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Have
You Read Any Good Stories Lately? Here Are The Previous Dream Quest One Writing Contest Prize Winners
First
Writing Prize Winner - Winter (2005-2006) The Golden City
Stories? Again! How you pester your old grandmother for stories. What shall I tell you about this time? How you
clamor, all at once! You must take turns talking. Ssssh, David, wait for your little sister to finish speaking. Really!
You want to hear about when I was a little girl? Was I ever a little girl...... was I ever.....
It comes gently drifting back now, through the mists of time. I was born in a golden city, where the long sunny afternoons
were filled with laughter and the music of harps drifted through the streets. The sky there was the bright hard blue of lapis
lazuli, obscured only by golden turrets with silk banners, and palm trees with gorgeous-feathered birds languidly preening
themselves, and proud fountains, with statues of illustrious heroes standing amid the white whirling spray. The streets were
rivers, paved over with glass, and beneath the glass you could see enormous fish swimming, rich rainbows of colors with jeweled
scales and fins like plumes and ruffles on a great lady’s ball dress. The air was always heavy with the
scents of food and fireworks, rare fruits and exotic incense and rich perfumes. Ladies in sky-blue dresses leaned out of windows
and waved their fans and laughed at the joking things the young men on their way to sword practice called out from beneath.
Children chased each other around corners, giggling like crazy, capturing robbers, killing pirates, crowning kings and queens,
getting married, having sword fights, turning into tigers, and generally getting into all sorts of fantastic mischief that
the grown-ups turned their noses up at and never bothered to understand. Occasionally they would run into a storyteller, and
he would take them all prisoner and they would sit in a wide-eyed circle around him, transfixed by the winking of his wise
eyes and the low music of his magical voice and the bobbing of his feathered turban. And around the ring of children was a
ring of adults, pretending to be too busy to listen but straining to catch every word.
Besides the storytellers, there were also minstrels, poets, artists, and dancers— entertainers of every description,
plying their wares on the street-corners. A man with a glass eye juggled six different colors of flame, a magician made apparitions
appear in colored smoke, a cobra with a diamond tiara extended her undulant body from a jug, to dance to the piper’s
eerie music. A red-haired young man sang ballads of a love and a loss he had almost certainly never felt, while a bevy of
maidens stood around him sighing and wondering if they could comfort this mightily picturesque and tragic figure. A haughty
artist paced restlessly back and forth before his easel, examining his picture from every angle and applying one stroke of
the brush every twenty minutes, meanwhile talking to anyone who would listen to him about the uses of perspective and chiaroscuro,
and the terrible sacrifices an artist makes to pursue his sacred calling. A poet, a man the size of a bear with a huge beard and
hair that stuck out all around his head like the rays from the sun, sat on the side of a fountain, penning lines with earnest
intensity, and occasionally arising to let forth screams, howls, and mighty roars, while tearing at his hair,
ripping pages from his book, crumpling them up and throwing them like missiles while thundering that he would never be a poet
and he might as well go back to blacksmithing. He attracted a larger group of onlookers than the magician, who assisted him
in a friendly way with his self-abuse, and collected his crumpled pages and tried to publish them as their own (for the verses
he threw away were, invariably, excellent.)
Despite his numerous threats, he never went back to blacksmithing, and every evening at sunset hordes gathered to him
read his day’s labors in his ringing voice, better suited for ordering armies into battle than for revealing the tender
secrets of a poet’s heart. His verses were sometimes funny, sometimes sad, and always left echoes in your mind that
lingered far past their time and made you think odd things in odd places. Sometimes he wrote about events that happened around
the city, sometimes he wrote bloody epic masterpieces of gore and adventure, sometimes he wrote odd things which sounded like
jokes and turned out to be some of the very best philosophy. But best of all was when he wrote about love, for his unrequited
passion for the daughter of the royal gardener was the best joke of the town. Though he never named her, everyone knew perfectly
well what goddess his poems described. People laughed their heads off at his most fanciful, far-flung, airily gorgeous verses
while he shot them smoldering glares from under his heavy, furry, brows. The more they snickered, the more angry he grew,
until at last he stopped mid-word and shouted, “Reading this to you people is like casting pearls before swine!”
and stalked off. Ten people would run after him and beg him to continue, and growling, he would allow himself to be cajoled
into finishing, while everyone stood in the most respectful silence, stifling their smiles.
I was one of the daughters of the great noble houses of the city, and I was as wild as a half-tamed tiger, always putting
on the scullery maid’s clothes and sneaking out of back doors to run in the streets or the grand bazaar. Though my parents
frowned on these expeditions, they were never too harsh with me, for they had a bit of the wanderlust themselves, and besides,
it was hard to believe I could be hurt on the streets of the golden city. For it was not like most cities, swarming with thieves
and pickpockets and with murderers in every dark alleyway. Crime was practically unheard of, and anyone who lacked a meal
might knock on a golden door and be ushered into a cool courtyard full of blossoming trees, to be given a cup of mango juice
and a plate of kiwis and strawberry jam and cassava bread and cold chicken. I passed for a beggar many times myself, knocking
at a friendly door to find hidden gardens with cushioned chairs and silk canopies, swarthy men who bowed to the queer little
beggar in jest, calling me “Lady” (if only they knew how correct the title was) as they served me queer pastries
full of ground beef and spices, or eggs and mushrooms, or fruit and cream cheese.
As for the market, if I told anyone who I was I could always help myself to any of the wares on credit, and have them
send the bill to my father. But mostly I preferred to remain anonymous, listening to the outrageous tall tales of the merchants
and the shouts of indignant customers and the jingle rang-a-tang of the dancers. All the merchants lied, but in the most droll
and transparent way, so nobody was hurt or offended. It was a pleasure to hear Edwardo describe the half-starved kitten he
had found nearly dead in the gutter as a, “ferocious beast, sure to defend your door in times of trouble,” or
to hear Jonas describe a simple cotton dress as, “stitched from the finest of silks by nine imprisoned princesses,”
or to hear Massar’s story about how his jars of cloves and cinnamon were brought by camels across ten thousand leagues,
and nearly stolen twice by bandits (besides almost being smashed when a sandstorm blew away one of the bundles.) The rougher
the merchandise, the more fantastic was the tale that came with it, and the customers, laughing, paid for the tale as well
as the goods. However, if the merchants had something especially fine, something their customers especially wanted, they would
shake their heads sadly and wag their long beards and say it was the poorest junk, the most dilapidated of rubbish, that they
were ashamed to have it in their stalls and their good consciences would not allow them to hoist it off on people who had
been such fine customers to them.
The only way the customer could get it was by suggesting that they had rather underpaid the merchant in previous purchases,
that they had taken advantage of his good nature and purchased his ferocious beasts and silks stitched by nine princesses
and imported cloves for mere pittances. And that now, in all honor and honesty, they must give the merchant a gift of gold
to make up for all the times he had been cheated out of his treasures. The merchant, delighted, would accept the gold, and
“give” the customer as a token of gratitude the “sad piece of trash you seem to admire, goodness knows why.”
It was a most delightful way of conducting business. Of course, this wasn’t the
way it always happened— the merchants were careful not to wear out their jokes through constant use— but they
had a dozen other gags and tricks they could use to enchant, vex, puzzle, bewilder, and crack up their customers. If someone
was in a hurry, or simply not in the mood for jokes, the merchants could be quick and businesslike; but people did not often
hurry in the golden city. The bazaar was a place it was practically a crime to hurry through, there was so much to look at.
Every booth had a different gorgeous picture painted on its awnings, which explained in some way what the business was about.
There were stalls where necklaces hung in great rainbow loops, stalls with tubs of rings and bracelets, heaps of precious
stones and little notepads for sketching out the designs of jewelry you wanted the craftsman to make for you. There were stalls
where strange furry creatures and miniature monkeys and brightly colored lizards hooted and squeaked and chattered and rasped
and rattled in cages, while a basket of puppies lay sleeping in the sunshine. There was a store where a thousand kinds of
birds lay hanging in cages from the ceiling, some of them silent and fretful, some chirping in impatient racket, and some
singing fit to break your heart. I used to dream of slipping into that store one day and setting all the birds free, so they
flew up in a great rainbow cloud towards the rising sun. I always hated to see anything caged, but I loved the things in the
cages. And I suppose, if someone hadn’t gone to the trouble of capturing them, I would never had seen them. So a sort
of hypocrisy came into my heart whenever I went into the pet stores, at once longing to see the animals free and longing to
possess them.
Then there was the pottery and the glassware: you could find anything from urns big enough to hide a grown man in,
to tiny crystal boxes the right size for holding the smallest jewel. There were huge glass balls all striped with brilliant
colors that they hung up as ornaments, and one stall had a border of wind chimes that always tinkled as your head brushed
them on the way in. I liked the enormous vases, in twisted spiral shapes and blown out of glass of purple or emerald green
or ruby red. But I could only go in when no one was looking, and then I would soon be sent out, for fear I would shatter the
fragile wares. But it was wonderful to see the translucent stained-glass dishes shining like enormous jewels along the shelves.
There were silk scarves dyed in thousands of colors and patterns, and bright swords with their gold hits gleaming,
there were maps in colored ink showing the Lands Beyond, and one great tiled market square that had a map of our whole city
in mosaics. There were stalls that sold paint in enormous jars that I always longed to dip my arms into and never quite dared
to. There was a stall that sold fifty kinds of chess set, the pieces carved in the shape of animals and legendary creatures
and heroes from the ancient stories.
And, of course, there were the stalls that sold food: thousands of spices, fruits piled up in enormous
pyramids, baths of millet and grain deep enough to swim in. There were cafes and restaurants by the dozens. One cafe was my
especial favorite; as it could always be counted on to develop some explosive argument about politics. It was wonderful to
sip your chocolate while watching a couple of college students shout incomprehensible insults at each other and stalk away,
vowing never to be friends again. And it was still more wonderful to see that same pair of college students, staggering drunkenly
down the road together, singing, with their arms around each-other’s necks.
Sometimes a great wedding would take place in the palace square (which was also the busiest part of the bazaar) and
the bride in her red gown with the gold tassels and her towering headdress would walk down the scarlet carpet that was laid
down between the stalls. The merchants and the customers would stop their bickering for a moment and watch, with happy smiles
and eyes brimming, and the great music of the palace organ and a hundred minstrels would overwhelm all other sounds. The bride
would always stare straight ahead, not looking to either side, as she went slowly along, and her relatives tramped grimly
behind and before and at either side of her. All the male relatives always escorted the bride, in full military gear, with
polished helmets and swords and breastplates, and I always used to wonder if it was to prevent the bride from escaping. No
such measures were taken for the groom, who always awaited the bride at the steps of the palace, looking very nervous indeed.
In fact, the grooms always looked far more ready to bolt than the brides. And sometimes I thought he should be surrounded
by all of his female relatives, ready to beat him with rolling pins in case he should try to escape.
So many flowers were thrown at those times that the members of the wedding party were occasionally obscured by clouds
of petals. There were of course the most beautiful dancing girls, and many dancing dragons (it took six men to dance the dragon,
and required much precision, cooperation, and skill.) As the music reached its climax, the bride would join the groom up on
the steps, and place her hand in his, smiling as if her teeth hurt. Six priests of the Everlasting Immanence would chant holy
things and make speeches about everlasting fidelity, and it is interesting to note, that while the dancing was going on business
stopped and everyone in the square watched the progress of the wedding most intently— but when the priests began talking,
business resumed and occasional arguments about the quality of the wares drowned out the nobler sections of the speeches.
But everyone fell silent again when it was time to make the vows, which were very simple: “I am yours, and you
are mine: two beings made one.” And everyone, whether they knew the people being married or not, threw up their hats
and cheered like crazy when the groom kissed the bride. Afterwards, there was always free food and drink for everyone. Although
the more sophisticated members of the congregation withdrew from the palace square so as not to have to mingle with the common
crowd. I never did— I was as often as not dressed as a commoner, and their bawdy jokes and belly-laugh-invoking stories
were always far more interesting than genteel conversation among the water lilies. Considering my tastes, I suppose it was
inevitable that I fell in love with the wrong man. Well, my parents and society at large thought he was the wrong man. I was
fully convinced that he was the right one. But that’s another story, for another time, my small ones. Right now, its time for you to go
to bed.
By Charlotte Ashlock of Guelph, Ontario, Canada
I have enjoyed writing since I was a small child. My
hobbies are drawing, swimming, writing poetry and Fantasy Fiction. I love nature, animals and books.
Second
Prize Winner -Winter (2005-2006)
A Dead Man To Get Rid Of
They have been carrying him for fifteen days. He has been put into Hold #4 because the temperature in there is the lowest
-- minus 20 degrees C. An oblong black package shaking
along with them, on their way to Lagos -- they have
tucked him in a black sack and tied it up with a mooring line. Why didn’t they throw him in the ocean? They could have forgotten him by now --
tie him to an anchor, and to the bottom with him, farewell. Although nobody can see him down there
in the dark over the packages of fish, innocent, harmless and helpless, he has been torturing the souls of the crew all these
fifteen days. The sailors on the deck have refrained from doing anything near Hold #4, but they imagine it: the tiny, fine
bundle (he had been a small man) in the hold has disrupted the ship’s monotonous, unruffled rhythm. In the beginning they had
felt pity. Just a few days before, someone had drunk a cup of coffee with him. He was part of the working team, and they recalled
all the finest details, retelling them to each other: how he had opened the door for somebody, how he had given another man
a light... Suddenly someone remembers that it does no good to talk about him. But in a minute they start up again. They can’t
keep from thinking about him. Too many men aboard have had their nerves wrecked by alcohol, cigarettes, coffee, the rapid
changes of climate, the noise, the vibration. Everyone is jumpy, bundles of nerves…The dead man is like a red light
warning of damage, of danger. You can’t ignore it or wish it away. He has stolen their peaceful dreams; they’ve
stopped imagining the sumptuous villas in the virgin forests at the movies in their last port, stopped dreaming of making
love to magnificent women right on the carpet. The dead man -- the innocent,
harmless and helpless dead man -- has, it seems,
put an end to those moments of solitude when a man longs for his children, for the woman he had left on the shore; he has
driven away the comforting round of thoughts that visit sailors from time to time and make their shipboard lives a little
easier. Sailors dislike gloomy thoughts. It is hard enough just being here, over the deep. They often tell themselves they
have been forgotten by everyone, and they are right. There probably are days when nobody remembers them. It’s a sore
subject, one they prefer not thinking about at all. Day after day, nothing extraordinary happened on the ship, and they were
satisfied with their monotonous existence. They felt good when nothing reminded them of the shore, the radiograms passing
like quiet white birds over their heads, always pleasant and trite; these did not particularly set them thinking. Their dead
man had died silently: heart attack. He was dead in a couple of minutes. They packed him, put him in the frozen dark, loaded
the ship, started up the engines and sailed off. Nothing had changed. But bit-by-bit, without honestly admitting it, the sailors
began hating this half-decayed body. “I’ll throw him overboard some night, tie him to two cramp-irons and get
rid of him,” the boatswain is heard to say one day, he who was always able to dispel gloomy thoughts -- but now that is no longer possible.
-page 1-
Death is aboard, haunting
the ship: in the cabins, on deck, hanging over the seamen who hammer out the rust, on the mechanics’ watches, on the
captain’s bridge, everywhere. Not only the boatswain, but all are worked into a rage, unable to get rid of her. She
is here, elusive, invisible, terrifying. They arrive in port Friday at noon. There is no place along the quay so they drop
anchor in the roadstead. The captain informs the authorities that there is a dead man aboard. He is told they will come to
ascertain the facts of the death and will do what is necessary for the funeral. The next morning a doctor and a major, a representative
of the port authority, come aboard at about nine. Plunge into the hold and position lights to get a good look at the body.
The doctor is smoking. The chief mate looks at him several times, but the doctor just stares at the frozen face of the dead
man, blowing out smoke right over it. The chief mate stretches his arm out, takes the cigarette from the doctor’s mouth,
casts it onto the deck and stomps on it. The doctor looks at him in amazement but says nothing. All seems in order. They write out a death
certificate and tell the captain that in the afternoon a coffin will be delivered. The captain gives them whisky and cigarettes;
he too wants to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. In the afternoon the officer who brings the coffin says
there is no permission for the funeral but perhaps he can manage something tomorrow morning. The captain also gives him a
bottle of whisky. In the morning, a military launch brings Mister B in dress uniform with epaulettes and a sabre and two military
officers alongside. Until noon they negotiate, thinking whisky in the captain’s cabin. They say they are the only ones
with the authority to arrange the funeral. Let the body be transported to shore: they will see what can be done. Monday morning they take
him out of the hold, untie him and pull him out of the sack. His face, his clothes, are all covered in hoar frost. While preparing
the boat to haul down, while convoying him (they had gone to breakfast and forgot him on deck for awhile), he begins to thaw
out. They lift him, water streaming out of him, his face and hair wet. The clothes they had put on him are wrinkled and crumpled.
They hurriedly put the body in the coffin, looking sideways, close the lid and load him into the boat. On the beach the same
officer who delivered the coffin meets them. He tells them they should wait at least until noon. Someone remembers that the “22”Club
is open all day long. They leave the boat there, with the dead man in it. Who would steal him? Someone might rob the coffin for the
lumber, two or three chime in. If he doesn’t pass out from fear, says the boatswain. They set off together for “22,” where they drink beer, the big Star bottles. Some go hastily
upstairs to the single rooms. One or two even do it twice. Most of them booze. -page 2-
They return at about one
o’clock. Still no one has arrived. The coffin is there, swaying heavily in the bottom of the boat, untouched. They sit
on the quay’s warping bitts and begin smoking, waiting for someone to come and tell them what to do. They are on tenterhooks
even more than they had been during the transfer. This wait is killing them. They wonder if they should go back to “22.” After all, no one has given them a baby to
mind. The coffin...They are dying to be out of there. Finally at about five o’clock an official from the funeral agency
comes and says the grave is ready, that they should transport the coffin to the graveyard. Most of them breathe a sigh of
relief, which they don’t try to hide. They take the coffin in their arms and carry it to the main street. Put it down
on the sidewalk and try to find a taxi to take it to the graveyard. The Negroes immediately clear the sidewalk and gather
on the opposite side of the street, where they point -- terrified -- at the black coffin. The taxi
drivers stop at first, but the moment they see the “passenger” they’re expected to drive, their frightened
eyes begin to roll and they slam into gear, hit the gas and disappear. So it is decided that they will carry the coffin in their arms.
The sun is still shining fiercely. Every two or three hundred meters they trade off, groaning and cursing, seemingly not in
the proper devoted spirit toward their departed comrade. But it has crossed everyone’s mind that they could simply leave
the coffin somewhere, in a small garden, and disappear, just like that. Someone would surely haul it away. They are sick of
it. A nuisance of a man could be sent to hell, could be killed to get rid of him. To a dead man you can do nothing; he is
just dead. The two gravediggers stand leaning on their spades in front of the shallow grave --at about the height of a man’s knees. This is all they can manage in the scorching heat. They
are told to dig a little more; that is what they have been paid to do. They begin to dig, but soon they hit water and it is
impossible to go any deeper. One of the gravediggers wants to say something, but nobody knows enough English. --He is your friend... This is comprehensible.
Of course, he was our friend. They all nod together. --So he should be buried properly. Sure. The gravedigger makes a gesture, as if
pouring a bottle into the grave. They guess his meaning, and curse. This one wants a bribe, too. They have nothing. They say:
There is no need -- let’s just bury him and
get it over with. No need for ceremony. The gravedigger looks at them. Like a dog, eh?
-page 3-
The boatswain goes to the nearest store, comes
back with a bottle of whisky and shoves it into the gravedigger’s hands. It is already dark. The other gravedigger stirs
himself, and brings candles. They click their cigarette lighters, lighting them, illuminating the coffin slightly as it lies
on the newly dug earth, waiting. Against the candlelight the background becomes even darker. Finally they hold their breath.
The gravedigger opens the bottle and asks for a glass. Idiot! Someone spits. Have a drink out of the bottle! There is no glass. Then the digger pours a
little of the yellowish drink into the cap, empties it into the grave, says a few words, takes a sip and hands the bottle to the other digger. He also sips a bit and hands the bottle
along. By the time the last man takes a swig, the bottle is empty. The gravedigger says that now they can bury the man fittingly, according to his native custom. Two of the seamen have
brought a piece of paper, previously written. One reads
from it as the others hold candles. Nice words they are, and they
would have sounded nicely being read for any dead
man, but in the dark they are illegible and the
reader skips some of them, omits two paragraphs
and finishes. Finally they lower the coffin and begin
burying it. Then it occurs to them that they should somehow mark the grave. No cross, no headstone? But what fool had thought
of this? Now there is no way around it: they must figure out something. The boatswain takes one of the shovels they have been
using to bury the body and shoves the blade into
the ground, leaving the handle sticking up. The shovel is T-shaped, the handle ending in two crossed laths. It looks
vaguely like a cross. They have just finished when one of the gravediggers comes running and
begin to yank out the shovel. He and his partner need it. The boatswain brushes him roughly aside, sticks two
banknotes in his hand. The man goes off, grinning. The next day the same grinning gravedigger,
standing over the grave, with great effort pulls the shovel from the earth.
-page 4- By Antanas
Stoychev of Varna, Bulgaria The Bulgarian author and playwright,
Atanas Stoychev was born in 1949 in a picture town on the Black Sea coast. He has graduated a naval academy and has sailed
as an electric engineer on board the ships of the merchant and the fishing fleet. His first book "Non Stop"/1988/
has won an award in the National Contest for Literary Works on a Marine Topic. Then
followed his books "Sand From The Bottom Of The Sea"/1993/, "Don't
Believe Me, Darling"/1995/ and "Weak Angels"/1999/, all of which are
a collection of short stories. His latest book, "The Dark Side Of The Woman", is a novel.
Atanas Stoychev professes the maxim ascribed to Vincent van Gogh, that it is preferable to draw the human eye rather than
a cathedral. He is a stranger to the superficial plots and the seascape picturesqueness. He
scrutinizes the movements of the human soul, where real dramas are enacted, passions rage, the erotic scenes are followed
by an unadulterated lyricism and purifying sadness. His short stories are impregnated with brilliant irony and sympathy for
his characters.
Third Prize Winner -
Winter (2005-2006) Shadow Master It was just after midnight, and he was sitting on a wide
bench looking up at the stars. The new moon tilted on its side behind him, casting him half in light, half in shadow, as it
bid its adieu to the old. Turning at my
approach, he gave me a quick look of appraisal, then gestured for me to sit down. I did so while appraising him in return. He was tall and his shirt was silver, his pants black.
A turquoise, Navaho pendant hung at his neck. His nose looked like it might have been broken once, but the moonlight made
it hard to tell.
“Thanks for coming,” he remarked. “I don’t get as many visitors as I used to.” “Thanks for having me. I’m sorry I didn’t
get to meet you when you were alive. I kept telling myself I’d do that next year.” “Don’t worry about it. You’re meeting me now. Besides,
I have the sense you wanted to talk to me.” “True,”
I said. “I always wondered what would have happened had we met. That’s what brought me to this place.” “Anything special you want
to know?” (page:
1) “Just the basics. How to spin yarns. Whether
it’s worth it to lead a life as a teller of tales.” He chuckled and withdrew a pipe. “This could be a long night. I don’t suppose you’ve
any tobacco? It’s a bit hard to come by here.” It had occurred to me there might be such a request. I reached into my jacket, took out a pouch, handed
it to him. He opened it, filled the pipe and struck a match. The flame illumined his angular, cadaverous features. Then the
match died and the shadows returned. He started to hand the pouch back. I motioned for him to keep it. We sat back, relaxing.
Tobacco smoke and silence drifted on the air. At last he spoke. “Spinning yarns is easy enough. All it takes is imagination. You’ve got that, or you
wouldn’t be here.” “What
about the rest,” I asked, “is creating fantasies a worthwhile way to spend life?” “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? What kind of... You’re
serious, aren’t you? Well,... hmm...
I don’t know. Yes, no, maybe, all of the above. It’s as worthwhile as anything else, I suppose. In the end, it comes down to what you want to do and if you
can make a living at it. I could.
That’s the difference between me and a lot of others, even those with talent. I got paid.” “You were everyone’s favorite,” I said. “One
of the all time best. I often thought that if I could be anyone other than myself, I’d liked to have been you.” There was a snort beside me. “That’s no good. You can’t be me—you have to
be yourself. That’s all any of us can do, no matter where we are. Tell me, do you enjoy your work?” “Yes,” I replied, “I do.” (page: 2) “More
than anything else?” “I
believe so.” “Believing won’t
help. You’ve got to know. Put it like this, would you be happy as a butler or bottle washer?” “Maybe for a time,” I answered, “but I’d always
be looking for a way out.” “Then
you’ve answered your own question. It doesn’t matter if it’s a worthwhile life or not. You’ve got
it and you’re stuck with it. Good luck.” “Gee,
thanks.” “It’s not that
bad. You’ll get to create your own realities instead of living other people’s. Once in awhile, you might make
some money. What more do you want?” “Got
any pointers for success?” “Write
about kingdoms to be won, a damsel or
two to be saved, not too many, just enough to make things interesting. Stuff like that always sells. Have some sword fights,
throw in some fencing terms and phrases in French. That’ll make your critics mad.” He chuckled again. I laughed with him. In person, his ironic humor was even
funnier than in his writings. “Remember
to have fun, though,” he went on. “A little wenching and carousing, a bottle of wine now and again, a good book
of poetry, a fight or two, all those things would be good for most authors, some more so than others. Makes for interesting
reading.” He looked at the sky once more, noting the positions of the constellations. “I should be going. There’s
more work to being dead than you think. “I’ll
bet.” (page: 3) “Yes. I’m meeting Chaucer. He’s going to show me his ‘unedited’ tales.
That should be worthwhile.” He
tamped the pipe against the bench and stood. So did I and extended my hand. He gave it a strong clasp. “One other thing,” he remarked. “Don’t let anyone
tell you you’re not any good. None of my fans ever had to apologize. Whatever you can dream, you can live. So get out
there and live.” “I will,”
I assured him, as he released my hand. “Before you go, though, could you autograph this?” Pulling a worn paperback
from my jacket, I handed it to him. He looked slightly chagrined. I thought he was going to tell me I had enormous chutzpah,
but his eyebrows quirked at the title. “My,
that was a long time ago,” was his comment. Opening the cover, he turned to the fly leaf, then took out a pen. “I
haven’t signed anything in over 10 years. I may be rusty.” He scribbled a dedication and handed the book back.
“There you go, kid.” Suddenly,
he was moving down a path that appeared as if just summoned into existence. It pulsed and sparkled in the moonlight and silver
roses grew in soft luminescence along its edges like flowers stolen from the mind of Van Gogh. I’d wondered, sometimes,
where they’d come from. “Hey,”
I called. He looked back. “Thanks for all the stories.” He smiled and stepped away, into shadows, as it should
be. (page: 4) I opened the book and read the dedication. The letters glowed with an amber fire. To a fan. Good-bye and hello, as always.
Closing the paperback, I returned it to my jacket. Starting on my own way, a demon wind propelled me
west of the moon, towards the realms of light. ### By Terry Weide Kansas City, Missouri,
USA
In memoriam, Roger Zelazny,
1937— 1995. My favorite author, whom I still miss. - Terry Weide Terry Weide is the author of a fantasy novel, Dream of Power, Dream of Glory, which won the 2004
Preditors and Editors poll for best sci-fi/fantasy book. His writing has also appeared in Flash Me Magazine, Flashshot, The Verb, The Sword Review, Whispering Spirits, and Alien
Skin e-zines, on the OnceWritten.com site, and in the print magazines Moon Reader, Midday Moon, and The Writers Post Journal. He is the author of a chapbook
of poetry, Suburb of the Mind, and a digest book of poetry, stories, and essays, Skipping Across Creation, both from Snark Publishing. He
thanks all those who take the time to read his work. ___________________________________________________________________________ First Writing
Prize Winner - Summer 2006 In the Eyes of the Beholder
Chelsea couldn’t believe her luck. That is bad luck. All her life she just plainly seemed unlucky.
People always had kept assuring her that things would get better, but she could hear the doubt in their voices. She really
couldn’t blame them though for these expectations as she had always been so unfortunately unlucky. Chelsea thought this
awful fortune had been born with her. It was apart of her, without it she simply would be a completely different person. She
first realized her misfortune at the early age of two. Her father, who had been quite the heavy drinker, had never been the
type to say much good. He could always surely be found with a cigarette sticking out of his loud mouth, as he shouted between
grunts. It had been well predicted that her father would leave their dysfunctional family; it was just a matter of time. That
fateful day finally came on Chelsea’s 2nd birthday. Everything had seemed normal; Chelsea was celebrating
her birthday with her mom, as her father was out at the local bar. To make a long story short, the day ended with Chelsea’s
birthday cake smashed brutally against the wall nearly missing her mom. Till this day she had never spoken or seen her father,
who was no more than a stranger to her. In
Chelsea’s later teen years the worst thing imaginable happened to the poor soul. Her mother had just fallen terribly
sick. Chelsea took this news hard at heart. Her mother had always been there for her and now there was a chance she would
lose her. This possibility became a reality when doctors informed her dreadful news. One of the physicians took her hand and
looked straight into her green-blue eyes. The sympathetic doctor had shaken her head with caring tears and embraced the still
child. Their silence was enough. Everyone knew the time had come. Growing up had defiantly made her a strong person yet at
this moment she felt so weak and to say the least vulnerable. Her mother had been her security blanket and now she felt empty
except for the bad luck that mocked her. “Why,
why me?” was the single thought that went through her head. Here she was stuck in a place she knew nothing about, except
this town would be her new home. She took in a deep breath and sighed as she was in the middle of nowhere. She held tight
on to her tote bag, as though she was afraid to lose it too. It was one of the last possessions she had left of her mother. “Have a nice day!” shouted the bus driver
with his greasy hair and shabby beard. Before she could even respond he slammed shut the bus doors, almost as if to insure
there would be no way to escape this new misfortune. She stepped away from the bus as it released a cloud of smoke that of
course stained her clothes. She let the dust settled into their clothes as she had worst things to worry about. The wind seemed
to be harassing her, as it demanded to blow her hair this way and that. She began to shiver and before long her face became
a glowing pink. All she could do was laugh, but laughing soon lead to tears of misery. The tears rolled down her face, along
with her eye make-up in a mess that covered her sunburned cheeks. She brushed back her dark hair and gave her face a good
wipe. She could just imagine how pathetic she must look. She pulled her small sack-bag over her shoulder and took a thorough
look around. There didn’t seem
to be much to look at, except a small, southern diner just outside of the town. She crossed the dirt road, kicking up dust
here and there. She walked up to the side of the diner and through homemade door. Chiming bells rang as the door banged behind
her. She picked out a rolling stool located at the bar table. She settled her bag in the closet seat next to her. “So what will it be?” questioned the
waiter in a welcoming voice. “Umm,
I’ll just have a soda,” Chelsea responded. “That’s all? How about our famous chilly fries? You’re
guaranteed to love them.” -page 1- “Okay, I’ll take that too. Do you have a restroom?” “Oh yes, once you pass the license plates on the wall, take a left,
then past the collection of antique clocks and there you are,” the waiter said with a smile. Chelsea grabbed her bag
and thanked the man. She glanced at all the license plates, amazed at how there were plates from all over the country, even
one from Alaska. The clocks were a sight to see as neither two seemed similar at all. One even had the hands of the clock
rotating the other way. She knocked on the bathroom door, but not a sound was returned. Gently the door opened with a long
creaky noise. She laid down her sack on the sink surface and kept staring into the mirror at what was supposed to be her reflection.
How did the once resilient girl turn into a weak susceptible being? Maybe she had always been that way, but always covered
some side to her. She turned on the cold knob and then the hot one, till the water was warm to her satisfaction. Her hands
splashed water all over her face, stripping away her weathered down face. She polished her face with a smooth powder, and
a little bit of eye shadow. Next, she cleaned up her shoes and dressed in new sweater and jeans. Lastly, she brushed her hair
into a fit ponytail. Now, she thought, she was better suited to meet her relatives. She quickly gathered her belongings and
left the bathroom. When she came back to
the bar she was received with a delicious dish of fries over flown with chili and hot cheese. To the side was a large soda
with a white straw with red, stripe designs spiraling down. She picked up her drink and took a large, refreshing sip. And
then she gulped down chilly fries, realizing how hungry she really had been. For a moment all her worries were forgotten,
as she was in her own little world of good food. “Excuse me. Is any seating here?” a stranger
in a long over coat asked, as he motioned towards her bag. “Huh?
Oh no, nobody is seating here. Go ahead.” she returned with her answer. “Hi, I’m Jake Robertem,” he mentioned as he sat next to her. “Oh, I’m Chelsea Sander,” she explained with an extended
hand. Her greeting was returned with a firm grip. “So
are you going to order something?” the waiter interrupted. “Oh yes, I’ll have what she’s having,” Jake ordered. The waiter tore the order
off with yet another smile. “So what brings you here?” Jake inquired with curiosity. “Well, I guess you could say my bad luck.” Chelsea implied
gloomy. “Bad luck? Are you superstitious
or something?” he questioned. “It’s
kind of complicated, but if you were me, you would start believing.” Chelsea further explained, “But anyway what’s
your story?” “Me, well I’ve
lived here all my life, always known the same people, its kind of refreshing seeing a new face.” Chelsea responded with a huge smile. Jack suddenly realized how beautiful
she really was. “You know,” Jack mentioned, “You really should smile more. It really brightens up your face.
Perhaps smiling could bring you luck.” When
had been the last time she smiled. Before her mother had----? “Are you okay Chelsea?” “Yeah,
just thinking.” Jack turned to the
waiter,” I’ll have those fries to go. This should cover it,” he directed as he pulled out a crisp $10, “I’m
paying for hers too.” The waiter nodded his head and packed the delicious meal. “You really don’t have to do that,” Chelsea stated. “It’s
no problem, don’t worry about it. Where are you heading?” “I need to find Henry Starlet’s place, my
uncle.” “Oh you’re Mr. Starlet’s niece. I can show you where he lives.” “That would be
great, as I have no clue where it is.” -page 2-
Jack nodded in agreement
and the two of them stood up and headed to door. As Jack held the door for both of them, the icy cold wind hit them with a
sudden rush. It was as if the wind was upset at the new incomer. “Man, its cold,” Jack said between shivers,” It’s never been this cold.” “At least it’s not raining,” Chelsea said,
but she had spoken too soon. Immediately the rain came pouring down dripping their faces. “I think it’s because of my bad luck,” Chelsea explained
as she put up her hood. “Don’t talk like that,” Jack scolded. Chelsea stared up at him like a puppy that
had just been scolded. Jack realized her reaction and responded, “Because I don’t like you talking your self down,
that’s all.” Chelsea tried to work up a smile and nodded at his advice. He continued on, “Personally, I
think it’s all a matter of perspective. You know the way you look at things. Maybe you really aren’t so unlucky,
just you think you are. Chelsea remained silent unable to come up with something to say. She studied his defined face. There
was something about him that seemed so comforting. Perhaps it was his calm deep green eyes or his soothing voice. “Hurry, we better run,” Jack whispered in her
ear, “We wouldn’t want your uncle getting all worried over nothing.” He gripped her hand tightly and led
her through the town. Everything looked so unwelcoming. The trees seemed to stare her down and the streets looked rough and
shady. “Just over here,” Jack
navigated as he pointed to the right. They ran straight down a narrow road, splashing a mixture of rain and mud, which left
them a mess. From their left they heard a snapping noise of a large oak tree falling right behind them. With a jump at the
racket, the two of them hastened their pace. Finally, they approached a small farmhouse next to an old aged shack. “Here
you are. Now hurry up inside,” Jack commanded. Chelsea
did as she was told and turned to ask if he would be alright. There was no response; already he had left into the storm of
the night. She banged down on the door gently.
Immediately the door opened with a big greeting from her aunt-in-law. She was a plump lady of short height, who at this moment
was giving a huge bear hug to Chelsea. “Oh,
I’m so sorry about your mother. I can only imagine what you’ve been through.” Her aunt consoled as they
settled inside, “Your uncle hasn’t been quite himself lately, after finding out about the shocking news.”
When the two of them entered the dining room, Chelsea’s cousins welcomed them. Her cousins had changed a lot from just
the last time she had seen them which was over five years ago. The youngest one, Tina, had defiantly grown a few inches. She
was now not just nine as she made sure to mention, but nine and a half. Next was Tommy who actual hadn’t changed much
at all except for his new long hair that shagged over his eyes. Lastly, was of course Sandy, who was the same age as Chelsea.
They at one time had been very close, practically sisters. Time had made them distant as so much had changed. At first there
was an awkward silence, but soon it passed as Sandy popped a question. “So what do you think of the town now, after all these years.” At first Chelsea hesitated, but then began, “Well, it was pretty
hard to see in the dark and all, but the diner in front of the town seemed real charming. The food was pretty good.”
Everyone stared at her in confused. Her aunt
spoke softly, “What do you mean? There’s no diner in the front. I mean there use to be, but that was ages ago.” “Sure there is. The real small one with the town’s
famous chilly fries,” Chelsea responded. “Sandy, why don’t you show Chelsea her room. Get her acquainted
with everything,” her aunt commanded and then turned to Chelsea, “You’re probably so tired,” her aunt
ended the conversation quickly. In that moment, Sandy grabbed Chelsea instantly and rushed her upstairs. Chelsea could feel
the crowd of eyes watching her every move. She heard their whispers as she vanished upstairs. Tina said in a low voice, “These
past weeks have been hard on her.” -page 3- Tommy continued, “I think she’s gone a little crazy.” “Now you two hush and get on upstairs. It’s
getting late,” inquired their mother. Upstairs Sandy handed Chelsea a fresh, soft towel. “Here’s the bathroom,” Sandy motioned towards, “and
here you’ll be staying with me in my room,” she said matter-of-factly. Chelsea nodded her head gently and headed
towards the bathroom. Chelsea prepared a warm bath, dipping her fingers to check if the water was to her liking. She hanged
up her damp clothes on a drying rack and settled herself into the tub. She had barely been able to take in the warmth of the
whole house. When she had entered it was as if a rush a memories returned to her, even the simplest details. Like the way
the kitchen always smelled of hearty cooked foods. It was relaxing how the smell carried to wherever you where in the house.
The whole house even had the same wallpaper she remembered. Little prints of flowers, but now here and there it was apparent
how it was peeling and torn at the edges. There was nothing about the house that wasn’t homely. It was jus overwhelming
comfortable. The next morning Chelsea
was awoken with yelling and shaking of her arms. “Honey
wake up! A horse got out last night in the storm. We have to find them now!” The voice was of Sandy, who was frantically
putting on a pair of pants and with a grab of Chelsea’s hand leading her outside. Once outside, Sandy left her on the
search. Chelsea hadn’t even the vaguest idea where she was suppose to look. She decided to start with the rows of corn
stalk that seemed to lead deeper and deeper. To her “luck” she saw the horse in the distance. She ran up to the
beautiful horse that was the color of snow and to her surprise realized it wasn’t a horse at all. This can’t be
true she thought to herself. A unicorn? She had the strange desire to ride the extraordinary creature. It waited for her to
be seated and then took off, almost as if it had been sent for her. It ran well off her uncle’s farm and deep into the
forest. The unicorn stopped once they had reached a painting handing on a sturdy branch. This was defiantly something you
didn’t just see everyday, she thought to herself, the picture itself didn’t much sense to her. It was fairly large
with images of different paintings inside a room. One of them was of herself She found this strange, but intriguing. She touched
her finger up to the painting. It was still wet, but also it seemed to consume her finger. Chelsea wanted to thrust her finger
back, but her curiosity got the better of her. Soon her whole arm was in and then the rest of her body. She could hear from
behind the unicorn coming in. “Welcome.
It’s about time, I thought you’d be here sooner,” spoke a familiar voice. Chelsea searched for a face as
a lamp brightened up the room. “Jake, is that you? What is this? Why is there a unicorn? How did I go through?”
Chelsea exclaimed with a whirlwind of questions. “I’ll explain. I’ll explain everything,” he answered,
as he waited for her to have a seat, “On day I was cleaning out the attic, since no one had been there in years. I was
gathering up stuff to donate when I came across a painting that was illustrated with other paintings. The odd thing about
it though was it was still wet. I touched it and it almost seemed to be consuming my hand.” “Oh, that was the painting in the woods? Why in the woods?”
Chelsea remarked. “I wanted it placed where no could find it. I put it so deep out in the woods I was sure no one would
find it, besides not everyone can see it. Anyway,” he continued with his discovery of the painting, “once I was
devoured into the painting I was in shock. I found the paintings that I had seen in the original painting. There was one of
the whole the town, that’s the one over there,” he pointed to the left of them, “there were many oil paints
and brushes as if they were new. I couldn’t help but paint something. The first thing I painted was a large tree next
to my house and then I continued for hours. And to my surprise I later found out that these things I painted had really come
to life in the town, but lasted for maybe only a couple hours. I kept returning to this place and kept painting. Every once
in a while the town painting would change. If a new house had been built, it would appear in the painting as well. Other times,
new paintings would appear. They were paintings of people who needed some help in some way. Follow me.” Jake commanded
as Chelsea edged to know more. Jake led her to the town's picture, “You see here,” -page 4- he pointed to the bottom edge
of the painting, “This is you. I saw you had entered the picture and I became curious because not many new people come
into our town. Also I have to show you another painting,” he motioned her to the other side of the room where stood
a picture of Chelsea. It showed how lovely she was and yet how troubled, “This painting had shown up month before you
came here. I knew the day you arrived because you showed up in the town picture. Getting your picture, I knew I had to meet
you, to be able to help you. So I painted up the old diner, figuring you would go there. Then talking to you I knew what your
problem was. You believed you had bad luck. I knew to you it wasn’t a joke, you where dead serious. Look into the picture,
and tell me what do you see? “Jack questioned gently. “I see someone who is unfortunate to have terrible things happening to her.” Chelsea stated.
“I think otherwise. When I look at this painting, I see a girl who has gone through a lot and believes she is no longer
worth anything. Yet there is a hint in her eye that seems to show that she will be okay. I see someone who is truly strong
on the inside and only appears weak. She has dealt with problems and become stronger because of them. The stronger you are
inside, the brighter your eyes in the picture seemed to get.” Chelsea smiled with a boost of confidence,” You really see all that?” “Sure look at the painting,” he smiled back
at her. She studied the painting a second time and recognized how vivid the brightness had become. She had started to smile
and. Jack was pleased to see her smile and continued saying, “You see it’s all a matter of perspective, the way
you look at yourself See each obstacle that you must venture as something that will make you stronger.” Chelsea listened
to his words and began to understand that she had never had bad luck; it was just all in her head. She felt so much better;
she suddenly hugged Jack, who was left surprised, but delighted. She thanked him for sharing his secrets. The secrets had
opened up her mind and made her believe in herself “I
better go. My relatives will be all worried about me.” Chelsea said. Jack nodded his head, “Looks like your horse
is ready too.” Chelsea turned around and saw that the unicorn had turned back into a simple horse. She gave him one
last smile and jumped on the horse. The horse galloped out of the original painting and as she was back in the woods, she
looked behind her and saw no painting hanging. Chelsea thought about what had happened as the horse brought her back to her
uncle’s farm. She was met with Sandy who was thrilled to see her. “Oh good, you found the horse, but where have
you been? You’ve been gone for hours!” she said with a mix of excitement and worry in her voice. “I guess you could say I
was finding a new perspective,” Chelsea said with a sparkle in her eye.
By Sarah Fisher of Duluth, Georgia -USA ___________________________________________________________________________ Second
Writing Prize Winner - Summer 2006 A
Penny's Worth: 1935 Wrote for Junior Lee Brown, my friend, by Lucas Matthew Turner, age:
8 Uncle Lloyd reads in his Bible to me every night. One night he read something about
children of wrath and that just sort of jumped into my head and stayed there. I guess that’s what Junior Lee and me
was. Folks didn’t like Junior Lee ‘cause he was black and they didn’t like me ‘cause I had a bad face.
When I was born one side of my face fell down. Part of my mouth could smile but the other part just seemed to be sulky and
mad looking. I wasn’t hardly never mad but part of my mouth looked like I was. The Fosters called Junior Lee Nigger and me freak
and Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Nettie Nigger lovers. That didn’t bother me none cause I knew they sure wasn’t nothing
special but they scared Junior Lee a lot. I loved Junior Lee and I reckon he loved me. I wished we was brothers. Ever time I went to his
house I wondered how come that old cabin didn’t fall into the river. It just clung to the bank like a loose tooth that
wouldn’t come out. Two old hound dogs was always laying in the shade of a Chinaberry tree in the front yard slapping
their tails in the dirt. Junior Lee said they didn’t bark they bayed. Junior Lee’s grand pappy was named Moses Brown. Aunt Nettie
said Moses was spry and thin as a wisp of smoke and his white hair looked like wool. All I knew was his skin glistened and
was smooth as could be till he laughed then it crumpled up like wadded paper. His eyes was gentle and twinkled like stars.
Till I met Junior Lee I was awful lonesome. My
mama died and my daddy was in prison and I didn’t have no brothers or sisters, only Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Nettie. I couldn’t
never have got a better family though. I remember one day Junior Lee took hold of my hand and looked at me with them big black eyes and asked
me why white folks didn’t like black folks. I told him I didn’t know. I told him -page 1- I liked him. There’s just
mean folks around is all I told him. I don’t spect God likes them kind of folks no better than they like us. He said
yeah and asked me what I thought God looked like. I told him I figured if God was black he must look like Junior Lee’s
old grand pappy Moses Brown. He laughed and
asked me if I thought God was that old. Junior
Lee, I told him, God is older than the whole world. How could he have made the world if he wasn’t? His eyes got real
big and he said yeah. Seems like only yesterday
Uncle Lloyd give me and Junior Lee some Double Bubble Gum and we went to sit under the old oak tree in the back yard. We’d
been playing we was robbers robbing a stage and we was near bout run out. So we was resting. We got to blowing bubbles to
see who could blow the biggest before they busted and plastered our faces. There wasn’t no use to lie about it Junior
Lee was the winner. I even remember the sun
was low and leaves was blowing in the wind. It was a real lazy-like day and it felt good just being alive sitting there with
my friend under that big old oak tree. I grinned at him and dropped my gum and it got all gritty. He said he’d give
me some of his. He took his gum out of his mouth and broke it in two pieces and give me some. I popped it in my mouth and
grinned at him again and told him now I was gonna blow a bigger bubble than him and with his own gum. Junior Lee bowed up
and said naw you ain’t. I can still hear him saying that. And he was right. I didn’t. Me and Junior Lee got up and waded out into the pond. After a while I got
out of the water and ran to the shade of a big old pine tree at the edge of the pond and called him to come on. I said I was
about cooked. I told him to look how red I was. He laughed and ran after me. He said he reckoned he’d be red too if
we could see under his black skin. We threw ourselves down
on the pine straw. We didn’t say nothing for a few minutes. Then -page 2- I pointed to the sky and asked
him if he saw that big old white cloud up there. I said it looks like a face don’t it and he said it looked like a fat
man with long ole whiskers and I said yeah. Junior Lee turned them soft eyes on me and said Lucas Matthew
does you ever think about things and I asked him what things. He said you know like yore face and my skin. And he asked how
come some folks gits borned ‘flickted like me and some gits horned with black skin like him. I told him I’d thought
about it but I hadn’t figured it out yet. I told him Uncle Lloyd said we was twisted branches and he said huh. I pointed to a tree and
told him to look at all the limbs. Now and again there’ll be a twisted one. Uncle Lloyd told me the twisted ones was
just as good as the straight ones but different in how they look. He said the twisted ones was really even a little bit stronger.
But folks don’t like twisted ones as much as they like the straight ones. And Junior Lee said it wasn’t easy being
a twisted one was it? And he asked me if I ever wisht I wasn’t. And I said yeah. Then he said Lucas
Matthew God made all them limbs didn’t he? The twisted ones too. And I said he sure did. I told him the twisted ones
wasn’t bad, it was just that some people wanted to think they was so they good feel like they was better ‘cause
they was straight limbs. Well he said he wondered why they couldn’t feel good about being straight limbs without having
to go around hating twisted ones. I said I didn’t know. I asked him if he was rested now. And he said
yeah. He jumped up and we raced to the pond and jumped in again splashing and laughing and we forgot all about that stuff. When Christmas come Junior Lee spent Christmas Eve
with us. We went with Uncle Lloyd to cut the tree. It was snowing just like Junior Lee and I prayed it would. We chunked snowballs
at each other. -page 3- We put the tree up by the fireplace and made popcorn strings and decorated it and put our presents
under it. We ate supper, then went in by the fire and opened our presents. That was my best Christmas cause Junior Lee spent
it with me. I remember Uncle Lloyd hugged me. Junior Lee stood to one side his eyes big and round and kind of hopeful like
and Uncle Lloyd pulled him into his other arm and hugged him too. I ain’t never seen a brighter grin. I remember lots of good times we had
and I think about ‘em a lot. Then
Junior Lee got sick. It was awful cold and wet. The river flooded and the doctor wouldn’t go down there to see about
him. Uncle Lloyd went and took him some medicine. And I got to go with him once but he had to carry me cause I kept getting
stuck in the mud and falling down. I
took Junior Lee his favorite comic book and some lemon drops. I opened the door to his room and his eyes got big when he saw
me. I ran to him and hugged him and touched him with my cheek and his hot skin burned me. That was when I knew how sick he
was and my heart near beat itself out of my chest. I was so scared my knees got weak. Junior Lee’s voice was raspy and soft and whispery when
he said I is awful sick Lucas Matthew. I wiped my eyes and said I know you are but you’ll get well real quick won’t
you? He took a big deep breath and I begged him to promise me he’d get well and he nodded. He tried to smile but he
couldn’t. I said promise and he took another loud breath and said I promise I’ll try Lucas Matthew.
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