Winter 2002
Adam Greenbaum: The Cape Buffalo	"Another martini?" the stewardess chirped. The Cape Buffalo nodded. He'd already had fourteen. He figured fifteen would just about do the job. Dull the nagging, throbbing pain in his muscular shoulder where a .460 Weatherby Magnum super dense tungsten carbide rifle bullet was currently lodged. Had the bullet been placed an inch to the left, it would have shredded his heart and pureed his liver into a fine foie gras de Buffalo. Instead, he was on a transatlantic flight from Zimbabwe to New York.
G. L. Tassone: Climbing to Bolivia	"Would you help?" she asked, like an abandoned angel. "I'm frightened to move." Norman admired the gold freckles sprinkled across her shapely nose. "Your kite is ruined," he said, and extended his arms. "It's not mine," she said, dropping soft as a sigh. "Is that your dog?" "No," Norman said, settling his prize on the bench nearby. "Mother's dog, Fanny Girl, made my eyes water and itch." "Thank you," she said. "I'm frightened of heights." "If you have acrophobia, why trees?" Norman asked. "The kite," she said. "I'm a compulsive cleaner. I can't stand clutter." "My mother clutters." "My mother was into cleaning," she said. "I'm Emily Place. You look familiar." "My dad's William Wakefield, the actor," he said. "I'm Norman." "Of course," she said. "I saw your father in Born Bent. He was terrific. Could you please get the kite?" Norman had never climbed a tree, but he had always lived in a penthouse at the Pierre and managed heights quite well.
Greg Layton: Over the Dune	We were walking the beach when we saw them, strange lights in the bay. "In the surf," she said. "Did you see it?" And I did see something, there in the dark, though she should have said "them," because there were more than one. And she shouldn't have said "surf," because the waves that night weren't high enough to break. They lapped softly at our feet.
Ed Robison: The Incubus	"Mr. Yardley's Toyota sedan was whisked off the highway like a dead fly on the windowsill of life. Gliding across several westbound lanes, a wide divider planted with durable pasture grass, and the eastbound lanes, it flipped over in a deep runoff channel along an isolated stretch of highway. There it lay unnoticed for several hours before it was reported by an alert citizen. The paramedics speculated-and the autopsy later confirmed-Mr. Yardley had suffered a massive stroke leaving him unable to apply the brakes. There were no skid marks suggesting he had tried to avoid a collision with another vehicle, or a tailgating logging truck, or even an unwary deer. The firemen on the scene noted the Toyota had continued to idle until its supply of gasoline was exhausted. The radio was still receiving the Canadian classical music station favored by the North Peninsula residents who felt otherwise culturally impoverished in the farming and retirement communities of the luxuriously forested northwest. The authorities assured Mrs. Yardley, who struggled to fight back her tears, that the car, now upright again, barring a few uncosmetic dents, was ready to drive away. Everyone agreed that it was certainly a tribute to Toyota's marvelous automotive engineering.
George Pryde: Eva	From the kitchen window Eva sees a Berlin landscape of rubble and skeletal tenements stretching to a smoke-stained horizon. She watches two old men, wrapped in army greatcoats against the morning cold, drag the dust-covered body of a woman over the remains of a collapsed building to their handcart and lift it up onto the cart besides the others; watches them rest for a moment before each takes a handle and trundles the cart slowly along the cratered street. Once more, the acrid taste and smell of wet ash and burning wood fills her mouth and nostrils. A hand touches her shoulder and the vision dissolves, becomes gray fields rising gently to low Scottish hills covered in snow. Eva shivers, turns to clasp the hand that has touched her. "You look tired. Go and sit down, I'll make some tea." "I am alright, John." "Do it, Eva, I won't be a minute." She goes into the living room, sits by the fire, pokes the charred embers into life. As they flare up she lights a cigarette, leans back in the chair, closes her eyes. Night, and flames from incendiary bombs dance along the street. "You can't do any more damage," she murmurs, "there's nothing left to burn."
Charles Edward Brooks: Down the Line	Patsy Sue Boney transferred half of her strawberry shortcake to Creighton Z. Bray's plate. "The fact is," she proclaimed, "that married people live longer than singles. My son's an actuary, and he knows the statistics." "I've read that, too," the man responded. "But quality of life's more important than longevity, isn't it?" At the end of the meal, the serving staff gently shooed the diners out ofthe restaurant, so that they could clean up and go home. They even escorted some of the frailer clients all the way to the elevator. As they stacked chairs on tables, Delma Cross chortled. "Did you see how Mistuh Bray led that Boney woeman out on his arm? She got her hooks into him all right." "She don't see too good after that eye operation," John F. Kennedy Bowers answered. "She can't handle steps at all." "Help my time, John F.! Some o' these folks is still right frisky, like Mistuh Bray and Miz Graham. But the good Lord knows: Most of 'em is jes' way on down the line."
Efrem Sigel : For Sins Against Another Human Being	For sins against a human being, the rabbis tell us, atonement requires you to seek out that person and ask forgiveness-not once but three times. But what if the person who must forgive you is dead? My name is Abe Brightman. I am fifty-six, an architect. My colleagues call me a genius. I walk around and around a site, not making a mark on my sketch pad. Then at the long table in my office it comes to me, the orientation of the building, the interplay of shapes and spaces. I have an eye for harmony. That's my gift, to elucidate that harmony, to make it endure. What I do in my work, I failed to do in my life. There was a harmony to the shapes and spaces of our lives together, but I destroyed it. My luck was perfect: No one knew it but me. No one else has to deal with the consequences.
John Struleoff: The Artist	She made a few general dabs with the thick brush, getting the feel for the growing vision in her mind, an image of a man's blurry face seen through a window. There was a sheet of rain covering the window, making the man's nearly black face distorted in waves. It was like nothing else she'd ever painted and seemed to express some visceral notion of the world in general, but she couldn't quite place it. Maybe, she thought, it was the desire women are supposed to have of a tall, dark stranger. The vision was definitely dark and alluring. Brad opened the door some time later and stepped up beside her. "It was weird, mom. These really big tow-trucks came and took the cars away. And there was glass all over the road. There was a sheriff-guy, too." Sandy stroked the brush a few times gently where she envisioned the face to be, adding black upon black. She stepped back, pushing a handful of her long, brown hair behind her ear, exposing it to the cool air of the garage. "Not now, Bradley. I'll be back in the house after a little while, okay? Remember what I said about not bothering mommy when she's working." Brad took a close look at the painting, squinting, then tilting his head to the side. "What is it, mom?" Sandy smiled. "It's a man caught in a very sad situation." She marked a thin line in the mass of black, where she knew the ridge of the nose had to be. "He's a really nice man."
Richard Vaughn: Pearls Familial	Brad felt glued to the gray carpet as the jeweler's terse words reverberated in his uncomprehending mind. He was too stunned to reply and stared numbly as the man's thin fingers caressed the apparently worthless jewelry. He looked away from the ivory pearl beads cascading from the man's fingers to the musty and now impoverished-looking deep blue velvet box that had cradled the necklace for nearly a century. The jeweler's thin voice mumbled incoherently as if reciting the ritual cadences of a rosary. "Are you sure?" Brad managed to say, his voice weak and inconsistent with the harsh reality of the man's assessment. "Oh, quite," the man said, continuing to peer not only at the pearls but also the silk threading that held them together. "I'll restring if you insist, but to do it with this attention to detail will cost more than it's worth. . ." "That hardly seems possible," Brad said, catching his breath after the original surprise. "I mean, my grandmother . . .and my mother. ." "Been in the family a long time, has it? Yes, it has that classic look, alright. To be honest, it's been strung more expensively than the imitation pearls required . . ."
James W. Morris: Too Late	After a few hundred steps, the man developed a steadier pace-his breath appearing in regular, visible explosions-and he made better progress. The exertion calmed his anxiety somewhat, and soon pieces of his life floated up to him, available again. His name was Bell. He had a job he hated, processing paperwork for claims at a small insurance company. He had no wife, no family. And he drank too much. He turned the collar up on his blazer, pulled it around him as tightly as he could, and kept going down the road, into the darkness. He didn't know where he was headed, only that something bad had happened, and that he needed help.
Julia Rubin: The Summer Festival	The man with the walking stick is here again. He's always drunk and always making a spectacle of himself, dancing around in front of the stage and carrying on. And then people look at me as though I should do something about him, as though one old man is responsible for the actions of another. Because I, too, use a walking stick and I, too, am always here, their looks blame me. I'd wish him away as soon as anyone. Just because this is a free concert doesn't mean they have to let the crazies in. It wasn't this way when the festival started. The people who attended then were connoisseurs, respectful. I was at the very first performance ever held out of doors here, and every one since. Even the rained-out ones. Sometimes I'm the only one out there, but until I see the workers take all the equipment away, I stay.