Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 24
Page 11
"I knew he controlled the weather,” Ophelia said, “but he wouldn't admit it. It would get foggy for two weeks straight with no sun, and I would be miserable, and he wouldn't do a thing about it. I thought about running away."
Lynn nodded sympathetically. “I used to live in Seattle. I know about rain and fog and cloudy days. It makes you want to pluck out your eyes with your eyebrows. Why didn't you?"
"Why didn't I what?"
"Why didn't you run away?"
Ophelia sat silent for a moment. Then she shrugged. “Why don't you leave Stan?” she asked.
* * * *
The magician was shrinking. Not by his own magic, by someone else's. The guards had to keep adjusting his handcuffs so he didn't slip out. On his bed, he looked like a child. He was eating plenty, but each day he was a few inches shorter, no longer even five feet tall. “Gives me the creeps,” one guard said, “guarding a man who looks like child."
"Then let me go,” the magician said. His voice was higher and reedy sounding. He stuttered. “When is my t-t-trial?” he asked.
"When is your t-t-trial?” the guard mocked. “Some people wait y-y-years waiting for a t-t-trial. If you want a t-t-trial so bad, why don't you conjure one with your m-m-magic.” Five minutes later the magician could still hear the guard's laughter bouncing around the hall.
* * * *
"Are you sure you want to do this?” Ophelia asked. She and Lynn were standing over the hole where Ophelia used to live. The house above the lair had been torn down, and the pit was roped off with yellow caution tape. No one was guarding it. A rabbit chomped grass near the opening and a few white balls speckled the ground. It had been an easy target for some rogue golfers.
"I just want to see what it looks like."
Ophelia shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She tied the rope around an oak tree and began lowering Lynn down. “I don't know how deep it is. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine.” Lynn said. Her voice sounded muffled. Ophelia trembled. She was afraid of what Lynn might find. She was excited about what Lynn might find.
The code was that Lynn would tug on the rope three times and Ophelia would haul her up. While she waited, she made a list of the things Lynn had introduced her to: the wooden swings at Mansion Square Park, nail polish, sidewalk chalk, Bloody Marys, A-line skirts, moose tracks ice cream, bicycling down steps, peanuts in Coke, jerk chicken, spit (the card game), thongs, how to spin quarters. After half an hour, Ophelia called down to Lynn. There was no answer. Ophelia tugged on the rope. It swung beneath her. She pulled it up and up.
Ophelia stared at the frayed end. They had not planned for this. At her feet, the hole was dark and damp. It reminded her of graves she had seen on the television. The brown earth topped off by spiky mowed grass. Was Lynn dead? Was she dead? People said that to her all the time when she first came back, “We thought you were dead,” and then they'd hug her. When she looked down Ophelia thought she saw white flash in the sun beneath her. The hole looked as if it had teeth. Dugout dentata.
She called down again. No answer.
Ophelia removed her belt and threaded the rope through the purple belt loops on her corduroys. The pants were new-used. Lynn had gifted them to her earlier that week. She sat down at the edge of the hole and dangled her feet. No one was there to lower her down. She kicked off a flip-flop and listened. There was no sound of it landing. She could feel something tugging at the edge of her brain, blaring away at her in bright, flashing white, but Ophelia could not bring it into focus. She took a deep breath and pushed herself off the edge of the hole.
"Lynn,” she cried out as she fell. “I'm coming."
* * * *
The buzzer sounded like a screaming rabbit. All the guards rushed to the magician's cell, but the handcuffs were empty. The chains lay useless on the floor. The door was locked tight. The bars were not bent. The guard who had pressed the alert kept repeating himself. “One minute he was there, curled up like a child, no bigger than my son, and the next time I look he's disappeared. Couldn't have been a second more than five minutes between seeing him and finding him gone. I don't know how he did it."
The magician heard sounds but could not remember what they meant. Under his paws he could feel the vibration of footsteps, and below that, the drumbeat of the earth. He could feel Ophelia. She was falling. He scurried towards her scent, running along the floor and diving into a tunnel. The wet earth smelled delicious.
* * * *
To her surprise, nothing was broken. Ophelia stood up and looked around her old room. The cobwebs had been removed and the bed was made up with clean yellow sheets that smelled of mint. The floating chair rocked softly on its own in the corner.
"Ophelia?” Lynn was crouching in the corner chewing on a cinnamon stick. Her blonde hair hung over her bloody knees.
"I thought you were dead."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Ophelia shrugged. “No one else believed me."
"No wonder you stayed."
Lynn pushed off the ground and floated up to the ceiling. When she hit the plaster she pumped with her arms until she spun in lazy circles. “Look,” she said, “I'm a ceiling fan.” Her dress hung down like a sack.
Ophelia laughed. Then she shuddered. She felt weird in her bedroom without the magician there. It was smaller than she remembered. She opened the door to the endless closet.
"So this is where it all took place?” She heard Lynn say behind her. “Eight years as a love slave in an antigravity chamber. Kinky times. We could open up a club down here. Dance on the ceiling. Make out on the floor. We could put the bar over there, on the wall by the bed. We could call it Ophelia's Place. Hey, what's in there?"
Ophelia had never been more than five feet into the endless closet. Her gremzky disappeared there for days at a time when it was disgruntled, but she'd never followed it. She was afraid of getting lost.
"Lynn?” Ophelia said. There was something to do with her name, a question, something wet that she couldn't quite remember.
"Uh-huh,” Lynn said. She was walking towards the closed door that led to the closet.
"There's not enough air.” Ophelia put her hands on her temples and rubbed them.
"What'd you say?"
Lynn's voice made her head throb more. It wasn't the air. There was air and plenty of it. She just couldn't figure out how to get it into her lungs.
She followed Lynn into the closet and leaned against a column. Gremzkies are skittish. She didn't want to scare hers. She counted up to thirty and then backwards by three. The walls were playing classical music, something by Debussy. Ophelia felt as if she was underwater. She wrinkled her nose, trying to hold back a sneeze. She pictured her gremzky in her mind, its wet nose, its furry teeth, its feathery hair. She tried to conjure it with her mind. She hummed a low note and then a high note and then a low note.
She could hear something walking up behind her. Feel something warm press firmly on her back. Ophelia hummed louder.
"Ophelia?” Lynn whispered. “You're humming. Do you want to go back?"
Ophelia shook her head.
"You alright? Ophelia? You look pale."
Ophelia stopped. Her name. Her name sounded wrong. She didn't feel like Ophelia. Ophelia felt like someone else. She opened her mouth to ask Lynn, but her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, useless, like someone had shoved a block of clay between her teeth. She could not speak. She tried to reach her hand up to hold Lynn's, but it was stuck to her thigh. Her toes would not wiggle. Her knees would not unbend.
"What's back here?” Lynn said. “This closet is huge. I never would've suspected.” Lynn kissed her cheek. “I'm going to keep exploring. I can't believe you never told me how cool this place is. Just tell me if you're getting bored or freaked out. We'll go back up."
Because she couldn't speak, Ophelia blinked. She blinked and blinked and blinked and blinked and blinked.
Lynn disappeared behind her sweaters. After a moment Ophelia couldn't hear footsteps. The
Debussy blared and Ophelia thought she might drown. Sarah! she thought. Sarah Sarah Sarah Sarah Sarah. Time was going too fast, or maybe it was going too slow. She couldn't tell the difference. Something wet touched her ankle. Then it put a small paw on her leg. It climbed up her ankle. It crawled into her pants and scurried past her knee. It scampered up her thigh. Paused. Sniffed. Then continued on. Through the hole in her pocket. Up past her belly button. Past her left nipple. Past her shoulder. Up her neck onto the bridge of her nose, settling between her eyes. It wasn't her gremzky at all.
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forthcoming excitements:
September: HOUND: a mystery, Vincent McCaffrey. First of a 3-book mystery series featuring a middle-aged Boston bookhound investigating the death of his ex. Fantastically pulpy cover. Wonderful old-fashioned novel.
9781931520591 * tc * $24
October: SECOND LINE, Poppy Z. Brite. 2 short novels previously published in limited editions by Subterranean, “The Value of X” and “D*U*C*K.” Chaotic, sexy, New Orleans foodie fiction.
9781931520607 * pb * $16
November: INTERFICTIONS 2: An Anthology of Interstitial Writing, Delia Sherman & Christopher Barzak, eds. 21 stories from around the world including: Alaya Dawn Johnson, Theodora Goss, Alan DeNiro, Jeffrey Ford, Brian Francis Slattery, and M. Rickert, and more. Intro by Henry Jenkins. See the online annex for more stories. If you enjoy LCRW, you'll probably enjoy this anthology.
9781931520614 * tp * $16
February 2010: THE POISON EATERS AND OTHER STORIES, Holly Black. A debut collection by the NYTimes bestselling author of TITHE and THE SPIDERWICK CHRONICLES. Creepy, sad, and hilarious, this is a very strong collection.
big mouth house * 9781931520638 * tc * $17.99
August: MEEKS: a novel, Julia Holmes. Debut novel in which the struggles of two luckless souls turn deadly when they fail to satisfy the order of an authoritarian city-state.
9781931520652 * pb * $16
order now from smallbeerpress.com
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About the Authors
Gwenda Bond is a columnist for this magazine. She is working on a young adult novel. She holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts’ program in writing for children and young adults.
Dennis Danvers has published seven novels, including New York Times Notable Books Circuit of Heaven and The Watch, and The Bright Spot (as Robert Sydney). Recent short fiction include stories in Strange Horizons, Intergalactic Medicine Show, and Realms of Fantasy. He teaches science fiction and fantasy at Virginia Commonwealth University in Richmond, Virginia.
Abby Denson is a cartoonist and rock'n'roller in NYC. She is the creator of Tough Love: High School Confidential, Night Club, and Dolltopia (out this fall from Green Candy Press). She has scripted Powerpuff Girls and comics for Nickelodeon. She has webcomics on gurl.com and a dessert comic column, (citysweettooth.com) in The L Magazine. abbycomix.com
Neile Graham likes to pretend she's Scottish, though only her grandparents were. She resides in Seattle and yearns northward toward B.C. where she was raised. Her poems have recently appeared in Goblin Fruit, The Malahat, Canadian Literature, and tangled in threads once touched by the Fates. She wears gloves for that detangling; however, her copies of LCRW all sport chocolate fingerprints.
Anya Groner lives with her dog, Lulu, in Oxford, MS. Her fiction has appeared in Flatmancrooked, Fiction Weekly, and Damselfly Press. She is also the fiction and art editor of the Yalobusha Review. Please feel free to contact her at anyagroner@gmail.com.
Jasmine Hammer is a Wisconsin native transplanted to San Francisco. Predictably, she currently works as a cheesemonger and writes a beer blog. She is a 2008 graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and was published in the Barren Worlds anthology.
Matthew Kirby (cover artist) is a painter and illustrator living in Brooklyn. Images of his work can be viewed at homepages.nyu.edu/~mk106.
Alexander Lamb splits his time between writing science fiction, software engineering, teaching improvised theater, running business communication skills workshops, photographing random objects, and conducting digital physics research. He tries not to let a day pass in which his brain does not stretch in at least seven different directions. His story “Ithrulene” can be found in Polyphony 5. He lives in Santa Cruz, CA with his wife, Genevieve Graves, an astrophysicist at UCSC.
J. W. M. Morgan was born in a suburb of New York City and grew up on Long Island and in New Hampshire. He graduated from the writing program at Brown University. He won the 2006 Spire Press Flash Fiction Contest. His stories have appeared in Willard & Maple, South Dakota Review, Mars Hill Review, The Distillery, Licking River Review, and other magazines. He is an assistant editor at StoryQuarterly and teaches at the Second Start Adult Literacy Program of the Oakland Public Library.
Dicky Murphy is a New Jersey native, who graduated from Georgetown University in 2004. He was selected to read from his unpublished collection of short stories at the Los Angeles series “Vermin on the Mount.” His play “Inseminary” was produced in 2008 by the American Theater of Actors in New York City. Apart from stories in student anthologies this is his first published story. He lives in Los Angeles, where he worked as a television writer—that work has funded his habit for writing stories, plays, and screenplays.
Alissa Nutting is currently a PhD candidate in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Nevada Las Vegas, where she is a Schaeffer Fellow in Fiction. Her work has/will appear in journals such as Mid-American Review, Denver Quarterly, Tin House, Fence, and others.
Marina Rubin's first chapbook Ode to Hotels came out in 2002, followed by Once (2004) and the third book in the trilogy, Logic (2007). Her poetry has appeared in PDQ, Timber Creek, Ilya's Honey, Pearl, The Skidrow Penthouse, Asheville Poetry Review, Chaffin Journal, The Amherst Review, Urban Spaghetti, 5AM, and many more. In 2006, she became an associate editor of Mudfish. She lives in New York City where she moonlights as a Wall Street headhunter while writing her fourth book, a collection of flash fiction.
Anna Sears is a writer/artist living in Manhattan who also works as a tour guide and has yet to commit to a cat.
Eve Tushnet is a freelance writer in Washington, DC. Her journalism bylines include the New York Post, USA Today, and the Washington Blade, and for fiction, Dappled Things and Doublethink magazines.
Liz Williams's most recent novel is The Shadow Pavilion, the fourth in her Inspector Chen series. She holds a PhD in Philosophy of Science from Cambridge. Her short stories have been published in Asimov's, Interzone, The Third Alternative, and others. She lives in England.
* * *
Visit www.lcrw.net for information on additional titles by this and other authors.
Table of Contents
Eleven Orchid Street by Alexander Lamb
Dusking by Liz Williams
Machrie Moor by Neile Graham
Tornado Juice by Jasmine Hammer
Superfather by J. W. M. Morgan
The Magician's Umbrella by Dicky Murphy
Leave the Dead to the Living by Alissa Nutting
A Story Like Mine by Eve Tushnet
The Broken Dream Factory by Dennis Danvers
Dear Aunt Gwenda: The 140 Character Question-Withi…
The Magician's Keeper by Anya Groner
forthcoming excitements:
About the Authors
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