by Graeme Hurry
KZINE MAGAZINE
Issue 18
Edited by Graeme Hurry
Kzine Issue 18 © May 2017 by Kimota Publishing
cover © Dave Windett, 2017
The Whole Infernal Machine © Joshua Chaplinsky, 2017
The Path © Lynn Rushlau, 2017
Time To Go © Maureen Bowden, 2017
For The Family © Aaron Perry, 2017
Sewer Street © Mark Rookyard, 2017
The Blades © Fred Senese, 2017
Honour Thy Father © Charlotte H. Lee, 2017
Director’s Cut © Jessamy Dalton, 2017
Note: An editorial decision has been taken to retain the spelling and vocabulary from the author’s country. This may reduce consistency but it is felt it helps to maintain authenticity and integrity of the story.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright holder. For editorial content this is Graeme Hurry, for stories it is the individual author, for artwork it is the artist.
CONTENTS
THE WHOLE INFERNAL MACHINE by Joshua Chaplinsky (12)
THE PATH by Lynn Rushlau (5)
TIME TO GO by Maureen Bowden (3)
FOR THE FAMILY by Aaron Perry (16)
SEWER STREET by Mark Rookyard (16)
THE BLADES by Fred Senese (3)
HONOUR THY FATHER by Charlotte H. Lee (17)
DIRECTOR’S CUT by Jessamy Dalton (6)
Contributor Notes
The number in brackets indicates the approximate printed page length of the story.
THE WHOLE INFERNAL MACHINE
by Joshua Chaplinsky
I’m not the best with words, but The Therapist tells me I should document my feelings. He even gave me an analog diary he calls a Moleskine. Every night when they put me back in my box, I’m supposed to tell it all my secrets. But I know better. There are no secrets in this place.
“What do you mean by that?” he always asks. “This place.”
“This place,” I tell him. “School. Church. Therapy…”
“What about your box, as you like to call it?”
“Especially my box. The whole infernal machine”
“Machine. That’s clever.” The Therapist wags a finger at my cleverness. “But let me ask you this. What is this world if not a series of systems operating towards a specific end?”
“And what end is that, specifically?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it?” he tells me. “No one really knows.”
“Well then the system’s fucked.”
It was The Parental Unit’s suggestion I see The Therapist. I say “suggestion” like I had a choice in the matter. There was no discussion. You don’t have a discussion with The Parental Unit. It’s not like talking to a person. It just spits information at you.
Not that The Therapist is much better. Although I’ll take them both over The Priest any day of the week. Thank god The Parental Unit’s faith in The Church seems to have waned. It’s been a while since I’ve had to go to Confession.
“How long has it been since you spent some time Outside?” The Therapist has a repertoire of questions he likes to cycle through.
“Other than a little patch of Sky,” I tell him, “there’s not much difference between Inside and Outside.”
“But it’s a nice patch of Sky.”
“That’s funny,” I say.
“Why’s that funny?”
“For the same reason machine is clever.”
* * *
Today in School, The Teacher assigned a report on an analog book called Slaughterhouse Five. I went to the library (which is more of a glorified shelf), but they didn’t have it. The Teacher, doubling as The Librarian, told me The School had banned it. I asked The Librarian how she expected me to write the report, but The Teacher in her responded. “It’s your responsibility to obtain the necessary materials,” she said.
I ask The Parental Unit about Slaughterhouse. It says the book is Restricted. I ask if The Parental Unit has any recollection of the story in its dusty old data banks and it tells me, “That’s Classified.”
* * *
I give it a week before I venture Outside again, just so The Therapist doesn’t think I’ve done so on his recommendation. I sit on a bench in the center of the grass field and stare up at the tiny patch of Sky. I have to admit, The Therapist is right. It is a nice patch of Sky. But I’d never tell him that. Besides, I have no other patch of Sky to compare it to, so how would I know?
I’ve heard something called Smoking enhances the experience of Sky, but Smoking is Restricted. It’s something people used to do in analog books, books that now have thick, black lines drawn through their words. Of course, you can figure out what’s under those lines, even if you can’t see what’s written there. I ask The Therapist what difference it makes, if you know what’s under the lines anyway. He tells me to be careful, that harboring Restricted Material in your mind is a much more serious offense than reading it on the page.
“But people can’t read minds,” I say.
“They don’t have to,” he tells me. “All they have to do is make an Accusation.”
* * *
The next time I go Outside, The Girl is sitting on the bench, reading an analog book. I freeze up. I want to sneak off, but there is no way of going unnoticed under such a small patch of Sky. Plus, I’ve never seen a girl my own age.
“Do you want to sit down?” she says. “There’s room.”
The smart thing to do would be to say no. Curiosity killed The Cat and all. But they haven’t allowed me to keep a pet since, so I go ahead and sit.
“I was beginning to think I was the only one who came here,” she says.
I ask her what she’s reading.
“Slaughterhouse Five. It’s for a book report.”
“You know that’s Restricted Material,” I tell her.
“It is?”
I ask her what it’s about.
“War and stuff,” she tells me. She says I can borrow it when she’s done, which means there’s a chance I’ll get to see her again. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
* * *
I scan The Therapist’s book shelves, his words static in the background. Even though I know every title by heart, it’s something to distract me from his rhetoric. That’s when I see it.
“When did you get a copy of Slaughterhouse?” I say.
“I’ve always had it,” he tells me. I know he’s lying.
“I thought it was Restricted?”
“For you it is.”
“Then how come The Teacher assigned it in class?”
“Good question,” he says. “Would you like to borrow it?”
I try to gauge his motivation. This could be a trap. But fuck it, things need shaking up once in a while.
* * *
I wait until The Parental Unit has gone into sleep mode and I hunker down under the covers with a flashlight. The back of the book, where you usually find a synopsis, is so faded it is almost see-through. I open to the first page. Black lines. Every sentence. I flip through the rest of the book. 90% of the text has black lines drawn through it.
* * *
I skip Therapy for a while. I even skip School. I spend time Outside instead. No one says anything, so I tell myself they don’t care. I keep hoping to run into The Girl again, but no luck. Maybe she go
t nabbed for possession of Restricted Material. I can’t stop thinking about Slaughterhouse, even though I still don’t know what it’s about. I wonder if her copy is full of black lines like The Therapist’s.
I carry the book around anyway, memorizing the few visible words. I try to extrapolate a sentence or two, glean some sort of meaning from it. Oddly enough, one of the few words not blacked out is fuck. The word seems impotent without context. It’s just four letters on a page.
* * *
When I finally return to School, The Girl is there.
“We have a new student in class today,” The Teacher says.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the only student in class. The only student in the entire School. This doesn’t bode well.
During lunch we lean into each other and trade whispers. Not that it guarantees secrecy. Like I said, there are no secrets here. But this is how you play the game.
“What are you doing here?” I say. She tells me she is a transfer student. “Why were you transferred?” She doesn’t know. “Where do they keep you?”
“Other side of The School,” she says.
Of course, I’ll never know for sure. We aren’t allowed to walk home together. They dismiss us one at a time, chaperoned by The Teacher so we don’t deviate from our respective paths. We aren’t allowed in The Corridor unsupervised.
The Corridor is what connects my box, The School, Therapy, and The Church. It also leads to The Outside. It contains many hallways I’ve never been down. Many locked doors. There are penalties for unauthorized wandering of The Corridor.
Before they dismiss her, I ask about the book.
“Later,” she says.
* * *
The Sky is the color of bruised fruit when The Girl finally shows up.
“Did you bring the book?”
“That’s the first thing you say to me?”
“What?” I don’t understand.
“Let’s start again,” she says. “You’re supposed to kiss me hello first. It’s Etiquette. Don’t they teach Etiquette at your School?” She leans in and plants a perfunctory kiss on the corner of my mouth. I’m stunned. She produces a small paper box wrapped in cellophane. “Then we share one of these.”
“What are they?”
“Cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes?”
“They’re for Smoking.”
“Oh,” I say, regaining some semblance of composure. “I know about Smoking.”
She pulls a half-crushed cigarette from the box. It reminds me of a limp penis, but I don’t tell her that. She puts it between her lips and I blush.
“It’s a diversion,” she says. She sucks air through the paper tube and hands it to me. A dry brown substance fills the inside.
“A diversion from what?”
“From this.” She takes the copy of Slaughterhouse out of her bag. I reach for it. She pulls it away, hands me the cigarette.
“This first.”
“What do I do?”
“You breath through it. Like I did.”
I put it between my lips and inhale. I wonder if I’m doing it right.
“Can you taste it?” she says.
“Uh huh.” I nod. It tastes a little sweet, a little stale. “Why do they call it Smoking if there’s no smoke?”
“They just do.” She takes the cigarette back, returns it to the box. She hands me the book. I’m greedy for it. I open up to the first page and am confronted by black lines.
“It’s blacked out.”
“Not the whole thing. Look.” She turns the page, and I see she’s right. There seem to be less redacted lines than in The Therapist’s copy.
“Can I borrow this?” I say. She mulls it over.
“I guess so. Now that they’ve relocated me, I probably shouldn’t be seen with it.”
“Thanks.” I get up and walk off, absorbed in the book.
“Be careful,” she calls after me, but I’m already somewhere else.
* * *
I’m worried I’ll get yelled at for being late, but The Parental Unit has already gone into sleep mode by the time I get back to my box. An amber cursor blinks in the corner of its screen.
A few steps gets me to the other side of the room and my cot, which is against the wall. I stay up half the night reading Slaughterhouse. From what I can gather, it’s about a man kept prisoner, and it may or may not take place on another planet.
* * *
I wake up to a note from The Parental Unit. It’s written in Dot Matrix, on the kind of paper that has perforated strips with guide holes all along each side. It says the pleasure of my company has been requested by The Priest. Confession at oh-nine-hundred. It says this request is not a request.
I show up at The Church fifteen minutes late, just because. There are no immediate consequences. My footsteps echo off the vaulted ceiling as I make my way across the sanctuary to The Confessional. It is an ornate wooden box, about as tall as a man, but wide enough for two people to sit abreast. Next to The Confessional is a small, circular table. On it sits a silver platter piled high with Host. I select one of the shiny metallic wafers and enter The Confessional.
The inside of the booth is claustrophobic and dark. A wall with a latticework screen separates me from my inquisitor. I insert The Host into a slot on the wall. There is a click and a whir, and a dim bulb illuminates the space. Through the screen I can just make out the figure of The Priest. It is smaller than the average person, about four feet in height, and wears the standard black clothes and white collar. It sits in the lap of what appears to be a larger than average person in a plain white vestment. The face of the larger person is not visible from the vantage point of the confessor. Its hand disappears under the back of The Priest’s shirt.
“Greetings, my child,” says The Priest. “How long has it been since your last Confession?” I can’t be sure, but I don’t think its lips move. It just stares straight ahead.
“I don’t remember. It’s been a long time.”
“Three years, four months, twenty-seven days, according to my records.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“It is called Confession for a reason.”
“Why do I need to confess if you already know what I’m going to say?”
The Priest’s head turns to the screen, as if on a pivot. Its eyes look painted on.
“Because I do not know what you are going to say. I only know the Sins you are guilty of. Whether you confess them or not remains to be seen.”
I feel the anger start to rise.
“Is this because of the book?” I say.
“What book?”
“You know what book.”
“I need to hear it from you.”
“Or the Smoking? Is this about The Girl?”
“She will have her own time to confess.”
“Because she didn’t do anything wrong. She’s new, she didn’t know The Rules.”
“Do not worry, you are not culpable for her Sins.” I detect a hint of menace in The Priest’s tone. Is it throwing its voice? It sounds like it’s coming from my side of The Confessional.
“Why is she here? Where did she come from?”
“Have you asked her? A boy asks a girl questions in an effort to get to know her better. It is called Etiquette. It is much like the process of Confession.”
“What about me? Why am I here?”
“You are here to confess.”
“No, why am I here.”
The Priest’s mouth doesn’t move, but I can swear the thing is smiling. “You know I can’t answer that.”
The whirring stops and the light goes dim. My time is up.
* * *
The Girl isn’t in School the next day. I spend the entirety of class imagining her interrogation at the hands of The Priest, what sort of twisted penance it would assign her. By the time The Teacher dismisses me I have come to the conclusion that I may never find out. Punishment for my lack of cooperation.
“Re
member,” The Teacher says as I exit the room. “Your book reports are due at the end of the week.” It isn’t until I’m out the door that I realized she said reports. Plural. Was this an innocuous indication I would be seeing The Girl again? Or was it a deliberate attempt to taunt me, to inflict emotional trauma?
I hang out Outside just in case The Girl shows. I read Slaughterhouse until it‘s too dark to see and then I go home. She isn’t in School the next day, or the next. I wait Outside each night, and then go home to work on my report.
The night before the report is due, I come across a handwritten note in the margin of the book. I could swear it wasn’t there before. I’ve read through the whole thing twice already.
It says: This book takes place in The Real World.
* * *
I go to School the next day and hand in my report. It contains what little information I have: Slaughterhouse Five is a book about war. It is about a man kept prisoner. It may or may not involve time travel. It takes place somewhere called The Real World.
Of course I didn’t get that last bit from the book itself. It’s from the note written in the margin. Including it in my report is another in a long list of things I probably shouldn’t have done.
* * *
When I get home The Girl is there, having a discussion with The Parental Unit. This is not good. As I’ve said, you don’t have a discussion with The Parental Unit.
“Oh, hi,” she says as I walk in. I’m immediately on alert.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you. You know, you really do need to work on that Etiquette.”
I glance back and forth between her and The Parental Unit. I grab her arm and whisper through my teeth. “Where have you been?”
She gives a strained smile. Her eyes tell me, Not here. Her mouth says, “I’ve just come to pick up the book you borrowed. I got an extention on my report.”
“We need to talk.”
“I really should be going.” She says it like a pleasantry, for The Parental Unit’s benefit. “Do you have the book?” I dig it out from under my mattress and hand it to her. “Walk me to the door?” I escort her the few steps.
