Genesis Chapter 6

A small tablet covered with cuneiform has emerged, originally found in the Middle East, that reveals the root of the Noah story, describing a huge coracle (round boat) and the words 'two by two.' This version of the flood predates the Biblical version by at least a thousand years. Of course the bible has its own genesis in Mesopotamian culture including the origins of the story of Adam and Eve and Moses.

poem from middlebrow mag.

The Definition

He kept screaming define me.

I kicked him in the head.

Now he is defined.

Defined as dead.

poem

The slow river skirts the wood
and flows towards the sea,
with all the adventures of a human life
turning, falling, passing town and marsh
joining with other rivers
transformed into one rapidly flowing
arrow of watery time.

St. Patrick's College

70% of the lecturers are not appropriately qualified.

80% of the students should not be there and, if they attempted to gain access to equivalent courses at 'proper' colleges, would not be allowed in. Their appalling attitudes alone would prevent it.

St Patricks

St. Patrick's College lies behind me. Its bogus lecturers, appalling standards, atrocious and ignorant students, albiet a number were excellent.

Lecturers who could not spell nor apply appropriate grammar. Shameful! Exhibiting only the lowest standards.

Joydeep-Head of Programmes-claims to have  MBA from English university but whose English is on a pre-GCS E level. He had someone else do his MBA! Many do!

SCI FI STORY

Difference

by David Delaney

---

It was night time. The dark offices and empty desks gave the call centre a sinister feel. The shadows now filling the staff cafeteria kept the mostly dejected call centre staff away. Its shady cavernous enclosure held no discernable function from the hours of 8 p.m. to 7 a.m., the very hours that nightshift staff manned the phones.

Some ventured here though. Some cared little for the closed shutters and gloom. For some night shifters it gave a dark place to sit, to eat, to think and more often than not, to hate where their lives were at that very moment in time. Call centre work can be relentless in its failure to fulfil ones dreams.

* * *

"We've had computers a long time now, right," Matt said.

"Yeah, where's this crap going. My head is ready to burst," Rob replied. He'd had a major head ache brewing before he started work. After nearly 35 calls since 8 p.m., it had risen from 2 out of 10 to a seething 8 out of 10 which meant listening to Matt's imbecilic comments wouldn't be tolerable tonight.

"Listen, I have to vent here," Matt said with emphatic inflection on the 'vent'.

"Right, right but make it a short sharp vent because I've a horrendous headache."

Matt rolled his eyes. He and Rob became lunchtime buddies sharing their respective harrowing stories of customers who called in to say this or managers who spoke to them and said that. Both men were in their early 20's and dreamed of more. Matt wanted to be a personal trainer and Rob, a writer. Rob enjoyed Matt's buffoonery mostly but there was one topic that he wouldn't see eye to eye with him on, something that hit close to home nowadays.

"How come nobody can turn a computer on properly? How come we get a million calls with idiots telling us it's broken or whatever when it's just not turned on right," Matt said.

"I don't know, now shut up talking about work for 30 minutes, let's eat and talk about something else, please," Robs tone was exasperated. He hated talking shop on lunch. Each member of staff got 30 minutes free to do as they pleased, within reason, and talking about work was a big no-no in Robs books. He hated his job as much as Matt but he didn't go on about it nearly as much.

"Ok, you win," Matt capitulated, giving up his current rant about work.

They walked through the dimly lit corridors towards the cafeteria. Matt swung the double doors open announcing their arrival with his loud obnoxious self, shouting, "We're here."

"Seriously, Matt, my head is about to lift off here," Rob scowled at Matt.

"Sorry, man. Hey, over here by the window," Matt led the way beckoning for Rob to follow.

They sat opposite each at a table bathed in moonlight. Lights were never on at this time which is why most staff had lunch at their desks, maybe in their cars followed by a cigarette or joint. When seated they both placing their respective lunches on the table in front of them.

"Why do we come down here, it's so dark? You know they see better in the dark," Matt said matter of fact.

"No, they don't, they see like you and me. It's quiet here and out of the office for a bit," Rob said distantly opening his sandwich wrapping not looking at Matt.

Rob, closing his eyes took a big bite. He thought to himself that he must have had the appearance of one of those average looking actors who you saw enjoying some tripe in a fast food advertisement. He smiled to himself as he tasted the sumptuousness of his gourmet chilli chicken with mayo and pickles on rye. He let the taste savour in his mouth hoping it improved his mood and his went someway alleviating his pained head.

"My sister's boyfriend, Freddy. You know him, I think I introduced you two once," Matt said.

"Yeah, you did," Rob lied only half listening.

"Well, he says he works with one who can lift two whole adult cow carcases on his own. That's messed up man. I'm telling you they got super strength."

"Matt, that's bull crap from comic books and movies. We work with some of them. You ever see anything like that?"

Rob knew he shouldn't get into a debate about this with Matt. It was futile arguing with him about this considering he was fanatical with mistrust. The guy was practically a xenophobe and sometimes Rob wondered why he didn't distance himself from him. Apart from work related depression they had nothing in common. They only met twice for a beer in 2 years of working together.

"No way man, no way. Even if it's from movies or whatever, some of its true."

"I know some of its true. That's not what I said, but super strength, night vision, turning into nocturnal creatures... is all crap."

"Why do you always defend them anyway, you some sort of vamp lover? Wanna stick it to one of them?" Matt mocked, "They'd rip your pecker right off."

"You got me Matt, you got me. I want to screw every vampire I see," Rob held his hands up in surrender.

Rob didn't dislike anyone because of difference. He liked and disliked people because of who they were. Personality should be the means of defining someone's likeability from dislike. He agreed in the 50 years vampires and humans coexisted, it was strained at times but it seemed to work. Human history was full of examples of different religions, nationalities and culture living side by side. It was wrought with macabre turbulence for sure but there were stories of hope too. They decades of mistrust based on superstition was ridiculous. The war between humans and vampires was despicable. Both sides committing evil acts simply because of obligation to destroy the other side.

Integration was the best way forward. Unfortunately, there would always be people like Matt, ignorant, afraid with a never-ending supply of hate.

Silence passed between them with nothing sounding in the gloomy room except their chewing and gulping of soft drink. The moon was full in the sky. Rob enjoyed staring out at its beauty and liked how it shone through the sky latticed lights and windows, causing a pale-blue shadow effect of crosses on the empty tables and chairs. Darkness held no ominous feeling for Rob, in fact, it calmed him. Maybe that's why he chose night shift over day shift as well as making other decisions in his life.

Matt looked like he was finding a way back into conversation with Rob, forming words with his mouth then dropping them and taking another bite of his own sandwich. Eventually, he said, "Hey, you still going strong with Sally?"

"Yep, 3 months now," Rob changed his harried tone at the sound of her name being spoken. A smile erupted across Robs face. Thoughts of Sally always caused his mood to improve. The brevity of their relationship was immaterial. They were both madly in love. The one shining light of his dreary life.

"When you gonna let me meet her?," Matt said.

"One day. We've only been going out a little while."

Rob was never going to introduce Matt and Sally. Rob had emailed out several resumes to other companies hoping one would take him from his despairingly mind numbing call centre job. When his job here finished, and hopefully soon, so to would his pseudo friendship with Matt.

More silence passed as they chewed on their lunches savouring not only the food but also time away from incessantly ringing phones.

"Damn, man, look. There's one over there," Matt leaned closer to whisper to Rob.

Matt nodded his head over towards a girl having her lunch. Her pale skin, her full red lips were evident even in the gloominess of the darkened cafeteria. Moonlight was light enough to tell she was a vampire.

"Urghh, sick, look at the bottle of red stuff," Matt said making a sound of disgust.

Rob looked in spite of himself. She caught his brief stare and looked down at the table pretending not to have seen him and Matt stare. Rob was angry with himself for looking, especially since he was following Matt lead.

"Matt, leave it. Jesus, she's having lunch. What's wrong with that," Rob whispered harshly.

"Goddamn blood, man, its blood in that bottle," Matt said a little louder now.

"Matt shut up, she's doing no harm."

A sound of a chair scraping across floor tiles came from the girls table. Rob turned to see her get up and leave where she was sitting, obviously feeling uncomfortable. Rob fixed his scornful stare at Matt. Matt simply smiled and kept on eating.

"You ever actually speak to a vampire, I mean ever actually give one the time of day?" Rob snapped.

"Yeah sure. They're everywhere nowadays. Parks, restaurants, Home Depot, everywhere," Matt said flippantly.

"No, you bigot. I mean, get to know one a bit more than just a simple, 'hello, thank you, goodbye'"

"No, why would I, they're the freaks not me."

Rob shook his head sharply. He wanted nothing more than to disabuse Matt's inclination that all vampires where monsters not to be trusted but he knew he would be fighting a losing battle. Matt's bigotry ran deep, probably inherited. He knew Matts father fought in the human resistance, something Matt was incredibly proud of.

"They drink blood man, they can't lie in the sun and their eyes are weird. Bring back the days when it was legal to round'em up and kill 'em," Matt declared.

"You sound like a Nazi. Rounding up Jews was once legal too. You're a moron, Matt, a complete moron, you know that?"

Rob felt an effervescent rage rising up inside of him.

He leaned closer to Matt feigning excitement, "Hey Matt let's go on a killing spree, just you and me. Round up a few and stake them through the heart. Make the world a better place. We'll call ourselves the KKK of vampires."

"Screw you. I'm no racist or Nazi or whatever. They're not even people. I just don't think we should let them join our society, our human society." Matt turned away, throwing his sandwich down. He faced grimaced in anger. He stared off towards where the vampire girl was sitting a moment before.

"They work like us, they pay their taxes. They contribute. They don't cause any more trouble than humans do. Why shouldn't they be allowed to join any society they want?" Rob said emphatically, trying to control his anger.

"They're sick man, I mean the virus that makes them vamps. It's like the AIDs epidemic."

"Humans have been vaccinated against the virus, we all have, so you're argument there is bull. Most of them never wanted to become vampires anyway. It's just bad luck."

"Some did, some chose it. Some infected themselves to be one of their blood sucking kind," Matt retorted. He was becoming angrier himself.

"Yeah, and some people choose to become Catholic, or doctors, or goddamn circus clowns. It's a personal choice. Nothing wrong with that. Free will is ok in my books," Rob said.

"Whatever you say, man," Matt said.

Neither of them ate their lunches now. They stared in opposite directions, Rob in towards the cafeteria, Matt out the window to a car park that was modestly dotted with yellow street lamps. This was the deepest they had gone with this particular subject and Rob didn't want to stop here. He decided to end it once and for all. If you can't beat them, join them he thought.

"Hey, let's change the subject Matt, let's not get into this right now," Rob said calmly. "Look, wanna see a picture of Sally?"

"Sure man, hey sorry, I just have my own views that's all. My old man's been tellin' me this stuff for a long time now, and you know, like father like son," Matt said, reciprocating Robs calmness.

How many people use that excuse Rob thought to himself but said, "No problem, we all have our own views."

Rob took a photo from his wallet, looked on it fondly, then turned it towards Matt. Rob knew the dimness of the room wouldn't hide what he wanted Matt to see and even if it did, he would be happy to explain Sally's particular features.

A few seconds is all it took though for the realisation to crawl across Matt's face, the realisation of why Rob wouldn't agree with his hate filled views. Matt expression painted a thousand words and Rob smiled immensely.

"She beautiful, isn't she?" Rob asked as he turned the photo away from Matt.

Matt simply stared at Rob with a grotesque grimace of disgust. Robs smile never waned.

"I knew it, you sick bastard. I knew you were a freak lover." Matt spat at Rob, "You're with a freaky vamp. You're a traitor to your own kind." Spittle flew from his mouth, motes of it gleaming in the pale blue moonlight before falling to the table below.

"Yep, a real inside man, I am," Rob said cheerfully. "Hey and so you know, they can be in the sun, it just burns them a bit quicker, they don't like human blood, and can't even metabolise it. They drink animal blood and I know you've had blood sausage before, you piece of crap."

"Screw you, man," Matt stood up quickly sending his chair sprawling along the floor behind him. He took one last look of revulsion towards Rob before turning a walking away leaving his lunch behind. Rob just kept on smiling. In truth, his face was beginning to hurt from keeping his facial muscle bunched up into a big broad smile but it was having its desired effect on Matt so he lived with the temporary discomfort.

Rob watched him get half way across the cafeteria and called after him, loud enough so he could, "I find the red tinge to their eyes pretty sexy, they're not cold to touch, they've no super human abilities..." He roared his final statement, releasing his pent up anger, "...AND YOU CAN'T BECOME ONE FROM BEING BITTEN, YOU PRICK!"

Matt gave Rob the finger as he left back through the double doors they had entered only ten minutes before. Rob was glad that he never had to pretend to enjoy Matt's company ever again. He was pretty sure this sealed the coffin of their pretend friendship. He picked his sandwich up and took another big bite from it with renewed satisfaction.

As he chewed he heard a shuffle of feet from behind him. It startled him enough that he almost choked on a mouthful of sandwich but managed to swallow it before it went down the wrong tube.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," a voice said from behind. Rob turned and looked at who it was. It was the vampire girl from earlier on. She must have changed seats hiding somewhere among the shadows so neither men could see her.

"No, no, you didn't," Rob said catching his breath and placing his sandwich down, "Please join me if you like."

Rob noticed her eyes. They were striking, even in these gloomy surroundings. Each with a crimson red iris, he noticed her full lips also. The girl had pale skin, porcelain almost. She smiled as she sat across from him. Her canines were milky white, longer than that of a human but no sharper. Another myth he thought. She reminded him of a younger version of Sally.

"Thank you for what you said. Not many humans are as kind to us," she said with a meek voice.

"Oh you heard all that. He's just an ass. A minority," Rob batted his hands in the direction Matt left the room in.

"Kind of you to say, but I'm not so sure," she said, "and we can see in the dark a little better than humans." She smiled at him, speaking candidly, playfully.

"I know, I know, my girlfriend's a vampire. I just didn't want to agree with him." Rob shrugged his shoulders smiling back at the girl.

"Oh, your girlfriend," she said, surprised. "What's her name, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Not at all. Sally Jenkins is her name and mines Rob." He held his hand out to shake the girl's.

"Rebecca, pleased to meet you"

They shook hands. Her skin wasn't as warm as his but her touch nowhere near as cold as the movies supposed it to be.

"Sally Jenkins, did she go to Tomlinson high school?" she asked Rob.

"The very one, why, you know her?"

"I do. She went to school with my older sister."

Rob and Rebecca spoke for the remainder of their lunch break as if old friends, their differences never becoming an issue between them.

THE END

Science Fiction Story

Buddy

by Daniel Clausen

---

Like all the days and nights before, it rained heavy and constant. The clock on Buddy's wall ticked cynically toward the 6:07 mark, two hands reaching toward their mark, the longer outreached the seven and touched Buddy's mind.

Thick with life and in need of a drink, Buddy woke up in his one room apartment. In one long, rehearsed motion, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, put on his coat, and left. He went for a walk down the same street he walked down everyday, awash in rain, barely visible. He reached his destination, a small bar, huddled in a small corner of the town's city square, a small walk downstairs once you saw the big bright sign in front. When he got inside, not quite satisfied, yet not quite miserable, he sat down at his usual seat and began tapping his fingers on the marble counter.

The bar was quiet, as it usually was on nights when people were more interested in drinking than making conversation. It was not long after Buddy sat down in his stool that the bartender approached him, his token smile and nonchalant gait in full swing.

"Hey, Buddy. Figures you should be here. Guess I shouldn't be surprised, but somehow I always am. What'll it be? "

"The usual, Mike."

"Scotch again. I'd think you'd be tired of drinking that by now, Buddy." Not expecting an answer, the bartender poured Buddy's drink. "The place sure is packed tonight. Have you ever seen this place so full? Must be the rain. They always come when it rains."

The silent crowd of drinkers went unnoticed by Buddy, who stared quietly at his drink.

"You know, I've met a lot of people like you, Buddy. To look at you, you'd think that you were just the shy type. I find that most people who drink alone usually just need the right kind of motivation to get up and initiate a conversation. You know, a lot of people have come through this place. Smart guys, dumb guys, smart girls, dumb girls, beautiful girls--people, Buddy. Tonight, out of all these people here, and there are a lot of people, I'm sure you could find one you could talk to. Don't you want to do that, just once? Get up and talk to someone?"

"Sometimes," Buddy said. He put his head down quietly for a moment before turning back up to face the bartender. "But then again, Mike, sometimes you just want a drink."

"Yeah, I know, and I understand. Sometimes you drink to forget. But when the bad memories don't go away and the drink isn't helping--well, you just need to find something else, right?" Mike nudged Buddy ever so lightly with his elbow.

Buddy didn't respond.

"Friends, girls, a new job, a new life, or maybe just life. You know?" the Bartender offered.

Buddy sat there silently and took a sip of his drink.

"You know, you'd be surprised at some of the things people have told me over the years." The bartender looked off, thoughtfully. "I have some good stories. Most of them are other people's stories, but they're still good ones. Would you like to hear a story?"

"Not tonight," Buddy said, turning his attention to the glass of scotch on the table. He looked into it, and saw something ugly he couldn't quite rid himself of.

The bartender watched as Buddy drank in silence. The bartender cleared the bar of empty glasses, and began wiping down the countertop. Briefly, the bartender went to another part of the bar to talk with some customers. When he returned he saw that Buddy had finished his drink and was signaling for another.

The bartender put the bottle of scotch on the table. "Scotch, huh. Sure, I'll give you another drink, Buddy, but only on the condition that you listen to one of my stories. How does that sound?"

Buddy shrugged indifferently.

"I want to tell you about this guy I knew once. Now he was a man who liked his scotch. A good friend of mine, too. He worked as a reporter for one of the local newspapers, the Sun or the Sentinel, I forget which. He and his wife used to come over to my place for dinner all the time. That was a long time ago, back before… well, let's just say it was a while ago. His wife would bring me the best apple pies you'd ever tasted." The bartender smiled to himself for a moment. "Do you like apple pies? Oh, how rude of me, your drink…"

The bartender poured Buddy his drink. "Anyway, maybe I don't have to tell you this story… it's a story I've probably told you before. Alex was his name. Anyway, he was a reporter, one of those investigative types. He does this story on a mobster named Billy Corpus. Maybe you've heard of him. Anyway, Alex does his job real well. Gets Billy sent to jail, wins himself one of those fancy journalism prizes to boot. One of those that looks pretty good on a trophy shelf, you know? He's the city's golden boy and we all love him. Anyway, things are going good for ol' Alex, but one day, Billy Corpus gets stabbed in his jail cell. A good thing as far as this city is concerned, but it turns out Billy has a lot of angry friends who would like to see Alex a few feet under the ground, if you know what I mean."

This was usually the point in the story when most people's ears perked up a bit, and Buddy's were no exception. The bartender let a little bit of silence pass.

"Alex is working late one night, when it happens. He's been getting these death threats from Max Corpus, Billy's brother. Ol' Max has some mental problems. Since Billy's death nobody knows where Max is. As it turns out, Max has been following Alex's wife, tracking her every move, memorizing her routines. It's raining when she starts to drive her car home. Max, in his fury and his insanity, drives his car into hers, killing them both."

"Wow," Buddy said, shocked.

"Yeah, well that's not all. Alex, he goes to pieces, and he goes there fast like no man I've ever seen before. That girl was everything to Alex. Quits his job, because what's the use working when you have no reason to live. Becomes obsessed with getting revenge: finding Billy's friends and killing them all. Real loony stuff. After all, he's no killer. So he ends up here one day and he tells me: 'I lost a part of my soul.' 'His soul,' he says. But Buddy, we all lose people. What we lose with them has as much to do with ourselves as it does with them. Did Alex have to lose his job? Did Alex have to kill himself?"

Buddy looked at the scotch sitting at the bottom of his glass, gulped it, and set the glass back on the table.

"More?" the bartender asked.

Buddy nodded. The bartender took the glass and filled it once again.

"So how did he do it? Kill himself I mean."

"Part with the drink, part with a knife." The bartender shook his head with more than a little regret. "I sure will miss the guy. Some people you can never get used to not having around."

Buddy nodded in agreement and took a sip of his scotch. "I lost a friend once." He was silent for a long moment after he spoke, and then he took another drink from his scotch.

"Everyone comes here for a reason Buddy, whether they like to admit it or not."

There was a long silence that followed. Within that time Buddy finished his scotch. He thought about Mike, and how he reminded him of some bartender he had seen in a picture-show once. The whole bar seemed different, even though the bartender stayed the same.

The bartender looked at him, his face now expressionless.

Buddy could hear footsteps behind him. The barstool next to him slid away from the counter and a man sat down next to him.

"Can I have another scotch, Mike?"

"Whatever you want. By the way, Alex, this is Buddy," the bartender said beginning to pour him his glass. "You know me and my friend were just talking about you." The bartender looked over at Buddy.

"Buddy, I want you to meet my good friend--Alex, the news reporter I was telling you about," the bartender said, looking into Buddy's eyes.

Buddy suddenly became sad and frightened. He tried to figure out what he was doing in the bar.

Buddy looked at the bartender and realized that he was running an enormous tab. He had never noticed the zombies before, and that sort of killed the mood. Suddenly, without thinking, he opened his mouth. "I'm scared," he said.

The bartender gave Buddy a compassionate smile, putting a hand on his shoulder; he thought about saying something comforting and offering him another drink like he was supposed to, but somehow it didn't seem right. He said this instead: "Once you walk out of this bar, two blocks down the road there will be a street you've never seen before, with people you've never met, and beyond that street will be another, and another. I'm not saying that they're all going to be good places, Buddy, but I think you'll agree they're better than here."

Buddy got up from his stool and stuck his hands into his coat pockets. He took one last good look around. "Mike, I think I'm going to go for a walk."

"Take care, Buddy."

THE END

SCI-FI POETRY

Aliens

by Richard Tornello

---

Aliens are not too different than you or me.
They just have way better technology.
In plain sight!
They can hide themselves and their flying machines
(Cloaked we call it, but it's bending light),
Our radar and our sensors cannot detect,
when they visit Earth,
or
simply park,
(yawn),
and want to rest.
They come to visit like tourists from Rome,
to see the sights, and take pictures home;
pictures of Earth, the people, and taste our food,
and record the strange things, that we sometimes do.
Their body structures appear to be:
heads and arms, mouths and eyes
legs and feet. . . but thoughts that fly!
And my dear,
That's the difference between them,
and you,
and me.
All in all,
I'd say they're much like me, and much like you.
I'd sure like to meet some. . . wouldn't you?

sci-fi poem

I'd Rather Be

by Clinton Van Inman

---

I'd rather be a handful of ashes
Than a truckload of dust.
I'd rather be unknown
Than a big bronze bust.
I'd rather be a blazing comet
Than a minor moon.
I'd rather be a mountain lake
Than a city lagoon.
I'd rather be summer shower
Than a mighty monsoon.
I'd rather be too late
Than too soon.
I'd rather be a knife
Than a spoon.
I'd rather be a sleep
Than a swoon.
But of all the things I'd rather be
I'd rather be with you.

SF story

Remembering Marchosia

by Jack Dowden

---

Flames of the burning city cast the beach in ginger light. Sounds of war dimmed behind me. The fight was near over. I felt her ahead, just out of sight, close to the water. I felt her cuts and bruises, the broken bones. I ran on into clay of the foreshore, my blade wet with blood.

I found her as soft waves caressed her with the tide. I knelt and gently rolled her over. She drew shallow breaths. Gently, I slid stray hair strands from her face. Marchosia's once shimmering eyes had swollen shut. Thick chunks of sand clutched and dirtied the lacerations of battle.

I sagged forward, drained as her pain throbbed through me. The Goddess was too wounded to save.

"Uriel?" It was lower than a whisper, quieter than the rolling sea.

"I'm here," I replied. "We're on the beach." Her fingers curled slightly as the water rolled over them, as if trying to catch it.

"It isn't fair," she mumbled. Small tears rivered through dried blood. "They should've understood."

Marchosia's was a world of science. She never dreamt of the controversy, the debates, the violence. She lived in a world of ideas, and my single foolish idea had ruined the entire world.

"I secured the data, the notes, everything before I came," I lied. A shock rippled through me; nausea threatened to overwhelm. Still, I spoke on, "I found some servants to take everything out of the city." She smiled.

I had seen too many familiar corpses as I fled to Marchosia's side. Too many burning laboratories, libraries and schools. The notes themselves lay scattered in the halls of the Adohi'Ente, which was now aflame. The world would forget.

I was Marchosia's egregori, her Keeper. Her lover, and I lied. The bonds I had held for near twenty years slid away, a taint left behind. There would be no afterlife for me now. I would not join her spirit in the High Halls. I doomed myself to oblivion, just to see her smile one last time.

####

The egregori tested me when I was seven. I was accepted at eight. My mother had cried. My father had been proud. Generations of my brothers' and sisters' descendents would serve the Goddess as I would. Nephews and nieces would form a bloodline of Keepers, loyal only to her. My family was granted an estate for reward.

I came to Adohi, where the egregori trained me. Miserable years followed but I accepted them. It was my duty to obey, and I did. They gave me a sword and taught me to kill. There had not been a war for millennia, yet the egregori were vigilant.

Discipline was carved into me. I was to count myself among these emotionless men and women. There was no room for homesickness, sorrow, fear, or pity. I was a tool, a walking blade to strike where my Goddess commanded.

Ten years passed, and on my appointed date, I waited in the halls of the Adohi'Ente beside my stone-faced comrades. Past midday; the room was dim, golden curtains limited the light filling the colonnaded chamber. A door of swirling gemstones stood before me, its patterns danced and melted away to form anew. My eyes were fixed upon it. Around me, the egregori shifted uncomfortably. The Goddess I was to serve was late.

This did not bother me as it did my companions. Despite my training, I was nervous.

When the doors opened my blood began to race. The Goddess looked of age with me and walked with the confidence of experience. Yet she had lived two centuries already. Her eyes glimmered like sapphires, standing out more in the dimness. Her brown hair hung short to her shoulders, an uncommon look among deities. Her white robe clung to her subtle curves. I willed my blood and breath to slow, attempting to calm myself. When she finally stopped before me and nodded, I had almost succeeded.

I knelt and recited the Bonds. I would obey her in everything. I would speak no lie. Raise no weapon against her. I would guard her, and sacrifice myself for her, as would my descendents after me. She touched me, her soft pale, vibrating hand on my scalp. My skin prickled as the Bonds settled.

"Break the Bonds," she said, "forfeit your soul." Her voice rang like bells. "Rise egregori and know me as Marchosia, Goddess of Forking Wind."

I did not know the name. Marchosia was young. I was her first. I stood and made to bow. Before I could, she slid her arm through mine and drew me down the hall. "Come."

My training failed. I grew crimson. In vain I looked to the others for help. This was no rite! Their faces were blank. I silently cursed them as we passed.

The swirling doors shut behind us. The Adohi'Ente was silent save for the click of her slippers. My boots made no sound. "Tell me of yourself, Uriel."

"I am egregori," I said, stupidly.

She laughed and I felt a jolt of shame. All my training, and Marchosia thought me a fool. "Plainly," she replied. "I was asking of your past. Where are you from?"

"Jahar," I replied quickly.

She nodded pleasantly. "I did request someone from afar. I am glad the egregori obeyed so precisely."

This was becoming too much. "With respect, my Lady --"

"Marchosia," she cut me off.

"I --"

"I order you to call me Marchosia for your remaining years."

Perhaps there was some way to transfer Gods? Perhaps I could guard another. "I am afraid that does not seem appropriate... Marchosia." I tried the name on my tongue. It felt nice, if scandalous.

The clicks stopped. Marchosia had halted. "Uriel," she said, in a lecturing tone, "you are to spend the rest of your life with me. I do not appreciate pleasantries. I receive enough from my own people."

I bowed. When I straightened her arm snaked its way through mine again. "Now then, tell me more."

I did. As we strolled through the corridors of the Adohi'Ente I found myself enjoying our conversation. Marchosia laughed easily.

####

My training was forgotten. I did not mind. Those early years, I exulted in my duty. I loved talking and listening to her. We traveled often, seeing great wonders most only dreamt of.

Yet I did not love her, not yet.

####

Marchosia lived in luxury, as all Gods did, but held it with dignity. She was a scientist and devoted much time into bridging the High Halls with Earth. "Two realities within one," she explained. "Intelligent, biological energy and corporeal entities living together. A macrocosm of our very bodies." I nodded, not understanding, and she laughed. "Would it have been too much to ask for an egregori with brains?” She teased. “Instead, you have only a sword."

One day, some two years after our meeting, found us in her quarters. Word had spread of our unorthodox introduction. Marchosia's liberties with me were seen as peculiar by most. I never worried. Only Marchosia's opinion mattered, I was sworn to obey only her. Rumors rose as well, but we had never engaged in anything more than our arm-in-arm walks.

So within her rooms, rather than making passionate love, she was reading a book of philosophy to me. "So if Camio's concept of a Rainbow Bridge exists within the space between High Halls and Earth, and remember, Uriel, there is overwhelming evidence it does, one could reverse its processes and... Uriel?"

I jumped. I humored her when she read. The works of Camio, Raum, Asmodean, I understood not a word of it. Rather, I would watch for potential attack. Pointless I knew, but I had not completely shirked my duty.

Yet this session had me staring out the window. "Forgive me, Marchosia, I was daydreaming."

She chuckled. "Camio can certainly be dry to the non-philosophical mind. What were you thinking of?"

"My brother," I told her. "My youngest. Justinian. He will be seven this week. I have never seen him."

"Well then," Marchosia replied, closing the book and standing. "We must go see him, and your entire family by extension."

For a moment I stood as stupid as I had in the Adohi'Ente. "Your research?"

She waved it away. "My research can wait a week, and it hinges on Turzas' findings. I'll be lucky to get them in the next decade. Besides, your siblings will produce my next egregori. I should make a good impression."

My family, I saw upon arrival, had adopted their old customs. My father had turned the estate house into a barn, and hired the servants as farmhands. The lush fields had quickly turned into plowed ones. They'd built themselves a comfortable hut.

I knocked on the door and my graying mother answered, stirring a bowl as she stood on the portal. "Told you not to come back until --" she blinked. "Uriel?"

"Hello mother," I said, smiling.

The bowl fell and she threw her arms around me. "You're home!" She cried. "You're home!" I held her close. "Girls," she yelled, "come see!"

My sisters, Selene and Verin, appeared. At age fifteen, they were identical. They laughed and hugged me too. "Come in," my mother began pulling me inside, "Come in and let me get you some lunch. Verin, Selene, go get your father and brothers. Tell them…"

"Who's that, mother?" Verin asked, pointing at Marchosia, who until then, had stood aside wearing a happy smile. Her blue eyes glowed merrily.

"I don't --" My mother began, when realization spread across her face. She went pale, made to curtsey, thought better of it, and fell to her knees, waving for the girls to do the same. "My Lady, forgive us our blindness."

Marchosia laughed, came forward and gently pulled my mother to her feet. "Please, call me Marchosia as your son does."

In Marchosia's presence, my mother had nothing to say. "You're a God?" Selene asked, wonder in her voice.

My mother came around. "Of course she is, Selene! What are you two still doing here? I told you to get your father and brothers. Go!" She clapped her hands and my sisters were off.

Forgetting about me, my mother began fawning over Marchosia. She offered her home and apologized for its horrible condition. When Marchosia replied it was one of the nicest places she had ever seen, my mother turned scarlet.

My father and siblings soon returned. I shook hands and embraced Dagar, Rurik and Igorian, and when little Justinian was pushed forward, I knelt to hug him as well. He seemed more interested in Marchosia. In fact, they all did. It did not matter. I was with my family. I was happy.

We ate outside, and though my parents were nervous serving Marchosia their own food, her praise was well received. My brothers passed my sword amongst themselves and demanded to know of my adventures. My sisters wanted to know of the cities, the palaces and great monuments.

Justinian did not take his eyes off Marchosia the entire dinner. Dessert was finished when he asked, "Can you do magic?"

My mother groaned. "Justinian, what have I told you about being rude to guests?"

"I think the boy can be forgiven," Marchosia replied. "Watch this Justinian," she continued, "and tell me what you think."

She closed her eyes and began to hum. Her head tilted upwards. The music vibrated within everything. The table stirred, the dishes and cutlery; the air itself seemed to throb.

The stars began to move. Hundreds of twinkling spots began to sway and spin and dance. Some dimmed, others brightened, but always they moved elaborately. They beat together and fluttered as Marchosia's soft hum commanded them. My family watched the show she provided, amazed.

I watched too. Not the sky, but Marchosia. Her eyes remained closed, but a thin smile sat upon her face. By the light of dancing stars and vibrating candles, I had never seen such beauty. A Goddess sat beside my family, and enjoyed herself.

A ripple of joy slid through me, but before I could speak, Marchosia opened her eyes. The stars stopped. "What do you think, Justinian?"

He nodded. Marchosia laughed.

Later I found myself by a river near the farm. My family was asleep, and Marchosia was meditating at my side. "You know," she said, and I turned to find her sapphire eyes gazing up into mine, "it was not the stars, but their light. One such as I cannot move stars."

I smiled. "Thank you for this."

"Thank you." She stood and watched the water pass. "I have lived for two centuries Uriel. And I will continue to live for tens of thousands of years after you die. Yet I will never have this," she indicated the farm. "I will never have a family."

"You have a father, mother and sisters," I replied.

She waved them away. "They are nothing to me, and I am nothing to them. We have not seen each other in decades."

I did not know what to say. Marchosia was sad, but I could think of nothing to ease her.

"Do you know how the King became the first God?" She asked, finally.

I shook my head. The King, the father of all Gods, was not a topic often discussed. He ruled from far away, an ever-present legend. He was simply there.

"He was not all different from mortals," she said. "And he claims it was sacrifice. He says no more. I believe he sacrificed for someone. What's more, he sacrificed his body and soul. He transcended what a mortal should be capable of. He became a God. Can you imagine, Uriel?"

"Becoming a God?"

"No, loving someone, what else could the sacrifice have been but for someone he loved? Loving someone so deeply, sacrificing your entire self would be unquestionable?" She shook her head sadly. "I was born a God, Uriel. I did not earn it. I do not know if I will ever love something half as strong as you and your family love each other. It is difficult."

The night's sounds seemed to fade, as did the river's coursing. I looked at Marchosia and wanted to reach out, wrap my arms around her, and tell her... what? I loved her? I wanted to be with her? I was egregori, and mortal besides. My duty was to be her Keeper. I would not forsake those obligations. Yet, as I watched her stare sadly at the water's path, I could not help but relate to the King's story.

"It was nice to taste this,” she said. “I will remember. Thank you, Uriel."

####

My mother and father died before the war. My brothers and sisters were dead from it. I heard rumors of Justinian surviving, somewhere. Rumors were no comfort. I was Marchosia's first egregori. I would be her last.

Yet, I had become more.

####

"Useless!" Energy dissipated as Marchosia threw her hands up. I could feel her frustration as the vibrations dimmed, then vanished. "It's not strong enough," she complained, slumping into an armchair.

Raum scratched his beard. "Perhaps the approach is incorrect. The energy levels of High Halls may not be compatible with Earth's."

"How could souls travel between, then?" Siatris asked. "No, the energy is compatible, but the Rainbow Bridge component is missing."

"Of course the Bridge component is missing," Marchosia snapped. She rose and beckoned me. "I am tired, come Uriel." She threw the doors open and stalked out; I trailed behind. Siatris and Raum continued their debate. Their egregori watched us leave. We marched in the direction of her quarters.

In the decade since visiting my family, my feelings had intensified. I sensed her turmoil like an air current. If I reached out and took her hand, I knew, somehow, I could help her. Yet egregori did no such things. We guarded.

We entered her chambers and I knew to crouch. "Fools!" Marchosia cried. Her magic hurled objects to and fro. "Discussing concepts we beat to death decades ago!"

I moved silently, knowing Marchosia was all but oblivious to me. I had been shocked when I first witnessed this tantrum. Now though, I understood. For years Marchosia had worked to bridge the High Halls and Earth, to no avail.

A jeweled orb slammed into my gut. I must've grunted, because Marchosia turned. "Uriel," she gasped. There I was, holding her orb to my stomach, a look of exasperation upon my face. "Oh Uriel." She laughed. I smiled and joined in.

The moment passed to quickly, and she collapsed onto her bed. "I do not understand what's wrong."

I said nothing.

"You must think I'm a child," she whispered and sat up to face me. Tears welled in her eyes. "Behaving like an idiot. I don't know what to do."

I did not think. I knelt before her and wiped the tears away without realization. She looked shocked, and as I caressed her soft skin, horror rose within me. I froze with fear. My thumb remained on her cheek, her pale skin vibrating.

"Uriel," she said calmly. Her hand enfolded mine. "Oh, Uriel." She smiled. I kissed her. She kissed me.

My mind screamed for me to pull away, to restrain myself. I did not listen. She drew me onto the bed, kissing me intensely, and gave the order I had dreamed of. I obeyed, as I was sworn to.

Afterwards we lay heavy with sweat and naked beneath her sheets. Her pale body pulsated against mine. I stroked her hair absently. "This certainly goes against protocol."

She laughed. "It would appear those rumors are true now. I thought you knew the only protocols you need worry about are mine. This fits well with them."

I rolled around to face her. "How long?" I asked. "How long have you felt this way?"

"Such impertinence," she smiled. "Asking questions without formalities." She leaned forward and kissed me lightly. "I do not know. I feel as if it were buried for some time; pushed aside due to work and, embarrassingly, social taboos. Perhaps..."

"What?"

"Do you remember the river, by your family's farm?"

I grinned, a surely large, stupid grin. "I realized it then, too."

She seemed pleased. "Maybe Camio's theory on fate and free will being aligned --"

"Marchosia," I cut her off by covering her mouth with my hand. "Please don't bring philosophy or science into this."

She laughed again. "As you wish, my egregori."

The title jarred something within me. I was still young, but I hardly resembled the boy who first saw his Goddess. Marchosia looked not a day older. I was aging. Dying in truth. Marchosia would remain the same for millennia. "If I could," I told her, "I would stay with you like this, forever."

She looked sad then. "If only."

Time passed in silence as we lay there, until Marchosia sat up looked at me with wonder. "Wait," she said slowly. "If the basic building blocks were altered, then... compatibility." Her eyes widened and she kissed me with all her earlier fury. "Uriel, you've solved it!" She leapt out of bed and began to pull on robes, as I lay there confused. "We must tell the others!"

I obeyed, but wondered what it was I had done.

####

I had changed everything. Simple pillow talk and idle fantasies had sparked a new idea within Marchosia.

It was why she lay dying in the sand before me. It was my fault.

####

Marchosia wanted to alter Earth. The Rainbow Bridge component involved compatibility, so Earth needed become compatible with the High Halls. Transfiguring energy would be simpler. Thus, she claimed, everything needed to be "amended."

I asked her what she meant.

"I want to make men into Gods," she replied.

The notion of spending centuries alongside Marchosia was too much to hope for. I was human. We outnumbered our Gods. We lived, aged and died. We were subjects to Gods, not their equals. Would they allow it? Would mankind even want it? These thoughts kept me awake on nights at Marchosia's side.

She researched in secret, with none aware but myself and her contemporaries. They, those Gods and Goddess, dedicated to their utopian ideals, accepted Marchosia's theory wholeheartedly.

Two years passed, and I counted them happy. I spent my days and nights with the woman I loved and she whispered promises of eternal life. I hoped, despite myself.

Then the research stopped and Marchosia went to present her findings.

So I found myself on a spring day outside the great Forum of Nervana. Marchosia had entered to present her case. I waited outside and paced nervously.

A commotion arose within and I tensed. It sounded like shouting, though I could not make out the words.

Suddenly, it grew quiet.

Within moments the doors opened and Gods exited. I looked for Marchosia. She strolled out, casually, face bearing grim determination. Shaking her head when I opened my mouth, she motioned for me to follow her away from the whispering crowd of immortals.

"It could have gone better," she said nonchalantly, out of earshot. "The King's sons, Azrel and Sargatanas opposed heavily, and many echoed their concerns."

"And the King himself?" I asked.

She smiled sadly. "He thought what I said 'held merit,' and warranted further investigation."

"Wonderful," I whispered. "With the King behind your research..." I stopped when her smile turned sad.

"The King is influential, Uriel. But his sons are popular, with a large following. I'm afraid the King's backing is not enough."

"But it is something!" I refused to be negative. Not when eternity with Marchosia was closer than ever. "There'd be no chance if he had fully disagreed.”

Marchosia laughed, a sound not heard for days. I had missed it. "True enough my egregori. Perhaps more can be brought around. If not for Azrel's favors --"

"Marchosia!" A voice like gravel made her jump, and I turned about, hand to sword. My training was not entirely forgotten.

The woman approaching was Marchosia's twin but for the eyes. Whereas Marchosia's were blazing sapphires, hers' were a smoldering green. Light seemed to leap from her face. She did not seem pleasant.

"Sesheta?" Marchosia asked, surprised. She had not seen her sister for sixty years.

Sesheta stalked towards us with purpose, a blond female egregori at her back. Arrogance clung to her like an odor. "The first time I see you in half a century, and you talk of human Godhood?"

Marchosia recovered her serenity. Her voice never faltered. "You do not support the proposal?"

"Support it?" Sesheta barked a laugh, but no smile touched her eyes. "No, I do not. Do you truly think humans deserve elevation? They are precisely what we intended them to be."

"We were born Gods, sister," Marchosia countered. "Do we deserve it? The first humans were drones, yet now they build their own wonders."

"Laughable imitations to our own."

"If so, what could we achieve were they to join us?"

"Anarchy, certainly. Their bodies were not designed to hold so much energy.”

"That could be changed."

Sesheta groaned and waved Marchosia's words away. "You speak of these humans like relatives. They are not comparable to us. Look at the egregori, the highest honor bestowed upon them. Are they not unnecessary bodyguards? Behold your own," she said, turning to me. "His blank stare belies a lack of intelligence."

Marchosia stepped between us. "Do not speak to him so."

Sesheta's eyes and smile grew. "I would hate to think my sweet sister's grand scheme a ploy to prolong her plaything's lifespan. Quite unprincipled."

Marchosia's rage was contained well. "Tell me Sesheta, how you climbed so high without aid. Was it Azrel's or Sargatanas' bed you shared? Perhaps both?”

Sesheta's eyes narrowed. I loosed my blade a bit. I saw the female egregori do the same.

Marchosia's sister turned abruptly and marched off, her egregori trailing. "Again, that could have gone better," Marchosia said, when they were gone.

####

Was it worth it? Those first few years by Marchosia's side, I believed. Believed in a world where I was immortal and all matter of energy and beings living side-by-side in an ever-expanding paradise. Yet the heated debates continued.

Five years passed from Marchosia's proposal. Then a God slew another. A war quickly followed. Still I followed Marchosia, and believed in her dream.

I wanted so badly to be with her, to ensure my slowly aging body would forever guard her. Instead it all fell apart.

####

"Once more, please?" Marchosia asked.

I craved oxygen, but the air I sucked in burned. I couldn't even shake my head. Even in pain, I obeyed. Yet she had asked permission, and struggling, I reached out and touched her hand.

She could not sense my pain, but when our hands touched she knelt down beside me. "I'm sorry Uriel, forgive me."

There was nothing to forgive; I had volunteered. She placed her hands on my chest and hummed. The pain subsided, and I relaxed my shivering body.

The experiment had failed, again. Twenty attempts, each more painful than the last had driven my body to the edge. The convulsions were so bad, my bones had broken and muscles ripped open twice. Marchosia had repaired me, but always pressed on.

I tried to speak, but her hand covered my mouth.

"Peace, Uriel," she whispered. "We are done for now."

How quickly she forgot the pain and burning she inflicted upon me, all to grant me Godhood. Rather than ask if I wished to continue, she assuaged me with delayed suffering.

While I healed, she left me and returned to her notes. She began to scribble furiously. I forced myself up and tugged on my clothes. She spared me not a glance; her nose buried behind a thick notebook.

The war had shaken her. Siatris and other friends had died in battle, to the north and east. I was the last of her confidants. For days we would sit in her study; she pondering over her discoveries, and I standing uselessly until she needed to experiment.

I missed Marchosia. She had not laughed in a long time. Months, perhaps. Even in bed, she was lost in thought and my presence was nothing more than standard.

I obeyed still. Yet I felt beyond an egregori. What though, I could not say.

I swayed from fatigue, and Marchosia looked up, excited. "I have an idea, Uriel. Get back on the table."

I didn't move. She looked at me expectantly. "Uriel, hurry, this may be it!"

"Marchosia," I said, "please."

She waved my concerns away. "This will be gentler, and it will work. Don't you want it to work?"

Was she, manipulating me?

"Marchosia," I begged. "I will obey, but --"

"Then obey," she snapped.

I was egregori, what more could I do?

####

My body had never felt right afterwards. I moved with all the agility and carried the strength I had always possessed, but something seemed different. It was as if a weight were under my skin, holding me down, tiring me quicker. Some days, I could not bring myself to leave bed.

Marchosia never apologized, but one day she sent me on errand to the city. I returned, and found her sobbing into hands hiding her eyes. When she noticed me, she stopped and resumed her dignity.

She could've been weeping over anything; the war, her friends, her work's slow progress, but I think it was for what she had done.

I never held animosity, I loved her still. Tonight, as she dies in the sand, I know there is nothing to forgive.

####

"Hurry," Marchosia called as we rushed through the Adohi'Ente, the shimmering air reacting to the battle. We had waited too long. For all of Marchosia's assurances of Adohi's safety, thousands of human soldiers and their immortal generals appeared overnight. The city's defenders were outmatched.

Seven years of research had led to nothing. Marchosia's notes, the important ones, were clenched between my arms and chin as we made our way towards the exit. "If we can reach the sewers," Marchosia said, "we can escape." Our home's fall did not disturb her, nor did the slaughter outside; Marchosia worried for her research.

I was bound to keep her safe. Though the war never touched us, I had still failed. Her work was her life and obsession. She had not laughed in ages. She regarded me more as an object. Ironic, seeing her try to grant me immortality.

I glanced out a window as we ran. Lighting and fire rained from above, and whole buildings crumbled or turned to ash. When Gods fought, they used all their power. I could see rips where light itself seemed to disappear. For years, I'd heard tales of cities disappearing overnight. I feared Adohi would join them.

A wall erupted before us and threw me to the floor, Marchosia's notes scattering. My ears rang, but my training, skills I had never used, returned to me. I rose with my blade drawn before my vision had focused.

I saw Sesheta, blood red armor and blade of crystalline light, before me. Flanking her, was her egregori, the woman from years ago. "Hello sister."

A curved blade of flame erupted into Marchosia's hand. They clashed, fire met crystal, and I turned to meet the egregori.

I had been talented, all first generation egregori were, but I saw scars upon her face. She'd seen war, while I had seen libraries and bed chambers for twenty years.

Our swords danced in the ruined halls of the Adohi'Ente. She was faster, but I was stronger. She cut me, but I drove her back, both of us navigating the rubble with ease.

All the while, Marchosia's pain coursed through me. She was losing, I knew.

I charged and plowed into the egregori, and she fell. My blade came down, entered her and left wet.

I turned in time to see glass break and a bloodied body, draped in white fall away, flung into the distance. Sesheta leaned on her blade, armor cracked and oblivious to me.

I ran, and plunged my sword into her back. Her scream was like a gong, and she collapsed, thrashing as she died. The light in her eyes burned out, leaving blackened holes.

I had killed a Goddess, but mine was alive. I felt her, near death and far away.

####

The fire still burned as we lay in the sea's swell. Marchosia's sizzling, brilliant blue eyes dimmed. "Uriel," she whispered. "I'm sorry.”

It all struck me. The suffering we had caused, the deaths of families and friends, our broken relationship. Everything.

I wept. I wept for the end of our time together, for the end of the world. I wept, for I was egregori and I would never see her again. The corruption within from breaking my Bonds throbbed.

"Thank you," I told her. "Thank you so much." The faint rumblings of energy within her body ceased, and her eye's light winked out.

The water rose to my thighs. Was she crossing the Rainbow Bridge now, the obstacle that had always vexed her? Would she arrive in the High Halls, turn and wonder where I was?

Traditionally, an egregori avenged their God then died. Sesheta was dead. Marchosia was avenged. I prepared to plunge my sword within, preferring oblivion to the hollowness remaining.

Unbidden, a memory came.

"Do you know how the King became the first God?" I had shaken my head. "He was not all different from mortals," she said. "And he claims it was sacrifice."

A sacrifice for someone, she believed. The King had given his body and soul to and transcended what a mortal was capable of. He became a God.

Had I truly loved Marchosia? I had stayed by her side, through the good times and bad. Not due to Bonds, not due to trappings of a brotherhood. No, I stayed with Marchosia because she was my world; she was the one I loved above myself.

I stared at her corpse. Had I given enough? My life and freedom sacrificed, yet I never cared about either. With my lie, the lie of a few moments, I had sacrificed my soul to see her smile.

Had I, an egregori, figured it all out?

I kissed her, and stabbed myself.

THE END

deep freeze-sf short story

DEEP FREEZE: E.S.STROUD

June 14. Somewhere in Northern Wisconsin.

The six year old Toyota Camry came to a screeching halt at the unmarked crossroad of two deeply rutted dirt roads. Robin Eames pounded a gloved fist on the steering wheel in frustration. She brushed stringy ash blond hair from her forehead with the other hand. Flipped the heater on. "June in Wisconsin? Brr. Must be in the forties."

Robin shielded her eyes from an anemic sun, did a 360 degree scan of her surroundings. Thinning forest. No landmarks.

"Damn." She punched a saved number on her cell phone.

"Disclosure Magazine. Editor Joe DeLong here."

"Joe, I Need some help here. I'm lost. Frost Valley's not in my Thomas Guide, and my old junk heap doesn't have GPS."

"Oh, hi Robin. Hang on a sec."

She flipped the windshield defroster on, buttoned her jacket to the top, shivered, unleashed a string of expletives. "Most junior reporter gets the crap assignment," she muttered. "Why did that geeky Neil have to go missing? Him and that B.S. story about some old glacier and ghosts."

Riffling of paper. "Okay, Robin. Here's Neil's last call. He drove west from State Route 26 in Bayfield County on Old Mill Road, ran out of pavement, came to an unmarked, unpaved crossroad. He described deep forest with intermittent clearing. He turned North. Said he'd have a feature article for us. That's all I've got ..."

Static.

Robin punched the number again. NO SERVICE showed on the cell's screen. "No cell towers in this god-forsaken wilderness," she complained. "Damn Neil and his obsession with spooks." She took a deep breath, did a slow exhale, nodded. "Okay, I'll go North."

2.

Four bone-rattling unpaved miles later. She almost missed the faded sign. Had to get out of the car, scrub off untold eons of grit, pull away an overgrowth of weeds. "Hah," she exulted. "Eat your heart out, Sherlock Holmes." Frost Valley appeared in something approximating Old English script. Robin tried her cell again. "No service. That figures."

Another two miles of rutted, dried mud road. The village was small, composed of dilapidated two-story dwellings, single homes, a post office and library. No other vehicles in sight. She pulled up in front of an ancient hotel, loaded a chip into her hand-held digital recorder, went in.

"June fourteen, 4:30 P.M. Robin Eames reporting. Took me since noon to find the place, Joe. Single road leading in, almost missed it. There's a little hotel. It's from an earlier time. Gambrel roof, stained glass panels in the front door. I took some pics. Clerk as old and withered as the hotel. No plastic, had to pay cash. Single room. I'm their only guest. Clerk cautious. When I mentioned Neil Johnson he showed me the register. No Neil. Dinner was my cold burger and fries from the last truck stop. Yuck."

"Took a walk around town. Checked out the library. It's like a museum. Newspapers from early 1800's on. Ages-old, wrinkled librarian with glasses on a chain around her neck. She told me a glacier from the last ice age melted here eight thousand years ago. Pleistocene era, whatever that was. When I asked about missing persons she gave me this strange look. 'The Cold remains,' she said."

"No police station. Guy at the hardware store told me a county sheriff drives through every couple of weeks. Said there was a phone at the library."

"Called Bayfield cops, spoke to a Sergeant Emerson. Neil's name didn't ring a bell. No reports of missing persons. I asked him about the town." "Frost Valley is a very old village, since before Wisconsin became a state, he told me. Their valley was carved out by a glacier. Folks stay pretty much to themselves. Some sort of cultists. I thanked him for the history lesson. Librarian gave me a half smile, charged me $2.50 for the call"

Robin sacked out early, worn out from the drive and walk. Some abdominal cramping, her cold burger didn't sit well. The mattress was thin but there was a warm comforter. She had the window raised a little, despite the cold. Restless tossing, muttering a few obscenities before she dozed off ...

3.

Early evening. A narrow street. Cobblestones. Early1850's two-story homes crowding a brick sidewalk. Ancient paint streaked with grime gives a sickly gray pallor to their clapboard exteriors. Dusty cobwebbed windows appear vacant. Pavement laced with lengthening somber shadows. A solitary streetlamp flickers to life. A distant rumble of thunder fractures the haunting stillness. Palpable gloom descends as gathering storm clouds blot out the setting sun. Sky turns eerie purple-black, like a bruise. Furious gray clouds churn past. Dark overwhelms the street lamp's feeble luminosity. Peeling paint chips flicker in the fresh breeze. Odd shadows pulsate and fade as lightning slashes the stifling blackness like a cosmic scalpel. Cannonade of thunder, closer than before. Windows of the houses facing the avenue dark, deserted, concealing their secrets behind dust-shrouded panes. Bloated raindrops begin to tattoo the pavement.

The storm breaks with demonic fury. Silvery spikes of lightning, jagged reflections dance across the blank windowpanes. Pavement vibrates with thunderclaps. Rain writhing in impenetrable sheets at the mercy of the insistent wind. An ornate metallic shade over the vintage street lamp oscillates, producing sinister stroboscopic flashes of light and shadow across the faces of the ancient homes. Grotesque forms flicker as saber blades of lightning dissect the lowering sky and the street lamp vibrates in the deluge.

A half-seen motion at the periphery of her vision. Ephemeral, transitory. She looks up, a dark second-story window stares back. Something stirring behind the filthy glass. Gray clots of mist swirling and coiling behind the dirt-streaked pane. A formless, membranous mass begins to push its way through the glass without breaking it. Growing, swelling, dilating like some satanic carnival balloon. Opaque. Blacker than interstellar space. Absorbing light like the core of a black hole. Casting no shadow. Changing, mutating, a Rorschach inkblot imbued with malignant life force. Cold, as if touched by absolute zero. Raindrops tinkling on the pavement as they freeze. A thin strand of inky, threadlike material attach it through the window glass. Frost ferns blossom and branch, glazing the pane. It turns toward her, attracted, following. Watching ...

A scream.

It hesitates, then withdraws through the glass. Rain and wind abate, canceled by some galactic on-off switch. Melting ice cascades into the street, rattling down storm drains. Hanging limp, the street lamp casts benign shadows. The house is only old and dilapidated, its upstairs window dusty, rain-streaked and unlit. Nothing stirs behind the pane.

4.

Robin awakened with a start. 1:55 A.M, her watch read. What had wakened her? Had she screamed? Her heart pounded in adrenaline-propelled tachycardia. She padded barefoot to the window. Drying raindrops dotted the sill and pane. A faraway crescendo of thunder followed a blink of cloud-filtered lightning. An acrid whiff of ozone lingered. Droplets on the lawn sparkled in the glow of a lonely street lamp. Stars peeked between dissipating rain clouds. The bright first-quarter moon cast eerie, mosaic shadows as spidery tree branches clawed at the brilliance. She rubbed her arms as a chill breeze raised serious goosebumps. Trembling, she brushed damp strands of hair from her face and rubbed her hands together for warmth, wrapped the comforter around her shoulders. She tried her cell phone again. No service. Flipped the small bedside lamp on, grabbed her digital recorder.

"June fifteen. 2:05 A.M. Cold as hell, Joe. Teeth won't quit chattering. I can see my breath. This is June? Damndest dream, like virtual reality. Oh God, I'll have nightmares the rest of my life. This really freaked me out. I couldn't get back to sleep. Neil would have loved it." Robin clicked the digital recorder off. Got a drink of water from a bathroom tap.

"Had to get some water, Joe. Mouth is like cotton." She recalled the dream in explicit detail. "Got it all on the digital chip. Pretty freaky, huh? Must have been that damn cold burger. More later. I'll try to find an area in range of a cell tower in the morning."

5.

June 15. 9:30 A.M. Robin recharged her digital recorder on the cigarette lighter socket in her car. She found a coffee shop, loaded up on five strong cups, ate a danish and half a grapefruit. Drove fifteen miles, couldn't find a viable cell reception area. Returned to her room to relieve a coffee-distended bladder. Walked to the library.

The library lady remembered her. "How did you sleep, dear?" she asked.

"Okay, except for and the cold and the nightmare."

"You could be the chosen," she said. Odd toothless grin.

Robin smiled. "To win the PowerBall lottery, I hope."

The lady stacked books, pounded a date stamper, ignored her.

"Yeah right," Robin told the recorder when she got outside. "Broad's certifiable. Creepy as hell. Wish Neil was here. Nice day here, Joe. Must be in the seventies. The cold is gone. Nothing like last night."

6.

Robin took a self-guided tour of Frost Valley, filling in her recorder as she walked. "Twelve noon. Not many folks out and about, Joe. Too nice a day to be indoors. Spoke to one or two locals. Cautious. Afraid? None recognized Neil's name. Most of the shops were closed. Got a stale danish at a bakery. Didn't charge me. How odd."

She returned to her room, made some written notes in a small notebook, stuffed them in her purse. "June fifteen. 5:00 P.M.," she said to the digital recorder. "I found this old street. Looks familiar. Gimme a sec. Putting in fresh chip. "

"Okay, I'm back. There was one older guy. Scared. 'The Cold,' he said. 'Older than time. From the glacier. You shouldn't have come here. We obey the Cold,' he said as he ran off. Another one of Neil's nutcases." "Getting dark as helI now. Joe. I think it's gonna rain ..."

7.

Daylight succumbs to evening and the breaking thunderstorm. Unrelenting sheets of rain slash the facades of the antiquated dwellings, driven by the shrieking wind. Robin's umbrella turns inside out. She tosses it in the gutter. "I'm soaked, Joe. It's getting colder. That window. Good God. It's just like the one in my nightmare."

Shifting shadows are punctuated by blinding needles of lightning. Amorphous, swirling mist gathers behind the pane. Icicles proliferate below the sill. Rain turns to sleet. Robin's breath comes in frigid gasps.She holds the ice-slicked digital recorder in a shivering hand. "Hope you're getting this, Joe. I'm soaked. Raincoat's useless. Wait a minute. The pane is bulging. The glass didn't break, like in the dream. I don't believe this." Robin clicks the digital photo feature of her cell phone. "Gotta get some photos, Joe. Pulitzer for Robin Eames, age twenty-two, for sure. Wish I could share it with Neil."Her lips stretch in a thin grimace. A step forward. Wind form-fits the saturated raincoat tight to her body. She sloshes through an ice-crusted puddle. Another step. Slips on the icy sidewalk, arms windmill to regain balance. Strands of frosted hair snap against her cheeks.

It hovers. Closer. "There's no surface features. Just solid, nonreflective black. No sensory organs, but it knows I'm here. Trying to get photos. Fingers numb. Good. It still works."

A scream. "No. Get away from me."

"I see Neil. There's a glacier. How can this be? So cold ..."

8.

"County Sheriff found this, Joe," the private investigator said as he handed over Robin's cell phone. "It was found a mile from the hotel. No record of Miss Eames checking in. Register confirms. No belongings. Nobody in town remembers her or Mr. Johnson."

Joe pressed PLAY. Static. He pulled the digital chip, placed it in his own cellular device. More static. "Damn. Robin said she had something good for the magazine."

"Maybe her chip froze."

"In June?"

"Locals say ice storms are common there."

The End