C o n te n ts

The Su r g e o n 1
b y Cameron Callahan

Santa C l a u s M a c h i n e 3
b y Peter Greenlees

Cluck s a n d F r i e s 5
b y Cameron Callahan

H.E.X . 10
b y Joe Rollins

Knit S o m e t h i n g 14
b y Brooke Campbell

Sensib i l i t y 16
b y Ed Saul

Flash 22
b y Richard Fannon and Lee Smart

A Swo r d Wa l k s I n t o A B a r 26
b y Shawn Scott Smith

Smile 28
b y Shawn Scott Smith

2
 Santa Claus Machine
by Peter Greenlees
It was several seconds before Chris realized that the
baby in the sky was headed straight for him. Chris
dropped his clear plastic clipboard and raised his
hands to intercept the baby’s trajectory.
“Spontaneous babies!” he shouted, as he caught the
baby safely in his arms.
“Well, that’s surprising,” Marty piped up through a grey-
white beard only a scientist could maintain. “He sure
knew how to spend the taxpayer’s money appropriately.”
“Wonder what Vernon’s intentions were with this
device,” said Chris as he patted the hack job of
a machine with his hand. A large coil of copper
surrounded a small cold fusion reactor that was duct
taped to a General Electric microwave plugged into
an old Apple iBook and a couple of external hard disk
drives. It was in a rusted out wheel barrow. I invented it.
“Mate, I don’t want to know,” muttered Marty, “I can’t
imagine what kind of Nobel prize this gizmo would
win.”
“Can’t say generating infants out of thin air has much
of a purpose.”
“Except for football practice, it seems,” Marty chuckled.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get back downstairs and put this
baby somewhere safe,” said Chris.
“I hear you. I am being exposed to far too much Sun
for a linux user.”
Chris and Marty took the baby into the daycare section
of the Pseudo-Sciences underground complex. Victoria,
an impatient post-grad student, was ambivalent to
taking on a new child. She was a particle physicist
and considered her position as a glorified babysitter
with much disdain. Her crush on the young, blonde
Chris gave her some much needed job motivation.
Chris barely noticed Victoria blushing at him as he
dropped off Spontaneous Baby. His social phobias
barely allowed him to squeak out a hello or thank you
when required. He was different around his friends, of
course. Those friends grew thinner as we were plucked
up by government agencies and military sub-contractors.
These days he only had old crotchety Marty.
Chris was now wheeling my old contraption down
hallway C towards his new - my old - office. Marty
caught up with him, spending two thirds of his energy
reserves. He grabbed his shoulder and in a puff, he
whispered in Chris’ ear.
“I know what Vern’s machine is for. It’s a Santa Claus
machine.”
“A fabricator? No, it’s not. That’s impossible!”
Remind me to thank Chris for the vote of confidence.
“Look, the readout on the microwave - that’s the
human genome - we made a baby!”
“Surely we just plucked a baby out of an alternate
universe or a pocket dimension. What you’re saying is
absurd, Martin!” Chris tried to be reasonable.
“No, man. Watch this.”
Marty plugged in “iPhone 5G 1TB” into the modified
microwave keypad. He placed his ageing Nokia
from 1999 into the microwave and hit the START
button. The whole device began to rumble and hum,
as is required with all Pseudo-Scientific devices from
2006 onwards. The door of the microwave sprung
open and out flew a brand spanking new iPhone 5G.
The limited edition one with Bono and Steve Jobs’
peckers etched into the sterling silver backplate.
“Well, fuck me upside down,” Chris blurted.
Somewhere in the facility, Victoria’s ears darted up.
3
 “Told you!” That is not good. Not fucking good.

“Why the Hell would Vernon leave this lying around?”
I didn’t. You took it out of my personal vault. In my
personal OFFICE. God damn it, he can’t hear me.
“Who knows? It’s ours now, mate!”
The two exchanged an awkward high five and walked
to the cafeteria with my machine. Probably to show
it off to everyone and claim they made it. I decided
not to follow them. I couldn’t be bothered any more.
Being unstuck in space and time gets a little tedious.
Ah, you want a little explanation. Yeah, yeah. Hold onto
your pants. I’m Vernon Skipper. I was a scientist. That
machine there? Yeah, it is a Santa Claus machine. It can
make anything as long as the appropriate mass is given.
I have a database of billions of objects and lifeforms
entered into the machine. I’d say it’s my magnum opus.
Anyway, onto what happened to me. Well, that machine
is slightly flawed. When supplied with an object with
less mass than the target product it, how should I put it...
Collects mass from an external source usually one with
the highest amount of carbon. That, in most cases, would
be a human. So, my body was used to create several
gold bars and my consciousness was ejected into space.
Effectively, I became a ghost. Not so much Patrick
Swayze Ghost. More like dead guy in Counter-Strike.
I followed Chris back to the cafeteria. You wouldn’t
believe me. Marty was attached by his arse to the front
of the wheelbarrow laden gadget. His stomach, now
an open cavity, had a six foot long string of babies
with iPhones fused to them flailing about absorbing
staff members left and right. Men and women in white
coats became stuck to the iBaby tentacle and slowly
the shrieks of my former staff members died out. The
only one remaining was Chris. The string of babies,
iPhones and scientists turned to look at him. At the
head of the tentacle was my head. My jaw was agape
with shards of gold teeth. My head smirked at Chris.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Steve Jobs San Francisco
wgah’nagl fhtagn,” my head remarked.
“Vernon, please. No,” Chris pleaded.
Whipping back like a cobra, the Vernon headed
iBaby-Scientist chain 5G lurched forward and
ripped Chris’ jugular out and took great gulps,
draining his lifeblood. My head had his fill and
dropped Chris’ bloodied body to the linoleum floor.
IN HIS HOUSE AT SAN FRANCISCO DEAD
STEVE JOBS WAITS DREAMING.

The gold bars didn’t hold well and became

unstable. My body became a gold dust that
now coats my vault walls. A tad depressing.

I imagine that in a few minutes day care

will get a little messy. Poor Victoria.

Chris walked past me again. This time with a concerned

look on his face. The speed of his pace was intriguing.
Chris never walked faster than 0.5m/s. Reaching the
security office for floor 2-G, he slammed hard on the
giant red emergency button. Suddenly, the pristine white
hallways of the research facility became enveloped
in pulsating red light. Chris spoke into a small radio
device attached to his keycard.

“This is Dr. Chris Connelly, at P-SD, we have a Code

F. Yep, a Code F.”

4
5
6
7
8
9
 H.E.X. b y J o e Ro l l i n s

First light of an early city morning climbs in through an open window and slaps me across the face. I
wake up in parts while below me cars are already dancing, snarling and choking on dirty grey fumes
and flashing broken toothed smiles at crumpled drunks littering the pavements like old crisp packets.
Another day in the city.

I ignore the effluent glow flicking dust motes at me like a petulant child and choke down the last scraps
of a still-steaming coffee. I’ve already tapped out a flash message requesting the day’s news. With oiled
ease the information skims over my retina and comes to rest in the throbbing storage drives next door.

Memory archiving. Essential tweak for any Savant. Warehouse 41 can offer this and a thousand more
like it and yet the general population adopt an Amish revulsion to the idea of altering the human body,
while right in front of their blind white eyes we make the impossible trivial. But I know we’re a culture
ascending, a gutter phenomenon that’ll surge out onto the roads and flood the city in a revelation of
transhuman technology. Before long the crowds will be gathered before Warehouse 41 in their thousands,
begging us to forgive their scepticism.

I let a smile cut across my face at the thought, same time a pixellated grin flickers into life on my private
feed. Perfect teeth. Stepping out into the churning current of the city I grab hold of the door frame. It’s
the only way to prevent the wet filth of the crowds from pulling me under and dragging me into the
surging tide.

For a Savant, stepping onto the street is like emerging from sensory deprivation. Everything is louder
and brighter and more saturated. The distant crackle of radio static leaking from an open window rolls
across the patchwork sky like thunder. It casts freak-show shadows across a tattooed pavement inked
with bright rotting words of salvation.

10
Across the road a group of young Savant’s idle
against painted walls, surfing feed sites. Above us a
helicopter strains to drown out the busking psycho-
grime band clamouring to be heard. Everywhere the
desperate chaos of a thousand people all moving out
of sync. Only the angels stay still, clinging to their
rotten stone perches and looking down on us all with
disgust and fear in their eyes.
***
The chaos of the city usually doesn’t come within ten
metres of the downtown bank, but today it marches
in on the heels of a young Savant named Jack Seven.
Jack’s face is corkscrewed in agony as he lurches
right up to the front desk and presses his smudged
face against the glass, and in a voice cut straight
from the acrylic fumes welling up in his mouth he
whispers:
“Forgive me.”
And then he’s gone.
In his place there’s a rush of blistered air and light and
the puzzle pieces of Jack’s body scattered across the
marble floor like dice. A skeleton is unbuckled from
its flesh with careless ease. By the time Jack hits the
walls the fire has caught up with the smoke, and all
around the room men and women burn in unique and
beautiful ways, crackling and bubbling and running
into the cracks in the floor.
***
A mile from the city centre and still I feel the bass
vibrations of the explosion running its fingers under
the crumbling roads, scratching at the exposed
underbelly of the city and bringing it to its knees. My
call to work. Camera gripped tight I move against the
herd, towards the thunder.
Breaking news coming from The Tower is signalled
with a scorching burst of white noise. I tap out a quick
command line on my forearm and wait for the shards
of information to flash across my open eye. On the
far side of the street the group of Savant kids stiffen
up and fall back into shop doorways, sheltering from
the roar of the city while they wait for the update. We
don’t wait for long.
The news runs over my eyes and stops, choking my
throat, rattling like I’ve cracked a windpipe. I’m a
photographer by trade. I know from long experience
what a little hate can do to the city. I’ve seen the rank
heart of it clinging like a cyst to the walls of my dark
room. The fevered passion of the mob baying for
violence. The burnt out husks of men and cars lying
discarded in a street running red with blood and paint
and vomit. I’ve seen an avalanche started with a single
brick and a war boiled down to a single coffin, and as
I digest the news in the shrinking pit of my stomach I
know Jack Seven’s coffin will have plenty of room for
us all.
***
It didn’t take more than a couple of days. A group of
religious zealots claimed responsibility for the attack,
said that they’d hacked into poor Jack’s brain through
his Savant tweaks and that anyone with a line to the net
could be a potential victim. For a second I thought that
the news might turn the mob against the spewing cultists
but all it did was heighten the fear. If anger is a spark
against the slow kindling of chaos, fear is a fucking
incendiary grenade. The crowds are all iron bars and
baseball bats now, looking to spill some Savant blood.
Locked up in my apartment I keep scanning the feeds,
looking for a way out.
I find it in one of the tech updates, nestled between folds
of worthless information. GenTech, a small-time tweak
developer, has the answer. A new product: Shield. It
cloaks your tech and makes it impossible to detect with
a cheap street scanner. In light of the current climate
I can’t help but share in GenTech’s scepticism of our
planned bright new world.
Tomorrow morning I’ll brave the fire and rain and
go down into the city, into the slick wet arteries of
the future that run all the way to Warehouse 41.
The psychedelic Savant capital, where dreams and
nightmares meet to swap stories and sell themselves on
neon street corners. Our shrine to the craven deities of
technology, the ethereal presence in the leaking static
of transmission. Probably the only safe place for me
11
 inside the city walls.
Until then all I can do is wait and hope. I press
my face against a cold glass window and watch
the streets burn under the concrete sky. The rain is
washing away the filth of the long dry summer until
the gutters boil brown, frothing and spitting at the
feet of the unwary. The rain runs out in the early
morning, but still the fires burn.
***
The bloodshot streets have lost their warmth by
sunrise. Clouds hang in front of my face as I walk,
last nights rain provides a multicoloured slush to
wade through. I’m not paying attention to the route
I’m taking, too far lost in thought, my mistake. I
almost walk into them, two guys in urban camo
tagging Anti-Savant drivel across a still damp wall.
I don’t have time to think before one of them brings
the spray can up against my nose, grinding it into my
face like the heel of a boot. I’m on the floor and they
go about their business, driving steel toes into ribs,
gut, face. One last fist cracks open my smudged red
eye socket before night falls around me.
I surface quick enough to drag myself into some dark
cavity spitting blood and teeth. Bound to happen
eventually, one of them must have been running a
hidden scanner. A few cracked ribs and a face like a
slab of meat spur me on to move faster, stomping the
pavement and clinging to the shadows, hooded and
praying I can get to Warehouse 41 before the fuckers
come back. Gagging on swallowed blood I still
manage to get to the back entrance of the warehouse,
final frontier of calm in the maelstrom, quickly
shattered as I stagger in retching and screaming. Last
thing I hear is my own voice gargling Seraph’s name
through mouthfuls of spit and blood, and then the
night falls again.
***
Seraph does a good job fixing me up, even sticks the
new Shield tweak in for me. Crazy bastard is more
machine than man but there’s no one can make a
scalpel sing quite like him, and he’s been my regular
for years. He tells me I was pretty messed up, tells
me I was lucky to get to the warehouse when I did,
that I was lucky this company GenTech came up
12
with the Shield tweak. I appreciate the concern but
his voice quickly blends into the background hiss of
medical machinery. With the hysteria just a residue
I’m itching to put things together in my head. Over
the years I’ve developed a needle-sharp brand of
paranoia, and in a city that’s all teeth and no loyalty
that’s no bad thing.
***
The Shield works. Walking home I pass right through
a crowd of vigilante heroes, boot treads and knuckles
wet with the blood of some poor student lying in
the gutter with half her face hanging off. My heart
hammers so hard I can feel it in my fractured teeth
but the crowd don’t even give me a second glance,
and I keep my head down and walk on, glistening red
footsteps trailing behind me.
I get to my apartment with the dying girls eyes still
chained around my ankles and slump in front of the
glowing screen. When you’re part computer you get
to know your way around one, and it doesn’t take
much searching to find what I’m looking for. Black hat
hackers on GenTech payroll. A religious movement
here today and gone tomorrow. A convenient supply
of a product no-one could’ve predicted any demand
for. Obviously they didn’t think anyone would care
enough to go looking for a conspiracy. I taste bile as
I take it in. The fuckers at GenTech set us all up and
didn’t even care enough to hide it.
If I didn’t feel so sick I might have thought to
admire them. Faking a suicidal attack covered with a
pseudo-religious motive and then providing salvation
for the suddenly persecuted Savant minority was a
marketing master-stroke. But their hands are crusted
with the blood of my generation, and the dead girl
outside my apartment deserves to have choked on
her own teeth for more than just a quick profit. I’ve
already pinned the scraps together and flicked it out
into the maelstrom when I remember the blackouts.
A half-recalled memory: Seraph telling me the city’s
usual spider-web of communication was blotted
out this morning by government order. The men in
charge eager to quell any pretty thoughts of a Savant
backlash.
I don’t want to go back down onto the streets so soon
but I’ve got no choice. Only way to get myself heard
over the baying crowds is to get to The Tower on foot,
get the word out and hope the drooling hordes believe
me before they’re carting the dead away in trucks.
Just got to pray no-one picks up the death note email
I left floating around the ether and find me before I
get to the safe haven of the broadcasting monolith.
I’m dead if they do.
***
Pavement beneath my boots again. Pound it hard,
keep my head down and my eyes up and I might just
make it. Fools hope. Two corners to go and I hear the
pig-squeal of tires behind me, bearing down faster
than I can run. I can feel my teeth beating again, so
hard my jaw lances white-hot pain.
Maybe in a week or two when the blackout is lifted
the evidence I left cached on the backup drives will be
found by some young DI who still believes in truth and
justice and doing-the-right-thing. More than likely it’ll
be some world-weary, hardened bastard who doesn’t
think the ideals of the young are worth the grief it takes
to implement them, who just wants to get through each
day because it’s one day closer to retirement and a way
out of this cancerous city. In a week he’ll move on
to some other case and never remember the smashed
open body of some young kid trying to play god. The
city will forget the Savant sub-culture and move on to
some new face to stomp on, and a few scars and stains
are all that will be left. There’ll be no great conspiracy
unmasked, no court case, no blame. A few people die
and a few people get richer.

I smell the petrol stink of the van, taste oil on my Just another day in the city.
tongue and smoke on my lips. Can’t look back,
just drop into an opening in the flat concrete wall.
Anything to get away from the relentless noise. An
alleyway, a caved in fire exit. A fucking dead end.

The van pulls up hard against the opening I just used,

fits as tight as a coffin lid. Three ex-military looking
thugs are retched up from it’s rotten lungs and spat
at me and then a fourth closes the van door, sealing
us in. White-knuckles eager to begin pounding meat
crash forward but it’s not that that I’m looking at. It’s
the barcode tattoos and GenTech logos on the back
of each right hand. I’ve not been cornered by some
vigilante fuckers looking for a good time and some
skulls to crack, these are GenTech’s own pet muscle.
The small crack of hope closes as tight as the four
blank walls around me and I know I won’t be walking
away from anything this time.

They lay into me with fists and boot heels and steel
toes. On the ground pissing blood from every joint
there’s no use trying to ball up so I just press myself
against the cold dirt and let them kick chunks out of
me until I’m all used up, a sticky red piece of junk
crumpled and discarded where no-one will think to
look. After a while I stop feeling each impact and I
wait for black to replace the static red in my eyes
and for the passive, merciless faces to fade away. I’m
looking down the winding road of the future now,
and despite its crushing bleakness I can’t help but
feel a kind of peace.

13
K NIT S OMETHING
By B ro o k e C a m p b e l l

I knit. It’s become my

passion, what I want to
learn everything about.
I don’t go more than a
day without knitting or
spinning. I have hand
carded fleeces and then
spun and dyed and knit.
I make things for people.

A shot of the design process for a pair

of socks. Despite how disorganized
those notes look, I swear that they
make sense, and will develop into a
fully fledged pattern.

14
These are made from yarn
dyed by Gaia’s Colours, and
knit using the Ruby Slippers
pattern by Inna Zakharevich.

This shawl was knit with the

Vernal Equinox Mystery Shawl
pattern by Lankakomero using Skacel
Merino Lace. It took me about three
months, and in a fitting moment, I
finished it the first day of summer
and last day of spring.

15
 S ENSIBILITY by Ed Saul
The inadequate space which housed the shaking form
of Young Alphonse would have – in any other situation
– oppressed and angered him in the extreme. It was not
nearly large enough for an individual of his size, and
was heated to a temperature that seemed to drift just
a centimetre within the thickness of his skin, racking
him with itches. He would have become annoyed very
quickly, batted away walls of this room and showed the
people outside the full force of his fury – on any other
day.
But today, he restrained himself; a self-control that
owed more to the unbearable nervousness which caused
him to shiver involuntarily every ten minutes than the
physical restraints which bound him loosely to a large,
metal chair.
Young Alphonse was very much afraid that today he
would be fired from his job.
Sitting quietly (he was determined not to struggle; not to
give them the satisfaction of watching him struggle), he
began to go over the events of the previous week, as was
his wont in times of trouble.
It had been a warm, windy morning, exactly a week
before this happened; but Young Alphonse knew already
that memory, ever unreliable, would warp the details of it
irreparably. How easy was it to recall individual days, in
a place like this? Anyone he knew - had known, outside,
before - would have expected the days to simply bleed
into each other, to become indistinguishable in a rarely-
changing environment.
But Young Alphonse knew different. The environment
did change. Each day, his exercise-yard would be spotted
with tiny individual streaks, from the moss on the rocks,
grown larger or smaller, to a bone he would have left
out, that would have changed its position overnight, as
if wanting to get a better view of the rest of the yard, as
if it could walk on tiny little legs that it folded within
when he went to look. Each day was a new, impressive
tableau; each morning, his little home, built anew.
16
And the people. In the evenings, a cleaner could be
seen, sometimes in green, sometimes in grey, head
bowed and broom pushed out before them; sweeping
away not just the dust and debris of the day, but to
Young Alphonse the very smell of humanity, to be
replaced the very next morning.
Throngs of them would be there, knotted in clusters,
young ones coupled always with at least one older,
never alone unless watched. It was - the Wednesday
before last, he was fairly certain - that he had been
absent-mindedly chewing, barely paying any attention
to his audience. His careful mastication had been
interrupted, broken into by a sound which he almost
had to make an effort to hear.
When he had turned his head, a child with a veritable
frame of untidy hair, the colour of the shavings from
the bark of an oak tree, had placed her hand against the
glass partition separating her world and his. Hardly
had he given a glance at it for more than a couple of
seconds, than it pulled away, and sharply fell against
the thick glass, five muddy fingers thump-thump-ing
away insistently.
Young Alphonse had been about to go into the
standard procedure (a grimace, followed by his back),
but something about the child attracted him. He gave
a quizzical look at the adult accompanying the child,
but she seemed neither to want to understand or to
have the capacity to do so. The banging of the child’s
hand against the surface of the glass was beginning
to become a slightly irritating rhythm, and without
any other option, he had put down his snack, stood
up straight, and muttered an unappreciative but
nevertheless kind enough grunt.
The expected effect began the instant he moved,
drawing the crowd like flies on old meat to see what
he would do next. They threw their cameras up,
desperate to etch the very seconds of the moment onto
their memories, and cooed and gasped and muttered
asides to each other; it was, he knew, a spectacle in
their eyes.
But not to the little child. The child and he had been
watching each other intently, ever since he’d first
noticed her hand; and in the course of his ascent, he
saw changes in her face that he knew very well. Had
he free use of a pencil and paper, Young Alphonse
could create an anatomical report on the expression
of amazement in a child. The raising of the eyebrows.
The jaw, the lips - up, down, down further, up very
fast and down again. The intake of breath. A smile
of satisfaction had come to him at how easily he had
surprised her -
But, then, she laughed.
It was double-edged, and had cut through the
surrounding noises as an old tooth through young
bones. Young Alphonse, stung to the quick, had avoided
the gaze of the other outsiders, avoided the gaze of the
child as her hands came together, once, twice, thrice
to the rhythm of her giggles. He’d groaned, bared his
teeth, settled back down into his customary position.
All of it were fuel to the flame; within seconds, she led
a chorus of appreciative chuckles.
Even his shuffling gait had not served to restore his
usual respect; he’d turned, moved away, emphasized
the resting of his massive weight on each foot, but
all he was given was a fresh onslaught of cackles,
diluted with some sounds of – it caused him to wince,
even now – pity and sympathy. They had liked seeing
him ashamed, he knew it. They had relished his
embarrassment as he would have relished a fresh fish.
The very thought of fish, in the mind of Young
Alphonse, began a tiny craving that wriggled up and
down, teasing out more memories. He felt his mood
shifting gear, out of shame and into the more familiar
shape of regret. There had been another reason for his
fear of the girl, apart from her laughter; in fact, that
had merely been the insult adding to injury. No…what
had really bothered him was her brief and painful
resemblance to Red Annie.
Red Annie; her most distinguishing feature, if not for
the scar that flanked the back of her head like so much
war paint, had been her incredibly humorous attitude.
No-one had been a stranger, or couldn’t be talked to.
He could see her now, from when he was at a young
age, and she towered over him; he could watch, in his
head, her nostrils dilating as he’d imagined what the
scar must look like.
She’d looked him over; and despite her imposing
presence, there had been a gentle look and a faint
smile behind her eyes, one that was utterly amused and
extremely interested in whatever had been set before it.
Red Annie had been good to him, all his life; to almost
everyone, she was a friend, but to him she had been a
second Mother after the first had abandoned him to the
cold and wet hollows of the forest. Young Alphonse had
tagged along with her, after they’d first met; and, from a
distance, he’d learned from her which way to walk, who
to listen to, where to sleep.
Even with the gag compressing his mouth, Young
Alphonse felt, a remnant of bone he’d lodged between
his teeth, before he’d gotten the job that he thought he’d
lose today, to commemorate the day that – in plain sight
of his mentor – he’d first fished. Slightly slavering, he
could feel the salmon flesh and bone inside his mouth,
savour the strange aftertaste that came from the very
river that his prey had swam in, feel Red Annie’s silent
approval, as she stood watching behind his back.
He recalled the rest of the family that he’d come to
know, from Sneering Leonard to Unbeaten Robert to
Carol With The Spearhead. He remembered fighting off
the wolves, and sleeping in trees, and chewing freshly
caught honey-comb, sticky in the teeth; he remembered
growing, and changing in his growth, and the strange
day when he’d looked at another female of his kind in a
way he never had before, and she at him, he remembered
the days before and the days after, and after that, and
ever after ‘til today…
It was in then that Young Alphonse was interrupted by
the swinging open of a door. He drew in his breath,
sharply, lay back and relaxed. Though still beset by
shivers, he realized that he had given up the groaning
which he had been unconsciously emitting for the last
five minutes.
The man who had entered and sat down behind the desk
– the Boss – lifted a hand, quietly, and signalled for the
straps behind his head to be released. One of the men
who was usually assigned to Young Alphonse’s care
was careful to undo the buckle and lift the muzzle away
slowly; he knew from experience that Young Alphonse
detested sudden movement in his proximity.
Dragged into the real world, Young Alphonse began to
shiver once more. He focused on his Boss, who, safe
17
 behind the desk, was filling in paperwork as if nothing to
challenge his regular daily routine was happening on that
day. The man was lean, good-natured, and (from Young
Alphonse’s limited experience) surprisingly relaxed, for
a man of his age and position. He wore his usual fare: a
suit that wasn’t grey, but attempting to dull the colour its
surroundings, coupled with a tie which simultaneously
hypnotized Young Alphonse and yet made him feel that
his eyeballs were being liquidated.
After flexing his jaw, and licking his lips a little, Young
Alphonse dared to venture out a “S...Sir?”, before
sinking back in fear.
The man looked over his half-moon spectacles, one
eyebrow raised, and straightened up. “Ah, yes. I’m sorry
for keeping you, Alphonse – “
“Young Alphonse, sir.”
“Yes, I forgot for a moment. I meant no disrespect.”
“I realize that, sir.” The absurdity of his Boss apologizing
to him – twice – did not escape Young Alphonse; but he
recalled that, unlike previous holders of his position, the
current Boss preferred to show the utmost respect for all
employees. The system of names that Young Alphonse’s
people used were as important as their skeletons; he
knew that he could live a year longer than the Earth
itself, and still refer to himself by the moniker ‘Young’.
For a second, the Boss removed his glasses and gave
them a quick polish; Young Alphonse could not possibly
mistake the deep frown that stole over him for the
briefest of seconds, which meant that he was searching,
in vain, for the words which he knew would not come
easily.
Young Alphonse’s vision was briefly clouded by the
recollection of some of his comrades, inside these gates,
who had previously been ‘let go’, cut off without any
compensation at all. He recalled the rigmarole that had
followed the expulsion of Jaka. Jaka had not been one
of his tribe, but from Africa; he’d had a shock of yellow
and red hair, tinged with a layer of dirt, was lazy and
self-obsessed, but likeable and knowledgeable in ways
of the world. He’d come close, a few times, to fathering
his own young with the females he was placed next to,
but failed; to console him, they’d introduced a score of
orphans, snatched from his native country, who he’d
keep awake with stories of rivalry and the hot yellow
grasses.
18
None of those glowing traits had counted at all, the day
he was ‘let go’. Young Alphonse could see him now,
snarling and trapped in a corner as a dozen tiny, red-
feather darts leapt into his flesh. Jaka’s eyes remained
open, even when his mind was closed; as he was
dragged past the other enclosures (in the hours after
visitors had gone), they’d stared at his former fellow
captives, and the fading sunlight had given them an
accusatory glow. It had taken three men to drag him,
and throw him into a truck bound Who Knows Where;
Young Alphonse felt that he himself would require
seven, or more. His bulk was severely formidable.
He became aware that he had been thinking too long,
when he was required to reply; and that his employer
had been talking for quite some time. He coughed,
lightly, and ventured to ask the Boss to repeat his last
sentence.
“What I’m basically trying to tell you, Young
Alphonse,” the man substituted for a repetition, “Is
that you haven’t been performing.”
This came as a puzzling problem, rather than a shock.
After a second, Young Alphonse asked: “How so?”
“People have been...disappointed in your lack of
activity. You haven’t been moving around, you’ve
holed yourself in that cave for hours and hours...
you’re just not engaging. I’ve had to read dozens of
these slips - here, look.”
Young Alphonse recognised the piece of paper at the
end of the man’s arm - one of the surveys placed
around the establishment to gauge public opinion.
Carefully spelling out each letter to himself, he read,
while it stayed close to his aching face. In the writing
of an adult, it appeared to be a twenty-word vilification
of him as ‘dissatisfying’, ‘tedious’, and, in a final P.S.,
‘stupid’.
He shook his head. “I...I don’t understand, sir. Surely
one or two complaints aren’t going to sway you that
much?”
“The complaints aren’t the problem. The problem is
you. Al...Young Alphonse, I pride myself on being
able to talk to our hires. All I want to do is negotiate,
to see if we can work around this. What’s happened
to you? You used to be so happy, and lively...has
something changed?”
Young Alphonse froze, his jaw clamped shut, as if all
the blood in his body had suddenly congealed into one
solid. Breathing slowly, he began to answer, but shut
his jaw, slightly stammering.
“Well?” said the Boss. Young Alphonse, in a nervous
overload, was suddenly beginning to notice hundreds
of details amongst the man’s desk, his suit, his
surroundings - it was like he was trying to build up a
barricade of noted detail to shut out the ideas bubbling
in the back of his brain, the ones building to his
inevitable answer...
“Young Alphonse - “ the man put out a hand, and he
gave out a sound somewhere between a pained growl
and a disappointed whine. Unbeknownst to him,
figures behind him stood up, cocking their dart-guns;
his Boss made a simple hand-gesture to ward them
off.
“I...” he swallowed, clearing his throat. “Well, it’s...
“...I think I’m beginning to feel a little homesick, sir.”
The Boss once more sat back. “I’m...sorry?” he asked.
“I said that I’m starting to feel a little, a little homesick.”
The clock on the wall ticked on, never-ending.
Glancing at it, Young Alphonse noticed that it had
barely been an hour. His boss was leant back, eyes
closed, index fingers touched together under his nose,
all other fingers clasped in a tight fist, thumbs propped
underneath his head like a support. He spoke one
word.
“Explain.”
Young Alphonse cleared his throat again, and replied.
He told his employer about many things. He told him
about his childhood, and his growing up. He told him
about learning which way to walk, who to listen to,
where to sleep. He gave as best an account he could,
in his Boss’ tongue, of Red Annie, and everyone else
in the tribe.
He talked about the mountains, and the stories where
they were the great heaped-together bodies of their
kin, left behind as inspiration. He told the story of
the first of his people, and the first of his Boss’, and
how they became each other. He told the story that his
Boss’ people had once told about his own, where each
child was born as a ball of fur that the mother licked into
a recognisable form. He talked about how little he had
known of his mother.
He talked about the things that sunlight did to water and
to fish, and how they did not occur here, inside the gates.
He talked about the girl, and how it had struck him that
back home, there was no laughter; no jeering. His people
had simply left each other alone.
He would have gone on talking, about the smell of grass
that never touched metal, or the taste of twigs, or his
fears about Jaka, but he was quickly interrupted by his
Boss.
“So what you’re trying to tell me...is that you want to
go back.”
“Yes, sir – and no. I mean - I like it here, really I do, and
I enjoy the food and the pool and the people – but it’s not
home. None of it is exactly what I used to know, when
I was young. I’ve seen what happens to those who slip
up, I see how you shoot them and drag them into a truck
and throw them into the Who Knows Where, sir - and,
begging your pardon, I know that it’s not for me; but at
the same time...” he paused, trying to get the words out
after so many had been used up already.
“At the same time,” his Boss replied, “You just want to
go home.”
He nodded, dumbly.
His Boss stood up, massaging his forehead lightly, and
walked over, infuriatingly, to the area behind Young
Alphonse’s chair, breathing in and out. Young Alphonse
knew that he had quit smoking some months before, and
was able to understand the difficulty that would have
brought to his ability to deal with stress.
Having made a loose semi-circular walk, he returned to
his desk, his expression now more of exasperation than
seriousness.
“But, Young Alphonse – be sensible. Look at my
position here. Try to put yourself in my place. There’s a
recession going on. That, and it’s near Winter. Now that
you’ve specifically told me you don’t want to be shot
with tranquillisers, I’m legally prohibited from doing it,
based on our official agreement with our clients. But,
you’re a Bear, for God’s sake, a Grizzly Bear!”
19
 “I’m not denying it, Sir,” Young Alphonse replied. In the
aftermath of his speech, he realised that he was no longer
stammering, nor bent down; his spine was surprisingly
straight. “I’m sure Jaka, back in the day, wouldn’t have
denied that he was more used to a whole Pride than just
two females, but – ” he was interrupted quickly.
“What would it look like if, out of the blue, I just put
out the order to have a bear shoved back into the wild?
Without tranquillisers, or a high-security cage? How
would that make this establishment look?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir. I’m not too familiar with the
way that your people look at things. But I can’t help how
I feel, sir.”
“I know. I know that, I’ve built my entire career in this
place on knowing how our employees feel, but...this!
What if the other animals get wind of it? What if I have
to do this same thing three more times, six times, ten,
until everyone’s back in the wild?”
“Then, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir, a lot of them
will be much happier.”
“How about Oskar, the Rhino? He’d never survive out
there! He’s get shot down for his horn, or that damn leg
of his would break again when he got into a fight...he’d
be dead within a week!” The man’s voice was raised,
almost at a roaring level, but Young Alphonse remained
calm.
“Yes, sir. He would die. But before he died, he’d feel the
hot sun on his face...eat the fresh grass...have his back
picked by a wild bird instead of a frightened human.
He’d be happy, sir.”
It was as much news to him as it was to the man in front
of him, but he knew he was correct even as he said it.
Something had changed, something had switched on
inside him. He no longer cared if he was let go without
pay, if he never got to see any of his friends again. He
just wanted to be let go. He just wanted to be happy.
“And that’s what you want, is it, Young Alphonse?” his
Boss wearily enquired, “To be happy?”
He nodded, dumbly. “It’s all I ask.”
They each took the time to appreciate the next in a long
series of unfathomable silences. Young Alphonse looked
down, down at his brown, musky back-paws bound into
20
their uncomfortable positions, with their once-proud
black claws carefully filed to blunt stubs lacking any
observable grip, and could not prevent himself from
letting out an awkward smirk – one that his Boss
caught.
“What – what exactly is so funny?”
“Oh, er, nothing, nothing, sir – it’s just…just that when
I got in here, I was expecting that you’d fire me.”
In reply there came a weary nod, one that gave out the
implication of a fact that everyone in the room was
well aware of. Young Alphonse had no idea that he’d
been that obvious. “I admit, I was going to bring the
subject up…you know, just as something that might
happen in future…sort of like a not-threat.”
“You mean, a threat that you mention, but you pretend
isn’t really a threat so as to make yourself feel better?”
“Don’t be so damn flippant. Yes, of course, that is
what I meant…and now, apart from the harsh parts of
the treatment, I find there’s nothing you want more.”
“I hate to be putting you in this position, Sir. I really,
really do.” He meant it. He really did.
“Yeah, I realize…I’m sorry I shouted…” All the anger
was sweating out of the man in little chemical clusters
that were irritating the tip of Young Alphonse’s tongue,
replaced by a visible sagginess. “Listen. I said that the
recession…I mean, the money, it’s not like it used to
be…we’ve all been under a little stress.”
He sat down, pulling himself into the desk as close
as he could, staring at Young Alphonse straight in
the eye, now. From his own chair, he could feel the
connection; they were properly talking now. His Boss
was doing his best to be sincere and understanding;
and he himself was no longer losing his concentration.
“Here’s what I’ll do. If – when I get the spare time, I’ll
go over this whole interview with the board, and my
superiors, and some of the crew. It’s all been taped.”
Young Alphonse shrugged. “Naturally.”
“And we’ll take everything into account – we truly
will – and then we’ll talk again, a week from now,
about all our options. Right now, let’s just go back
to the daily routine, alright? We won’t talk about it
to any of the other animals, either. This’ll just be…
something we can work on.”
Young Alphonse smiled. “I think we may be thinking
alike now, Sir.”
A brief glow of hope alighted the man’s drained,
worried face for a moment, which was all that Young
Alphonse could have asked for from the entire session.
Some people wordlessly went to unlock the fetters
binding him to his chair, and he stretched, lightly, as
he stood up, and yawned. Despite the small circular
motions he had carefully made with his front and
back paws through the entire thing, his circulatory
system did not quite keep up with the sudden change
in position, and he was afraid, for a second, that he
would collapse into an unconscious heap; but he
steadied himself.
He bowed his head a little in front of his Boss, his
paws customarily held in front of his belly as a mark
of respect. “Until next week, then,” he said, in all
seriousness.
“Until next week,” replied his Boss with a faded smile.
Despite the stiffness in his joints, the cramped
conditions, and the rows of security behind him with
mild electric shockers, Young Alphonse was able
to count seven respectful steps backward before,
grunting, he was forced to settle back down onto his
front paws and turn around.
***
When he eventually returned to his enclosure, Young
Alphonse had begun to see everything – in fact,
anything at all – in a strange, detached way. It was
a closed day, in the Zoo; and he was able to take a
small stick that he’d probably looked at a dozen times
without thinking, and fit it carefully in his mouth
to chew as he sat down in the centre, thinking deep
thoughts. There was no-one to watch or laugh at him,
except the Alders family in the cages yonder – but,
they never really found anything interesting for more
than a few seconds before scurrying back into their
burrows.
In the shady Autumn half-light, he was able to perceive
the way that the trees, inside and outside his space,
had moved bout in the wind; and he could see, when
the clouds occasionally stopped shoving past each other
long enough for the sun to peek a few rays out, the small
marks left on his glass wall by the people who came to
see him, day by day, from near and far.
There were a few scratches, from what he guessed
would be jewellery or other possessions; one person’s
initials, scratched next to another’s, in a corner; some
greasy stains of the strange, unattractive foods that the
visitors were passed out, on occasion; and handprints.
Dozens and dozens of handprints covering the surface
like so much leaves, from back in the old country, doing
a disappearing act under the snow and never coming
back afterwards, replaced by so many more come the
next summer.
When the piece of wood was little more than a few
splinters, and he’d ran his tongue around his teeth to test
their shape, he took a small stride - moving in his usual,
sensible, polite four-footed gait – and, nose inches away
from the glass, traced the handprint of the little girl
who’d laughed, running a blunted claw gingerly over
the outline.
Tomorrow, I Won’t See Her, he thought. Or The Day
After That. Maybe The Next Day, Though…he pondered
this for a while, before concluding, Or Any Day Of The
Week, Until Next Week.
He put his own paw up against the glass. Her print barely
covered one of his leathery pads.
He was struck by the sheer reality of the next thought:
And After That, Never Again. She’ll Never See Me
Again, I’ll Never See Here Again, She Won’t Laugh
At Me Again, I Won’t Stare At Her Again, And She’ll
Wonder Where I Went And How Soon I’m Coming
Back, And I’ll Be Gone, I’ll Be Home, And I’ll Have
Already Forgotten…
He let the very idea of it sink in, let it flow under his skin
and into his veins to be pumped around his body by his
great beating heart and breathed out of it by his great
pulsing lungs.
Then he turned around, walked away, and spent the rest
of the day swimming.
21
22
23
24
25
 A SWORD WALKS
INTO A BARBy Shawn Scott Smith
My sword makes little noise as I lay it on the bar, but it
draws plenty of eyes.
It’s not every day they see a work of craftsmanship
in these parts. The bartender, a bald burly man walks
over, washing a glass as he comes.
“Can I help you?” he asks in a wandering Irish accent.
His eyes can’t help but look at the blade on his bar, its
gold and brass hilt shining in the dimly lit place.
“Brandy. Red Rum, and a splash of lime.”
He nods and begins to mix the poison. More than half
the bar watches me. A fan beats overhead. An old
wound in my shoulder aches, but I push it beneath into
the cloud of my past. The table to my left is full of old
men, who long ago gave up any hope of leaving this
place. The table to my right will be my problem.
Two men sit there, dressed in black and wearing
Carbine 720’s in their holsters. Not a novice’s lasergun
and in these parts probably considered mighty classy. I
drink my glass in one gulp and turn to meet their stares.
I lower my hat in salute and they return the favor. I can
see the one on the right sweat a little under his wide-
brimmed hat. Maybe they’re brothers. Both share a
similar build, and strawberry blonde hair. I hope they
aren’t. No mother should lose two sons in a bar in the
middle of this territory.
One rises and for a moment my hand goes to the warm
Standard Raygun on my belt. It is hot to the touch as
its outer casing has needed repair for years but I never
get around to checking it in at a shop. The man heads
past me and out the back of the bar. I relax slightly as
the tension leaves the room. I order another dose of the
good stuff.
26
A door behind the bar opens and a young red
headed girl stumbles out. She’s wearing only a long
button down shirt. She exchanges glances with the
bartender, and a look of utter contempt crosses her
face. The bartender looks down, still scrubbing his
glass as if it was the dirtiest object in the room. It’s
probably the cleanest. I can smell the girls perfume
over my alcohol and my own retched state. It’s sweet
and expensive. Not the usual knockoff you would
find here. I watch her walk across the room, her stride
confident. It should be. Everyone watches her as she
exits right out the front door. I linger on the rare sight
of passing beauty before turning back to my drink.
I should go. I put many miles behind me today, but
there are many more to go. And I see nothing here.
Nothing different than any of the border towns. Just
people. People trying to live, but most barely alive.
I hear the door open behind me and the shuffling of
feet. I put my hand on my blade lifting it slightly.
The image reflected is blurry, but I can make out the
man that left earlier and two others moving closer.
I tighten the grip on the sword, and my other hand
moves fast, steady to my side.
I shoot first.
 Cre ato r B i o s
Cameron dood l e s c o m i c s a b o u t r o b o t s
and paranoia w i t h t h e t a l e n t a n d
unabashed fury o f a d i v e y e a r o l d . T h a t
is al l, really. C a m e ro n C a l l a h a n . n e t
Peter Green l e e s i s a w r i t e r o f
comics and s h o r t f i c t i o n h a i l i n g
from Christc h u r c h , N e w Z e al a n d .
Harnessing the e n e rg y of the
magnetosphere , he channels the
planet’s colle c t i v e c o n s c i o u s n e s s t o
please the hive m i n d . Yo u c a n c a t c h h i m
at fogsdown.c o m .
Joe Rollins is p a r t s t u d e n t , p a r t w r i t e r
living in Kent, U K .
Constantly arm e d w i t h a n u n d e r s i z e d
laptop and a h a n g o v e r h e ’ l l w r i t e j u s t
about anything i f y o u b u y h i m a d r i n k .
If you want to g e t h o l d o f h i m y o u c a n
at: Joe.rollins 5 @ g m a i l . c o m.
Brooke is a f i b e r a r t i s t w h o s p i n s
and knits on a r e g u l a r b a s i s . S h e
thinks anima l f i b e r i s t h e b e s t
fiber, and h a t e s p l a n t s . H e r b l o g
is silverro s e k n i t s . w o r d p re s s . c o m
where she doc u m e n t s h e r m a n y fi b e r y
adventures.
E d ‘ N i c k - N a m e - l e s s ’ S a u l has been
w r i t i n g , d r a w i n g , a n d l a u g h i ng since
b e f o r e h e o r a n y o n e e l s e c a n r emember.
I n h i s c u r r e n t c a p a c i t y, h e i s studying
C o m p a r a t i v e L i t . a t t h e University
o f K e n t w h i l e a t t e m p t i n g t o forge an
identity as a s t o r y t e l l e r, writer,
i l l u s t r a t o r, c o p y w r i t e r, d i r e c t or, actor,
c r i t i c , d a n c i n g f o o l , a n d a l l o r none of
t h e a b o v e . H e i s d e v e l o p i n g a longform
w e b c o m i c , t e n t a t i v e l y n a m e d ‘ Bug-Out’,
f i n d E d w a r d s o o n a t D e a d Wa l r us.com.
R i c h a r d i s a w r i t e r w i t h a day job,
l i v i n g i n B e d f o r d , U K ( f o r t h o se of you
l i v i n g i n L o n d o n , B e d f o r d i s “ b eyond Lu-
t o n ” ) r i c h a r d f a n n o n @ h o t m a i l . com
L e e i s a g r a d u a t e i l l u s t r a t o r f r o m Bedford,
a n d l i v e s w i t h a l o t o f c a t s l e e s mart101@
hotmail.com
S h a w n S c o t t S m i t h i s a w r i t e r, creature
p a i n t e r, a n d d a b b l e r i n c r e a t i v e arts. He
i s a l s o t h e c r e a t o r o f P e a s w e b c omic, and
f o u n d e d c o n - n e w s . c o m , t h e l e a ding daily
n e w s s i t e d e v o t e d t o c o n v e n t i o ns accross
t h e c o u n t r y. H i s a d v e n t u r e s are docu-
m e n t e d a t l u c k y c re a t u re . c o m.
27
BACK

Address Label