Fiction Vortex - June 2013 Read online

  Taking a deep breath, Preston clambered up onto the roots of the tree. He had imagined it all. It had just been some type of a fish against his leg; fireflies in the trees. Moe's stories had gotten the better of him, but they wouldn't get the best. He was a man of science, after all.

  And then the world went liquidly black. Moss-covered hands, dozens of them, pulled him beneath the surface. He thrashed, kicking and screaming, his bubbling voice sounding much like those of his now-screaming tormentors. Reds and oranges and yellows flashed around him as he was driven down into the bowels of the swamp. Mud and water filled his nose and his eyes. Within seconds his lungs would be flooded.

  Suddenly, the screaming stopped. It was replaced by a quieter bellow, rhythmic and placid. He ceased his struggle, as the strong hands gently guided him deeper into the mud. When he opened his eyes, he could see clearly. Everything was yellow.

  Vines snaked around him, piercing his flesh and organs in excruciating precision. Slime-covered vegetation slithered down his throat, nesting his organs in floral incubators. Roots replaced bone.

  He could hear the process in his mind — the sentient screams of his dying cells and the triumphant battle cries of the new organisms conquering his body. Then came the voices of his brothers, as they began to hoist him from the murk. He understood them all completely now, though he could not explain why.

  He tried to hold on, tried to salvage what was left of whatever it was he seemed to remember being just moments — or maybe eons — before.

  He thought of Jennie. Jamie. Janet. Jan ... What was it again?

  No matter.

  He wasn't alone anymore.

  Finally.

  Jason Norton is a lifelong fan of comic books, science fiction, and monster-under-your-bed stories. He hopes to one day be mistaken as an author of such. A former small-town newspaper reporter, Jason is now a personal trainer and massage therapist. When he’s not playing volleyball, he studies wilderness survival skills. Honest. Not even he could have made all that up. Jason and his wife live in Powhatan, Virginia. He has a son, two cats and two dogs. He prefers the son. Jason’s flash fiction piece, “Cave Dwellers,” was recently published at Bewildering Stories. Follow his exploits at: thewritefandango.blogspot.com

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  Lyfe

  by Tyrone Long; published June 25, 2013

  I take another sip of water before picking up the script again. My idol, Jim Jacobson III, once wrote that he would only sip water during commercials. He said in thirteen years of broadcast journalism, he had not taken one solid drink of water while on the job. "Stopping to go to the bathroom, focusing on your bladder, and fidgeting are all byproducts of drinking water when a sip would do," he said. He said that engaging in any activity that increased the chances of "missing the magic" was unconscionable. I listened.

  Take twenty-three and I still cannot understand how I got here. I was a poor kid, so of course the recruiters came for me. They always come for the poor kids.

  "Anytime you're ready, kid," the director says.

  His voice seems almost like the voice of God through the loud speakers above me. I get paranoid when he turns off the mic and turns to talk to his assistant.

  "Welcome to the season finale of Lyfe. The game show that takes reality TV to a place where "real" has a whole new meaning ..."

  The script for this intro is awful, so far. I have no hope for the future. These scripts have gotten worse by the episode for ten seasons. My focus wanes long enough to meet eyes with the director just as he yawns.

  "... a test of will, determination, and intestined fortitude."

  "Cut," the director screams from behind the sound-proof glass.

  "Sorry," I say.

  "I thought you said you memorized the damn script. What in the hell is intestined fortitude?"

  "Intestinal, I know. I got it, let's just do it again."

  "Let's."

  The recruiters told me that Lyfe would give me an opportunity to maximize my potential. I could put my little sister through college, pay off all of mom's bills, and could potentially retire before I reached thirty. They told me that kids like me deserved more than life could offer; we deserved Lyfe. I listened.

  "Welcome to the season finale of Lyfe. The game show that takes reality TV to a place where real has a whole new meaning. Hundreds of players from all over the world, live streams that can be accessed from anywhere, and the most compelling drama television can offer."

  I failed the first physical for the show. A congenital heart defect made it impossible for me to fulfill certain tasks the show might require. It wasn't that bad. I had a different future in mind for myself. I wanted to be a hard-hitting reporter; even got a degree to go along with the dream. Yet here I am. Shooting a voice-over for the very show that turned me down seven years ago. I am twenty-five now. I could have been retired by now.

  "... players choose their 'figures' out of a pool of thousands of potentials. A spin of the wheel and they're off. Should they send their figures straight to work or hold off till college is over? Help decide their fate by participating in live online polls and anonymous texts that control the odds for tonight's participants. That's right, here on Lyfe, you have the power; voting increases the size of the corresponding number on Lyfe's big wheel. All of this for a small monthly membership fee."

  My sister, Mary, passed her physicals. She is pregnant with her second kid. The first one died in a car accident at two, after her player spun a six. We haven't been able to talk since the funeral but her husband's player only needs a five on tonight's episode to win the lotto. The commercial I recorded last Friday told my mother that a four would result in a premature baby and all the financial and emotional hardships that come with it. I chickened out and just let my voice tell my mother through the TV. That is how I told my mother that my sister was pregnant, too; both times. I pay for her membership. She never watches. She only votes; she only prays.

  "... Lyfe, where the reality is all real, all the time."

  I don't watch either. And I don't pray.

  There was this girl my sister used to know. She lived in the apartment next to ours in the building we grew up in. Her legs never quite worked the way they should. She was the first girl I thought I loved. I never said a single word to her. Her voice was always this muffled and distant song. The thin walls of a broken down project building in a broken down city merely added to her mystery.

  Sandra. Sandra Something-Or-Other.

  Sandra was found behind that old building last week. She was like me; she was one birth defect away from a chance at a better life.

  The director franticly paces as they touch up my makeup. We tape my segments on the fly.

  "Everything is happening."

  Everything is happening. He says this all the time. He says this like we don't know, like it means something.

  The Internet buzz controls the way he shapes our presentation. If the audience begins to turn on a figure, they are shown and referred to, with disgust. Perception is reality.

  I don't pray for my sister, I don't watch her Lyfe, because she has it better than she would have otherwise. She could easily have been a Sandra Something-Or-Other.

  Jim Jacobson III said that it is the strength and wisdom of a reporter, the foresight and the ability to maintain a distant objectivity, that allows them to reach the greatest of heights.

  I listened.

  The monitor is showing a live broadcast of tonight's episode. A figure in some city I have never heard of is running down the street in tears and a tattered gown. Without sound, she could be running after the recently leased car that is being towed away. Without the audio single that is undoubtedly playing in the background — easily purchased by phone — her broken heart could be an overreaction to her oldest child going to college, or something.

  A long-shot spin of a one, six months ago, made her husband, a man that she had actually grown to truly love over the three seasons they spent as man an
d wife, start an affair. Last week, a heavily favored seven led to tonight's confrontation during the ceremony to renew their vows. Now her mascara is running, and a broken heel lies in the middle of the road fifteen paces behind her quivering body. A perfectly timed crane shot swoops over her as she lies limp in the middle of the street she was forced to move to. Based on everything I know about Lyfe, the music will fade out leaving only the sound of her sobbing.

  "Why?" she mouths.

  And then a commercial advertises a new dating site or a medication for STDs, depending on the narration and music I cannot hear.

  The sound of a click and slight feedback prepares me for the imminent voice of god.

  "Okay, kid. It looks like we are going with script B during this last segment. And remember, everything is happening."

  I did not read the script. How could I? After a decade of formulaic twists and forced product placements, how could I care enough about any of this? I am nothing like the person I wanted to be; my life is nothing like the life I wanted to live. I have not read a script in months. Jim Jacobson III would be so disappointed. But then again, Jim Jacobson III died in a den of inequity while reporting on the seedy underbelly of this broken-down city. The cause of death was never fully determined. Rumor has it that an overdose was the best bet, but extreme physical exertion at what is graciously referred to as an advanced age was a close second.

  It doesn't help that my sister is a figure. What kind of sociopath could memorize the script for a family member's impending miscarriage, or whatever?

  "And action," the voice of god rings out.

  "Well folks, there you have it. A marriage in tatters, a woman in defeat but hopefully not defeated, and a world waiting to see just what Lyfe has in store for her. Now let's turn our attention to the Hendersons, as Mary and her husband Josh make their way to what is sure to be an exciting climax to one of the longest running Lyves we have ever seen."

  The teleprompter is cued up for my next few lines. It says that Josh does not win the lottery. But my niece isn't premature either. Josh just loses his job. They just lose their home. I have seen worse; I have read worse.

  I sleep walk through the majority of the next few minutes of my life. I talk about Mary like I never slept under her crib to make sure she was not alone if she woke up in the middle of the night and started to cry. I refer to her as a figure and not as the baby sister whose bottle I used to steal because I loved warm milk; or the frustrating preteen who kidnapped and forced marriage upon my action figures. It barely even registers as I wrap up, in my deepest and most ominous voice, her final moments in Lyfe.

  "When we come back, we will reveal the result of Josh's player's final spin."

  Josh's player's spin. Josh's player. Some multi-multi-millionaire. A trust fund Someone-Or-Other. These people with no fear of starvation, disease, aging poorly, or untimely death. Wagering pointless fortunes on a game just to vicariously live the types of lives money spared them from actually living.

  Josh's player is probably not even watching; they're certainly not praying.

  Where enough money exists, prayer becomes obsolete.

  I am bitter, or whatever.

  "Welcome back. As you just saw, the Hendersons are on the brink of losing it all. But, as Lyfe has taught us, there is some hope left for this veteran family. They are but one spin away from being just the third family to happily retire from Lyfe. A twelve lands them firmly in the lap of luxury due to the untimely death of Josh's long-lost uncle, a former player in the game of Lyfe. But look out, another unlucky spin and ..."

  I freeze. In the distance, I hear my sister and Sandra Something-Or-Other singing a song I always hated by a random teen heartthrob.

  My eyes wander to the left. They pass the director's ever-reddening face behind sound-proof glass. Resting on the monitor above the camera guy, the live feed shows the spin my words will lead into.

  I watch. I pray.

  "Read the script or get off my stage," the director's voice echoes throughout the stage.

  Everything is happening.

  I pray for a power outage. I pray for a natural disaster, anarchy, revolution, or the unlikely intervention of a superior alien race. I pray for anything but a one.

  The director orders a close up as I continue. Everyone is to continue rolling. Time is of the essence.

  My shaking hands raise a glass of water to my lips. I take a solid drink.

  Pacing my words to the silent clicking of the needle on the Lyfe's wheel, I say, "But look out, another unlucky spin and Josh will wind up a widower."

  I should have read the script. A cursory glance over to another monitor showing the live polls proves that the plight of a single father, having lost his wife in childbirth, is a popular one.

  "And cut."

  Tyrone Long lives in Ohio with his wife and two children. He earned his bachelor's degree from Bowling Green State University and now works in college admissions. His work has been published in Poetry for the Mind's Joy, The Poetry and Literature Center at the Library of Congress, as well as multiple collegiate publications.

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  In the Rain

  by Lisa Lutwyche; published June 28, 2013

  It's risky telling this story because I'm a female police officer, but it's also impossible to deny. Before I hardened my heart to protect myself, before the years of forcing myself to be always impartial, I might have convinced myself I'd imagined it all. But I wasn't alone, even if they refuse to talk about it. I've been silent because of my career, but I can't do it anymore.

  Because when it rains, I remember. Just like him.

  That night, twenty years ago, is wet, messy, and bone chilling, despite the fact that it's spring. I'm drinking coffee with the inevitable results. Returning from my third trip to the bathroom, they're cocking their eyebrows at me. None of the guys are dashing off as often as I am. I'm the only woman on the shift but they know they can't comment on it. And I'm a rookie.

  A gentleman comes in, looking like my grandmother's expression about what the proverbial cat dragged in. And he's mine. I have front desk duty. He's older, well-dressed, nice Rolex watch, lightweight wool sports coat, but he's disheveled. Clearly in distress. He's twisting something in his hands that I don't recognize right away. I try to catch a look.

  When I realize what it is I feel my stomach hit the floor. The coffee rises to the back of my throat. I swallow, hard.

  It's a little girl's shoe with pink flowers all over it.

  "Sir," I say to him. "Have a seat over here and I'll get you some coffee."

  I try not to look at that shoe. I see that his hands are shaking. At about the same time I notice mine are, too. I'm glad to step away for the coffee, the smell of which now bothers me.

  "Here you go, sir."

  He looks up like he's going to thank me. He takes the cup in his hand, the one that's not holding the tiny pink shoe.

  But instead of thanking me he says, "Do you think she'll go away if I tell the story?"

  I'm scared to ask. "Who, sir?"

  "The little girl's ghost."

  I sit down in my desk chair so hard there's an audible thump. A couple of the other cops by the coffee pot look over at me. One of them laughs. I'm the rookie, after all. "Oh yeah," I think. "They love it when I've got one of the crazies to deal with."

  I look away from him and start typing, partly just for something to do. "Okay, sir. Let's start at the beginning." I don't know what kind of report to write here. How to categorize it? Crazy guy. Little girl's ghost. I can hear the Sergeant now. Part of me wants to chase him away. Scold him for wasting our time. But the little shoe scares me. I can't just let him go.

  "Name, sir."

  "Stevenson," he says. "Ralph Stevenson."

  He's gulping coffee that's so hot it would strip paint, so hot my eyes water watching him. As he crushes the Styrofoam cup in his shoeless hand he catches me gaping.

  "Will you make her leave me alone?" His voice
is even and calm, but not his eyes. "Every time it rains ... she comes in the rain and she stands there, all quiet, staring at me, staring all wet and quiet. Can you make her stay away from me?"

  "Sure thing, sir." I realize that I have no idea what I'm doing. "We'll make her go away, sir, but first I need to know all about both of you."

  "Both of us? Oh. Well, I don't know her name." Stevenson sighs, hangs his head. "I only know I killed her at the intersection of Maple and High last Saturday."

  I gasp aloud. I can't describe the reaction I had in any other way. My hands freeze over the keyboard. Literally and figuratively. The blood is gone from my fingers.

  "Do you hear me? Are you hearing me?"

  His voice is hoarse and resounds, cutting off everything else. A hush comes over the precinct, as if his voice has sucked them all inside his world. "I killed her. In the storm, the big thunderstorm ... She ran out. So small. So quick. Bang! And then I couldn't see her anymore. Why was she even there? Alone in the rain like that?"

  He quiets, changing his voice to an intimate pitch. As if it's just for me. He leans in, nearly resting his forehead on my desk, where my hands are still poised in the air, waiting for my command. I am fixed on the little shoe. Hypnotized by the tiny flowers.

  "There," he says, flat again. "I've told you. Now. Make her stop."

  I'm a rookie when all this happens. They're all watching me. I find myself wondering if it's some sort of initiation.

  "Right. Sure thing, Mr. Stevenson."

  I start typing again, as if this is the sort of report I write every day. I want to yell at the other officers. Tell them they've had their chuckles, now come help me. I catch the eye of my partner, Joe, who's a ten-year veteran. He's not laughing. Joe marches over to Stevenson and me.

  "Officer Derry here is going to take you downstairs," Joe says, cheerfully. "I'm afraid you'll need to stay with us for a little while."

  Joe grips my shoulder and says, quietly, "Book him for leaving the scene for now. Look under unsolved vehicular manslaughter." He whispers, "Good work, Derry."

  And he walks off.

  Ralph Stevenson raises his head. His eyes are full of tears. "I know I shouldn't have left her there. I didn't know what to do. We were alone. It was raining so hard. I was afraid to touch her. I knew I should pick her up, call an ambulance. But I didn't. I couldn't. I picked up her shoe. I got back in my car. That's why she follows me."