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2015 Write Well Award
2015 Write Well Award
2015 Write Well Award
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2015 Write Well Award

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The Write Well Award and Silver Pen Writers pride themselves in finding the conflict that engages us, the characters that provoke us, the emotional impact that awes us. In other words, we look for the perfect story.

This first anthology, with thirty-six stories collected from twenty-five magazines, reflects our love for the written word. They range from mysterious, to literary, to dark, and back into the light, but the one thing they all have in common is their excellence, their beauty, and their magic.

We invite you to read these stories. You will be amazed and enchanted by them.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateSep 7, 2015
ISBN9781310844263
2015 Write Well Award

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    2015 Write Well Award - Silver Pen Writers

    INTRODUCTION

    In the thousands of magazines and journals, both print and online, many some truly fine pieces of fiction may go unnoticed outside their limited readership. The Board of Directors of the Silver Pen Writers Association, as part of its mission to help writers forge creative writing careers, started the annual Write Well Award to recognize outstanding published fiction and to provide a wider audience for such pieces.

    The editors of both online and print venues were invited to submit up to three pieces of fiction published in 2014 to be judged for possible inclusion in the Write Well Award Anthology.

    For this first year, 96 submissions were received. Our judges read and scored them, and the result is what you see here: a collection of 36 excellent and very diverse pieces. One was written by a high school freshman, and another came from an arts magazine by women over sixty. These range in length from 300 words to over 10,000 words and represent pieces from 25 different magazines.

    We hope that you enjoy this collection of fine, memorable writing. Please take the time to browse the contributing magazines, whose websites we have listed in the Contents, for other literary treasures.

    For more information about Silver Pen Writers and the Write Well Award, please visit the respective websites.

    www.silverpenwriters.org

    www.writewellaward.com

    CONTENTS

    779

    by Susan Oke

    Youth Imagination

    (http://youthimagination.org/)

    A Messenger Will Soon Bring Good Tidings

    by Brendan Tynan Buck

    Strangelet Journal

    (http://www.strangeletjournal.com/)

    A National Tragedy

    by Claire Tristram

    Vestal Review

    (http://www.vestalreview.net/)

    A Second Life

    by Merran Jones

    Alfie Dog Fiction

    (http://alfiedog.com/fiction/)

    A Whisper Of Blossoms

    by Becky Melby

    Splickety Love

    (http://splicketypubgroup.com/)

    Agoraphobia

    by Madison Koch

    Youth Imagination

    (http://youthimagination.org/)

    Becky’s Song

    by Ann-Marie Lindstrom

    Brilliant Flash Fiction

    (https://brilliantflashfictionmag.wordpress.com/)

    Bed Bugs

    by Abbie Copeland

    Vestal Review

    (http://www.vestalreview.net/)

    Blowing Smoke

    by Rachel Moore

    South85 Journal

    (http://south85journal.com/)

    Boxes

    by Heather Heyns

    Elbow Pads Literary Magazine

    (https://elbowpads.wordpress.com/)

    The Cook

    by David Whish-Wilson

    Westerly Magazine

    (http://westerlymag.com.au/)

    Dancing Without Music

    by Kobbie Alamo

    Kaleidoscope

    (http://www.udsakron.org/kaleidoscope/issues.aspx)

    Delwyn’s Feather

    by Patricia Crisafulli

    Faith, Hope and Fiction

    (https://faithhopeandfiction.com/)

    The Elephant Dance

    by Kirsty Logan

    Ambit

    (http://www.ambitmagazine.co.uk/)

    The Eleventh Whale

    by Kevin Wetmore

    Enter at Your Own Risk: The End is the Beginning

    (http://www.firbolgpublishing.com/)

    Give Me Back My Bones

    by Jessica Wimmer

    Deep Water Literary Journal

    (http://www.deepwaterliterary.com/)

    Hester Prynne’s Daughter

    by Wilma Bernard

    Silver Blade

    (http://www2.silverblade.net/)

    I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry

    by Bernie Hafeli

    Concho River Review

    (http://conchoriverreview.org/)

    Ink

    by Jaymi Mizuno

    Liquid Imagination

    (http://liquidimagination.silverpen.org/)

    Java Jake

    by Patricia Crisafulli

    Faith, Hope and Fiction

    (https://faithhopeandfiction.com/)

    Journeyers

    by Keely Bowers

    Carve Magazine

    (http://www.carvezine.com/)

    Laying Down the Long Shore

    by Michael McGlade

    Fabula Argentea

    (www.fabulaargentea.com)

    Let Me Fly Away

    by David Mecklenburg

    Silver Blade

    (http://www2.silverblade.net/)

    Lovers’ Quarrel

    by Rebecca Rozakis

    Liquid Imagination

    (http://liquidimagination.silverpen.org/)

    Mosquito Bites

    by Lois Murphy

    page seventeen

    (http://www.busybird.com.au/?page_id=460)

    Red Velvet Cake

    by Raymond Arcangel

    Concho River Review

    (http://conchoriverreview.org/)

    Red’s Not Your Colour

    by Jenean McBrearty

    subTerrain

    (http://www.subterrain.ca/)

    Restore Point

    by Ramon Rozas III

    Liquid Imagination

    (http://liquidimagination.silverpen.org/)

    Scarlet Threads

    by Elaine Marie Cooper

    Splickety Prime

    (http://splicketypubgroup.com/)

    Sisters

    by Nick Tchan

    Silver Blade

    (http://www2.silverblade.net/)

    The Summoner

    by Colin Wolcott

    Strangelet Journal

    (http://www.strangeletjournal.com/)

    The Texas Wife

    by Margaret Donsbach Tomlinson

    Fabula Argentea

    (www.fabulaargentea.com)

    That Girl in the Wheelchair

    by Rebecca Molloy

    Kaleidoscope

    (http://www.udsakron.org/kaleidoscope/issues.aspx)

    Victim

    by Sara Baysinger

    Havok

    (http://splicketypubgroup.com/)

    The Vigil

    by Linda Chavez

    The Persimmon Tree

    (http://www.persimmontree.org/v2/)

    The Visitor

    by Diana Crane

    Still Point Arts Quarterly

    (http://www.shantiarts.co/)

    779

    by Susan Oke

    (Youth Imagination)

    Mark sat in his bedroom, head full of the raucous beat of The National, staring through the half-open blinds at a squirrel doing a kamikaze leap from tree-branch to shed roof. It’d been over an hour since the blow-up with Mum. He pulled out an earpiece. Yes, he could still hear her in the kitchen, rattling crockery, banging cupboards, and there, the distinctive sound of a metal spoon scraping round a metal pan.

    ‘Wooden spoon,’ he said under his breath. ‘Use a wooden spoon.’

    She was doing it on purpose, breaking the rule. Dad’s rule: Never use a metal spoon in a non-stick pan. All the pans were non-stick. At least she’d stopped slamming doors. Mark switched tracks on his iPhone, needing something louder, wanting the beat to encase him, to wrap him up and block out the world. He pushed the earpiece back in.

    The argument blundered and crashed about in his head—the usual stuff about staying out late and not telling her where he was. All the ‘What ifs’ that he knew were more about his brother Paul than about him. Mark snatched the earphones out and pushed himself to his feet. His hand went to the crucifix around his neck—an unconscious gesture—and rubbed it between finger and thumb. Mum used to say that he’d rub it away to nothing one day, and his dad would laugh and say, ‘Leave the boy alone, he’s thinking.’

    Dad. He would call tonight. Six pm, on the last Sunday of the month, regular as clockwork. But this Sunday was different. It was THE anniversary—was that the right word? It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t the date of a wedding, or even the day Dad had walked out. No, today marked one year since Paul had stepped into Station Road and one of those fucking White Vans had smacked him in the chest, flipping him up into the air in a summersault of flailing arms and legs. It was the pavement that had finished him off though—Mark could still hear the crunch and thumping slap of impact.

    Sometimes that sound was all he could hear, even with the bass turned up to max.

    Mark thumbed through the tracks until he found 779, his brother’s favourite Vivaldi Sonata. Paul used to force him to listen to it, over and over. Mark had hated it then; he still hated it. Earphones shoved in tight, he searched the white plastic storage box kept under his bed, fingers raking through jumpers until he found the still-soft shape. He pulled the tatty lion out—the size of a blind puppy—and buried his face in its shorn mane. He liked to think that he could still smell Paul on it, though he knew that couldn’t be true; it was just old dust and jumper fluff.

    ‘Sorry,’ he whispered.

    It’s what he always said. To the lion for cutting off its mane in a fit of jealousy—it was the toy that he had wanted, but Mum had given it to Paul and got him a stupid penguin instead. And to Paul, for nagging him relentlessly about getting the latest Assassin’s Creed game.

    ‘All right, all right,’ Paul had said, a half-smile on his face, looking back over his shoulder as he stepped into the road. ‘Wait here, I’ll only be a few min—’

    Mark held onto that last look—that moment of contact between them, full of annoyance and amusement and... surprise.

    ‘Mark.’ That was his mother. ‘Mark’.’ More determined this time.

    He shoved the lion back in the box and kicked it under his bed. There was a knock on the door; he barely had time to wipe at his face before it opened.

    ‘Mark.’ Softer now. ‘Come and eat.’

    ‘Can’t. Going for a run.’ When she showed no sign of moving, he added, ‘Maybe later, when I get back.’

    Pounding down the street, iPhone strapped to his bicep, keeping time to the music thumping through his head, Mark tried to think ahead to his ‘A’ level exams. He really, really needed to knuckle down—one of his dad’s favourite sayings—and finish his revision. Down Cromer Road, left into Bulwer and then right into Lytton, and there he was, back on Station Road. Where he always ended up, no matter which direction he set off in.

    His steps slowed, and then stopped. He stood, rooted in THE PLACE. The music was still playing, he could feel the vibration in the bones of his skull, but he couldn’t hear it. There was a metallic taste in his mouth—the crucifix—even his dad didn’t like it when he did that.

    ‘The holy cross is not a child’s pacifier,’ he’d snap. And Mark would spit it out and dry it off on his t-shirt. Dad had bought him a shorter chain for it, but Mark had swapped it back the day his dad walked out.

    Cars and vans flashed by in a blur of colour. Mum probably thought the tears were for her, sprung from guilt for shouting that it was ‘all her fault.’ Or maybe they were for Paul, who should be here, giving him a good kicking for being such a stupid fuck. Or maybe they were for Dad, who might not call tonight, or if he did, what could they do but share an aching silence?

    Mark rubbed at his face with one hand, exploring the shape of the crucifix with his tongue. No, he knew who these tears were for. He swiped the volume to max, spat out the crucifix and stepped out into the road.

    A Messenger Will Soon Bring Good Tidings

    by Brendan Tynan Buck

    (Strangelet Journal)

    Anne sat across from me in an empty pan-Asian restaurant in Naperville that was mainly known for their sushi. It had been our favorite spot to meet and talk during high school, so when we parted after graduation we made meeting there a monthly tradition. The walls were adorned with a red tapestry that was meant to evoke the east. Between us were bottles of Sriracha and warm sake. As always, Anne was casually beautiful, that day wearing a red sundress, her natural red hair peeking through her blonde dye job and in her undyed bangs. I liberally refilled my glass with sake as I watched Anne, with her dimpled smile and plump cheeks, mindlessly play with a diamond ring that had not been on her hand the last time I saw her.

    I had to admit it was an impressive ring. The band was white gold with little Tanzanite inlets that the flanked a trio of diamonds, two small, one huge. Even though I’m straight, and a dude, I’d probably say yes to that ring.

    We were served quickly by a quiet and polite Japanese waitress. I, as always, ordered the weirdest rolls on the menu, like the Mexican Roll and the Sweet Potato roll, while Anne went for spice. As soon as our trays were set, Anne’s chopsticks dived for a kamikaze roll, but mine remained unbroken as I refilled my glass. My gaze was locked in on her ring finger. Neither of us had yet brought it up, despite its obvious presence on her hand. I had to wait for her to start. After she swallowed, she said, By the way, I have some big news to tell you.

    I was pulling my glass away from the bottle and towards my lips. I played along. What might that be, I wonder?

    Well... She let the word hang out for a moment to smile gently. So Gus proposed.

    I smiled back with a grin I thought would look genuine. It was easy to look genuine when some part of me actually was and with the sake drowning the parts that weren’t. Congrats.

    You assume that I said yes?

    Did you?

    Anne blushed redder than her natural color. Of course I did, but that isn’t the point. You’re not supposed to guess. Will you let me tell the story or not?

    Her faux anger always got me. If she hadn’t just gotten engaged, I probably would have told her how cute it was. Instead, I said, Forgive me, before downing the rest of my cup of sake. It’s hard to be a consummate actor when you could see that ring in three universes without the help of a MetaChat connection.

    Resigned, she sighed. She picked up another kamikaze rolled and dipped it in soy sauce. You always have to look at the spoilers, don’t you?

    It’s not a spoiler if it is in the trailer or on the back of the book. Or if it was the only logical outcome, I thought without saying. I finally broke apart my chopsticks. But I’m really happy for you. It’s been a long time coming.

    Her mouth full, she nodded in agreement. So hey, when are you going to find yourself a girl already?

    That question made me want to pour out another cup of sake. You know I have plenty.

    She was frowning now. You know what I mean. Not one of those girls who rotate shifts on your cock, I mean an actual relationship.

    Maybe I’ll consider that when I have better hours. I picked up my first roll and laughed. Oh wait, I’m a code monkey. I’ll never get better hours.

    I told you that multiverse physics was a growth field, but you were all, ‘Nope, I want shitty pay and shitty hours forever because I want to program games.’ We both laughed. I’ll admit that with my math and science skills, I might have made the wrong choice. But look, I worry about you.

    What’s there to worry about? I’m still young.

    Reaching over the table, she put her hand over mine before I could grab another roll. You won’t be twenty five forever. I worry that you won’t ever settle down.

    I looked at her, beautiful in that red sundress, and couldn’t help but think back to a winter evening where her hand touched mine, her eyes wet from crying after a fight with her now-fiancé. The word ‘fiancé’ tumbled in my mind, and I saw the ring on her hand, and I pulled mine back. I’ll settle down when I find the right girl. If you got any suggestions though, I’d like to hear them.

    She told me about this newly single science teacher. She told me that she had it on good faith that she was just perfect for me. I told her I’d think about it. On a napkin, I copied down a number I thought I’d probably never call. After the sushi disappeared, we got the check and the fortune cookies. Mine made me laugh. Before Anne could open hers, she turned to me and asked, So what does yours say?

    It read, A MESSENGER WILL SOON BRING GOOD TIDINGS. It must mean you.

    Why do you say that?

    I don’t know who else would bring me good tidings.

    * * *

    Talking to yourself is cheap, but it’s difficult. I have friends who’ve been rejected by themselves. You’d think that if another version of you wanted a chat, you’d agree in an instant, but sometimes you can be the only you in the whole multiverse who wants to talk. Worse, you can find that the versions who want to speak with you are ones you’d want nothing to do with, or ones that made the same choices as you did, except they bought a different color pair of pants last Thursday. It’s rare that you get to talk with the exact version of you that you need, especially in an expedient fashion.

    When I logged onto MetaChat, I was quickly informed that a version of me wanted to chat. I thought it was just a slightly different Quinn, online for the same reason I was: Anne’s engagement. Often MetaChat conversations are like talking to yourself in a mirror, but if you hit a widely different you, the differences can be unsettling. The version I saw looked a lot like me: he was black, had a tattoo of the Triforce of Courage stamped on his right hand, had the scar under his left eye that we got in Boy Scouts, but in almost every other way he was different. He had some extra pounds and a beard and who knows when the bastard last cut his frizzy and uncombed hair. Hey Quinn, he said, gently waving his hand.

    Hey, I said to Quinn, my hand wave mirroring his.

    You look good.

    You could look better. You know we look better shaved.

    Tell me about it. Looking at you, it’s pretty obvious I let myself go.

    I laughed, I don’t feel so fat anymore.

    Damn, you know how I am about my weight, he grinned.

    Yeah, I do.

    We laughed. I asked first, So what are you looking to find out, me?

    What do you think I’m trying to find out?

    I rub my chin. I wonder how it would feel like with a beard. I’ve never had a beard. About Anne, I think?

    Bingo.

    I laughed, We really are the same person, aren’t we?

    That we are. So how is she?

    Huh, I figured you knew. Didn’t she tell you that she was getting married?

    There was a silence. As he hesitated to answer, I looked at his apartment behind him. It was the same as mine. The replica Master Sword we both owned hung over his bed, which lay directly behind his desk, but there seemed to be rough edges in his life, just as there seemed to be rough edges around him. The sheets looked dirty, a cobweb hung from the ceiling, and there seemed to be a bag of garbage in a corner. She’s getting married? he asked.

    Yeah, Gus proposed to her. Gave her this big-ass ring. Haven’t you seen it?

    He looked shaken. I... I haven’t.

    Why not?

    She’s dead.

    I shook my head. That can’t be true. His face was tinged with regret and pain, so I saw it was. There was a pause. Hearing your best friend is dead, even in another universe, can hit you hard. How did she die?

    Rope. She hung herself.

    I see a news clipping tapped to the adjacent wall, her smiling face on it. The clipping doesn’t exist in my universe. With dread, I know it’s the obituary. Why?

    Isn’t it obvious?

    I looked into the face of this strange, sad me. The more I stared, the more it looked like the mirror was cracked. There was really only one thing that could make me stop cleaning my apartment, or make me look like I’d given up completely. It had to be my fault. You fucked her that night, didn’t you?

    And you didn’t.

    Yeah... I admitted. But it has to be more than that.

    It isn’t. I’ve checked with a lot of the other us who made my decision. They’re all equally sad sacks of shit, if in different ways. Most times she tries to go back with him but gets rejected, falling into a downward spiral until she kills herself. Other times he’ll take her back and force her to never see us again. Some of us got their asses kicked. I saw one universe where we got together with her, but from the panicky look on his face, I don’t think they’re happy.

    So are there any places where we ended up happy with her?

    There are, but they moved a lot quicker than you or I did. He smiled. But look, you’re in one of the happier universes. You get to see her in a wedding dress! I wish I could see her in a wedding dress. Or hear her talk... Or eat sushi with her again...

    He started to cry. It’s an odd feeling that you get when you see yourself cry. I leaned forward in my computer chair, the same one he was sitting on. Hey, I could send you photos or bring her here to talk to you. It doesn’t have to be this way.

    But it does, man. This is my punishment. I don’t deserve to see her smile ever again. I deserve to die.

    Hey, man. You aren’t thinking of...?

    He shook his head. Don’t worry. There are versions of us who have done that, but I’d rather not. I have to live on for them, you know? And to talk to guys like you, who think they made the wrong decision. Because you didn’t, man, you made the right one. You might doubt that, but you did.

    I smiled at this broken Quinn. Thanks.

    Don’t mention it, he said, wiping away his tears. Then he pulled out a notepad and flipped it to a page. Hey, before you log off, I have something to give you.

    What’s that?

    A number. I got it a couple times from a group of us who went into physics rather than programming. Just like you, they wanted to know how it was on the road not taken. Anyways, they were happily married to this one chick named Martha they met in school. The number’s still good last I checked. Maybe you should check it out and see if you can score.

    I don’t own the notepad he does, so instead I pull the napkin from the sushi restaurant out of the back pocket of my jeans. I write the number out on the opposite side of the one Anne gave me, so I don’t get them confused. After putting it down, I turned my head back up to screen level. Is she okay with a random guy calling her because he heard he was married to her in another universe? I know guys who use that as a pickup line.

    He smiled. She was over here. She actually wanted to go on a date with me, but I figured I didn’t deserve it. Still, I say you deserve a shot.

    Thanks man.

    No problems. If you can’t help yourself, what hope is there?

    * * *

    After the other Quinn signed off, I flipped the napkin face up, and then back face down, and finally face up again. I wrote the same number twice.

    Incredulous, my hand rested on the napkin. I wondered if it was fate, but it’s hard to believe in fate in a world where you can call yourself and see how your choices lead you to so many different ends. Then I remembered Anne’s confidence when she gave me the number. She called Martha perfect and said that she had it on good faith, and of course she did when she heard it from herself.

    Setting the napkin down, I chuckled. Anne had cheated in much the same way that I had. Curiosity beckons us all, even those who hate spoilers. My guess was that Anne poked around MetaChat the night she got her ring. She may have said yes, but she probably had some doubts to quell. I imagined her finding an Anne much like the Quinn I found. Perhaps that particular version of herself had staved off suicide long enough to show my Anne the way her scars from that night manifested on her wrists. Maybe I was the one who was a corpse in that universe, and her red hair was dyed black in mourning. Then, knowing she made the right decision, she must have set about a different project, trying to find a world where I was as happy as she was.

    It was only a guess though. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could just call Anne and ask. She would have been offended, even if it was true. But then an idea struck me. I waited about twenty minutes with my MetaChat window open. A simple text message appeared, labeled from myself. It simply read, Yes.

    Sometimes spoilers can be wonderful things.

    * * *

    It’s the next afternoon. The sun from the lake is shining through my bathroom window. I duplicate the number from the napkin onto my phone. I stare at my phone, number dialed in. I realize I’m on the precipice of creating another split in time. I consider pussying out and calling myself after to see how things went, but then I realize that someone, somewhere has to the make the call, so why shouldn’t it be me? Sure, I’ll answer the MetaChat call I’ll get later, but I don’t have to rely on it. Not for everything.

    That’s the main problem people have with MetaChat: Are you really the best, brightest, most decisive you there is? I doubt it, but I don’t let it get to me because I’m not quite him. We’ve all made our choices, even if we do share DNA and gaming habits. The moment you let it get to you is the moment you really start to annoy other versions of yourself by constantly calling them to see how things went on the road not taken. Sometimes, life requires not spoiling yourself.

    And I can’t be afraid of making a mistake when it worked out for another me.

    I breathe in and out, nervous. Knowing that I’m married to this girl in another universe lends seriousness to her that I haven’t had with most girls. To call this possible wife would mean letting go of all hopes and delusions I had left. I would be acknowledging that the pathway of ending up with Anne slipped away a long time ago, and for me that future doesn’t exist anymore.

    That’s okay though. I smile gently to myself in the mirror, the real mirror. I decide that whatever future lies ahead for me is preferable to the purgatory I’ve kept myself in the last eight years. I press send on my cell phone and, hearing her phone ring, I wait for my wife in another universe to pick up.

    A National Tragedy

    by Claire Tristram

    (Vestal Review)

    It’s a day that everyone says they will never forget, but Mother remembers it better than anyone. She remembers the clatter of metal tools on a harsh tile floor. She remembers her feet, white with cold and far away, like a dead person’s feet. She remembers a pulsing effervescent wildness in her head. She remembers a frenetic, sexually charged shaking of many tambourines by her right ear. The Doctor—she thinks she can remember his eyes, blue, above the mask—shouts She’s awake! and just as quickly comes the swift plunge toward sleep, a wild, tangled place full of muck and current, as if a mountain stream has taken her by the heels and pulled her under. Mother gives up. She loses her grip. The thing she loves most is borne away. Hours later, she rises from her anesthetic stupor to find the Nurse weeping by the bed while trying to check her pulse. There is no baby. Their eyes lock and a ribbon of grief shoots between them.

    My baby is dead, Mother says.

    The Nurse bites one knuckle.

    Oh, no, dear, no. Your baby is fine.

    The Nurse walks away without a word and comes back with the baby and places it, with reverence, in Mother’s arms.

    The baby moves.

    But the Nurse is crying.

    Mother thinks: Why is the Nurse crying? Is my baby deformed?

    I have terrible news, the Nurse says. There has been a terrible attack on New York City and thousands of people are dead. Our President has just been killed in Dallas by a Communist with a rifle. And the Japanese have bombed Hawaii. It’s on the radio. We are at war.

    It’s the day that everyone says they will never forget. But what Mother will never forget is her first, true feeling, which was relief. She looks at her baby for the first time. And like the Nurse she then begins to cry, but from the joy of it, until her baby wakes and beats on her with tiny fists.

    A Second Life

    by Merran Jones

    (Alfie Dog Fiction)

    Why do you pluck one eyebrow thinner than the other? Betty asked.

    Asha gave a tepid smile and helped her sit. It’d taken a senile, elderly woman to say what her friends should have ages ago. She didn’t have time for this. They had to get Rebecca in bed, and Roma on the toilet before Roma decided a five minute delay was sufficient enough time to ring the emergency bell. The kitchen had been late with lunch, delaying the afternoon round. Then, they’d found Valma defecating in the ficus beside reception.

    I have something for you dear.

    Asha turned. Una stood behind her, smiling, offering a fragrant package.

    Uh, thanks.

    Asha declined to open it, quite sure she’d wrapped a poo in paper-towel. It wasn’t the first time she’d given Asha the shits.

    Carla walked up. Right, I’ll go to Peter, then meet you at Roma’s?

    Sure. Asha shrugged. These days, she chose a surly, disinterested attitude.

    Room 62 rang. The new lady: whatsername. Asha sighed, sick of her job. She’d done it for the last decade, initially wanting to make a difference—the result of a naive, pseudo-humanitarian phase. The extra $2/hour compared to KFC had also swayed her goodness. And it’d been fine at first. Once she’d accepted the undying smell of urine and cabbage. But over the years her compassion had burned out, leaving her jaded toward institutions that stretched residents’ too-long years through medicine.

    To add to her shit-hole day, Joel had called at 3a.m. Again. After sleeping with her bestie and going off with her money, he’d had the nerve to call three weeks in a row, saying he missed her sweet tits. The money was gone. His absent memory said enough. Her first, real boyfriend turned out to be as big a nightmare as her ol’ man.

    Asha sighed, ran her tongue-stud over her teeth, and scratched her neck tattoo. It itched as much as her cigarette craving.

    What’s the bloody point?

    Each day grew harder. She touched the mark on her wrist. Would anyone notice if she were gone?

    Outside room 62, she gave the obligatory two-knocks, and entered. The woman stood hunched over the sink. Terrifically wrinkled, she scrubbed, as if washing out the lines.

    What’s up—

    The woman raised her head. It’s Mary. Her eyes, grey as her hair, darted over her. Asha.

    Asha realised she’d put her badge on upside-down. Good eyesight.

    Mary smiled. Her skin puckered like thickening cream. Eyes are windows to the soul. I’m lucky the shutters on mine haven’t closed yet. Her voice crackled like stiff paper.

    She patted her face, then hobbled across the room, shouldering her many years. Creaking like a ship, she ground her knees into a squat as she sat. Asha grimaced.

    Yes Asha, age is wearing. My limbs no longer sing like yours, but my mind still works. For that I’m thankful.

    Mary burrowed into her chair. A stain blossomed on her front; lunch’s signature of mash and gravy. She scratched her chaotic hair, unearthing a flurry of dandruff. A broken skin marbled her tea. She reached for the cup, the journey from hand to mouth more perilous with age.

    You want a fresh one?

    Mary shook her head. It’s fine dear. Tea is tea to me. Although the older I get, the more physics tricks me. Cups and plates grow mysteriously heavier.

    A smile tugged at Asha’s mouth. So why’d you ring? She stole a glance at her watch. The theft didn’t go unnoticed.

    Mary’s eyes probed her. I know you’re busy, but I’d like to talk. Could you spare the time?

    Asha hesitated. She couldn’t, but Mary intrigued her. Asha considered her mild presence. She radiated a quality planted deep within.

    What’d you wanna talk about?

    Mary twined her delta-veined hands. Let me tell you about my late husband.

    * * *

    Name?

    Józef Stachyra.

    Nationality?

    I blinked. This was a test. The officer looked too calm during a time when Europe was in a screaming state of flux. I read his label: Hackmann, Chief of Division Three.

    Polish.

    My answer was too slow, or wrong, or exactly what they wanted. The SS guard to my left cursed and cracked his Karabiner 98k over my head. A scorching light flashed. I erupted in a flare of pain. My world span ferociously. A voice yelled amidst the clanging.

    I righted myself. Hackmann hadn’t moved; his face a carved stone, his eyes polished with hatred, and disgust.

    Date of birth?

    3rd of October 1918.

    Hackmann raised a commanding eyebrow. Happy birthday.

    I peeked at the date: Drittel der Oktober 1942. On the cusp of adulthood when WW2 began, I’d come of age in a ditch.

    Occupation?

    A soldier in the Polish Armed Forces.

    Hackmann snorted. His contempt prickled my ears. This was for his amusement. My uniform and the overcrowded cattle train I’d arrived in clearly stated my purpose. The sign above him read: Konzentrationslager Lublin, in German and Polish, in case we didn’t know. This was Majdanek. Herein the gates of hell opened.

    We’d been captured and gathered in a Dulag transit camp, then delegated to concentration camps. Those sent to Sobibór or Bełżec were killed instantly. At least at Majdanek and Auschwitz, there was a slim chance we’d live. For a while.

    When we’d arrived, the Ordnungspolizei opened the doors and swept out the dead. The rest of us stood in the thin light, soiled with blood and faeces, reeking of defeat. We were goaded into lines, then marched into camp.

    Baracke vierundvierzig! Schnell!’ they yelled in staccato fire, driving us toward the larger barracks.

    Those too unfit for work were dragged to the gas chambers. I later learned they’d been freshly added in support of Operation Reinhard. From nearby, came the wildly inappropriate sound of a lively concert band.

    "To cover the screams," someone whispered.

    I ceded my clothes to Division Four, then naked, stood with those deemed labour-worthy. The rain fell onto our hair as we entered the bathhouse. The men ahead of us left, that same fall of rain hitting their newly shaven heads.

    Now standing before Hackmann, the cold clawed my scalp. To further strip what identity remained, we wore the rags of deceased prisoners, our uniforms torched.

    Father? Hackmann moved onto family history.

    Tomasz Stachyra.

    Where is he?

    Dead. I was ten hours’ old when three Germans broke into our house and shot him.

    A fatal silence. Hackmann stared down his long, severe nose, then flicked his eyes up to the guard. The architecture of his face barely changed, but the message was clear. The guard raised his rifle and struck again. My face exploded in pain. I heard my teeth crack. I plummeted into agony and stumbled forward.

    Mother? Hackmann continued.

    A headache settled in my jaw. Warm liquid oozed from my ear.

    Róza Dabrowski, I gasped.

    Town of residence?

    Warszawa.

    The fact that I came from Warsaw, earned another derisive snort. Much had been destroyed by the Luftwaffe and German Army. I’d still been there in 1939, when war pointed its finger at Poland, and remembered the whistle of bombs, the bloody screams, the flaming light blackening everything. Born Polish, under a shifting constellation of empires, I’d grown up between Hitler’s Naziism and Soviet Bolshevism; both expansionist, spreading with cancerous resolve, squeezing Poland thin. I’d been destined for persecution, but never imagined this.

    All right. Hackmann finished. He stamped my papers. You will be assigned to Compound Two and will work on the roads.

    He issued a triangle marked with a ‘P’, and a number: 6174. Your new name.

    The identifier pinned to my rags, had belonged to someone before me, and might soon belong to someone else.

    The SS took us to quarantine, and talked in searing tones while we stood, blind without our language. They gripped their guns, wanting our fear.

    "Ekelhaft." They eyed us with repulsion.

    They drilled rank-forming and barrack order into us. One prisoner fell into the mud and was beaten until his body became a corpse. The rain pooled on his jacket, covering the red letters: KL on his back. That was the first day of many.

    The Kapo dominated the daily order: criminals who thrived on sadism, desperate to hold their rank. The first morning, one approached and stood an inch from me, stealing my oxygen. His eyes sharpened.

    "Abschaum," he seethed, then spat in my face.

    The weeks merged into surreal routine. Every morning, we’d rise at 3a.m. If we made it back to bed, we’d have to endure another day.

    "Stillgestanden! Mutzen ab! Augen links!" the Kapo screamed with clotted rage. The sadistic drilling was a poor imitation of army life. My first day, a prisoner didn’t remove his cap and look left fast enough. He was yanked to the ground and flogged, his body reshaped by blows. I clenched my teeth as his leg cracked. Another man followed orders perfectly, but his fate was writ in Jewish blood. The SS ordered him to stand while they kicked him. He stood and screamed until his legs broke.

    We existed on bitter coffee, watery soup, and morsels of bread.

    What’s in this soup? I asked.

    Weeds, and rotten vegetables, one man said, running to wash his tin.

    Our bodies vanished. We sported sunken eyes and loose teeth; rows of hollow men, tied by tendon and bone, frames upon which our clothes hung. Thick veins pinned our translucent skin at the temples. My sinews traced a map of malnourishment. I didn’t need a

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