Exigencies

by Richard Thomas

“Yes, Papa,” I said, pulled away gently, and smiled at him.

  We turned and walked down a milling space toward a dark tunnel into the heart of the airport.

  Last night I dreamed I went to Heera Mandi again.

  And in my dream the five of us were watching a cricket match on a broken black-and-white TV in front of a paan-shop in the whoremarket. Wassi Bhai bowled to Allan Lamb on the brain-gray Melbourne Cricket Ground, and Lamb lifted his bat and swung it at Wassi Bhai’s head. Brain gray and red floated on a sea of scarlet, and Captain Imran Khan lifted Wassi Bhai’s skull and waved it proudly at the maddening crowd. The ’92 World Cup was ours and we stood and cheered, as Haider came out from a dark room and wiped his lips.

  Once upon a time I went to Heera Mandi with my best friend. “Ammi, we’ll be back before dusk,” said my best friend, taking the money for his first acoustic guitar from his mother’s purse. “What times have come that a son tells his mother before going to Heera Mandi!” said his mother, and we all burst out laughing.

  Once upon a time I dreamed I went back.

  But then youth, dream, and the reed flute were shattered; and I opened my eyes to find myself in sunny Florida, browsing the Escort ads on Backpage with my pants unzipped and my hand coiled around a lifeless object.

  USMAN T. MALIK

  is a pakistani writer resident in florida. his

  fiction has appeared or is forthcoming at tor.com, strange horizons, and black static among other venues. he is a 2013 graduate of the clarion west writers workshop. in winter of 2014, along with

  man asia literary prize nominee musharraf ali farooqi, usman led pakistan’s first speculative fiction writing workshop in lahore. drop him

  a line at www.usmanmalik.org.

  SINGLE LENS

  REFLECTIONS

  JASON METZ

  From across the field, Daniel Blakesburg sits at a picnic table studying his subject, waiting for an opening. He sizes her up, guessing she’s in her seventies. She has a slight hunch in her back, but still buzzes around the playground. She doesn’t wear eyeglasses. When she pushes the boys on the swings, they scream in delight.

  Experience says the old lady is a simple mark, that it’s easier on his nerves. Sleepless nights disagree, the job tormenting him all the same.

  She sits on a bench, pulls a thermos out of a canvas tote bag, and he moves in.

  “Ms. Bitoni,” asks Daniel.

  Startled, she looks up, glances over to the boys, then back to Daniel. “Yes,” she says, as if she has the same question. “May I help you?”

  Daniel reaches into his backpack, pulls out a thirty-five millimeter and raises it in her direction. Seated, she grips the armrest, recoiling into the back of the bench.

  “I was hired to shoot you,” he says.

  The assignment arrived in his post box just like all the others, an off-white 3x5 postcard–a photo of an hourglass on the front, his subject’s name, location, date and time on the back.

  “I was told I’d find you here,” he says.

  He brings her into focus, snapping off shots in rapid succession, framing her just right, not the least bit concerned about her facial expressions. She looks like a hound dog, jaw dropped and hovering above her chest, pulling her wrinkles down with it.

  “Perfect,” he says, putting the lens cap on and shoving the camera into his bag. “You’re as beautiful as ever. I’ll have the portraits in the mail tomorrow morning.”

  “Portraits,” she asks, inching forward on her seat, looking over her shoulder at the boys, laughing, the swings creaking. She turns back to Daniel, cocks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow. The hound dog is trying to understand.

  “Oh, it’s not their day, ma’am.”

  He’s gained a dozen or so pounds since his college days, but he’s fifty yards away by the time she calls to him.

  “Sir,” she says. “Sir?”

  He hits the parking lot, turns to see her rounding up the boys, and he ducks behind an aisle of cars, slinking into his tiny blue Honda. He drives out of the lot, slow and calm. By the time Ms. Bitoni is calling the police, he’s out of focus, miles down the road.

  In his laundry room, Daniel unscrews the standard light bulb and replaces it with a red one. He picks the negative he’s most partial to, the hound dog impersonation, and drops a single sheet of paper into the developer tray, enlarging it to an 8x10, rocking the tray gently, side to side. He slips the paper into the stop bath, then into the fixer, waits a few moments, hangs it on the clothesline, then retreats to his living room.

  His living room is lit by the cool blue overtones of a reality TV show. The show is about those who’ve held a winning lottery ticket, how it changes their lives. He stands watching from the tile that separates the kitchenette from the living room while two slices of meat lovers supreme spin in his microwave.

  The reality show completely misses the point.

  The microwave beeps, lukewarm slices, limp and soggy, satisfy his cook-for-yourself resolution. He falls into a faded plaid loveseat, kicks his legs over the arm rest, plate on his gut, and considers the concept of a lottery. The camera only follows the money and what came after it, for better or worse. What the camera doesn’t show, what it seems no one wants to say, is that it all ends the same. He chews, slow and thoughtful, until it’s gone.

  Daniel wakes the next morning lying in the same position, the TV still on, a grease pocked paper plate resting on the coffee table next to a twenty-four ounce can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He stands in front of the mirror and runs his fingers through his thinning hair. His eyes are dark, too heavy for a man who’s yet to reach his fortieth birthday. The stubble is grey and there’s a suggestion of a deliberate design. He splashes water on his face, pops a mint into his mouth, slides his feet into a pair of flip flops and walks to the coffee shop. He grabs the morning edition of The Globe, orders a small black coffee, smiles at the girl behind the counter with the dimples, and stuffs a ten dollar bill into the tip jar. He finds an empty table next to a group of clean-shaven men dressed in neatly pressed shirts and slacks. They’re eating Cobb salads, talking about eating stock and using terms like Angel Investor and Drag-Along Rights. One man says he’s starting a start-up that helps build start-ups. He says that this is his golden parachute.

  Daniel unfolds the paper and finds the obituaries.

  After coffee, he stops by the post office. There’s another postcard in his box. On the front, is a picture of an hourglass. On the back is an address. The address belongs to Martha Bitoni.

  He gets home, goes into his laundry room, and swaps out the red bulb for a soft white. He grabs the picture hanging from the clothesline and studies his work. The hound dog face is replaced by a young woman’s face, perhaps fifty years younger. She is standing by a swing set. Standing alongside her is a handsome man with jet black hair, slicked back. The man is holding a baby girl.

  This is how Daniel’s photos develop. These are the moments he captures. These are the reminders he’s agreed to deliver.

  Sliding the photo into a manila envelope, he can no longer allow the beauty to overwhelm him. If his job had an actual training manual, he doubts this would be a part of it. There is no mentor. The colleagues are unknown. His tolerance is not what it used to be.

  On the envelope, he’s writing the name Martha Bitoni, followed by her address. On the top left corner, he doesn’t write a return address. On his way to his bartending gig, he drops the envelope in the mailbox.

  The process is this: he waits five days from the completion of his last assignment. He goes to the coffee shop, tips the girl with the dimples ten dollars, finds an open table, and turns to the obituaries. Today, he reads the following:

  Martha Louise Bitoni, 76, of Boston, MA, died on May 25, 2012. She was the wife of the late Henry G. Bitoni. She was the daughter of the late Lawrence C. and Helen DiLorenzo of Topsfield, MA. She is survived by two children and five grandchildren. A memorial service is to be held on May 29 at 10:30 a.m., Forest Hills
Cemetery.

  Daniel finishes his coffee and stops by the post office. In his box is a manila envelope. In the envelope is a stack of bills. In his apartment, there is a small silver safe in the back of the closet. He opens the safe and puts the new stack of bills next to the others, closes the safe, then the closet door. He puts on black pants, a white shirt, then a bow tie, and takes the train to an upscale restaurant where he tends bar, practicing small talk. After his shift, he sits alone at a booth by a window in a diner where he watches taillights fade into dawn.

  The back of the post card says the name Derek Nichols. The assignment is for the following morning, 8:11 a.m., Florist, Boylston Street train station.

  At 8:05 a.m., Daniel is standing by the stairs near the florist, just outside the stop. He cannot afford to be late. There are no sick days in Daniel’s line of work. There is no getting out of the contract. He remembers the deal he made all too well and the repercussions of free will. He mumbles under his breath, rehearsing his approach. As the minute hand moves closer to 8:11, Daniel’s stomach churns, nausea sets in. He takes the lens cap off the camera.

  A tall, white male in a light gray suit, perhaps in his late thirties, comes up the stairs and buys a bouquet of yellow daffodils, hints of an early New England spring. As he puts the change in his pocket, Daniel approaches.

  “Mr. Nichols?” he asks.

  The man does what most of them do. He pinches his eyes together, looks down at the camera, then meets Daniel’s eyes. He half-smiles and cocks his head to the side.

  Most of them say, “Yes?”

  Mr. Nichols is no different.

  Raising his camera, Daniel says, “I’m with Hourglass Photography, I was told I could meet you here.” Before Mr. Nichols can react, Daniel is hitting the shutter release. By the time Mr. Nichols is asking, “Who are you?” Daniel is smiling, putting the lens cover back on, and putting the camera in his backpack.

  Before Daniel can say, “Perfect, I’ll have them in the mail by tomorrow,” a woman comes from behind Mr. Nichols and wraps her arm around his. She is brunette in her mid-twenties, her hair pulled back in a bun, a quick study in natural elegance. Mr. Nichols asks if she hired the photographer for their anniversary. Daniel is pivoting on his heel at the same time she shakes her head, “No” Mr. Nichols grabs Daniel’s camera bag and spins him around, asking him who he is. Daniel swings his arm, hits the bouquet of yellow daffodils, sends the daffodils into a cup of black coffee, sends the coffee onto the front of the woman’s white cotton single-breasted coat.

  Daniel screams, “FIRE! RAPE! FIRE! RAPE!” and runs. He does not look back when he hears the repeated slap of wing tips on the concrete. It’s been a while since his college rugby days, but his Nikes put enough distance between him and the slaps. He allows himself a look, sees Mr. Nichols slowing up, yelling and shaking his fist. Daniel ducks into the subway, pushes through the morning rush, and waits behind a pillar for a train that comes two minutes later. He is not concerned in what direction the train is headed.

  When he gets home, he preheats his oven to 350 degrees, takes a pre-made breakfast burrito out of the freezer, turns on the TV, and develops the photos just as he’s done so many times before.

  It is the final gasp of winter. Daniel is sitting in his booth. He has some time to kill before he has somewhere he needs to be. A tired waitress fills his cup for the fifth time. He slides a twenty to the end of the table. The waitress calls him honey.

  Outside, there are flurries. They fall from the heavens, hang around for a little while, and melt into the sidewalk. He catches one with his gaze, freezing it in time. In this fleeting moment, he sees its shape, like none that came before it, and none that will follow. He watches as it falls to the ground to melt with the rest.

  Beyond the flurries, a woman is standing on the sidewalk. She is looking through the window into the diner at the booth where Daniel sits. She walks in, ignores the hostess, and sits down across from Daniel.

  “I’ve been searching for you,” she says.

  When Daniel starts to get up from his seat, she threatens to scream fire and rape. Daniel sits back down and listens to the woman.

  The woman takes off her wool beanie and sets it beside her purse. From her purse, she pulls out a photo. On the photo is a picture of Derek Nichols. In this photo, he appears to be dumbfounded.

  “Who are you,” she asks.

  Daniel doesn’t answer. He looks around the diner and takes stock of who’s sitting nearby. The waitress who calls him honey puts an empty coffee cup in front of the woman. The woman looks up to the waitress, nods and smiles, has her cup filled. The woman pours in two creamers and one artificial sweetener, stirs it twice, and lets it rest.

  “Derek said this was the most beautiful picture he’s ever seen.”

  Daniel looks down at the photo, Derek Nichols confused, the lighting awful. It may be one of the worst pictures he’s ever taken. He looks across the table at the woman whose lip is beginning to quiver. Her face turns flush, her eyes water.

  Daniel doesn’t talk.

  “He said he’s never felt so peaceful,” she says, her voice breaking. She buries her face in her hands. Daniel takes cheap, thin napkins out of the metal container, offers them to the woman. It is the best he can do.

  “Who are you?” she asks again.

  He’s been asked this question before. He’s even seen a woman cry. But never both at the same time. This is a scenario he has not rehearsed.

  “I’m the photographer,” he says.

  “He’s gone,” she says.

  “I know.”

  It’s two cups of coffee later before the woman speaks. She asks him once again, “Who are you?”

  Daniel has questions of his own. This is the only way he can answer her. He asks, “What do you want to see before you go?” She stares back at him. Her eyes offer no response. He says, “It’s random you know, when your time’s up.”

  He motions for the waitress to pour another cup of coffee. He asks for two slices of pecan pie. The woman initially says no but Daniel insists. He slows down while eating his slice, keeping pace with her.

  When they’re finished, he says, “Before they go, not everyone gets to see themselves in that way.”

  She wants to ask him again, she wants to know who he is. She wants to know what he is. He can tell by the way she’s trying to force out the words, her voice trembling, failing her.

  “I took a job, a long time ago,” he says. He looks at his watch and puts his hands in his pocket, traces his finger around the outer edge of the post card. “I have to go.”

  “Derek . . . was he happy?” she asks. The woman is staring up at him as stands to leave, pulling a twenty out of his wallet. Her eyes, full and green, are watery, running mascara. In them, he sees his own reflection. In it, his wrinkles are gone, the face smooth, a thin smile, his own eyes, wide and bright, are staring back at him.

  “Very much so,” he says with a smile, climbing back into the booth.

  They sit quietly for a bit, until the sun comes through the window, sending a shard of light that cuts across the table, dividing the two of them. He rubs the post card in his pocket, looks into her eyes and asks if she can stay. She shakes her head from side to side and smiles ever so slightly. He reaches across the table, wipes a tear from her cheek and says, “Thank you.”

  She doesn’t have any more questions.

  He’s found an answer.

  She leaves.

  He misses his appointment.

  Daniel steps out of the diner into the snow and puts his hand above his eye, staring up at the sun. This moment is interrupted by another man. The man is asking the name, “Daniel Blakesburg?” Daniel cocks his head to the side and flashes a smile for the camera. The man tells him he should have the photo in the mail by tomorrow morning.

  Daniel says he won’t need to see it.

  jason metz

  as of 2015, jason metz is entering his final year of studies at the university of califo
rnia riverside palm desert low residency master of fine arts in creative writing and the performing arts and he can’t help but wonder, how will they get all of those words on the diploma? in any case, jason cannot worry about the words of others and tries his best to stay focused on his own. some of jason’s words are online and in print in pantheon magazine, as well as other stretches of the internet and beyond. he can be found in somerville, ma sitting behind a small wooden desk on the third floor of a triple decker overlooking the boston skyline, his bulldog karl lying by his feet, quietly dreaming. you can follow him on

  twitter @wordofmetz

  THE

  MOTHER

  NATHAN M. BEAUCHAMP

  The warmth of her presence radiates through the membrane and into my tiny body. Wriggling, weightless, I drive my cutting horn forward, thrusting, desperate to reach her. A tear opens. Fluid whooshes through the gash and the membrane collapses, weighty and terrifying. Claws slashing, I shred the remnants of the pod and push toward murky light. Cool air fills my lungs and rushes back out in roars of pride. I shake my head and the final chunks of the pod fly free and the world swims into focus.

  A massive face descends from above—knobbed scales, dark eyes, slightly parted jaws. My eyes roll in their sockets. Tongue lashing against baby teeth, love and terror overwhelm me—love and terror for The Mother. I skitter over sand and nestle against her side.

  I soak in her warmth, eyes trained on her face. The sound of cracking and the sharp odor of blood fill the air. Others spill from the mound of pods, a living flow—thick with mucus, trembling. In turn they see her and swarm forward. Exhausted, we lay in piles, masses of claws and scales. But it was I who first broke free from my pod and looked upon The Mother.

  We eat what she drops from her massive jaws and drink from the stream where the drying pieces of our pods litter a small nook of raised earth. We crowd against her for warmth in the dark, and fight over food in the day. Largest and strongest, my cutting horn lengthy and sharp, I dominate the rest of the brood. I eat the choicest portions and then take from the weak. Slamming into their soft sides, I drive them away from globules of still-warm fat that coat my throat with hot grease.