First Place
DRIFTWOOD
By Dixon Hearne
We don't know how long the body had been there behind the
outhouse. To tell you the truth, the smell mingled so easily
with the local odors it didn't stand out none.
The little shack sits cockeyed on a patch of shiftin' ground out
there surrounded on three sides by weeds and bushes and on the
threshold of a dense wood. It was Ruby that found
it, chasin' after our new pup she turned loose for the first
time out of doors. He ran
straight away toward the outhouse and then the thicket, like he
knew just where he was
headed. Sweet little ball of fur licks your face clean of
anything left over from eatin'. We lost his mama givin' him
birth. He's the only one that made it out of six, and too big
for her to carry and deliver. My darlin' girl, I buried her out
there by the front porch,
where she spent most of her life standin' guard or greetin'
company. I do miss her so.
Anyway, Ruby says that body - behind the outhouse - must've been
there quite a
spell, on account of it had already popped and sunk in at the
stomach and the rats and
insects had helped themselves. It was a man, though, and
somewhere in his early twenties the coroner later tells us. Hit
in the head and shot in the side, he says to us,
somewhere near his kidneys and ruptured.
The day Ruby found him, this place was swarmin' with people -
police and coroner, radio, newspaper and TV cameras, even though
we ain't got a station for
seventy-five miles - and every one of them firin' off questions
so fast it made our heads
swim. I remember
this one man wanted me to tell him "real slow" and "in detail"
exactly who was in the
outhouse at the time and what they heard and saw and smelled
that gave it away. When I told him it didn't happen that
way at all, he rolled his eyes at me and says,
"We got to have a story that
folks want to hear. How shocked and scared you all were -that
kind of thing." And when I told him again it didn't happen like
that, he just turned
around and went chasin' off after Ruby for somethin' better.
A dead man lyin'
behind the outhouse is indeed unusual, but it seemed to me they
ought to stick to lookin'
around for some kind of evidence - clues on how he got there.
You know? Ruby didn't do no better with their questions than me,
and they finally hauled the body off in a bag sometime
mid-afternoon. But I have to tell you, the smell
was worse after he left. I
don't know why that was.
That was on a
Wednesday, and by Friday they came to tell us we was wanted at
the courthouse. So Ruby put on her blue organza, and I changed
into my Sunday meetin' suit -
we don't know how they dress for everyday at the courthouse -
and off we go in my pickup right behind the sheriffs car.
They don't have parkin' out front and we pulled around back
where the police cars and the judges park, and we go through a
side door. It's the first time Ruby and me
ever entered the Union County Courthouse in our lives, but it
looked just like it did on the
bank calendar we
get every year, only bigger and it smelled funny. And then they
lead us down a long hall
and into a side room where a woman sits at a desk and two other
men sit beside her.
She was real nice at first - sayin' hello and thank you for
comin' and all - but that disappeared like a puff of
smoke once we got around to business.
"Now, Mrs.
Botell," she starts on my wife again, "suppose you tell us what
you were doin' when you
found the body."
"Do you really need to ask?" Ruby says back to her. "I was
comin' out of the
outhouse. Seems to me that's sufficient information."
"AFTER you came
out, Mrs. Botell," she says sternly.
"I heard a rustlin', and I looked around behind to see what it
was - snakes sometimes crawl right in on you - and I saw
somethin' yellow peekin' through the
weeds. So I took a stick and pressed them down a bit, and that's
when I could make out
that it was a
body."
"Did you recognize the person?"
"Wasn't much to recognize. Did you see it?" Ruby says to her,
wide-eyed.
"I'll tell you like I told Mr. Botell here: Don't get smart with
me. You have a dead body on your property to explain, ma'am."
After she asked us a few more questions and got it all wrote
down, the sheriff escorted us back down the hall and out to my
truck. He said they had some people
comin' in from
Little Rock to try and give the man's face some features and
then put it in the papers and on the TV. Miss Trailer never did
tell us her official title and that kind of chapped Ruby when
she thought about it on the way home.
Come Monday, the
first pictures show up on telephone poles and in the post
office. How they came up
with his face, we had no idea, but it looked suspiciously like
Mitch Tanner's boy, the one that went off into the Navy
and never came back. Of course,
that's been five years now,
but that's who the picture favored, the Tanner boy.
Next thing we know, the man
who identified himself as the director tells me he needs
to use our house, on account of he's got a new angle on the dead
man - he lives here and gets
shot in the parlor, before he's chased out to the outhouse and
then the woods.
"Maybe we can
just get rid of the crap house altogether," the man says to his
partner. "Just takes the
viewer's eye away from Crutch Diller here."
Crutch Diller
-
that's what they name the dead body after they bring him back to
life and have him sittin'
around my livin' room. I don't mind sayin' it gave me the
willies just to think about
it. I didn't mind a bit him lyin' down to rest out there behind
the outhouse, but I
just don't favor the idea of him parked in my parlor.
The director man then says to me that it would be a lot better
if they put us up at a
hotel while they're shootin' the picture, and don't I think the
house could use a coat of
paint, too. And
though I can't complain about the coat of paint, I ain't spent a
night in another bed in all the thirty years Ruby and me been
married, and I ain't movin' out so
some dead man can move in.
And when I tell him so, he waves around enough cash to
tempt a nun, and I quick
start figurin' out how to break the news to Ruby.
After a fair
amount of head scratchin' and discussion, Ruby says okay, since
Miss Trailer had told her
we'd made our own damn bed and we knew what to do with it. And
for three weeks we holed up in town in a big room with a
ceilin' fan and indoor toilet, and to tell you the truth, we did
find some pleasure in it.
The picture
people invited us back out the last day - along with the sheriff
and even Miss Trailer - to
see what a smart, fine job they were doin' on the story. They
especially wanted us to see their latest angle, with the
dead man now resurrected and
tearin'
toward town with a machete in one hand and gun in the other.
They had cut him down to one leg, but said he looked better like
that - with a peg leg. Said it would sell more tickets. And that
explains why they invited all the others out, on account of they
needed to use the town next.
Ain't no need to
tell you they paid everybody enough in money and small parts to
keep them all happy - even
Miss Trailer. And ever since that movie came out, we've got cars
and trucks, and even buses full of fools ridin' past here
day and night, and all of
them callin' out, Crutch
Diller Lady killer! Crutch Diller Lady killer\ And the local
police still don't
know who the young man really is.
We hear they're makin' good money on the picture, though. But
every time I see it in the paper, I can't help thinking about
that dead body like the piece of driftwood
Ruby found washed up on the beach in Biloxi and keeps on the
coffee table. Weathered
to a shapeless
gnarl, the thing is worth more now than it ever was alive.
And even with
the money the picture folks paid us, we still live too far out
to get indoor plumbin' - so
we just make do till a septic tank arrives. But we took the
light out of the outhouse and painted it flat black so it don't
stand out at night. It's been pushed
over once already, and
Ruby's afraid she'll be sittin' right there in it the next time.
As for us, we can't wait for the weeds and bushes and forest
critters to return - and all the city vermin to go. And the next
time we find somethin' dead behind the outhouse, believe me
we'll just say a
prayer and let it lie. Amen
Second Place
SCARECROW
By Dixon
Hearne
DeCloris
Pelto sits on a giant oak stump out back of Noah Riley's
department
store,
scaling a stringer of bony fish he pulled in from the bayou.
Flies swarm upon
waves of
heat, fluttering briefly when he shoos them with his fish
sealer. Macey Rae Reed
studies the scene through the backdoor window, wondering just
whose property DeCloris threw
his line from. He'd been warned off a dozen times - chased a few
others - but he keeps
better tabs now on who's home when he decides to trespass.
In the front
door of Riley's barges Mrs. Grady Kraw with her prissy daughter
and
it jerks Macey's attention back to her work. Clerking is not her
life's calling, Macey
likes to
tell herself, but it does help put bread on the table and keep
her kids in shoes. Last
thing she needed today, though, was two fussbudgets plucking at
her nerve endings.
Things had
been hard enough since her husband, Cole, took a job out of
state. It
takes most of
his pay, as it turns out, just to meet his rent and keep himself
fed, but he stuffs an
envelope diligently once a week with whatever is left over and
sends it home. Thirteen months
is a long time to separate grieving hearts. Every time the
store's front door
jingle, it draws Macey's eyes up with hope that Cole might be
standing there. But there would be no warm surprises
today or any day soon.
"Morning, Macey," Mrs. Kraw chirps,
tweaking at her new hairdo all pumped up
and torched forward. We'll be
over in patterns when you get the time. Tiffany here seen
the cutest blouse on the TV. Ya'll do carry Spiegel, now don't you?"
"Yes ma'am.
We keep them on the last aisle over there, just like always,"
Macey
replies, pointing a polite finger toward the far wall. She
follows quickly after them,
taking note
of Miss Tiffany's bulging backside.
"I want the cotton print. That
pattern right there," the girl says, snatching at a bolt
of bright pink material
glaring from the second shelf. When Macey doesn't move fast
enough for her, she
shoves her big self through the upright bolts and finishes
pawing it down.
"You gonna
let that man stay on this property?" Mrs. Kraw blurts out, all
astir.
Macey turns
around to find the woman wagging her knobby finger at the back
door
window. "That little convict's been pullin' fish out of our
bayou again. Just look at him
out there spillin' fish innards on
private property here." She turns back around to Macey with a
scornful eye: "Does Noah Riley know about this?"
"We ain't
got time to worry about that right now," Tiffany butts in. "I
want my
pattern and
material," she says, loud and pouty-faced. "Now!" she stamps,
drawing her
fat lips to
a sneer. Tiffany was noted for sassing and hollering at her mama
in public -the
kind of nasty disposition she didn't need to spoil her chances
any further. Up close, Macey
notices for the first time that the girl has practically no
eyebrows on her forehead, just racing stripes of heavy mascara arched high above two beady eyes -
buried in swatches of
blue-green shadow meant to make them larger and draw out their
hues. But she looks almost circus-like right now, with
her pimply face all fuss red and ready to pop and her hair all
aglow in bright orange spikes.
Out back,
DeCloris goes right on with his scaling and gutting, not knowing
that a
storm cell
is brewing just inside Riley's back door. Pretty soon, though,
his humming
grows so
loud that Mrs. Kraw decides she wants it stopped. Immediately.
"You go out
there and run that little vagrant off- or I will!" she says to
Macey
with a huff.
"He ain't got no business smellin' up the streets and stores
with them stolen
fish."
At this
point, Tiffany grabs hold of her mama's arm and jerks her
attention back
to the
fabric rack. "Just pay for the damn patterns and material and
let's go. I ain't got
all day," she
says to her and stamps her foot again. "I want you to finish
that blouse for
me to wear
tonight!" With that, she plops a pair of scissors on the cutting
table and
instructs
Macey to lop off enough for the job, "And be quick about it!"
she snaps. The air has grown
too tense for any further pleasantries, and Macey does her best
to finish up the transaction
on a positive note. But it's just too much to ask for.
Rap-rap-rap,
comes a
sudden knocking at the back door. There in the window
pane appears
a framed bust of DeCloris Pelto, so stark and sudden it gives
Mrs. Kraw
quite a
start.
"Whatever that little heathen
scarecrow wants can wait," Tiffany shouts, stamping her foot
once more, only harder this time.
"I'll only
be a second, I promise," Macey says to her, and hurries to the
back
door. DeCloris stands bent over and pitiful looking. His arm is
extended and blood is oozing in a steady stream from thumb to
elbow. Flies have followed the scent and buzz about
aggressively, and Macey draws back at first sight of him up
close and personal -from his
mud-crusted neck to his scabby knees and bony feet.
"Scuse' me
ma'am," he says to her, "do you have a rag or somethin' I can
wrap off my cut with?" By now the blood has formed a small
puddle near his feet. Macey
quick grabs a sheet of tissue paper used for boxing and gouges
it into the wound.
"You hold
this tight while I call a doctor," she says to DeCloris, "I'll
be right
back."
"Get that
heathen out the door!" comes a mean voice from the other room.
"He
ain't got no business in here. Send him down to Charity Hospital
where he belongs."
Mrs. Kraw
had spotted the blood glistening from the sun's reflection.
"Tell him I
ain't got time for this!" Tiffany yells at her, looking past
DeCloris as if he was transparent. "Charity's out there to take
care of his kind. This is a store. I'm a customer. And I need
help right now, Missy. You either get over here and check me out
or I 'm pickin' up this phone and callin' old man Riley right
now!"
The
ice-hearted young woman means every word of it, Macey is sure.
But she chooses to ignore it
long enough to change the bloody tissue on the man's hand and
tie it off with some white
cotton ribbon. All the while, the phone dial is spinning, and
Mrs. Kraw stands by watching with both hands on her hips and one
eyebrow drawn up to an
evil point.
"We ain't
used to bein' treated any such way, Macey Reed. Maybe you'll
remember that if Noah Riley lets you keep this job. I been
tradin' here for twenty years
and you give
more attention to that little white trash convict than a payin'
customer."
By now,
DeCloris has slipped back out the door, closing it quietly
behind him.
Macey is
incensed at the woman's behavior and that of her hateful
daughter. She takes
the phone
from Tiffany's hand and sets it back on the cradle, calmly.
There was no
answer on
the other end.
"I ain't
leavin' without my pattern and silk print," the girl spits at
Mrs. Kraw.
"And I'm
sendin' you the bill for fixin' the broken nail I got dialin'
that phone, Macey
Reed. Now
I've got sit through another manicure on account of you and that
little
moron!" The
girl looks to Macey like she's just about to have a stroke.
"I'll be in the car!" she
yells at Mrs. Kraw and charges out the door.
There on the
sidewalk, hunched over and grinning, stands DeCloris Pelto.
Tiffany throws him a hateful stare. "Out of my way, you ugly
little scarecrow! Get back
down to the trashy end of shanty town where you belong."
Right behind
her comes Mrs. Kraw, stomping through the door fit to be tied. "Macey!"
she yells back. "Macey Rae Reed, you get out here this instant!"
The door
jingles open for the third time, and Macey stops still at the
threshold. She had just
barely exhaled her pent-up frustrations, and now this.
"Just look at
that little heathen creature," the woman spouts. "Monkey brown
with
old dirt. If you want to be Miss Good Samaritan, sister, why
don't you give him a steel
wool and some lye soap? And while you're at it, maybe you can
scrape him clean enough so
we can all see him before we smell him comin' for a change.
Ugly, ugly little
scarecrow!"
"I believe
the Bible says something about all of us being the same
in His eyes,
Mrs. Kraw,"
Macey says back to her. "He's got a good heart, I just know it -
if anybody
took the time
to look for it." Sensing she'd just crossed the line between
Macey Sales
Clerk and
Macey Human Being, she stops short of telling the two what she
really wants
to say.
"He ain 't
the work of the Lord, Macey Reed," the woman preaches, all
haughty and holier than thou. "And I'm beginning to have my
doubts about you, too. Defendin'
that heathen
scarecrow. Hmh!" She then jerks her head and motions Tiffany
it's time to
go.
"We are all our brothers' keepers,"
Macey shoots back at her. To hell with my job,
she thinks to herself. "Inner
beauty is more."
Miss Tiffany pivots quickly on her
heal and shows Macey a hateful smirk. "Who
cares? People say that God
gave me beautiful bedroom eyes to recommend me, and he's
just a filthy little
freak. A mistake." With that remark, the two women turn and
flounce off down the
street.
DeCloris had
disappeared during the altercation, and Macey makes her way back
to
what she's being paid for - not that a soul was waiting in line
to be helped. At least
she could
work on inventory in the back room for awhile to take her mind
off the ugly matter. She longs for Cole more than ever now, for
his strength and reassurance that she
had done the
right thing, defended the right person, the right principles.
After all, the
man is indeed
known to trespass on others' property to fish the bayou - which,
in some odd respect, adds
stealing to an already pitiful list of faults.
Macey
ponders hard on the matter as she studies DeCloris through the
backdoor
window,
where he is once again perched on the oak stump, licking his
wounds, twitching
his little
bird feet and grinning back at her. It makes her feel humble
about her own trifles. But
her heart being more poetic than pure, she can't help picturing
Miss Tiffany Kraw captured right there beside DeCloris Pelto in
the window frame, for all eternity. Her and her new pink blouse
and bedroom eyes.
Third Place
MEDALS AND
BODY BAGS
By David L. Reeve
CHAPTER ONE -- MERRY
FUCKING CHRISTMAS
Grazing about, Alex recognized a warmth he hadn't realized he
missed. Mom buzzing happily
about the kitchen in her trademark sweater featuring Santa amid
six stupidly grinning reindeer, noses flashing red in sequence. Nearby
Melissa poured creamy
eggnog into mistletoe
decorated glasses. Dad and Sis were in the basement working up
an appetite playing Virtual tennis. In the background, a
muted Handel's "Messiah" lent a
solemn reminder that peace
and goodwill was what the holidays were really about.
His standing in the kitchen
door wearing a dark blue, Navy uniform jumpsuit with
"MACKENZIE" emblazoned in one inch white letters over the left,
breast pocket didn't seem at
all odd. Odd was Melissa in a skimpy, semi-sheer, black, party
outfit. Bad enough she had worn the same thing that night
in a crowded Bourbon Street bar when she
dumped him for the band's lead singer. Flaunting herself in it around of
his family was an insult not to be tolerated. The warm,
homey feeling gone, he started forward to pitch the
bitch headfirst into the
nearest snowbank.
"...Battle Stations, Alert
Level Red, DEFCON One in effect." The announcement, stated in
calm, modulated tones by the ship's mainframe AI, came through
his Inter-Ship Communications earlink, replacing the soft
drone of Handel's most famous work.
Irked at being interrupted
before he could get his hands on Melissa, Alex sat up, dimly
aware he had fallen asleep on a couch in the Recreation Room.
Yawning, he wondered what idiot would schedule a drill when the
bulk of the crew of the USS Maine was on shore leave,
partying down on the lunar surface of Charon Forward.
"Probably some jerk-off,
junior officer, pissed at being on duty. What a merry
fucking Christmas this is."
Grumbling, he stood, forgetting completely about the palm
computer on his lap. The
book sized device, purchased for an entire months pay, clattered
to the carpeted deck, landing screen side up.
Arm outstretched, he bent
to retrieve it, then froze as the message from his earlink
finally sank in.
"Holy shit, Alert Level Red means Hostile Action Imminent," he
mumbled aloud, then
recalled that DEFCON ONE was short for Defense Condition One, a
protocol strictly
used for war.
"Jesus Christ...naw, I got
to be dream..."
Like a giant invisible hand
swatting a gnat, the shock wave slammed him into the
armrest of couch, then forward to land face down on the carpet.
The lighting flickered, then
died, leaving only the faint glow from the screen of the palm
computer laying a few
feet away. Stunned, Alex slowly climbed to his feet, staring stupidly
around the room, eyes
attempting to pierce the darkness. Seconds later the emergency
lighting clicked on, casting the room in a dim, twilight
illumination.
"Man your Battle Stations.
Man your Battle Stations. We're under attack. I say
again, we are under attack."
The announcement, made by a Human voice this time, wailed
over both the ship's PA
system and his ISC earlink, creating a distorted, double echo in
his head. Worse, the echoed voice sounded like someone trying to
remain calm while all hell
is breaking loose and
failing badly
Shaking his head clear,
Alex stumbled toward the exit hatch, nearly reaching it
when a second shock wave rolled through. This one sent him
lurching backward into the
room's interior. Arms flaying wildly, he vainly tried to stay
upright, only to collide against the corner of a pool
table. Spinning, the air knocked from his lungs, he tripped over
his own feet and fell into a
twisted sprawl.
Untangling his legs, Alex
sat upright, painfully gasping for air, fingers gingerly
probing aching ribs and
wondering if any were broken. Two more shock waves, one
following the other so close as to almost merge, interrupted the
speculation by bouncing him along the carpeted deck like
a stone skipped across a pond.
Coming to a stop next to same couch he'd started at, Alex
managed to grasp its soft
covering and pull himself to an wobbly, upright position.
"We're getting the shit
hammered out of us." The realization that the Alert
announcement and shock waves
were related events melded in his brain in a single moment of
crystal clear thought.
Injured ribs numbed by
pain-killing adrenaline, he scrambled for a another try at
the exit hatch, mind focused on a desperate need to get
to his Battle Station. He led
Damage Control Team Delta in Aft Section Five and they relied on
him to be there. Finally
reaching the hatch, he bolted through and sprinted down the maze-like
corridors.
Training and months of
practice drills kicked in. Running, he began scanning the wall
mounted radiation monitors. Normally white, the monitor changed
color when exposed to radiation. Green signified Danger-Take
Precautions, red meant Evacuate-Seek Treatment. Solid black was
lethal exposure. With the military's typically grim humor, an
instructor in Basic Training had seriously told his trainee's,
"If the RM is black, find a comfortable seat, take a deep
breath, carefully put your head between your legs, then kiss
your sweet ass goodbye, because you're a dead man."
More shock waves swept the
ship making Alex feel like a Ping Pong ball dropped in an
elevator shaft as he used a drop chute to descend two deck
levels toward Aft Section Five. Exiting, he caught sight of a
bright, luminescent green RM at the far end of the
corridor. Breathing in
barely controlled gasps, he quelled an impulse to turn back,
looked around and spotted an emergency storeroom
containing generic, armored suits.
The suits afforded protection against most of the extremes found
in space. The interior was
composed of soft, pliant layers of fabric bonded at the
molecular level with a
silicon gel containing interlaced beryllium steel and lead alloy
crystals. Any sudden impact
and the gel hardened
instantly around the beryllium crystals at the point of impact.
The lead alloy crystals, compacted to double their normal
density blocked radiation. An artificial sapphire sheath
protected from temperature extremes. With its own power
source, oxygen and body
waste recycling systems, the suite would last for forty-eight
hours of continuous use.
General Dynamic claimed the
suits were self adjusting to the wearer. Alex knew that was a
lie. The last time he had worn one the damn thing had rubbed a
painful blister in a very awkward spot and caused a
crotch rash that near drove him crazy because it couldn't be
scratched.
The glowing green RM
overrode comfort concerns. Dashing inside the storeroom,
he hastily powered up one of the armored suits, opened the
release clamps to unseal the
fabric, stripped naked and began backing in.
"Any idea what the Sam Hell
is going on?" A shaky voice asked. Glancing up, Alex saw another
crewman had joined him. The yellow strip on his sleeve indicated
Quartermaster. Above
the left pocket was the name "Vagelli."
"ComCent said we were under
attack." Alex turned to finish sealing the arm seams
back on themselves. Locking
the helmet into place, he was now fully enclosed. Using his
chin, he touched the activation interface and felt the suit
become flexible as power surged
through the nano-engineered
circuitry.
Peeling off his jumpsuit,
Vagelli looked at Alex skeptically, then grumbled, "That's
fucking crazy." He
was backing into a hanging set of armor when a shock wave
rippled through the storeroom, pitching him head long into a
rack of helmets. He landed in a heap on the storeroom's
metal decking.
The computer in Alex's suit sensed the danger and initiated the
leg gyros to compensate, instead of falling, he swayed and rode
the wave out. Recovering, Alex
reached out an armored hand.
Rubbing an angry, red welt on the side of his head, Vagelli
took the hand and stood.
"Goddamn that hurt!"
"Quit whining. We at war
and getting our ass kicked." Alex stated coldly. "What's your
Battle Station assignment?"
"Ration Refrigeration and
Storage." Vagelli answered as he finished getting into
the protective armor.
"Screw that! You're now part of Damage Control Team Delta." Alex
tossed him a helmet, then turned to exit the storeroom.
"Hey, I got my own..."
Vagelli blurted indignantly.
"Quartermaster Second Class Vagelli, nobody gives a shit about
frozen peas right now. I
outrank you, putting me in charge." Alex leaned toward him,
putting as much force into his voice as possible. "You're
with me. Got it."
Eyes wide, Vagelli nodded.
"Got it."
"Good." Alex patted the
other man on the shoulder reassuringly Using the
keyboard mounted on the
suit's left forearm, he tried logging into the AI mainframe.
Finding the way
would be easier if he could pull up a Damage Control schematic
indicating which
areas of the ship were still clear.
"Goddamn it." Alex muttered
acidly.
"What's wrong?" Vagelli's voice wavered.
"I can't get an uplink. AI
must have retreated into its EMP shielded hard circuits."
"EMP?"
"Electromagnetic pulse."
Alex responded, switching over to the radio frequency for the
ComCent. "Means we getting hit with nukes outside. Every time
one goes off it floods the area with an electron pulse
that burns out the nano-circuitry. The AI is
protecting itself from
getting fried by using only lead sheathed fiber optics."
"Nukes! Ah, shit, we're so screwed." Vagelli whined. "What now?"
"We do it the hard way." Alex headed for the door. "Now come on,
I'm not dying in this
oversized closet."
Leaving the storeroom, Alex
led. Servo-motor units inside the armor amplified the
action, compensating for
the suits weight, but running is still running and both were
breathing heavily
when they came to a distorted bulkhead bulging outward. Bright,
silvery stress
signatures in the steel radiated like a spidenveb from the
closed hatch. A hapless ship's officer had been part way through
when a shock wave slammed it shut.
Alex and Vagelli slowed
their pell-mell run, stopping as they drew close to the body of
a young woman with short black hair, dressed in the powder blue
of an officer. Her
left leg was missing below the knee, the bone, flesh and uniform
severed neatly as if
snipped by a pair of giant
scissors. Blood pooled in a huge, irregular, crimson circle out
from the limb. Laying
face down against the metal deck, her dark hair glistened wetly
in back, indicating where the hatch had crushed her skull when
it slammed tight. Red lines streaked down the cheeks,
forming a second, smaller blood puddle about the face. The
impact of the hatch had tossed her ten feet.
Recovering first, Alex bent
down and rolled the woman over, abstractly noticing a New
Christian cross tattooed on her forehead, the name "Corinth" and
the gold Ensign bars on her collar. He was sure the officer was
dead, but felt the need to make sure.
"Check for vital signs. I'll try the bulkhead hatch."
Nodding, Vagelli knelt and
used the suit sensors to scan for a pulse.
Straightening, Alex stepped
over the woman and went to the hatch. Considering
the damage, he doubted the
control panel would function and reached for the manual
"Tesdachi Zeta Class
bombers. Bastards came out of nowhere. We've taken at
least two nuclear hits and a
bunch of near misses. ComCent says the whole fleet is getting
shot to hell."
Alex nodded, trying to
remember the profile of a Zeta class bomber. The effort
must have been visible on
his face.
"Forget Identification
Friend or Foe signals." The Lieutenant instructed brusquely
"Our fighters got nailed in their launch cradles on the
lunar surface. If it's coming at us,
kill it!"
Honorable Mention
The Darker Side of Dawn
By Michael Groetsch
It is 5:00 AM and I cautiously walk the streets of Baghdad. A
half- crescent moon looms in the northern sky. In the far
distance, a fireball gives off a bright orange glow as
muffled explosions penetrate
morning's silence. I am horrified to see a hooded body dangling
from a steel girder. The pulsating sound of a military
helicopter announces its approach. The scene is more
surreal than I had imagined.
Although I have been forewarned that insurgents easily conceal
themselves within pre-dawn
shadows, my mission cannot be delayed. After much government red
tape, I arrived in Iraq yesterday. I came here to find my son
Gene. He is a United States Marine and has been reported missing
in action. My wife and I are distraught. We can no longer sleep.
I must find him before it's too late.
In a desperate effort to
locate my son, I quickly walk the war-torn streets. A torched
and mangled car sits near the entrance of an ancient mosque. I
notice a charred corpse resting near the car's twisted metal.
Although I have viewed such scenes on the evening news, I
am not prepared for what I see. Video clips never disclose the
reality of war.
Without warning, a group of
hooded insurgents bolt from the far side of the temple. They
hurl firebombs into a white-stone building while shooting
automatic weapons into its fa9ade. I quickly fall to the
street's mud- hardened groiund. The insurgents retreat as
quickly as they emerged. Within seconds, silence returns and I
rush into a building that has
been partially reduced to rubble. I conceal myself within its
remaining walls. My breathing becomes labored as my heart
pounds against my chest. It is too dangerous to travel in darkness. I must wait until sunrise.
As I sit and wait for
morning, images of Gene's childhood pass through my mind
with lightening speed. My
wife and I smile hi jubilation as the judge signs his adoption
papers when he's
three. I see him as a young boy being baptized in St. Benilde's
Church. He flinches as the priest pours water across his naked
brow. I smile as Gene dances with his first grade class at his
school fair. My family sits and applauds as Ms high school
principal awards him a diploma.
Suddenly, I hear heavy
gunfire within yards of where I hide. An explosion shatters a
nearby wall. I can no longer wait for daylight. Delaying my
search is not an option. If I am to find my son, I must do it
now.
I scurry through the
pre-dawn darkness. My eyes scan the landscape in hopes that
I might find Gene
walking the embattled streets. I look to my right andl see the
silhouette of a man
dressed in military fatigues. At first I believe it is Gene. I
discover that he is a
Marine, but he looks nothing
like my son.
It is nearly sunrise. I
enter an open courtyard. People dressed in cloaks and
scarves mingle with heavily
armed American soldiers. I approach a young soldier who
appears to be hi his teens.
His deep- set eyes and distant expression reveal that he has
witnessed horrors. I
describe Gene and ask if he may have seen him. He shakes his
head
but tells me that there is
a MASH unit near the far side of the rectangular courtyard. He
escorts me to the site. A car
bomb explodes nearby. We quickly leave the danger of open
spaces and use walls to
shield us as we rush to our destination.
While the medical unit
appears to be just another bombed-out building, it serves
as a haven for soldiers
injured hi combat. As the young soldier and I enter, personnel
frantically treat men and women who lie on gurneys. While some
appear superficially
wounded, others scream in pain. A soldier to my left is missing
a leg. Another is missing both arms. Those on the gurneys appear
to be the lucky ones. Scattered near the walls of
the makeshift hospital are
body bags that contain the remains of soldiers who no longer
require assistance.
We approach a nurse who
seems to be taking a break from the nightmarish task of treating
wounded and dying soldiers. I tell her that I am looking for
my son. I explain that
he is a United States
Marine and was reported missing in action the day before
Thanksgiving. I tell her
that Gene is our life and that I can't return home until he is
found.
With apprehension and
empathetic eyes, the nurse directs me to a fresh group of
body bags whose contents
are new arrivals. She offers to open the bags so that I might
view the soldiers
inside. The thought of finding Gene this way terrifies me. The
thought of never
finding Gene terrifies me more.
The nurse seems apologetic
as she approaches and opens the body bags. Each is
numbered with a date of
arrival and gender stenciled across its front. One by one, she
unzips and then
closes the light green colored bags as I hold my breath and
glance inside.
As we approach body bag
six, its rigid silhouette seems too familiar. I immediately try
to dismiss my instinct as fatigue. I have been without sleep for
over twenty-four hours and know how sleeplessness can weigh on
the mind. Before I can address my apprehension, however, the
nurse opens the bag and the finality of the
moment overwhelms me. It is
Gene. He is my third son. My mind's eye: again replays the
past. I see him being
baptized. I watch as he dances at his school fair. I applaud him
at his graduation.
He is the son I have always protected.
What will I tell my family?
What will I tell my wife? What will I tell his friends? I touch
Gene's forehead and rub my fingers across his face and lips. It
appears as if he is sleeping. He seems to be at peace. What am I
going to do? How will we go on? The trauma of seeing my son in a
body bag makes me nauseated and weak. I become lightheaded
and feel faint. The voice of the nurse, as she tries to comfort
me, seems muffled and distant. My legs give out and I fall to
the cold stone floor.
The morning sun peers
through the soft white curtains in our bedroom. The sound
of someone walking down our
staircase awakens me. It is Gene. I am not in Baghdad. He
is not dead. As he does
each day, he is preparing for work. My cheeks are wet with
tears. As I gather my
thoughts, I realize that I've been crying in my sleep. I've had
a bad dream.
I never share such nightmares with my wife. I don’t want to
upset her with such dark dreams. In an effort to conceal my
distress, I quickly rise from bed and shower. How can I grieve
for a son who is safe at home? After all, he is not in Iraq. How
can I grieve over something
that has not taken place? Perhaps my dream has made me more
aware of the possibilities. The rush of water across my head and
shoulders does not dismiss my pain. I cry silently before I
leave the shower.
As I sit and eat breakfast,
I read the newspaper that someone left on the kitchen table. I
scan the first section in hopes of being reassured that the war
in Iraq is not as
horrific as I fear. The headlines and photographs disagree. Bold
print lists three- thousand
American troops dead since
the onset of the war. The picture of a young military
amputee, no older than Gene, stares grimly from the pages.
Another photograph shows a body bag being placed into a military
helicopter. Other headlines reveal an endless series
of suicide bombings, deadly ambushes, and hostages reduced to headless
corpses.
Although the sound of my wife telling Gene goodbye before he
leaves for work is soothing,
the reality of my sleepless night becomes apparent. Thousands of
families across America live my nightmare. They are terrified by
the fear of loss. They anguish over their inability to protect
their sons and daughters from a monster that stalks them.
The less fortunate grieve as their children are shipped in body
bags and caskets that bear the ultimate markings of war.
I get dressed and kiss my
wife before I leave for the office. As I drive away in a light
rain, I notice a green military cargo plane flying towards
nearby Belle Chasse Air Force Base. I can only wonder its
content. I detour briefly so that I may pass my son's job
site. His car sits in the
driveway. For the moment, I am reassured.
"MORE THAN AN END TO WAR,
WE WANT AN END TO THE
BEGINNINGS OF WAR." —
Franklin D. Roosevelt
Honorable Mention
Icicles in California
By Dallas
Woodburn
We go to the movies. Jake
drives me home. Tufts of hair flop over his eyes and he
pushes them to the side,
swiping them across his forehead absentmindedly as he talks. I
like him. He's the kind of person who sings along to the radio
and quotes random movie lines from the '80s and covers his mouth
when he yawns.
"Turn right here," 1 say. "My
house is that big brown one. With the Charlie Brown
Christmas lights." My dad hangs the multicolored bulbs in
awkward looping strands across the
front of our house. I think
it looks homey and charming, like a child's crayon drawing on
the back of a Kid's
Menu. Mom thinks it looks ridiculous. She wants the straight,
even rows of white icicle lights that adorn all the other
houses in our neighborhood - which is ironic, as those
lights are the most
ridiculous of all. We live in California.
Jake turns into my cul-de-sac and stops in front of my house,
grinning at the lights. I like
that he doesn't need to ask
for further clarification. He understands my sense of humor.
"Hey, my friend's having a
party tonight," he says. He puts the car into park but doesn't
cut the engine. "Do
you wanna come?"
"Yeah, okay. That'll be
fun."
"Okay. I'll pick you up at
nine."
"Okay."
* * *
I have a slight head-ache
and I'm over-dressed. Jake is half an hour later than he said he
would be, wearing shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. I'm wearing
pointy shoes that suddenly seem
as out of place as icicles in
California. Jeans are okay, though. And at least my black lacy
top shows off my
cleavage.
Jake's friend is Eric, a short guy with greasy hair but a nice
smile that extends to his
eyes. "Jake-Man!" he says, clapping Jake on the back while I
stand clumsily behind, in the
shadows. Jake follows Eric in,
pulling me gently along, his fingers warm on my wrist. "Hey
everyone, this is Stacey," he says once we're inside. I was
expecting a dark, crowded room,
thumping bass music, dancing,
cheap beer sloshing in red plastic cups, but it seems "everyone"
is just Eric and Eric's girlfriend, whose name I promptly
forget. I'm already mentally analyzing
Jake's introduction of me,
searching for clues. This is Stacey, he said. Not,
This is my friend, Stacey. It must mean something. If
he only thinks of me as a friend, he would make it clear. To
everyone. Right?
Eric shakes my hand; his
girlfriend nods and smiles without showing her teeth. The
walls look freshly painted and the windows are curtainless and
half-a-dozen cardboard boxes are
congregating in the far
comer. "Sorry about the mess," Eric says. "We just moved in,"
His girlfriend gives
me the tour: the queen-size bed filling nearly all of the
bedroom, the cramped bathroom with combination
shower/tub, the kitchen/dining room opening up into a narrow
living room with blue carpet
and a faded fold-out couch. Wine glasses sit on coasters on the
floor because, Eric's girlfriend explains, "We can't splurge on a coffee table
yet." The coasters make
me smile.
"This is great," I say.
"Yeah, it's small, but it's
ours." Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes shine. I imagine
her vacuuming the
carpet, hanging flowered curtains in the windows, baking
casseroles in the oven. Playing house. It reminds me of the
photographs I found tucked away in our garage beside
boxes of vinyl albums and old basketball trophies - snapshots of
my parents, newlyweds right
out of college, filling a tiny apartment with used furniture and
unabashed love. In the pictures, they look young and
tanned and happy.
I feel like a child, suddenly; overwhelmed, out of place in my
trying-too-hard pointy shoes
and awkward innocence. Eric offers us wine and I gladly take a
glass, clutching its stem, swirling the deep red liquid and
yearning for sophistication. Four years older. Jake is four
years older than I am, and while back in high school it
seemed like a wide chasm yawned between us,
as we've grown older the
distance has gradually shrank and shrank, until I returned home
from college for winter break and found it was merely a thin
trace of a crack that I stepped across,
unblinking.
Now, however, I can feel the
earth beneath us shifting, splitting open, the crack
expanding. Four years older.
I'm still eating dorm food and spending Saturday nights at keg
parties, trying to figure out what to do with my life.
Meanwhile, Jake's moved across the country and on to graduate
school, responsibilities, the Real World. Blue carpet and
casseroles and wine
glasses on coasters. Is this what he wants? Because we both know
it's not something I
can give, not yet.
"So, Eric, where's the
party?" Jake says, nudging his friend in the ribs. Eric holds
his hands up in
surrender. "Danny and Jody said they'd show up, and Rach told me
she'd be here an hour
ago, but you know her. Phil's on his way, too."
"Phil Eckerman! Man, I
haven't seen that guy in years. Is he really coming?'
"Supposedly. He said he'd
call if he got lost."
Jake laughs, plops down on
the couch. I'm still standing by the window with Eric's
girlfriend. Our attempt at
small talk has faded away. She addresses the guys: "Remember
when Phil was, like,
half an hour late to your place before Prom -
"Because they painted the house on Foothill where he was
supposed to turn!" Eric says,
laughing. "He knew to turn left at a yellow house, but now the
house was brown, so he drove
right on by. Oh man! That was
classic."
Jake meets my eyes, rests
his arm on the back of the couch. He smiles at me. I don't
know if that's an invitation but I take it as one,
leaving the curtainless window to sit beside him,
our thighs gently touching.
Jake leans in towards me. "Phil has a terrible sense of
direction," he
explains. As if I hadn't figured that out. Still, I'm grateful
he's attempting to make me feel a
part of the conversation.
The doorbell rings. Danny and
Jody. "This is Stacey," Jake introduces. We smile, nod, shake
hands. Later, Rachel arrives; last of all, Phil. "Jeez, this
place is hard to find!" he says. Everyone laughs. Jake winks at
me.
Rachel is built like Tinkerbell, small and sprightly, and she's
wearing pink tights and leg
warmers and an oversize cable-knit sweater. "I'm playing at
winter," she explains. I like her
immediately. She gives me a
hug instead of a handshake and, after grabbing a Diet Coke from
the fridge, sits down beside me on the couch. "You should have
seen this guy in high school," she tells me, gesturing at Jake.
"Braces, cowlick, scrawny and gangly as a baby giraffe."
I laugh; Jake shakes his
head. "God, Rach, why are you spreading lies?" He puts his
hand on my knee.
"Don't listen to her," he says. "She's still mad I got a better
grade in Mr. Russell's bio class."
"Shut it, Jake! I knew you'd
bring that up." She takes out her cell phone, flips it open.
"He always brings
that up," she says to me. "Probably because it's the only
class he got a better grade in!"
"Ouch," Jake laughs.
"It's true," Rachel says.
She closes her phone. "Damn! I was hoping I'd have an old
picture of you in my phone,
Jake, but I don't."
"Phew!" Jake wipes mock sweat off his brow and grins at me.
"Stacey won't see what a nerd
I used to be and run for the hills."
"You're
still a nerd!" Rachel says.
"Well, I'm
not running anywhere," I put in. The room is warm and I can feel
the wine, settling under my ribs, relaxing my smile. My headache
is nearly gone.
The
conversation turns back to old high school memories and stays
there. I feel like an
outsider, but
I don't really mind. The stories, most of them, are amusing. I
settle back into the couch and listen and laugh along with the
others. I like them; even Eric's girlfriend is smiling
fully now,
showing her teeth. They talk loudly and interrupt each other and
slap their thighs with their palms when they laugh. They remind
me of my friends, except instead of talking
about their
majors they talk about their jobs. God, jobs. Actual
nine-to-five jobs. The chasm
threatens to
buckle and widen, but Jake's hand is on my knee. There are
icicles in California. I
can feel my
toes, perched on the brink of the cliff, but I don't look down.
* * *
Driving
home. Jake sings along to some late '80s song I've never head
of. "Ur-gent!
It's ur-gent!"
he sings. "How have you never heard this song? I guess it was
popular before your
time." It's
exactly what my mom says when she listens to Tom Petty or The
Who.
We pull into
my cul-de-sac. The Charlie Brown lights blink red and green and
blue. Jake parks the car, turns off the engine. He yawns,
covering his mouth with his hand. I want to
kiss him so badly my throat aches.
"Thanks for putting up with my
friends," he says.
"Don't say
that," I laugh. "It was fun. I had a great time. I like your
friends."
"Well, they
liked you, too," he says. He leans closer. There are flecks of
amber in his irises. His kiss tastes like red wine, no coasters
on blue carpet required.
* * *
In two weeks, Jake will fly back to
grad school in Florida. I will go back to my dorm
food and weekend keg parties.
All the Christmas lights will come down. But, for now, the
neighborhood is ablaze with icicles.