Got Poe?

A Mobileread Anthology

Edited by David Alexander

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

GOT POE?

A MOBILEREAD ANTHOLOGY

All rights are reserved by their respective authors.

This book is produced under a creative commons, not for profit license. All illustrations and stories inside are copyright 2010 by their respective creators.

Cover art by MoeJoe

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

First Printing: September, 2010.

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition: May, 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The Spirits of the Dead

The Telltale Teeth by ShortNCuddlyAm

Like Egypt

The Snow

Tap. Tap. Tap

Spinning

Raven

Heavy Dark by dadioflex

Hour Comes Round by Luqmaninbmore

The Spirit of Life

The Spirits of the Dead

GeoffC

alone, the quietness pervades thy pores

now fever burned into what was, once, yours' -

alone, your thoughts linger silent in the grave,

with no care, no future beyond the life once yours', save

what those who went before can give;

in life, as in death, thy soul to sieve

and mesh within the shadows that were there; and led,

--the spirits of the dead.

within the clear of night 'neath crowded skies,

bright orbs to shine and light the thoughts; then flies

to yours and yours alone; a solitary soul

still, in shroud, within the wooden bowl

beneath the tombstones grey

that barely shine in light of day.

but rest ye now, no tears to shed

in company--the spirits of the dead.

they were, they are, and now with thee

----the spirits of the dead.....

The Telltale Teeth

ShortNCuddlyAm

It all started with the teeth. Well, to be fair, it started before that, even before great uncle Vince was dead. Parts of the extended family, some of whom had not been in touch for over a decade, were beginning to suggest that Vince had made some changes to his will; and that they were of the opinion he was not of sound mind, so these changes should be null and void. They tried to draft great aunt Sarah to their cause - she had split up with Vince over 15 years ago in mysterious circumstances, but despite this was rumoured to be a major beneficiary of his will. She, however, was having none of it. She may not have actually got divorced from the old rascal, she said, but she no longer lived with him and as far as she was concerned he could do what he liked with his estate.

Neither Vince nor Sarah could be drawn on why they hadn’t got divorced - the only answer they gave was that they felt it wasn’t necessary. Sarah’s mother, suspecting bigamy or worse on Vince’s part, hired an investigator to find out more. The investigator thought he was off to a good start when he overheard a conversation between Vince and the local wine merchant - Vince distinctly said he was off to see his darling Annabel Lee. However, after spending an hour or so trailing Vince, it transpired that Annabel Lee was a boat - a much-battered trawler that looked barely seaworthy.

Early on in his adult life, Vince had turned the basement of his house into wine cellars. Over the years he amassed a sizable collection of wines, sherries, brandies and whiskies - in bottles and in casks. This was part of the inheritance that some of the relatives, circling his room in the hospice like vultures, hoped to get their hands on. The wine cellar was another mystery in Vince’s life. He liked a glass of good wine every now and again, but not enough to warrant anything more than a small wine rack for storage. He was not the type to buy things for investment, either. The only reason he ever gave when asked was that it made him happy. It gave the house a certain ambience, he said. Sarah, when pushed, gave the same response, even when they no longer lived together. More astute visitors were convinced the cellar was not quite the same shape and size as the house, but as no-one had seen the plans they couldn’t comment.

Something about Vince bothered Sarah’s mother. There was a certain unwelcome familiarity to his looks, something that triggered feelings of despondency, guilt and love and friendship lost. He was very vague about his parents, saying he had never really known his mother as she had died whilst he was still young, or maybe in childbirth; and his father had been absent for long periods, and not a model of paternal feelings and actions when he was present. The only lasting positive legacy he had left his son was financial. Vince’s mood swings and obsessions were the negative. On coming into his inheritance, Vince set about remodeling the family house, including the cellars. Despite extensive work, an air of tattered fragility clung to it, an unkemptness speaking both of wealth and of ennui. The land it was built on was believed to be cursed, although Vince - inclined at least in public to be pragmatic about such things - produced maps which showed that the land had previously been overrun with marshes and streams. This didn’t explain the knocking some guests thought they had heard in the cellars, late at night; nor the accompanying moans. The more susceptible of these didn’t believe Vince’s explanation of odd wind currents. The grounds were dotted with tall elms, sadly all diseased and dying. That didn’t stop the local ravens setting up nests in the bare branches, however, and their croaking could become unbearable at times.

In the weeks leading up to great uncle Vince’s death, the family gossip mill ran faster than ever. Apparently, he had destroyed all the pictures of his family. The cellar had already been there, they said, and Vince’s work on it had an ulterior, sinister, motive behind it. At the more extreme end people were claiming he had murdered variously his first wife, Sarah herself, or their unborn or newly born child. Sarah was bemused by these last claims, as well she might be; and she mostly felt pity for those who believed her to be an impostor, or her own (non-existent as far as Sarah knew) twin sister.

The house itself would have likely been torn brick from brick, even before Vince had breathed his last, had it not been for his housekeeper and caretaker. The couple was old, but stubborn as only the elderly can be, and refused to let anyone except Vince’s lawyer even set a foot inside the gates. Now people began to revive rumours of a vast wealth behind secret doors disguised as, or hidden by, wine racks. Ever increasing sums of money were mentioned as the likely value, as the relatives tried to work out just how much Vince’s father, Sher senior, would have left him. That, of course, brought life to the old rumours about how Sher senior had made his wealth. Smuggling was mentioned, of course - the maps that Vince had produced clearly showed that some of the streams linked to a larger river, which fed into the sea not many miles hence.

As soon as the first mention of smuggling was made it was as if a tap had been turned and jammed on. Sher senior had made his fortune smuggling, and Sher junior - Great uncle Vince - had kept the money flowing and amassed a large cellar by way of backhanders from the smugglers. He had clearly built the cellars to such an odd pattern in order to disguise the tunnels the smugglers used. Smuggling naturally led to other forms of illegal activity, and some of the areas of the cellar were obviously used as tombs for those unfortunates who either got on the wrong side of the smugglers or died in the hands of human traffickers.

This caused a family split. A group of relatives started petitioning Vince to sue those of his family spreading such malicious gossip. They claimed to be doing it for Vince’s well being, so he didn’t have to live out his last weeks with the shadow of ill deeds over his head. The more cynical claimed they were only doing it in an attempt to get him to rewrite his will in their favour.

Weeks passed, and Vince’s health deteriorated rapidly. He became very pale and gaunt, and his mood tended to the melancholic. He reiterated that his body was to be left above ground for a week after his death such was his fear of being buried alive. In his less lucid moments he started talking about the lustre and shine of something. Eventually, the inevitable happened, and great uncle Vince passed away. His concern at being buried alive seemed less absurd then, as in death he looked no different to how he had looked in the last weeks of his life. Arrangements were made, his body left unburied for a week and finally he was laid to rest.

His will reading was to take place during a magnificent feast at his house. Some of the relatives tried to get this overturned, fearing that it would be the last feast any of them had - that Vince would extract his revenge on them by poisoning them. No-one was quite sure what the revenge would be for, and when it was pointed out to those suggesting it that it said more about their nature than Vince’s, they hurried to change the subject.

The starter was some confection with oysters. I don’t fully recall the details, mostly because I only ate the bread - I do not like oysters at the best of times. During this course, random bits of jewelry and trinkets that Vince had inherited or been given for whatever reason were distributed. As the dishes were cleared in preparation for the next course - steak in béarnaise sauce with pommes frittes in the Belgian style - I noticed that one of the mourners was not at the table any more. A hurried, whispered conversation to my neighbour revealed that he had been gone since at least part way through the previous course. A cold finger of foreboding crept down my spine, one which I endeavoured to shake off, blaming the draughty house for it.

Midway through that course the door burst open, and the missing guest appeared, covered in dust and cobwebs, clutching a small chest to his chest and grinning like a madman.

“I’ve found it!” he proclaimed. “I’ve found the treasure!” he looked at the lawyer “I bet this little treasure trove isn’t in your will, eh?”

The lawyer looked startled “I really must insist…” he started

“You MUST insist NOTHING!” shouted the other, who I thought I recognised as a very distant cousin, who had been irrationally jealous of Vince.

There was silence - stunned, shocked silence - around the table for a moment and then the clamour started. Just before the hubbub grew, I thought I heard the sound of heavy diesel engines. I tried to draw attention to this, but everyone was more interested in the small chest.

“LOOK!” the man shouted “I’ll show you the wonders Vince wanted to keep from us, his rightful heirs!” He pulled out a pocket knife and started hacking away at the wood around the lock on the chest, muttering “I’ll show you!” throughout. Finally the lid burst open, and without even looking inside he threw the contents over the table, upsetting the jug of sauce as he did so.

There was a collective gasp, then an awkward, embarrassed silence. For there, sitting in a pool of béarnaise sauce, were almost 3 dozen human teeth. In the silence, the sound of heavy diesel engines grew louder, no longer ignorable. The lawyer tried to regain order, but chaos had started to spread. The man, not in the least put out by his non-discovery, yelled to all that they would soon find out the secrets of the house of Sher - he had diggers approaching even now to excavate the cellars. The lawyer, the retainers and Sarah all exchanged panicked, fearful glances and begged the man to call the diggers off. He either did not hear them, or chose not to heed them as not many minutes later a shudder was felt as the first one bit into the earth.

I chose to leave then, as did Sarah, the retainers, the lawyer and a few of the guests. We ran down the path and through the gates, only pausing to look back once we had reached the safety of the road. The house was clearly starting to list to one side, and more of the mourners were streaming out of the building. We watched, frozen with horror, as the house collapsed and sunk before our eyes. I turned to go home, feeling numb now, when a hand on my arm stopped me. It was Sarah. Unthinking, I followed her home, where, over tea and cakes, she told me the true story behind some of the mystery.

She and Vince had never got divorced, she explained, because in the eyes of the law they had never been married. They had found out shortly after their marriage ceremony that they were actually half brother and sister. Sarah commented that she felt this was for the best in the long run, as their marriage would never have worked out anyway. The teeth… were an odd reminder Vince kept of his one true love, taken from him barely a year after he had admitted to himself and to Sarah where his affections really lay. The young man whose teeth they were had contracted some kind of wasting disease - in all probability had it before he and Vince had ever met. In his last days he had often joked that his teeth were the only part of him that showed no signs of the illness that ravaged him, and implored Vince to remember him by those alone. Finally, she solved the mystery of the cellars. He had asked a surveyor to look over the building shortly after he had come into his inheritance, and discovered that it was in danger of sinking into the ground - the marshland had never been properly drained, it transpired. He made the modifications to the cellars in accordance with the surveyor’s recommendations, and decided to keep it well stocked as a harmless hobby. And as for her, well, she was content as the actions of the one mourner meant she didn’t have to oversee the demolition work herself.

As for the rest of the inheritance, well - I already knew that I would be inheriting the small old fishing smack that I had been named after. The only other items of value had been destroyed when the house fell. Vince had given every surplus penny of his money to charity, but had meticulously planned out who was going to get what drinks from his cellar, based on his view of their character. Having seen the list that Sarah had produced, it is probably for the best that it never happened.

Like Egypt

ficbot

Her name was Raven, though she went by other names---and other forms too, of course, as everyone in The Order did. Raven, being her name, was her favourite likeness, but she was flexible depending on the needs of the assignment. Once, The Order had been hired by the suitor of a Bedouin maiden to assess the lady's dowry potential. The Order had felt a woman's touch was called for, and she had spent a month in the house of the maiden's father as a camel. She had not liked that one. A camel was slow and lumpy. A camel was hot and stupid and chewed on fibrous things. She liked it better when she was light and beautiful. She liked it better when she had wings.

She did not know how or when The Order had come into being. She did not know how she herself had come into being, either. She had asked Jag about it once. He was, if one had to put a title to it, her co-worker, though it was not so direct a thing in the kind of work they did and being the kind of beings they were. But they did the same sorts of things for The Order, and both were young and swift and beautiful. Like her, his preferred form was the animal he was named for, the black jaguar, and when he wished to be, he was an impressive beast. As was she. It accounted for the attraction, she supposed. It accounted for how they seemed to gravitate together when they were between jobs and talk...

He had stretched his dark, cat-like paws at her question and put it to her this way:

"Remember Egypt?"

She frowned. "What about it?"

"Well?"

"Ra, the Sun God. Isis, Osiris. Thoth was another."

"No, not that. The animals, the sacred animals. Like me."

She frowned again, weary of his preening. She was sleek and black, too. She was pretty, too. He didn't even have wings...

"You're sacred?"

"To some. Most villages, back in the day, they had a sacred animal. Many deities were depicted as cats, some sacred, some wild. Some both. In 'The Book of the Dead' Ra himself was a cat, and he defeated other Gods in battle."

"And the raven?"

"Sacred too, among different people. The Order is...coming from that..."

She fluttered a glossy wing against his paw, asking him to shift again. She spoke better---she thought better---when she wasn't so distracted by the bodies, when they all took similar forms. And no, sleek and black and beautiful was not similar enough. This needed resolution. They chose human forms, he a sharp-muscled youth, toga-clad, and she a delicate lady, enduring the frippery of today's fashions for the sake of blending in. Both of them accented the outfits (for that was what these forms essentially were) with heads of dark, glossy slickness.

"So, we're gods, then."

"Goodness, no."

"We're sacred?"

"As much as any life is."

"So?"

"So you wanted explanations. Is Egypt not as good a starting point as any?"

She would have similar conversations over the decades, with others in The Order. Oryx was the closest they had to an Elder (his preferred form, like the rest of them, the antelope species which shared his name) and had been similarly cryptic.

"A starting point," he agreed. "As Jag said."

"So, are we magic?"

"As much as anything is."

"But you send us out there," she pressed. "You send us out there in different forms, as different beings, and we observe, and we report, and we help. And we never meet others who can shift shapes as we can."

"Sure you do," he said. "You meet me, and you meet Jag, and you meet..."

"But outside The Order, I mean."

"Why would a being like us not be in The Order?"

That stumped her, that one. But...had there always been an Order? Had there always been a way for the ones like them to stay safe and together?

Oryx shrugged, as much as he could in his antelope form. "Has there always been a London? Has there always been a New York? Has there always been an Alexandria? Whatever you call it, Raven, like finds like. And we have found our way to love and protect and contribute to the world together, just like any species. Now, a new job, maybe?"

She was to be a woman for this one, and the frippy dress in which she had shown off to Jag was to be her costume. She did not love the human shape. Too many orifices, damp and clammy and soft, and the body too heavy to soar or fly or flee...

But it was a noble mission, this one. A poet, too fond of the drink. A wife, too sickly to keep him away from it. He spent long hours in his chamber, locked up with books. And with drink too? This was the question...

She met him at his local haunts in the guise of a raven-haired beauty. Lenore, she called herself this time, in keeping as usual with the local fashions. She worked her charms. She won him over. She became his friend. She got him to explain to her where to find his home, and what were the habits of those within it, from the hour the wife retreated to sleep to the time the servant arrived and departed. She learned too how it was arrayed, and where the bedchambers were in relation to the study, with the purple curtains and cushioned velvet seat and the bust of Pallas guarding entry to the place he cared for most.

Over weeks, she sat with him, imbibing noxious drinks in that sad little saloon (or bar, as they called it these days) and learned of his intimacies. His habits. His demons. She learned that the drink out here was just a fraction of the drink back there. And she told Oryx she could wrap this up for certain with merely a small visitation to his home to know the answer for sure.

"And how do you propose to get inside?" he asked her. "You think his sickly wife will simply let you in?"

And she reminded him that her preferred form was singularly small and stealthy and agile...

She had not expected he would already be drunk when she got there, of course. Or that her bright, ebony feathers would provoke in him so strong an evocation of the special friend she had been...

She had not expected, either, that his poet's brain would work the drunken imaginings he endured from the sight of her into so profound and enduring a story. Oryx had not been happy with her brush with immortality. The Order prided itself on the low profile its shifty operatives maintained...

But wasn't this just like Egypt, in the end? As good a starting point as any, she told him. A story. Didn't we, all of us, start that way?

The Snow

TSGreen

We’re not sure whether to believe the old guy or not. I sorta half believe him. I mean, if he’s insane, then he’s being pretty consistent about it. In my experience, see, the insane ones are more scattered in the way they think of things. It’s like random thoughts form in their minds and they try to string them all together. Then they try to make sense out of the whole mess and live their life out like that. Weird stuff, man.

This guy’s different. I don’t think he’s gonna live much longer though. I’m gonna miss his stories when he’s gone. He’s never had any family visit. I’m not sure why. Maybe they don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t have any family. I spoke to my manager and she told me that it wasn’t my problem. She’s usually a hard-ass about this stuff anyway, but I guess she’s right this time--it’s not really my problem. She also said that I shouldn’t talk to him so much. She was hired by management based on who she knew, not what she knew, so I’m pretty inclined to do the opposite of whatever she tells me to do. If she doesn’t want me hanging out with the guy, then I’m going to start hanging out with the guy.

He can be creepy sometimes though. I’ve seen him look at an empty chair and talk to it like there’s somebody sitting in it or something. I don’t care. I like him anyway. Besides, what’s so wrong with being a guy’s last friend in the world?

Tonight he told me another strange story. He kept talking about a letter from his son. Maybe someone on the last shift delivered it. I didn’t see any letter laying around though.

His eyes seemed really tired. They were much brighter yesterday. Today they were faded and watery. That’s always a bad sign when it comes to old people.

“Hey there,” he said as I walked in and sat down. He hadn’t touched his food. Looks like he was drinking the juice though, so that’s a good thing. At least he’s getting something in him and keeping it down.

“I’m glad you came again,” he said, smiling. “Not many come back, you know. People always act strange around people who are dying. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? I know where I’m going after this life is over, so I’m not afraid of what happens next. It’s not really the end, you see, it’s the beginning. So you really shouldn’t feel awkward around me.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I replied. “Mr. Pym, you’re gonna walk out of here and show everyone how healthy a hundred-year old guy can be!” Of course, I didn’t believe that at all. It didn’t matter anyway. It’d all be over soon.

He smiled and looked at me for long time before he spoke again.

“Can you record a message for my son? He wrote me and it looks like my grandson has been showing the signs. It has him quite worried. If you could record me on that little thingy you carry with you, I’d appreciate your help. My son, Richard, needs to hear his father’s voice in times like this. All of us Pym’s are familiar with hard times--it’s part of the family curse I suppose. I come from a family of sailors, so maybe it’s the sea getting back at us. I’ve told you about Richard, right?”

Actually I had never heard about Richard, but I figured I didn’t want to interrupt his train of thought. Old people never get back on track if you knock them off the subject. I didn’t mind listening to him, but it was getting close to the end of my shift. I nodded my head and pulled out my tiny vidcam and told him it was ready to record. He smiled at me and then looked into the camera.

“I got your letter, Richard. I know you never really believed me. Maybe now you’ll understand it a little better. I’m not sure why it skips generations like that, but Glory to God, it’s not our place to understand things such as this. I do admit though, that I sometimes hoped that it would stop with me. Don’t be frightened. Something very similar happened to me once.”

He stopped and closed his eyes. I thought he was falling asleep. After a few minutes, I was actually starting to worry that he went and died on me! I was just about to stop the camera and check on him when he opened his eyes, looked into the cam and continued his story.

“There are few things that I desire more than to be a child again. I can remember it so well, even at my age. I’m older than I ever thought I would be. Older than even these people think me to be. As you know, I could always see more than everyone else. I thank God for it. To this day, I don’t know why He chose me. I don’t feel that I have used my life to help others as much as I should have. I failed humbly before God and I pray that He hears me and shows Divine Mercy on me when I see Him.

“I’ll admit, of course, that I have questioned the Lord many times. I’ve been angry at Him. His gifts have often been a burden to me. I’m not worthy, but I can only hope that some good will come from it. I apologize for rambling on. I’m terribly sorry. I’ll try to stay focused.

“Do you remember that little creek down at the bottom of

Stanton Hills Road

? I think the land was developed several years ago. It was so beautiful there before they came in and ruined it all. I often went there with your Uncle Charles. He was only three years old at the time. I was responsible for him, but being that I was only seven years old myself, I ignored him a fair amount of the time in those days. He followed me everywhere I went. It seems to me that every time I turned to look over my shoulder, I would see him, with his hair flopping up and down as he hurried to catch up with me. He always seemed to be laughing and calling for me to ‘wait up’ as I would hurry along, not paying much attention.

“He and I were going over the bridge that crossed the creek. It was a very cold February morning. The creek was frozen. The snow was coming down in big flakes and there was no wind, so the snow almost seemed to float in the air. I wanted to stand on the bridge and drop rocks down over the side and watch the ice break. Glory be to God, it was so beautiful and quiet that morning. Little Charles had forgotten his cap--or lost it--and I remember that his ears were so red that I wondered why he wasn’t crying yet. But there he was, just following me like he didn’t have a care in the world. Of course, with him being so young, I suppose he didn’t. The bridge was slick with snow and I slipped a few times as I ran.

“I told Charles, in no uncertain terms, to stay there while I went to fetch some rocks. He looked up at me and nodded his head. Then he turned and watched the frozen creek below.”

At this point, the old man paused. He sipped some of his orange juice. I thought he looked really tired and was about to ask if he wanted to wait until tomorrow to finish up, but before I could say anything, he started to speak again.

“As I was finding rocks, I heard a car blaring it’s horn. It was making a terrible racket, cutting through the gentle morning air. It was getting closer and I was wondering why in the world anyone would make so much noise so early on a Sunday. I looked up and saw the car come around the corner. The driver was honking his horn and had a wild look on his face. He was coming down the hill way too fast. He was heading for the bridge and I looked at little Charles, staring over the side and not paying any attention to what was going on around him. You know how children are.

“I opened my mouth to yell out to him. I was going to tell to him to look out for the car. He was on the bridge but a bit off to the side of it, looking over the edge. As I opened my mouth, something quite curious happened. I remember it so clearly, but it’s quite difficult to describe. So forgive me if my description of what happened sounds vague. The only way I can describe the scene is by saying that everything appeared to start moving in slow motion. The landscape adopted a queer blue tint. It was as if someone had me sit down in front of a pane of blue-colored glass. I tried to scream but couldn’t--I had the sensation of someone putting a hand over my mouth.

“I saw Charles turn as the car reached the bridge. The terror in his eyes still haunts me. It happened so long ago, I know, but it was a very powerful thing to see. Suddenly behind him, a beautiful form appeared. The air shimmered or seemed to vibrate around my brother. The strange billowing figure was brighter than the blue air that was all around us. The figure put a hand on Charles’ shoulder and it’s other hand over the boy’s eyes. Little Charles seemed to relax and he was smiling again.

“I suddenly felt the impression of a hand on my shoulder, keeping me from rushing forward. But I was not afraid. I was thanking God for sending his Holy Guardians to watch us. I had already experienced earlier episodes of ‘seeing more,’ so I felt honored to be seeing this great Holy Gift as well. A feeling of indescribable love and warmth washed over me. To this day, I long for an embrace that makes me feel like I did in that moment.

“The car passed Charles and made it to the other side of the bridge and then swerved to the left and hit a huge tree. There was a loud crashing sound and the tree shook terribly, but it didn’t fall. I saw the driver lurch forward and hit his head on the steering wheel very hard. Then he fell over and stayed very still.

“Now, please know that these events happened much faster than it has taken me to tell you the story. Everything seemed to be happening very slowly to my young eyes, but I’m sure it was all over in a couple of seconds. My view was somewhat blurred by the blue fog and I could see the Holy Messenger was still comforting Charles.

“Then, without warning, the shimmering figure that was holding my brother, moved over a bit and pushed him over the edge of the bridge. I saw my little brother fall through the air and crash through the ice below. I could not move or scream. The air changed and the blue faded as the natural color of the world rushed back to my senses. I was horrified and I turned my head to see what had been holding me in place, but there was nothing behind me. I looked on the snow-covered ground around me and saw no footprints other than the ones made my own boots.

“I ran down the slippery bank, nearly falling down several times. There was a glove by a large hole in the ice. I didn’t dare go out on the ice for fear that I would fall through. I called out Charles’ name. I heard several voices and looked up to see a small group people looking down from the bridge. A couple of them ran to the crashed car and called to the others to go for help.

“I yelled up to them and told them that my brother had fallen through the ice. I looked at the creek and I wished with all of my soul that he would somehow climb out of it and be ok. Even at that young age, I knew this to be impossible, but I still wished for it so hard that I felt as if I would faint at any moment.”

Here the old man stopped telling his story and looked out the window. Raindrops were starting to hit the window and I could see that there was snow mixed with the rain. He looked at me and he was crying. He almost seemed sort of relaxed. He looked back to the camera.

“They never found little Charles. The driver of the car died from his head injury. His brakes seemed to be working, so no one was sure what happened. It was just one of those accidents that seem to happen. No explanation. Every day for the next several years as I crossed that bridge on my way school, I would look down, hoping to see my brother on the banks waiting for me. I would imagine that he was ok and that everything would be back to normal again.

“One early morning, at the very spot where he fell off of the bridge, I thought that I could hear him laughing behind me. I felt a tug on my shirt and I turned around, expecting to see him. But there was nothing there and I never heard the laugh again.

“It was during these next few years that I became angry at God. I couldn’t understand why He allowed my brother to die like that. I began to convince myself that I didn’t see anything push him and that it was just my overactive imagination.

“With the knowledge that comes to all who live long and see much, I’ve come to realize that my brother was just part of a plan. Nothing can happen without the oversight of our Father. I know that I will see little Charles soon. I'm an old man glad to be going home. Glory be to God.

“So Richard, tell your little son that he shouldn’t be afraid of the things he is seeing. There are many things that happen around us that most people can’t see. Seeing can be frightening at times. Just feel blessed that you don’t have to carry the burden and feel blessed that your child received the gift of extra sight. It is not our place to question things. We can only go on the best that we can.

“I know, Richard, that you don’t feel the light of our Father and His Son. Please know that I am praying for you and your family and that my heart feels joy when I think of you all.”

The man paused and looked at me.

“I guess that’s all I have to say, you can turn that thing off now. Do you think that you’ll be kind enough to send that to Richard? It’s been a while since I last spoke to him and I would hope that he would be happy to hear from me. I hope it’s not against the rules of this place.”

I turned off the camera and put it back into my pocket. The man finished drinking the last bit of his juice and ran his hands through his thinning gray hair.

“No problem,” I said. “But the other day, you told me that your son’s name was John. So you have a son named Richard? How many children do you have?”

“What’s that? Really? Oh yes, of course, I meant John. I have no son named Richard. Did I say Richard? That’s odd. I only have one son. John, yes, it’s John. Forgive me, I don’t remember things as well as I used to.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “I don’t remember things as well as I used to either.” I smiled and hoped that he wouldn't feel too embarrassed.

The old man looked out the window. The rain had turned to snow and it was starting to get dark. I got up to leave so I could finish my other rounds. I wanted to get home before the roads got icy. He turned to me and looked surprised.

“Say, you came back!” he said. “Not many do, you know. Could you do me a favor? Could you use your camera thing and record a message to my son? He wrote me the other day.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

dadioflex

Scattered Pearls.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Warm air lapped the back of his neck, blowing through from the open window behind him.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Traffic sounds, voices and a far off siren carried on the breeze, but he could only hear the fireworks that had lit up the night as they watched from the Pont des Arts.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The dazzling lights in the sky had momentarily captivated them, but only briefly. They had faced each other, fingers entwined, sharing a single thought. She smiled and he knew.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They kissed. Their lips touched, tenderly at first, then parted and fiercely pressed together as their tongues danced.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He pulled away so he could see her smile. He made a promise to himself that this was all he would live for, to see that look of joy on her face and her teeth shining behind ruby red lips.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

All that was left were the mementos on the table before him.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A slim stack of photographs...

Tap. Tap. Tap.

...the letter she had left on his pillow...

Tap. Tap. Tap.

...the scale model of the Eiffel Tower, a souvenir of their trip to Paris...

Tap. Tap. Tap.

...her dried blood on one corner of the base.

Tap.

And a small enamelled tin.

Tap.

He caressed the sides of the tin, turning it gently with his fingertips. He lifted it and emptied the contents into the palm of his right hand. After a brief pause to admire them, one by one he dropped the teeth back into the tin.

Spinning

kennyc

Have you ever spun around and around until you were so dizzy

you fell down and when you did the world just kept on spinning?

My brother does, and he sees things. He hears things too. I've

spun and spun and haven't seen anything. I just get dizzy.

Mom says he's just makin' it up. I don't think so. I've seen

his eyes when it happens. It scares him to death. He did it last

Sunday morning in the church yard. It was the worst yet. I had to

hold his mouth to keep him from screaming. Well, I had to, he

would've had all the church-people askin' all kinds of questions.

He says it's a bad monster. He says the monster will eat his

heart. But he keeps spinnin'. Sometimes I think he's just makin'

it all up. He's three, I'm seven. Sometimes, though, I think it's

true, those are the times I look in his eyes after he's been

spinnin'.

Sometimes he looks at me, eyes wide in terror, and says,

"Help! Save Me! It's the penis monster, It's tryin' to get my

penis. Help me! Help me!" Then he stops and says, "You can help

me, because the monster's already got yours." And he rolls on the

floor laughing. What a stupid three-year-old.

We live in the city. Well, not a big city, Beaumont, Texas.

But my cousins live in the county, on a farm. We're gonna' go

visit them soon. I wish my brother wasn't goin' though. Him and

his monsters, that's all they want to do--talk about monsters.

Sometimes I wish the monsters were real and they really would

come and eat his heart. Mom says I shouldn't say that, she's

probably right. Sometimes he makes me so mad, I just can't stand

it.

We went to see our cousins last summer. I got to ride a

horse, all by myself. They ride all the time. Jill's only five

and she's got her own pony. I wish I had a pony. Be kinda hard in

the apartment though. My stupid brother went and got lost down

the road from their farm house. We had to look for him for two

hours. He said the monster made him go to a special place. It was

a fun summer though, with our cousins.

My stupid brother was a lot more fun when he was two. Before

he could really talk. He'd spin around and get that look in his

eyes and dad, that was before mom made dad leave, would throw him

up in the air. And he'd laugh. That was fun, when he was two.

Then he hit me with the hammer. He told mom the monster made

him do it. He broke my head, so some of my brain leaked out. I

don't remember that part so well. It hurt pretty bad, but not for

long. Mom says it's okay. That I'll be okay. They'll take care of

me in this place. Mom says they've been doin' it for twenty years

now.

Originally published in Vision Magazine June 1991

Raven

Jaxx6166

It was around three in the morning when I was aroused by a most unpleasant sound. Somewhere off in the core regions of South Town, a shriek most terrible and foul. Not unlike the shriek of the beasts that fly above the bubbles of this world. Moreso, it was a cry of pain. Of terror. A woman’s cry, a prayer for mercy.

And then silence.

To which the world returned once more. And I dreamed in gray.

So, when several hours passed and I was awakened once more to a knock on the door, a gentle tapping, if you will; I knew what would be waiting. Waiting at my chamber door. It was Raven, the bastard. A bitter friend, an enemy of old. He spoke, but I paid no heed. I knew the answer that he would need.

And so, yes, I said to him.

We walked a while, he and I. Through streets of dust and debris, past mountains, past towers, through canyon and crater.  Neither of us speaking, not one word, not one sound. For voices were not needed in the land of the dead. It had been six months on this rock. Six months too long. Six more before the drop ships would come again. 12 months. 12 months in this, this hole.

A prisoner of the Colony.

I must say that it could have been much worse. They could have left me there. Down there. The green blue rock of death and decay. Where being a prisoner was being in prison. Here, I could be free. Or would be free, yes. Would be free. If not for him. The Raven. Always there, always calling. Always calling to me.

But, I must help him. For her, for Lenore. My love. Her blood on my hands. In this land of solitary confinement, I live out a life worse than death. But there are things darker than death. Darker here, indeed.

I tire of the gore. I tire of the same viciousness I see in man. Their images reflect in my eyes and I am numb. They are like me, the me I left behind. Behind me, on that rock.

The Raven nodded at me. Sir Edgar do you know? Can you help?  He asked.

They say I’m the best. If I wasn’t so twisted, so little of a man, I could have been something. Been someone. A hero. But here I am. It would be dangerous. For him, for us. With hope in his eyes, I agreed to his task.

The Raven smiled his twisted little smile. He steepled his fingers, told me I’d done good, passed my trial.

His mansion was a crumbling, rambling mess of tortured towers, the engineer’s nightmare. Rotting wood fell in heaps, raining down from up above. Many years it had been since I saw him last. He ushered at my wedding. A friend, truly, to the very end.

He tried. Oh, how he tried. We had become distant. He was lost, somewhere in my past. We spoke once, maybe twice since then. But when a man kills a man, and then a second. Or a third. People begin to distrust, to dislike. And so the letters stopped. And now here he was. Laying there. Still and cold.

And at that moment, I felt old.

It was odd to see him, cast about like that. Hard and black. Bloated. He was known to be sick. But, not like this. We were to live forever, so it should have been. I killed for him, year upon year. How many had it been? Four? Maybe five. I gave them all to him, alive. Hearts still beating, for his life to be fleeting.

The transplant. The surgery. Them for him. But not him.

No, not him.

There, like Lenore.

It hurt. The pain, the sights. All to his heart, it tore.

Raven stood there for a moment, lost in time. Counting the minutes, the seconds, the hours that pass. Finally, he spoke. His words like poison, so simple. Just one. And only one. “Who?”

Who? Of course. The answer, so simple.

You.

But why, what to gain? Fame?

No.

Pain, yes. This ugly mess.

The holes were there, in his head and chest. The cuts went deep, wicked carvings. Names, shapes, figures and forms. The lines told his story. The wounds were too precise. They did not drip or drain. Dark and deep, he saw his name. Saw his face. Carved there, in the man.  The man he knew.

Holes. Two. Circular and small, he turned the body, didn’t want to see the face. Bullets. From a gun.

The gun he had. The Raven.

The bastard, his friend.

My sister was one. The Raven said.

The first? I knew.

You are here for me. The Raven held the gun.

It stuck him in the chest, muzzle flashed and there was a sound.

Like crashing glass, the tearing flesh.

Then black and white.

And there was the usher, waving him in.

Lenore. His wife, his sin.

She smiled, teeth of white and flashing sky.

His body fell, his spirit went high.

Laughing then was the Raven.

As my body fell the floor.

And I heard the calling.

Nevermore.

Heavy Dark.

by Anton Gully.

How I despised the Brousseau family, yet my path took me, once again, to the grotesque mansion that bore their name.

The raging storm had torn down a tall fir tree and laid it across the road, forcing me to abandon my car. The main route skirted the family cemetery in a wide loop, so I made a short cut through that unhallowed ground. Rain had turned the place treacherous. With no thought for decorum, I stepped deftly from flattened gravestone to graven footstone, avoiding the sucking mud. An angel, her weathered face averted, tolerated my indiscreet passage.

I took a step: Helmann Brousseau 1788-1856 "Died from eating wild berries".

Another step: Pierre Brousseau 1784-1856 "Died from eating wild berries".

A lunge: Carter Brousseau 1821-1856 "Died from eating wild berries".

And another step: Janice Brousseau (née Lynch) 1830-1856 "Shot in the face". And crudely scrawled under the inscription: "bitch wouldn't eat her berries".

I soon made the cemetery gates. One hung off a single hinge, sagging like a drunkard, while the other lay fully fifteen feet away. I could scarcely imagine what might have occurred.

The Brousseau mansion filled my horizon now, an odd collection of edges silhouetted against the sky. No light showed from any window.

Standing before the imposing front door of the mansion, I beat on it soundly with my closed fist, pounding at the black oak panels. Then again, a few seconds later, fearful that the noise of the storm would drown out my efforts. A long minute passed before I heard the jangle of chains being unhooked and bolts thrown on the other side. The door cracked open a little, and then with a screech of wood against wood it opened a little more. I added my weight to the struggle until the gap widened sufficiently for me to squeeze through. I did so without invitation.

There he stood, that very little man, pathetic in his threadbare dressing gown and wearing battered gray slippers. His thin white hair sprouted in sparse clumps on his mottled skull. His face hung off his head, as worn and wrinkled as the clothes on his back.

He looked me up and down. I thought he might speak, but instead he turned his attention back to the stubborn door, throwing his tiny frame against it. With three great shoves we had it shut, and just in time. Even as he reached for the uppermost bolt the wind rattled the door mightily, as if a heavy weight had slammed against it. Hurriedly he threw the bolts and re-hung the chains. Nothing would easily get through the door, and certainly not in a hurry. Coming or going. With that secured still he ignored me, shuffling from window to window to check the shutters, no doubt due to a deathly fear of drafts.

Satisfied, he turned to me, grunted and tipped his head so I would know to follow. From a pocket of his dressing gown he produced a torch, then he turned and shambled off.

He led me through a maze of tight twisting corridors, up and down steps set in odd places, and passing through rooms of schizophrenic function. We arrived at a store-room with wine racks arranged in rows to the very far wall, where we stopped. He turned back to me now, briefly dazzling me with the light from the torch, but saying nothing. I returned his silence. He grunted impatiently. Stoically, I pulled the wine rack away from the wall to reveal a hidden door, then stepped aside so he could open it.

Once through the door, we descended several hundred steps until we came to a natural cavern. The light from his torch shone off rock walls, shored up in places with rough brick work, and in others hewn away to provide crude shelves for dusty lamps that had not been used for decades.

From here we passed through a low passage which he negotiated with ease, but through which I had to bow my head or risk cracking it. Eventually this opened into another much smaller cavern with even rougher stone steps descending further into the bleak darkness. As we went deeper, the steps grew slicker, demanding that I take great care where I placed my feet.

Another short passage lay at the bottom. Once through that we stood before an incongruous set of double doors, bound with brass fixings and brightly varnished. I pulled open the left hand door and let him through, following him into an enormous circular room, one hundred feet across with smooth walls that glowed a sickly green, rising up beyond the ability of their natural incandescence to illuminate. In the center of the room stood a sturdy table about five feet wide and nine feet long with eight thick legs supporting it. At the opposite end from the doorway loomed a dark wooden dais, backed up with several ranks of seating, sufficient for thirty people.

He handed me his torch, though I had no real need of it here, due to the dim natural lighting. He walked towards the dais, while I made my way to the table in the center of the room. I inspected it, running my hand across the ancient wood, hard as stone but smooth to the touch. The surface had been scooped out in a shallow approximation of a human form with thick leather straps hanging off iron hoops, strategically placed on the table to secure arms, legs, torso and head. The straps appeared more recent than the rest of the construction. The table, bisected across its width with a two inch wide channel, had a drainage hole in the center.

I removed my coat, bundled it up and set it across the area for the head. I put the torch by one of the table's legs and climbed upon it, laying my head on my coat for a cushion. Thus, prone upon the table, I stared towards the ceiling. Shrouded in darkness above, the room seemed infinitely tall. My hands naturally found the straps which would have secured a man's wrists, and I curled my fingers about them tightly.

"The sentence is death!" The old man's voice made me jump. His choking laughter set my teeth on edge.

A rushing sound grew in my ears until, with a noise akin to a physical blow, a great pendulum blade arced over me, several feet above my stomach. Six feet wide from tip to tip, three feet deep and fixed upon a spar with the circumference of a thick telephone pole, it flashed past me, dragging my eyes in its wake.

I had barely recovered when I heard it reach the end of its swing with an aching groan. I knew it would return in an instant. The anticipation of the moment stretched mere seconds to an eternity. Yet, when it did return, my whole body shook in a paroxysm of fright.

Again I heard the dreadful quaking moan as the pendulum blade reached its limit. And once again when the blade flashed past me it prompted a sharp intake of breath and made my hands clench upon the leather straps.

Again and again and again, until I knew for sure. With each swing of the fearsome blade. it moved, mere inches at a time but by a clearly discernible amount. It rose higher with every stroke.

After a while I realized the blade had not returned from its latest circuit. I got off the table, just in time to see the old man stumbling towards me, face contorted, struggling with a massive chainsaw. He could not even hold it upright, so that the blade trailed almost to the ground.

I ran to meet him and grabbed it away.

"Careful, Pop," I said. "You're going to hurt yourself."

He grunted at me. "See it? Same damn problem. Should be coming down, not up, ferchrissakes!"

"It's the escapement," I said. "Jumping the cog again, I'll bet." I stared back up at the invisible ceiling. "My tools are in the car."

He nodded at the chainsaw. "You'll need that. Expect you saw the tree was down."

I nodded back at him.

A full grown man, still dancing to his father's tune.

Curse the monotony.

Hour Comes Round

Abu Mahmood

Datura Foruma stared quizzically at the long-haired man standing in front of her desk. "I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do to for you. Your elders made their decision to sell the land to my company, and I will develop as I see fit." She brushed a stray hair away from her face, letting the thin black locks fall back behind her ear. “Goodbye sir.” Olive fingers drummed against the solid wood of her desk. She moved her hand closer to the red buzzer.

"Then there's nothing left except for this," The man’s voice was firm as he reached into his pack.

Her fingers crept closer to the button. “There’s nothing I can do. Please leave.”

He pulled out a black snake and threw it onto her desk. Black scales gleamed in the incandescent light.

She gasped in horror. Apprehensions faded when it did not move. Datura stared down at the preserved skin. "It will make a nice belt," she thought with a slight smirk. “Thank you and good day.” She hit the button. "Security, please remove my visitor from the premises."

Within seconds, two tall men appeared in the room and grabbed the strange Medicine Man, each taking an arm. The man called back as they dragged him away: "How can you do this? We're the same people. Neither of us is descended from the euros. We should...”

”Remove him!" she interrupted.

He did not resist as he was escorted from the office. Datura reached out and felt the snake skin. It was cool, smooth, and somehow reassuring. She watched after the door a while. The door stared back, reflecting into her obsidian eyes. No one else came to visit.

She dreamed that night of coiling smoke. As dark images danced deeper in her head, she awoke suddenly with a start. Cold sweat beaded against her face and matted her hair. Her heart pounded, beating against a wall, screaming to be heard. She clutched at her chest, feeling for the reassuring warmth of life.  She found no warmth. There was none to be found inside the cold, hard steel underneath her shirt. She jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. A quiet, hissing gasp escaped from her immediately after turning on the light. In the mirror was a woman with a circular patch of black, gleaming scales centered just above her left breast and extending from her clavicle to her rib cage. She ran her hands along the smooth circle and broke out in a cold sweat when she recognized the texture of the snake skin she had been given earlier that day. Her mind began to slow, not willing to process the full implications of this new bit of information. She quietly walked back to bed and sought oblivion beneath the covers.

Datura woke up later than normal. A heavy lethargy hung over her and it took some time for her to recall the events of the previous night. A casual brush of her hand against scaly patch quickly refreshed her memory. It had grown during her sleep, spreading to cover the right side of her chest. She began to calculate her next moves. She disliked having her thoughts clouded by emotion. Dispassionate analysis and decisive action were her tools. They allowed her to climb the hierarchy of real estate developers, to see opportunities where others saw loss, and to ruthlessly crush her competition. She now applied them to her current condition. This affair would necessitate a day off from work. She would need to schedule an appointment with her personal physician and likely see a specialist. She would beat whatever illness this was and then she would turn her newest acquisition into a parking lot.

At 10 AM she saw Doctor Green. While Datura was normally a modest woman, she did not let such considerations get in the way of solving a thorny problem. After the doctor had closed the door, he turned to find partially nude patient looking back at him with expectation in her eyes. The severity of the change mitigated the shock to modesty that this action represented. Her chest was a mass of scales. There were curves left to show where her breasts had once been, but these were much less prominent and were about as revealing as a burka. "I see..." the doctor mumbled to himself as he reached out to touch this living impossibility. He stopped himself after regaining his composure, but Datura assured him that he had permission to do whatever he needed to do cure her condition. He examined her carefully and professionally, took some sample scrapings for analysis, checked her vitals as best he could. Stethoscopes were not designed with such thick "skin" in mind, but he was able to get an accurate picture of her cardiovascular condition nonetheless.

After concluding his examination, he left the room and remained absent for some time. This allowed Datura ample opportunity to ponder her condition and its implications. She was particularly disturbed by the relief she felt when took off her shirt for the examination. It felt natural to feel the cool air against her skin and she did not look forward to covering herself again. After all, she thought, it wasn't as if anyone was going to get an eyeful of anything but her deformity.

Doctor Green returned with that look of professional bemusement which is the perfect complement of a medical occupation. "Ahem... Miss Foruma, you can put your shirt back on now. I have some bad news for you. Quite frankly, I am stunned by your condition. There is nothing like it in the literature of dermatology nor in any other field of medicine that I am familiar with. I have sent the samples I gathered out for further analysis, but preliminary testing shows that they are exactly what they appear to be: scales. They are similar to the scales of a reptile, a snake or lizard, and not those of a fish. I have no explanation for how they could have formed on your body. Nor do I have any treatment to offer you. Surgery would be dangerous and would require extensive skin grafts. I hesitate to take such a dangerous step until I know more about the origins of this condition. Without that knowledge any surgery could make it worse or possibly kill you. Excuse me, Miss Foruma?

Datura had been silent during the whole report, watching the doctor with a cold expression which betrayed little of the inner struggle that raged within her. The dominant stream of thought was her typical self, cold and analytical. Behind that a tempest of emotion was brewing a panic laced with rage. And behind that was something else, something that she could not penetrate. It was a growing darkness in her mind that registered directly on her body, but bypassed her capacity for rational thought or emotional awareness. Her body was telling her to flee. She quickly threw on her shirt and ran from the room. She did not bother to stop at the front office to arrange payment. Instead she walked rapidly to her car, thumbed the remote lock, and entered it. She plotted her next steps behind the wheel as she drove to her office.

"Send him in," Datura said as she drummed her fingers across her desk. She stopped when she noticed that her finger nails were much sharper than they had been yesterday. Before long, a tall Native man in a leather vest and wide brimmed black hat entered the room flanked by her security men. Datura addressed him in calm, icy tones. "Whatever you've done to me, undo it immediately," she said.

"It is not something that I can undo. Before I saw you yesterday, I visited the other world. I was seeking an answer to the problem that your company is creating. I was led to the snake skin after a lengthy journey. What you have to realize is that the journey I undertook was one to the heart of truth, to the truth of the things of this world. The skin is simply a symbol of that truth, of your truth. You took possession of it. You started the process of transformation, of becoming what you are."

"And I'm a snake?"

"Every being, whether it is a rock or a person, has a counterpart in the other world. It's not a reflection of you. You are a reflection of it. Usually you have to go in search of the truth to find it.  Your truth found you."

"I don't believe you. I think you treated that skin with some chemical or biological agent that is causing these changes. I think you're telling me this New Age nonsense in order to change my mind about the project. It's not going to work. Words are a poor form of persuasion. I will now leave you to my two chief negotiators." Addressing them, she said, "Brief him thoroughly on our proposal and then turn him loose to think about it."

Upon arrival back home at the end of the day, Datura walked straight to her bathroom. Disrobing, she inspected herself for more signs of change. The transformed area had spread, engulfing the entire front of her torso from her collar bone to just below where her navel would be if she still possessed one. She turned around and gazed over her shoulder and discovered that her back had kept pace. She was longer. It was not that she was taller. It was as if her body was being stretched between two invisible hands. Her shoulders and her hips her narrower as well. What most disturbed her was the nub which had appeared at the base of her spine. For the sake of her sanity, she did not speculate about it.

She opened the door to her shower and stepped inside. The cool glass was always a welcome escape and the textured, smoky design was a welcome shroud between her and the outside world. She turned on the warm water. A hissing gasp escaped her lips as the sensation hit her  in an entirely novel way. It slid smoothly over her scales, warming her and filling her with a feeling of power and agility. She hadn't realized how cold she had been. She turned the shower as high as it could go and luxuriated in the heat that swallowed her. Her tongue, longer, leaner, and subtly misshapen darted out periodically from between her lips. This was a paradise in her own home. She sank to her knees and then leaned back, coiling herself as best she could. The darkness in her mind had grown and it now was capable of taking control of her. She lay there in her shower, coiled and drenched in hot water, for nearly two hours before the darkness receded and she could think as she normally did. Without comment or complaint, she exited the shower, donned her robe, and slipped beneath her sheets.

Datura awoke to find her self unpleasantly hemmed in. She needed to be free of encumbrance. There was an ache in her abdomen, similar to the feeling caused by doing too many sit ups. She felt the muscles in her stomach begin to contract and relax in sequence. The contractions soon spread to her chest and, without thinking about what she was doing, she began to move forward. When she reached the edge of her king sized bed she agilely lowered herself to the ground, face first. Once her chest reached the floor a couple powerful contractions were all that was needed to pull the rest of her body from out of her covers and onto the carpet. As she moved forward towards the bathroom, a joy began to well up within her at the speed with which she could now move. The sensation of full-body contact with the ground added a new dimension to her experience as did the flood of scents that crashed in upon her mind every time she stuck out her tongue.

She was in a fugue, crawling along the floor, licking and hissing. She crawled past her wall mirror and then froze. She could see a bizarre creature reflected back at her, completely covered in scales except for its face, with the appearance of a large lizard but moving about like a snake. But it had her face. Slightly distorted, but still her own. Was it a rival? Strangely, her tongue told her it wasn't there. She crawled forward, slowly and cautiously.  It mimicked her movements and she felt a curious curling sensation envelop her skin.  With neither thought nor effort, she coiled herself and sprang at the intruder.  The smashing of mirror's glass dispelled the darkness.

Datura tasted the tang of fresh blood.  Her tongue told her so much now, but she didn't need it to tell her that it was her own blood and that she was injured.  Rising slowly from the ground, naked, she gasped as she saw her hands.  They were scaled and clawed and did not want to close properly.  Her feet were in a similar condition.  She walked carefully to the bathroom, not wanting to trip.  The bathroom mirror revealed the extent of the changes.  She was covered in scales from the neck down, front and back.  As she noted that she was now definitely growing a tale, she could feel her already tenuous grip on her humanity begin to slip.  It was as if weightlessness had taken grip of her insides. She felt like an angel in free fall, approaching an unknown planet. It was not altogether unpleasant.  Datura made use of her lengthening fangs to cut the tape with which she bandaged her face.  Her jaws were sore, as if a clamp were squeezing them, forcing them to jut out.

Returning to her bedroom, she chose her clothes with care so as to hide her condition.  Her usual skirt was sufficient to hide her tail, but she chose long stockings to disguise the changes to her legs.  With the addition of a turtleneck and a pair of leather gloves, she looked sufficiently normal to leave for work.

Driving was more difficult than normal.  Her tail made it uncomfortable to sit down and her hands and feet were less agile than they used to be.  Despite these setbacks, she managed to make it to work in a timely fashion.  As a matter of course, she refused to hire a driver.  She did not wish to relinquish her independence to anyone.

Her security guards met her at the door to her office.  Opening the door for her and then following her inside, they delivered their report.

She chose to stand. "Have you found him?" she asked.

"Unfortunately, he seems to have gone underground.  He has extensive contacts both among his own people and among the activists he has attracted.  He will be extremely difficult if not impossible to locate in the near future."

With each sentence the rage within Datura mounted, wave after wave of anger battering against the levy of her reserve.  And there grew within her a desperate temptation, akin to the feeling of weightlessness, to simply let go and indulge in the joys of petty anger.  Behind this there was something yet more primal: The need to assert her dominance over a subordinate, to reinforce the order of precedence. These inner struggles were reflected in her outer poise and, after finishing his report, the chief of security fell into a silence greater than that occasioned by a pause in conversation.

He had noticed the predatory look in her eyes, a coolness that resided behind the skin.  She was unconsciously flicking her tongue slightly, further unnerving both guards.  "Are you okay?"

"Sssilence!" Datura hissed; the levy cracked. "I pay you... I am in charge... How can you fail when thisss is happening to me?  Look! Look at me!" She removed her gloves, revealing her claw like hands. She still wore leather but it was her own, glistening black and scaled.

"We're only human" the chief replied, gesticulating toward her.

"But I'm not!" With that, she bit his outstretched hand. The taste of blood catalyzed her change. Her teeth grew and sharpened into true fangs and the instinct to coil and crush overwhelmed her. She launched herself at him, wrapping her body around him until the seams of her suit began to burst, revealing the scales beneath. Her spine had become inhumanly flexible and had extended out into a long tail which twitched out from the newly made gaps in her clothing.

The other guard called for more security and then attempted to wrestle Datura off of his comrade. She was far stronger than she should have been, The best he could do was prevent her from tightening the grip which was crushing his supervisor.  When the other guards arrived, they collective pinned her writhing form to the ground.  A company medic had accompanied them and prepared a shot of tranquilizer.  It was difficult to find a vein beneath the scales, but he made his best judgment and jabbed the needle home. It found its mark and within seconds she was slackening.  She attempted to speak, but her serpent's tongue was too difficult to control while under the veil of the tranquilizer. She collapsed inward, the darkness rushing outward to meet her as they carried her from the room.

In a large greenhouse outside Taos, a misshapen form motored along a carefully constructed pathway in an electric wheel chair.  As she glided along, she contemplated her recent past, piecing together the events which had led her here and attempting to divine a meaning in them.

Her legs were little more than prehensile feet, long, thin-boned, and clawed. They jutted out from the remainder of her hips, just above the beginning of her long tapering tail. This last was now the dominant feature of the southern half of her body. Her feminine curves had faded away some time ago, giving away to the utilitarian linearity of the snake. The tail had began as an embarrassment to be hidden, but grew in length and bulk with each passing day. As it grew stronger, her legs grew weaker forcing her to rely at first on crutches and then the chair in which she was now seated. Her body had one idea of how it would get around in the future. She had another.

The thickening of her tail signaled the onset of massive internal changes. Her organs shifted and changed to accommodate her new means of locomotion. She had ceased walking nearly a week ago. Soon she would be crawling on her belly in the dust like every other serpent since the time of Adam. She thought this was quite appropriate. That serpent had tried (and succeeded!) to evict aboriginal people from their inheritance as well. And soon she would join him.

Clothes were an affectation for her now, a reminder of who she really was. Her increasingly serpentine body with its rapidly diminishing limbs provided scant material to fill out a pants suit. It was an affectation that she increasingly wished to do without. She wanted to explore the speed and power of her changing body and the clothing was a hindrance. Despite this, she knew that her suit was the only remaining symbol of her identity and authority. Without it, she was simply a bizarre reptile.

The tragedy, in her dimming mind, was that the strength that the snake brain gave her, with its amoral, calculating ruthlessness, was totally wasted on her reptilian body. She was increasingly treated like an animal, and a dangerous one at that, by her own people. Her rivals would literally step on her. She missed her lost ability to cry. For once in her life, she felt it would be truly appropriate.

She fed as all snakes of her type fed.  Her hands, while still capable of manipulating the controls of her chair, were no longer articulate enough to handle fineries such as eating utensils.  As it was, she had no taste for cooked food now.  Her fare was served to her al fresco as could be.  Every couple of days, at the appointed hour, one of her employees-turned-keepers would bring a covered plate into her enclosure and signal her.  She would come rolling along and, without ceremony, the plate was set on the tray of her chair and the cover lifted. The merciful blackness would then overcome her and she would awake some time later with a feeling of satiation.  This, combined with her syncopated internal dialogue, was the substance of her life in the arboretum.

Two weeks after the incident in her office and her subsequent confinement, during her feeding routine, something unusual happened.  The rabbit had not been properly tranquilized.  When the cover was lifted from the plate, the rabbit languidly leaped away, anxious to put some distance between itself and the scaled creature watching it intently.  The darkness rose but did not engulf her.  Instead it blanketed it her in a warm and easy assurance which blunted the shock of her subsequent actions.

Datura's tongue flitted out, the smell of the rabbit forming a strong impression in her mind and stoking the hunger of her body.  She slowly lowered herself to the floor of the arboretum.   Once she was completely prone, her body began to lengthen again, the growth exposing new stretches of scales as her suit retreated across her body. It felt good to feel the cool earth of the path against her scaly belly. She watched the rabbit as it scampered through the bushes that lined the path.  She could still smell it even after it had left her sight.  The contractions returned, warm and powerful, and she was off, slithering towards the bush through which the rabbit had escaped.

The bush tore at her suit as she slithered under it, but she paid no heed.  Modesty was irrelevant to a snake, anyway.  With more of her belly exposed to the ground, she was able to propel herself faster, gaining on the fleeing creature. As she did so her body contrived to become more aerodynamic. The scaly mass of her torso contracted, rounding its shape into a more perfect tube. Her remaining hair joined the trail of torn and useless clothing which accumulated in her wake.  As she closed in on the rabbit, a naked mass of darkly gleaming scales and coiling muscles, the final remnant of her human form slipped away. Her mailed face was no longer beautiful to human eyes, but it was still anthropoid, flattened and pushed out, compressing the brain case and extending the snout. The horizon of time and memory compressed itself into this one instant, this tableau of predator and prey.

At last she succeeded in cornering  the rabbit. As she stared into its terrified eyes, the floodgates within opened and the darkness engulfed her. She slithered forward, through the gateway to a new life. A serpentine smile crossed her lips as she emitted a hissing sigh of acceptance, "Yesss... sss... sss."

She suddenly struck out, clamping her jaws on the rabbit's neck as she proceeded to wrap her body around it. She felt it struggle and then go limp.

Datura's keepers found her during the routine inspection which accompanied each shift change.  She was dozing in her coils, satisfied.  The only remnant of her pre-serpentine past were the thin vestigial digits jutting from her sides.  She was turned over to a team of local scientists who, it turned out, thought that this prodigy was the just the sort of thing necessary to advance their careers.  At the press conference, where they took turns holding Datura and mugging for photos with her, they speculated that some previously unknown chemical or bacterial agent was responsible for this change.  Remnants of her human genetic code which were discovered during testing combined with video footage of Datura taken during her transformation precluded the case being dismissed as a hoax.

The main result of the press conference was to generate controversy about the land deal.  Initially, community activists and local reporters focused on the dangers to public health that development of the land posed.  This first wave of concern prompted further investigation into the land deal itself, including the circumstances surrounding the Elders' decision to sell.  In response to increasing scrutiny, the Tribal council called the whole deal off. Datura was placed inside an exhibit at the reptile house in the Rio Grande Zoo outside Albuquerque.

Inside the exhibit was a twenty foot tree with many twisting limbs.  A black boa, at first perched on a lower limb, began to migrate up the tree, trying its strength against gravity. The snake moved adeptly from limb to limb. The only remnant of its human self was the echo of a name.

warmed in light, a balm, a salve against the wounds

of troubles; pay heed the souls that play thy tunes

and linger on to guide, to nurture ones' true way

throughout the trials, and shews in each and every day

the choices opened up for thee from which, the path to chose, that thou shalt take.

a gentle whisper, kindly word to guide and make

the mould within which your soul can grow, and steers thee from strife;

bless--the spirit of life.

no matter what, alone you're not, and ne'er shall be,

the friendly crowd that brings the light with which to see

full nature's bounty that surrounds the way you seek to live

the life once chosen; thy soul to sieve

and mesh the love, the favour, the joy and passion

that warms away the chills, and

breezes away the webs and drifting sand

of time, this genial band

with--the spirit of life.

ever present our watchers,

angels, faeries, loved ones now departed,

seek----the spirit of life within--uisge beatha.....

slainte