GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007 Read online

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  Greatest Uncommon Denominator Publishing

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  Copyright ©2007 by GUD Magazine on behalf of contributors

  First published in 2007, 2007

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  Greatest Uncommon Denominator Magazine

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  CONTENTS

  Kmantis Hunch5 by Konrad Kruszewski

  Sundown by Debbie Moorhouse

  Cosmonaut's Last Day by Jamie Dee Galey

  Painsharing by John Walters

  A Yellow Sun with a Purple Crayon by Michelle Garren Flye

  A Problem with the Law by Neil Davies

  Trying to Make Coffee by William Doreski

  Fade in Fade out by Beverly A. Jackson

  Changing Destiny by Fefa

  Songs of the Dead by Sarah Singleton and Chris Butler

  Bird and Ghost by Sarah Coyne

  One in Ten Thousand by Athena Workman

  Invitation to Kaohsiung From the Journal of Allen

  Night Watch by Allen McGill

  4 Short Parables Revolving Around the Theme of Travel A.B. Goelman

  Media Hype by Jamie Dee Galey

  The Infinite Monkeys by Lavie Tidhar

  Moments of Brilliance by Jason Stoddard

  As a Child by Kristine Ong Muslim

  Belly Busters by Bruce Boston and Larry Dickison

  Cutting a Figure by Charlie Anders

  No Motor Home by Kenneth Ryan

  Past Due: Final Notice by Kenneth Ryan

  Fortune by Kenneth Ryan

  The Eternal-Last Request by Joshua Babcock

  Where Water Fails by Rusty Barnes

  Dialogue with the Hollows of Your Body by Benjamin Buchholz

  The Kiss by Konrad Kruszewski

  Longs to Run by David Bulley

  Ah Those Letters in the or Modern Lit by Lida Broadhurst

  Pepé in Critical Condition by Tomi Shaw

  Having Fun at the Party by Fran

  The first day of the last day my face fell off by Rohith Sundararaman

  Sown Seeds by Errid Farland

  She Dreams in Colors, She Dreams in Hope by F. John Sharp

  Jack Rabbit by Jamie Dee Galey

  Chicken by John Mantooth

  The Tale That Launched a Thousand Ships by Janrae Frank

  Poetry Code by Robert Peake

  Contributor Biographies

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  Kmantis Hunch5 by Konrad Kruszewski

  (art)

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  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Sundown by Debbie Moorhouse

  A bird this deep in the heart of the city was a wonder enough for one day.

  At first blink, it was a scrap of fabric or cardboard worn out of shape by heat and rain. At second blink, a sparrow. Trailing my fingers along the blistering shopfronts, blinking eyes open, eyes shut, I almost didn't notice it had feathers in time to avoid treading on it.

  A dirty cock sparrow, grey with accumulated layers of dust, its eyes still wide and bright.

  No sign of any struggle; it lay crushed and spent in a bend where the pavement was wider than normal. The hot wind, or perhaps the ceaseless movement of the crowd, had pushed it into a gap between two paving slabs.

  I shuffled round it, opening my eyes only the fraction necessary to see where it lay. This was the shortest route to the hospital, but it took the full brunt of the sun's glare.

  At third blink, I saw the bird was alive.

  "Moron,” someone whispered as he elbowed me aside. Despite his aerator, the word was clearly articulated. I caught a glimpse of his eyes above the mask as he glanced at me; red-rimmed, they wept the grit driven on the wind.

  Nobody I cared to see.

  The bird hadn't moved, though perhaps it had blinked, or turned an eye. Its broken wings were still.

  Head down, arms jerking to and fro at his sides, another man walked straight into me. The strap holding his aerator stuck up out of his hair like an unexpected tail. He inched along me, his breaths rasping in his throat, then resumed his march.

  A siren's despairing wail reminded me I was on my way to see Chris before he died.

  What was keeping life in this bird? Why didn't it just give up and let go? Like others I'd rescued from cats, which had quivered and pulsed on the edge of freedom, then died in my hands. I wondered if I should stamp on it and put it out of its misery. But was it suffering? Its bright, quick eye gave no clues. Maybe I was too much of a coward, anyway. I walked on, leaving it lying there, alive.

  * * * *

  I found Chris in Resus, identifiable as such only by the name painted on the wall. The creak and bang of the door did not attract his attention, although his eyes were open. His chest moved like a ratchet as he fought for breath. Each centimetre cost him pain.

  "There you are,” I said.

  "Jack.... “He used up all the breath he had earned with that one word, then lay staring at the ceiling, perhaps considering whether or not it was worth setting the ratchet going again.

  "Coming back to work for me, now?” I couldn't resist this opportunity to lecture him when he couldn't talk back. “Guaranteed safe."

  A transient smile cracked his lips. I touched the hand nearest to me, and then gripped it when he didn't resist.

  Another faint groan as he forced his chest out one more notch. Where the knives must have gone in, he was patched with dressings. The hospital had torn the blue uniform-like shirt he'd been wearing with such pride the last time I'd seen him. I wondered if the police had come and gone, or if they weren't coming at all. What was another stabbing? Not even page-four news.

  "Jack.... “He forced the word out between teeth stained with blood.

  "Shush.” I squeezed his hand. “Get better, then call me."

  "Dying,” he said.

  I watched the last hints of colour draining from his face. Watched the ratchet stutter and fail. Saw blue tinge his lips.

  I held onto his hand.

  "Why did you have to go off, hey? Why didn't you stay with me?” No answer in his face. No way to know if he'd heard me. If he even knew the answer.

  People naturally fell away from me, it seemed, like ash seeds helicoptering away from the parent tree.

  "Don't die.” He had decided he'd rather be muscle in a club than partner with me. “Chris."

  I wanted to put my arms round him and hold him, hold the life in him, but he'd always been wary of proxi
mity.

  * * * *

  On the way back, I walked on the other side of the road. It was less convenient; the frequent breaks in the shopfronts meant I had to keep my eyes half-open all the time. I didn't know what I feared more, that the sparrow would be dead, or that it would still be stubbornly, if patiently, alive.

  When I climbed the thirteen steps to my office, someone was already waiting for me. A woman this time, with the set lips and haunted eyes of someone ready to abandon hope. Heavily built, maybe forty. No bag, so she'd probably been in town a while. I polished my plaque with my sleeve.

  "You're the tracer?” she said, a frown falling into habitual grooves between her eyes. “I thought you'd be older."

  I offered my hand. “Jack Connor."

  "Lisa Palmer.” She barely touched my fingers, the momentary contact hot and dry.

  I let us in, leaning on the panel for just the right amount of time. The aerator immediately sprang into action, filling the one room with a cool stream of oxygen-heavy air. I unshaded the windows, letting some dirty light in for my plants. The woman stood in the doorway, looking around.

  "Shut the door.” I pinched off a discoloured leaf. “Take a seat."

  She made a noise that might have been acknowledgement, might have been thanks. I heard her cross the room and lower herself into the chair. She fumbled with her personal aerator, switching it off, butnot bothering to remove the tube from her nose. I allowed a tiny amount of water to dribble onto the compost round one of my plants, then stroked dust off a leaf, exposing red and green striations.

  "Those the new mox-eaters?"

  I glanced at her, but saw only polite curiosity.

  "Field-testing brings in a few cents."

  I crossed the room to sit opposite her, in the more comfortable chair I kept for myself.

  "So, who're you looking for?” Reaching down into a half-open drawer, I pulled out a pad of paper. A pen already lay on the desk. I popped it a few times, listening to the click. The woman was looking, not at me, but at the plants covering every available surface.

  "What do they do?"

  "Release oxygen,” I said. That revelation fell outside the prescriptions of Clause 149 of the contract, which covered sharing sensitive commercial information with non-authorised persons. In some detail. “Like the aerators."

  "A little less portable."

  "So, who—"

  "My daughter.” She seemed suddenly in a hurry to explain.

  "She ran off."

  "And she's how old?” I popped the pen again, and then tested it on a piece of scrap paper. The ink had dried. I popped it a few more times before I wrote the date on the top of the pad.

  "Thirteen.” She coughed. “Seventeenth of the twelfth, fourteen."

  Again, she coughed, covering her mouth. Perhaps her aerator was contaminated with dust, although its tubing was translucent, unstained.

  "Name?"

  "Anna Gray. Her father's name.” Again, the cough, not wet like Chris's, but hacking and dry.

  I wrote the name down, under the date, and then wrote the date of birth next to it. The two sets of numbers confused me. Turning to the next page of the pad, I began again.

  "Look, Mr Connor, I'm not sure...."

  I glanced up. She had money, although something, perhaps experience, had led her to try to hide it. The dirt on her clothes meant nothing. They were good quality, chosen for wear rather than fashion.

  "How many places have you been?"

  "Oh.... “A different tone now, rueful, almost laughing. One hand released the other, and then it waved airily for a second. “Loads.” She widened her eyes. “Albert & Lyons wanted eight thousand euros, up front. I don't have that kind of money. Not ready cash."

  "Not many people do.” I wrote the amount down, however, next to the missing girl's name.

  "I had to promise them I'd try to raise it. I was afraid they wouldn't let me out the door."

  "Door's right there.” I smiled, nodding in that direction. “I don't use pressure tactics."

  "Can you find my daughter?"

  "Sometimes I find them. More often not.” I got up and went back to my plants, to use the hand-pumped fan to blow dust off their leaves. “So, what happened? You argued, she and the boyfriend argued, or it's her father she had the argument with?"

  "All three."

  "It doesn't take much, for some.” I scooped up a dangling tradescantia tendril and positioned it where it would get more light.

  "She's too young. But when you're young ... you think you know everything."

  "No, you know you do.” I went back to my desk, grabbed the pad, and wrote down the name. Anna Gray. “When did she run?"

  "Six months ago. Just after her birthday.” She was leaning forward again. “We thought she'd come back. Well, where could she go? Then the police said she was here. They'd pictures, from one of their cameras. Here in London.” Frowning, she looked around my tiny office. “They said it's where they all end up."

  "I see.” A note on the pad. “Does she know anyone locally?” Six months ago ... that would be when? I started calculating dates, using a new page. Anna Gray's name at the top.

  "No.” She laughed, suddenly, irrelevantly. “She was always talking about the lions. You know, in Trafalgar Square? She wanted to see them. Not by webcam. But for real."

  "They've been moved,” I said, and saw her slight start of surprise.

  "Didn't you know?"

  "The news is so unreliable.” She sounded apologetic.

  "They went out to Arizona, to the aircraft graveyard. They'll bring them back, when it's safe.” I wrote down ‘lions?’ And then the girl's name, Anna Gray, so I'd remember to what the ‘lions?’ note referred.

  "Arizona.” Her expression changed. “She didn't know, I'm sure."

  "Lisa.” I saw her surprised again, this time at my use of her name. “How badly do you want to find your daughter?"

  "Is this where you tell me how much it costs?"

  "There's some unpleasant facts you're going to have to face."

  I turned the pen in my fingers, disliking this part as always. “There's only so many ways to live in this city. Stealing, begging, dealing, hooking. You can bet Anna's into one or all of those. And even if you find her, she may not fall weeping into your arms. She may be addicted to cigarettes, or alcohol, or maybe it'll be heroin, or cocaine. She's not going to be the same little girl who left home."

  "I know all that,” the woman said, but she still wasn't looking at me. I turned to a fresh page and wrote down Anna's name, and then the observation ‘naive background?’ I hoped the woman couldn't read what I was writing. When I glanced at her again, she was admiring my plants.

  She had no idea.

  * * * *

  When I left my office, I drifted back towards the sparrow, as if drawn. It was as good a direction as any to take.

  The bend in the pavement now hosted a nascent cardboard city. Two boxes, each with its own clearly-defined territory, one inhabited, one not. A flag of St. George waved over the second box, perhaps ironically. Perhaps not.

  At first glance, the sparrow didn't appear to be there. I wondered if it had been frightened off, or if it had just been faking me out, waiting for me to go away before taking flight. But then I saw it. It had rolled, or perhaps been kicked, right against the wall, and got mixed up with the rubbish the city-dwellers had tossed aside.

  Only its feet, sticking out at unnatural angles, distinguished it from a filthy paper bag. I bent down and poked it with a fingertip. Surely it couldn't still be alive. Its eyes were now filmed with dust. But when I touched it, I detected the unmistakable quality of life. No warmth, no heartbeat—how could it be living?

  Yet it was.

  I wished I'd brought a box, or a plastic bag, anything I could wrap it in. I didn't fancy the idea of having it loose in my pocket. Especially if it was going to die. I wiped my fingertip on my leg, puzzling. This wasn't what I was meant to be doing. I had people to find—not j
ust Anna Gray, but many others.

  When I failed to find their quarries, clients had a habit of inserting a retroactive ‘No find, no fee’ clause into our contract. Taking them to court, even if you could find a friendly judge, was more trouble than it was worth.

  But I couldn't leave the sparrow there. Already it had suffered more because I had passed it by. I pictured it as a new inhabitant of my office, although I couldn't visualise it fluttering about. No, it would lie patient and quiet among my plants.

  I picked it up, wrapping my fingers gently round it. Its lower body seemed swollen, compared with birds I'd held before. I couldn't feel its heart banging in fear, couldn't feel the breaths drawn into the oversized body. Surely it was dead.

  Gritting my teeth, I put it into my jacket pocket, forcing myself past the momentary revulsion. I brushed my hands against my trousers, wiping off parasites with the dust. The bird had made no resistance, no complaint.

  * * * *

  All the way to the huddle of outlets by the river, the bird lay muffled in my pocket, a dead weight. By the time I arrived, most of the small shops were closed, their blinds drawn down in defiance of the midday heat. Only Sammy's Square Deal was still doing business, its door propped half-open as if to entice a breeze into the dim interior.

  I checked out the flyers papered on the board covering last year's broken window. Nothing new.

  I went inside. The current Sammy, a middle-aged man who'd seen more sun than was good for his skin, threw down his racing paper and got to his feet. The paper hit the wooden counter, raising a thin cloud of dust.

  "Hello, Jack.” He wrinkled his forehead more, if possible, inspecting me. His right hand waved automatically at motes dancing in the air. “What you looking for now?"

  When I handed him Anna's picture, he smiled and said, “Tasty bit."

  "Been in here?” I looked casually round his shop, wondering if he had any boxes in sparrow size.

  "What would she be selling?"

  "Aerator. Phillips."

  What else of value did the child have? The aerator would have gone first.

  "No.” He was shaking his head slowly from side to side, still looking at the picture. “Not here.” He glanced up at me, and smiled. “Keep this? Case she comes in."