“Call him Ishmael,” Charlie roars.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare!” Ishmael — that’s me — roars back.

Kokoloko and the rest of the crew seated at the bar roar too, with laughter, lifting their mugs and spilling their shots as they throw them back.

I’m drunk. Charlie’s drunk. (I know this because Charlie, who never quotes his namesake, keeps quoting his namesake: “Find what you love and let it kill you,” he yells at the top of his ratchety voice.) His parents really did that to him. It must be hell to be named Charles Bukowski Nwosu–O’Brien. Just like it’s hell when your parents name you for the most famous character to have “lived” in these parts, and his sidekick. But I fooled ’em. I use a pen name: Hester Prynne, literature’s second-most famous New Englander. People like the idea of an adulterous woman getting even with the world by writing obscene limericks, with beginnings like “A chesty young lady named Charlotte / Pursued a career as a harlot” instead of “There was a young man from Nantucket” (which I won’t write, because Nantucket happens to be where I was born. I’ve lived in Pittsfield since I came back from Vietnam. It’s quieter. And cheaper).

Being a Nantucketer, whaling’s in my genes, which is the other reason Madre and Padre named me Ishmael Queequeg Jones: My great-great-great-great grandfather was the captain of the whaler “Industry,” and his sons and grandsons sailed and impaled the huge blubber-ing beasts with their Temple Toggles.

That’s what my leg is made from by the way: great-great-granddad’s harpoon. I could have had a real prosthesis — the Army would have paid for it ’cause, after all, I’m a hero — but I had this lying around and I figured, Hell, why not. Nobody else had a wooden leg in those days (in these days, either), much less a wooden leg with a hook.

People are real careful when they see me coming. The hook sneaks out below my cuff. Looks mean. It’s covered, but you don’t know that till you know that: the covering’s clear plastic. Kokoloko loves it. He insists its visible in every publicity photo. He says it gives me “distinction.” Besides, he says, it’s good for Hester’s image: a hooker (so to speak) with an honest-to-God hook.

Anyway, Charlie and me are at the bar celebrating the release of The Collected Works of Hester Prynne, Volume 1 (which has a huge red “A” strung from a whalebone corset on the cover. You can’t say my publisher doesn’t have a sense of humor) with a bunch of my friends including my agent, Kokoloko — a chest-length beard with a pint-size, shrill-voiced, wild-eyed man attached to it who swears he’s half an inch too tall to be called a midget. He’s lying, but he sells a lot of books so we, his clients, let him get away with it. Besides, he usually buys the drinks and attracts lots of women which, until TCWoHP,V1 was published, helped out when the leg and my forty-years-out-of-date, Jim-Kelly-in-Enter-the-Dragon Afro and the gravitational pull of my bodacious personality weren’t enough to magnetize me.

We’ve been here since the signing ended. Scads of women lined up at the bookstore (that Hester is a man is a pretty widely known fact, which makes her all that much more intriguing), freshly purchased copies of V1 in hand, and oohed and ahhed and quoted my work to me. I now know how Gellett Burgess must have felt. (For the unaware: He wrote “I never saw a purple cow,” to his everlasting chagrin.) I even had a few offers, which I turned down. “Bad idea,” Kokoloko warned me before I settled myself at the table, red Sharpie in hand. “Besides, there’ll be plenty to choose from later. Dig?”

“Dig.”

There were.

So. I drank, like always; I roared, like always; I shook a few hands and kissed more than few lips, like always; and then I went home in a cab by myself (because I was  — like I am most of the time — too drunk to receive company, if you know what I mean) with Charlie’s words ringing in my ears. Hey, I found what I love and it is killing me. I mean, I get up most mornings and I’m bleary-eyed and hung-over, but I have a couple cups of Irish coffee and half a dozen cigarettes and set to work. On a really good day I can turn out three, four, five, limericks (writing them is not as easy as you think; it took me a week to come up with “And she plied her trade in a used car lot,” which is how “Charlotte” ends. Kokoloko thought it was brilliant and I guess it must be, since women frequently ask if I want to check out used cars on the way home).

Anyway, TCWoHP,V2 is getting done. Kokoloko has already sold the serial rights to Playboy. I’m gonna be rich.

Whoopee.

If I live that long. I mean, it’s like: A drunken old poet from Pittsfield / Wrote  lewd limericks till his wits failed / When he was asked “why”/ He replied with a sigh / It’s a life.

Okay, so it’s not finished. Like I said, “Charlotte” took forever.

I gotta change the way I live.

The end

Evan Guilford-Blake writes fiction, plays, poetry and creative non-fiction for adults and children. His stories have appeared in numerous print and online journals; they have won 13 competitions and received two Pushcart Prize nominations. Noir(ish), his first novel, was recently issued by Penguin. About 40 of his plays have been produced; eighteen are published, and he’s won more than 40 playwriting contests.

It’s hot. The heat rises in waves from the sidewalk. I’d like to vanish over the border and have a hundred years pass and there still be no trace. The woman in a sleeveless blue dress that shows off her toned arms has been talking on her cell at a neighboring table about cutting everyone’s hours. She glances at me and then away – not embarrassed, just uninterested. I start gathering my things. God’s aim must be pretty shitty. Every day is a heart hooked up to a monitor, another cat shot with an arrow.

*

I went in search of a woman who laughed during sex as much as I did. When I returned years later, it was the two-hundredth anniversary of the black eye patch. More and more people were refusing to use a dictionary. Somehow I just knew that a flight of angels would constitute a violation of U.S. airspace. I kept repeating my name to myself so I wouldn’t be tempted to forget who I was. Living things erupted from the ground. The sun in the crayon drawing wore a slightly quizzical expression.

*

Baby galaxies spiral into existence. I stand against the back wall with my head bowed. It was Spinoza who described God as a night watchman at a zoo. The concept requires further explanation. Meanwhile, the address of hell keeps changing. “Turn toward me,” the photographer says. “A little more.” The wedding couple on the steps of the sanctuary obeys. There is no devil, but there are a good many flames.

Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the forthcoming poetry collection The Middle of Nowhere (Olivia Eden Publishing) and the forthcoming poetry chapbooks The Complete Absence of Twilight (Mad Hat Press), Echo’s Bones and Danger Falling Debris (Red Bird Chapbooks), and An Armed Man Lurks in Ambush (unbound CONTENT). He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely. You can check out Howie’s blog at http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com/

‘Fuck, this is good…’

He moved his arm in front of him, marvelling in its fluidity, the beads of sweat hanging from hairs, caught by the setting sun and reflecting it. He swept them off, following the arc of their descent to the grass.

‘Wow.’ He turned to his companion and smiled. ‘Pretty cool, huh?’

She nodded, stunned. For her, the sword in her hand was a living thing full of venom, a serpent, a cock. It was not of her but it was still hers, still part of her identity. She swung it round, spinning it, feeling the momentum take hold and guiding it. The sword was a combination of precise, almost surgical beauty and function, balanced and proud. She took a few more swings, kebabing a series of unfortunate leaves and decapitating a small orange flower.

Sasha was her name but here, it was Flame. She wasn’t even a redhead. But she was brought alive by friction. Some can live a life of peaceful coexistence. Sasha was not one of them. She was a dramavore and she was hungry. For now, though, she made the effort. She didn’t want to be alone here.

She felt the wind blow down the mountain when she jumped and caught a low hanging branch, pulling herself into a tree. She had never felt so strong, so vital. Was this how life was supposed to feel?

She noticed she wasn’t breathing and wondered if it mattered.

Flame dropped from the tree into a crouch and rolled like a paratrooper. That felt good. She did it again, just because. She plucked a flower from the side of the river and smelt it. Everything seemed so real. She knew why but she hadn’t expected to believe it quite so much. She looked at the reflections of the sunset in the river and shivered a little. So much for natural beauty.

She started walking back to the clearing, wondered why, and swung from the tree like an orang utan. She let go at the top of her swing, somersaulted once and landed on her feet two yards from her friend.

‘Pretty cool, huh, Ken?’

She smiled, running her fingers through her hair and knocking off the hat she forgot she was wearing. She stooped to pick it up and spotted the snail.

‘Man, they think of everything.’

Ken felt his own quickness and his eyesight improve. He strained his focus, looking further and further away but never blurring. This was incredible. His eyes had always been a weak point. Not his only one, to be sure, but now! Wow! He spotted an apple in a tree a hundred yards away, and his bow was a flash into his hands, an arrow poised and fired in an instant and without conscious thought. The apple yielded to the arrow, pierced and falling. It fell.

Ken walked to retrieve his arrow and broke off the apple around it, taking a bite. Strangely, he felt a little better. Even stranger, it tasted of apple. He heard it crunch between his molars, felt the piece of skin get stuck between his teeth.

‘Shit! This is amazing.’

He looked around, saw the river and sprinted to it, performing a couple of Arab springs on the way. The strain on his back and shoulder muscles was unexpected but vindicating. He could do this. For the first time in his life, he ran into the wind and felt it buffet his face, pulling down his felt cap and feeling the peach-like fabric between thumb and forefinger. Pretty smooth, Ken. Looking good.

He looked at his legs as he ran, watching them pumping like pistons over the long grass. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, rinse and repeat. He watched them so closely he didn’t see the rock he tripped over, and bounced down to the river, cutting his cheek on the shingle.

He laughed. ‘That’s what I get for not paying attention.’ He felt the cut on his cheek and looked at the blood on his fingers, ruminating. He’d somehow kept hold of the apple as he fell and he absent-mindedly took a bite. He was shocked to see the blood just disappear from his hand, and when he felt his cheek, so had the cut. His skin was as smooth as his rather fetching hat.

‘This place is weird, man.’

He walked to Flame, slowly this time, and watched her practise with her sword some more.

‘Where were we supposed to meet the others?’

The woman slipped her sword back in its scabbard and looked off into the distance.

‘I think it’s south of here.’ She pointed to the sun. ‘That’s obviously sunset, so that way is west. If we face the sun and turn left, that should be south.’

‘How do you know the sun sets in the west? You can’t take anything for granted.’

Flame looked at him and wondered. Maybe he was right.

* * *

In another clearing some short distance away, three more figures came to terms with their environment, one more successfully than the others. The others were more confused than Ken and Flame and needed help.

Two of them sat on fallen logs and moved their limbs slowly and with gazes of worshipful adoration. It was like being born. Sensations new and bold took hold of them. They felt the power of their bodies for the first time.

One stood up, his leather armour visibly straining to contain his impressive pectorals. His arms were a network of criss-crossing scars, like a tube map of his history. Each told a story, and each was a violent tale of hubris and valour. Each was a memory, an experience, a training opportunity.

He looked at the grey rock at his feet, and wondered. It was approximately the size of a large badger. He knelt down to investigate it, preparing his legs for the strain and feeling them leap to his command. Blood flowed at unaccustomed speed and thrilled with purpose. Large hands attached to arms the thickness of legs of mutton reached around the stone, and with one liquid movement, picked it up, spun once and hurled it twenty feet into the field.

He ran to follow it, swung the war hammer from his back, and smashed it into seven pieces. One looked like a skull. He smiled at that and hit it again with the hammer, dismantling it into the dust that formed it. The hammer returned to his back in one fluid swing over the shoulder and he turned, casting a long shadow over the flattening grass. The wind was coming up and the sun was going down.

He flattened his hand and put it to his eyebrows, shielding his eyes from the worst of the sunset. He looked around him, taking in the mountains, the trees clinging to them, the river flowing out below. The wind rose again, sweeping through the trees with a sound like a broom on stone. The colours of Autumn sat in the trees, occasionally base jumping and spiralling, landing with an audible crunch. The dark elf heard it anyway. The ears of an elf are a marvel.

Lucretia, queen sorceress of Evernight, looked up and focussed on the sound, her night vision eyes zooming in on a leaf and carefully tracing the pattern of veins in her mind. She was new to this too. She stood up, light-headed, and sat back down again, unsure of her abilities. She felt weak. Timid. She looked at the barbarian and wondered where she fitted. She felt disconnected from anything physical.

Then she felt something, a surging, a potential. The untapped power of the cosmos. She felt the growing of something strong, something useful. She held up one finger and wondered why it was on fire. She thought of water and it went out. There were no blisters, no sign of damage.

She felt that same insistent urge, a welling up, a recharging. Her arms and hands tingled with anticipation, crackling with mischief and impatience.

She teased the power within her fingers, kindling it, feeling it throb. She wondered if this was what the vinegar strokes felt like. She turned, pointed her long fingers at a tree and visualised it on fire. A torrent of flame leapt out, the air smelt of sulphur, the dry leaves crackled and branches were caught instantly alight. She looked at the tree, smoke and particulate ash carried by the heat, and imagined glaciers and penguins, the ice in that scotch she liked. She looked at the tree and imagined it in winter, the snow decorating it, beauty making a virtue of the bleak. She pointed her finger and expelled a beam of ice, the leading edge steaming as it met the wall of flame. Under the relentless pounding of the ice, the melt-water fell from the sky. First the fire died, then the tree itself was coated and then buried in ice. When the tree looked like a ski-slope, she lowered her hand and sat down again. This was going to take some working out.

The third person present watched the barbarian and the mage with amusement. He’d been here before and knew its ways. He was a bard, and he pulled out his lyre and began to sing a song about gold.

A light tenor floated on the air, simple phrases of greed and acquisitiveness. He knew he was probably doing the dwarves a disservice but it didn’t keep him up at night.

He watched the barbarian trying to smash every rock in the field to powder and thought he’d better move things along a bit. He approached the woman, his hands up, palms out.

‘Greetings, fair sorceress. I am Barin, dwarf bard from the mines of Torrion. I know these parts. I can help you.’

Lucretia looked at him, saw no-one, looked down and felt embarrassed that she hadn’t considered that a dwarf might be shorter than her.

‘Sounds good. I don’t even know how I got here.’

Barin raised an arm to the barbarian and called him over. The large man crossed the field in a few strides and stood over him, smiling in an unfriendly way and looking down. The dwarf looked up and tried to smile in return. It wasn’t easy.

‘And what is your name?’ he asked.

‘I am Krote,’ said the man mountain. ‘I have slain many trolls and bards like you should have heard of me. You should be singing of my exploits.’

‘And were there time, I would have already started,’ said the bard smoothly. ‘But time is not something any of us have enough of.’

He craned his neck looking from one to the other.

‘Do you have games where you come from?’

‘Yes’ said Krote. ‘Our children play with toys our women carve from the skulls of the vanquished. Why do you ask?’

‘I like games,’ said Barin. ‘I make them myself. Some of them are quite… interesting. Shall I tell you what’s interesting about my game?’

‘What’s that?’ asked Lucretia, getting nervous again.

‘You’re in it,’ said Barin.

Andrew Barber is a novelist, poet, musician and systems developer. He has written three novels in The Cybermancer Chronicles, and Book Four is scheduled for Autumn 2013. His third poetry collection Et Cetera (And Other Similar Things) will be released shortly thereafter.

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/Cybermancer

Would she just shut up? I don’t feel empowered, and I wish she’d stop telling me to. God, why do I have to deal with a damn social worker right now? And why’s every single room on the planet painted this horrible taupe color? It makes me feel like I’m a damn psychiatric patient. Well at the moment, I probably could be. I think I’m going insane. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. I have so many butterflies in my stomach that I think it’s going to explode. I wouldn’t mind that right now. I want to explode into a million little pieces and be forgotten. Just disappear. Uhhh, I feel so sick. Why am I doing this? Why am I facing him? No, don’t think about that night, don’t think about it, just tell yourself why… just say why… that’s all. Ok? Deep breath. Now, why? Because I don’t want him to do it to anyone else. Correct. Because I don’t want any other woman to feel like I do every day. Good. Yes. Because I hate him. Bingo. Because I fucking hate him, and I am fucking angry. So fucking angry. Oh God, I’m going to cry. Stop. You can’t cry. You can’t. Not yet. You have to go in there first. Deep breath. It’s ok. You’ve got this. Deep breaths. Oh fuck this. I’m a damn nutcase. I might actually be going insane. Ahahaha, I’m insane! I’m insane! Oh my God, I actually am insane! Stop it! You damn looney! HA! So you agree! Ok, Ok. I’ll stop. Couldn’t help it though. Oh, and can you believe his defense? He was sexually abused by his asshole of a dad as a kid so now he can go around raping and maiming! That bastard. I don’t give a shit what happened to him! He still did this to me! He did this to me! No! Don’t touch your face. Don’t reach up there. There’s no point. Don’t do it. Oh God, now I am crying. Where’s a damn tissue? Oh good, she has one. I guess social workers are good for something. Ok, couple of deep breaths, wipe your eyes, and then control yourself. You have to stop this. You’re about to go into that courtroom. Pull yourself together. Ok? Ok? Ok. Yes. Yes. I’m pulling myself together. I am. I’m fine. Yes, I’m fine. What the hell did she just say? Oh shit it’s time. Oh God, I’m not ok. I’m not fucking ok.

“Don’t worry, Miss Hiatt, everything will be fine. Right this way.”

*  *  *

            Oh my God, there he is. Why’s everyone looking at me? Stop looking at me! I know I’m horrendous! Oh God, please make them stop. Please make them stop. Calm down. It’s alright. Relax. They’re only looking at you because you just walked into the courtroom. Yeah, but now they’re staring at my face. No, no they aren’t. Just relax. That’s right. Look you already made it to your seat. Now just sit. Perfect. You’re doing great. Would you look at him? He’s wearing a damn suit! That asshole. He shouldn’t be allowed to dress like that! He should have to wear what he was wearing when he did this to me! Show the jury his true colors! Pay attention! They just asked you your first question!

“Ummm, I’m sorry, could you please repeat the question? I wasn’t ready yet.”

*  *  *

            I don’t want to answer this question! I don’t want to tell what happened in front of all these people. Oh God. I need to leave. I need to leave now. Oh God, please. Please. Shhh. It’s ok. Everything’ll be ok. You’re almost done. But you have to answer this question. You’re strong. You survived this. You got away. You’re here. You’re right, this won’t be easy. But remember, God doesn’t test you beyond what you can handle… Really, the God card? That’s low. Well, I guess I did pull it on myself huh? Ok, going insane again. Alright. You’re doing great. Keep going. Oh damn it, I’m tearing up. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to cry. Ok, I’m crying. It’s alright. Everything’ll be ok. Just reach for the tissue box. That’s it. Now just wipe your eyes. Take a couple of deep breaths, that’s it, good, and now continue.

“I left the club around 1:30 A.M. and started walking home…”

*  *  *

            Who’s that woman behind him? She seems really upset. She looks like she’s going to be ill. I think she needs these tissues more than I do! I wonder who the hell she is. She’s older. Looks like she could be his mother. Oh my God, it’s his mother! He has a mother? Well, of course he has a mother. I don’t mean that. It’s just that he has a mother who cares. My God, she’s really crying. No! I don’t give a shit! I don’t give a rat’s ass about her fucking tears! I can’t believe she has the nerve to cry! Can you believe it? Like she’s the damn victim here. I hate her. She should’ve raised a better son. It’s her fault! She failed! She screwed up and I have to pay! Bitch, bitch, bitch. Hey, calm down just a smidge, alright? Stop working yourself up. You’re acting like a damn nutcase. I am a damn nutcase. Stop it! Get a grip. And you don’t know what that woman went through. You have no idea how she was with her son. If her husband sexually abused their own son, how do you think he treated her, huh? That lady probably had a horrible life. What, so I have to pay for it? Come on, have some compassion. You are better than this bitter person. Look at her. Don’t you see her pain? She just loves her son. Screw her! What kind of person loves that monster? She’s probably a monster too! She’s just upset her son got caught!

“And then what happened next, Miss Hiatt?”

*  *  *

            Oh screw you, Ms. A.D.A.! What do you think happened next! Can’t you see it all over my face! God, why does this have to be so damn civil! Ahhh, I’m just sitting in here screaming to myself and no one can hear! Come on, can’t you just relax and breathe for a bit? I mean for God’s sake. You’ve completely lost yourself! Do you think I want to be this way? I don’t want to be this person! But I can’t let go of the anger. I can’t! It protects me from the sadness and shame! Don’t you see? I have to be this way! I don’t know what else to be! It gives me strength.

“Well, Ms. Hiatt, you said it was dark in the alleyway. So then can you please explain to me how you knew it was my client who attacked you?”

*  *  *

What a great question, asshole! Geez, I hate this guy already! Good God, who’s making all that noise? It sounds like a funeral in here! Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s the mother again! I mean really, lady, don’t you think you’re being a tad ridiculous? It really isn’t about you! Goodness, she’s really, really upset. She hasn’t let up the whole time I’ve been in here. Alright, fine, I’ll give it to you. She obviously does really love her son. I guess it’s only natural for a mother to love her son. But it’s sorda sad though, isn’t it? I can’t imagine watching my son grow up to become a monster. She must’ve seen it happening and couldn’t stop it. Well how could she in their household? Sounds like her husband was a real piece of work. She must’ve really suffered, watching her son’s pain and not being able to help, not being able to make it stop or go away. That’s a mom’s job, to protect her children. And she couldn’t. She failed… Just like now… Oh my God, she still sees him as that little boy that she can’t help. That’s why she’s crying so much. To her, he’s just her little boy. Oh my God, that poor woman. Maybe, I should go easy on her. I mean how long has she suffered? Felt guilty and punished herself for her failures? Oh the poor woman. I feel so bad for her. Oh dear God, please be with that woman, please end her suffering, please help her find peace. It’s not her fault. It really isn’t. And if any of it is, please forgive her. Please be with her Lord. Please help her to forgive herself.

“Miss Hiatt, were you or weren’t you wearing inappropriate and revealing clothing the night of the alleged attack?”

“Objection!”

*  *  *

            Alleged my ass! Fucking dick… God, is this over yet? I don’t think I can take much more. If I don’t get done soon, I might pass out. You know, watching his mom made me realize something—at some point, he must have just been a little boy. Like any other little boy, right? His mom loves him. And she still loves him because she remembers him as just her little boy. So he was once just a regular boy. Did he like playing in the mud? Chasing fireflies? Did he like riding his bike? Did he even have a bike? Did his dad ever take him on vacation or fishing or to the movies? When did he start dreading doing anything with his dad? How old was he when it started? 10? 7? Even younger? His childhood must’ve been so painful. He must’ve felt so alone and so scared all the time. Did he have somewhere to hide? How did he deal with it? I feel so bad for him. Not him as the grown man, but him as the boy. Every child deserves to be innocent, and it should never be ripped away. The poor boy. But that doesn’t mean he can grow up to be a rapist! Nothing excuses him now. At some point, he had a damn choice, and he chose the wrong damn thing to do with his pain! Oh my God, he just looked at me! He was crying. He was actually crying! He looked… He looked… ashamed and pained and worried and scared and maybe even… sorry… Is that possible? Sorry? No, he’s probably just sorry he got caught. But I didn’t feel that that was it. It felt like he was truly sorry, like he was apologizing. Oh God, I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to feel compassion for him. I can’t yet. I need my anger. I just can’t forgive him. Not yet. It wouldn’t be real. I wouldn’t mean it yet. And when I finally do forgive, I want to mean it. I want to be able to say it and never feel the anger inside me again. God, I need your strength. I need you to show me how to forgive and love again. I don’t want to be like this forever. I want to change and find myself once more. Please God, bring me into your light. Oh! He’s looking at me again. He is staring. He has green eyes like me, I hadn’t noticed….I want to do something. I’m not ready to forgive you, but, while I’m looking at you, I’m prepared to make you a promise. I’m ready to promise that I’ll work every day to find a way to forgive you. I promise I will work to release my anger. I promise to find a way. And I promise that one day I will forgive myself for becoming this angry person. And I promise that one day I will forgive you, and I will mean it. I promise I will find grace for us both.

“Miss Hiatt, you may now step down from the witness chair.”

Mary Jaimes loves reading, writing, and editing and is lucky enough be able to pursue these passions through her work for Scigentasy. She is interested in speculative fiction, traveling, eating good food, and watching sports. She received her Bachelor’s degree from Vanderbilt University and earned a J.D. at the University of Texas. Last but not least, she is the proud wife of an amazing husband and a loving mother to her chiweenie and two cats.