Kzine Issue 12

  KZINE MAGAZINE

  Issue 12

  Edited by Graeme Hurry

  Kzine Issue 12 © May 2015 by Kimota Publishing

  cover © Dave Windett, 2015

  ‘Ol Ginger © Mike Driver, 2015

  Ava and Tara © Tom Johnstone, 2015

  Gator Girl © C.I. Kemp, 2015

  Go Fish © Preston Dennett, 2015

  Kernel of Truth © Fraser Sherman, 2015

  Saints of the Space Age © Don Norum, 2015

  Sisyphus at Twelve © Tom Barlow, 2015

  The Armadillo Burns Anthracite © Chris Lynch, 2015

  The Smart Phone © Diane Arrelle, 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright holder. For editorial content this is Graeme Hurry, for stories it is the individual author, for artwork it is the artist.

  CONTENTS

  Contents

  OL’ GINGER by Mike Driver (5)

  AVA AND TARA by Tom Johnstone (6)

  GAROR GIRL by C.I. Kemp (13)

  GO FISH by Preston Dennett (8)

  KERNEL OF TRUTH by Fraser Sherman (15)

  SAINTS OF THE SPACE AGE by Don Norum (4)

  SISPHUS AT TWELVE by Tom Barlow (13)

  THE ARMADILLO BURNS ANTHRACITE by Chris Lynch (11)

  THE SMART PHONE by Diane Arrelle (6)

  Contributor Notes

  The number in brackets indicates the approximate printed page length of the story.

  OL’ GINGER

  by Mike Driver

  Ol’ Ginger laid in the dirt beneath the henhouse, his blind yellow eye staring straight into the noonday sun. The other, the one that saw right, was tight shut against the swirls of dust and debris that drifted across the yard. He lay on his side, not moving, just the rise and fall of his stomach and an occasional snort through flared nostrils that raised a shallow furrow in the dirt before him. Just Ol’ Ginger, same as he always was, bones poking out through his scrawny hide, snoring quiet, figuring to sleep the heat away.

  Ol’ Ginger came to the farm some seven years back. Saw the family from a distance and took a shine to them. Back then there was just a father and a mother, and little Bobby in his surrey fringed push chair, out in the yard, under an umbrella to keep the sun off his rosy pink face. Maybe the family adopted Ol’ Ginger or him them; not that it made a never mind, they had each other now.

  Sounds from the house; children shouting and running, Bobby was near nine now, big like his father, same blue eyes as his mother, then there was the twins, always dressed identical in their pigtails and A-line dresses, couldn’t have been more than an even six years old, not that Ol’ Ginger cared much for counting. Father came out the house quick, all business-like with sleeves rolled up and his Sunday driving hat fixed on his head. He started up the old car, engine coughed, once, twice and spit out thick black smoke from the rear, before it settled to purring like an old lion. Mother came next, thick arms, like winter hams, bearing a gingham cloth covered hamper. Then more sounds; excited children, laughter, the twins coming down the porch steps holding hands, then the children clambering and crawling across the back seat of the car where there just wasn’t enough room.

  “Bobby’s squashing me!”

  “Am not!”

  “Are too!.”

  “Am not!!”

  Someone gave a pinch, a high pitched scream, a few stern words, then reflective silence followed by a joke and a rich peel of summer laughter all wrapped up with a blare of rock and roll from the car radio. The engine revved, father found a gear somewhere in those grinding and meshing of cogs, and the old car lurched forward with a cheer, filling the farmyard with dust, as its wheels span and spat. Finally, when all the dust settled, the yard was empty like none of them had ever existed. Ol’ Ginger yawned, there was just him, the cluck of the hens and the quiet of the day as fiery noon bled towards cool evening.

  Ol’ Ginger saw the figure as purple twilight took hold, it’s shadow crossing the yard before it, like it’d somehow folded itself out of the darkness. It kept away from the house, skirting the line of the close cropped wheat field and disappeared into the winter barn. Not one of the family Ol’ Ginger knew; smell was different, familiar though, like the scents he used to pick up the trail. The figure stayed in the barn. That was fine with Ol’ Ginger he knew his job; rats and foxes. Anything that came near the henhouse was his to deal with, anything the meandered by in the distance he would just raise one lazy eyelid and watch whatever it was until it disappeared from sight.

  The figure stayed in the barn.

  Ol’ Ginger closed an eye and dozed a little more.

  It was a quiet night with just a big expanse of star filled sky, whirling endlessly above a bank of soft pink cloud on the horizon. A fat old moon rose into that blackness and then the night split with a scream fit to shred Ol’ Gingers nerves. Hens started clucking and fussing, even the old cockerel started getting agitated, calling and scratching at his post even though dawn was a lifetime away. Then the noise subsided and the thing in the barn grew quiet.

  Ol’ Ginger was wide awake now. His one eye fixed on the barn. He could hear the scrat and movement of something shifting around in there; something that sniffed the night like it knew what it was looking for. Ol’ Ginger lay still. He knew he smelled of yard dirt and chicken house dust and nothing else. That was fine, but still his muscles tensed and his back arched into a defensive crouch, scraping against the underside of rough wooden boards that made up the floor above him.

  There came the sound of the car and twin disks of light cut the night sky from the old back road; picking out white circles against the gathering clouds overhead. The car pulled to halt and they all spilled out: The farmer, the wife and the three children; out way beyond their bedtimes, but still excited and tired all at the same time. The farmer came around and kissed his wife, rested a big rugged hand affectionately on her shoulder and steered her to the house. He almost made it too.

  Ol’ Ginger heard the sound but by this time he was willing the farmer on, willing him not to notice, even when that low growl set the chickens to squawking and clucking in nervousness. He watched as the famer’s hand dropped away and saw him pause and stiffen for small moment, the farmer didn’t say nothing or give away his feelings, just guided the family a little quicker towards the porch steps, but Ol’ Ginger knew he’d heard enough to be concerned. Last thing Ol’ Ginger saw was the farmer cutting a glance his way but Ol’ Ginger didn’t meet those blue eyes; he just buried himself deeper in the shadows beneath the coop and to his shame pressed his face to the dirt so even his good one yellow eye couldn’t glint in the moonlight and give him away.

  When Ol’ Ginger finally lifted his head the farmer, the wife and the children had all disappeared inside the house. The screen door showed a square of white light but nothing was moving inside. A lamp went on inside one of the bedrooms upstairs and a few moments later the screen door creaked and the father stepped onto the porch bearing a double barrel in his arms. He stood on the porch surveying the yard, where the old car ticked and cooled, and with an angular spread of porch light stretched out on the earth before him he let the door swing to and stepped down cautiously.

  He crossed the yard to where the winter barn stood; painted red from last summer’s work. The door was swinging slightly on its hinge.

  “Ginger, that you?” The farmer called sharply into the opening.


  Ol’ Ginger wanted to answer him, truly he did, but his throat was frozen and he could only watch from beneath the henhouse as the farmer pried the door wider.

  “Ginger, if you’re playing a game you better come out now or there’s two barrels right here with your name on them.”

  The farmer stepped through the door and the night followed him in. Ol’ Ginger knew that inside that barn was neat stacked bales of hay, all set aside as winter feed and stretching into every corner and reaching up to the loft: Plenty of places for rats to hide, plenty of places for something bigger.

  The farmer was gone for some time and Ol’ Ginger was letting hope creep back in; he even thought he saw the farmer begin to pull open the big barn door when he heard that roar and the twin barrels exploded, filling the interior with caged lightning before that awful groaning scream filled the night.

  Ol’ Ginger put his head down ashamed of his cowardice. He should have been there, at the farmers side, the man had been good to him. He could hear the bones cracking and the sound of flesh being torn away in strips. That’s how they did it. He’d seen the remains before; not here, further north in the mountains and woods and near the rail tracks that ran far from towns. He hoped the creature would have his fill and move on and that the rest of the family would have the sense to lay still and not draw attention to themselves. Ol’ Ginger twisted his head and looked over at the house. Lamps were snapping on everywhere, the whole place was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “Lock the door, lie low,” whispered Ol’ Ginger in to the dust, but it was too quiet for anyone to hear and too late to be of any use.

  The creature stepped out of the barn, high on its hind legs, its furry throat stretched to the moon and it howled deep and long. Ol’ Ginger had never heard one that big so close, nor seen one so wild and hungry at anything other than a great distance, with him moving in the opposite direction. The creature tested the air again and Ol’ Ginger lay as still as a piece of dead wood. He tried not to breath. He tried to not even think, in case the slightest spark of thought in his head might be enough to alert the beast. But there was louder prey available, banging and clattering through the house, the sound of children wailing and the tense hushed voice of a mother trying to calm them.

  Ol’ Ginger was wrong: Locking the screen door made no difference. That thing went through it like it was swatting away a horsefly. The door hung from a single broken hinge while the inside of the house filled with sounds and crazy shadows leaping all around, looking like a nightmare shadow play. And when it was over and the house was too still and too quiet and there was only the creak of the broken door and a white curtain billowing out through an open window like a flag of surrender, Ol’ Ginger knew it was done.

  He waited, like he knew he should. Waited to see if the creature was just laying low, waiting for Ol’ Ginger to show himself. But he knew deep down they didn’t work that way. If they wanted something and the moon was on them it was theirs already. Ol’ Ginger dragged himself from beneath the barn, sat cross legged on the ground, and rubbed the pale dust from his red beard. He pondered what to do next. He thought he had travelled enough distance, far enough south, where those things never came but that was changing; their territory was growing all the time. They were here now and he needed to move on again. Shame really; he liked the farmer and his family, and chasing rats had been a good job for a man who needed work, even if it was as a dog.

  Ol’ Ginger could feel the pull of the moon on his back as he walked away. Time was he needed that big old silver orb to make his change as well. Not anymore, not like those feral beasts that gave his kind a bad name. He shuddered at the thought and went in search of a new family and a new life following the dirt roads south.

  AVA AND TARA

  by Tom Johnstone

  Ava’s Story

  I’ve tried talking to her. Over and over again I’ve tried.

  I’m just not getting through to her any more.

  “Ava,” she says now. “I’ve heard you out. Now I want to have my say.”

  She used to listen. She used to take it on board. Not now. I suppose they were unpalatable truths I told her: about herself, about the world. She used to listen to me, without interrupting.

  “Ava,” she says now, cutting me off in mid-sentence, “that’s enough. Put another record on. Talk about something else for a change. Always harping on the same subject. I’m bored of it now!”

  That’s just rude, isn’t it? Just plain rude! And to think, she’s supposed to be my friend, my best friend.

  It’s that new man in her life, I bet. Filling her head with his promises, his ideas. Poisoning her against me. Things just haven’t been the same, since she started seeing him.

  Now I’m starting to worry for her. I think he’s the controlling type. Oh, he’s not physically abusive. No, not this one.

  He’s the sort that seems all very nice, very reasonable, bit of a brainbox. But I’ve just got this horrible feeling he’s the type who wants to control every aspect of her life, including her friends, doesn’t want her to have any friends, particularly close ones like me. He’s uncomfortable with that, with mine and Tara’s close relationship. So he’ll do all he can to undermine me, keep us apart.

  He must be very insecure. You wouldn’t think so though. It’s usually younger men who are like that, isn’t it? Ones with something to prove. Older men tend to be more settled in their lives, more stable.

  He’s quite a bit older than her, some sort of professor. Seems so self-assured, so self-possessed. Good-looking too, if you like that sort of thing. He seems to have some sort of hold of her.

  I’m not sure, I can’t prove anything, but I think he might be drugging her.

  “Ava,” she says. “We’ve been through a lot together. But I need a bit of space. I need to have a life of my own.”

  Her responses seem almost scripted, stage-managed. That’s what makes me think he might be drugging her, or perhaps hypnotising her.

  I’ve tried telling her that. Don’t think I haven’t. She just switched off. I mean, how do you get through to someone who’s obsessed? Nothing you can say will convince them.

  I haven’t had a chance to speak to her for a while now. She refused to speak to me the last time I tried telling her what was what. I’ll have to be more diplomatic next time, pretend to agree with her when she goes on about what a wonderful man he is.

  And, alright, maybe I was wrong to go off on one about him experimenting on her, just because he’s some psychology boffin. Maybe I’m being over-dramatic. It doesn’t have to be that he’s drugging her or hypnotising her or doing weird experiments on her.

  But think about it.

  Someone who’s that intelligent and that skilled in psychology must be good at manipulating people. It stands to reason, doesn’t it? He might not have to use drugs or hypnosis. He might not even mean to experiment on her. He might manipulate her without even knowing he’s doing it.

  And I should have a bit more confidence in Tara, a bit more faith in myself. We go back a long way. I’ve known her since we were little girls. I used to see her through a hole in the garden fence, just playing by herself. A lonely little girl, I thought, just like me. I bet she’d like someone to play with. So I made friends with her. We’d play fairies and princesses, witches and cats, all sorts of things. As we got a bit older, our games got more strange and complicated. Adults couldn’t understand them.

  That’s when her parents decided she shouldn’t play with me anymore. They built an even higher fence, with no holes, so I couldn’t even see her through it. I soon found a way through though. Because we were a bit older by then, we started playing out in the woods where they couldn’t find us, until her parents put a stop to it again, took her to a child psychiatrist. They even moved house, so she wouldn’t even be able to see me. I know, because I saw her crying when the removal van came.

  They couldn’t protect her forever though. Their little girl had to grow up sooner or later, had to
leave home. Call it coincidence, call it fate, call it what you like: We found each other again. For a while we were inseparable again, just like we’d been when we were kids.

  Until he came along. Now it’s like that fence all over again, the tall, wooden-panelled one her parents built. Only this one’s invisible, a wall made out of glass, so I can see her, but I can’t get through to her. I just can’t get through to her.

  Professor Hendry’s Report

  Tara has been responding well to the treatment. It’s a new form of therapy, just being tested out for the first time under laboratory conditions. Though I had my doubts, and still have certain reservations, I am broadly satisfied with how the trial is progressing.

  In this therapy, the patient externalises the ‘voices’ that characterise his or her illness, by means of computer software that converts them into an avatar. This allows the patient, with the support of the mental health professional, to intervene in the conversations between the patient and his or her destructive alter egos.

  In Tara’s case, she suffers persecution from a single, very powerful voice, rather than a whole multitude of them, which makes this form of treatment less complex than it might be. She has decided to name the voice. She’s called her ‘Ava’, as a kind of joke: Combined with her own name, this makes ‘Avatara’, a neat coincidence that caused her much amusement. This humorous connection between herself and the avatar shows a good deal of insight into her illness, a development I find reassuring and rather endearing. I must confess I have grown rather fond of Tara over these weeks, with her infectiously spirited personality. I will be sorry when the trial ends.

  ’Ava’ on the other hand is just an image on a computer screen.

  3D imaging allows the face to move and respond like a human being. The eyelids blink. The mouth moves.

  But there is no way you could mistake it for the real thing.