From the Dark Side: A Charity Anthology

FROM THE DARK SIDE

A Charity Anthology

Edited by

Jennifer Melzer

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue therein are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

From the Dark Side: A Charity Anthology

Copyright © 2014 Double J Media

All rights reserved.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, compiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced to any information storage and retrieval system, in any form of by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express permission of Double J Media.

A Letter from a Possible Corpse Copyright 2010 Drew Beatty

Through the Last WH Copyright 2010 Jake Bible

The Other Self—Sestina Copyright 2010 Kate Sherrod

Lucy's Story: Rose and Star Copyright 2010 Joseph Bowley

When You Can't Look Away Copyright 2010 James Melzer

Witness: A Butchered Sonnet Copyright 2010 Acadia Einstein

The Twin Copyright 2010 Jennifer Williams

Second Chances Copyright 2010 Nicole Ireland

Milestones (On Growing Up Copyright 2010 Josh Crummer

Shadow's Embrace Copyright 2010 Jacquèline Roth

Reptilian Copyright 2010 Nicole Godin

Pieces Copyright 2010 Mark BurningHawk Baxter

Woof Copyright 2010 David Sobkowiak

The Looking Glass at Lughnasa Copyright 2010 Jim Ryan

Time Flies—Sestina Copyright 2010 Jennifer Melzer

The Viewing Room Copyright 2010 Keith Dugger

Exo Copyright 2010 Mark BurningHawk Baxter

Veil—Sestina Copyright 2010 Patrick Pillars

Reflected Dreams Copyright 2010 Pearce Kilgour

Assimilation Copyright 2010 Jason Warden

INTRODUCTION

Creativity; it makes the world go around, and though there are some who don't find much merit in creative endeavours, there are those of us who could simply not survive without them.

As the digital age continues to alter the way we share our creative pursuits with the world, more creators than ever are offered the opportunity to shine. Putting your work out there for all to see comes with a greater sense of personal effort and responsibility than ever. Many of us creative types have found a sense of solace and retreat within each other's company, finally realizing the world and the odds aren't as stacked against us as we think.

The idea for From the Dark Side was born when contributor Patrick Pillars and I started chatting about collaboration. With so many creative people in our personal, online networks, we both understood how important it was to band together and showcase the amazing talent embodied in that group.

We brainstormed a loose theme, came up with a title and I emailed all the creative types I knew, asking if they would be interested in donating a story to a charity anthology. If the response was great enough, I would be able to piece together a collection of poetry and short fiction and all proceeds earned would be donated to a creative charity.

The charity I chose was The Organization of Letters and Light. Some of you may recognize their affiliation with the NaNoWriMo endeavour, but for those not familiar with them, their mission is to promote creativity for young people and adults alike.

Most creative people have stories about that one special person from their youth who encouraged and inspired them to pursue their dreams. For me, it was my ninth grade English teacher, Mrs. Eleanor Hallabuk, who despite often locking horns with me over my incredibly bad attitude, was not afraid to draw me aside and acknowledge the fact that I had dreams more worthy of my energy than causing trouble in class.

Many of us seek out publication opportunities for payment, but the only payment offered to the contributors of this anthology was a chance for a little extra exposure and recognition. If you're reading the work in this compilation, I hope you'll also take time to check out the online site for each contributor. A lot of them have volumes of audio and written fiction and poetry they offer absolutely free to their audience.

Thank you to all the authors and poets who donated their work to the anthology, to Drew Beatty for lending his eyes and proofreading skills and to all the readers who picked up a copy.

I hope you enjoy From the Dark Side.

Jennifer Melzer

Dedicated to everyone responsible for

National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

A Letter from a Possible Corpse - Drew Beatty

Through the Last WH - Jake Bible

The Other Self—Sestina - Kate Sherrod

Lucy's Story: Rose and Star - Joseph Bowley

When You Can't Look Away - James Melzer

Witness: A Butchered Sonnet - Acadia Einstein

The Twin - Jennifer Williams

Second Chances - Nicole Ireland

Milestones (On Growing Up) - Josh Crummer

Shadow's Embrace - Jacquèline Roth

Reptilian - Nicole Godin

Pieces - Mark BurningHawk Baxter

Woof - David Sobkowiak

The Looking Glass at Lughnasa - Jim Ryan

Time Flies—Sestina - Jennifer Melzer

The Viewing Room - Keith Dugger

Exo - Mark BurningHawk Baxter

Veil—Sestina - Patrick Pillars

Reflected Dreams - Pearce Kilgour

Assimilation - Jason Warden

A LETTER FROM A POSSIBLE CORPSE

Drew Beatty

If you are reading this, either I’m dead, or I've made it through to the other side. If I'm dead, well, you probably already found my rotting corpse in the bathroom. Sorry about the smell. If my body isn't there, I thought somebody might want to know what happened. I don't know who would really care, but here's my story.

You know those aptitude tests they give you in high school, the ones that are supposed to tell you what job you would be good at so you can get your life all planned? The problem with those tests is my answers didn't really fit their parameters, so it took me some time before I realized what I was good at, really good at, was conning people.

I discovered my particular talent in high school. The technical term for it is social engineering, but most people know it as good, old-fashioned conning. I conned my way out of essays, exams and projects, changing my pitch for each teacher. I could talk the lunch ladies out of paying for my food, the bigger guys out of beating me up, and the girls into giving it up for me.

Yeah, it might not have said so on that aptitude test, but I was a born con man.

But that was a long time ago, almost twenty years now. My turf, not to sound all gangy, but that's what it's called, is the downtown waterfront. Lots and lots of tourists pour through the Harbourfront center, new faces every week, lots from small towns, honest folk with a wad of cash in their wallets. All that cash, just waiting for me. Three card monte, shell games, even some old school bait-and-switch games. I make enough to keep me in smokes, drinks and pay the rent on my apartment. Not much of a life, but it was working all right for me.

I was walking around the boardwalk when I first noticed the new tent.  The Toronto Harbourfront has a few different areas, from the upscale art galleries and concert stages of the Harbourfront Centre, to the more pedestrian boardwalk area. The boardwalk is like a mini-carnival, all aged and sagging rides, paint peeling from the merry go round, a two story high rusted Ferris wheel. It attracts a different clientele. I didn't hang out there a lot, not that I am classist in any way, but in my line of work it's better to go where the money is. The Harbourfront rubes think they are pretty smart, so they are easier to sucker than the people down here who actually know the value of a dollar.

But I digress. I was telling you about the tent. It was a funhouse, the outside lined with bent and twisted mirrors. Some kids were playing there, looking at themselves stretched out and skinny, or short and fat, laughing at their distended reflections. I walked over and took a look myself.

Fancy a turn? asked the owner, a shabby looking man dressed all in faded browns. His hair curled over his ears, and a few days' growth covered his pointy chin.

No thanks, I replied, moving on.

Afraid of what you will see looking back at you?

I was taken aback slightly; this was not the standard patter that most carnie types used to draw people in. Got other places to be, I replied, hurrying away.

No you don't, he shouted after me.

I didn't see him again for a week. I spent most of my time at Harbourfront. The spring was warmer than usual, bringing more people down to the lake. Pickings were good, really good, and I made enough in my first few hours that I had some time to kill. I don’t like to get greedy, take too much, people might start to complain, cops come around more often. That is bad for business.

I started late, so the sun was setting as my boots tromped against the worn wooden boardwalk. I could see the tent, lights bouncing off the mirrors that circled it. A young couple came out of the tent, laughing and holding hands. The owner was watching me.

You've come back, he said as I approached.

Just in the neighbourhood.

You spend a lot of time down here, right?

I nodded. I work down here.

Nice work, if you can get it. So, you going in? First time's free.

You sound like a pusher.

Maybe I am. Maybe I'm pushing an experience, something like you've never seen before.

Maybe?

Well, maybe I'm just an old timer trying to make a living with some mirrors. You want to go in, you can go in.

I went in. The tent wasn't very big, but it made use of the space well, and the mirrors helped to give the illusion of roominess. I walked through the maze, looking at my reflections, an infinite chain going off into the distance. I took a few wrong turns and had to double back. It really did seem bigger than it could possibly be. I was probably inside for five minutes before I found the exit.

Took you long enough, said the owner as I emerged from the tent. The sun was fully down now, night had fallen.

It's a good maze, I replied. Tricked me a few times.

Thanks, I designed it myself. You feel free to come back anytime, try it again. It'll cost you, but not too much. My name's Jack, by the way.

Take care, Jack. I didn't introduce myself. Giving out a name, another thing that’s bad for business. Either you get stuck with a known alias or you forget what name you are going by.

I started walking along the boardwalk, heading for home. I didn't have any plans for the night, which wasn't unusual for me. Living the quiet life. I decided to pick up supper from the gourmet grocery store I had to pass on the way home. I deserved it after how well I did today. I was in the produce section when I first noticed something weird. The mirrors above the vegetables had a strange film covering them, dulling the reflection. I never noticed it before, and it made the otherwise impeccable, high scale grocery store look shabby.

You should clean these mirrors, I said to a stock boy who was busy replenishing the tomatoes.

They look all right to me, he said, his voice conveying the shrug his shoulders were too lazy to do.

Whatever, I replied, wandering off. I didn't really want to get into a huge discussion with him about it. It was just surprising, you know? I understand slacking at the No Frills, but when I'm paying five bucks for one tomato, I guess I just expect a little more.

I cut through the streets to my somewhat shabby neighbourhood; it hadn't yet become the victim of the gentrification that resurfaced most of Toronto.

I pulled out my keys and entered my building, hoping the elevator was working. I pushed the button and the doors banged open, but at least they opened. I stepped in and pushed the button for the 10th floor. The doors clattered shut.

Jesus, I said. The elevator was never the cleanest of places, but usually the metal doors were clean enough to check your reflection in. They had a film over them. In retrospect it looked a lot like the grocery store mirrors, but I didn’t make the connection then. Who would have?

I dropped off my dinner in the kitchen and went to the bedroom to tuck the rest of my billfold in my little safe. Having a lot of cash on hand is convenient, but I can't really deposit a bunch of twenties at the bank every day. The safe under my bed doesn't contain enough to retire, but it's got enough to get me through the quiet winters of Toronto, plus a little extra for the future. Conning does not come with a pension plan.

I stuffed the majority of the bills in my safe and went to put the rest into my sock drawer when I noticed my bedroom mirror was non-reflective as well. I could still see my outline in the mirror, but it looked different. I wore a black t-shirt and jeans, but the reflection didn't. I couldn't see details clearly, but it looked like a white shirt, with a collar, like a dress shirt, something I didn't even own. I reached out to touch the mirror. As my fingers touched the surface it suddenly became clear again. The fogginess disappeared, as though a covering frost had suddenly melted.

The man in the mirror looked like me, but different, very different. He wore a dress shirt, sharply pressed, and a neat tie hung from his neck. I leaned in to get a better look, but he moved away from the mirror. The room on the other side was not my apartment either, it looked like a nice condo, well furnished with expensive-looking furniture. Apparently gentrification had hit the neighbourhood in whatever world I was looking at.

I blinked and he was gone. Just me in my shitty apartment again.

I skipped having a drink with supper and decided to call it an early night. Obviously I had been working too hard, or been out in the bright spring sun too much already. It was going to be a long summer if I was already having hallucinations.

The next morning I woke up refreshed, feeling better than I had in weeks. I jumped out of bed and looked in the mirror. No strange Yuppie looked back this time. Thank God.

It was another fantastic spring day, so I hurried through my shower to get out on the streets as quickly as possible. Get my work done early, and maybe catch a movie or something later. Relax a little.

I dried myself off and stood in front of the mirror to shave. This time I knew the fog on it was caused from the shower steam, so I didn't worry. At least, not until I wiped it away and saw another face looking back at me.

Well, not another face exactly, it was my face, but it sure wasn't me. It was fuller, not fat but healthy looking. Someone who ate three square meals a day and got a good night's sleep on a regular basis. The bathroom wasn't mine either. It was clean and sharp looking, no rusted out showerhead or water stained ceiling.  The yuppie and his fancy condo again. Awesome.

I waved at the figure, but he paid me no attention, he was busy shaving, using an electric razor. Then I noticed the figure in the shower. I could see the graceful curves of a woman though the shower curtain. I watched as she opened the curtain just a little bit to talk to me. Well, not me, the other me. Yuppie me. She was beautiful. Even with her hair wet, no makeup on, I could see that this woman was beautiful. Long dark hair, creamy white skin, flawless. She and the other me had a conversation, but whatever they said I couldn't hear it. I was half tempted to stick around, to watch this beauty get out of the shower, but it felt a little perverted. Even if she was just the fevered imaginings of my crumbling mind, there were lines I just didn't want to cross.

I got dressed in a hurry, grabbed my billfold and crept carefully out into the sun.

The walk downtown was nice, but I couldn’t shake the uncanny feeling I had. Was I cracking up? Losing my mind? Shit like this didn’t really happen, strange