Perfect Flaw (26 page)

I don’t know exactly what he means, but I smile and nod. “I’m Ishka. I’m twelve.”

“I’m Igson,” the old man barks, much louder than necessary. “I’m blind as a goddamn bat.”

I open my mouth, not sure if I should apologize or laugh, but I’m cut off by a high-pitched cackling. The woman with the deformed face smacks her fists against the table.

“Bat,” she says and laughs. “Bat. Bat. Bat.”

“Hush, you,” Igson says, eyebrows pushed together. He turns his white eyes towards me. “She’s a goddamn loon. They’re all goddamn loons.”

The girl on the bed, the one I carried around as a baby, looks over at me with wide, crossed eyes.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

Her mouth is a straight line. “Bay,” she says. “And I’m not a loon.”

* * *

There are footsteps on the stairs and I open my eyes. It’s the undertaker. He grabs the nearest lantern and turns up the flame, then moves on to the next one.

“Good morning,” he says, but there is no indication it’s morning. It is just as dark as it was when I climbed into bed.

“Morning. Morning. Morning,” the deformed woman says. She sits up and claps her hands.

Igson grunts, throwing back his covers. “It’s too goddamn early.”

Me and Bay just sit quietly, shivering under our blankets.

“My trainee is coming this morning,” he says. “I don’t want to keep the kid waiting nor do I want him poking his nose down here before I know if I can trust him.”

I wonder which of my classmates is his trainee. While not luxurious, undertaking is a respectable career. His parents are surely very proud. I am just a tiny bit jealous that it isn’t me.

He drops a basket on the table. “Two buns each. No fighting.” He eyes Igson, then winks at me.

***

Two Months Later

It is not so bad living in this basement. It is quiet and there is not much to do, but it’s better than being burnt to ashes. At night I still imagine my parents and what they’re doing without me. Sometimes I pretend that I am sitting with them, that we are together and happy, that my accident never happened.

There is a sound from above, steps on the staircase. The undertaker shakes as he makes his way down, basket in hand. He sits it on the table and smiles, but he looks weak, defeated. He coughs.

“I’m not feeling well today,” he says to me and Bay. We are drawing pictures with the crayons he brought us yesterday.

In his eyes, there is a haggard look. There are lines on his face. It never occurred to me before this moment that the undertaker is an old man.

“There’s enough food for tomorrow as well, in case I can’t make it back.”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I just smile at him and say, “I hope you feel better.”

* * *

My stomach growls. My guts are burning. Beside me, Bay’s body is limp. She breathes softly. There is a dryness to her skin, a tightness.

The undertaker has not visited in a long time. Without windows there are no days or nights, but I know it has been much too long. We’ve gone to sleep and woken up four times, but without the undertaker to tell us goodnight and good morning, we don’t know if we slept at night or day.

“I’m so goddamn hungry,” Igson grunts.

The woman with the deformed face is crying in the corner, her wails filling up the small room.

“My belly hurts,” Tip says, rubbing his stomach.

If the undertaker is gone for good, then surely the trainee has taken his place. People do not stop dying just because the undertaker is sick. Or gone.

I stand up and walk to the stairs. I can feel their eyes on my back, but I don’t turn around. I don’t want to lose my confidence. At the top of the stairs I stop and grab the doorknob. It’s locked so I jiggle it, but it won’t budge.

“Help,” I scream. “Somebody, anybody. Please.”

I scream and scream and scream. And there is a noise, a shuffling sound, like footsteps. My heart races. A key is inserted into the lock and the door opens.

A boy stands on the other side, eyes wide. He looks me up and down. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. I recognize him from school, but I do not know him well.

“I’m Ishka,” I say, shifting my eyes to the floor. I hope this sign of respect is enough to soften the hard look on his face. “The undertaker takes care of us down here. We are useless to our great nation, but we need some food and water.”

“Useless,” he says, and the word is disgusting on his lips. “If you are useless, then why should I waste the resources of our great nation on you?”

It’s a good question and I have no answer. I don’t know what to say.

There is a loud cackling from downstairs. It’s the deformed woman. If I do not deserve resources, I’m certain he will think worse of her.

“Please,” I say. “We are ashamed of our uselessness, but one of us is very small, a tiny girl. She needs some water.”

The boy huffs. One shoe taps the ground. “I will give you nothing. The undertaker is dead. I am in charge now. You useless must leave. Now.”

He steps aside, as if to let me pass, but I do not step forward. I shrink back down the stairs to get Bay, to get the others.

Igson, Tip, and the deformed lady stand at the bottom of the stairs, eyes on me.

“Go on up,” I say, pushing past them. I pick Bay up off the bed and she moves just enough to wrap her arms around my neck. She is more than half my size, but I have to manage. I follow the others up the stairs.

The new undertaker stands at the door with his arms crossed. We pass him and head towards the front of the building. Bright afternoon light streams through the window and it is a wonderful thing to see. If we find nowhere to go, I am glad to see the sun one last time.

I reach past the others to push open the door and step outside. Tip guides Igson by holding his hand. I wonder how long it’s been since they’ve seen the outside, since they’ve smelled fresh air.

People are going about their business, visiting shops, walking kids home from school. It is the busiest time of day and all eyes turn and land on us. I look down in respect, and I hope the other useless are doing the same. We do not want to look any bolder than we already are.

There is no noise, not a single word spoken, not even a loud breath. Their eyes burn my skin, piercing like needles. I shift Bay’s weight in my arms.

“Ishka?”

My heart stops. I look up, tears already flowing from my eyes. Mother is beautiful in her yellow housewife uniform. She drops her shopping bags in the street and runs to me, then wraps her arms around me and Bay, squeezing tight.

“Oh, Ishka,” she says, pulling away to look me in the eyes. She runs a hand along the side of my face. There is so much guilt in her eyes and I’m sure it is because of how bony and pale I’ve grown in the dark basement.

“I am so sorry, Ishka,” she says. “I will never forgive myself.”

I shush her and shake my head. “Don’t feel bad, Mother. I was useless to you and to our great nation. There is nothing wrong with what you did.”

“No, Ishka,” she says, shaking my shoulders. “It is the wrongest thing I have ever done. Someday, when you grow up, you will understand.”

“I do not think I can grow up,” I say. “I have no place in our nation.”

She bites her lip. She knows it is true.

“I just want to get some water for Bay,” I say. If we must die, at least I can ease her pain.

But my mother is cut off before she can answer. An old woman shrieks. She stumbles forward, grabs Igson by the shoulders.

“Oh, my Love,” she says, tears running down her cheeks. “My sweet, sweet, Love.”

“My goddamn wife,” Igson says, then smiles wide.

She wraps her arm around his back and stumbles away. I wonder if she is allowed to do that. Perhaps they will both be punished when they’re caught.

“What’s going on here?” A deep voice says.

It’s the mayor. His eyes dart between me, Mother, Bay, Tip, and the deformed woman. I cast my eyes to the ground and my mother does the same as she stands straight.

“Who are you people?” the mayor asks.

“We are the useless,” I say. “The undertaker cared for us, but now he has died and we have come out for food and water.”

“The useless?” He pauses and I can feel his confusion radiating over my body. “What about the furnace?”

“It’s broken, sir.”

“There is no place for useless people in our great nation,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” I say, and I feel my fate imprinted on my bones, branded on my skin. He wants us killed.

“We will arrange transportation to the next town,” he says. “They certainly have a working furnace there.”

He turns and begins to walk away, and tension builds in my chest, like a fist around my lungs. If he leaves now, if he walks away, we will all be burnt, even little Bay. I can’t let that happen. I must try something. There is nothing for me to lose.

“Wait,” I say, and the crowd gasps. He turns around and I do not bother to divert my eyes. There is no point now in showing respect. “I...I...”

He stares at me, his eyes narrowed. I swallow hard.

“I don’t think I’m useless,” I lie, then take a deep breath.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“So what are you good for?” His voice is challenging, but I will not back down, even though I am desperately searching my mind for an answer.

“I can take care of the useless.”

He laughs. “The useless will be turned over to the furnace within hours. Ashes don’t need cared for.”

I shake my head. I have never been good at crafting stories, but I must do my best to save us, to save Bay. “The furnace is big and expensive to run and transporting us to the next town will be expensive too.” I am surprised about the words coming from my mouth, but I don’t stop. “If I could have just a small place, an unneeded place, I could care for the useless. We don’t need much. Just a bit of food and water.”

My eyes dart to the ground automatically, but I lift them up again. I am trying to save my friends’ lives. I do not need to feel so small.

Chattering runs through the crowd. They are whispering, leaning towards each other, and I wish I could hear what they are saying, but it all blends together.

“What would be the point for the nation?” the mayor asks. His arms drop from his hips to his sides.

I take a deep breath. “Well,” I say, thinking carefully about how to be the most convincing, “family members could come see them, come visit. That way they wouldn’t lose them completely. They wouldn’t be as sad. Mourning costs the nation money too.”

The mayor’s eyebrows crease together and I think he is really considering my lie. Even if he says no, I am proud that I tried.

Everything is silent now, even the crowd. Their eyes are wide and flick between me and the mayor. I want to look back at Mother to see what she thinks, but I am afraid to move a muscle and disrupt his thoughts.

“Okay,” he says, his face softening. “We can work something out.”

I try to smile, but I am overwhelmed. This is the biggest thing I’ve ever done. I turn to my mother at last and she grabs me into her arms, hugs me tight.

“I am so proud of you,” she says.

This is the first time I’ve ever been praised for a lie.

Two Months Later

The grocer hands me two bags of food with a smile. It is the food that expired today, the food he cannot sell tomorrow. I wave goodbye as he turns and climbs down from the porch.

This is my place now, for me and the others. Mother told me the sign on the door reads “Home of the Useless.” I think about that name a lot, about how I tricked the mayor into believing the house was useful even though its inhabitants are still useless. It is strange, and I am surprised everyday that he doesn’t catch on to the lie.

There are eight more of us now. It turns out that there were other useless ones hidden away. Some were born at home and hidden by their mothers, others were found on the streets and squirreled away, protected. They are no one’s burden now. Their families come to see them when they want to and stay away when they’re busy. Of course, they would not be a burden if they were dead either.

Once a month the doctor comes by and draws our blood. He takes it back to the hospital to be used on the useful people, those that contribute to our great nation. The mayor says that this is an added bonus. I am happy for my small contribution.

Inside, the deformed woman is screaming again. I named her Silv so she wouldn’t feel so left out.

“Hush. It’s okay, Silv,” Bay says. She is strong now and healthy. I am glad that I saved her, that I saved all of us, even if it was with a lie.

The sun is starting to set over our great nation and I am proud to be a part of it. People are saying that the next town has created their own home for the useless and it’s all because of me. I hope it keeps spreading farther and farther until all the furnaces are shut down for good.

Perhaps it is bad of me to hope for such a burden on our great nation.

AUTHOR BIOS

Leslie Anderson

Leslie J. Anderson grew up falling off horses, w
hich would probably explain a lot if she thought about it. She now works in marketing and publishes poetry, fiction, and comics. Her work has appeared in Asimov’s, Strange Horizons, and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, among others. Find her online at 
www.lesliejanderson.com
.

Shaun Avery

Shaun Avery is a crime and horror fiction fan with numerous publications on the UK small press comic scene, as well as competition wins for his fiction and a recent shortlisting in a screenwriting contest.  He spent some time out of work, and has exaggerated a few real-life events in this story.  But not by much.  More of his work can be found here
 
http://descenttheatre.co.uk/category/playella/
 and here
http://erewashwriterscompetition.weebly.com/winners-2012.html

H. David Blalock

H. David Blalock has been a writer for print and the internet in speculative fiction for more than 35 years. Inspired by the science fiction and horror writers of the early and middle 20th century, he continues to try to bring that sense of wonder and awe he felt at that reading to his audience through his stories and novels. For more information about David and his work, check out his website at ThranKeep.com

Delphine Boswell

I have numerous short stories accepted for publication in online magazines, print anthologies, and a literary journal, as well as a chapter excerpt from a mystery novel currently under agent consideration. I hold an M.A in English (Rhetoric & Composition) from the University of Nevada, Reno and recently earned my M.F.A. in Creative Writing from the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts.  I have been teaching college writing for the past twelve years.

Ellen Brock

Ellen has loved books since the day she learned to read. She also loves animals (especially dogs and rats), hot sauce, paper crafts, and geocaching.  She owns an editing company called Keytop, Inc. (
www.keytopservices.com
), where she edits manuscripts for established and aspiring authors. Ellen enjoys sharing writing and editing advice on her blog (
https://thewriteditor.wordpress.com
) and is currently finishing a novel.

Cathy Bryant

Cathy Bryant won the 2012 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Prize and is a former blogger for the Huffington Post. Her stories and poems have been published all over the world in such publications as the Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Night to Dawn and Midnight Times. In 2012 Cathy was runner-up in the SFPA Poetry Contest, as well as winning the Bulwer-Lytton, The Sampad ‘Inspired by Tagore’ Contest, the Malahat Review Monostich Contest and the Swanezine Poetry Contest. Her collection, ‘Contains Strong Language and Scenes of a Sexual Nature’ was published recently. To contact her, email
 
[email protected]
 

Jason Campagna

Jason Campagna is a native of Western Pennsylvania where he made his living in government until he decided to go back to school.

His degree is in Communications from Pikeville College in Eastern Kentucky. He is currently studying for a Masters at Murray State University.

Carolyn M. Chang

Carolyn writes SF&F stories to escape into a world where she can control absolutely everything – kill anyone she feels like, make someone ugly or beautiful, invent any technology she wants, you get the picture. She has had two other short stories published: one in collaboration with Leslie Lee in Novus Creatura: An Anthology of Never-Before Seen Monstrosities and a second in The Temporal Element: Time-Travel Adventures, past, present, & future. Carolyn is also the proud author of two yet unpublished manuscripts, the first a multi-cultural YA/SF and #2 a dark fantasy with SF elements. She lives in Amsterdam, Netherlands with her husband and two children where she’s involved in two writing groups.

Deedee Davies

Deedee is a writer interested mainly in the fantasy, horror and science-fiction genres. Inspired by turn of the century fantasy and science-fiction, she wrote a great deal as a youngster, returning to it in 2012, when she finished her first draft novel. Deedee is also a cover artist, with around 20 published book covers under her belt. She lives in Plymouth, UK with her partner, 3 spiders, 3 snakes and a scorpion.

H.S. Donnelly

H.S. Donnelly lives in Toronto with his supportive wife Anne and two affectionate, though rather demanding, cats. First Head was his first attempt at writing short stories. Along with First Head, he has had several short SF stories published or soon-to-be published in Onspec Magazine #86 (Oh Most Cursed Addition Engine) and Kaleidotrope Magazine (2014) (Stowaway to Mars).

Many thanks to the Burlington Writer’s group (Sylvia, Jim, Rory, Janice, Chelsea, Gesila, Estelle, Cathy, Lynda, Rachael, Elaine) who endured a lot of re-writes to this story and to Sue Williams, in particular, who encouraged me not to give up on the story.

For more information, visit my Facebook page at: www.facebook.com/peeringintothefuture

Jay Faulkner

Jay Faulkner resides in Northern Ireland with his wife, Carole, and their two boys, Mackenzie and Nathaniel.  He says that while he is a writer, martial artist, sketcher, and dreamer he’s mostly just a husband and father.

His work has been published widely, both online and in print anthologies, and was short-listed in the 2010 Penguin Ireland Short Story Competition.  He is currently working on his first novel.

Jay founded, and edits, ‘With Painted Words’ - 
www.withpaintedwords.com
 - a creative writing site with inspiration from monthly image prompts, and ‹The WiFiles’ - 
www.thewifiles.com
 - an online speculative fiction magazine, published weekly.  He can also be found as a regular co-host on the Following The Nerd radio show–
www.followingthenerd.com

For more information visit–
www.jayfaulkner.com

Tanith Korravai

Tanith Korravai spends much of her time looking for utopia in all the wrong places. She occasionally puts in an appearance at the group blog smalltriumphs.com.

S.C. Langgle

S.C. Langgle is a lifelong lover of words and stories who has never outgrown her preference for children’s and young adult literature. A graduate of the Master of Professional Writing program at the University of Southern California, S.C. is originally from Baltimore, Maryland. She currently lives in Hollywood, California, only a block from Marilyn Monroe’s handprints at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, though she spends more time at home with her computer than mingling with celebrities. Luckily, she has her two adorable dogs—a Chihuahua, Chin-Mae, and a maltipoo, Sasha—to keep her company, and she’d choose them over a gaggle of Hollywood stars any day.  Visit S.C. at http://www.sclanggle.blogspot.com.

Mandi M. Lynch

Mandi M. Lynch started writing stories at the tender age of six, pecking out the words on her mother’s manual typewriter.  Although the crayon drawings have improved marginally, the spelling has not.  Now, she lives in Nashville, TN, with three cats - none of which write due to lack of thumbs - and spends as much of her time in the industry as she possibly can.  You can find her or her small press (Ink Monkey Mag) on facebook.

Michael O’Connor

Michael O’Connor is a writer and freelance editor who lives in Kent in the UK. His short fiction has appeared in numerous UK/North American print and online magazines as well as in one single-author and several multi-author anthologies. He wrote the non-fiction From Chaucer to Childish: Writers and Artists in the Medway Towns in 2006 and the e-novella Cages in 2010.In addition, he has written essays and book reviews for The Baum Bugle (Journal of the International Wizard of Oz Club), and is a long-standing member of The Lewis Carroll Society (LCS), for which he edits their quarterly newsletter as well as being on the editorial board of their academic journal The Carrollian; his most recent work is All in the Golden Afternoon: the Origins of ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ which is available from the LCS website http://lewiscarrollsociety.org.uk/. His own website is at 
www.mpoconnor.co.uk
  

Herika R. Raymer

Herika R. Raymer grew up consuming books - first by eating them, later by reading them. Her mother taught her the value of focus and hard work while her father encouraged her love literature and art; so she has been writing and doodling off and on for over 30 years. After much encouragement, Mrs. Raymer finally published a few short stories and has developed a taste for it. She continues to send submissions, sometimes with success, and currently has a collection of stories in the works. She is the Short Story Editor for a horror magazine. A participant of the voluntary writer/artist/musician cooperative known as Imagicopter, Herika R. Raymer is married with two children and a dog in West Tennessee, USA.
 Her website is at:
 
herikarraymer.webs.com

Frank Roger

Frank Roger was born in 1957 in Ghent, Belgium.

His first story appeared in 1975. Since then his stories appear in an increasing number of languages in all sorts of magazines and anthologies, and since 2000, story collections are published, also in various languages. Apart from fiction, he also produces collages and graphic work in a surrealist and satirical tradition. They have appeared in various magazines and books.

By now he has a few hundred short stories to his credit, published in more than 35 languages. In 2012 a story collection in English (“The Burning Woman and Other Stories”) was published by Evertype (www.evertype.com ). Find out more at www.frankroger.be .