by Spain, Laura
Interest in print books—printed anything for that matter—died immediately after the creation of the PD. The Governor’s decision to declare the bookstore a state treasure had transformed his business into a museum. James had no overhead, but he barely made a living. Most people would not pay to browse or handle books, old newspapers, and political posters. If not for the regulars, like Mr. North, who would buy or barter for two or three books—and leave a little extra on every visit—he would have starved. It was obvious to James that Mr. North still loved to read books and hold them in his hands. There was nothing like feeling the weight of Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, as he read the words on the printed pages. After the introduction of implants, reading had become like everything else in their society, fast and weightless.
James had taken the crystals, so that he, too, could feel fast and weightless. He was soaring, and he was happy watching the hours pass. He should have locked the store hours ago, like he had promised. But James had forgotten, and now, he didn’t care. He was amid purples and deep blues and stark whites. And oh, the smells—hot gingerbread and cocoa. James didn’t have implants like the rest of them. He didn’t care for wires or worry about connection speeds. All James cared about was flying and books. When he couldn’t fly, he read the old-fashioned way: book in hand.
At first, there were a few people looking to make a quick credit by illegally selling their books and collectable posters to James, but he soon ran out of money. He depleted his saving for one last acquisition, a first edition set of Mark Twain’s novels and memoirs. After purchasing the first editions, he had to turn people away.
It was hard, but James had come to understand his place in the world. He was dead to the current age. He chose to ignore it. He wanted a revolution like the one that Russia had experienced in the days of Lenin and Stalin, except James didn’t care about the people or social justice. James wanted to witness the end of something that no one thought would end and the birth of something new and unexpected. He longed for something tangible to replace the Paperless Doctrine. He craved something more, something terrible and violent.
3.
James slid off his stool. He stunk. His skin and clothes were sticky with sweat. His apartment contained a refrigerator, a hot plate, and a large dingy couch that smelled of eggs and cat piss. His laundry were a mass of earth tones, piled in the corner under the only window. The walls and ceiling were covered in dusty gray popcorn stucco, worn smooth in certain places. James had thought about a bed once. A few months ago, he’d passed the store Everyone Deserves a Chance on his way home from the Food Outlet Ration Center. In the front window on the second floor, a small single bed was done up in green sheets with a hand-sewn quilt folded and placed on the end. The price in the window read, $120.00 USD. A good price, but it was more than he had. The light had changed, and the transport he was on moved on to the next stop. Good thing too, because James had been too high on crystals to make his way up to the second level.
He staggered to his feet, knocking into a small bookcase of Stephen King first editions. Carrie and The Tommyknockers went flying across the floor. James stepped on Desperation and fell forward, lying still for a few minutes.
When the shock of the fall wore off, he picked up the copy of Desperation. It had been his favorite of all King’s novels. It was about a coal-mining town somewhere in the American West that was overrun and possessed by earth demons. The main character was a writer, a best-selling author like King. It made James smile to hold the book. Happy memories of his youth flooded through him. He opened the book to see what he was asking for it.
“Two credits!” He stood and rubbed his back. His speech slurring, “Publisher printed too damn many copies. Flooded the market, they did. Over-anticipated the demand.” James wondered how many copies he had in the store, how many he’d been able to save.
James righted the bookcase and picked up the displaced and scattered novels. He held up a copy of Times Change, King’s final novel, and most would say, his best. It had won both the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize in Fiction in 2025. He’d read all King’s novels except this one. James put it back. He just couldn’t bring himself to read the last King novel. He’d read a couple of reviews, but couldn’t bare to break the binding on the book. Times Change was about a little black girl in the year 2001, just after September 11th, who wrote and mailed letters to Martin Luther King, Jr. Somehow her letters traveled into the past and were delivered in first weeks of August 1963. She asked how she was supposed to forgive bad men who did really bad things. Her letters would eventually inspire Martin Luther King, Jr. to give his “I Have a Dream” speech.
Leaving Times Change on his desk, James put Desperation under his arm and headed to the stairs. He held onto the wooden railing as he eased his way down to the first floor, step by creaking step. He thought he remembered turning off the lights, but he saw that they were still on. Mr. North was attaching something to the base of the wall near the section of Western Mediterranean Cooking.
“You’re still here?”
Mr. North looked up. “I’m almost through.” He finished taping whatever it was to the wall.
“You helping me with improvements?” James swayed. He could feel that he was about to take off again. It was sad that the high only came in waves. James longed for the high to be constant.
“You took the whole bottle.”
“I’m free.”
“I can see that.” Mr. North helped James into an old wooden school desk with a fixed desktop.
“James.”
James nodded his foggy head. “Good, good. Just make sure that you lock up on your way out.”
“James. You need to choose.”
“I’m free.”
“James, it’s over.”
“Yes.”
“Goodbye, Ahab.”
James looked up at Mr. North. Blue light arced in the air around the man’s head. “Ishmael, is that you?” James chuckled. Then he noticed one of the books on the desk in front of him. “Times Change,” he said. “Ishmael, have you read it?”
Mr. North didn’t answer. The LCD-like clock in his mind displayed a series of numbers that were counting down.
“Maybe it’s time.” James opened King’s final novel to the first page. The binding made that new book cracking sound that James hadn’t heard in years. A stupid grin showed his blackening teeth.
Mr. North shook his head and put his hand deep in his pockets. As he exited through the front, the small bell above the door tinkled.
4.
Mr. North wished that the inevitable could have gone some other way. He pulled something out of his coat pocket. “Thank you, James, for everything,” he said, fingering the old paper. He thought back to the first time he had met the man with the quaint visor. James had been waving a flag that read, “Remember Fahrenheit 451” outside a PD recycling center. The corners of Mr. North’s mouth raised and his eyes softened.
There was a flash of green light. Then, the two-story building that contained the last printed books for sale on Earth fell into rubble. Turning away, Mr. North walked slowly down the street, avoiding the smoldering pages that rained from the sky. Then, he shook his head before tucking the yellowed copy of Moby Dick back into his pocket.
River Don’t Run
by Gary Gray
The ash glowed red-hot. He smoked it to the filter and tossed it into the dark, out into the heat. The window rolled up. The engine started. Dash lights glowed. He turned on the A/C and picked up the small bottle and poured what was left down his throat and felt the burn in his gut. He flipped off the dash lights and there was darkness, absolute darkness. It was fifty yards or so to the river and trees on the far bank. Those trees blacker than black. Lights way off down the river. Lights from the small Louisiana town built round a paper mill smelling like sulfur. The locals laughed and said it smelled like money. A few navigation lights flashed round the bridge near town. He’d backed the car up under big, overhanging
branches. Ground was flat before him. If there’d been light, he’d be able to see that town and the new high school football field and its shiny new bleachers; nothing between him and it; nothing but a river that made no sound. Nothing moved in heat like that. Not even water.
His finger rubbed the strap on an empty holster. The department issue .45 sat in the passenger seat fully loaded; one in the chamber; a badge on his chest. There was a heavy belt round his belly. Radio squawking. He looked at that pistol. Looked at it sitting there in the dark. Headlights came bouncing and shooting light across the river. Car turned off its lights and passed from his left driving right out in front of him never seeing him. Break lights, then no lights. Car was stopped about thirty yards out.
He reached under the seat. Leaned and folded his body. Hand grabbed a spring, an old tissue, found the bottle. Broke the seal and poured a drink down his throat. He watched that car. Still sitting there. He could see two heads. Probably kids and he wanted ‘em gone. They needed to move on. Another drink. Tightened the cap and felt a light wave cross his head, a fluttering of reality, a shift in how things were.
The switch. He hit it. Red and blue lights lit up the night swirling and dancing off the trees and the dirt. Flipped ‘em back off. The heads were moving again. He turned off the engine. Opened the door and stood up in the heat; the inside of his arm touching the holster. Empty. He leaned in and grabbed the pistol and stuck it in the holster and snapped the small leather strap over it and started walking with the gravel crunching loud under his black boots.
Window rolled down and he saw the big round head with short black and gray hair sitting on a fat neck turn and look. An old and strong face full of lines. Thin lips. Square chin. Small, squinty eyes.
“Evening Officer.”
“Evening.”
He looked around, not wanting to be standing there in the dark and the heat out there by the river talking to a stranger on that night.
“Problem Officer?”
He leaned down. Looked in the car. Her hair was stringy, hanging down covering her face. She stared at the floorboard.
“Whatch y’all doin’ out here?”
“Nothing much.”
He stood up straight. Looked at the patrol car. The bottle in the seat. Head felt light. Light and loose. Another drink before it passed would be nice. And that pistol. The weight of the pistol. The weight of the world.
He looked back at that big round head with the creased face and a little grin on the old lips.
“Lives with her mama you know so we come out here mess ‘round a bit.”
“Live with your mama?”
“No.”
“Why ain’t y’all at your place?”
A grin. Creases round his mouth. She just stared at that floorboard. Her right thumb rubbing her left palm. Just rubbing it. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“We like it out here with nature you know, same reason you’s out here.”
Felt the weight of that gun on the inside of his right arm. Glanced at the patrol car there in the dark under the limbs. Looked closer at that face. Saw a flat nose. Flat like a boxer’s. Teeth crooked where he had ‘em. That girl, hiding under stringy hair, rubbing her damn palm. Just sitting there.
“Gonna have to ask you to step out of the car. Procedures you know.”
“Sure sure, I understand.”
Door creeked and buckled as it opened. Shoulders were broad.
“Just stand there in front of the car sir if ya don’t mind. Procedures.”
“Sure sure, officer. Of course.”
And when he moved to the front of the car he stared. Straight through the windshield. Hard. He stared hard and straight through that glass into the passenger seat; the grin gone from his round face full of creases.
“Ma’am, mind stepping out to the back of the car there?”
She nodded. Hair bouncing. The door opened. She moved to the back of the car. Head down. He walked around to meet her and moved his feet towards his car and stepped away from her drawing her to him farther from the car closer to his car.
She looked up then down. Down to the dirt and the gravel and he saw the sweat on her forehead and he saw the deep lines under her red eyes.
“Ma’am? Everthing okay?”
Just nodded. That’s all she did.
He looked at the man in front of the car. Staring right through her.
“Ma’am, gonna have to ask you some questions. Understand?”
Nod. Hair bouncing. Face looking at the dirt at her feet.
“Whatch y’all doing out here?”
“Nuttin.” Voice soft and timid.
“Drugs? Done any drugs tonight?”
Shook her head no.
“Sure?”
Shook her head yeah.
He saw the man staring at her.
“Ma’am, you out here by your own choice?”
Her head didn’t nod up or down or left or right. She raised her head a little. Her eyes looked to the front of car. She looked at the officer and he could see it, could see the fear, and he looked to the front of the car again. Still staring at her. Holes right through with his eyes.
“I need you to answer. You out here cause you want to be?”
No answer.
“Whatch y’all doing?” Moving around the fender as he called out.
“Sir, I need you to stay in front of that car.”
“Sure sure. Just feeling a little left out.” Grinning and staring. Wasn’t no grin in those eyes, though. Not in that stare.
She looked up. Her voice soft. Barely a whisper.
“He’s got a gun.”
“Where?”
“The car.”
“He touch you?”
She nodded her head up and down real quick like.
The heat was coming on worse and worse. He could feel the polyester against his thighs and his calves. The belt was heavy. The shirt too tight in that heat. Sweat pouring from his forehead and he wiped it with the palm of his hand and wanted to get a breeze on him, but there wasn’t one and wouldn’t be one.
“Come on, now.” Moving around the fender again toward the driver’s side door with the window rolled down. “We all just gonna stand ‘round sweating? What’s going on?”
Close to the door now.
“Sir, need you back in front of that car.”
He wasn’t grinning. Face was serious. The look showing what he was, what he really was.
“Sir.”
“Come on, now. Whatch ya gonna do?”
He looked to her. Looked back to him moving slow to the door. He looked back into the darkness under those low branches where the squad car sat. Where the bottle was. An instant. That was all it took sometimes. All the worries in the world cloud a head and paralyze a man. In an instant it’s all gone. Carried off in a flash of light. Gone like it was never there. What was left was a man not carrying a care in the world.
“Cover your ears and close your eyes.”
She heard him say it. But it took a minute for her body to do what her mind was telling her. His palm was soaking with sweat. He undid the small strap snapped over the pistol. He pulled the pistol up and straight out of the holster.
She walked. The river on her left, the smell of gunpowder in her nose, her ears ringing, her stomach sick, her hands shaking; the back of her shirt wet and sticking to her back. She turned and looked. Off in the darkness with a few lights from the small town glowing like stars. She saw two figures. Silhouettes. One on the ground. One standing and pulling the other. Then he fell back and landed on his ass and just sat there. Too drunk to drag a dead man to the water.
She kept walking.
Orion’s Belt
by Laura Spain
Their father called them out beneath the night sky. Two sisters, both beautiful in their own way and both contradictions of the other, heard the call.
One, the younger of the two, skipped to her father’s side; blonde hair dancing in the breeze, blue eyes innocently sh
ifting towards the ground, and young face creating a smile that made the mystery of the universe seem insignificant.
The other sister, already gazing at the sky above, walked slowly over to her family; brown hair sitting still and green eyes continuously gazing upward.
Though so different, the words that strayed from their father’s mouth seemed tantamount to them both.
“See those three stars in a line there,” he asked his girls, neither over the age of ten, while pointing over the fence in front of them.
“Yes, sir,” the youngest said with excitement in her voice, the words innocently emerging from her soft and youthful lips that were presently stained with red Kool-Aid.
The oldest followed, “It’s Orion’s Belt.”
Their father looked down and smiled at his babies.
“I just want you to know that I will not always be here, and we will not always be together, but whenever you want to know how much you girls mean to me and how much I love you, just look at these stars. I am the middle star and you girls are on both sides of me. No matter what, we will always be together.”
As the final word feathered from his mouth, a car horn blew from behind them. The girls smiled at their father and ran to gather backpacks full of clothes; backpacks full of school supplies; and backpacks full of toys. The bags were placed inside the tiny trunk as they climbed into their mother’s red Mustang: it was her weekend to have them. They fought for a moment over the front seat, and due to an explosion of youthful and vehement enthusiasm, the eldest took the prize.
As their mother drove away, they glanced out of the car window at their smiling father, who never stopped waving until they were out of sight. When his person disappeared from their view, they both glanced up towards the sky.
“Orion’s Belt,” the youngest sister mumbled retrospectively.
The eldest reached back to hold her little sister’s hand and they smiled at each other using the side mirror as a way to pass their message clearly and concisely. A pair of blue eyes and a pair of green eyes swiftly shifted back to the three stars. Youthful ignorance can only last for a short while and it was the debriefing of this ignorance that the girls were contingently discovering.
