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Contents

Poetry
Aisle of Improbabilities : Richard Fein
Short, fat, Geek : Megan C. Wright
Fire Island National Seashore In January : Dave Gitomer
Birth? : Stanley Worthington
Untitled : Sandra Lovegrove
Rough Justice : Debbie Panks
A Poem About Knowing Witch Shares To Buy (Themed) : Jim Elwen

Fiction and Prose
bibitybobityboo (Themed) : Ro London
Fairground Distraction (Themed) : Karen Mossman
The Echo : SkyPath
The Amazing Mr. Blindip : Tony Anson

Serial
Watery Grave - Part 1 : Stuart Levin

Aisle of Improbabilities

Glimpses of Elvis on Mars,
a two-headed baby baptized twice,
a world of improbabilities reported
by brazen tabloids stacked neck-high
on the checkout aisle racks.
I pass through this world
with a basket full of toilet paper, cookies, and pickles.

Her cheeks are shrouded by her long brown hair.
Her deft, long fingers move the merchandise,
the cost quickly rising as the laser scans.
She pauses and offers me a smile,
revealing a slightly crooked tooth among the pearly whites.
She scolds me with her delicate fingers.
They point to an expiration date.
The cookies are put aside;
she has rescued me from a stale sweetness.
Her graceful fingers get back to business.
Deftly she processes my purchases.
I give her dollars; she gives me change.
Her fingers press my hand
longer than needed to exchange currency.
But the coin is cold with no time for warming.
Our skin must separate,
for the sum has been totalled and paid.
A line of commerce waits behind us.
Her eyes are blue. Her hair is brown.
Her fingers have touched and moved me.
Nearby movie stars cavort on metal racks,
arm and arm at gala events.
But right before me stands,
a long-haired girl with one slightly crooked tooth,
and blue eyes that almost wink at me.
Beyond the glittering Hollywood doings
one more tabloid solemnly proclaims
that aliens from Venus are invading soon.

Richard Fein ~

Short, Fat, Geek

I am the classic
Introvert.
Uncaring, insensitive to others.
I love myself.
I love to examine my thoughts
Dissect each one
Analyze the ingredients
Of my being.

In my mind I am
Great.
Powerful.
A pillar of morality and strength.

Then I have to open my eyes.

And I'm back to the
Reality
Of being a
Short
Fat
Geek.

Megan C. Wright ~

Fire Island National Seashore In January

on an island off the coast
dawn cracks over Bluebeard's ghost
the fog slowly rises
relentless waves cheer
white tailed young deer
framed by a pastel sky
encircled by dunes so high
golden reeds formation aligns
generating geometric designs
quiltwork patched lands
quadrants of course sands
towering over the dunes erect
lurks lighthouse with beams project
silver moon straddles throne
painting black bird soaring alone
powdery light blue sky
green grass wavers a sigh
tannish sands rest between
rabbits prance staying unseen
all told tales in tracks
dog deer's cloven hoof cracks
birds float the calm bay tide
seemingly motionless ride
behold the mainland background
in distance uttering no sound
either beach or the bay
woods aside quietly stay
contrast bay so placid
ocean churns like acid
so close
so far
here there everywhere
the unseen shouts
while the obvious whispers

Dave Gitomer ~

Birth?

In Mothers natures tranquil womb,
Life drifts, in soulless patience.
Safe, secure, warm,
Nestled deep in silence.

Frail, pained body,
Lies captive on linen sheet.
Defiant, sunken eyes,
Death will soon defeat.

Piercing, blinding light,
Strange sounds imprint forever.
Touching, learning, thinking mind,
Spirit binds together.

Spirit soars, breaks free.
Light, clear light,
Gives new understanding,
New truth, new sight.

Child is born on summer's day,
Old man dies at dawn.
Who is it, that's dying?
Which of them, is born?

Stanley Worthington ~

Untitled

analyzed into confusion
in battle with visual truths...heavy upon my face
tears use to dilute
but they come back to the surface
as if some unique form of reasoning should dominate
drowning amongst those programs

I remain immersed without conscience
formed

gorging on rhythms exchange
inside you
I find your labyrinth
I become lost in its darkness

overwhelmed by these new creatures
a definite bull's-eye
into damned consumption of my own accord

comfort lies in the one eternal process

I pass amongst those
as molded
sane
in idle conversation
while balancing the pill on my tongue

adapted only to my immediate needs
promoting my misery
deserves
untitled.

Sandra Lovegrove ~

Rough Justice

He took my hand and dragged me to the waters edge.
Like his touch, the water was icy cold,
sent a shiver down my spine.
It looked too deep to dive into.
I was not used to these shark infested waters,
which instilled a sense of foreboding in me.
Pulled from the side and emersed in the deep end,
It was useless to struggle.
I let the water take me,
sweep over my body and engulf me.
My teacher was there to show me the way,
but the dive was a difficult one.
One that I was not ready for,
not wanting to make.
I've taken that leap a thousand times, remembering,
it never gets any easier.
Like a shark he ripped away my innocence.
I should have drowned that day,
put up a fight,
but he was stranger than me.
He left me floundering in a pool of tears.
His sentence a mere three years.
Rough Justice.

Debbie Panks ~

A Poem About Knowing Witch Shares To Buy

The time has come, it's the witching hour,
my hat's not creased and my potion's not sour!
It's smooth, not lumpy and sweet and sickly,
the salad that goes with it isn't even prickly.
Not much chance then of doom and disaster,
I can't even manage to turn on the Aga.
And where are my frog's legs? cried the desperate witch
If I don't find them soon, it'll be more than a hitch.*
*(Since Europe had integrated there'd been an embargo
on all French lorries with gastronomic cargo)
It's a bloody disaster! I can't make my spell,
and I need some more bats to improve on the smell!
Life is not easy for the modern day witch
and the things that I need I can't pay for by Switch.
I haven't any cash to try Marks 'n' Spencers
and my spell on the banks knackered all cash dispensers.
Fortunately for her, this witch was quick thinking
and she'd thought of a plan without even blinking.
She cut a few warts from off of her face
and dropped them all in with enough salt to taste.
A quick spell and some gas and the Aga was working
(a succulent rat she found near it, lurking
so threw him in, with a measure of gin,
cackling as he died, with a malevolent grin)
Within a minute the brew hubbled and bubbled
(she was sure that Macbeth had not been so troubled)
She reached under her skirt for her small Vodaphone
and rang her friend Mavis and asked for a loan
of a few floppy disks, for it was her new ploy
that with a vile virus Bill Gates she'd destroy.
Mavis said yes and they cackled together
agreeing the future would be nothing but pleasure.
Back at the Aga her potion was done
and she grinned at the prospect of such evil fun.
Gathering together all she might need
turned on the answering phone, and then peed,
she put some of the potion in a hipflask
and jumped on her broomstick, up for the task
checking the fuel gave off enough smoke
so on the way past her neighbours would choke,
off sped the witch, from her semi in Slough
(where she wasn't the only wart faced old cow)
and headed east, jumping all the red lights
using the bike lane and flaunting her rights,
until at last she came right into the city,
parked her broom, checked her potion was gritty
and made her way to the Stock Exchange
(with several large banks also in range)
she was cautious at first so as not to attract
unwanted attention because it was a fact
she bore a striking resemblance to Margaret Thatcher
and was frightened this curse might help someone catch her.
Surreptiously now she sprinkled her potion
all over the place with witch-like devotion
then got back on her broom and flew back to her house
(running over in Windsor a family of grouse)
and waited contented for the six o'clock news,
musing quietly some possible new brews.
Sure enough it was an outstanding success
surprising herself, she had to confess.
The Stock market had crashed beyond all belief-
only the witch sat and watched with relief.
While brokers all over came out in a rash,
the witch sat at home and counted her cash
for the shares she had bought only monday before
did not crash, infact the price it did soar.
So next week Witch puts her broom in the closet
picks up her ticket, (she'd paid the deposit)
and flies off to Jamaica to lie in the sand
for now, afterall, what is a few grand?

Jim Elwen ~

bibitybobityboo

I was having a fling. I looked it up. FLING: A casual try. Of course I deserved more. Better. But first I had to firmly plant my feet.

I envied even the words Christian cast his gaze upon--ones he stopped to contemplate--those that inspired him to compose. He was curious about what I was wearing; I was after what he read. Which were the words that he undressed, or those he poured over and discarded, hungry for the next and the next, and the one after that. Ones that felt the heat of his stare. Celebrate the quiet of the room.

No, I did not wish to be the clothes Christian wore--though often I'd eyed them like a thief. Nor to be the morsels at the tip of his fork. But more the captor of his imagination, his entertainment, something he could wrestle with and take with him when he was through.

I began to append our moments with carefully constructed prose; a few scattered lines would follow an abruptly concluded phone conversation. A vignette gift for him to unfold at 30,000 feet, to pin-prick when there was nothing more than the monotony of sleep, sky and sea. A missive to collect with his mail when he returned and reclaimed his unaffected stance.

This was my seduction, the curves and shapes of favorite words, the simplicity of black on white. And he soon adopted the annoying habit of waiting for these reminders before I would see him again. I think we both feared that love might spoil my fun.

It had been all been explained on that first date. And it was across a colorful tile table that balanced salty margaritas and soupy Mexican combos that Christian had pronounced in his most bewitching style, an earnest quest for solitude and sanctuary, so that he could wholly focus on his art. When not much after that he took me in blatant urgency to a place of questionable privacy, and right on the floor, seduced me (or allowed me to seduce him as he will surely remember it), I did not ask what had happened to this quest.

Christian was not one for making much clear. The surge of my boredom was defenseless against the topographical distance between us and his will to ward off distraction. I offered to dig a mote to encircle him.

I was waxing poetic on the topic of this riata, now sticky from a bloody grip, when the wife of a friend, in a rather off- handed, and yet knowing cadence so that I should take her seriously, suggested that I cast a spell. Cast a spell...what a fabulous idea! As she was being ushered from the room, in a single fluid motion of shrugging on her jacket she leaned close and offered me an old issue of Rolling Stone on which she had scribbled a helpful address.

I braved Grand Central and rush hour and pushed onto a downtown #6 that spit me out at Astor Place. It was 6:45 P.M. when I stepped through Enchantment's door.

I was visibly new at this. The witch behind the glass display case in this musty, cluttered shop addressed me with just a hint of contempt. I wondered, as I looked around with curiosity while waiting to be acknowledged, how much she could see just by looking. I stammered over words I'd rehearsed on the way and coughed out my request.

"You need to talk to Jenna."

"I'm sorry, which one is she?"

The witch pointed a bored, unconcerned finger away from us. I gingerly pushed past the requisite fat cat that was circling my feet. Timidly, I pierced a cloud of fragrant odor and approached Jenna who stood behind a badly stained wooden work bench. She was crowded on three sides by shelves and shelves of dark, unmarked jars and bottles whose meticulous order, though not pronounced, was obvious.

A royal purple velvet curtain that draped over a door way rustled gently at my left. "Are you sure that you want him?" Jenna's voice was ever-so-soft but defined by a stiffening glare which made me unsure of my response.

"Yes," I answered and felt compelled to repeat it. "Yes."

"Hand me a pink candle behind you."

I reached into a rainbow of fat wax cylinders and chose a tall candy pink candle fitted snugly into a thick glass.

Attentively I watched Jenna's knife slide smoothly across the wax. I tried peeking into her spell book to read Christian's exact fate, but I was unsuccessful in deciphering the tiny print; I blamed it on my lack of vantage. I was too self conscious of how pedestrian it would be to inquire about her steps; I was very aware of my dangerous game.

Jenna pondered over the battered book reaching for one potion after another, fastidiously following a magical procedure. She mixed and poured, burned and chanted with slow moving lips and no sound. And then she asked me for my right hand.

Onto the ball of my thumb she squeezed a drop of honey-- right from a plastic honey-bear--"Taste it," she said, "and think of him." I closed my eyes and transported the tiny globule of thick from hand to mouth.

She poured yellow and red sweet-scented oils over the candle and massaged them into the carved grooves with care. Then I watched her arrange colored sparkles into the design. It was at this juncture that she briefly conferred with a colleague who found in a small tattered book a needed answer.

And last with her knife, Jenna added our names and our birth signs to seal the spell. She turned her back and gesticulated above the candle. I saw her elbow jerk back and forth.

"Light it for seven days. Focus on nothing but him and exactly what you want. Send clear messages."

Did she know what she was asking of me? Think positively? Maintain focus?

"Perhaps find a love letter. Fold it in half vertically and place it under the burning candle. Meditate on green to eventually turning the flame exactly that color." Jenna's voice all the while was a soothing monotone, entirely the opposite of what mine would be had I something to say. "Green is for the goddess Venus. It might help to buy some roses to circle the candle round...or shells. Venus loves sea shells."

Venus and Jenna must sit up late at night on her bed, eating cookies and ice cream, talking about love.

"When seven days are over, throw the whole thing away." And here her voice rose from a whisper.

Or what? I didn't intend on finding out. Love magic? We'll see. The whole thing, all the power, frightened me, a lot actually.

I let the candle burn all night. It burned alone and it bathed my bedroom with berries. In the morning, Christian left on my answering machine the phone number where he had been holed up writing with a well paid collaborator.

"What's up Christian?"

"Nothing. I've, I've just got you on my mind."

"It's called a love haunt."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

Ro London ~

Fairground Distraction

Jessica looked down at the child and smiled. "What is your name?" she asked.

"Tamara," she replied. She had jet black hair and strikingly blue eyes.

"And what have you got behind your back?"

Tamara produced a goldfish in a bag. "It's mine, I won it." Jessica looked around, but could see no anxious adult looking for her. The child, noticing, said, "I haven't got a mummy, just a daddy and a granny and granps."

"Well, who are you with, sweetheart? You shouldn't be by yourself."

"My daddy," she said sullenly. "He works here."

Jessica looked across towards Woodsend and still nobody was looking for her. It had been carnival day. Now as the evening came the fair was coming alive. "Where is your daddy, then?"

"Talking." Jessica crouched down to meet the child's eyes and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I think we better go and look for him. I'm sure he wouldn't want you to be wandering on your own."

"Daddy says I mustn't go with strangers."

"Well, Daddy's right. My name is Jessica and I come from Oswestry - a place a long way from here. I am staying with my brother, Ian, for a small holiday. They live across the road there." She turned to point. "See, the house with flowers by the door?"

"Yes," said Tamara, "it's very pretty."

"Now you know something about me, we're not strangers any more are we?"

"I suppose not," said Tamara, but she still looked troubled.

"My daddy is called Tommy, he's upset and I don't want him to be cry."

"Shall we find him then, and make sure he is all right?" suggested Jessica, thinking what a strange thing for a child to say.

"Yes," said Tamara and slipped something into Jessica's pocket. "Give that to my daddy, tell him Tamara's sorry."

"What is it?"

"He'll know," she said taking her hand.

"But you can give it to him yourself." The child just smiled and together they walked across the field.

"Is this it?" Jessica asked, as they stopped a fairground workers caravan. Tamara nodded. The windows were netted so Jessica couldn't see if anyone was in side. It was hard to hear too because of the noise of the rides. She knocked on the door and waited. A women in her mid-fifties answered and Jessica asked if Tommy was there.

"No he ain't," she said, rudely slamming the door in their faces. Jessica looked at Tamara solemnly.

"Are you sure this is the caravan?"

Tamara nodded. "She gets mad when girls call for him."

Jessica wondered whether to knock again, but then the door opened and a man stood there. "What do yer want?"

She looked down at Tamara and she wasn't there. "Oh! I..." she spun round wondering where she had got to. "Tamara?" Anxious that she didn't get lost again, she went round the side of the caravan calling her name. She was watching the big wheel. "Tamara, don't get lost......oh!" Another little girl looked at her.

"What the hell's your game?" demanded Tommy, who was came up behind her.

"My game?" she said angrily. "Don't you know little girls shouldn't be left to wander about on their own? The noise from the fairground rides was deafening.

"Don't you worry about Tamara, she ain't nowt to do wi`you." He turned and started to walk away.

Jessica started after him. Typical man! Didn't he care? Grabbing his arm, she stopped him. "I found Tamara wandering on her own. She's too young to be by herself."

"Who the hell are you? What are you doing?"

"I doing what you should be doing, looking for your daughter!"

He gave her an odd look. "You found Tamara?"

"Yes," she said impatiently. "She's wandering about on her own, don't you care?"

"What makes you think she was my Tamara?"

"She told me, brought me here. What's the matter with you?"

"Come with me." He took her back to the caravan. Inside the woman and a man were sitting at the table. The woman scowled at her.

"She said she's just seen Tamara," Tommy told her. Jessica began to feel uncomfortable.

"Is that right?" said the woman.

"You saw her, she was with me when I knocked."

"I saw no one." Jessica didn't like the way the way they were reacting. As if she was the monster.

The woman's eyes darkened as she spoke. "You think you're very clever, don't you, coming `ere like this."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Jessica.

"Yes you do," she challenged.

Then Jessica remembered the child putting something in her pocket. She, er, gave me this." She took our the small object and tossed it on the table. The brass button came to a stop in the centre. The three of them gasped and the women jumped to her feet as if it was poisonous. Jessica didn't understand, but said to a white-faced Tommy. "Tamara said to give you this and to tell you she's sorry."

The women let out a little cry and grabbed her necklace - a crucifix. Shakily Tommy said, "Tamara wandered off five years ago. They found her body the next day she'd been strangled. Her jacket had a button missing - a brass button."

Jessica's legs went weak and her mouth dry. Sinking down on to a bunk she whispered, "but she was real..."

"It's said," went on Tommy, "that people see her holding her goldfish wandering the fairground on carnival day. But no one has ever..." he was staring at the button. They were all looking at the button.

"I think," said Jessica, her voice unsteady, "it is Tamara's way of telling you not to blame yourself."

When they looked back at the table the brass button had disappeared.

Karen Mossman ~

The Echo (From the "Voyage of the Kings")

On this Day there shall come a sound, soft and slow, yet with enduring rhythm, rising as golden wind to capture the soul of a man, and the heart of a woman. From this moment on, until all moments fade, the sound shall be known, as the Breath of Angels . . .

Now, alone together, with the fire of Life in your eyes, you will stand with hearts as one, and talk of Days to come . . .

The journey is beginning. Place your hand in each other's, and feel the dream, the desire, and the devotion. Your hearts will surge with joyous anticipation, as you navigate the Oceans of Promise and Fulfillment. You are to become the treasure of all dreams, for if you laced each moment together with fine silver thread, more precious would they be than a web of pearls . . .

Imagine a place where it rains only when you wish, and wishes come true only when you smile . . . or of moving a mountain of shadows from your heart with a touch . . . or of searching the Heavens for the Truth that lies within you . . . or of gazing into the center of your union for the light that shines there. Imagine Love . . .

A bond of freedom is forged, to explore yourselves through each other. Every moment shared is a testament of Faith . . . in your purpose, your path, and your passion. Together you will grow, and harvest all that Life's bounty has to surrender. A bridge of gold awaits, crossing one hand to one hand, one heart to another. Two become one, and one, is Forever . . .

And Tomorrow, in the final pages of your story, when the end is but a beginning, you will sit with hearts as one, and talk of Days gone by . . .

SkyPath ~

The Amazing Mr. Blindip

Mr. Blindip was a very energetic man: he made it his habit to rise with the lark, though not quite so high, and, this morning was no exception. Flinging back the covers with a devil-may-care flourish he sat up in bed - (or do I mean on bed) - and, shivered.

"Bless-me!" he exclaimed as he glanced casually at the alarm clock, "It's not lunchtime yet. That was a little hasty, me boy."

He yawned, stretched, then shrank again, and gave the grondle-blurgell-pull a hearty tweak, and leapt out of bed to meet the morning. By some mischance (his housekeeper Mrs. Annie Seedball pronounces the word 'mischief') he met his far-flung bedclothes first and was tempted, just a very little bit.

Now Mr. Blindip was a man of iron resolve and knowing this he was able to convince himself that, had he so wished, he could have ignored them as they lay but as he was also a warm-hearted individual and wished to remain so, he wrapped himself in guilt and warm blankets, a sheet, an eiderdown and a pink floral bedspread with a green and yellow fringe, as well as his dressing-gown and yesterday's shirt, and gradually began to drop off.

He was doubly fortunate in that, as you will no doubt remember, he was already on the floor wrapped up amongst several layers of assorted textiles interleaved with lots of rather stiff self-reproach and that as I have said, he only began to drop off gradually, otherwise he might have been quite seriously hurt.

"Bless-me!" he murmured, "I do believe it gets a little warmer." He wakened with a start, but not a very long one, for the grondle was already in the act of blurgelling out from under the bed and pongolously thundelling straight at him! "Blessme!" he cried, without even having time for the hyphen: "The grondle cometh!"

He leapt into the air with surprising agility for such a stout gentleman all parcelled-up in bedclothing and regret and, grasping the lampshade by the fringe he surveyed the situation from on high. The grondle was already on the landing and making for the stairs. It had to be stopped at any cost so Mr. Blindip dug deep in his pockets only to find that they were empty.

Describing a graceful arc - I won't bore you with the formula for a classic parabola just now - Mr. Blindip launched himself through the bedroom door (grabbing his umbrella and bowler hat as he passed) and landed - where else but on the landing?

Pausing only to open his umbrella he dived off the top step and floated down as gently as thistledown, then put down as gently as touchdown and, donning his bowler hat in order to give himself a greater air of authority he struck a defiant pose. Such was his authority that the pose, defiant as it was, didn't strike him back but slunk off and sulked behind the hatstand.

"Why, bless-me!" wheezed Mr. Blindip as he cornered the grondle, "You've led me a merry grondletrot this morning!" He furled his umbrella and reversed it, advancing with the crook at the ready then pounced, holding the poor grondle in a double-reverse crossbrolly grondlepin.

Carefully freeing one hand, he groped in the stringbox and extracted some lengths of raffia and knotted tealeaves: Mr. Blindip was nothing if not thrifty. With these examples of the miser's art he tied up the grondle and plonked it in his box, securing the lid with an uncharacteristically generous dollop of last night's cold tapioca pudding. "There!" He exclaimed, "That's that." And it was or, very nearly. "And don't you go and make funny noises and frighten poor Mrs. Annie Seedball when she comes in, or Else!" he added. The grondle was quite afraid of Else.

Mr. Blindip seated himself at the breakfast table and helped himself to a plate of Dreaded Wheat, which he ate with sugar, milk and apprehension. "Why bless-me, that wasn't nearly as bad as I had feared." he sighed, as he pushed his last tooth to the side of his plate. "Now, where is the towcester?" Mr. blindip was very well-educated, and he was especially good at General Knowledge, with whom he had been at school so, he knew how to pronounce Towcester and how to spell it but, as his father had a good deal of money and lots of servants, the butler always made the towcest so the poor young Blindip never had the chance to test the converse, though he was always ready to try the conserve.

Mr. Blindip found the towcester hiding behind the towcest-rack so he cut two thick slices of bread and towcested them to a fragrant goldiness and, taking the gently steaming slices to the table began to spread them with butter, which melted into pools of liquid sunshine: it was delicious. The butter had been sent to him by his cirencester. (Cirencester is like Towcester but spelt and pronounced differently. It is pronounced 'sister'; 'sisiter'; sisister' or, sometimes, 'siren'. This is because the Romans used to live there and they were quite hopeless at the English language, maybe because it hadn't been invented then, though it has to be admitted that they were quite good at Latin, which had. Their mathematics was almost as atrocious as their English because they would keep on muddling up their tens with multiplication-signs: in fact, some of the nastier teachers would set sums with lots of tens and multiplied-by signs, and they would mix in a little algebra just to bump-up the number of Xs.: they were jealous, you see, of their puplis' brilliant marks at Latin.

Where was I? Oh yes. Mr. Blindip's cirencester had just sent him some butter straight from the churn. (The Romans knew all about that, too, for the Churn flows though the middle of Sister, Sisiter, Sisister or Siren and, they knew that because they sometimes fell in when they were playing by its side. Mr. Blindip knew that too, but he was far too busy to play now: besides, it was an awfully long way away.) Bearing all this in mind he spread the marmalade a little more thickly.

After he had finished his breakfast he ambled contentedly into the garden and wearily sat down in a deck-chair. Today promised feverish activity - seeing that the bees did their work properly and watching the hollyhocks grow. The dew had already been mopped-up by the morning sun and Mr. Blindip nodded his approval. The scent of the woodbine presented itself for his appraisal and Mr. Blindip nodded again. The Lupins all stood to attention, and he nodded to those, then he nodded to the marigolds, the alyssum, the lobelia, the catnip and everything else in the garden. Perhaps you can guess what Mr. Blindip did next?

Tony Anson ~

Watery Grave ~ Part One

The sun falls behind the red horizon and dies. The last rays of daylight hit the rolling, ocean waves and shatter like sparkling diamonds on the hissing peaks of foam. Light filters through the surface of the water and dimly illuminates the silent world below.

The light interlopes in Poseidon's domain, shifted by the moving water, flickering, wobbling uncertainly with a sickly green cast. Fish swim like aimless submarines in its glow, basking just below the surface, horned and scaled like monstrous machines, with gaping jaws that open and close as if in silent speech or abject disbelief. A manta-ray darts overhead, casting a sleek shadow on the rocks below. A few brave sharks swim uncertainly near the edge of a vast abyss, dipping in and out of the godless gloom.

The sharks seem to respect the abyss. So do we. There is something about the sheer depth and overwhelming sense of vastness that excites me and frightens me at the same time, filling me with dread and horror one moment, and abject wonderment the next. It is a crack, a rent, a great gaping wound in the side of the world, and it is a wound large enough for the world to feel. It is if the world has split in two and shifted.

Our hangar ship - the Leviathan - hangs about halfway down the crack. The darkness is absolute, save for the ring of torches that surround our ship's body, shafts of light that probe into the thick, murky water and illuminate our immediate surroundings. The Leviathan is an ugly ship - built for comfort and not for speed, to coin an old phrase. The body is a large, vaguely spherical form, faceted rather than curved, with thick metal framework showing where a few metal plates have been torn off on descent. Around the hole, ugly ribbons of sharp steel trail like tentacles.

The body contains a pretty severe set of ballast hardware, made obsolete by the flooding of the body. It feels like we are on the brink of sinking, struggling daily to keep a regular depth. On some days, it seems like the ship is supported by the oxygen line alone. We've called back to Blighty for an engineering squad, but they're not in a hurry to send one out. As long as we are still calling regularly, they assume we are all okay.

Around the body there is a ring of steel that contains the living quarters and food supplies. The ring lies slightly lower than the body's equator, giving the ship a slightly uneven, haphazard look. One end of the ring has a long cylinder jutting out from it, to allow minisubs and divers to enter and leave the hangar. It works on a double-door system, which is simple and reliable, even if the accompanying entryway is a bugger to get round corners. The Leviathan turns slightly as it sits, like a yo-yo on a string, a long, black oxygen cable pulled taut and running to the surface.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Solomon Zuckmayer, and I rank lieutenant in the Royal Sea Corps, a reconnaissance branch of the navy. We are currently conducting a long-term survey of the Eurasian plate border, for want of a more military purpose, and I am currently sat in the debriefing office. The debriefing office is small and stuffy, and the air is laden with the constricting smell of cigarette smoke. The walls are bleak and faded, and some misguided soul has coated them with a thick layer of obscure family photographs and girly calendars, most of which have remained on the same month for the past six years or so. The carpet is worn and grey, and the ceiling is too low for comfort, cold, bare stone coated with a dusting of whitewash. A dim lightbulb hangs from a rusty chain, a bare wire entwined in and around the rusty links. Periodically, the light flickers and buzzes in a worrying fashion.

In front of me is a shiny, school-like desk, with a smooth, polished surface on which my clean fingers slide with frictionless ease. Beside me sits my friend and companion of seven years, Samuel Yitschak. He has a receding hairline and frizzy hair, and his exposed forehead is pricked with fresh beads of sparkling sweat. The profile of his face shows that he has not shaved this morning, and a silver shadow frames the line of his jaw. He is leaning back in his chair, a bored expression playing on his hardened features.

The debriefing officer arrives shortly after; he is dressed in a starch-sharp uniform in smart blue, with a ruled fringe and clean-shaven, well-defined jaw. His shoes are flawlessly polished, toecaps reflecting the dim light in the room. He adjusts his trousers and takes a seat behind the desk.

"Well then, gentlemen," he says, amicably. "We've got a pleasant little outing lined up for you today. Fancy a trip to the bottom?"

I crack my knuckles and yawn, lazily. "The bottom?"

The officer nods, earnestly. "They want you to run some checks - patrol stuff, mostly." He waves his hands in a vague, dismissive fashion. "We've been picking up some major subsidence and seismic activity down below. We want you to have a look, take rock samples, note anything interesting... The usual."

Samuel leans forward and frowns. "Surely one would expect that sort of thing from a plate boundary," he puzzles.

"These things are relative," the officer replies. "There's been an increase. It looks like things may be shaping up for a major shift, and that could be tragic. We'll need to move our seabed instruments - seismo, subsidence, depth, pressure, et cetera - and call in the observance, backup squads, engineers et al... It'll be a job. But first we need to know what's going on down there. It could be anything. It might even be a mine collapse further down the line. That would be bloody disastrous." He looks sharply out to his side, as if he sees something we do not.

I decide to speak. "We need a full briefing," I say, sternly.

"I don't work very well with 'the usual'. Neither does my friend."

The officer nods, understandingly. "You'll have one," he assures. "By tonight."

"How long?"

"Just shy of seven-thousand words."

"Pages, not words. I don't speak word-processor."

The officer frowns. "Ooh... Standard typeface, I'd say about twelve. I had Magnusson write it. He did a bloody good job, as well." He nods, approvingly. "Makes good reading. I suggest you read it thoroughly. And we begin at eight."

"I will." I stand, and run a sweaty palm through my greasy locks. "I'll be in the cylinder by oh-seven-hundred hours tomorrow."

Samuel follows me. "And I at six," he says.

"Six?"

"I figure that if I set my sights at six, I might make it on time." He grins, foolishly. "Let's go."

Stuart Levin ~