Picture Piece

Tower Bridge

Josh Truesdale (2021)

“Peter Allen’s dead,” James says, his face weary with stress. “Executed this morning.”

Charlie’s blood goes cold, the news catching him off guard. He’s silent for a moment, allowing himself a few seconds to chew on the information at hand. “Are you sure?”

“Margaret heard from that Fritzie husband of hers.”

Charlie put his head in his hands, sinking into the wingback chair he’s relaxing on. James Chapman has never been the most anxious fellow, but right now that’s the only emotion he seems to display. Charlie and James have been close companions since primary school, and for all those decades James had been the optimist of the two, Charlie being more innately solemn. Given the contrast between James’ hopeful nature and his current emotions, the mood in the sitting room had lowered significantly.

Richard Davies, an overconfident boy in his twenties, breaks the silence as he raises his highball into the air. “It’s too bad, really. He will be missed. To be fair, he acted dodgy all ova’ London. The Germans were bound to find him eventually, even if they didn’t know his face.”

Charlie doesn’t really like Richard too much; he finds him far too arrogant. He understands it, though. The boy’s young and stupid and wants to be a part of something big. However, this sentiment is not felt by everyone in the room. Lorraine Winstead, a damsel sporting pin curls, frowns from her spot on the sofa in the corner. Peter had been her good friend. “How so, Richard? How was he dodgy?”

Richard takes a long sip from his drink before answering, “Lad couldn’t hold his tongue for the life of ‘im.”

Lorraine scowls as she stands up, putting her hands to her hips as if to make a point, “Ah, what do you know? You’re talking out of your rear, already buzzin’ off of one drink!”

“Relax, there’s no need for any of that,” James says, putting his hands up. Lorraine falls back into the sofa as he gestures towards her. “I apologize for interrupting with such awful news. Lorraine, please continue what you were saying.”

She takes a second to regain her composure, trying to move on from the unfortunate announcement. She had been talking about Peter Allen’s part in the group’s plan, but back then she had assumed he was still alive. “So where was I—?”

“You haven’t told us what you did with Peter’s ‘contribution’,” Richard interrupts. “Where’s it at?”

“I’m getting to that. Anyways, Peter and his men came to me after curfew on Monday night with about fifteen rucksacks of that PE-4 stuff he took from the Germans. Apparently the truck he stole from ‘em was headed for some base up in Oxford. It was carrying a ton of it. Pretty explosive stuff.”

“How much do we need?” James asks.

“Not much, I imagine. Peter was telling me that it doesn’t take much to get a big blast going. It’s new technology from the Germans.”

Richard interrupts again, “So where’s it now?”

“Peter and I stashed it all near Tower Bridge,” Lorraine continues, glaring at Richard. “It’s in an empty café right on the Thames.”

“How the hell’d you get explosives into the center of London?” Charlie asks, finally reentering the conversation. “The city’s crawling with sniveling Jerries.”

“Peter and his lads did that part. I think they went through the sewers. By all measures, it’ll be terribly easy for me and my ladies to move the stuff from the café to the bridge tonight, as long as no one sees us.”

“Ladies…?” Richard remarks.

“Do you have a problem with that?” Lorraine returns.

“Well, it’s bloody important this thing gets done right!”

“I don’t see you doing anything to help other than drink up all the tipple left in England!”

Charlie rolls his eyes. A similar argument was had during last week’s meet.

“Stop, you two!” James interjects again before turning to Richard. “Lorraine’s had this idea longer than anyone in the room. Besides, she’ll seem less suspicious if she gets caught out past curfew with a crowd of matrons rather than with a crowd of rowdy blokes.”

“Thank you, James,” she says. Lorraine takes a moment to gather her thoughts before proceeding. “Is your sister sure the convoy is crossing the bridge tomorrow? At midday?”

“Margaret’s certain,” James says. “Her husband’s a messenger.”

“Shame she married a German, especially a soldier.”

“It’s not all bad, I suppose. That loudmouth’s proving to be mighty useful.”

“Righto. So, Charlie and James, you’ll be on the bridge tomorrow morning?”

The two men look at each other gravely. “Yes,” Charlie says, “We’ll be there.”

Lorraine shoots him a sympathetic look. “Thank you. You’ll find detonators at the top of the stairs in each tower. Just follow the wire and pull the lever once the convoy is on the bridge.”

“Will the towers blow?”

Lorraine pauses for a while, an expression of uncertainty plastered on her face. “Probably not… they shouldn’t.”

The room goes silent. Everything that needs to be said has already been said, and now the only thing left to do is the actual plan. The four Brits stare off into space for a few moments, Charlie feels the awkwardness of the situation grow. At last, he holds out his palm and tucks in his two middle fingers. It’s their sign to proceed, a predetermined signal to keep the plot beneath the noses of the Nazis they will soon be enacting their revenge upon.

James sees the other three out of his terrace, warning them to get home before curfew. Once it starts at nine, the streets will be crawling with Germans for an hour or so, then London will be deserted until it breaks at six tomorrow morning.

“Good luck, Lorraine,” he says. James then turns to a nervous looking Richard and a stone-faced Charlie. “See you two on the bridge. Remember, 5:00 a.m.”

As Charlie walks up the steps to his rowhome, the front door opens to reveal his wife, Shirley Lewis, who is livid.

“Charles! Where on earth have ya’ been?!” She angrily closes the door behind him as he steps inside. When he doesn’t respond, she cocks her head to the side and scowls at him. “Well?”

“I was stuck at work again. Those Jerries wanted us to double our production line output. Apparently there isn’t enough metal in England to satisfy the Nazis.”

“It’s fourteen minutes ‘till curfew!”

“I can’t control the time, Shirley!”

“Well then give me a ring next time!”

“I’m sorry!”

She folds her arms. “Are ya’ hiding something from me?”

“Of course not, love! Why’d you think that?”

“Something’s been off about ya’. I’ve noticed it for weeks now!”

“What’s off about me—?”

“You’ve been seeing a bird, haven’t ya’?” she asks accusingly.

“Of course not! Do you think I want to work late on an assembly line? I have no choice!”

Shirley rubs her temples as she sighs dramatically. “I need a cuppa tea.”

“Love, I’ve never considered another woman!” Charlie calls after her as she walks away. He regrets not keeping her in the loop about the bridge plot, but having her in the know would be dangerous. She’s not good at keeping secrets.

Later that evening, the household loses power. In fact, all of London’s lights go out. Charlie’s unphased, as this has been nearly a nightly occurrence across the British Isles ever since the Germans took Europe. Perhaps it’s a good thing, though. The darker the streets are, the more concealed Lorraine and her ladies will be.

As Shirley washes her face in the hand basin, Charlie stares out the bedroom window towards the River Thames. It’s impossible to see Tower Bridge through the veil of darkness that shrouds the city, but he knows it’s out there somewhere. On it is Lorraine, about fifteen bags of explosives, and a revolution.

Tonight is its final night standing. Tomorrow, it falls.

The light of dawn barely illuminates the abandoned streets as Charlie finds his way towards the bridge. He’s never been out this early, or rather hasn’t been since the advent of the curfew. The lack of light is a slight annoyance, but if there’s more then he’ll be seen. If he’s caught, he’ll be imprisoned. He might even get shot. The curfew is strict, and there are no exceptions.

All the more reason to resist.

As the sky becomes brighter, he quickens his pace, a mix of frustration, fear, and sadness fueling his anxieties. When he awoke earlier that morning, Shirley had as well. There was no proper excuse that could get him out of her catching him, but she seemed more resigned than usual. Maybe she wasn’t completely awake yet.

“Whatever you’re planning on doing,” she had said, “don’t do it.”

“I’m just getting ready for work early, love,” Charlie attempted, but it was no use. She knew something was up, and he knew she knew. When he kissed her goodbye, he pressed his lips against hers for a little longer than usual.

It could’ve been the last time he’ll ever see his wife, but if the plan goes well, then he’ll be home for supper. All Charlie has to do is pull a lever once the German procession is on the bridge then get out of the tower in the midst of the chaos. If he gets caught, then that’s it.

Blow the bridge, jump into the Thames, he thinks to himself. It’s that simple.

But if the towers fall, then he’s gone from the get go. Lorraine had claimed it to be an unlikely scenario, though she seemed unsure. Charlie decides to forget about the possibility considering it’s out of his control.

At last, Charlie’s walking brings him within sight of the iconic Tower Bridge, a road suspended above the water by two spires. A grand structure and a feat of civil engineering, it’s a shame it’ll fall, even if in the name of a free Britain. Granted that everything goes according to plan, this will be the first step towards liberating England. Tensions are so high in London that all it takes is one match to light the whole thing ablaze—the nation is on the cusp of a revolution and the Germans have no idea.

Charlie meets James and Richard at the doors of Lorraine’s café, who at this point is likely already hidden somewhere in the city. Her task is done, and now it’s up to the three men to finish the plan. There’s nothing new to say, but rather only old information to confirm. Richard is to be stationed on the roof of the café as a look out and will signal to James once the convoy is near. The three nod silently to each other as they flash their two-finger-down signal. It’s go time.

Once James and Charlie are on the bridge, they bid farewell to each other with only a few words. It’s a very solemn event, albeit a hopeful one.

“See you this evening for the celebration party,” James says, almost jokingly. “We’ll get bloody tipsy.”

“Yeah.”

They hastily set off for their individual towers, worried they might be spotted from afar. A door separates the stairwell from the street, which offers Charlie a tiny bit of comfort. As he ascends the steps, he keeps a careful watch for the detonator. A thin wire runs along the railing almost unnoticeably, reminding Charlie of the bombs. Lorraine and her ladies did a fantastic job hiding them, so much so that Charlie can’t see them, even though he’s looking and knows they’re there. Knowing Lorraine, she probably found a way to put them under the bridge. She's more dedicated to the cause than anyone he knows. This consideration brings him more fear than intended.

Once Charlie finds the detonator—a small metal box with a lever on it—he realizes it’s not even 6:00 a.m. yet. The convoy is set to arrive at midday. Getting into the tower before curfew broke was absolutely necessary, but now that that step’s been completed, he’s in for a long wait. Charlie passes much of the time by reflecting. Thinking about his life, thinking about Shirley, thinking about what went wrong in World War II that led to him being in this dreadful situation fourteen years later.

Had the United States helped to free Europe, he thinks, then none of this would be reality.

The time couldn’t have passed slower, but at last, midday has arrived. Charlie watches through the window, awaiting James’ signal that’ll indicate Richard has seen the convoy from the café rooftop. By this point, his patience is gone, withered away into restless anxiety. Charlie bounces his legs and twiddles his thumbs subconsciously, his mind making a strenuous effort to keep himself busy or distracted, but nothing works. Everything other than the task at hand seems to fade out of existence. Charlie focuses on the window where James will soon appear with his signal. Seconds turn to years as the anticipation grows with every tick closer to the plot’s fruition, and yet there’s still no sign from his companions.

At last, James appears in the window of the tower opposite to Charlie’s. He extends his palm outwards, tucks his two middle fingers in, and sticks out his thumb. The convoy is approaching the bridge.

Hardly seconds after Charlie receives the message, the army appears. Countless Nazi soldiers, Panzer tanks, and AFVs seemingly appear out of thin air, filing onto the bridge from the streets of South London. The convoy is larger than Charlie imagined it would be, its purpose presumably being to silence rebellious people such as himself.

Another reason to resist.

He steps away from the window, fearing being seen before the bombs even go off. James is set to detonate first, but Charlie is responsible for giving the signal for him to do so once the Germans reach the other side. Charlie redirects his focus to the northern end of the bridge, kneeling before the opposite window as the convoy slowly inches along. An uncomfortable period of time passes before the Nazis pass underneath his own tower as they near the end, Charlie impatiently handling the detonator. A few small Volkswagens lead the convoy, but he intends on letting them get to the other side of the bridge before pulling the lever.

Let the first few pass, he thinks. Shoot for the middle.

The thick of the procession lies in the center, which is now appearing underneath James’ tower. The heaviest of the vehicles are there, the kinds a person can’t get out of while they’re sinking to the bottom of a river. The transport trucks reach the other end, entering the streets of North London.

You’re bloody welcome, Fritzie bastards.

Armored vehicles pass his tower, and the center of the convoy is just about in the middle of the bridge. Charlie catches himself nervously playing with the detonator and quickly slaps his eager hand away.

Let the front Panzers reach the end, he demands of himself.

Slowly but surely, the tanks’ sprockets approach the other side. Tick, tock. Charlie can almost hear the countdown in his head, and he begins to wonder if this whole thing is stealing away his sanity. Tick, tock. Only a few more meters now. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The first Panzer touches the pavement of North London and Charlie shoots to the other window, holds out his hand, and tucks in his middle two fingers. James appears in the window, holds up the symbol himself, then disappears again. Now there’s no going back. This thing they’re doing, whether it’ll work or not, is going to happen. At this point, there’s no more debate; the fate of the nation is in their hands—

BOOM!

An earth-shattering explosion ripples through the bridge, Charlie collapsing to the floor as the room shakes left and right. Through the window, the southern half of the bridge becomes a rapidly expanding inferno, and in the blink of an eye, it’s engulfed in flames and smoke. Much of the road collapses into the Thames, taking half of the convoy along with it. Above it all is James’ tower, which suddenly caves in on itself. No chance for escape, no second step of the plan. He pulled the lever, and by doing so he forfeited his life.

Terror.

I’m going to die, Charlie thinks to himself, the desire to detonate his half of the bridge now gone. This is it.

He turns to face the small box, which lays on the ground. An instrument of death—his own death. Hardly a few seconds has passed, and there’s no doubt that only a few more will before the Nazis underneath him escape to the safety of the other side.

C’mon, Charlie, man up!

He takes a hesitant step towards the detonator, the next few steps a bit more rushed. He hastily picks it up and places his hand on the lever, yet he still does not pull it.

On the count of three…

Charlie cautiously wraps his fingers around the bar, the significance of its mechanics being uncontested.

One…

It’s like tying the noose for one's own execution. How could someone be expected to voluntarily forfeit their life? It’s barmy!

Two…

And yet, he’s still counting. One second to go. One second between life and death. It’s enough time to pull his hand away, but he does not. He tells himself the cause is bigger than him and he’s merely one life in the face of an entire people. London needs him. Britain needs him. Freedom has never seemed so close, not since Germany entered the isle. Today, he changes history. Today, he proves to the Nazis that liberty does not go down without a fight.

Three…

Today, a revolution begins.

Charlie, without another thought, slams the lever down with great force.

“FOR GREAT BRITAIN!”

Between Pages of Stories

Cassidy Methot (2021)

“WHAT are you doing? Take cover, focus on the enemy! If you aim right here you might have a clear shot at—”

“But, why bother?”

“What?” I asked, caught off guard by the response of this strange soldier lying on his back during an intense battle.

“I just mean, if these are going to be our last moments, don't you want to enjoy it? I don’t think they enjoyed it,” he said gesturing towards the bodies before us, “and quite frankly, I don’t want to end up like them.”

I glanced down again at the lifeless bodies around me. They looked like they were in such pain, such agony. Even though I didn’t know what to make of the situation, the only thought that kept pounding through my mind was that I did not want to end up like them either.

“Alright,” I responded half heartedly, unsure of whether I was making the right choice or writing myself a death sentence. I laid down on my back and looked straight ahead at the hazy sky. Clouds of smoke polluted the air, though the more I focused, the more shapes began to form in my view.

“Now this one reminds me of a monkey riding a buffalo on a pogo stick,” he stated bluntly as if it were the most common thing people saw every day.

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any weirder…” I mumbled, questioning if the smoke was beginning to go to his head.

“Well, tell me then. What do you see?”

“I see…” All of a sudden, we heard the cries of a General speaking some kind of foreign language. Glancing around, I realized there were no more of our men left standing.

“Close your eyes and don’t move a muscle,” he whispered to me.

“Clouds?!” Kenzie interjected. “You’re having them look at clouds?! Honestly Riley, where is this story going?” Startled, I glanced up from my notebook where I was crafting this intense plotline for my AP History assignment.

“Hey! I spent most of the period writing this. And you weren’t supposed to see it until it was done,” I mumbled defensively, covering my notebook with my arms.

“This is the last day Ms. Sinclair will let us use her classroom while everyone’s at lunch. We need to focus and find a story for this battle,” Kenzie stated, walking to the back of the room. She pulled a run-down history book out of her backpack.

“Well, do you have any better ideas for this story assignment? There’s not much you can write about for the Battle of Oh-Quinoa or whatever.”

“It’s Okinawa,” Kenzie corrected. “The largest island of the Ryukyu chain. This battle was very pivotal, y’know.”

“Yeah, to a history buff like you,” I responded, discouraged by my writer’s block.

“Let me have a go at it,” Kenzie sighed, snatching my notebook from my arms.

“Hey, that’s mi—”

“Okay, so we’re in Japan on May 15, 1945. Let me get into the right mindset…” she rambled on with an intense stare of focus that seemed to tune me out completely. “How about… a romance! This 92 year old woman is sitting alone in her chair. Each day slowly passes by, the never ending loop of time gradually chipping away at her…” she trailed off wistfully with a forlorn look into the distance. I stared at her with a skeptical expression glued to my face. “Then, one day, she receives a letter in the mail. Expecting to open another cable bill, she stumbles across a letter from her long lost husband with the year 1945 scribbled on the cover of the envelope. She opens it to reveal the long forgotten—”

“Um, where is this story going?” I unintentionally blurted out, unable to bear another minute. “I mean, I’m sorry Kenz, but hasn’t that happened in like a thousand movies so far? Nobody wants another love story! It’s so...predictable.”

“Well, sorry if I wanted to add some emotion to your ‘cloud story,’” she argued defensively while crossing her arms to show me she was offended by my reaction.

“The clouds weren’t even the focus of the story! The purpose was that an ever-lasting friendship was going to be born from my character’s untraditional perspective on life!”

“Well it’s definitely untraditional. Who can look at clouds in the middle of battle?! There’s no way that would’ve happened. At least my story is realistic… ”

“C’mon Kenz, if we don’t agree on a topic, we’ll be stuck between pages of different stories forever, and we’ll never finish this assignment.”

“I know that,” she responded, “which is why we should just write my romance story. It’s a perfect war story! It has so much more…” All of a sudden, the history book began to tremble. It began gradually, something I noticed out of the corner of my eye while Kenzie droned on about her argument. I figured it was from the construction down the road, but as the seconds ticked away, it was clear that this was no ordinary shaking. And that this was no ordinary history book.

“Uh, Kenz,” I uttered.

“Not now Riley, I’m in the middle of making a point! So, anyways, if you factor in the time period—”

“The history book! Picture, battle, the picture in the—” I was at a loss for words with all the thoughts racing through my mind.

“What? What are you talking abou—”

“KENZIE, THE BOOK! LOOK OUT!” I screamed. Suddenly, a blinding light pierced through as I felt an extreme stretching come across my entire body. In a matter of seconds, I felt myself plummeting from the sky before I came crashing onto a hard dirt surface.

“Ow…” I winced, rubbing my head with my hand. Without even a second to take in what had just happened, I heard gunshots from nearby.

“What…what happe—”

“Riley! Where are we?!” Kenzie yelled running over to where I was sprawled on the dirt.

“I don’t know! It seems like we landed in some kind of wasteland with guns and a battle or something…” We both made eye contact as we suddenly realized exactly where we had landed.

“Don’t tell me.”

“Kenzie, we got sucked into the book!”

“No! We have to get out of here otherwise we’re gonna miss the rest of lunch!”

“Forget lunch, Kenzie! We have way bigger problems to worry about here! We could be trapped in here forever! We don’t even have a clue about how we got here, never mind how we’re going to return home.” Disoriented, I searched around for a door, a magic symbol, or anything that looked out of the ordinary. However, all I managed to find were some lumps that looked sort of like bodies in the distance. At least we were lucky enough to have landed away from the fighting. We were still close enough to hear (and smell) the battle, but not so close that we had to avoid any stray bullets. Suddenly a sound of something familiar blared louder than the gunshots around us. A school bell was ringing from every direction.

“Okay, class. Grab a paper on your way in,” a voice blared.

“Is that Ms. Sinclair’s voice?” I asked.

“Yeah, it is. And I think I can hear some of our classmates, too!” Random conversations began flooding through the sounds of the battle.

“Did you do the homework last night?” asked a girl.

“I can’t believe I forgot my lunch today!” a boy shouted.

“Don’t you think Kenzie is, like, really annoying?” asked another voice from the sky.

“Oh yeah totally,” someone else agreed.

“Hey!!” Kenzie shouted while waving her fist at the sky.

“Stay focused, Kenz,” I reminded her. “The fact that we can still hear the class means we must be really close. If we can figure out a way to—”

“Ms. Sinclair! This random history book is on my desk.”

We heard footsteps walking over to the kid’s desk. “Hmm, well that’s not one of mine. Oh my, it looks so outdated and tattered.” Kenzie and I listened nervously with a gut feeling we knew what was about to happen next. “Why don’t you throw this one in the trash. I don’t think anyone can make much use of it anymore.”

“No no no no no NO NO NO!!” we shouted.

Kenzie and I looked at each other with the same terrified expression. “Well, now I guess we really are stuck between pages of stories.”

Working the Nine to Five

By Megan McHugh (2020)

On the morning of July 30, 1930, Jimmy Hughes started his day the very same way he had for the past 11 months. First, he would drag his limp, malnourished body out of his ‘bed’. He used that term loosely. In reality his bed was a couple of blankets piled on the floor up against the fire. Next, he would tug on his muddy work boots that were practically bonded to his feet at this point. His morning had become so routine over the past year that he could be up and out the door in under five minutes. It also helped that he never had to change out of the one outfit he owned. Jimmy’s next step was to brush his teeth and wash his face, which was always a gamble because his running water was never guaranteed to him.

As he made the 13-step walk towards the sink, he sniffed his armpits, grimaced, and kept moving. He couldn’t help his putrid body odor. He preferred to drink the small ration of water he had rather than bathe in it. His raw and calloused hand turned the faucet, which let out 1,2,3,4 drops of water, then went dry.

“Christ,” he said, throwing his arms up into the air in frustration. “Is the whole damn country out of water these days?” He glanced at his wrist watch, which read 8:42. He was running late, and had to be at the drug store soon if he wanted a spot. He grabbed a leftover piece of bread from the night before and his hat and tweed coat as he ran out the door.

He typically left with plenty of time to enjoy the scenic walk there, but this morning he was forced to run in order to be punctual. He was used to the pathetic sights on the streets in Philadelphia by now he knew better than to stare. The homeless living in boxes in alley ways, young children abandoned by their parents, and once in a while, the body of a fellow American starved to death. These things no longer phased or surprised Jimmy Hughes. After all, it was the Depression, and nobody was immune to the horrors that came with it.

He turned the corner onto Fifth Avenue, and nearly tackled an elderly man carrying a basket of meats. For a brief moment, he contemplated stealing the poor man’s food, after all, he had a longer life to live than the old man. I should be ashamed of myself, he thought. The old Jimmy Hughes would have given that helpless man food not stolen it! He couldn’t help his devious thoughts. Times were tough and he was desperate. There was no time to linger upon his thoughts. He had finally reached James’ drug store and there was work to be done.

There were three other men and two young boys who had arrived before him, each of them in distressed denim jeans and torn hand-me-down jackets. They noticed him approaching, and began heckling him before he could reach the sidewalk.

“Hey, listen buddy we don’t got no more room for you here. Go find some place else,” said one of the men, who was lighting a cigarette for one of the young boys.

“I’m not the one who’s been staying past my welcome,” Jimmy uttered, keeping his pace as he moved towards the drug store. “I know Mr. James told you to get lost last week yet here ya are again. You’re nothing but a beggin’ street rat.”

The man shook his head, lit his own cigarette, and stepped aside to let Jimmy pass through. Jimmy walked through the middle of the group, and before walking inside, grabbed the cigarette from the boy’s lip.

“You’re way too young to be usin’ smokes,” he said, as he placed the half-used cigarette into his mouth.

Once inside, Jimmy Hughes headed straight for the counter at the back of the store. He was looking for the owner, Mr. James Conrad. James was an older man, but he was anything but stupid. He knew he was unable to protect his store all by his lonesome. James’ store was in ruins, having been looted time and time again by the hungry and desperate people of Philadelphia. That was where Jimmy and the boys came in. In exchange for a small meal and a canteen of water per day, they were to protect the store from another robbery.

“Jimmy! It’s great to see you again, son. What can I do ya for?” asked Mr. Conrad, who was sipping on a cup of piping hot black coffee as he read the morning newspaper.

“I was hoping you had room for one more man today,” Jimmy said, nervous to meet his glance due to his unusual tardiness.

“Well you know I want to give it to you, Jim, but as you can see my spots have already been filled for today. Come back earlier tomorrow,” he said, as he adjusted his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“But sir, I’ve been workin’ for you everyday now since January. I’ve never caused you any trouble. Please, can’t you let me work today?” Jimmy implored, this time, unafraid of James’ forgiving gaze.

“Well, alright. Just this once, I suppose. Don’t you dare be late again or you’ll have to find somewhere else to work,” he said, rising from his stool behind the counter.

“I won’t let you down,” he said, as he shook Mr. Conrad’s hand and headed out the door to greet his peers for the day.

He took a deep breath in and felt the July humidity in the air. It was thick and muggy, but he knew he’d better enjoy the summer heat before the winter hit and froze the city over. The men didn’t bother to look up at him, which Jimmy didn’t mind. So long as I make it through the day I’ll have dinner for another night, he thought to himself. He assumed the same position he had for the past seven months, which was in the dead center of the group. Nobody said a word, there’s no time for small talk when you have a job to do.

The streets were especially quiet and lifeless that day, it had been two hours since someone had passed by the storefront. It was now 5:00 p.m. sharp, and the boys had to get home to their mothers before it got dark.

“Then there were four,” one of the men said as he glanced around, making sure we were alone.

“We’ll take the old guy while you two grab all you can,” he said, rolling up his sleeves to reveal multiple sores and bruises.

“What in the hell are you doing!” Jimmy screamed, as he lunged in front of the door to block their entryway.

“We work all damn day for this guy and what do we get? Huh? A measly slice of bread and a can of soup? I’ve got a wife and two kids to feed, man. I’m gonna need a little more than that,” he said, his face so close to Jimmy’s he could smell the ale on his breath.

Jimmy had to think, and think fast. If I let them by, I’ll never forgive myself. But if I don’t… The men began to kick at his shins and shove him, but he would not budge.

“Why don’t you let me go inside and talk to him. I’m sure he’d be willing to help out a couple hard working men like yourselves,” Jimmy said, as he felt his sweaty fingers slide against the door frame.

“Fine,” one of them said. “But make it quick.”

The men backed off, and Jimmy turned his back to the mob to talk to Mr. James. As he did so, he heard a loud grunting sound and felt a pair of burly hands on his shoulders. One of the men tackled him, pinned him to the cold tile floor and covered his mouth to muffle his cries for help. There was nothing he could do. He was forced to watch as the two men attacked James and ransacked his store. After a few minutes, the deed was done. Everything was gone, which wasn’t much to begin with. The men left and began running down the street, stepping over their two victims in their path.

Jimmy immediately rose to his feet and knelt down by James’ side. He didn’t seem to be hurt too bad, only a few scratches and scuffs from the soles of their shoes.

“Sir, what can I do?” Jimmy asked, as he locked hands with Mr. James to help him up.

“Just promise me you’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, bending down to pick up his shattered glasses. Jimmy nodded, patted James on the back, and headed for the door. Shaking his head as he approached the door, he flipped the store sign to ‘Closed’, and was on his way.

The Ring

Erin Strike (2019)

I’ve been married on eight different occasions, twice to the same person. You may say I have a bit of a reputation, naturally drawing the media to me, therefore I was able to make a name for myself. My first was in 32 BC. Roman senator Mark Antony gathered all of his wealth to search for the most expensive jewel to be found, me. I knew it would start trouble when he started to ignore the problems of Rome, divorced his wife, then spent all of his riches on the perfect diamond ring for the Queen of Egypt. He then famously proposed to Cleopatra and the nuptials began.

It was a large wedding; all of Egypt attended. The Romans, still weary of Antony and not approving of the wedding, they left the Roman gods to doom the marriage. Although many sacrifices were made to Egyptian gods, it is fabled Jupiter, the Roman king of the gods, along with Venus, the goddess of love, cursed the marriage from its start. Cleopatra was taken hostage by the Roman people, cursing Antony herself, and she threw me into the Mediterranean Sea, not to be seen again for 1500 years.

Off the coast of Spain, a ship began to sink. While faithfully serving the Spanish crown, this crew’s destiny was sealed. The ship was going under. One man, Samuel, had begun to lose all hope. That is, until he saw a glimmer in the water. It wasn’t just a reflection, but something more. Using every bit of strength, Samuel swam to grab the ring he saw. He would not give up hope. He had to get to shore. He was no expert on jewelry, but he knew, this ring would leave him and generations to come the ability to live comfortably.

After almost six hours of tireless swimming, Samuel reached the coast of Spain. He was close to death, freezing, and exhausted. He stayed the night at an inn and in the morning, he planned to find a man who could give him gold in exchange for the ring. With a wife and two kids at home, he would’ve liked that money.

Although I was thankful to be saved, I was happy he dropped me on that carriage to Madrid. He felt someone else deserved me more. The ring shouldn’t have been sold for money, but for love. And just like that, I was on my way to a castle. Glimmering in the sun, the aging king caught sight of me, and I was to be married again. The King took me as a sign. He presented me to his oldest son who then presented me to the Princess of Wales.

The marriage lasted two weeks. Shortly after the marriage was consummated, the Spanish prince died, but the Princess of Wales was determined. She claimed the marriage was never a true one. After much convincing and lying, she married his brother in order to maintain power in Spain. She refused to return to her country, where she would live powerless. In Spain, she could be married comfortably to a handsome prince and live a long life.

Her sins soon caught up with her and yet again, her husband died, but this time she could not lie her way out of it. Still young, she was forced to return to her home country, never to be married again. This was not before she left me by the younger brother’s grave, the one she believed she truly loved. She didn’t really love him, though; she just loved the power he brought into her life.

It wasn’t until 1797 when I arrived at a Polish market and experienced real, true love. I was for sale for five złoty , and not for long. Almost as soon as I was put on the table for sale, I was bought. It was a poor Jewish man who had been looking for a ring for months. A beautiful ring for that cheap wouldn’t be for sale long. This man brought it home and proposed to his wife. With a simple “I do,” they were married and raised a happy family. It was a simple lifestyle, nothing too decadent, except for me.

I was passed down through generations, until a man aged twenty-five received me in September of 1939. With his Jewish ancestry, the man named Seth was a target for the Nazis. While planning to propose to his long-time girlfriend Leah, he was unfortunately apprehended and then transported to a concentration camp called Auschwitz, but not before I was gifted to Leah and quick vows were exchanged.

At the gates, I was taken, but not without a fight. Leah refused to let me go. Until her last dying breath, Leah defended me. She was shot in the head for her attempts. I was tossed in a pile with the other precious metals, to either be sold, or to be melted down to be used as a weapon. It seemed my legacy was over.

One of the commanding officers was searching through the pile, and once again, I drew a greedy man’s attention. Like Seth, he had a girlfriend at home who he planned to marry. Before the war was over, the man, Alaric, proposed to his love. She happily accepted and were married a little less than a year later. After Germany officially lost the war, many Nazi officers were put on trial, including Alaric. His wife was horrified and couldn’t stand to be around her husband anymore. She divorced him and quickly fled to America. She had hopes of pawning me off for money to start a new life. She was always accustomed to luxury, and at a steep price of $700,000, she learned I was worth a lot more than she thought.

I sat in a store for about thirty years believing I would never be married again. That was until a rich man came in one day saying he had heard of me, the fabled 33.19 carat ring. He purchased me, full price, to be given to his bride-to-be. I could tell the woman was infatuated, but not in love. I had gathered they were both married to different people before they worked on a film set together. They engaged in an affair and each of them divorced their spouses to be married to each other.

During the duration of their marriage, the woman, Audrey, involved herself in a lot of philanthropy. Her abundance of money allowed her to focus on current issues. It was 1989 and the AIDS crisis was, as she saw it, one of the biggest issues of her lifetime. She started a foundation to provide support and care to those dying of the incurable disease.

Her foundation became a safe haven for all of those personally impacted. She became close with one particular gay couple. Their names were Drew and Mike. As their friendship developed, Drew’s condition became worse. He became sick and weak, almost unable to function, and was eventually given two weeks to live. Mike stood by him every second of his pain. Audrey glanced at me. A beautiful, expensive, piece of jewelry. But I wasn’t just that. I was supposed to represent true love. Her and her husband didn’t have that. Mike and Drew did.

Audrey divorced her husband, and kept me. Although marriage was not yet legal for her friends, she gifted me to them. Shortly after she had given me, Drew passed on. I was buried with him, never to be married again. I was happy. I had seen it all, from the early societies to the modern world; I witnessed bravery and true, genuine love which construct the stories that make our history what we know it.

Smoke

Tara Nigro (2018)

Windows were shattering, doors were slamming, children were crying, and parents were screaming. The usually quiet, small village of Pilzno, Poland, was now a madhouse. Deep voices yelled orders while horrific sounds of beating and fighting followed. A man in black with a flashing red armband kicked down the last locked door at the end of the street. The house was still, and seemingly empty. He muttered a laugh, and whammed his baton into his hand over and over again. With each hit came a deafening echo in the silent house. “You can’t hide from us!!” the man yelled, “We WILL find you, you dirty Jews!” More men in uniform continued to follow into the house, ripping apart the furniture and checking every crevice big enough to fit a mouse. As they ripped off the curtains of a window, a lady wailed a deafening scream, and thrashed out in all directions. Men tackled her, and put a burlap sack over her head to muffle her outcries. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you the Nazi’s were coming for you?” the man holding her down said with a twisted chuckle.

From under a dusty old bench, a little boy watched on. His knees were pulled tight to his chest, and his left cheek was glued to the ground. Tears welled in his brown eyes as he clasped his hand over his mouth to deaden his sobs. He watched as the men in black tortured his mom, knowing he was far too small to save her. The yelling of a new man’s voice broke her screams and his thoughts. “Hanna! Hanna!!” the little boy’s dad yelled as he ran over to the scene. The boy let his sobs go, but they were now drowned out by his dad’s.

“Oskar help me! Help me!!” Hanna yelled, as her husband was taken down by more foreign men. The little boy closed his eyes, and after a few more smacks and grunts, all fell silent. His mom’s soft voice and the low vibrations of his dad’s now only remained in his memory. He peered through the cracks in his fingers, originally shielding his eyes from the nightmare. He saw the swift movements of tall men dragging two heavy masses out the door, and then all was gone.

The little boy waited until his muscles cramped up from being confined for so long, and only then did he peel himself out of his hiding spot. He walked to where he last saw his parents, and looked down at his wrist. A braided, blue rope was tied around his brown skin. Attached was a metal plate, with the word “LEO” and a small picture of a fire engraved on it. His mom made it especially for him, for she was always scared the two of them would get separated. She always used to say if he got lost, to run away from any fire or smoke he saw. To them, fire was danger. Leo threw on a dark green, knitted cap his dad made for him, and set off to find safety. He didn’t know exactly where he would go, but with his mom on his wrist and his dad on his head, he believed he would be guided to safety. Even at his young age of six, Leo knew he couldn’t stay where he was and simply wait for something to happen.

Leo peered out his front door, and was relieved to find the entire neighborhood was completely still. To his left was the long road of his street, battered with broken houses. Across from him was a small, brick house with shattered windows and smashed hanging plants. To his right was dark woods. Just barely over the trees, Leo noticed something moving. He squinted to get a closer look, and saw black, dancing vapor. Smoke. Leo always heard from his parent’s conversations through the woods was the Belzec extermination camp. Leo understood his parents didn’t want him to know about this place, so he kept it to himself and asked no questions. He also didn’t know what the words meant, but concluded Belzec was a very bad place. That’s why the woods were forbidden to him. He took a deep breath of courage and started down his road. He wanted away from Belzec, away from the woods, and away from the smoke.

Leo walked down his road, through the town center, and through some trees, until he eventually hit a river. The whole time, he was sure to keep the smoke behind him. When he got to the river, he remembered his family trips to his Grandpa’s house. They always drove along a river to get there. Leo decided to follow the river upstream, as they did to Grandpa’s house, and eventually he would recognize his surroundings. Grandpa would know what to do. Leo trekked and trekked, making periodic stops to find the smoke of Belzec, and never going towards it. After many miles, his legs were becoming heavy, his mouth was dry, and his eyelids were drooping. A loud, sudden rumble broke his daze, and became more intense second by second. The rumble was familiar to Leo, and he recognized the sound of a train. He ran up the hill to his right, and was greeted by a giant, wooden train station. The boy scoped out his surroundings, and the smoke was behind him while the train tracks were in front. To his left was the train station and stopped train that had just arrived, and a few feet to his right were two ladies cuddled up next to a destroyed, brick pillar.

The women had on long skirts and jackets, and were both quaking. The lady in the front’s piercing eyes were full of tears, and they slowly shifted up to meet Leo’s gaze. “A boy,” she said in a dazed manner, as she pointed her old, bony finger at him. Leo took a step back, but the lady pushed to her feet, quicker than Leo thought she was capable of. Her companion also sat up, smiling, showing off her grey teeth. “Are you lost, sweetie?” the old lady asked, spitting through the holes in her smile. She twisted the end of her words up, and spoke in a stretched out manner.

“N-no,” Leo responded, not doing a good job covering up his nerves, although he tried.

“I do not mean to scare you, darling,” she responded slowly, as her greasy, silver hair fell in front of her eyes. “What are you doing out here alone?”

“I’m searching for something that’s lost,” Leo responded, trying to not give away too much information about himself.

“You should not be out here alone,” she responded.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“So the Nazi’s... They got to your family, too?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know. I just know. Our brother… he was taken,” said the lady, wincing and looking down at the word taken. Leo was glad her menacing gaze was now shifted elsewhere. Her eyes were like ice and were impossible to look away from. Leo looked at the ground, not knowing how to respond.

The other old lady emerged from behind his approacher, and spoke in the same, painful, drawn-out manner. “It is not safe out here for a little boy like you,” she droned. The wrinkles around her eyeballs made them seem nonexistent. Her headscarf was a lilac purple, and was the only colorful thing about her. “We… We will guide you to safety!” she said and outreached an unsteady, veiny hand. Leo thought for a quick second, and decided he would be safer with the companion of an adult. He reached to the ghostly hand, and held lightly onto two of the fingers. “This way to my Grandpa, please,” Leo led.

“What is this,” the original woman said, stealing Leo’s hat off of his head out of pure curiosity. “I just love this color and this pattern of yarn!” she said, examining it carefully while her nose twitched.

“Hey give that back!! My dad made me that!!” Leo yelled, releasing the other woman from his tiny hand. His face turned red hot. He was ready to pounce any minute. Leo couldn’t bare to lose something so dear to his heart.

The woman gave it one last look and handed it back over. “I am sorry. I enjoy looking at things I like. I like that hat, my dear. Now, let us go find Grandpa.” Leo suddenly felt uneasy; he wanted to be as far away from the two old women as possible. Leo snatched his hat back out of her hand, and sprinted away from their selfless safety with no warning at all.

As Leo bolted away, the two shrunken old ladies looked at each other puzzled. “Our little boy!” one said to the other, “He’s gone!”

“I wonder what was wrong… I just wanted to help him,” the other responded with a weak sigh. The two ladies looked at each other, and began to deeply weep once again. Their kind hope of helping Leo faded away, and the thoughts of their old, stolen family flooded back.

Leo sprinted and sprinted away from his feeling of danger, and headed towards the train station. He stopped just far enough where he knew the old souls could not make it in time to follow him. He looked ahead at the towering train station, now just a few meters away. It was made of splintering, brown wood, and the thickening black smoke was now to the left of him.

Leo was turning to head back to his river, to his home ground, when all of a sudden a large body jumped down from the front door of the station. When the male turned to face Leo, his left arm was exposed. Leo noticed the familiar sight of a flaunting red armband, and his heart dropped into his stomach. It was the same uniform that haunted his home just hours ago. “Hey little boy!” the man shouted, even though they were close enough to just whisper. “Get in the train,” he bluntly commanded with a tiny, twisted smile, and clutched Leo by the arm.

Leo tried to run, but the man’s grip was so tight it would leave bruises on his arm for weeks. Leo hollered and thrashed in every way possible, but the man still dragged him along the side of the train effortlessly, as Leo was far too weak to give him even a tiny fight. It was helpless, and Leo was pulled all the way to the front car, where he was viciously thrown in. The last thing Leo saw was the word Belzec, the destination plastered on the top of the train.

La Maison du Pain

Sydney Martin (2018)

The house was the same as when she had left it. The long strands of ivy had continued to claw their way up the stones of the home. The backyard lay ridden with weeds, accompanied by some ancient farming equipment that lay scattered about. The sun’s rays fell softly upon her face, but as she tipped her chin to the sky, she felt no warmth.

Her heart began to sink as she detected the scent of fresh bread on a southern breeze that blew her hair out from under her large, black hat. The hat fell to hover over the arch of her brow, obscuring her dark green eyes. The woman’s footsteps had indeed begun to feel heavier, as if a weight had fallen upon her shoulders.

She could just imagine her mother standing over the hot stove with beads of sweat on her upper lip, as she assessed the state of her bread. Her father would be sitting behind her, his forearms resting on the kitchen table, and a hand would balance a cigar neatly between his fingertips. Her mother would scold him for smoking in the kitchen, but then her sister would drift through the open door. She would be the one to ease the growing tension. The girl’s soft laugh would dance around their parents and result in the ceasing of the argument.

The woman stopped, her black boots now splattered with mud from the garden she hadn’t realized she had trampled. Her mother’s cabbages lay smeared in dirt and the bean stocks had been snapped. Her sister must be gone by now; married off to a wealthy man no doubt. The thought of facing her parents without her sister as a buffer made her want to spin around right then and set off back towards the Crossed Sail, her ship. Unfortunately, she knew that if she ran now she would never look back.

As the woman came upon the door, her thoughts became scarce and she raised her hand in a fist. A woman’s humming filtering through the opened window was the only sound in the silence the woman had brought with her. She brought her hand to the door once, a loud bang echoed through the yard as well as her heart. The sound of footsteps on the house’s creaking floors came towards her and she braced herself. She wanted to tug her night-black cloak tight around her, but she was not weak, so she straightened her back and set her jaw. Although her hands remained clamped at her sides, her nails dug so far into her palm that she felt a bit of blood trickle down to land on the steps of her home. The door was wrenched open from the other side and her breath left her faster than a blow to the chest.

The man who had opened the door was not her father, and when she peered behind him she found that the woman baking behind him was not her mother. The man was young, maybe only a few years older than her. She saw the confusion in the way his lips were drawn and his eyes had narrowed. “I am sorry,” he spoke carefully, as though she were going to draw a sword on him, “but I believe you may have the wrong address.”

He had spoken in English though this was France, most likely because she appeared to be a foreigner. He moved so that he was blocking the doorway, the woman hidden from view. Her heart felt as though it were going to cleave apart. Without even thinking, she reached blindly for the mask she had been wearing for far longer than a decade. The arrogance and entitlement settled deep into her bones and this time she would not let it fall so easily. She was not the same girl who had run away and it was time this town knew that.

“Oui, Monsieur,” she answered the man in French, “Je suis desolee.” He only nodded and retreated quickly, the door slamming a few inches from her nose. The woman blew a short breath out from her mouth in frustration, and turned her back on the house she had grown up in.

Her fleet was waiting in the port at Normandy, but she had left a few of the crew that had accompanied her in the center of the town. Her feet began to lead her back through the overgrown yard, and back to the cobblestone street. Her shoulders were not slumped, because she refused to admit defeat. If there was one thing in this world she knew how to do, it was how to get answers.

Most of the streets lay uncrowded, though a few men dwindled around park benches. Some nodded at her, with a tip of their hat, their expressions wary. This was the reason for her clothes and hat; she did not want any person to know of her true identity. It was not just the fact that she was a female that she was trying so hard to hide. There was a weathered, brick building directly ahead, and she was just able to make out a wanted sign that read,

Wanted: ‘King of Pirates’

Location: Unknown

No Available Picture

Reward: 50 Million Francs

The woman smirked. The King of Pirates was a slippery creature; no one ever knew where they would show up next, and by the time they realized, their port would have already been ransacked. Her heart always sped up when she saw those posters, and she could have sworn that the reward increased on each one.

She came upon the pub where she had left her crew. It was a small, wooden building that stood with a slant to it. The door’s red paint was peeling, and there were some large chunks of wood that had been taken out; most likely from a raid. She shook her head, recalling the amount of raids she, herself, had led after her departure from this town. She trotted down the cement stairs where hundreds of feet had passed. Her hand grasped the brass door handle and she pushed it open.

The thick smoke was choking. There were plumes of it resting above the heads of the pub’s customers. Her vision swam from it, but she managed to make out four figures at the bar, each with the insignia of an emerald sea dragon on the sleeves of their loose, linen shirts. Out of instinct she pulled on the brim of her hat, hiding her face from the crowd through which she pushed. Men were rolling dice, and in varying stages of intoxication. A waitress crossed her path, and their shoulders collided. She grabbed the waitress’s arm and spun her around. The girl’s eyes grew wide at her display of strength.

“Let me go!” Her eyes betrayed fear, but her voice held only conviction. That voice. The woman released her grip on the girl’s upper arm.

Her own voice wavered, but she managed to say, “Genevieve.”

The girl looked up, peering under the black hat, her face slack with shock, “Adeline.”

They held each others gazes for a few moments more before Genevieve broke the silence, “It’s been years since I’ve seen you. You’ve changed.” She indicated Adeline’s black attire, so different from her own rose colored dress.

That was when Adeline took in Genevieve’s stance as well as her clothing. Her sister’s dress was ripped into shreds of fabric and her shoulders were hunched as though she were a rabbit in a fox hole. Adeline felt only an ounce of pity for her sister in that moment. “Genevieve, I came back to explain. I came back to say that I’m so sorry,” Adeline made her voice break on the last word.

Her crew had now turned from their places at the bar counter. Their faces held no signs as to their thoughts on their captain’s show of emotion. They had most likely already guessed at the game she was playing. “I understand Adeline. You can’t undo the past, but I appreciate you coming home.” Her eyes held so much light, and hope, as if she expected Adeline to save her.

Adeline almost choked at the amount of emotion between them. She didn’t know what to do, so she simply motioned for her sister to sit down across from her, at the table that lay to her right. Her crew had turned back to their drinks, but she could see that Galen, her first mate, was only partly focused on the glass in front of him. He was monitoring her every movement, and scanning those around her. She knew that if anyone raised a problem for her, Galen would have them up against a wall before she even needed to utter a single word. “Tell me everything,” Adeline demanded of her younger sister.

“Well, I got married.” She tried to smile, but it turned to be more of a grimace, “to Antoine LaTerre.”

Adeline blanched. Antoine was to be her betrothed, before her desertion. Then again, he was the reason for it. Antoine was a sadist. The only thing that had brought him joy at the time of their engagement had been the idea of him taking away her freedom, because he knew that that was her greatest love on this earth. The night she had snuck out of her bedroom window, the night of her wedding, had been a few hours after she had told Antoine that her virtue was no longer intact. He had lost his temper, and she had been anticipating it. When he had come at her, her knife had been ready. She had slipped it out of her sleeve and thrust the blade into his shoulder. His cry of outrage had rung in her ears every night for the following year-her only lullaby.

After that, she had bounced between ships posing as a young boy. Until she stumbled upon a pirate’s ship and was mentored by the ship’s captain. Her skills eventually became unparalleled to any other pirate she met. Her talent with a sword, navigation, and war were unmatched. Then her identity as a woman had been discovered and she had almost been thrown off of the ship in the middle of the Atlantic. Instead, because her mentor had become fond of her, he had given her a rowboat from the side of his ship, two oars, and the clothes on her back. His last words to her had been, “Let the stars be your guide, the ocean be your ally, and you will find your way.” She had been sixteen at the time.

The memories had come back in a flash. Her gender had always been her greatest weakness. Now, Genevieve was shackled to the most horrid man in France. He did not hold any respect for any woman. Then, she thought of one aspect of her sister’s statement that made no sense. “Genevieve, Antoine is a wealthy man. Why are you working here?” Adeline indicated the tattered room and it’s occupants.

“It’s my punishment, for a week.” Her eyes held no anger, only resolve. “I spoke out of turn and Antoine needs obedience.”

“Is he insane?! That man cannot give you a punishment for speaking!” Adeline clenched the arms of her chair, her nails digging into the wood. She pushed back from the table, her chair flying into the back of a man sitting directly behind her. The impact sent his cards flying from his hands to the floor.

“Adeline, please calm down!” Genevieve’s milky brown eyes had widened to saucers, “Please, don’t make a scene.”

Indeed the man whose cards she had disrupted had begun glaring and his partner rose from their table, cracking his knuckles. For once, she wished she could blend in. For some reason she always attracted a fight. Galen had already begun to walk towards her, her three other crew members fanned out behind him.

“Where are you living? Are Mama and Papa with you?” She flicked her wrist to free the blade that was up the arm of her shirt.

“Yes, I can give you the address.” Genevieve’s eyes were wary, she saw the fight brewing too, but her demeanor was nothing but calm. She took a pen from her apron and wrote a number and street on a small piece of parchment. “I would take you there,” Genevieve spoke, “but I have to finish my shift.” Her gaze flitted over to the bartender, whose eyes were already on the brewing fight, his eyes held only hunger at the prospect of violence.

Adeline grinned, “Give me one moment to fix that.” She pocketed the directions and spun just as the man’s fist came at her jaw, but she was already ducking. Her knife slashed at the side of his exposed calf. He gasped and went to knee her in the stomach with his other leg, but she had already rolled to the side and to her feet; now behind him. Before he could turn, she bashed the back of his skull with her knife and he dropped to the floor like a stone.

His partner, the one whose cards she had knocked from his hands, came at her but she simply grabbed him by the throat, her thumb and middle finger successfully cutting off his airway. The mans hands grappled with her own, his attempt to free himself was feeble. Then Galen was there. He had come up from behind her attacker. She released him. Right as the man started to fall to the floor, Galen brought his sword to the man’s throat.

Adeline wiped her bloodied knife on her leg and slipped it back into her sleeve as she stepped over the unconscious man and towards the bar. Her saunter was as familiar as breathing, this character had been created the night she had fled this town. Her character never heard the word no, she was never bested, and her arrogance was proof of this. The bartender's mouth had dropped open, the glass he had been wiping lay forgotten in his sweaty hands. The rest of the bar had gone eerily quiet, all eyes were on her and her crew. “I would like an oceanic,” she recited her favorite drink, as she wiped the blood from her hands on a napkin in front of her.

The bartender stiffly made her drink, his eyes rarely straying from her, this deadly creature that had walked into his bar. She could see the confusion and apprehension in his eyes as clearly as if she could read his thoughts. He was wondering how a woman could be such a monster and why should he be afraid of her. She was just a woman. Adeline had encountered hundreds of men like this in the years she had been absent from this town.

He leaned over the counter to place her drink in front of her. Then his eyes snapped up to stare at something over her shoulder. Keela stood there. Her grin was like that of a feline’s. Her arms were crossed, but it was to her hands that the man’s eyes were drawn to. She wore sets of iron nails over each of her fingers. The tips were each the length of her pinkie finger and they had been sharpened to pinpricks. This weapon had been a design of Adeline’s, and she now preferred them to a sword because of their freedom of movement. The bartender seemed to be at a loss for words. The girl was one of Adeline’s favorite members of her crew. Keela’s ruthlessness reflected her own and the two often had much fun laying waste to various cities and ports together.

“Now,” she threw back the liquid, tinged a light blue, “let us talk of my sister Genevieve. She is to never work here ever again. You are never to look at her again, let alone speak to her. Do you understand?”

“But, Antoine-” The bartender managed to get those two words out before Keela had reached across the counter, those iron nails clasped around his throat.

She smiled sweetly, “What was that?”

The man tried to nod, but the soft skin of his neck was penetrated by Keela’s nails. As the dark blood began to drip onto his shirt, Keela spoke “I will take that as an indication of your understanding, and,” she paused, her nails sinking deeper, “your discretion.”

The man’s eyes widened a fraction, the only way of communication he had. With a nod from Adeline, she released him and stepped back to her Captain’s shoulder. The bartender grasped at his bleeding neck with a napkin. He winced in pain, as the paper turned to red. Adeline turned from him to her sister, who gaped at her and the mess she had made. “Go home, and tell our parents that I’m on my way.” The Captain in Adeline was speaking. Giving orders was second nature to her.

Genevieve, body trembling, rose as gracefully as she could from her seat and gathered her skirt in her shaking hand. She gave a simple nod and ran for the door, nearly tripping over the raised threshold. The door shut with a bang.

“Alright,” Rowan, her weapons master called to the crowd, “go back to your drinks and cards. No one speaks of this! Understood?” All heads nodded and their eyes retreated back to the cards in front of them. The clicking of dice hitting the tops of the tables was more prominent than when Adeline had first entered the bar.

Her crew gathered to her and Rowan handed her an envelope, “News from the fleet,” his voice cold.

“Good, I see that Severin managed to make it out quietly,” she spoke carefully, for there were many ears in the bar.

This had been the reason for her pushing her chair into the man behind her, no one could notice Severin leave, especially her sister. It was better if she believed that all four crew members had been in the bar the entire time. Adeline could not risk any loose ends, no matter how small.

“Yes Captain,” Rowan confirmed, his blue eyes meeting hers. They could have been cut from ice, for they were so cold.

“Now,” she turned to Galen, “did you visit the police department as well as the bank and give them my letters?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “though I am very curious as to how this will all play out.”

“As am I,” The Captain looked at Galen, then Rowan, and then Keela, “As am I.” Adeline ripped open the envelope and read the neat words printed upon the parchment within. Her eyes narrowed at the information received. “Rowan, this is from the infiltrated ships?” Adeline questioned her weapons master.

“Yes, Captain, the colors are ready to be flown on your command.” His hands were clasped behind his back, his stance one of complete discipline.

“Consider this my order. I want them alerted immediately. Are we positive that the two fleets belong to them?” Her entire plan rested on this; she refused to make a single mistake.

It was Keela who answered, “Severin made sure that his mission did not fail. This information is all straight from the horse’s mouth, Captain.”

“His spying was quite remarkable,” Galen added to the discussion as he drew his cloak around his shoulders in preparation to leave.

Adeline simply dipped her chin in agreement, “I have to go to the house, and Rowan you’re coming with me. Keela, you will stay with Galen and trail us.” She added, “Make sure it’s at a distance.”

“Yes, Captain,” Galen stated with a salute of two fingers to his brow. Keela replicated the motion and winked. Following her orders, Keela and Galen waited before following her and Rowan from the bar. Once they had stepped back onto the street, she released a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. The air was fresh and clean. She stared longingly in the direction of the northern bay. She could have sworn she detected one of her ships’ sails, but it was most likely a passing cloud.

“Captain?” Rowan asked more tentatively than she thought him capable of. Adeline met his eyes and smiled. Her straight, white teeth shone brightly for she was happy. Rowan smiled back, another shock to her. Adeline turned in the direction of the street her sister had written down; and they began their walk.

The house was large enough to be deemed a manor. The street leading up to it was decorated with perfectly shaped trees and bushes, no doubt clipped to grow that way, nature manipulated by man. This was why she preferred the sea; no matter how hard one pushed against the current, it would never yield. The tall white pillars seemed to rise to touch the clouds, but she refused to be intimidated. She felt Rowan beside her as he brushed her shoulder with his own.

She reached the front door. Unlike when she had visited her old house, she was not going to be coming from the back door. Adeline clenched the handle on the door and knocked it against the wood of the door three times. This time she felt no fear at the sound of footsteps. It was Genevieve who opened the door. “Come in,” her voice did not shake. “They are in the kitchen.”

Genevieve looked Rowan over from head to toe. Her eyes strayed to his silvery-blond hair, before she returned her attention to her sister. As Adeline stepped into the spacious foyer, all of the white marble so different to the wood she was used to, the smell of bread wafted to her nose. Her mother was baking her famous bread; old habits had clearly remained the same. She followed Genevieve into the kitchen, and at the sight of her mother bent over the stove, and her father smoking a cigar, she felt farther from home than ever. Her home had become the sea, her fleet, and her crew. Adeline knew that this visit was crucial but she yearned to flee again.

“Stefan,” her mother chastised, “you musn’t get those ashes near my bread.”

“Oh hush, Victoire!” her father snapped, but before he could continue, he spotted his daughter in the doorway. She had changed into loose brown pants with matching boots and a white shirt. The clothes befitting a civilian, not a wealthy pirate.

“Well, what do we have here?” her father mocked as he stood from his chair.

Her mother spun from the stove, her hand moved to rest over her heart, “Good Heavens!”

“Bonjour Mere, Pere,” she spoke in French in an attempt to appease them, but from her father’s glare, and her mother’s sigh, she could tell that was useless.

“You ran away,” her father growled at her. “Like a coward, you ran, and on the day of your wedding! I was going to send men after you, but then Antoine informed me of the state of your virtue.” He scoffed then, “I decided that you were better off dead, for there was no way to marry you off then.” It was then that Adeline noticed the two other men in the room along with her family. One was Antoine whose face held a permanent snarl, but the other was unfamiliar; his dark clothes looked like that of a pirate’s. Then she noticed a red insignia of a raven on his shoulder, a pirate indeed.

Genevieve had slunk off to the other side of the kitchen. Adeline, reminding herself of who she was, moved to take a seat at the table, across from her father, completely ignoring the company in the room. She crossed her arms, and leaned back, the movement purely masculine. “I am not here for apologies. I have not the patience for such formalities.” She waved her hand for emphasis, “I’m here to explain.” Her father scoffed again and sat down. Her mother, though, had frozen.

“Oh, Mother, did you not tell him?” Adeline feigned surprise.

“Tell me what?” Her father’s eyes narrowed as he turned from her to her mother. The woman’s eyes remained fixed on the opposite wall. “I am not your daughter.” Her statement fell like a stone upon her family’s ears. Genevieve’s sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the kitchen.

“When Mother was younger, she fell in love with a sailor,” Adeline began the story. The pure joy was hard to keep from her voice. “They were set to be wed, until Mother found that his fishing had turned to pillaging. The man had become a pirate. She decided that this was not a life she could lead, so she broke off the engagement, and she married you, Father. She was a few weeks pregnant at the time.” The room was deadly silent, so she continued, “Mother told me this on the same day I left, because the only person in this world who can force me to marry is my father. So, I had to find him.”

Her father, well not actually, began to laugh. “My, I would’ve thought you to be smarter. I have known of this for quite some time, dear Adeline. I know because he was a dear friend of mine, for I am as much a pirate as he.” Adeline gaped, looking to her mother who still remained frozen. “Well, why don’t we introduce you to him,” he asked, the happiness in his voice more artificial than she thought he would be able to stomach. She had already steeled herself, as her father pointed to the man dressed in pirate garb.

Adeline sat frozen in her seat, her eyes taking in the man who was her father. Her part was easier to play than she had anticipated, the shocked expression was near perfection. “Father?” She questioned the man.

“That would be correct, daughter, though I wish us meeting could have been under better circumstances.” His smile was one of attempted warmth, but she could see right through it, right down to the snarl beneath. He had sat up in his seat, his spine aligned with the back of his chair.

“Well,” spoke the man who she had long thought was her father, “Why don’t we get started. We have already had many good bids, but I think we could get much better ones, so we must start bringing her to events with some of the elites of French society,” he spoke to Roland.

The other man nodded in agreement, his brow furrowing in thought, “With her being so wealthy, and well equipped, that is very true. I think we could aim for over the reward price.” The men laughed, their yellowed teeth baring.

Genevieve and her mother were looking at the two in confusion. Antoine plucked an apple from the bowl of fruit in the center of the table, and bit into it; the crunch interrupted the men in the heat of their plot. “I do hope, gentlemen, that you aren’t forgetting about my hand in this. You are, in fact, sitting at my table, in my house.” His smirk was eerie.

Roland shared a look with Stefan; one that made Adeline want to squirm. Before anyone in the room could react, Stefan had a sword to his son-in-law’s throat. Adeline had barely seen him move from his chair. Roland sat back calmly. “Mr. LaTerre, you will find that pirates are not the sort of men to include a man that helped them, in any fair way,” Roland spoke matter of factly, as Antoine’s eyes darted around the room, in search of anyone who could help him.

Adeline met his gaze with a grin that stretched across her face; this was not in need of faking. Rowan had moved closer to the side of her chair, in case Roland or Stefan got any new ideas.

“Alright, I think he understands,” Roland finished with a flick of his wrist.

Stefan lowered his sword and lowered himself back into his seat. Her mother was now grabbing Genevieve's arm so hard, that her knuckles had gone white, to match Genevieve’s face. Adeline took the opportunity to turn the conversation. “So, have I become too much of a threat to the two of you?” Her tone had taken on one of pride.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, but since you are worth so much, and we are in the position of handing you in, I think this will make up for everything you have managed to steal from us over the years.” Stefan’s voice held pure bitterness.

“But we will not be giving you to the authorities; you will be going to the highest bidder, along with your wealth, fleet, and crew.” Her biological father met her eyes, and she read hunger there, raw hunger, for the power only she possessed. “Who exactly do you believe me to be?” Adeline prodded them.

“Drop the act, you brat, we all know that you’re the King of Pirates, the one that is known worldwide for her arrogance, brutality, and skill.” Stefan’s statement was drenched in poisonous anger. Rowan bared his teeth, as his hand reached for his sword, preparing for the ensuing fight. Adeline looked to her parents, and her biological father.

“How do you plan on capturing me exactly?” She already had the answer sitting on her tongue, but she wanted to hear them say it themselves.

Roland chuckled darkly, “Well, your fleet is blocked by my own at the Southern mouth of the bay and Stefan’s fleet at the Northern side of the bay, therefore you have no way to escape.”

Stefan’s eyes snapped to Roland’s. “No, my fleet is at the Southern mouth, and yours is at the Northern.” Roland’s look of confusion almost sent Adeline into a laughing fit.

“Well, normally, I would be very concerned, but seeing as my fleet is on the Northern side, and both of yours are on the Southern side, it doesn’t seem to be that worrisome.” Then she added. “For me at least.” The looks on their faces were ones of pure horror. “It was really quite easy. I had spies put on all of your ships months ago, so when you both started trailing me, I landed here, in Normandy. I knew exactly how you planned to trap me, because of those spies, and when you had a messenger bring the note of which side you would be located on, I had him intercepted, and the note was changed. Finally, when you waited for the signal that it was indeed my ships in the bay on the Southern side, I had my spies on your ships hoist my colors on each of your ship’s masts for a few minutes, just enough for each of your watchmen to report that it was me.” Adeline’s smirk was pure arrogance.

Now she had their attention; they had expected sobbing and begging. They still failed to realize who she was: she didn’t become the world’s most famous pirate by sitting on her butt, trying on corsets. “And your respective crews were just given the order to fire upon their will.” As if in answer to her declaration, the sounds of canons erupted, and the house’s fine chandeliers shook. Roland and Stefan sat motionless, as their ears bore witness to their fleets’ destruction. Then Adeline began counting down, using her fingers, from five. Rowan laughed softly.

“What now? Haven’t you already done enough, you who-” Rowan had thrown a knife at Antoine’s heart before the rest of that sentence had exited his parted mouth. Genevieve screamed, her hands flying to muffle the sound. Their mother fell to her knees, as Antoine’s shirt stained with red. His head lolled to one side, as his eyes glassed over, and stared into nothingness.

“Thank you Rowan, you read my mind.” Adeline brushed an invisible piece of lint from her shoulder and said, as she ran out of fingers to count, “One.”

Ten police officers barged into the kitchen, with Galen right behind them.

“There’s the pirate, and his accomplice,” Galen pointed first to Roland, and then Stefan.

Roland began to protest, “No, no, she is the pirate.” He pointed frantically at his daughter. One of the officers laughed at the man’s declaration, for it even sounded insane to her. A woman could never be a pirate. Adeline smiled to herself.

Stefan was being cuffed, the metal already cutting into his wrists, “Adeline, you will pay for this! One of these days you will be caught, and your freedom will be taken by force! I will relish that day, daughter.” He disappeared as he was led to the waiting carriage outside, Roland right behind him.

They were gone, and she was left to deal with her mother and Genevieve. One of the officers who had stayed behind, had begun to examine Antoine’s body.

Galen put a hand on her shoulder and leaned down to her ear, “Captain, the fleet is ready on your word.”

Adeline moved to her mother and sister, who were evidently in shock. “I left all of Antoine’s funds in your name, in the event of his death. This is all yours now.” She touched her sister’s hand, and began to move towards the door.

Her mother reached for her wrist, “Please, be careful.”

Adeline tried to smile in reassurance, but could not seem to form one that was convincing enough so she settled for saying, “Your bread is burning.” The smell of burnt bread, her last memory of Normandy. They were made to answer many questions from the police, but were finally let go right as dusk had fallen.

The wind in her hair had never felt better. Her cloak flew about her, dancing to the rhythm of the breeze. They had cast off moments ago from the northern side of the bay. Keela had met them at the docks, and ferried them to the Crossed Sail. She thanked Severin immediately upon her arrival. She smiled at her true family as they all bustled around the ship.

Rowan was having her ships’ cannons reloaded, upon their near arrival to a port in Spain. Keela was teaching a hand-to-hand combat lesson on the upper deck, with Severin watching carefully, his eyes missing nothing. Galen stood at her right shoulder, his hand on the pommel of his sword. He watched the vast ocean crashing against the bow of the ship. Neither said a word. Adeline tilted her head to the sun, and this time she felt only warmth; she was free.

Safe Haven

James Mooers (2018)

The siren cried out for help, begging God for a mercy he was unwilling to give. Everybody knew the end was coming; Washington had sounded the alarm as soon as the missiles were detected, but nobody wanted to believe the end was near. From my suite, I watched the cars race down the highway. Nobody cared about the speed limit or about how many crashes they had to dodge on their way. Everybody wanted to get in. The safe houses were the only hope these people had, even if access was restricted.

“Debby,” I said to my secretary, “Get the bike ready.” As she scurried out to call my valet, I grabbed a picture from my desk and made my way to the elevator. Doom still had three hours to arrive, but I was making sure I got out.

Mary. John. Caitlin. They were the only things on my mind. I’d used my clout to get them into the safe early--I’ve never been paranoid, but I like to be prepared for the worst.

The elevator dinged and I was on the ground floor. I was halfway through the lobby when I heard the sound of an engine. It was accelerating. I ran to the door, throwing it open and running into the road. The sound grew louder and louder. I looked to the garage and saw the lights. My valet. My bike. I jumped into the middle of the road to stop him, but he didn’t even flinch. I threw myself out of his way.

"INGRATE!”

My bike. Gone. Mary. John. Caitlin. I had to get to them.

I followed the skid marks towards the street. I’d have to run to the damn safe. A mile on foot. The mobs flooded the streets, running in the direction I needed to go. Screams. Yells. Curses. Terror. It all blended into a mass of human panic that only arises when hell threatens to swallow earth whole. From sidewalk to sidewalk, the street was packed. I pushed people out of my way. I had to see my family. I pushed, shoved, and trampled to get there faster. Rational thought drifted away.

HONK! The car gave its only warning before barreling down the middle of the street. Some managed to jump out of the way. Not many. It rammed into an earlier crash at an intersection. I didn’t bother to check, but people don’t survive a crash like that. I realized I needed to get out of the crowd. The intersection held thousands of other screaming people merging with us. I didn’t like my odds, but I couldn’t escape.

At the intersection, I was forced into the merging point on the right side. A woman pushed me out of her way, nearly knocking me over. I fell into a man beside me, who slammed his elbow into my jaw. I tasted blood in my mouth, and I saw black spots as pain radiated through my face. I stumbled forward through the crowd. I grabbed onto the jacket of another man in front of me. He threw me off, but when he saw my face, recognition dawned.

“Aren’t you…”

“Get me to the safe and you can have a spot.”

He grabbed me and pulled me along. He pushed people down, he shoved them to the side, anything to get me to the door so he could get in. Eventually I started to see straight again. I tried to pull myself off of him, but he forced me back down. He wanted in badly. I looked at my watch. One hour to go until the big bang. I don’t know who hit us, but somebody pushed us over. Their feet ran over us, followed by a crowd’s worth of them. The man had landed on me. I heaved. He didn’t budge. Again, I heaved. I was rewarded with more footsteps on my back. Stomp, Stomp, Pain. It radiated throughout my body. Every time I tried to get up a foot pushed me down. I was powerless. I was going to die.

Mary. John. Caitlin. Their names ran through my head for what must have been the thousandth time that day. I had to get to them.

I threw all of my strength and adrenaline into pushing the man off me. He budged, barely. I kept pushing. I pulled my knees under me when I had enough room. I pushed with my arms, my legs, my back, every muscle I could use. I rolled him off. I stood up, only for something to grab my ankle. The man was still alive, but battered.

“You promised.” I kicked his arm. When that didn’t work, I kicked his head. When he finally let go, I ran at top speed. I couldn’t let him slow me down. I checked the watch. Thirty minutes. I poured all my energy into one last sprint. I had to get there. Pushing. Shoving. Stumbling. Hitting. Throwing. Nothing registered, nothing except the fact that I needed to get to the safe. I saw the crowd pool. I could hear the guards screaming at them to get back. Nobody listened.

I hit the mob at top speed. I put my arms on the man in front of me and tried to throw him away. He turned and slammed his fist into my jaw. My nose exploded in pain, and when I went to touch it I felt the blood on my hand. I looked up to see that he’d gone back to trying to break through the crowd. I swung my hand around and put it palm-first into his face. My blood covered his eyes, and I forced my way past him as he tried to get it out.

I pushed, shoved, and jostled my way through the crowd. It never seemed to end. I kept going and going, my world turning darker as exhaustion and pain took their tolls. But I kept pushing inwards. Further into the crowd, further into the black. Ten minutes before annihilation. I was about to give up when I hit a solid shield. “Get Back!” he shouted. Pain in my head.

I looked up, glaring at him through the blood.

“Get Back!”

“It’s me, you fucking idiot!”

It took him a second to recognize me. “Hurry inside, sir!” He pulled me through and shoved the crowd back. I stumbled into the midst of their formation, barely conscious. A guard grabbed me and led me to the shelter doors.

I fell inside and coughed up blood. The gatekeeper stared down at me. “Close the doors.”

"But sir--”

“Do it! Now!”

He obeyed. The doors closed, and he worked all 50 locks to close out the mob and the guards I left behind. I told myself they’d get funerals when things settled. The gatekeeper helped me to my feet. I stumbled down the halls, a vague goal in my head.

I found them. Mary, John, and Caitlin. They surrounded me, hugging, fussing, reassuring, asking for reassurance, and not knowing what was going on. I sat with them for the last few minutes of human civilization. When the ground shook and roared with the voice of thunder, the banging from the door finally stopped. The crashing buildings and the roar of nuclear fire would have deafened us if we weren’t underground. But at least the cries of terror and pain were quick to go. I sat there with my family in that hour of desolation. Of all people, we had been spared. Silently, I thanked God for the mercy he had given us, and prayed for my sins.