“What will you do?” the finch said.
Mara worked her mouth to clear out the taste of blood. She spat on the rocks below. The copper tang didn’t clear. “I have to tell everyone,” she said. “It’s my job to protect the Goldwater. Not some vulture.”
“You know everything will change,” the finch said. “You’ll lose everything. Lose that life you were building.”
“I know.” She thought about Rey, waiting back in the little house by the turnip field. She raised a hand to the ruin of her eye, but couldn’t stand to touch it. “It wasn’t mine anyway.”
The finch said nothing. It chirped instead, a sad rusty sound.
Then she turned and started down the hill. Above her the sky stretched pale blue and cloudless. Below, the gray horse stood waiting for directions, with blind animal faith.
She walked down cautiously and the finch flew beside her. In time she reached the bottom and the horse was there waiting, standing where the path forked in many directions. One way led to home, to Rey. The other to town—she would go there soon. She would tell them about the Lady’s lies. But there was something she had to do first. She turned the horse in the direction of the river road and urged it on faster.
First, she would bury her sister.
Dreameater
written by
Andrea Stewart
illustrated by
LUCAS DURHAM
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Andrea Stewart was born in Canada and raised in a number of places across the United States. She spent an inordinate amount of time during her childhood reading and remembers often being told to quit reading and pay attention! Her love of fantasy and science fiction began when she was in grade school. She grew up in a family where Star Trek marathons and questions such as “When are you building me that FTL drive?” were the norm. Weekly trips to the library led her to discover authors she still enjoys reading—Peter S. Beagle, Isaac Asimov, and J.R.R. Tolkien. She now lives in California with her husband and a veritable menagerie of animals on her suburban microfarm. When she’s not writing, she works as a contract analyst and paints on the side. This is her first professional sale.
Her blog can be found at andreagstewart.com.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Lucas Durham grew up in a creative environment and was introduced to his first Macintosh computer drawing program by age two. By four, his mom was reading him Heinlein before bed. At six, his bedroom was decorated with prints from sci-fi and comic book artists, including James Gurney, and papered with drawings of his own.
It was inevitable that Lucas would move toward a career in illustration. His formal training began at the American Academy of Art in Chicago, while he independently explored digital illustration software.
As he studied traditional art fundamentals, Lucas developed a passion for the Renaissance and Baroque schools of art. This led him to fill out an application to study at the Florence Academy of Art. It was in Italy that he merged his interests in classical art with modern illustration narratives.
Upon graduation, Lucas worked as a concept design intern at The Bradford Exchange, where he was introduced to the legal disciplines of working with image licensing. During this time he plunged into the exploding online illustration community. Live streams became a staple of his continuing education and led to networking opportunities.
Today, Lucas works full time as a freelance illustrator. Visit him at LucasDurham.com.
Dreameater
Spring in Arizona feels like summer anywhere else. My palms stick to the vinyl seat of the truck as I lift my legs to get some air goin’ beneath my thighs.
Mama looks over briefly, and then clicks her manicured nails against the steering wheel. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat, over and over, like the beat of a song only she can hear. “Honey, I’ll get the A/C fixed next city we stop in. Promise.”
My fidgeting is rubbing off on her, so I settle back into the seat and fight the urge to whine. The clicking dies down, stops. Mama makes a lot of promises, and best I can tell, she tries to keep ’em. She cries when she don’t, when she remembers she made a promise in the first place.
The truck slows, then pulls into the parking lot of a run-down motel. Even the asphalt is covered with brown dust. It lifts off the ground with the wind, and falls over everything, makin’ the bright blue hood of the truck look like the sky just after sunset.
There’s a man waiting for us, leaned against one of the pillars supporting the second-floor balcony. His white tank top is stained yellow at the pits and tucked into torn jeans. He’s got his thumbs hooked into his belt, one knee jutting out like he’s some sort of model, but I know he ain’t and never been. He’s too fat, too ugly, too sweaty and greasy and hairy. I don’t like the look of him, but then, I never do.
He swaggers up to the window while Mama puts the truck into park. She rolls it down when she’s finished and gives him a long look.
“You Linda?” the man asks.
“That’s me,” Mama says.
“You told me you was pretty.”
I bristle at that remark. Mama is pretty. She’s the prettiest woman in the world. But before I can let my mouth run off at him, Mama reaches up and undoes the pins in her hair. She shakes it out in black, shining waves. Something changes about her. Every move she makes is smooth, graceful, like dandelion seeds in a breeze.
The man can’t barely keep his mouth shut. He’s staring at her like a man does at a steak after he hasn’t eaten in three days. He stares so hard he don’t even notice me ’til Mama gets out of the truck. His eyes narrow—thin, dark slits beneath his brow. “You didn’t tell me you got a kid.”
Mama ignores him, turns, and reaches behind my seat. She hands me my worn-out workbook. “Do a page of math, and write a couple pages on the things we’ve seen in Arizona. I won’t be more’n a couple hours.” She rolls up the driver’s side window until there’s just a crack left. “Don’t open the door for anyone.”
The man nods his head in my direction. “Who’s her daddy? Someone like me?”
“No,” Mama says, “not like you.”
It ain’t the leer the man gives me, or even the heat in the cabin of the truck that turns my stomach—it’s the way Mama don’t sound sure. She won’t tell me who my daddy is, but now, for the first time, I wonder if she can’t.
She shuts the door behind her and takes the man’s hand. As soon as she does, the leer and the narrowed eyes fade away. He looks like someone who just won the lottery, all smiles and breathless disbelief. They go up the stairs together and disappear into a room marked with a brass number fifteen.
I may only be eleven, but even I know that Mama ain’t too bright sometimes. Or maybe it’s the forgetting. Forgetting that we’re in the heat of Arizona, not in Oregon. Soon as she’s gone, I open the door and dangle my feet out. Should I even do the workbook pages? Mama don’t score ’em, just draws hearts and smiley faces, and tells me how I’m gonna be so much smarter than her.
Across the street in an empty field, a dad kicks a ball with his kids. Can’t tell the game. They don’t seem to be keeping any sort of score, just kicking it over the dried-out grass, laughing, and falling over one another. When the dad sees me watching, he beckons for me to come join ’em. I duck my head at first, pretending I didn’t see, my gaze focusing on my toes, the cheap flip-flops rubbing black dye onto my skin.
When I shyly lift my head, the dad is still looking in my direction, and this time his three kids are, too, and they all wave at me. Well, why the hell not? The street’s nearly empty, so it ain’t hard to cross.
They’re good people. I can tell by the way they smile at me, the way they shake my hand,
tryin’ to make me feel welcome. When I tell ’em my name—Alexis—the daughter says it’s pretty.
Turns out there are no rules, no real game. We just kick the ball back and forth, the dad calling out random directions, and us laughing as we try to follow ’em. It gets to where I’m as bad as Mama, forgetting. I’m forgetting I’m s’posed to be in the truck, with the window rolled up, writing pages. I’m forgetting these people ain’t my kin, that Mama and I got each other, and that’s all we need. I’m just feelin’ the grass against my feet, my breath quick in my throat, the sun hot on my back.
I don’t see her ’til it’s too late. “Alexis!” Mama’s striding ’cross the field in her wedge heels. She’s got her hair pinned up again, and she’s stuffin’ a roll of bills into her jean shorts. She takes me by the upper arm. “Didn’t I tell you to wait in the truck?”
“Sorry, Mama.” I could tell her it was too hot, but it’d just make her feel bad.
“We kept an eye on her,” the dad says. He picks up the ball and tucks it under an arm. He sticks out a hand as he approaches. “I’m David.”
She drops my arm to shake it, but she don’t look like his friendliness makes her comfortable, not the way it made me. “Linda.”
He tilts his head at her. “Alexis—does she have any other family?”
Mama takes my arm again, her nails resting lightly against my skin. “No. Just me and Alexis. Our own little party o’ two!” She lets out a laugh, but I don’t think she actually thinks it’s funny.
David leans in close, and Mama stiffens, her whole body goin’ rigid as a popsicle. “Doesn’t really seem like the sort of life a little girl should have. You want what’s best for her, right?”
When Mama speaks again, her voice is low and cold. “Don’t you be tellin’ me how to raise my daughter.”
I’m suddenly so afraid I can’t barely catch my breath. If he says one more word, if he don’t back down, she’s gonna kill him. She’ll do it right in front of his three kids, and they ain’t never gonna be able to scrub their minds clean again.
So I reach up with my other hand and grab her shirt. “Mama, let’s just go.” For a second, I think she’ll toss off my hand and do him in anyways. “Please,” I add. And just like that, the death goes outta her eyes.
Maybe David saw it too, ’cause when we turn to go, he don’t say anything else. Once we get in the truck, Mama reaches behind her seat and pulls out a flask. She tips it over her mouth and takes a long pull. When she swallows, a shudder runs through her. It ain’t alcohol she’s drinking—truth is, I don’t know what it is, only smelled it once when she was with one of her men. Smelled weird, green and spicy. Whatever it is, seems to help when she’s mad.
Mama lets out a sigh after she swallows, and leans her head ’gainst the steering wheel.
Now, I ain’t a fortuneteller, but I know, sure as I know the sun rises in the east, that she ain’t gonna remember about fixing the A/C.
We come back to the motel once a day for the next four days. I don’t see no one in the field ’cross the street. Part of me’s relieved, and part’s sort of sad. Each time, Mama takes the greasy man’s hand and comes back with a roll of bills.
The last time we come to the motel, it’s dark, past midnight. I fall asleep in the truck, a blanket pulled up to my chin. I wake at the crack of dawn, to the sound of something heavy being thrown into the bed of the truck, then shuffling as it gets covered with tarp.
Mama appears at the driver’s side door. She opens it and slides inside. I pretend not to notice the smear of blood on her chin. She starts drivin’, and sees it soon enough in the rearview mirror. She wipes it off with the back of her hand.
“He weren’t a good man, Alexis,” she says. I don’t know if she means to reassure me, or herself.
“I know, Mama,” I say. “I know.” But I don’t reach out or pat her back or nothin’.
She dumps the body in a canal, and burns the bloody sheet she had him wrapped in. I just watch, and wish I weren’t watchin’, wish I were back in that field, kickin’ that ball with the three kids and David.
We pull onto the interstate, and she drives into New Mexico before we stop for anything more’n a meal or a bathroom break. It’s afternoon. Mama don’t need a lot of sleep, when she sleeps at all. She parks at a Hyatt.
“Alexis.” Mama turns to me, a girlish grin on her face. “Wanna have some fun?”
She gets us a room, payin’ for it with all those rolled-up bills. We order room service, have a pillow fight and watch cartoons, cuddled up on the king-sized bed. I lean against her. She has her hair undone, and I rest my head in it. Mama strokes my face, so lightly I can’t feel her nails. “Honey, you know I love you, right?”
I shift and breathe in her smell. She smells like me. She smells like home. “’Course I do. Love you too.”
When I sleep, I dream of nothing at all.
Who’s she?” the man says. He ain’t fat or ugly, like most of ’em, but when his tongue darts out to lick his lips, I decide he’s ugly after all. “That your sister?”
“My daughter,” Mama says. She moves a little, so she’s standin’ between me and the man. It’s an easy mistake to make. At sixteen, people tell me I look older’n my age, and Mama’s always looked younger.
“I’ll pay double for the both of you,” he says. He’s got the look of a person who got too much money, too fast. His hair’s slicked back, the top two buttons on his shirt open, the watch on his wrist gold, with a black face. And like any person who’s got too much money, I think he actually expects Mama’ll take him up on the offer.
“You stay away from my daughter,” Mama says.
For a second, he looks dismayed, like he just seen someone kick a puppy, but then his face starts gettin’ red. Before he can say anything, Mama lets her hair down. And then he’s like the rest of ’em, practically drooling, fallin’ all over himself just to look her in the eye. Mama takes his hand.
“I’m gonna go ’cross the street,” I tell her. There’s a Marshalls there, and window-shopping sure beats sittin’ in the truck.
She don’t turn, just leads the man towards a room on the first floor of the motel. “That’s fine, honey. Just be back in an hour or so.”
The whole thing gives me the creeps. She hasn’t taken a man for a while now—keeps tellin’ me the next one’ll be the last. Sometimes I wish I were younger, back to a time when I thought this was normal, like everyone’s Mama did the things mine did. I try to shrug off the memory of the man lickin’ his lips as I walk into the store. Maybe I oughtta drink some of Mama’s juice—seems to do the trick for her.
I look ’round the housewares, pretending Mama and I got a house to decorate with all the useless crap they got on the shelves. There’s a little ceramic frog I think’s meant to hold business cards, or maybe just pennies or something. I kinda wish I had the money to buy it, and put it on the dashboard of the truck. Ain’t nothin’ in the truck feels like it’s mine sometimes.
I try on a couple of outfits, even a nice dress—like I got a prom to go to. The blue satin hugs my curves, and I give myself a pouty look in the mirror. I sass Mama sometimes, just to feel like a regular teenager, but I never push too hard, and Mama don’t take it too seriously. She can be scary when she’s really mad.
By the time I put the dress back on the rack, I’m bored. I head to the front of the shop. When I look through the glass doors, I freeze.
There’s cars outside the motel, more’n there was before, black cars. They ain’t parked in any spots, just set up in a semicircle ’round the blue truck. Guys start spillin’ out of ’em,
dressed in black, wearin’ vests and helmets, carryin’ guns.
I’m running over there before I can stop myself, my heart poundin’ in my ears, loud as the slap of my flip-flops against the pavement. Some guy without a helmet or a gun puts his hands out to stop me when I set foot in the parking lot, but I ain’t as weak as I look. I barrel into him, puttin’ him off balance, then spin, so he can’t get a grip on me. The men with guns ain’t in their positions yet, so I find a gap between ’em and dash through.
Someone yells somethin’, but I don’t pay attention. I’m focused on the door I saw my Mama go through.
She didn’t even lock it. She must’ve been in a bad way, to get so careless. I open the door and see somethin’ I ain’t never gonna be able to un-see.
Mama’s on the floor, naked, crouched over the man who licked his lips at me not an hour before. His head’s opened up, nice and neat, like someone took a razorblade to a melon. She’s got his brain in her bloody hands, and she’s eatin’ it. Even as she gags on it, she makes these soft sounds of pleasure in the back of her throat.
I can’t say nothin’, all the words stick on my tongue. I can’t even scream. I hear footsteps coming up behind me, the rattle of guns as things click into place. The first guy who gets up next to me ends up retching onto the floor when he sees Mama, his gun limp at his side.
Someone’s forgotten to say “Freeze!” or “Put your hands in the air!”, ’cause even though they got their guns pointed at her, Mama don’t stop eating. A hand grabs my arm from behind, and I let ’em. The world is ending, so it don’t matter who puts their hands on me. They pull me back, away from Mama, away from the men with guns.
It’s the guy from earlier, the one I ran into. “It’s okay,” he says. He looks kinda like David, with dark hair and soft gray eyes. “It’s okay.”
Writers of the Future: 29 Page 33
