“Is that you, Billy?” The voice was loud enough to be heard over the TV tuned to the Home Shopping Channel.

“Yes, Grandma,” said Billy as he shut the front door to the apartment. He clutched the pistol in his pocket tightly and stepped over the stack of boxes on the floor in the entryway, HSC printed on their sides.

“About time you got home, young man. It’s almost nine.” The comment mixed with the sound of the Miracle Juicer 5000 grinding a handful of carrots into a potent potion which, according to the announcer, would let you live to a hundred—his grandmother’s face never turning from the screen. The flickering light of the TV splashed into the dark hallway, illuminating Billy’s steps as he moved on.

“Did you get it?” Billy jumped at the sound of his brother’s voice.

“Ssh.” Looking back at the doorway into the living room, Billy listened.

“With HearOs, you’ll be able to hear an ant walking across the sidewalk from the next block, hear a pin drop from 2 miles away, and hear the beat of a butterfly’s wings on the other side of the world. HearOs, superhearing for the superhero in all of us. Buy now and we’ll also send you this…”

Grabbing his brother by the arm, he pulled him into the room they shared. Too skinny, Billy thought as he let go. Jeremy had lost weight since they had moved in with Grandma six months ago. Since their parents’ car crash, he never seemed to eat, just push his food around the plate.

“Yeah, I got it. The guy called it a Saturday Night Special.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. He pulled the gun from his pocket, tightening his fist as sweat made his hand slip on the fake wood of the grip.

“That’s weird,” said Jeremy. “It’s Tuesday.”

Billy shrugged as they both stared at gun in his hand. It felt heavier that he thought it should.

“What time do we meet the others?”

“12:30. Underneath the fifth street overpass,” said Billy, his voice cracking for the first time in a year. “We’ll sneak out after Grandma’s asleep.”

“Time for bed, boys,” said his grandmother, her voice coming from the hallway. “You have school tomorrow.” Billy shoved the gun under his pillow just before she opened the door. “Hup, hup.” She clapped her hands twice. “Brush your teeth and get in bed.”

Billy lay in bed, the minutes crawling by, the pistol a hard lump under his head. The low murmur of the television was gone, replaced by the voice of his grandmother, talking on the telephone. To Billy, it seemed that was all she ever did, watch TV or talk on the phone.

Living on opposite coasts, he and his brother had only seen their grandmother a few times growing up. They had been virtual strangers when she had shown up at the funeral. Six months together hadn’t changed that. He remembered her standing between the coffins, her back stiff as the tombstones surrounding them, no color lightening the black of her clothing.

The TV was back. His brother’s breathing had slowed; he was asleep. Billy frowned at the ceiling. Jeremy seemed tired all the time; his teachers had sent home notes about him falling asleep in class.

A glance at the clock showed a quarter to midnight. Billy got out of bed and tip-toed to the door. Since the TV was still on, his grandmother was probably asleep in her chair, something she made a habit of. He continue down the hallway and looked into the living room, his head low in case she was still awake. She lay in her chair with her head back and her mouth open. The announcer on the TV was now selling fake gems that looked like the real thing at a fraction of the cost. A gentle snort came from Grandma’s nose as she shifted position and closed her mouth.

Time to go. He hurried back to his room.

Jeremy was whimpering in his sleep. Billy shook his brother awake, changing out of his pajamas and pretending not to the see the tears Jeremy scrubbed away as he sat up. A few more moments and Billy tied his shoes and stood. He readjusted his jacket, not used to the weight of the revolver in his pocket. Sitting on the corner of the other bed, Jeremy was pulling on his shoes.

Nodding to Jeremy, Billy walked down the hall to the front door, staying on the runner in the center to muffle his footsteps. The seconds crawled by as he gently twisted the deadbolt, a faint click signaling success.

On the street, he and his brother turned north. The metal shutters on the corner store had a new coat of paint, the third time this month.

The air was cold, winter not yet giving way to spring, but Billy was still sweating. He swiped his hand across his lips and then shoved it back into his pocket, not wanting his brother to see it shake.

After two blocks, he paused, momentarily lost. The empty streets were missing the familiar landmarks of the daylight hours. Beside him, his brother shivered and burrowed deeper in his puffy, oversized coat, a hand-me-down from their dead grandfather. Their grandmother had said green was his favorite color.

Two more blocks and the overpass rose before them. On the near side, a group of dark figures milled about. The lights of a car passing overhead reflected off the windows of a nearby building, illuminating a face turned towards them. Jason. Another sophomore, he was in the same classes as Billy. Unclenching his fists, Billy wiped them on the cotton liner of his jacket pockets and started across the street.

“Did you get it?” Jason unknowingly echoed Jeremy’s earlier question. Billy jerked his head up and down.

Together they moved to the group of kids milling beneath the overpass, his brother trailing close behind. Still in middle school, Jeremy wouldn’t recognize any of them.

Now in the darker shadows under the overpass, Billy’s eyes adjusted and he could see another group of figures on the far side. The thudding of his heart was loud enough to drown out the conversation around him. The back of his neck prickled, hairs standing on end.

They began to move. He wiped his hands again, the grip of the revolver slick in his hand. The gravel crunched under his feet. He couldn’t focus.

A car passed overhead and he gripped the revolver tighter; the dark mass of the other gang was moving as well.

Closer—the shapes in the dark were resolving, a figure with a bat here, a chain there. Billy glanced over his shoulder at his brother, following close behind.

He could almost make out faces now. The boys around him were beginning to shout, hurling curses and insults, the other gang responding in kind. The noise filled the overpass, deafening.

This was it. He gripped the pistol and took a deep breath.

—A sharp pain in his left ear and he stumbled backward.

“Grandm—.” His brother’s shout was cut off.

All around him, dark figures were descending. Cries of mom, sis, and grandma filled the air. Across the way, he could see the other gang being treated to the same indignity. Half towed by the ear, half covering them with their hands to prevent it.

The women all greeted his grandmother as the left, dragging their sons, brothers, and grandsons behind them. She nodded to each, asking after husbands and boyfriends, babies and siblings. Soon, the crowd was gone and the three were alone beneath the overpass.

Letting go of their ears, Grandma held out her hand in front of Billy, her palm flat. When he looked at it blankly, she shook it and glared. He gingerly pulled the revolver from his pocket and placed it in her hand.

With practiced movements, she popped out the cylinder and emptied the bullets into her other hand. A quick flip of her wrist and the cylinder was closed. The bullets went into one pocket of her housecoat and the pistol into the other. Watching the pistol drop into the pocket, he noticed it wasn’t alone. Looking closer, he saw HearOs emblazoned on the side of a white plastic box.

“You are in big trouble, young man. You should be setting a better example for your brother. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, your father tried the same thing when he was your age. I didn’t let him get away with it then and I certainly won’t let you get away with it now.”

Grabbing them both by the ears again, she started walking home, not pausing her tirade for one second.

Contest Theme: Interlopers

Peter set down the sonic wrench and looked at the hologram projecting from the card on the workbench. He’d finally tuned the satellite correctly and the heart-shaped galaxy hung in the air before him, twinkling and flashing. Must be interference, he thought, before closing the card and slipping it into an envelope.

***

“Peter,” his mother called as he entered the front door, “can you take a look at the card you gave me? Something’s wrong with it. The picture is gone.”

***

He’d checked and rechecked a dozen times, the satellite hadn’t shifted, the signal was clear. The galaxy had disappeared.

Nina watched the rusty station-wagon drive away, the dust of the old dirt road obscuring the USPS Rural Carrier sign on its side. She moved the letter from her right hand to her left and read the return address as she wiped her palm on her jeans—Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Her finger shook as it slid under the flap, its nail bitten short and ragged. Taking a deep breath, Nina dragged her finger along the envelope, tearing it open. She unfolded the letter and read the few short sentences inside.

The letter dropped.

Her arms raised.

And she danced.

“I can see it, man. Like, we’re all connected and stuff. Strings flowing through the world, the universe, binding us all together. It’s so beautiful.”

Goddamn cellists, Trevor thought. Everything is fucking strings to them, even when they’re tripping. He eyed the people on the couch opposite his chair. Three men and two women—he didn’t know their names, just what instruments they played. Like most of the people here, they were more friends of his girlfriend than him.

He wasn’t even sure why he was here. After the argument this afternoon, he’d been wandering around campus when he’d run into the cellist—Fred, Frank, F-something—and been dragged to the party.

The cellist was still tripping next to him, mumbling something about strings and octaves and quarks. What was it about the string section that turned people crazy? Caroline, his girlfriend, played the violin. This afternoon she’d started talking about commitment, the future, something about a red string of fate—he hadn’t really listened. She’d started railing at him when he hadn’t picked the right responses.

Trevor looked at his watch; it was after midnight. He drained the last of his beer and stood up. He’d taken a hit with the cellist but nothing was happening and he still had to walk several miles back to the loft he shared with Caroline.

He stepped over a couple sprawled on the floor, both flautists, and tossed his empty plastic cup on the kitchenette counter, adding to the already overflowing pile. He had to push his way through a group of timpanists to get to the door. He didn’t mind timpanists, they were fun at parties—the frat boys of the classical music world.

The party had spilled into the hallway, slowing him as he pushed his way to the stairs. Typical of the cheap apartments music students could afford, the place was on the 8th floor and the building had no elevator.

The late-night air outside the front door was cool and crisp, a welcome change after the hot, muggy atmosphere of the party upstairs and the eight flights of stairs he’d trudged down. Trevor inhaled again; the cold air felt like a sip from an ice cold glass of water on a blazing August afternoon. He rolled it across his tongue as he walked.

He drank in the sights and sounds of the city as he moved on. The light from the lamp on the next corner was bright, almost painful, throwing a sharp line of dark and light across the sidewalk. A train passed nearby, the rhythmical clanking of its wheels on the tracks loud in his ears, a melody he couldn’t quite grasp.

The air filled with the tang of yeast, drawing his eyes to the bakery across the street. Light spilled from the windows, cascading over the sidewalk. A shadow moved in the brightness, a humanoid figure stretched thin across the cold concrete.

He crossed the street to stare through the window. Behind the counter, a large man worked, kneading dough for the morning’s bread. As Trevor watched, the sound of a timpani filled him, matching the strong, heavy movements of the baker’s hands as they worked the dough. It vibrated in his mind, coming from inside the bakery but not passing through his ears.

Behind him, he heard the rev of an engine. A car was turning the corner; its headlights splashed across him, blinding. Music flowed from it, a string quartet playing Beethoven’s Op. 135. His vision cleared and he could see again as it passed. Through its closed windows he could see four people—friends—chatting. The music faded as the car moved away. Behind him, the timpani played on.

The sounds of the city faded around Trevor, replaced by music. He passed an open window, inside was a living room, and a TV he couldn’t hear. A old woman was seated in a rocking chair in front of the TV, a knit afghan across her knees. The strings of a violin, bowed in time to the rocking of the woman, filled him.

He passed a bar, still open and crowded at this hour—an orchestra, playing Mozart’s 40th symphony. A couple was arguing in an alley, an oboe and flute dueling. An etude here, a concerto there, he heard the music of life as he walked.

The songs were fewer as he entered a poorer neighborhood; the buildings in increasing disrepair as he moved on. The sound of a wheezing tuba came from an overgrown park. An obese man in a tattered army jacket stood next to a steel trash can, warming his hands over the fire inside. On the other side of the street, a group of youths sat on the front steps of a tenement, emanating chamber music.

The notes faded as he moved into an industrial area, abandoned years ago and empty of humanity. The silence deepened in the shadows of the broken factories, empty windows staring sightlessly as he passed. The soundless night grew more oppressive with each step, the hard soles of his boots making no sound on the concrete sidewalk, the music gone with the people. He snapped his fingers next to his ear—nothing.

He concentrated, listening for a noise, a note, anything. The silence was complete. Even the beat of his heart, pounding, could not be heard. Trevor hurried on, rushing past burned out hulks of rusting metal in an asphalt lot broken and overgrown with weeds.

He passed a junk-yard surrounded by a chain link fence, a dog barking at him from behind it, making no sound. He passed a homeless man, drinking in the shadow of a doorway. He heard nothing, no music.

He passed a building of faded red brick, its windows covered with plywood and graffiti, shrouded in silence. Then it came, faint but growing, the sound of a harp. It grew stronger, loud enough to follow as each note was plucked out.

Trevor focused on the sound, relief flooding him. The music buoyed him, keeping him sane. It seemed to flow from inside him, carrying him on. His heart beat slowed, matching the tempo, his feet hitting the pavement in time.

The buildings around him were no longer falling apart. He passed a person here, a car there, the streets no longer empty. The song of the harp continued, vibrating through him.

He smiled at a group of college women heading home from a night of partying, nodded to the bouncer standing in front of a local club. Across the street he saw a friend waving and tired to turn toward him—his legs continued on.

The music changed, speeding up, and his pace followed. He tried to stop, to slow, to separate himself from the music. His legs refused to obey.

The song continued, carrying him down the sidewalk, an audience of one to the music controlling his body. He approached an intersection, struggling for control; the harp played on.

G—he took a step. A small light shone in the corner of his eye, the headlights of an approaching car.

A—another step. The car was closer, moving fast. The lamp at the corner was broken, leaving a deep shadow around Trevor.

C—Trevor covered his ears, trying to block out the sound. The driver couldn’t see him, wouldn’t see him until too late. He took another step.

E—his hands grabbed at his legs, trying to slow them. The song moved on, Trevor with it. He was at the edge of the sidewalk.

F—another step, into the street. The car was only a foot away, its driver finally seeing Trevor as he stepped into the headlights. Time slowed. The car inched closer.

“Nein, nein, nein.”

The music stopped, and with it, the world. Trevor could see the horrified face of the driver, could feel the heat of the engine, inches from his body. The edges of the world shimmered, blurred. Another world overlay it, like a television tuning two channels at once.

Trevor saw a living room, heavy with dark wood and antique furniture. In the center stood a harp, a young woman sitting on a stool behind it, her hands stilling the strings. A tall man, thin, with graying hair, stood beside her. He pointed to the music stand between the two.

“Das ist eine halb Note, eine halb Note.” The man clasped his hands behind his back. “Erneut.”

The young woman nodded and lifted her hands.

G—Trevor was back on the sidewalk, the world once again in sharp focus. The car was approaching and the music was playing. He took a step.

A, C, E—three more steps. He was at the edge of the sidewalk, the car roaring closer.

F—A half-note, a half-step. The car roared past, inches away, the wind of its passing tearing at his face.

Trevor stared at the car as it sped away, the sound of its engine loud in his ears, its horn echoing down the street. The music was gone, the sounds of the city surrounded him.

Typical, just typical, Trevor thought. I get a glimpse into the inner workings of the universe and what does my life hang by? A harp string. A fucking harp string.

Contest Theme: Strings

After five years, the droning message emerging from the loudspeakers spread throughout the town had become nothing more than a back beat for the lives of the townfolk. “Support the war. The enemy is evil. Work for the good of the nation. Obey your leaders.” The words changed but the message stayed the same. A message that enveloped Edmond, reassuring in its familiarity, as he slowly drifted awake. I wonder what woke me?

“Eddy, it might be Saturday but that doesn’t mean you can sleep all day,” his mother’s voice blared from below. Ah, yes, that would be it.

Slipping from the covers, he winced as his feet hit the chilly tiles where his slippers were supposed to be. With a muttered curse on all bratty sisters who didn’t properly respect their older—and wiser—brothers, he hopped back onto the bed and sent one arm questing beneath for his errant footwear.

“Eddy, get up!”

It’s not Eddy, Mom, it’s Edmond, he said for the hundredth time—in his mind, at least. At sixteen years old, one could reasonably expect not to be called by such a childish nickname, or so his friends told him.

His legs worked as he took the stairs two at a time, taking the last four in one giant leap.

“Good, you’re up. I need you to—”

“Can’t talk now, meeting Ian at the square.” Careful not to make eye contact, Edmond grabbed his shoes and coat and rushed out the door. Outside, the droning was louder but Edmond ignored it without a thought. Ian’s house was two doors down and they better get their stories straight, just in case.

* * *
“It can’t be done.” Ian’s voice broke on the last word, shifting high and then low.

“Sure it can,” said Edmond as he nodded to James, waiting for them at the fountain in the center of the town square. “My dad showed me the blueprints. All you have to do is cross a couple of wires.”

“What can’t be done?” asked James, having overheard the exchange.

“Edmond says he can rig the warning system to shut off without anyone figuring out it was him.”

“Do it! Dooooo it!” said James. “It’d be ultimate.”

“Wait a minute, I’m just saying it can be done, not that I’d do it,” said Edmond with his hands raised.

“Come on, don’t wimp out on us now.”

“You can set it up for the festival tomorrow,” broke in Ian. “It’ll rock.”

* * *
The warning broadcast system didn’t require much in the way of maintenance. Judging by the amount of dust, no one had been here in years. Edmond wiped his hands on his jeans and peered around the room, the light from the open window behind him leaving streaks in the air. With the blueprints in mind, he hoisted his knapsack to his shoulder and moved through the room, looking for the power relay.

On his second circuit, he recognized the power symbol beneath the layers of grime covering a large metal cube in the corner. A few twists of a screwdriver and Edmond was staring at a jumble of wires and breakers that only vaguely resembled the diagram he had seen.

Thinking of the crap his friends would give him if he left now, he began to painstakingly trace the circuits. After ten minutes—the tension ratcheting higher with each one—he had the two circuits he needed.

Working quickly, he stripped the insulation off with his teeth. From his knapsack he pulled a dead rat—found in a trap in his attic. No reason to get in trouble for a simple prank. A few twists of hair against the transformer as a time delay fuse and everything was ready. The rat would fall on the wires and short the system, shutting everything down until the backup kicked in.

A moment to replace the cover and a few more to smooth out the dust and he was back out the window, home free.

* * *
The square was filled from edge to fountain with booths, bands, and babies, all entertaining the milling crowd. Edmond glanced at his watch as he pushed his way toward the fountain and his friends. Any time now, he thought, just before the speakers went dead.

For a moment, no one seemed to notice. Then the first conversation stopped. And then another. Soon the entire square was silent, all eyes looking to the speakers hanging overhead. No one moved. They didn’t even seem to breathe. Like robots without orders.

A baby began to cry, afraid of the silence it had never known. The sound caused a wave of motion as heads turned. But no one moved, not even the baby’s mother.

The baby’s cries grew more strident as the seconds ticked by, the growing panic on the faces of the citizens mirroring it’s distress.

“—our troops. Buy war bonds.” The backup power had switched on. The sound filled the square along with an explosion of relieved smiles.

Pushing his way back through the crowd, Edmond ignored his friends, their faces glowing with excitement. He no longer felt like celebrating.

Random seed phrase: dronish warner

The air was close, stifling. The culvert smelled of metal and rot. The heat was slowly cooking me in my own sweat. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to move but I couldn’t, he would find me.

I heard a scream—Johnson. He was new, raw. He didn’t know the lay of the land and it had cost him.

I wasn’t new. This was my third year. I knew the best places to hide, lay low. You had to become part animal to survive, to find a safe hole.

Another cry, closer now—Smith. How much longer could I do this, survive? I thought of Mother and cookies and milk. Of Father and mitts and baseball.

I could hear him breathing now. His footsteps right above me. Would this be the time I failed, got caught?

More footsteps, heavier ones. Had he brought reinforcements?

“Did you find him, Billy? Class is about to start.”

“No, Mrs. Harrison. He’s too good at hide and seek. I never catch him.”

The bell—recess was over.

How many more until I could go home?

Franklin slowed from a crawl to a snail’s pace as he crept around the desk and approached the figure sitting in the plush arm chair in front of the fire. The soft crackle and pop of the flames covered the sound of his supple leather moccasins as they slid across the floor, his movements a strange combination of shuffling and tiptoeing.

What little noise he had made ceased when he stepped onto the large rug spread before the fire, the garotte nearly singing with tension as he stretched his hands apart. Three steps, two, one. The garotte in place, tightened quickly to prevent a scream. 10 seconds. Five. Done.

Leaving the garotte, Franklin drew a card from his pocket and set it on the table next to the body. One last survey of the scene and he was back across the room, past the desk, and out the window.

Across the room, a door opened to reveal an ancient figure, his face deeply etched by the passing years. His erect posture was betrayed by a slight stoop, as if he was starting to bend under the weight of time. He made no sound as he crossed to the chair in front of the fire. With his hands clasped behind his back, he bent to examine the body, noting the location and depth of the wound made by the garotte. Moving to the other side of the body, he inspected the carefully placed card on the side table. He straightened, looked into the flames, and took a deep breath. Moving his hands for the first time, he brought them forward, clapped once, and returned them to his back.

Franklin opened the window and stepped back into the room. Crossing the room, he took up a position next to the old man, unconsciously mirroring the other’s pose.

“What did you miss?” The words were quiet, almost a whisper.

The young man followed his instructor’s gaze to the fire and grimaced. “The scent packet.”

“Indeed. While the card is a nice touch, it is the packet that marks the professional. The scent of the guild is unmistakable and cannot be counterfeited. Remember, once you graduate a personal scent mixed with the guild’s will be provided.”

The old man took a small paper-wrapped bundle from his pocket and tossed it into the fire. “Come, you still have much to do before dawn.”

Random seed phrase: unaromatically garotted

5:30 AM
Delivered to newsstand at the corner of Lincoln and Wilshire in rough manner
Suspect delivery boy is Fantastic Being fan
Condition: Mint

6:00 AM
Unpacked and placed on shelf next to Fantastic Being #436
Proprietor is unaware of the insult
Condition: Mint

7:15 AM
Paged through by middle-aged business man as cover for buying DDouble DDelights
Heard FB #436 make snide remark
Slightly roughed up edges
Condition: Near Mint

8:30 AM
Stolen by young boy and left in hideout
Take that, FB #436
Small tear on page 12
Condition: Fine

9:45 AM
Read by boy and his friends
Suspect one boy of being FB sympathizer
Greasy finger print on page 5
Condition: Good

11:00 AM
Traded to sister for copy of Fantastic Being #435
Contemplating appropriate retaliation
Condition: Good

12:45 AM
Traded back
FREEDOM! *shudder*
Retaliation on hold
Tea stain from tea party on page 7
Condition: Fair

2:00 PM
Found by mother and returned to newsstand
Caught FB #436 smirking
Canine bite marks in upper right corner
Condition: Poor

BREAKING NEWS BULLETIN
3:45 PM

Fantastic Being Defeats Evil Octo-Sloth

Three city blocks surrounding Lincoln and Wilshire were leveled in the battle. According to an eyewitness, “Everything was destroyed: the deli, the Indian restaurant, my newsstand, everything.” Police have set up temporary shelters for the affected citizens. Fantastic Being was unavailable for a comment.

6:15 PM
Collected by homeless woman and placed in shopping cart
Revenge will be had
*MWAHAHAHAHAHA*
Singe mark in lower right corner
Condition: Megalomaniacal

March 14, 44 BC—Julius Caeser draws up plans adding emergency exits to the curia in the Theatre of Pompey

September 28, 1066—Discovery of flaw in plans for Hadrian’s Wall; lack of emergency exits

June 17, 1941—Giovanni Giacomo Casanova uses an emergency exit for the first time

May 8, 1744—Due to a miscommunication, emergency axes are installed throughout the Alamo

December 15, 1956—Elvis has left the building

June 10, 1962—In Alcatraz, Frank Morris completes a correspondence course in emergency exit design and construction

He stopped a moment outside the ballroom doors, checking that the microfilm was still secure. Confident no one in the busy ballroom would have missed him, he slipped through the door.

Fifteen minutes to secure his payload. Longer than he would have liked but the first safe had contained nothing except letters from the Ambassador’s mistress. Taking a champagne flute from a passing tray, he surveyed the room; it would be at least an hour before he could leave and he was looking to enjoy the soiree.

A splash of red caught his eye, an unusual dash of color in the staid realm of stuffy diplomats. He took a moment to straighten his jacket and paste on his best smile before striding across the ballroom. This would be just the distraction he needed.

* * *

She stretched, her arms high above her head, and stepped out of the pool of red at her feet. The doorway and the heavy, claw-footed bathtub beyond beckoned. Behind her, the fire flickered as it ate the last of the microfilm.