Altered America

by Ingham, Martin T.

“He was my only childhood friend,” she whispered.

  Her mother took up the chant and drummed until the fire smoldered into ash. Eleri swept these, while hot, off the smooth sandstone slab into a clay bowl. Her tears were mirrors, each carrying Briamursk’s reflection as they wet the ashes. Using both hands, Eleri offered her mother the funeral bowl.

  Then Eleri put on her dress and woolen cloak and walked Synaur through the moonless night to his farm. Both were too tired to talk. She, filled with warm affection for him, knew in time she would love him as her husband. True, four was the number of completeness but so was eight, twice four. Their farm would easily feed six children. And her mother would come to live with them and teach her grandchildren more than farming. She kissed Synaur’s cheek before she left him at his door.

  At home Eleri found their cottage lit by a tallow candle. Her mother’s movements were spritely, so she knew a tiny serpent lay curled and new born in the clay bowl. Godston would endure.

  Her mother, laughing, held the serpent up for Eleri to see. Its head shone with immature light. Because Eleri had thought of Briamursk as her tears watered the serpent’s ashes, it had his face.

  End of the Rainbow

  by Dusty Wallace

  Cereal boxes, team mascots, cartoon characters; leprechauns are everywhere. They’re often shown sliding down a rainbow towards a pot of gold with a big smile on their face. It’s a lie. A story concocted by leprechaun elders and spoon-fed to a population of naive humans. It’s taken those bastards a half-millennium to shed their bloodthirsty image. They’ve brought their prize from the Highlands to the Heartland: St. Louis, Missouri. This is where I put an end to it all.

  “Malto, just give up,” I say standing over his bloodied body with my sword resting against his nape. Crimson rivulets meander down his scowling face.

  “You’ll have to kill me,” he whimpers. Leprechauns are prone to whimpering when injured. “While I’m alive the stones will never belong to the elves.”

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me.” I press my weight against the sword and sever his carotid artery. To his credit he doesn’t scream. He probably knows how much I would enjoy that.

  The moment was five hundred years in the making. That’s how long it’s been since my ancestors braved the high seas and tossed the philosopher’s stones into Mount Oblivion, on what’s now known as the Canary Islands. Hundreds of elven lives were lost on the voyage thanks to an outbreak of St. Anthony’s Fire. Paintings from the era depict our people scratching at their skin until it turned from blistery red to necrotic black and eventually rotted away. Others went mad before the worst symptoms appeared and threw themselves to the mercy of Poseidon.

  Elves lived peacefully in the forests of Scotland until the fourteenth century. Outsiders were largely unaware of our existence. We had nothing of value to them; no natural resources, no precious gems, no kingdom to conquer. Even the Vikings left us in peace. Of course, they thought we were messengers of Odin and I suppose my ancestors thought it wise not to correct them. It was the philosopher’s stone that changed everything.

  According to elven scrolls a young scientist named Merlin first discovered the properties of the rocks from which Elves built chimneys. No, not that Merlin. This scientist was an excommunicated priest whose theories about genesis got him the big papal boot. Rather than beg forgiveness, he journeyed to elven forests to continue his studies on natural selection. If he hadn’t been distracted by a few odd-looking blue pebbles, today’s Christians would be trying to eliminate Merlinism from textbooks.

  It was only a year after Merlin made his findings public that miners started showing up in the forest. There was no negotiating for land rights. The bastards forced the elven pacifists from their homes and took what they wanted. Once they had a fleet’s worth of cargo they’d set sail for Spain and be gone for a season.

  One of those seasons proved to be their undoing. My ancestors took up picks and shovels left behind by the miners and started collecting the magic ore. Their own fleet set out for the Canary Islands—a mighty adventure for the woodland race, one they knew would cost lives.

  * * *

  I sheath my blade and turn to the vault behind Malto’s desk—it’s five square feet of chrome-plated steel. Unlocking this safe requires a fingerprint and retinal scan along with a combination. Two out of three of those keys are lying dead at my feet. I’d have to visit Malto in Hell to retrieve the combination though.

  Gandry, my partner on this quest, nurses a shoulder wound he received from one of the Green Knights, a glorified leprechaun henchmen. “Rodrigh, how do you plan on getting into that thing?” he asks. “That iron was enchanted by the druids themselves. Nothing short of sacrificing an infant is going to break that spell.”

  “Challenge accepted, Gandry,” I reply with an insincere confidence. There were no infants around thankfully, or Gandry might have gone the easy route.

  “I haven’t seen fairy dust in a while.” Gandry chuckles as I pull the string on a small burlap sack.

  “Thermite,” I tell him. “But if you’ve got fairy dust then speak up.”

  “Used all mine up getting women to fall in love with me,” Gandry says.

  “Well, I always said the stuff was worthless,” I reply.

  Thermite’s a tricky substance. It takes a very high temperature to ignite. Thank Odin for the internet. It turns out that common sparklers can do the job. St. Louis has a huge Mardi Gras celebration along the banks of the Mississippi so fireworks are easy to find year-round.

  “Celebrating early?” Gandry asks as I retrieve the sparklers from my belt loop.

  I let the heat answer for me. WOOOOSSSHH. The flames trace the perfect square of the vault. It remains unblemished.

  Gandry’s smile fades. He attacks the steel door with his axe. Blow after blow until he drops the implement. He’s resting his hands on his knees and gulping for air. I can’t help but laugh.

  “Feel better now old boy?” I ask.

  “If I may speak freely, Lord Rodrigh... Go to hell,” he says with a chuckle that turns to a raspy cough.

  “I think we’re gonna need some tougher tools,” I say. The two of us leave the house and head downtown for supplies and a snack.

  * * *

  The leprechauns lived much like the elves for the better part of their existence. It was the discovery of the philosopher’s stone that awoke their insatiable greed.

  The elves had packed their ships and slept early in anticipation of the morning departure to Mount Oblivion. That was the night that leprechauns and elves became sworn enemies—the leps had sent a single Green Knight to do the job. He approached the ship from the harbor’s opposite side via canoe.

  Only one stone was stolen, but that was enough...

  By the time we get back to his house, Malto’s corpse is already starting to stink. Gandry trades his axe for a sledgehammer while I drag Malto to the bathtub.

  “Rodrigh, this isn’t the time for one of your fetishes.” Gandry’s belly shakes under the veil of his long red beard.

  Popping open the industrial size can of Ajax I picked up at the hardware store, I bury Malto to his nose.

  “That should keep his neighbors from noticing the stink. At least until we’re long gone,” I say.

  Back in the office Gandry is already to work with the sledgehammer. Every inch of his four foot frame gets loaded into every swing. Within minutes the floor is covered with chunks of drywall and wood.

  “Okay Gandry, I think you’ve done the job,” I say. The back of the vault is visible now through the caverns Gandry’s dug into the wall. I run the hook across the back of the vault and attach it to its own wire.

  “Fire it up!” I yell out the window. The winch we attached to Malto’s escalade kicks into gear. The wire pulls tight. Dust snows down from the ceiling as the vault starts to budge. Sensing disaster, I make a dash for the door.

  “Nice timing,” Gandry calls out as the two-story brownstone collapses behind me.


  The can of Ajax turns out to be a waste of money. I can almost hear 911 being dialed by the nosy midwest neighbors. The winch pulls the vault through the wreckage and a car jack helps get it in the trunk.

  “Step on it,” I say. “We need to be out of here in a hurry.” Gandry lays into the pedal and the Escalade inches forward, laboring under the weight of the vault. “I said step on it.”

  “If I may speak freely, Lord Rodrigh...” he starts.

  “Save it,” I cut him off.

  * * *

  The elves made it back from Mount Oblivion to the grisly welcome of slaughtered kinfolk. Entrails swirled around limbs on the forest path like garlands on Christmas trees. Near cabins, the disembodied heads of entire families watched over their former homes. Strange mushrooms grew on the forest floor, fed by the elven ichor.

  In retrospect, it was more likely the European miners that spilled my forefathers’ blood. But as they mourned and tried to rebuild, the legend of leprechaun wealth was spreading across continents. Less than a teaspoon full of the powdered mineral could transmute a metric ton of iron into gold. So the lone rock possessed by the leprechauns was more than enough to draw the ire of the elves.

  Though they didn’t actually transport it in pots, an abundance of gold gave leprechauns the means to travel freely throughout the world. When the elves arrived in leprechaun country, all they found were empty huts. It was another hundred years before my ancestors disseminated around the world to an equal extent. The war between the races had been going on since that time. Instead of arrows and spears, the fight has taken place in the shadows, with secret governments pulling the strings of espionage. Several times we’ve been close to recovering the stone only to be side-tracked by bigger issues such as plague and war. Meanwhile, the leprechauns continued to amass wealth. Even the wars couldn’t stop their greed. The covetous little scurves used the philosopher’s stone to transmute base-metals into uranium which they sold to both the Russians and the Americans during the Cold War.

  They thought they’d won by moving the most valuable element on Earth to the nondescript suburbs of St. Louis, but my kind never give up.

  “Good to see you boys could make it,” Queen Myrna says as we exit the Escalade. She’s standing in front of an idling aircraft but all I notice is her long red hair and rosy cheeks. Gandry elbows my ribs, which helps me climb back aboard my train of thought.

  “You two should be proud,” she says. “This moment is five hundred years in the making.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say with grin.

  With help from a fork-lift we transfer the vault to the plane. Gandry buckles in beside the cargo and I take the co-pilot’s seat. Queen Myrna is at the helm and she knows what she’s doing.

  She calls out over the intercom in her best flight attendant’s voice, “Attention passengers. Please fasten your seatbelts at this time. There will be no in-flight meals today nor will there be an in-flight movie. If you would like a hot towel or some peanuts please pass a note to the co-pilot and he’ll be sure to stick it up your ass.” We all get a good laugh from that one. Gandry laughs and wheezes and coughs and laughs some more. Myrna has an interesting sense of humor for royalty.

  The plane lifts off and the mighty Mississippi turns into a stream beneath us. Within an hour we’re crossing over the Appalachians, ant-hills from our altitude. Pretty soon it’s blue sky meeting blue waves out to the world’s end.

  I catch some sleep. An elbow wakes me after what feels like only a minute, but it must have been longer because peeking over the horizon are the Canary Islands and I can feel my heart drumming in my throat.

  “You ready back there, Gandry?” I have to yell over the engine.

  “Ten-four,” he calls out. The switch is in his hand and he looks trigger-happy.

  We make one practice approach to work out the timing. The second time we’re over the volcano Gandry hits the button.

  “Geronimoooo!” he screams as the cargo door opens and the big chrome cube slides out.

  The adrenaline makes everything look like slow motion. In the time it takes the vault to reach the boiling magma my mind shows me the centuries of suffering, from the arrival of Merlin to the death of Malto. I can feel the spirits of a thousand elves smiling down on me.

  When the druid-enchanted iron sinks under the golden fire of Mount Oblivion a cheer goes up between the three of us.

  “It’s over,” Myrna says. “It’s finally over.”

  I look over my shoulder and Gandry is covering his eyes. “Don’t look at me!” he shouts. He’s crying. I keep staring and laugh with joy. “I said don’t look at me goddammit!” he screams. I start laughing harder. Soon the corners of his lips curl upwards and he joins me in a celebratory cackle.

  We’re circling the volcano when the laughing fades, replaced by an eery silence. The airplane starts to feel like a funeral parlor, three mourners bidding farewell to their life’s purpose. I look back at Gandry and he’s crying again. I don’t laugh this time. Myrna looks out into the empty sky, pretending she can’t feel my eyes prodding her.

  “So what do we do now, Queen?" I ask. It’s an honest question, not meant for deep consideration.

  “Damned if I know," says Myrna a little harsher than she intends. “Go back to our normal lives."

  I think about clarifying, telling her I was just asking about where we’d land. Gandry didn’t give me the chance. “Normal lives? Rodrigh and I have been doing this since we graduated high-school—thirty years ago. There’s no normal life to go back to." It was true. Both Gandry and I were drafted for our athletic skills, not much room for four-foot-tall athletes in college, it was a logical choice. And what now? Are we expected to settle down and start families at forty-eight years of age?

  “Don’t take that tone with your Queen," Myrna says.

  “My Queen? No need for queens anymore. There’s no work to be—”

  BBOOOMMMM!! The sound is thunderous and deafening. It yanks us from celebration. The plane shudders like a cold kitten.

  “What the hell was that?” Queen Myrna asks.

  Climbing to the back, I can see through a window the plumes of smoke bellowing from Mount Oblivion. Red molten rock starts oozing its way towards the valley. Something strange catches my eye. A wide flow of lava snakes down a gentle slope. The fiery red river is streaked with dark cobalt as if the earth itself is regurgitating the poison. The smiles of a thousand elf-spirits turn to frowns. To hell with the elf-spirits! If our ancestors had paid attention, five-hundred years of shadow-conflict could have been avoided.

  The cabin goes quiet again, but this time it’s not like a funeral. It’s the kind of silence you hear after someone tells a joke, the three of us trying to figure out the cosmic punchline. I can tell we’re all thinking the same thing when I look over at Myrna. She’s not smiling, but her eyeballs glisten with anticipation, the black plumes of Oblivion reflect in their beauty. Over my shoulder Gandry is rocking back and forth with a blank stare, clutching his axe tightly to his chest. I didn’t even know he brought it on board.

  “You know the Leps will say the eruption was due to their magic. They really believe in that luck nonsense,” Myrna says.

  “I bet Malto doesn’t believe in luck anymore.” I make a chopping gesture across my neck. Myrna laughs. I laugh with her. Not at my joke; I laugh because the eruption wasn’t due to their luck, but ours.

  The Loyalist Washington

  by Owen Morgan

  London, 1759

  Lord Philips dipped a quill pen into the ink well. Just as he brought the pen nib to the ledger the door to his office swung open. The squeal of unoiled metal made his arthritic hand jump and droplets of blue-black ink cascaded along the page. He fixed his Aide-de-Camp with his one good eye. “Damn you. Don’t you know how to knock?”

  Captain Samuel Fitzroy, all red coat and powdered wig, stood in the doorway, a dispatch case tucked under his right arm. “Sorry, My Lord. I’ve gathered together the list of Colonelcies for you
r approval. You will, perhaps, recall from our discussion of last—”

  A tired harrumph from Lord Phillips cut him short. “All right, bring it here.”

  The captain placed the list before him and stood to attention. Lord Philips ran an aged finger down the list. “I recognize most of the names, but who the devil is George Washington? Some militia captain or other?”

  The captain cleared his throat. “He’s a Virginian, and—”

  Lord Phillips brought a frail hand slapping down on the desk, making the ink well jump. “Damn it, Samuel. He’s a colonial. Good at fighting Red Indians no doubt, but you’re telling me that someone in London would have me approve his appointment over those of regular Army officers?”

  The captain nodded. “Yes, he did fight the Delaware, and the Shawnee. But he also served as aid-de-camp to General Braddock, during what the colonials insist on calling the French and Indian War. He’s really quite gifted.”

  Lord Philips sat deeper in his plush chair. “Yes they are all quite gifted, and most of them have connections in parliament if not at court. What is there to this...” he peered down at the list, “George Washington to recommend him politically?”

  “There are rumblings of discontent within the colonies, My Lord. We would do well to have one of the colonial elite in the regular establishment. There’s a letter attached to the list signed by the king granting you discretion to make such an appointment.”

  “Mmm... I shall think on it. Send in Admiral Collins. I have other matters to attend to at the moment.”

  Virginia Frontier, 1759

  A fierce wind lashed the tent of Colonel of Militia George Washington. He brooded over the tattered and inaccurate map spread out on his camp desk. A voice drew him away from his tactical musings.

  “Begging your pardon, sir.” William, a private in the Virginia militia, leaned through the tent flap. Washington beckoned him enter.

  The fifteen year old militia man snapped a salute. “Sir, there be a representative of the commander of the regular forces to see you.”