t i m e f r a m e

o n l i n e p u b l i c a t i o n

V o l u m e 1

J u ly 1 5 t h , 2 0 1 1

t i m e f r a m e o n l i n e p u b l i c a t i o n

J u l y 1 5 , 2 0 1 1

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i n s p i r e . c r e a t e . e d u c a t e . e x p e r i e n c e . t i m e f r a m e i s a c r e a t i v e o u t l e t f o r t h e

a r t i s t i c c o m m u n i t y, a n o n l i n e p u b l i c a t i o n t h r o u g h w h i c h a r t i s t s o f a l l t y p e s c a n

s u b m i t , r e v i e w , a n d r e a c t .

f o u n d e d b y : Kristin bergene • eric bliss

Kaylan a lban • laura loforese

S p e c i a l t h a n K S t o :danielle newell - for adopting our cause

amanda c hase - featured artistGreg Sorin - featured writer

a l l o f t h e w o r K p u b l i S h e d i n t h i S b o o K h a V e f i r S t

b e e n S u b m i t t e d o n t h e o n l i n e p u b l i c a t i o n t i m e f r a m e .

“Photography, for me, has always been my way of connecting to places and spaces I’ve been. My journalistic efforts while traveling never seem to last longer than it takes to unpack a suitcase, and I find myself with a great collec-tion of empty notebooks and half begun thoughts. Instead, I find it easier to record

visual memories through my camera.

As an Art History student, I have a great fondness for architecture and anything ancient that allows me to feel linked to the past. It’s what I’m drawn to, and what I seem to focus on in my travels and

through my lens.

This is what I remember.”

a m a n d a c h a S e

You will see Amanda’s work in the t i m e f r a m e gallery at The Smithy in Cooperstown, New York.

She also has also published many of her photographs on the online publication.

A mallard flutters. He’s perfected symmetri-cal, in flapless flight, gliding above the reeds and squishy swamplife with the ego of a swan’s pure white swish-swish down a glassy stream or a perched falcon satisfied with its latest kill.

The air is beyond wobbly; an inconsistent se-ries of bumps and trembles beneath his moss green feathers. But he tilts and angles, scoops off updraft sucked in to lift him higher and lean his head and copper beak back into the sun.

All he wants is to stay above the fetid swill of fungus and dried up reed stem.

A ripple tears through, like an elephantine gust launched across the swampland. He feels the push before the gunshot as control is lost and he spins perilously to the side. Feathers are torn free too, no defense for the membranes beneath.

He dares not look, but he forces himself to glance at the gaping hole lined by hollow feath-er tips and a bloody purple coating.

The thrust of the shot is the tiniest push back

and through the now useless wing. He falls, for once happy to find a mushy mound of fungal growth and moss below. He collapses on through to the water be-low and refuses further movement.

The echoes of a heavy panting carried past, like a second, slower shot on the way.

The mallard blinked away the light glint-ing off its obsidian eyes in slanted ovals of faded gold. On his back, an inescapable weakness setting in, he tilted his head to the side, closed beak dipped in the water.

The approaching breathing was a torrent of short bursts. He closed his eyes and let the audible waves envelop him. It grew and built, the searing pain in his wing intensified by the sound of approaching doom. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

Rippling, descending vibrations kept on building and surged, growing ever closer and wider, crashing, ruptured and always more piling higher and faster ripping through the reeds in a coming rage punch-

G r e G S o r i nf r a g i l e m a l l a r d

A mallard flutters. He’s perfected symmetri-cal, in flapless flight, gliding above the reeds and squishy swamplife with the ego of a swan’s pure white swish-swish down a glassy stream or a perched falcon satisfied with its latest kill.

The air is beyond wobbly; an inconsistent se-ries of bumps and trembles beneath his moss green feathers. But he tilts and angles, scoops off updraft sucked in to lift him higher and lean his head and copper beak back into the sun.

All he wants is to stay above the fetid swill of fungus and dried up reed stem.

A

ripple tears through, like an elephantine gust launched across the swampland. He feels the push be-fore the gunshot as control is lost and he spins perilously to the side. Feathers are torn free too, no defense for the membranes beneath.

He dares not look, but he forces himself to glance at the gaping hole lined by hollow feath-

er tips and a bloody purple coating.

The thrust of the shot is the tiniest push back and through the now useless wing. He falls, for once happy to find a mushy mound of fungal growth and moss below. He collapses on through to the water be-low and refuses further movement.

The echoes of a heavy panting carried past, like a second, slower shot on the way.

The mallard blinked away the light glinting off its obsidian eyes in slanted ovals of faded gold. On his back, an inescapable weakness setting in, he tilted his head to the side, closed beak dipped in the water.

The approaching breathing was a torrent of short bursts. He closed his eyes and let the audible waves envelop him. It grew and built, the searing pain in his wing intensified by the sound of approaching doom. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

Rippling, descending vibrations kept on building and surged, growing ever closer and wider, crash-ing, ruptured and al-ways more piling higher and faster ripping

through the reeds in a coming rage punch-ing past the darkness of his eyelids always too loud feeling the membranes of his ears pulse and lurch from the force and then

Silence.

Still, a thick ethereal weight hung above

G r e G S o r i nf r a g i l e m a l l a r d

him. He knew what now stood over him held his death. A slick juice dripped onto his chest and slid off. He felt the same juice around his neck with a vise-like grip digging into the soft meat between his beak and the shoulder peaks of his now imperfect wings.

A series of thorny points pressed against his flesh until he knew blood was flowing. But it didn’t let up.

Instead, the bone-like projections dug in deep-er where they’d already made incisions and tugged upward, scrapping across his plumage, lifting his limp form, dangling body, his head jutting straight out.

A moist puff of air struck the side of his neck every couple of seconds and he realized it was the breath of the beast, a horrid fanged mon-ster taking his corpse to its master.

A corpse.

Yes, that’s what he’d be soon. Be-cause even if he didn’t bleed out from the wound in his wing and if this mas-sive heaving animal didn’t just tear his throat out, his destination would be his end. Whatever held the power to puncture his wing with a single burst did not want him to live.

He thought back on his life, but it wasn’t much worth reflecting on. He hadn’t traveled far or quite perfected his hunting technique yet. He was still relying on luck and plants for the most part, even picking eat from the already eviscerated bodies of frogs his fellow birds had captured and almost torn clean.

It was why molting season had left him alone and disgraced. He’d hung behind, just out of sight of his hen and their nest, which she’d built. He still couldn’t under-stand what she saw in him.

But their nest did hold a healthy clutch of ten eggs, eggs that would hatch into healthy, beautiful ducklings who’d never know their father.

He felt the blood flowing faster from his neck now. He opened his eyes to peek at the clear sky with its wind currents finally under his total control. Gliding,

swooping, landing in a stream with almost no splash. At least he’d accomplished something today.

He tried to hold onto that thought as his eyes slowly closed and feeling left his body.

J e f f o ’ h a n d l e y

o n t h e l i n e

He held his place on the line, one of many camo-clad figures strung around the pe-rimeter, safeguarding the palace until the new regime could tighten its grip on power. The city facing him was in chaos, the streets clogged with flaming debris and outraged citizens who vented their fear in an outburst of rioting, loot-ing and mayhem. That was not his concern. His concern was keeping them on the other side of the barricade.

The mob screamed, chanted, and hurled epithets like stones, not daring to throw the real thing. Not yet, at least.

A lone woman emerged from the faceless crowd. She locked her streaming eyes on his and approached, palms raised towards the red sky, a supplicant’s gesture.

Her blue eyes were magnified by her glasses and her tears and his breath caught in his throat. For just one moment he thought he was looking at his mother, but she was thou-sands of miles away, safe in a peaceful home.

She came closer and the illusion broke. She was ten years younger at least.

She took another step closer, and an-other. His hands tightened on his weapon, finger instinctively crawling toward the trigger. The chin strap on his helmet dug into his neck, pinching the underside of his jaw when he swallowed.

She stopped, six feet away, hands held higher. He thought for a moment her knees were going to buckle, that she was going to drop to her knees, but she didn’t. Instead, she spoke in a high, voice that he heard clearly over the tumult.

“How could you?” The voice was strong, accusing. “How could you? You’re supposed to serve us!”

Heat rose in his cheeks. Anger? Shame? He didn’t know. He couldn’t allow himself to think about it. He could only fol-low his orders and hold the line.

He hitched the rifle higher across his chest.

“Ma’am,” he said, in a voice that was flat and emotionless. “I need you to step back from the barricade.”

Behind him the White House glowed red, reflecting the flaming city.

e r i c b l i S St o g e t h e r ( a l o n e )

A room – any room. A day – like any oth-er. Two people – any people. We lay in the bed, staring at the fissures in the cracked ceiling. Will it fall? Maybe. Probably not.

Together – alone – we stare in silence. Words have little purpose. As I turn onto my side I can almost see a broken alphabet falling – silent – to the musty carpet of the claustropho-bic room.

She is leaving. Stark inevitability hovers – menacing – over the stillness. She turns to look at me, her eyes infinity. Possibilities are lost in a blink. Sunlight pours over my back highlight-ing the one thing I cannot let go of – the one thing I have to. The silence is almost comfort-ing. We’ll keep in touch. This statement – so ordinary, so typical – rings false. I am glad that muteness reigns. Maybe it is just a lump in my throat – the prover-bial cat holding tightly to my tongue – but I think that I care too much to even suggest that an e-mail, a text message, could ever mean as much to me as this moment. Technology does not get to triumph. Not today.

Her eyes stare back at me. I will never find out what she is thinking. I will never care. I carefully trace the lines of her face with my eyes, memory-making the ridge of her lips to the corner of her mouth, where I see the beginnings of a smile. The hovering inevitability lifts, if only for a moment, as the smile – so silly, so wide – spreads across her face. Without thinking, without meaning, I feel my lips imitating hers.

Soon she will leave. There, not here, she will continue. Here, not there, so will I. But for now we are together – alone – as inevitability looms. We are just two people – any people – waiting, wondering. Tomor-row we will be two, but tomorrow is not

today. Today suits us just fine. Silent. Happy. It’s enough.

G r e G S o r i nb o r n o f m a n

Children were in high demand in the years after complete cloning awareness. Everyone had seen the monstrosities created in those dreadful chop shops known as Gene Duplication Clinics. Sadly, they became the latest Ameri-can obsession. Anything animal created in a lab for a price. The specialists could give your new son or daughter the brightest eyes or the fullest lips. (See a beautiful facial feature on your favorite celebrity? Bring it to life and be the proudest parent in your neighborhood!) Of course they could genetically build the child to fit your dream, but any slight problem in the first few years and suddenly everyone wants a refund.

Scraped knees? This one’s no good! I need a new one at half price. Or: The sex was better with the original husband. I just wanted you to change his height.

Not to mention the psychological issues associ-ated with an entire population of copied

celebrity faces, cast out and unwanted children, and accelerated growth adults. With the government prohibition on clone killing, attorneys, doctors, and politicians everywhere had to take a side in the mur-der versus trimming the genetic fat discus-sion (better known in its publicized form as the Do Clones Equal People? Problem or the D. C. E. P. P. named for the intense D.C. debating).To end it all, the American government banned all animalia cloning, citing exceeding of population density as their main concern. But everyone knew the truth. They didn’t want to deal with more parents stabbing their children be-cause they couldn’t bear to look into the soulless, dead eyes of the perfect faces they’d asked for. And no one wanted to see another Maple Street Spousal Massacre.

Origins were killing clones, clones were slaughtering origins. And those soulless eyes were haunting all of us from the ten o’clock news. I even heard stories of

cloned pets tearing out the throats of their owners. Medical mira-cles? Those abominations were a disease.

So they cut it off at the source. It became illegal to duplicate genes or produce everything ani-mal through anything but sperm and egg. The governments ended the cloning business and carted all of the remaining clones off to Madagascar. Hey, six years had passed since those Iranian war-heads detonated over the east coast of the African mainland. It was time someone used that land again anyway. And what better way to make use of the land than to fill it with celebri-ty look a likes, disregardance-

induced schizophrenics marked by severe emotional blunting?

G r e G S o r i nb o r n o f m a n . . . c o n t i n u e d

I give this history of our recent past to warn those who board my ship. It’s a reminder of the shames committed, to keep it from happening again. Do not open the hold. Do you not see the blood? Were the signs not enough? What-ever you do, don’t let those monsters out. Do you value your life? If you appreciate a normal existence, kill everything you meet onboard. Forget P.E.C.A and their clone-sympathizing bullshit. You know what they can do.

It’s too late for me, but you can save the world. I’ve heard them plotting down there. From between the iron bars. Their voices are cold as ice when they talk to each other. Those glow-ing, empty eyes of theirs staring up out of the darkness. Such savage copies of humans.

Don’t believe them just because they look like Brad Pitt or flirt like Angelina Jolie. They are hollow inside. And they want revenge. They offer up the children as companions, orphans, even pets. No one should go through my pain. No man could live with it in peace.

For God’s sake, they took my wife! She’s gone. Gone from me forever. Oh, come on you little pricks, she was just going for some groceries. She was just letting me sleep after a recent berth. I was drained from my months at sea. She shouldn’t have gone out alone, but she gave in

to her pregnancy cravings. Gotta keep the ap-proaching baby happy.

She was pregnant and those little mongrels tore her down in our driveway. Pickles and pineap-ple. It took five of the duplicate child demons to slash her down and drag her away. I still don’t know what they did with her body. Oh, Marian! I love you, honey. I do this for you, you know. To save more wonderful lives like yours.

I…I don’t think I can keep going without your help. Give me strength.

My captain. He was deeply troubled by the clone problem. He was a sympathizer for years. I think he’d even had his daughter Julie cloned once. “She’s perfect,” he’d say, but in a drunken fit he’d let loose that he keeps her locked up. Just food and dolls for company. I can almost see her, sit-ting alone with a chain around her neck. A doll in her hand as she walks it across the carpet. Her expressionless face follows it…

I think he’d had enough. Our fifth trip to Madagascar and we were making no “progress” as he put it. The clones were still living there on a barren island and no country wanted them.

It looked like he’d finally come around. He was starting to accept the clones for what they were: cold, heartless, murderers.

“Why leave them to live here?” he asked. “We’ll round up as many as we can and bring them on board.”

He ordered as many clones as we could carry to be captured and locked in the hold. The men loved this idea. Shooting fish in a barrel? Well clones in a ship’s hold would feel a heck of a lot more satisfying. Out of our forty-five crewmen, only seven had not experienced a clone- related at-tack. Just seven. The men had buried their thirst for clone blood long ago in despair and government- fueled hopelessness, but it readily burst back to the surface. We were going to enjoy this.

While half of the crew went ashore, the remaining men prepared the ship for its new “passengers.” I stood with Captain Monroe on the forecastle in our parkas to protect against the nuclear winter temper-atures, an after effect of the widespread death and destruction in the area. Behind us were the remaining crewmen, hard at

G r e G S o r i nb o r n o f m a n . . . c o n t i n u e d

work, their eyes blazing with the flames of coming vengeance.

“It’s just a matter of time now.” He turned to me with newfound hope in his eyes. Glisten-ing tears sat in his eyes like jewels above a smile that cracked his face. In that moment I was proud to serve under this man. He was restoring reality for a crew forced to mindlessly feed and clothe the beings we hated so much. Finally we could do what felt right and fix the genetic mistake that was plaguing the planet.

I turned back to face the wasteland before us. The feeling of contentedness was overwhelm-ing. Time to avenge

my family, to do

“We’ll find to.” I couldn’t

what I was unable to do years ago.

a way to join them to society. We have

believe the captain’s words. I thought I must have heard him wrong in my daydreaming of the coming

slaughtering. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Then I’ll have my Julie back to normal and it’ll all be right again.”

“But what about the rest of us sir? They took away our families. They’re monsters.”

“Not my Julie. I’ll make things right. If we bring them back and let them loose the govern-ment will have to fix them.”

“You know what they do to people, sir. It’s not our decision to make.” I was stunned. How could he do this to all of us? He just needed to look into my eyes, to see my desperation. I turned to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.

The knife slid between my ribs with little resistance. We were supposed to keep our parkas closed at all times to protect us from the cold, but with our collect-and-kill mission, I was in a risk-taking mood. He’d driven it in up to the hilt, straight through my sweater and into my stomach. I just looked down at his hand, the hilt thrust into my body. Surprisingly, I felt no pain. Just betrayal.

“She can be alright again. Don’t you see? She’s all I have now.” He was almost plead-ing with me, begging my forgiveness and understanding. I could tell he was crying just from his voice. He walked away, in search of our remaining crewmen.

I dropped. Such warm blood. It seeped out, covering my hands and the deck below my shuddering body. I knew I‘d never survive. Not with a wound like that. I was dying.

I awoke a month later in a duplication chamber, receiving intravenous nutrients and increased hormones for quickened ag-ing. I know what I am, but my experience is an example of the dangers created by allowing my kind to live.

You’ve seen the ship. My blood. The bodies of my fellow sailors. That you would even endeavor to release the clones in the hold baffles me. We are a dangerous species. No research or treatment is worth the risk. I’ve become my enemy and I’ll have to live with that. Can you?

a m a n d a c h a S e

p h o t o g r a p h y

l a u r a l o f o r e S ed i g i t a l a r t

G r e G S o r i nt h i e f ’ s n i g h t

“I started stealing because I was bored, hon-estly. I feel like I should explain this now to clear up any misconceptions and maybe so I can under-stand it. But after my hidden stash was discovered in the Caymans, some agents of the F.B.I. have started asking me questions about the recent years of this serendipitous, fortuitous career path of mine and, in my infinite graces, I thought I’d oblige them with an answer while I’m out on parole. Clear my conscience openly, if you will, and improve my pub-lic image.”

“And that’s why we’re here tonight, on The Inside Look with Mr. John Christie. To discuss your motivations, your goals, the jobs you’ve pulled as a master thief.” They sat together, two stones before an audience of millions. One, the accomplished, clean cut serial thief in a well-pressed suit who’d pulled off jobs in most any place on the map; the other was what all other journalists always hoped to be, at least in his mind. Ed sat there across from John, not a care in the world, his hair thin and smooth above his well-pressed suit and lightly tanned face.

Together they sat in low, oversized armchairs before a half moon of cameras and a studio audience; producers and technicians had control from booths hid-den up above and behind them. Lights shone down on the two respectable looking men and reflected off of the makeup on Ed’s face.

“Of course, Ed. And call me John. Thanks for having me on to-night. Before we move into that, however, I’d like to explain what I see as my rules of thievery. That way you’ll understand the kind of person I’ve become through such a long stint on the wrong side of the law.” John Christie smiled with his thin lips, as if he were remembering many years of thievery with the carefree nature of a man living in past moments.

“See, I’ve enjoyed the whimsical ventures of tak-ing without asking for many a year, but not without a level of restraint.”

Do these people really care about this worn out burglar, Ed thought to himself as he kept up the camera-friendly, comforting host smile and let his guest speak.

“If a person wants to make it in the bur-gling world for any amount of time he needs to relax, enjoy himself, and prepare for a little bit of everything. At least, those are the rules that have worked for me.”

“Now why don’t you explain these rules to our audience? I’m sure they’d love to

hear more detail, possibly learn a little something for

G r e G S o r i nt h i e f ’ s n i g h t . . . c o n t i n u e d

themselves.” You arrogant bastard. No one cares.

John smiled, carefree.

“Well of course, I’m happy to oblige. Oh, and here’s your pen back. I snagged it as we talked backstage. Just a little parlor trick, you know.”

“Ah, thank you. Haha.” Prick. As if that was necessary.

The audience seemed to enjoy it, however, their first glimpse into the talents of this thief made physically evident.

One member of the audience caught Ed’s eye as he glanced quickly around the studio. Among a sea of serious suited businessmen and fascinated tourists sat a gruff, muscular man with a well-tended beard down to his Adam’s apple. It looked like it had taken a crew of four to stuff him into his sport coat. Ed was sure that if the man bent his arms enough, those clothes would just tear off. Ed quietly chuck-led to himself for a second.

Just the type to help John here with a good old smash and grab job, I bet.

“To start, a thief can’t take on a new job without a clear head. Even if there are all kinds of underly-ing motives involved, nothing should keep a man from his prize. I’ve worked hard for what I have. But even with all my determination and brains, no Monet painting or first edition novel would touch my fingertips except for my uncanny ability to relax under the worst of circumstances.”

Ed sat there staring, but not actually seeing John. The smile fell from his face for a second before he realized it and repositioned his gleaming teeth.

I bet he rips off all his buyers. Those priceless pieces of art changing hands, it’s probably hard not to double-cross them. Oh well, it doesn’t really concern me. Must make tons of money though.

“What’s the point of breaking the law if it’s not go-ing to feel amazing? Am I right?” Ed snapped back to attention.

“I don’t even steal for money most of the time. I chase after what excites me, what I must own or see in other hands. Well, at least I did when I was still in the business. See, stealing shouldn’t become a way to make mon-ey. It should exist as a life-important hobby, undertaken when the urge is powerful.

“I once stole a single diamond earring from the jeweler down the block (oh, and never steal within a ten mile radius, but I guess that’s just personal preference) to sneak into my neigh-bor’s apartment and replace her missing gem with all its lustful shimmer. We always got along so well and she was so upset when she lost the original.”

Right, and that makes robbing countless other places alright.

Ed’s eyes searched the floor, his fist crushing his lapel. This was starting to go too far. Fuck this fake-ass job.

“Sure, it felt risky and down right stupid the whole way through, especially with the shop’s cameras in every corner and alarms in the cas-es, but placing that tiny bead of solid aristoc-racy in Sarah Price’s simple little jewelry case made my work so much more worthwhile.”

Ed released his sport coat’s lapels, no longer crumpling it like wrinkled paper, forcing him-self to pay attention to the ramblings of this aging criminal.

The interview went on for another half hour. Their forced banter slowly ate away at Ed. Boring interviews were nothing new to him, but it was a struggle all the same until it end-ed.

“Well now, it seems we’re all out of time folks,” Ed started as he turned to face the audience, “but tune in next week and we’ll have our master thief John Christie here again to give us the rundown on his most scandalous, fascinating burglaries.

The cameras shut off and half of the lights dimmed over the stage, casting John in a layer of deep shadow.

G r e G S o r i nt h i e f ’ s n i g h t . . . c o n t i n u e d

As the audience filtered out, the show producer, Mike Irving waddled up onto the stage.

“I trust everything’s going all right between you two,” said Mike with his goofy grin as Ed and John stood, “no problems.”

“No problems, Mr. Irving,” answered John as Ed mumbled something unintelligible next to him.

“Fine, fine,” Mike continued, throwing his arms around the men. “Now how would you gentlemen like to go out for a drink to celebrate the first half of the show? The fans seemed to enjoy it and our phones were ringing off the hooks.”

“Well,” started John, “by court mandate I’m to re-turn home immediately after completing errands or the show. This was the only time I could convince them to give me free.”

Mike chortled, “No one wants you pulling your old tricks, eh? And how about you, Eddie, my boy?”

Ed stepped out from under Mike’s arm.

“Oh, no. I was just going to grab a coffee and head on home, Mike. It’s been a long day.”

“Nonsense! There’s always time to toss back a few. Enjoy the night for once.”

Ed looked unsure of how to handle Mike and his pressured offer. John coughed into his fist a couple of times and glanced up at Ed.

“Alright, I can grab a drink or two,” said Ed.

“Great! I’ll pick you up at the lot door in twenty minutes.” Mike sauntered off, secure in his night’s enjoyment to come.

Ed and John exchanged a quick handshake and a nod before they headed down different hallways, Ed toward the cast dressing rooms and John to the guests’.

John closed the door behind him and sunk into his chair before the well-lit mirror.

“So, you seem to enjoy the limelight, John,” said John Christie from the coach in the back of the room.

“It’s much better than being a decoy for the cops to chase after,” said the man in front of the mirror, “though that does keep you fit.”

“It’s good to see I hired the right man. We’ll begin the disappearing act tomorrow if you’ll swing by my place in New York. Good thing they only found one of my stockpiles. I think the public has had enough of John Christie.” They exchanged a knowing smirk.

Chuckling quietly to himself, John stood up from the couch and calmly strode out into the hall to head back to his hotel room and pack.

Maybe he’d make a few stops along the way.

K r i S t i n b e r G e n e

“ o n l y yo u . ”

Harter ducked. A heavy blow came from his left side, but the current issue was the beast in front of him. It jabbed its massive horn towards his stomach, trying to gut him without grace. Hot breath streamed from the nostrils that Harter used to hold himself steady to his grey hide. Groaning, he tried to ignore the small be-ing who stabbed uselessly at his side. The blade would not enter the impenetrable, skin of his horchef race, but that did not mean each blow came without an irritating pain, and bruise.

Using the thrust of the beast’s head, Harter swung his long legs knocking the man to the ground in mid-assault. His head snapped against the stones, and he moved no more. But Harter spend little time concerned with the death. Grunting, he pulled himself up the face of the beast, and leapt from the horn to its back. It screamed with anger, kicking out its legs, tram-pling all that lay under his feet. Harter pulled its ears, back, back, bending his head sky-wards. The beast grunted, and pulled, unable to beat Harter’s study grip. “Down beast,” Har-ter whispered, his own breath hissing through the thick hairs that protected its ears. “Down,” anger scrapping his throat, “Down.”

One leg fell, shaking the rocks with his weight. Harter leaned against its balance, using his own strength to knock it to the ground. It quiv-ered, helpless now to Harter’s will. The beast was on its back, eyes white around the edges and breathe coming in uneven puffs. A squeal passed between them, a plea. Harter looked at the skies, green with the coming storm.

With one swift cut, Harter left his kill behind, walking deeper into the fight. Horchefs killing with ease, their declared enemies clutching the ground with anguish written deep into the lines of their faces. Not one of them had a chance in victory. They had each had become the walk-ing dead by choosing to meet the horchefs on this field. Without thought, Harter ran his blade through the back of a man, who clung to his brother. Jeston nodded his appreciation, but Harter kept walking. Another’s blood was now

running down his face, but he did not take the time to wipe his cheeks. Another beast came down, heaving the loose rock into the masses of bodies.

Harter looked back at the growing clouds. Another blade, too dull to pass into his body, was jabbed into his back. He held back the groan, and turned to face the foe. A small man, no, a boy looked up at him with determination. With a weak arm, he held the blade tremblingly between them. Lifting its sparkling blade up to Harter’s face. He could not help but smile at the spirited boy, fighting an urge to tap him on the side of the head. Around them lay the bodies of his people, their faces resting in puddles in blood, but the boy blinked away fear. Harter lowed himself, almost taking a knee as he came to the child’s eye level. “Are you frightened?”

“No,” there was no hesitation.

“Do you know you cannot win?” Harter’s flashed a smile, letting his white teeth reflect in the little sun that was left in the day.

“I do,” the boy nodded.

“Do you want death?”

“Do you?” Harter’s eyes widened for an instant at the boy’s retort. “You march around, killing, invincible. No one can beat you, where is the victory in that?” The boy held his blade to Harter’s neck, “If you can’t lose, how do you call this winning.” The blade was thin as it pressed against a vein that would be the easy death to any other life. Harter felt his blood rush against the point, an easy cut. But this blade would not cut his skin, it couldn’t. Not even if the boy wanted to cut him, or if Harter wanted to be cut.

Harter leaned into the boy’s weak arm with his throat. He snarled, raising the

K r i S t i n b e r G e n e

“ o n l y yo u . ”

corner of one lip, “I am the universal vic-tor,” he grabbed a rock between his fingers. “I was made to kill,” he held the rock in the air between them. “It is my right to choose who dies,” without effort, the rock blew as dust from his now open palm. The boy did not flinch. “I am the victor.” The boy smiled, and before the fear touched his eyes, Harter turned the blade on him. There was no resistance or hold as the sword pushed though the boy’s chest, spirit was gone before his body hit the ground.

Harter stood. Fist clenched, he walked away not looking back the small body. He did not need to, his face, his blue eyes were burned into every dark shadow of the battlefield. Step-ping over the bodies, he made for the nearby woods. It’s where the others of his people would be hiding, as they waited for the fight to end. That boy’s family would be waiting for him to return. Though, this massacre should not surprise them. It would not be long before Harter’s people went to find them. Kill them. It was their right.

He pushed into the dark branches of the trees, feel-ing the cool shade on his head and the soft padding of leaves under his feet. The relief from the fight was too great. He closed his eyes, thinking the boy, that defiance. Even in his fear, he managed to find the weakness in Harter. There was now one less enemy on the battlefield for his companions to deal with. Stopping, Harter fell back against a tree, lean-ing against it’s sturdy trunk. “How do you call this win-ning,” the words cycled through his mind. For years those words had been flirt-ing with the ideals that were pressed into Harter

since he was a child.

While being shaped into a warrior with his peers, Harter only once questioned their actions. Asking his father why they had to purge the universe of all those who stood in their way of a greater plan? What was the greater plan? But, his father ignored Harter’s curiosity and proceeded to recite messages of strength and violence. “Never surrender, never leave the enemy alive, kill, kill, kill.”

And, Harter would say the words back. At first they were just words that agreed with the aggression that seemed to quake in each of his limbs. He never thought about those words. Then, they became the meaning of his life, his career, his goals, his soulmate.Kill, kill, kill, he would breathe as he flexed and rehearsed the ways to end life. But in more recent times, in the more recent assaults, those words again began to fill Harter with questions.

K r i S t i n b e r G e n ed i g i t a l a r t

K r i S t i n b e r G e n ed i g i t a l a r t

t i m e f r a m e

o n l i n e p u b l i c a t i o n

V o l u m e 1

J u ly 1 5 t h , 2 0 1 1

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