Fiction Vortex - December 2014 Read online

  Andrew glanced again at the mirror. His bird tilted its head and gave him a quizzical look, as if it had just failed the Daily Double. Did it know what went through his mind? If it was truly a reflection of himself, then it would have to.

  "Friday," Andrew said again.

  A peck and tug at his shoulder, but he didn't respond. He pulled off the thoroughfare, parked, and — keeping his head down — headed in.

  When nobody expected your return, the weekend stretched open and lonely, like being lost on the tundra. Empty apartments burst with regrets, so find a crowd to hide in. This was Andrew's preferred haunt, a casual family-restaurant with a long sports bar. He liked to sit at the far end, quiet and out of the way, but not unnoticed — that was impossible.

  "Hey there, Ace." The bartender ran a rag quickly before Andrew's spot. "What's it today?"

  "Smith and Wesson."

  "Kah-loo-ahh."

  The bartender fancied himself saucy and hip, but came off as pointedly annoying. Andrew gave a token smile.

  After the cocktail was presented with an unneeded flourish, Andrew drank and played with his phone. He gave the TV news off-and-on attention while he positioned digital candies just so.

  A terrorist suspect had been detained at LaGuardia. He'd tried to hide his affiliation by tethering a Bald Eagle to his shoulder. The news anchors chuckled over the poetic justice of the mauling.

  The bartender returned with another drink. "Too ambitious."

  "Should've used a Turkey," Andrew said. "Docile."

  "Compared to that, sure." The bartender tickled his Black Grouse under the beak. It hopped about on his shoulder and gave a bubbling coo.

  Latin name: Tetrao tetrix. Characteristics: lekking, snow burrowing, mixed-sex flocks.

  "You're Irish?" Andrew asked.

  "Very good. Most people can't tell."

  "Bagpipers like that bird of yours—"

  "Yeah, for decoration, in pies too, but you won't find me puttin' him in one. He's too good for that. Aren'tchu!" Another tickle. "Whoops, customers. Holler when you're dry."

  Both in the restaurant and the bar, families and groups of friends flocked in together. From somewhere in the bustle, a Whippoorwill called out its name. That was when Andrew saw her.

  She sat at the opposite end of the bar, a bookend to himself. Wavy blonde hair that looked like it preferred the beach and a face that made him think of sunshine. Not the kind of woman you ever saw sitting alone. She must be waiting for someone.

  The guys at the table behind her bellowed at sports highlights. They didn't give her a glance. Strange they ignored her — she even had a svelte companion.

  Bird-envy was common for both sexes. Andrew didn't recognize her animal's breed, but it was exquisite, with a curved beak like a long cat's claw, a dun-colored body under zebra-striped wings, and a persimmon crown tipped tar-black.

  For one reckless moment he considered approaching her, asking her what kind of animal it was. All of the best pick-up lines ladled flattery on the feathers.

  Her face turned his way, just enough that he was in her vision. Andrew focused on his empty glass.

  Out of his league. They all were — some more than others. Andrew motioned to the bartender for another round.

  Some people had the luck and others, like himself, did not. There was no choice in the matter. The bird showed up minutes after a person's birth, as soon as the tears dried. Tradition said to leave the window open, welcome the winged friend to its lifelong nest, but that was just out of a sense of decorum. The bird revealed itself regardless of any obstacles, hopping out from under the bed, flapping away from a cupboard, or rustling out of a sleeve like the failed finesse of a stage magician.

  "Local authorities are on the lookout," the closed-captioning read. "Suspect is Caucasian, medium build, five foot ten, Prairie Chicken."

  "Scary fellow."

  He hadn't seen her come over, but she had taken the seat next to him.

  "Oh, yes." Andrew realized that eagerness could be read into his words and struggled onward. "Wouldn't want to cross him."

  "I'm Melinda." She tilted her head to him, close but not too close. Her bird watched him with as much suspicion as a bird could muster.

  "Andrew. Like the song?" he asked.

  "What?"

  "Your name. Melinda. Oh, never mind, I—"

  "I'm surprised you know that. Nobody's heard of it. My father was a Raven and my mother a Vampire Finch. They were into that sort of music. Andrew—" She spoke his name slowly, as if she were tasting it. "That's a magnificent creature."

  "It certainly is." Andrew rubbed at his chin. "He's a Somali Ostrich."

  The bird rested its head on Andrew's shoulder and batted its eyelashes.

  "I can see that. Have you named him?"

  Andrew took a slow sip of his drink. "Awaale. It means lucky."

  "You think so?"

  "Some days more than others."

  He faced her directly, but she looked away, too shy to hold his eye. That seemed odd to him — she had been the one to come over.

  Melinda tapped at her shoulder. "This is Helenus. He's a Hoopoe."

  Latin name: Upupa epops. Characteristics: monogamous, sunbather, connected with death and the underworld.

  "Ah, I've never seen one."

  Her bird fanned its headfeathers so that they stuck out like fingers. They smoothed back into place.

  "They're quite nice," she said.

  "I'm not surprised."

  And just like that, he'd broken the ice, or she had. It made no difference at this point.

  For Andrew, speaking openly and with trust was a new wonderment. It washed away the tension like the alcohol was meant to. Each of us wishes for acceptance, to have another see our flaws and shrug them away with a smile.

  They talked and laughed about their parents.

  "My mother and father only took up with Gothic breeds," Melinda said.

  "That's not uncommon."

  "I suppose so. They wanted me to be a Nightingale. I disappointed them."

  "They said so?"

  Melinda nodded and took a drink.

  "Parents can be cruel," Andrew said. "I'm sorry."

  "It's fine. And yours?"

  Andrew's father had a White-Eared Hummingbird. The old guy resented it and compensated with a drill instructor persona.

  "He'd always belittle me." Andrew affected a Southern twang. "You gotta be more than the bird, son!"

  "But you like him?"

  "My dad, sure."

  "Your friend," she said, gesturing to Awaale.

  "Mmm..." Andrew held his hand up and Awaale rubbed his bill against his palm. "I do. He complicates things, that's all."

  "I understand."

  Andrew didn't see how she could. "He saved my life once."

  "No!"

  "I was coming around a corner, downtown. It was after hours."

  She watched him carefully, searching.

  "Three guys came from out of nowhere. Bad news. Two vultures at their feet — the Iranian kind—"

  "Griffon Vulture."

  Andrew snapped his fingers. "That's it! Good. The things were wobbling about. You know that strange hop vultures do. The third guy had a Carrion Crow."

  "Gangbangers."

  "East meets West, but brothers in purpose. They came toward me, grinning at each other. Then Awaale stepped around the corner." Andrew thought back and smiled. "They didn't know how to read it. Nobody does."

  "Maybe they thought you'd attack. Those animals can be quite aggressive."

  "Awaale, no. He's very tame."

  He saw her lemon drop martini was done and ordered her another. The bartender delivered it with a wink.

  "So." Melinda tasted the rim of the glass, traced in sugar. "Are they slaves to fate?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your thugs. Or, take those newscasters." She motioned to the TV. Each of the on-screen reporters shouldered a parrot: Blue-Eyed Cockatoo, Rainbow Lorie,
Eclectus.

  "Are they there because of the bird?" Melinda asked. "Are those really our spirits?"

  Wings are the engines of the soul. The archetypal angels, from the oldest texts, were feathered from head to toe. With a bit of verbatim, a person could actually explain a religion.

  "That's a big question for the first—" Andrew cut himself short before he jinxed things.

  "It's important. Are they us?"

  "No."

  Melinda sat very still.

  "I don't know what they are," Andrew said, "but I think we've chosen to become them, to act out their promise. Most people have — but not all."

  Melinda looked back to the door.

  "You expecting someone?" Andrew asked.

  "No, I — I haven't been honest with you," she said. "But I want to be. I will be."

  "Okay?"

  "Remember those kids, back ten years ago?"

  He knew where she was going with this. Everyone had heard that story. "Sure, they were never befriended. Parents were waiting hours, then days, then—"

  "Right," she said. "The doctors took them away, quarantined them, did studies."

  "Well, sure. The parents had a defective gene. Nothing contagious. The docs did let them go."

  "Eventually."

  She rested her hand on his. He held her fingertips, not daring too much.

  "One little difference was all it took," she said.

  "I know. I've felt a bit of that, the edges of it. People get confused."

  "But it's not important."

  "Why should it be? We are who we are with or without anyone's permission."

  She turned to him.

  On her other shoulder sat a second bird, the twin of the first. Andrew stared, wide-eyed.

  Melinda lowered her voice and watched the bartop. "This is Cassandra."

  Andrew was at a loss. He thought his own situation was awkward. Awaale was unique, but he fit the expectations in his own weird way. But this — this broke every rule. By the world's definition, Melinda wasn't even a person.

  Melinda met his gaze again. "Are those just words?"

  Andrew thought back. "Everyone believed in Helenus, but not Cassandra."

  "The twins from Troy, yes! You read?"

  "I have lots of spare time."

  "So what do they mean to you? I really need to know."

  "I think..."

  She watched with blatant worry.

  A nudge at his shoulder. He reached up without looking and patted Awaale's head.

  He forced every preconception away, as she had already done with him, and answered honestly.

  "It's wonderful they've found each other."

  She slipped her hand around his and squeezed hard.

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  Rhoads has lived in the Texas Hill Country, and the dry upper Mid-West, in both small towns and large cities. As disparate as these places are, they share qualities their residents don’t realize, tendencies which Rhoads’ own works often echo—the isolation of the rural and the loneliness of crowds.

  Rhoads transcribes his dreams into prose and shares them with the unsuspecting. Somehow, his work has seeped into this locale and other unknowing venues, including: Apex Magazine, Stupefying Stories, Gaia: Shadow & Breath Anthology, vol 1, and Death’s Realm Anthology.

  Currently living in Colorado Springs, Rhoads has no plans of moving. His neighbors grouse and grumble over this fact to no end.

  (Back to Table of Contents)

  The Eyes Behind the Mask

  by R.Y. Brockway; published December 16, 2014

  Winner of the December 2014 Editor's Choice Award

  The city has changed in my absence; I almost don’t recognize it. Like running into a childhood friend you haven’t seen in years, it takes a moment before recollection returns, bringing with it the realization that time has also changed you. I wonder, does the city still know me? I feel the urge to return to the rooftops and exclaim: “It’s me, The Nightmare, I used to be your protector.”

  ~~~~~

  The carpeted halls of the Convention Center are new to the Nightmare. When she left the city its waterfront had been the home to outcasts, vagrants, and thieves. Now it's a bustle of urban renewal. People have returned. The Nightmare is just one of the multitudes.

  Slipping between the crowds like a wisp of early-morning fog, The Nightmare attempts to blend in. But she stands out amongst the brightly colored spandex that surrounds her. She considers the fact that civilian clothes may not have been the right decision. She is not like these others playing in costumes. The Nightmare knows the weight that comes with those frivolous disguises. She has sworn never to wear a mask again.

  Her destination is in the back of the largest exhibit hall. A line has already formed when she reaches it. Taking her place, she tries not to look anxious as she waits.

  In the bustling crowd The Nightmare makes out the rough impersonations of a dozen Cimmerians, a handful of Dark Eclipses. Crude effigies of other heroes whose names she remembers from the old days. There are even a few Nightmares, though they appear to have taken more liberties with their attire. The real Nightmare’s uniform was never so revealing; heels were never practical when she patrolled the rooftops of the city.

  ~~~~~

  I used to see everything in black and white. There were only two ways: right and wrong. Now the world appears to me in shades of grey. Perhaps it was the mask that clouded my vision in those early years. But now that I see clearly, I can no longer pass judgment.

  ~~~~~

   When she reaches the head of the line a man with a ponytail greets The Nightmare from between two towers of books. His t-shirt is adorned with a picture of The Dark Eclipse, though the face is warped where the fabric is pulled taut over a wide belly.

  “So it’s true then?” The Nightmare says aloud, though she is speaking only to herself. The Dark Eclipse stares back at her from the cover of the book she has just picked up. The mask he wears can’t hide the fact he has always had soft eyes.

  “Tickets to the press conference where the true identities of The Dark Eclipse and his allies will be revealed are three hundred dollars,” the man states in a monotone voice. “You get an advance copy of the book free with the purchase.”

  He is distracted, glancing at a tall buxom woman signing autographs just a few feet away. The Nightmare stifles an internal cringe when she recognizes who the woman is impersonating. Is this the way the world remembers her?

  “No.” She makes a distraction by setting her bag on top of the table. With a covert motion, she tucks a copy of the book into her waistband. “I just wanted to see it for myself.”

  The ponytailed man looks at her askance then shrugs, turning his attention to the next customer in line as The Nightmare slips back out the way she came. No one the wiser that one of their idols has been in their midst.

  ~~~~~

  Hotels used to bother me. So many identical floors, so many identical rooms. You can get lost in such places; danger can lie just around the corner. Now, I take comfort in them. Anonymity is the best disguise.

  ~~~~~

  The Nightmare can hear the air whistling from the crack beneath the door as she swipes her keycard. She is not surprised when she enters the room and sees the balcony door is ajar. Turning on the light, she sets her bag and the book on the desk by the television. Only then does she turn to address The Cimmerian.

  “Have you read it?” she asks.

  The Cimmerian rises from the chair in the corner. He is not in in his uniform, but is still clad in head-to-toe black. The dark clothing highlights the grey that has seeped into the sides of his once jet-black hair. The Nightmare can’t help but notice how much he has aged since the last time she saw him.

  “No,” he says, “I have not.”

  The control in his voice chills her, it always has. She has never been able to figure out what exactly he’s holding back. She has accepted this fact long ago: The Cimmerian is not the kind of ma
n who can be understood. He will always be a mystery, even to himself.

  ~~~~~

  You can lose yourself when you put on a mask. You can hide the part of you that is weak and make yourself an island. But when you take off the mask you must face who you really are, accept that the body and the soul are not impenetrable.

  ~~~~~

  The Nightmare pulls back the sheer curtains. Below, the streets of the city are dark scars among the high-rises. She walks out onto the balcony. Gripping the railing, she breathes the night air. The smell is like perfume, triggering memories of who she used to be.

  “I’m afraid,” she says to the shadow in the doorway behind her. “I don’t think I can reinvent myself again. What will happen to us once everyone knows who we are?”

  The Cimmerian places his large hands on either side of hers. The Nightmare feels small in his embrace, but she also feels safe. She remembers a time when they had been a team, the trust she had put in him. He could tell her to leap from the tallest skyscraper and she wouldn’t bat an eye. The memory of the sensation of wind rushing across her face still tickles her skin like latent electricity.

  “I don’t know,” he whispers above her head. The city lights burn before them, distant beacons crowding the horizon.

  She turns and entwines her arms about him. When she presses herself against his chest The Cimmerian sucks a stream of air through his teeth.

  “What’s wrong?” She pulls at the hem of his shirt with sudden concern. He doesn’t stop her as she exposes the fresh wound in his side bleeding through its bandage. “I thought you retired.”

  ~~~~~

  Adrenaline can be addictive. Fear, the syringe that mainlines the drug to your system. I thought for the longest time it was death that scared me most. When I finally faced that possibility it left me feeling cold and empty. What scares me now is losing control.

  ~~~~~

  The Nightmare dabs at the wound with a terry cloth towel. She removes the bandage and begins to apply sutures, careful not to put too much pressure on the swollen pink edges of the torn skin.

  The Cimmerian allows her to do this, to mend him. When she finishes he takes hold of her fingers and after holding them for a moment kisses their tips. The gesture is gentle but he might as well have gripped The Nightmare tight by the arm. She cannot pull away from him. She can feel his loneliness in the touch, her loneliness, the loneliness of the entire world. Once again it is pulling them together.