and she pointed to an orange button. “The transformation of the castle can not be complete unless the buttons are pressed together. The other button is in another control room on the opposite side of the castle, you will also noticed that this control room operates several of the weapon systems. The castle was meant to be run by a pair of people… not a single person.” Gage nodded, he had noticed that the controls only seemed to work some of the weapons but he hadn’t noticed that the orange button was indeed only half a button but then it was an easy mistake to make; it could have been just made that way. With a slight sigh pushed away from the panel and nodded once again. “All right, I’ll stay and help you cross the board, I suggest you hire some people to take care of such matters for you.” “I thought I had…” Gage blinked a little shocked and gave the girl a soft glare. “I mean on a permanent basis.” “Oh.” Quickly looking away Isabelle turned and left the room and Gage followed her, a small frown forever printed on his brow. As she began to move her way through the halls of the castle, the white skirt flaring around her ankles to reveal black satin ballet shoes. Gage simply quirked an eyebrow at this as his gaze moved towards the murals and paintings on the wall. It seemed like an eternity passed within those paintings and finally Isabelle turned a corner and moved into a kitchen where a large burly man in a chief’s apron and hat met her. Turning to look at Gage Isabelle smiled a bit. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 293 “This is the cook Charles. I noticed that you didn’t enjoy the Tea, perhaps he can make you something more to your liking?” Gage nodded and took a stool as the large man turned to look at him, smirking slightly. “Not into cucumber sandwiches?” A small smile cracked Gage’s smiles as he leaned against the island. “Much too dainty for my taste.” Charles chuckled softly and nodded with an understanding grunt as he began to prepare a meal more suited for a man. Isabelle grinned slightly and excused herself. “There are matters which I must attend to, please enjoy your meal.” Gage simply nodded, watching the girl leave out of the corner of his eye.

Isabelle ran into her room and slammed the door behind her as she slumped back against the cherry wood, her eyes quickly scanning the room until a small strange black cat came into view, running to the creature she pulled it into her arms. “He’s here, within the walls of this castle at this very moment…” The creature blinked its golden eyes up at her and shifted in her arms, small black wings appearing out of its thick fur as it took flight, “That’s really nothing to be surprised about… you thought he wouldn’t come?” Isabella shrugged her shoulders slightly as the magi cat flew back to the bed. “I’m not sure what I thought, I didn’t expect this though, to see him after so long and for him to be… so cold.” The cat rolled its eyes as it perched on the bed. “Don’t be silly, of course you should have known the way he would be, he’s been like that for quite some time now.” “But why! After everything that’s happened, it’s like we never knew each other.” The cat shifted on the bed and looked towards the girl. “A lot of things have changed since that time, you’ve changed.” Isabelle only nodded as she moved to the window of her bedroom; the wind caught her blonde hair and seemed to tug it out the window as she stood gazing at the clouds. “I wonder what if would have been like, if we had stayed together…” The Cat only shrugged its shoulders as he watched the girl reminisce about things that would no longer be. Isabelle had a different purpose now and no matter how much she may want to rekindle a friendship with a man she once loved, still loved; it just was not meant to be, not anymore. Closing its eyes the small creature drifted back to sleep, which it did for most of the day. edited by Joshua Goudreau 294 When it opened its eyes, once again, it was night and Isabelle was no longer present.

Isabelle sat in a high backed chair in front of a fireplace drinking tea, in a chair to her left sat Gage staring into the fire with something much stronger then tea in his hands. They had been there for almost an hour now, sitting in silence. Swallowing hard Isabelle ran her thumb along the edge of her teacup. “Gage…why did you leave?” As she asked the question, her dark green eyes trailed to him and she could see him tense, his knuckles turning white against the cup he held, “It’s none of your business.” “Oh.” Her heart sank a little at the response, she was hoping this would be like when they were young, when they would lay upon the rug and watch the fire and whisper secrets to each other. It seemed like no matter what she did now she would never have her childhood friend back. Gage would never be hers. Swallowing the lump in her throat she moved to her feet, tears sparkling in her eyes. “You know you’ve become very rude. I don’t think I want your company at all. Goodnight.” Quickly she turned and moved out of the room, Gage simply sat staring into the fire. “I wouldn’t want my company either…”

The large castle, or island as some would call it, drifted through the morning sky; the working of such a castle were nowhere near quiet but often there was no one around to hear the noises and so its congested sounds went unnoticed, for most mornings away.

BOOM! The sudden sounds of crumbling stone and crushing walls awoke Isabelle from her slumber and the young girl sprang out of her bed. Having slept in her clothing she had no need, and no time anyway, to change as she sprang to the door of her room and pulled it open, swiftly heading down the hallway. As another large crash occurred, Isabelle slipped and slammed into the wall, falling to the floor. With a soft a soft grunt, she moved her hands along the wall and pulled herself up, stumbling to the closest window. Her eyes widened in disbelieve at what she saw, Tambre raiders! They had not even crossed the boarder yet, how could they be attacking? The black cat, which remained nameless and was simply called ‘you’ began to pull on Isabelle’s hair. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 295 “Girl, do you want that pretty head of yours blown off! Get to control room!” Isabelle staggered away from the wall and began to run down the hallway. It was clear that they were Tambre raiders, their aircrafts were black with the ugly red crest of the Tambrians but for them to be here could only mean. Isabella stopped I her tracks and the Magi Cat rammed into the back of her head with a small cry. “Watch it!” Turning to look at him with wide green eyes Isabelle frowned slightly, her expression formed one of worry as she snatched the black creature from the air. “Can the possibly know what we are doing? Or are they already staging an attack against Cyne?” The small cat stared up at her as if it may not answer her question and then slowly his golden eyes began to glow and he muttered softly. “They know…” Isabelle cringed slightly as she glanced back towards the window, if they knew then she would have to hurry. Moving down the hallway she rapidly made her way to the control room were she met by Gage. Pointing down the hallway, he yelled to her. “Get to the other control room! We have to stave off the attack!” Isabelle only nodded and quickened her pace as she rushed past the man, his words echoing in her ears. “Be careful…”

It only took Isabelle five minutes to reach the second control room but it seemed like forever, the Castle had take at least half a dozen more attacks, some of them which left like major blows. Isabelle stumbled into the control room and sat down in the chair, she prayed that the castle would transform, that it could transform after the damage it had taken. Speaking into the microphone, she placed her fingers along the orange crescent button. “Transformation, now!” Her fingers pressed down on the button and in the other control room Gage did the same, his steel blue eyes trailing to the monitor, waiting in anticipation.

The monitor flickered from orange to green and a rumbling moved throughout the castle. What the raiders saw mystified them, they hoped and prayed that it would not happen but it had started and now their chances of defeating the castle had dropped dramatically. The walls of Dryslwyn Castle began to drop and disappear into the castle, quickly they were replaced by large steel walls, openings appeared that held large cannons, the system edited by Joshua Goudreau 296 which keep the castle afloat, a large propeller on the bottom of the castle, vanished up inside as to large metal wings extended from the island. The castle would move much more quickly then it had before; other sections disappeared, replaced with steel and armories. Some probably thought it would be impossible, but it was not, Dryslwyn Castle was a mystery to the known world, though it possessed elements of technology that other countries and armies had but in some ways it was quite different, quite ancient.

Smiling, Isabelle felt a rush as the transformed castle took its final state and she quickly glanced down at the buttons, several attacks had taken place during the transformation and one section of the castle, a tower with a bomb launcher, was no longer operational however all the rest seemed in working order. Glancing over the panels, she pressed down on two blue buttons, firing off a set of bombs from the left wing. Gage quickly followed suit in the other control room and pressed two blue buttons as missiles launched from the right wing.

Outside the castle, ten Tambre Raiders began the maneuvers that would keep them out of harms way; however, three fell to air bombs that came from the left wing, while four more succumbed to missiles and steel nets on the right. Pulling back the three remaining Raiders re-grouped and another ten Raiders quickly joined them. One of the ships was deep silver, indicating that the craft held the leader of the group. The small aircrafts held back for several minutes before dividing up into two groups, swiftly they moved towards the castle, ready for a full on assault that would hopefully allow a boarding.

Cringing, Isabelle fell out of her chair and onto the floor as a formation of ships came down at the castle, releasing missiles and bombs. Some areas of the castle shook while others caught on fire. Isabelle clenched her jaw as she pulled herself back up onto the chair, she could not allow them to stop her. She had a mission to complete, something that she had to do. Isabelle pressed buttons in rapid succession and her head turned to watch the screen. Two of the missiles hit their targets and she smiled a grim smile as she turned to a different set of buttons and pressed them as well. It seemed Gage was doing very well by himself. For a person who had never operated the controls of a castle before he seemed like he was right at home at the job. Unfortunately, as the castle took the brunt of the attacks two of the aircrafts were able to land in the Castle’s courtyard. Isabelle muttered something violent underneath her breath and moved to her feet as she turned to a small door and pulled it open, within it were several small pistols. The blonde The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 297 haired girl picked one up slowly and looked at it for a moment before her brow dipped into a frown. Moving back to the control panel she pushed a button and muttered. “I’ll get them Gage, you defend the castle.” Gage’s warning voice rung in her ears as she ran down the hallway, heading for the courtyard. As Isabelle ran out into the Courtyard she slid to a halt as she came face to face with a man with long silver hair, frowning softly, she took a step back and raised the gun to point it at him. The man simply stared at her, his brow dipping into a frown, “So it is true, you are alive… how is this possible?” Isabelle tilted her head slightly as she narrowed her eyes at the man. “I don’t know who you are but you better leave this place at once or I’ll shoot you…” The silver haired man simply tilted his head at the girl, his eyes flickering to the right. Isabelle’s eyes widened slightly as she turned around, she however only saw a streak of black as a blunt object came crashing down onto her head. Her dark green eyes seemed to turn a dull shade of green as her hair flowed out around her body as she slowly fell back onto the ground, landing with a loud thump on the dirt.

Gage rose to his feet and clicked a black button on the control panel, an auto control button, it wasn’t as good as a person controlling the castle’s attacks but it would have to do. He had to go find Isabelle; she had been gone for nearly 15 minutes and with no word from her his insides had began to twist in nervous knots. He could not lose her, not her. Hastily picking up a gun Gage moved out into the hallway and briskly moved in the direction of the courtyard, several men from the raiders had gotten into the castle and were making their way towards him. Aiming the gun while he ran Gage quickly dispatched several of the men, a bullet wising past his head as he jumped into a doorway. Pressing up against the wall his breath came in soft gasps as he held the gun near this chest and swiftly sped back out into the hallway. The Raiders were nowhere, as Gage moved out onto into the courtyard he paused, there was nothing here. Glancing around he frowned, surely, if Isabelle had been hurt she would be here. Unless… “They took her…” Spinning around Gage eyes widened slightly at the sight of a small black creature that resembled a cat. “What do you mean they took her? Why?” “They took her because she’s the Princess of Tambriana…” A shutter moved through Gage as he stared at the cat. edited by Joshua Goudreau 298 “That can’t be, there hasn’t been a Princess of Tambriana for over five hundred years…” The cat’s golden eyes narrowed slightly on the man as it flew upwards. “No, there hasn’t…” Frowning in confusion the gun dropped to Gage’s side as he looked at the ground, “But… that would mean she was a new princess…” “No, she isn’t.” Turning to glare the strange cat thing he his voice rose with his frustration. “Then how it is possible? She would have to 500 years ol-” His voice caught in his throat as the realization came to him. “No…”

Gradually Isabelle’s eyes opened and scanned the room, she was lying on a bed but hastily moved to swing her legs over the bed and stand to her feet. Where was she? This was not Dryslwyn Castle. “This is Alnwick Castle, soon to be head castle of the new government of Tambriana…” The voice startled Isabelle and she turned to look at the doorway, there stood the same silver haired man, his arms crossed over his chest. “You think this castle can take the place of Dryslwyn? It can not, it will not.” Tilting his head the man’s lips curved into a grim smile. “Do you really think you can stop this now? You and your family have been out of power for a very long time Princess and now that your line is dead a new line shall take its place, with a new purpose.” “What? War? You think that this purpose shall help the people of Tambriana? It will only bring the country to its knees! Its people will suffer.” Isabelle winched as a mean laugh drifted from the man’s lips. She took a step back as he stepped forward. “Do you think we care about the people? We are not here for the people, we are here for ourselves and when our family is in power Cyne shall fall and this whole region will become ours. Countries will bow to us!” Tears sparkled in Isabelle’s green eyes as she held her hands to her chest, her head dipping slightly as her eyes closed. “I can’t allow you to do something like that. People of my line, of my father’s line still live on. When your ancestors betrayed our family we did what we had too, the Castle took to the sky and father shattered our loved ones through Tambriana. Many have died since then but there are those that remain, that hold the blood of Dryslwyn within them.” Turning her face up to look at the man her eyes narrowed. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 299 “You will not stop what needs to be done. My father spent years searching for them, finding a way to open up their minds and hearts so that they would know who they are and who they should be. You will not stop me now…” The silver haired man glared softly and his hand moved to his waist and he pulled free a gun. “Yes, I shall. Goodbye Princess.” Aiming the gun, his finger squeezed the trigger and Isabelle stood tall. The next moment the door came crashing in and there stood Gage, the little magi cat fluttering around his head. Glaring at the silver haired man Gage leapt forward, his foot coming up to contact with the man’s mid section as he turned to face him. Grunting he watched the man fall to his knees and he held his hand out to Isabelle. “Hurry we have to get back to Dryslwyn!” Smiling Isabelle ran to Gage and took his hand and the pair hurried through the castle, “How did you know I was here?” “Your little thing here has some… unique abilities.” Laughing softly she glanced to the magi cat. “I didn’t think you cared.” All she got was a little huff and a flutter of wings in response as the trio made their way to a large clearing. The trio was however, greeted with a large team of men; down the hallway behind them came another group, the silver haired man in the lead. Quickly they ran along the wall until they go to the edge of the castle, Gage glanced over the side of the wall and back to the men. “I won’t let them take you…” Isabelle frowned slightly as she glanced around at the men and then over the wall. This castle had already reached Tambriana, the landscape was undeniable. “Gage, we’ve reached it… were here.” Glancing over his shoulder slightly he held his gun towards the men that continued to advance on them and nodded somewhat. “I can see that but it doesn’t do us much good if we can’t get off of here safely.” “Gage… only you need to get off of here safely…” “What?” Turning his head to look at Isabelle he watched her smiled softly. “I have a duty to perform Gage… I haven’t lived for 500 years because I’m immortal. I’ve lived because I’ve been built that way.” The young man’s face twisted slightly in an expression of pain as he moved his free hand to grab her own, edited by Joshua Goudreau 300 “No, I can’t lose you as well. All my life I have been losing those that are close to me, finally I decided that I would never let anyone get close again. Even when I loved you. I shut you out and I’m sorry Isabelle, I am… you can’t go. I have so much to make up for.” Tears swelled in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around the man she had loved since the day she saw him. It was what she wanted, to be love and have his love in return but this path was not for her. Turning her eyes to look at the man, she watched as he leveled a gun at them and quickly she spun Gage behind her. “Stop! You do not know what you are doing; your path will only lead to the destruction of our country. You can’t do this… I won’t let you hurt them… or Gage!” The silver haired man smirked. “You have no choice in the matter, Princess!” As he spoke, Dryslwyn Castle moved up along side and the cook waved from the side of the castle with a large smile. “Hurry! Take hold!” Throwing a rope ladder over the side Gage quickly jumped on the wall to grab hold of it, his other hand reaching for Isabelle’s hand as Dryslwyn continued upward. As Isabelle moved onto the stonewall she turned at the sound of the silver haired man’s voice. “I am Vincent Drave. Remember my name in death for your family shall never find its place within Tambriana!” Squeezing the trigger, he fried and Isabelle’s eyes widened as bullet struck her in the chest and ricocheted off revealing a soft glowing carmine crystal as she began to fall backwards. Gage screamed in horror as he reached for her, his fingers running through her long blonde hair as she fell from his grasp. Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds as she gazed at his face from one last time “I love you Gage… I always have.” Isabelle’s eyes widened as she fell back over the wall, her back arching as her head tilted to look down upon the small earth, which rapidly became larger. Holding her hand to her chest the carmine jewel glowed brilliantly and she twisted in the air, her emerald green eyes turning to look at the disappearing form of Gage. The time was now, she must make the jewel open and in doing so, she would send out a ripple of power through Tambriana that would awaken those that held her blood, Dryslwyn blood and in doing so the castle would return to its rightful spot and Tambriana would once again be whole. Tears sparkled in her eyes as she spread her fingers over the jewel. Please, make this happen…. open and unity the world in an era of peace! Isabella shut her eyes tightly as she willed the jewel to open… The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 301 ***

L, Square, Triangle, X, O, O, Triangle, Triangle, Right, Right, Left, Up, Square, R.

Isabelle continued to fall, the world going black as she crashed upon the earth. “I’m so sorry…”

“Ahhh man…” Twitching, a young boy snatched the remote from his brother. “I told you weren’t going to do it right! You’ve killed her!” “I did do it right, it was the right code for the summon!” “Was not!” “Was too!” “Was not and now I’m going to have to start over again!”

Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. The large grandfather clock struck five o’clock and swiftly a form moved through the hallways of a large antique castle…

edited by Joshua Goudreau 302

The Cellar by Tim Derr

I DRANK BLOOD TODAY. DRANK IT FROM MY CLOSED, RED fist. Jeremy’s body has chilled in the cool cellar air and I threw up. All there was was stomach acid and blood. No food left. I have been here for seven days. Jeremy was here longer. He tried to kill me for food. I had to defend myself. There is no light. I never saw him. I only know his name because he told me. I can’t see the body. I can’t see anything. There is no light. Everything is so cold. There is an old bed in the corner. The mattress is made of straw. I laid the body there. I sleep on the floor. I tried to cover him. To make him warm. But there is no heat. I can’t lay with him. I can’t make his body warm. I don’t like it cold. I can’t bring myself to lay with the dead. If I could I couldn’t warm him. The floor is cold and hard. Like everything else. I made my bed of horse blankets and straw. As far from the bed in the corner as possible. At least there is no smell. I can handle the straw. It is so old there is no longer a smell to it. Everything here is so old there is no smell to it. It’s like the place has existed forever. Maybe before there was a smell. Jeremy’s body does not stink, yet. I don’t know how long it will take to rot. The walls are round stones. They are big. Hard and cold. If there was light I think they would be gray. In the darkness all I see is black. There is a door. It is wood. But no light escapes beneath it. Only nothing. Like no world could exist beyond it. Maybe none does. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know where I am from. I’m not sure what I have done. My heart beats in my ears and my blood pounds through my veins as I carve this. There is a beam that stands in the center of this room, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 303 which is round. I have propped myself against it. It is coarse, round like a log, but smooth. Maybe it is a log. If so the bark has been removed. The surface is coarse. When I find a smooth spot I write. I don’t know if the nail will carve deep enough because I cannot see. Maybe after I die someone will find this and tell my family what became of me.

I slept today. If it was day. Maybe night. There is no light so I cannot tell. There is no sense of time. But it felt like night. So I slept. Dust sifts down from somewhere above. I can’t feel the ceiling, but sometimes it creaks. Maybe there are people above. I cry out but no one answers. Jeremy was colder today, but I drank more. I threw it up. There was no acid. Only the blood. I licked it from the floor. I cut my tongue. The blood was warm. It flowed fast. I swallowed and it stayed down. I feel a little better.

I know why the tree is coarse. Others have been here before me. My fingers found their words. It is hard, but my touch is better without the light. My hands can almost see. Twelve others before me. That means I am thirteen. None of them knew why they were here. I wish someone had. I am afraid. I cried today. When I licked at the tears on my cheeks they burned like acid. There are no bones.

One of the men knew Jeremy. He did not know himself. He tells of the others bringing Jeremy to the prison. The prison is what he calls this place. The men brought Jeremy and there was light. He was blind and sick. When they had left there was a young man here. He called himself Jeremy. He said he was in college. Michigan State. He had gone to bed. When he woke up men were pulling him from the back of a van. He saw trees, and forest. There were cars nearby. He heard them on the streets. The men took him into a house made of stones. Then down a long stairwell to the basement. Jeremy told this to the man.

Why did Jeremy see but no other? I searched and searched but there are no words. He didn’t write here. Why?

I fed more today. I couldn’t stop. Myself. It is freezing. The feel of his blood on my skin was like ice. I took his blanket. I moved him to the floor. As far from the bed as I could. The blood stayed down, only after I reopened the wound on my tongue. edited by Joshua Goudreau 304 ***

It’s worse today. I can feel it. The blood is turning in my stomach. It won’t stay down. I cried more. Then it stopped. I don’t think my body has the tears left. I am cold. So cold.

The sounds above have stopped. I almost thought I heard a car today. The walls hummed. When it was over I scraped the soot from my arms and wrote this. I couldn’t touch Jeremy today. I was sick before climbing form the bed. I think it is getting warmer. I think he is starting to stink. His body is still soft. I don’t think it should be.

We have rats. I’m not sure where they came from. They were crawling on me when I woke up. I screamed. I can hear them on Jeremy. I don’t know what they’ve done. As long as they stay away from me I don’t care.

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be eaten alive.

Please, someone, help me.

It is still getting warmer. I feel better. Not sick. But my stomach hurts. It is like cramping, but worse. Like someone ringing water from a rag. I feel weak. I don’t want to move. I am afraid not to.

I can still hear the mice. I have to move. When I wake up they are on me. I wiped all the blood off today. Rolling in the dirt. The noises from Jeremy are getting louder. I think I know why there aren’t any bones.

Warmer still. I can feel myself again. Not sure that is a good thing. I don’t feel right. Everything hurts. Feels different. When I touch things sometimes it’s like I can see. I know I can’t. There is no light.

Sweated some today. It was really hot earlier but now it has started to cool down. Jeremy stinks. Not as bad as I would have thought. How much of him is there left to stink? I’m not going to check.

*** The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 305 I had to drag myself here. I can’t hear the rats anymore, but I think they are listening to me. I think they are waiting. I don’t want them to eat me. How much of Jeremy is left? I am so hungry. I want to vomit, but nothing will come up. I can’t, but that doesn’t stop my body from trying. It hurts, so bad.

I hope I’m dead before the rats eat me. They’re still here. I can hear them crawling around. I can hear them dragging their tails. They don‘t squeak. They don’t make any noises. Why are they so quiet?

Someone. Someone came down the stairs today. I couldn’t see. There was too much light. I couldn’t even move. They opened the door and looked at me. They threw something. It hit the floor hard and I could hear the rats flee. They still didn’t squeak, but I could hear the patter of their feet. The door closed. When I opened my eyes I could see the light receding. I tried to look out. The only spot is beneath the door. There are stone steps. That is all. I’m going to be ready the next time they come.

The liquid was food. I hope. It was warm. When I opened it I was scared, but the smell seemed okay. It was in a pouch. I had to suck it out. It didn’t want to come. Whatever it was. It was good.

More light today. I thought I was ready. It hurt. Hurt so bad my eyes burnt. They watered. When they opened the door someone kicked me aside. They broke my rib. All I could do was cry. They brought someone with them. He helped me to a bed. He told me they blindfolded him. He took it off. He wants to know where we are, but I can’t talk. He can’t read my words. He smells wonderful.

Hello? I called that today so many times that I can no longer speak. I need help. I’m trapped. No one can hear me. I think there are people above. The men who brought me here. There was a man. He couldn’t speak. I found him when they brought me here. He tried to kill me. I had to fight back. The man is crazy. He bit me. His nails are like claws. I stabbed him. I stabbed him with whatever I could find. Something on the floor. It felt like a stick. I edited by Joshua Goudreau 306 stabbed him and he didn’t even make a sound. Only fell back. He’s still breathing. Somehow. The sound is gurgly and wet. Maybe I punctured the lung. My name is Anthony. Anthony Ditmer. I am an intern at Mercy Medical in Black Mountain, Michigan. I want to try and help the man, but he won’t let me. He tries to bite me.

I haven’t slept. I can’t. I’m afraid he’ll kill me. I’ve tied him down. I finally tore up my shirt and used it. I don’t think it works. I think he’s only waiting for me to fall asleep before he pulls them loose. He cut me again. I can’t see so it was all guesswork in tying his hands. My wrist bled badly. He nearly caught the vein. He seems to have calmed. He’s quiet. He let me pull out the... the bone. A femur. I hope it’s not from someone else they’ve locked down here. I only want to know why. Why am I here? What did I do?

The man is still alive. I don’t know how. I couldn’t do anything for him. I don’t have the equipment. Somehow his lung has stopped. The wet gurgle is gone. There is something very wrong.

I have been here for three days. I don’t think I’ll be leaving. The man spoke tonight. He won’t tell me his name. He begged me not to let the rats get him. When I asked what he meant he screamed. His hands made batting gestures at his bed. I believe he may be insane. I’m no psychiatrist.

Got a good look at him today. I didn’t realize that my jacket had been brought. When they left me here I had only thought to fend off this man, and stay away. He seems much calmer now. I found my coat. My penlight. My stethoscope. They took my wallet and my cell phone. Of course. When I shined the light on him he screamed. It’s dark. Not that dark. My eyes stung, but the pain was not unbearable. I covered his face and he let me check his wound. It was only a small scar. He is very malnourished. There was a lot of dried blood. I think he killed someone. I’m not going to ask. There is something very wrong.

The man seems alert. He has been since I woke up. I couldn’t stop myself. I must have drifted off. I thought I’d be dead if I ever fell asleep. He’s watching me. I tried to talk some more, but he either can’t, or refuses to. It could be shock. I wonder how long he has been here. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 307 He’s watching me write this. The sharp edge of the bone seems to work rather well. My light allowed me to read the other carvings here. Sadly, most are illegible. There have been at least thirteen before me. One man’s name was Jeremy. Is my stranger him? Did he use this same bone to carve at the support that disappears into the floor joists above? Am I going to die down here? I’m trying not to think of that.

He’s smiling. I’m not writing anymore. I can’t take my eyes from him.

I am still alive. God! I am still alive! The man is dead, but his blood is warm. I am warm. I felt him die. I felt his life flowing into mine. There is more. More blood. But it won’t be warm for long, and the men might not bring me more. They might let me starve. I must gorge myself. Even on the meat if need be. I must suck every last drop. The man’s penlight works well. It hurts my eyes. As long as I don’t look at it I can stand it. Sometimes it burns. I can see the floor above me. The dark wood of the door. The walls are gray stone. The floor is dirt. There is nothing left of Jeremy but a bone. Not even a stain on the floor.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 308

Dead Time by Neco

SOME GHOSTS HAVE A REALLY CHILDISH SENSE OF HUMOR. I was learning this firsthand as Gideon and I sat a stoplight, me tapping my fingertips impatiently against the steering wheel of my aging Mustang and my dead sidekick lounging in the passenger’s seat. The directions from MapQuest lay discarded on the dashboard, threatening to blow away with all the windows down (my top wouldn’t come down since my car’s a piece of shit anyway) and the wind screaming through the car. Don’t ask me where we were; all I could see was that stoplight, a few run down buildings along what I guess was Main Street, and cow ass as far as the eye could see. “You’re a fucking idiot,” I sighed, tugging at a stray piece of leather on the steering wheel cover. “Since when the hell can’t you read English?” “Since when the hell do you take directions from me?” Gideon shot back, arching an eyebrow. “I should’ve left you back at HQ,” I snapped. “You woulda been a helluva lot more useful to Mary than me.” “But you love me way too much to do that,” he replied, batting his eyes and leaning toward me. “I’m the only one that can stand you for more than three minutes.” I snorted and jabbed my elbow into his ribs, shoving him back against the seat. Contrary to popular belief, ghosts are as solid as human beings and can only do that walking-through-walls act when they concentrate hard enough. It’s the same thing when they want to be seen by the Blind; they had to put all their power into ‘manifesting’ and even then it’s not easy. Gideon could usually only make his skeleton appear, which is definitely more freaky than him going full out. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 309 Hell, if I was some poor guy half asleep in bed, I’d scream too if there was some walking pile of bones in my room. At least you can tell a full-bodied ghost to fuck off; what do you say to a talking skeleton? ‘Hey there, Skeletor, get out before I call the cops for breaking and entering?’ Not likely. If anything, he’d probably grab a top hat and cane and pull some musical number to make sure that when the cops came, you’d be dragged off by the nice men in white coats permanently. Gideon opened his mouth to say something else, but the light turned green and I slammed on the gas before he could get another word out; he was flung back against his seat and forced to grab his seatbelt as we tore down the street, tires squealing. Say what you want about my car, but at least the acceleration still works like when I bought it eight years ago. “Gimme the directions,” I said, thrusting out my hand in Gideon’s face. “I can read,” he protested and snatched the paper out of my reach. I glared at him for only a moment before turning my eyes back to the road, though there wasn’t much to see. We were the only ones on the two-lane highway and the only thing even remotely alive besides me were the cows standing dumbly on the other side of the fence. “Okay, then, genius, where the hell are we?” I demanded. Gideon made a show of snapping the paper straight, leaning forward to study the directions, then shrugged. “No clue.” “Give me those.” I grabbed the paper from his hand and took my foot off the gas. With nothing ahead of us and me feeling relatively sure that Gideon would (probably) warn me if something was coming, I scanned the directions, ticking off roads we’d passed, then tossed the directions back on the dashboard in disgust. “Well?” Gideon asked. “You have a sick sense of humor,” I said. He grinned. “Where’s the fun if I didn’t?” “I should kick your ass for this.” “Why? I’m just trying to liven things up!” “You’re dead.” “And you’re boring as all hell. We make the perfect couple.” “Shut up before I smack your head against the windshield.” “Give in to your urges, Josh! You can’t fight it anymore!” Gideon reached over to grab my shoulder, but I jerked the wheel and sent the Mustang squealing to the left, throwing the ghost back into his seat. I righted the convertible before we could fall into a ditch and kept flooring it down the deserted road, hoping that Gideon would get the hint to keep his big mouth shut. The stereo in my car was broken (for about the fifth time in two years) so I couldn’t just drown him out in Nine Inch Nails or Cradle of Filth; not that it’d work anyway. He had ways of making himself heard over a edited by Joshua Goudreau 310 full-blast stereo, wind screaming with the top down and the roar of an engine all at once. Apparently, he did get the hint... for about ten seconds. When he opened his mouth again, I was tempted to really drive into that ditch, but that would mean I’d become Gideon’s partner permanently in Limbo, something I wasn’t so keen to become yet. “Damn, man, you gotta lighten up,” he said, draping his arm out the window. “This is me lightened up,” I retorted. “What else do you want?” “A sense of humor? You haven’t said anything even remotely funny this entire trip.” “I thought that smashing your head into my windshield bit was pretty good.” “You always say that.” “Maybe because you always somehow end up pissing me off and tempting me to do that.” We lapsed into silence as the relatively straight lane began to twist and curve, forcing me to slow down and actually pay attention to what I was doing. Out in southern Illinois, it’s easy enough to pretty much ignore the road when you’re driving; it’s Farm Land, U.S.A., there’s not a lot out here. Endless fields of corn, wheat and hay are broken up only by the cows and pigs in their pens before giving way to forest and prairie. Towns are scarce and aren’t usually more than a handful of buildings with a Main Street like the one we just passed; if you want a city, you’d either have to go to the borders, or turn around, which was seeming like a better and better prospect as we drove deeper south. I’m not what you call a nature kind of guy; I don’t even know what the hell poison ivy looks like, much less how to tell it apart from poison oak. I went camping once when I was a kid with my parents, and that was to some campground near Lake Michigan, but no one can ever make me believe that that even counted as ‘camping.’ In my book, if you sit in an RV with a TV, air conditioner, shower and working oven, that’s not camping, that’s pretending to be poor. We did that for about a week, were well within driving distance to the nearest tourist town, and went to the lake all of twice. All I saw was a bunch of sand and the heads of dead fish in the surf. Not exactly Boy Scout training. Driving further downstate, I was realizing just how out of my element I was. If some punk ass ghost decided to knock a few plates off of some suburban mom’s counter, I could take him out without a problem; throw me into a field and tell me to pick some dandelions, and you’ll be lucky if I even know what the hell you’re talking about. The country is Gideon’s home turf; The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 311 he lived on a farm with his parents for most of his life and could tell you the differences between a dozen different kinds of corn. I’m still not sure how that’s a skill someone would really want, but then again, Gideon never was normal, in life or in death. The rolling fields of corn (thank God Gideon decided not to regale me with what type it was, or else I really would have driven into a ditch) eventually gave way to prairie. Grass almost as tall as the Mustang pretty much blocked any view out the side windows and though the road was relatively straight, I didn’t floor it. According to the map, the open grassland wouldn’t last very long, eventually giving way to the Shawnee National Forest that dominated the lower part of Illinois. Our destination was only a few miles short of the Park’s border, on an old service road that would be easy enough to miss if was going 90 mph down a country lane. Even going 50, I almost missed it; Gideon had to snap his fingers in front of my face to get my attention. Miles of corn and grass can really fuck with your mind, I was finding out. The service road was rutted and more than once I thought I had screwed up the suspension on the Mustang as we jolted along it. I almost regretted not taking up Mary’s offer to borrow her Explorer, but I wasn’t paid the kind of money it would take to put gas in that beast for the eight hour drive it took to get from Chicago to the crumbling farmhouse. And I do mean crumbling. We pulled up in front of the sagging porch and just sat there for a minute, disbelieving that someone would actually want us to clear out a building like that. Picture the most stereotypical depiction of a haunted house and there you have the farm. Broken windows, peeling paint, shingles missing from the roof, dented metal mailbox; the barn was nothing but a jumble of rotted framing, and the silos were pretty much piles of rock and mortar. Overgrown weeds and prairie grass stuck up through the planks of the porch and I almost expected to see a nest of rats scatter when I opened the car door. “Are you serious?” Gideon asked, getting out as I did. “This is the house?” “Apparently,” I said, but I was just as annoyed as he was. Either someone was pulling a really idiotic prank on us or we had written down the address wrong; I wouldn’t put it past Gideon for the latter, but he wasn’t smart enough to know that this would be waiting at the other end. But the farm wasn’t completely abandoned; a yellow Bug was parked near the rotting barn, all of its windows down like the owner didn’t expect anyone to try and steal it. Well founded expectations, since the biggest thing out here was a rabbit, and last time I checked, Bugs Bunny wasn’t into grand theft auto. Gideon followed my gaze and swallowed a snort. “Well, we’re either dealing with a chick or a guy who’s very sure of his sexuality.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 312 I rolled my eyes and tested out the first step that led up to the porch. “Keep your mouth shut while we’re in there.” “Why?” he asked, turning around. “No one can see me!” “But I can hear you and I don’t wanna give off the impression that I’m crazy if they see me arguing with myself,” I retorted. The porch wasn’t in danger of immediately collapsing beneath my feet and I mounted the steps to the front door, Gideon trailing behind. “Dude, you’re what they call a ‘ghost hunter,’” he replied as he came to stand next to me at the door. “If they see you talking to yourself, they’ll think you’re telling their ghost to fuck off!” “And if you don’t shut up, I’ll give them that impression before I get into the house.” Gideon only grinned and banged on the screen door before I could move; surprise, surprise, it actually stayed on its hinges. An even greater surprise that less than a minute later I could hear footsteps hurrying toward us, followed by the storm door opening to reveal a woman. A damn good- looking one, at that. Completely out of place on a farm of any type. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, with shorter wisps framing a face with bright green eyes. Instead of overalls and a flannel shirt (don’t ask me why I think of that as the stereotypical farmer garb, I just do) she wore jeans, a green halter top and flip-flops, as if she had just come off the U of I campus instead of some haunted house’s staircase. The woman’s eyes flicked from me to Gideon (huh?) then back again, those finely arched brows drawing together. “You two are from the Agency?” Uh, two? “Yeah, I am,” I said, trying very hard not to look at Gideon, who was staring at this chick in open disbelief. “You called and told one of the girls that you think you’re house is haunted?” “It is haunted,” she replied, then shook her head. “Wait, only you’re from the Agency? What about your friend here? Or is he just the driver?” “You can see me?” Gideon demanded before I could say anything. I grabbed his arm to jerk him back as he stepped forward, but my hands passed through it. God damn it, Ghost-boy. “I’m not blind,” she retorted. “Is this some kind of test to see if I’m crazy or not?” “No, but I’m starting to think I am,” I growled and made a grab for Gideon again. This time, he wasn’t expecting it and I managed to snag his shirt and yank him back. I held onto his collar and gave him a light shake. “You can see him? Really?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 313 Now she was starting to look pissed, and believe me, it suited her. “Are you screwing with me now? ‘Cause if you are, I don’t need the help of a couple punks with a stupid sense of humor.” “Excuse me, but not everyone can see a ghost,” Gideon muttered and shook my hand off. She snorted. “Yeah, right. Look, if you two are just gonna screw around out there-” “I didn’t drive eight hours to get here just to turn around and go home after five minutes,” I retorted and opened the screen door. I almost expected it to fall off the hinges but it miraculously held on and I let Gideon go in first before following and letting the door bang shut behind me. “So what’s been goin’ on? Footsteps, doors slamming, windows rattling?” She shut the door behind us, some of her attitude faltering. “Try knives flying across the room and almost cutting off my head.” “Guess it’s Ripper’s idea of fun,” Gideon said and disappeared around a corner. “At least Jack was creative,” I said, glancing around the foyer, though there wasn’t much to see. The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling, the grayed floorboards creaking beneath their faded rugs, and more than a few pale squares on the wall attested to pictures that had been recently removed. A small coffee table had been shoved up against a wall, propped up by a pile of bricks taken from the silos outside to hold its two legged frame. “He disemboweled hookers, not decapitated college chicks.” Behind me, the woman huffed. “I’m not a college chick.” “Then you’re a farmer?” I countered, following Gideon into what I thought was the kitchen. It had a stove, a fridge, and counters, complete with a knife set that was under my partner’s close scrutiny. The cheap tile was peeling up at the baseboards and here the paint was almost all chipped off; a rickety table had been left with an equally shaky chair. I pulled open the fridge door and almost immediately slammed it shut as the odor of spoiled food hit me. I heard Gideon’s near silent snort of laughter and kicked out behind me, feeling my foot connect with his thigh and heard his muttered curse as the knife he had been holding clattered to the floor. “Your own fault,” I replied. He glared at me and scooped the knife up from the floor, replacing it back into its wooden holder. Though neither of us would admit it to the other, we were both unnerved; not by the thought of a ghost chucking knives across the room (common enough, believe it or not) at some stuck-up yuppie but that the yuppie could see Gideon. To us, the Blind are just that. They can’t see anything from Limbo, which includes ghosts, banshees, and anything else you can shove up the collective asshole of the universe. The only people that could were called Spiritwalkers; edited by Joshua Goudreau 314 i.e. me and anyone else associated with the Agency. All the cheesy shit you’ve seen in movies and comic books about a group of people being mediators between the living and the dead was pretty much based off of us. Not really flattering, but hey, PR is PR. We’re not exactly out in the open with all of this, though; come on, would you believe me if I walked up to you, said ‘Hi, I see dead people’? Hell no. Why do you think psychics and paranormal investigators get so much crap? Because they go around parading what they do so everyone can point and laugh, then get pissed when no one takes them seriously. Not to say that we don’t have wackos like that associated with us; the entire Agency is full of people I’d like to shove in Linden Oaks. And it wasn’t just restricted to the living. We have a group of dead girls that think it’s their mission to try and lay every guy--breathing or not--at HQ; we have a guy that doesn’t stop pacing the hallways and grabs anyone stupid enough to walk by and starts reading their future, without looking at their palm or however the hell it’s supposed to go. We have more than one person that claims to have spoken to God, Jesus and any other deity you can think of, along with a bunch of other people that said they’ve talked to Satan and his posse. Anyway, that chick. That she could see Gideon when neither of us had been briefed she was a Spiritwalker had caught us off guard; we were more used to dealing with the Blind, where we could work in tandem and in secret. Gideon could go off on his own while I dealt with the client, then come back and tell me what exactly was going on in case someone was leaving out a few details. With her, there was no way we could split up without her questioning our motives; she didn’t believe me when I said Gideon was a ghost before, so I was pretty sure she wouldn’t believe me if I told her again. “Anything else exciting happen?” I asked as the silence stretched to breaking point. I had given up scouring of the kitchen, knowing there was nothing there and sincerely wishing Gideon could go off like he usually did to scout the rest of the house. The woman was leaning against the doorframe. “You actually believe me?” she asked, though there was no note of surprise in her voice. “You called us, didn’t you?” I retorted irritably. “Not everyone has that number.” She took that as confirmation and pushed off the wall, causing it to creak and spew dust. “Pictures flying off the wall at me, beds shaking when I’m on them, and I’ve felt someone try to push me down the stairs a couple times. That good enough for ya?” I glanced at Gideon and he shrugged, unable to say anything with her there. “And it’s only directed at you?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 315 “I’m the only one here,” she snapped. “And my grandpa never said anything about ghosts before he died.” “Maybe it’s him haunting the place,” Gideon said with a shrug. He had his back to her and was once again studying the knives, though now I knew he was looking for plasma residue that poltergeists left behind instead of just showing off. The woman bristled. “My grandpa wouldn’t-” “Look, lady-” I interrupted. “My name’s Deborah,” she snarled. “Look, Deborah, sometimes people can go a little wacko after they die,” I continued. “Sometimes it’s ‘cause they died violently, or they’re in denial or whatever, but you can’t trust ghosts.” Another snort from Gideon; I ignored it. She still didn’t look convinced, but I didn’t drive eight hours through cornfields to stand around trying to convince some chick that it was her dead grandpa out to get her. “Show us where else you’ve been attacked.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?” “So we can catch this bastard and get outta here,” I replied tersely. Deborah glared at me for a minute more then whirled and stalked out of the kitchen. I followed after a few seconds, to make sure she wouldn’t be hiding around the corner to try and jump me (it’s happened before) with Gideon in tow. “Too bad her good looks spoiled her rotten,” Gideon said with a shake of his head. “But then again, aren’t redheads supposed to be firecrackers anyway?” “You’re the one hooked on horoscopes, not me,” I replied. “You should look at yours sometime. You’d be surprised at how accurate it is.” “Did you check today’s?” “I always do.” “And?” “Expect the unexpected.” I punched him and he grinned wider, though we were out into the foyer before he could say anything else. Deborah was waiting impatiently at the foot of the stairs, eyes flicking from us to the landing as if she was afraid to go up alone. “Well?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. “I said I got pushed down the stairs a couple times, didn’t I?” she said irritably. “Aren’t you gonna check ’em out?” Gideon stepped past her and jumped up to the second step, solidly thumping his feet against the creaking edited by Joshua Goudreau 316 wood. I half expected it to collapse beneath him, but it only swayed and groaned in protest of his assault. He turned around and shrugged. “Seems fine to me,” he said. Deborah glared at him. “Go to the top.” Gideon shrugged again and stomped up the stairs, dramatically spinning around at the top with his arms out. “Like this?” “I don’t act like an idiot when I go upstairs,” she protested, swinging around to stare at me. “You two must be joking, right? Kids like you couldn’t be investigators-” “Kids?” I repeated. “Excuse me, but-” “I don’t even know why I called that stupid place,” she said, overriding me. “It was probably just a setup, wasn’t it? Put up a false front and steal people’s money, right?” She began advancing on me but I stood my ground, having a good four inches and fifty pounds on her. “So this place is haunted, but not haunted enough for you to pay for a couple ‘kids’ like us to help you?” I demanded, my words clipped. “I don’t know where the hell you got the Agency’s number, lady, but if what you’re sayin’ about your house is true, you either have a homicidal ghost or a very pissed off demon possessing a homicidal ghost.” “Yeah, right-” she began but I cut her off. “You think getting knives chucked at your head is the worst of it? I’ve seen ghosts grab people and pull ‘em apart for the hell of it; I’ve seen a demon possess a guy and make him set himself on fire just because it didn’t like how he was redecorating his house. You’re lucky you haven’t been killed yet, or even hurt. If we don’t get this thing out now, it’ll make sure the next knife it throws hits your eye.” “Are you trying to threaten me?” “I’m telling you the truth. If you don’t believe me, ask Gideon.” I flung my arm out toward my partner, who was standing silent at the top of the stairs. I didn’t need to look at his face to know his expression; he had been there with me every time. For both of us, the memories of those extreme hauntings were reminders why we never let ourselves be pushed around by the Blind. We knew what could happen if they were stupid enough to throw us out. “You need to either shut up and let us do our job, or you can get outta the house and never come back. But even if you leave, what’s here’ll probably follow you. Even if you run, you won’t be able to shake it off; it wants you dead and it won’t stop until it kills you or we stop it.” My eyes bored into hers, daring her to try and call me out on a bluff. And believe me, I don’t make bluffs when I know what these things are capable of. Deborah didn’t have time to answer; Gideon let out a shout and leaped from the top of the stairs, just as the planks beneath him splintered and The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 317 stabbed upward. He landed beside me, unscathed in that annoyingly dead way of his. “Demon?” I asked. “Oh, yeah. And he’s not very happy with us right now.” “When are they ever?” The floor beneath us buckled and I sprang back, grabbing Deborah’s arm and yanking her with me. She stumbled and nearly tripped but a solid jerk flung her to her feet again and I shoved her toward the porch. “Get out!” I snapped, pushing her out the door. “What the hell are you-” she shouted but never finished. I slammed the storm door in her face and bolted it, then Gideon helped me drag the desk in front of it to keep her out. I didn’t know if there was a back door, but if she was still dumb enough to break in after what she’d just seen, she probably deserved to die. “Upstairs or down?” Gideon asked, surveying the room. “I’m guessing up,” I answered. I jerked the holstered Berretta out from its place in the small of my back and saw Gideon doing the same; bullets might not be able to kill a demon but they could slow it down. Without a word, we bolted up the stairs and narrowly dodged the planks that were ripped from their nails and flung toward our heads. The rotting wood shattered against the walls and the banister snapped off and tumbled to the first floor under the barrage. I lunged for the landing and skittered to a stop, then flung myself against the wall as the floor exploded beneath my feet. The acrid stench of carbonized wood filled my nose and I could only think Great, it’s a pyro, too, before I was thrown into the air. My back hit the ceiling and knocked the wind from me; I hit the floor face-first. Blood filled my mouth as my teeth broke my lip. “Josh!” I heard Gideon cry, but I couldn’t look up to see where he was. The floor was breaking beneath me and I forced myself into an awkward crawl toward the relatively intact hallway. My lungs were protesting and I was struggling to get my breath back, but I couldn’t stop, not with a pissed off demon right behind me. It would’ve been a helluva lot easier with a ghost. Those you could banish to Limbo; with a demon you could say ‘fuck off’ and hope it got out before it killed you. I scrambled to my feet and leaped for the nearest doorway; a hand snagged my jacket and jerked me in. I nearly tripped over Gideon as we both backpedaled into the room. The backs of my knees hit a bed and I collapsed onto it, then flung myself off as I remembered Deborah’s stories of the demon tossing the bed around with her on it. “I guess it’s not after Debby anymore, huh?” Gideon asked, peering around the half-shut door. edited by Joshua Goudreau 318 “Obviously,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. “See anything?” “Just a floor in serious need of resurfacing,” he answered. “I don’t think our demon’s ready to show itself yet.” “If we don’t take it out soon, it’ll probably burn this dump down,” I said. “You smelled it, too?” “Hard not to when the floor’s in your face. Any ideas on what next?” “How about runnin’ back to Mary with our tails between our legs?” “I’m more afraid of her than a demon.” “Good point.” A creak on the remaining floorboards outside silenced us; Gideon sidled back to his perch and glanced around the door. For a moment, he said nothing, then let out a disgusted snort and flung open the door. I caught a glimpse of red hair and felt my temper flare. Stupid bitch, I thought savagely as I shoved past Gideon to grab Deborah. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’? I told you to stay out.” “This is my house,” she protested. I grabbed her wrist and yanked her into the room as Gideon slammed the door shut. I pushed her to the bed and glared at her, holding my Berretta where she could see it and knew that Gideon was doing the same as he came to stand next to me. “Did you ever think that there was probably a good reason I told you to get out?” I said, struggling to keep from shouting and failing miserably. “Or is a pissed off demon not good enough for you?” Her face had paled only slightly at the sight of our guns and she met my gaze without flinching. “So you saw her?” “Her?” I asked, glancing at Gideon. “It’s a chick?” “You think I’m lying?” she demanded. “No, but it explains a lot,” Gideon said, retreating to the wall. “Why else would a female demon attack some prep from U of I?” Color flared in Deborah’s cheeks and she opened her mouth to retort, but I interrupted. “Where did you get the number of the Agency?” I turned and blocked her view of Gideon, forcing her to look at me. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just found it going through one of the desks here-” “Damn it,” I muttered. “It planted it here. It wanted someone from the Agency.” “Great, revenge haunting,” Gideon snorted. “So now what? We just sit around and wait for it to come get us?” “No time,” I said grimly. I swung around as I heard footsteps pound down the hallway; wood splintered then shattered as the demon slammed into the door and tore it from the hinges. I lifted my Berretta and squeezed the trigger, emptying half a clip into the staggering form before it seemed to realize what I was doing. It shrieked and lunged forward, a blur of motion; I The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 319 sidestepped and ran into the bed, almost tripping for the second time in five minutes. Gideon grabbed my arm and jerked me back as he unloaded his clip, then shoved both me and Deborah toward the door. I snagged her wrist and dragged her from the room; the floor was still relatively intact along the hallway despite the demon’s efforts, though the stairs were on the verge of collapse. “Get it outside!” I shouted to Gideon’s back but I didn’t stay to elaborate. Luring the demon outside was the only way we could try and finish it off, where it didn’t have the entire house at its disposal to kill us with. I hadn’t met a demon yet that was powerful enough to rip open the ground and shove us down into Hell with it. I pushed Deborah ahead of me as we clattered down the stairs. She managed to reach the bottom before the entire staircase shuddered and began to slide; I flung myself clear and managed a less-than-graceful landing on my shoulder, rolling and nearly slamming the back of my head into the edge of the desk jammed in front of the door. I didn’t waste breath on swearing and only kicked the desk aside, scrambling to my feet as I heard the floor begin to crack and scream as it ripped apart. I tore off the deadbolt and yanked open the storm door, then kicked the screen door off. Deborah bolted and I followed, leaping clear of the porch as the rotting posts began to tear from their supports and collapse inward. This time I managed to land on my feet and I ran to the other side of the Mustang, trusting my old crap heap to give me some protection from flying debris. Deborah had thought the same thing and was crouching by the front tire, hands over her head and shaking so badly I thought she was going to fall over. Not that I could blame her at that moment; she had been targeted by a demon for God knows how long, complete with bloodthirsty knives and more near death experiences than I cared to think about, nearly been shot in the crossfire and almost had her house collapse on top of her. One helluva bad day if you ask me. With a final groan, the porch gave way and collapsed inward; the front of the house came with it. What few windows remained shattered and sprayed glass in all directions and stray pieces of rotting wood bounced against the side of my car. I dropped to my knees behind the back tire and pressed my back against it, praying that the rubber would be enough to block anything from hitting me in the spine. I heard Deborah scream, followed by the hoarse shriek of the demon as more of the house began to crumble. I huddled closer to the Mustang, my arms over my head and neck as I felt the car shudder and rock from the falling house. I’d like to say that I thought of Gideon in that moment, but all of my attention was focused on surviving. Gideon may come off as a hick and an idiot, but he’s smarter than he looks and more capable of taking care of edited by Joshua Goudreau 320 himself than I am. He had died in the late 1970’s at almost twenty-five and had thirty years to learn how to survive using his supernatural powers. A house falling on you is nothing when you can phase right through it. The Mustang shuddered again; I looked up to see Gideon slide across the hood and drop down next to Deborah. He ignored her and crouch-ran to my side, a long scratch along his cheek and his dark hair streaked with dust and dirt. “That open enough for ya?” he asked and waved a hand around the trunk. I crept past the tire and peered around the Mustang’s bumper; the farmhouse was a pile of broken planks and shingles, with the writhing form of the demon thrashing to free itself in its center. “Perfect,” I grinned. “Take the other side and we’ll send this bitch back to Hell.” Gideon slapped my back and darted to the front bumper. He said something to Deborah that made her jump, then throw a glare at him that reminded me of Mary when Gideon did something even stupider than usual. He waved it off then signaled me forward; we both burst from our hiding place at the same time, shooting at the bucking demon. It screamed, high and horrible, then shook off the clinging rot from its body. It didn’t seem to notice the bullets that were ripping its body apart; its attention was on me. When I saw my first demon, I felt sorry for it. They’re nothing more than parasites, bodiless souls that possess the living and dead alike in a desperate attempt to keep existing when they would just burn out like a light bulb. This one was no different, having possessed a ghost that looked as if she had been pulled from The Village. Her hair was disheveled and tangled with debris, her dark eyes wild and vaguely panicked, her dress and cloak dirtied and torn in numerous places from our bullets and the falling house. Because she was already dead, she couldn’t be killed by either, but she should be on the ground, knocked out for a while, not standing and taking it without flinching. Most possessions are involuntary, with the demon simply attaching itself to the victim’s mind and leeching off of its life energy before it sucked it dry and moved on. Some, however, are voluntary, lured in by the promise of power and anything else the demon thought it could offer. They learned soon enough that they’d be duped and tried to get out of it, but the demon simply killed them and move on without a second thought. One look told me that this was an involuntary possession. The panic in her eyes wasn’t the demon’s--they didn’t know emotion--but the ghost’s, and that killing her while the demon was still attached would be a mercy on them both. Killing the host while the demon was still rooted in would destroy it. The only way to do that, though, was to get close enough to decapitate it, and when it’s a ghost, that’s damn near impossible. The same power that allowed Gideon to escape with only a scratch from the house would allow The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 321 the demon to live while we made asses of ourselves trying to cut its head off. Any supernatural abilities that the host possessed would be the demon’s to control and exploit. “Hold her back!” I shouted to Gideon and bolted back to the Mustang. I yanked open the passenger door and rummaged in the backseat for the two hunting knives that I always kept in a plastic bag. Hey, a normal person might not need them, but when you’re in my line of work, you sure as hell do. I grabbed the bag and jerked the sheathed knives free. Ten inch serrated blades wouldn’t make this pretty, but I wasn’t stupid enough to drive around with an actual machete or sword in my trunk; knowing my luck, I’d be pulled over ten feet from the Agency and busted for concealed weapons. Deborah’s head popped up just as I was throwing the sheaths back into the car. “What’re you gonna do?” she demanded, her voice almost lost in the demon’s screeching. “End this,” I answered tersely. “Stay here and don’t move.” This time she didn’t try to protest and only disappeared behind the Mustang. I shoved my gun back into its holster and hefted my knife in my hand, found the balanced grip and rushed forward. “Gideon!” I shouted and flung the other knife as he turned. Big mistake. He managed to catch it before the demon crashed into him; he was thrown off his feet and back toward the Mustang. I didn’t stop to watch, but continued running, trying to distract the demon from my partner. It worked and she whirled on me, holding a smoldering piece of crossbeam in her hands. I dove to the side as she swung and felt a piece of burning wood hit my ankle, sending a jolt of pain up my leg. I managed a one-legged landing, stabbing my knife into the ground for balance. Heat blasted my back as the crossbeam exploded against the ground and I flung myself forward awkwardly, scrambling to get away from flaming splinters. “Josh, move!” Gideon shouted but that was easier said than done. I lunged to my feet and immediately fell flat on my face as my ankle twisted and gave out beneath me; I cursed and tried again, managing a few agonized hopping steps before I fell. A shadow fell over me, filled my nose with the scent of burning timber and I flung myself to side; a burning post from the banister stabbed the ground where my head had been. I rolled and slashed blindly with my knife, but met air. A shrieking cackle told me the demon was using its host’s abilities to the fullest and I was fucked up the ass if I didn’t move now. I scrambled to my feet and spun awkwardly on one foot, hobbling back several steps with my knife in front of me. The demon was watching me with edited by Joshua Goudreau 322 the burning post in her hand, twirling it like some twisted cheerleader from the 1600’s. I half-expected her to yell ‘Go team!’ when she lunged for me, but luckily for my severely-shaken state of mind, she didn’t. Instead, she swung the post at my head and I dropped, twisting my ankle a second time as I rolled into her legs. She didn’t have time to insubstantiate and I slammed into her solid form, tripping her onto her face and onto the post meant for me. Bones snapped as the post broke her sternum and several ribs, then burst from between her shoulder blades, covered in the transparent film of blood plasma. I didn’t stop to gape but lunged forward and stabbed my knife into the back of her neck. The serrated edge scraped against her spine, hooked for a second then tore free, ripping a gaping hole in her throat. A strangled scream broke past her lips; her fist swung wildly and caught me on the jaw. I flew back and hit a pile of silo rubble, somehow managing not to break anything more than my ego. I struggled to get back up and saw Gideon rushing the half decapitated demon while it was still on the ground. Throwing myself forward, I half-ran half-stumbled to flank it, hopping awkwardly on one leg and probably looking like a total jackass; hey, I got an image I need to keep up on jobs like this. Not that the demon was paying any attention to me with a giant hole in her neck. She was struggling to get back on her feet, hands clamped around her throat, her body coming apart at the seams as the demon pushed its host to the limits. I stumbled and spat out a curse; the demon spun, her mouth opened in a strangled shriek as she saw me. She lunged for me and I flung myself to the left, drawing her attention away from Gideon as he whipped his arms forward. Over three feet of steel cut through the demon’s neck and hands as Gideon swung the sling blade like a bat, cleaving her head from her shoulders and sending it bouncing toward the silo rubble. Her body collapsed with a thump at my feet, already beginning to disintegrate as both demon and ghost died permanently. In a few minutes, there would be nothing left. Gideon hefted the sling blade and grinned at me. “Maybe we should keep this thing around.” “Yeah, if you wanna get me arrested,” I retorted, reaching out to snatch it from him. Instead, I stumbled on my bad ankle and he grabbed me before I fell completely. “Damn, dude,” he said, tossing the sling blade toward the ruins. “What happened to you?” I shot him a glare and righted myself, then looked past him to my battered Mustang. Deborah was standing next to the hood, looking between me and Gideon as if expecting us to sprout horns, a tail and dance around with pitchforks. I began to hobble back to the car and Gideon followed, grabbing The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 323 my arm and pulling it around his shoulders. Not that I asked him to; pride, you know? But I didn’t tell him off either. I was in enough pain that I would’ve been willing to let him carry me back to the car if it meant I didn’t have to walk. “Is it gone?” Deborah demanded once we got in earshot. She stalked around the side of the Mustang and up to us, trying her best to look intimidating but only managing to look like a spoiled brat. Which probably wasn’t too far from the truth. “We’re fine, thanks,” I said. “Your concern is touching, really.” “Still believe we’re fakes?” Gideon asked, letting me go and taking my knife from me. “More like vandals,” she growled. She flung an arm toward the ruins of the farmhouse. “Look what you did!” “Hey, we didn’t do jack shit to your house, lady,” I retorted, hopping aside as Gideon opened the door and threw our knives into the backseat. “Demons aren’t the nicest baddies you’ll meet.” “So now what?” she snapped. “What’re you two clowns planning?” “Well, we should probably take Joshy here to a hospital,” Gideon said, ignoring the punch to his exposed kidneys. “Then we gotta go back to the Agency to make our report.” “Where’s your Agency?” “Chicago.” “Good. I’ve got enough gas.” Gideon made a choking noise and I raised my eyebrows at Deborah. “Visiting relatives?” “Seeing your boss,” she retorted, planting a hand on her hip. “Don’t think I’m gonna let you punks get away with this.” “Nice try, but he won’t listen to you,” I said with a snort. “Oh really? What if I slap him with a lawsuit?” Deborah snapped. “Then you’ll just make him mad,” Gideon said, retreating from the car. “And technically, we don’t exist, so you can’t sue us.” She snorted and flipped her hair over her shoulder, further completing the image of a yuppie from the U of I campus. “We’ll just see about that.” She turned on her heel and stalked back to her yellow Bug with another hair flip. Gideon and I were silent as we watched her get into her car then as she sat there, waiting for us to leave so she could follow us. “Any idea how to lose her?” I asked, finally hobbling around to the other side of the car. Lucky me, it was my left ankle, which meant I wouldn’t have a heart attack with Gideon driving. “Drive really fast?” he suggested as we climbed in. “And try not to get caught by the cops?” edited by Joshua Goudreau 324 “Ha, ha,” I said and started the car. Deborah did the same and waited, tapping her fingers against her steering wheel. “Maybe if we ram her, we can knock her out,” Gideon said, following my gaze. I shook my head and threw my car into gear, then slammed on the gas and spun out of the driveway. “I’ll take option one and hope my car doesn’t fall apart before we get there.”

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 325

Loyalty In Question, Part II by Ricky Lee McCullough

I ENTERED THE BUILDING PROPER AND SURVEYED MY surroundings slowly. A large vestibule stretched away before me; it was set partially on two levels, staircases at the far left and right of the room led to balconies on the second level, which absconded deeper into the building. More precisely, the remains of two staircases resided on the far left and right of the room, they had long ago lost any facility to allow elevation, and like the most of the building, were dilapidated beyond repair. Likewise, the second level of the vestibule was so riddled with holes as to be virtually non- existent. A large amount of this flooring had dropped down to the ground and was piled unceremoniously on the floor, covering my path with plaster and concrete. Directly to my right were the remains of reception; the desk still looked fairly intact, good workmanship prevails. Two doors were situated next to the desk; the door on the left dangled off rusted hinges giving a slight view of a staircase descending; my assumption being the right door housed an upward stair. I took a few tentative steps forward, the dislodged plaster and concrete crunching under my feet, and tried the right door: locked. I could discern no trace of the two youths, and was about to retrace my steps to the main doorway when I caught movement in my peripheral vision. I whirled to confront it: my system flooding with relief as I clocked it was but a ragged piece of newspaper carried by the wind whistling through the gaping wounds in the walls. The same large rents admitted streamers of moonlight, providing just enough illumination to make out the lay of the land, as well as provoking a strangely intense feeling of claustrophobia in my chest. I tilted my head sideways to silence the distracting whistle of the wind, listening edited by Joshua Goudreau 326 intently for sounds of my quarry. I stood listening for less than a minute before I caught the speech of the two youths, floating down to me from the second level. My head turned left and right as I surveyed the ruined staircases, followed by the locked door at reception. The two had somehow managed to gain the second level in the time it had taken me to get to the front doors. They couldn’t have used the staircase, so maybe the door by reception? I turned again and eyed the locked door suspiciously, a hollow feeling blossoming inside me. It had no keyhole. I followed their voices from the ground level, not so sure I wanted this confrontation anymore, the series of peculiar events during the pursuit contriving to subdue my bloodlust. I turned around and began to skirt the piles of fallen debris whilst making as little noise as possible, having finally decided to retreat and summon reinforcements. My actions contradicted my intent as I caught my foot on a loose piece cardboard and toppled over. I instinctively grabbed for purchase as I fell, my groping hands instigating a small avalanche of concrete and plaster. “What the fuck was that?” one of the youths questioned. “It’s cool,” his friend replied, “it’s just that pig that’s been following us.” I rolled my eyes. “Oh shit.” I glanced upward and was rewarded with a glimpse of an ugly little white face returning my stare through one of the holes in the floor. “Yep, there he is,” the deviant commented. I glanced back toward the entrance, gauging distance, but my escape was arrested by the bizarre: the youth, having retreated from view, suddenly reappeared completely as he threw himself through the hole. I blinked; looked again, doubting my own senses. But no - there he lay, broken on the floor, a one level drop his final earthly act. My gaze was drawn upwards again as the second youths face appeared in the hole, looking down at his fallen comrade. “You okay, man?” he asked, the moonlight highlighting his ebony skin. The fallen man, as improbable as it seemed, stirred. “Uh...” he groaned, “I think I broke my arm... but apart from that... I’m okay.” He started to rise, and true to his word his arm dangled impotently at his side. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I shot at him. He looked at his twisted arm and shrugged. Hearing a tumult, I raised my gaze again to observe the young black man had found an area of flooring which had given way over a partially collapsed wall, allowing a dangerous descent. Fortunately, he was taking his time climbing down; yeah, taking lots of time to ensure he didn’t skewer himself on the large, wicked looking meat- cleaver like implement he had secured about his person. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 327 I regained a measure of wit, and started backing away from my assailants, my eyes searching for the nearest escape route, or (less keenly) a weapon. I was stopped short by something large and metallic behind me, which scratched the back of my legs and impeded retreat. The white man with the broken arm, One-arm, turned to Cleaver-man as he gained the lower floor. “Let’s get this over with, I’ve got a woman to see...” Even amidst the life- threatening situation I was enduring, on a case that had contradicted itself every five minutes since the pursuit had commenced, this statement was too much for me to take. “You have no fuckin’ girl, you inbred fucker!” He reared, offended. “Of course I do you fucking pig-cunt!” He paused, and unleashed a sly smile. “She just doesn’t know it yet...” In a part of my mind that was uninvolved with the immediate environment or present danger, a part where everything was viewed with cynicism or distaste, a smile was cracked. ‘There’s the rape case solved’ it said gleefully, ‘on the same day as the murders. Well done, laddie. Well done.’ The boys closed in and circled, taking advantage of my confusion in direction to place themselves between the exit and I. The two youths watched me, genuinely curious to see what my next move would be: a standoff then. Think on it, armchair psychologists hell-bent on my murder. We stared at each other, weighing options, calculating distances, speculating reflexes. Time passed: a minute, two, four. It’s hard to describe what goes through your mind at a time like this, so close to a perceived sense of death; my thoughts behaved erratically, groping and pulling at my attention like a jealous sibling. A swirl of images from throughout my life barraged me, mixing and seeping into each other; the first time I’d made love interrupted by the first time I’d tasted ice cream, interrupted by the- “What are you thinking?” Cleaver-man asked finally, breaking the silence. Buy time! My mind screamed at me. “I’m thinking I could use a hand with this situation.” I observed a subtle change in environment as I said this; a knowing glance was shared between the youths, and, was that a barely perceptible nod? It was to my continued confusion that Cleaver-man placed his left forearm on a waist high piece of debris and looked me in the eye. There was something in his gaze that scared the living shit out of me. With a slight smirk, he looked down, raised the cleaver up, and cut off his arm just below the elbow. Blood gushed from his stump (mirroring the adrenalin to my limbs), running down the debris in scarlet rivulets, pulling my gaze over protruding nubs of co-axial cable that slowly turned red. edited by Joshua Goudreau 328 The black man picked his blood soaked forearm from the floor and threw it to my feet. His face, though contorted in pain, pulled into what might have been a grin; he stood there holding his own arm, looking for the entire world like a child who had just completed a particularly difficult task. To say I was staggered would be an understatement of biblical proportions; my mind was reeling, and a strangely intense feeling of claustrophobia had gripped me. Until this moment the night’s events had been awash with peculiarity, but this intruded into realms of fantasia. When the dismembered hand unclenched and grabbed my ankle, I knew something was deeply, terribly wrong. I kicked the hand loose with my free leg and it rolled across the dust- coated floor. “What in God's name are you?” I screamed. My response was silent advancement. I turned and scrambled over the piece of large debris, my mind humbled by what I’d just experienced, and my body running on auto pilot, determined to put as much distance as I could between myself, and whatever the fuck ‘they’ were. I heard shouts of exclamation and discerned the dread sound of pursuit. My breathing became ragged after less than a minute of exertion, and I swore an oath to myself right there that if I were furnished with an escape route, I would become the fittest man in the Borough; but it’s always in moments of extremis that one makes those kinds of promises to oneself, isn’t it? The buckled double doors were in sight now, all I had to do was cross the vestibule un-apprehended, and I would be outside, where my current malnourished options broadened. Ten or eleven paces from the doorway the floor gave way beneath me. “-What the fuck-?” The fall was a large one, curtailed by a bin of all things; a large, plastic, industrial refuse bin, filled to the brim with shoes of eclectic size and shape. The smell of rotten leather was overpowering, my eyes watered heavily and my throat was clogged from the dust my landing had unsettled. I pulled myself from the bin and slumped to the floor. I wiped frantically at the snot and tears on my face, and tried to control a sneezing fit; through tear blurred eyes I caught the two little bastards looking down the hole at me. “YO! MOTHERFUCKER! LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO THE FUCKIN’ FLOOR!” Laughing like a pair of hyenas: “HOW WILL WE HAVE OUR CHARITY BALL NOW, YOU CUNT?” I blew as much of the gunk out of my nose as I was able and wiped my face with my sleeve. I could feel a large gash on my face; I must have caught myself on a buckle or a heel during the fall. Apart from that I seemed peachy. The situation however, was anything but. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 329 The two youths had disappeared from the hole; we all knew I was so deeply entrenched in the bowels of the factory that my chances of eluding them and escaping where slim to none. They wanted to play. I surveyed my surroundings: I was in a large, dirty, industrial looking room, packed full with aged machinery and hand tools (I’d imagine this was where they’d had the illegal immigrants gluing soles to shoes, attaching buckles to sandals and, finally, boxing ‘em up for dispatch). There appeared to be a variety of exits set into the walls, leading to, who knows where? A factory this size had to have a dozen stock rooms, administration rooms, offices and recreational areas. Any chance I might have of escape, slim though it might be, was based on finding an exit that led up. I started forward slowly, feeling the barrier I’d erected against desperation finally start to buckle under the pressures of my circumstance. The opening of a door somewhere to my right alerted me that my assailants had found their way down. With no contrary choice, I started left, picking my way carefully to make as little noise as possible. This was not as easy as it sounds; metal tools and implements were scattered liberally all over the floor and worktops, tinkling gently as I stumbled or brushed past them. My way was illuminated by emergency lighting, which cast a pallid, sulphur glow over the worktops. The only exit to the left of where I stood, away from my pursuers, were a set of heavy double doors, which were unmarked, so I had no idea where they might lead. Not that I had any choice in the matter. I approached the doors and saw a large metal lever attached to the wall alongside them; next to that were a series of colored buttons, which were also unmarked. Behind me the sounds of pursuit came closer. Reasoning my departure would surely be overheard, I took a chance and grabbed the lever and pulled down hard. The room flickered into existence around me as the powerful overhead lights illuminated the environment. Fractions of a second later the machinery engaged in various pre-start sequences and boot up protocols; then the room exploded. It was the kind of aural cacophony, had I been questioned on the subject, I would have associated with the eruption of a World War. Praying I’d orchestrated sufficient confusion to mask my departure, I pulled open the door (soundless over the background din), and slid into the inky darkness of the adjoining room. I waited as the seconds ticked by, my heart in my throat as my eyes slowly adjusted to the poor lighting. I stood, not in a room, but in a long corridor whose length was interspersed with doors that receded into darkness. No upward elevation was apparent. I ran forward and tried the first door: locked. I tried the second: locked. Not funny, so not funny. I ran another dozen or so doors down the corridor and tried a door at random: locked. Seemingly cued by my despair, the door from the machinery room flew open to admit the two young fiends, who came tumbling through in frenzy. I edited by Joshua Goudreau 330 noted marked changes to them; the light spilling through the doorway described a gaunt, hollow look to their features, and, coming through the door, they loped towards me, backs hunched, arms dangling at their sides. It occurred to me that the progression of the evening correlated the progression of their manically bizarre behavior, and now, marking it, I felt something dark and ugly blossom inside me. There was no route of escape, I had to stand and fight – my last chance of freedom lay through these two young men. I stooped low, a fighters stance, spread my weight evenly to facilitate my balance; finally, I raised my fists. Yet… even as I gained courage from the inevitability of the final conflict, the two men began to change. Before my very eyes the monstrous appetites that drove them to commit these fiendish acts exacted the corrupt dominion over their flesh that had long been established over their souls. I watched as fingers gave way to claws, the soft flesh ripping along invisible seams and dropping limply to the ground; snouts emerged from their upturned faces, but instead of the expected teeth, these snouts opened to reveal a gummy black ‘O’, giving these creatures a permanent air of astonishment. From these perpetually surprised orifices issued a most singular sound, a pattern of noise I can only vaguely articulate, but sounding to my ears how I’d imagine a multitude of ill tuned flutes; lilting musically from an alien environment, borne upon a cancerous wind. It was eerie beyond description, instantly I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand to attention; my throat tighten and bowels loosen. The transformations continued. Layer by layer these monstrous things shed their human veneer, until all that was left of humanity were slithers of flesh, which adhered to their forms by the juices secreted during the transmutation. What was revealed looked clammy, rubbery and cold. They had sprouted masses of coarse, black hair, though contrary to anything I have witnessed in natures design; these patches and strips spidered around their physiques in thin, strangely symmetrical lines that in no discernable way facilitated the conservation of heat, afforded protection, or aided the impression of formidability or fearlessness. From beneath their arms erupted streaky, dripping, coiling masses, vaguely tentacle-like in appearance, tipped with barbs that shone like glass. These appendages, dripping with mucus, curled and encapsulated their bulging biceps, coiling tightly enough to raise thick, cordlike veins in their forearms, which submerged back into the skin as these masses uncoiled. The strips of hair that spidered around their forearms and biceps were soon slick and shiny with this gammy runoff. Both beasts rose to almost eight feet in height, having to crouch and hunch (as seemed their inclination) in the poorly lit corridor. Outside, a bell started a heavy toll, and it was clear to me it was The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 331 counting off the seconds I had to live: nice to know even God has a sense of humor. They came now, close enough for me to see their eyes, or what should have been their eyes; set into their faces under the heavy ridges of brow were four hollow craters. Yet it was not the lack of balls that distressed me so - in the shadows these craters housed I could make out flashes of light, silvery incandescence that danced down over their cheeks. My attention was arrested, and without my consent so was my gaze. Every single spark told a story: a chapter in sadism, a stanza on butchery, or a discourse on pain. My perception was drawn, like a moth to a flame, deeper and deeper into the particulars of these despicable acts. In one I saw the face of a mother, mouth open in a silent scream as she was confronted by the lifeless body of her newborn in a hospital cot; I fell into her wail and emerged in another, where entire generations of one family were strung from the ceiling by hooks and chains, tortured, blackened and burnt; in a third, a gagged, bound man was tied down and forced to watch as his stomach was opened and contents feasted upon. My horror was heightened as I recognized the man! It was Gentle Anderson, the young man whose corpse I had viewed during the morning! The reality hit me then: every spark that danced, of the hundreds upon hundreds that fell from their faces, every depravity described was in fact a travesty perpetuated in person by these things, individually orchestrated journeys of pain. This immobilized my soul as their magick had immobilized my body. The fire dancing from the twin abysses’ residing in their skulls - complemented and heightened by the aural otherness- were designed to deconstruct the human mind. I was tempted, oh, did it tempt me, to let go, to give in, to place my ruptured psyche into the easy, liberated embrace of insanity. It was a minuscule step, for almost all the only step, but not for me. I had endured this long enough. As if sensing my resolve, the monsters charged me down, the closer of the two flicking with a tentacle like appendage and sending me hurtling backward through the air. I impacted upon a door and it exploded, such was the force with which I had been struck. As the stars cleared and my vision returned from two panoramas to one, I noticed my forearm -it was pointing in a direction that was almost comical- that was until the pain of the break impressed itself on me; my scream drowned even the bell, which continued to ring. They followed me into the room in which I lay sprawled; the first beast ducking his massive frame into the doorway, the second troubling himself not - simply waving a muscle clad arm in front of him to destroy the wall above the doorway and loping through. The head of the first folded back into human form, looking nothing short of ludicrous on the body of such a monstrosity. edited by Joshua Goudreau 332 “Let... ugh... me guess,” I managed through gritted teeth, “snout’s aren’t... too good for... ah... talking...” The thing laughed, a genuine, throaty, wholehearted laugh. “Never, in the vast experience of my mutilations have I come across one such as you! Even in the face of things such as us, you still manage to jest,” it said, and stooped low to carve off my broken arm. The pain, to be fair, was only slightly greater than what I was already experiencing: blood was leaking from half a dozen tears to my body, my ribs were crushed, and my labored breathing suggested a punctured lung or two. I clenched the stump with my remaining arm, a reflex action only, realizing as I did so staunching the blood flow was not, in reality, a priority. I closed my eyes as the thing moved in on me, maneuvering its bulk close enough to begin its administrations. The feeling of claustrophobia that had dogged me throughout the night reached a dangerous intensity. Breaking point. I opened my eyes and my face was grim. “One mistake. Your demise had been marked by one solitary mistake, fiend.” The things corrupt breath caressed my face. “Yes, little man?” “You attacked me on a full moon.” It looked puzzled at first, they both did. With hindsight, I can see it was a strange thing for a man in my position to say. Then, as the saying goes, ‘the penny dropped’. The leader, his breath hot and pungent on my face pulled back quickly. “No,” he said, and emptied his bowels down his legs and onto the floor. My arm, which had been sent tumbling across the room, rolled back toward me and reattached itself to my body. “Oh yes.” Both creatures began to back away from me. My eyes rolled upward into my head, continuing to roll through an entire revolution, and revealing no iris or pupil upon setting - just a strange, sharp-blue luminescence. I rose from the floor, hovering slightly above it as my change affected itself. My form became indistinct. It appeared, superficially at least, that I was losing substance, or cohesion, somehow. The truth, ironically enough, was the opposite (isn’t it always?); the energies in whose bondage I was constricted as a human male unfolded sloppily, and I expanded into my natural state – a configuration which extends into a plane of reality as yet undiscovered by human science, a bodily structure which the limited human intellect, Euclidian in its dimensions, can only vaguely discern (and then with the third eye open). “This cannot be happening,” the leader said. “You can’t be here.” I stalked slowly forward. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 333 “You fools! Do you realize the great jeopardy you place us in?” “Jeopardy?” “Did you think you could use your abilities indiscriminately and not be discovered? After all we have worked for? Are you so captivated by the human vanity that you will risk all we plan for over personal gain?” Each word was punctuated by a rebel’s backward step toward the wall. Reaching it they stopped, as did I. With no room to maneuver they broached desperation; cornered animals are always the most savage. “What are you going to do?” The question was rhetorical, a knee jerk reaction from a creature desperate to buy itself a few more seconds of life. “How,” I started slowly, “are we supposed to secure this Earth if you give our presence away? This is bigger than just your discovery. If we overplay our hand, reveal our presence too early, these humans will destroy us. The filthy bipeds are weak, but uncannily resourceful. Doubt not their desire to remain the Alpha species on this world.” “What are you going to do?” With the repetition of the question a mistake became an error, and they condemned themselves to death. If they had bowed to me, submitted, admitted their mistake and repented, I would have let them live. They had not resided on this foul planet long enough to fully grasp the insipid influences it exudes. The questions repetition, however, had benchmarked their corruption and with those same cowardly words they had marked their punishment. “The penalty is clear: for those who labor in opposition to the Way, death is the reward.” “But... you can’t do this!” The leader roared. “We were killing humans, just as it was decreed! They were worthless things, neither innocent nor important. Their deaths will sink beneath the surface of this vile culture without incident. We have attracted no unique attention to ourselves.” “You sound so sure,” I commented. “Their vileness knows no bounds,” the leader continued, “I could kill a hundred of their number and within a month the greed and degeneration, the murder and rape, the missing children and strangled pensioners perpetuated by their own number, would match, and even exceed my own administrations, Chosen One. Every human that dies now, is one less we must fight later. Yes, we may have been... indiscreet, I can see that now. But no, we betray none of our own, and we stand strong to the cause. Many cycles I have trained to be part of this, to be an instrumental part of the Way, to be one of the very few who were here from the beginning, planting the seeds and toiling the Earth so that when our brothers come, all will be ready...” He stopped, looked from his partner to me, and then again to his partner. It was clear that he was pleased with his performance, considered it poetic. edited by Joshua Goudreau 334 His eyes glinted, and I could discern his perceived sense of victory. I couldn’t help but smile; a grin lit my face, exposing rows of crystal clear teeth. These teeth had ripped the flesh from Angels; these teeth had torn the blackened, lava-hardened scales from Lucifer’s strongest. And he thought he could fool me? I choked down a laugh. “Why did you kill those humans?” I asked. “What?” “Why did you kill those humans?” I repeated, inflecting my point. “We… they…” “So: you live for the cause. So: you’re here to sow the seeds. How did their deaths advance our cause? Why did killing those people achieve something killing other humans would not have? What made you choose them?” “Choose… them? There… was no choice, Chosen One. Any human death is a small victory, any random human.” “Dragon’s Tooth.” He paused, sensing perhaps his tenuous equilibrium. “It’s true… they owed… money… to the Dragon’s Tooth… but…” “Low grade assassination.” “No, no! They were our enemies!” “They owed money to the Dragon’s Tooth. For what?” “Chosen One…” “FOR WHAT?” “Drugs!” “Death,” I said. Silence was my answer. “Death. It’s too good for the likes of you, but that’s what you are going to receive for your betrayal. As you said yourself, you live for the cause, and the best way for you to facilitate the Way, now, is your extermination.” The second heretic took this moment to make his first utterance. “Please, Mighty One, spare our lives, I beg of you!” “Begging is for humans,” I stated “I… We… If we had but known that you were here… we never would have…” “Never would have what? Betrayed the plans lain for close to a hundred years to secure this Earth? And why would I not be here? You know my mandate; I travel the Way. I go where I am needed.” “You’re not needed here, Avenging One, we have not do-” His statement was interrupted by a cut that opened him from shoulder to hip. He slowly shrunk to human form, his innards spilling out over the grimy floor like scarlet snakes. His lack of discipline disgusted me. Our forms naturally adopt a state in sync with the environment we are in; Gravity, atmosphere, and electric field being the dominating forces here, it was quite natural for us to adopt a carbon-based mass, which, with a little metamorphic The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 335 application, we converted to the bipedal form of the human, the Alpha species on the Earth. Once camouflaged, it is of the utmost importance we adhere to a strict regime of physical and mental discipline to train our bodies to remain pliable, allowing us to revert to our own natural forms when necessary for example - there has always been the danger, when staying in one environmental habitat for so long, and adopting one form for the duration, that we can find our physiology ‘going native’, inclining itself to the structure imposed by the environment we reside in over all others. The fact that the heretic had reverted to human at the killing blow was testament to his lack of discipline and vulgarity of character. I turned to the leader. “Well?” “Let me explain! There was a very good rea-” he started, lunging mid sentence in a feeble bid to wrong foot me. It was a pathetic tactic; I had expected something more cunning from this one. It was a futile attempt. I pulled its body towards me and cupped its mouth with my own, wrapping my arms about its head. Its muscled arms and glass-barbed coils tore at my back and sides, ripping large rents and gashes into my flesh. Slowly, my form transfigured from solid to liquid, seeping into its mouth, snout and eye sockets: a terrible, wet tearing sound echoed around the room as my liquidated form extinguished the fire dancing down its face; the travesties it bore so openly in its eyes paled into insignificance when compared to the deviant explorations anchored in my experience. With no way to pervert my senses, which is how its kind hunt - no way to make my heart explode in ecstasy, or mind descend to insanity - it found itself helpless. Mercy was not forthcoming. My essence rushed through its blood stream, exerting colonial dominion over any organ or chemical process it would bring to bear against me. Crushing its natural form and sealing it permanently in a human shell, I regained solidity and twisted its head until a loud, wet snap denoted its expiration. I dropped its lifeless, broken body to the floor. It was over; I had done as instructed and completed my task. I reverted to human form, that queer feeling of claustrophobia steeling gently over me as I regained my humanity. After a moment’s quiet meditation, a self-centering that would allow to me to make decisions and actions from a serene, logical state of mind, I picked the leader from the floor and slung him over my shoulder. Making my way carefully back to the factory proper, I deposited the heretic into the bin that had broken my fall just minutes ago. “Yes, Officer,” I mumbled to myself, “he was close to me as the floor gave way… yeah, landed right under me - I guess he wasn’t as lucky as I… edited by Joshua Goudreau 336 exactly… the right of the righteous… The other guy? Who knows what happened to him? I stumbled across him looking for an exit. If I had to guess, I’d say they noticed me tailing them and freaked out, got into some kind of argument about what to do: run, fight, kill me? They couldn’t agree, they clashed, one died… It’s often the way with these sickos, I’ve seen it before; they meet on the Internet, seek each other out to indulge in their depraved fantasies. It’s normally only a matter of time before they turn on each other; it’s in their twisted nature… My clothes? Yeah, tore ‘em up pretty good, huh? No, really, I’m okay. Like I said, I was very lucky not to damage myself in the fall.” I ascended the stairwell that led up to the lobby. “Hero? No, I’m no hero, just a guy doing what he can for his fellow man…” I reached the lobby, coming up through the doorway at reception. Giving a wide birth to the large hole in the floor, I exited the warehouse and trekked across the rubbish and waste to emerge on the street. The temperature was close to zero; my breath escaped from me in small puffs of white. A bearded derelict peaked at me over the brim of his threadbare blanket, his wild eyes gauging me for hostility; I flicked him a quid and he immersed himself back into his cardboard metropolis. Locating a phone box I dropped Cody a call; he sounded ecstatic about the apprehension, a predictable response, but one which I had been counting on - the indiscretions of the preceding set of renegades had left some very curious crime scenes, as well as some incredibly peculiar evidence; it was becoming increasingly more difficult downplaying the importance of these exhibits, not to mention the risks involved in making the more interesting pieces ‘disappear’ when necessary. The happier he was, the less he tended to worry about those infuriating loose ends which ‘make or break a crime, kid. Make or break a crime’ as he frequently lectured. Having a few minutes until the first wave of police arrived, I reflected on the events of the night: the two young fools had been easily dealt with, but were the latest in an increasing number of acolytes who were abandoning the dictates of the Way for the pleasures of the pathetic human flesh. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as I recollected the look on the leaders face as he shat himself. I rubbed my hands as the October freeze seeped into my bones; being constrained to this biped flesh dictated the discomforts I had to endure. I shivered and put my hands in my pockets, a feeling of curiosity blossoming in me as my hand brushed a small piece of paper. I returned to the phone and punched in the numbers jotted down, smiling to myself as the dial was interrupted by a feminine lilt. “Hello?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 337 “Hey lady, this is McCullough, from the café? I was wondering… are you doing anything tomorrow night? No? Excellent…” The Police arrived shortly thereafter, and I was taken to the officer in charge for debriefing. We walked to the crime scene together, and I recounted the events of the night for the official record. “Yes, Officer, he was close to me as the floor gave way…”

End.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 338

How Phil Met Lorelei by Teela Brown

IT IS KNOWN THROUGHOUT THE LESS FASIONABLE END OF the galaxy that there is a peculiar little bar called ‘Cassandra’s Ruins.’ The bartender, Phil, is rather (in)famous for his drinks. And the bartender’s best friend, Lorelei, is (in)famous for taking most any job that comes her way. They make an odd pair, and no one is quite sure how they met. This is a favored topic of discussion among many of the patrons. One night, some pretty-boy bureaucrat came in and started asking questions about their history. Now, some of the stories they told were famous throughout certain circles of the galaxy, but no one is sure exactly how they met. They weren’t talking, and he started to ask anyone about their past. People just went back to drinking. They asked the questions, not him. How dare he be so up front about it? And why does he care about two law- abiding citizens (most of the time... Phil had a bartender’s license, to be fair)? Poor pretty-boy turned desperate (people theorize, they’re trained not to show emotion) and started offering money. Lorelei got fed up and finally said, “Okay. I don’t know who you are, but since you’re offering money, I’ll tell the story of Phil and me. I’ll split the profits, and also, I’d better not see your sorry face around here again, or our sorry story on the Tri-D. Understand? Now sit down.” Phil added, shouting over the bar so everyone could hear: “Okay, we’re only telling this once! So shut up and get over here or leave, got it?” He turned to the man sitting down. “There’s not going to be a need for Lorelei to split her share since you’re giving me my own credits. That last offer sounded nice, so one of that amount for each of us.” The man readily agreed. “Where to begin?” wondered Lorelei aloud. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 339 “Let’s see, I moved to that new terraforming dome when I was, what, eight?” Phil replied. “Oh yeah. Let’s see, I was also eight, wasn’t I? To continue, Phil was moving in next door, and it was my birthday.” “I remember that day. You were everything any boy could possibly want. Dark-haired, beautiful, in your finest dress–“ “Can the talk. At your age, all you’d notice is the fact that I was in the lawn playing with action figures.” “All right, so that helped the cause along, but still…” Lorelei gave Phil a playful shove. “Just get to the story, Phil.” “Right. So I see this girl there, and I decided then and there that I only needed one friend in life, and blast it all if it wasn’t going to be her. I tell my parents that I’m going up to meet the neighbor’s kid, and they said, ‘Sure, knock yourself out.’ I must admit I had help.” Phil gave a sheepish grin. “Which you know why, Phil. It’s not that I’m violent, I’m rather opposed to the idea, especially when it’s used against me. He stepped on my brand- new action figure. Broke the arm off. What was I going to do, cry about it? Payback was needed.” “Like you were the only one who suffered? I was the one knocked out. And my parents wouldn’t let me see my friend for a month!” “We weren’t friends yet.” “Yeah, but you were my friend. Anyway, after the month was up, I went and bought you a new action figure. And learned your name, that definitely help my plan of you being my friend.” “And I learned your real name.” Phil shot her a glance. “Which you’re still under oath not to tell, by the way.” Lorelei put up her hands in the universal symbol meaning ‘Hey, I’m not on trial here.’ “Believe me Phil, I have no intention of telling anyone your actual name. So, after that, and a lengthy debate about his name and what to call him, we hit it off- metaphorically this time. We hung out after school, you know, all the normal junk.” The man interrupted. “Wait, so you weren’t romantically involved?” “What gave you that idea?” Phil sneered, which was incredibly unusual for him. “Rumors, vague stories, the like…” the man was rather taken aback. “I just heard it somewhere,” he said with hurt in his voice. Lorelei smiled as she said, “Now, now, don’t let Phil worry you. That’s why you came to us, who actually lived it, right? Don’t see why it’s so important, that’s all. But back to where we were. So, Phil and I had been edited by Joshua Goudreau 340 hanging out for a while. And his marvelous idea of only needing one friend worked out.” “Even for you?” pretty-boy queried. Lorelei thought. “Yeah, I don’t remember any other friends. Just Phil.” She seemed to gaze off with the look that geeks gave the stars, wishing for other better worlds. Phil took over. “We went to all the stuff together. And I suppose as a finale, we went to prom. After that, we went our separate ways, but we kept in contact. Then I told her when I opened the bar, and she started dropping in. That’s really the end of it.” Lorelei was back from wherever she was, and said, “I have one question for you. Why do you care about the background story? Aren’t the rumors better anyway?” The man looked at her, and with a shrug just replied, “I guess I just wanted to know the real story. I have money, so I decided to ask, then offer money if no one would say. Now, if I may ask a question?” “Fire away,” Phil said. “What is you real name?” Phil looked sharply at him. “Story time is over, chum. How about a drink, though?”

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Sweet Apple Pie by Erik Varela

IT WAS EARLY. WAY TOO EARLY. AS ALLEN’S SENSES trudged sluggishly along on that weary uphill climb toward awareness, he found himself staring at the kitchen table, and the slice of apple pie that lay on the plate before him. He couldn’t really remember cutting it, but it was there--even his half lidded, sleep-addled eyes could recognize that. But why was it there? Surely he was supposed to eat it, but how could he do that if he was so very tired? The coffee pot gurgled compulsively in the background. Allen leaned forward, letting his slack jaw hover somewhere in the space above the pie while his eyes drifted off to carefully focus themselves on nothing in particular. He did like a good slice of apple pie, even if it wasn’t what he usually ate in the morning. But he really was terribly tired, much more than usual. It had to be the work. His boss had been driving him over the brink of sanity the past few days. Allen just didn’t see how he could be expected to finish the project on time with as few resources as he had been given. Last night he had fallen asleep in his office-- the third time that week. He woke up at two thirty in the morning, groggy and confused, wondering why he couldn’t find the bathroom in his own house. Then he had to stumble down the stairs in the dark like some sort of staggering zombie out of a budget monster movie. At least he had found his car easily enough in the garage. It had been the only one there, after all. Outside, a car honked its horn angrily. There was nothing he liked listening to on the radio at three in the morning. It was all just senseless noise. And then there were the people out on the streets--the young crowd coming out of their nightclubs and bars. edited by Joshua Goudreau 342 They crowded the sidewalks and even stood in the street, not paying the least bit of attention to the weary car that pushed by. They were laughing and shouting but Allen couldn’t here them. He wasn’t one of them anymore. Somewhere in the depths of his half-dreaming brain the thought dripped by that he may never have been one of them. But he was too tired to really think about whether he had just forgotten those days or whether they had never really occurred at all. Somewhere on the edge of the suburbs he had almost fallen asleep at the wheel. Only the invasive, rising shriek of the siren and the police car’s strobing lights pulled him out of his lapse and back into that broken thing called reality. It was almost four by the time he got home, and three hours of sleep just weren’t enough. Something insignificant whined briefly by his ear. Allen looked back down at the slice of pie. It sat there, just the same as it had a moment ago, sweet and inviting, but he couldn’t find the energy to raise his fork just yet. As he watched, a bit of apple very gradually detached itself from the side of the pie, slipping downward with geologic slowness, dragged away from its fellow bits of fruit by the advance of time and the impossible pull of gravity. It landed on the plate with a soundless plop, sticking there in its own tiny mass of syrupy filling, alone and inert. A tiny fruit fly, little more than a black spec accompanied by the wraith- like buzzing of miniscule wings, landed on the piece a moment later. Allen’s eyes shifted toward it, and he sat there, watching it with reptilian patience. Time passed incessantly. Allen raised his right hand, slowly extending his little finger. He moved it over the little piece of fruit and let it hover there while the fly twitched its tiny wings. Then, ever so slowly and deliberately, he began to bring his finger down. The world suddenly grew dimmer as something blotted out the artificial sun of the kitchen light above. In shocking slow motion, Allen realized his mistakes. His feet were stuck in the sugary filling, and no matter how furiously he shook his wings they could not lift him. The struggle was useless, and with a tired sigh he was resigning himself to his fate again. He had grown used to doing things that way anyhow. The finger came down on him with all the weight and uncaring cruelty of the world behind it, and he closed his tired eyes one last time as he was crushed into that piece of sweet apple pie.

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Pink Triangle, Star of David by Michael Lefkowitz

I AM STANDING IN LINE. I’VE BEEN IN LINE SO LONG MY feet hurt from standing. Its broad daylight, but somehow it feels almost like night. I’m trying to keep my mind numb; trying not to register what I know is at the end of the long, long line. Ignorance really is bliss, in this place. I wonder what’s left of Poland. My neighborhood was probably bombed early on; it was one of the closest to the border. I just glanced at my wrist instinctively. Why do I keep doing that? My watch was taken with everything else all those years ago. All I see there now is the number 12328. Almost like an omen, that when they tattooed that onto me, they choose the numbers of the date on which I was born. I suppose it was bound to happen to someone. What’s today? Flipped back a few pages, I wish now I’d kept closer track… It’s January; I remember that. I don’t need to remember it; I can feel it through the rags I'm wearing. German winter is upon us. Found a date I wrote down a week ago. Today is… January 23, 1945. I could almost smile, if smiles existed here. Another omen. Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony. I'm going to die on my birthday. Happy 17th Fabian.

The boy next to me is crying and mumbling something in Hebrew. How much does he know about what’s happening? Enough, anyway. I suppose there are few here that don’t. We’ve learned not to believe what our tormentors tell us. Honesty is about as bountiful here as mercy. The boy is still praying. I should comfort him. edited by Joshua Goudreau 344 I addressed him in Polish first; he didn’t speak it. I tried English, and he did. “Don’t worry,” I said, “The allies are winning. Remember? The war is almost over. In fact, I bet the French troops will arrive any minute now.” “Really?” The boy looked up at me with sad, hopeful eyes. “Really.” I said. I was only half lying. I’ve been clinging to the hope that we’ll be saved. A week ago, I heard two officers talking about the war while I was working nearby; they didn’t know that I could speak German. One of them said something about how the French had crossed the German border. My heart leaped when I heard that. But I’ve heard nothing of it since, and now… Hope is just another luxury I cannot afford. The boy was silent for a moment. After a minute, he said “My name is David.” Like the star, I thought. Like the one on his sleeve. “Mine’s Fabian.” I replied. “What does that mean?” He gestured at the pink triangle on my sleeve. “Oh,” I said, “that means… it’s like your yellow star. It means I'm a prisoner here.” I decided not to go into any more detail. He’s young, and… well. It doesn’t matter now. “Oh.” He said. “Will they have white horses?” he asked. “Who?” “The French. Mama saw a French army man once, she told me and, and he was on a big white horse, with hooves, and big eyes.” “Why, of course they will. The whole cavalry. And they’ll smash through that gate on their chargers, and drive all the Nazis out.” He thought about this for a while. Then he smiled up at me. My God… It was the first that I’d seen in months.

As I write this, he is standing at my side, leaning against me for comfort. An old woman behind us is singing softly to herself. “Next group in! Now!” The Nazi at the door ahead of us just yelled. His face is blank, emotionless, as all of their faces are. It is strange to think that he was a man, once. I’ll hold David’s hand as we walk towards the door.

Had to hide my diary as we entered. The room is crowded, and damp. Above, about 20 showerheads protrude from the ceiling. The German instructed us to strip so that we could wash ourselves before leaving, and then exited. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 345 What cruel masterminds are responsible for this kind of psychological torture? How many of the men, women, and children around me know what is actually happening? The dim light shifted, and I looked up and noticed a tiny window near the ceiling. Of course… When I was arrived here, while we were still outside the wall, I noticed a small window in one of the buildings. It won’t let enough air in to make any difference, but it might be large enough that a small object could be hurled out of it, and have a chance of getting over the wall. Even then, the chances of someone finding it are slim, but at least it’s a hope. I’ll wait a minute more. Wait for those white horses to come charging in… David is holding onto me, his naked little body trembling in the winter air. “We’re going to shower now?” He asks me. I nod. I don’t know what else to do. A soft hiss started above our heads. I don’t have to look up. It’s a cyanide based insecticide, or something much the same. We’ll probably last about fifteen minutes. Some people are panicking; most of them stare at their feet, resigned. A wiry man in his twenties has the tattered remains of defiance written on his face. “What is it?” David asks. “What’s happening? What’s that noise?” “Shhh.” I hold him close with my free arm. I can feel a tear slide down my cheek. I’m going to throw this diary out the window now.

Author’s note: It’s common knowledge that during the holocaust about 6 million Jews were imprisoned, tortured, and slaughtered. What not everyone knows is that the Jewish people were far from being the only sufferers- the total number is approximately 26 million. Other groups included homosexuals, Gypsies, mentally and physically handicapped, resistance fighters, communists, socialists, the people of over a dozen countries, and prisoners of war. Just as the Jewish prisoners were made to wear a Star of David on their clothing, others were similarly branded. The homosexual prisoners were made to wear a pink triangle. After the war, when the surviving Jews and others were freed from the camps, the thousands of homosexuals remained imprisoned because of the laws of the time condemning them. This information, though well known among historians and the gay community, has been largely left out of mainstream history books and classes. This story is dedicated to those men and women who died in the holocaust and have never been publicly recognized.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 346

The Eyes Of The Beholder by Stephen Bush

THE FIRST THING I HAVE TO TELL YOU ABOUT IS THE EYES. After that, the ugliness. But first, the eyes. Each was as a lake fathoms deep and inches across, the surface a muddy mirror with neither ripple nor undulation. Veins crawled in from each side; irises were strokes of color brushed on in thick smears, and each pupil a chasm of immeasurable depth. As eyes go, they were good at what they did, absorbing every detail, omitting nothing. Such eyes had layers. They could see beyond the surface down to what made up something. They say that something can be more than the sum of its parts, but that’s not true. You perceive it to be more than the sum of its parts, precisely because you can’t see all the parts. The parts too small for your eyes you ignore; you paper over the cracks - you see its beauty, not its atoms. You see the clock, not the tick. You see gears and wheels and grease, not a churning mechanism of relentless potency. You can’t see all the parts… but the beholder can. He had several thousand eyes, more or less. Probably more. The second thing I have to mention is the ugliness. Having several thousand eyes, more or less - and probably more (for it was an optimistic estimate) - makes your face one only a mother could love, and one with calluses on her cataracts at that. And worse than that was what the beholder could see. The beholder was a sad creature, and could see nothing beautiful. Nothing at all. You’d think with so many eyes, he’d be able to see the most intricate of details, and the most subtle nuances of everything. You wouldn’t think the opposite may be true. And should you come close to him and look into every The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 347 one of his thousand eyes and fill your horizon with all t hose staring, glaring and inquisitive spheres, you may stop thinking at all. “All beautiful things are images, rather than anything physical,” he said to himself one day, after much pondering in his featureless garden. “You see something, but what you store of that something in your brain is but a mental image of it, not the thing itself. It is a summation of your feelings and experience regarding it, and changes each time you recall that memory.” Said softly and sadly, “And I can create no images from the physical things that I see, because every physical thing that I see repulses me.” He paced up and down his garden several times, taking care to not focus on anything. (For although he had removed all intricacies which could assail his eyes, it was impossible to totally fool the perfect clarity of his sight.) The beholder is fooled by no illusion or mirage. The beholder sees a sunset as a crude assembly of oranges and yellows. The beholder sees the most exquisite rainbow as strips of mere color in simple lines - no nuances, no subtleties, no blending of shades - he sees past all these. Everything that underlies everything else. So many strips of color. So many simple lines. Yet all slices of the world he saw, and no beauty. And it saddened him. In his anger one day he tore every leaf from every branch and burnt his hedgerows, hacking down trees swinging wildly with his axe as he tried to do so while looking away. He’d walked into his garden, formerly a haven of scents and of birdcall, of wild orchid and of exotic vine, to be renewed by sweet nectars and the gentle breezes as nature strode in to seek sanctuary and bask where the crystal waters go. The sun had smiled upon his garden and brought with it life - life in abundance - and with such variety, depth. He’d cried and struck at his face, one leaf here a factory of every shade of green, stripped and sliced and folding in and through itself. One worm a borehole through the levels of perception. The soil, magnified, a mountainscape. Springtime to the beholder was an explosion, an amplification - the flowers of his garden bloomed, and with so endless variety erupted, wheels within the wheels and layers upon the layers. It was designed for beauty, but in the blossoming there was just too much, and none of it pleasant to see. He’d razed the garden, removed every feature, strove to build a nothingness for himself to inhabit. He turned to seclusion as solution. For people were the worst thing for the beholder to look at. There were just too many moving parts; moving parts that moved moving parts so that they might move other moving parts. To look at a human being was to stare at a million clumsy cogwheels, all bits of this and of that; the skin was but a sea of rippling atoms, each one a bulbous lump, jostling and jarring for space amongst many others of its kind. It gave him a headache. And one day, the beholder fell in love. edited by Joshua Goudreau 348 It was with her sound, and to a lesser extent, her smell. She had the voice of one, possibly two, angels, and an ethereal fragrance that was a blend of four, maybe five, lesser celestials. She was compassionate and generous, and didn’t seem at all bothered by his several thousand eyes, more or less (probably more), telling him that “appearance was only skin deep,” something the beholder didn’t quite understand. Appearance was deep, but he could see further down than simple skin. He let the comment slide. Nobody had ever tried to get close to him before. She said it was because of his intelligence and his wit, and that he could be quite charming and genteel to a lady, but the beholder didn’t understand these either. He just thought he was being himself, and not putting on some show. She smiled and said “precisely,” but the beholder had avoided human company for so long now that he felt the subtleties of conversation had passed him by. He would hug her with as many eyes closed as he possibly could. He knew it was rude to not look at someone when speaking to them, but the sound was so alluring that there was a compulsion there - he loved to get closer to it, for the sound was coming from her, but upon reaching out to her he’d have no choice but to lay eyes on her. And, try as he might to enjoy the sight that came with the feeling, it was a truly heinous thing. There was too much to see of her. She could be nothing less than a repulsive mess, a montage of mechanisms laying patterns over the patterns over the patterns of everything in his world. A chaotic assemblage of rough components and, like everything else, really quite ugly. “I’m sorry,” he told her one day, “I want to see you as beautiful, but I cannot. I know you are, but I just can’t see it. My eyesight is too sharp, and sees everything that ever exists without any of the gloss.” “What do you see when you look at me?” she asked, and her sound was one of sadness; her voice (it was on a two, maybe even three, angel day today) told him that the mouth it flowed from was downturned. He’d turn to look at the face that held the mouth, but he couldn’t bear to see the molecules and the cellular bricks that it was made of. He could be nothing less than honest. “I see what makes up you. The bricks and the mortar.” “But beauty is more than that!” she cried. “Beauty is just an image! It transcends the components.” And the beholder had no choice but to say what he saw, even though he knew it would hurt her. “But beauty is based on reality - the beautiful image is painted on top of the reality by the brain.” He hoped he was making sense. “But I see the whole of the reality,” he said, and was saddened. “And my brain can do nothing more with it.” And she said that she was sorry, and that for all his eyes, he really was quite blind. And then she apologized again, and said she didn’t mean to snap; The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 349 she just couldn’t understand what it was like to be him, and have his affliction. And he never knew what to make of that. They slept apart that night, and for several nights thereafter. The beholder paced his garden for hours at night, and shortly past the darkest hour was alarmed to find he had a visitor. He didn’t notice at first for he was doing his utmost to not look at anything, least of all the old man in the bright robe with the wry smile. “There is a particularly fine flower growing over there,” said the old man, pointing into the furthest, deepest corner of the featureless garden. “Nonsense. My garden is empty,” replied the beholder, not looking in the direction the old man had extended one wizened finger towards. “You must have overlooked it,” the old man prodded. “It really is quite spectacular.” “I don’t want to see it,” said the beholder, facing away from the flower and screwing up his eyes whilst doing so. “I will describe it to you instead,” said the old man. “It is a serene shade of indigo, and has ethereal emerald streaks.” And he described with uncanny accuracy the shape and the texture, and every other radiant detail, painting a visage of something heavenly, infused with the purest distillation of divinity. Such words, a picture of such a thing, that it evoked joy and warmth in those who rest their gaze upon it, even for just a second. “It must be quite beautiful,” said the beholder dryly, when the old man had finished. “I see all these things when I look at it,” he said, staring wistfully into the far corner of the otherwise empty garden. “What do you see when you look at the same thing I see?” And before he could reply, he prompted: “You believe me when I tell you it is spectacular, but you’re not looking.” “I don’t want to see it,” snapped the beholder. “If I look at it, I’ll know it isn’t beautiful after all, and that the thing I am fixated on is but an illusion.” “I see,” said the old man. “If I look, I’ll see past your illusion too - I’ll see what you see and feel sorry for you. You delude yourself as I see the big picture of all things, too big even for you. I‘ll know your beautiful flower isn‘t beautiful, and you’ll know I’ll lie if I say otherwise - so who am I to take that joy away from you?” “Your eyes seem to cause you nothing but pain,” the old man said slowly, after a pause for reflection. “I’m sorry to hear that.” And he was gone. And the beholder had an idea. He had several thousand eyes, more or less. Probably more. (This would take some time. He would have to steel himself.) Each one was a lake fathoms deep and inches across, the surface a muddy mirror with neither ripple nor undulation. edited by Joshua Goudreau 350 (It would be tough; the blade might blunt after each hundred or so; the surface may be a clouded mirror betraying no depths, but it remained a firm one, and would require a great deal of pressure to breach.) In one hand he wrapped sinewy fingers around his razor. At the first stroke, he cried out, but was thinking only of his lover. After the tenth, it was unbearable. After the fiftieth, it was routine. And after the one hundredth, satisfying. (After one hundred and twenty seven, the blade needed resharpening.) She would become more beautiful with every pop, exaltation of viscous liquid, and every release of pressure, every dribble of warm fluid onto his chin. The pain was only temporary. “I like the world much better like this!” he cried. “It is beautiful!” “Everything I see will be with images!” he bellowed gleefully into the midnight, ivory moon in ebony sky looking down to see him, and the red drape he’d made to mask his face. He crawled over to one corner of his garden, and took great care to feel around on the featureless ground. When he had found it, he cradled the flower in one gentle hand, felt the texture beneath his fingertips, and inhaled its mellow fragrance deeply, feeling it gently soothe his tired lungs. The beholder sat there, rivulets of blood coursing down his face, the occasional droplet falling as gentle tears from an empty socket and landing delicately on the most beautiful of all petals, yet flowing off onto the cold ground and leaving his prize unblemished. The old man, he thought with a smile, was not lying. He’d give the flower to his lover. When the pock marking of his face with spherical aches and purpling would die down, when he could render himself presentable once more, when the red river had run to the ground, he would do so. It would signify so much! She could reach out and take it; it would have a very presence between the two of them, weight beyond stem and leaf – it’s an icon now, and cannot wither. She’d inhale its fragrance and the potent color of the petals, he’d keep his head close, to feel her movement and then to kiss her, not to shy away nor to strike at his face and once- treacherous eyes. To wait? To think on this, perhaps, to decide upon a moment as better than any preceding one? What to wear and where to be? What posture, say, bended knee; mayhap, an arm lightly upon shoulder on a sand dune beneath silky moonlight? In starshine or in sunray…? Between those thoughts and the fermenting, formulating fruit of a plan (that would be the Gift), spontaneity snuck by and with it the ghost of movement near the garden entrance, one that tripped the unseeing senses. She was here! She was here, now, and she wanted to see him! There was joy with the nerves! Unexpected, unplanned, a collision of people, hearts and The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 351 minds headlong. Perhaps it should be this way, those as a couple dragging order from chaos. Was that not what love was, the germ of anarchic hearts? “Are you here, my love?” “Yes! I’m here in my garden! I’m here! My love, you came back to me!” She was warm as halos and smelt of sunbeams. “As you knew I would and as it had to be,” she said, but sadly… but shaking? “Only my body can cause us to be apart, and only because it can move so.” “Your voice… your voice is like an angel in pain. Are you all right? Are you nervous? Wh... Where are you? Can you come to me?” “Can you not see?” “I… I am not looking. Forgive me for staring at the ground for the moment, but it is only a moment! I… I try this for our sake.” “I love you all the more for this, and yet, you’ll wound yourself so, denying or changing who and what you are. I have a gift. An apology, my love; I never should have been upset, rather, I should have shown more empathy.” “A gift? Here, cradled in my hand, sheltered by my arms… I have something for you too. A coincidence; we surely think and act alike! I promise you, you who’ll be my vision when my sight is blind - that from today, things shall be different.” She crossed the garden to kneel by his side, he who was not yet crying, but gushing and trickling gently from the face, cross-legged upon the ground with head bent, saturating his knees and lap. “They shall; of that I’m sure! Please… give me your hand. Let me guide it… and don‘t turn to look just yet; feel, and then look.” “Your skin! Your skin is… wet? And sticking to my fingers… and… is this your face, my love? Your... Your nose…” She smiled, but it only changed the sound of her voice. “It’s uniform, my love. My body: one texture and one color. All those other layers… they flake away as the skin of an onion. All protrusions, all hair, lumps, bumps, extensions and complications. I give you this uniformity, my love. It’s easier on your eyes.” The last image: A flower between the two; they’re holding each other tightly - as if the world went away. It blossoms and it blooms, but they’re not looking; they just don’t see. The color isn’t important, nor the smell and shape. It really is quite spectacular.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 352

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 353

Issue #5 October/November/December 2006

edited by Joshua Goudreau 354

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 355

~Featured Story~

Quality Control by Tim Rinehart

“HELLO?” “Is the rice supposed to taste salty and porky?” A confused voice asked, with no greeting. “Is it ‘Pork Rice’, sir?” I asked, flipping idly through a magazine. There was some fumbling, as the customer on the other end grabbed the box. “Oh.” Click. Welcome to the magical and glamorous world of the “Happy Panda Rice Complaint Line”. Add this name to the top ten list of “Reasons you should go to college”. Unless your hobby is listening to non-rice related questions being called in daily, be my guest. A Jehovah’s Witness, or a bum pretending to be a witness, calls in daily, and for some reason unbeknownst to me - I always get his calls. Every day, he calls at 3:15PM, and again before I go home for the day, 5:54PM. Whoever decided companies needed quality control, they’d better run fast. “You know who won last night’s football game?” “Sir, this is a complaint line for rice.” I answered. “Although I would love to talk to you about last night’s horrible loss for our team, again, I missed most of the game answering rice related questions. Yes, that’s right, rice related questions.” “Sorry.” Click. Thank god for that. At least once an hour, I would receive a call from someone, who either had dialed the wrong number, or was drunk and is dialing at random. And a question not pertaining to Chinese-American flavored rice would follow. Many are the same, but the best question I received was about someone’s debt. edited by Joshua Goudreau 356 “Could you consolidate all my bills into one low monthly payment?” “I could try, sir, but there’s a slight problem. You should probably call a credit counseling service about that sort of thing. This is a rice complaint line.” I nearly had all the whites on my Rubik’s cube lined up during that day. It was a relatively exciting day, I had nearly solved a side of the cube, and I figured out anagrams for popular company brand names. Oh, goody, it’s 3:15, and time for the call, I thought as the phone rang. Answering it, I said, “I haven’t seen God yet, but I’ll keep looking,” Silence on the other line. Oh, god, I haven’t said the wrong thing, have I? “Excuse me, Ezekiel? That’s you, right? I’ve been waiting all day for today’s two sermons.” Silence. I’m gonna get fired. I know it. “Happy Panda Rice Complaint Line, how may I help you?” “To help me, you must serve the Lord!” shouted a voice from the other end. I jumped, falling for Ezekiel’s trap again, this being the third time this month. “Hi, Zek. How’s the Lord today?” “The Lord commands you to live your life to the fullest, brother!” “Zek, I listened to that command. Answering a rice complaint line is really my way of living it up. I’m a millionaire who does this on the side. It’s for the kids, ya know?” This answer left him entirely speechless.

About ten minutes before Zek’s second sermon of the day, I was called to the supervisor’s office, and I noticed a hint of anger in the voice announcing it. “Richter, it’s Don. Would you please come to my office?” I was born during an earthquake, hence, my parents named me after the Richter scale. Pretty embarrassing, eh? While heading towards the office, I realized that I was probably in trouble, and began to get nervous. Was there a complaint line for their complaint line? No way, that can’t be. Then there would be a complaint line for their complaint line for their complaint line. There would be endless complaint lines, and not enough money in the economy to underpay all these employees. These thoughts gave me a headache. I opened the door, and saw a figure sitting across from a shabbily made, cluttered desk. Behind the desk was my supervisor, Don, and the person in the seat I had never seen before. Sitting down next to him, I noticed something in his eyes. For one, they’re different colors, but he had a look that said he didn’t intend to work here long. Probably for six months, then go to college. Poor, poor bastard. “Richter, how long have you worked here?” Don said as I stood there. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 357 “Well, just about as long as they’ve had phones,” I joked; thinking wildly that this do-gooder kid is my replacement. “Seriously, though, probably three years,” “Well, you know enough about taking complaints to show someone else around, don’t you, Richter?” I always hated the way Don said my name in every statement he’s made to me. It’s as if he thinks I’m gonna forget he’s talking to me. Thank god I’m not a woman. His pick up attempts must make them want to die. “Um, sure,” “Good, meet your new best friend for the month, Tom,” The sound of a guillotine rang through my head when Don said this, and I realized at the same time that I’m stuck with other people. Ugh. Other people all around me, that makes me so uncomfortable. Hell, I might do my job with a tinge of happiness, and not sarcasm. How embarrassing. The poor bas-I mean Tom waved at me with a gentle smile. “Okay, come on, Terry,” I said. “Tom, you mean,” Terry replied. “Yea, sure. Tom,” Tom and I walked back to my sad cubicle. I had my Game Boy on my desk, the Rubik’s cube (now solved – I peeled off all the stickers in frustration) and a magic 8-ball, which is incredibly helpful in answering some questions. Putting on my headset, I gestured to a box beneath the empty desk across from mine. “There’s stuff you need in there. Headset, you wear it and talk into it. There’s a book to answer the most common questions. The computer works, but the internet doesn’t ever since the ‘Richter Computer Virus’ incident,” How was I supposed to know that you can’t click everything while browsing the Internet? “Wait,” Tom said just as I was about to get back to Tetris, “How am I supposed to do this stuff?” “Um,” “Well, you just plug the headset in, be polite, and answer questions if you can. If not, transfer them to one of us, and we’ll handle it,” Rose answered, standing from her cubicle. “Yeah, what she said,” I sighed, really needing to play Tetris, “Taloola, this is Rose, Rose, meet Taloola,” The two shook hands. “My name’s really Tom,” Taloola said. Rose laughed. “Richter has that charming way of making up names for people he doesn’t know well. My names varied every week when I started here last year.” I looked up at her, annoyed. “I remembered your name, Randy, I always did.” Rose snorted. A few minutes later, she leaned into my cubicle. edited by Joshua Goudreau 358 “Do you wanna come over my place later tonight? I’ve got an old Walkman I think you might want.” “Anything for you, Reba,” I grinned, and took another call.

Rose’s apartment was familiar turf for me, she graciously invited me to the occasional party, but not since last Christmas. It was surprisingly large, and well decorated for a complaint-taker. Her place always reminded me of an apartment you would see in a sitcom. All she needs to do now is seemingly never go to work, and she would be in a sitcom, she’s pretty enough. I walked in an hour after work, the decent condition Walkman on the table. Next to it were some CDs, some decent ones. I looked through them as she sat down across from me. “Like the CDs?” “Yeah, pretty decent - Rolling Stones, Bowie, …you even have Frampton! My father would kill you if he knew you had this. He can’t stand Peter Frampton,” I looked on the back of “Frampton Comes Alive”. “You can keep them,” “Wait – what? Why?” “I don’t want them,” “Are they stolen or something?” “Define ‘stolen’,” She smirked, “I got them in the mail from some guy, and I don’t want them. I know you like these, so you can have them. It’s called a ‘gift’,” “I wouldn’t feel right taking them, really. They’re yours,” “Just don’t expect a Christmas present this year if it bothers you that much,” “Okay, thanks, Rose. You’re the best,” “So your dad never liked Frampton?” “No, not really.” “What’s he like?” “Not too different from me. His personal ad would read - ‘Dull, quiet, has crappy car.’ In fact, we used to be mistaken for brothers,” I opened my mouth to tell Rose that I think she looked good in her new sweater today, and closed it quickly. “Why was he quiet?” “He was abused by his uncle, I think,” She realized I really didn’t want to talk about this and left it alone. I put on the headphones, and put in a CD, with the pretense of trying out the Walkman. I really just wanted to think about some compliment to give Rose. I listened to like, five seconds of a Bowie CD, and my thoughts went to her. Rose deserves a compliment from me; she always tries to be nice to me. She deserves a The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 359 compliment from anyone. But I just couldn’t bring myself to say anything, and left with an awkward goodbye.

There were no significant problems for a while after that; Trevor was a pretty quick kid. Rose and I gave him some quick tips (Actually, Rose did.); I just showed him how to mouth off to the non-rice callers. After one long day of work, Rose asked Turner and I to the Diner, she and a friend in Accounts Payable (whose name was, like, Ellen or something) were going, and they wanted company. I began to get uncomfortable in my cubicle, playing Tetris and wondering, what if Elena asks my name, what if she wants to know things about me? What if even, I shudder to think, she wants to look at me? Unheard of! “Richter, you wanna pick a couple songs?” Rose asked me as she flipped through the jukebox in our booth. I was jolted from my thoughts, and looked about as if I had no idea where I was. “Um,” “I’ll just pick what I know you like. You still listen to the Stones, right?” “Yeah,” “ ‘Brown Sugar’ okay?” “Sure,” We were the only ones in the booth. Tyrone walked off to take a leak, and Ethel hadn’t gotten here yet. She had to work a little overtime, being November, the holiday season usually swamps the Accounting department. There was silence for a while, at least until the waitress brought my coffee, her cappuccino. “Why are you so uncomfortable around people outside of work?” “Uh,” “You seem so comfortable mouthing off to Ezekiel on a daily basis, but when a girl asks you out on a date, you freeze. Why is that?” “I’m not a people person,” “Oh, please,” This discussion ended when her friend (whose name turned out to be Maria, it said so on her company ID tag) arrived. I gave a wan smile, and returned to adding the fourth sugar packet to my coffee. Sugar is absolutely necessary in coffee. Otherwise, it tastes like a car urinated into water. Tony arrived back from the john soon after, and struck up an amazing conversation. Unbelievable! He can’t be more than four years younger than me, and he is more social. I’m a legal adult male, dammit, I can drink and gamble! But he can get friends, it seems. I wanted to see how it was done. “So, Tom, on a scale of 1 – 10, what would you rate a vampire?” Maria asked, as I rejoined them from my thoughts. “Well, it depends on what type of vampires you’re talking about. Stephen King ‘Salem’s Lot vampires, or Anne Rice Interview with the Vampire edited by Joshua Goudreau 360 vampires?” Tom replied. Rose and Maria shared a glance, and Maria thought for a moment. “Anne Rice,” “Pffh, not scary at all, they’re too into porn bloodsucking to really be scary, so they’re a 4.” “And Stephen King’s vampires are any scarier?” Rose replied. “Have you ever seen a vampire bite a baby in any movies before ‘Salem’s Lot was written? No! That man made babies fair game, and I love to be terrified by it. A solid 9,” “Hehe…vampires… lawyers…insert joke here..” I said. They all stared in silence, Rose seemed to look concerned. “Geez, Richter, what’s wrong?” Tom asked, nudging me gently, “Did Ezekiel not call today?” “Well, yeah he did. He did his normal thing, and I did my own,” “That’s all?” Maria said, “Wow, and I thought working at the complaint line was wonderful, compared to Accounts Payable,” She snickered and lit a cigarette. Rose gestured at something, moving her hand near her chest in a pushing motion. I was bewildered. “Rose, I don’t wanna touch you that way. I-I might get fired,” She gave me a look of irritation, and grabbed the ashtray next to me. “I was GESTURING for you to move your elbow, not touch me, you ass,” Rose snapped, and I felt mortified. I wanted to leave, but I hadn’t paid yet. Also, Tom was sitting towards the aisle. I gave a smile, trying to push the feeling away.

There was one girlfriend in my life; she left, then I started feeling uncomfortable with people. Ever since then, I’ve felt uncomfortable in crowds. I’ve been unable to make any close relationships, and never understood why. Then I got the job at the Panda, and I was able to mouth off to any person I like, as long they called the line. Rose seemed to be the only person at the office who took an interest towards me. She might have been attracted to me, but that all went away when I got food poisoning and threw up at the Christmas party. It was a couple weeks after the diner, a week before Thanksgiving. My mother was sick in the hospital. It’s not like I could visit her anyway; she hasn’t wanted to see me since my girlfriend left. I sat at my cubicle, headset on. “Hello?” “Have you figured out a way to telepathically transmit money yet?” “No, sir, this isn’t the ‘Stupid Jackass Question’ hotline. If I could, I wouldn’t give you a dime of my mind-cash,” I was on a roll today; I went to another line. “Complaint line, what’s your complaint?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 361 “Well, I got this rice, and it tastes kinda chickeny, and salty as hell,” “Sir, please read the flavor of rice, get a girlfriend, have a nice day,” Rose was leaning over into my cubicle at that moment, and she laughed at my reply. I held my call and looked up at her questioningly. “Whatcha doing for Thanksgiving?” She asked. “Microwave burritos, then I weep at the shell of a man I am,” I shrugged, and she laughed. “No, seriously.” “Just the burritos, then,” “Would you like to have dinner over at my place? I’m having a select group of friends over, and you might like some of them,” How nice of Rose to try to include me all the time. “No, I don’t think so,” I shook visibly at the thought of another diner sequel. “Don’t worry, I’ll have plenty of ashtrays out, and I won’t touch my chest at all this time,” She smiled sweetly. “Okay, what’s the catch?” I raised a brow. I knew when that smile came out, there must be some deal made. “No catch.” She kept smiling, and when I gave her a look, she gave up, “Fine, you gotta pretend to be my boyfriend. I told my friends and parents that I was dating someone from this department,” “Are you?” “Well,” She looked over to Tom’s empty cubicle; he had left a week previously. I felt a wave of annoyance. I guess I made a look, because she said, “Not anymore.” “Fine, I’ll bring the wine, how should I act, and pardon me if I’m not Mr. Social Tony.” “His name’s Tom,” “Right.” She gave me all the info I needed, and went back to work. “Rice Complaint line, what’s the problem?” “Richter,” A voice said raspily. I stiffened. “Yes, Mother,” “ I need to talk to you about Sara,” “What’s done is done, mom. Do you have a rice-related question?” “Richter..” Mom paused for a moment. Her voice became so raspy, as she had been smoking for the odd part of a decade. “You’re right, Richter. No more talk about Sara, goodbye.” Mom hung up.

Walking to the parking lot that night, still pondering my mother’s phone call, I found Maria smoking, sitting at my car. If bad cars are called lemons, edited by Joshua Goudreau 362 my car must be a lime. The bumper hung drunkenly from the back of the car, the hubcaps were mismatched. I walked to the door and took out my eyes, ignoring the looks Maria gave. “Wanna go for a drink?” She broke the silence. “Um. Just us?” “Sure thing.” She gave a very sexy look. She must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel if she’s asking out me. Accounting must be getting to her libido. I opened her door and took the five minutes it took to start the car, she directed us to a quiet bar nearby, and of course, had to use the ladies room. I sat, staring at my beer, and tried to comprehend this. Tom set her up on a prank, must be it. Everyone knows I can’t stand people. In fact, I was about to collapse. My nervous foot shook up and down, and the bartender took notice. “You gotta use the bathroom or something?” “Um, n-no, no, just nervous,” I took another sip, and concentrated hard. So I’m waiting here for Maria, the hot girl from Accounting to come back from the john, and let’s not forget I’m totally terrified of dating, relationships, basically other people in general. “Hey,” She returned, sat down and ordered a beer. “Hi,” I shuddered unnoticeably, and drank. She lit another cigarette, and held the pack towards me. “No, thanks. My mom smoked for thirty years, and she’s sick now,” Thoughts of my mother’s call came from the back of mind. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Nothing, I’m just saying. Sorry. I’m just a little taken aback by this all. You seem too interesting to be with a guy like me,” I quickly retreated to my beer after this comment. She began to stroke my head, and warning lights began to flash in my head. I couldn’t handle this much longer. “You’re cute, Rick. I can call you Rick, right?” I hate being called Rick, but I didn’t say anything. She took a drag from her cigarette and gave a cute smile with the smoke billowing from her lips. Silence gave consent, and she leaned closer to me, and I began to get more nervous than I’ve been in my entire life. I didn’t like this; I wanted her away from me. The butterflies in my stomach became rhinos, and they wanted out. A couple guys nearby were getting ready to break, and checking Maria out. Just when I finished my beer, she kissed me firmly on the mouth, stroking my hair. That was it; I couldn’t handle it anymore. Shoving her away, I threw down what I owed for the drinks. “I’m sorry, I can’t. No more, Maria,” I offered her a ride home, but she didn’t take it, said she would take the bus home. On the drive home, I remembered Maria’s brand of cigarette, Newports. Reminds me of my The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 363 mother, the cancerous scent of those sticks. No, I thought to myself, I can’t call her. Not tonight. I told no one about that night.

On Thanksgiving Day, I wore the best sweater I could find (which looked like a reject from the Bill Cosby collection), and combed my hair, which was ridiculously hard. I walked, it was nice brisk afternoon, flurries were falling and powdering the streets gently. A thought I tried to put on the backburner was a nagging feeling that my mother would be bringing the turkey out around about now. As I picked up the wine from the liquor store, the feeling came back but this time, a familiar smell wafted into my nostrils. Mom’s pumpkin pie, everyone laughing at the absurd story she was no doubt telling; the family was happy in those days. I knocked at Rose’s apartment. She answered the door, and was quite surprised. “Don’t get all gussied up for me, now,” “Uh,” I handed her the wine and she let me inside. No one had arrived yet, and the snow began to pick up. “Isn’t this weird? I can’t remember the last time it snowed in November,” “Yeah,” My car froze up due to it, which is why I walked, but I didn’t say anything. “So, Richter,” she began to set the table, for about 6 people besides us, “Can you try to be social tonight?” “I’ll try, but I won’t be very good. Honestly, Rose, I have no clue why.” I did have a clue why. “Okay, I won’t pry.” She’ll pry. I just knew it. “I know you won’t.” A year was too long for her to not know, she was just naturally that way. The snow began to pick up, and I sat on the couch, turning up the radio slightly.

In about four hours, two other people arrived (Maria, unfortunately, and someone else), and the others all cancelled. Rose seemed very angry at the snow, and grumbled to herself. The radio played a sullen Coltrane piece, matching the evening. Looking out her window, I saw the golden glow of the streetlights, the white of the snow beneath. The man on the moon loomed above, watching all of this with benign amusement. Rose walked slowly to her pantry, to get alcohol, probably. Maria sat down next to me and lit a cigarette. I turned to her and gave the same watery smile I gave when we met. “You know, Rose is wrecked,” “She drank that much?” I answered. “No, she worked for eight people, and she got me, Joe, and you, Captain Conversation,” She snorted a bit at her own joke, smoke blowing through her nostrils. edited by Joshua Goudreau 364 “Now, now, that’s uncalled for,” “No, it isn’t. We’re stuck with you. I swear to God, if you make a joke, the potatoes will try to kill you,” Joe was listening nearby with some interest. “You’re saying I’m dull?” “I’m saying that there are hammers that are more interesting than you, Rick,” I hated being called Rick. I told the story about my name, but God forbid she listen to me the one time I talked. Joe seemed agitated with Maria, but gave a smile at the hammer comment, which left me deflated. At this point, Rose came back, and when I saw her annoyance again, that just clinched it for me. Digging in my bag, I found my Walkman headphones, and put them on as we all moved to dinner. “Well, it seems Commander Interesting has decided to not listen to us anymore,” Maria commented. “Jeez, Maria, go easy on him, that’s not fair.” Joe said. “He’s not boring, he’s really funny, and smart,” Rose said, while passing out portions. She still seemed angry. “Pffh, a wet rag is more fun that Richter.” “Can we talk about something else?” Joe interjected. Rose gave a silent agreement. “Sure, I got a great topic,” Maria said, and in my mind, I heard nuclear weapons being armed, “How bad of a date Richter is, maybe.” Rose’s eyes shot towards me. “Wait, what?” “We went out for drinks a little while back. I came on to him and got nothing. He looked like he was about to cry, and pushed me back when I kissed him. The only decent thing he did was throw a twenty down for three dollars worth of drinks,” “Maria, you idiot, I think he has SAD or something,” Rose snapped back. “SAD?” “Social Anxiety Disorder,” Joe said, not looking up from his potatoes. “I knew he was a freak,” Maria grumbled. “Leave it alone!” Rose hissed. “Yeah, especially since we all wanna hear about you some more, Maria,” A voice that sounded quite like my own said. Rose and Maria were shocked, and Joe snickered. “Commander Interesting, eh? Well, I forgot, Accounts Payable is SO interesting. Wait, what is it you do again, crunch numbers all day? Oh, I forgot; that’s more dramatic than being an emergency room doctor! Tell us all about it again, like that time you couldn’t get your balance, and Bill was getting so annoyed. I found it very stimulating last time. If I’m as duller than a hammer, then you must be a rock! By the way, my name is RICHTER, for God’s sakes. NOT RICK.” I accentuated this statement with a bite of my sweet potatoes. I felt cold, and my hand shook. All the blood The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 365 left my body, and I didn’t feel well. Rose tried to conceal a smirk. She hadn’t said anything in five minutes. The jazz hour’s mood had switched over to a more erratic tone; Miles Davis gave the room a great out-of-tune feeling. Maria looked close to tears, and stormed out without her jacket. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Joe remarked.

The snow had tapered off some towards the later night; and Joe had taken his leave. Rose was still silent, enjoying the music with me as we washed dishes (I offered). “So where’s Tom?” I asked, breaking the silence, and nearly breaking a wine glass. “At home in North Dakota, with his parents,” She answered. “You two an item?” “An item?” “Uh, ya know.” “No, I don’t, Richter, give me an idea.” She was baiting me. “Uh, you’re dating him?” “We went out once, the week after we hung out at the diner. He’s too immature for me. I’m 20, and he’s 18. Kinda too ‘high school’ for me.” She’s actually 22. “Oh.” We continued on in silence. “Did that bother you or something?” She broke the silence later on. “Not really, he’s my newbie, you can do what you wish with him,” I said, running a hand through my hair quickly. “Speaking of dating, how did that Maria thing take place?” “Don’t make me talk about that. She kisses like a fish with lung cancer,” Rose snickered. “So does that bother you?” “No. Do me and Tom bother you?” “No, why?” “I thought it might’ve been why you’re so damn quiet all the time,” “I’m not right now,” “Right. Why’s that?” “Um, I’m not sure. I guess because we’re in a familiar environment. I’ve been to your apartment a few times recently. The diner was a first time in a long time. Or the snow, or your lovely aroma. It could be a million things; I’m no psychiatrist.” Rose was silent for a bit. She obviously hadn’t noticed what I had said. “Your headphones, maybe?” She said when I thought the conversation was over; “Maybe your mind thought you were at work when you wore the headphones.” “I don’t know. I felt really cold after I yelled at Maria,” edited by Joshua Goudreau 366 “Yeah, you seemed pale,” She extinguished a candle with her fingers, having finished the washing. I fiddled with my headphones incessantly, sitting down on the couch. She sat across from me. “So why are you so quiet?” Rose asked, and she had a pleading look in her big brown eyes. “Is it really that important?” “Yes,” “Well, um, I can’t tell you,” I began to take off my headphones, but Rose was looking at me in a different way, her pleading eyes desperate to know my secret. What do I do? This may lead to a different stage in our friendship; she might actually call me at home for a change. The picture of back then began to wash into my mind, like a Polaroid shot developing, gradually. Everything had a sepia tone when I thought of this memory, like some sort of old film. A young man, about 16, opening a door, and clicking on a light. He sees-

“Richter, where’s your car?” Rose asked, looking out the window, bringing me from my trance. “Um,” “You’re not walking home in this, I knew you didn’t drive because you were the first one here.” My car’s brakes are notorious for deciding when they should work. “Sleep on my couch tonight,” “What about Erin?” “She’s at her parents in the suburbs until next weekend,” Rose’s roommate had been a cheerleader her entire life; she was just adjusting to being a Wal- Mart clerk after failing college. High school always seems to come back and smack you in the face, doesn’t it? “I couldn’t possibly impose on you, Rose, you’ve been too good to me lately,” “You deserve it,” “What?” “No one ever wants to try with the people that never try with them, and that’s annoying. Their kind of mentality breaks people. I think you’re really great, Richter, you just need to get over whatever sort of demon lurks in that head of yours and become a member of society,” She tapped my head softly. Her touch made my entire body tingle, and I grinned, a grin she probably hadn’t seen before. “Thank you, Rose,” I said, “But I have a problem?” “What?” “Is the rice supposed to taste like soy and salty?” She laughed, and leaned towards me, and her breath on mine made me tingle again. My heart pounded in my chest, I was afraid she might’ve heard it. She leaned back, and as an afterthought, tousled my hair. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 367 ***

I awoke the next morning, the snow still falling consistently through the window, a bright light shining. The leather of couch made an imprint on my face, and my head ached gently, if not from a good deal of wine, then from the headphones which still rested on my ears. Miraculously, they still worked. Nat King Cole’s deep voice sang “The Christmas Song”, even though Thanksgiving was just yesterday. My hair was a lost cause; I dare not fix it. Rose sat at the table, drinking a coffee, and reading a magazine. “Hi,” I said, sitting at the table, nervously looking at her. “Hey,” She said, not looking up from the magazine. “Um, you look nice,” She looked up and laughed. “In this thing?” She ran a hand against her plum robe, “Please. You don’t need to compliment me when I let you sleep on that horrible couch.” I gave a little smile, and walked over to pour a cup of coffee. The tingle began to run through me again. “There’s cereal in the cabinet if you would like,” She offered, “Corn flakes okay?” “Sure,” I realized quickly that this tingle is tension. She wants me, and I want her. But no, I can’t. It’ll happen again if I give into her. I’ll eat the cereal, and just get out as soon as I can. Just a feeling, it can’t be real. As she turned around with the bowl, I betrayed my own thoughts, and we kissed. The bowl shattered on the floor. She didn’t push me away, and I felt just as cold and terrified as I did the night before. I pulled away from her quickly, and started moving jerkily. I needed to get out of there. “What is it?” Rose asked, trying to hold me steady. I told her what happened with the one I lost. She understood, and helped me out of the building. I noticed a tear in her eye through most of it, it was obviously of anger, because it was my fault, what happened. We didn’t see each other again until work a week later.

“Rice complaint, what do you want?” “What the Lord wants!” Ezekiel shouted, having called twenty minutes early today. “Listen, Zek, I don’t want anything, the Lord doesn’t. You’re just a psycho bum who calls a RICE COMPLAINT LINE and talks about salvation! Stop calling here! Goodbye!” I hung up on him abruptly. Tom didn’t hear me, because he didn’t work across from me anymore. Rose was lying so she wouldn’t have to tell me that he went to college. There go my prediction powers, down the toilet with all my other powers. Or, power, rather. “Rice complaint, what is it?” edited by Joshua Goudreau 368 “Richter?” A familiar voice asked. “Hi, Anne,” I rolled my eyes. I hate when my big sister calls me at work. “We gotta talk,” “What is it? Your car exploded? Marmosets took over the globe?” “Mom’s dead, Richter. The funeral is on Monday,” “How?” “She had cancer, Richter. You know that she did. She left you something, well, a small note. If you’d like, you can come get it,” I agreed, and arranged to leave in a couple minutes. Although I hated to do it, I stood up and leaned on Rose’s wall. She was in the middle of a complaint. “Happy Panda Rice, how can I help you?” A pause. “Well, sir, why don’t you check the flavor of the rice? … That’s what I thought. Have a nice day,” She hung up, and turned to me. Her eyes darkened, and the look I saw before destroyed any optimism she had today. “Rose, could you cover for me?” “No,” “Why not?” “You never cover for me,” “Your mother never died, Rose,” “You have a mother?” “Well, yeah. How do you think I got here? Didn’t hatch, did I?” I was already regretting asking Rose. Where’s Tyrese when you needed him? Eventually, after losing the magic 8-ball and a dollar, she agreed. She even offered to go with me, but I declined. “I’m sorry, Richter. If you’re any indication of what your mother was like, then I think she was a popular lady,” I gave her a look of disbelief; and said nothing more.

The drive to Anne’s house was long, and unnecessarily so. It was still very cold out, the car slowly puffed along. I was patient, and regretted never making up with my mother. I made it to my sister’s house, and two tugs on my emergency brake later; I was parked. She let me in, seeing my struggle to park. Anne led me to a table covered in stuff I hadn’t seen in years; Mom’s stuff, mostly. She dug around and handed me a yellowed piece of paper, dated a week after I left home. What I read changed my entire outlook on relationships, and the course of my life.

A few years before I met the one I lost, my parents began to teach me to drive. Of course it was illegal, considering I was maybe fourteen. And let’s not forget the thousands of times I nearly killed senior citizens. But on one The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 369 occasion, my father was with me in the beat-up old Ford and he was attempting to teach me how to back up the car. Well, as you can probably guess, I backed the car into a Chrysler; a rich guy owned it. Brand new car, you could tell. I felt like I was close to death; my father didn’t yell, he was just so upset that he failed as a parent to teach me. The rich guy naturally came out of his car (he was just parking) and demanded to know what’s up. His face was dark red, and he seemed to be wearing an expensive watch. He yelled at my father, who had his head down and looked nervous. I came out of the car just at the time and put my arm around my father. “Excuse me, sir, red man. I backed the car into your expensive piece of American gold, and I would like to take the blame. My dad’s not responsible. I backed up, he was just teaching me, my friend.” I gave a winning smile with my explanation. The rich guy didn’t like it and he gave me a dangerous look. “Look, you little bastard. I paid more money that you are worth to pay for this car and I want SOMEONE to pay for the damages.” I jumped back at his outburst. “Whoa, whoa, there, trailhand. How much is it gonna cost?” I asked, doing mental calculations. Rich guy actually lunged at me to hit me, when a big shoulder blocked me. “Excuse me, sir, were you just about to hit my son?” My father’s voice had taken on a different tone; seemed fuller, more confident. I looked up at him, his grizzled chin stood out defiantly now. “You obviously don’t do any discipline to your smart ass son. Figured I would give you a hand.” “Well, sir, I would love parenting advice from an upper-class guy who obviously has penis envy and no children. I can tell from your car. Now, listen. You have two options: give me your insurance information to fix your ridiculously overpriced automobile, or I shove my foot in your ass. No one lays a hand on my son unless you are shaking his.” I was amazed. Rich guy and my father exchanged info; and as we got back into the car, he told me I was grounded for a month. My father became a folk hero in that moment of my life and I will never forget it.

Funerals always bothered me. There’s always a mixer type thing before it, the wake, right? People are sad for like ten minutes, and then everyone pays no attention to the dead person lying in the casket. I was elected to read the eulogy because Anne hadn’t the heart for it. I knew what I wanted to say. I sat in an armchair, with my head in my hands, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Rice complaint line, what do you want?” I muttered. “To console this guy I really like,” Rose’s sweet voice said. edited by Joshua Goudreau 370 “He’s not here right now, he has to talk about his dead mother in an half hour,” “He is here now, I’m looking at him,” She knelt down in front of me, and lifted my head gently. “Hi,” I said. “You have to get over what happened, Richter. What’s in the past is in the past, and no one blames you. It was her fault, not yours.” I gave a smile. “I wish it was that easy,” “Richter, please. I care about you,” “I care about you, Rose, but-,” An idea came to me, and I knew what I was going to do. I gave her a small hug, and she said she would stay for the funeral.

Two weeks after the car accident, it was my fifteenth birthday. My mother never found out about the accident and Dad and I were happier that way. Instead of having a stupid family party, my parents gave me birthday money and told me I can do what I want with my friends. And, of course, being a fool, I arranged to have a small gathering at a restaurant, my friends and my parents were invited. My father seemed nervous about going; my friends never liked him. The night of the dinner came, and my mother was absolute gold, she smoked and regaled my friends with embarrassing stories of my childhood. My father sat and looked into his drink. I heard my friends making little comments amongst themselves, and I began to get annoyed. Just before the waiters brought food, we noticed the band was setting up on the nearby stage. My father got up and talked to one of the members. He disappeared after that; everyone thought he went home or to the car or something. We began to eat and the band started playing the opening chords to some fifties song. Then my father, wearing Elvis Costello glasses, jumped on to stage, yelling, “Wait!” The band freaked out and began to play a bunch of Elvis Costello songs, “Radio Radio” to start with. My father always seemed like a modern Paul Bunyan or an incarnation of Superman to me. My friends completely changed their opinion of him that night, and I aspired to be like him more and more.

I found myself standing at a podium in the church, not wearing headphones for a change, and about to read my mother goodbye. I looked at what I would originally read, a poem. I instead removed Mom’s note from my pocket and read: “Richter, I don’t blame you for what happened. Don’t become like your father once was - anti-social, depressed. Our first date, he shoved me away when I kissed The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 371 him, and he vomited all over my brand new shoes. Very charming, I know. The thing with Ethel or whatever her name is wasn’t your fault, dear. A small bit of advice for you: each time you meet someone new; pretend like you’ve known them your entire life. Sure, this might get you in some trouble, but you won’t have to worry about being like your father. Please, come home, dear. I miss you. Love, Mom,” I sat down and put my head in my hands again, and sepia tones began to wash over my mind’s eye again. I couldn’t fight it this time.

Richter was sixteen, and was the happiest person in the world, according to himself. He was dating the most beautiful girl in the world, Sara. She shined when she smiled, and her laugh sent his heart into leaps. They had been dating a year before she actually met his parents, and they hit it off; particularly with his mother. His father showed no interest in her. That is, until the day Richter turned on the kitchen light at 2 AM and found Sara balanced on the kitchen sink, her legs wrapped around his father. Her shirt was nearly off. Promising this would never happen again, Sara and Richter stayed together, and Richter kept it from his mother. It was a pipe dream that this would be a successful relationship. His father and Sara ran off three months later, on his mother’s birthday. His mother blamed Richter for the occurrence; she believed they never should have met. Richter left home, and they didn’t speak much for a few years. Last he heard, they had a kid, and Sara was a successful convenience store clerk.

These thoughts make me want to never to be involved with people ever again, but I can’t. I looked up and saw Rose there, beautiful. There was nothing to stop me this time. Maybe I’ll fall in love, maybe it’ll be better this time around. My father always did seem like a modern folk hero to me, but he always had the social problem. I don’t wanna vomit on Rose’s shoes when I ask her to dinner Saturday night soon. What if we become more intimate? Sex would be a little uncomfortable with me hyperventilating. I loved my father, but I think I should give my mom the benefit of the doubt. It’s about time to return to society. It’s not gonna be easy, but I wanna try. Maybe go to college and be a lawyer or a slacker or something. It’s about time to return to my life. Let’s give my mom’s advice a shot.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 372

10,000 VOLT SNAPSHOT by Joel Brown

AND YOUR HEART STARTS BEATING... THE PAVEMENT tastes cold and rough. Strings of saliva snap towards my lower lip as I raise my head and look around. Why do I feel so lightheaded? The lens of my eye seems as if it is covered in gauze as I inhale my surroundings. I taste smoke and gasoline. And something I can’t quite put my finger on. I blink twice. Three times. The world slowly clicks into focus. I still can’t hear anything. Wait…my ears seem to have gauze on them too. It slowly unravels as things become clearer. This reality is hazy. I think my pupils are dilated. Your heart stops and you take a picture: inhale...

CLICK There has been a car crash. A guardrail has been twisted like licorice sitting in the sun. A crumpled mess of steel, white pine limbs and TOYOTA COROLLA blend into a distorted statue on the side of the road. A pool of scarlet, oil and HONDA CIVIC collect at the foot of a telephone pole. Well, half a telephone pole. Sparks emit from a wire swinging dangerously over a puddle of water. A police vehicle has been sliced in half as a BMW SUV has t-boned the side of it. The words TO SERVE AND PROTECT seem meaningless now. The burning tires and electrical insulation fill the air with billowing clouds of thick, acrid smoke. This picture captures two paramedics with looks of helplessness. There is no one to be saved. CLICK

The blood begins race again as your heart restarts. When you sneeze, your heart skips a beat. Seeing something this surreal has the same effect. I begin The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 373 to brush myself off and stumble towards the scene of disaster. My CONVERSE ALL STARS scuff shards of glass and splinters of GOODYEAR tire. The sun is very bright. It is too bright. I think my pupils are dilated. Cirrocumulus clouds spot the deep blue sky like rippled sand. An omen of pleasant weather, they usually trail a violent storm and dissolve to leave a clear blue sky. Why is everything so bright? Every piece of chrome and metal seems to be taunting me, stabbing my eyes with pain. I squint my eyes shut and massage my temples. Your heart stops beating and the BLACK / WHITE movie slowly plays in your head.

5-4-3-2-1- ACTION! tires screech. rubber burns. hot knives through butter on main street as two coupes collide and ricochet off each other. the blue and white squad car swerves out of the way right into the oncoming path of a soccer mom in a BMW X-5. fireworks ignite as the bumpers kiss. the last scene of this film is a teenage boy crossing the street. he looks so familiar…I would like to thank the academy… CUT!

Your heart clicks back into motion and you hear it pounding in your ears. I feel a magnetic draw to the center of this destruction. I hesitantly approach the first vehicle. Auto Trader’s Car of the Year (for three years running) is overturned into a telephone pole. The pole juts out of the trunk at a 45 degree angle and then snaps like a twig halfway up. The creased hood of the car leads up to a shattered windshield. The abdomen of the car twists viciously like a pretzel. I notice an outstretched hand, frozen by rigor mortis, pointing across the road to the off-white TOYOTA. As I walk towards the second car, a black bag flutters past me in the wind. I catch it in mid air and look at the side of it. WHEN YOU DRINK, DON’T DRIVE. Methinks someone chose to overlook that warning. The valves in your heart freeze for an instant as you approach the TOYOTA.

CLICK At the scene of every major accident, there are labels and sponsors to be found everywhere. You could call this disaster marketing. When the camera crews arrive, snapshots and movies will document glass shards, TOYOTA, horrified families of the victims, HONDA, a shocked community, JACK DANIELS…Hopefully, you get the point. A roadside billboard advertising ING DIRECT provides the backdrop to this landscape of obliteration. A crumpled box beside the squad car clearly says TIM HORTON’S on its side. The JACK DANIELS bottle lies in pristine condition beside its owner’s edited by Joshua Goudreau 374 vehicle. The seal has been broken. The one immaculate item amidst the scattered debris. This would make a great drinking and driving ad. This car accident was brought to you by BUICK. CLICK

The thud of your pounding heart reverberates around your body as you step closer. The paramedics dash by me as if I’m invisible. They have been joined by firemen who wield the jaws of life. They start to work on the TOYOTA ripping off the doors. Someone was burned alive in there. I approach the police car and I snap my head away as I look inside. I should feel sick. Maybe I am in shock. I am greeted by vivid contrasts of color. The intensity is overwhelming.

Thud, thud, skip...Pale salmon pink flesh, salt and pepper beard, steel blue eyes with flecks of charcoal gray, starched baby blue shirt, crystal blue glass shards, all stained with a severe scarlet red. Thud, thud, thud.

I should feel sick but I feel oddly drawn to the colors. My appalling human nature rivals that of the curious bystanders who have mysteriously appeared like acne behind the police line. In my gauze coated daze, I have missed quite a bit. There has been a flurry of activity. Time has become irrelevant. There are now four cop cars, miles of yellow tape, and red sawhorses arranged across all the two lanes. Why has nobody bothered me? I am smack dab in the middle of a four car gut wrench. A policeman rushes by smoking a DU MAURIER almost as fast a highway collision. Is that a pun? The nicotine will cancer-coat his sorrow over his fallen comrades. Drag a key across a compact disc and a song will skip; drag your beating heart through chaos and it will skip a beat.

CLICK SKIP CLICK SKIP You’ll hear about this on the news. You will see the pictures in the paper. You will be horrified as you absorb the information. Can you imagine the last few seconds in the victim’s minds? The screech of rubber on asphalt, the glare of headlights and chrome, and the final second as metal embraces metal… 10 – 9 – 8 – 7 – 6 – 5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – 1 – 60seconds…………………………………………………… In ten minutes, you’ll change the channel, turn the page, the subject will change and you will shortly forget everything you just witnessed. In one hour, you could The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 375 be making a mental list of what to get at the grocery store, debating whether to take a shower or a bath, questioning the placement of your couch. We are all so self involved. One day in the future, you’ll pass by an accident, decelerate, crane your neck, maybe even stop to see if it gets worse, and you might get a feeling of déjà vu, but that will be it. Will you remember this? Will you remember this exact moment? CLICK SKIP CLICK SKIP CHANNEL 911 SKIP

And your heart starts beating. Again. I feel hooks grip into my limbs and pull me towards the center of the accident. My ripped LEVI jeans and beaten CONVERSE shoes glide across the site effortlessly. My red OLD NAVY t- shirt tightly grips my shoulder blades as I am pulled further away from the vehicles. The sun’s bright rays seem to intensify as I am drawn closer. I think my pupils are dilating even more. Am I hallucinating? I have found another victim. You feel your heart drop to your feet as it skips another beat. Can you feel this trepidation?

CLICK CLICK When you asphyxiate, you hallucinate, and then fall unconscious. Your heart still may be pulsating, but after four minutes of not breathing, it can stop. In theory. No breathing, no pulse. When you are electrocuted, your heart may stop. Depending on how much voltage that has been coursed through your body, your muscles may spasm and they may throw you some distance. Your body will be riddled with electrical burns on the exterior of your skin; the burns will be deeper than they appear. Your clothing will melt and mesh with your skin. You might be so charred you will be unrecognizable. Someone at the morgue will be wrist deep in your dental records trying to confirm an ID. I don’t need dental records to identify this victim. I know him better than anyone does. My pupils are so fucking big right now. CLICK CLICK

The pistons in your heart are pumping faster than a 1967 FORD MUSTANG FASTBACK as you reach the ultimate peak of enlightenment.

ACTION! edited by Joshua Goudreau 376 the camera pans along the gravel and up the burnt CONVERSE ALL STARS. the frayed, ripped LEVIS are scorched beyond recognition like their owner’s face. the red OLD NAVY shirt is no longer that cheery fire truck red it once was, but more of a burnt sienna with bone black highlights. white light knifes through my pupils and I am blinded by my consciousness. I would like to thank the academy…

and your heart stops beating......

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 377

Just A Passenger by Jonathan Asby

“IN SOME WAYS IT WAS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE,” He said, looking out the window of the train, watching the green and pleasant land slip past. The person on the other end of the mobile phone must have been immediately interested, as anyone would at such a line, and the man continued to talk. “Wonderful, really, truly wonderful. It was amazing,” he said. “I’m sorry, it’s just hard to explain, you know?” He turned away from the window for a second, “You saying I’m predictable?” A pause. “Alright already.” He sounded cheesy. He began to explain the day, the one that was the greatest in his life. The period in time of which he spoke was the best period he’d ever lived through. There was no equal in any respects. In every sense, in every sensory experience, yesterday had been the best day ever. Apparently it did not include marriage, nor chance meeting, nor a win. It wasn’t an adventure or a war or even a birth. It wasn’t flying through the clouds without wings, it wasn’t monetary success and it wasn’t all sex, though some of it probably was. He continued: yesterday had been simple. Wake up, get dressed, walk out to meet Sandra, walk to the café, have breakfast. Coffee, doughnut, bacon and eggs – who cares about your weight. Go for a swim, she was there too, had a good time there – yeah, OK, I care about being slim. Drive to work, nice fast car, a Lamborghini, if you must know. Yeah a yellow one, fucking fast. Pick up the inbox; throw it out of the window. Pick up the outbox; throw that out too. Picked up the monitor. Think twice, think a third time then throw that out as well. I didn’t need them any more. Sit down for a edited by Joshua Goudreau 378 minute to collect my thoughts again, just to go over the decision, just to make sure. “So then what happened?” We imagined his friend asking. “I looked up from my fucking desk and saw the sight of my life. The sight, oh man, I was creaming. No you bastard it wasn’t Sandra, it was my boss - hey stop laughing. He had that expression, you know? The expression you only see on someone’s face when you’ve done the most amazing out-of- character thing, something which would cause pain and horror to everyone around you. Except this wasn’t gonna do shit to no one. He was practically shitting himself! You only get it once in a lifetime, if that. Once in a fucking lifetime; the true expression of surprise mixed with horror mixed with a personal fear and a sudden need to beg desperately for me to stay. I loved it man, I just sat there waiting for him to say something he was so dumbstruck. “He said, ‘wha..’ you know, like what the fuck are you trying to say you retard, just get on with it, just get it out of those stupid old cracked lips of yours. Then he said, ‘what the fuck do you think you’re doing!?’ and I just laughed. Man I sat there for a few seconds then I just burst out laughing. What a cliché! I can’t believe he said that!” By now a lot of the passengers were listening in, who was this man? What was he a part of? What had he really done? Why did he have a Lamborghini? Who was his friend? Was he famous? He didn’t look famous. “So I said, ‘sitting in my office, you?’ HA, HA!” Then what? “Well he had a go at me obviously, something about my respect level for the company being too low or some company bullshit. Then, when he hadn’t realized I seriously didn’t care I tried to pick up the desk to hurl that out the window too, but it was too heavy, so I kinda shuffled it along while he watched me, open mouthed like before. I got it over to the window and levered it up onto the sill. Then he actually did something – yeah, yeah, haha - and tried to wrestle me away from it. This is the funniest bit, he tried to wrestle me!” And so it went on, the laughable events being scribed to the passengers around him on the train to Kings Cross, until a man in a hat got on at Stevenage. He sat opposite the guy, who had thus far been sitting alone in one of the four-seat sections. He took his hat and coat off and sat down. The guy continued on, “- Said I’d probably go to prison for what I’d done, so I laughed at him again. He didn’t like that, got all testy again...” A pause for the other end to reply, “Yeah, well...” And again. The passengers and I watched the new man, noting his reactions to the story he was hearing as the interesting guy gazed and grinned out the window at the passing trees, buildings and cattle while holding his expensive handset to his ear. Even the train staff seemed to listen in when they were walking up and down the carriage, he was talking that loudly. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 379 Eventually the guy that had the hat looked straight at the other man and studied him. He did this for a few seconds, perhaps waiting for a reaction from him, then his eyes went wide. Evidently, we others thought, he had noticed some scar or strangeness on the man’s face, perhaps he recognized him for a celebrity or a well known businessman often in the news, but exactly what it was we couldn’t guess. The guy kept on talking and looking out of the window, “Went down to the café and waved the bitch goodbye, accidentally tipped over a few chairs too on my way out.” The new man opposite then waved his right hand about in front of the phone guy as if trying to get his attention. The phone guy flashed an annoyed expression across the table and continued. Then the new man said, “Your phone isn’t actually on.” To which the phone guy replied simply, “Fuck.” And stopped talking. He stopped talking, straight away, and looked around. After he’d looked around at all the people looking back at him down into his strange blue eyes and seeing nothing, he stood up, grabbed a bag that some people later thought wasn’t even his, and headed for the door. He stood in the doors section of the carriage occasionally glancing back at us still staring at him. A few minutes later the train stopped and he got off in a hurry, walking away past our windows. The captive audience enjoyed the fraud, and went about their boredom with renewed vigor.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 380

Hey, God. It’s Me, Chelsea by Carolyn Anderson

HEY, GOD. IT’S ME, CHELSEA. YOU KNOW, CHELSEA ELLIOT. In the second grade, I was the little girl who hid the host up her sleeve instead of putting it in her mouth. The little girl who used to toss the body of your son discreetly into the bushes on her way out of the church. Those are probably the holiest bushes in California, God. That was me, God.

She lifts the brush slowly, the wooden handle smooth against her fingers. The smell of linseed oil fills the air more appealing than any perfume. She pauses. The brush hovers over the canvas, with a big glob of red paint in the bristles. Blank canvas. The first stroke. She stretched this one, and put four coats of gesso over the thick canvas fabric before she was satisfied with the texture. She’s waited a whole week to lay the paints down. And she pauses.

I wanted to believe in you God, but those crackers just tasted awful. You still there, God?

She realizes she doesn’t know what to paint. She stands in front of the easel and shifts her weight from foot to foot, nervous. Like a soloist in front of a crowd, waiting for the first note. Not red then. She plunges the brush back into the murky solution in the mason jar, and swishes the bristles around vigorously as the red pigment comes loose. Murky crimson. She dries the brush on her sleeve and chews her lip as she contemplates the next hue. Green, maybe. No. She reaches for The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 381 a tube of blue. It fits her mood. She squeezes a glob of thick paint out on the pie tin she uses for a pallet and generously coats the brush. She begins again.

Do you remember me, God? In fourth grade I prayed to you once. It was the only time I prayed when Mum or the teachers weren’t making me say the words. You remember what I said, God?

Then she sees it come out of the canvas. Leaning toward her like a beast trapped in the blank gessoed fabric. She can see it. A giant wave, and a tiny ship. Turner style, but in cool colors. Blues for oranges, violets for deep, red- browns. She sees her hand tremble when she reaches for the blank slate, but doesn’t acknowledge it. Observes. Like a bystander, watches the paint lay itself down in bold strokes, and here some smaller ones. Here’s the mast, here are the sails, here the rigging and there the beast of the ocean. A galleon tossed like a coin in the game that is survival out on the sea.

Do you remember what I said? I was on the floor in the bathroom. I can still smell the vomit on the floor, and I remember how many cheap, linoleum tiles there were. 127, God. They were banging on the door, they wanted me to open it up, God. Do you remember what I asked you?

She feels her teeth sink into her lower lip as she paints, faster now. Now it’s a Greek galley, tossed by the breath of Poseidon. The clouds churn above. She tastes the blood on her lips. There’s a women at the prow, in a rose dress and brilliantly red hair. Warm, her skin, her face. Her arms are tossed out to her sides, her head thrown back. She’s just a smear right now. Chelsea drops the brush, her skilled fingers plucking up another of a different size. And sets to work.

I don’t remember what I did, but it must have been something bad. They wanted me to open up so they could hit me, God. Do you remember that? I asked if I could go to Sleep, God. You didn’t listen. They got angrier. She told me I was a stupid little girl, he pounded on the door. And I opened it, God. I knew it would be worse if I let them break the door in, so I opened it.

How long has it been? An hour? It sure doesn’t seem that long when you’re painting. The waves were taking shape. The hint of a colossal face in the cloudy heavens is just beginning to emerge, an angry, bearded face looking down on the tiny ship. edited by Joshua Goudreau 382 And it’s such a tiny ship. She puts on the details. The sails, raised in the storm. The mast, and the rigging, bold against the sky. She’ll have to take a look at some pictures later, she’s sure she hasn’t gotten the hull right.

And the blue Bronco, God. Do you remember the blue Bronco? I was sixteen then. You didn’t listen that night either.

Now she steps back. She glances at her wristwatch, and is surprised but not surprised to see it’s been over four hours. Her feet are sore from standing, and she’s got paint all over her clothes. Mostly blue, a little violet, some brown, white and green. And just a smidge of red. It’s a ship, now. It’s coming out of the canvas like a reluctant stranger. And the waves, and the face in the heavens. All in cool colors, except for the women on the prow. The only figure, she’s in warm reds and oranges.

Hey, God. It’s me, Chelsea. Chelsea Elliot. I’m the girl who works in the art gallery now. You know, the girl who’s had six shows in the bay area now, who’s done an interview about her paintings. The one who’s had five art lectures in the local universities, and two more scheduled for next month. You know me, I’m the girl who never goes to church. But they tell me I have something of yours, God. Your gift.

She observes it, the brush forgotten in her hand. Steps back, gets a good look at the fledgling painting. Already, it’s becoming a work of art. It’s the style the critics love, the colors that keep drawing visitors back to her shows, the composition that’s made her a local legend. She hates it. This will be another that she’ll gesso over before anyone sees. She’d entertained the fancy, briefly, that maybe she wouldn’t be able to paint today. Maybe she’d lay the paint on the canvas, and it would be dull and lifeless. Not a chance.

Yeah, God. Your Gift.

The pain in her lip draws her attention. There’s blood on her chin, her teeth have shorn through the tender flesh, and the salty taste fills her mouth like poison.

Take it back, God. I’ll give you my creativity, God. There’s nothing more precious than that. Never draw so much as a map again. Never write so much as a haiku. Ever again, God.

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The brush falls from her trembling fingers and she tears her eyes away from the ghastly image that is another perfect painting being born. There’s a mirror behind the easel she uses to practice sketching facial expressions. She catches a glimpse of a good one now. Tears streaming down her face, her eyes red and puffy. Her chin, her lips are red, as are her teeth when she grimaces and screams at the looking glass. Her face is flushed, there are flecks of paint in her short black hair. She screams, and her image screams back at her like a furious, desperate, dying harpy. Stumbles back, falls to her knees. The image in the mirror is gone and her scream dies slowly in the thick, humid air. The room feels thick and sticky with her tears, and she can hear herself choke as though listening from the other side of the door. Her fingernails sink into her shoulders, and under her palms she can feel old scars. Tears. Sticky blood wets the pads of her fingers and sinks under her nails. So hard to wash out.

My creativity, God. My chalice, my crown, my golden fleece. I’ll give you Chaucer and Shakespeare. Make Da Vinci an enigma to me, God. Make me as dumb as a peon, as inspired as a lump of wood. Take it, and stop the bleeding. Answer those prayers you’ve so long ignored.

Her chest seizes up and she coughs, deep, wracking coughs that hurt her belly and throat. She glances up at the painting, a perfect painting only being born. She wants it to burn. Perhaps she’s talking to the wrong person.

Hey, Morning Star. It’s me, Chelsea...

edited by Joshua Goudreau 384

What Is Ode by Tim Derr for Wiebke Pandikow

I LOOK INSIDE MYSELF AND SEE MY HEART IS BLACK I see my red door and I must have it painted black Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black. ~The Rolling Stones

Dark incense filled the air. Rose blossoms, and something else. Something that Rho could not describe, but felt that he should know. Something familiar, and lovely, and dark. Shadows danced, and carried his thoughts away. He was naked from the waste up, his body trimmed in the iridescent flames of twilight; black candles that lingered at the clearings edge. The table upon which he lay was warm against his back. Only moments before it had been cool and uncomfortable. The surface was glossy, made of some substance he did not recognize, but which he could see himself in. He thought it some type of mirror when he first saw it, but rapping lightly on it with his knuckles produced the dull, musical echo of metal. Rho had smiled, to see himself smile. He luxuriated in the flow of his hair over one bare shoulder. The firelight made it glow, highlighting the natural blonde strands that were usually hidden in amongst the more dominant brown. He was handsome; more than handsome. “Please, sit,” the man had said, and Rho had lowered himself to the surface obligingly. “Lie down.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 385 He had, and waited. Waited for a long time, for the man to return, even though he had never seen him leave the room. After he had spoken it simply felt... empty. The walls were lined with shelves—wooden planks held upright by jostling beams that barely seemed able to contain the weight—mostly containing glass containers; jars, vials, porcelain bowls that Rho recognized as having come from some of the mountain folk. The air up there, amidst the fiery rocks, seemed more tempered the creation of porcelain; a rather expensive, and hard to find substance that was commonly used by the wizards and magus for mixing of their potions. There were also herbs, potted plants... growing here in the darkness where nothing should grow. Plants needed more than incense and candlelight to survive; they needed sunlight, and so far as he could tell the room was devoid of windows. Below the shelves were counters; a myriad collection of boxes and crates topped by flat wooden planks. The candles rested there; white, interspersed periodically by tall black stems and purple flames, what seemed like thousands, dripping wax through the seams of the lumber, over the edges and onto the boxes, running slowly toward the floor like spilt tears. The walls beyond them seemed colorless in the darkness, but Rho thought they were blue. A light blue. All of them, everything; the shelves and counters and candles and herbs, all seemed so out of place in this room... like it had once been designed for some other purpose. Rho turned his eyes from them, scanning over the rest of the room. Beyond those few things, there was only a fireplace and a doorway. The latter was at his back, amidst a clear space on one wall. Whatever entryway or panel that had once blocked it was long since removed, opening the room into the long hall beyond. A long hall, filled with other open doorways, showing rooms that looked so similar to his own. A long hall, also filled with closed doorways, locked rooms, full of sounds, with no lights beneath the doors. The fireplace was something else that seemed out of place, but its... wrongness, was more apparent. The wall surrounding it, what Rho had first mistaken for smooth stone, had been torn open, revealing the inner structure as thin lumber, and wood. The thin bits overlapped the larger, vertical stands, creating a makeshift wailing, which in turn had been covered by some white material—perhaps stone, but it appeared softer, at least, that was the impression it gave by how seemingly easily it had been peeled away— which was later smoothed and finally painted. The fireplace itself was normal. It was made of river stone, the same stone that could be found in hundreds of houses throughout the city and countryside... the same stone that could be found in the tavern hearth edited by Joshua Goudreau 386 beneath his room. The fire that burned in it was bright, and hungry; burning crisply through a stock of lumber that hadn’t seemed to diminish since his entry. Rho settled back, and took several deep breaths. He wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t worried... the room was just getting hot; uncomfortably hot. Sweat was beginning to bead off the bronze tint of his skin. His trousers stuck to the surface of his legs uncomfortably. He could feel his back beneath him, sticking to the surface of table. His head felt itchy and hot. When he ran his hands through his hair to stop it he found that it was damp as well. How long was this going to take? Where was he anyway? Rho let out one of his calming breathing in a sigh and laid his head back to the tables surface. The flames danced over the ceiling, creating a depth and a texture that shouldn’t be there... There were shadows, lingering at the edges of his vision, seemingly caught up in that dance as they peered out from their corners. Rho stared, and watched the little patterns and swirls the candles made as he waited. The longer he watched, the more there seemed some purpose to the random designs... the more there seemed something... else. Something not right. Something there, but not there. The shadows continued their dance, the candles continued their swirls, the harsh light and heat of the fire continued to make him uncomfortably warm. But while he waited, Rho concentrated on the ceiling above. He began to see dark spots; what at first appeared to be stains, but weren’t. Like the patterns of the candles, they seemed more of a dance, more... of purpose. There were lines... and pictures that he could not describe... words he could not read. Words that almost seemed musical... darkly musical... even though he did not understand their meaning. His thought shattered when he heard the shuffle of footsteps rising from the hallway beyond. The man who had brought him earlier had made no sounds during their walk through the halls, but to talk his short, clipped sentences. His feet had made not a sound over the crumbling stone floors, nor over the rocky soil outside. Which meant this was someone else. Rho watched as Tarryn shuffled into view. That familiar scent, unidentifiable, mingling with rose blossoms, was suddenly explained. “Tarryn—” She looked slightly dazed, but aware of her surroundings. She started to speak, but then the other voice interrupted her. “So, you have met my other guest. She will be joining us.” Rho’s eyes burned into hers, questioningly, but received no answers. She stared back, empty. Where was the fire? Where was her anger? The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 387 The man was beside him now, Tarryn stood directly before him, directly before the flames, casting him partly in shadow, and leaving herself a silhouette. “Ah, yes. Place your hand here please.” The man’s hand was a warm touch against his flesh, leading his arm slightly from his side. He felt it sink into a shallow indent in the metal, as though the surface beneath his back had been made to fit him, to fit every curve of his body. When his other arm was lowered into place, this seemed to be confirmed. His body relaxed, and without realizing it, he legs parted slowly as well, until they too rested lightly in the shallow indents. The table rocked beneath him, a small movement, but it sent his already hurried breath on edge. His heart began to beat out of control, thundering inside his chest. The heat had returned. Tarryn had moved. Something didn’t feel right. “I think we are ready to start. If you would just stand here.” He must have been speaking to Tarryn, because obviously Rho was moving nowhere. “Ah, perfect. Now hold still.” Something hard pulled down on his wrist and legs. One quick movement. Fast and unexpected. Once more the surface of the table seemed to rock beneath him, a frantic back and forth movement. What was going on? “What—” he started, but never finished. The man placed a hand over his mouth. “Sshhh. Quiet now.” Rho eyes widened into orbs of shock as the man removed his hand. He couldn’t speak! Tarryn! Tarryn, god, please help me!! He tried to say, unable to see her, but knowing that she must still be there. What was happening?! Why was he tied down?! Rho fought against his restraints and they dig deeper into his flesh, cutting. The table lurched, his heart screamed, this time the movement didn’t stop. Slowly, very slowly, the table crept upward, and Rho watched the flames. Slowly they died. And the shadows crept in.

The Serpent

Darkness rules supreme in the wastes; that land between man’s waking mind and the one he finds in slumber. It is a land of lightless shadows, the dusky shade of a starless night. Forest through fog. The blackness of the sea through a storm on a cloudy night; the moon hidden so desolate in the sky above. It is highway absent the glowing stream of headlamps. A city without lights. A world without day. edited by Joshua Goudreau 388 The wastes; where Darkness rules supreme. Darkness, and things deeper.

No man is without evil—No man! And no woman either, for that matter; though a woman’s evil lies more closely bound to the art and tact of revenge—but the better ones know how to keep it at bay, how to restrain it. They fight the darkness on a daily basis, and hopefully win. Even the lesser one’s might fight those foul urgings, they might limit them to a degree. A purse snatching instead of a mugging. Lighting fire to an empty tenement rather than a cheap hotel. An attempt at murder, faltered by conscience, instead of the act itself. Lesser evils, but no less evil. Ground upon which to build a mansion. A sea upon which to sink their ship. Rarely does mankind, in all of its narcissistic, selfish nature, tap to the core of that hatred, to that singular existent doubt that buds like rose blossoms at its dark center. Rarely does one find that pit of self loathing and envelope themselves in it, so completely, that they become lost. Even rarer still is the man that returns; forever changed. In that pit we find our sociopath, our psychopaths, our mass murderers. Those that skirt its dark waters are only too soon to become the drowning faces they watch sink beneath the surface. What though, what difference, what transformation would become of him? What changes are wrought to the one who finds that pit, walks its edge—dips his fingers and returns? Not unscathed. No, never unscathed. But who would he be? What would he be? That man that once walked this earth before; arrogant, vain and conceited? Would he be changed? Yes. Would he learn from his mistakes? Doubtful. Would he still be human? From what pool of hatred and wrath could man truly ever escape? None. He could not. It is what we are. Those stagnant waters bubbling at the pits center, churned by the gasses of decay escaping from beneath, burning at the light—consuming it—are too close to that which lies beneath the skin of every man, beneath his flesh; so very close to his soul. Those liquids are like the purple flame of Caan’s black candle, like the shade of Sereph as she stands trapped before the gates of Denaih, trapped in indecision, trapped... in the shadows made of her soul. Perhaps that’s what they are; flames made of darkness, melodrama and deceit. —and false promises. For the devil knows no other dealings.

The serpent is in us all.

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Into the Light

~A thousand years have past, our time come round at last...

His eyes parted slowly and took in the evening chill as easily as it seeped through him; a cascade of fading light that sprinkled into the dark alley between rooftops far above. They took in the dark brick around him, the greasy splatters of garbage, the rat infested bins and overturned trashcans; spackled in hesitant dimples of sunlight. He felt the cold iciness of moisture beneath him, soaking through him. Not water, but wet. Things wet. So cold that they burnt. Beneath his tight, swollen fingers there was mud; grimy and shallow over the paved ditch they found themselves resting in. Beneath his nails caked dirt and darker things had made a home. Every part of him ached, every fiber of his being, from the marrow of his bones, to the depth of his soul—though the last he knew in his heart of hearts existed only in illusion—but for that first perfect moment of waking he remained blissfully unaware as to the cause. A light wind blew over his face, caressing the smooth angle of his jaw with a soft flair for the melodramatic. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that it brushed away the last cobwebs of his dream. Slowly his eyes slid closed. He sighed. His mind drifted. He felt a yawn coming and welcomed it with his whole body. After that pleasant second of empty thought he did what most people awakening from a bad dream did: he tried to move. He needed to get out of the bed. Loose of the sweat dampened sheets, the heat created by his own body’s unconscious exertion. He needed fresh air, unspoiled by stale sweat and fear. He needed water. Light. He needed to know that the world still existed around him. That the images from his dreams had not followed him into the waking world. He needed life, he needed to see other people from his tavern window, walking by on the streets below, hurrying busily about their middling lives. He needed to see the riverfront, and the trolleys, and the men; the seamen moving past like a washed up sheet of sail toward the docks. He needed to smell the saltwater, taste it on his tongue from the dark, disguised panes of his window— He just needed to see life. Away from the darkness. His arm moved slowly, deliberately toward his chest... but it didn’t. It only felt like it did. The man’s mind cleared a little then, like stepping through a thick fog to reveal a few more feet ahead; losing those few feet behind him. edited by Joshua Goudreau 390 He couldn’t move! His heart leapt toward his throat. His arms were trapped! ...and just as suddenly as it had sped, his heartbeat slowed. His arms weren’t trapped; they were tangled in the blankets that was all! Tangled in the— He attempted to move to roll to the side and free himself, and found that the movement was impossible. There was a weight on his chest, tight... crushing. Not crushing, uncomfortable; like slipping into clothes that were several sizes to small. Not the tightness, the simple feeling of them pressing against you, like a weight, a physical weight, but not. Slowly his mind shifted, drifting those last few feet to the conscious barrier that separated him so completely from the waking world. Those last few feet of fog dispersed, drifting apart like the low hanging clouds that they were, revealing once more the sunlight above, sunlight dappling over brick and mortar. He let loose a moan. No. It wasn’t possible. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Carefully he shifted himself, extricating one hand from its deep, grimy bed of sludge. He wanted to shudder, to choke on the smell of he-knew-not-what-but-could- only-imagine, but it was all a dream, it had to be a dream! It was a dream! Now wake up... wake up... wake up. ...switch-switch-switch! Very, very slowly he opened his eyes a third time and watched a seagull fly through the narrow strip of blue sky floating far above. —Gods it wasn’t a dream! —It had to be a dream! —it wasn’t! Despite the denial his hand continued to move, toward his chest, so he could remove the crushing weight of the blanket. What it found instead was thick, wet fur... a fur... a... blanket. —Oh, thank gods! He touched it, and parts ripped away beneath his fingers like well cooked flesh from a bone. The top layer peeled away, and what was left beneath was stinking and rotten. Some of those things beneath were creepy and crawly, and unidentifiable, and only thinking of what they might be made the man want to turn to his side and vomit, but he couldn’t; like an unseen force the blanket held him down. Finally he moved his eyes from that far off blue to a point closer, a point lower; perhaps, at last, willing—and forced—to admit that this was no dream. His body was trapped in a wet heap of rags; large, shapeless mounds of trash and debris. From his vantage point he could see none of the creepy, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 391 crawly things. He took a moment to thank all the gods he could list for that one small favor. Something went squeak near his face. He kicked out with his feet, swinging his arms and stirring maddeningly through the rubble, sinking deeper through the mud beneath him; looking for all the world like a drowning man attempting to reach the surface of a pond. His face was all shock and terror, and once more, none to briefly, his eyes were clasped tightly shut. The mound shifted, and spilt him out into the cold, dark day. Most of it seemed to shift between the man and the wall at his back, but a large portion followed him down the shallow mound—like a mudslide, or an avalanche, it coated his short but inevitable descent. He slid once more into mud, only this time felt it more uncomfortably as the unbelievable chill of it slipped through his back in a cosmic shock of startling, wide eyed, instant wakefullness surprise. He screamed in that surprise, and nearly jerked upright, started to— —jagged pains shot over him from the movement, climbing from his lower back upward. They were sharp enough to draw a hiss. To drop him back to the cold, wet, muddy ground. To make him move slower, with more care. He waited for the pain to dull, and then, more cautiously, turned on to his stomach, using the motion to place his knee’s beneath. They sang out with dull pops of complaint, but accepted the weight. The man heard more surprised shrieks, but this time used his concentration to ignore the sound. Carefully he drew himself upward, onto his haunches. The last of whatever rotten and disgusting trash had sheltered him slid away like reins down his back. Without the mound of garbage covering him, without the cold water at his back, with it now brushing lightly at the exposed soles of his feet, the frigid evening air rushed through him all the deeper. It shot down his arms and through his back and upward like ice from his feet, blanketing the last remaining fragments of that jagged pain, wiping it from his mind. For a moment his body arced in shock as the chill slid over him, then he was shuddering, struggling to his feet, collapsing against some hard, jagged surface and sliding down the grimy alley wall where the slickness of his hands could not seem to find purchase. He landed on his knees with a painful gasp, feeling the skin part, but also feeling more of the slick wetness the trash had left behind peeling away, as though in some part it was held in place, held to him. His hair slapped at his face like a wet curtain, disturbing and shocking, and he was forced to part it. The colorless strands were tangled and hardening into knots and he had to stop himself after several seconds. His body was shuddering, his teeth edited by Joshua Goudreau 392 chattering uncontrollably in his mouth, his breath was coming in raged gasps that left curtains of steam traveling upward through the air. Sweat glistened over his shoulders, beaded on his face. A cold sweat, fevered. In response his body’s shuddering exploded; wrapping through him, searching, probing, as though it suddenly sought to coat every muscle, every hidden vein of flesh. Finally he was forced to give up and clutch at himself, wrapping his arms tightly round his body for fear of shivering away. It wasn’t working. Something here, something in the alley, he’d gotten something in his hair and it wasn’t going to come out. It would never come out. His breath came hard and uneasy, choking down his throat as his body tried to breathe faster. He would never drink again. Never. Promises, promises everywhere, but not a one to keep... The man jerked from his memory and stared about the alleyway uncertainly. He was alone. The wind blew a second time and the sickly, wet strands slapped at his cheek. With fresh revulsion he lifted the clinging mess free of his eyes and redeposited it over his head, trying carefully to touch as little of it as possible. His eyes widened then, as things began to sink more clearly beneath the surface; where he was, what condition he was in, remembering briefly once more an evening upon which he had partaken of too much drink, and taken part in the expenditure of costless charm—a gratuitous imbibing of more than just the ale. He remembered women; many women—and how not a single one of them had ever rejected him— —had they? He didn’t remember. There were no pictures, no memory’s, to accompany the thoughts. Only feelings, emotions. An understanding of what might—and should—have been. The man looked down at his arms and was disgusted to see a clear, gel-like substance coating them. Water beaded over it and more than a bit of refuse seemed to have found a home in whatever it was. He moaned pitifully, twisting his face into the perfect mask of disgust the situation seemed to require, as he tried to rub it free, and came up with two great handfuls of the stuff. It ran in thin streamlets from his open fists, slowly descending toward the ground. He threw it away, going for more, running his hands crazily over his flesh now; over his arms, his shoulders, his face. He felt in clinging to his back and tried to scrape there as well, but could reach little of it, and when he tried there was that shattering pain once more, welling up, nearly forcing him to lean over and curl into a tight ball. Somehow he fought it—or more rightfully put; ignored it, by leaving it be. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 393 He wiped most of whatever it was that was all over him from his chest in one smooth motion. Most of what was in his hair was already dry and wouldn’t come loose. His face was locked in a low mask of horror, a moan of terror escaped his throat as he fought at whatever the disgusting substance was. He was forced to climb upward once more, or try to, in order to scrape the stuff from his legs, and froze. The wind blew at him, fiercer, colder now, catching the slick wet sheen that was left over most of his body and seemingly climbing beneath it, climbing beneath his skin. Sending a slick, icy chill over the lower half of his spine. He felt the air over his legs, though less distinctly, and looked down slowly, very, very slowly. To his feet; bare, cut and bruised, they were swollen in places, purple and yellow and disfigured, traced in veins and lines of dried blood beneath a layer of slick wetness and clinging dirt. To his legs, his white, thinly muscled legs, coated lightly in blonde hair. The skin was torn on them as well, but less severely. The bruises over his feet and toes climbed upward, leaving before them a yellowish purple tapestry of half circles and intricate lines traced over by a latticework of weltering, red scratches. His eyes traveled upward, upward over the intricate lines, the cuts, the bruises... the scars, of which he saw more than one or two, lightly hidden behind the flowering growth of what appeared to be baby fine hairs. The hairs over his legs had never looked that soft. Never, not since perhaps he was a child. Before he was a child. Before his first time. His eyes traveled upward past the scars, scars hidden beneath baby fine hair, and dirt and cuts and bruises and scratches, and the reddish welts of insect bites. Upward over calf and knee and thigh and— He was naked! The man’s head jerked with a self-conscious shock, scanning the alleyway a second time. He was alone here, but in the distance there were people; people traipsing like ants through the sun at the wrong end of a magnifying glass. They all seemed too distant. Too far away. Too impossibly far away. Looking from the sheltered darkness of the alleyway out into the bright rectangle of daylight burnt at his eyes— What was wrong with him?! Who was he? Had he been raped! What was he doing in an alley? Where were his clothes!? What was all over him? Who was he?! Oh dear gods, he didn’t remember who he was! “I... I have to go... I... uh... I... I...” He was mumbling under his breath and didn’t realize it. He stumbled loose of the wall and almost fell. His knees edited by Joshua Goudreau 394 threatened to spill him back to the cold hard stones, tumbling into the opposite wall stopped them. The alleyway was narrow, cramped enough that he could have touched both walls with his arms spread. Alternating red and brown brick tore the flesh from his palm and shoulder as he fell into them, but they kept him upright. He felt blood flow, and felt the burning sensation he had always remembered from falling as a child. Falling and skinning his knees. But this was different. It was the same, but somehow different. It didn’t make him want to cry. He no longer felt like screaming. It woke him up a little. Shocked him, sure. Startled him, yes. Gave him his name— —rho His name was row, no, rho. No. Rho. He was important. Important? ...was he? —wasn’t he? Okay, okay, he was Rho... what else? ...uh... Come on— Come on! —Okay! Okay. He had to calm down. What else?— He, um... He was... uh... —Ahhh! He couldn’t remember. He, uh... he needed to get help. He needed help. Help. Police— “Police.” The word was a dry whisper, barely spoken. His throat was cracked and swollen. The taste in his mouth made him nauseous. It was thick and bitter, and rotten, with a leaden weight that clenched at the back of his tongue like it’d been secured with a bit of rawhide. His throat felt like something too eager had run claws over the tender pink flesh, shredding it into thin, tight ribbons. The internal pain was no worse than the external, no more exaggerated, but it felt more personal. Maybe because it was inside. More a part of him. His hands were covered with the same thin cuts, the scabs, the same distended veins as his legs and feet. They ached and stung and burnt. The knuckles had dried and cracked. His mouth felt dry, disgusting; rotten. It tasted like spoiled meat. It smelled like the backroom of a butchers shop. He didn’t know how he knew that, what a butchers back room might smell like, but he knew it was bad. He knew the smell of punctured organs. He knew what the drain in the center of the floor looked like after a long hot day, what the air smelled like when the frozen blocks of ice could not defeat the oppressive heat... The reason the walls always seemed to stain The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 395 themselves yellow, even when they managed to remain clean. He knew the smell of rotting meat, knew it like it was second only to himself, and he knew that it fit the taste in his mouth and throat perfectly. But didn’t know how or why he knew. What had he been into? What had happened to him? What had he done? The questions were useless, but he asked them anyway. It was him asking, his mind, so he couldn’t interrupt in any case, even if the burdening silence that followed was even more disquieting than the questions themselves. The alley ended in a wide cobblestone street. Oil lanterns lined its sides, set on steel poles and guarded by thick sheets of glass designed to hopefully discourage any youngsters who might consider throwing rocks. It was still light out, but the sun was fading slowly toward the horizon. The lanterns had already been lit. The streets seemed abandoned. Only the windows of two of the businesses along its length yet remained lit. A bakery and a Merchants, the latter proclaimed itself loudly in bright red script painted over the stores large plate glass windows, the former by a small white sign hanging shyly over an untopped street lamp. Without realizing that he had moved, Rho found himself stumbling outward from the end of the alleyway, struggling over the uneven surface and grabbing at the nearest post as it came within reach. The metal was cold and hard in his hands. Real. An anchor. It was cold against his chest and legs, and he used it to build up his reality. To assure himself that he was someone, somewhere, and that all of this wasn’t simply a dream. Oh gods! If only it were a dream! For the second time without thinking he was moving forward. It was a fight to release his iron post; his anchor, but he saw another within reach, closer to the Merchant’s shop—closer to the bakery even, which was little more than a street’s width away. The short distance between the two of them was almost unbearable, immeasurable to his tired feet, but somehow he found the strength to remain upright. Almost having to hop to get the next within reach, Rho pulled up short, jerking backwards as the pain in his lower back returned yet again. It shot up his spine, bolting like lightning through his arms and legs, and splashed over the nerve endings that connected thought to his brain like a raging torrent. Nausea blew up his throat from his stomach, a tide of churning currents. The lightning boomed again, ripping at him, ripping at his sanity. He felt it peeling him away in layers, and screamed! The sound that came from his throat was desperate and crazed. It sounded barely human. It felt barely human. He was falling and the thunder was engulfing him, washing over him. It was becoming him. He screamed a second time, feeling the white sheets of electricity lance out, convulsing through his limbs— edited by Joshua Goudreau 396 —and he struck something. His fingers, nearly numb; dead, struck something. He felt his anchor, trailing like a bit of iron from the end of a long steel shackle. He felt it pulling him one way, but the lightning another. The lightning screamed for pain, for him to give up his thoughts, his memories, everything that he was in order to sate it. He felt the anchor calling out for serenity. It screamed peace. World. Reality. Life. It was a link to everything that he was. Everything he had been. And he had to choose. Death or life? Sanity or madness? Balance or chaos? His cold knuckles brushed over the forged iron. Black like coal. Like melodrama and deceit. ...gently down the stream... His fingers brushed over the coldness of one shackle or another. Mortality— —or immortality. Life— —or death. He didn’t care. All he wanted was out. He wanted away. He wanted to go back— —he just wanted everything back... everything back the way it was— Rho gripped the iron post in his arms and drew himself to it. He clung to it, rattling off hoarse breath after hoarse breath as he attempted to draw air into his starved lungs, but also to do it slowly so they wouldn’t burn. He learned quickly that it was one or the other; breath and burn, or choke and die. Live by the fire; or die by the light. It was all melodrama —merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream...... life is but a dream He chose the first. And with his decision the lightning receded like a flow of ice; retreating to that tiny flower of pain in his lower back, a rose petal, never quite vanishing, never wilting. Painful yet—even without its thorns— in its beauty. He still attempted to force his breathing to a slow and steady rhythm, rather than allow it to follow the crazy drumbeat of his heart, which pounded incessantly through his ears. He felt himself calming, and worked to drag himself back together. He still wished it was a dream, all a dream, but knew that it wasn’t. Gods, if only it were a dream! But it wasn’t, and he needed to stop thinking of it that way, no amount of wishing, or hoping, or praying to any of a million, jillion, gaza-ting-tang- tillion gods that had existed, did exist, or ever would exist, could change it. Whatever had happened, had happened. Whatever had been done, had been done. He was here, and that was that. The calmness settled over him and he breathed in slowly, letting the cool breeze caress his face as his eyes drifted closed The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 397 once more. ...if only it were a dream— —But it wasn’t. Why couldn’t he just accept that? Maybe because he wasn’t built that way. Maybe because he never had been... His breath came out in a sigh and Rho relaxed, leaning into his post. He took a deep breath and let it go. He felt peaceful... almost Slowly, his eyes relaxed, closing. His vision flickered. He blinked. Rho pulled himself upright, drunkenly, and stared about confused. The street was cast in phantom veils of twilight, yellow pools in a black sea of ichor and ink. Daylight had faded until all that remained of the heavens were the stars twinkling above. What little light the oil lanterns cast was meager, merely an assurety that civilization yet remained, a posture that it always had and always would exist. That no evil could ever truly destroy it. If only they knew— —if only they knew what? Rho shuddered, flashing back to what seemed like only minutes before when he had fallen in the alley... only this time, despite the sudden passing of day, he remained upright... he was no longer relaxed, instead he clung desperately to the iron post. The darkness pressed in around him, oppressive... like a tangible thing. He wasn’t surprised. He was beyond surprise. He was afraid. Despite the darkness Rho still found his eyes burning. Not from the air, not from a smell... it must not have been the light— The slight burning seemed to be beneath his eyelids, it seemed to be on the inside, where thin flaps of skin pressed into the whiteness of his eyes. It was something like standing in the way of a fire when the crosswind shifted the smoke directly into your eyes—another feeling never forgotten. It burnt, and stung, and brought a sheen of cleansing tears to the surface. Cleansing tears. Funny. That wasn’t what they felt like falling over his cheeks. —what had he done? His eyes stung, but the pain was no more intense than that produced from the air that flowed through his nose to strike the rawness in the back of his throat. That second pain, the rawness in his throat, drew his thoughts away from the tears... away from the meaning, of the tears. His eyes refocused on the building that was only a few storefronts down the street from him. The Merchants. Rho almost cried out when suddenly the windows of the bakery flashed into darkness, a sharp, shrill sound of desperation, tempered by the raw, dryness of his throat. He heard bells ringing, and in the fresh darkness watched a man exit the shop, close the door behind him and then turn to edited by Joshua Goudreau 398 lock it. Rho tried to scream, he tried calling out for help, but all he could manage was a weak rattle. His voice was gone. He almost fell again, in defeat, but the man was turning toward him. The next post came quickly, and the one after quicker, and the next... slower. But it put the Merchants only a pole away, and Rho directly in the path of the baker once he crossed the street. The pool of light he occupied dimmed, almost as if sensing him, the moment he stepped into it, and Rho felt the world shifting around him. The shadows cast from the buildings nearest him lengthened, spilling out into the streets like oily black ink invading the boundaries of a canvas, those created by the oily flames spittered and wavered iridescently, as though caught in some multi-colored, multi-hued breeze bent on tearing them away. There was no wind, or if there was it faltered, but the flames danced, and so did the shadows. Rho saw things moving, moving through the darkness, things that shouldn’t have been. Things that couldn’t have been. Things he couldn’t even describe, and didn’t want to. He saw their shadows, cast off buildings, emerging from between the cracks of the cobbles in the street, huddling in the inky blackness like puddles; that was enough. He didn’t want to see the things that had created them, he didn’t want them revealed to his eyes, no matter how much darkness there was there to leave them indistinguishable and oblique. Simply envisioning them, knowing they were there, if only in part, would destroy him... because the shadows where all they were... If he saw them, it would tear him apart, into the pieces staring at him out of the darkness. It would make him over, make him one of them. Make him not himself. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Did it matter? Did he really care? The shadows danced, and he thought... laughed. Calling out to him, calling his name, unmercifully; evoking him. Commanding him. Without reason his arms raised, palms up, held out toward the dancing darkness, held out in offering. As if in response he felt their glee. They gathered, the lengthening shadows, they gathered over the streets, along their length, in the alleyways, from the drains, climbing from the sewers. They gathered. Changing. Chanting. Calling out his name in steady cadence. Calling it out softly in rhythm, like a chant; ‘rho, rho, rho’ They reached toward him, the voices, the disembodied shadows... half concealed, half real, hiding. They reached from the darkness and called out for him... called out for him to come. Come to them. They called out for his soul... reaching. Feeling. Pulling— —back?!... Pulling back in recognition.? The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 399 —no. No! The man appeared out of the darkness, too close to be real it seemed, too sudden. Rho drew back and nearly fell, but he found arms there to catch him. He screamed, and struck out, fighting against the arms that attempted to gather him in. He felt the shadows, pulling at him, claiming him, calling out and trying to carry him away. They had come. He had come. He had found him, already, and come to take him away! And no! Rho didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to. He wanted his life back. He wanted himself back. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay. He had to stay. He had to smell the saltwater, he had to see the sailors, to see the docks from the grimy pane of glass in his room above the tavern one last time. He wasn’t going! They couldn’t make him! No! “No!” he screamed, striking out, and felt his bare knuckles meet a sort of soft, flabby resistance. There was a harsh exhale of air, the arms that had grabbed him were loosening, and then he was falling. He continued to struggle, all the way to the ground, until the very moment when it came up to meet him, and the shadows rushed in.

On a Bright July Morning

Bright morning sunlight streamed over his closed eyelids, burning, strangely relaxing. Rho lay there for a moment, in the warmth, watching the indistinct patterns of cerise and scarlet as they swirled and blossomed before him. Rose blossoms, he thought, and for one brief moment lingered on a time long past... rose blossoms in water, and sweet oils, warm, relaxing... He felt air, cool, but not too cold, drifting over his exposed shoulders, drying the sweat from his night terrors. They blew away the soft haze of his memory, and Rho cursed after them softly. His chest rose upward in the sigh of relief every dreamer parodies when they realize that they have survived yet another night of maleficent slumber, yet another confrontation with the incubus. The weight of the blanket settled over him afterward. The warmth of his bed pressed against him, spreading what body heat the worn mattress yet managed to contain. Beside him he heard the ticking of his grandfathers watch, a steady rhythm; ‘tick-tick, tick-tick. . .’ Counting away the seconds of eternity with an hourglass built of gears and springs. Rho listened to his heartbeat slow to match their rhythm; ‘tick-tick, tick-tick . . .’ edited by Joshua Goudreau 400 ‘thump-thump, thump-thump. . .’ ‘tick-thump, tick-thump. . .’ The last tremble of the nights terror seeped from his nerves. At last his muscles relaxed. His body sighed a second time, but now in gentle gratitude for the release of the stress he had kept it under; at least until he was sure. He was home. Safe. In his bed. It had all been dream. Only a nightmare. A terrible nightmare. . . “He’s moving.” Rho’s eyes jerked open, a spasm of movement that sent his vision swirling. The world curled around him, all soft edges trapped in a whirlpool of vertigo. He was going to be sick! He hardly managed to heave himself over the edge of the bed before he felt the contents of his stomach rising. He hit the floor hard but didn’t feel it. What he felt was the warm chunks that exploded from him, the thick, bitter tang of blood as it poured from his mouth. It hit the floor, splashed over his hands, splattered lightly back up into his face. Something brushed over his shoulder and he jerked away. He thought of his hair, briefly, and felt something holding it back; a tie. His eyes remained closed. His head pounded. The vibration washed over him, from his skull right down through his nerve endings, to his fingers and toes. His whole body seemed to throb... ‘tick-thump, tick-thump. . .’ And with every rhythm, every beat, his body grew increasingly warmer, hotter. His mouth yawned, jaw locked loosely in place. Warm bile slid along the corners of his mouth, but nothing would come up. He couldn’t breath and he was burning. His mind thundered like drumbeats, pounding, pounding, pounding for release from his skull. And the temperature rose, climbing, until it were as though he could feel his own skin reddening, swelling, unable to release the boiling juices churning beneath it. Something slithered across his back a second time. Something warmer, but cooler, than the thin silk strands of his hair. The pain in his lower back that seemed to have completely vanished, blanched out, slipping over the edge of his pelvic bone, curling around to the front. Creating a warm current that slipped so easily amongst the roiling contents of his stomach. It might have stopped there... it might have, but something else was happening. Something equally as uncomfortable, or worse. The sensation was that of a million tiny fingers, crawling over his body, all pressing outward at once, probing against the underside of his skin. The pain from his lower back dulled, and then returned hesitantly, fizzling up his spine like a strike of lightning—a strike of lighting through air thick with water and mist, trailing a sound that is more vibration that noise—faltering as The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 401 it reached his skull. When it fell back, receding, the pain was like spill of acid following in its wake. It threw him forward, thrusting him forcibly over his knees, sliding his hands through the grizzled remains of the contents of his stomach as he fought to keep himself upright. He tried to scream, but nothing would come out. The hunched form of his body spasmed into a thin, tight line. Before he could recover, something hard hit him in the back—something solid, and unexpected that dropped him from his knees. The hard line of his chest smacked the floor, somehow missing his vomit, striking cold stone instead. He kept his face up, his mouth locked. The muscles in his throat worked, but nothing could go out, nothing could go in. He was hit a second time, and then again, and again before he realized that it wasn’t his body creating the seemingly purposeless blows. It wasn’t his body wracking in pain, or spasming wildly. It wasn’t a repetition of the receding thunder strike. The blows weren’t coming from the inside. Unlike the tiny probing fingers—which seemed to have suddenly been shoved from the forefront of his mind, the forefront of his entire body really, as he realized with a sort of startled grace that their movement had stopped—this was a wholly external sensation. Physical. Real. He heard soft skin strike flesh—real, hard flesh—and the instant sense of burning that he remembered so well spread over the area just below his shoulder blades. It was a cold realism compared to his dreams... or had they been dreams? He was used to being slapped, not a lot, but once or twice was all a person really needed to have the sense of things truly knocked into them, to have the sensation ingrained into their brain. Slaps were real. The sound of a slap was real. His mind curled over that one fact: the sound of a slap was real. Slaps were real. The sensation of burning, of being slapped, was real. It was real. It was all real. And he couldn’t breathe. The sound of his heart pounding through his head had sped until it became one continuous roar. The roar of a waterfall. Of a thousand, million gallons of water falling every minute. Twice that every second. The sensation of a wind strong enough to rip you from the edge of sanity... to tear you off and carry you away. It washed over him, until it consumed him. It closed in. It enveloped him. It became him. Rho’s vision dimmed around the edges, a soft dim, light through fog dim, creating halo’s over everything. The pinkness of his vomit, splashed over the floor, splashed over his hand, reached out in soft pink fuzzies... soft enough to elicit an eery urge to reach out and pet it... to feel the soft... fluffiness... edited by Joshua Goudreau 402 Rho wanted to laugh, but he also wanted to throw up... but he couldn’t do both! Not at the same time! He couldn’t breath. The hand hit him a fifth time, and then a sixth, each time driving him lower, closer to the floor. Driving his face ever nearer to a particularly thick and plump bit of... half digested something. It was real... and meaty. Half chewed and raw. His ears popped and the ringing echoed to a dull silence. Almost at once, the pounding ceased... the rush, the thunder, the avalanche of white noise... It all vanished. The silence that followed was absolute... total... complete... It was darkness. The sound of the abyss. Rho thought that rushing, that thunderous explosion of noise, to have been the worst sound he had ever heard... the most painful. He was wrong. The silence that succeeded it was worse. It was immense... blanketing. It came like a drip of water, the fall of a pin. A hollowness. Empty. If he spoke—if he were allowed to speak—he felt the words would be ripped from his lips. They would be ripped from his throat. And he might never speak again. It sucked Rho in, took him back to the street. In a moment everything was gone. The smell of his vomit, the pink fuzzies... the burning hotness as a hand struck his back again and again... his vision. It burnt out like a light, like a torch that had used the last of its oil. It didn’t fizzle as the lanterns had the night before. It was just like someone had reached up and snuffed out the flame. Blackness rushed in. A closing circle. ...Rho didn’t even feel himself strike the floor... a second time.

Right Before the Truth Rushes In

Something long and solid slid up his throat. His stomach gave a lurch, twisting itself into a painful, pretzel knot. It felt like someone grabbed his guts and squeezed... two great big handfuls of fleshy intestine, wrung out. He thought the darkness was all consuming. He was wrong. Pain rushed in. Pain that he had thought himself hidden from. Pain that he had thought the blanket would take care of. He didn’t think that he would ever feel pain again. Not once the shadows reached him... not once He found him. The thick ruddiness of it slid up his throat, tightening the torn, scarred flesh. Tearing it. Burning as it climbed his throat. He felt it reach his esophagus, felt it shoving at his larynx... realized that his mouth was still locked open, that he was unable to move... unable to breathe. His body wanted to breath, it screamed for it... but it was a The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 403 disconnected scream... an absent scream. Heard down a tunnel... in the dark... alone at night when you won’t look back... when you don’t look back. When no one looks back. When it reached his mouth there was no more sliding to be done. It splashed from his mouth, sickly and sweet, followed by a hot wash of cleaner stomach acid, more yellows, less red. Mixing with the foaminess of the that which had come before, mingling. Someone held him upright. Their arm pressed tightly into his chest and he felt their body against his side. Breathing. It was too solid, to strong to be anything but a man’s arm. He noted absently that they must also have been kneeling in his vomit. This thought disturbed him... briefly. It didn’t matter. All that did was that he could breathe. He could breathe! His body felt like screaming out in exclamation!... Yes, he could breathe! Light returned... slowly. Spackled heavily in more reds, darker reds... maroons and magentas. The edges were still soft, but blanketed in a checkered pattern of blacks and whites that didn’t seem to be sure which way they should swirl. A hand continued to strike him in the back, hard, unhurried. He was coughing. Maybe that was why they had slowed. His vision came back in a blur that was both a godsend and a curse. He could see! His body screamed. And then he saw, and he wished he’s stayed blind... or at least that everything had soft... that the world had stayed soft. The hand that struck him stopped and he didn’t notice. The arm that held him upward remained, but maybe only because whomever couldn’t see what he could see. Rho blanched. His face had been red from the exertion, the strain on his body. It paled almost instantly. China white. The color of death. Rho whimpered. Where his hands had struck the last time, where they had slid over the slippery wet surface, they had cleared the stone flooring in two long but thin streaks. The floor beneath was a flat gray stone. The vomit on top was red, viscous, and tended to be on the verge of too thick to run, so the streaks had remained clear. The streaks, right below where his face hung. Right below where his throat had at last cleared. Over the cold, hard floor. Made of stone. Dull gray. He could see pebbles, red, green, spackled, trapped in the surface... trapped flat, squished flat. Stained by his vomit, but cleared. He saw more. Red lumps. But his body willed him not to see. It willed whatever that was to not make sense. To not be anything that he might recognize. It willed him not to look, but he was helpless. He couldn’t not look. He couldn’t not see. He couldn’t not... see. —a finger. Tiny, fragile, almost clean. The nail painted a dull shade of pink. Beside it rested another, and the skin holding them together was almost non-existent. edited by Joshua Goudreau 404 —Oh God, No! Oh... Oh, God! Oh God, what had he done?! The one who had spoken, a woman, was screaming. The man dropped him. His face came within inches of the delicate... members. They loomed in his vision, talismans from which he could not escape... proof of what he was. What kind of monster he was. Rho heard the man leaving the room, but couldn’t bring himself to respond to the threat. He sensed what was happening, his body did, and it tried to respond, but he was too weak. The warmth in his chest fluttered a little, eager, but showed no further intent of spreading. The sliver of pain in his back gave a light, theatrical cackle, and fell silent. Completely silent. Far off, almost like a distant memory, Rho heard steel clearing leather. He heard the man coming, and couldn’t bring himself to stop the descent he knew must surely come. He couldn’t bring himself to stop the blade. He wouldn’t have had he been able. His eyes were frozen, trapped. He could not look away. He couldn’t. Other bits and pieces revealed themselves. He didn’t want them to, but they did. They organized themselves in his vision. They became... and once they became... once they were seen... they couldn’t be unseen... The woman screamed, and the man began shouting too. Rho heard not what they said. He hoped for a quick death. A clean death. A death without pain. A death without memories. But they came rushing in.

And the woman was screaming. Screaming something over and over again as Rho felt the world shifting around him. As his anchor was ripped away. As his mind was ripped away. He heard the woman screaming. The sound of the man’s blade rushed in at him, the disturbance of the air as it sliced through was like a roar of thunder. He heard her voice. One word. Repeated over and over again. But he hears not what the word is... As chaos drifted over him...

And Shadows Wash Away

Rho awoke cold, wet, alone... and naked. He always slept naked. It wasn’t a dream. He’d given up on that fantasy. He wasn’t sure if he would ever dream again. Nightmares, yes. Nightmares that were really neither night nor mares at all—not in the sense of the word, but maybe in sense of other things. They would be reality. Cold. Harsh. Evil. Reality. They would be death. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 405 He would be destruction. Together they would be real. Inseparable. Tragic. Together they would be immortal. Together they were. He rolled to the side and waited for the floor to shift with him, but it didn’t. He tried opening his eyes and found the world dark. Moonlight swam over the floor in pale white lines, separated by the cross-bars of a window. From where Rho lay he could just see the ashen white sliver, glimmering in a star filled sky. He was tired. His body ached. The churning in his stomach had ceased. He felt relaxed. At peace. No more pain. No more tears... no more fears. After a moment Rho returned to his back. He stared up at the ceiling and watched the patterns made there. Watched the darkness dance and swirl. The shadows clung tight to their edges. Hiding in corners... behind shelves. They seemed timid, afraid. Thinking that made Rho smile. It made him happy. Though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe they should be afraid. Maybe they should hide. He didn’t like them, but they were him. He was them. He hid from himself. Rho wasn’t sure how much time had passed. As in all that was to come he found he didn’t really care. He would never care again. Slowly he breathed in. Not relishing the motion. Not caring that it meant he would live. That it meant he might live forever. Everything he was, everything he had been, was gone. It was past. What more was there? What reason to move on? To continue on? What reason was there for him to live? —none When at last he moved it was not to rise, it was to find the merchant’s blade. The leather wrapped pommel lay close to his face, freshly oiled, smelling sweet. He picked it up. In his hands it seemed small. The long blade was too thin, too fragile, too easily broken... like life. Rho laid his finger over the blade and skin parted. There was no feeling. No pain. His eyes watched the blood flow from his finger down over his palm and then his wrist. He felt nothing. He was nothing. There was nothing of him left. The blade touched his throat, parting the skin easily, too easily. He felt it slide beneath the surface. Hot flesh closed over it, welcoming it. Rho felt teeth, felt claws, tearing... rending flesh. He felt their hot blood flowing over edited by Joshua Goudreau 406 him... flowing through him as he drank. He felt that blood now, mingling with his own where it had splashed over the cold steel. Rho waited. His heart beat steadily. Quiet. Unafraid. It waited. Would he live or would he die? It didn’t care. One way or another it would keep beating. Keep beating until the very end... when the last of the warmth faded from his body. It didn’t care. Neither did he. He faltered. It did not. Slowly Rho set the blade aside. He wiped their blood away. The wound had closed. The darkness gathered round him and he welcomed it in. Slowly he rose.

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The White Room by Amanda Langdon

I’M LEFT TO MYSELF AGAIN, ALONE IN THIS ROOM WITH ITS pale walls and speckled, polished floor. I’m here with my blue chair, stiff plastic designed to make a body ache if one does not shift consistently. I’d like to get up, pace the room, run my hands through my hair and tug as hard as I can so I know this isn’t a dream. But getting up from this chair isn’t an option. No. I must sit here, shifting against cold plastic, waiting, wanting, feet planted on the ground. I’m left to my imagination. I wonder what the room would look like painted green, carpeted, a couch pressed against the far wall and a few pictures hanging by the door. The door, I think, should stay white to symbolize what this room used to represent and still can if precautions are not taken. I wonder what my toes would look like painted red. Bright red. It would add a little contrast against my bare skin and the pale floor. I shift, missing the warmth I had known moments before. Those fingers that had tangled through my hair and the lips that claimed mine, strong fingers, trained so that they could be the softest, most provoking presence, or the harshest. In my mind we are kissing, and you can’t help but want what I have to offer you just as I need what you have to give me. We slip into oblivion together, unconscious of everything other than each other. My fingers feel your body as yours torture mine. I shift, letting eyes wander to the square of the room where you installed a mirror. I can see how desperate I am, it reeks off of my body like perspiration. My eyes are wide and sharp, green. My hair is loose, messy, edited by Joshua Goudreau 408 tousled over my shoulders, dirty brown. My body arches, and I watch the curve of my back lift from the chair, the welts you’ve given me are barely visible from this distance, this angle, but their burn is a reminder, especially when they collide with the cool plastic of my chair. And I know you’re watching too. You know I hate this. This room. This chair. What have I done to be treated so? I’ll take pain, I’ll take torture, but this room. I hate this room. It’s so white, so bland. It’s like a cell and I’m left alone wanting to touch, wanting to wander, but you’re watching me and I can’t get up from that chair. I can’t release this urge. All I can do is stare into that mirror, pretending your eyes are where mine are, hoping my desperate, fixed look will show you how sorry I am. How much I need to be out of this room. I have to beg with my eyes and my body because my lips are not permitted to move, not for speech anyway. Several minutes later I hear your hand at the door. It isn’t locked, it can’t lock, I could have left any time I wanted, but I didn’t, because you wouldn’t like it if I did. My eyes fall to your boots, and I can feel your weight around my neck. You touch me without touching me, and I’m reminded of the day you slipped your name around my throat and claimed me as your own. “Was your stay that pleasant? That you smile so?” I shake my head, squirming with the urge to feel you against my skin. “Mm. Fantasizing, dear?” I nod, bashful. I can hear your smile and my heart sinks as you pull back from the doorway, afraid you’ll close it and walk away, leaving me to myself again. Leaving me to my fantasies. Leaving me to my own caress, wishing it was yours. “Come, I want to hear what you’ve been thinking about.” My heart skips, suddenly I feel as cold as the chair, frozen in place, too thrilled and terrified to move, then hot enough to melt the thing to the floor. I can taste my anticipation and nearly lose myself in it. “I’m waiting.” I wouldn’t want to make you wait. “Yes, Master.”

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Laraia’s Lyre by Lone Wolfy

THE WINDS SIGHED IN THE EARLY EVENING DUSK AS Laraia sped through the woods, following her companion. Carad Alu led her on paths known only to him from making his residence in the forest. He had to duck beneath many more branches than she, to avoid rustling them and making further noise. Her once white robes clung around her to her thin, ragged frame, and the hem dragged along behind her on the ground. She kept snatching back the hood of her dark brown cloak up to cover her long, wild red hair - a dead giveaway to whomever might be following them. Her violet eyes - like her emotions - flashed back and forth between anger, anguish, and determination, as they continued their flight. Out of the corner of her eye, Laraia snuck a glance at her ally. His black braids flew behind him because of his speed, and his piercing gold eyes swept over the forest around them as he keenly watched for any foes that might lie in wait. The two had been forced together by powers beyond their control, but she began to truly appreciate the accompaniment he lent to her. They tried to be as silent as they could as they ran through the woods, away from a terror that she began to feel she would never get away from. Swiftly, Laraia raced along as fast as she could to try to keep up with her long-legged companion. Once in a while, Alu would halt, to use his learned skills and erase their tracks. It seemed as though they would run forever, until Alu suddenly halted. Laraia had almost no time to stop, and slammed straight into him. Fortunately, Alu’s size allowed him to stay upright; he twisted instantly to catch her before she crashed to the ground. He pointed into a different direction than the one they had been traveling in, and they proceeded to pass cautiously through a briar of strangely colored lime green edited by Joshua Goudreau 410 roses, and into a small clearing in the middle of the hedge. It was here that Alu nodded to Laraia, and they both sat down as he listened carefully to make sure that the trackers had been fooled by his ruse. Laraia’s chest heaved and shuddered as she caught her breath. She waited for Alu’s nod approval before she spoke. In a thickly accented voice, she said, “Now, I mus’ thank ye for ye’er assistance, sir, though I canna’ think what it migh’ gain ye for helpin’ me, ‘cept a rope in the gallows.” She reached into a pouch tucked away inside of her long robes, and pulled out some bread she had managed to scavenge from a table before her flight. She offered a piece of it to Alu, who hesitated but did take the offering to be polite. She had noticed that he was well built yet lean and very tall, and he was very stern and commanded much attention. She did not mind - she had never been a leader; but then she had not expected to find an ally on her flight from certain doom. Alu was watching her curiously, before he finally spoke. “Might you say, what beast fly you from?” She saw him glance her over, and knew that she did not look like the typical forester or hermit that one would find deep in a forest. Sighing, she said, “Nay, sir, I flee from no beast. I fly towards freedom, an’ away from th’ men o’ th’ village I grew up in. Me mum - may the Gods bless her soul – an’ I lived together in our cottage.” She began to sound increasingly distressed and angry as she continued to speak. “We ne’r did anythin’ ta anyone, but then these strange men moved inta th’ village an’ took it o’er. Me mum works -- worked, th’ magic, an’ was teachin’ me ta do the magics too; an’ those men was scared of us fer it, tha’s what me Mum tol’ me. Then she says ta me, ‘Lass, I learned yeh all I kin – ye’ll hafta fin’' ye ‘nother teacher. But ye’ll hafta go to ‘nother place ta fin’ someone ta teach yeh.’ Ne’er knew what she meant, at first.” Laraia paused, her gaze toward a rose glowing in a ray of light near her head, but obviously not having her mind on flowers or sunshine. In a softer voice but with a very lethal edge to it, she continued, “As I say, th’ men was afrai’ of th’ magics. An’ jus’ a couple o’ days ago, me mum wakes me up in th’ middle o’ the nigh’. She puts our mos’ worldly thin’s into me pouches, an’ tells me ta pack some food from th’ table. She loads me up, an’ hands me the Lyre – Mum’s mos’ powerful magics come from th’ music of th’ Lyre – an’ she says ta me, ‘Lass, Laraia m’ love, ye mus’ run as fast as ye can this night. It has been show ta me through deep magics tha’ this place isna safe anymore. Ye must run towards the risin’ sun, run for two days, an’ ye shall run into a lone tall man of gold eyes tha’ pierce the sun’ - at this, she paused to look at him – “She says, ‘An’ he will help ye to fin’ the Land o’ the Stars, where lives others tha’ might show ye deeper magics than I know.’ I jus’ looked at her. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 411 “I was ‘fraid ta be alone with those men ‘round - they who employ the men chasin’ us – an’ I says, ‘But, Mum, ye'll come with me, aye? I canna leave ye here!’ She shook her head at me: she used th’ magics an’ ported me ou’ of th’ house in ta th’ back garden near th’ wood, an she said through tears summat I will ne’er forget – ‘Daughter, r’member ye be beloved of all daughters - no mum has e’er been a’ proud of ‘er daughter as I am now. Run, for th’ men be comin. I be keepin’ them away from ye, run two days toward the sun.’ As I looked a’ her, she said, ‘Go! I will try ta meet ye if I kin, I swear it!’ An’ that was the last time I e’er saw th’ strongest woman I ever knew... as I run ‘way from there, I hear th’ screams of men an’ me mum. I knew I couldna e’er see me mum again; an’ I couldna bring meself ta turn an’ look. Was too much ta bear.” Laraia had fire in her eyes - she seethed of anger at the men who had murdered her mother. After a moment, she calmed, and looked right into Alu’s eyes. She said, “Were ye not th’ man me mum sen’ me to fin’, I woulda killed ye - or died tryin’ – righ’ when I met ye. I only tell ye’ my story, because I be an honest woman young as I am, an’ I need ye ter trust me to take me to th’ Land o’ the Stars.” For she believed, as most people did - although most humans believed that elves were mythical themselves, except that one was standing right in front of her - that elves lived in the Land of the Stars, where the stars rested during the day with the Moon, before they rose again in the evenings to light the sky through the night. As she watched Alu, she thought she saw him flinch just for an instant - but the look was gone as quick as it had come, and he had his wall back up. Since he had met up with her in the early morning hours - with her tripping on a root and landing in one of his bear nets accidentally - all he had told her was his name, Cared Alu. She knew it was elven, as he was very obviously elven himself; however, she did not know what it meant. He had not told her much else, only directions that he barely more than mouthed to her after he’d discovered that the men were still following her. Alu looked at Laraia, and without flinching again, stated – “Know I a path to the Starlands from this place, yes. Point you in the right direction, I can, and take you to the border. Cross onto the land, however, I cannot. Banned am I from the sacred earth of my ancestors, the Starlands, by my brethren; for an affliction of my mentality, that I am punished.” Alu became quiet, and Laraia had the feeling that she should not ask for more information than that. The man gave her the distinct impression that he would share with her relevant information, when he felt it would be useful to do so. He was a very stern and serious man, but a private man as well. Laraia had never been much good at chatter and speaking, but she knew that it had been wise of her beyond her fourteen years to share what she'd experienced with this man. She had been convinced from the moment edited by Joshua Goudreau 412 she had seen him that this was, in fact, the man her mother had spoken of. Her mother... she felt the rage rising again as she thought of her mother, Tarilith, and those screams of pain and anguish, growing fainter as Laraia fled from the cottage before dying out instantaneously. Her mother was not a violent woman, but Laraia knew she died with honor; secretly, she hoped Tarilith had taken some of those bastards to the Underworld with her. Laraia pulled out her waterskin and drank one deep draft from it, remembering she might need to conserve a little. Gingerly, she held it out in offering towards Alu, but he graciously declined. “Save it for a harder time, you should.” She thought for a moment of how terrible her robe looked; but then, very sternly, reminded herself that her childhood was now but a mere memory, and she ought to have more than just her appearance on her mind. She slipped off her boots, and rubbed her feet for just a moment, before replacing them and beginning to stand. Alu motioned for her to wait; he slipped back through the brambles and disappeared. Moments later, he called out, “Now, ‘tis alright,” and she took the opportunity to crawl through the rose hedge and return to a less prickly path. She stood up next to him, and the two started off again - this time, walking at a much easier and steadier pace. As they walked, Laraia snuck glances towards Alu. She noticed that he was watching her, almost appearing to study her every feature and movement, and she began to grow a little uncomfortable. She knew she was almost of a marrying age; her mother had been married at 15, and had given birth to her one and only child two years later. There had been a couple of boys that she had been close to, although they had only seen her in secret - since her mother was a ‘black sheep’ and it was frowned upon for any of the other children to be near her - but none compared to the attraction she suddenly felt for this man. Alu's tall and built, but thin, frame told of many years that he had spent taking care of himself in the wilderness - he possessed not even a pound of flesh which was not muscle. His eyes, gold and piercing, also seemed to have a spark of gentleness towards her. Laraia could tell that he felt obligated to help her because she was so young and inexperienced, but she in some way wished that the reason was a bit more personal than that. Shaking her head, she rebuked herself for taking her mind off of her task, and firmly restated her vow to avenge her mother and bring honor back to their family.

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Fairydust by Therese Kai Foxx

A MILLION WINGS FLUTTER WILDLY, BLINDING ME AND beating against my unseeing eyes, and I have to remind myself that I’m crazy and only two of those wings are real. My right hand rises unbidden and beats back, ending the illusion and knocking the monster to the floor next to me. I flinch away from it for another moment. Then my sane mind kicks in and I feel pity for it, if only briefly. It flails desperately against the wall, the fragile wings that so recently tormented me suddenly broken. I hug my knees to my chest and watch, waiting for it to die or explode into my deluded senses again. It does neither immediately, dancing pitifully and casting ugly, flickering shadows in the lamplight. My index finger toys absently with a hole in the knee of my jeans and I wonder what to do. The creature seems to let out a dry sob, not with sound, but with movement. It is still for a moment. I heave a sigh of relief, but then it begins to flail again. Part of me panics, and I clutch at the sides of my head, pulling at my hair as if that will make it all go away. It doesn’t. It dawns on me that if I want to be left alone, I have to either kill it or put it outside. Putting it outside means touching the little beast. But if I kill it, it might wriggle into my mind and continue its dance there, writhing forever until all my blood flows out my ears and into the foam I’ve used to plug the air conditioning vent in the floor and I can’t breathe. I’ll have to put it outside. But I don’t want to touch it. I dig a pen—drained of ink, of course, so it can’t explode and make a mess of my pockets and fingers—out of my jeans and with a string of muttered edited by Joshua Goudreau 414 ‘oh God’s, I slide the instrument, my lifeline, under the monster, trying to pick it up. It doesn’t work. I need another pen. I don’t have another pen. Oh, Jesus, I have to touch it. I extend a shaking hand and take the corner of one of its delicate wings between thumb and forefinger, shuddering at the thought of its fairydust coating my skin. I unfold from my crouch in the corner, holding the twitching thing as far away from myself as I can, and step over my mattress across the room to the window, dropping the creature hurriedly on the sill. I only open the window a crack. I don’t want any of its ugly little friends to follow it inside. Before doing anything else, I wipe my fingers off onto my jeans. My skin still crawls as I put forth my pen to flick it out into the open air. I stop just before the utensil reaches it, my gaze locked on the pathetic little thing as its movements finally slow. The tip of the rod that I have to wish was longer hovers half an inch away from it, then retracts gently as it drags itself back toward the room, toward the light, away from the open window. Even that motion is sluggish and half-hearted, as though it knows the darkness it tortured me to get away from is stronger than it is. I wipe the pen off on my shirt and slide it back into my pocket carefully, biting my bottom lip and wondering if I should do anything about this. I don’t think of anything in time. It dies. I nudge its awkwardly bent corpse out the window and close that, and then I return to my corner and sink to the floor. I pull my knees up again, resuming my previous position, but staring blankly at the marks it left on my wall and floor, the streaks of fairydust that I’ll have to clean away eventually. Dirty little creatures. I can’t just leave the marks there. I can’t. They’ll remind me of the little monster forever. Oh God, oh God, now it’s in my head, now it’ll dance there forever, and a million wings will blind me beat against my eyes over and over again, and all the blood will flow out of my ears and sink into the foam in the air conditioning. Oh God, oh God. I stagger to my feet and cross the room to the little box on the floor next to the mattress. I open it and take the handkerchief off the top, kneeling in the corner and wiping frantically at the dust. It won’t come off. I rub at it in desperation. It wipes away, and then reappears a moment later. Wipes away. Reappears. A dozen times, it comes back, it won’t stay gone, oh God, what do I do? By the time it comes off, the handkerchief is covered in the shit. I pull the cover off of the vent and remove the foam, dropping the soiled cloth down the vent and replacing both. Shaking, I go back to my corner again. The dust is gone. Thank God. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 415 But it’s still there, in the back of my mind. I shake my head and it leaves, annoyed by the rattling of my brains. I sigh, relieved. Exhausted, I crawl over to my mattress and pull the sheets off of it, shaking them out just in case. I can’t risk any of the monsters crawling up and down my legs while I’m asleep. What if they found their way into my mouth and laid their eggs in my stomach and ate my intestines from the inside out? Definitely can’t risk it. Satisfied that there aren’t any amongst the folds of the cloth, I remake my bed and curl up on it tightly. My mind wanders around for a while before circling restlessly and settling down, and I fall asleep. I dream. A hundred little monsters beat their delicate wings wildly against my mind. I’m blinded. All my blood flows out of my ears and into the air conditioning. Blood in the air conditioning. And, fleeing the darkness pitifully in my dreams, a hundred moths die slowly, leaving their fairydust plastered on my walls forever.

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Teddy Fiend by Saffron van Helsdingen Brink

“WE’D JUST LIKE TO GET A SHOT OF YOU AND THE BEAR,” said the newspaper photographer. “Yes, there, in front of Bailey’s Antiques so that we can get the sign for the charity auction behind your left shoulder.” The flash left Maeve with its negative impression imprinting a little blank spot in her vision for a couple of seconds. She grinned widely, projecting as much of what she considered sexiness into her ruby lips and tossing back her voluminous fox-red curls. The photographer snapped off quite a few more shots of her and then took down her details. “The picture will appear in The Daily Announcer tomorrow and probably in a couple of the community papers this week,” the photographer remarked. “My goodness, Mr. Grimm the Bear is even scarier in person, Miss Masterson. I remember having nightmares about him when I after watching that programme he was in.” “Ja, I loved that programme too,” Maeve gushed. “I’m so glad that I beat that nasty old businessmen in the bidding.” “What are you going to do with him, if I may ask?” “Oh, I’ll clean him up a little, and stitch back his eyes.” She held up the matchbox containing the bear’s eyes, letting the glass objects roll about and clink a little. “I can’t imagine why anyone would remove his eyes.” The photographer just shrugged and shook her hand and she was pleased to note that his grip wasn’t quite as firm as when he first requested her picture. “Well, then that’s that, Miss Masterson.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 417 “I’ll check the paper tomorrow, then. Thank you. Be sure to make them choose a nice shot.” She grinned, fixing the slender man with The Look. “I will indeed,” he said, blushing as he packed away his camera. Maeve got a kick from watching people’s faces as she walked back to the car park. All the way down Long Street, she received varied reactions. “Oh my god, that’s Grimm the Bear, she’s got Mr. Grimm,” or “Isn’t that lady carrying that evil bear from that Hennie’s Horrowshow?” Some kids, who quite clearly were too young to remember, sneered at her as she spirited away her prize. After all, what would an eccentric woman wearing a purple velvet dress in her late twenties be doing walking in Town with a teddy bear in her arms? She knew that the silly grin plastered over her face looked a little too smug but, at this point, she couldn’t care. She’d gone to a lot of trouble, and spent a considerable amount of capital to invest in this infernal little treasure and she really wasn’t interested in some of the looks of disgust. Mr. Grimm wasn’t that scary, she thought, admiring his charcoal-hued fur. He was about as big as a newly born infant and, strangely, as heavy. Compared to most run-of-the-mill teddies, Mr. Grimm had been designed to look more bear-like than toy-like. His paws were held up stiffly, as if he were about to reach out, and they even had little ivory claws attached to their ends. Individual pads were detailed in black suede. It was a pity that one of his teeth was missing, but she had a splinter of ivory at home that she could carve down to replace the absent canine. He was stuffed with what felt like pellets, and was padded out with something softer, probably synthetic stuffing. Yes, he was a little tatty… he no longer sported his infamous purple bow tie and just didn’t seem as malevolent without his glittering yellow eyes. It was the eyes, she thought. She remembered the opening sequences of the TV show from when she was a little girl of six. Ma had let her stay up late to watch the horror show each Thursday evening and she recalled how the camera had panned across the diorama, starting and finishing with the teddy bear that everyone loved to hate. He’d become something of a legend and, when the show’s props had finally fallen under the hammer after having disappeared into pre-Apartheid obscurity for nearly a decade, Maeve had been determined to obtain this remnant of her childhood. Mr. Grimm was the reason that Maeve had pursued her career as a witch. He would definitely be a talking point when she opened her shop in August.

Fixing up the bear was a pleasure. She wiped down the soft fur with a warm, damp cloth and grimaced when she saw exactly how much dirt had dulled the shine. Upon stitching up a small puncture mark over his chest, she discovered that the bear was, indeed put together from real fur. edited by Joshua Goudreau 418 “My dear Mr. Grimm, it looks as if someone tried to impale you,” Maeve said, as she tied off the last stitch. She had yet to finish with his eyes. That would be the masterstroke that would bring him to life. However, it was with a certain amount of reluctance that she opened the matchbox. Two golden, slitted eyes glared accusingly from the cotton wool. “Dare I complete you?” She murmured to the bear. It was getting late. The cuckoo clock was close to striking six and Tobemory, from where he perched on the velvet-enshrouded divan directly opposite her, was already fixing her with his own version of The Look. “Ag, you can wait, Tobemory. You are uitgevreet*, in any case.” She tipped the bear’s eyes out onto her palm and almost recoiled from the shock when she discovered that they weighed a lot more than what she’d expected. They were also cold, frightfully cold, as if they’d been left in the deep freeze overnight. All the hair on the back of her next stood up. Disembodied, the golden depths of the glass seared her retinas. She blinked. It hurt just looking at the baubles. Now I know... she marvelled. There is a real reason as to why people are so scared of you... I must find out what is behind this. She deftly grabbed some of the thicker, waxed thread and found the spots where the bear’s eyes had been. Before she was even done, Tobemory hissed and emitted a low, grumbling yowl. “It’s just a bear, Tobemory. Granted, he is an unusual bear but you should be used to weird goings on around here by now.” Tobemory laid back his ears, crouching and tensed to leap from his seat. His mackerel tabby fur stood on end and his pupils nearly drowned the emerald of his eyes. He sniffed, as cats are wont to do when faced with something unpalatable. “There, all done now,” Maeve stated, pulling the last eye into place and snipping the tail end of the thread. “Welcome back Mr. Grimm. I hope you enjoy your new abode.” Tobemory departed for the kitchen. Mr. Grimm’s eyes stared back at her, glittering quite dramatically in the dusk. Shadows seemed to lengthen around her and it grew perceptively colder. “Brrrr... Well, Mr. Grimm. You can sit there on the divan. I’m going to go and fix some dinner. I don’t want any trouble now, you hear.” Her witch senses were screaming out at her that there was something just a little more sinister about this bear. And yes, there was a definite presence about him. However, she was not about to let on that he scared her. It was no good to give fiends a half-inch of realisation that you were actually afraid of them. Somewhat reluctantly, she placed him on the divan and fixed her

* Uitgevreet means ‘well-fed’ and carries connotations of being greedy. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 419 supper.

Even while she prepared her and Tobemory’s meal, her eyes were constantly drawn to the sitting room beyond the kitchen door. The silence was just too solid. Another dead give-away was the build-up of pressure in her ears, almost as if there was a giant overhead fan whup-whupping above her head. She grinned. This would be fun. It would prove more of a challenge than dealing with Mrs. Kaagman’s stubborn poltergeist.

“All right, enough of your brooding malevolence, Mr. Teddy Bear. We don’t have to put up with this charade. I know that you’re not an ordinary bear and you know that I’m one of those people who can speak to you. Show yourself.” Tobemory had absented himself from this little discussion, but it did not matter. She felt more than capable in dealing with the entity on her own. Although she’d lit several candles and had kindled the fire, the light still struggled to push away the darkness that this toy drew around itself. It also grew colder, and the flames struggled to leap up, as they would have, ordinarily. Outside, the rain battered against the small, rectangular panes of glass and the wind tormented the limbs of the oak before the window making dark shapes leap and plunge before the window. She placed Mr. Grimm on the coffee table before her, in between two lit tapers made from pure Klein Karoo beeswax. She’d set some frankincense on the incense burner, and the fresh resin pervaded the room. Silence prevailed. She glared at the bear, and the bear stared back at her, pressure building in her ears. “Oh, all right,” said the thing eventually, in a thin, raspy voice. “You win. You caught me out.” Maeve smirked. “I knew it, Mr. Grimm. The minute I held your eyes in my hand, was certain. Now the question remains as to what I shall do with you. A find such as this is surely rare.” Was it a trick of the light, or did the bear twitch? “I want to be rid of this body,” came the reply. “I want to be able to freely move of my own volition. I want to feel sun on real skin. You can get me a body. Yours will do nicely.” “Not so fast, Mr. Grimm. I am rather attached to my body. Now, however, I’m willing to do a bit of hunting to find something that is as suitable and... as convenient. If you are willing to do a few favours for me.” “What sort of favours?” “Like the genie in the bottle. You know that story, don’t you?” The bear emitted a little growl. It was a chilling sound, like metal being dragged across a chalkboard. edited by Joshua Goudreau 420 “It can be done, oh magical mistress. However, I will require a suitable body after the third wish is complete. If you don’t, yours will be forfeit. I have to actually like the body. As much as I like yours.” A small chill crossed Maeve’s heart, her chest contracting, briefly. “It’s a deal.”

They parked Maeve’s old metallic green Ford Cortina about half a block away from Bain’s Super Carwash. Mr. Grimm looked rather incongruous seated next to her on the passenger seat. He definitely drew looks from passersby who blanched visibly when they made eye contact with him. Maeve was enjoying this immensely. She checked to make sure that her eyeliner wasn’t smudged. “So, what do we do? Are we close enough?” “Yesssss. What do you want me to do woman?” “Teach Jonathan Bain a lesson he will never forget. He made my life a living hell when we were at school together. He used to pull up my skirt, tease me about my hair and he used to hide my stuff, among other things. He once even put dog shit in my shoes during PE. One day I just had enough, so I punched him in the face, knocking out one of his front teeth. I almost got expelled because of that and he didn’t ever get a stitch of the blame. Nobody seemed to see or care that he was the real monster.” The memories welled up, black and bitter. “You’re one to hold grudges.” “Well, you’re not the one who had to put up with twelve years of torment. What are you going to do?” “You’ll see.” The bear chuckled, a thin, unpleasant raspy sound. “Just stay parked here until I tell you to leave. It won’t take too long. It’s almost closing time, in any case. This will be a pleasure.” Maeve wondered what the fiend would do. She’d Googled Mr. Grimm’s history and come up with little more than rumours of a haunted stage and studio. There was also precious little information about the show’s sudden removal from air after the host’s, and the producer’s, mysterious disappearance after the programme had been on telly for little over a year. What a memorable year it had been, following the narrative of assorted true- life South African mysteries. Serial killers, UFOs, ghosts, poltergeists... You name it, Hennie’s Horrorshow had had it. At a quarter past six, it was quite dark outside. Cars rushed past madly, the red of their rear lights staining Maeve’s pale skin in their passing, encapsulating people returning home to wives, husbands or children. Mr. Grimm gave a little twitch when the workshop lighting of Bain’s Super Carwash was switched off. She saw the staff leaving via the back entrance. Good. Now where was Jonathan? She saw his familiar red Toyota Hilux The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 421 with its mag wheels parked in the yard out front. Good. He was still inside. At half past six, the office light dimmed, then flickered out. She waited. She smoked a cigarette. At a quarter to seven, the final interior light flickered out. She knew immediately when Mr. Grimm’s presence became animate in the stuffed bear’s body as the air felt thicker. “Is it done?” “It was a pleasure,” whispered the fiend. “He knew such fear. It was delectable. I feel quite rejuvenated.” “Good.”

The headlines of The Daily Announcer read: ‘Local car wash man found dead.’ A cold thrill raced and was clenched in the pit of Maeve’s stomach as she scanned the report, her hands shaking. “Jonathan Bain, a leading Claremont businessman, owner of a car wash franchise, was found dead in his office late last night... No sign of forced entry was discovered, although signs of a scuffle have been noted,” she read out loud to Mr. Grimm, who was perched nonchalantly on the windowsill in the early morning sunlight. “What did you do to him? I didn’t ask you to kill him.” “You didn’t specify, so I took liberties in interpreting what you wanted. Be more specific next time. And don’t forget that you need to find me a body.” “I know, I know,” she replied, her eyes skipping over the paragraphs. “It says here that he was bleeding from all his orifices and that a look of unutterable fear was etched on his features. Bah! This rag has always had a knack for sensationalism.” She tossed the newspaper onto the couch beside her and glared at Mr. Grimm. In the daylight he didn’t appear half as ominous as when it was dim. Now he looked like nothing more than a slightly archaic stuffed bear, if one could ignore the demonic gleam of his yellow glass eyes. Tobemory refused to have anything to do with Mr. Grimm. Whenever she entered the room with the bear on her hip, the cat would gracefully remove himself from her presence. Maeve was reluctant to leave the bear alone anywhere in her house. She drew the line at taking him into the bathroom on account of the damp ruining his fur, yet she was filled with anxiety at not having Mr. Grimm in plain sight. She had yet to do some shopping and wasn’t quite sure how they would react to her in Pick ‘n Pay if she ended up pushing a shopping trolley down the aisles with the bear in the children’s seat. A part of her would have enjoyed that a couple of days ago, but now she wasn’t too sure anymore if she wanted anyone to touch him. edited by Joshua Goudreau 422 Maeve did, however, follow the news. She did feel a small twinge of guilt when they interviewed Jonathan’s wife, who pleaded for any information whatsoever, to track down the murderer of her husband. He’d left behind two small children, blonde like his wife. Middle class suburbanites! Maeve sneered, looking at their rosy faces on the TV screen, feeling somehow that they deserved what they’d gotten. Elmarie Bain would not have loved her husband so much if she’d known what he’d done to other little girls when he’d been dating her. All the while she sensed Mr. Grimm next to her or just somewhere in the room, a presence that weighed down the air.

It took Maeve almost a month to decide whom else she wanted to give payback to. In that time, she’d tried to concentrate on the shopfitting her new business. The workmen did not like Mr. Grimm’s brooding presence at the Fountain Court premises in Rondebosch. One Muslim chap didn’t bother returning for his tool kit after he’d completed the wiring of the window’s display. A small number of goth kids did stop by to look at the bear, however, and Maeve realised that he did hold some potential for future business. With reassurances that they’d be open for business in less than a fortnight, she promised the young hopefuls that she’d allow them to have photographs taken holding the Mr. Grimm, who appeared to be something of a cult figure in their circles. She wondered about possible merchandising opportunities. Mr. Grimm was silent, but his aura permeated the very fabric of the building. It was as she went to her car, on the last Friday before the grand opening of The Broom Closet, that Maeve, with the rather bulky Mr. Grimm bundled in her cloak, bumped into Thomas Pinns. Her old lecturer from college was quite clearly already slightly inebriated on his way from The Pig and Keg. He’d stumbled over the pair of them as she’d snapped shut the security gate. His fleshy, florid face lit up in an idiotic grin as his hands strayed over her chest. “Mr Pinns!” Maeve exclaimed, pulling back, ice flowing down her spine. “What a pleashure Mishtresh Mashtershon,” he slurred, lurching forward, the alcoholic fumes threatening to overwhelm her. “It’sh been a while. I shee that you are shetting up shop here. I shall definitely en-en-endeavour to vishit you during my lunch hour.” “Lovely!” exclaimed Maeve through gritted teeth, a pained smile stretched taut across her features. “I’m looking forward to it.” She deftly side-stepped the drunkard’s attempt at hugging her, and dashed off to her car. “Great! This is exactly what I need. And there I thought that I’d seen the last of that old lecherous buffoon when I left college!” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 423 Mr. Grimm twitched slightly.

Thomas Pinns stayed at an old Victorian townhouse in Chapel Road. Someone had painted it a bright lime green that was totally at odds with the intricate lacework that hung from the patio and the slightly sagging balcony. She wondered if it was Thomas who had savaged the magnolia tree that grew near the front gate. It looked rather sad with its lopped-off stumps protruding at odd angles. The fiend had been absent for at least half an hour and Maeve had just finished the last cigarette in her pack. She was itching for another, just to relieve some of the tensions. All was reasonably quiet at one forty-five in the morning. She heard the cars back in Main Road but the streets up here were deserted. About five minutes ago a dog had trotted by quite purposefully but other than that, there had been no other distractions. When the bear did become re-animate, she had not expected it and Mr. Grimm gave her quite a start when his presence filled the car. “Did he die painfully?” Maeve asked. “You have no idea how many nights I used to lie awake fantasising about this when I was still going to college. That man got one of my friends pregnant. He almost raped me once. And to think that nothing was ever done to stop him. Were you cruel?” “More so than you can imagine. Would you like the graphic descriptions or do you want to wait for the newspaper report?” “Tell me,” Maeve said, putting on her seatbelt and starting the engine as surreptitiously as possible. “I took his body easily. He sleeps naked and there is mirror on his ceiling. It was divine. I made him go to the kitchen and get one of those fancy knives that you use to dice vegetables. I didn’t realise how sharp they were and accidentally sliced off his pinkie finger on the way back up the stairs. I think that’s when he started sobbing. It’s not nice when your body starts doing things that you don’t want it to. “Anyhow, I took him back to the bed and he was blubbering like a great big baby and crying out for his mommy. Quite pathetic, really. I made him swallow his nipples after he cut them off. I’m afraid that was when he vomited all over himself. Do you still want me to carry on?” “Please. Do,” said Maeve, hardly believing what she was hearing. “I let him keep his eyes open and staring straight at that kinky mirror above him and first I sliced off one testicle and then the other. He kept those down, surprisingly. He was bleeding quite a lot by then, so I delivered the coup d’état and made him choke to death on his own organ.” Maeve had to admit to herself that she did feel slightly green. “Now, about payment... You have something in mind for the last time, my darling lady?” edited by Joshua Goudreau 424 “I’m working on it,” Maeve said but, in truth, she knew that she hadn’t really been giving this particular matter much thought of late. After hearing Mr. Grimm’s rather lurid descriptions, she felt slightly ill. Did her old lecturer really deserve such a nasty end? When she thought about the man’s slobbery kisses and wandering hands, her mouth pursed and yes, it did feel worth it if it meant that another generation of young women would be free from this sex pest’s predations. Oh lordy... the tabloids are going to have a field day with this...

Over the following weeks, Maeve and Mr. Grimm regularly fell into discussions regarding the clients who came to The Broom Closet for Tarot readings, incense, or to browse through her selection of esoteric oddities. “Too fat. Too bald. Too ugly.” These were just some of Mr. Grimm’s standard replies when she felt that no one was listening. She took to biting her nails again, something she hadn’t done since high school. When she asked about what Mr. Grimm liked, he would always reply: “Someone like you.” The problem was that there really weren’t any good-looking lasses of her age dropping by here. Spotty teenagers and dowdy housewives just didn’t appeal to the entity.

It was in the first week of October that Maeve saw Matthew Payne with his new girlfriend. They were drinking cappuccinos at the Italian restaurant next door. The nerve! She thought. However, they seemed oblivious to her presence, talking and laughing. She shuddered when Matthew reached over to caress a tendril of Michelle’s white-blond hair from her forehead. “What does she have that I don’t have?” Maeve wailed to Mr. Grimm once a customer left. “Well, it doesn’t appear as if she smokes. And she’s probably not all kooky and weird-ass like you.” “Gee, thanks, oh he who currently resides in the body of a cute fuzzy little teddy bear.” “Ah, yes, but for how much longer? She is quite pretty, you know.” “Well, I wish they would both just curl up and die.” “It can be arranged.” “I know, I kn...” Maeve went silent. “You said that you liked her body. That is the first girl or person that you said you liked.” “She’s a bit on the skinny side.” “But you said that she’s pretty, so you’d find her an acceptable host?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 425 The bear went silent. The clock on the wall tick-ticked. She heard taxi totes yelling “Claremontkenilworthwaaaiiiinbeg!” outside. “Oh all right,” Mr Grimm answered. “You got me there. She’s pretty. I wouldn’t mind having her. She’s quite young and shows potential. Are you sure that avenging yourself on this ex boyfriend of yours would be worth your last request from me?” “Quite sure. He was fucking her when we broke up six months ago. They were supposedly only best friends from the office and she was helping him with his costume for that cross-dressing party we went to. He’d used hair- removal cream on his legs and couldn’t explain why he’d removed all the hairs from his scrotum as well. I kinda knew back then but it’s still a shock to see them together so soon.” “Ah... revenge, how sweet. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather dump prawns in his curtain lining or use his toothbrush in the loo or something. This is your last wish, after all.” “I’m sure,” Maeve said with resolve. “This way you get a body you like and I get to twist the knife in real deep. I still have the key to his apartment. This time I want to watch.”

The plan was simple. They waited outside Matthew’s apartment a week later, on a weeknight. Maeve’s stomach was doing flippety-flops but her resolve was strong. She’d gone as far as hiring a plain white Toyota Corolla for the event as she felt that her old Cortina was far too idiosyncratic to have parked outside the block of flats. Especially since she was known for having visited here often. Matthew and Michelle had obviously been out somewhere and had returned at roughly ten twenty-two, which, by her estimate, was not something to do when you had work the next day. Matthew had never suggested such a thing when they’d been dating. She fumed. She waited an additional two hours after they switched out their lights at roughly eleven forty-three, which brought them close to two in the morning. A good, dead time of night to put her dastardly plan into action. With Mr. Grimm perched on her hip and her curls tucked in beneath a beanie (ironically one that used to belong to Matthew) Maeve was glad and intensely relieved when she discovered that her gate key still work. No one was about this evening and the crickets fell silent as she passed by and begun to ascend the terrazzo-tiled stairs. Mr. Grimm was heavier than usual and her tongue felt dry against the roof of her mouth. It was with a great sense of relief that she finally snicked the door of the apartment shut behind them. The flat was still exactly the same as she last remembered it, except for the photographs of the two of them posted on the edited by Joshua Goudreau 426 notice board in the hallway. Wordlessly, she padded into the lounge (still the same kudu leather couch and the little tear still there from the time her snake ring had ripped the armrest). There were no stirrings from the bedroom. She sank back into the couch and placed Mr. Grimm on the sleeper wood coffee table before her. She nodded. The room grew close and colder. Her breath frosted in the air before her face and the shadows lengthened. There was a stifled groan that came from the bedroom and she heard bedsprings creak. A stark naked Michelle wafted into the lounge. Flat yellow eyes met Maeve’s own and the demonic grin that leered back at her was totally out of place on the petite girl’s features. Ohmygod, what have I done? Maeve thought. Mr. Grimm-in-Michelle put a finger to her lips in a parody of this gesture and slunk into the kitchen. The slight clatter of the cutlery drawer announced that the entity had selected one of the big carving knives Matthew was so proud of. Maeve followed the fiend back to the bedroom. The slight girl flicked on the light switch and looked back at Maeve. Maeve nodded and gestured to Matthew’s supine form. He was still lost in the oblivion of sleep although the fluttering of his eyelashes betrayed the fact that the sudden illumination did bother him. His lips were slightly parted and the pillow was dampened by some of the saliva that must have escaped his mouth. What a fool! Sleeping butt-naked as well. He always used to wear pyjamas when they had slept together. The entity leapt upon him and sunk the knife deep into his lower belly, a manic grin splitting Michelle’s features. Startled awake, groaning and completely confused, Matthew cast off the possessed girl and blinked wildly. “You!” he exclaimed, when his gaze fell settled upon Maeve. “What are...” He didn’t get a chance to continue the sentence as Michelle fell upon him, stabbing him viciously and repetitively in the chest and groin. Matthew grunted, shocked, but some other instinct must have taken control as he gripped the girl’s arms firmly and flung her from him with such violence that she went crashing through the plate glass window. A despairing wail announced that the window did not, in fact look out over the balcony, but over a six-storey drop that plunged onto the spiked palisade fencing that protected the perimeter fencing. A sickening thud resounded, suggesting that flesh had been impaled on metal. With horror contorting his features, Matthew plucked helplessly at the soiled bed linen and sat down on the bed with a convulsive whuff, blood soaking out of his wounds in time to his erratic heartbeat... and was still. Maeve didn’t know at first exactly what she wanted to do. She realised, belatedly, that they’d probably made one hell of a racket and turned to leave, passing one glance at Matthew’s pallid features. The silence was deafening. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 427 Dead as dead can be. How sudden. I never got to tell him how much he hurt me. He never got to say he was sorry. She flicked off the light, making sure that she pulled her sleeve over her index finger. She paused briefly in the lounge, sensing Mr. Grimm’s presence coalescing in the immediate environment. “Not so fast, Maeve. We have a deal.” “The deal’s off, fiend. Look what’s happened.” “I did what you asked. You have to hold up your end of the bargain. I want your body.” “You took the body we agreed upon. It’s not my fault you wasted it.” “Your ex threw that body out the window before he expired. I demand payment.” “Then take Matthew’s body.” “It’s full of holes.” Mr. Grimm started laughing. It was a horrid sound that came from all directions at once, pressing in on her eardrums and echoing in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. “No!” Maeve wailed, making a run for the door, but it was no use. She felt a pressure build in her chest and spread icy tendrils, numbing her extremities. The last conscious glimpse she caught was of her eyes in the hallway mirror, shifting from their icy blue into a flat, yellow glare.

Sh’Guth was pleased. Finally, after nearly two decades of torment, he was finally rid of the curse placed upon him by his enemies. He marvelled at the softness of the human hands that he held up to his face. Yes. This would do nicely. He smoothed the velvet over the curves of his hips. Of course he’d have to get used to being female. It was such a pity that he’d have to deal with obvious hitches of using the framework of the gentler sex of this species. Before he left, he spared one last glance at the bear that had contained his essence for those years. The eyes were quite dull, black and lifeless. He was so glad to be rid of the embarrassment of being regarded as nothing more than a cute, fluffy stuffed toy. So good of Maeve to set him up in this new life with a nice, a new business to run and a considerable amount of capital to play with. Oh, he’d have fun all right. He turned his back and slipped out of the apartment. Mr. Grimm, now nothing more than an old, slightly moth-eaten teddy bear, sat waiting for the police sirens to draw closer thinking of nothing in particular.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 428

Evening Tea With Death by Patricia McEachin

DEATH CAME TO VISIT LATE ONE EVENING. I WAS impressed, for he did leave his shoes outside; as not to dirty my beige carpeting. He knocked thrice and I answered, seeing him with his hand in midair for a fourth rap on my door. We nodded and exchanged pleasantries, until I cut to the chase. So, what are you here for? I stopped to weigh the absurdity of the matter only briefly. Picture it two a.m. and I am sitting in sheep pajamas discussing the hereafter. The levity of that sort of took away from the doom and gloom factor. I caught myself mid-laugh several times. Death looked at me quizzically and asked if I was some sort of sadist who derived pleasure from our meeting. I replied slowly, well Deathy-poo (seeing as to how close we are becoming I can do that!), I sit here discussing my eternal slumber, while wearing pajamas with constipated-looking sheep on them. I am sorry but this whole situation is striking me as a bit funny. I shall henceforth be known as ‘the girl who bit it in the sheep jammies’. Feeling totally narcissistic, I ask if I can change my clothes, so I can at least feel less silly. Rambling on about some silly new red dress I have yet to wear, and how much of a shame it would be, and how I really should brush my hair and at least my teeth... He silences me with a wave of his hand. It is not your time yet, I just stopped in to say hello. Who knew Death had a sense of humor? We made a deal he says and I may be guilty of many things, but I am not a liar or a cheat... no matter how often I am called one. He walks over to my four-month-old son cooing softly, while he grasps his finger and chortles happily. Death nods and smiles, tipping an imaginary The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 429 hat. I will see you in 24 years my dear, wear the red dress, he whispers joking. I hear my voice in my head, my words swirling around me, “Please, I just want to see my son grow up and graduate college, fall in love, experience heartbreak, and get married...” The door shut softly behind him as I put away our cups and saucers; Death’s tea had grown quite cold.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 430

In the Dark Hour of Daylight by Bronagh Fegan

HE WORKS BUSILY OVER MAGAZINES WITH SCISSORS IN hand, lingering over semi-pornographic shots but instead choosing party images of happy people in bright clothes dancing to generic hip hop music. He pastes them lovingly into a scrapbook so that, when people come to visit (not a regular occurrence, his past three visitors were a drunk, a priest, and a lost pizza delivery boy), he tells them that these smiling faces are his close friends. No one has been fooled yet, although the sympathetic Jehovah’s Witness lady dearly wished it were true for Eugene’s sake. It is not true. He does not know even one of these figures, and though he sometimes fears that nobody believed him, generally his confidence is unwavering. The only time he has been willingly spoken to today is by an answering phone message from his ill-tempered mother complaining about his brother’s new wife. Eugene is usually present whenever she rings, but often lets it go to the answering machine so that she thinks he has a life that keeps him in a state of healthy social interaction. He doesn’t. He has most recently been spending his time perusing and updating his scrapbooks, having created backstories for every face in every frame. Some he likes so well that he dearly wishes they were indeed real. They feature regularly in faintly chucklesome anecdotes told to co-workers during breaks. He briefly relaxes the scissors and stares out the window into the sunny abyss of the city. He wishes he was back at work where the view was much more satisfactory and he had paper sales to occupy his mind. Eugene is ill at ease with relaxation, but his boss has threatened to fire him if he doesn’t take his two-week paid vacation like everybody else. Eugene has an inkling that this threat was not wholly legal, but is too shy to argue. He wishes he could The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 431 spend fifty-two weeks a year working; he gets lonely at home. He’s fairly lonely at work too, but doesn’t notice it as much. He has tidied his apartment twice already today, and probably will again once he has finished with his pretend photo albums. He left the place slightly disheveled last night so that he had something to do this morning. He spent the last week with Mother and Alan and Alan’s new wife Therese, trying to diffuse the entire uncomfortable situation while avoiding Therese altogether, as her curves make Eugene very uneasy. He has begun to fear women after a forced celibacy of five years. In his past he has had all kinds of relationships and sex and stuff, but sadly not recently. He thinks he is going a bit gray, and that might be why. It’s more likely to be because he’s a bit weird. Things had been going very well with Mandy, who was smart, sparkly and beautiful, but when she was arrested for being a back street abortionist, Eugene felt sure that his family wouldn’t approve and ended it. He quietly hopes to meet with her again, once she is released, which he thinks may be soon, but isn’t sure. He continues to stare out the window, into the sun, and considers going outside. He has no reason to, but he’s afraid that by staying inside, he will go slowly insane. All Eugene has is his mind. Sometimes he lies awake at night and dreams he had a different life, one where he did exciting things like kill cops and befriend hookers and drive a Cadillac, but in the daytime his musings reside only in a strange aching in the back of his precious mind. Sometimes outside frightens him because of all the people around him leading lives so much more bearable than his own. As an optimist, he doesn’t realise that is how he feels, but he knows he feels a stab of jealousy looking into the eyes of every purple haired freak and steam-eyed junkie he passes. He tries to ignore it, though, and the same is true of today. He ignores himself. Eugene looks in the fridge and notices that in about two days he may run out of milk, and thinks he should buy some. He makes the effort and decides to go outside, and feels quite sad about it. He wishes he was in work. In the daytime, his dreams are much more mundane. At the end of his corridor, at the top of the stairs, there lives a young woman named Charlotte. Charlotte once had a promising future as a research scientist, but is on extended leave after taking a rather nasty turn in work recently and contaminating the entire plant with its own uranium supplies. It was an attempt to silence the scheming leopard that lived in the air ducts. The leopard claimed to have escaped from the animal research facility in Sector 9-8A, and was now following Charlotte around the corridors making snippy comments about her inability to speak German, and other petty complaints of that ilk, in a clipped English accent. There was no leopard, of course, but her bothersome addiction to a number of questionable substances has scrambled her judgement and makes edited by Joshua Goudreau 432 her somewhat unsuitable for working around volatile chemicals, which is ironic considering the amount she has introduced to her body. At work, nobody knows about Charlotte’s predilection for such tasty treats, bar one co-worker who counts Charlotte as one of her best friends. Charlotte was unsure of this girl’s name (it was, in fact, Lorelei, and her name is silly and therefore forgettable. Lorelei has an IQ of 212 and was studied in a facility as a child, and is subsequently a little bit mental, although she has a very good memory), but had once unwittingly taken off her sweat-drenched sweater in the girl’s presence, revealing a horrific junction of track marks along her arms and also an aging black bra that she is currently wearing sitting on the floor of her apartment. The room is in a much worse state than Eugene’s, as she has not spent the past few days repeatedly cleaning. It has suffered from the repercussions of Charlotte’s current mental state, which is being exasperated by her belief that she has not slept for three years (this is an untruth, it has only been three days and even at that she has passed out a few times which surely counts as peaceful slumber in some way). She wears only the aforementioned bra and striped pyjama bottoms, and is currently hiding behind her door, simultaneously hallucinating that grotesque mushroom people are trying to eat her skin, and that the boyfriend she dumped at fourteen when he told her he had Crones (which at the time she believed to be an STD. It isn’t.) can now detach his limbs and is waiting in her bedroom to beat her to death with a leg. Neither of these facts is true, but she believes that she has many enemies trying to destroy her. Charlotte was terrified of the silence, uncertainty, and possibility of things that could happen in the daylight hours. She has thrown up three times already today, because her dealer has been absent for almost a week and her supplies have run out. She’s too confused to realise but for the past few hours she has been starting to go through cold turkey, which she really isn’t enjoying. All she knows is she’s coming down and she doesn’t like it. Convinced an angry mob awaits her outside the building, she hasn’t left the place in over a week, living off her work allowance as her suitably distant parents pay the rent. In between fighting off the mushroom people and desolately licking the dregs of the browning teaspoon, she peeps out of the letterbox into the hallway, trying to see her dealer. All she sees is a dead cat in the corner, although it isn’t really there. She notices a pair of legs shuffle into frame, wearing black jeans and sensible but shiny shoes. She doesn’t think it is her dealer, but plaintively mews, “Andre…” just in case. The legs stop, and she is briefly thrilled, until they crouch down and a pair of saccharine eyes smile at her. They ask if she is okay, and she slams the letterbox shut in their face.

*** The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 433 The eyes belong to Eugene, of course, because he is the only person who happens to be walking past her door at that moment. Everyone else is either working or sleeping, and perhaps they have the right idea. Eugene is fairly sure he knows who is in that particular apartment because he has on a number of occasions walked past and nodded to an increasingly skinny young woman who resembles Mandy, except for her hair, which was cut into a sharp black bob. Mandy had lovely orange hair that smelled of hair dye, although she insisted that it was her natural colour. Eugene does not know that Charlotte’s shrinking figure is due to a taste for heroin, or even what heroin is, really, but in a few moments he will be surprised at her emaciated figure, and how awkwardly her neglected hair has grown out. Tentatively, he knocks her door (although he does most things tentatively) and her eyes flicker open. In the seconds that have passed, she has fallen into a daze on the floor, and awoken by his gentle tapping, believes much time has passed. She leaps up, swings the door open, once again expecting Andre. It isn’t Andre, and she howls in frustrating, sliding down the wall. Eugene bounds in, concerned, grabbing her arms to steady her, which she responds by launching a feeble slapping attack upon his head. He backs off, a little bit frightened, both of and for her. “Oh God…” she whines, depleted, “where’s Andre?” Eugene really doesn’t have a response for this, and they stare at each other, both expecting something the other can’t offer. Realising before she does that neither was going to explain anything, he feebly responds, “I’m not Andre.” She gently raises herself from the floor. “Figures,” she says, closing the door, not entirely believing that this pale man with a crew-cut really exists, and therefore closing him in. What is outside is, for the most part, more frightening than what lies within, especially when it weighs about 120 pounds. She sits at her kitchen table with her head in her hands, her mind buzzing in the most onomatopoeic way. Eugene is still sitting on the floor and turns his head towards her, saying something, but she can’t hear it over the hum. He comes closer, leaning into her face, and her mind crashes with scraping feedback. She leaps off the chair in pain, but forces herself back up as he moves to help her. “Leave me alone,” she growls. “Are you okay?” he asks, not sure whether morally he can leave this insane woman alone, whether morally he could subject himself to this stranger’s insanity, or even if he could work out how to unlock the deadbolt. She looks at him with deadened eyes, and he wonders if maybe he asked the wrong thing. The filth on the window speaks for itself. She is not okay. edited by Joshua Goudreau 434 He laughs nervously. “Yeah, household upkeep, it’s tough when you live on your own…I find it better to work at night, if that’s your problem.” He doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about, and neither does she. He smiles encouragingly at her, and she smiles back. Charlotte’s mother always taught her to smile back. Her eyes unfocussed on his, and her head dropped, he gently pushed her by the chin before it cracked on the table. She is not okay, he realises, and determines to stay. He runs his idea past her, leaving out the part where he makes himself feel like her saviour, fearing it might offend her. They sit in silence for a while, Eugene feeling increasingly protective of her, for no clear reason. She dizzily scratches at the track marks, long since scarred and unusable. Eugene surveys the table, and the overcooked teaspoons that rested on it. “What’s your name?” she asks, without any hostility, thinking that she has forgotten it. By this point, she doesn’t remember that she doesn’t know him at all. He tells her that it is Eugene, unable to think of a more fashionable name to impress her. She tells him that she is Charlotte, wiping the sweat from her brow. He asks her politely where she works (it is a topic that Eugene feels most comfortable with). He doesn’t remember, but he has asked her this before, in passing on the stairwell last summer when the elevator was broken, a feeble attempt to make conversation while both were travelling the same way. Charlotte doesn’t remember either, so it makes little difference. She tells him, as she did the last time, how she works in the big research facility out on Barrow, towards the outskirts of town. Even on a gargling, drug- lacquered stupor, the importance of not admitting she worked in a nuclear plant is embedded in her mind. Too many enraged environmentalists, or just plain mentalists, perhaps. He mentions that he knew somebody who worked near there. “They didn’t work in the back alley, did they?” Charlotte asks, darkly joking. Eugene laughs falsely, mortified. He is, of course, talking about Mandy, and so is Charlotte. She used to park her SUV round the back and work on desperate girls at night with her fellow ‘doctor’ Mike because it was far enough from the city centre to avoid police attention. Charlotte elaborates, although Eugene wishes she wouldn’t. Her speech is garbled and confused, mixing up words, not making much sense, but for the sake of coherency, this is what she tries to say: “Oh yeah, there was this woman who was performing all these abortions for cheap in the alleyway, the, uh, delivery entrance, at night. So there were a few of us, and we were all working late one night. So, umm, I just, I glanced out the window, and I saw, in the shadows this, like, this van, or something, and a couple of people around this girl inside, or something. It was dark, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 435 couldn’t really see, so I called Nate over, he’s a technician in the lab, anyway, I call him over, and I’m like, what the hell is going on down there, and Nate, he thinks it’s someone trying to break in, so we’re all freaking out, and I call the police, just so they check it out, or whatever. And yeah, turns out, back street abortionist. Arrested these two straight off, all this incriminating documentation in the van. Fucking... fourteen-year-old with a pair of forceps up her ass, it was wild. I think they went to jail and all.”

Eugene bristles hearing this, his natural humanity barely resisting the hate that rises in his body. He restrains himself from accusing her of tearing the only thing he ever truly wanted, needed, desired from his arms based on a late night whim. He surprises himself with the strength of his feelings, and instantly hates himself for dropping Mandy so quickly. He briefly considers that they could make it work if they really tried, even if she wasn’t out of jail yet, but the thought passes. Charlotte has dozed off with her head in her arms resting on the table. She looks like shit, and is thrashing somewhat, knocking some long-forgotten coffee mugs off the table. She doesn’t care for coffee any more, though there was a time when she worried about how much all the coffee she drank was damaging her body. She doesn’t entertain any such concerns when injecting heroin into her bloodstream, strangely enough. The conversation lapses again as Eugene is lost in memory. He has wasted his life, he thinks. He watches Charlotte’s corpse, shifting in intervals as her hazy breathing alternates between sighs and desperate gasps. This is the life he always thought he should be living, something morbid and filthy, where people really suffer and die, if they’re lucky, or simply destroy themselves and live with the consequences. He casts his eye around the apartment. There are signs that she was whole once, something more than a junkie (even a protected middle-class suburbanite like Eugene can tell that) in an unclean apartment. There lies sheet music in one corner; the piano is long gone. Prints of past paintings lie scattered, the edges ripped, holes of stubbed cigarettes. Eugene recognises Nighthawks, but doesn’t make any parallel. This girl is pathetic, the scum of the earth, the plague on society, and yet... and yet she lives twice the life that Eugene does, Eugene whose skin is undappled by sun and torment, whose body is unsullied by sin. She lies sleeping in front of him. He leans close. Eugene tells her intimately that he has always wished he was someone like her, on the fringes of society, living the life of a soul-searing biography. This is a thought that often occurs to Eugene. If anyone was to write his life story, how embarrassingly quiet and uneventful it would be, he thinks, and he would be right. He imagines people would want to read Charlotte’s autobiography, which would probably be a redemptive story of a drug addict edited by Joshua Goudreau 436 who went to hell and back. People like that are always interesting. Eugene feels able to tell this sort of thing to Charlotte because she has lived and will be able to bestow some worldly advice upon him, when she awakes. He doesn’t appreciate that not only is she not listening to his rambles, she also can only hear occasionally when she is awake. She also experiences selective blindness as she lifts her head slowly, and is getting desperate. She has tears running down her face and again hardly recognises Eugene. She bats her recently ugly eyes and asks him to find Clyde for her. Eugene is polite but confused, and she asks again, telling him Clyde will be down the back alley. A lot more occurs down back alleys, and while most of it is disposal of rubbish, some of it is grotty and illegal, like Clyde. Clyde is a drug dealer, but with a name like Clyde, it’s probably to be expected. His business isn’t doing very well, and so he’s not picky about who he sells to, or how much he boosts the price. He has come into a couple of vials of a laudanum- like substance, high dosage, tastes like garlic, but then, it isn’t supposed to be eaten. Eugene is unsure, and with good reason. Everything he knows tells him to leave, go home, forget about her. It’s silly and it’s trouble, it’s serious trouble, people get sent to jail for this sort of thing, this is beyond you, it seems exciting but these things always do. Just go back to your perfectly normal existence and live like you always have. But another part of him is saying ‘and yet...’. All these things are true. It’s too dangerous. It’s not his business. It’s not him. But isn’t this what he’s been waiting for, all his life, just a chance... just one opportunity to do something that isn’t simply... Eugene? Hasn’t he always wanted to be one of them, one of the people of the street, one of the people who live in the real world, with its teardrops and bloodstains? And yet... He leaves. Charlotte moves from the table to the floor, presses her back against the wall, and wipes tears. The salt runs into old wounds and sends weak shockwaves through her body, but it’s nothing she hasn’t felt before. In fact, she doesn’t feel it. Pain of longing washes over in her waves, she’s crippled with her need, but at the same time, she feels like she’s outside her body. When she lifts her arm, she feels detached, like she moves independently of it, like she could get up and walk to the other side of the room, sit down and stare directly at the tangled mess of a body that she has left behind. Charlotte doesn’t struggle with the mundanity of her life like Eugene does, but that’s because she hasn’t noticed that what could be described as a crazed life is not exactly a routine existence. Perhaps if her world were not in such a state of collapse, she would be aware that her life isn’t normal, or at least, not The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 437 how it was meant to turn out, but she doesn’t think of such things. She is not like Eugene, but that’s like saying that purple wasn’t like Idi Amin. There is a picture lying on the floor beside her, and she strains her head to look at it. It is of her and her mother, when she was younger, when they both were, on a brilliantly sunny day, hiding in long grass, smiling at the camera. Young Charlotte is tan and fresh, her mother holds her waist lovingly. Charlotte is struck by grief. Both those people in the picture are dead, or maybe they never lived. Charlotte doesn’t feel like she was ever young and hopeful, but that she always lived in a squalid apartment ripping holes in her body, desperate to feel but eternally floating away from the reality she was meant to have. Suddenly Charlotte doesn’t know where she is anymore, but feels little gappy teeth on her back, and leaps away from the wall, seeing it filled with little mouths, and their fangs snap at her. She curls into a ball in the centre of the room, desperately dreaming that she isn’t whoever and wherever and whatever she is. The door opens again, and she looks up to see Eugene looking down at her, eyes glistening with humiliation and hatred. She has seen that look so often before, though it is absent from the photograph of her and her mother. Charlotte forgets the mouths and stands up. “Did you get it?” she begs, trying to hide the fraught desire from her voice. He throws a small package at her. She sits back at the table and reaches over for different items as he lingers, wanting to say something, but unsure what. She ignores him and hopes that he will give up. Everything is suddenly clear, and she doesn’t want a lecture on her lifestyle. She just wants to disappear. She unwraps the two jade slivers, and if she wasn’t so desperate, she may have hesitated. As she rubs a spoon upon her leg, hunger in her eyes, he struggles with the deadbolt at the door, and finally flicks it open. “Wait, you aren’t going yet?” He looks at her with the confusion that was so familiar at this point. “You have to help me do it.” She tells him how to hold the spoon with the lighter underneath, as she does something with great exertion before him, but he keeps his eyes locked on the spoon. He doesn’t want to be part of this anymore, and struggles to blink big watery tears from his eyes. She is short when she tells him to put the slivers in. The first one melts with a sickening smell that fills the room. He thinks he sees a hypodermic needle in his eyeline, but ignores it. “Put the other one as well,” she tells him, with a weak voice that isn’t going to argue. He looks at her and hesitates. “What?” she asks him, and he tells her it’s nothing, and does what he’s asked. edited by Joshua Goudreau 438 She takes the spoon from him, and he gets up again. The deadbolt has got stuck again, and he struggles with it, trying not to see or hear or smell the sordid acts of her life that he thought would intrigue him. He just wants escape now, back to the routine, back to hyper-mundanity, back to the life he hates. She murmurs faint thanks to him, and tells him he should come visit her again. She may have a smile on her lips, but who knows if it’s for the drugs or for him. He leaves her there, lying on the floor in a drugged stupor. It won’t last long.

Eugene lies on his bed, looking up at the world around him. He hasn’t tidied his apartment again, like he promised himself, but these little rebellions add up to nothing. He thinks of his time outside, in that real world that he thought could cure him. It hadn’t been like he thought it would be, but then things rarely were. He had crept to the alleyway, terrified of anyone who would see him, mark him as one of them. They were all bad, he thought. All bad. They wore dirty clothes and hadn’t shaved and stared with contempt and concealed weapons at his cardigan. Clyde had an afro-puff hairstyle and a headband. Eugene was sweating and nervous, and Clyde had dealt with a thousand stuttering frightened co-eds with a hankering to forget their day. “It’s not for me...” Eugene insisted, and Clyde didn’t reply. He heard that a lot. “No, really,” Eugene repeated, and suddenly unleashed a splurge that mentioned Charlotte, that mystery Andre, and how Eugene had once been accused of sniffing glue at school but had really been secretly fixing one of his action figures in class. Clyde stared coldly at him, before telling him that Andre was dead, and he had taken over his operations. Eugene smiled. “I’ve come to the right man, then?” he said in a jolly voice. Clyde’s eyes shut him up. They had stood by the bins at the side of the building, and as Clyde was poking in his coat, Eugene wondered how he stood there all day, with the smell, and the hobos hurling abuse, anything in fact to distract from is growing fear that Clyde was searching for a weapon to kill him to death with, something sharp or blunt maybe, oh God, why had Eugene done this, this was crazy. Clyde presented a closed fist to him, but paused. “Charl’s in really bad way, is she?” Eugene desperately tried to figure the correct response. The growing silence forced a snarl from Clyde’s lips. “Look, whatever. Just listen.” Two small green cubes. Eugene peered at them, wrapped in a bit of plastic, and couldn’t help thinking they looked like thin slices of lime jelly, just like his mother used to make when he was young. It didn’t look The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 439 dangerous, it was glossy like jade, and smelt, well, of garlic. But Clyde’s words suggested otherwise. I’m serious, I’m serious, he kept saying. This is big stuff. I know her, she can handle it, it’ll pick her up for a while, but just make sure, and I’m serious about this, she doesn’t take them in one go. This stuff is lethal, I’m serious. It could kill her. It’s strong, it’s good stuff but it’s strong. Just one is all she needs now, make sure of it, she’ll OD otherwise, I’m serious. Eugene took the plastic in a manner that could only be described as gingerly, if that term ever made sense. “Just one,” he asked, “or she’ll die?”. Clyde nodded, then grabbed him roughly by the shoulder as he turned to go. He swore brutally at him, told him he was trying to make a fool of him. “What? What? I’m sorry, what?” Eugene repeated desperately, and was sharply told to pay up, you fucking idiot. Eugene’s heart boiled. That little bitch, he called her silently. If he hadn’t had his wallet on him, he’d probably have a knife in his throat right now. And everything he had on him for two slivers of jelly, and his watch. His pragmatic, sympathetic voice said she was too sick to remember. Most of him didn’t care, and as he walked back to her, he bitterly called people like her leeches.

His insides run cold, and he tries to think of a way to turn today into something that hasn’t happened. He wants to go back to when insane adventures with the dregs of society were quiet fantasies, not frightening realities. He wonders what he has done, whether he has done anything, whether he lives this life. He wonders how he could ever fit in to that existence, but knows that he doesn’t want what he dreamt of. He thinks of Mandy, wonders whether she would be proud of him. Part of him wonders if she is worth it. Is this life? it asks.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 440

Fearless by Jason R. Wallace

YOU GET USED TO THE SCREAMS AFTER A WHILE. You come into work long enough, wander these hyper-white, sterilized hallways long enough, see another young boy, matted, greasy hair in his face, writhing and yelling for his parents as he’s dragged away by blank-faced men in combat boots long enough, and you become numb to it all, little by little. Eventually, you won’t bat an eye at the inhuman world around you, not even at the tiny, bloody half-moons dug deep into the cell walls, those remains of a desperate, feverish, and futile attempt at freedom. This is what I see. This is what I do. I send young boys to hell – and I make them learn to live there.

A new subject came in today. Couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. Cherubic little lad, with blonde locks and ocean eyes. Come to think of it, they all look that way. So perfect. So pure. So untouchable. So I thought. But then I have to give him the shot. I drive the needle into his arm. It’s automatic. I don’t even have to think about it, I’ve done it so much. For a while he’s all right. A little surprised, a little nervous, but all right. Then the pupils start widening. The hands start trembling. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 441 The breathing gets faster and faster. He scrambles backward, feeling blindly behind him, knocks up against the wall, slides himself into a corner, and just screams the whole time. Screams and screams until his face is the shade of carmine and his voice quavers, struggling to release every little bit of unbearable panic. I don’t know what he sees. It’s different for every one of them. Might be spiders. Demons. Fire. Darkness. Could be anything. Whatever it is, he’ll be seeing it everywhere, in every part and parcel of his reality, for the next 10 years.

The Chancellor says we’re not making our quota. He says the next invasion is in a month and High Command wants more soldiers. I don’t see what he’s worried about. We’ve never lost a war. Ever. Once the rival battalions come marching up and start shooting, once they realize that, even through the hail of bullets, our men haven’t broken formation or so much as blinked out of sync, once our men are on top of them and slaughter them all without mercy, a sadistic gleam in their eyes, the other nation backs down, because how can you fight pure madness? Of course, our nation doesn’t war for justice or stability or anything noble. It’s more of a sport to us, a trivial little game we play to flaunt our alpha- male egos and to relieve the boredom of peace. It may be a game, but it’s one with high stakes, so we’ve learned to rig the results. We’ve learned how to make our soldiers fearless. Not to have fear and suppress it, not to ignore fear, but to actually be without fear. We pump them full of drugs, twist and warp their young minds like they were nothing but putty, and confine them in foul, febrile, and forsaken cells just so they won’t run from a bayonet or a submachine gun. There’s a draft system, of course. Who would volunteer for this? Who would volunteer to be put in a permanent state of terror for more than a decade, just to become cannon fodder? That’s why we take them by force. When they’re sleeping. When they’re at their most beautiful…and most vulnerable.

I spoke with that guard Simpson in the dining area. edited by Joshua Goudreau 442 He had just finished his shift in Research & Development. Said they were close to finalizing a new serum. One that wouldn’t wear off. One that would self-replicate in the bloodstream. One that would last forever. I wasn’t surprised. R & D had been working on that since the program’s inception. After all, it was the ultimate goal of the whole operation. Permanent conditioning against fear. “It’s amazing. Do you know how fast we’ll fill our quotas now?” I nodded absent-mindedly. I was still thinking about that cherub from the other day. I was thinking that maybe it wasn’t just the children who were being turned into monsters. “Thompson? Thompson.” “Oh…yeah...real fast.” “Faster than fast. We’ll have those boys ready in a matter of days.” “When did you say R & D was going to finish that serum?”

Have you ever just looked at it? Looked at a needle? It’s elegant. Graceful. The injection itself is a beautiful thing. A slight hovering over the flesh. A steady pressure on the skin. It builds and builds, getting ever stronger until the surface succumbs and the sleek steel pillar slides into the subject with an ecstasy of motion that is unrivaled. Few people appreciate an injection for what it is. A work of art.

The Chancellor came by to inspect the premises. He strode the halls with vigor, like he was proud of the whole thing. He looked in at the children through the small glass windows set in the doors, nodding with approval, occasionally even chuckling. As he turned away from the last door, he saw me. Saw my security pass, rather. Or maybe the hypodermic I was clutching, ready for another young boy. He probably came over to shake my hand, to congratulate me on such successful work, but I’ll never know, because I stabbed him in the neck before he could do anything. I jammed the needle in as deep as I could and pressed the plunger. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 443 He staggered back, his pupils widening, his hands trembling, his breathing getting faster and faster. He was just as helpless as that little cherub. He collapsed onto the floor in a sweating, shivering heap and started screaming. Screaming and screaming until I was sure he was staring into the eyes of every child the program ruined. The guards came rushing in and wrestled me to the ground, but I didn’t care. This is what I had to do. I had to send the Chancellor to hell. He’ll have to learn to live there, because this time there’s no going back. He’ll be in a constant state of terror, and he won’t be able to resist, because how can you fight pure madness? This is the cost of being fearless. You lose your soul.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 444

Rumors by Lisa Bartling

BEEP... BEEP... BEEP... BEEP... The tubes protruded from his nose and ran in a tangle to the IV next to the hospital bed he laid on. He was so thin, so frail, a skeleton on the bed. His chest rose pathetically against the skin that stretched tight against his stomach. His breathing patterns were slow and shallow, he laid still against the white and blue covers. His small feet stuck out at the end of the bed, and his head turned away from the doorway. The room was supposed to be promising, hopeful, a cheery attitude, but it was none of that. The room was depressing and small, like being in a small cupboard. The flowers that were stationed periodically about the room were red and white, and seemed to soak up whatever good energy had been promised. That boy on the bed was not only my little brother but, my best friend. He was small for his tender age of 14, but his mind had the mental capacity of a 30 year old. Me, an 18- year-old girl looked up to her little brother, when it was supposed to be him looking up to me. None of that mattered now. I didn’t know whether to stand in the doorway and stare at him all day and cry, or to run to him and wrap my arms around his frail body and weep on him, as he would stroke my hair, like he had before. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there. My mind told me to walk, but my body held me firmly to the ground like cement. I couldn’t think and I couldn’t breathe. He looked so different now, his black hair had fallen out and his once tan complexion had turned pale white, like that of a ghost. I dared not want to look into those haunting sallow eyes they had become. For once I was scared of my brother. Not because I feared him, but I feared what was The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 445 happening to him. What would happen if he was suddenly pulled from the earth without any warning? What would happen if he suddenly died while I was hugging him? What would happen to him if god rejected him from his holy white gates? What would happen to my precious little Daniel? I started when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Mom’s face looked into mine, quiet hatred burned there, and I could see it. My breath quickened when I realized I had stopped for the few heartbeats I had mistaken for hours. She pushed me delicately out of the way, he face resumed its usual cheeriness she held for Daniel. She thought it might upset him if he knew we were unhappy because of him, so she hid herself behind fake knowingness and lies. Did Daniel really want to die knowing that he had been hoodwinked by his own mother, or would he rather die knowing that we were worried about him and had accepted what was happening to him? I knew my choice. I slowly walked forward in an attempt to look happy, but my smile felt more like a dead grin. When I reached the edge of the bed, I looked down at his arm and I felt the tears behind my eyes as I reached down and softly touched his arm. I quietly cursed myself for doing so, because his eyes opened and he turned his face towards me. His eyes were like hazel fire, glowing with a desire no one could feed, but yet the softness of his heart was buried inside and I could feel it as he stared up at me. My body trembled underneath that gaze and I had to look away, I sunk myself into the chair that occupied the side of the bed. I looked at the floor and at the ceiling and to our mother who clasped his hand in hers. “Ashley...” Daniel’s voice was soft and quiet, I wouldn’t have heard him if I wasn’t sitting so close. I could hear the many sorrows his voice gave away. I tried not to look at him, but I had to, I had to look at him. When I turned my head towards him I saw the glimmer of a smile on his face, and it made a tear leak down my cheek, I hurriedly brushed it away. But he caught my hand as it left my cheek and he held it against his face. I cupped his cheeks with both my hands and stared at him as I cried silently. Looking into his eyes I could see his life passing him by. He wouldn’t grow up to live out his teenage years, he wouldn’t grow up to see me get married and I wouldn’t be there to see him marry the love of his life. He wouldn’t grow up to be wise and intelligent and successful, and he wouldn’t grow up to die when he was old. I cried for Daniel and I cried for myself, I cried for all the horrible things in this world. I didn’t want to lose Daniel, not like this, I wanted to die before him, that’s how it was supposed to be. But nothing is ever as it is planned, I watched him cry too, I watched him fall apart in my hands, I watched my brother break down because he knew he wasn’t going to make it, he knew the truth, he knew it all along and he didn’t realize how serious it was until that moment. I leaned forward and pushed his head into the crook of my edited by Joshua Goudreau 446 neck and I rocked him gently back and forth and he held on to me like I was his only salvation left. “Ashley...” I cried and cried and cried until I had no more tears to cry. I held him in my arms and I let him go gently. My eyes were swollen and puffy, I could feel them pulsating against the bones under my eyes. His face was shiny and red, and his face was sorrowful and grim. I held his hand in mine and stared down at him. My mother left the room, having already said her goodbyes. It wasn’t right that I should be the only one with him at this time. It wasn’t right that I should have to act like the grownup I clearly wasn’t, and it wasn’t right that his own mother couldn’t sit around and wait and watch and cry as her own little baby boy died slowly and painfully in a hospital bed. “Yes Daniel...” I whispered to him and squeezed his hand in mine. “You know that box in my room?” His weak voice carried slightly. “Yes.” “I want you to have it.” I looked at him hard. There was no way on this earth that I would take that box, it was his box, with his things inside. All those seashells we searched for, all those rocks, the fool’s gold, his secret stash of Milky Way candy bars. It was all so childish, but yet I couldn’t let him give it to me, that box meant so much to him, even if mom or anyone else didn’t understand that. “Daniel, it’s your box, your stuff, besides, why are you giving it to me when you’ll be coming home in a few days time?” It was an empty lie behind an unhid face, but I couldn’t help it. “You and I both know that I won’t be coming home again Ashley.” He sighed. “I knew that from the first day I learned I had cancer, it was inevitable.” “But you can fight it! You can try your hardest to fight it Daniel! You can win! I know you can, just try! You’ll get better Daniel you’ll get better!” “Ashley, no I can’t. You know that.” “Please Daniel, don’t give up...” beep..... beep.... beep.... beep.... beep.... beep The machine’s beeping became fewer and fewer between, I glanced hurriedly at the machine and willed time to stop. I willed with my entire mind that this was all a dream and that it would stop and I would wake up and I’d be sitting in class listening to my history teacher. I shook my head violently refusing to believe the truth. “Ashley, don’t give up. Even when I... die... I’ll still be with you not only there...” He pointed to my head. “But also there.." and then my heart The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 447 “I don’t want you to die Daniel. You’re my brother, and my best friend I don’t want to lose you, please don’t leave us we love you too much. We need you!” “I’m sorry but I can’t do anything about it.” He stared blankly ahead of him as if the wall were some fascinating object. I cradled his hand in mine and my body shook with the effort not to shake him back into reality. “Daniel...” “I love you Ashley.” beep... beep... beep...... beep...... beep...... beep...... beep...... beeeeeeeeeeeeep. And then he was gone, his eyes closed and the machine went crazy. I felt his hand die with him as it was held in mine. I stared at him for what seemed like forever. Where did that sweet little boy go? What was he seeing right that moment? Hands moved me aside but I refused to let go I would not let go of my own flesh and blood, I would not let go of my own family and I would not let go, even if death did separate us. I screamed and screamed and screamed until I felt like I was running out of air. The world swam in an ocean of colors and the lights in the room faded, glimmered and died as my eyes closed and I was thrown into the heart of darkness.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 448

Nobody's Died in the Shower Today by Erik Varela

MICHAEL STOOD IN FRONT OF THE DOOR FOR A FEW nervous seconds, clicking his teeth together in the darkened hallway. This was the always the worst part of the routine; it was the moment of highest tension, the deep breath before the icy plunge. Raising his left hand tentatively, he inhaled deeply, bit his lower lip and rapped lightly on the wood with his knuckles twice. There was no answer. There never was. He leaned in close to the door, almost pressing his left ear against it, but stopping just short of actually making any physical contact with it. His heartbeat echoed out at him from the depths of his body, counting the time for him. The seconds leaked by in slow motion, the absurd fear that someone may actually answer the door skittering around Michael’s mind like some sort of monstrous, frantic rodent. There was a not too distant ping from somewhere around the corner--the only warning before the brutal assault of light that stormed down the hall, forcing Michael to retreat from the door, blinking to regain his vision in the intrusive brightness. The chattering of happy voices slurred by alcohol and the heavy, muted sound of closing elevator doors drifted toward him. A young couple moved slowly in his direction in what came reasonably close to a strait line. Her arm was around his waist, his on her shoulder. Their contented smiles gave way to the tiniest illusions of confusion as their eyes drifted momentarily apart to stop on the stranger in the hallway. Michael gave them a friendly nod, then leaned in toward his door before speaking in a voice perfectly tuned to the volume necessary to grab a room’s occupant’s attention without disturbing the neighbors. “Housekeeping.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 449 As the couple walked by, Michael turned toward them and flashed his friendliest smile while pulling his cart out of the way. “You folks have a good night.” They smiled back, and he thought he heard the girl murmur a thank you as the pair passed by him. He pretended to re-arrange some of the things in his cart while they fumbled for their room key before disappearing into a doorway just a bit down the hall. Michael stared at their door for a while after it had shut. It still seemed strange to him, even after all these years, that a few familiar words could deflect idle but unwanted curiosity so easily. He wondered absently what the couple was doing right now. Standing together on the balcony, looking out at the city lights? Kissing softly on the bed? Anything but wondering why somebody from housekeeping would be knocking at a door at two-thirty in the morning. The automatic timer on the hall lights clicked off, plunging Michael into darkness and temporary blindness again. He let his eyes adjust to the ruddy gloom created by the exit sign before returning to the job at had with a habitual sigh. His master key turned smoothly and silently in the lock, allowing him to push the door open on well-oiled hinges. By now the room was so familiar that his hand found the light switch instinctively in the dark. He scanned the room quickly, just to make sure that it’s occupant really was gone. Two single beds, one with the covers still unmade, a desk and the so-called ‘entertainment center’ with it’s little gray TV. looked back at him impassively. Michael pulled his cart into the room, then shut and locked the door behind him. Once inside, Michael was in his element, surrounded by familiar objects and feelings, the obsessive tension of the hallway and its danger of personal contact locked safely away beyond the confines of the little room’s walls. Humming a vague something that lacked any real melody, Michael slipped on his protective goggles, apron and white surgical gloves. He fussed a bit over the sterile face mask, which had been crushed against the side of the cart by his toolbox. It seemed that things had shifted sometime during the nervous trip up to the room, but a quick check assured him that everything was still there. Last came the delicate cap that covered his hair. Michael turned and nodded to his reflection in the full-length mirror on the door. He looked so medical and professional this way. If his reflection’s mouth hadn’t been covered, it would have smiled at him. Pulling his cart over to the bathroom door, Michael entered, flicking on the overhead light with the simple nonchalance of an action repeated a hundred times. Straightening the surgical mask over his mouth one last time, he pulled the white vinyl shower curtain aside to reveal... nothing. Furrowing his brow in confusion, Michael turned to the mirror as though his reflection edited by Joshua Goudreau 450 could provide an answer to his silent question. He looked back in the shower. It was completely empty, just as before. Pulling the mask from his face, Michel put down the lid of the toilet to provide himself with a place to sit and ponder the situation. Nothing like this had happened here before. He really wasn’t sure of what to do or where to go. A half-hearted tug at the shower curtain after a few minutes had passed confirmed his irrational fears. There was still no change, still nothing to do. Michael wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He was lost, a stranger in his own country. After an unknown time had passed, Michael reluctantly resigned himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do about not having anything to do. He moved back into the bedroom and stripped off all of his protective layers, transforming himself back into the guise of a simple employee. Grabbing his cart by the handle, he strode dejectedly out of the room, letting the door slam behind him without any concern for the amount of noise it made. The automated lights came on, leading him to the elevator with their electric glow. On the second floor, his journey was momentarily interrupted as the elevator paused to let one of the girls who worked in the laundry room on. “Hola Michael.” Then, noticing the worry that permeated his normally impenetrable features, she added “Que te pasa?” Michael paused for a moment, considering the question. Finally he decided on simply giving the truth as a response. “Nadie ha muerto en el baño hoy.” “Nobody?” came the incredulous reply. But before he had to elaborate, the elevator stopped at the ground floor. Shaking his head as a response, Michael pulled his cart into the lobby. The young blond woman working the desk that night frowned as he approached. He leaned against the Formica counter, licking his lips and clearing his throat nervously before turning to her and speaking in a low voice. “Nobody’s died in the shower today.” Her left eyebrow raised itself skeptically, dragging the corner of her lip up with it, but otherwise there was no sign to betray the fact that the news had caught her off guard. She looked down at the computer screen in front of her, typing, or maybe just hiding her expression, and asked whether he was sure. “Yeah. It’s a pretty obvious thing, most of the time, you know.” She nodded, then paused, reading something on the monitor before her. “It looks like the guest checked out a day early... family emergency or something.” Michael nodded anxiously. “Right. Um... will I still get paid?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 451 The young woman frowned slightly as she shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Hang on a second.” She picked up a telephone from somewhere behind her counter and dialed a number. Silent seconds drifted by in the empty lobby. She threw Michael a practiced glance that suggested worry for his sake and a real concern to help him out. Then the person on the other line must have picked up, because a conspiratorial smile meant for the distressed darted across her features before she spoke. “Yes, it’s me at the front desk.... Yes, I know. Well, Michael’s here and... Michael. You know, he... ah, cleans the room on the fourth floor.... No, well, yes. Well, it’s that the guest left well, before anything, you know... happened, and he was just wondering about pay and all that.... No, Michael. No. No problem other than that. Yes. Mm-hmm. Yes. I’ll tell him that. Sorry to disturb you. Yes, right. Good night.” She placed the receiver back in the place where it had come from carefully and quietly, as though there may have been people in the lobby who would have taken offense to the tiny clacking sound that it produced. She looked up again with a practiced smile. “Yeah. You’re still on the payroll and expected again in two weeks, just like always. I guess you just get the night off tonight. Lucky you.” Michael nodded, though he didn’t agree with her assessment of his situation. “Yeah. Lucky me.” He turned away, grabbing the handle of his cart before remembering his civility. “Have a nice night.” “You too.” And with that he dragged his heavy cart back toward the elevator that would take him down to the parking garage, his empty van and an even more vacant night.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 452

Chocolate by Michael Hossler

ONE’S MIND DRIFTS TO ODD PLACES WHEN THEY ARE FREE falling into Hell. It drifts especially far when the only thing preventing certain doom is a glorified sheet of green silk. H, Private James McNamara was dangling over a nightmare, hanging only by a few threads. Even so, the 101st Airborne Division soldier found his thoughts drifting to chocolate. Thoughts flooded into his terrified mind, thoughts of the near tasteless, condensed bars crammed into his musette bag, of the sinful, delicious smell of the chocolate factory back home in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Onward his mind drifted, now focusing on his mother’s chocolate chip cookies of all things, and filling him with a longing to be home to eat one. He yearned for any thought, any memory to keep his mind off of his fall. McNamara, like so many thousands of others, was falling by parachute into the coastal region of Normandy, France. On this cool June night over France, he didn’t want to think about things such as how he had no clue what he was falling toward, other than the fact that it looked like a farm from up here. He didn’t want to think about how his plane had been hit by the screaming, whistling, burning flashes of German-Anti aircraft fire that erupted from the ground below. He didn’t want to think about the tortured screams of those still in the plane, crying out like lost souls flung through the very gates of Hell. Their wood and canvas C-47 had erupted into a billowing, dancing pillar of flame from the left wing moments after James had jumped, sending all those that didn’t make it through the door in time hurtling to the ground below. Mac had lost friends, he knew. Not everyone in his ‘stick’, had made it out. They were the men he’d trained with, ate with, and raised hell with ever The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 453 since basic training nearly two years ago. In a flash, they were gone. Like all who would lose friends in the wee hours of this morning of June 6th, he’d have to dwell on his loss later. For now, the ground below was finally rising up to meet him. The young Corporal hit the ground hard, falling onto his side, taking some of the impact off of his feet and placing it first on his ankles, then calves, then knees, then thighs and finally his torso and arm as his body fell sideways. He had to count his blessings; unlike so many others, he’d made it down safely with most of his gear still on him. He quickly rose, unsheathing the combat knife that was tied tightly to his ankle both with its own scabbard’s strap at the hilt and twine at the tip. He worked frantically for a few moments to cut away the nylon ropes of his parachute harness. The ropes tried to entangle him, to ensnare him like a kraken as the parachute was kicked up by a small breeze, trying to pull him with it. It took nearly a full minute before he was free, the ropes cut and the parachute making its triumphant, billowing escape. It was only then that the young soldier could take any real note of his surroundings. All around him came the drone of planes above, the staccato, chattering fire of German Anti-Aircraft batteries, the distant, zipping sound of MG-42 machine guns firing away into the night, and the dull thuds and bright flashes of artillery beginning to light the horizon and provide a bit of percussion to the deadly symphony unfurling all around him. He stood in a wheat field, or at least something that used to be a wheat field. The soil lay dormant, no crops had been sown within and no golden tendrils had risen to greet the warming summer sun. The field was surrounded to the east, south and west by a hedgerow, a thick tangle of foliage used as a property boundary here. The brush wall was neatly trimmed, too thick to pass through without difficulty, and too high for the young airborne soldier to have any real clue what would await him on the other side. To the north lay the farmhouse, certainly not a mark of wealth or opulence of whomever lived there. It stood silent as it had for generations, the simple one story wooden home pockmarked throughout the thatched roof and mud brick walls. No lights burned within, no sounds were uttered. The hedgerows guarded it on either side. The only way out of this field was that pockmarked, unlit old home. James moved quietly toward the home, reaching for his rifle, only to find the spot where it had been strapped to his chest empty. He’d not made it with all his gear after all. He checked for the pistol holster strapped across his chest and tied with twine to the khaki canvas ammunition belt that circled his waist. The heft of the Colt 45 caliber pistol, the checkered texture of its bakelite plastic grip and the cold blue gleam of its steel frame were edited by Joshua Goudreau 454 reassuring, letting him know he had at least one ally in this familiar yet alien landscape. He slipped into the home, his footfalls light and quiet, trying to sneak through what was left of the home to get to whatever lay outside. The worn, scuffed, brown leather of his ankle-high jump boots gave a creak of protest as he stepped from grass and dirt onto a wooden floor, moving through a simple wooden plank door which hung off-kilter on only one hinge. The home was simple indeed, a white enamel wood stove in the corner of the kitchen, which now rested dormant, unlit, unused. The wooden icebox was long empty, the door hanging open, and the simple wooden table and chairs were strewn, as if thrown by some angry beast, to all corners of the room. A hallway ran across the home, and across it lay what might have been a parlor or living room once, in a time before war and its dark hands had closed its grasp around it. A brown canvas chair, ripped and torn, sat near a window overlooking the road, a closed plank door next to them both, closed at the moment. A table lay pushed against the door, jamming under the brass handle, as if in a vain attempt to keep the chaos outside from invading the small home. The soldier sighed, looking to a photograph in a simple square brass frame, the glass cover shattered over the black and white photograph. In monochrome, it contained a portrait of the family who had lived here. A strikingly handsome young man, wearing a simple gray suit, his black hair parted over a boyish face framed by rounded glasses. He smiled, holding a young girl in one arm. The smiling child couldn’t have been more than ten, flaxen blond locks flowing down past her shoulders and over her back. He could almost see the sparkle in her eyes, the image of innocence there bringing a smile to Mac’s young features. Mother and daughter certainly shared a resemblance, both wearing simple white dresses and sharing in that same innocent sort of beauty. The elder woman’s hair was done up in a bun as she smiled for the camera, her arm around her husband and resting on her daughter’s ankle. A happy moment forever frozen in time, monochrome and unchanging. The sound that froze Mac in horror was not a gunshot, nor the clicking and clacking of a weapon being loaded. No, it was a tiny sniffling, a whimpering in fear and desperation. It came from somewhere down the hallway, and seemed perfectly timed to a few dull thuds of artillery or mortars in the distance. He moved quietly back into the hall, moving for the two other doors which lay down the narrow corridor. The sight of another being next to him gave him a start, and he nearly cried out as he spun in fear, only to face down himself. He’d almost shot at a mirror. If it weren’t for the chaos all around him, or the fear of dying before the sun rose again, he might have laughed. His cool, clear blue eyes stared back at him, seemingly a bit more clouded than he’d remembered from The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 455 before boarding the plane, which brought him here. Fiery red hair in an Irish tradition was still tightly curled under his helmet, and his fair complexion was marred only by a few freckles here and there on his boyish face. No bullet holes yet. At least that drew a bit of a smile from him. Another thud in the distance, and another zip of machine gun fire a bit closer than that, and finally another small whimper. It came from the door on the right, which lay open to the hallway. It was small, feminine, clearly no terrified soldier or cowering adult. This was the frightened mewling of a child. He stepped into the room quietly, finding it near empty and unoccupied. A simple bed and wooden armoire all that adorned the room. The armoire doors stood open, the clothing within small, clearly meant for a child. But there was no child here, it seemed. It didn’t take long to dawn on him where the child was though. The first place he’d always gone to hide as a kid was simple, and he’d imagine French children thought much like American ones. Slowly he stepped toward the bed, the 18-year-old paratrooper taking a crookneck flashlight from the web straps that crisscrossed his body to hold his equipment. Its bright white beam pierced the darkness under the bed, revealing a pair of weathered blue eyes staring straight back at him. The girl shrieked, trying to crawl backward, only to find herself out from under the bed. She was clearly the girl from the picture, those same bright blond locks flailing wildly as she ran for the door, only to stumble and fall over her own shoelaces. She cried out, the young American shushing her quietly, moving in front of her to block her path as he spoke quietly. “Je suis American... Je suis ami...” He looked to her, his eyes meeting her own as she looked up at him through tears, the only gesture given being a quiet nod. His French was slow and mispronounced, but it had gotten at least part of his message across. Mac smiled for a brief moment. He had to find his platoon, what was left of them. He had to fight a war, defeat the Nazis and get back home. But at this moment, it didn’t seem quite as important as comforting this young girl. She was older now, perhaps twelve or thirteen, the picture must have been a few years old. She wore a modest floral pattern dress, a splash of color in an otherwise dark and unforgiving world, a world gone mad. The soldier reached into his green canvas Musette bag, searching for what little treasures he could offer the young girl. After a moment he found what he sought, his dirty, calloused hand returning from the dark abyss with a small bar of chocolate. “Shakolah...” It was still horribly mispronounced, though again it got his point across. The girl took the candy, peeling off the brown paper with the reverence of a edited by Joshua Goudreau 456 cleric handling a sacred relic. She huddled the bar close to her form, as if expecting some unseen hand to assault her new prize and steal it away. Slowly the shining tinfoil beneath would be discarded, revealing the dark, condensed chocolate within. She nibbled delicately upon it even as Mac checked over his equipment, finding out just what had survived the turbulent first few moments of freefall before his chute had opened. His bayonet was still there, thankfully, as was the brown canvas musette bag stuffed to the brim with two blankets, spare ammunition for the rifle he no longer had, and a few personal effects. His gas mask was gone, ripped away in the torrent of his initial descent, as was most of the other gear he was supposed to be carrying. The girl didn’t seem to mind his lack of equipment as much as he did. She was smiling now, enjoying what had been a long lost delicacy by the look of it. Her smile drug one out of him. He wondered how long it had been since she’d smiled. This was what he was fighting for, he knew. He could only hope he’d live to see more smiles on more faces like her own. “Merci.” The word was quiet and soft, but spoken with a sort of reverence and purity only a child could reach. Mac simply nodded to the smiling girl, moving to slowly sit down against the wall, taking off his helmet for a long few moments. The girl sat next to him, curling her legs up under her and sighing as she stared down at the candy bar. “Je m’apelle Jean...” “James.” He stared down at the young girl for a long few moments as she leaned against him. In a few minutes he’d have to search for his squad, and then start fighting a war against an enemy probably just as scared as he was. But for right now, he was glad for chocolate. He was glad to be alive. In the smile of a child, he was glad to feel human again, even if it was just for a little while.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 457

Vincent Curtis and the Pure Form by Lazy Line Painter John

“ALL ARTS ASPIRE TO THE STATE OF MUSIC, WHICH IS THE pure form” - Pater

The rain beat down on a humdrum town; I know that Vincent would not have had it any other way. Vincent John Curtis, lonely, sweet obsessive, studious misfit, failed journalist, suicide. One of those we lazily dismiss as life’s victims, as if to spare our own guilt for letting them fall. Vincent, my friend, sparse funeral completed, whose pitiful legacy was now my possession. A life described and defined by music and its documentation, messily contained in a small leather case. Thirty-two years had left little but unpaid debts, a drinking problem and a vast record collection that had burned away with my friend. One of these would have played as Vincent splashed the oil and struck the delivering match, this is beyond doubt. I could have speculated which, but what difference does it make? In accordance with his wishes, Going Underground was played at his funeral. I had smiled through my rainy tears and cast a glance at various unknown relatives: they had looked sullen and dutiful, neither noticing the grim humour nor, I think, mourning the loss of Vincent. I ignored them for the rest of the service, addressing my words when the time came to the coffin and to my own grief. His family was never close; in such circumstances it means little to talk of abandonment. With me it was different. All our lives I’d watched him trip at every step, and after a while I stopped catching him. I abandoned Vincent. edited by Joshua Goudreau 458 That his case had survived at all was remarkable. Oil-stained, it did not burn when the rest of Vincent’s paltry possessions followed their owner into oblivion. I was self-consciously grateful for the hollow comfort it offered. It was evening when I returned home, and though the case had been on my mind all through the long and dolorous drive, I didn’t look at it. My reticence came from vague and inarticulate notions of respect; as soon as I gave the matter a moment’s thought I decided that, on the contrary, any disrespect would lie in leaving it unopened. Vincent had written to be read, and every rejected article was another wound to his fragile esteem. I unfastened the straps, dimly noticing as I did that they weren’t genuine leather, and removed the contents. There seemed to be little order to the papers. Reviews (written for his own benefit, he’d once said) mingled with rejection letters, pages torn from magazines, notebooks, ticket stubs from exceptional shows. One of these caught my eye: The Wedding Present, November 1987. His first gig, and mine. He was lost from the first note of the first song; that night mapped out his life. Or so he told me later. I was less enthralled with the show and had spent my time concentrating on clumsily groping Katie Osman, who was relatively accommodating, I recall, until the encore. But Vincent was far gone and out. He’d written his first review that same night, and showed it to me the next day with lunatic enthusiasm. Was it in the case? It could well have been. Eighteen years of writing makes a lot of papers. Continuing to sift through them I let my eye rest on a line here or there. Vincent had not been a natural writer; he always felt that music overwhelmed language, and found the cavalier prose of a Morley or Lamacq frustrating. He’d always been more comfortable with mathematics, where eloquence is default and the inexpert obvious. Music to Vincent, like maths, was objective. To deny this, in the manner of Kierkegaard (or to choose a more Vincent-like example, Howling Pelle Almqvist), was offensive. Lists. Endless lists. The obsessive’s stock in trade, and the music journalist’s. I remembered one of our last conversations, about five months previously. May God forgive me, I’d called him about money. He didn’t have it, of course. And I knew this, and I rang anyway. He could only talk about lists. “All we ever do,” he’d said, using ‘we’ to mean music journalists, “is make lists. Best this, best that, worst this, and there’s your new issue of NME. And the Top 40 is still gospel. Lists have become the goal.” I asked him what he meant. “Lists shouldn’t be the goal,” he said, “lists should be the method. Why make a list unless you can use it?” I didn’t really understand, and he’d changed the subject. (Changed it to something else to do with music, of course. Other topics -- sport, politics, women -- left him baffled and uneasy.) The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 459 Notebooks, cheap ones. Filled with tight, angular handwriting. Again, lists. I wondered at the utility of a list titled “Top 5 90s guitar solos of Wales” (topped by La Tristesse Durera). I was faintly surprised at the existence of “Top 5 Post-1978 Debut Album Track 6’s” (in first place, New Slang), less so by “Top 5 non-singles: Pixies” (led by Winterlong). Endless lists. I did not notice, at this point, the margins. The papers were simultaneously touching and painful. I’d mocked Vincent for wasting his life in my crueller moments, and now I held the evidence before me. It was pity I felt as I turned over more and more near- identical pages of obscure pop minutiae. I knew pity was my privilege as an outsider. For these pages’ author, the lists had been - eventually - despair. One notebook, larger than the others, caught my eye. I opened it. It was a diary. I suddenly felt another pang. Here, among the lists and ranks and sequences, was something so unmistakeably personal. It extended around eleven months back. I flicked through it, observing that every day was granted some description, but not letting myself read more than the odd incidental word; before I again remembered that all this, diary included, was all I had left of Vincent. I owed it to the friend I’d abandoned to understand better his last days and weeks, and months; a task I had shamefully neglected all the while I might still have helped him. I let the pages fall open. Each day was given a star rating out of five. With painful certainty I watched the numbers gradually diminish through the months. I looked for, and found, our conversation about lists. There was a folded, printed sheet marking the page. I opened it and read: “I cannot combine notes which defy the closed and all-encompassing structure of musical notation. Mill anticipated the exhaustion of composition nearly two hundred years ago: the speed of his prophecy’s fulfilment depends entirely on human zeal. The limits of musical possibility, whether anticipated or not, already exist. Music is discovery, not creation. Like every contingent thing, music is finite, and thus knowable. But since music enjoys the status of an art, its enquiry is unmethodical, spontaneous; to all intents and purposes, random. The notion of a formula with which to unlock the finest songs, if even considered, is anathema to the musician. But this does not dissuade them from trying, nor does it prevent the complicit documentation of their blind efforts. I am convinced of the narrowness of this approach: I believe the formula exists, and I am prepared to devote all my energies to its isolation.” The academic idiom was Vincent’s; but it was the question of the concept, not the authorship, that took me. Vincent was no musician (he could play a little guitar, and less piano; there his talents, such as they were, ended) yet here he was, effectively telling history’s, composers that they were doing it wrong. His research... I turned the diary pages, and noticed for the first time edited by Joshua Goudreau 460 the occasional mathematical symbols, mingled with his depressed narratives. I kept turning through weeks and months; the symbols became more common, more complicated. I allowed myself a moment of incredulity: had Vincent applied maths to music? Had the futility of such an exercise broken him? Suddenly jolted by a rising memory, I shuffled urgently through pages I’d already discarded. There, subtly in the margins, were his lists distilled into formulae, initially disparate and unique but becoming more similar as the pages continued. The lists’ use, I suddenly realised, were as tests: somehow, Vincent’s belief in genuine, objective quality allied with his mathematical approach was being tested in such ways as “Top 5 Postcard Singles”. I noticed a date on that entry (number 1 was We Could Send Letters by Aztec Camera). I checked the diary entry for the corresponding day. “General label coefficient = 31 = too heavy? Associates > Josef K? Think not! Compare Fierce Panda ‘90s.” It meant nothing. The day was rated **, the highest of the week. Some days merited no stars at all. I resumed reading more urgently, examining later entries. Many were equally obscure; here and there I noticed a band or a song I recognised. References kept appearing to ‘The Formula.’ From around four months ago, all entries became based entirely around this controlling obsession. Events of his life and the outside world were rarely mentioned. With increasing heaviness I noticed occasional lines about being watched or followed; Vincent wasn’t just obsessed but paranoid. But he was more concerned with his Formula: I saw songs assigned numbers and letters, often adjusted infinitesimally with tiny pencil marks, then signed off with a tick. The handwriting became more ragged as the days ran out, every day’s Formula longer and more complete-looking. One day seemed to be devoted to classical music: the names of Mozart and Bach appeared beside the Formula; they too were ticked off. The day-ratings were high, very high. Four stars on days with reams of calculations, footnoting triumphant circles around equations that I didn’t understand. Vincent’s scribbling, passionate and quixotic, depressed me. Where he saw visions of staves meeting =, I saw madness. Even if I had believed his theories for a moment, I couldn’t possibly have followed them. I didn’t begin to understand the maths involved, and looking through the names of the songs and the bands and the labels was like trying to read a language I had only studied briefly, and by accident. I had no way of knowing if any part of this was sound. Vincent was convinced, that was obvious. I turned with trepidation to Vincent’s last few entries. Two days before his death, a full page of symbols, dissected by an equals. On the facing page, a morass of lists, each one unadjusted and joyously ticked. At the bottom of the page, a revelation: *****. Vincent had found his Formula. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 461 Vincent, my poor, deluded friend. He’d given his life for music, for a system that tapped directly into the pure essence of the will, music. At the last, his tenuous sanity had deserted him, leaving just a lunatic muso who solved unaskable questions with impossible equations, and compiled pointless lists without end or meaning. I turned to the next page in his diary, the day before he died: there I noticed musical notation. As I said, Vincent was not blessed with musical ability; indeed, I’d never known him to write music before. I took the diary over to my overlarge piano; I can read music, just about, and reckoned I could play the few bars he had scrawled down. With expectations low, I played the keys as I read them: slowly, falteringly. It didn’t matter. Even with my clumsy musicianship, the tune was unreal. Eight bars of 4/4: I played them again, more confidently. By the sixth bar I had to stop. My hands were shaking. I stood up and opened a window. Evening had turned to night: it was bitter and still raining. I couldn’t feel a thing. I was still clasping Vincent’s diary. There were more bars under the first eight, apparently a different tune. Pulling myself together as best I could, I played these new notes. This time I didn’t get past the fourth bar. It was perfect. It was the most perfect thing I have ever heard. Vincent had done it. He had deconstructed the fabric of composition: he had revealed songs, songs unique, perfect and irreducible. And then I saw what Vincent had seen. He realised what he had done: charted the end, the death, of music. No more Mozart or Verdi or Morrissey or Verlaine: there would be no need. Music ended with this page, this confusion of symbols, this Formula: music, conquered, discovered, was no more. The revelation had broken over him like the breaking of the world. Vincent had looked upon the absolute, seen the face of God in hooks, heard His voice in chord progressions. That which levelled Sodom and blinded Saul revealed itself to Vincent Curtis and overwhelmed his fragile being. Still shaking, I turned back to the diary: I held in my hands the mathematical distillation of pure art. Vincent Curtis had known the unknowable, and with this knowledge he had taken the only path he could: he had set alight all his meticulous records, and burned the knowledge from existence: in his work, and in himself. But the case had survived. The Formula lived. And it was in my possession. I wondered for a headlong moment what I might achieve with it. If I were sensible, if I used it sparingly, I could be unimaginably successful in whatever musical idiom I liked. Three perfect songs per record, maybe combined with some purposefully-flawed masterpieces- evidence of occasional fallibility might be prudent- and I could make millions, billions, I could live a universal and unattainable dream. I could- I caught myself. Unacceptable. Vincent had wanted it obliterated: it was his last wish, and for its sake he’d died. How could I countenance using him edited by Joshua Goudreau 462 like that? He had tried to destroy it, but, cruelly, typically, he’d not succeeded. I would complete this task for Vincent. I would burn the surviving record of the Formula. Because I was so certain that this was the right path of action and yet I was still tempted by the other, I quickly put the diary down on the tabletop. I felt light-headed, faint even. The stress and emotional laceration of the funeral, the long drives, the diary and the Formula suddenly seemed to rush to my head. I don’t remember lying down but I came to on the floor. It was still night. The room was freezing cold. Groggily, I got to my feet and immediately looked at the table. Vincent’s diary was gone.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 463

December 23rd by Flutterbies

ON DECEMBER 23RD 2004, A HEART ATTACK TOOK HIS LIFE, a life full of addiction and greed, on December 23rd 2004, he died in vain. 5:00 PM on the dot, a cold beer is cracked open, a cigarette ignited. He sits in front of the TV, the remote firmly in hand as he channel surfs. The only time he turns away from the television or puts down his beer is to make a run for the bathroom between commercials. Not even the sound of his daughter crying could break him out of this hypnotic trance. This carelessness for his health and family continues until he passes out. Beer still clutched his hand as a cigarette dangles from between his lips. He is easily swayed into feeling he needs these crutches to sustain his life. Many times, he has come to the brink of abstaining from these habits but the result only ended with abuse and anger. Within his inebriated state there is no convincing, or even expressing any sort of emotion to him, he only turns away with rage. Addictive, greedy, money being his main concern. He has no conscience, he spends without guilt. Leaving his family hungry at times to satisfy his cravings for fine food and material items. Fast cars, woman of the night, his wife having to rummage though cabinets to find even the smallest morsel of food to feed his children. Chips and tuna fish is all that is found, the children quickly inhale the food as he sits in his Lazy Boy, a large prime rib nestled in his lap. Never working, relying solely on government funding. At night, he would rarely make it home to tuck his children into bed. His nights were spent at a nearby doctor’s office, drugs being illegally administered and bought. Again, his addictions controlled his life, his family suffering. edited by Joshua Goudreau 464 Time passed and things had not changed for the better, if anything his addictions got the better of him. He would use his key to tear his teeth from his gums, why you ask. To obtain painkillers to ease his withdrawal. A cruel man living the high life, literally. At home, his children were sheltered from his habits, their life nothing less than perfect, and their mother striving to keep it that way. Though there were times when she could not keep them safe from him. Many nights while she worked late he would mock a seizure only to belittle the children, furious as to why they would not help their daddy, question their love for him. Years passed his thrill for pills and women caught up with him. At 46, he ended up in a halfway house, stricken with bipolar and schizophrenia. Paranoid of the world, those he once called his family rarely visited him. As time continued, his family abandoned him, how ironic the once cruel and selfish man was in need of love and affection, and here he now sat alone, no pills to comfort his pain, no family to call his own. On December 23rd 2004, his life was cut short, a heart attack taking his life from him. A man who lived in the fast lane, a cruel and uncaring man who died alone. A man who died not only in vain, but also so very alone.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 465

Lawrence 3: Freedom by Lena Melyakova

LAWRENCE CAUGHT HIS BREATH ROUGHLY IN HIS THROAT and wouldn’t let it go. He tried his hardest to sink back into shadow and not be noticed. He listened for Natasha’s actions; the silence from behind him confirmed that she was still. He lowered his head, remembering that this person descending the stairs might feel his eyes on the presence-sensitive nape of the neck. The footsteps came closer. Their echoes flattened and halted – the person associated with them had reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the colony chamber – and Lawrence heard a new sound. He heard heavy breathing that tremored like Natasha’s voice. Someone was surprised, nervous, afraid... Lawrence slowly raised his head. His eyes took in the gleam of polished shoes, then dark shapes, barely visible, rising and merging to one shadow – a shadow with two hands hanging out at the sides. One of them tightly gripped a black handgun. The figure approached Lawrence’s cage. Lawrence froze and lowered his eyes. He looked down at the knuckles on his hands, red, unused to the hard stone ground, unused to supporting half of his weight. A low male voice with a slight British accent whispered to him, “I’m here to help you.” The door of Lawrence’s cage swung open. The footsteps moved around to the back of the cage, and he felt little tugs on his leader chains as his rescuer tried to unfasten them from the back bars. He waited patiently, and soon the voice informed him that he was free. He turned to look at his rescuer’s face. edited by Joshua Goudreau 466 The skin on this face was cracked and grainy like leather, with dark gullies beneath the eyes. The eyebrows were thick, bushy and black. In the darkness of the dungeon, the two lips could not be distinguished from the rest of his visage until they moved once more. “How many are you?” “She’d know better than I do,” replied Lawrence in a soft, low voice, pointing over his shoulder at Natasha’s cage. “I just got here.” Then he realized he was free to turn all the way around and see his mysterious Bull Gypsy companion for the first time. He turned, watching the rescuer stand and walk towards the other cage. He caught one glimpse of a plain solid-colored dress – the lighting made it look like stone – and a shadow of thick hair falling just below the dress’s shoulders before the rescuer’s silhouette obstructed his view. Lawrence saw the black-suited man open the cage door and heard the man’s voice whispering something he couldn’t quite hear. Natasha’s husky timbre whispered a shaking reply. Then the rescuer walked around the back of her cage and began working on her chains. Lawrence looked down. He didn’t want to see her until she stood outside of the cage. The rescuer whispered two syllables that Lawrence discerned, with difficulty, as “You’re free.” He heard the sharp clank as Natasha’s leader chains hit the ground. Then he heard soft, shuffling feet take a short step, then a long one. He looked up. There, shaking her bushy dark brown hair out of her face, stood the freed Bull Gypsy. Her cracked and naturally red lips – red that could be seen even in the darkness, even twenty feet away where Lawrence stood – parted slightly in what looked like a sigh or a deep breath. He couldn’t see her teeth. She stretched her short arms above her head, displaying developed biceps as her short sleeves slid down and noticeably full breasts. Her dress stopped at her scarred knees; her feet were bare. The rescuer gestured for Lawrence to come closer. He hadn’t realized he’d been standing there staring like an idiot. He approached the two of them. He took in Natasha’s skin as he got closer, dirty and browned the color of a Native American’s. The dress appeared a bit tanner than the color of the dungeon walls. Her eyes started dark brown at their perimeters, then melded into green towards the centers. Beneath her eyes sat bags the color of the Grand Canyon’s cliffs and plateaus. It was hard to tell her age, but Lawrence guessed about thirty. She quickly scanned Lawrence’s features; looking down at his Army boots and up at his blond hair and blue eyes. He felt very self- conscious about his lack of a shirt. “Can you follow us?” whispered the rescuer, looking up at him. Lawrence nodded. They started through a wide tunnel behind Natasha’s cage, Natasha leading the way and their rescuer in the middle. The tunnel led The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 467 to another chamber the same as the one from which they’d come, with two cages, one twenty feet behind the other. Lawrence recognized the number of cages per room and the inability for prisoners to see each other’s faces as precautions against the prisoners’ organizing or developing a common identity. They continued through the tunnel to different rooms, some with three prisoners and some with two, and their procession grew from three to about twenty-eight – Lawrence couldn’t be sure how correct he was in counting. The youngest were teenaged, the oldest were in their fifties, and men and women were equally distributed. None of the men had shirts, and neither did a few of the women. Lawrence and Natasha’s room seemed to be the head of the tunnel; while each room had a staircase leading out of it, each room also had two tunnel ends instead of one. Finally, they came to a chamber with only one tunnel end and a staircase, where the rescuer took the lead and gestured that Lawrence should stay immediately behind him. “Do you know the way out?” Lawrence whispered as they climbed the stairs. The rescuer nodded. “What’s going to happen to us?” “You’re going back, to live a normal life… as a first-class citizen,” the rescuer replied. He stopped and looked Lawrence in the eye. “How can I trust you?” He heard people shuffling and bumping into each other, caught off guard by the procession’s halt. “I don’t know.” The rescuer considered. “My name is James. I’d like to help you.” Then he began walking again. They marched solemnly past a room where the floor and walls and ceiling were covered in striking white tiles. There appeared to be a large light screwed into the center of the ceiling, and several smaller electric lights along the walls of the room – or circular shadows in the tile at least. A bench, also of while tile, ran around three walls about a foot beneath the lights. Black straps held what looked like a mobile showerhead up against the ceiling. Lawrence thought the place looked like a shower facility. Realizing that Lawrence had never seen this room before, Natasha tapped him on the back. “High… high pressure w-water jets come out above the wall li… lights,” she explained, pointing. Lawrence squinted and looked around the walls, locating the ring of tiny silver openings in the walls. Then Natasha added, “No soap.” Lawrence shuddered with the not-entirely-unpleasant thought. They passed a few more rooms, one of which looked like a nursery, another like the inside of a dentist’s office. He was so curious about these rooms he almost wished he could stay. edited by Joshua Goudreau 468 Finally, the procession reached an office room with white paint on its stone walls and a desk with a red electric lamp in its center. Across from the tunnel entrance to the room was a regular wooden door, painted tomato-red. James turned around and back up to the door as he made sure all the prisoners had squeezed into the tiny room. “You will line up,” he said. “Single file. That’s the fastest way to get everybody through this door. When you come out, you’ll be in a file storage room. Go out the door to your right, turn left, and run as fast as you can down that hallway. You need to get out that glass door that’ll be ahead of you. Pull, don’t push.” He stopped and smiled, though no other prisoner appreciated the humor. “One of you should hold the door; it’ll be quicker that way. There are six ordinary cars parked outside the door. They’ll have all their doors open. Everyone needs to squeeze into them as quickly as you can. Got all that?” Lawrence nodded, the only prisoner to move his head. “Line up.” The prisoners formed a line that went back into the tunnel. They took a while to do it, because everyone wanted to be near the front. Nobody wanted Lawrence’s position as the leader, however. They didn’t want to be the first one seen. James moved along the line, pressing his finger to his lips and pointing at his watch. When the people behind him had settled, he returned to the front of the line. “Ready?” he asked Lawrence in a whisper. Lawrence nodded. The rescuer flung open the tomato-red door and took off at a run, his gun held out in front of him, Lawrence and Natasha and all the other prisoners sprinting behind. As he caught the door from the black- suited man in front of him and held it open, he heard a stack of papers fluttering all over the place like someone had dropped them. Through the stampede of prisoners, he observed a small tile-and-marble reception room with windows in the back like a bank, where startled visitors stared from their knees as they slowly felt around for the papers all over the ground. Then his view cleared, and he pushed off from the door into the back of a waiting gold sedan. The others in this carpool looked dully up at him. He sat next to a pale college-age girl with dark freckles and blue jeans who crossed her arms over her bare chest. Spiderweb scars started at her collarbone and ran down her front. Next to her on the other side was a dark-haired boy who looked only about fifteen. In the dark-haired boy’s lap sat a short and very thin woman with salt-and-pepper hair. She wore a light blue tracksuit. Lawrence motioned to her to come sit on his lap instead. She climbed over the pale girl in the middle. She weighed barely anything at all, but the boy pouted at him and stuck his tongue out. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 469 “You couldn’t have felt a thing,” whispered Lawrence. The driver, a mustached, greasy-haired Latino in a blue suit, chuckled a little. Lawrence looked up into the front seat as the first car in the lineup started moving. On the passenger side, right in front of him, sat a tall, overweight man with a bowl haircut that actually made his brown hair look rather good – at least from the back. The gold sedan accelerated quickly, pushing everyone back against their seats. It occurred to the freed prisoners that none of them knew where they were. The driver turned onto an entrance ramp to Interstate 25, passing under a sign for ‘Albuquerque, 13 miles.’ “Excuse me, Sir, where are we going?” the woman in Lawrence’s lap asked the driver as he handed a cigar and a lighter to the man in the passenger’s seat. Her strong voice startled everyone. The right wheels ran over a small piece of road kill, and Lawrence couldn’t help but smile as the bump lifted her up in the air and dropped her sharply back down on the tendon in his right thigh. His overstimulated pituitary gland had already commenced operations. He heard the man in the passenger’s seat gasp, probably at the sensation of a burned finger. “You’re going back, eh, to so-ci-ty,” said the driver, grinning through his moustache in the rear-view mirror. “You live – thank you – you live like normal person.” He stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth. “You’re going to lower our TQ’s?” asked the teenage boy hopefully. “You see,” replied the driver. The girl in the center had closed her eyes, probably asleep. Lawrence watched the other cars go by out the window, wondering what to think or whether to think at all. “We are all tired,” the man seated in front of him said slowly and softly to himself. “Do we really need to sleep as deep as they do?”

To be concluded...

edited by Joshua Goudreau 470

Wanted by Hallucinated Light

“LEFT-WING WOMAN SEEKS INTELLIGENT, OUTGOING conversationalist. All parties, genders, etc. welcome. Should be interested in world affairs, exploring religions, and other deep subjects. 845-659-1841 or meet at the café off McKelleps at four on Sunday.” Well, that was a waste of six thirty-five, Judith thought as she mailed out her ad and coins to the local daily. At least I have an answering machine to screen for wackos. She didn’t know why she was putting out an ad- like anyone was going to answer it unless they misread the number as the one next to it, one by “Foxy redheaded grandma, mid-80s, searching for soul-mate,” or something of the ilk. Maybe she thought it’d soothe her conscience- at least she was doing something about her estrangement from society. Maybe she was tired of talking to her cat. While Ophelia was a very good listener, she had the odd habit of jumping up and rubbing against your legs when she agreed. Besides, she didn’t want to end up as one of those crazy old cat- ladies. So a human companion it was. “The problem,” Judith said to Ophelia once she got back to the apartment, “is that I’m about as good at starting conversations as I am at flying without a plane.” Bussing dishes was not the best way to meet people, and she knew it. While freelance photography was definitely a talking point, there was only so much the uninitiated could listen to about the balance of chemicals in the stop-bath, or the pros and cons of digital enhancement before they started to doze off. “But what can I do about that, magically make myself more interesting? C’mon kit, let’s go scavenge some dinner.”

*** The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 471 The next morning, when Judith sat down to read the paper (after digging several minutes in the shrubs to realize it was already on the kitchen table), she noticed an ad right next to her own that read, “Smart, talkative woman seeking good listener. Café off McKelleps, at four-thirty Sunday. Corner table by the condiments.” “Huh. What are the odds?” she asked of Ophelia, who merely mewed. “Well, I did make that resolution to get out there, meet new people. It’s not like it’s out of the way.” Reminded of her own request, she walked over to the stand where the answering machine sat, pressed the blinking green light, and went to the cupboard to find the pancake mix. Oblivious to the fact that if the ad had only come out this morning no one would have answered it yet, she began rummaging through expired boxes of crackers and ancient jam. “You have. One. New message. First. New message. Sent at seven. Forty. AM. Yesterday, Friday the. Fifteenth.” Beep. “Hey Judith, we’re out of pancake mix, I used the last of it this morning. Sorry, I’ll try to remember to pick some up later.” The slightly accented voice of her ever-elusive roommate came out of the speaker, causing her to stop her search of the cupboard. “Damn. I knew I hadn’t used it all. What’ll I have for breakfast then - hmm, bagels sound ok...” Trailing off, she went over to the refrigerator, passed a mostly-empty cat food dish and a mewing Ophelia, pulled out half a sesame bagel, and popped it in the toaster. She got out the lox and cream cheese while waiting for it to finish toasting. Despite having lived on the west coast for over six years, this was one New York idiosyncrasy that had never quite disappeared. The first response to her ad came later that day, right as she was leaving for the grocery store. She paused, but let the machine pick it up. Beep. “Um... hi... this is in response to that personal in the paper this morning... Um... was that actually a veiled reference to bondage? Just wondering... anyway, I’ll just leave a number... call me?” And that’s what you get for putting out personals, she thought as she shut the door behind her. Bondage offers. Honestly.

She had several more calls, none of whom seemed interested in anything deeper than their reflections. Judith was starting to wonder if she was naïve to expect more. But Sunday came along anyway, and she left her apartment to walk over to the café promptly at three forty-five, wondering briefly where Ophelia had gone. Upon arrival, she ordered a blended chocolate- she was not overly fond of caffeine buzzes- and settled two tables over from the corner to wait. It was quiet, and gave her a chance to think about what sort of person might answer edited by Joshua Goudreau 472 her ad. While a tall handsome stranger was too much to ask for, she wouldn’t mind a potential boyfriend. Minutes ticked by and the doorway bell rung a handful of times as people exited with their coffee. At four-thirty she started wondering if anyone would show up at all. One man was acting rather peculiar- walking back and forth, not quite pacing but almost, occasionally stopping, glancing around, and starting in a new direction. So absorbed was she in watching this curious dance that she almost didn’t notice when someone came over and stood watching next to her. Almost. “Hullo,” she said without looking up, “Are you here about an ad you saw in the paper yesterday morning?” Strange how easy that was. “Actually, I am,” she said. “Are you the smart talkative woman looking for a listener?” “Well, actually,” she said, turning to look at the other woman, “I’m the left-wing woman seeking a conversationalist.” Slightly embarrassed, she explained, “The talkative one was the next ad over. Same place though, which is probably why you thought I was her. And the fact that I just keep rambling.” Damn it Judith, shut up, she doesn’t care. “Ah, I see. Well, happy mistake then. I’m Sarah.” Surprisingly, she smiled, and, gesturing to Judith’s almost-empty cup, asked, “Would you like another one of those? On me?” “Wha- oh, no thank you, I’m fine. Would you like to sit?” “Of course- let me just pull over a chair.” Judith noticed she had picked one of the tables with only one chair, even though she was expecting to meet people. When she sat down, she realized for the first time how disconcerting the right shade of blue eyes could be. “So, does this left-wing listener have a name?” “Judith. Not Judy. Judith.” “Well, Judith not Judy, you picked a very interesting meeting place. Is it often like this?” During their conversation, the pacing man had began muttering to himself, something about Jesus and triangles. The baristas started exchanging looks, and patrons were edging away. It seemed the man noticed, because all of a sudden he stopped, looked around at the uneasy customers, and yelled, “What?! Haven’t you ever seen a genius at work before?! I am a mathematician! Don’t look at me like I’m crazy!” “Well no actually, it’s usually much more... normal,” she remarked dryly. The conversation paused a moment as the raving man was escorted out by a rather stunned looking manager. “So um...” Judith fumbled. Talking to people was not as easy as it seemed. “Why’d you place the ad?” Thank God. “Got tired of talking to my cat.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 473 Sarah started laughing, and Judith wasn’t sure whether she should be offended or proud that she was able to make someone else laugh. “Oh no, I’m not laughing at you. I do the same thing. It comes with owning a small furry animal. By the way, do you know what time it is?” “Almost five,” Judith said, surprised at how quickly the time had passed. It had only seemed like a couple minutes. “Crap. I have to pick Turtle up at the vet at six and it’s all the way across town. Can I call you later? Or here, how about you call me- here’s the number at my apartment.” She wrote a number down on her napkin and handed it to Judith. “It was really nice meeting you, I really hope to see you again sometime soon.” And she dashed out the door, leaving Judith in the café staring blankly at the door. The other people were starting to look at her oddly, and the manager had the look of one trying to calm a tantrum- throwing toddler. She gathered her purse, and exited quickly, pausing for a moment outside the door to look at the number on the napkin- 845-659- 1841.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 474

Young Minds At Play by Robin Wilke

THE HAMMOCK SWUNG LOW UNDER THE STARRY, SAILOR blue ceiling. The only clouds screened vacationers’ view of the waxing moon like Venetian blinds. The beeches and conifers stood still, and the maniacal laughter of a red-eyed loon rang across the unmoving lake. Rachel’s sandals scraped the ground, getting pebbles, brown sand, and mica between her toes. She shivered. Nature’s logic was still intact here; the earth beneath her still turned to ice when the sun retired behind the mountains. Her eyes studied the water through the trees. The cold had skipped over her pale skin and gone straight to her blood. She looked back down at the silver cell phone in her hands, flipped open so she could watch the backlight die and press the ‘Ok’ button over and over again to revive it. The eerie blue lights of the keypad were bluer to her than the sky; they pierced, while the sky merely washed over. She angled the screen towards the lake so that its strong white beam did not illuminate her face or alert her uncle in the cabin. Her thumb slowly made contact with the ‘Menu’ button. Out of habit, she arrowed down to ‘Phone Book’ and scrolled through the short list of names, blankly searching with the corners of her eyes. It was the perfect night not to call someone. She could barely trace the warm ringing tones through her own nervous breathing. The completion of each ring brought an extra-heavy thump from her already-pounding heart, because it raised the chance that her best friend wouldn’t pick up. The suspense was in waiting for the fourth ring to end. If she made it through four rings, she could relax a bit through the next six while waiting for his answering machine. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 475 Unfortunately, in the place of the fourth ring she heard, “Hey man, what’s up?” delivered as easily and as casually as a blink of the eyes. Rachel stood from the hammock and took a few silent steps, trying to slow everything down. Phones always made her nervous, but perhaps especially when using one so obviously intruded on the waking routine of nocturnal pines and on the solemnly slumbering lake. “Um, hi James... this is Rachel.” Her voice had always been lower than his. “I’m in Maine, and will be for another two weeks. Without Internet access. We’re, um, on a lake...” she stopped herself. Too much detail. “There’s... a place when I look up... but I’m always looking up... but, well – did I call at a bad time?” “Nah, nah, I was just chillin’. I’ll have to go eat dinner in about ten minutes, though, so...” always more to say. Rachel allowed her mind a few seconds to process this information. “Okay,” she responded. She lifted her feet and pointed her toes to the ground, dumping the dirt from her sandals one at a time. “How’s life?” She couldn’t rush, even if his answer took up all their time. “Oh, good, good,” she heard him say. “My computer stopped crashing a few days ago. I had to take everything out and trade it in though – first I thought the problem was the video card, then I took a look at the motherboard while I was in there and it turns out it was being caused by the front-side-bus” (she could tell he had a little difficulty saying “front side bus” when in his mind he referred to the piece of hardware as some number, abbreviation, brand, or combination thereof) “and the graphics interface of my VIA KT880 chipset – see it’s supposed to support a 400 mega-hertz fsb, I must have burned it out somehow” (Rachel thought sarcastically that she couldn’t imagine how) “but, yeah, that’s news. So... what’s up on your end? Are you having fun in Maine?” Rachel turned the mouthpiece away from herself and took a deep breath. She didn’t know how to begin but she had to start soon, somehow. “I, um...” Rachel looked down at her feet and watched them take a small step in the sand. “I haven’t gotten out of bed in three days.” “Gosh, are you okay?” “I’m, um...” She shook her head slowly, wishing James could hear her head moving from side to side. “It’s okay. It’s fine.” “Are you sure? Have you tried doing anything about it?” “I keep thinking I can just close my eyes again. It’s like blinks; it’s like blinking very slowly. I just close my eyes again.” “Listen, you have to work it out. Either that or be in bed for the rest of your life.” “Maybe I can sleep through realizing that I’m living the rest of my life, you know?” edited by Joshua Goudreau 476 “Well, there are three different types of depression: Don’t take much joy in life, don’t take any joy in life, and don’t get out of bed. You’ve got to get help, you’ve gotta work it out however you can.” “What would make me happy though, I mean... my achievements? Other people, looking at a pretty painting... it’s all so surface... it’s all so surface...” Rachel looked out at the lake. She wasn’t really enjoying this. “Listen, it’s... okay, I’m fine, just, I guess... I’ll talk to you later.” “Wait,” he said. “Rachel, it’s not okay. What you’re thinking right now isn’t rational, and... it isn’t fun to live like that. That’s too many years of college talking. Are you going to try and get help?” Pause. “Promise me you’ll try and get help.” “I... I promise.” “Talk to me again if you still feel this way.” Rachel nodded again slowly. “Yeah.” “I hope you feel better.” For a long time neither of them said anything. Then James said, “Long distance, I better go. Good night.” Rachel’s right thumb pressed the disconnect button. The keypad leapt to life again. She stared at the blue light for just a few more minutes, and then walked back up to the cabin to go to sleep.

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Walking In The Dark by Jenny Sloan

I TURNED MY BACK ON THE HARSH GLARE OF THE headlights behind me. A horn blared in the distance, and I flinched slightly at the grating sound. Damn cars think they own the whole highway. I sighed and brushed back a stray strand of ruffled black hair away from my face. It had been a long night and my chest burned from too-deeply inhaling the cold January night air. In a futile attempt at warmth, I drew my thin black jacket tighter around myself and crossed my arms over my chest. And for a moment, I almost felt warm. My breath formed white, smoke-like puffs ahead of me. As I walked by it, my dark eyes were unconsciously drawn to the graffiti-covered highway overpass, the same one that Sara threw herself off of on Christmas. Even now, I can clearly see her limp figure falling in a graceful arch to the ground, where her delicate form crumbled on the gray cement. Sometimes, I hate Sara for being so selfish. Other times, I envy her for that moment of peace she found, that serene expression that remained on what little of her face that was still recognizable. I tightened my arms around me, though not because of the cold. Tearing my gaze away from the overpass, I knew that I could not linger there all night. When Dad finally woke from his alcohol-induced sleep, he would undoubtedly be worried, his bloodshot eyes wide and panicked; the smell of fear almost overpowering the strong stench day-old Jack Daniels soaked into the once clean beige carpet. But, I promised Mom that I would take care of him. Of course, I would have promised Mom anything when she silently begged me with her large brown, tired eyes while she lay dying in that sterile white hospital bed, nestled under one of grandma’s homemade quilts. Well, a promise is a promise, I edited by Joshua Goudreau 478 suppose. And really, who am I to judge my father when I spent a good deal of my savings on liquor from Mike, who makes a rather nice profit by selling cheap booze to desperate teenagers? I took a deep breath that seemed to freeze me internally. I relished that bitter sting; sometimes it was the only reminder that I was still alive. Reluctantly, I turned. The bright lights of passing cars blinded me for a moment, but I was not bothered. After all, I’ve spent my whole life walking in the dark. Luckily, the way home wasn’t too far. Just five minutes on foot from the old Conoco gas station with the glowing red and yellow sign that had both C’s burnt out, to the Sunny Springs Apartment Complex, a small group of identical red brick buildings ringed with black iron, fire-escapes twisting around every door and window. Then just up the rusted blacks steps to the left of the rusted aluminum garden shed. Then finally to the worn white door labeled with a tarnished brass 7B. Looking at the ever-present collection of old shoes and yellowed newspapers that littered my path, I knew I was home. I paused, staring at the whitewashed door for a moment, surprised by how pale and sick I looked even in the dirty brass doorknob. But, knowing that I couldn’t delay forever, I turned it slowly, only to be nearly over-powered by the nauseating stench of stale alcohol before the door was even fully open. Dad was slumped down on one side of the couch, his bloodshot eyes squinting at me in the dim light of the one bulb that had yet to burn out from the cream table lamp. Even in the oppressive darkness, I could see the coffee brown and pale yellow sweat stains on his once pristine white work shirt. It was painful to see him in such a state. “Hi, Dad.” I muttered softly through chapped lips. “Hey.” He slurred. “Where you been?” His voice was mild and curious. I think I would’ve preferred rage to this drunken disinterest. “Oh, around.” I said casually, avoiding his gaze. An awkward silence stretched between us, filled with all the things we’d never say. This was how things were between us now, both of us walking around on eggshells. He was too afraid to yell at me for being out past curfew, too afraid I’d leave him like Mom did. And me, well, how could I bear to add another shadow to his once vibrant, warm brown eyes? Thus, I swallowed my disgust at the ever-present smell of cheap rum, and Dad watched in silence as I flouted my curfew, unable to stand our apartment anymore. “Well, good night.” I said at last. He mumbled a thick “G’night” dropping his gaze back to the worn, dirty beige carpet as I fled to the sanctity of my room. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 479 With my soft blue bedroom door and an Amy Lee poster separating me from that sad shell of a man in the living room, I was finally able to relax slightly. I dropped bonelessly onto my too small bed, curling my legs back so that my feet wouldn’t hang over the end. Lying on grandma’s homemade, baby blue bedspread, I kicked off my too-big black shoes and stared unseeingly at the blank white ceiling. In the silence of my room, I could hear the soft rustling sound of the wind outside, and a passing cloud obscured the moon for a moment, steeping my sanctuary in even greater darkness. I allowed my eyes to slip shut, though I wasn’t tired. Then, the familiar strains of “My Immortal” began to sound from the top of my vanity. Below my reflection in the mirror, I could see my silver Motorola flip-phone glowing softly with white light from the small screen which declared “incoming call” in small black letters. “I’m so tired of being here, suppressed by all my childish fears..” Normally, I liked my ring tone, but lately, it had become something of an annoyance. Finally, when the caller seemed determined to let the damn thing ring forever, I surrendered and picked it up. “Hello?” I asked, trying not to sound annoyed. “Alley?” It was Connor’s voice. “Yeah, what’s up?” I said casually. “Just got off work, and I’m heading to your place. Wanna go for a ride?” His voice was worried and hopeful. I didn’t have the heart to say no. “Sure, meet me out front.” I agreed. “Out front” is what we called the driveway leading to the first building of the apartment complex. “Alright.” He sounded pleased. “See you in five.” He hung up. I snapped my phone shut, set it back on the vanity, and again pulled on my too-big sneakers. Pushing aside the bars on my window with ease born from years of practice, I slipped down the black fire-escape to the chainlink fence that separated Sunny Springs from the rest of the world. The fence only reached my chest so I usually jumped over it, but tonight I felt rather lethargic and simply used the perpetually unlocked gate. Standing on the wet crab grass beside the front driveway, I looked down the road for Connor’s olive green jeep with the large dents in the passenger-side door and large black blotches where paint had flaked away. Several minutes ticked away in silence before I finally saw a familiar pair of pale yellow headlights reflecting onto a cracked windshield driving towards me. From the street, I could see Connor’s vibrant red hair through the spotted windows even at this time of night. edited by Joshua Goudreau 480 ‘Ah, the Lone Carrot rides again,’ I thought with a slight smile pulling at my lips for the first time in far too long. He pulled over next to me, and I tugged the dented passenger door open with a vicious yank of the handle, the only way it would open. While strapping myself in next to him, I carefully studied the silver buckle to avoid my friend’s worried blue eyes. “Hey.” I said, still not daring to look directly into his eyes, but rather staring at the freckles that littered his left cheek. “Hey.” He echoed softly. “You look pale.” Connor didn’t bother asking if I was okay. We both knew I wasn’t. “Well, you know pale is the new tan now.” I said with a slight smile, my eyes flickering to his for a moment. Connor smiled back. “Yeah, you’re a real trend-setter.” He said dryly. We shared a small grin. Turning his gaze back to the road, Connor pulled away from Sunny Springs, and I watched my home become smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. Neither of us spoke another word as he sped down the highway. I think he was afraid to say anything more. Afraid that I would break down crying again as I had so many times after mom was diagnosed. Nonetheless, looking into the rearview mirror, I could see his pale eyes shift towards me and then back to the road ahead. Before he could finally muster up the courage to say anything, I hit the black power switch to the car’s stereo. A soft, jazzy sort of music played, and a male voice sang out in what was possibly supposed to be a sultry tone that came across, to me at least, sounding as if he were stoned. “Pink it’s my new obsession Pink it’s not even a question Pink on the lips of your lover, ‘cause Pink is the love you discover” Pink, I mused, is the color of breast cancer survivor ribbons that Mom never had a chance to wear. Pink is the color of the home pregnancy test that drove Sara into taking that swan dive from the busy overpass that night. Pink is the color blood-shot eyes, raw from crying. Pink is the color of dad’s drunken face just before he passes out, and I’m forced to roll him over onto his stomach lest he vomit and suffocate himself sometime during the night. I sighed, tired of being plagued by my usually melancholy thoughts, and quickly hit the small black button with a faded white number 5, switching the station to one blasting a screaming ode to teen angst. At least it drove away my dark thoughts. From the driver’s seat, I felt Connor’s worried eyes flicker continually between myself and the dark stretch of road ahead, but I kept my gaze stubbornly turned to the window. I was in no mood for yet another “Do you want to talk about it?” conversation. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 481 Staring outside, I didn’t really know where we were going. Connor’s small butterscotch-colored house maybe, or perhaps we would go to the Piggly Wiggly on Fifth Street, or maybe we would just drive in silence until morning, when the fresh sunlight casts radiance on the world and gives me the strength to brave another day.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 482

Broken Toilet by Zach Morway

MEGUMI LEWIS LET OUT A LONG, LOUD YAWN AND stretched like a cat waking up from a very extended nap. She threw her covers off herself and slid to the edge of the bed where she stuck her legs over and slipped them into her slippers. She looked down at herself, did a quick check-over and was rather surprised to see that she was still wearing clothes, albeit it was only her underwear. Considering the massive party, down the hall at Carrie’s, she had been at last night and the fact that she didn’t remember most of what had happened after about eleven pm, she was considerably stunned that she had any clothes on at all. The fact that she’d actually made it to her apartment, and that she had made it from the door to her bed was even more puzzling. Usually when she didn’t remember the previous night, she found herself lying on the kitchen floor, naked save for a sock or perhaps her panties if she was lucky. Alcohol had a tendency to make her clothes just drop off her body. What Megumi did not know was that during the course of the party she had gotten it into her drunken little head that she was to seek out Sam Dallas and tell him just how much she admired him. After several minutes of stumbling about she literally ran into Sam, who was very much sober, very much lonely and was feeling very much out of place amongst the drunken populous. “AAAHH! Sammy! Where have you been, baby!” She slurred, wrapping her arms around his neck for support. Already her button-up shirt was open all the way, and her bra looked as if it was about to come off. Sam stared at her, somewhat confused as she hung off his neck and grinned at him, her whole gorgeous face turning red. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 483 “I’ve been wandering about. Meg, you’re... really drunk,” He said quietly, putting his hands on her waist and keeping her on her feet. He helped her over to a chair and sat her down, but Megumi just leapt back up and latched onto him even tighter. “Ohmigawd, I am! I am so flipping tanked!” she squealed, still slurring. She buried her face in his chest and began making strange buzzing noises. Sam was at a loss of what to do. Megumi stopped sputtering and looked up at him suddenly, a sparkle in her glazed eyes. “Heyheyheyheyhey! I... I gots an idea!” Megumi said, shaking her head and then staring into Sam’s dark slate-colored eyes. Sam sighed and continued to look at her. “Let’s go to my apartment and... you know...” she whispered, making small circles on his chest with her index finger. “What?” Sam asked, getting somewhat aggravated. “I ain’t talking about playing Scrabble! Scrabble sucks. I’m talking about naked twister! The hor.. hori... horizontal hula! Umm... sex. Catch my drift?” she said. She then got a strange expression on her face and blinked a few times. “Sam,” She said softly. “What Megumi?” he responded, in a tone that was only slightly concerned. “I gotta puke,” She said, and rushed towards the kitchen. Sam followed her to the kitchen where she was now expelling all of her stomach’s contents into the sink. He sighed again and held her dark black hair behind her head as she continued to vomit. Megumi stopped and wiped her mouth clean. She turned around and leaned against the counter. “Can I go home?” She asked Sam, as if it were up to him. He sighed and gently grasped Megumi’s hand. She put her arm around his neck and leaned against him as he walked her to the door. He caringly escorted her out of the bustling apartment, down the hall and to her room. He used her key to open the door, and guided her into her apartment. “Ijustwannasleeeep…” She slurred, and began pulling of her pants. She discarded them onto the floor, and began to walk away. “Okay,” Sam said. He made sure Megumi stumbled her way back to her room and climbed into her bed. “You want some water? You’re going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow if you don’t drink any,” Sam asked, leaning against her doorframe. Megumi pulled her covers up to her face and nodded. “Yeah. Water’s great...” She murmured. Sam turned to go get a glass. “Hey, Sammy?” She called. Sam looked back at her. “Yeah?” he responded. “Thanks...” She said softly. Sam smiled and went to get her some water. By the time he found a glass and came back, Megumi was fast edited by Joshua Goudreau 484 asleep. Sam placed the glass on her nightstand and looked at her. Lying there, breathing softly, she looked like an angel. Sam sighed and gently pushed her hair out of her face. “Night, Meg,” he whispered. He walked out of her room and flicked off the lights as he left.

Megumi yawned again and stood up. That’s when the hangover hit. It was like someone had whacked her in the head with a golf club. A very heavy, steel pitching wedge. Megumi grimaced and held her hand to her forehead. She stumbled left and right, head pounding from the previous night as she looked for her shirt, which she assumed was still on the floor. She made her way out of her room, down the hall and into the living room where she spotted her gray, soft cotton button-up shirt hanging on the back of the couch. Megumi grabbed it and put it on as she stumbled to the bathroom. She walked directly into the door as she entered the bathroom, stubbing her toe on the corner. She cursed to herself and flicked on the lights, which her brain informed her was a mistake by throbbing greatly. She winced and held her hand to her forehead again. She opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a bottle of aspirin. Dumping two into her hand she popped them into her mouth and filled the glass on the counter with water. She promptly guzzled its contents in a matter of seconds, then filled another, and another. After consuming seven glasses of water, she noticed that the floor was a bit damp. With one eye open Megumi looked around and spotted that the toilet was practically brimming with water. She blinked. She opened both eyes, stared some more and blinked again. She then did what known and recognized in the plumbing community as a bad idea: she flushed the toilet. Water filled the bowl and then began to spill over onto the floor. Megumi Lewis was learning one of the first rules of home ownership, if a toilet is about to overflow, do not flush it for any reason. “YEEEE!!!” Megumi squealed in surprise as the toilet continued to disgorge water. “What the hell’s going on!?” She yelped as she grabbed a nearby towel and rushed back to the toilet. She jammed the towel into the bowl of the toilet, hoping that perhaps the flow would stop. But she only displaced more water onto the floor, and the water continued to pour from the toilet onto the floor. She pushed down harder on the soaked towel in hopes it would have some effect. “Stop! Stopstopstopstop! Oh! Please stop it!” She yelled at the toilet, as if the great toilet god would hear her cries for mercy and take pity on her. But, alas the toilet god wanted to hear nothing from her, so it continued The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 485 on its watery campaign of vengeance for years of being trod (mostly sat) upon. “AAAHH!!” She screamed, jumping up and running from the bathroom like a child scared out of her wits. She pushed another towel in the doorway to stop the flow of water and began running circles around her living room. “What do I do! What do I do!?” She yelped. Suddenly, a thought hit her much in the same way a car hits a deer on the expressway; very hard. Sam! Sam’s a plumber! An overflowing toilet is trouble! And it’s plumbing! So Megumi ran from her apartment, dashed down the hall to his apartment four doors down and began pounding on the door like the end of the world was coming.

At the exact moment Megumi Lewis was flushing her toilet, unaware of the irrevocable results it would have, Sam was slathering a well-browned slice of toast with crunchy peanut butter and watching CNN in his boxers and a white t-shirt, unaware of Megumi’s current predicament. He took a bite from his toast, munching on it in quiet contentment as he watched the news anchors discuss how the entire world was going to shit, and it was all the president’s fault. Sam didn’t really care for the current president, but he didn’t hate him either. It was a feeling of complete neutrality. Like how one feels about pocket lint, or the little lines on a soda bottle. They don’t actively wish they were gone, but at the same time they wouldn’t really care if they were there at all. Sam preferred not to think or talk about the president’s effect on modern society. He wasn’t poor because of him, and he wasn’t having truckloads of cash dumped into his room because of him either. So he instead thought about far more important things like; why the hell is a turnip purple? And for that matter, why do you throw them at enemies in Super Mario 2? What was the point of that game anyway?

It was then that Sam realized that the news anchors had transitioned into a new topic; the ‘illegal immigrant crisis.’ Sam continued to munch on his toast, indifferent. He wished they would talk about something catastrophic and earth-moving, like why didn’t he get his newspaper this morning. That was something worthy of ten minutes of morning analysis. Sam frowned and chewed angrily on his toast. He bet that Goddamned stingy stockbroker from down the hall stole it. That guy looked like a weasel. Sam jumped as Megumi began pounding on his door as if the hounds of hell were upon her. “Saaaaaaaaaammmmm!!!!” She yelled from the other side of the door. Sam stared at the door, considerably stunned. He looked at his feet where his half-eaten toast lay peanut-butter down on the floor. edited by Joshua Goudreau 486 “Shit,” he muttered, and got up to answer the door. He trod over to the entryway, opened the door and was once again stunned as he was greeted by a panicked Japanese-American woman wearing nothing but her undergarments and a gray button up shirt that was wide open. He tried not to stare at her breasts, but they were really taunting him today. Her knit gray shirt was partially covering her small bra and large C breasts, but not enough to keep Sam’s imagination from running rampant. That’s when Sam’s brain thought of his ruined toast, and he became irritated at once. It was breakfast, and he was hungry. At the moment, his stomach had more pull on his emotions than his libido. “You ruined my breakfast,” Sam grumbled, glaring into Megumi’s hazel eyes. She stared as if she didn’t completely comprehend what he was saying then yelped: “My toilet is going all Ulysses S. Grant on my bathroom!” Sam stared as if she didn’t completely comprehend what she was saying. “Grant? Wait, what?” Sam stammered, “I don’t get it.” Megumi rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly. “It’s overflowing all over the place!” she said waving her arms for emphasis. “Oh. Okay. Hang on, lemme get my tools,” Sam sighed. Now that breakfast was over by default, he might as well help her. He walked over to the closet and grabbed his personal tool bag. “I need to put on some pants,” he said quietly. Megumi grabbed his hand and rushed him back to her apartment. “No time! Toilet going crazy! Help now, pants later!” She yelped as she dragged him down the hall. She pulled him through the living room and into the bathroom where the toilet was still enacting a standard of unconditional surrender. “Okay, now what’s the proble- Holy hell!” Sam yelled as he spotted the quarter inch of water on the floor, held at bay only by the towel that Megumi had placed there. By now the water had stopped running and spilling everywhere. He whirled around and began staring daggers at Megumi. “Whatd’ja do!?” Sam yelled. “I didn’t mean to!” Megumi said defensively, backing up. “What did you do?!” Sam said. “I-I just flushed it. The toilet water level seemed high, so I thought…” Megumi said, staring at the ground, fidgeting with her hands. “Never flush a toilet if the water level is high already!” Sam shouted, genuinely angry. Megumi was rather shocked. “Why are you yelling at me!? I have a terrible headache, I’m very hungry and it’s not even my freaking fault!” Megumi shouted back. She glared at him like he usually glared at others, her whole body rigid. Sam stared, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 487 apprehensive. Megumi had never talked to him like that; it was kind of... hot. “I’m... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. Please go get a mop and start cleaning this up while I figure out what’s wrong with your toilet? I don’t want it to seep into the lower floor,” Sam asked, still growling a bit. Megumi sniffed, nodded and went to get her mop, as Sam sloshed into the bathroom with his plunger. He placed it in the toilet bowl and began working. After four or five strokes, he felt something come up, and upon removing the plunger and looking at it, Sam instantly realized what the problem was. “Hey, Meg!” Sam shouted. “Y-yeah?” Megumi responded, now somewhat scared of what he might do to her if her toilet was anymore broken. She had no idea he actually liked his work. “I found the problem.” Megumi slowly walked back over to the bathroom with the mop, clutching it in both hands. And there stood Sam, holding a pair of soaking wet lacy black Victoria’s Secret panties. It was her fault. Sam stared at Megumi. “They got stuck. You been missing these long?” Sam asked. “I wondered where those went...” She said. “Cute,” Sam growled, “Now why were they in the toilet?” Sam asked. “I guess I flushed them accidentally when I was drunk the other day,” Megumi said sheepishly, beginning to mop the floor. “How is that possible? I personally put you into bed last night,” Sam responded. “I mean the night before. I had a bunch of girl friends over, and we were all really drunk. I think I was walking around naked. I probably flushed them down then. I don’t remember, really,” Megumi said softly. Sam sighed. “You didn’t use your toilet for twenty-four hours?” Sam asked, giving her a weird look. “I didn’t have to pee...” Megumi said, feeling very, very small. “What, did you pee in the shower?” Sam asked, glaring at her. It felt like little plasma rays were shooting from Sam’s eyes and boring holes into the back of Megumi’s brain. “Probably... I was drunk. I don’t remember,” she said softly. Sam sighed and dropped his hands to his sides. “What do you want me to do with these?” He asked. Megumi looked up at him and blinked. “I dunno. You can keep them if you want,” She said quietly. Sam snorted with laughter. “Why in the hell would I want your underwear?” He asked. Megumi grinned and swayed her voluptuous hips from left to right. edited by Joshua Goudreau 488 “For a memento?” she asked. Sam laughed again, and began helping Megumi mop up the water. They mopped in silence for several minutes, until Megumi spoke up. “So, you’re not mad at me?” she asked, brushing some of her black hair behind her ear. “Why would I be mad?” Sam asked. “You sounded mad earlier. Besides, I always kinda got this vibe from you like you didn’t much care for me,” She said quietly again. Sam stopped and looked up at Megumi with a strange look on his face. “What made you think I didn’t like you?” Sam responded. “You’re just hard to talk to. You always sound so angry...” She said. “It’s because I am always angry. I’m just a really angry person. I’m trying to work on it,” Sam said sheepishly, “...Isn’t going well though.” He finished up mopping and stood up. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I didn’t like you. I’m just not a very good person,” Sam said, smiling weakly. Megumi stood up, stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Sam’s chest. “You are a good person, and I understand and acknowledge that you are not perfect,” She said, “And, I accept your apology.” She then stood on her toes and gave a very surprised Sam a quick kiss. He turned several shades of red and became quite confused. “What... was...” Sam stammered. “That was for helping me fix my crazy toilet, stupid. Now come on, I’ll cook you breakfast,” She said, smiling. Sam smiled, in spite of himself. “I’d like that,” he said quietly.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 489

Fragments by A. S. Pritchard

AN IMAGE OF FIRE FLICKERED LIKE LIGHTNING IN HIS brain. As abruptly as though someone had flipped a switch, Elus came back into himself. He felt slow and weak, as though the fog in his mind had not cleared, and he could not remember what had come before. It was hard to breathe and there was an itch at the back of his throat. His hand drifted upwards, seeking the thing that obstructed his air passage. Numb fingers nudged at a tube, no bigger around than his finger, that disappeared between his lips. His mouth was sealed, his nostrils inexplicably closed. It occurred to him that he should open his eyes, but the blackness around him did not abate. Panicked thoughts tore through his head like missiles. Elus pulled at the tube with all his strength and felt the skin of his lips tearing as it gave. Lights appeared abruptly all around him, blinding and startling him to motionlessness. A red cloud of blood spread slowly from his face in the aftermath, thin and insubstantial as a ghost. Water! screamed a voice in his head. And then his vision blurred and he heard a whisper. A reflection of her face drifted across the pool of his thoughts and his eyes filled with memory. The crash had been spectacular. Twisted metal and glass lay all across the pavement. And there she was, a broken body in the chaos, still strapped to the pilot seat, half-crushed by what was left of her transport pod. Elus rushed over to her as quickly as his wounded body would move. He fell to his knees beside the mangled door, wincing slightly as glass ripped through the thin cloth of his pants and into his skin, and brushed the dark tendrils of hair from her face. “Silendre...” edited by Joshua Goudreau 490 Her blue eyes locked on his face. She raised a pale hand to touch the wet line of a tear on Elus' cheek and left a livid stain on his skin. “No crying,” she said faintly. “No crying for the enemy.” She smiled at him, white teeth gleaming sharply. There was blood at the corner of her mouth. “You never miss a mark.” Not quite knowing what to say, he held her hand and nodded. Her eyelids, dark with cosmetic powder, fluttered like moth wings and closed.

Elus coughed and spat. The transparent gel that had filled his mouth was tinged pink with blood as it spattered nastily on the tiles of the floor. Once his mouth was clean of all but the taste of it, he looked around himself, at the cold white tiles beneath his naked body and the stark walls of the square room he was in. Everything around him screamed sterility. A door was noticeably absent. Boxed in. He shivered. “Elus Metuc.” A voice oozed from the walls like slime. “Your body has recovered. Do you remember me?” Her face filled the screen, a wide face with high cheekbones, straight nose, sharp chin. Her eyes stared at him, but did not see him. It was only a picture. A voice filled the room. “Her name is Silendre Tenot. She is a threat to our order. Eliminate her.” “Who owns her?” Elus asked flatly, all business and no thought. “No one. She’s a Free Cell, but she moves with a group of many others like her. You will need to infiltrate their circle and get close to her, their leader. Be wary of her. She will be expecting it. And do it so her friends will see her. I want to send a message.” “I remember.” Elus’ voice echoed back to him from the blank walls. “Good. We are recommissioning you. Your last assignment was disappointing, but you made your mark. Do you still have it?” Elus glared up at the ceiling. “Try me.” A rectangular section of the wall drew back in on itself and slid away. A faceless man came in with a syringe, set it carefully on the floor and retreated. The wall became solid again. Elus stood and walked slowly over toward the syringe. He grabbed it up quickly when he reached it and pressed it hard against the skin of his arm. A tiny needle pierced his skin as the syringe auto-injected its contents. The drug flowed swiftly through his blood and he could feel that sleepy, silent part of his mind suddenly come alive. He closed his eyes and savored the sensation. It felt as though the walls were singing. He could hear the energy in everything around him, the hum of the electricity and the rush of air in his lungs. He reached out his hand and touched the wall. It moved with his thought and he walked through it, into the corridor beyond where his bare feet touched on the metal grating that served as a floor. The wall flowed The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 491 shut behind him like water falling into a sinkhole and he found himself face to face with a white mask. A gloved hand pushed a neatly folded set of clothes into his arms. “Follow me. I will introduce you to the next mark.”

“I’ve heard of you.” Silendre watched him, her eyes locked onto him with a terrible focus. She had a way of pinning him to the spot with her gaze, as though she saw right through him. “You never miss a mark.” “It’s my duty,” Elus said tonelessly. His voice echoed across the courtyard. Snow fell from the sky and landed softly on the drifts and in his hair. A wind blew against him, moving the snow on the ground, making it swirl around his boots. She laughed at him. “Zombie,” she accused. “I know what you are. They drug you so you can’t use it. You do their bidding so they give you the antidote and they give you the antidote so you do their bidding. The power is ours by right. You don’t owe them anything.” Elus gripped the gun more tightly and steeled himself to pull the trigger. But her stare immobilized him. “Look at you,” Silendre mocked. “The power to mold the very earth beneath your feet and they’ve made of you a lowly assassin.” She moved closer to him, crossing the courtyard and closing the distance between them. “The Order can’t control you, Elus.” He was lowering the gun. She was too close. Her face was only inches from him. “They can’t control you,” she repeated. “Not if you don’t let them.” She kissed him.

It was raining outside. A transport pod waited for him just beyond the outer door. He stood beside it for a moment, letting the rain soak into his new clothes, contemplating the machine next to him - just a dead heap of metal without his mind to guide it - and the tall building that loomed far above him, rearing up defiantly from the flat pavement, a glossy sort of challenge to the sky. It was a symbol of power, control, Order. It was the government, the church, and the justice system all in one. But it existed only for its own sake and looking up at it from the bottom, Elus could understand why she had hated it so much. He shook off thoughts of her and climbed into the pod. “The new mark is – “ “Mélis Tenot,” Elus finished for him. The face on the screen was eerily familiar. The family resemblance was evident in every line of his face. “Yes. It appears he is the new ringleader of the same group of Free Cells. We believe when he is no longer a factor, the group will disperse and so pose no real threat. During our observations, none of the others showed any talent or tendency toward leadership and Mélis Tenot himself has shown himself to be no more than half as clever as his niece. This is your next mark. You will eliminate him and it will be clean. If you fail, if this mark is edited by Joshua Goudreau 492 eliminated as poorly as the last, you will be decommissioned permanently. Is that understood?” “Yes.” “Good. Our latest information places him at the falls. There is a pod waiting outside. Go.” Elus set his hand against the control pad and connected himself to the machine. It felt natural as he moved it and brought its engines to life. Its flight was fluid and swift as it made its way toward the falls, like a great silver beetle buzzing through the air, leaving flame in its wake. Being part of the machine again brought unpleasant memories to mind, thoughts of his last flight, the chase Silendre had led him on and the end he’d brought her to. These memories brought about the return of the same aching guilt that had settled in his stomach as he knelt beside her and held her hand as she died, but that could not completely diminish the way he felt right now, the way he always felt with the drug moving through him, which was nearly always when he was on an assignment for the Order he served. Elus had long ago numbed himself to the feeling of great shame he’d felt every time they dangled the needle before him, baiting him with the drug that made that part of him come alive, that part of him that made it so he could manipulate anything he could touch. He could still remember how he’d come into their power as a boy, the way they’d plucked him from his parents’ home and beaten him into submission. The way they’d hooked him up to their cruel machines and burnt out his power before he’d even known what he could really do with it. And now if he wanted to use it, it had to be their way. Elus could see the glitter of the falls in the distance, beyond the dull sheen of the rain-wet road and the careful geometry of the Order’s grand city, Prime. Two minutes later he was there, guiding the machine toward the metal platform that was built in the middle of the river, just before the falls. A lone figure stood there in the rain, dark as a shadow and unmoving. Elus felt eyes on him as he climbed carefully out of the pod and began to walk steadily toward the man across the platform. “I wondered if they’d gotten rid of you.” An old voice greeted him uncertainly. “Oh no,” Elus answered softly and stood next to Mélis Tenot. “They have one last job for me to do before they’re finished with me.” “Is that what they told you?” He snorted. “Heartless, even to their own kind.” Elus grimaced. “They wouldn’t dare tell me that to my face. No point. But they didn’t have to say it. I screwed up. They must’ve known you were waiting for me. Maybe they think they’ll get lucky and we’ll do each other in.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 493 “Not much chance of it. You’ll be quick to best me, I’m sure. You couldn’t beat Silendre in a fair fight, but I’m twenty years older than she was.” The younger man closed his eyes at the sound of the name. “Mélis.” Eyes fixed on him, sharp and angry. “What? Can’t bear to hear of her? You shouldn’t have killed her, then. She wouldn’t be such a sore subject.” “I-” I’m sorry, Elus wanted to say, but it was a hollow statement. Mélis sighed and looked away. “I know you’re sorry,” he said quietly, grudgingly. “So am I.” They were both silent for a long time, just watching the hulking, malevolent form of the dam in the distance, that thing that captured the untamable river and let it go in a shameful trickle. “It started with the river,” Mélis said suddenly, whispering. “My grandfather told me stories about when the Order came here. The first thing they did was build the damn. The falls were a symbol of the power of nature to everyone who saw them. Now they’re a lesson in futility when fighting the Order.” Elus listened to this, unease growing inside him and wriggling around like a tapeworm. “I don’t want to do this,” he said, more to himself than Mélis. “Then don’t.” “What choice do I have?” Those piercing eyes came back around to rest on him again. “If you make this mark like you made all the rest, you’ll die. The Order is finished with you. You know that.” “If I don’t make this mark, you’ll kill me or they will.” “No, boy. I have no interest in making an end of you. But if you fail them, yes, you will die for that too.” “So I’m a dead man no matter what. I have no choice in it.” “You have a choice in how it happens, Metuc. You can go out walking the path they’ve layed at your feet, or you can find your own way.” Elus stood quiet, thoughts swirling like street litter in his head. “She used me, you know. She let me into her bed so she could tame me, to make a weapon of me. We used each other.” “But that wasn’t how it felt at the end of it, was it?” Elus said nothing. Mélis nodded as if he had. “She used you, you used her, I’m playing your feelings like harp strings so I can use you now. Human beings are selfish creatures at heart, every single one of them.” Elus looked at him sideways, suddenly suspicious. “Using me for what?” Mélis smiled without humor. “I want to use you to bring an end to your makers.” “Oh. You’ve concocted some other mad plan to ruin the Order.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 494 “Mm-hm. It’s very simple, Metuc. I want a victory for my cause and you want absolution. Don’t you?” “I want to take it back. I want her back.” “I can’t bring Silendre back to you, Elus,” the older man said quietly. “But I can send you to her.”

Elus Metuc stood on a high ledge that may as well have been the edge of the world. Water poured out from somewhere beneath his feet, hurling itself into the abyss. The falls were humbling from a closer vantage point, but they were nothing to the full power of the river in its natural flow. He wished that he could see that. The wind whipped the tail of his long coat against his legs, nudging at his back, impatient. But there was no hurry now, no rush. He had time for anything. “They’ll never let me go there.” “It’s open to the public up there, though most people never go. They won’t be able to stop you either, but you have to go now.” “It’s crazy, Mélis. It won’t work.” “We’ve already worked this out, Metuc. We’ve simulated it, we’ve thought about it. The blast will be big, very big. It’ll hit the bottom of the dam if we time it right and from there the whole structure’s going to tear itself apart. It’ll work, Elus. All you have to do is take the leap.” Raindrops landed on his skin like cold kisses. Elus wondered again what the hell he was doing, with explosives cradled to his chest. It struck him that he was doing this for the wrong reasons -- for a woman, for himself, to end his own misery. Then he wondered if that was really true at all. He wasn’t the first or only man of his kind. There were people like him everywhere, living like junkies in the shadow of the Order, slaves to the drug that made them whole again. Maybe he was doing it for them, to show them that it was possible to fight. But her face haunted him, had always haunted him since the first time he’d seen it in the picture. The mark, his victim, the only woman he had ever loved. And he’d killed her. He wasn’t doing this for some high ideal of freedom or human rights or equality. He was doing it for her, to atone for his wrongs, to end himself, to get to her wherever she’d gone when he sent her away. He wanted to be with her and that was all there was to it. Human beings are selfish creatures at heart, every single one of them. It was true, yes. But he didn’t have to worry about it anymore. He didn’t have to worry about anything. Elus smiled a private smile and pressed a button on the explosives rig. He closed his eyes for a moment, whispered her name like a prayer, and stepped out over the water, where the ground beneath his feet disappeared and there was nothing to The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 495 walk on but air. Fragments of memory played on a loop in his mind. She was in his arms, whispering in his ear, words so soft and intangible he thought he might be hearing her thoughts. (Shift.) It was raining hard and her hand came up to smack him in the face. His skin stung and tingled from her ungentle touch and he wished he had never met her, but not for his sake. (Shift.) Her face was distorted with pain, her eyes burned into him and he knew that he’d lost her, that she knew finally that he’d never changed sides at all. Her grip on the door handle went white-knuckled and she wrenched the door open, climbing up inside the pod and disappearing behind the metal. The pod changed into something living, something that could fly and she left him alone on the ground in her wake. In a daze, he followed and he knew what he had to do. (Shift.) “No crying for the enemy,” she said with a smile and a gleam of teeth. “You never miss a mark.” He held her hand in silence, wishing that he could remember everything he’d ever wanted to say to her and hating himself because he could not. Her eyelids fluttered like moth wings and closed.

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Listening To Skinny Puppy by Megan Reilly

I THOUGHT THE WOMAN BELOW US WAS CRAZY. NOT JUST crazy, but crazy, the kind that required continual cultivation and medication. We could hear her shouting at her children, a shrill, piercing monotone that echoed through the vents in the floor. It wasn’t just her kids. It was the telephone, the intercom, a delivery man, the landlord, even strangers on the street. Her voice dominated everything. Her name was Sandy and she had four kids. Every morning, she put her two oldest onto the school bus and dragged her two youngest down the street to do the shopping. They’d be gone for at least four hours, then come home with only a loaf of bread or a carton of milk. On Sundays, Sandy gave a religious sermon to the entire building. She was a devout Catholic. Nobody ever spoke to Sandy; she spoke to them. She had a particular distaste for anyone that was not Irish-Catholic, and she let it be known. Sandy often told my roommate and I to, “go back to England.” We weren’t even British. The Hasidic family on the top floor were always, “those dirty Jews” and the black boy that delivered the newspapers was “the little nigger.” We all knew it was wrong, but nobody had the courage to say much. A blizzard hit one night, covering the streets in white. The heat died, and I stumbled around in a blanket and every piece of clothing I owned. My roommate was snowed in at her boyfriend’s flat. I sat on the window ledge drinking day-old black coffee. There went Sandy, bundled up under her year-round housecoat, loading her oldest onto the snow-crusted bus and tugging her little ones down the street. The little girl, probably three, tripped in the knee-deep snow. Sandy turned back, screamed a slur muffled by a The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 497 passing plow, and jerked the girl’s blonde pigtails to get her moving. She ran awkwardly on her short kid legs to catch up with her mother. An hour later, I heard hushed crying echoing up the stairs. I figured Sandy and her brood were home, but the squeaky sobs were too soft. I ventured out into the icy hall to find the little girl with the blonde pigtails covered in snow and huddled in a corner. I scooped her up and brought her inside. I took off her wet red coat and wiped away the tears and snot running down her face. Her name was Katie. She was three years old and her favorite food was mashed potatoes. Her mother got on the bus with her baby brother and accidentally left her on the sidewalk. Intuitively, Katie ran all the way back to the building, crying in the hallway more from cold than anything. I was able to get her calmed down and dry enough to talk. I wasn’t sure what to do with her. “Katie, do you like Sesame Street?” “What’s Sesame Street?” I was shocked. I thought every kid aged a year and up knew what Sesame Street was. I let Katie flip the dial around on the television. She stopped on a channel and sat down on the floor as content as she could be. “What is this?” “I like this program. I watch it with Mommy all the time.” It was a trashy soap opera, broadcast over one of the cable access channels, filmed in one day, sex scenes cut out and added back in on the direct-to-video version. I got uncomfortable and switched the television off. I offered Katie some music. She sifted through my record collection, fingering each as if it were a delicate toy. “I want to listen to this one.” Katie handed me Skinny Puppy, Bites. I obliged and put it on for her. “It sounds like... the walls when someone flushes the potty upstairs.” I laughed. Katie was hungry, so I gave her the only kid-friendly food I had. I sat on the floor with her, eating cheese and crackers and listening to Ogre on the stereo. It wasn’t long before there was banging at the door. Sandy stood there with a cop, baby in her arms and her two kids goggling out from behind her ratty housecoat. Her face was marked with disbelief and fury. “That’s her, that’s her, officer. Ran away from me on the bus. I’m surprised that she wasn’t killed.” The cop shrugged and stayed silent as I dressed a thumbsucking, scared Katie back in her red coat. Sandy grabbed her by the hand and dragged her down the stairs. edited by Joshua Goudreau 498 “Find God and stay away from my children!” Sandy hissed and spit on my door as she left, the cop ushering her along. I cleaned up, and smoked the cigarette that I didn’t have all afternoon. Sandy’s usual berating and shouting wafted up, the television too loud, and a baby crying for his mother.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 499

Three Thieves by Stephen Bush

HE TAUGHT US THE ART OF SUBTERFUGE, OF DECEIT, OF people, and of hiding in plain sight, of walking without footsteps and of painting oneself in shadows and pulling silence around you as a robe. Out of deference to his teachings, we won’t reveal his identity; any information we tell you shall be lie, or it may be true, should circumstance wish it and we mean what we say: you need not believe us either way. If we let slip he had thinning hair, he may instead have long, straggly locks. Neatly trimmed facial hair could mean he was clean-shaven; infer from blue eyes, deep as wells and vast as oceans, that his were mottled green-hazel, a sponge-smear wiped across a swamp. We three were his apprentices, and we are the greatest thieves the world has ever known. One of us was the thief of things, another the thief of minds and the third, the thief of hearts. One of us was a liar, one of us knew the law and was true, within a definition of truth; the other was economical, who could make truths of falsehoods and could use honesty and scruples as pry bars, breaking into people to see what may be found. Our mentor was the greatest thief of all, the thief of time. Citizens and cities were built on stone and time, buildings and people with the same foundations, with timekeeping as control and timekeeping as regiment and time alone to define change, which defines life, and all such lives not lived. The thief of time was the King of all people, but they never knew. There were ten of us at first, we three his graduate students, his only ones. His academy was never spoken of, nor written about, nor mapped and if edited by Joshua Goudreau 500 seen by one who was not a student, would not be there when a head was turned or an eyelid shuttered by a blink. Consequently, his academy had that greatest of gifts: mystique. It was a charisma of architecture. It was a legend built from stones, but that meant nothing for we knew what was stalking inside, and that this place was a temporary home. Merely a nest of shadows, tricks and traps and false doors, false floors and false walls. Halls for skulking, rows of dressed mannequins on which to practice pickpocketting, with tiny bells and chimes buried in deep pockets. Locks to disassemble and examine. True genius was transient, and the place was its people; they wouldn’t be there in the morning but their legacy would be the noontime sun. Or, as was more fitting, a twilight and the promise of deeper darkness. One lives to work, ones days are filled with thoughts of nights. The place was here now and gone then; this too was the spirit of its students. See now how I’ve distracted you? The time you spent on that was time wasted, time not spent on telling you of what you wished to know at first: who the thief of time was, how he worked. Our graduation was when we left; our own volition, this was, but our master would try to keep us all here, lessons and teachings and practical demonstrations, day after day, the same old material. Those who stayed were a waste; they opened themselves up to the theft, here is who I am and what I do, come and take it. With every little steal, an erosion, until there is greying, eventually death. Thus, we were his finest graduates. He could be considered a social soldier, too, performing this duty of keeping petty criminals and tiresome youths from streets paved with hopes. All cities were simply the compression of lives, lifestyles and associated trappings into one easy-to-swallow tumour, its stolen network of veins and capillaries the transport system of roads and signposts, directions marked, as were pathways of living. People, this way. People, that way. People, shop here. People, unload money here. People, take out your wallets. This was the lesson of the thief of things. (He was the liar). People, do as I tell you to. People, look away. This was the lesson of the thief of minds. (He was economical). People, get close to me. People, blind yourselves by me. This was the lesson of the thief of hearts. (He was the truthful, within a definition of true). Of course, our enemy was the law, the thief of freedom. Such a thing was crafty; it was cunning and so made of the word ‘thief’ a foe, that those who acquired or those who re-possessed were to be vilified. “You take what does not belong!” they cried, “You take what has not been earned!” to which only the thief of things must reply, and he says, as he often does: “You shouldn’t keep icons or trinkets; if you have it, make sure you have it for a purpose, and by that, you’d be able to secure it. You’re its property, and not the other The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 501 way around. You should be more careful.” Thus, we had a plan, for we had an enemy, and the one necessitates the other, as it necessitates cruelty or bloodshed, or subtlety and humiliation, if one was both a gentleman and a rogue. We were three, we acted as one for this, but it was a split one, of the many pathways that led to the same destination. The thief of things chose King judge as target as there was another reason too: the judge was wealthy and the judge overflowed with coinage and gemstone, stolen from convicted thieves, thus it was legal and therefore moral. We’d known him for years, but only ever at a distance, we knew through a lens and we knew him as the back of a head and a receding footstep in the distance. We met him now, in person - at last - independently, in passing, at his favourite - or so we observed from the tallies - haunts and habitats. We helped him from an artificial rut that we’d greased the sides of, him continuing to lay carpet at its base, to comfort him. He saw that we helped him and that we were now confidantes. He was our enemy, ever since our days of training, and now we were masters, our days as apprentice could be buried. The thief of things said, “I am your friend. I shall help you.” The thief of minds said, “I can help you, if you like.” The thief of hearts said, “If you let me into your life, I’ll be there with you.” That swung it. The judge invited us into his manor and offered us dinner. He clearly didn’t want us there, but was jovial regardless, all smile and business and manner. This judge was solitary, it would seem, but must be seen to uphold social tradition; we three scrutinised expressions as a critic views art. The judge served us pigeon, was careless with removal of the shot, all rings of muscle bruised as skinned rainbows. “Fine quail,” he said. “I hope you enjoy and wish to dine with me again.” The thief of things said, “It’s delicious.” The thief of minds said, “You must give me the recipe.” The thief of hearts said, “It’s very kind of you to offer us this.” The judge spoke at length, as dull as he could make it, of the only subject he knew in depth. He didn’t realise that far from driving us away, the thief of minds wanted the insight, for a brain is a tool naturally blunted, but when sharpened, a cutting tool powerful enough to cut people. “All law is a safeguard, and that which is made safe is possession, affirming that one person owns, or is entitled to, x or y. Murder is the theft of bodies. Torture is the theft of life and safety; thus it is an abomination. So too, rape, is a violation - theft of safety. All burglary and fraud and so on is the theft of things. War is the theft of countries; religion is the theft of will. The poison in your pigeons is the theft of dignity. And so on.” The thief of things said, You jest, surely? The thief of minds said, I’m not sure whether you mean this or edited by Joshua Goudreau 502 not, sir. The thief of hearts said, You know who we are, sir? “Of course! Justice is just a mass of judgments - decisions based on having all information.” He had informants, it would appear. He’d have the upper hand if we gave it to him, or allowed him recourse to think it held for longer than he was able. It would prove no matter. All information is property, all property is play for the thief. The unplanned event terrifies, for control was power and the only thing worse than its absence was its presence with any enemy. “You could have left!” he seethed. “I gave you opportunities to excuse yourself! You‘ve made a murderer of me.” “So it would seem,” said the thief of things. “Far be it from us to keep you from your civic duty,” said the thief of minds. “Only the thoughts and deeds of legends - such as yourselves, say - are important. Their bodies crumble just as easily as any other.” The judge smiled wryly. “Justice is never blind.” “It can still be convinced to look the other way with eyes wide open,” said the thief of hearts. “Your daughter is in love with me, for example.” “I am in your statute book as an idea,” said the thief of minds. “And the antidote has already been stolen by me,” said the thief of things, who had learned everything about the household from its kitchens, as was true with all buildings, and a black-eyed chef, as was true with all people and violence. “You’re old now, lawman, and we did not come here to steal from the thief of freedom. We came here not with a plan but to see that the plan was going smoothly.” “Our mentor visited you years ago,” said the thief of minds. “He was like me, but better, and he got inside you. Our mentor was one of your oldest confidantes.” “Our mentor was a great man,” said the thief of things. “He was the thief of time.” “You haven’t acted on anything,” said the thief of hearts. “You haven’t changed the world, or the city, or the people. You’re old and fat and weak now, and it is all far too late. The thief of time taught me charisma, for this can allow you to penetrate the armour of people. So too he did with you.” “We just wanted you to know you cannot stop the thieves. Our mentor would have wanted that. Goodbye, King judge. You could have been a worthy opponent.” And so we left him on the floor while taking all from around him and out of him. We think he must have known now. The thief of time works in the long-term, such a theft that you know of nothing missing. We believe now The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 503 we had come into his parlour, had pointed out the vanished - the ring of dustlessness, perhaps, where a fine ornament has been lifted. What had been stolen were the youthful years. As the novices still residing in the teaching halls and never wanting to believe themselves ready, as the man who could have padlocked the world. All gone, we thought, and the profits split amongst us all. The only thing we couldn’t steal from King judge was the lithograph and relics of his dear, dead wife. Even the thief of things wouldn’t take the expensive ring she’d given him to seal a union with thrice-banded gold and the glory of a gemstone. The thief of hearts knew what it would have meant and thus would weep, while the thief of minds saw in union the strongest of ideas, and knew it was too tough, even for him, to infiltrate. She was exquisitely beautiful, heart and mind and body, adorned with such things, such fine accoutrements. We told you our mentor was the greatest, after all. We may have lied about some of the specifics, but after all - we are her thieves.

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Grandpa’s Story by Rose Owens

ONCE, A LONG TIME AGO, I WAS LIVING IN THE CITY WITH my friend Barry. We rented this apartment from an acquaintance of ours, Joe Grenville. It was the perfect deal: $100 a month for a roomy place. It was a great apartment. Grenville had told us that the optometrist he was renting it from charged him little and assumed the place was his. Also, the doctor was a collector of Early American artifacts, which meant that the place was filled with curiosities and lovely antique furniture. It was amazing. Two young men such as us, with barely any wealthy to our names, were able to live in luxury. We lived there like kings. We would have parties all the time. Hundreds and hundreds of people (most of whom we didn’t even know) would come and dance. We’d stay up until all hours, getting roaring drunk in the process. So one night, a balmy night in May, we were having a grand party. I’d managed to cozy up next to this chick, Martha, and things were going great. The music was hot, the drinks were flowing, and everyone was in the best of spirits. You never saw such a party... Suddenly, a knock came at the door. Barry and I looked at each other. This was not the jovial knock of a fellow partygoer. Nor was it the condescending knock of a neighbor asking us to keep the noise down. This knock meant business and was going to come in no matter what. Bracing ourselves for what might be, we walked up to the door and opened it. A tall burly man stood in the doorway. His hair, though it clearly was normally combed back and confined by pomade, was tousled in the oddest manner. He looked as though he had wrestled a lion to the ground and The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 505 come up victorious (albeit with a few marks of the battle). His eyes were spinning in his head with the ferocity of a bloodthirsty warrior. All in all, I could tell this guy was not to be messed with. His voice boomed out across the room. “Who are you?” I gasped for air. “I’m Warren Owens. Who, might I ask, are you?” His face reddened more (which I had hardly thought possible) at the impertinence of this question. “I’m Dr. Henderson the optometrist and the owner of this apartment.” “Well, we’ve been renting it from Joe Grenville.” “I’ll have you know, I just kicked Joe Grenville’s ass.” I chuckled nervously but was silenced by a look from the angry man. “I’m sure you did, Doc.” “I want you out of this house promptly.” “Right-o, Doc!” Henderson strode off, the ghosts of his Viking ancestors joining him in a new swath of terror. “Well, Barry.” “Well, Warren.” “You know what I’m thinking?” “I believe I do. Let me make a call.” “But of course.”

After corralling the troops, we informed them of our impending departure. They rallied together, picking up booze, records, and the record player. Barry came back, giving me the high sign. Martha put her arm in mine and we began our exodus... Across the street to our friend Sam’s where we started the festivities up again. You never saw such a party.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 506

The Sheppard by Wiebke Pandikow

HE SAT HIGH UP ON A LEDGE, IN THE SHADOWS THE great tower cast over the edges and corners of the cathedral. A dark cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders, he huddled against the cold stone, the pouring rain making his long hair run like oil over his bent back. Black, narrow eyes stared out into the wet darkness in front of him, from underneath straight, thin brows. Constantly frowning, he scanned his herd. There weren’t many of them out at this time of the night, but he could feel them all, every single one of them. He could smell them and keep track. They where hidden in their flats, houses, halls and rooms and weren’t aware of their keeper. But he knew exactly where each of them was. What they did, how they felt. And most of the time he even knew how long they would still live. His eyes were complete in their blackness and the perfect tools of his trade. They could see the fear of each human, they watched and they would judge. They would weigh the ware, examine it, without touching it, they would test and inspect and in the end decide. When one was found unworthy, weak, too different, that one would be singled out to serve other purposes. And they would never notice until their time had come. Unmoving, the Shepherd sat between the statues, just as hard and cold like them. A feathered demon surrounded by grimacing gargoyles. They looked to be his followers, and even their unflinching stone eyes seemed to follow him, as he finally stood. The coat hung heavy around his body, water dripping from its rim to the stones, gurgling on through many cracks until it found a way to one of the devil-headed spouters and began the free fall to the ground. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 507 With a creaking sound the dark cloth revealed itself as black leather wings, slowly unfolding behind the creature, framing it with bale. Long hair turned into a crest of feathers, slender hands changed to claws, white skin to silver. Its seeking eyes now opened wide, it scanned the roofs of the buildings, reaching out for the souls beneath, touching them, probing them one after another until it finally found what it had been searching for many nights. Still a child, the young boy dwelled in the midst of the herd, barely noticeable in their crawling mass. Born under a different star, he was special. There seemed to be less fear in his mind, but more adamantine, unbreakable will. Now he appeared to be a normal boy, only slightly calmer than the others of his age, but everything would change, and in just some years even the dull humans would notice his distinctiveness. Greedily, the shepherd followed his presence, how he moved in a flat somewhere in the clustered gray buildings that housed great numbers of humans at once. Leather wings stretched far and shivered slightly as the excitement of the demon grew. Silver claws dug into stone as he leaned his body as far forward as possible without falling. He had finally found the one that was different from the mass, the one whose presence he had felt so long, but who could only be spotted now that he finally had ripened. Twelve human years the boy was old, but he would outlive more than hundred times that number if he was strong enough to endure being raised by a demon, and to survive the transmutation into a shepherd himself. Only if he was able to overcome everything that was human in his soul could he grow wings and claws. Only then could he blacken his eyes to turn into one of the keepers and true rulers of the world, that the mass of living, crawling flesh under the sky was unaware of. Too caught up in what they thought important in their cheap, little lives, too fascinated by what they thought they had control of, they never noticed that they only where a herd of sheep, watched over by dark shepherds, examined and sorted. Sacrificed and slaughtered when the lords were hungry. The black demon finally pushed himself forward, leaving his body to free fall for a few seconds until he caught the cold air in his wings, lifting himself into the skies. The darkness under him was only broken by a few streetlights and lit windows as the city tried in vain to mirror the sky above it adorned by a million stars. ‘One of those stars had fallen to earth’, the demon mimicked the thoughts of the humans as he flew fast and unnoticed, ‘and touched a little boy.’ He would have smirked, if it had been his nature. Soon he had found the desired place and landed on the roof of a many storied building as gray, dull and depressing as most things in the city. Only very few of its many small windows were still lit at the late hour. As if scared of the dark wings appearing above them they seemed to be trying to dim their light, to suck it into their frames, until nothing was left but a weak glim. edited by Joshua Goudreau 508 The Shepherd inhaled the cold air and calmed himself. Silently folding his wings behind his back until they were a coat again, discarding his claws and feathers he took back his more humanlike form. Then he reached out again. Now he could clearly feel the soul of the boy in the building underneath him, now that he was so near it was strong and clear, almost calling out to him. And he followed willingly, entering the building through a small door on the roof. He took many flights of stairs, his feet barely meeting the cold concrete floor, his fingers quickly touching each door he passed, his mind warning each soul behind them. ‘Don’t come out...’, he warned them silently, ‘you sleep too deep to hear the screams, you do not care for whom I’ve come. Don’t come out, don’t come.’ Like a skilful snake charmer he entangled their wills, made them blind and deaf to whatever would happen in this building tonight, while he moved on, passing their flats like a ghost. Only one noticed him. Only the little boy sat up in his small bed, listening into the dark silence. He felt something coming and in his head suddenly the rage of two minds clashed. The human part fighting to run, to hide, to flee, countered by the adamantine soul, reaching out for its future and the one who came to help it grow and fledge. As the demon finally reached the door he sought, the boy climbed out of bed, his hands on his temples, tears in his eyes. Searing pain raged in his head as the balance in his skull started to shift. The last part of his mind that was still human made him run to the bedroom of his parents and wake them. He told them to flee, but while the questions in their eyes yet numbed their own instincts of survival, the darkness reached the room. A hand settled on the boy’s shoulder and he turned. His eyes were dark, his face expressionless. The demon smiled. Two humans screamed. No one listened. And the thing that was neither human nor demon stood and watched. He would collapse soon. Much time was needed to pass before his body would be hard enough to bear the mind of a shepherd, long years until his human soul was finally beaten, destroyed and completely replaced by the adamantine. But the shepherd had time. Two offerings he would bring to his lords for leaving the boy to him alone. Two that had given birth to a new shepherd and now were no longer needed. Their souls faded as they looked in the deep black eyes of the demon, and their screams finally stopped. He caught the body of the boy as it fell unconscious and took him into his cold arms. He covered him with his wings, careful not to rip the soft skin with the reappeared claws. His prize, his fledgling. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 509 Leaving the two dead bodies behind to be picked up by lesser demons, the Shepherd left the house through a window. He held the boy secure in his arms, close to his cold, silver body, so he could feel the faint heartbeat. Glittering and sparkling a thousand shards of broken glass fell to the cold ground, reflecting, while they fell, the shadow of black wings and a sky adorned by a million stars.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 510

The Last Night On Earth by Joshua Goudreau

I WAS ALWAYS THAT FRECKLE FACED TOMBOY KID. I WAS awkward and didn’t have many friends. I was picked on and teased for my red hair. Simply put, I was never anything special. That image stuck with me as I moved through my teen years and into adulthood. Men never really flirted with me and I was never one that stood out in a crowd. William, however, was different. Why he came to me that night I don’t quite understand. My friend Shannon had dragged me there to celebrate my twenty-fourth birthday though the scene wasn’t my thing. The club was full of hot bodies, scantily clad, gyrating across the floor. Why he came up to the frumpy girl in the corner in jeans and a turtleneck I’ll never know. He was tall and handsome. His dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and he wore a black suit jacket over jeans and a t-shirt. He asked if he could sit down and, too surprised he had even approached me to think, I said yes. He was charming and a little drunk, I think. He was drinking soda from a wine glass as we talked. He was so casual he put me at ease. Forgotten was that awkward kid and I was only what he saw. Someone worthwhile. He introduced himself and I said my name was Hillary. We talked of the music, the crowd. He said clubs were not his thing but tonight was special. I said it was my birthday. He ordered me a drink, a virgin bloody mary. He said he liked me sober. “If you knew you only had one day to live, what would you do?” He asked me. I thought for a time. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 511 “I guess I’d just want to spend the day with someone special.” He listened intently. I laughed nervously. “A nice long, drive in the country probably. Lunch somewhere beautiful. A simple dinner and I’d go to bed.” “Never to wake up again, huh?” He said. “Yeah.” I said. I didn’t know who I would share the day with. It wasn’t like I had ever had anyone special enough to spend such a day with. “What are you doing tomorrow?” He asked me, leaning on the table. It was a Sunday. “Nothing.” I answered him. “I’d like to spend the day with you.” He said plainly. I was speechless. “Why?” I said. He shrugged. “Because you’re the one I want to spend the day with.” He said. “Would you like to spend the day with me?” Of course I wanted to spend the say with him. No one had ever wanted to spend time with me like that before. I wasn’t sure how to take him. I didn’t know what he could possibly want. But he was so charming and so handsome. His blue eyes were dark in the light of the club. “Yes.” I said finally. “I’d love to.” “Okay, I’ll pick you up around ten?” He said, smiling. He downed the last of his soda and smiled again. “Do you need a ride home?” He asked me. “No.” I said, searching the crowd for Shannon. She was over by the bar watching me with a grin. I told him my address and he said he’d be there at ten. Then, without another word he left. The club came back to me as he exited. Shannon came over and was suitably impressed. She said she knew I had it in me to pick up a hottie. I scoffed and said I wanted to go home. I was tired.

My buzzer awoke me sometime the next morning. I rolled over and saw it was just after ten. I jumped out of bed knowing it had to be William. I threw on a bathrobe and ran to the door. “William?” I said into the speaker. “Yup.” He said. Stupid me. I had forgotten to set my alarm so I could be up in time. “Um, I overslept. I’m sorry.” I said. “That’s okay. I can wait.” He said. “Okay.” I said. “I’ll make it quick.” I ran into the bathroom and jumped into the shower. The water was cold but I didn’t want to wait for it to warm up. I toweled off quickly and stood edited by Joshua Goudreau 512 in front of the mirror. I was wet and my hair was a mess. I wanted to make myself look beautiful for him. He was down there waiting for me and here I was. Pale, freckly, round face and little boobs. What the hell did he see last night? I combed my hair and pulled it back into a loose ponytail. I dressed in black jeans and a green button up shirt that brought out my eyes. I didn’t have time for makeup so I took a couple minutes to make sure I looked casual but my best. Finally I took a deep breath, grabbed my purse and went downstairs. When I stepped out into the sun I saw William leaning against the fender of a black convertible sports coupe with the top down. A brand new Mazda Miata if I wasn’t mistaken. He was dressed as casually as he had been last night. Jeans and a t-shirt with that same black suit jacket. His hair was pulled back and sunglasses covered his eyes. He smiled and opened the passenger’s side door for me. “You look stunning today.” He said as I climbed in. I turned my face away to hide my blushing cheeks. “Thanks.” I said. He, of course, looked fantastic but I didn’t know how to tell him that. He climbed in behind the steering wheel and pulled away. “Have you had breakfast yet?” He asked me. I smiled. “I didn’t even have time to put makeup on.” I said. “That’s okay, you don’t need any.” He said as he drove. I blushed again and looked away as my neighborhood fell away behind us. The car was very nice had still had that new car smell. “Nice car.” I said. “Thanks.” He said. “I just picked it up this morning. I’m not going to be able to afford the payments but whatever. We have it for today at least.” He turned to me and smiled. I couldn’t help but smile back. I didn’t know what he meant but ultimately I decided it didn’t matter. I let the wind blow through my hair and just enjoyed the moment. We ate breakfast at a little hole in the wall diner on the edge of town I had never noticed before. He ate a heaping plate of waffles dripping with syrup. I told him it was bad for him and he just laughed. He was such a happy person. He paid for the meal and I asked what we would do. He said he had a full tank of gas and wanted to take me for a drive. I smiled. Once we were out of town he let the little car eat up the miles of blacktop. We talked and laughed and sang oldies for unknown hours on twisting roads through the mountains and forests. Seldom did we see other vehicles. He said it all belonged to us. Then he said that his share was mine. I’d make better use of so much peace and beauty. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 513 I blushed again, my cheeks matching my hair. But this time I didn’t bother to try and hide it. He just made me feel so comfortable and peaceful. He made me feel wanted. In those hours I felt like he was an old friend. He was so warm and open I never thought of how I had only met him the night before. We had known each other for years. Since we were children and we ran barefoot through the dewy grass of the mountain fields near my father’s house. We found ourselves on a dirt road. The sunlight was bright and the day was warming up nicely. We crested a mountaintop and he pulled off the road. The trees fell away to breathtaking panorama. The mountains and lakes stretched into the distance and were unmarred by trapping of civilization. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He shut off the car and sat back. The breeze blew gently through the trees and rustled the leaves. Distantly birds chirped and sang their songs of joy. The air smelled of apple blossoms and pollen. I looked over to him and saw that he was watching me. He was smiling. “Are you ready for lunch?” He said. I smiled back at him. “Sure.” He got out of the car and walked around to the trunk. I noticed that the car still had ten-day plates. He opened the trunk and produced two closed baskets. He handed me one and then took a small cooler. He closed the trunk and led me across the field. Near a tree lined stone wall was a full figured apple tree, flush with the pink white of blossoms. From one of the blankets he produced a red and white, checkered blanket and I helped him spread it out in the shade of the tree. The blanket still had a price tag on it. “Are you a vegetarian?” He asked. I shook my head. “Good.” He said. “I only made ham and turkey sandwiches.” He pulled a bag of chips and several sandwiches from one of the baskets. The other basket turned out to be a basket for wine aficionados. He produced a bottle and two stemmed glasses. The wine was a deep red color. He removed the cork and poured samples into each glass before returning the cork to the basket. “Have you ever tasted wine?” He asked me. “I’ve had wine.” I said. “No,” He corrected. “I mean have you ever tasted it? Like done all the wine tasting things.” “No, I haven’t.” I said. “Neither have I.” He said. I laughed. edited by Joshua Goudreau 514 “I thought it would be fun.” He said. “I saw a show about it on PBS last week. I like to pretend I have culture so I figured I’d bring this and maybe impress you with it.” I laughed again and he joined me. His laugh was so sweet and genuine. “Okay, here’s what you do.” He said. “First you have to hold the glass by the stem so the warmth of your hand doesn’t change the temperature of the wine.” I followed his instructions. He held up his glass. “Now we inspect the color.” He said. My wine was a deep red that reflected the light like rubies as the sun shone through it. “Now we smell.” He held the glass to his nose and inhaled deeply. I did the same and was filled with a deep grape smell. The tinge of alcohol was faint but present. As I absorbed the scent I noticed a faint hint of something nutty. “What do you smell?” He asked me. I told him and he nodded. “Okay, now we taste. This is a multiple step process. First we drink just a little. Then we swish it around to aerate it. Once we do that we swallow and get the full flavor of the wine. Are you ready?” I nodded and drank the contents of the glass. The initial flavor was thick with the taste of grapes. It was tart. I swished it around and began to get a citrus flavor. As I swallowed I again got the hint of something nutty. I didn’t like it. He made a face and I smiled. He was quiet as he seemed to be absorbing the taste. I didn’t say anything and just watched him. “It isn’t very good.” He said finally. “Not really.” I said as I laughed. “I really like you, Hillary.” He said. My laughter stopped and I was filled with warmth. He was so charming, so honest. I could see it in his eyes. In the shade of that apple tree I felt myself falling in love with him. He put the wine glasses away and we drank cold cans of iced tea from the cooler with our sandwiches and chips. We talked and laughed and after we were done eating we put everything away and laid down on the blanket. I wanted to hold him but he made no moves to touch me so I did not. My sinuses filled with the sweet scent of apple blossoms and I was carried off to sleep. He too closed his eyes and slept softly on the soft grass.

When I awoke William’s jacket was bundled under my head but he was no longer there. The baskets and the cooler were gone. I stood up and stretched. The sun had sunk low on the horizon and I realized we had slept The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 515 away the afternoon. I put on his jacket and felt its warm embrace. It smelled like him. I bundled up the blanket, took one long last look at the beautiful view and made my way back to the car. As I neared I could hear his voice soft through the trees. “...I’ve been feeling okay. I’m getting a tightness in my chest every now and then but it’s not bad. -- I already said no, Paul, I don’t want to. I’m having a good time. -- Thank you, I appreciate your support in this. -- I know, I’ve said this a thousand times but you are sure there’s nothing that can be done? -- Yeah, okay. Listen, I’m almost out of minutes on my phone so I gotta go. – Yeah. Bye, Paul. You’ve been great.” He cancelled the call on his cell phone and tossed it into the car. He sighed and leaned on the door. All at once I felt terrible. He looked like he was in so much pain. Like the weight of whatever was with him would crush him at any moment. I began walking again and shuffled my feet on the gravel so he would hear me. He straightened up and wiped his eyes. When he turned around to look at me his eyes were red. He smiled and all hints of that darkness vanished. It was not like a switch had flipped and now William was suddenly happy but more like a glass once filled to overflowing with brackish liquid had been emptied and filled with clear water. “You ready to go home?” He asked me. I paused, holding the blanket close to my chest. “Does that mean our day will be over?” I asked. “That’s up to you.” He said. Behind the straight face his eyes showed exactly what I hoped they would. He and I wanted to hear the same answer. “I don’t want this day to ever end.” I said. He smiled. “Everything ends.” He said. “The important thing is making the most of the time you have.” There was something so sad in what he said. I felt the sorrow as a pinpoint in the center of my being. It was a deep soul kind of sadness. But outside everything was sunny. I felt myself becoming lost in his smiling eyes again. “C’mon.” He said. “I’ll make you dinner.” We got back in the car and drove. The sun set as we got back into town. We stopped at a grocery store near my apartment. William bought everything he needed to make supper. He asked me if I had a wok. I did. We stopped by a video store and rented a movie. It was something neither of us had seen but had been out for a very long time. He said we could watch it after we ate. edited by Joshua Goudreau 516 Back at my apartment he made a Thai dish with chicken, noodles and peanuts. I helped him. He told me the recipe, he had it memorized. He lit a candle and turned off the lights in the kitchen. The food was delicious and spicy. It made me sweat but the heat was nothing compared to the feelings inside. After we ate he stood up and asked me if he could use my phone. His phone was out of minutes. I said he could and he left me alone in the kitchen for a few minutes. I could hear him talking softly but I made no attempt to listen. He came back filled with a warm energy and made to put the dishes in the sink. I moved to him and took him in my arms. He paused and seemed distant for only the briefest moment. With a gentle hand he moved the hair from my face. “You’re so beautiful.” He said, holding me. I looked up to him and realized that what I held in my arms was so much more stunning then what I had seen on the mountaintop. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He began to say something else but I kissed him before he made a sound. He was so sweet. His arms wrapped around me and held me close. His breath was warm and I felt a burning I had never experienced before. I took him by the hand and lead him to the bedroom where we made passionate love late into the night. He was so attentive. Gentle when I wanted gentle and rough when it was necessary. Together we floated away to another realm filled with only our love and our passion. As the energy faded from both of us we laid on my bed. We were naked and sweaty and entwined. His skin was silver in the moonlight. I let the calm peace overwhelm me as I drifted off to sleep in his arms I heard him whisper in my ear. “I love you, Hillary.”

When I woke up I looked over to William and saw him lying there. He looked different and I at once knew what had happened. Once I had caught a glimpse of that sadness and weight within him I realized it had always been there behind the surface. Now that was gone. He was completely calm. All traces of that was gone, leaving only peace. I checked his pulse to be sure, knowing I would not feel it. The peace had enveloped him finally. I laid there running my fingers through his long black hair, admiring him for several minutes. I thought I should feel sad but I did not. I felt the peace. I felt happy that his sadness was gone finally and he had chosen to spend his last night with me. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 517 Finally I got up and got dressed. As I moved about the house and waited for the coroner to come and get his body I could feel him with me. As the days went by the felling never lessened. He was still with me. Forever we had that one special day that ultimately had to come to an end. I got a call the following week from a man who said he was William’s lawyer. William had called him and decreed that all of his worldly possessions be passed on to me if I wanted them. I accepted them gladly. The lawyer had been instructed to tell me about William if I was interested. William had been twenty-nine. He owned a used bookstore on the other side of town. He had been married once but it had ended badly a few years earlier. He had recently been diagnosed with lymphoid cancer. Two days before he had come into that club on my twenty-fourth birthday he had seen his doctor for a check-up. The doctor had taken x-rays and discovered that the cancer had spread to his heart. At the rate the tumors were growing he would not live more then a week. William’s doctor had tried to convince him to go into the hospital where he could be kept comfortable but he had refused. The doctor had said that when his heart failed it would be sudden and probably painless. William left the office after promising to check in periodically. He had canceled the lease on his apartment and had his things moved to storage at his store. The story fit perfectly with the William I had met and fallen so deeply in love with. His things fill my home just as he still fills my heart. Every day when I wake my first thoughts are of William and a day never goes by when I do not feel him with me. I made the payments on the Mazda Miata and still drive it in the summertime. I quit my job to manage the bookstore and I still taste wine from time to time. I still wear that black suit jacket and it still smells like him. Sometimes I drive out to that field and have a picnic under that old apple tree. When I look out over that beautiful view I think that perhaps there are some things and some days that do not need to end.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 518

The Ballad of Sanctity And Sorrow by Richard Beserra

HE ALWAYS SAID IT WAS NO KIND OF LIFE FOR A KID.

My old man was one of the last Civil War vets still kicking, so I guess he’d know. Of course he was also such a degenerate asshole he didn’t make it much of a choice, but for what’s it worth, he turned out to be right. Yeah, I saw a lot, plenty of it worse than killing, but I guess that’s just the way it goes. You get a massacre like that going on, bad things are bound to gather. When my kids first asked me what the worst thing I saw in the war was, I told them Crimen’s Church, flat out. I took a page from my dad, and decided not to BS them about things like that. But that didn’t mean I had to relive that memory by explaining it to them. Technically, I told them what they wanted to know, so I was in the clear, whether I elaborated on it or not. For twenty years, they tried to get me to do just that, and I always said I would when they were old enough. Heh. I’ve been telling myself that charming little fib most of my life, but how the hell do you become old enough for something like this? They’re grown now, out on their own. My son’s an architect, daughter’s a nurse. Every once in a while they’ll bring it up, joking about the one I never told, but they never really ask anymore. That’s a bone I thought they’d never let go of, and it broke my heart when they did, ‘cause I knew it was because they didn’t believe I would ever tell them. So here I am, lying on my deathbed with one last secret to my name, unable to convince myself I didn’t lie to them anymore. Eighty-nine years later, and that church is still clear as day in my mind. Me and my men had an The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 519 unspoken agreement that we would never talk about it, not to anyone but ourselves, and only if we had to. No one wanted to relive that, and no one who wasn’t there could’ve understood how wrong it was, the sheer injustice of it. That’s what I thought then, and I still do today. We made the agreement that I am breaking now, with that in mind. But this is my very last chance to make a decent accounting of ourselves, and come clean with my kids, like I always promised them I would. My last chance to keep my word, and I mean to take it.

We were hiking through some of the last untouched ground in France, trying to get east to the killing fields. A hundred miles ahead, Americans and Germans were falling all over each other in a cloud of Mustard gas, and getting tangled up in the killing fields between trenches. We’d been separated from our company for weeks, and were just trying to find familiar ground with familiar faces. There were six of us, and not a single one past our twentieth birthday. Just a couple of lost, lonely kids scared out of our minds, and wishing we’d never left home. We were crossing this open field, trying to reach the forest on the other side and praying no one got shot before we did, when we saw the church for the first time. I remember thinking, “What’s something so pretty doing out here in hell?” It was a modest little thing, about the size of a one-floor house. The walls looked like white stone, with stained glass windows cut into each side, and little stone steps leading up to the wooden doors at the front. The word CRIMEN was etched into the stone above them. Then I noticed the rifles stuck in the ground around it, and the helmets hanging off them. There must have been dozens, the church’s own graveyard. “Everyone down!” I said when I saw them, and we all ducked in the tall grass. I grabbed my binoculars and took a look. “What is it Cap’?” Buddy asked me. “Machine gun nest?” “I don’t think so,” I said. “none of the windows are broken, and I don’t see a mount or a gun outside. Still, it’s not in our way, so there’s no reason to go explore it.” I tucked my binoculars away and waved everyone back up. No sooner were we in sight than the sound of machine gun fire forced us to drop again. “The trees!” Charlie shouted. I heard Buddy yell he was hit, then an explosion a few feet in front of us. “Everyone to the church, double time!” I shouted, and looked back to see if Buddy could make it on his own. He was bleeding pretty bad in the side and shaking, so I slung his arm around my neck and helped him on, trying to keep us both as low as possible. edited by Joshua Goudreau 520 They must not have seen us moving, because the machine gun didn’t track us. It stayed on that one little patch of grass while the six of us made it to the church, scared that something else would kill us as soon as we got there. I collapsed with Buddy and the rest of them at the foot of the steps, and was about to run and try the doors when they cracked open, apparently on their own. I didn’t ask questions, I just started yelling for everyone to get up there. By the time me and Buddy were climbing the steps, the Germans had noticed us, and were swinging that machine gun on us for all it was worth. We just barely made it inside and shut the door, and I fully expected us to get ripped in half anyway, that door was nothing but wood. But we hit the deck fine, and no bullets came chasing after us. I think I took a good half minute to figure that out, before I got up and looked for a table or something we could set Buddy on. It was then I saw her; a young woman in front of an altar at the end, standing with her back to us. It was like she didn’t even know we were there. Her long hair was as black as the robes she was wearing, and she was reading from the Bible with a couple of candelabras for light. Then Buddy groaned, and I remembered we had a man bleeding to death. Me and Charlie got him on his feet, and started dragging toward the altar. “Get him up on the altar, come on!” I shouted. “Priest! Hey priest, get outta the way!” She turned around then, and I swear those eyes were nothing short of the sweetest green I’ve ever seen, and they stopped me right where I was. All the panic and fear poured right of me, and I felt like nothing could ever go wrong again. “Set him down.” She said. Her voice was soft and understanding, like she knew exactly how hard the past weeks had been for us. I didn’t feel the need to question her, and as I looked around, neither did anyone else. We laid Buddy on the ground without a word, and stepped back. She knelt beside him and put her hands over the wound. I knew, or at least thought I knew what was about to happen, and I guess I should have been amazed, or maybe even a little scared that I was about to witness a miracle. But all I remember feeling is that sense of relief, like everything would be okay now. She took her hands away, and although there hadn’t been any glowing light, and we didn’t see her hands move, Buddy’s wound was gone just the same. All that was left was the hole in his jacket. There wasn’t even a scar. I looked up at her. “Are... are you an angel?” I asked. She just smiled at me. “Come. Your friend will be fine, and you must be tired. There’s a room in the back where you can rest.” She reached out and helped me stand up. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 521 “What is this place?” I asked as she led us all to the back. “Just a little place of refuge.” She said. “Come.” She led us into a bedroom just left of the altar, where she had a small bed, and a number of blankets set up on a shelf beside it. “It’s not much, I know,” She said. “but you’re welcome to what it is.” “Th-thank you.” I said. The six of us piled in that room, and started grabbing blankets while she closed the door behind us. We let Buddy have the bed, although there was really no need, he was moving around as well as the rest of us. None of us talked about what we just saw, we were still so overcome by the feeling of safety in those walls. I woke up sometime in the night, after everyone else had already gone to sleep. I was about to roll over and do the same when I heard giggling outside. I got up and went to the door, and never even considered grabbing my rifle. Somehow, I didn’t think I’d need it. I went outside, and there across the way, on the other side of the altar, was the priest. She was sitting on the floor in front of a boy and a girl, playing jacks with them. She said something in French, then bounced the ball and swiped. The little girl squealed in delight and rocked back and forth, holding her toes with her hands. The priest looked up and saw me then. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” She said. I just nodded. I swear, her voice was nothing short of harmonious. “Come.” She said, waving me over. “Meet Antoinette and Marc.” “Are they...?” I asked. “No,” She said, and chuckled. “they are not mine. They’re just a couple of lonely wanderers, looking for someone to be their friend. Please, sit down, we were just talking about how much better the game would be with a fourth player.” As strange as it may seem to anyone else, it wasn’t the least bit to me. I sat down and played jacks with the three of them for hours. Whenever one of the kids would say something, she would translate for me, and do the same for me to them. When they started rubbing their eyes and yawning, she helped them up and tucked them into bed, which turned out to be a couple of blankets on the floor behind the altar. While she did that, I went over to the windows. There were long curtains hanging down from each of them, and they looked hand-tailored. I didn’t want to think about how long that must have taken. When she came back, I asked her a question. “Did you do that outside? The guns and the helmets?” “Mm-hmm.” She said, nodding. “They’re the ones who weren’t as fortunate as you, and didn’t make it inside. I thought they deserved their honor.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 522 “They’re Germans?” I asked her. She looked at me and smiled. “They are. But they’re also sons, fathers, and brothers, and people mourn for them as well. Besides, they say in death, all debts are paid.” For a moment I saw a sort of melancholy sadness in her smile. It was nothing evident, but by then I’d seen regret in enough soldier’s faces to know what it looked like. I went back to the stained glass, trying to see outside through it. “What are you so sad about?” I asked her. When she didn’t answer right away, I looked back at her, and saw she was staring at the ground. “I too know what it’s like to be a soldier, and I am... still bothered by the allegiances I made.” I didn’t know what to say. By now I was all but certain she was an angel, and you can call me crazy all you want, you weren’t there. I wanted to comfort her. To make her believe everything would be okay, like she had done for us. But when I opened my mouth to say something, I couldn’t for the life of me think what. I mean, how do you comfort someone so far beyond your understanding? How do you even start? “You should go back to sleep.” She said. “Tomorrow is another day, full of challenge and surprise. There’s no reason to greet it half rested.” I hesitated, still not sure if I should try to make her feel better or not. I didn’t think anything I said would, so I just told her thank you. She smiled and ruffled my hair. “Back to bed with you.” She said. I went back to the bedroom and laid down. In spite of worrying about her, I still felt... right. For the rest of the war, and even for many years after, that was the only peaceful night of sleep I experienced. The next morning we were woken up by the sound of glass breaking and someone pounding on the church doors outside. I got up and opened the door just as she was running towards us, ushering the kids in front of her. A couple of the windows were broken, and soldiers were clearing the remaining glass out of them with their guns. Before I could say anything, she pushed Marc and Antoinette into the room with us, and went to shut the door. “Wait!” I said, reaching for my gun. “We can fight!” Her hand caught my wrist fast as a bolt of lightning, and she locked eyes with me, her own blazing. “You’ll do no such thing.” She said. “Stay here, and cover their ears.” She slammed the door just as I heard the church doors break open. Buddy and Charlie pushed the kids to the ground, and covered their ears, and the rest of us grouped around them protectively. I heard the soldiers shouting in German, and she said something back. They shouted again, and The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 523 I heard pews being turned over. She was speaking very quickly, and I could tell she was pleading. Someone yelled right outside our door. I heard her say something back, followed by more shouting, and then she screamed. We heard gunfire, and all of us threw ourselves over the kids and put our heads down. The shooting continued, and soon it was joined by screams, and the sound of tearing. There was crashing, and the screams started sounding like choking gurgles. The gunfire petered out shortly after that, and then there was silence. We stayed where we were for a long time, waiting to hear something else, or for some German to kick in the door. I remember thinking my rifle was about four inches away. I might get it in time, but then again, I might not. I reached out to pull it closer, and then I heard it. A woman sobbing outside. I grabbed my rifle and got up, and the others followed suit. I ordered Buddy and Charlie to stay with the kids, then took point and opened the door. I had to shove it kind of hard, there was something blocking it from the other side, and when I finally got it open I saw what. A German soldier was lying against it, his body was full of holes, and he had a grenade in his hand. The pin was mercifully still in it. Then we saw the rest of the church. Blood was splattered on the windows that weren’t broken, on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and the altar. There was a soldier stuck to the wall with a bayonet through his chest, and another lying on the ground, his spine pushed through his skull. I didn’t see any others, none that were whole anyway. And there, in the middle of the church, was the source of the sobbing. Our priest was on her knees in the aisle, surrounded by limbs and clean, pearl white bones, holding her face in her hands. I walked over and knelt beside her, and put my arm around her. Whether it helped or not I didn’t know, I just knew this time I had to do something. She was whispering to herself, even as I made my weak attempt to console her. “So close,” She whispered. “a few more years...” The others had gathered round by now. “You saved our lives.” I told her. “Please. I don’t want you to be sad.” It was all I could think of, but she lowered her hands and looked at me. She tried to smile, and I could tell this time it was an effort. “Y-you and your men shou-should leave. This is not a p-place of refuge any-m-more.” She said softly, and stood up. She cleared her throat and wiped her eyes, then walked past us to the altar, where there were two candles still burning. “Please,” She said, and she sounded a little more composed. “take Marc and Antoinette with you. When you leave, you should go back the way you came. There is only killing the way you would go.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 524 She picked up one of the candles and studied its flame for a moment. Then she carried it over to one of the curtains, and lit the tip on fire. The fire started climbing quickly, and I immediately told the others to get the kids and get out. They ran back to the room, and a few seconds later out came Buddy and Charlie, holding the crying kids tight to themselves, keeping one hand over their eyes. By now, she had several more of the curtains alight, and had gone back to the altar, as the church began burning around her. “Are you coming Cap’?” Charlie asked me while the rest of them rushed to the doors. “Yeah, I’m right behind you.” I said. “Now get outta here.” I don’t think he believed me at the time, I’ve never asked him, but he did what he was told, and got himself out. When it was just the two of us left, with the church becoming an inferno, I walked up to our savior and asked her why. She turned, and gave me the last smile I would ever see from her. “Angels are not privvy to the rules that govern men.” She said. Then she hugged me fiercely, and whispered in my ear, “Pray you never become one.” She held on a little longer, then pushed me away gently, and went back to her bible. I didn’t understand, but I knew trying to reason with it was pointless. Meanwhile, my men were outside, with two children no less, and they needed me. “Thank you.” I said one last time, and ran through the fire to the doors, and made it outside with the rest of my men. A few minutes later, we were back on the ‘safe’ side of the field again, watching the fire burst through the roof and shatter the remaining windows. We didn’t go very far. Everyone wanted to wait behind, hoping she would come to her senses, and that we’d see her dash outside before it was too late. I hadn’t told them what she said, and wouldn’t until we were miles and miles away. When I did, in spite of what they were hoping, none of them seemed terribly surprised.

So therein lies my last secret. We trekked with the kids back to a friendly outpost, and saw them put on a ship bound for New York. We all wanted them as far from the war as possible. I checked up on them every now and then, but it was Charlie and Buddy who shouldered the lion’s share of supporting them, both from afar, and from home when they returned. And just like she said, I’ve prayed every night since then that when I die, I am spared becoming an Angel. Throughout the war, we all found religion in one form or another; it’s hard not to when you work so close with death each day. I think maybe we were the only soldiers in France who didn’t find hope at the same time. When we got back, I did some research on that word above the church. Turns out Crimen is Latin for guilt. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 525 I don’t think God’s evil, I never did. But I have to wonder, by how much have we misunderstood Him? If he can see fit to withhold forgiveness, and instead punish one of his own for saving the lives of two children and six soldiers, how can you not ask how much do we have wrong? And when will we find out?

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Issue #6 Spring 2007

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~ Featured Story ~

Euphoria and The Black by Hedwig-Mae Bryant

THE KNIFE FELT GOOD IN HER HANDS. She ran her fingers along the stainless steel blade, gingerly. Savoring its sharpness. Its coolness, letting it warm in her hands. Her hands, steady. Holding still for the first time that day. The slight tremors were gone. Yes, the knife did feel good in her hands. He stood before her. His manhood limp, his body sweaty, arms bound above his head. He looked down at her, she up at him. “Now?” She asked. “Yes.” he panted. She smirked to herself. Was he always like this? During the day at his office job, did he secretly like it when his boss berated him? Did he savor every single rejection that he got through life? He seemed such a nice guy, she would have never though that he was actually into this sort of thing. “Where do you want it?” Her hands were sweating now. Did she really think that she could be capable of something–anything–like this? “Anywhere! Just hurry!” He was growing impatient. His voice betrayed that about him. But his cock–now semi-erect and nearly staring her in the face–said that he was liking it. She suddenly wondered if he would like it more if she refused than actually carried this out. She decided not to chance it. Someone this bizarre might get violent if he didn’t get what he wanted. She placed the blade against the inside of his groin, then thought better of it. She was no pro at this and having to explain something like this to the police wasn’t her idea of a way to spend a Saturday night. edited by Joshua Goudreau 530 She chose the soft curve of his hip instead. It her favorite part of the male anatomy. The penis seemed too direct to her. It was nearly everyone’s favorite part. She liked the curves instead. It was artistic, beautiful in her eyes. She placed the blade there, against the curve of bone, and cut. He groaned and thrust his hips closer to her. Closer to the knife. Noticing this, she went deeper. A small trail of blood ran from the cut. She drew back, almost afraid of what she had done. Afraid of herself. She had never done anything like this before. Nothing even remotely close. Although her life she even hated the sight of needles. Vaccinations were a nightmare for her and, now, here she was, cutting some man that she barely knew aside from running into him in the hallway of the apartment building that they shared. He seemed friendly enough. Nice enough and damn near normal. Her opinion of him quickly changed when he asked her to do this for him. Just why he would ask a complete stranger for something so unusual and sexual was beyond her. Maybe it was just another of his sexual kicks. She was breathing heavily, staring at her work. “Why did you stop?” He asked. The expression on his face was so helpless, so lost. He wanted her to keep going, it was obvious. She glanced over at his erection, a semi-clear line of his seed dribbled from its head. She looked away from his manhood and swallowed hard. Her throat clicked painfully. She stared at the cut that she gave him for a few moments, almost shocked that she had actually done this to him. She had never been prone to violence. She never hurt anyone like this before in her life. But did he even feel the pain? Of course, being cut must have hurt him in some way, but did he feel it like other people? Was every pain a pleasure to him? “Keep going.” He was pleading with her now. She took a deep breath and placed the blade against his soft pale skin once more. He made coffee afterwards. It was all too surreal for her. He sat next to her on his couch and handed her a cup. “It didn’t know if you wanted sugar or cream, so I left it black for you.” “Black’s fine.” Her hands were shaking again as she took the cup from him. Even the cup seemed normal, a plain white mug. She looked over at him as he sipped his. “Do you…do that often?” He looked down, almost as if he was ashamed. “No. Not really. Just sometimes when things get bad, you know?” She shook her hand. “No. I’m sorry, I just don’t understand it…I mean, what you mean.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 531 He ran one hand through his short dark hair. He was shaking, too, she noticed. She saw the signs of slight tremors in the tips of his fingers. “See…well, it’s hard to explain…” “Try.” She urged. She wanted to know. She needed to know now. What she did with him could never amount did to him went beyond sex in her mind. It was the sharing of something more primal than any lovemaking or lustful encounter one night after hours bar-hopping. More intimate. Her dark eyes searched his face, seeing the tinges of sadness on the corners of his mouth. The lines there–lines that she had not noticed before– would betray any smile that he attempted. He lit a cigarette then. She’s a bit taken aback by this because he never seemed like a smoker before. Even his apartment didn’t smell like a smoker lived in it. He took a long drag and exhaled it after a moment. “Oh, I’m sorry.” he offered her one with that same strange casualness that he offered her a cup of coffee with. She took one from him and lit it. “Thank you.” “I’m sorry that I asked you to do that and, well, we barely know each other and all.” “It’s okay.” She looked down at her coffee. “You’re just lucky that I said ‘yes’.” she gave him a tiny smile. He nodded, almost to himself. She leaned close to him and placed her hand over his. “If you don’t want to tell me–” “No! I—I do. I think I owe you that much.” He stared off at nothing for a moment. She was almost sure that he wasn’t going to say a word. And, then, he began.

It started when he was young–twelve, he thinks. He says that he has a hard time remembering those times, but she suspects that it’s more like he doesn’t want to remember. His mother died when he was three. The cause of her death was unknown to him and was left unspoken by his father. By the time he was six, he had come to think of his mother as the lucky one. His father was a man who—by all accounts—a born loser. Unlike those that quietly resigned to their fates and simply existed, his father grew to hate everyone and everything. Hardly a night went by that he wasn’t subjected to his father’s rants on anyone who dared succeed in and out of his presence. His hate was even edited by Joshua Goudreau 532 directed at his son, who—even in his childhood—seemed to do better than his father. He spent his childhood fearful and often self-confined to his room, preferring solitude to his father’s voice and fists. He grew into his early teens timid and awkward. Luckily, the other children seemed to ignore him, so school was a brief haven from violence. His father had become more brutal in that time. His constant string of “girlfriends” was running low as news of his oft-ignited temper spread throughout the close-knit population of prostitutes. The last one that he had sent packing with four-less teeth than what she arrived with threatened to have him arrested. His father laughed in her face, but remained secretly fearful that she would make good on her threat. He could tell this only because the “girlfriends”–the ones who did figure that the money was worth a few bruises—became a rare sight in the house. He didn’t care anyway, he hated them. Nearly all of them reeked of alcohol and piss. He clearly remembered walking in on one shooting up in the bathroom. He said something brief about the night when it truly began, hinting that he remembered more than he led on. He remembered the being up late, reading the last of a story from his school’s English textbook (“’Most Dangerous Game’ by Richard Connell,” he laughed, bitterly. “Funny how I can still remember that.”) He fell asleep with the book closed, but still curled up next to him. He was usually a light sleeper, but he never once stirred as his father entered the room. What he did awaken to was his father jerking his pajama pants down and, then, his own textbook slamming into the back of his head. His father raped him then and there with one arm pressing his son’s face so deeply into his own pillows that he thought for certain that he was going to die. His father’s assault hurt worse than any other verbal or physical abuse that he subjected his son to. The pain bit deeper, straight to his very being. It seemed to last forever, his father pounding mercilessly into him. He wanted it to be over more than anything else he had every wanted for in his life. He wanted to die. He knew enough to know that it was wrong. It was a perversion even to his young mind, a mind that had barely grasped the concept of sex. When it was over, it did not end. He had rolled off of the bed to get away, if for nothing more than to breathe. His father stood over him, nude, sweat glistening in the faint light. “Why’d you make me do that?” his father demanded. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 533 Through his pain, he had looked up in confusion. He had done nothing but sleep, yet, to his father, he had led him to do—that. The confusion that he silently replied with seemed to anger his father even more than anything in his bitter life. His father’s fists crashed into him again and again as did his accusations that his son was black and twisted and that he was sick for seducing his own father. When he awakened, it was late afternoon and his father was gone. The was pain as he lifted himself from the floor and the brief horror of blood as he cleaned himself. His anus was torn to the point that showering made him bite his lip and made his eyes water. His body was littered with bruises, but none of it could compare to the things his father had said as he stood over him. The words rang clearly over and over in his mind so often that he began to wonder. He had hoped that it was an isolated incident. That it all was the result of his father having one too many more than he usually did. His hope quickly died as his father’s visits became more and more frequent, soon giving away to him expecting it on any night, at any moment. He would lie awake each night, waiting for his father’s attack, trying to assure himself that his father only did this when he was drunk, that his father was only doing this because he was angry over not getting the promotion again, that his father really did not mean to hurt him. One by one, each excuse that he once comforted himself with fell away from his mind as the truth of it all began to set in; at least what he began to perceive as the truth. As he grew into an even more withdrawn and awkward adult, he understood it all as his fault. He had done something to attract his father’s sexual attention. What exactly that was, he did not know.

His father died when he was twenty-three and spent and had spent an uncomfortable, yet pleasant five years away from home. He was hardly surprised to see that he was alone at his father’s burial. There was no funeral and there would be no wake. There was only one man giving his father a goodbye. He wondered then if his father knew it would be like this. That by living a life so full of hate, that he would die alone with only his son to only grudgingly mourn for him. The relief over his father’s death became sour, a hot bile in his mind and heart. All of the answers he needed died with that black-hearted, drunken bastard. In all of the years that he lived away from home both before and after his father’s death, he tried to find answers or even some help. edited by Joshua Goudreau 534 He tried therapy but found himself unwilling to confide in any of them about the true depth of his father’s cruelty. Finally, he gave up trying to talk about it and decided on suicide instead. His intention was to slice his wrists open and bleed himself dry in the privacy of his won bathroom. He sat in his shower with water pouring down on him, fully-clothed with a razor blade to his wrist. He was beyond talking about his problems, he wanted to let go in the most final way known. He placed the blade’s tip against his wrist and made one swift cut down towards the crook of his elbow. Blood spurted and he fell into a fit of tears. He wanted to go through with it but lacked the courage to finish it with the other wrist. He gave up on all thoughts of killing himself as a queer sensation of pleasure began to creep through his body. Curiously, he gazed down at his arm to see the black slowly oozing out of his wound. At first, he was terrified by the sight of it. Anything black was not a color expected from the human body. He tried to jump to his feet to call any kind of help, but the first orgasm came, dropping him to his knees. The second dropped him to his side. He lay there, twitching, convulsing, as the black pulsed out and he came repeatedly. It went on for about ten minutes. When it as over, he slowly got to his feet. The crotch of his pants were saturated with his own semen—more than he thought that the human body could produce—the material cold and clammy against his groin. As exhausted as he was, he began to clean himself. As he did so, he noticed that the black was gone. Looking around, he found no trace of it. He bandaged his arm and threw away his ruined pants, wondering what had just taken place and why. Had he imagined the whole thing? While he did not deny the reality of his orgasms—the proof of that was quite obvious—the same could not be said for the black that came out from him. He crawled into bed with the last of his energy ebbing from his muscles and—for the first time since he was twelve—his dreams weren’t troubled with nightmares.

She leaned back on the couch, taking in everything he said. “So, you–” He cut her off by nodding. “You saw yourself how much I…enjoyed it.” “But nothing black came out.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 535 “You didn’t see it, but I did.” He smiled strangely to himself and took another sip of coffee. Hers sat cupped in her hands, cold and forgotten. She didn’t know what to say or ask. Seeing her expression, he explained, “I know that it sounds crazy, but I think that whatever it is, is everything that my father put in me. All of that pain from the—what he did to me, it’s all there, running through my veins.” He turned to her, “See, when I slit my wrist, I let some of it out. That’s the only reason that I get as to why it feels so good. “All of those years of inner-pain and misery was just the dark inside of my soul trying to get out.”

They parted company, casually, yet sweetly. He kissed her on the cheek and invited her back to his apartment another time with promises of coffee and no knives. She accepted and smiled as she made her way back to her place. The smile was only there at the request of her subconscious—the part that held a girlish hope of a relationship with him. The rest of her mind was preoccupied with his story. Back in her apartment, she watched television and chain-smoked. Every show she watched was interrupted by her own thoughts. The glow of her bathroom light made her head throb. She could barely ignore the pain over her own memories—memories of her own father standing over her, telling her that her violation was her own fault. The years of guilt and anger crashed down upon her. She sobbed, softly, thinking back to each time her own father raped her and blamed his own vile acts on her. For so many years afterwards, she remained “that stupid whore” in her mind and dressed to conceal her “slut body”. She told no one and had no one to turn to in those years and in the ones that followed. As quickly as they came, the tears ceased to flow. She wiped away the remaining tears from her eyes just so she could see. The knife felt good in her hands as she made the first cut on her body. Resting against the cold bathroom wall, she sighed. She sighed and waited to see the black come out.

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A River Measured In Time by Abhishek Sengupta

ALBERTO BANKS HAD BEEN SAVING ALL HIS LIFE. HE wanted to buy a river. As a child, he had been given a ribbon by his father. A blue ribbon. His father was always this strange man who would scrutinize his past much more spontaneously than he would do with his future. When he had brought the ribbon for his child, he would have seldom thought what the boy would do with a ribbon. The consequences of his actions were never quite as important as the precedence of the consequence itself. When he handed over the ribbon to little Alberto and noticed his confused expression, he wondered why he had bought it on the first place. He wondered whether he had done it subconsciously. He wondered what particular knack or interest had he noticed in little Alberto which could have prompted him into an action so decisive for the child. “This is a magic ribbon”, he said at last “if you spread it, it’d become as long as the river.” His father’s words were just as unmindful or irrelevant as was his buying of the ribbon – once again, in total oblivion of the collective future of the child. But for little Alberto it was the greatest of prophecies ever been foretold. He had no idea till then as to how long a river is or for that matter, should be. It had never occurred to his little brain what a terrific mystery it might hold in itself. A river that could be measured in ribbons. The feeling itself was so big that little Alberto was too afraid to open the ribbon and roll it to be seen. “It is a great gift and must be dealt with lots of responsibilities” – is what he realized. He just went and hugged his father, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 537 who watched with great amusement how his child’s confused expression changed to something immeasurable. It was from that day that little Alberto slept with the ribbon under his pillow. And he dreamt all night long. He watched, in his dreams, a river that was more like a brook. At its center was a blue ribbon stretched from the misty infinity from where the river originated to an equally hazy eternity to which it went. The ribbon ran right from its middle, as if dividing the two parts of the water, parallel to the flowing river. And that imagery was so intensely beautiful that every morning when little Alberto’s father would wake up he would find his child’s room fragrant with an aroma of his dreams. Sometimes it would rid him of his asthma, as he let his child sleep late into the morning. Slowly, it became the only medicine he would take for his ailment and he had never been healthier. One night in his dreams, little Alberto noticed that the two equal parts in which the ribbon had divided the river were of different colors. It was the setting sun. One of its parts was red like someone had mixed, with uncertain ease, the deepest of bloods. The other part was yellow – a dirty yellow as if all its water was drenched in malaise before it was let into the river. For the first time little Alberto was experiencing a nightmare. And a premonition. That morning when little Alberto’s father came to his room, he found his child sweating profusely as he lied trembling in a fever and there was a stench of rotting flesh in the room. At once, his attack of asthma returned. This was the moment when he should have run for some medicines left in his cupboard for such emergencies. This was the last chance he had of changing little Alberto’s life….. But, as we said before his father was seldom concerned about the consequences. He didn’t want to leave the motherless child alone in his fever. And so, he let himself die, comfortably, as he watched his child still trembling in his nightmares. It was so cruel of him to leave his child alone in the very first of his nightmares, for even when little Alberto would break out of his sleep the nightmare would continue. Alberto Banks doesn’t remember what happened in the next few days, but he recalls that it was in the womb of those dark hours that he lost the magic ribbon, forever, without it being opened even for once.

Alberto Banks had been saving all his life. He wanted to buy a river. He had been to many rivers all throughout his life but had never found one that was much like the one in his childhood dreams. Alberto Banks was an old man now who lived with an equally aged wife. His children were married and lived in a far-off town. He had inherited the same asthma that had taken his father’s life. He was sure it would take his too. But before he died he wanted to complete his dream. He wanted to buy a river. His wife wanted to buy gifts for their children with the money. edited by Joshua Goudreau 538 “We’d leave back the river as a gift for them”, he told her “What would they do with a river?” she asked “The river I’m talking ‘bout is the magical river. It is the healer of all diseases. It brings with itself the gifts of immortality.” “But don’t you see you’ve spent all your life looking for it. How much longer do you wish to keep looking for it?” “Till I die….. and I cannot die till I find it.” And so Alberto Banks decided to do what he had never done throughout his life. He decided to buy ribbons of different shapes, colors and size. Then, he spread them on his floor, hoping that they would give him some hint as to where he might find the river. The ribbons tangled with each other, forming a diverse shape, intermingling with one another. “Perhaps, the river I’m looking for is a maze”, it suddenly occurred to him, “maybe, that’s why I couldn’t find it in all these years.” “Or maybe….” It occurred to him subsequently, “We’re living inside a maze and the river is just outside. Maybe, the river is an object in time rather than in space. Maybe, the river crosses itself so many times that even though we see it we fail to notice it in our linear search. Maybe, the river in actuality is cyclic.” And as he climbed the staircase of realizations, he found that the river was slowly becoming visible to him. Yes, it was the magic river with the blue ribbon flowing from its center. He wanted to get down inside the river and leave all his money into its sacred waters. He wanted to scream ‘you’re mine’. He wanted to go and touch the ribbon that divided the water…… but before he could do any of these, he woke up.

When he woke up, little Alberto found the corpse of his father lying on the floor. He put his hand under the pillow on which he slept and found the blue ribbon that he had never opened, was still there, intact. Exhaling a deep breath of relief, he smiled.

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The Longest Winter by RaenSilim

WOOD SMOKE FILLED HIS LUNGS AND THE CAVERNOUS chamber of a ruined office building. It was mostly just concrete and steel framework now. The fire cracked, making casual conversation with no one in particular in the early morning. The hound in the corner put in her two cents in the form of a squeaky yawn and a thump of her tale when she saw her master was showing signs of life. An old oak outside stretched its branches inside through one of the broken windows, trying to warm its leafy fingers by the fire. Kale shrugged deeper into his blankets as the water for his tea heated on the open fire and his alarm clock rang.

In front of him stood his boss. Red-faced and indignant. Throwing one of his three-year-old tantrums. I am not my name. He was eternally stuck in his cave, his perception of the world, chained by his job and his stubborn rejection of how reality really worked. I am not my job. Plato would have loved him. I am not my money. His boss, the allegory incarnate. I am not the aggravation and annoyance swelling in my guts. A slight Fight Club allusion. He smiled inwardly, trying to remember one of the haikus about a smiling tiger and worker bees. After work he raked his mother’s leaves and pine needles even though it was snowing. It was because he was a good boy. A good son. Everybody’s edited by Joshua Goudreau 540 friend. That last part was only slightly true. At least he gave everyone a chance. The snow was sticking and his piles were only about fifty-five percent tree debris. A dog barked at him somewhere in the fading light, begging him to come to her. He smiled, an expression that was becoming a rarity, as he teased himself that that dog was the only true love he’d ever have. The small spark of joy faded quickly, partially due to the fact that he was quickly becoming cold and wet. White flakes settled on his clothes and melted on his face. The emotional rut he was in was starting to get on his nerves. In his head he was back in the concrete office building, only now he was climbing out the window where the oak was sneaking in. The broken glass around the edge of the window frame did not cut his hands….

Kale sat at his apartment window and watched winter set in. Sollen. It was Samhain and all be damned if he was going to work on the holiday. All lights were turned off in his pathetic dwelling, save for a match that was lit in his hand. He watched as it was lowered to a candle with three wicks. Disembodied head syndrome. He was so tired, everything seemed a world away. A comfortable ache had set into his muscles from a day running through the woods like a fool at the heals of a dog that was not allowed to live with him. That afternoon had been the closest to paradise as he would get for awhile. Settling on the couch amongst a nest of blankets and pillows, he drifted to sleep as the longest winter got to work destroying all that spring and summer had created, watching his little fire that would never be able to burn all the way to Beltane. Morning brought more snow and a car that wouldn’t start. He did not posses the tenacity that morning to argue with the stuttering engine that took too long to say everything. Another day off from work certainly wouldn’t kill him. Stuffing his dilapidated wallet into the pocket of twice worn jeans, he headed out the door. Public transit was a godsend.

He bumped into a man on the street as he dismounted from the bus. He looked to be about forty-five, an angry scowl was permanently set on his face, a heavy shopping bag was clutched in his fist, his clothes were wrinkled and he wreaked so strongly of pot that it nearly made Kale wretch. Situational awareness was key in public places. The crowd was unusually thick. He was not usually claustrophobic but today he longed much more for the touch of leaves and branches than the touch of hundreds of foreign humans and their skin that smelled of sweat, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 541 smoke, and sex. And chemicals. That scent was predominant. Humans almost always smelled like chemicals. Drowning in a sea of people. He needed air. Clean, open air. A raven cawed in the near distance; every other sound seemed so far away as another wave of voices washed into his ears. Its bead-like eyes met his as it passed overhead, taking off from its lamppost perch. And there was his breath of air. He saw himself climbing up from the sea of skin and into the air above where the raven carried him back to his forest where he had come across the ruins of a parking garage. The lumps of cement looked almost arcane in their placement. The high columns that were left rose above many of the nearby treetops. The raven squawked once more, now sitting atop what was left of the structure. He seemed to be daring any humans left to shoot at him with their pellet guns. It was his backyard now and he’d taunt all the sparrows and dive bomb all the cats he wanted. Kale bowed his head to the sun speckled forest floor and- Plowed on through the crowd. It was quickly becoming apparent that he was not where he was supposed to be. The crow was still in site and he followed it, merely because he felt compelled. The light at the crosswalk flashed a red hand that told him not to cross. He disobeyed it, never having been one to believe in ‘have to’s or ‘should’s. So, a half crazed man in his mid-twenties ran across the street, looking towards the sky, chasing a great black bird. The sad thing was that he wasn’t the most delusional of all the people on the street that day. Every now and then he would look down to make sure he didn’t run into anyone or anything, such as curbs, which he had made the mistake of tripping on once already. The raven flew on for another quarter mile before it came to perch in a bald tree of the generic park variety. “Oh, come on.” But he did not take off again. His glittering eyes laughed at the man, as if saying find your epiphany yourself, jerkface. Kale, again, bowed his head and walked on, winding down the asphalt paths in the park, making eye contact with no one, embarrassed and slightly defeated. That town was the epitome of mediocrity. Even its monument for the Worlds Fair was cheap, a cage-like pavilion of wire and lights that housed an amusement park (the cheap kind, complete with carnival quality rides and overpriced stale popcorn) in the summer and a skating rink in the winter. At night while the skaters went in monotonous circles, the lights above changed colors. That was the only time when it was anywhere near being beautiful or special. But even that was unoriginal. edited by Joshua Goudreau 542 The falls had receded since the last time he had crossed the bridge. Another bus stop and he was away again. Eternally wandering. To settle was to quit and Kale was by no means a quitter. A marquee on the side of the road read “Only 47 shopping days left until Christmas.” It wasn’t even thanksgiving and the consumerism had already begun. For a moment he victimized himself as subject to a brutally materialistic society before the logical side of his brain kicked in and asked him if he wanted any cheese with that whine. No thank you. So polite. A month of sitting in his apartment in the cold evenings after work passed. On the eighth day, he didn’t go home, just to break the monotony. “Let’s go bar-hopping,” his buddy suggested, hoping to encourage nostalgia. “We need to find you a good woman.” “No.” He replied casually, more exhaling the word than saying it. “And besides, I doubt we could find a ‘good’ woman for me at a bar.” “Well,” he chuckled at his own joke before uttering it, “Maybe a ‘good’ woman isn’t what you need.” “No,” he said again. “A good woman is certainly not what I need.” Hours later, after emptying several bottles, he drove away in the dark, turning off his headlights for a moment, just to satisfy the adolescent curiosity re-awoken by his friend. The moon was full, reflecting its light off the snow. It almost made the lights on his car unnecessary. Kale pulled over to the shoulder of the road, partially due to the amount of alcohol he had consumed earlier, and got out of his car. There was a small patch of woodlands in the neighborhood his friend, now married, had settled in. The darkness, fog, and Kale’s blood- alcohol content made it seem much more vast than it was in reality. His feet left prints on the frost covered pine needles that blanketed the forest (if you could even call it that) floor. He stopped, roughly in the center of the woods, leaning his back against a tree, still able to see his lonely little car. There was no way anyone could get lost in this place and for that he hated it. That was what he needed, to be lost in a labyrinth of trees. He imagined the wood he found himself in expanding with his wish, it would swallow the surrounding neighborhood, all the trees were of the same variety of evergreens that were characteristic of the area and, not having landmarks to navigate from, he would become lost. He’d stop and fall asleep against a tree. The winter would wear on, snow would fall, and his exposed hands would turn waxy and white. And that would be it. Frostbite, then hypothermia, finally he’d escape to eternity where he’d walk in a true forest of an undying summer. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 543 “Hey!” He hadn’t even noticed there was a house less than thirty yards from him. He again blamed it on the alcohol. His situational awareness was usually excellent. “Hey!” The man repeated, this time more loudly, “You’re not supposed to be there.” “You’re right,” he replied, “I’m not supposed to be here.” He walked back to his car, swearing the forest had expanded at least a little bit since he first entered it, and left the man’s property. In the morning, when his senses had returned to him, he contacted the manager of the apartment building and informed him of his leave.

Kale put the key to a storage unit in his glove compartment and finished stuffing his car with camping gear. The night before he had informed his parents of his intentions, defying their expectations of him as a logical and people pleasing son. There was nothing more exciting than breaking ranks and going off into the unknown. He had gotten out of bed that morning at the same time his inward self had stepped into the clearing on the edge of the forest where society had destroyed itself. A door had awaited him there and he boldly opened it, stepping outside of himself into the light of day, a real day, not one dreamed up by his subconscious and conscious desires to forsake society completely. The engine started without protest on the third day of January in the seventh hour of the morning. He pulled onto the highway, a map lying on the seat next to him in the winter day that was unusually warm. He took it as an omen of the longest winter finally coming to an end. He watched two ravens fly overhead. That too was taken as an omen. He had read somewhere that two ravens flying overhead were good luck. It had nothing to do with metaphysics, it was just one of the old and inexplicable superstitions that no one could explain. It would have made a great story if one of the crows had been the same that had teased him with the prospect of epiphany that day in the park. He imagined the bird looking down at the newly liberated man, his eyes glittering with pride rather than animosity. I knew you’d find it yourself, but it sure took you long enough. No longer settled for anything as he had done so frequently in the past months, Kale went off into the unknown, blessed by the morning and four black wings.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 544

The Angry Troll by Liz Cross

REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG AND YOUR PARENTS read you the story of ‘The Three Billy Goats Gruff?’ Well, if you don’t, I certainly do. Do you want to know why? My dad is one of the trolls that lived underneath the bridge. Well, maybe not one of the exact trolls from underneath the bridge because he has never tried to eat a goat nor has he been threatened by a goat, but he is definitely a troll. He is not just a troll though, he is an angry. He’s been compared to Shrek quite a few times in his lifetime (and I agree, they could definitely be distant cousins). Some of my friends have suggested that we sneak into his bedroom at night while he’s sleeping, paint him green, and glue some antennas to his head. I admit, he could be a very lifelike Shrek and it would be a very interesting mission, but the aftermath of the situation would not be very good for me. He would take one look in the mirror and he would break into his ‘Angry-Troll-Mode.’ I would probably have to hide for weeks before his mood improved and would once again have guaranteed safety in our household. During his so-called ‘Angry-Troll-Mode,’ his eyes get rather bulgy and his veins start popping out of his forehead. He’ll start to snarl and foam a little at the mouth (you’d almost think he had contracted rabies somehow, but no, just a troll outbreak). Whatever he decides to put into words is loud and alarming. Let me tell you, it’s really rather frightening and I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy. My family and I are used to these little outbreaks so we don’t really notice anymore but people that don’t know us point and stare. Boy am I glad that Dad doesn’t notice because one day he might lose his cool and eat a small The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 545 child. You never know, it might happen (it might have already occurred; do you know where your children are?). As a rule, trolls lack intelligence, but as they say, rules are meant to be broken. Dad is probably the most intelligent being that I’ve ever met in my life. Whatever he doesn’t know right now, at this very moment, he will learn sometime before he dies (and he’ll be sure to let our whole family know about it too). I don’t know how he has the brain capacity to store all of the useful (and sometimes not so useful) knowledge that he drags out every once in a while to share with us. If you ever play Trivial Pursuit with him, make sure he’s on your team and not against you otherwise you will feel his wrath. Dad’s not very social and he likes to sleep a lot. Honestly, he could probably hibernate for the next 10 years of his life and he would probably wake up to be the happiest creature on the face of the earth. I don’t really blame him for this tiny little fault either, because I enjoy sleep more than most normal people do too. Another thing that strikes me about Dad is that he doesn’t like cameras, or at least being in front of them. He’s a photographer when he wants to be, but he will never volunteer to be in a picture. I can’t decide whether he’s just being self conscious or if he’s trying to protect the rest of his species. I’m kind of curious to know if he’s the last of a dying breed or if there are more out there that he can bond with. I would like to see him find more friends, even if they are trolls like him. I don’t know if that would be at all possible, but there’s always hope. I don’t pretend to understand my father the troll; he’s a very intricate person. He has many layers to him and not many people have access to those inner layers. As I think about him more I realize that it’s his decision whether or not he wants to share those different qualities and its not really his loss but rather everyone else’s for not having access to his unique personality and his wide expanse of knowledge. Although my dad is an angry troll and my friends and I get a laugh out of his actions, I love him regardless and hope that he stays the same.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 546

Cancers by Stephen Bush

ONE.

Currently, I was hiding thirty-seven identicals within my apartment, a cube, little more than storage for human beings and furniture masquerading as useful. It took the grandfather, the upright coffin with the rhythmic brass heartbeats to sound the slicing of days and whittling of smaller pieces into useful chunks; it really did take more location than I optimally had. My wrist could house something similar, the sun too, and that takes no space - space where hooks are feasible; we only point antenna down from the black - all while being the multipurpose tool, all heat with light and aesthetics; self- involved and lacking maintenance, and - damnit - it would leave room for the elbow pop and clamor of thin fingers as I slid one behind the casing. The clock, it was my grandfather’s; for all the world time, to crowd out space. I couldn’t dispense with it; he was only ash and a cheap pot, and I couldn’t bear a small breeze curving that little mound into a downward slice. And as for him, well. Being identical, I couldn’t treat him with the remorse you have with anything that appears unique - you must understand; the more faces there are, simply the more ways to look at any given object. I’d found my monster; it was I... or, more accurately, me. Even more so, mes, and here the plurality becomes angry, for lots of the same thing isn’t the same as, say, a bunch of x, where x encompasses all the mould and maggot and bruise of bunch number of apples. The abundance; this was what was horrific, not the action but the number - this was more primal, the eyes register the army quicker than the torturer, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 547 the drip of an artful wound slow in comparison to base maths. The clock was chiming, thus there’d be another, shambling through the door with a gait heard first through the staircase, negotiated ponderously until confronted with the hole in the wall, barred for the minute with wooden sheets. He’ll probably eat through the doorknob; I’d only just shut the door in the hope that they’d be deterred - not seeing at first, they’d simply head toward what was within their eyes - but they seemed to gravitate to the room; I think, as if knowing what was behind any obstacle I’d slide in the way. A critical mass, I felt sure of it: they moved toward volume. It was not the fear of death that motivates; now it’s the fear of excess, of life - a lack of restraint makes the characteristic of all life now not motion but reproduction, and from that the base fear - the primal: the cancers, being life in abundance, and with number, probability. With chances, the option for error. And so we lead back, tortuously but inevitability, to the fear of excess. Life was numbers and numbers could be horrific. There was a banging on the door. There was always a banging on the door, ever since I’d shut it. “What do you want?” I inquired, with all the politeness I could muster, as gentleman on the frayed edges of a rope. “I’m sorry; how may I assist you?” I called, stalling. It could have been a guest, one with a genuine intent. The last number of times I’d said so, I’d opened the door to an identical, unsmiling and soporific, a yawn sprouted feet, gaunt as the dead but healthy as the stolen heart he claimed to share. I couldn’t take the chance, however. People would notice rudeness; they’d talk. A head appears curiously from under the bed; I stand on it until it decided otherwise. I called them Cancers, life in abundance. I didn’t particularly like the fact that they wore my face with the grace of a cloak. Struck out and hung in a wind, to settle in lines on the air, a ripple between each, and each of those turbulence. I saw those in the wrinkles upon my forehead; I was old with the wrong number of chimes on the clock. All around me, the mirrors had grown arms and would walk slowly up to me. There was no response. As such, I could be quite certain. I swung open the door, and faced myself, unsmiling. I tried to find originality, but I recognized too many blemishes. This spot, an inpour of sallow cheeks and in that, quite little distinction. A duplicate, even to the raise of perturbed eyebrow. The physical limit approaches, and with it, I heft the equalizer, the equation balance and the holes in the brass pans, say, or the knife to cut away extraneous mass from the heap. “It’s not the end of the world,” I said to him, for he looked quite upset. “It’s just the end of me.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 548 The next knock on the door was me, and then another. It was lucky I’d lived two floors from the rooftop, which was some semblance of damage control - there was a buffer of innocents between the lumbering march of me and the lightning harness, though those in these upper suites deal in solutions and sums, and thus must steal rest from an office, rather than taking it liberally in their own house. It wasn’t feasible to seal in the Cancers and bolt to the roof, dismantle the equipment and retreat. It wasn’t hopeful with storm clouds falling out of the sky and leaving impact craters that grow arms, spider legs, crawl and stand up straight to bear my face. Another one, and the machine shows no signs of eating the available ear and pausing to digest. I’m going to have to hide them all, for study; slaughter the excess, for mercy’s sake, although must then hide the bodies, for security, and hide viscous liquid tumble of red over organ over pink, and lumpy. Not impossible, but not entirely plausible either. I herd the next one into the kitchenette, an area marked in tiles as a barricade and constraining all the hot and sharp - secretly, I’m hoping he’ll find the blender, say, most curious, and in the querying, combination. No, however; like me and like the rest, he’s taking it all in, distilled his environs and made of them a drink, pouring it through pupil hole, discolored iris lips. Awaiting orders, zombie. Just like all the others. He was inspecting my multi-toaster. I’d customized it to fry a loaf, then fillet it, funneling slivers onto plates. There was always a problem with the cream cheese applicator. I’d shoot him, this identical, just the one, in readiness for the others, but they’d hear a shot and inspection would lead to accusation to a violence undirected and not within my control. They had my intelligence and resourcefulness, I’m certain of it, and so they must have the capacity for communication; if I was to be an enemy, I’d have my face divided amongst all their angry fingers, and quite messily. No, and accident or injury were optimistic, given these attributes. Curious as the new born, though, but statuesque, mostly - the eyes were greedy, but the hands bore the caution. They’d grow to it, in the gale. There’s an upper limit to how many I can hide before the problem exceeds the floor space. Maybe a machine would be in order, an apparatus to seal the door and open periodically onto mince and sharp arms, swivel joints pinion, a taut circle free enough to launch a rack of cannibalized kitchenware, all cleavers, knives and potato peelers, at neck height. I could have invented a device with customized dimensions, but there was no time to measure my own body. This sort of thing always happens with the invention of life. Not creation, for all you’d need in that regard is a womb and time, and I’d bolted one to The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 549 the rooftop, just behind the air vents. That, and waiting, which is a variant on staring at the sun. It sinks slowly, a marble through treacle sky, all pollutant layer folded over upon itself and stained accordingly. Yet, upon nightfall and storm, I call down other life, electric life, that arcs between safe clouds; interception and down, and I have my invention. This is similar to hooking a blade up through a sewer grating as somebody runs between houses down a great street, snaring and pulling downwards into a mire, one that doesn’t billow and dapple gold, one where sunlight is a caress rather than jaundice on a poor harvest. I tore lightning from the clouds. In retrospect, this was an overly grand and rather silly thing to have done. My invention stole power, and it’s a mockery of the womb, all cogwheel under a pulsing skin, one I made from flaying, a butcher shop, and smoking glass vials of pre-treatment. It angles downwards only slightly, but has the diameter, like a child’s slide filled with blood and honey, viscous and cloying and the attached clock face is telling us: another thing is forcing through, and two arms make a spear, then part in the center, rupturing a membrane and… I’d used myself as a basis for the trial testing. Skin scrapings and gathered tubes of blood and fluid, allowed to permeate and give the womb a taste; and, oddly, it looked like a mouth too, if you’d taken pliers to the teeth and smoothed out the gums, cauterizing with hot crescent. In retrospect, this was a rather silly thing to have done. Imagine: simple salvage in a needlepoint and packed in ice; in the event of something unfortunate - such as death, and the like - a feed to the machine, and a return; with every resurrection, the prospect of reunion, and I could call back families and lovers and anybody other than me, just the once. And yet, It won’t stop working, and A knock at the door, and Slow shuffle sink from the staircase, a slow clop of feet from the roof, and Cancers wanting answers. What to do, I thought; what to do, and could I truly prick the eyes of a face like mine, or run a gash into the skin of one so similar? Could I intimidate or scare, perhaps, and cause them to flee, the peculiar fortyuplets of a tired yet large mother, though I’m certain this would not convince. “That was your warning shot,” I’d tell them, after putting a small metal sliver through the temple of John Boy - a designation makes it simpler to decide on this - all sorts of rumination then about desecration, perhaps; imagery: the altar upturned, the sacrifice dry and a mocking potential of finger twitching and limbs, the glass for his eyes - they look alive, like dolls - stained, quite fittingly. The face of a judgment story reflected through it. edited by Joshua Goudreau 550 Only a fingertip of rounded metal, called slug though that lacks elegance, and never dangerous by itself. It’s really just a question of speed. A warning shot. “But he’s dead!” someone looking just like me will blurt. They couldn’t help it. They’ve cocked my head and lost tension from my neck, there to ease the hands around me dropping down the noose. No running from this one now. They’ll face death with thoughts of steel, yet treacherous quivers in the skin and the bloody obvious, and I’ll know this for I understand them too. The smoking gun will smile. “It was your warning shot,” I’d say, by way of explanation. Standing over a body as I say so. One by one, they’ll come to understand, and will either retreat from wherever I’d secreted them, or launch at me with fingers and nearby objects. Only then, would I find a way to reach for the rooftops and disable the womb machine. But first, A knocking at the door.

Two.

I’m thinking of dropping blades through fat hearts, but mostly I’m concerned for my fragility, this intricate glasswork head, for it’s resolve is true, although its dubious about the faces, all those masks the villains wear. I’d thought of murder machines, but this was by far the most personal; in that, I felt I could achieve some release, a gasp, burst or hiss, anything from a puncture and floating upwards. Though, in truth, it’s in the masks that I give distance; they wear fine cloaks flush to their skin, and show deceit in every nuance of an eyebrow, pockmark below left eye, and the two points here - intricate and well-crafted, but a display nevertheless, and a further example of why acting, performance, is a skill to couple with treachery, all for greater effect. They’re staring, but I’m doing much the same. In rows, ten abreast, arms clasped at either side, and not a wall but a breathing of skin, a synchronicity of deep chests. It didn’t start this way. It started with a line, and that in three generations, you’ll forget the dead. That was my idea, and from there the technical formulation of a means of making it cogwork. What if, I’d thought, this line - from grandfather to father to son - could be looped, dropping the recess and the fade - that long ago start - right back at the frontward end, that grows? The clock could truly be huge for humankind, if you bent this line to a circle, as reincarnationist, or even - as was more popular - thought of each revolution as the time of one only. There would never need be a rewinding or maintenance, the circle would never join or hands would never navigate it The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 551 all! - no Cancer hiding behind my wooden grandfather anymore but whomsoever invited gloriously in front of it, to the comfortable chair with the tea and the conversation! “How have you been?”; “Dead, you?”; “Obsessive, and I’ve seen little of the turning world and the little people”; “It’s good to have you back. We must have so much to catch up on.” Could I have done it now, with these errors and clutter, though they bore a similarity; would it have been akin to the slaughter of a twin, though I defend myself with rebuttal: there was no raising tangentially, we were not born together, but the one spawned the other. The new may look similar, but cannot create such a vice on me, as if retrospectively - it wasn’t my brother, it was only my face. Yet, and countermanding myself, were this different from the murder of any man; it was not - thus I was quite capable of it, if I were murderer at the outset. And in this, a clarity: a murder was the taking of a life, but if I created it firstly, if it was never meant to be also; in all these things, the responsibility fell to me. Was it similar to the slicing of a son’s throat by a mother, given these criteria: it was, for I could call back another just as it - there was no distinction of the unique. As one, a blink. As me, I pray they do not open their mouths to speak. They bear my brain and in so doing, my capacity to string such arguments, though had I the presence to remove myself for a purpose, if there was a greater to be served - and the greater could be I! Only one could operate, repair and modify my device, and in so doing, assuage my own guilt at errant birth. This would be my penance, as I sought machinery to save others, quite naturally, while accepting a damnation unto myself: ten abreast and a carving block, and with this in periphery, resolution.

Three.

What bothers you people? What bothers me is simple; glass, and that my reflection often offers more substance than my skin does. The human race had died years ago, I was told, although apparently I hadn’t noticed. This almost always preceded a gripe against shopping malls, built as a substitute for glory, but in this case, the melodrama was softer, all bombastic rhetoric and sunsets. On a beach, you can say anything in good grace. It was a rather cynical way of looking at things, nevertheless, but the words had come out laughing, chunky as if in the process of regurgitating syllables, from a beard; such a thing attached to an old man. The further along a line of straight time you find yourself, the more you’re socially permitted to be completely, utterly derogatory to all those who are nowhere near you; a fringe benefit of taking the lead position in a race where all the runners are moving at precisely the same pace. I didn’t debate fairness with him; I was sitting at the beach hut - edited by Joshua Goudreau 552 wooden slats, parasol of many colors, sunfire on the sand grains; it was at this point the clarity - a thousand cracked hourglasses to make the beach, spilled from time, and making a confusion of the land! You couldn’t gather the grains back into their individual bulbs, even if you could sew the broken glass back together. The times of their lives, and people just smashed the hourglass that was theirs to hold; that a gift in itself - you couldn’t tip it of your own volition, give your top bulb more grains - but you could see just what you had left. Broken and on the beach, but my feet find the patch of shade, where all the grains look bleached by clouds. There are sunbathers, and they enjoy the lack of activity. I, on the other hand, preferred to define myself by its presence; only the arms of a corpse fail to move, and in work, I wove a riddle, and in its continuation, I would seek an answer. It wasn’t ideal, and I knew of the detriments; I was told a break was in order, a schism of a week rift from calendar pages, “go: deserve the time, we‘ll be fine here.” I place my wallet on the table top, my sunglasses. This was a place of relaxation, and in that word, the comfortable but the unnecessary, but beneath that there’s an inevitability; that people push their fears and darkness under, they suppress but don’t quash just yet, even with the sun glorious and the sky bleached and scrubbed of dirty wool cloud. In fact, they revel in the color. I started with, Hello. He was sitting next to me, also alone. I respect the elders, what they’ve seen they take with them; beyond a point, there’s no comprehension but there’s still accumulation. With this stranger, I could find some answers, perhaps; as to what bothered people most of all, with all else stripped away - even in such a pleasant place as to make people forget, and even when old, the people most resilient to anything primal. You can’t frighten the elders; they’ve seen it all, and most horrors must fit two categories: being visual, and being new. The old man, I found, he treated the planet as a tourist attraction, mostly: “Oh, that? I’ve seen it, boy. So now what’s left, if all the world need not be seen, but brought to my eyes through images so real… so real I forget that all who see them must stand from the same perspective? Is there anything else to do?” Sip and cackle. I used his analogy against him over bar snacks. Roasted meats in dips whose surface tension sucked down on the fingers, consume, pull away and feel gelatinous. Surely my strength was greater than curdled herbs, greater than viscosity granted by chef? Just a man, but seemingly not. And, fade. He looked at me as I felt my fingers to be sure I wasn’t glass skinned. In that moment, insubstantiality and I was sure of it, as if my blood was no longer treacle but thinning, that the beams of light were fast, of course, but at speed an object impacts harder. I sit down, a little faint, sauces slick against The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 553 one finger; it must have been the noontime. My drink, its glass could be my skin; the walls, froth bubbles slide, they my contents. In my mind’s eye, a squash of one dimension, and I’m getting thinner, each organ enclosed with one fist. Wait, recover, breathe deeply. “Are you alright?” I was as pale as the man in the moon. “I’m fine.” “That’s good to hear, then.” I compared the old man to an excited visitor with his phrasebook, wandering the museum but not reading the descriptions of each item, at which point he cackled that little bit more and returned to his drink. “Waiter? Another cranberry juice, please.” I was on holiday. I needed the time out from timekeeping. The sun boiled me. All the while the question, unbidden, and it was a listing of the horrific, a chronology. I’d been working it out over a period of time, and this old man, oddly, his presence was helping. The old are a collection of all their eyes have gathered; it must explain the wrinkling, to increase the area of storage, keeping all images within themselves. What terrifies you? This was my puzzlement, and like all horrors, it must have a component in the vivid, and what is more so than the visual? This was what I sought to gather; as times change, what frightens alters also. The pitch of any scream is dependent on the generation they’re born in, and this man, at a certain age, all you see are other people dying. It must do something to you, and I surmise one of two ways: the inevitability or the invulnerability, that it will come for you as it‘s come for the others, or that it won’t ever breach you, for it hasn‘t thus far. Couple with the collection of eyesights distilled; an approximation of wisdom, there’s no need for understanding when you have recall. I was intrigued by old people, of whatever time. They crumble so easily, it’s a sadness, even at the very mildest of questions. It was the taking of life once, the most primal or fears, then to the creating of it; this, to step into eyeline of the creator as invitation to wrath with vial and chemical and lightning harness but no consequences at present; further still, when the gaze stretches further, the manipulating of life. This is today’s horror; just the subtlety of each tweak, so small it may pass notice, the single crack, thin in any light, that circles the link, breaking a chain and causing collapse. It’s the futility of the matter - of stopping a domino topple when the first pieces have struck the floor already, and this to add to what ails us throughout: polarity and dead lands. The chains slack and loose, bringing down a mass, all that was never built, so large we thought that no matter our impact, we couldn’t affect what held it upright; all the extremism that edited by Joshua Goudreau 554 followed, that tore the matter between two camps. This is what bothers us, and to solve, we delegate. “I’m of the opinion that one must be direct in matters,” announced the old man, as if he could read the furrows in my brain. “I’ve killed things in this respect, you must understand. It is more primal, my job before I retired, when nowadays we can modify something beyond recognition. Puzzle babies; you’ve heard of them? ‘Where all the pieces fit, or can be made to.’ I regret I forget the jingle to go with it.” And with my thought I made pictures, and so I saw: Either the machine miscarries or the babies drink the cocktail due to circumstance, although the natural ending was preferable, being limbs tearing their way from you as if your skin wrapped and sealed as a bag. The mothers with neither the time nor the situation to offer the support or the security, and as the proverb goes: you cannot eat love. The man with the cigarette case of gold needle tips and the syringe held, palm twisted backwards such that the needle ran upwards the length of his arm. This was the old man, with face smoothed clean, when younger. While smiling, his assistants would wheel in a wooden box, a set of bellows at one end, a hose at the other, ringed in a set of hooked clamps. “This is only in the case of size, if we perform this at such a late stage. Otherwise, a mere chemical flush will suffice, although not, regrettably, today.” He caps the syringe and gestures to the assistants for the stirrups. I was mopping her brow in this dream. “An abortionist. You were an abortionist.” “Indeed I was.” “I didn’t realize there was a call for it anymore.” “There are still people who can’t afford the tailoring and leave it to chance.” “And you provide a cheaper service…?” “Much. But I’m only required in the event of a poor deal, you see. As blackjack, I burn their cards. I’m afraid my analogy cannot stretch to the dealer, but you see my point.” “Did it bother you, your job?” “Caprices anger me; I could wipe clear the table, in the hope that the luck of my clients may be better in another hand. There are those who create techniques of postponement, but these always, my boy, always fail to incorporate the techniques of quality. For me, there is life or there is no life.” “I’m of the same opinion.” “People like you don’t take holidays.” “Is that so? I recognize a kindred, sir; may I ask why you are here?” “I’m retired, my boy. I don’t do this anymore.” It is subtlety that marks one thing as great over another which merely pretends; there is an elegance in simplicity, and in such a thing there is truth, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 555 for how can one deny what simply has appeal, irrespective of calls to reason? This is the truth that men wish to accept; it differs from the truth above all in that it’s more practical, more amenable to the ways of lives; of a fashion, it mutates to fit any generation, shrinking or running tangential - it never made a difference for it was held of worth regardless. And thus, the machine ran smoothly, errant cogs being rolled over by a larger one still and this caused neither jarring or halt, merely slight friction. In those moments, insight; assemble many, and you’ve wisdom, a book of philosophies or a treatise - this was how the thinkers made constructions from nothing but the air and the lightning in the brain and thereabouts. I would make of my machine life, and life in abundance! If it could be considered mechanistic at first, as all life, I would run my drill tangential, as rival plumbing a shaft: in it’s application, it need never work in a straight line, it could curve. This was the idea, and I would rush home to build it, a womb, and detachment from women. Detachment from people, until the culmination, and then those in quantity, I would assume.

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Underneath by Ronald Damien Malfi

MANY YEARS AGO, TOILING FOR SOME TIME BENEATH THE weight of creation, a momentary, self-loathing lapse in my own judgment, coupled with the despair of countless failures, caused me to summon him, birth him, afford him a name and a purpose: a Frankenstein pseudonym whose passion and creativity, along with his prolific nature, were frighteningly alien to me, though whose handwriting was more than just a sheer mimicry of my own. Never did I anticipate the final outcome—the resentment laced with irony; the justified sense of personal failure in the wake of unmitigated success; the torment—on the day of his summoning. Throughout the decades and as the success mounted—as the fame rose to proportions dreamt of by starry-eyed young girls in pink gowns and glittered, bejeweled tiaras—we orchestrated a dance, commingling like brothers jumping from book to subsequent book, or like enemies—yes, enemies!— conspiring to work together for the sake and gratification of their individual wants and desires, hopes and dreams, prisoners orchestrating an escape. In the periods between projects, he would vanish, would retreat to the underneath of things—of my life—and float like a shadow through which the motes of ancient dust could pass. And there he would stay until summoned by me, over and over again, to put my words to paper. Yet now, in my old age, and despite the security of wealth and fashionable circumstance, he visited one last time, and for once without pretense. Cloaked in the fragrant vapors of nonexistence, he wisped into the room, the worn and cracking soles of his old shoes whispering on the hardwood—a familiar cadence. He was slightly stooped from decades slaving over notebooks and typewriters, his long white fingers fat at the knuckles, aching The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 557 almost audibly with each creaking flex and bend of their tendons, snapping and popping, settling and unsettling. His face was mine, of course, but it was a withered albino impression of my own darker, healthier features. Had we been twin brothers clambering through childhood, faceless mothers would have whispered about the cruel discretion of God to grant one child with color and life, the other a carbon imprint of his more fortunate sibling. About him wafted the stale scent of sacrifice, of ancient dust and fallen cobwebs gathered like epaulettes on the shoulders of his greatcoat, and that same sacrifice, I could see, echoed in his sad, hurtful eyes. All these years of believing he’d stolen from me, was it really the other way around? With a slight agitation of his features, he glanced upward and around, where his name teemed now from the bookshelves, embossed along the brittle spines in gold stamping, testament not just to the depths of his creativity but my own years of success donning his cloak. He executed a flourish with one hand, as if to bring the books to my attention or, perhaps, to address the books themselves. But his eyes turned from them and, on a creaking, pivoting neck, he leveled his gaze back on me. In his pupils burned the accumulation of years of torment, turmoil boiling over like hot pots, a hammer slamming coldly against the dented face of a Chinese gong. Here I was, a thief facing my accuser… yet the accuser owed me just as much as I owed him, forging between us and through the strands of deceit and tension a sinewy bond, a union of sorts, that resonated simultaneously throughout both our beings like the amplified plucking of a single bass note. So it was inevitable we would jab accusatory fingers at each other, which we did simultaneously, both victims and victimizers alike. Yet the hardship of our lifelong union, to my shock, appeared more profound on him: in his stooped posture and pale, ghost-white face, the sunken, sullen features, that relentless banging behind those steely eyes. How I had laid awake nights, sweating his success, hating his name as it appeared on the title page of every word I had written! A name I had given him! A life I had granted him! But, oh, what life? To be extracted from a crypt on the occasions my muse was restless, forced—strapped and chained, slave-like—to a worktable, pen in hand, scribbling words upon words upon words at my insistence, at my will? A creature devised from nothingness to vault me to financial success while I stood on his worsening, weakening, bowing shoulders. Suddenly, and for the first time in my life, I saw him from a different angle. How foolish I’d been to be jealous of this man! How ridiculous I’d been to begrudge him his fame! Did we both not cultivate calluses on our index fingers after hours of furious scribbling? Did we both not sigh in mutual relief at the completion of a tale, knowing there was one less story in the edited by Joshua Goudreau 558 world waiting to be told? In short—did it not take both of us to complete each work? We were nothing without each other. Suddenly, surprising myself, I found I pitied this man standing here before me, dull as bone, futile as a flicker of projected light. After all, he had afforded me wealth beyond my own adolescent expectations, expensive chrome-rimmed automobiles and houses of grotesque elaborateness situated in lavish parts of the world. Likewise, his fame—his name—had seen to it that I’d married not once, not twice, but three times, the totality of them all so beautiful and young, eager women eager to wait on my every desire…while all the while he—this man!—skulked in the darkness of closets, was dispatched to the dampness of basements, stowed away like cargo underneath it all. His foil-stamped name on a lifework of dust-jackets was his only achievement, his only happiness, and I, like the fool, had spent just as long a lifetime resenting the success I’d bestowed upon him! My hands accepting the money and awards, my back accommodating the numerous claps of praise and accolades while I feasted and indulged at dinners and commencements and various other noteworthy engagements in his honor. His name and his fame for my wealth and wellbeing: a tradeoff. He did not choose this burden; rather, I’d placed it on his shoulders, giving him form lest he disintegrate into particles of dust beneath such weight, giving him hands with which to write alongside my own, and a studious face, black-pitch eyes, cherry-hued pockets filled not with coin—for all his money was mine—but with dust, bone-dust. Ah, that this nonexistent entity could cause me such grief, such anxiety, such contempt throughout my life! His eyes, as soulless and inanimate as the inks used to line every handwritten page over the years, rolled again in my direction, a feeling of utter despair rising up through me like steam. He motioned me to take position at the writing table, a table we had shared throughout the years, never meeting each other’s gaze nor speaking aloud (for speaking aloud was pointless—we lived and thrived in each other’s head). I creaked along the floorboards, my old age cold upon me, the taxing, unyielding flex of my prehistoric bones like the corrosion of oxidized copper. He, the man, moved with me in perfect step, our shadows woven into one along the expanse of bookcases along the wall. Intentions were clearer as he pressed a hand on my frail shoulder and directed me into my chair and, with just two pincer-like fingers, urged a pen in my direction. He, too, sat beside me in his own chair and staring at each other was, for me, like staring into a funhouse mirror. We’d done this for so long, in these very positions, that our chairs would forever retain the twin-hub impressions of our buttocks, the chair-backs contoured to the subtle undulations of our spine. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 559 He slid the notebook before me, motioning for me to open it. So there would be one final story to tell! I gathered up the pen, opened the notebook—he had already picked up his own pen—and we commissioned for one final walk across the mental macadam, opening doors of creation that had been our bread and butter throughout our distinct but inseparable lives, letting the creative sconces burn till the dry-powdered walls caught fire. We joined in union, as always. None of it was any different than it had ever been, except that our hands moved with equal and deliberate slowness now—we were no longer as young as we’d once been—and our eyes were held, squinting, closer to the handwritten text than we’d ever held them before. But still— Seated at the table, as we had for our entire intertwined careers, we wrote until the life began to slip from my old man bones and my balding, dimpled head thudded soundly, in a final surrender, against the splayed wingspan of the open notebook beneath me. As my pen rolled across the tabletop only to be gobbled up by the fall of space that carried it straight to the floor (where, along the warped and tired floorboards, it continued to roll), he set his own pen down beside the notebook and my dimpled head with his pale and paining fingers. My breath coming in labored wheezes, my eyes were powerless to stare at anything, save for the underside of my eyelids, except the rows and rows and columns and rows of spines proclaiming his name. His name, his name, always and forever his name! By the sheer arrangement of letters that formulated the name I’d given him all those years ago, he was going to live forever, immortalized, while I had become old and withered and plagued with the daily strains of the nearness of death. Edition after edition, supplemented by countless language translations, copyright extensions, nonfictions written about him, using his name, not mine, never mine. On the awards, the countless awards with the engraved plates of brass I’d received over the years, it had always been his name engraved on the plates, always his name on the marquees. And still, given all this, I returned to the endless struggle, the unanswerable question and never-ending debate: who had stolen from whom? Was I the victor because of my wealth or he because of his immortality? His name, his name, his name! Here, in this forsaken room surrounded by nothing but his name, I was ravaged not by feral wolves but, quite unceremoniously, dispatched by the fragile hands of time which, in that very moment of my last soured breath and like the sloughing of a second skin, stripped away all I had created.

The End

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The Determination of Light by Lisa Hascall

A BEEPING SOUND RINGS THROUGHOUT THE ROOM. Echoing, as if to mimic a heartbeat, I awaken to the darkness as the red light projects across the drawn curtains. 4 AM, it reads, but it’s all too obvious that the morning has come once more. “Tachihiro-san, you’ll need to come right away.” Although it was still very early, the expectations set no boundaries. “Fine. I am on my way as we speak.” I put down the receiver, reaching for my blazer hanging off the backboard. “Reiya… why have you been so unsociable lately? I don’t like to be ignored,” His shadow projected against the white walls as light poured in from the hallway. Turning away, I tried to continue preparing when his hand tightly gripped against my shoulder. “Let me go Shuji.” I said firmly, but my strength was nothing as he pushed me into the wall, my thighs banging into the dresser. “Remember Reiya, you chose this life. Nothing you can do will ever change it.” As I walked out the door into the cold winter air, my eyes penetrated the horizon as it began to reach across the city. “Just think, you could have been looking from the other side instead…” I thought, but then chastised myself. This is fate. As the key plugged and the engine of the car began to roar, memories began to rush in as the gray skies finally opened to rain. Part of me wanted to pull away from the wheel and run into the streets beyond, while the rest sulked in the conception of confinement. A storm began to brew from the north as if time was mocking my decision. “Why didn’t you just take that chance?” Why didn’t I? Why didn’t I cast away in that convertible instead of becoming stubborn and closed? When the world began to blur, everything that was once bright and clear had faded The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 561 away into the past. Nothing could ever bring it back except that smiling face. The flowers I used to pick in the garden for mother stood out like cast iron in the midst of fine ceramics. The day when that beeping sound resonated…forming a long shrill as everything fell into the floor below. The child’s perspective was lost in one second of silence. “Tachihiro-san, you seem distracted. Please try to keep yourself focused on today’s report.” The vice president was sure full of herself. In this life, everything was competition against your fellow kind. It was a race, never ending as the population grows past limits, and academia raises the bar further towards the highest stars. The source of this pressure is usually directed to our values in which we were raised to abide, but the true reason lies within our greatest aspirations. The population expects the ideal situation; a high-paying career and the respect of your colleagues, the freedom of infinite wealth and prosperity, and lastly happiness only captured within the perfect family. But when they are kicked out of the house and miss the marks to college, landing themselves a job at the nearest grocery, they only leave society to blame for their poor actions. Life is a trade-off, once you decide that you want that aspect, you must sacrifice something that you already treasure. When I walk down to the subway station and sit down in an empty seat, I’ll see more faces than I’ll ever meet. A college student sits across from me, his feet relaxed upon the metal bar of the seat in front of him. Suddenly, a girl files in with a pizza, steaming with fresh warmth as her blonde hair hangs down over a khaki vest. She sits down next to the boy, acting as friendly as if he was her family friend. The smile that sits across his face amazes me. Then, as I look slightly to the side from the newspaper I pretend to read, the train stops and the energy of their conversation begins to flow away as she waves and enters a new destination. Although she had already left, the place where she once sat still resonated with the feeling of happiness as if she had never moved on. The subway is full of all types of people with millions of stories and personalities, but only a choice few will ever make an impact on the evening. I may never experience the conversation between the two again, but in my mind it still lives on like a vibrant magnolia. The colors are so bright and welcoming, that even when it fades into brown, and is replaced with crisp snow, its presence is still smiling. When I look at the life I have accomplished, what’s left is something completely abstract to my original intentions. I see sadness and abuse, alienation of my blood and family. The man who sits in the kitchen late at night staring into the painted walls as he pretends to read a book of company records, as my shadow hides away in the hallway. Trembling, the children that are mercilessly scribbling in their workbooks don’t acknowledge the presence that’s watching over them. The echoes of his angry voice rang out continuously within the room. Although edited by Joshua Goudreau 562 the fear of waking up each morning, seeing the darkness reflected by numerals in red, I managed to keep moving, even when the same skies taunted my lingering shadow. If I could have made that choice for myself so long ago, then maybe the idea of life that I always pictured would have taken the place of the reality that I have been given.

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Relativity by Ryann Wohlgemuth

“LILLITH,” MY MOTHER SCREAMED, “LILL, YOU’RE GOING to be late!” Her sharp words cut through my lethargic morning state. With my mind instantly awake I bolted from my bed. I looked over at my bedside clocks. All of them read 6:55. “Shit,” I muttered in a quiet voice. I raced around in my room grabbing the first school uniform I could find. As I buttoned up my shirt I glanced around my room for my watch. Noticing said watch’s absence I raced down the hall to my family’s small kitchen. As I ran I hurriedly pulled on the rest of the academy’s uniform. When I entered the kitchen I encountered my mother. The panicked look on her face stabbed at my heart. If I was late not only would my mother be alone in this world, but she would have lost both her husband and daughter to the Time Lord. I turned away from her face, unable to stand her sad look. Seeing my pocket watch on the table I grabbed it and flipped it open. I felt dizzy as blood rushed to my head and panic overcame me. According to the small white clock I had three minutes and forty-five seconds to get across town. By sleeping through all three of my alarms I may have killed myself. My mother opened the door and held it open as ran into the street. “I’ll always love you,” I heard her whisper as I passed her. We both knew what would happen if I was late. We both knew that I would need four minutes and twelve seconds to make it to the Academy. And we both knew we would never see each other again. I gave her one last glance, trying to memorize her face. Her skin was pale, but still tanner than mine. Most of our features were contradictory, I had been born resembling my father. My hair was golden flax where my mother edited by Joshua Goudreau 564 sported long tresses of smooth milk chocolate. My eyes were the murky blue green of a shallow pond while hers were a loving brown. It had been these eyes that had comforted me during childhood nightmares. My glance was quick, only three seconds spent to admire her. But I couldn’t surrender hope. There was still a slight chance that I could make it to school on time. But I would need every second I could get. Turning away, I took off running. My foot falls pounded in my head as I sprinted down the city streets trying to weave through the crowd of people on the sidewalk. They watched me like white clothed wraiths as I flew past them. Their sad faces looked on as if they saw me as already dead, the thought of trying to help me escape the fate that awaited me never crossed their minds. Every single one of them was more concerned with their well being instead of mine, and I couldn’t blame them, at one time I too had only stood and watched. But I am not dead yet; there is still time; at least I hoped there was. As I ran I kept my face pointed down. I couldn’t bring myself to look at one of the many clocks adorning the white buildings around me. I could feel a stitch forming in my side as I ran. Then I rounded the corner and the wall surrounding the Academy came into my line of vision. These solid wall of white concrete served as a seven foot high perimeter for the Academy. The only opening in the wall was a wrought iron timed gate. It was through that opening that the other students and myself entered each morning. I was within twenty feet of the threshold when the clock above the gate started to ring. One. My heart sank. Two. My stomach churned as my panic worsened. Three. The stitch in my sided burned fiercely. Four. I could see the gate closing. The motors inside the clock swung the doors closed according to the time. Five. I tried to run faster. Six. I was just out of reach. Seven. The door slammed shut with the force of a guillotine. I was running to fast to stop myself and I collided painfully with the white iron door. Fire and lightning roared through my shoulder. I hade likely The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 565 broken something. But at the moment, that was the least of my problems. I was late, I would be taken, and I would be killed. My resolve shattered like a dropped egg and I started to sob. I felt myself slide down the cold metal of the gate as my despair crashed over me. My situation was my own fault, and that knowledge only made my sorrow greater. My body felt numb, even the sharp pain in my shoulder had be dampened my hopelessness. “Lillith May of the twelfth hour, you have fallen behind.” a fractured siren’s voice called to me. I knew what being the voice belonged to. It was a being referred to as a sandman, come to collect my time. “You have been found guilty of breaking time.” The beings voice was without a doubt inhuman. It resembled the noise you might hear if a large choir spoke in unison. I looked up at the sandman, or as I discovered sand-woman. The Time Lord had crafted this deadly creature into an attractive shape. Her hair was a perfect platinum blond, her skin possessed an unearthly shimmer, and her bright green cat eyes glowed with a twisted fire. I was instantly fascinated with her, although the dread that filled me couldn’t be quelled. Although sandmen were widely known about no one could ever say what features they possessed, mainly because they only appeared to steal the life sand of a time breaker. “By decree of the Time Lord, you shall be wiped from the face of time, your name stricken from the census, and your clock decayed.” She smiled at me as she said this, exposing her deadly alabaster teeth. I glared at her. How dare this demon stand before me and act like this. This soulless creation was heartless enough to present herself in her sparkling white dress and tell me of my horrid fate while smiling. “This isn’t fair,” I cried out in righteous anger, “I was only late by a second, two at most!” The sandman’s grin widened into a feral smile All human features of her face seemed to morph into that of a prowling leopard. And in a sugar coated voice, she rattled off an creepy rhyme. “Two seconds too late, you sealed your fate; you just missed the gate, so your pain will be great.” As she finished her chilling speech she re ached out towards me. I felt despair and bile well up within me. I considered trying to escape, but I knew it would have been a pointless action. The harpy’s power over time would allow her to follow me where ever I would flee too. I watched as her arm got closer and closer until the tip of one finger touched the center of my forehead. A ripple in space and time formed from that contact, spreading outward and eroding our surroundings away with light. edited by Joshua Goudreau 566 For a moment, or an eternity, there existed only the beast and myself, locked together by our simple connection in a world of white nothing. Then she withdrew her hand from my face and the blinding white began to dissipate and reveal our altered surroundings. I fell backwards and sprawled across the floor, now that the gate that had supported me was gone. Above me stood the giant gears of a clock. I watched them rotate slowly as my emotionally battered mind haphazardly pieced together my location. Although clocks were abundant in our city, only the largest clock tower, on the edge of town, could house a clock with gears this size. If I had been brought to the grand tower, then I was now trapped in the nightmarish castle of the Time Lord. “Bring her forward,” called a man’s voice. The sandman obeyed, grabbing me with her gloved hands. She jerked me to my feet and dragged me forward. I struggled listlessly against her hold, but I stopped when her grip became painfully sharp. Pushing hard on my injured shoulder she led me onward. When we stood before a large silver throne she kicked my legs out from under me. My knees banged painfully on the white marble floor. “State your name,” The Time Lord commanded. I stayed silent. Instead I knelt in wonder, whole surprised by the true form of the Time Lord. Although his voice was imposing, his body was not. The Time Lord could not be older than twenty. On top of that his state of health was appalling. His face was sunken and pale enough to match is ornate white robes. His whole body looked sickly. Even hid charcoal black hair, devoid of shine or luster, made him look half-dead. I couldn’t understand how this dying man had gained the unquestioned and unopposed rule over our town. Stories had always portrayed the Time Lord as a harsh, but benevolent god. They had passed the executions off as being necessary. Growing up I, like most children my age, had understood and accepted that tardiness was a killing offence. But here stood my god, the same god who declared the late should die. I knew he still had the power to end my life, but now my god had been stripped of his divinity and that fact lent me some small comfort. “State your name,” He demanded again. And I would have probably ignored him again if the sandman hadn’t dug her fingers into the flesh of my shoulder. “Lillith May,” the sandman’s fingers pressed down harder, “of the twelfth hour.” “Bring me her clock.” The sandman complied, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my watch. “Please don’t,” I tried to sound brave, but my voice was shaky. “Shhh,” the Time Lord said, placing a finger over his mouth. My protests froze in my throught, “DO you know why you are given your own watch at birth?” I shook my head negatively, “I give one to each of my subjects,” he The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 567 continued, “along with the watch comes a contract. As long as you abide by my time you shall be content.” The Time Lord smirked as though there existed no kinder man then himself. “Those who consent to this find a balance of joy and disappointment in their lives. They can live out their existence without causing me any aggravation. Bit then ungraceful wretches like you come along,” he glared at her, “mucking around with my perfect world, my perfect time!” He shouted the words at me. For such a sickly man his voice was wrought with power. “Here, my Lord.” The sandman said handing over my watch to him. The Time Lord held the silver timepiece carefully in his hand. He dangled the watch by its chain in front of his glassy dark eyes. I watched with a mixture of horror and curiosity as my polished watch began to rapidly tarnish in his hands, eventually turning a solid black. My now ebony watch was thrown forcefully at me. The icy metal thumped hard against my chest. I quickly grabbed it and held it tightly in my hand. “Take her away from my world and throw her in the Void!” The Time Lord’s words confused me. I had never heard of ‘the Void’. All of the tales about the time penalty had said death was the punishment. ‘Perhaps,’ I thought, ‘the Void is the room they will kill me in.’ The sandman grabbed me again, wrenching my arm up and pulling me to a standing position. As she pulled me towards the center of the room she seemed to purr in excitement. “Let me go!” I screamed trying to breakaway from her. Adrenalin was flooding my body granting me strength I had never possessed. I tried pulling hard on my arm, but the sandman ignored my efforts. We were almost at the room’s central point. “I promise I’ll never be late again.” I sobbed. I could feel death’s could shroud surrounding me. “Just please let me go” The Time Lord and his minion remained silent. We were in the center now, back were we had first arrived, and directly under the clock gears. The sandman moved her hands from my arm ti my neck. I clutched at her hands as they cut off my windpipe. She lifted me upwards and my struggling increased. I kicked her several times, but if they had any effect on her I was unable to see. I tilted my head backwards in an attempt to open my airways. I saw the silver clock gears above me were spinning at an increasing rate. The clock above me started to ring. And each sound of the bell seemed to resonate through me. A gurgled scream escaped my throat followed by the coppery taste of my blood. It was an odd sensation to hand there, feeling my body dying. Each second I was chocked robbed my body of life, the watch I clutched in my hand robbed my body of heat, and with each ring of the bell the vibrations edited by Joshua Goudreau 568 that passed through me tore my body asunder. My vision was eaten away by darkness. I heard the bells ring once more.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 569

“The Funeral” by Clayton Hayes

I STARE AT THE LIGHTER IN MY HAND, AS THOUGH holding it in my gaze is the only thing keeping me from drifting off into the depths of my own mind. It probably is, too. The voice of the minister pulls my eyes away from the cold steel and plastic. He is reciting a passage from the large bible that rests on the lectern that has been brought out under the awning for the day. I don’t think David would’ve agreed to this, had he been here. He was never very religious. He couldn’t be, not with what he had been through. But his parents were, and that is all that really mattered in the end. No amount of protesting on my part would’ve changed anything. According to David’s father I am just lucky I’m allowed to be here. Truth be told, I didn’t want to be here at all. But I owe it to David. I owe him that, and so much more. My head bends down again, not able to watch the proceedings any longer. The grass beneath my feet glistens from the rain that has been falling since late last night. Just like the day we had met. My eyes return to the lighter I still hold in my hand. Memories spring unbidden into my mind, dragging it with them into the past... A cold rain poured down from overhead, not uncommon for early October. I stood there, underneath my umbrella, waiting for the bus to take me to school. I was a senior in high school, and dreadfully embarrassed about being the only one who still rode on the bus. I knew my parents couldn’t afford a car for me, though, so I did my best not to complain. Being out in the rain wasn't that bad, usually. But today, the bus was late, and I had been standing outside for almost a half-hour. I was lost in my own edited by Joshua Goudreau 570 world of self-pity over being forced to stand out in the rain, so I didn’t see the black truck that had pulled over to the side of the road until it had been standing there for almost a full minute. I glanced over at it, slightly nervous. The driver’s-side window rolled down, and a boy around my own age stuck his head out the window. “Hey, do you want a lift?” he asked. Despite myself, I smiled. I knew it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but I was freezing. Besides, I had seen him around school before, so he wasn’t a total stranger. In the warmth of his car, I took off my coat and threw it behind my seat. “Thank you so much,” I said. “I’ve been out there for a half-hour waiting for that goddamn bus.” “It’s my pleasure,” he replied. “My name’s David, by the way.” “Oh!” I was shocked and embarrassed at forgetting to introduce myself. “I’m Andy.” Everyone calls me Andy, and always has for as long as I can remember. I sometimes don’t even respond to my full name when someone who doesn't know me uses it. “Pleasure to meet you, Andy. Do you mind?” He held up a cigarette. “Oh, no,” I said. He pulled a lighter from his pocket with his free hand, and lit the cigarette. That same lighter that I hold in my hands now. Back in my pocket it goes, where it can’t fool my mind into remembering. I look up, and David’s father has taken the place of the minister at the lectern. I can barely hold back my tears and rage at seeing him up there. After what he did, he’s the one that shouldn’t have been allowed to come. He should be thrown in jail for what he did. After it happened, I tried to do something. But who would believe me, even if I gathered the courage to tell them? Who would believe me over David’s own father? Still, I can’t help but feel like I should’ve done more. For David’s sake, I should’ve done more. For David. Again, despite my best efforts, the memories invade my head. Again, I’m dragged down into the past. It was amazing we ever talked again, with me as shy as I am. But I did my best to get past that and the uncertainty that comes before every confession of attraction. Thankfully, surprisingly, he felt the same way about me as I did about him. We started going out shortly after that day we met, and I had never been happier. My schoolwork, tennis (I had been playing since 9th grade), even my relationship with my family, everything was easier while we were The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 571 together. All I needed was a few minutes in his sheltering embrace, and I felt like I could do anything. Of course, like all perfect things, it didn’t stay perfect for long. As our relationship grew more serious, so did an unpleasant realization of mine grow. I found bruises on his body. At first, on his shoulders. Then his back, his stomach, his legs, his neck, his face. He tried to explain them away with things like playing football with his friends, or roughhousing with his brothers, but I knew that they hadn’t come from any of those things. You can tell the difference between the kind of bruise getting tackled by your friend leaves and the kind of bruise getting punched in the side leaves. It didn’t take long for him to open up to me. It was almost as though he had been waiting his whole life for someone he could talk to about it. It was a warm summer night, the July after we had graduated. We were sitting out on my back porch, staring out at the stars, talking about our plans for college, and the words just started flowing out of him. “For as long as I can remember,” he said through the tears that began curtaining his face. “He’s done this to me for as long as I can remember. All he needs is an excuse to take me downstairs and...” His voice broke; he buried his head in this arms. “And what can I do about it? He’s my father. My fucking father.” His face contorted, each line a proclamation of the pent-up anger within him. “My mom can’t do anything about it. She tried, the first few times. But he just turned on her instead. “And what happens if I run away; who will he turn on then? Sean? Kevin? Which of my brothers will be first? I can’t let them go through that. And if I go to college? I don’t know if I could leave them alone with him. Andy, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” I put my arms around his shoulders, feeling them quake with each sob. He raised his head up and looked into my eyes. “Sometimes, Andy,” he said as the tears in our eyes reflected the stars in the sky. “Sometimes I think you’re the only thing in this world worth living for.” And there was such a look of conviction in his eyes that I knew he meant it. If only I had known how much. If only I had known just how much he had meant what he said that night. If only I had known, maybe I wouldn’t be here now, listening to that man wearing black talk about the son he never took the time to know. The son he tortured until he couldn’t take anymore. I can still see David now, just as we found him that night. Only two weeks after he broke down and finally talked to me. The little red vines that had sprouted from the jagged lines in his wrist and dripped into the bathtub edited by Joshua Goudreau 572 water, clouding it red. His parents only saw pain in his face that night, but I knew that he had finally found peace. David’s father steps down, and the funeral is over. The crowd files past David’s open grave as he is lowered down, but I stay, sitting on the grass. I shed my tears, alone. David would’ve wanted me to move on, I know. But for now I’ll just miss him.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 573

Street Talk by Rose Owens

I’VE COME TO THE CONCLUSION THAT EVERYONE AROUND me is mad. Not angry-mad, insane-mad. I just can’t comprehend the fact that such a world could exist and that no one else sees it in the fashion I do. It makes me question my sanity, and at this point in my life, when I depend on my own faculties more than anything else, I can’t afford to do that. Sometimes, when no one else is watching, I stare outside these walls and see the grass outside. It doesn’t stay short and insignificant. No, in my eyes, the endless blades rise up and up, growing in both height and width, creating a veritable forest where my eyes scrape the rough edges. I can walk within this cool, green paradise and feel completely at home. It’s there where I think about what brought me here.

Starvation is not a state any child should go through. It takes the light out of their eyes, distends their stomach, and turns what were once strong, pliant muscles into atrophied, disgusting strings of useless fiber. My own child, my beautiful baby boy, Patrick was afflicted by this horrible fate. I wasn’t a bad parent; I didn’t neglect him, or eat all of his food myself. What we were (and what I remain today) were victims of a pitiless society. This land of the free, this home of the brave, you think you know how it works? Trust me, until you are sitting on the soiled concrete of a city block, your back aching from lack of support, your thighs dirty and bruised from sleeping outside, and your baby helpless in your arms, you have no idea what it is like to live in America. This America that so many flock to in order to create a future for themselves is bullshit. It’s a fucking lie. A perverted dream that perhaps began honorably but now shits out its people and doesn’t care where they land. edited by Joshua Goudreau 574 ***

Another crazy street person, you say. I can tell you’re laughing at me, the nervous nature of your own failures just faintly hidden behind your shallow prosperities. You think you know me, you know my life, my tribulations. You don’t know the half of it. Only yesterday did I pick up a paper and read (yes, I can read. I’m not the illiterate slob you paint us to be) of a fellow human being who dwelled on the streets like myself. Unlike me, however, this woman was dead. Murdered. She’d been robbed, and after she filed a complaint with the police, her previous assailants kidnapped her and set her on fire. That is an outrage. A travesty on the streets of this “fair” (that term contains so much irony) city and what is done? A couple articles written, maybe a few people talk about it for a week or so, and then it all disappears back into the mists that you have assigned us to. What about our safety, then? Clearly this was an isolated incident, you say. Programs are being put in place to assist the homeless.

So what about me? What program was there to help me? I was there, on the street, with my baby boy by my side, trying to find some way to feed him. But the eyes that would see us ahead would quickly turn away. They would start a conversation with the companion next to them, something to distract them from the bottomless eyes of my Patrick staring up at them. Before Patrick was born, passersby would just walk on. Not even bothering to look away. But as soon as my beautiful baby was there, pleading for some sort of salvation, it was more than they could bear. In their minds, it became my fault. I obviously chose to bring him into a world that could not support him. I was that kind of a monster. Do you know what it feels like to have endless accusing eyes staring at you, day in and day out? Blaming you for something that is not your fault. It is hateful. Horribly hateful. I was never addicted to drugs or alcohol. I wasn’t a prostitute. My only crime was that I was never able to hold a job. I did nothing wrong. I didn’t sass the boss. I did everything I was asked to, to perfection. My employers always were sorry to let me go. “Cutbacks”. That was the only reason they could give me. Every job I had somehow would get cutback. I kept trying to get back to school, but I couldn’t handle going to school and supporting myself at the same time. I’d always get close, so very close, and then some pitfall would occur. I could never hold on tight enough.

So how did Patrick come along? I had been on the streets for some time, when I met Dirk. Dirk had been living on concrete longer than I had, and he was canny. He would take few into his circle of trust, having learned early on that betrayal is one of the easiest ways to find yourself inside the city official’s The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 575 breast pocket. He’d been ratted out too many times to get too close to anyone, but I didn’t care. I’d hit a point in my life where I needed a strong figure. I found one in Dirk. My parents had both died when I was young and so I had always had to fend for myself with various uncaring aunts and uncles passing me along. There was never a feeling that I had control of my life, a fact accentuated by the rotating jobs I had. Since I had little past on the streets, he didn’t need to ask me twice when he offered a space in his general area. I just wanted to be near someone who knew what they were doing. I’m not a beautiful woman. I’m more than aware of that. But I have been told that I posses a degree of self-confidence that can come across as attractive. Perhaps that is what Dirk saw in me. It was hard to tell. He wasn’t a talkative man, more the stereotypical “man of action”. But he seemed to like me well enough, and it wasn’t long until we were sleeping together. This didn’t give me a status lift or anything of that nature, but at least I had a home. Somewhere to come to when it started to rain, and someone to be close to when the nights were cold, which they so often were.

As Dirk and I never had lengthy conversations, I never became aware of what it was exactly that he was wrapped up in. I only knew that it was something serious, and seriously dangerous. The enormity of it didn’t really hit me until one day when I couldn’t find Dirk anywhere. He normally went off to do his own thing and I never questioned it. But I had not seen him all day, and it was getting dark. He didn’t like to be aware from our area for too long once night fell, so I was understandably surprised. Time went on, and there was still no sign of him. Until the next day, that is, when I awoke to hear screaming. A group of us were huddled in front of where I was sleeping, studying something I couldn’t quite see. I got up and moved closer, but was still unable to understand what the fuss was about. The men were just staring, not saying a word, and the women were crying, their eyes like giant circles with shock. And then as I looked down, I saw it. His body. It was laid out spread eagle, in the center of the circle, surrounded by a puddle of blood that trickled out of wounds all over his body.

I don’t remember what happened next, but considering I woke up later inside the shelter than Dirk and I had formerly shared, I am willing to bet I passed out. No one was nearby. It seems that all had scattered seconds after removing me from the mutilated body. Now I was on my own, yet again. And as I was to discover in only a short time, I would soon have another mouth to feed, when I could barely feed my own. edited by Joshua Goudreau 576 Granted, your “programs” were there to help me when it came time to give birth. But in a surprisingly similar manner as my fellow street dwellers, as soon as they could be held responsible for too much of my well-being, they evaporated like so much smoke. I was left alone again, this time with a baby in hand.

So we lived as we could, eating scraps, sometimes benefiting from the kindness of strangers, but so rarely. And it only got worse. I couldn’t give Patrick much, and though he started his life in all appearances a healthy looking boy, he was still so young. I had some years behind me to give me strength and resistance to the difficulties of living outside in the elements, but Patrick had none of this. I tried everything I could to help him, but there was ultimately nothing I could do. I was backed into a corner, and perhaps I should have thought it out more, giving myself more time for the possibility that some kind soul somewhere would drop that magic coin into my lap and all of my problems would be solved. But it isn’t ever that way. And I had no other choice. I couldn’t bear to see that beautiful baby’s eyes looking up at me that way. He wasn’t blaming me, he knew I was going through the same difficulties as he. But I felt so guilty nevertheless. If I had only worked harder, if I had been smarter, prettier, less susceptible to the fucking cutbacks that followed me everywhere I went like a black cloud….then perhaps I could have made his life something beautiful and vibrant and strong. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t able to. I’d lost everything around me that I valued. And I couldn’t bear to lose Patrick to the dissembling illness that I knew would hit him. It would be more than I could bear.

I can’t remember how I did it. I’ve blocked it from my memory. It was too painful. I-. No. I can’t. Anytime someone here tries to talk about it, my mind goes blank. I can’t hear or see or smell or feel anything. It’s as though someone went inside my brain and cut out the wires that allow recollection of that day. All I can remember is them finding me, cradling his body. He just looked so still and peaceful. Like he was somewhere else, where he was being taken care of. And I was so glad of that possibility that I couldn’t let him go.

And I’m here now. Surrounded by these concrete (the endless concrete) walls, I sit here. I have nothing to do, no one to talk to. It’s like a cleaner, fed version of living on the streets again. Except the endless eyes are gone. That’s the one consolation. I don’t have to deal with those stares anymore. So you call me crazy. Me. Who had to live on the streets. Who had to sit there and take your empty, soulless eyes pass by to warm houses, full tables, The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 577 soft beds, and a family that loves you. Who had to look into the eyes of her only child, freezing and hungry. Her only child that would never get to learn how to read, how to play with other children, how to make a life of his own.

And you say your system is righteous and knows how to take care of those on the street? Fuck your system.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 578

The Devil May Take You by Megan Reily

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE NIGHTS WHERE THE SWAMP FOG rolled across the water. The frogs and crickets peeped out their frenzied chorus. Dogs howled at the hazy moon. Cats yowled and prowled in the nighttime heat. Gators splashed lazily, while a dead, warm wind blew through the Spanish moss and rustled the juniper leaves. Charity sat in the kitchen drinking stale coffee. The clock on the stove ticked away maddeningly. Flies buzzed around the dirty dishes in the sink. Moans of delirious sickness and pain floated from the next room. She sat sipping, staring blankly at the peeling, curling linoleum. Her hound dogs bayed nervously from the sagging porch. Charity took another sip, the coffee forming an ugly stain on the white mug. Another moan drifted from the closed room. Charity dragged her split fingernails across the back of her neck, wiping away sweat and angry torment. She wondered if she should call the doctor. It would be the right thing to do. After all, Chastity was her sister. But she remembered who fathered the child. Chastity came to her earlier, vibrant and joyous, her skirt swinging about her hips with girlish pride. “Charity, ya ain’t neva gonna b’lieve it,” Chastity gushed in her bayou twang, “I’m pregnant. I’m gonna be a momma. Sweet Jesus, can ya b’lieve it?!” Charity sighed heavily and set her cigarette against the overflowing ashtray. She knew the whoring would result in something like this. Too many nights Charity lie awake, sweating, trembling, listening to the little giggles of delight coming from the living room. Leroy would be in his chair with a Pabst in one The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 579 hand, Chastity on his lap in her baby doll dress, Leroy’s rough hands wandering up the skirt and under the top, making her laugh and squeal. Tonight, Charity was glad that Leroy had gone to Orleans for the weekend, boozing and whoring. It was his way. She didn’t want him there. He’d spend the night pacing the porch, chain-smoking Reds, pathetically unsure of what to do with himself. Later, Leroy would end up at the bar, acting as if nothing happened. Chastity let out another whine. Charity looked at the clock. Five past midnight. It was too late for the doctor now. The little bastard wouldn’t live but a few hours anyway. Chastity had the baby clothes and crib ready, all from Charity’s stillborns long buried in the swamp. It pained her too look at this, all proper and sweet in Chastity’s room. It was only that morning when Chastity had gone into labor. “Ooooh,” whined Chastity in the kitchen, “It’s hurtin’, Charity. I think its ma time.” Blood-tinged fluid ran down Chastity’s legs and drooled into a rank puddle on the floor. Charity stood with stubborn indifference. “You’re in labor,” she said flatly, “Go lie down. It’s gonna be awhile.” Chastity shuffled away to her room, dripping and teary. Charity looked at the puddle in the middle of the kitchen. Disgusted, she found a rag and cleaned it up before the dogs started lapping at it. Half-past midnight came. Chastity was screaming from her room now, high-pitched wails and anguished moans. Charity stepped out of the kitchen and peered in. There, Chastity lay in her white dress, her full breasts hanging out, the sheets red with blood. “Jesus!” cried Chastity, “Is ma baby comin’, Charity? Is it comin’? It hurts, Charity. It hurts so damn bad! Is it a boy or girl? Huh? Tell me!” Charity backed away cautiously. She could smell the river of blood flowing freely from Chastity’s body. It had a coppery, dead smell like butchered meat. She stepped from the room and closed the door, leaving Chastity to scream for her to come back. Charity went into her bedroom and sat on the bed. The dogs were baying again. Somewhere an owl hooted. Charity reached into a dresser drawer and pulled out Leroy’s Colt .45. It was black and shiny, and felt cold and metallic in her hands. Chastity’s screams became those of pain and terror. Charity made her way back to the bedroom. The bloody covers were kicked off. Chastity’s body lay in a stagnant pool of black blood. Her eyes rolled into her head, oblivious to anything except the pain. Charity saw the small, gray head of the baby protruding from between Chastity’s legs. “Oh, GOD,” cried Chastity, “Make it stop, Momma. Make it stop!” Her body gave a quiver as the infant slid out, a boy, blue and streaked with blood. Chastity fell back relaxed, faint from pain and confusion. edited by Joshua Goudreau 580 Charity, gun in hand, looked down at the broken child. He was small – too small. He made no movements, except for the occasional jerk of his tiny hand or leg. She gingerly reached out her hand and touched his blood- crusted head. It was cold, inhuman and dead. She watched with quiet horror and sadness, the child’s chest rising and then falling. Charity breathed heavily. She pointed the pistol toward the unconscious body of Chastity. Two shots rang out across the bayou, causing a startle of barks and chirps. A pair of blank, red holes sat bloodless in Chastity’s chest. Her body was limp, legs falling awkwardly across the bed. The gun slid from Charity’s hand as she fell to her knees. Saliva gathered in her throat, adding a rattle to her pant. “Fucking God,” whispered Charity, “My fucking God.” She stood trembling, anxiously chewing her thumbnail. Gently, Charity lifted the dead infant, severing the cord with her fingers. She washed him in the sink full of dirty dishes, being careful not to get soap in his pinched eyes. Charity swaddled the boy in a small, blue blanket. With him in her arms, she stepped into the warm night air. Charity stood at the edge of the swamp, and gently placed the child into the dark water. He floated for a moment, sank, and then resurfaced. His head bobbled gently as the current carried him into the cypress trees. Charity stood quiet and stoic as a motorboat engine pierced the bayou chorus.

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Gladiator by Kailey Mortell

CRASH! PLIP, PLIP, PLIP.. Shards of glass shattered loudly, scrapping across the hard wood floor before coming to a stop. Stained forever by the beads of crimson dripping down onto their clear surface, blurring the images reflected within. Two figures drenched in crimson, features and details vague and hazy. It was funny how symbolic something so crud could be. He would have laughed had his throat not been aching and bruised, from his master’s last tantrum. The dull ache in his head reminded him of just how accustomed to it he’d become. The faint drone of his master’s voice buzzed in his ears, but it was a few seconds before he could focus again, the blow had been a good hit, and the vase hadn’t been exactly paper either. “You hear me, mongrel?” Ah yes, his voice was coming in loud and clear now. Pain erupted in the back of his head as he failed to answer in time, and his hair was seized, and jerked violently backwards, smacking his head against the wall painfully. Color exploded in his vision, but it all seemed to old to him, so stale. He’d felt it all a hundred times before. No more then that. Maybe. A thousand? He didn’t have much time to ponder the thought as he was jerked face to face with the man he called master. “You’re worthless, you know that?” he hissed through white teeth, eyes squinting furiously at his worn dirty face. “You can’t even take a beating without going deaf and dumb, even dogs whimper.” he growled disgusted as he pushed the boy’s head away, moving away from him, turning his back scornfully. Typical moves, but he was a typical man after all. “Tonight your going to prove that grand I paid wasn’t just for worm fodder.” he snorted edited by Joshua Goudreau 582 amused by his own ‘witty and subtle’ threat. “If you lose I’m throwing you to my hunting dogs, but if you win.” he paused and sighed. “perhaps I can find it in my heart to give you a blanket, or whatever it is you gladiators are always whining for.” He sighed, as if he was telling a spoiled child they could have one more toy. “So don’t fail me or you’ll wish you’d dropped dead in the arena.” Even if the man was a pompous moron he knew ho to rip a scream from just about anyone. His threat wasn’t just words, it was a fact. “Now get out of my sight and to your station, the match is about to begin.” He waved him away. The time before the match was all a blur to him, shrouded in haze he vaguely remembered moving through the familiar stone halls of his master’s estate, but he’d done it so many times before who was to say he had even walked there? Shaking his head he tried to clear his thoughts, but the blow had left him in a fog, his head felt like wool. Distantly he felt the weight of his staff in his hands, a weapon he knew well, but now felt unreal and foreign. A bell rung somewhere faraway, and he heard the gate opening before him. Taking a deep breath he shook his head once more, the world coming into focus, his head feeling just a little less heavy. Stepping out into the arena he heard the chorus of voices rise, and saw his opponent step into the light. He was tall and thick, and in one hand gleamed a long broad sword. He was shirtless and scars were strewn about his tight packed muscles. He smiled, eager to draw blood, and convinced the win would be easy. Perhaps he was right. Normally he’d have no problem taking down such a meathead, but in his current state. He wasn’t sure he could take down a novice. In an instant it had begun, sword screeched against staff as they clashed, the blow sent him backwards. The blade danced before his vision and then pain. It burned through his shoulder and down his spine in nauseating waves. Blood splattered across the hard packed dirt, ripping fresh loud screams from the jeering crowd of animals all around them. It was maddening, enough to make the room spin. With a laugh the man jerked his sword free and backed away, waiting for the fall, waiting to be ordered in for the kill. He was so tired, so torn and worn. Torn to shreds by the sharp claws of society and gutted by the cruel world all he wanted was to lay down and die, to sleep and rest… more pain exploded burned into him as he felt the sword again, pushing deep into his side, and yet.. He couldn’t rest, not now. Grip tightening on his staff he grinned, tired and mad he smiled. “A thousand hits, what’s one more?”

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 583

Restriction: Color by Ana

SOMETIMES THIS ROOM IS SO DEPRESSING. Maybe it’s the clouds. It’s always cloudy. Or maybe it’s the barrenness. Stark white walls, stark white furniture, no signs to show that anyone was ever here except for a splash of yellow—a standard #2 pencil rolling across the top of my desk. The pencil can’t save the barrenness, though. It just paints it gray. But it’s nice to have a change of color occasionally. Or maybe it’s the silence. The silence is subtle at first, but it’s like smoke from a fire: the more the fire burns, the more the smoke fills up the room, choking me. And I fall to the floor, but there’s only coarse beige carpet under my fingers, and in all the whiteness, I can’t find the way out. So I suffocate. Every day I suffocate. And the world is cruel enough to always bring me back to life again. Some days there’s more smoke than others. Today is one of those days. And as I sit here in my straight-back chair, the wood cold through the thin fabric of my shirt, twirling my pencil between two fingers and staring straight ahead at nothingness, I have to get out or the silence will eat me alive. I call Jamie. I hate her. I really do. But she doesn’t hate me. And she’ll get me out of this room. “Jamie, do you want to go to the movies?” “Oh yes, Russell, I’d love to.” She always loves to. Never like. Love. Whatever that means. edited by Joshua Goudreau 584 So I walk down to the movie theatre. Neon lights flash at me in all their phoniness. It’s not real light, sign. You can’t fool me. I applaud you, however, for making a valiant attempt. I join the throng in front of the movie theatre. Nothing’s playing. Nothing I want to see, anyway. Oh wait; they’re still showing Donnie Darko. That was a good movie. I’d like to see it again. Jamie won’t, though. It would require her to think beyond love. “Russell!” She comes running up to me and flings her arms around my neck. And I like it. I’m not going to pretend I don’t. But at the same time, I look down at her, and I think, What a slut. Honestly. Pull your shirt up. “Oh Russell, it’s just lovely to see you again.” What did I tell you. Jamie’s eyes fly from me to the movie list—though I won’t deny that it’s much more interesting than I am. “Ooh, look, Russell! They’re showing Return of the Vampire! I didn’t think that was out yet! I just love scary movies, don’t you?” I hate them. They are stupid, pointless, and a waste of my time and money. Though the matinee tickets are cheaper. “Here.” I hand her a wad of cash. “You buy the tickets. I’ll go get popcorn.” “Oh, how thoughtful of you, Russell! But don’t put too much butter on it. I’m on a diet.” She’s always on a diet. “Sure thing,” I say, and I head towards concessions. Jamie steps up to the ticket counter, and I stop. Too late, I catch myself staring at her ass. She has a very nice piece of ass. But I’m not that shallow, I swear. I buy the popcorn and a box of Milk Duds for myself and carry everything over to the condiment table. Placing the popcorn under the butter nozzle, I push down gently. I’m not a bad guy, really I’m not. If she doesn’t want a lot of butter, I won’t get a lot of butter. But nothing comes out. I push down harder. Still nothing. Frustrated, I push down with all my strength. Butter begins to drip out of the nozzle like water droplets out of a faucet. But the stream doesn’t increase. It just continues to drip, drip, drip, and with each drip, more sorrow drips into me. And the butter is so pathetic, and I’m so pathetic, and before I know what’s happening, I’m crying over my popcorn. I try to move, but I can’t. My feet are rooted to the ground in front of this condiment table and I’m getting the popcorn all soggy. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 585 And I have to get out of the movie theatre. I didn’t escape the smoke. It traveled with me. I push my way to the front doors, not thinking about the food still sitting back on the table, not thinking about Jamie, not thinking about the damn vampire or anything at all. All I want to do is get back to my barren room where my barren self at least fits in. The night air is cool on my skin. I walk with my eyes trained on the sidewalk. One foot in front of the other. Step right, step left, step right, step left. Four more steps to nowhere. Everywhere leads to nowhere. I remember my freshman English class—the very first assignment we ever did. We had to write about something we felt very strongly about. I remember down to the word what I put on that piece of paper. I AM A BLANK IN A MAD LIB. YOU CAN FILL ME IN ANY

WAY YOU WANT TO. Apparently, that statement showed that I have potential. My teacher said I was a poet—a poet who didn’t know it. Wow, the bad rhyme really exemplifies my poetic talent, doesn’t it? I tried to tell her that she’d defied all logic. She’d filled in the blank the wrong way. But she didn’t understand. She didn’t see the little restriction underneath: adjective, noun, color. Absence is my color. I reach my doorstep and stick my key in the lock. The second I turn the knob, a hairy arm reaches out and drags me into the house by the front of my shirt. Bobby’s home. “Where ya been, Russ?” he asks me, sneering. I smell beer on his breath. “The movies,” I say. He stares at me, his eyes bloodshot. I will not say sir. I will not. He hits me. His fist draws back before I know what’s happening. It hits me with the force of a train directly above my left eye. I stumble backward, my head reeling. He comes at me again. This time, I’m ready, and I duck down, barely avoiding his punch. But he’s too smart for me. His arm comes around and grabs mine, twisting it behind my back. I wince from the pain. Suddenly, his hot breath hits my ear, and he snickers, “Who’s your daddy, Russell?” I say nothing. I close my eyes as he pulls tighter. My shoulder is screaming, but I will not give in. I will not give in to a monster. “Who’s your daddy, Russell?” edited by Joshua Goudreau 586 The scream wells up in my throat. I swallow it forcefully. Bobby twists my arm in a way I didn’t know that it moved, and the scream rushes up and explodes out of me. He thrusts me against the wall, banging my head into it again and again. “Pussy.” Slam. “Wuss.” Slam. Finally, he releases me, almost as if I’m so disgusting that he can’t bear to touch me any longer. I collapse to the floor, blood dripping from my nose onto the carpet. He kicks me so hard that all the wind goes out of me. My knees can no longer hold me, and I fall flat on my poor bloody nose. “Who’s your daddy, Russell?” Don’t say it. Do not say it. “You are.” “I can’t hear ya, boy,” he laughs, and he rests his foot on my back. “You are,” I repeat, tears streaming from my eyes. Suddenly, his weight is on his foot, and he’s crushing me like an anvil. I feel my bones creak underneath him. Any moment, they’ll break. Any moment, I’ll crumble. “Sir.” He grins maliciously. “There ya go.” And he walks off into the kitchen for a beer, leaving me in a helpless bleeding heap on the carpet. I drag myself up the stairs. Pain jars through my body with every movement. But it’s nothing, nothing like the pain inside me. He’s not my dad. Never, ever will he be my dad. He killed him. He took a knife and stabbed it through my father’s heart. And now he’s sleeping with my mother. She doesn’t know. She’s so dazed by all the drugs he’s giving her that she doesn’t even seem to remember that my dad’s even gone. I remember him. I remember that night so vividly. It was a mistake, really. I was just walking home from school, taking the longer route because it was such a nice day. What a mistake. What a fucking mistake. They were in an alley. I wouldn’t even have seen them if the light hadn’t glinted off of Bobby’s knife blade. And then I heard the last words my father ever spoke, words spoken in such a low voice that I wouldn’t even have noticed them if I hadn’t heard them every night of my life for the last five years. “You can break me, but you can never break my spirit.” Then the light moved downward sharply. I ran at it, the full force of what was happening finally hitting me like a moving car. I remember Bobby snatching me by my jacket, his tobacco-stained teeth snarling down at me. “You gonna tell anybody, punk?” he asked me. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 587 I haven’t. Why my dad ever had to get himself mixed up in politics I don’t know. But he was a trooper. He fought for the low and the oppressed. He fought for those no one else would fight for. And no matter how much he was hated, the hatred never broke him. But I’m not like him. I pick up my pencil and write on my desk. I AM So many things could go in that blank. But there’s a restriction. It’s color.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 588

Under the Rain by Stephanie Braun

IT’S POURING. I’VE NEVER HAD ANY ISSUES WITH RAIN, BUT this is a little different. The whole scene is different, and maybe I should just go back to the beginning and tell it from the start.

It’s been a few weeks now. I’d like to think I’m settling in relatively well, all things considered. It’s still nearly impossible to discuss with him, but I’m making progress. We both keep the dictionary handy because there’s still way too much I don’t get. But this way, I’m pretty much learning two languages at once and at times I feel like I’m drowning. He’s cute. And he adapted to Neige really quickly, too. He’s really nice with me and I don’t think I would have managed otherwise with someone else. My hair attracts a lot of attention but I’ve grown accustomed to that really quickly. That and I toned the color down a little, so it looks maybe a little more platinum and rainbow than just the bright rainbow color I had come in with those weeks ago. Most people haven't noticed that my eyes are the same way. But no one really looks me in the eyes. Because they’re still too busy gawking at my hair. But that’s okay. Dai~su~ke~. Sigh. Damnit, I’m really falling fast for him and I can’t help but be terrorized of what he’d think if he knew. Not that anything’ll ever come out of it. It’s unnatural to be gay, isn’t it? It’s how I was raised, in any case, gays were bashed- physically as well as mentally and emotionally- back in my old school. You had little to no chances of survival in that school, I swear. You were outcast, pretty much forbidden to come to school, and the nannies at the orphanage would tell you to leave. So it was living in the The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 589 streets. It happened to one boy I really liked, but he was found out, and I never saw him again. Even back home, due to my looks, I got some strange stares because of my hair and was asked several times if I was gay. Me, gay? Never! Ah. What I wouldn’t have done to finish my schooling. Kissed a girl, courted her, made sweet, sweet love to her, it made my skin crawl and I showered for so long that I could thankfully use my hair as the excuse. Back to the would-be present. I don’t spend a lot of time outside of our shared room, I go to class, struggle to pay attention, then I come back to the room, keep my nose to the work and the dictionary. There’s little else for me to do. Forget the outings, the gangs who go off during the weekend to have fun. But this weekend... it’s different. I caught myself just staring at him, pencil nearly falling out of my hand. It’s my sighing that attracted his attention and I had to look away. I still kept my cool, but I knew I’d be wanting to reach out and touch him, even just his hand... but I can’t. So I smiled somewhat flutteringly and I turned back to my papers. I’d been in the process of writing a letter home. Not that I have a home, but I promised a few of the girls that I'd write. Though when I’m done writing the letter, the urge still hasn’t gone away, so I pet Neige a moment, tell him- it’s one of the first things I learned- that I’m needing to get something, and I slip off to put my shoes on and head a little ways away. I don’t know my way around too well, but that’s alright, I never stray really far. I tend to just settle on the first bench I find, my hair is unbound, so the wind ruffles the ends a little. I pull my legs onto the bench though, holding them to my chest as I shiver in the cool autumn air and tip my head back lightly, shifting briefly to move my hair from behind me to the back of the bench where it nearly brushes the ground. Resettling, I blink with the first droplet that falls and I only smile to myself as more water falls and I thank whoever is looking out for me. The rain mixes to the salted wetness I find drawing down my cheeks and you can't tell one from the other. I know I’ll get sick if I stay out- it’s pouring now- but somehow I find myself being thankful. Twisted, isn’t it? In my mind, though it’s as much a bad thing as it is a good one, if I’m sick, he may take care of me a little, he’s kind enough for that. I need to find a pretty girl to distract myself with... if she’s tomboy enough.. eh, whom am I kidding? The rain is as cold as the stabbing pain that takes my heart as I realize there can’t be anyone else. What’ll happen once the studies are all over and I go back home? We’ll never talk again. Fuck you, heart. Rain, Please cleanse me of my sins.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 590

Anywhere by Dexandré Riley

IN THE LIGHT OF THE NOON DAY SUN A DRAGON IN HUMAN form stands before a knight known for his many dragon kills. “So it’s true?” He asked. His forest green eyes focused on her misty blue ones as strands of brown-red hair flailed across her face with the noon day wind. A red scarf around her neck danced on the wind. She held her head down lifting her hand to gently pull her hair from her eyes. “I would have killed the man who dare speak ill of you, without thought.” He went on. “Are you saying that it would have been in vain?” She lifted her eyes and met his, an unreadable look in her eyes as they glided over the rune scribed sword and shield in his hand and the sliver armor gleaming in the light of the sun. Finally her eyes rested on his green eyes beneath his dark hair. She gazed deeply into his eyes trying to read his feelings, he did the same. “Yes.” She answered slowly. He stared for a moment as though he didn’t believe what she said. He refused to believe. “So you are one of them.” He said slowly, the words fell lifelessly from his mouth. “You were sent to take my life.” Once again she didn’t answer but cast her gaze to the grassy earth. “It’s been over a year now.” He said quietly. “Why?” Her eyes lifted to his, she couldn’t find the hurt in them, only the glare of anger. She thought it would be stronger than that, she hoped it would be stronger than that. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 591 He stared back into her eyes, he saw nothing. It was as though she didn’t care. The moments drew on, each longer than the next, an eternity in a single breath. They held each other’s stares, in perfect silence, only the wind cried for them now. “You’ve come to kill me.” She broke the silence. “You’ve been found out.” He said. “I was told this morning, a spy from the dragon nation, sent to dispose of their most feared enemy.” “You’ve killed many of my people.” She said. “Your people have killed many of mine.” He replied. “It’s a war.” She bit down gently on her lower as her lids side down over her eyes. “Yes.” He agreed. “A vile war.” “It’s so strange.” She said lifting her left hand she parted her lids and looked at the clear stone in the gold ring that she wore. He watched her looking down at his gloved hand, he still wore his. “We were to be wed by the dawn of the summer.” She let her hand fall gently to her side a she looked back at him. Still, no emotion. “It has been a year since you walked into my life.” His expression was as blank as hers. “I was chosen, because I have this ability.” She explained. “To shape shift?” He asked. “No, I am also partly human.” She admitted. He didn’t respond. “I’ve been raised and taught to hate this part of myself.” She lifted her eyes to the blue skies above. “It was barbaric and cruel, it brought only destruction. Destruction I have seen with my own eyes. Mothers crying in the streets for the loss of their children, children left alone in the world. The evil humans slay them for no reason.” She returned her gaze to him. “But I have seen the same during my time with you. The barbaric and evil dragons kill and maim for no reason. Mothers crying in the streets, children left alone. Who are we really fighting?” “This war has lost its cause.” He said. “So you’ve told me before,” She brushed her hair back once more. “That night you vowed to put away your sword and placed this ring on my finger.” His grip on the blade tightened. “I remember.” “There was no moon that night, just an ocean of stars. Your eyes sparkled as you slipped it onto my finger. You were happy.” “Yes.” “So was I.” Another long paused stilled the air between them. “But it was all a lie wasn’t it?” He finally broke the long pause. edited by Joshua Goudreau 592 “If I say yes, if I say what I felt then was real, if I said I still felt it now. Would you believe me? Would you cast aside your sword and shield and take me in your arms once again?” His grip faltered but remained firm. “The past year has been a lie.” She closed her eyes, the hope sparking in her heart crushed. “I am sorry.” “A soldier should have no remorse.” “You’ve always told your men that.” She said. “Before going into battle.” He raised his sword. “It is time you did what you came to do.” “It has been so for a while.” She said. A gentle blue light radiated from her body. It grew stronger for a moment before finally fading away. Before him now stood a dragon, unlike any he’d seen before. Covered in azure scales glistening in the sun light, she towered above him at the height of two men. She spread fourth her massive and beautiful wings and looked down at him. Her eyes were still that misty blue that caught his on that day a year ago. He pointed his blade at her and another moment of stillness framed the scene. “Perish.” He charged forward. A gust of wind pushed him back as she flapped her wings and raised herself from the earth. The runes scribed into his blade glowed as he slashed and a crescent shape force spilt the air. She closed her wings over her body the flashed the open dispelling the energy wave that came at her. As her wings opened a blast of fire erupted from her maw. The runes etched into the rims of his shield glowed as he held it up before him. The fire exploded on the shield, the flames scorched the earth around him but he remained firm. As he moved the shield from before him he was met with a flash of blue as her wing smacked him back to the ground. As she flew pass he slashed again, this time the energy made contact knocking her forcefully to the ground. She got up on all fours, her wings spread as she attempted to take to the skies once more. Another wave of energy knocked her back just as her wings caught the air. She rose up and from her jaws came a long streak of fire aimed at him as he charged toward her. He held up his shield taking the full hit of the flame. The force of it knocked him to the ground and his shield from his hand. He got back to his feet ignoring the pain he felt as he scrambled to get retrieve his shield. A fire ball his it making an inferno blaze around the shield as it laid on the scorched earth. He gripped his sword and glared at her as another fire ball came at him. He slashed and another blast of energy left his sword and collided with the flame causing a loud explosion of energy. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 593 He kept charging forward as she sent anther ball of fire and he dispelled it the same way. She took for the sky once more but another wave of energy from his blade flew through the smoke of the collision hit her in her under belly. Her wings failed her as she began falling hitting the ground hard. As she made to rise up once again she felt the cold scrape of metal against her neck and saw him standing over her. He was battered, blood caked with dirt, sweat and his hair. His breaths were sharp and heavy as he glared down at her. She made no move. He gritted his teeth as he looked down at her, a dragon, his enemy. He caught her misty blue eyes again, they were the same as before, yet they were different. His hand began shaking as the rune glowed brightly ready to deliver the killing blow. He closed his eyes, lifted his sword and with all his might brought it down. She never closed her eyes or attempted to move as she saw him draw back his blade, she only remembered. Remembered the day he had told her he loved her and taken her into his arms. That was all she thought of as she prepared to meet her just reward. The light wore on and the memory kept on, she looked to her side and saw the blade stuck in the earth, the glow on the runes fading. She felt warm tears fall on her neck. “In your eyes I saw myself, I saw us. Even as you are now I cannot harm a hair on your head. Love is a evil creature and has taken me full in its grasp.” He whispered quietly. She could see the tears glistening in his eyes. He got back onto his knees and bowed his head. “Do what you were sent to do for I cannot do what I must.” She raised her head and looked at him; her eyes now softening swelling with tears. This was to be his fate, for he could not kill the one he still loved. He waited patiently for his end. A warm kiss brushed against his cheek and his eyes were opened as he lifted his face. He was met by the same misty blue eyes and the face he fell in love with. “I love you.” Was all she said, as she wrapped her arms around him. He took her in his arms, happy once again and at peace. “But you must.” She pulled back and took his sword from the earth and placed it between them. “You cannot go back home unless you do.” “Then I won’t go.” He took her hand in his. “Please.” She pleaded taking back her hand. “I only want for you to be happy.” “I am happy with you.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 594 “I have deceived you all this time. If you do not, you will be hunted not only by my people but by yours.” “I don’t care.” “You will have no place to go.” “As long as you are there.” “We will run for the rest of our lives.” “I’ll carry you if you are weary.” “It is not me that fear for.” “Forget this life, come with me.” “But my people are to the north.” “Don’t look back.” “Your people are to the south.” “You’re safe now.” She stared at him for a moment as the tears stared marking tracks down her cheeks. He took her hand in his and pulled her to her feet with him. “Let’s never look back.” He smiled. “Never.” She smiled warmly. The noon turned to twilight golden light casting shadows on the scorched earth. The only thing left, a sword and shield stuck in the earth and a red scarf flailing in the wind.

The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 595

Blinded Love by Dzafirul Haniff

BLINDED BY MASCARA AND EYELINER. John rushed over, running across traffic, jumping over bushes, not resting, not panting or catching his breath even once. Flattering actually. He’s sweet. But he’s too late. Why didn’t I see this part of him sooner? He should have told me how he felt. Annoying actually. I follow behind him. He doesn’t know it. Or maybe he does, that’s why he keeps going faster. He doesn’t even take the elevator, he rushes up the staircase. 22 floors up. Boy, the adrenaline is really flowing in him. His heart must be pumping blood at an amazing rate. Or maybe its not adrenaline flowing through him, maybe its not blood. No, its something else. He ran a solid 4 blocks and 22 floors staircase marathon in under 8 minutes. He’s fit I give you that. Lean, muscular, handsome. I never saw that part of him either. It’s too late now. But he won’t get that. He’s desperate. There’s still time he thinks. Or at least that’s what I think he’s thinking. Why else would he run that marathon? Oh John, you’re so innocently sweet. Thank you and I’m sorry. It really is too late. Funny. I find myself wondering how I look like. I find myself wishing I had put make up on myself before, before I did what I did. He’ll see me ugly, pale and he won’t love me anymore. That’s it. Love. That’s what was flowing through him, pumping in his heart. That was his energy in that marathon. This is the fourth marathon you’ve been in John, and this is the fastest I’ve seen you run. Unfortunately, this is the only one you won’t win John. I’m sorry. Which dress did I put on? Or was I just in my trainers and sweatshirt? God, I look so ugly. You won’t love me anymore John will you? Just like him, you won’t love me anymore because I’m ugly. He drove me to edited by Joshua Goudreau 596 this you know. He said he couldn’t take it anymore, that he found someone more beautiful, more adventurous. He said it’s over. That’s when I called you. I got your answering machine. I thought you were just like him. Didn’t want to take my calls. Didn’t want to take me. But you were bathing weren’t you? I felt so hurt. But I didn’t know then. I’m sorry John. I left a message for you and you came running. I wish I knew that... before. “John, he left me John. Said he found someone else. More beautiful, he says. More adventurous, he says. So many times he asked me to be experimental and I was so squirmish about it. God John, he wanted a slut. I could have been a slut for him John, I should have. Now nobody’s gonna love me. He was the only one willing. And I couldn’t repay him that way John. I’m sorry John. You’re my best friend. You’ve always been. Thank you and goo...” BEEP! I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. I guess I could have called back, but maybe I was afraid this time you’d pick up. You’d stop me. I didn’t want you to John, but now I wish you would. I wish I called you that second time. You just missed me. You rushed to pick up the phone but it was too late. You called me back but I’d already yanked the phone from the wall. I didn’t want to be interrupted. I wanted it to over and done with. You ran over. I saw you. I was with you all the way here. I don’t know why I went to you. Maybe in my heart, I felt the same for you. I just didn’t see it. I didn’t see a lot of things John. They say love blinds you. But truth is John, many times, we’re blind to love. We just don’t see it there. I didn’t see it there. I wish I did. You stop running. You call out my name. Why aren’t you rushing anymore John? You know it by now don’t you? You know it’s too late. You’re resigned to it. How I wish things were different. Don’t go into the bedroom John. If you can hear me don’t go in. I don’t want you seeing me that way. You won’t love me anymore. I want you to love me. I want you to remember me beautiful John. Don’t go in. No use, you can’t hear me. You walk into the room and I saw that look in you John. Knowing what you’ll see but not quite ready to see it. Tearing up even before you saw. You knew. There I am, John. No make-up, pale, trainers and sweatshirt on and a very messy hairdo. I understand John. You can walk away feeling disgusted now. Wondering to yourself how you could ever fall for that. How you could even be friends with something that looks like that. I’m not beautiful John. Go find another. More beautiful, more adventurous. More beautiful, more adventurous. More beautiful, more adventurous. You don’t love me anymore do you? How could you? John? What are you doing? You can’t hear me can you? The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 597 He’s lunging towards me, hugging my legs. Lifting me up. I’m heavy, fat. My legs swinging left and right, hanging in mid-air. I’m fat, but he’s strong. He hoists me up loosening me off the hook. The scarf still around my neck. Like a beautiful fashionable scarf to cover my scarred neck. He gently place me on the floor, holding my head up and crying? Why? Why is he crying? He still loves me. Oh my god John, you still love me. Thank you. I love you too. But you still can’t hear me can you? I wish I saw this earlier. This feeling. He loves me. I never saw. I wish I wasn’t blinded. By mascara and eyeliner. He grazes my cold, pale cheeks with his fingers and I almost feel it. I can go now. In peace. Thank you John. I can go now. I love you. Say something John, before I go. Say it to my shut eyes and sealed lips. Say it to my hardening face that’s growing paler and colder. Before I go John, say something. “You’re beautiful.”

edited by Joshua Goudreau 598

One Star Motel by Jonathan Lin

“PLEASE... FOR ONE MOMENT, MR...” “Zhao. Just call me Zhao.” “Yes – Zhao. Wait for room key.” The gentleman drummed his fingers on the edge of the counter, shuddering at the poor attempt to strike a conversation in English. He was unable to restrain his eyes from studying the shabby motel receptionist until he disappeared behind a ripped curtain of red. There was a quick exchange of phrases in Chinese, before clinks of metal rang out from the storage room. Forcing his gaze to his luggage cart and his mind to the soft bed that awaited him, the man gazed at his watch. 11:45PM. The sooner he went to sleep, the better. Mr. Zhao’s full name was Adam Lee Zhao. He had been born in mainland China, but after his father got accepted into a better job in the United States, Adam had no choice but to say a quick goodbye to his hometown in Shandong province. A mere fourteen months had been spent in the small village, before he turned to the life ahead only a superpower country such as the states could offer. The plane ticket didn’t need to be purchased – it had been offered by the large company that hired Adam’s father. Offering a house with the most exquisite features and living conditions was the least they could provide for his amazing painting talents. Earning more money to support his family for a year, Adam found himself thankful for his father’s brilliant abilities. He lived most of his life in the northern part of Louisiana, where his studies and academics made a steady climb to the top of each class. Graduating with a The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 599 degree in mathematics, Adam married at the age of twenty two, and together they gave birth to a beautiful three month daughter. With skills in local mandarin that still needed improvement, he went back to his hometown to in Shandong to visit his grandparents, knowing this might be the last time he could meet them before they passed away. Eagerly willing to share the recent news of his marriage, he looked forward to his long-awaited reunion. Shandong didn’t have an international airport of its own, so Adam made a short stop had the capital city of Beijing, then sat through a tantalizing seven hours onboard a train back to his hometown. He arrived at the local station during the eleventh hour of the day, and realized he was going nowhere unless there was time to rejuvenate his spirits with a good night’s rest. After asking for directions to the nearest motel, he soon found himself dripping with perspiration the moment he set foot into the dimly lit lobby that was void of air conditioning. Windows were covered with curtains, making it even hotter inside. With enough money to deal with any unexpected emergency, he walked up to the counter and checked himself in. Cigarette smoke added a curtain of mist that made Adam’s eyes water. Several cleaners grouped together in a corner, gossiping loudly in rapid mandarin. They stared at the American born Chinese with blank stares, wondering why such a well-dressed man who spoke English would make his way to the poor country of Shandong. Their voices lowered to whispers, making Adam feel as though he was now the subject of their inaudible dialect. “Here…” The receptionist returned, holding a rusted key in his hands. “One here night only?” “Shi – yes…” Adam replied, hoping the simple acknowledgement in local Chinese would make communication a whole lot easier. The receptionist responded with a toothless grin, and pointed to the number on Adam’s key. 616. With a casual wave, he led the Chinese American upstairs, walking past several doors before reaching the correct one. “Xie xie – thank you,” Adam muttered, pulling a coin from his pocket and placing it into the clammy hands of the receptionist. He opened the door on the third try, and turned on the lights. Immediately, he knew why the cost was only seventy Yuan a night. Even though Adam had lived under strict Chinese culture during his time in the states, the standard of American living conditions made him vulnerable to the bitterness of smaller things local Shandong people wouldn’t even look twice at. Seventy Yuan was more than what some villagers earned in half a year – this would have been an asylum for them. edited by Joshua Goudreau 600 But it wasn’t the same case for Adam – he scanned the room with a sour expression. Dead mosquitoes lined the walls, their disfigured corpses a memorabilia provided by those who had once stayed in the same room. A single bed was positioned at the back of the room, its white pillows stained with grey rips in the cloth. The TV stood black with a seemingly flawless build, but Adam could see the blanket of dust patterned on the screen. He put down his luggage, and, dreading what would meet his eyes next, walked to the bathroom with bated breath. A nameless insect the size of his whole finger scurried away from the lightbulb into a crack within the wall, just as Adam flicked it on. The dim glow was no better than the lobby, but everything else was just as gloomy. Musty and thick, the air was humid with a bitter stench. The floors were glistening with water – someone had recently been here without too much care concerning careless use of the shower. Two glass cups were placed above the sink, but Adam decided that he would use his trusty plastic bottle instead. He quickly gazed at the toilet, taking in the ring of rust that circled its base. One glance inside at its contents made him refuse to make a pit stop for the rest of the night, no matter how desperate he became. Despite the late hour, his numbing exhaustion had been strangely ameliorated by the nightmarish sights that greeted him. He took deep breaths, trying to stabilize his mind. How could he simply live in such a hellish environment? Back in the states, a bathroom had been great and exquisite. Here, it seemed there was someone who kept to schedule by coming once a month to do the cleaning. But in Shandong…this was totally normal. It was just Adam and his long departure. He found himself locking the door and walking back through the lobby. A sudden downpour of rain had come and gone when he had been inside his room – the small town center ahead of him was wet and humid. The streets were dark and forbidding, but Adam had long ago left behind this sense of fear with things he couldn’t see. He explored the near-empty streets, until something that caught his eye made him freeze. An old man was lying on the sidewalk, the slippers placed next to his head grubby and in shreds. Rotting fruits from an adjacent garbage dump left the air with a choking stench. Adam looked around, but saw no other place dry enough other than this heinous position. Newspaper was placed on the concrete floor, and even though flies from a nearby drain kept on using his face as a landing site, the man looked as though this was everything he could ask for. Even without a home, this local villager found the only heaven that awaited him at the end of each day – a good night’s sleep. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 601 Suddenly feeling utterly ashamed to think his motel room could even be considered as torturous, Adam was lost in thought for a few moments, before moving in and prodding the man awake. “Ni mei shi ba? – You okay?” He uttered softly, tripping over with his still underdeveloped mandarin. But the old man flashed a smile with a single golden tooth, and shook his head vigorously. “Mei shi, mei shi – I’m perfectly fine.” He replied. “Gen wo lai ba…wo you yi ge hao yi dian de di fang – come with me: I can show you a better place…” Making up his mind, Adam offered a hand to the old man, helping the homeless villager climb to his feet. They walked in silence back to the motel, but the Chinese American could already feel the unspoken gratitude radiating from the old man as they entered the motel. Climbing up to his room, Adam unlocked the door, allowing the entire room to be visually absorbed. “Ni jing tian wan shang jiu shui zai zhi er ba – You can sleep here tonight…” Adam said, unable to keep the smile off his face. Even though he was basically giving away the room for free, it seemed totally worth it for the gratitude the old man expressed. Reaching over to the taller Chinese American, he tightly gripped him in a stomach-squeezing embrace. Whispering silently, but words still crystalline, the old man uttered with genuine appreciation, “Duo xie, duo xie…ni zhen shi yi ge hao han – Thank you very much…you really are a very good person…” Feeling he had finally achieved something substantial in his life, Adam nodded, and took a spare pillow from the bed as he backed out of the door. Without a place to sleep for the night, he walked back to the empty lobby, careful not to awaken the sleeping receptionist. Grabbing an old wooden bench used to greet guests, he flung himself onto the stone-hard surface, kicking off his shoes and lying on his side. The stinging aromas of smoke still lingered, but nothing could ruin Adam’s persistent mood right now. He had hated his room the moment he walked in…but now he realized it was worth solid gold to a homeless villager…even if it was only a one-star motel…

edited by Joshua Goudreau 602

Razing The Shadows by Joel Brown

I’VE BEEN OUT WALKING SLEEPLESS, SOMETIMES stumbling, dragging tooth over nail for three days. Out of the front door at half past four in the morning, out of Scarborough, from one end of Bloor to the other into Etobicoke and back again. I’ve been walking in circuits, doing laps of the city many times over and I’ve lost count of how many intersections I’ve crossed, red lights I’ve passed by and faces I’ve seen right through. Everything clicks and shifts by around me: clockwork electrified. Diagnosed myself with the inability to care about anything anymore and it suits me just like it should. Walking down the street, feet catching on cracks in the sidewalk, shoulders catching on lampposts, I think about as far as I can see and feel…I just don’t. Just walking, stumbling and dragging these bones…Feel deprived of the substance that seems to burst through, the public glow, all I’ve left is a disconnect that violation provides. I feel like I’ve seen the horrors of war, gutted out, hollow and decrepit. I used to walk these streets with purpose, heading to the rink, to half finished buildings, day in and day out. A stretch of concrete seems to be following forever so I trade it for asphalt path. Passing by a couple lying underneath a bench in Trinity Bellwoods Park. They’re wrapped in each other, almost like clothing, trying each other on. Locked eyes, nervous giggles of innocence and then canines show themselves quickly in flashes of flesh; the ivory glint is blinding, a white out, and I start to feel real sick, bile climbing up out my throat, my guts writhe once, twice and I vomit up acid, a black hole forms in my chest, muscles constricting, I’m fading away and then Ana is fucking me again, punching me in the face and slamming herself into my chemically induced The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 603 hard-on. She’s never satisfied until she came several times and she’s yelling at me that I like it more than she does because I’m so damn hard. Kept yelling at me to fuck her back, calling me a slut, screaming at me to cum and I can’t and I want to, just so it stops. She spits in my face, rakes my back with her nails and climaxes again, reaching down between her legs and then slapping me in the face with the wet and the sticky. I cum and she kisses me hard, dismounts and rolls over on her back beside me. She raises her knees to her chest and she swivels them back and forth repeatedly. “Nicholas, just so you know, I’m off the pill.” Collapsing in broad daylight, I’m repeating to myself that it never happened. I’m wearing cold sweat like an extra layer of skin, shivering all over, tears dripping onto the pavement. I lie here for a while, as the blank pedestrian traffic pass by around me. And I’m staring up at the buds coming out of the trees, trying to focus on a shoot, a sign of spring. Breathing heavy I wait for it to pass and for the first time all day I realize that it’s cold out again and the weatherman’s a liar so I pick myself up and continue to lurch down the street. The sun begins to fade and I’m passing by a nondescript dive, the door swings open, a vacuum manifesting in the threshold and here I am sitting on a stool, mumbling something about a drink, feel a burn stream down my throat and then I’m staring at the melting ice at the bottom of the empty glass. The bartender turns up the volume of the TV, switches to a sports channel and there are hockey players knocking each other around, carving the ice like hot knives. There’s something familiar about the way they move. I feel something I remember as passion bubbling beneath…A man’s voice starts up beside me, cutting through some old rockabilly tune I can’t remember. “See the game last night? Helluva game.” I didn’t so this conversation is without purpose even before it has a chance to start. The voice continues, ice cubes keep melting, the glass fills again. “Down three nil in the final period and Tucker comes to clutch, two goals and an assist. You see that shit? Helluva game.” “I didn’t see the game,” I hear myself saying, even though I’m sure that the voice is talking to the bartender, and I used to see the games, every single one. “I wasn’t asking you. So, maybe you should mind your own business or something.” I look down to see a blue maple leaf on my chest. The jersey is frayed at the edges; mesh is torn in places, rips on the elbows, stretches in the shoulders and there’s a grainy reminiscence of breakaways on the pond, odd man rushes and slap shots from the end of the rink dinging off posts, the edited by Joshua Goudreau 604 occasional exchange of fists with the opposing team. I think I used to love the game more than life itself before she came. Something about it reminds me of this experience I used to know as anger. My mouth starts to move and it sounds like I’m shouting in a pail. “Maybe you should shut the fuck up or something.” And before I know it there’s a lazy knuckle that barely grazes the stubble on my chin, I wait for the recoil, the pause, the inevitable connection of fist and skull and in a matter of a second my head is hitting the floor and as it comes to a halt I’m staring at bright blue sneakers, bright baby blue like the pill that sat beside my dinner plate of untouched food every single night and it’s happening again with Ana, the bed, my muscles sore from laying sod in the rain, demolishing a post war bungalow or cleaning up a construction site, too tired to fight back, the word no erased from my vocabulary, one solid image of the stucco on the ceiling and…

Wake up lying on concrete, thrusting my fingerprints into grit and leaning on cuticles, missing my Leafs jersey, I peel myself like gum off the bottom of a shoe and it’s something like eight o’clock in the evening again and the street is bare, broken streetlamps flickering outside the mental health center, the whites in the eyes of vagrants knifing like high beams through the shadows. Walk south, lakeshore bound; think I’m on Christie or something there’s a Portuguese deli and Surati Sweets just closing up, kids on BMX bikes zipping past, and buildings dissolve through the back of my head and I’m standing by a construction site, staring into a foundation ten stories deep. The sun sets somewhere, klieg lights shining on concrete slabs and I’m uncomfortably comfortable with falling over…

I’m being prodded in my gut with a hammer, daylight blinding, eyes screwed up, lips bone dry. “Hey…Hey…You one of Smith’s guy? Yer early.” I grab the outstretched claw of the hammer in front of me, pulls me up, and I’m standing again face to face with a grizzled Italian guy wearing a construction hat, idle curiosity, waiting for a reply. “Smith,” I say. “Don’t speak much, do ya?” he says, eyeing me quizzically, “I’ll pay you in cash for ten hours work. Hundred bucks all in all.” Stretching my face with my hands, rubbing knuckles into my eyes, I stare blankly at the silhouette in front of me. Scents of grime, men and sawdust; I quiver, heart rate increasing, exploding my chest is on alight, swivel my head round the site, the lights get brighter, stronger. “You gonna fuckin’ stand around all day or you gonna work?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 605 It’s familiar so I nod, there are a few more spoken sentences that come to pass, keep nodding, following the man and his hammer to some scaffolding waiting to be assembled, within minutes I’ve erected one stand, seven feet high and the day passes, cement: mixed and poured, cranes swivelling, dust replacing oxygen and it all fits like a warm glove. Renewed, I throw my spine into it, rising higher and higher off the ground with each stand I erect. Work through lunch without pacing, rhythm derailed…I’ve been here before. Haven’t really walked in a while, sleep deprivation over four days, tendons stretched and skin ripping, so damn cold out again. Men are leaving the site, heading home and I notice the twist of the necks as they gaze with tired eyes, a sense of completion, satisfaction, something I feel right now. Hands calloused, scratches in joints I know that I’ve felt this at some other time. The foreman calls after me, but I’m already walking away. The evening gray sets in, the buzz of rush hour is painful, the decibels rise until my cranium cracks, the noise is so vicious, so vicious I’m clawing out dandruff, shivering, I need somewhere safe. It’s colder and louder and everything burns. The hours pass, the temperature continues to drop; I pick up my heels and hasten my pace. Back in Scarborough again, walking, dragging myself up Pharmacy, shoes soaking up dew on our lawn, keys hit the door, slumped shoulders with invisible cables holding them back. In a room; a drought in my mouth, toxins dripping from fangs that hide behind the lips of my lover and I fall right into the arms that grip me like a vice. So I float to the room, eyelids like bricks, she strangles my wrist as she pulls me along, throw myself into bed back first, I collapse and shutdown…

Conscious, viscous and saturated, manhood swollen and raw; she stands by the mirror, eyes alight with a power, applying lipstick thick as blood, her mouth upturned in a smile, looking at me, it’s familiar; my eyes stick, gummy with sleep, insides gutted, hollowed out and I close myself up, incarcerated in safety.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 606

An Unhappy Graduation by Andrew

IT WAS NOVEMBER 9 2004, AND I WAS SO NEAR THE END that I could almost smell it. I was due to sit for my Small Animals (Dogs & Cats) oral examination on the very next day. This was it...the absolute end of my grueling 5-year course...the final hurdle before the finishing line. Left with just half a day more to study for this exam, I was on the brink of fearing for this exam. Sure, I had studied it all before, and I only needed to revise it again one more time. Nevertheless, the sheer amount of content was overwhelming. Two great binders of lecture notes lay on the table before me, filled with the combined information of genuises, some of whom were my lecturers. Judging by the schedule one of my examiners was my lecturer, Brendan. The other was an external examiner, a tigress. I had heard nasty things about both of them. The lady loved to stare right through you as she listened to your answer, her incredible poker-face revealing nothing. And dearest Brendan, the one who I looked up to and literally idolized, was merciless and had the habit of asking questions about the mechanism of action of drugs. I carefully prepared myself to face the latter problem. I went to bed at 12.30am, but went back to the library to study again at 5.30am. I could only pray when it was finally my turn to go. One of my course mates was mulling over a book on electrocardiography outside the examination room. The tigress saw this and joked, “Oh, ECGs! We won’t be asking you about that.” For a moment, I could almost smell blood in the air. Deep in my heart, I could almost predict that I was going to be tested on electrocardiography... something which I didn’t really enjoy studying. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 607 Once in the room, I settled myself nervously upon the chair, taking in the smells and sights in the subdued lighting. Brendan's office was a mess as usual. And a whiff of strong coffee hit my nose. But this time, there was something else. An almost musky smell...very faint and hardly noticeable. It was the scent of cold sweat. And it was mine. Brendan attacked first, giving me the rundown of a history and clinical signs of a German Shepherd dog. “It has been intermittently lame in one forelimb. How would you investigate such a situation? What are your differentials?” My brain froze for a split-second, and then I begun spilling out every differential I could recall, knowing that I neglected to mention the biggest possibility, shoulder osteochondrosis dissecans, because I could not remember the bloody name! Then the tigress jumped on me, and asked me a question that was a hit below the belt, “What would you expect to see on an ECG in a second- degree heart block?” I threw her some wild guesses, and in the meantime, she continued to stare straight into my frightened eyes, gaze never averting, and her legendary poker-face untwitching. Even so, I could tell she was amused at my antics; me, sleepy, half-dead and feeling so badly analed by the current exam. Then the tigress moved, “Okay, then what would you see in first-degree heart block?” All the while, I was thinking hard, but nothing came to me. This was stuff hardly covered in lectures. Brendan was leaning back in his seat with his arms folded, impatiently shaking his legs. I was watching him out of the corner of my eye. And I was looking like a complete idiot to him. Poor me. Once so well-loved by Brendan, one of the most brilliant lecturers and clinicians in my university, and now, despised by all. He must have realized, that indeed I, the prick who once seemed so smart in the clinics, was in reality one of the biggest dumbasses around. It finally came to him. It must have. Seeing that I was so completely fucked over, the lady asked me about vaccination and worming regimes in puppies. It was bread-and-butter stuff. But I still didn’t know this because I simply didn’t cover it during my revision. Turns out that they hit me hard on everything I did not know, or had magically forgotten during the brief time I was making water in my pants. The tigress continued to stare intently at me as I threw her more answers in my desperation to get something correct. Give me a sign, woman! I thought, almost aloud. Both examiners were clearly amused now. The lady finally gave up. She turned to Brendan. “Any other questions, Brendan?” I too, turned to him, appealing for more questions to prove myself. Alas, my hopes were in vain. “Nah, I think we’ve taught you enough for today, Andrew.” edited by Joshua Goudreau 608 I nearly died in my seat. I walked out of the room on the verge of tears, telling myself that a guy shouldn’t be crying. This was one of my biggest fuckups, ever! It didn’t take very long before anger settled in, and other thoughts invaded my mind. I packed up all the notes I had left in the library and slogged them back to my hostel room, slamming them on the table in disgust. Everyone else was now free to go, or at least waiting for their last exam, which certainly wouldn’t go as badly as mine did. I was lusting for blood. The frustration, anxiety and my exhausted state continued to fuel my mind with thoughts that I had to kill something. Isolating myself to the barren wasteland on my campus and a walk around my university did nothing to help. After blurting out my horrible experience to several of my closer friends, I grabbed my mp3 player and stormed off to the city for lunch. It was a last-ditch effort to get away from it all. It was only on the train ride back to the hostel that I realized how tired I really was. All the anger fell away in a snap, and I was dumped into a melancholy state, dousing the flame of my mind and heart. I could only stare out of the window, watching the buildings go past as the train sped along its well-practiced path. When I got back to Kendall Hall, I met up with Eleanor to pay up for the trip to Byron Bay. All my classmates were due to leave for this fun-filled trip to a faraway beach on the coming Monday. I told her about my exam, and warned that I might not be able to make it for the trip if I needed to resit my exam. I also spoke to my parents, who became understandably distressed. It was impossible to convince them that, despite my best efforts, the exam had simply gone awry. I decided to remain in Kendall Hall for the night rather than return home. I needed to be very cautious and wait for the notice of additional assessment, which was due to be posted on the notice board late afternoon on the next day. I fell into an uneasy state of half-consciousness that night, and my mood was considerably affected even as I had dim sum lunch with my friends on the next day. I continued to pack up the belongings in my hostel room, praying hard that I would pass everything and be able to move back home. Susan made a call to my room late in the day, stating that the notice was out. I knew she wasn’t telling me something because she knows my student number. I rushed down without tying my shoelace. The notice confirmed my worst fear. My student number was one of the few listed on the paper. Following the instruction on the notice, I rushed off to see Graham immediately. He wasn’t available, but his secretary told me that I had (surprise, surprise) failed the Small Animals oral exam. I had to wait for an email from Graham regarding my additional assessment, which was likely to be on the following week. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 609 That meant the Byron Bay Trip was a definite no-go for me. I ran into Dwayne as he was about to leave for home, arms laden with thousands of pages of lecture notes, and I borrowed some pamphlets on vaccination and worming regimes from him on the spot. He was shocked and even a little sorry about my predicament. My parents soon heard the news too, and advised me to start studying instantly. But in that state of mind, how could I? I stayed in Kendall Hall for yet another night. Everyone else was essentially a Doctor, and I was still studying in the library. It took only 5 minutes to memorize all the information on vaccination and worming in puppies and kittens. It maddened me to think that this alone would have saved my sorry ass in the exam. But the thing that really touched a raw nerve was the thought that my reputation had been soiled. Brendan had always been impressed with the way I worked over the last two years, and I destroyed that golden impression in 15 minutes. Now he probably thought I was a fool. That night, I rolled in bed as if I were in pain, struggling to sleep. And sleep almost refused to come to me. The final nagging thought didn't leave me even as I fell into a slumber: What had I (or had not) done to deserve such undue punishment of epic proportions? The email from Graham finally came after an endless wait on the morning of 12th November, and I went to have a chat with him. I must have been visibly distraught and upset. “Yes, I know it’s very disappointing,” said he, trying to sympathize. And I nearly cried out in anguish. “Yes, very...” I nodded as I continued to stare at the ground. The additional examination was scheduled on 16 November, 10.30am, and it was to be held in Graham’s office. It would go for 30 minutes instead of the usual 15 minutes. Brendan and Fiona, another of my lecturers, would also be there to examine me this time. Good! I thought quietly. Now there’s a chance to look stupid in front of another two people! After leaving the office, I promptly packed up my files and drove home. And there, the studying commenced once more. I was feeling utterly sick of the whole business, not to mention that mail regarding details of the graduation ceremony kept pouring in, and I had to fill in a bunch of forms to rent a graduation gown...and all the while I feared that I might not even graduate! I never frowned so much in my entire life. This was soul-destroying business! I did my best to look through everything again before duly turning up at Graham’s office for the re-exam. And there they were, all three people, big names in the faculty. It was a torturous process. Brendan started off with a case that required me to interpret blood results, followed by a case of dilated edited by Joshua Goudreau 610 cardiomyopathy in a cat. My fried brain was as good as useless. I could hardly make head or tail of the blood results. Fiona then asked me something about a coughing daschund, and how to work it up as a case. There must have been other questions, but they were all forgotten the moment they were asked. I left the office feeling that I was on the guillotine again. But when I met Graham at the office again after lunch, he congratulated me, saying that we’d meet again at graduation. He agreed that my performance wasn’t good, but enough to get by. Then he urged me to go away and rest, and get over this chain of events. Damn, I would have done that such a long time ago if I could. It took me an extended period of time to gain this much confidence in Small Animal medicine, but all of it was gone now, the very life of it snuffed out by this examination period alone. I was deeply envious of those around me who had received much more favorable questions, and didn’t have to fight the same battle twice. Official results were out on 30th November, and my parents even knew exactly when to ask me for it. I logged onto my account and viewed the result...and it was horrid. I was a mere 2% away from getting a third-class honors. All hopes of ever graduating with honors went out of the window in a flash. My parents were crestfallen, and said little before walking away. I wanted to disappear forever. Flash-forward to 4th December... Graduation Day. I got smartly dressed into a suit and my graduation gown, and sat at my designated seat in the hall, recalling the day back in the year 2000 when I first set foot into this university. I was also glad that I looked so good in my suit, for I didn't want anybody to see how sore I really was inside. Susan found me and handed me a bag of chocolates and a pair of boxer shorts. They were gifts from my juniors...in just another year’s time, they would be graduating just like the rest of us. I could see my parents and brother sitting elsewhere, already armed with the camera, prepared to catch photos of me as I walked onto the stage. I sat there, deep in thought, staring at the stage as other graduates strode past, bowing and clinging to their beloved degrees as they walk out in and out of the limelight. Ronald walked to the pulpit when it was time for our faculty to go. Raising his bonnet to the authorities on stage, he spoke smoothly, “Chancellor. I now present you the candidates admitted to the degree of Bachelor of Veterinary Science.” I was soon on-stage. The once deafening applause now sounded muffled. I approached the Chancellor and bowed to her, low and with dignity, shook hands firmly and took the paper. I then turned around and bowed in a similar fashion to the Associate Dean, Ronald and the audience before The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 611 walking off the stage, the certificate open for all to see. It was as if I had practiced this a thousand times before. All throughout this time, I squeezed out a smile, knowing that my brother and parents were catching the action on film. Not long after I returned to my seat, Ronald paused and the applause ceased. “Chancellor,” he began again, “I now present you the candidates admitted to the degree of Bachelor of Veterinary Science, with Honors.” I clapped for my brilliant friends as they walked past, feeling the sting of a combination of my parents’ grief and my own. I could have been one of those on stage right now. I’m sure I missed it by just a tiny fraction. When the ceremony was over, an incredible photo-shoot followed. All of us gathered on a flight of steps outside the hall. Camera flashes went off in quick succession from a multitude of directions. We were supposed to be the stars of the day. Again, I tried hard to smile for my Dad's camera. I was more than glad to return home after lunch at one of the gardens on campus, and went straight to bed to regain strength for the elaborate Graduation Dinner that night, at a place called Albert By The Lake. It was perhaps the last time I would ever be able to see some of my course mates, and also my lecturers. Sleep hit me like a hammer on the head, and I was out. I looked forward to the dinner, but with mixed feelings. Amidst all the glitter, glamour, smiles and the sound of music, I was alone... all alone in my unhappy graduation.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 612

Witness to a Murder by Quinn Tyler Jackson

I HAD BEEN LIVING IN LONDON ONLY A SHORT TIME when I came across them. I pulled my stool up beside theirs at random and put down my pint of Guinness. For a time, I was their friend, and since I came to know them, I can talk about it with some clarity and understanding. Since I was their only witness with open eyes, I can talk about it honestly. Since I am the only author they ever knew, I know just how to lie about it to make you believe. So pull up the stool, join in on the first pint, and remember that I am just a witness. They were madly in love, and this is their story. He was standing beside her, his arm draped around her waist. I took him for being about thirty-two, and her for being about five or six years older than he was. They were both well done up and far into the attractive end of the beauty scale. I pulled up a stool and asked if the spot was taken, and he waved for me to pull on up. As I sat across from them at the round smoking table, I noted the other young man to her left, every so often leaning towards her ear and saying something to her. She turned her screwdriver in circles and responded politely, but I could see that she was uneasy. He was only half there. “I’ve got to go get another pint,” he then said. His accent was Canadian. A fellow countryman. I put a few pounds on the table and asked if he’d get me another pint of dark as well. “Dark, draught is horrid,” he said, reaching for the five pound note. A few seconds later, he was off to get the drinks and the other man stepped closer to the woman. The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 613 She continued to talk with the other man, in words I could not hear, and I could see she was starting to get uneasy about it. I noted her wedding ring. The man who had just headed off for the beer had also been wearing a band. “Your husband doesn’t like dark beer, then?” I interrupted. It was clearly an attempt on my part to give her someone to focus on other than the nattering drunkard to her left, and she grabbed onto it with full vigor. Perhaps also the fellow would hear the word husband and catch on, if he hadn’t already seen the wedding bands. She turned, brushed her black hair from her eyes, and said, “He’s always preferred the cold, light kind. Give him a Corona any day.” “It took me a while to develop a taste for room temperature British piss,” I agreed. “Are you a Canadian?” she asked. “We haven’t met any here yet.” I lifted my pint, pushed it toward her screwdriver-full tumbler, and said, “To Canadian accents and all they represent.” She lifted her glass and the toast was complete. Her smile was genuine and clean. The man who had been chatting her up had already wandered off now that she was ignoring him. When her husband returned with the two beers, he pushed it my way. “Oscar,” he said, holding out his hand. I reached out and said, “Michael.” “This is my wife, Laura,” Oscar then added. I took a long sip of my beer. “Nice to meet you both,” I then said. “I just don’t get this place,” Oscar then said. “Here I am, standing with my wife, and she’s getting hit on right in front of me. I’ve been coming here every week for a month with her, and know the faces around here, and they still keep doing it. What kind of world is that?” I held back a smile. “I assure you that I’ve been sitting here for five minutes now and haven’t hit on your wife even once,” I said. Laura smiled and put her arm around Oscar’s waist. “I can attest to that. In fact, Michael scared away Nigel for me.” Ken held out his pint for a toast. “Thanks, man. It’s nice to meet a gentleman in this day and age. The lost generation. What is it you do, Mike?” “I prefer Michael,” I began. “I’m an author.” Oscar smiled. “So am I.” “Really?” “Yes. That’s why we’re here,” he said, looking over at Laura. “To follow our dreams.” “Are you an author, too, Laura?” I asked. “A painter,” she replied. “Ah, three artists, then.” “What have you written?” Oscar asked. edited by Joshua Goudreau 614 “A few novels,” I replied. “Would I know them?” I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and found one of my calling cards. I found an unbent one and handed it to him. He read my name. “What do all those letters after your name mean?” he asked. “Nothing much,” I replied. “I don’t recognize your name. What kind of novels do you write?” “I write about the misery of the human condition,” I replied before putting back half my beer in one gulp. “I write about human desperation. I write about loneliness. I write about emptiness. I write about agony.” Oscar smiled. “I’m halfway through my first novel right now,” he said. “Could I bother you to show it to you?” “Give me a call when you’re sober,” I said. “I can get us into a much nicer place to drink than this. A place where no one will bother you and Laura. But you’ll have to wear a dinner jacket. Not to be snobby, but because that’s the kind of place it is.” Laura smiled across the table and pulled herself closer to Oscar. “That would be nice. Which place is that?” “A nice place, I assure you,” I replied. “Call me when Oscar’s sober, and bring your manuscript when we go there.” Oscar put my calling card in his front shirt pocket and then excused himself to use the men’s room. “Keep an eye on Laura while I’m gone,” he said before heading off, leaving me at the table alone with her. “It’s pretty obvious that you two are in some kind of love,” I said. She smiled and took a long sip from her drink. “Yes. We met a year ago, married two months later. We’re still madly in love.” “I can also see that he’s a bit younger than you are,” I added. “Yes,” she admitted, “but he’s been through some tough life. We both have.” I held up what was left of my first Guinness and said, “To the University of Hard Knocks.” We toasted. “It’s nice to be in love,” I said. “It’s nice to see two people so much in it.” She turned her glass in circles on the table, looked left and right, happy that no one was moving in on her, and then asked me a question. “Are you in love?” I pushed away my empty pint glass, pulled the full one Oscar had brought me earlier, and took my first sip of that one. I smiled, but did not speak for a while. “Yes,” I replied. “But tonight isn’t about me.” There was an almost uncomfortable silence after that, until Laura finally said, “So you say you write about the human condition? About desperation? What do you mean by ‘desperation’?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 615 I took a lighter out of my pocket and started a flame. I put my hand over the flame, just out of its reach. I did not move my hand. “True love is like this,” I said, still holding my hand. “Desperation is like this. You reach forward, and it runs away. You pull back, and it thinks you want to run away from it. So you hold your hand over true love until it burns a hole in it. That’s desperation.” I let the flame stop. “Does that make any sense?” Laura smiled with those almost perfect teeth and said, “Hold the flame over here.” I lit the flame again and she put her hand over it. She did not move it. “Yes. That’s what I have for Oscar. I’d let it burn a hole in my hand before I would move it.” “Then he’s blessed,” I said before letting the flame vanish. “And if he ever left me, I’d kill myself,” she added. I wanted to tell her that she didn’t understand, then, what I was talking about, but it was about then that I noticed out loud that Oscar was taking an awfully long time in the men’s room. “Oh, he’s likely playing pool for pints,” she said. “He won ten pints that way last week.” I smiled. “I don’t play pool myself,” I said. About ten minutes later, Oscar reappeared at the table. He whispered something in Laura’s ear, looked at me, and said, “It was nice meeting you, Michael. I’ll call you when I’m sober and we can go over my book.” I slid off my stool, put back the last of my second pint, and bid my leave. “I’m looking forward to it,” I assured him. “It was a pleasure to meet you both. Such love is a rare thing.”

It was three weeks before I saw either of them again. It was at the same pub. I had already given up on the idea that Oscar would phone. He was alone at a table when I noticed him. “Well, if it isn’t Oscar,” I said as I pulled up my stool. He held out his hand to shake mine. “I was going to call,” he said. “But I have to admit, I was a bit afraid.” “No worries,” I assured him. “Where’s Laura?” “She’ll be here in a few minutes,” he said. “She is coming straight from work and told me she wanted to freshen up a bit first. You know how women are. Always want to freshen up first.” I smiled and sipped my Guinness. “You know, Laura and I have been talking about you a lot since we met you,” he said. “Really?” edited by Joshua Goudreau 616 “She wanted to get together at the place that requires a jacket,” Oscar explained. “I guess that’s why I was a bit afraid. I’m not used to being so hard up. Ever since we got to London, well, things haven’t been the same as before we left Canada.” “It’s not a snob thing,” I tried to assure him. “It’s just not a place like this.” “Oh, I understand. You’ll look at my clothes now and think maybe I’m blue collar, but I was earning eighty to ninety a year back in Canada. Before I gave it all up. Before I decided to commit to being an artist. I did that after I met Laura. Decide to go all the way on my dreams, you know.” “Oh, I know. I know.” I took another deep sip of my beer. “You fell in love with the right woman, and it gave you belief in yourself. Your old dreams of being a writer suddenly resurfaced and you left all that other stuff behind in the dust. Something like that?” Oscar grinned before putting back a large gulp of his drink. “Exactly. You know it. She gave me the courage to leave all that bullshit and face paint behind.” I handed the barmaid a five pound note and pointed at Oscar’s pint and then my own. She smiled and headed off for our fresh drinks. “You ever been in that kind of love, Michael?” I nodded. “Of course I have. How could I write about the human condition if I hadn’t?” He nodded in agreement. “Have anyone now?” he asked. It was then that I noticed Laura walking into the room, and waved at her to come over to the table. “Tonight’s not about me,” I insisted. “Maybe one day we can talk about that. Maybe not. But tonight’s not about me, Oscar.” Laura approached the table and leaned over to hug me, which I wasn’t expecting. Over her left shoulder as she did, I watched Oscar’s face to see his reaction. He seemed comfortable about it, so I hugged her back in a friendly way. “It’s good to see you again, Michael,” she finally said. “Oscar and I have talked a lot about you.” Oscar took her hand as she then went over to sit with him. “Laura found one of your novels and read it,” he said. “You’re quite the talent,” Laura said, her eyes almost glowing. “Would you like to order some fish and chips or something?” Oscar asked. “I’d like to talk about how you might be able to help me with my writing career. I don’t get many chances, and after not phoning you so long, I want to get to know you better.” I smiled. “That would be fine, Oscar, but it’s rather noisy here. Why not let’s go to my place for a drink?” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 617 Oscar looked uncomfortable and pointed at his leather jacket. “Listen, Michael, I don’t have a jacket better than this.” “We can stop by my room and pick up one of mine,” I assured him. “We’re about the same size.” I could see from Laura’s expression that she really wanted out of the pub and over to wherever it was I was inviting them. Some place where a proper jacket was required. She was well enough dressed to fit right in where I wanted to go. Oscar could tell by her expression that agreeing to accept one of my dress jackets for the night was the right path to follow, and nodded yes. After all three of us had finished our drinks, we left the pub and I called a cab and headed for my hotel. “What are you doing in London?” Oscar asked en route. “Researching my next book,” I said. “Really? What’s it going to be about?” “About what they all are about,” I said. Laura interrupted at this point. “You really have a lot of talent,” she said. “I think you and Oscar will get along well. He needs to be around someone like you.” Oscar put his arm around me in the friendly way a man can put his arm around another man. “She thinks the world of you, Michael. Don’t let go of us, OK? As long as you’re in London, don’t let go of us.” Once we were at my hotel, I took them to my room and flipped through my closet. I found an appropriate jacket, let him try it on, and when we all had agreed it suited him, we headed back to the hotel lobby. “The RSA London House,” I directed the cabbie. “Where’s that?” Laura asked. “It’s good to go somewhere new. Maybe if we like it, I can buy a jacket of my own and we can ….” I smiled at Oscar and by my smile he seemed to know I had something to interrupt him with, so he stopped talking. “You can only get into the Gerard Bar with me,” I said. “Tough doorman?” Oscar asked. I pulled out my RSA identification card and showed it to him. “Very tough. You can only get in as the guest of a Fellow. Very British.” Laura took the RSA card and read my name. “Is that what FRSA means, then? The letters on your calling card?” “Yes,” I replied. “It’s really not a snobby thing, but you can’t get into the Vaults or the Gerard Bar without me. And the bar closes quite early by bar standards. But it’s a pleasant place where we can talk over some nice drinks. So just relax and we can have some fun over chat about writing. How’s that?” edited by Joshua Goudreau 618 Oscar smiled as if he’d been informed he was about he pay a visit to the Queen. “Sounds good to me.” We arrived at the London House, I paid the cab fare, and we were soon seated in the Gerard Bar. Oscar and Laura peeked discretely around to see if there were any blue bloods they might recognize. “What are the chances of that happening?” Laura asked. “It could happen,” I said, “but I strongly doubt it would. They’d likely hold the place over for a private engagement. You can do that for a small fee. Certainly something they could afford to do.” We ordered our drinks and I sat back as they continued to look about the bar. “So, Michael,” Oscar began, “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. A real novelist.” “We’re not all that rare a breed,” I said before sipping my brandy. “The good ones like you are,” Laura insisted. “And those in love like the two of you are even rarer,” I returned. “And the good authors stumbling across those in love like you, far rarer than the finest of pearls.” I held out my brandy glass to propose a toast. I stood, and motioned for them to stand. When they had stood fully, I called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, has anyone toasted the Queen tonight?” A few in the room stood as I called out, “Ladies and gentleman, the Queen!” and those who knew the return called out the right words, and Oscar, hearing these, quickly followed and then Laura did the same, and we sat down. “And now a more personal toast, you two. To a love like yours.” They held out their glasses, we tapped the glass together, and put back our sip. Oscar said, “Can we toast a love like yours, Michael?” I smiled and took a sip of brandy. “I have you at a disadvantage,” I replied finally. “What’s that?” Laura asked, grinning over the rim of her own brandy. “I have been a witness to your love,” I explained. “One day, I may even be able to write about it. But you have not witnessed my love. So to toast what you haven’t witnessed would be somewhat unfair.” Oscar held up his glass anyway. “If it’s true love, Michael, that’s all I need to know to toast it. Is it true?” I lifted my brandy and said, “Indeed, it is true love.” Laura held out her glass as well and said, “To true love, then.” We put back our sips. My head was already starting to buzz the slow buzz that follows after brandy. After finishing our first drink, I ordered another round and Oscar excused himself to use the men’s room. While he was gone, Laura leaned towards me over the table. “Tell me about your love,” she said. Her eyes were afire. “You write so poignantly about love in your work. I’ve read it. She must be special.” The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 619 “She is,” I agreed. “One day, I may tell you about my love, but tonight isn’t about my love. It is about the two of you.” She smiled, leaned back into her seat, and took a sip from her second brandy. “How does one get one of those cards that get you in here?” she asked. “It’s not terribly difficult,” I explained. “One simply needs to be supported by a Fellow and a second, and then one applies and either is elected a Fellow, or is passed over.” “Do you think Oscar could ever be elected a Fellow here?” I smiled. “Perhaps after his first novel is out. Once he has shown himself to stand above. It’s not particularly elitist, but it helps one’s case if one stands above. Does Oscar stand above?” She sipped from her brandy glass again and smiled. “He is very talented. I think he has what it takes.” “Then perhaps one day I can recommend him,” I said. “Or you. You paint, right?” It was then that she blushed. “Yes. Right now I’m working as a cashier at a grocery. But painting is my real passion. That’s why I understand Oscar so well. Why I saw his potential.” “Then perhaps one day I shall recommend you,” I said. “Simply stand above. Rise up and lead. Grab life and lead in your chosen field, and you will be noticed.” She reached across the table, put her hand on the back of mine. It was soft. She squeezed my fingers gently, but I knew that it was a safe, inoffensive squeeze; she loved Oscar. A few minutes later, Oscar returned to the table and it was Laura’s turn to use the ladies’ room. Once she had left the table, Oscar said, “I really love her.” “I know,” I replied. “I can see it.” “She sees who I really am. Always has. Believes in me, Michael. You know?” He swished the brandy in his glass around and took a sip after sniffing it. “I want her to have drinks in a place like this. I want to give her all this. Can you help me? Can you help me get this?” I smiled. “All of this is really not all that hard to get,” I assured him. “As I was telling Laura while you were in the washroom, you simply have to stand above in your chosen field. Be a leader. Then, you can get one of those cards, too.” “This is why we came to London,” he said. “To be around the real. The old. Not the new. To know the real and the ancient. To escape what I had become.” I took out my lighter, but not to light a cigarette. Once I had the flame going, I put my hand over it. “When I first met you two, I told Laura that edited by Joshua Goudreau 620 true love is like a hand over a flame. Would you hold your hand over a flame? Reach forward for more, and it will run away. Pull back, and it will think you don’t want it. Can you do that, Oscar?” Oscar immediately put his hand over the flame of my lighter and held it there. He started to lower his hand closer to the flame. I could see in the corner of his eyes that he was in pain, but I did not let the flame stop. Finally, I pulled the lighter away and blew the flame out. “I would do that for love,” he said. “That’s what I have with her. You know it. Is that what you have, Michael? Is that your true love, too?” “My love,” I replied, putting the lighter back into my pocket, “is not what we’re about tonight. Tonight is about you and your love and your novel in progress. Tell me about it.” As Oscar told me of his novel, Laura returned to the table. Oscar told the general direction and she sat beside him, not watching him as he spoke, but watching my face for my reactions as he went on. Finally, when he had said as much as he was able about the novel, he said, “So is there any hope for it?” At first, I was silent. I wanted both of them to consider the expression on my face as I sipped at my third glass of brandy of the night. I looked into his eyes; they were almost confused. I looked into her eyes; they were still afire as she looked into mine. He was looking for my approval, as if something I could say to him about his work in progress might emancipate him from a life of slavery. She was looking for something altogether different. Finally, I spoke. “Have you ever read Of Human Bondage by Maugham?” I asked. Laura nodded yes as Oscar nodded no. “It’s about the human condition,” I said. “About true love. Who loves whom? Not important. It’s about being an artist. It’s about a lot of things.” She smiled at my words and he simply stared at my mouth as it moved. “You both have asked me about my love. About my true love.” “Yes,” Laura said, nodding. “Tell me about your love. About your desperation.” I smiled but did not at first reply. “Take out your wallet, Oscar,” I said as I took out my own and pushed it toward him. “And take off your wedding band.” He pulled off his ring and pulled out his wallet. I put his wedding band on my left ring finger and pulled his wallet towards me. “Tonight is about Oscar and Laura and Oscar’s writing, not about me. So, Oscar and Laura,” I whispered, leaning in so they could hear me, “do you really want to know about Michael’s true love?” In his eyes was still confusion. Laura simply stared at his ring, now on my wedding finger, but her eyes were not at all confused, even though she obviously had no idea what was about to come from my lips next. I reached The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 621 into my pocket and pulled out my hotel keys. “Give me your keys, Michael. The keys to wherever you are staying with Laura.” My calling him by my own name seemed to confuse him even more, but he reached into his pocket and produced his keys. “Now, I’m your guest here, with her. You’re the Fellow. Ask yourself, and ask yourself very carefully: are you willing to go back to that hotel room, dressed in Michael’s jacket, carrying Michael’s identification and RSA membership card, with Michael’s credit card? Are you willing to read the copy of Of Human Bondage and every other book you find in that room, and only when you are done, and truly understand those books, call Oscar and say, ‘I know true love’?” I reached my hand across the table and put it over Laura’s and she did not pull away from me. He looked at his wife’s hand in mine, still apparently confused, but I could see that he was thinking many thoughts behind new eyes. “Tell me, then. Are you willing to be Michael, for however long it takes, and let me be Oscar, for however long it takes you to know my love? Are you willing to love her only in heart and soul for however long it takes you to understand who you are?” I caressed her hand. “And I suppose the other question is: is she willing to look at you as the man who might bring me to where you are?” I smiled, but said no more. His eyes darted back and forth with the motions of someone trying to understand what he was being asked. Her eyes continued to look at the wedding band now on my hand. “I am,” she finally said. Finally, he replied, “I am.” I stood from my seat and then said, “Let’s begin, then. You be Michael, and I’ll be Oscar. Until you understand Michael, you won’t know what kind of love I am talking about. So take as long as you need. Love Laura with your heart and your soul, knowing that she is with Oscar, this Oscar…” I pointed at myself. “Know that, but do not give up simply because of petty jealousy. Do not call uncle from pain. Do not reach forward, and do not pull away. Let it burn a hole in your hand until you know what I am talking about. And then—only then—will you both know the kind of love I have. Remember, tonight is about Oscar and Laura, and about their love.” We all left the Gerard Bar. The new Michael had to pay for the cab ride back to their apartment, since Oscar had very little cash in his wallet.

I sat at the small table in their small apartment, flipping through the pile of papers there. The words on those papers were written in pencil. Laura sat on the edge of the single bed across the room. Some of the brandy from earlier in the night had worked its way through her system and she was starting to sober up from the decision she had made while under the spell of the Gerard Bar. edited by Joshua Goudreau 622 “Are you uncomfortable?” I asked her. “This is quite insane,” she admitted. “Any more insane than when he stood in the pub and let men chat you up while he stood there?” I asked. “Do you feel any more or any less than when that happened right under his dominion?” She looked at the floor as if ashamed. I walked from the table and stood before her. “Listen,” I assured her, “you needn’t treat me as you would a husband. This is about him and his understanding of love. It’s not about me. I can sleep on the floor until he figures it out.” At first, she stared only at my feet. Slowly, she tipped up her head as I stood there near her and looked into my eyes with that same light she had earlier at the Gerard Bar. She reached out her hand onto mine, placed my palm on her right cheek, and then turned to kiss my palm.

A month later, the phone rang, and it was Michael. “Do you know it?” I asked him. “I can never have Laura, can I?” he said. His voice was clear rather than full of sadness. “Is that what you have learned about that kind of love?” I asked. Laura was still asleep beside me, her arm draped over my chest. “I can love her, with all my heart and soul, but I cannot have her body ever,” he said. “You understand,” I replied. “That is Michael’s kind of love. Is that the kind of love you will hold your hand over a flame for? Is it?” I could hear Laura beginning to stir from the full night of making love we had been through. She kissed my cheek. “Can you forever know that her body is another man’s, or no man’s, and that your love for her can never, ever, go beyond that? Can you know that, and live with it? Can you hold your hand over that?” He simply said, “Thank you,” and let the phone back on hook. She ran her hand down my ribcage. “You have been witness to a murder,” I whispered to her. “Whose murder?” she asked, still playing my ribcage with her fingernails. “That’s not for us to decide,” I replied. “If I were to risk a guess, though,” I finally added, “I would say the murder of self-deception. I will be finishing my first novel soon.” Laura held either side of my face with her soft hands and looked deeply into my eyes with her painter’s stare. “I would die without you,” she said. “I would die if you ever left me, Oscar.” What she now understood was that by doing what he had, by accepting the challenge, Oscar would always be with her in the only way he could be The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 623 for it to be an unselfish love, and that this would be the new theme of his first novel.

edited by Joshua Goudreau 624

The Never-Ending War by Kadie Taggart

I HAVE LIVED HERE IN THIS BOX OF A HOUSE FOR WHAT seems like an eternity, ever since the day I was born. I was quite sure I would die here, as well, for the doors and windows had made a fact of that. Back then, I had not seen daylight in almost two years; the blasted windows said my eyes could not handle the brightness. Once I tried to escape through one of these windows, and when I awoke the next morning, I found that they had boarded themselves up! In a cunningly, kindly manner, they told me to stay inside; to sit in the irritatingly dusty, over sized armchairs; to read the same books by the dimly lit lanterns they had given me. They told me I could no longer join the window-shopping crowds, for I was unsuitable for public life. However, I knew that no argument of mine would win over the large oaken front door, as it never budged for me, but I was quite sure I gave it enough hell to contend with. As you may have guessed, my family left here many years ago, leaving me this house and some of its fortunes. My mother died when I was young, and my father said it was best if I took care of myself. It may have been a bit lonely at times, but I knew that he wanted the best for me. He even left two extra bolts on the door to keep out intruders! But the door realized the new weapons it had to use against me, and it locked itself up tight, so I couldn’t even run outside to say goodbye! How dare that confounded door! So from that day on, I decided to retaliate against the house. Over the years, I had given it many battle scars, and I had received many in return, as well. The door would speak to me then in its maternal tones, “You must be The Complete LOST CAUSE Quarterly 625 quiet now. Too much racket!” So I would tap my fingers against the smooth end tables, stamp my feet on the worn wooden floors, and stack pots and pans meticulously, one on top of the other, until I had created a small tower, which generally fell seconds later, creating a colossal clattering in the kitchen. The house creaked and moaned in a frustrated reply, and my laughter reverberated so nicely off the hardwood floors that the house’s complaints were simply drowned. All of this depended on how I was feeling from day to day. Some days I’d find myself wanting to break through the thin glass and sturdy boards of the windows and run away from this place, and other times, I’d feel a bit more intelligent and I’d decide to stay indoors for a little more warfare. One of these days of “higher intelligence” led to the tearing down of all wallpaper in the house and the etching of abstract images into the old walls by way of the fine silver knives that sat for about twenty years in the perfect little china cabinet. Days like this reminded me of the times when I used to walk in the sun; sit in the shade of the large trees: happy moments that I still fail to forget. I knew the house wanted to keep me safe by its warm fireplaces, but I couldn’t help but wonder how the world had changed since I left it. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with its fast pace these days, as it has always been difficult for me to keep quiet, to not stare, to greet with a delicate bow. I am the direct and most absolute opposite of delicate. I used to watch the young girls with dainty hands folding napkins with fascination, but never so far as to try to be so graceful. I know my father never approved of my mannerisms, but I know he loved me despite it all. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have left me this beautiful house which, over the years, I have come to love as a sibling, and hate as a warden. My last night here, I began to become afraid, however, for I heard voices beyond the house; voices of people trying to find a way in. Of course, the house would not allow it, but what if they broke through somehow? The moonlight would pour in, and the summer warmth would flood the dark corridors and fill my lungs with memories of childhood. But what would become of my house? I could not bear to leave it, for it had been my ally, enemy, and guardian throughout the long years. I heard them coming closer to the doors and windows every night before then. Sometimes, they would beat on the wood with their hands, pull at the boards lain over the windows, trying to find a way in. “Stay away from them,” the door moaned. “They will take you away.” Take me away? Away to where? “An asylum,” creaked the windows. “A far away place,” dripped the old, broken faucet. Then I was afraid. I ran up the old stairs as they groaned beneath my pounding feet, “Run to the attic, child.” The loud banging on the door said, “Run faster, girl.” I heard the door scream in pain as it was broken down. The voices of men chased me up edited by Joshua Goudreau 626 to the second floor and down the hall. “She’s here somewhere,” I heard one of them say, as the rest scattered out amongst the house to find me. I caught a glimpse of one making his way up the stairs, wearing a white uniform. He reminded me of a ghost I once saw in a book. I spotted a sharp knife I was using to carve the walls earlier that day, and I dashed up the narrow bit of stairs that led to the attic. I hid behind some crates in the corner and held my breath as I heard the beating of rushing footsteps up to the attic. As the door creaked open, a faint light from the room below filled the small space where I lie hidden. The floor spoke from beneath my shaking body, moaning “They’ve spotted you.” I turned my head to see the man I thought to be a ghost standing in the middle of the room, staring directly at me. His voice boomed through my head as he yelled, “I’ve found her!” I scrambled to my feet, my hand still tightly clutching the knife. It was one thing to tease the house, but it was quite another to break its barriers. “You put that knife down now,” he said in a calmer voice, mocking the tone of the door. “You’ll be in a better place when the night is through. You’ll see.” They were planning on taking me away! “You have stepped into the middle of a war,” I said. “This is not your battle.” Before he could move a muscle to stop me, I felt the warm blood ooze onto my hand. The knife had done its work, and the world was turning to black. I could feel myself lose my footing, and as I fell, like an honorable soldier on some hallowed battlefield, the house moaned and creaked mightily in a chorus of goodbyes. Of course, it wasn’t goodbye forever. I returned shortly after the intruders had left, and I have never seen them since. I have watched generations live and die here, as well as repair my old house to its original, beautiful state. I observe these families making long-lasting memories with one another in the very place that protected me for so many years, right to the bitter end. No matter how bright the spirits are within this house these days, I’d say my battle with it has never ended. I still hear it growling and moaning at me, and I find myself toppling things and stomping my feet along the corridors as I once did many years ago. I happily observe that the family has become quite accustomed to my noisy outbursts, and even though the house completely disagrees with me, I like to think they are rooting for me in this never-ending war.

Author Biographies

The authors who contributed to Lost Cause Quarterly had the following to say about themselves:

Rebecca Allen I reside in Melbourne Australia. Although my writing began at a young age there was a break of about 20 years until I joined Deviant Art in August 2003. My main style of writing is free verse poetry with some works done in formal structures. As well as poetry I enjoy writing short stories with a twist in the tail. I have several larger works planned, but I find the shorter prose easier. I am also a founding member of Prose Please, and a staff member of Shattered Verse.

Ana I’ve been writing since I came out of the womb, and for me, it’s a way to express emotions that I would have trouble getting across otherwise. Musicians will tell you that they play or sing because they can pour their soul into what they’re doing. I’ll say that writing is the same way... except it is up to the reader to create their own melody.

Carolyn Anderson [no bio available]

Andrew Deeply passionate about photography, Andrew has given up most of his other hobbies to pursue this interest in his free time. He desires to be a successful, well-liked veterinarian, a master photographer and a filial son. He loves animals, the sea, the sun and wide-open spaces. In the not-too-distant future, Andrew envisions himself retired in a simple beach house in the tropics.

Leah Angelo Lives in Manila, Philippines where she spends most of her time pretending to study her Accountancy subjects (the reason for her writing hiatus.) She loves daydreaming (especially at night), sharing (corny) jokes with her friends, shopping for shoes and second-hand books (though she’s broke,) and bossing everyone around (with her megaphone à la Big Brother.) She’s (quite) fond of parentheses. She also has a brother named Michael (whom she likes to paint with.)

Jonathan Asby Although Jonathan has been writing off and on since he was a kid, he has only recently begun to take this hobby seriously, hoping to distract himself from more productive activities like sleeping or spending too much money on pub food. He is a student of Computer Science at The University of Nottingham, England, and lives in a small soup can with a cardboard cutout of Chewbacca.

Claire Askew I’m 20 years old, an undergraduate at the University of Edinburgh currently reading a Masters degree in English, Scottish and Classical Literature. I’ve had five poems and one short story already published in numerous magazines and anthologies, and I was Bar National Young Scottish Legal Journalist of the year 2003.

Marc Bartkowiak Marc Bartkowiak is 27 years old and lives just outside of Washington, DC. He hopes that two of his hobbies, one of those being writing, can one day become a career instead of just fun, but until then, he’ll continue doing what needs to be done to get along. He states that his ultimate goal and dream is to, no matter in how slight a way, have his life end up making the world a better place.

Lisa Bartling Lisa lives in Kansas and has been writing for the past four years. As much as she loves writing poetry she loves to write young adult fiction that is anywhere from humorous to horror. Lisa spends most of her time coming up with new ideas. In her free time she loves to read, play video games, and hang out with her friends. And her two personal quotes are: “If you’re going to hate me, hate me for who I am, not for what people tell you I am.” and “Nobody understands the simplicity of stupidity.”

Meredeth Beckett Meredeth Beckett was born in 1981, the eldest of four children. As she moved a lot as a child, she became obsessed with reading anything she could get her hands on. Later on she discovered that writing books was just as much fun as reading them, and hasn’t been able to pull the pen from the paper since. Although most of her stories are slightly off kilter fantasy affairs, she has been known to delve into anything from magical realism to goth horror.

Richard Beserra Richard Beserra has been writing since he was six years old. He lives in Texas, and has an equal passion for both writing and music, and hopes to make a living doing one or the other some day. Currently, his biggest goal is to eclipse Stephen King as a writer.

Joel Brown Joel Brown is a carnivorous alcoholic and a blossoming drug addict, she said. She smoked the cigarette down to the filter, crushed it under the heel of her Doc Martin//Fuck, she muttered, I could kill him...//the kid lives in Montreal//chainsmokes belmonts//first year creative writing student//spews his guts and blood on pages//that’s all there is...

Stephanie Brown Born in a little town in the middle of nowhere, resident of Quebec at the moment, I’m a writer more than an ‘artist’. Writing, in English, since I was about ten, it’s become increasingly so a passion and developed into what you see now. My English isn’t perfect but I strive to be the best. I do a lot of roleplay, have since I was a kid, and it’s my drive, so to speak. Everything I write is derived from my roleplays with friends.

Teela Brown Teela is unwillingly following in her mother’s footsteps to be a sherpa. At a young age she showed promise when she figured out infinity, but has showed little promise since. When she’s not trying to conquer the world, she sits around playing random card games. With a friend, she has started a religion, the Church of DNA, which worships Douglas Adams, mainly the Hitchhiker’s Guide ‘trilogy.’ Her towel is named Ben, and she knows where it is. The more she talks to people, the more she realizes that she is queen of the nerds. Everyday she faces the joys that come with talking to the voices in her head, which she’s fairly sure that she created just to have stimulating conversation. She currently can be found mulling over the copious notes that she has made in the back corner of a decaying universe.

Hedwig-Mae Bryant Hedwig-Mae Bryant is an aspiring artist and writer from Detroit, Michigan. She spends her nights torturing her husband and being tortured by her children when she’s not boring her customers about how she saved the world from gerbils... again.

Stephen Bush Stephen Bush was born to a pair of human beings in a narcoleptic corner of England and ever since has had a fascination with the species. He’s predominantly a merry word abuser, but can also juggle fire and wear a neatly trimmed devil’s beard. He is intrigued by notions of time, memory and death, heralding the former to be his mortal enemy - it might show in some of his storytelling, but he’s unsure. He prefers darker forays into the human imagination, and - in terms of technique - likes to dazzle with description. He’s actually a student of bioscience, but isn’t quite sure why.

Jacob Caffey I am 19 years old, and am currently a sophomore at the Universtity of Arizona. My hobbies include mocking and ridiculing those I feel to be intellectually inferior to me, debating topics I know nothing about, and writing erotic Lord of the Rings/Harry Potter crossover fanfiction. I write like I live my life: narcissistic, obscene, and full of mistakes I will never learn from. I hope to one day become an astronaut or a newsman.

Alyssa Cormier Growing up in the small town of Flat Bay, Newfoundland; Writing could not be called her first passion. In fact ancient history and archaeology always seems to fascinate her more then anything else, however, she was creative and at the age of ten she had already had started to write a book with her best friend. Time passed and though she continued to write now and again nothing she ever did was fruitful. Later in life she became interested in online role-playing and the small interest she had in writing grew. Creating characters and RPGs was a part of her life for a long time and she poured most of her creativity into them. Now a days however her passion for role- playing has faded and finally she has become more dedicated to her writing. She can only hope that her creativity will follow through into writing and inspire her to write a novel that can one day be published.

Liz Cross I taught myself to write before I went into school and I’ve been writing ever since. I write because it makes me happy, because it makes other people happy, and because it’s something that I’m good at. Writing is something that I can do for the rest of my life regardless of how much I’m being paid or where I’m located in the world. It’s something that I can depend on, and I do. And that’s why I write.

Lillian Csernica Ms. Csernica’s very first short story sale, ‘Fallen Idol,’ appeared in After Hours and was later reprinted in Daw’s Year’s Best Horror Stories XXI. Ms. Csernica has gone on publish stories in Daw’s Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII, 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories and Horrors! 365 Scary Stories. Her Christmas ghost story ‘The Family Spirit’ appeared in Weird Tales #322 and ‘Maeve’ recently appeared in #333. Ms. Csernica’s first historical romance novel, Ship Of Dreams, is available from Dorchester Publishing.

Charlie de la Vega Charlie de la Vega was born June 17, 1985 in Houston, Texas into a now- divorced family. He has since moved three times, having lived in Illinois, California, and now currently resides in Ohio. He pursues his second love, writing, after his pursuit of biology met with an unfortunate end at the cruel, cruel hands of chemistry. He is a full-time student of English at Taylor University in Indiana, where he seeks a degree in Education. His ultimate goal is to become an accomplished fiction novelist.

Demi Writing has always been a craft that has fascinated me because above all else, I love to read. It’s a means for me to feed my imagination and to cope with the somewhat mundane days of work and everyday living. Currently, I’m 21 and residing in Australia though my backgrounds are of mixed heritage, Chinese and Irish. I hope to keep writing, more because I want to share my stories - I have so many to tell.

Tim Derr Tim Derr is a part time worker, full time writer; though not in that particular order or arrangement. He currently resides in Michigan, the unemployment capital of the United States, where he has lived since he was five years old. Born in Madison, Ohio, he’s never traveled far or in-between, and prefers life that way. He is quite taken with the sites of the countryside around him, small suburbia; the proverbial ‘hick’ town that he finds surrounding his everyday life, and even if his writing were to take him nowhere, he would be quite happy to remain right where he is.

Bronagh Fegan I’m a twenty-year-old student from Northern Ireland, where writing is the only outlet in the void that is my life, since it’s difficult to find friends to tolerate my kleptomania and compulsive lying. I have been known to wear a hat.

Flutterbies [no bio available]

Therese Kai Foxx Therese Kai Foxx is not her real name. It’s a pen name, because she’s paranoid and doesn’t trust the internet. She’s young and silly and enjoys doing things, particularly regarding art, literature, film, and food, and idolizes people like Jhonen Vasquez, Frank Miller, Jim Lee, and Terry Pratchett.

Jeff Fraser Jeff started writing when he was about 7, inspired by Goosebumps and a few movie scripts. But that writing sucked, so he likes to pretend that he only started writing recently as a member of Deviant Art, offhand-apostle. He writes mainly speculative science fiction to reflect a passionate love of all manner of idea-based philosophy and hopes in the future to be published in a science fiction magazine, and/or to write longer works in the style of his favorite novels, The Wreck of The River of Stars, by Michael Flynn, Gibson’s Neuromancer, and Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Strangely enough, he really hates writing english essays.

Mihalis Georgostathis I am from Athens, Greece and I’ve been writing for three years. I am 23 years old and studying Computer Science. Most of my works (one novel and quite a lot short stories - mostly fantasy, urban fantasy and horror) are written in my maternal language. girlchildAGLOW [no bio available]

Vicki Goodwin If I had the combined literary talents of Anne Rice and Bret Easton Ellis, I’d be the happiest woman alive. I’ve been writing forever, it’s only in recent years that it’s become a necessity rather than an impulse. Getting published in my ultimate dream. Vicki Goodwin, 22. England.

Joshua Goudreau Joshua Goudreau was born and raised in central Maine. He is tirelessly chasing a Masters of Creative Writing at the University of Southern Maine. Until this writing gig can pay the bills he works in the nursing field where they don’t mind his facial piercing nearly as much as he expected them to. He is the founder of both Lost Cause Publishing Group and Pandora Productions where he produces quality independent books and films respectively. He currently resides in an apartment overrun with felines.

Christian Sarkis Graham I am a 16-year-old high school student currently residing in Philadelphia. Art and writing have always been among my major interests. I’m very intrigued by the art of satire, and plan to aim my work in that direction in the future.

Hallucinated Light [no bio available]

Dzafirul Haniff Just finished my ‘A’ level exams and currently awaiting for results and admittance into university. I live in Singapore and basically I write whenever I have nothing better to do. So boredom is pretty much my muse. haha Currently I’m also looking to get a temp job as a relief teacher. I write mostly satire and really short stories. Mainly because I think that really short stories (especially satires), written the right way, can have an impact on the readers more. Especially those with short attention span. haha Sorry for this very unstructured bio, its the wee hours of the morning right now and I’m kinda sleepy.

Lisa Hascall Lisa has always had an interest for the arts but only in the past few years has she taken any of her ideas to paper. She is known for keeping plenty of post-it notes handy and maintaining a solid archive of writing ideas, most still unreleased. Currently she is a student at Mountain View High School where she is active in multiple efforts and clubs pertaining to literature and publishing as well as graphic arts. Some of her main interests besides writing consist of studying both the Japanese and German language, intermediate webdesign (no script coding), participating in school sports such as gymnastics, watching asian dramas and limited American TV, and reading/drawing manga. She is currently preparing to become an exchange student to Japan. The piece used in this publication was actually written during her freshman year for an English project and so far has not been continued.

Clayton Hayes I’m a 3rd-year mathematics major at Wayne State University in Detroit, MI (USA). I’ve always loved reading, and have recently discovered I like writing short stories as well.

David Henderson I’m a would-be writer currently studying to be an English teacher. I hate fan-fiction and would rather be gored by a diseased yak than be forced to read any. I am a big fan of making inappropriate jokes at other people’s expense. I live in Australia, and, for those who aren’t entirely sure, we don’t ride kangaroos, we do have electricity, and there are no such things as drop- bears.

Michael Hossler [no bio available]

Sha Hwang I am a third year undergrad studying Architecture at Berkeley. Though most of my work is digital art, I like to write on the side. John and Jane was scramblewritten in two nights to skip into an advanced short fiction workshop

Quinn Tyler Jackson Quinn Tyler Jackson has been writing since he was twelve. At various stages of his career, he has been an artist’s apprentice, antiquarian bookseller’s assistant, gas jockey, freelance editor, literary agent, stay-at-home father, computer software and hardware consultant, and publisher. Through it all, he has always written poetry and fiction and has usually, when presented with two paths, taken the one that holds the promise of enlightenment, however worn.

Ora N. Jeffreys I am currently attending Old Dominion University and am working towards my Bachelors Degree in English Creative writing with a minor in Theatre and am planning to obtain both my masters and my doctorate in English Some of my influences include Lan Samantha Chang, Anne Rice, Sheri Reynolds, Janet Peery, and Brian Silberman. I live in Southern Virginia with my wonderful fiancé.

Kathy Kachelries Kathy Kachelries has never forgiven the universe for stranding her in such an unimaginative epoch. Rather than sulk, however, she’s made it her mission to change the world into a more surreal and fascinating place. When Kathy isn’t drinking coffee, finger painting, spouting liberal propaganda or doing any of the other things her BFA prepared her for, she’s training an army of preteen minions at a school in southern China.

Kat I am a sixteen-year-old writer who lives in the Philippines, who started writing at the age of eleven. Aside from such, I play the piano and read books. Some of my role model authors are Tamora Pierce, J.K. Rowling and Lemony Snicket.

Amanda Langdon I’m 24, living in PA, in my last semester at Penn State University majoring in professional writing.

Lazy Line Painter John Lazy Line Painter John was named after a song, which was named after a muse who also inspired a song called Impossible Things #1, which is quite good. John likes songs with numbers in the title. John has been writing for six days, spread thinly over the past two and a half years. His life fluctuates wildly between boredom. He has a lot of time for secondhand bookshops and the pirating ideal, and a cat. John is a Class A war criminal and studies, in his self-consciously bohemian way, in Northern Ireland. You probably owe him money, but he's too polite to mention it.

Michael Lefkowitz I’m 17, I grew up in rural New Jersey, and currently live in Austin TX. I’ll be attending Dartmouth College (in New Hampshire) in the fall. On the artistic front, I mostly write poetry, of all different genres, and have taken up photography this past year. I’m also an amateur circus performer; I juggle fire and knives, have dabbled in flying trapeze and other circus aerials, eaten fire, and the like. I’ve been inspired by writers that include Oscar Wilde, Edgar Alan Poe, William Shakespeare, and J.R.R. Tolkien. My favorite visual artist is Salvador Dali, and my favorite musical composer is George Gershwin. Jonathan Lin Interests lay in writing, reading, and music. Talents are in none.

Lone Wolfy [no bio available]

Weihui Lu I mostly read fantasy and sci-fi books, although realistic fiction interests me as well. I’m still experimenting with different genres and techniques, since I have only recently started seriously writing, and I hope to develop a special, recognizable voice of my own. So far, all I’ve got is extreme melodrama, great love for descriptions, and a tendency to write about darker things. I have long since given up on poetry, and I find writing short stories to be much more satisfying.

David Lynch My name is David Lynch, I am 18 years old and I live in Northern Ireland. I am still in secondary school, and have studied English Literature as an A level subject. As a young teenager my favourite book to read was The Lord of the Rings, and this influenced much fantasy writing. But since my mother died of cancer two years ago I have grown and changed significantly as a person and my writing has matured and become a lot more personal. My main influence is the writer James Joyce and my English teacher Mr. Murphy, who has helped my transition into serious writing. The two pieces of advice that I have found most helpful are: write what you know and find a mentor.

Ronald Damien Malfi Ronald Damien Malfi is an award-winning novelist and screenwriter whose most notable works include the novels The Fall of Never, The Nature of Monsters, and Via Dolorosa. In 1999, he received a degree in English from Towson University and has since spent much of his time traveling across the United States visiting the obscure yet notable locales that serve as the backdrop of much of his fiction. He currently resides in Maryland, along the shores of the Chesapeake Bay, with his wife Debra, where he is currently at work on his next book. For further information, visit www.ronmalfi.com.

Ricky Lee McCullough Ricky Lee McCullough is a 25-year-old man who currently resides in London, England. He is a practicing Bohemian, and when not reading, writing, photographing and generally avoiding ‘real work’, spends the majority of his time studying Alchemy and Black Magic in a bid to revive Jim Morrison, Hunter S. Thompson and Jesus Christ (in that order). He likes Truth, Beauty and Light, and dislikes tomatoes.

Patricia McEachin Patricia McEachin writes when she has nothing else to do. Aside from being held hostage by her boyfriend, cats, and various others, she enjoys the art of Ginsu juggling and underwater basket weaving. She is a non-native Californian which accounts for so many of her imbalances. Her dry humor can be seen in many of her writings.

Lena Melyakova Lena Melyakova, 16, can be grounded by parents, released by men, and rejected by friends, be she cannot be silenced in her crusade for justice. Her fearlessness was best illustrated when she made a call to the Portland police department asking them to come arrest her, claiming, “I know what I’m talking about. You have to get ‘em while they’re young.”

Kailey Mortell I like in the US and I’m still in high school. It’s always been a dream of mine to become an author. Ever since I read my first novel, Redwall, an excellent children’s book, I’ve been filled with a desire to print my stories to everyone can enjoy them like I did. Heck, maybe even inspire some people while I was at it. In publishing this short story perhaps I’ll be one step closer to my dream, and helping to build a future for future authors.

Zach Morway [no bio available]

Neco I’m a 19-year-old student living in the suburbs of Chicago and am currently going into my sophomore year at College of Dupage. In between classes and breaks, I spend my time writing the occasional short story and drawing, along with reading books and manga, watching movies and spending time goofing off with my friends. I’m not majoring in fine arts or English, but I plan to get a minor in it along with my major of Anthropology.

Rose Owens Rose Owens is an aspiring bohemian/fiction author. After surviving the treacherous depths of Napa High, she moved on to the fabulous University of California in Santa Cruz, where she communes with the banana slugs while writing her manifesto, which she will of course finish in a flat in London, with a fabulous sex god by her side. At least, that’s what she likes to think.

Wiebke Pandikow I’m originally from Germany but live in Lahti/Finland at the moment. Since I can remember I have always been creative in one way or the other. Small animal stories when I was very young, solely poetry in my teens, and more and more drawing in the last years. Now I’m just getting back to prose, and try to write in english, too. Reading texts of others is a passion just as great, which is why I am happy to be here at the Lost Cause Magazine now.

A. S. Pritchard I’m currently a college student living a flat and rather uneventful life in a flat and uneventful state in the US. I go to a cheap college and my major is uncertain at the moment. I don’t write as much as I think I should or as much as I want to, but I’m working on that. For reading and writing, I enjoy atypical science-fiction and fantasy. My favorite writer at the moment is Joan Vinge.

RaenSilim [no bio available]

Megan Reilly After taking a month hiatus from writing, I’ve started again and I feel refreshed and motivated. I’ve been writing since I was very young, but seriously since I was 15. I am greatly influenced by slam poets, Jim Carroll, Henry Miller, and Mian Mian. As a freshman in college, I’m working toward my degree in English and Creative Writing with a minor in Journalism. Other than writing, I enjoy music, tattoos, and body piercing.

Reji I started writing a little over 3 years ago after getting an English assignment back in the 7th grade. At first I never thought about writing but when I started the assignment, I was sucked in quickly. I haven’t been published too often (unless you count the vanity presses) but this does not disappoint me because I know that one day others will be able to read my work.

Dexandré Riley I live on a small rock we call Jamaica. I’d never written anything outside of compositions for school and have always gotten good reviews from teachers. Reading I fear I must say wasn’t something I had much time for, I much liked wondering around nature and day dreaming. It’s a hobby you should try. So at the age of seventeen while in college studding to be a web designer I wrote a little story to put on my class project webpage. With wide-open eyes someone pointed out how good it was and asked how long I’d been writing. When I informed in that outside of school I’ve never written and suggested that any imbecile could put together such a simple story, with jaws sweeping the floor he shook his head and suggested I try and get something published. Three years and fourteen novels later I haven’t tried publishing but have been doing well in writing I dare say. I’m able to write just about anything, modern horror or action or even romance, but my love lies with fantasy fiction. Never fear though I am working on two books I hope to publish. Gold Eagle (modern action/ horror/adventure) And Three Saviors (fantasy fiction without the magic *gasp*). Thank you for you time.

Tim Rinehart I write stories about aliens in the future. Or do I? Writing since forever, I write simple stories about people, and experimental pieces.

Deana Rustin I was born in 1979. I’m a computer programmer, Sunday writer and Saturday artist, perpetual student, daydreamer and a slacker.

Abhishek Sengupta I’m a 23-year-old MBA student from India, trying to embark on a career I’d like to hate. One fine evening, when I was 10 years old, I watched my shadow in the candlelight and was disturbed by the fact that I couldn’t manipulate it to move in directions unlike which I took myself, although the shadow belonged to me. In my first fiction I had given that freedom to my shadow. That became the preoccupation with everything I wrote. I created realms in which the possibilities are infinite; interpretations – manifold. I browsed through the libraries to search all the different limitations from which I could break free in my writings. I studied psychology, sociology, neuroscience, philosophy, arts, bits and parts of history; I even became a formal student of English Literature for 3 years. Allusions were slowly incorporated into my writings. But I still confess of writing through my instincts more than I ever do through my introspection. skiein I was asked for “a bit about me”... well, seeing as I practically encompass a whole doghouse, it’s a tight fit. Like trying to stuff me into a goldfish bowl- but that’s not the point. The point is, I am a very imaginative little girl (I maintain that I am young dammit!) so obviously I adore all the artsy things such as writing, sketching and painting. However, I am also an avid reader of romantic fluff, ha, and then to the other extreme- dark writings (i.e./ everything... except maybe erotica). So you could say I’m a very accepting person... must be the influence of anime and manga- though I would like to say I just happen to be naturally so kind and generous and... ok, when I’m not writing, I’m ranting. But I’m really quiet, really. Quietly passionate about the words under my fingers. Cheers all.

Jenny Sloan Jenny is currently 18 years old. Though she would prefer, more than anything, to be a novelist, she is currently pursuing a career in medicine both for financial support and for further inspiration as a writer. Though she dreams of being published, for the moment she is focusing on school and just pursuing her goals one at a time.

Scott Snell Scott attended Berkley for 4 years before he realized that Bee Husbandry was his true calling. So, he moved to Hawaii where he got married to a lovely and intelligent young woman. Now they have a beautiful daughter who is 1 year old. Actually, the college thing and the bee thing were both lies, and this paragraph is not a very good example of Mr. Snell’s writing ability.

Colin Steele Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, Colin Steele has been writing fantasy since he was a small boy. A love of nature combined with a fascination for Celtic and Native American folklore has given him a rich vein of inspiration for his writing, and Colin hopes one day to publish his own novel. He continues to live in the Pacific Northwest with two obsessive/compulsive cats and a red-haired faerie temptress with a Robert Jordan fetish.

Adrian E. Stone Adrian Stone is 22 years old and lives in Baltimore, Maryland. He considers himself a journalist, but knows that line-dancing is his real calling in life. He is currently working on his autobiography titled ‘Adventures in Mediocrity,’ which will be on bookshelves sometime in 2043. He also claims to be the messiah.

Julia Stryker My name is Julia Stryker, and I’m afraid a paragraph about me would be intensely boring. I’ve been writing for a long time, and my minimal professional experience has led me to accept that it is the duty of the writer to bleed profusely, shaking a defiant fist, while Fate kicks him over and over again. It is a job I enjoy with savage pride.

Kadie Taggart I have been a writer for the better part of my life. I mainly write short stories (with some poetry mixed in), and I’m currently working on a novel about the Irish Mafia. I love to write from a first person perspective and in my stories, the main character is usually insane. I also love to play around with heavy emotions and all those complex things. I guess you could call my writing ‘dark,’ but I usually try to lighten it up with something in the end.

Tara Taylor Tara Taylor has been writing for as long as she can remember and it is her dream to be published one day. She has written one novel, The Forest Gate (unpublished), and hopes to start working on her next novel very soon. She also loves to write X-Men fanfiction and the odd poem now and again.

Jenny Treherne My real name is Jenny Treherne, which meant that I spent most of my teen years having Forrest Gump quoted at me... like I’m the only girl in the world called Jenny. I’m 19, nearly 20 (sob sob, no longer a teen) and I am an English eccentric...... actually I’m a student so I never have any money. I study drama, and I love it. I also study creative writing and I love that even more :happpycry: Generally I’m just nice... I have adorability leaking from every pore... I’m like everyone’s big sister. I’m also plotting to take over the world... but that will probably come to nothing, which is a shame because then I wouldn’t have to work out my career options for when I finish university.

Valerie I’m a high school senior. I enjoy reading, writing and photography. I love music and play the guitar as well as the violin and in the future hope to learn the cello. I’ll be attending college next fall, where I will most likely be pursuing an English major.

Erik Varela Erik Varela is a graduate student in the Department of Germanic Languages and Literatures at Washington University in St. Louis. His main interest is in German Romanticism, with a particular passion for Dark Romanticism/Gothic literature and the development of Horror as a genre. Most of his time is spent reading and writing (not necessarily for pleasure), with more reading and writing (this time for pleasure) and some occasional worrying about the rain leaking through his apartment ceiling thrown into the intervals.

Rhea Walker Studies English Literature, Creative Writing and Copious Imbibing of Beers. Enjoys corn-running, trying to find ways to not do work and salacious gossip. If I wasn’t allowed to write, I would go insane.

Jason R. Wallace I am currently a senior in high school living in Georgia. I enjoy acting in local and regional theatre, playing electric guitar, and studying contemporary films. I wish to pursue a degree in English with a Creative Writing emphasis at Stanford University.

Heather Webb As most writers tend to do, I’ve written for a great part of my life. I live in a small-ish community on the East Coast, working most of the time in retail when I’m not writing. At twenty-something I still have hopes that my talents will pan out, but for now I dream of at least being able to enjoy stories and story telling, if indeed I cannot share them as I would most like.

Robin Wilke I am sixteen years old, living near Washington, D.C., and... I write. I have a little brother who I love very much and a boyfriend attending Carnegie Mellon University who I also love very much. I am socially challenged, but I have a ton of friends even so because I like to ask older, much smarter people to teach me things. I’m into math, music, philosophy, psychology, and indirect characterization.

Ryann Wohlgemuth I am 17 years old, and I have been writing for, or attempting to, for about ten years. My parents had always encouraged me to read, and soon I became hooked on the written word. I tend to spend my free time drawing, reading, sleeping, or writing.

Thomas Wright I am a 16-year-old college student from the United Kingdom. I am studying English Language and Literature, Psychology, Philosophy and Critical Thinking. I have been writing for more years than I care to remember and reading for longer. I am an avid reader, stretching into all genres but I focus my writing on poetry, branching to the occasional story.