Vote Now and Avoid the Rush!! It's the SDMB Short Fiction Contest's Anthology Thread for June 2011

Hello, everyone, and welcome to the Anthology Thread of the SDMB Short Fiction Contest - June 2011 National Holidays Theme edition. The poll will appear about 24 hours from now.
A quick recap of the rules -

At 9 AM EDT on Friday, June 24th, 2011, I posted a link to a photo (found by random means) and also three words (again, obtained by random means) in an auto-reply message at sdmbpoetrysweatshop at gmail dot com. Writers still have until 10 PM EDT, Monday, July 11th, 2011 to write an original piece of short fiction on a Springtime theme, no more than 2,000 words in length, based in some way on that photo and those three words and using a ‘National Holidays’ theme. All interested participants will be working from the same compulsory material.

As of the posting of this thread, there will still be ~24 hours left to any interested participants.

Writers - send your completed work to me, preferably in a .doc format, at sdmbpoetrysweatshop at gmail dot com before 10 PM EDT on Monday, July 11th, 2011. I will verify that it is 2,000 words or less, and I will post it in this Anthology Thread. Please include your SDMB username, and please let me know if your story incorporates any special text such as bold, italic or underline. (These codes do not always transfer directly, and I do want your stories to look right.) I will post the stories as a ~100 word teaser, followed by the rest of the story in a spoiler box, (Click the button labeled ‘spoiler’ to reveal the text, for those not familiar with the SDMB.) with the authors’ names in separate spoiler boxes.

At 10 PM EDT, Monday, July 11th, 2011, a multiple choice poll will be established to determine the readers’ favourite story. I would also ask voters to choose those stories that have incorporated the compulsory material in the most interesting manner. At the end of a week, the poll will close and we will declare a winner of the PoeHenryParkerSaki award.

The poll, once established, will be a secret ballot type poll. No one need ever know how you voted. I would, however, encourage everyone to please vote. You are providing an important source of feedback to the writers.

While we welcome readers’ comments, may I please request that readers hold off until after the poll is established. That way, the first posts in the thread will all be the various stories. After the poll is established, your comments are enthusiastically encouraged.

To recap the compulsory material -

A ‘National Holidays’ theme.

The Photo

and the three words -

Carton
Vie
Plumb

And now, here are the stories that this contest has produced. I want to point out - the authors’ user names are in spoiler boxes at the end of the stories. Please do not be fooled by the fact that they appear in ‘replies’ sent by me - only one of these stories is mine.

Enjoy!

**Le Ministre de l’au-delà **

“Live! From the future, it’s Adam Roe, grandson of the man we are here to celebrate today, microblog-casting to all 74 of my viewers. I’m at Pirates Cover, a cove under El Capitan, town of Sowassett, with the world’s second best view of the upcoming events.”

Adam angled his Omnicom away from his own beaming face, and onto the other teenaged boy, whose shoulder he had his arm around. Adam’s lighter skin, watery blue eyes, and sandy hair contrasted sharply with his companion’s darker skin, eyes, and hair.

[spoiler]Adam was also wearing beige cargo shorts and a dark blue t-shirt with a pop culture icon logo, whereas the other youth wore more casual island faire; Cubano button-down short-sleeve shirt with light stripes, and loose, gauzy white beach pants. They both wore sandals but had cast them off some distance behind them on the beach. All that kept them company now was a solitary backpack a few feet away.

“And this is Kir, my good friend from Indonesia. I chose him out of all 10 or so international friends to share this coveted spot with me. And he didn’t even have the courtesy to bring a bribe!”

Kir rolled his eyes; Adam continued, “Kir is short for Kirana, which appropriately for tonight’s event, stands for “beautiful ray of light.”

Kir replied “And Adam is equally appropriate, as the first man.”

“Now Kir - sure Kirana isn’t a girl’s name?” teased Adam.

Kir gave Adam a dirty look that couldn’t quite hide his grin as he pointed, and said “what’s that?”

Adam and couldn’t make out more than a blur on the surface of the water. “I don’t know, probably a turtle?”

Distracted, he was off guard as Kir vied for the Com, wrestling it away from Adam. The last thing Adam’s viewers saw was them and the view spinning towards the ground, before the feed shut off.

The two young men lay on their backs in the sand breathing heavily, exhausted wrestling.

Kir protested “bigot!”

“My viewers are used to my erratic sense of humor. That’s probably the least worst thing I’ve said this week,” countered Adam.

“Anyway,” corrected Kir, “I did, in fact, bring bribes.” He dragged over his backpack. He unzipped the smaller pouch, and produced two Zippo lighters, each engraved with one of their names.

Adam’s eyes widened as he took his, flipped the lid open, and flicked the flame into life. “Awesome!”

“It will come in handy when the big moment comes.”

Adam agreed, “Yeah hardly anybody has lighters now that all the smokers have gone over to e-cigs. Concert cheering is all Coms now. Man, cigarettes were nasty, I’m glad that’s over with. Although, having a lighter almost makes me feel like I should take up smoking,” he joked.

Kir laughed. “There’s plenty of retro smokers. It’s just the cigarette smokers that have transitioned. Anyway, there’s another use for the lighters.” He brought a carton out of the larger pouch and handed it to Adam.

“Sparklers! That’s perfect,” exclaimed Adam.

Kir explained, “There’s already going to be bigger fireworks going off tonight, plus Customs, plus these are more fun, I think.”

“No arguments here,” said Adam, smiling. “It’s a national holiday after all.”

“More like =international= holiday, you mean,” Kir pointed out. “This is a historical moment for the whole globe. Now isn’t there something…”

Adam grinned as he caught the pointed, mock glare of Kir aimed his way. “I suppose you’ll be wanting something too?” Kir laughed. “Close your eyes and count to ten.”

Kir obeyed. “One…two…three” He heard Adam scamper off in the sand. “four…five…six.” He couldn’t hear Adam any more. “Seven-eight-nine-ten!” shouted Kir in one final burst. He turned around, but Adam was gone without a trace.

Kir couldn’t see anywhere that Adam could be hiding given the short time he had his eyes closed. “Adam?” he shouted. He heard a stifled giggle but couldn’t tell from what direction; it seemed to come from several places at once.

Kir looked down and his eyes traced the path of Adam’s footprints in the sand all the way to the dark rocky outcrop whose top held the ruins of El Capitan. But at the foot of the rock, they stopped.

“Boo!” Adam’s head popped out of the rock about ten feet above Kir’s head, like some kind of optical illusion. Apparently the formation of the rocky wall was such that there was a hidden hole a third of the way up which was invisible to anyone looking from either the bottom or the top.

“How on Earth did you find that?”

“You forget,” reminded Adam as he climbed back down the cliff, “I’m a legacy!”

“You mean your grandfather?” asked Kir.

“More than that,” replied Adam, “The Wonders.”

Kir nodded, one of the few who knew about The Wonders, a longstanding, generally unknown network of seven sites around the world founded by enthusiasts of the original “World Wonders,” and each inspired by one of them.

At the top of the cliff overlooking the cove, sat the ruins of El Capitan, originally “The Lighthouse”. Whereas Kir hailed from The Garden, a very small island in Indonesia with a botanical garden, arboretum, and nature preserve inspired by the original Hanging Gardens.

“Being part of this Wonder means I’m privy to some of its history and secrets; being descendant of the original inhabitant gives me even. Since you come from a … and since the OmniCom is off…” Kir laughed. “I’ll let you in on my secret. There have been various periods of time when those hidden caves and tunnels have come in handy.”

“Pirates Cover!” exclaimed Kir.

“Yes,” explained Adam, “the tunnels were used for smuggling, although I doubt if the smugglers were your stereotypical pirates. However this,” pointing to the green bottle, “comes from its time as a speak-easy.”

“Booze!” Said Kir. The U.S. had come to its senses and lowered the drinking age to 18, but they were 17 and Kir came from a mostly Muslim country. Grinning in approval, “wow, a speak-easy, a smuggling cove, a lighthouse – your Wonder seems a bit more interesting than mine.”

“Jealous?” asked Adam. “Your Wonder is plenty cool too, mine is just perhaps salacious I think we’ve also had a library, a cult, a temple, and a student house.”

“Cult, really?” asked Kir incredulously.

“Well, during the hippy commune era, centered around a strong personality figure.”

“Hah!” replied Kir.

“Of course,” finished Adam, “after was a final attempt at restoring the lighthouse to its original historical form, but it accidently burned.” Left, a large circle of stone at the top of the cliff. “Inside the ruins, as a tribute to my grandfather, who invented transit technology, and his ancestor, who first inhabited the lighthouse, and the over-all metaphorical nature of lighthouses… inside the ring of stone sits the transit gate, which will beam the first man to Mars back to Earth.”

They were silent for a moment, thinking about the momentous occasion. In honor of Adam’s grandfather, and the resultant first ever interplanetary transit beam, today was the first National Roe Day.

Kir was reminded, by a glint of refracting light, about the bottle. “So what is it?”

“Strawberry/kiwi infused mead,” replied Adam. “Hope it didn’t turn into vinegar.” He couldn’t remember the details from the film he had seen long ago with that plotline. He popped off the cork and started to take a swig, but it caught in his throat and he sputtered and coughed while Kir was dismayed.

Adam said, “ Not vinegar. Just a bit stronger than wine. But still delicious. Just need a wee bit smaller swig.”

Kir laughed and grabbed the bottle, and carefully tipped it into his mouth. “Mmmmm, strong, but good. And perfect timing.” He pointed to the horizon, where the sun was a few degrees away from setting, and they both plopped down.

“How can we see the sunset? Aren’t we on the north shore facing north?” asked Kir.

“Colloquially,” replied Adam, “it’s considered the north shore. But Long Island is actually at a little bit of an angle and faces slightly northwest. Between that and the fact that the Earth is tilted, and that it’s summer, we get to see the sunset from what we call the north shore.”

They both fell into silence as the sun began to set, moving only to take the occasional swig of hard mead. The burgeoning buzz only intensified the beauty of the sight. Although they were the only ones privileged enough to have access to the beach around the cove and under the cliff that supported El Capitan, they were far from alone in the larger sense.

The cove was a tiny circle of water attached near the mouth of the harbor, beyond which was two jetting sand dunes defining the opening. Although it had been arranged to have the cove be free of boats, the harbor itself, and the sound beyond it, were crammed with celebratory sea craft.

And at the head of the harbor, the relatively small village was so packed with people, Adam felt like it had turned into Times Square. Beyond the harbor lie the Long Island Sound, and beyond that a thin strip of Connecticut outlined the horizon, silhouetted by the nearly vanished sun.

The sky lit up in colors other than the usual blue, a light haze and a few clouds turning yellow, orange, pink, and purple. The shallow water at the edge of the cove barely covered undulating ripples of sand under the surface.

Eventually it turned dark, and the din of the celebratory crowds in boats, in the village, and at the transit site at the top of the cliff, became a loud roar. Electricity was in the air as the anticipation of people nearby, and those around the world, became overwhelming. The teens each lit a sparkler.

The one-minute silent countdown timer was projected into the sky. “It’s like New Year’s Eve and the Fourth of July!” said Adam.

“Well we do have sparklers and a countdown,” agreed Kir.

As the count reached to seconds, the various crowds began to shout the numbers, and the pair looked up at the cliff. “Ten! Nine! Eight!”

“But we’re still missing something,” said Adam as he turned towards Kir.

“Seven! Six! Five!” shouted the crowd.

“What’s that?” asked Kir, facing Adam.

“Four! Three! Two!”

“A New Year’s Eve kiss,” replied Adam.

“One!” shouted the crowd as the transit beam shot down from the sky and into the ruins, and Adam and Kir’s lips finally met. Adam couldn’t be sure if his heart was beating so fast because of the kiss, or the fear at the thought that something would go wrong with the transit beam.

It didn’t matter though, the kiss was perfect, made even more ridiculously romantic by the crowds cheering and fireworks going off, which he easily imagined as being just for them.

And little had Kir known, but Adam had surreptitiously reacquired the
OmniCom earlier and had been broadcasting their kiss and everything before that during the minute countdown. Kir finally noticed the Com sitting in Adam’s hand, plumb with regards to their kiss in the foreground and transit beam in the background, and he disengaged.

“Really?” asked Kir.

“Hey, it’s a historical moment!” defended Adam.

“The transit beam or the kiss?” asked Kir.

“Both!” answered Adam, and realigned the OmniCom to the transit beam, as it shuddered and started to include a humanoid form. The various crowds started to light up their Coms in solidarity as the transit beam blinked out and left only an illuminated astronaut. Adam and Kir raised their antiquated lighters.

Kir said to Adam and the offending OmniCom, “Wow, the future really is bright!”

And he was right. The ruins marked the end of The Lighthouse, but the beginning of a new hope, and a new ray of light for world.[/spoiler]

jackdavinci

Time to work out those pounds.

Running on the beach barefoot, they say that it offers more resistance and so one uses more muscles. The ankle gets most of the benefits, unfortunately his knee is the one with the occasional trouble, but this time the run did go without too much trouble from it.

It was getting dark in a very beautiful sunset on the beach, it was far from the mountain park, but he knew he had to go hiking soon there, so it was good to prepare, get in shape. Good that he was not grossly overweight, but he needed to lose several pounds, or kilos as the weight was preferred to be measured in the tropical old country beach where he was running on.

[spoiler]After a few weeks he was ready to go, meet with and old friend to go to climb the mountain in the old country and see the park.

After a handshake and a hug, the old friends looked at old pictures and reminisced.

“You gained some kilos eh David?”

“Oh well, yeah, but I’m working on it. Are we OK for the climb tomorrow?”

“All is listo (ready)”

It was not a big park, but it was high on the mountain, 20 years ago some local guys thought it was a good idea to make an amusement park on top of the mountain, good in the sense that in the valley below the summer days were hot, so going up and having some fun could be interesting and amusing for many. It was true enough at the beginning, David remembered how nice it was to ride in the small enclosed cable cars up the mountain and reach an amusement park, that lasted just about 10 years when it went under.

Beside the expensive fees, it sure it was no Disneyland or even a Six Flags.

“So who is the beautiful senorita in the photo that you are looking the most?”

“Her name is Alice and she is old American friend of mine, it was at the park that we met.”

She was very beautiful, about 17 in the picture, David and her looked happy and already looked like a couple then, they were standing on front of a very peculiar little restaurant on the border of the park, but then civil unrest moved their families and a friendship was lost.

Until recently when they found each other thanks to internet social networking, luckily they were not in a relationship with others so they talked and constantly kept in touch, ever wondering who would move so they could get closer.

The next day Alberto and David drove to the feet of the mountain and got ready, it was a good climb, no use looking for the elevated cable cars as they were removed after the park went under, it was still private property, but one could go up and sight see with some permissions.

“Uh, you did get permission eh Alberto?” David did say after Alberto opened a flimsy fence and continued hiking.

“Yes I did, please stop worrying, I’m an amigo of the son of one of the owners and after some negotiations he agreed to let us go up and see how the park looks now.

David remembered the images of the New Orleans Six Flags, after hurricane Katrina. Surprisingly they showed little damage, but the economy did go under in the area because many people left the location and so the park never reopened, it was creepy how the little decay appeared in the images of New Orleans but in the San Teodoro mountain park it was much worse.

In the old days the park’s small buildings that had the different attractions and games were very colorful and modern compared to the old ones in the capital city down the valley, balloons everywhere you could see and many people were walking back and from the rides.

Now this was in the tropics, so it was not strange to see the jungle taking over today, bushes growing everywhere, and so tall they almost covered the lower level of the buildings, even the main road in the park had the cracks in the concrete floor with vegetation growing tall. The color was gone from the roof the small buildings, but green was the prevalent color as the vegetation was also beginning to grow in the roofs. Some buildings were leaning so much that there was no need to to get a plumb to see that they were no longer straight.

So David took the photo out and looked around for the location where his parents took it when he was with her that summer day. It was by coincidence taken on a 4th of July. And she was the odd person celebrating with a USA flag on her t-shirt, she was an American citizen and over there she was going to the American College so she was not the only one celebrating that day.

Back to now, David mentioned to her in an email about the trip that he was going to make to the old country, and the photo he was going to get an update of. So she was as curious as David to see how it could compare with the past.

So after a few minutes walking close to the rusting mini train tracks, he noticed the front of the restaurant where the original photo was taken, It was surrounded by trees and the small road was almost entirely covered with big leaf plants and foliage taller than a person.

It was getting late, and for sure in this place one can not be surprised if wild animals are also in the premises. So after finding the location David gave the camera to Alberto so he could take the picture.

David stood and lifted his arm like in the old photo and said hi. After a few tries they got a very close match to the original. And then started the long walk down to the car.

It was later that night that he sent the before and after pictures to her.

“I though of adding a “Wish you were here!” as a caption, but then I realized it was not a good place to be nowadays, still I vie for the best shot” wrote David on the Email.

On her reply she did make notice of the weight David had gained, but also that “There was Zapote ice cream there!”

David had not noticed that. The menu could be read still, and after some closeups it was clear that it was. Very peculiar fruit flavor for a popular local ice cream there. And then David remembered that it was her favorite ice cream.

Before going to his current home in Oregon, David did a stop in California, and this time the hug was more satisfying.

Back at her place more memories were exchanged and more plans for making more together in the near future. But also there was a little surprise brought in.

“Zapote Ice Cream! you did remember!” she said while opening the carton… “but wait, is this all for me? Aren’t you on a diet?” She said with greed in her eyes.

“Well, I contacted some friends of mine at a local ice cream shop and paid for a special batch with artificial sweetener, to get a better price I helped with the mix, so yeah, I did work on those kilos.”

Of course they married a year after that, and it was she who moved to Oregon, That was also where most of his family lived, and that was also the place the batches of a peculiar ice cream were sent.
[/spoiler]

GIGObuster

Alex stood at the edge of the lawn, where it gave way to a beach of pebbles. On his feet were the worn-out sneakers he had used to wade into the lake for years. He smiled and stepped forward.

The beach was small this time of year. Later, it would be much larger, as the lake shrank, as it always did towards the fall. But now, on this warm July day, it was about where it should be for now, and two steps took him across it and into the water.

[spoiler]Standing there, in his worn-out sneakers, up to his ankles in the lake, Alex remembered how, so many years, he had been in the lake in May. From an early age, he had gone up on the May long weekend, helped take the shutters off the cottage, helped dig out the pit under the outhouse, helped uncover the furniture and put the chairs out on the verandah. And then, he had changed and run down to the lake, where he’d dive in and emerge, often screaming from the cold, but happy that once again, he could claim to have swum in the lake in May.

He didn’t make it in May this year, or in June either. No, this was his first dip in the lake this year. But he had an excuse: he didn’t have to open up the New Cottage after the winter. It was always ready for use.

The “Old Cottage,” as its predecessor was known, was the one he knew as a child. Purchased by his grandfather when his mother was still a child, it had remained in the family after his grandfather passed away, going to his grandmother, then to his mother, and then to his sister and him, and finally to him. It was during his grandmother’s ownership that his mother and father had taken him, and when she came along, his sister, to the cottage; and it was where they would spend summers for the next number of years.

The Old Cottage was unique. Built before building codes existed, or were strictly enforced, it had fallen out of plumb and hardly had a level floor in it. Windows canted in such a way that they could not be opened, and the rain forced itself in through the resulting gaps in the frames. During storms, the whole family was pressed into service, sopping up the water that came in. But there was a big stone fireplace, and a bright sunshiny kitchen, and a cosy living room that was the site of countless bridge games on summer evenings. He had learned to play as a child, because his parents and Grandma needed a fourth, and he and Grandma would vie against his parents for the nightly championship.

Alex walked farther into the lake. The pebbles extended under the water before giving way to sand. When he reached the sand, the water to his shins, he took off his old sneakers and dug his toes into the rippled sand. He threw the sneakers up onto the shore. The sand was under his feet, and he wouldn’t need them anymore.

The sand. It extended for who knew how far out into the lake. It had always been under his feet, no matter how far out he went. It impressed his high school friends, who were used to the public beach and its rocks. But here, nature had provided a carpet of rippled sand under the water.

Lizzie had liked it. He remembered the first time he had brought her to the cottage—it was shortly after his mother had assumed title after Grandma’s death, and his mother had torn down the Old Cottage and built the new one. It had level floors and was waterproof, and best of all, it had indoor plumbing. It had been difficult to get his girlfriends to return to the Old Cottage, after they had to experience the outhouse. But Lizzie never knew the outhouse, and loved the New Cottage.

Alex’s parents were kind of old-fashioned, so Lizzie always had her own room when she arrived with Alex for the weekend. But she didn’t mind, as there were plenty of times that Alex and Lizzie found to get away to the cottage when his parents or sister weren’t there. They made sweet love at night, and in the morning, awoke to the birdsong outside, and the sun streaming in the windows.

Dear Lizzie. The only woman he had ever really loved. They had met at college, dated for years, and finally married, when they could at last officially sleep together at the cottage. Then, after their son had made it to age ten, Lizzie had noticed something wrong. A consultation with her doctor, and some tests, and the diagnosis was made: cancer, with six months to live.

Towards the end, Alex had left his son with his mother for the day, and gone to the hospital. He loaded Lizzie in the car against her doctor’s wishes, and brought her to the cottage. Lizzie was too weak to do much, so they did nothing more than sit on the verandah that afternoon, talking. But the birds sang and the sun shone, and Lizzie smiled because she was in one of her favourite places, and it was a happy day. He returned her to the hospital later, and put up with the “harummphs” of the doctor, secure in the knowledge that while he was not a medical man, he had comforted her more in her last days than any physician or medication could.

Lizzie died a week later. Alex arranged for her ashes to be scattered at the cottage.

He hitched a little bit at the thought of Lizzie’s passing, and stopped. He was waist-high in the water now, and he turned back to look. There was the cottage, surrounded by the lawn and the trees and the bushes. All nourished by Lizzie, he thought. She would be happy to know that.

Also nourished by others, he reflected. Mother and Dad had died in a car accident caused by a drunk driver, while on their way home from a bridge game with friends. Their remains were scattered here as well.

His mother had left the New Cottage to Alex and his sister, but his sister never had much of a chance to enjoy being the owner. She had spurned their parents’ entreaties to get a nice, safe, office job after college; and instead, had worked as a freelance photo-journalist. Her job took her to the world’s conflict areas, and her reports and photos were well-received by various wire services. And when she had tried to speak to some people she really shouldn’t have spoken to, she was offered a deal: a carton of cigarettes or her life. And she had no cigarettes that day.

After some negotiations, the embassy arranged for her to be returned to Alex, and he had arranged for her also to nourish the land around the cottage.

Alex wondered where he was getting all these sad thoughts. It was a long weekend, after all, and others were happily doing pleasurable things. There were sailboats out in the lake, and he knew there would be people fishing by the river, and barbecues firing up, and radios playing, and plenty of beer being consumed.

That had been the best part about the July long weekend: lots of friends and lots of fun. He well remembered when he and Lizzie had decided to invite a bunch of friends up for the long weekend. The guys had gone golfing, and the ladies headed off to a spa, and when they all met up again, Alex had got the barbecue working and they all tucked into a great feed of steaks. The weather had been perfect, and everybody had a great time. He well remembered the fun they had afterwards, drinking beer and singing off-key to the radio and kidding each other about who would be the first to go skinny-dipping. In the end, nobody had gone skinny-dipping, but to hear the stories of that weekend as they were told later, one would have thought that the cottage had been turned into a nudist camp.

Alex wasn’t skinny-dipping today. Just his plain old trunks, that he had received one Father’s Day. Ostensibly from his son, but really from Lizzie, they had been what he wore into the lake for years.

His son. Gosh, there was a disappointment. A wonderful child, every parent’s dream, he had discovered drugs in high school and never left them. Alex blamed that group of friends he had made there, but in the back of his mind, he had to admit that he and Lizzie might be somewhat to blame also. Trips home from college involved loud shouting matches and slammed doors; and in the end, there was one final slam, and their son never returned. Well, not until after the police found him dead in a crack house in a city a couple of thousand miles away, and sent his body home.

His son nourished the cottage as well.

Up to his chest in the lake now, Alex turned to look back at the cottage. There it stood, as it always had. He smiled as he remembered that this was the approximate area where his father would drive old golf balls off the lawn out into the lake, and Alex would be waiting out here. If his father hit the drive straight, Alex could usually swim and dive to retrieve the ball off the rippled sand so it could be hit again; but if his father sliced—which happened more often than not—the ball was gone.

No golf balls under his feet today, Alex noted. He would have been surprised if there were; while his father had hit hundreds out into the lake, that was years ago, and the sands would have buried all by now.

It was deep enough that Alex could swim. And so, his feet left the sand and he slowly swam out into the lake.

He was far away from shore, but he had been out here before, with Lizzie. Before they were married, they had come up one winter for a weekend away, and had snuggled down in the New Cottage. But weary from lovemaking (how did we ever get tired of that, Alex wondered), they had walked far out onto the ice of the lake until they heard cracks coming from the ice, and had walked back, to the safety of the land and the warmth of the fire.

No need for a fire today, Alex thought. It was a beautiful, early July day, and the sun was shining down. Alex smiled as he recalled all the people who had meant so much to him—his grandmother, his parents, his sister, his son—and especially, his dear Lizzie. He missed them all terribly, but they weren’t really gone, were they?

He would find out soon enough. Still smiling, he strengthened his stroke and continued out into the lake.

[/spoiler]

Spoons

He’d left the television on in the background while he packed, but when the talking head on the cable news program introduced the next segment with a joke about wacky people believing weird things, he knew what was coming. He aimed the remote at the television like a gun, and pressed the power button. Blam.

No more TV.

He supposed he should have been disgusted, but he’d long since moved past disgust, or fear, or frustration. All that was left was to consider what to bring. Two shirts? Three? One would probably be enough. He was tempted to pack nothing at all, but boarding a plane to Brazil with a one-way ticket and no luggage would increase his risk of being detained by security, and there was no time for that. And since he’d have to bring luggage anyway, he may as well fill it with something.

[spoiler]Two shirts. Why not?

He’d picked Brazil almost at random. The only important thing was to get well away from centers of population. Far from civilization. He’d originally thought of going to Montana or some other remote Western state. Someplace in the mountains, maybe. But then one afternoon he’d seen one of the photography books Beck had left behind. Photos of wild landscapes; pristine nature. One of them was a photo of a beach in Brazil.

Brazil, he thought. The plane ticket would nearly exhaust his cash reserves, but that was all right. He’d made a couple of phone calls and with his halting high-school Portuguese, made a reservation at a beach cabin near Tamandaré. He’d arrive on July 4; he hadn’t noticed the holiday until confirming the reservation.

He threw a pair of swim trunks into the duffel bag – you never know – and pulled the cords closed. He looked around the little house he’d shared with Beck; at the couch they’d bought together, the stack of DVDs he’d watched with her.

He thought about calling her; thought about hearing the sound of her voice again. He’d like that. But it had been months since they’d spoken; and months before that since they’d spoken without rancor. He wondered if she was watching the news right now. Or maybe watching the skies.

He didn’t think so.

He shut the lights off out of habit, took a deep breath, and opened his front door to the chaos he knew he’d find waiting on his front lawn. With a sinking feeling, he realized that today there were news crews in addition to the usual collection of religious zealots and nuts holding signs. One of the reporters, a blonde with a tailored navy-blue suit, pointed a microphone in his direction.

“Professor Greenberg! Professor! Can we get a statement from you about the asteroid? A quick statement, sir?”

He paused, just for a second, and said, “My commentary is all a matter of record. You can check with the university if you like.” He pushed his way through the throng of people crowding his sidewalk, making his way to his car. He wasn’t in the mood to vie with reporters. Not today.

“Professor Greenberg,” the blonde shouted, “is it true that you’re no longer with the university?”

Without turning around, he muttered, “No comment.” He threw his duffel bag into the back seat of his hatchback, slammed the door, and got behind the wheel. The reporter was still shouting questions, but from inside the car she was muted, her mouth opening and closing silently. He pulled out of his driveway, adjusting the rear-view mirror to see his house behind him, shrinking into the distance as he drove away.

It was true; he hadn’t been employed with the university for over three months now. When he’d first discovered the asteroid, they’d been supportive, issuing press releases and holding conferences. But then when nobody else – not professionals with high-powered equipment, not backyard amateurs, not anybody – had been able to replicate his results, the atmosphere at his department had become decidedly chilled. He’d been encouraged to retract his findings. To admit that he’d been wrong.

But I’m not wrong, he thought, watching the city blur past on the way to the airport. I wasn’t then, and I’m not now. He’d done several sets of observations over the course of a year before releasing his findings in the first place. He’d checked, and re-checked, and re-checked again. There was no mistake; it was an asteroid, well over a kilometer in diameter, and it was on an impact course with Earth.

He’d named it Shiva.

They’d had two years’ advance notice, thanks to him. Or they should have. Instead, a high-profile astronomer working for a top-ten university had declared that Professor Greenberg was unfortunately mistaken; that he had detected a far-off star instead of an asteroid. Confirmation had come in from all over the world. Greenberg was plumb wrong. Mistaken. Just a star. No reason for panic.

He’d held his ground. Shiva’s trajectory meant that it had slipped directly in front of a distant star, yes. But he had the proof from his earlier observations.

The high-profile astronomer said his data was flawed, and then the religious nuts had leaped onto the bandwagon, and at that point, the cause was lost. A Rapture cult announced that the date Greenberg had given for probable asteroid impact was the date that God had chosen for all true believers to ascend into Heaven. The media picked up on this, and Greenberg quickly became a laughingstock, a figure of mockery. The cultists had started camping out in his front yard at about the same time the university had finally fired him. He’d called the police a few times to evict them, but the cult members kept coming back, and finally he’d given up.

Beck had given up on him long before that. After the first few excited months, she’d started to go quiet whenever he mentioned Shiva. She’d press her lips into a thin line and change the subject. One night, unable to stand her silence anymore, he’d begged reassurance from her that she still believed him. He told her that she was the only one that still had faith in him. Please, Beck, he’d said. Please.

She’d shifted her eyes away, stared at a spot on the kitchen floor, told him that she couldn’t handle this. That this was quixotic, that he was tilting at windmills. That he was going to lose his job if he didn’t stop.

But Beck, he’d said. This is about saving humanity.

The next day when he came home from work, her clothes were gone. She didn’t even leave a note.

The woman checking him in for his flight made small talk by saying, “Brazil is lovely at this time of year, I’ve heard.” He lifted an eyebrow and, without thinking, said, “Only for about three more days, I think.”

Her face tightened. He could read her expression clearly: Oh. You’re one of those. She slid his boarding pass into its outer envelope with a practiced hand, and presented it to him without smiling. “Gate 14C, sir.”

He bought a carton of cigarettes in the duty-free shop at the airport. Camels; the same brand he’d spent three hellish months giving up, back when he first met Beck. He tucked them into his breast pocket, where their familiar weight gave him a surge of nearly unbearable nostalgia. He didn’t look back as he boarded the plane.

When he arrived in Recife, 60 miles north of Tamandaré, the first thing he did was to take a flyer from a dark-haired girl with kohl-rimmed eyes, advertising what seemed to be a whorehouse. The second thing he did was to light a Camel, filling his lungs with the hot, acrid smoke and holding it for a moment before finally exhaling. He read the flyer. It was in English. Discreetly located. Accommodating.

Shiva wouldn’t breach the orbital distance of the Moon for another day or so. Deep space radar would likely pick it up then. He planned to be far from civilization when this happened; far from panic and rioting. But he had a little time. He shouldered his duffel bag and followed the signs for the cab stand.

With his eyes closed, he could imagine that the girl was Beck, and he did, remembering her freckled skin and her wide hips and her blue eyes. Afterward, he opened his eyes to see the bronze-skinned Brazilian girl beneath him, and felt unclean. He paid her more than she’d asked for, and she smiled prettily, and said “Obrigado.” He tapped another cigarette out of the carton and lit it. Running low. “Cigarro?” he asked her. “Camel?”

He bought another carton in the shop the girl had indicated. Not Camels, but good enough.

He rented a car, wondering at his sense of guilt in knowing that he wouldn’t be returning it. Nobody would notice or care. But it still didn’t feel right. He shrugged it off, signed the paperwork, smiled and thanked the rental agent. Coming to Brazil had been a good idea. Nobody recognized him here.

In America there would be fireworks tonight.

The resort was lovely; everything the photography book had promised Brazil would be. Brilliant blue water, white sand, and stands of palm trees. His cabin was at the end of a cluster of similar ones, dotted along the curve of the shore. The far shore, at least two miles away by foot, was open and empty. No cabins there.

He slept that night, fitful and thrashing, and in the morning, packed a few things and began to hike. By now, it was possible that Shiva had been detected. The phone at his house would be ringing, and his email account was no doubt flooded with messages.

He hadn’t bothered to bring his laptop.

When he reached the far shore, he spread out a blanket – stolen from the guest cabin – on the sand, and sat down, leaning back on his elbows. Waiting.

After a while, he heard the distant sound of shouting, and banging on doors. He couldn’t quite make out from this distance what was happening, but it looked as though the guests were being evacuated from the resort. He laughed, once, a short sharp bark. Evacuating to where?

The commotion quieted after a while, leaving the resort empty and deserted. The sun traveled ever-higher; around midday he tired of sitting, and laid back on the blanket, hands laced behind his head, watching the sky.

Near dusk, he heard the far-off cacophony of church bells. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by that. He wondered if his cultists were at a church right now. He hoped not; it would feel somehow wrong, like an admission of defeat.

He didn’t move from the beach, not even when the last sliver of sun faded beneath the horizon and the insects started to buzz. The stars came out, one by one. He saw the one that had so cleverly hidden Shiva all this time, and raised his hand to it in salute, as one acknowledged a superior opponent in battle.

He thought, but wasn’t quite sure, that he heard a distant roaring sound.

“Good night, Beck,” he whispered, and closed his eyes.[/spoiler]

MsWhatsit

Mike had had to vie for the chance for this plumb opportunity – to sing the Star Spangled Banner at the beginning of the baseball game on the 4th of July, in one of the biggest stadiums in the USA, in front of thousands in the stadium, and millions watching it on TV! He auditioned and beat out over 120 other singers for this once in a lifetime chance to perform in front of this huge audience.

It was going to be the greatest day in Mike’s life!

Little did Mike know how this day was going to change his life.

[spoiler]Mike had been practicing the song for weeks, and neighbors were cheering as they heard him hit those notes like nobody they had ever heard sing that rather difficult song. Mike had also been going to the gym regularly and would be showing off his ripped body, wearing his new white linen pants, white shirt and white fedora hat. With his blonde hair and dark complexion, Mike liked what he saw in the mirror and felt confident, ready and eager to perform. This was going to be his moment.

It was hot, as usual on the 4th, and Mike woke up early. He had some orange juice, straight out of the carton, for a shot of Vitamin C. He then had his morning coffee – two cups to get his blood pumping. He drove to the stadium, went through the gates and was ushered to a place of prominence near home plate. He sat in the shade, drank a cool bottle of water to keep his throat moist and watched as the throngs of people started to arrive. Little by little, the stadium started to fill up and you could feel the excitement in the air – what could be more American and fun to do on the 4th than go out to the ‘ol ball game?! There was even going to be a spectacular fireworks show following the game.

Still, the temperature and humidity was climbing rapidly and Mike had to sit near a fan, to keep cool. The iced tea was perfect for his throat, so he gargled silently before swallowing. The time was nearing – the mayor had come to do a bit of glad-handing and show the local fans he was a supporter of the team. He was to say hello, and then introduce Mike, who would sing the National Anthem, and the game would start.

The mayor is a rather chatty person, so when he got out there he took it upon himself to wing it and fire up the crowd with accolades about his lovely city, the great citizens, and the wonderful home team. What was supposed to be a one or two minute hello turned into a 20 minute discourse. Mike had been waiting to go out there longer than he planned and nerves were starting to take effect. Mike was not paying attention to the fact that he had now drunk four large iced teas in the last half hour, not including the water, morning coffee and orange juice. He realized he needed to pee, badly. Unfortunately, the nearest restroom was down the steps, down a long corridor, up some steps and down another long corridor.

“Just nerves,” Mike thought, “soon the song will be over and I can hit the bathroom then.” The mayor droned on and on and Mike started to think maybe he did indeed have time to go to the restroom, but just as he was about to dash off, the mayor suddenly announced Mike’s name and he went running out to sing.

However, that was one very chatty mayor and he insisted on saying hello to Mike, basking in the limelight and calling photographers over for a few more photos.

Mike was now starting to get cramps and he felt his entire body start to tighten up. Finally, the mayor said, “And now, as we feel those breezes from the cool waters nearby, and feel that refreshing, cool mist, let’s celebrate from sea to shining sea!”

Mke started to sing, but all he could think about now was bodies of water – lakes, rivers, ponds, creeks, oceans, waves…and it didn’t help that those images were flying by on the jumbotrons throughout the stadium. The crowd was cheering as he hit those final high notes and he thought it was the thrill of the cheers that made him shiver, but to his horror, he realized he had started to pee his pants. Not just a trickle, but a flood. His pants went from pure white, to pure gold and sopping wet. There was no stopping. For a split second, there was a gasp and silence as everyone in the stadium noticed – and how could they not notice?! There, for the world to see, was a close-up of Mike, full-on front view, on the jumbotrons, all over the stadium, and on live TV, pissing his pants like there was no tomorrow!

The stadium burst out laughing – it was later reported that echoes of the guffaws in the stadium could be heard in backyards of homes three blocks away.

Mike was on the pitcher’s mound, so there was no turning around, no quick escape, no way to hide. He just stood there, sopping wet, still dripping in all the wrong places as he scurried off the pitcher’s mound to the nearest exit. The stadium was still roaring with laughter as Mike got in his car and drove off. He later heard that the crowd sang a variation of the song during the 7th inning stretch with the words, “…and it’s one, two PEE and you’re out in the old ball game!” to further roars of laughter…and when the game was briefly tied, three to three, the crowd chanted, “Pee to pee! Pee to pee!”

The next day, headlines were in every newspaper, and not just in the sports pages:

“From Pee To Shining Pee!”

“Oer The Land Of The Pee!”

“Not So Gallantly Streaming!”

“Oh Say Can He Pee!”

Every late night talk show host had a field day, and even the morning news was making quips and puns, as well as every radio station, columnist, blogger and comedian in the land. Twitter was lit up and the YouTube clip of Mike’s pee-formance (Craig Ferguson joke) went viral – people all over the world who didn’t even speak English, know baseball, nor know the song, were cracking up watching that crazy American piss his pants on the pitcher’s mound in hi-def color!

The next day, Mike pulled down the shades, turned off his cell phone, did not go on the computer nor answer his door. Maybe if he put his head under the pillow, he would wake up and this would all be just a horrible, horrible dream – like that dream of showing up at school naked, and forgetting this was final exams day! Yes – this was all a horrible dream! Mike looked over at the yellowed linen pants and knew that, no – this was not just a bad dream.

The next day, when it was still dark outside, Mike got up and ate a bowl of cereal. He thought it over. He could run and hide for the next 50 years – he had heard small villages in Bolivia were quite friendly – or he could just face the crowd and get over it.

[Six Months Later]

Mike had just come off stage and was sweating – it had been one hell of a show; sold out – just like his last 42 shows. His debut album, “Tinkle Tinkle Little Star” had gone platinum. He had a fan base that brought water pistols and would shoot them all over the concert halls, stadiums and outdoor arenas. Mike’s fans were known as the “little pissers”, and they had great fun and filled the seats, bought the albums and had made Mike a millionaire practically overnight. Even the critics raved over his vocal talents and originality, giving a wink and a nod to the subtext as to how this media star got his start – but no one denied Mike had talent. He had been able to turn lemons into lemonade, humiliation into exhilaration.

The music started for Mike’s final encore song, the one the fans had paid to see and Mike went bravely out on stage, in his new white linen outfit, and started to sing his number one hit, “Piss Off!”. The crowd went crazy; thousands of squirt guns shot streams on stage as Mike laughed his way to center stage, sopping wet, to fanatical cheers.

The moral of the story:

“To pee, or not to pee, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles…”
[/spoiler]

DMark

He woke up before the dawn, as he always did. Though it looked like any other day on the island, he knew better; he had kept his own calendar for many years now. They would arrive sometime later today.

Today would mark the eighth anniversary of the new regime. Tonight, there would be a hectoring fireworks display from the deck of the naval vessel that had been sent to bring his annual care package. As if he would ever forget this day, and what it meant in his struggle to bring democracy to his people.

[spoiler]A lesser man might have cracked; he had no complaints, however. The first week had been very trying - hope and despair had vied to take control of his heart. He had since come to accept his fate with grace. This island, less than a square kilometre, at least provided enough fruits, vegetables and seafood for its seven inhabitants. The house dated from the 19th century and had probably been some sort of plantation. It was large enough that they each had their own rooms. After at least a hundred years, every post was plumb and true, and in a good state of repair. Indeed, he had been very pleasantly surprised to find the library, with its large collection of works on history and philosophy. It made up for the fact that there was no electricity or running water.

The six other men who were condemned here with him were tribesmen from some remote village in the mountains of his homeland - he had learned their language over the years, but at first he hadn’t had a word in common with them. He still did not know whether to trust his fellow prisoners fully or not.

By now, they had their routine very carefully worked out - the others fished and gathered vegetables during the day. He maintained the kitchen - he knew better than to eat anything that he had not prepared himself. He also would not eat until at least an hour after his companions, making assassination by poisoning much more difficult. The rest of his time, he exercised, both physically and mentally.

As he saw it, the next move was not his. It was a binary state - he would or he would not be able to return to his homeland. In the meantime, he could allow himself to go to seed or he could prepare himself for his return. Of these two options, he chose the latter. Meanwhile, it was up to his daughter to the encourage the resistance, to rally the UN to their side and, whenever possible, to shame the military junta in the eyes of the world. If she had been killed, there were others. If there were no others… He shook his head; pessimistic thoughts were a luxury he could not afford.

He taught his companions to read and write. One was showing some talent at chess and go. He contemplated what they would do upon their return, and thought long and hard about the bitter lesson of his exile. He had trusted too much in the current military leaders who had proven to be utterly ruthless in their pursuit of power. Hundreds of civilians had paid the price for his misplaced trust - he owed it to their memory to be prepared for the struggle to come.

Throughout the day, he was looking for signs of a landing party. The ship came into view around noon, and it was about 3 PM when a zodiac stopped near the shore. A single sailor waded ashore with a large crate. Inside it was enough tea to last a few weeks, some coffee, a carton of cigarettes, a few bottles of wine. The sailors in the zodiac kept their rifles trained on the beach, though the seven islanders didn’t have anything more dangerous than a fish hook. The sailor pulled the crate above the waterline, turned, and waded back without so much as a word.

After supper, the seven men gathered on the beach. As the darkness became complete, the first of the fireworks were lit onboard the distant ship. Red and yellow sparks exploded in the sky, fading as they drifted down to the water. Of course - gold on red had been the military’s choice for the new flag. After the first burst, there was a long silence. The seven men looked at each other, but didn’t say a word. As time wore on, they strained to listen, but they couldn’t clearly hear anything over the gentle sound of the wind and the waves. Could that be small arms fire from about 2 kilometres offshore? After twenty minutes that felt like a lifetime, they heard the ship’s guns. The salute they were firing was ragged, though - there were strange gaps between some shots, and then others were very close together.

He missed the first two letters before he realized it was Morse code, but there was no mistaking the message - ‘…ke courage, Father.’ And as he felt tears of joy and pride come to his eyes, there was a sudden burst of fireworks in the blue and green of the democracy movement. [/spoiler]

Le Ministre de l’au-delà

Cartons piled up against the westward window and the top flap beat against the window begging to be inside. The clock’s long hand had made its way around the face twice since she last saw the two. She steeled herself as another gust shook the house down to its concrete foundation. Her fingers explored the edge of the Formica breakfast table searching for where she last put the chair. The black upon shadows fielded only more questions in her mind. “Should I try to go out there?” Her lips crackled as she mouthed the words but didn’t dare to speak. The legs used to screech against the hardwood floor but were muffled as she made room to sit. The vinyl seat hissed as the leg iron dug deeper into her ankle.

[spoiler]Her fingers counted the wishes she made as she rolled them through her head. Her thumb had killed the guard. Her index finger saw their Independence Day as they crossed the border. Her middle finger- she paused as this wish is where it all seemed to turn on her- let her finally bed the man who had helped her heart come back to life. The ring finger was to let her love plumb down that well to save them all. She felt her pinky finger curled up and alone in her palm.

Her hand slowly came to rest on the table and grazed against the flip switch to the lamp. The soft flesh of her thumb caressed the spine like quality of the plastic, temptation to flood the world and see color again made her rock in her seat. Her mind told her that just two seconds wouldn’t hurt, who would even know that she did it. “Pandora’s Box never had a key, it was just a jar, how easy is it to just tip-“She shivered and released the flip switch and stood back up hastily from the table.

The clock was the last thing they had agreed upon. It was to stay plugged in and its steady rhythm was the best indicator for her next move. The chain scraped the leg of the chair as it followed her careful steps towards the front door. The deadbolt was still in place from the last couple times she had checked it. She froze still as her ears tried to scan through the howling winds for a morsel of information, but their fortress was too strong to let her penetrate.

Her face blanched when she heard a thud on the porch just outside of the door. Grabbing the brass lock and turning it clockwise as the gears grinded against her. Her pinky still tightly wound and putting more strain on the other three. The door pushed open to let the wind empty itself into the house. Her eyelids squinted and then widened to see more outside.
She suddenly felt his weight thrust against her body. Her relief was soon dashed as his body was completely limp and brought her down to the ground. Her head made impact and her mind went on a tangent as she saw stars and remembered how light was for just a moment.

A faint word whispered from him. “Hide.” The feel of his flannel shirt pushed against her face was comforting and then she heard him expel his last breath. The flannel had absorbed most of the blood and the pressure of his dead weight between them squeezed it out and made its way on to her.

Two shots were fired in the darkness outside as she rotated her torso in an attempt to free herself. They were coming. The three links of chain on her leg iron rattled as she scrambled the still warm body off of her. She ripped off the sleeve of his well worn shirt and wrapped it around her ankle, enclosing the chains into a silent cocoon. She stood on her bare feet and reached for the door to close and lock it. His body blocked the way and she looked up to see a beam of light moving side to side behind the barren pine trees. Their long shadows swaying in rapid formation. Mesmerized by this dance until her panicked heart reminded her to follow that last instruction-hide.

The soles of her feet felt the prickles of the pine needles as she maneuvered around what she remembered the cabin to look like weeks ago when they found it. She rounded the corner when the flashlight honed in on the front door as she back stepped towards the rear of the cabin. Another flashlight’s beam appeared behind the first one. Voices with their words disguised by the wind talked loudly, their streams of light growing brighter as they moved towards the body in the door. Her back pressed against the bark of the pine tree and she edged around to the back.
Flickers of light peeked out of the flat boards which held the cabin together, they illuminated the trees and she looked down and for a brief second saw the blood shining and wet on her shirt. She left the tree and her gait picked up as she held her hands far in front of her.

Her right foot slammed against a heavy stone and her knee followed into it. She tipped forward and her arms scrambled for support and found the side of the well. The pain helped her focus for a minute. The gun shots, they must have been from where the flashlights were-in front of the cabin-she was on the other side, the other escapee could be down there still. Her rough hands explored the edge of the well hoping to find a rope. She glanced up and saw the two flashlights leaving the cabin and circling towards the back. Her head tilted back down towards the smooth boulders and mortar that made up the top of the well and she felt a knot and lifted the rope with a tug to feel it was fastened tightly to something.

She lifted a leg and swung it over the rope and the wall and heard the leg iron chime against the well. Flashlights found her leg and worked their way up to where her face would be if it weren’t obscured by a tree branch. The other leg joined the first and her grip was not ready for her full weight and she began to feel the rope burn in her palms. She wrapped her right leg around the rope as quick as she could and then squeezed tightly. The burn was excruciating and was extinguished when she reached the water. Her mouth took in the water, her lips tried to shut around it but couldn’t stop the flow. She bounced back out of the surface of the water, the echoes bounced up and down the stone tube. Wind whistled above and flashlights made their way below. There was no one else down at the bottom with her and the reflections vied for her attention.

She swallowed the water and slowly released her pinky.
[/spoiler]

Stpauler

In the back corner of its carton, in the back corner of a freezer, is the last strawberry.

They had been fresh at the farmer’s market she went to every Saturday–some of the first of the season. They had flat spots and bruises from being dumped together and jostled in the truck on the way to the market, but the smell had beckoned her over from two tables away. The farmer had invited her to try one: its juice burst on her tongue like summer, and its flesh was red all the way to its core and stem. She bought two quarts and made plans to come back for more the next week. The farmer assured her he would be there again.

[spoiler]The house key was in the front door when the sirens started. She was more annoyed than concerned–there had been no prediction of storms. But she turned and looked anyway, and she saw the line of angry fingers swarming down to tear at the horizon. Then there was only the frenzied dash to the cellar, bags of produce swinging wildly under her arms, pulling her off balance, slamming into her ribs. When the door was barred behind her, she did not let herself collapse to the ground. She could not drop the bags–the strawberries were on top. Instead, she set them on the table and merely stood, shaking, her face turned away from the door. WHOOMPH. The arrival of the funnels outside did not make her jump only because her body was already attempting to flee in every direction at once. She jammed her hands over her ears and stared at the strawberries.

She could smell them. The desperate sprint had opened up fresh bruises. The impossible storm outside was not abating, but as the scent of strawberries grew stronger in her nose and gasping mouth, the din at the door seemed to fade. She could no longer hear the sirens; she did not know if they were torn apart or merely overpowered. She doubted that it mattered. One hand came off an ear and reached for a carton of strawberries. She had been planning to make pie, but there was no oven in the cellar, only a spare refrigerator. The abused fruit would not keep, even in the fridge. The other hand came down, hovered indecisively, and tentatively grabbed a strawberry and raised it to her lips. Closing her eyes to the walls and her ears to the storm, she bit down firmly, and for a moment, that battered and perfect strawberry was all she could think of. She reached for another, and another, and she stood there like that, eyes half-lidded, nostrils flared, staring at nothing as she ferried fruit to her mouth.

When her fingers scrabbled against the empty bottom of the second carton, she stopped. The first was discarded on the table, filled only with stems gnawed of every scrap of flesh. She looked down. There was only one strawberry left. She lifted her sticky fingers to her mouth and sucked on them thoughtfully as she stared at it. With a finger licked clean of every last trace of juice, she herded the last strawberry to the edge of the carton, cleared a space for it in the freezer, and shut the door. It seemed like the main power was out already, and she didn’t know how long the generator would last. She hoped that the insulation would be able to keep up if it failed.

While the howling winds outside vied for her attention, she forced her gaze instead on a small desktop mockery of a Zen rock garden, a transplant to the cellar from some cubicle job years ago. She neatly raked the sand into parallel rows, like a lakebed under gentle waves, as if to plant her own crop of strawberries. She realized that she had seen the same shapes in the clouds sometimes and wondered at the common motion of air and water. What the clouds looked like now, she could not afford to discover. She suspected that they were not being shaped under gentle waves. For a moment, she thought of “Strawberry Fields Forever,” and in a sudden frisson of understanding she knew that the title was a lie. Staring down at the sand, all her breath expelled at once: PAH. Some of the sand jumped and scattered over the table, the chair, the floor; her lines were no longer plumb.

She picked up a small dustpan, meticulously swept up the grains, and brushed them back into the tray with the rest. She softly shook the garden until it was flat and featureless, pushed it to the back of the table, and pushed herself onto the cot in the corner. As she slept and woke and slept again, eating the rest of the produce and breaking into the boxed and canned and packaged items she stored in the cellar, reading the books she’d relegated to storage boxes years ago, the smell of strawberries remained, growing more cloying as the stems slowly rotted.

When she woke up this morning, the clock on the wall told her that it was 6:57 a.m. on July 4. She concluded that there was such a thing as too much independence. She was feeling very fucking independent. She did not like it.

As she pours the last of her milk over some cereal, she thinks about the fact that she hasn’t heard the storm in four days. She hasn’t heard anything in four days. It is a week since the sirens sent her scrambling–Saturday again. Market day. Promised-return-of-strawberries day. She puts on her pants and opens the freezer.

She pulls out the carton, and the frozen fruit rolls inside. She shakes the box to hear it clatter as she walks to the door. If someone were to freeze her and shake the cellar, she would rattle like this, she thinks. With one hand, she unbars the door and throws it open. Staring into a silent world, she opens her mouth, grasps the strawberry, lifts it up, and bites it off the stem in one neat motion.

Frozen, the final strawberry tastes like blood. She eats it anyway, then touches her own cold tongue. If she could see it, it might be red.

Still holding the carton, she drops the stem onto the icy ground and steps out into winter.[/spoiler]

Shot From Guns

Gin and tonic for the start of summer. That, and sitting outside on the old deck, with the last of the sun still warm on her bare arms. Laura was making a list as she drank: Things to do this summer. It started out practically enough: sell the second car, talk to the insurance people, finally attack the paperwork that had been piling up in the den. She’d been ignoring it for months. But it was suddenly summer, and her list started losing its focus.

*sell second car
make insurance appointment 
paperwork in D’s office
swim in a lake
eat watermelon*

[spoiler]She finished her drink and sighed. She really wanted another. And one more after that, then another, until she fell into the sheets, clean and white and empty, and did not dream. Until another day had been killed off.

She’d go for a walk, instead. Then come back and make something for supper.

roast corn on the cob

Down on the beach, the sand was cool and wet on her feet, as the last light of afternoon began to fade. The ripples left by the receding tide were soothing against her bare soles. The undulations were something real, something she could feel, a reminder that she, at least, was still alive. Still touching the earth.

She’d come to the edge of the water, adrift in being alone. Not running away, she’d said. Just going back, like we’d planned, to the summer place. Because it was summer now, even if she’d forgotten to turn her calendar over for three months, maybe four. Time had stopped, and nothing had mattered. January was the last time she remembered clearly, and that was fine with her.

But here, the memories came back.

It was easier without memory, with the white noise of winter. The time from January to summer was a blur of uncertain recall. The sun must have risen and set, the days growing imperceptibly longer, until all the trees had leafed out, the roses were in bloom, and it was summer. It was summer, and he was still gone. So, it was real, then. Everything had changed, not just the seasons.

Tomorrow was July first. Oh, Canada. The start of summer, with barbeques and beer, picnics first and fireworks after, and the sounds of laughter drifting into the warm night. They would go to the summer place for the long weekend, of course. And so Laura did this year, just as they’d always done. But now, coming awake again, she wasn’t sure if it had been wise. Too much time alone already, her friends had said. It’s not good for you.

What she didn’t say, and what they probably already knew, was that she’d come to the summer place to plumb the depths of grief, to take measure of how deep it still was. And maybe it was time to start living again.

Bare soul at the edge of the water, collecting stones, and the memories coming back, washing in like the ocean’s tide. Sweeping away all the little castles and moats she’d built of shifting, unreliable sand in the months from January to June. So carefully constructed, stacking her useless defenses, doing anything not to think. Or remember. A heart attack. It had been so quick.

But Laura was used to being alone now. Alone meant she could stay up all night, or sleep her days away. Maybe that was how she’d lost March, and then April. Whole months, and she didn’t remember a day of them. It was still winter then, that was all she knew, a winter that had settled into her bones like another death, and wouldn’t let go.

She could never get warm enough from January to June. She slept under two blankets in the bed, wearing her tee-shirts under his old sweaters, pulling a sweatshirt over that—Duncan’s old university one, faded and familiar. She’d turn the fireplace on, grateful for its ersatz, electric flames, and listen to the furnace rumble and complain as her chilled fingers nudged the dial ever upwards. She’d take hot baths, still reading book after book, shivering, even when her forehead was damp with sweat.

So cold. And now she needed summer, so badly.

Laura walked back to the cottage before full darkness fell, and brought her list inside. She made a simple supper for one, with the television on, still catching the last scratchy broadcasts before she’d have to get cable out there, or just have the radio on for company. Or family, of course. But they all had other things to do on holiday weekends now. The radio would do, she decided; it would match the old dial telephone that still hung on the kitchen wall. A summer place was supposed to be rustic, and life there simpler. She moved around the kitchen, cracking eggs into the pan. She’d bought a carton of milk, the eggs, bread and hamburger. There was tea and coffee, and the pantry was still stocked from last summer. They’d come up one last time in October, just before Thanksgiving. They’d snuggled under the blankets in the cold, drank wine, and watched the ocean turn tumultuous with storms, the light on the waves burning silver and slate. It had been a good weekend. Duncan had talked about retiring.

After eating, Laura picked up her list, and changed it. Things to do in summer.

*swim in a lake
eat watermelon and spit the seeds as far as you can
roast corn on the cob
make love outdoors *

She shoved the list under the basket of napkins in the centre of the kitchen table, nudging the salt shaker and tipping it over. She righted it and listened to the wind in the pines behind the cottage. The sun was long gone, twilight had given way to night. Even the sound of the water was quieter. Laura thought she’d be working on the property this holiday weekend, cutting back the brambles and raking up all the fallen branches from the winter storms. Weeding the annuals that came up, year after year, just like her family had, with the advent of summer. Instead, she had read old Agatha Christies, their pages brittled and yellow, and sat in the sun until she burned. At night, she slept with the fever of it on her skin, and she liked it. She was getting warmer, at last.

It was so quiet without everyone around. She shouldn’t have come alone. It seemed like a good idea when she realised it had become summer. She thought it would be like it always was: there’d be the scent of the pines and the sound of the water. The deck where they’d sit with a view of the beach, drinking coffee in the mornings. Or she could settle where they’d put in the fire pit and sat for so many summers, watching the flames and embers, roasting marshmallows, drinking beer, talking and laughing. Sweet evenings, while the children ran around in the growing darkness, humming with the electric energy of the young on an endless summer night. She could look at the stars at night, the empty side of the bed, and the next thirty years alone.

How would she ever do it? One day at a time. She’d—

*swim in a lake
eat watermelon and spit the seeds as far as you can
roast corn on the cob
watch the falling stars in august
*
All the things she used to love to do in the summertime. Maybe, if she worked her way through the list, she’d find herself again. If she tried every single thing, summer and all it meant, would return. Maybe that’s how you learned to live after something like losing Duncan.

She looked around the summer place they’d gone to year after year, the shabby, beloved cabin with its unpredictable water pressure, the faded lino, and the creaking side door, always banging open and closed as kids ran in and out. Its scuffed and marked walls bore the traces of all the summers past. The paperback books and the old magazines, the mismatched, chipped dishes and plastic glasses. She was here, but that place was gone now, without him. It was summer, but not the same. It never would be.

I can do all those things, Laura thought, the edge of her list peeking out. But it won’t make time unwind, will it? What’s gone is gone. Gin and tonic. She skipped the tonic. The past and the present, she thought. How they vie for my attention. I guess I have to decide…
The moon was full and bright, a brand new silver dime in the sky. It turned the tangle of blackberry bushes into fantastical shapes, shifting in the slight breeze. Laura was caught in the moonspell, and knew that there’d be no more sleep. Not for hours. She padded barefoot into the kitchen, hearing the floor creak under her steps. No one to wake. No one to worry. She drifted outside in her nightgown, the night air still warm, and scented with the richness of pine, ocean, the flowers she’d never bothered to water all week long. An owl called. *Who cooks for you, who cooks for yooooo…?
*
“No one,” Laura said aloud. “No one. Gotta make my supper myself.”

She leaned over the railing, hearing the eternal song of the Pacific. She waited to hear his steps behind her, to feel his arms come around her waist, his chin resting gently on the top of her head. To be cradled again, as they watched the water. “I’ve given up,” Laura said. “Finding your ghost… I thought you’d be here.” She spoke to the moon’s broken reflection in the water below. “But you’re not, are you? And it’s taken me too long to say good-bye, hasn’t it?”

She went inside. Tomorrow, she’d work on her list. Not the car, not the insurance, not the paperwork in Duncan’s office.

*swim in a lake
eat watermelon and spit the seeds as far as you can
watch the falling stars in august
roast corn on the cob
sleep outside
roast marshmallows on a stick
eat a popsicle
see a concert outdoors
take some day trips
get sand in my shoes
plant something new in the garden
sleep naked
eat all the fruits and vegetables I want
finish my novel
eat blackberries off the bush
*
And she’d let herself cry, at last.
[/spoiler]

Savannah

Smuttynose Island had a beer company named after it, and felt eons away as I piloted a rented boat towards it on July 4th. By the time I reached the shore, the fading daylight had tinted the water the color of cheap cola. I sighed at the thought: the whole point of the trip was to escape the excesses of modern life that followed me, over fifty pounds worth of it since college.

Bringing the boat against the dock, I was pleased that it was whole. The rental guy had me imagining planks missing or ready to give way under my weight, though my aunt probably would have mentioned it before suggesting I stay there for the summer.

[spoiler]The guy might have just been yanking my chain, but his alarm at learning my destination had seemed genuine. “What are you going out there alone for?” he’d asked. “Don’t you know that’s a murder house?”

I had known that; Grandma kept a macabre scrapbook of articles about our most famous dead relative and I’d poured over it as a child. “She wasn’t a beauty, Jenna, neither of them girls were but they didn’t deserve to die like that,” Grandma, finger hovering over the photo of slain Anethe, would say every time she caught me. Maybe it was meant to be comforting, that notion that even ugly people shouldn’t be murdered, but I figured she was trying to nicely say I was homely too.

Sighing, I tried to shake off the old insecurities, and checked to make sure the anchor chain was sound. I never did answer the rental guy’s first question. He probably would’ve laughed to hear that I was hoping that shutting myself away from easily accessible supermarkets and bakeries would be the kick in the pants, the oversize pants, I needed to get serious about dieting.

Docking the boat myself wasn’t easy, but I managed. The house was visible from the shore and it wasn’t a beauty either. Aunt Katherine had someone out to fix it up, twice, but the repairs were never quite finished, and the worn building advertised its age and state of neglect. I trudged up the path, hoping that the interior of the little building would be nicer.

It wasn’t. Opening the door, I could imagine Katherine saying: “Give it a chance, Jenna. You said that life has gone off plumb for you. Maybe this will help.” Maybe it would. I could hardly see myself baking in that kitchen - the batter would be as much dust as flour.

At least there was electricity. Katherine might be fond of hoop earrings, gauzy skirts, and prattle about chakras, but even she didn’t believe in denying oneself the comforts of modern technology. How else would she have sold power crystals on eBay?

Even with electricity, I found myself clumsily tripping over carton of small tools that someone had left on the bathroom floor. Clearly it belonged to one of the unreliable workmen because the new toilet showed evidence of work in there. Fortunately, the vanity I braced myself against to keep from tumbling into the ancient tub was sturdy.

I hadn’t thought to bring a duster, so I found a rag and set about trying to smooth the dust off various surfaces. It was probably a futile effort without a vacuum cleaner, but the burst of activity helped keep my mind off of cake and other forbidden delights. Even without sweets there to actively vie for my attention, my thoughts kept circling back to the fact that I would have gladly killed the rental guy for a Snickers bar.

**

Everyone I trusted enough to ask about weight loss had told me that the longer you go without sugar, the weaker the cravings become. It only took me three days before I realized that none of these people had actually ever tried their own advice. Having nothing sweet in the house drove me to distraction and I couldn’t even bake anything. Fruit just wasn’t cutting it, and I had bought more of that with me than just about anything else. Horny men thought about sex less often than I craved carbs.

Eventually I found myself looking up sugar detoxification, hoping that webMD might have a page on adverse reactions because I was beginning to imagine suffering tremors or hallucinating a chorus line of Hostess baked goods. A websearch revealed that no one, at least not with the initials DR after their name, had ever seriously researched the matter. It didn’t help me much but at least I didn’t have to worry about a pie visiting me with rattling chains.

By the morning of the fourth day, I realized that my grand plan had a fatal flaw. I had only thought of how stranding myself on a tiny, otherwise uninhabited island would force me to behave myself, but I hadn’t given any thought to what I would do instead of snack. An amateur historian might have combed the property for clues about the semi-unsolved crime, but I had spent only a short while exploring the two outbuildings before deciding that anything of value had probably been eaten by time, so that was no way to occupy myself. The classic hobby, writing the great American novel, was right out because I was as distractible as a kindergartner.

I could clean though, so I pawed through my purse, hoping to find a pen and paper for a list. Quite unexpectedly, my hand found half of a Kit Kat bar. Without even thinking about it, I unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth. Bliss.

I was still savoring the taste of chocolate when I heard an explosion behind me. Whipping around, I saw that a canister of flour, one that had probably seen the Eisenhower administration, had dashed itself on floor. I stared at the broken shards in the powdery drift, and wondered how it had happened…at least, until I remembered the open window. Sighing, I picked up the biggest pieces, and added a new dustpan to my list of cleaning supplies.

**

Later, as I headed back to the mainland, I was thankful yet again that I’d done a lot of boating as a kid. At least I could escape if someone showed up with an axe, I thought morbidly. It must have been terrible, for the two women who died, and the one who didn’t, to have been trapped in that house when someone came.

The mainland hardware store had everything on my list, though I knew that I was being screwed over on prices: Katherine told me flat out that prices got raised in May so summer tourists could be fleeced. After that, I popped into the grocery store, intending only to buy some bread for the seagulls. Without quite thinking about it, I found myself leaving the store with a box of doughnuts and break-away cookie dough too.

On the way back I rationalized it. It has been four days, not counting the chocolate, since I had indulged in sweets. Everyone said that the key to a successful diet was to not deny yourself, so I was just following good advice.

**

“It’s good advice,” I muttered as I entered the house. Could houses be disappointed in you, I wondered idly. Of course not. Going sugar-free really was making me lose my mind if I was personifying the house so someone could be disdainful about my purchases.

The strangest thing happened when I put the cookie dough away: the refrigerator shuddered, bouncing my endless supply of fruit. I stared at it and made a mental note to check if there’d been an earthquake. People think the northeast doesn’t get any. It does, just too small to be noteworthy.

I got the donuts put away without incident, but I thought I saw the cabinet door move a little out of the corner of my eye. It was just nerves, I decided.

Truth be told, I was a little disappointed in myself for those thoughtless purchases, so I took the L-Glutamine a friend swore by, and tried very hard not to crave anything but sleep. I made it a whole night without caving in, and it felt like a victory.

**

The victory only lasted until three, when I found myself being drawn to the fridge like a redneck in an alien tractor beam. I was only going to eat one dough blob, not even giving myself the satisfaction of warm cookies.

Next thing I knew, I was opening the dough, and a flicker of movement froze me. For a second I’d been sure someone had been staring at me, but no one was there. I slammed the fridge shut, stuffed the dough in my mouth, and dashed back to bed. The house’s history was getting to me, that’s all.

**

The house suffered another tremor as I gathered bread and donuts and headed outside. Maybe it was built on a small faultline. I promised myself to ask Katherine about it later.

As soon as they saw me, seagulls gathered along the shore and I spent a while tearing bread into pieces and tossing it to them, only slightly bothered that their hungry cries sounded like lost toddlers. Some were more daring than others, and I found myself laughing at their antics between bites of donut.

But only until something horrifying happened. A hand made of water surged out of the ocean and smacked away everything I was holding. I shrieked and jumped back, fully expecting that a closer look would provide a logical explanation.

What I saw was watery fingers waggling disapprovingly at the food scattered on the ground. The seagulls didn’t mind and dove for what I’d dropped. But me? I ran screaming all the way back to the house.

**

My heart pounded as I slammed the door behind me. If I thought the house would provide sanctuary, I was wrong. Something sticky immediately fell on my head, and I felt for it, hand trembling, only to discover cookie dough. Before I quite knew it, several more unseen assaults were launched, like someone was firing the dough at me from a paintball gun.

In the kitchen donuts hung in mid-air until they noticed me, then they flew at me, leaving power all over me as I ran away. I stopped only long enough to grab my phone before shutting myself into the cellar.

**

Somehow, there was a signal. “Aunt Katherine,” I cried shakily when she answered. “I think the house is haunted.”

“Why, dear?”

“This is going to sound crazy, but every time I eat something sweet, weird stuff happens.”

I’m not sure what I expected her reaction to be, but laughter wasn’t it. “Of course it does.”

“What?” I asked blankly.

“I suggested you stay there for a reason, Jenna.”

“What reason?”

“Anethe hated sugar. She wouldn’t allow it in the house. So…”

“You’re saying that I’m being haunted by a sugar-hating ghost?” My voice rose at the end.

“I think so. Both those workmen who skipped out on me, they complained about rattling and stuff moving while they finish their lunches. So it only stood to reason-”

I hung up on her.

**

You probably think I jumped back in the boat and left immediately, but you’d be wrong. I stayed as long as I’d planned before everything weird happened.

I needed help with my sugar addiction, and Anethe was more than willing to provide it. I can’t think of a better way to stay in line than knowing that a sugar-hating specter is ready to pounce poltergeist-style, can you?

Anethe and I made our peace - with just a few more sweet slipups - and I left the last week of August feeling better about myself than ages. When people ask my weight loss secret, I’d just smile and say I got some help from an old busybody relative who helped me break my bad habits.

[/spoiler]

Elfkin477

It was the hottest Fourth of July Barnaby could remember. He stood on the muddy shore, looked at the milk carton in his hand, then out into the water. He threw the milk carton out onto the water. Then he walked forward to where the carton had settled, water covering him as he went to plumb the depths. “C’est la vie”, he thought.

foolsguinea

The poll is established and entries are closed. Now, we get the pleasure of reading and savouring.

I’d also like to encourage everyone to comment on the stories - this is a valuable chance for these writers to hear directly from their public. Too often, a writer simply hears ‘yes’ or ‘no’ - at best, writers may hear comments from teachers or fellow writers. It can be remarkably helpful to hear from the readers themselves.

I’ll be out of touch for a couple of days - I have internet at present (obviously.) but it is the slowest connection I’ve seen since 1996. Now that the poll is set, I’ll stick to just e-mail until I’m back where the modem doesn’t whine when I load two pages at once.

There were too many good entries to vote on merit so I voted for my favorites.

Were they shorter than usual? It took me much less time to read them all than I expected.

I was amused by how much ennui there was given what one would think would be a relatively upbeat summer holiday theme.

On to the stories (spoilers):

Lighthouse: thought this was a really fun story. It went way over 2000 words so I had to cut back. Seems like a few sentences got garbled in the process. Probably should have taken one more editing pass. A lot of cool ideas here. I think I might expand it into a much longer story.

Kilos: I was glad I wasn’t the only one whose deadline frustrated doing a final edit lol. Very cute story. I loved the idea of recreating the photo, and the little Spanish elements. And the live story centered around ice cream.

Reflections: Well written, if a tad sad. Was that a suicide at the end?

Night on Earth: liked the concept a lot. I think I might have picked a location antipodal to the impact rather than a mostly random one, just in case, though it may have been moot.

2P: the quintessential making lemonade story.

Tiger: one of the more unique stories. I wondered though why he was so wary of the other prisoners. He was teaching them and they cooperated for survival, but he was afraid of being poisoned?

Pinky: very interesting but abstract. I couldn’t quite figure out what was going on.

ID: interesting concept, and clever use of winter at the end. I didn’t quite get why the strawberries were so obsessed over and why she didn’t just bring all the groceries downstairs right away.

Summer: another sad story lol! I loved the use of the to do lists. Nice concept.

Sugar free: nice twist with the ghost sponsor. You had me wondering if the killer was there, then if the ghost was the killer, but then the ghost was the victim, with a sugar phobia.

Payback: getting revenge on a milk carton? What bad things did that carton do?

Good stories all around. Good job people!

I voted for:

Lighthouse, Kilos, Night, 2P, Summer, Sugar

When the strawberry is referred to as the last strawberry, it really is the *last *strawberry. In the entire world.

Not sure what you mean about bringing all the groceries downstairs right away. The woman in the story arrived home just as the storm did, so she ran into the cellar with the groceries she was carrying. The cellar wasn’t connected directly to the house; if she’d gone back outside for anything else, she’d have died.

I feel like I have to own up to this one. The story came without a title, so I am the one who called it ‘Payback’, based solely on the idea that the carton ‘drew’ the narrator into the water after the narrator threw the carton in the water. Over-editing? Perhaps…

Well, the killer wasn’t there because the murders were a very long time ago. This is actually a bit of historical-based fiction. I wrote some notes yesterday to explain things since I knew there’d be questions…

[spoiler]Things that are real:

  • Smuttynose Island. One of the Isles of Shoals it’s a real place, situated in the waters between Portsmouth NH and Kittery ME
  • the murders. In 1873 two women were murdered by someone with an ax, one woman hid in a cave and lived
  • Anethe Christensen. She was one of the murder victims. Karen Christensen was the other. (Maren Hontvedt survived.) You can read about it on the internet by googling “Smuttynose murders,” or read The Weight of Water, which I did not like at all, by Anita Shreve
  • the house still stands
  • the island is uninhabited
  • the beer company is real too. Smuttynose ale is a big seller around here.

Things that are made up:

  • Jenna and Aunt Katherine (and most likely the building having electricity). I have no idea if anyone owns the house, relative or otherwise. * Anethe’s ghost. Like other islands in the shoals, Smuttynose is supposed to be haunted, but not by Anethe. Instead the ghost stories center around pirates haunting the beach and a ghost ship, The Isadore, passing by the island
  • To my knowledge Anethe’s feelings about sugar were not recorded

The last time I wrote about the Isles of Shoals I used two of the “real” ghost stories as the basis, but I thought it would be fun to take some poetic license this time and claim that one of the victims was yet about. It was.[/spoiler]

Given the length (shorth) of the story, I’d say it’s actually pretty severe over-editing. There’s a huge potential shift of meaning and implication that the author probably didn’t intend at all. I know it totally changes how I see it, knowing it’s something you added on later. Maybe see if you could have a mod edit the title to simply be “Untitled”?

Agreed, I think that would be better.

Some nice writing here. I’ll try to respond later on with specific comments, when I have more time.

It’s interesting to me how many of the stories have themes of melancholy or loss, considering the summer holidays theme. Maybe there’s something about a beach that just makes people feel wistful.

High-five for apocalyptic themes, MsWhatsit. :smiley: Yours was far and away my favorite; not only was it an interesting story, but the prose itself was also very strong.