Monthly Archives: July 2020

Gateways: “Of The Legumen” by Jim McDoniel read by Ryan Bond

Art, Literature, Science Fiction, , , , , , ,

Jim McDoniel is a writer of monsters and mirth, not always in that order. He also writes radio plays. He holds a Masters degree in Writing and Publishing from DePaul University. He is a writer for the podcasts Our Fair City and Unwell. He was a finalist in Deathscribe 10 for his piece, “Monstruos.” and a five time Midnight Audio Theatre Scriptwriting Competition winner. Jim is the author of an amazing novel, An Unattractive Vampire available from Sword and Laser publishing. This is “Cephalophore”

Excerpt of “De Historia Et Omnia” by Celsus Frugi 121 CE

 

Of the Legumen

 

Within the far northern regions of Germania, among the cold peat bogs and the forests, it is said one will find a people known as the Legumen or Siliqua to give their tribal name. These small villages of people mostly subsist on the berries and game provided by the nearby bog as well as domesticated sheep, on whom they depend for both food and clothing. However the most extraordinary fact about the Legumen comes from the fields which they farm, for they do not grow barley or wheat or any ordinary crop. Instead the soil is tilled, sown, and cared for to bring forth the next generation of Siliqua who rise from earth in the form of peapods.

 

The peapods emerge from a single reed stalk—of strange, sinewy texture and tanned-hide coloration—which usually grows four feet high and eight inches thick. At the top the stem splits into separate arms, upraised, as if in praise and at the ends of each appear the pods of new Legumen. These fleshy sacs contain three heads—an upper, a middle, and a lower, each fully conscious and containing the awareness, personality, and knowledge of a grown person. In the fullness of time, these three heads will form the body of a single Siliqua tribesman, however, it is not uncommon for the heads to fall prey to infighting and consume one another. Heads, though grown from the same seed and sprouting from the same plant, do not innately share compatible personalities, and disagreements in such close quarters quickly escalate. Additionally, each head is fully aware of their position within their collective future body and so may attack another in order to improve its station. Less than half of all pods bear the fruit of a full individual. Most heads end up replanted.

 

Each head grows into one part of the Legumen body. The upper head, closest to the stem will become the head of the fully grown person. This bestows it with the ability to remain visible and to engage in the world as would any of us. However this position is also precarious. The upper head never stops growing and in time becomes too heavy to support. It is then in danger of falling from its own shoulders. Many Legumen adorn themselves in heavy metal collars and necklaces to prevent this from happening. 

The middle head forms the body and torso. This is most obvious just after harvest when all parts of the head are clearly visible: the eyes and eyelids create the chest, the nose takes up the abdomen, and the mouth appears as a belly button. Over time, the middle head disguises itself within rolls of fat to prevent the nature of the Leguman from being discovered. To this end, the middle head is almost constantly eating and why the Siliqua are known to herd far more sheep than their neighbors—the wool is used for clothing to disguise the middle head, while the meat is used to feed it.

The lowest head of the pod becomes the genitals and occupies both the worst and possibly the best position. Lower heads are rarely seen and even more rarely see the light of day. Due to their location, they are prone to vertigo and motion sickness—diarrhea is another sign of a potential Leguman. However, should the lower head persevere until such time as two Legumen can mate with each other, it has an opportunity afforded to no other head. During intercourse, one lower head can chew its fellow free at which time they may both retreat into the first’s body. There, the two gestate and grow, feeding off the spacious middle head, until they burst forth—each an individual with only one head. These people are prized among the Siliqua, for they can travel and trade with neighboring tribes without fear of discovery. Such births are quite rare. As it kills the middle head and reduces the upper to being replanted, they are seldom eager to accommodate their lower fellow and most Legumen you find live a celibate lifestyle. 

 

There are many stories within the tribes of Germania of farmers finding Legumen plants growing in their fields or children coming across the arguing peapods in the woods. This is, in actuality, quite rare, as the Legumen are protective of their potential young. When it does occur, it is most often the result of an upper head falling off in the midst of travel. There is one instance of a head being carried off by an eagle and growing up among the reeds of Egypt. The tale of the pods grown from this head, their adventures, and their return to the tribe form the basis of the main epic of the Siliqua people, the name of which roughly translates to “The Headessy.”

Ryan Bond is a life long geek who is very active in Chicago’s genre-based performance and experience community. He currently serves on the Board of Otherworld Theater where he helps to bring high quality stories to life on-stage and on-line.  In the past has served in leadership positions for Wildclaw Theatre, EDGE of Orion Theatre, Hartlife & Our Fair City. Ryan has helped to create Guardians of History (a family friendly voice-activated immersive educational game for Alexa/Google enabled speakers & screens), leads as a Cub Scout Master and Eagle Scout, been an SxSW panelist, appears on podcasts as a gaming/geek expert, an infrequent theater performer, a 3x NaNoWriMo winner, a marketing director for a Firefly-based board game and even opened a geek-themed bar!

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Gateways: “Shangri-La” By Isaac Rathbone read by Keenan Odenkirk

Art, Literature, Science Fiction, , , , , , ,

TRANSCRIPT: Isaac Rathbone is mostly a playwright and also has a few short films under his belt. He tells us he is always searching for challenging environments for great characters to grow in and is a stickler for creating the right dialogue. His work has been featured at Paragon Fest and you can find examples on newplayexchange.org. This is “Shangri-la”.

They called him “Doc” in the service, but no one knew exactly what branch he served or if he was even a medic. On a flag pole above his trailer flew the black POW-MIA flag. But no stars and stripes. Most days when I went to drop his mail, I’d find him wandering his yard, muttering to old friends and perceived enemies. The term yard may not be the right word for individuals of certain standards. Nestled in the tangles of over grown vegetation sat the shell of an old Pontiac, a rusted out water softener, some TV dinner trays and two long de-commissioned riding mowers. Covering these artifacts of America’s Industrial Spirit grew vines, shrubs, saplings and flowers of exotic appearance. No one had bothered to come identify them as members of the local Horticulture Club rarely made special visits to the Shangri-La Trailer Park. 

Doc’s Daughter gave me a wink and sometimes a delightful wave any time I came to drop off. She was younger than I was, but old enough to know what she was doing. She still keeps that hair shoulder length and blonde. She has the presence of someone you don’t bet against in a donnybrook and the beauty that takes the sting out of a hangover. 

I talked to an Old Letter Carrier about it at The Six-Pointer, a local hunting bar where we enjoyed post-route beers. These summers were harsh on him, as he was sweating more than our chilled bottles. He used to have my route until his transfer. He needed to stay in his truck more as his gout made the walk down and back into the trailer park too much. He knew all about Doc’s Daughter. “You stay away from that girl. She’s the type that’s got trouble tattooed on her backside. Hmmmph. Gonna go piss.” 

I watched him gingerly slide off the bar stool with a wince. His right foot was no doubt on fire. His drinking was killing him, a fact that was causing him to drink more. I watched my future, overweight and empty, hobble through the restroom door labeled “Bucks.” 

The next morning, I parked my truck on the shoulder of Route Twelve. The dirt roadways of a trailer park are not easily navigable by large vehicles. The gravel arteries are pocked with divots, holes and loose stones. Not to mention the roaming stray animals and diaper-clad daredevils cruising around on mini plastic hot-rods. The entrance into the park is a steep slope. My predecessor’s Mount Everest. Walking down and in, I was to deliver the coupon books and catalogues to folks who either didn’t have

the chance or the desire to participate in the free market. But glossy pictures are the best fodder for daydreams here. 

My last delivery was always Doc’s place. It’s tucked in the back of the park and closest to the river that everyone’s Grandpa remembers flooding. This morning, I didn’t see the old man wandering through his maze of shrubbery, rust and cracked rubber tires. Doc sat on his porch, causing the graying particle board to smile between the two cinderblocks. I handed off his bundle and he gave me a smile of his own. A chill shot up along the back of my body. There’s something about a mouth full of gums that sows distrust. Call it prejudice if you will. I turned to make a swift exit, but standing in my way was Doc’s Daughter. Her gaze made me forget all about her father’s orthodontics. The soft breeze delivered her smell of menthol and what I assumed was a fruity shampoo. The flowers and plants seemed to bend and bow to her passing figure. She stood at the doorway and gave me one last wink and a smile that struck me in the chest like a Whaler’s Harpoon. 

That first Saturday was a lazy summer day. The kind where even folks who don’t have steady work feel the need to take a load off. There was no sign of Doc on the premises. Their residence had no proper box, so it was in through the doggie door, which I had never noticed before that day. Nor had I ever seen a dog. I was on all fours slipping the parcels through the flap when the door opened. Doc’s Daughter’s bare ankles stood inches from my face. I climbed skyward, noticing her loose fitting athletic shorts and a bright green tank top on my way up. Her hair was in a rope-like braid and her red lipstick and dark eyeliner were crisp. Perhaps recently applied. I asked about Doc, which was met with a laugh. Her fingertips, ignoring the bundle I held out, smoothed over the wrinkles of my government issued shirt. With the sudden grasp of a predator, she yanked me into the trailer and kissed me with a mouthful of menthol and that fruity scent. The door closed loudly behind me. 

I crouched over the bed frame putting the dusty boots back on my feet. I rose to buckle up my government issued shorts that now wouldn’t itch in this heat. I wandered the inside of the double- wide. A photo hung on the wall, featuring a group of Army officers in front of a drab office building. The structure was surrounded by barbed wire fencing and a sign with Japanese characters. Doc was in the crowd, with a full head of hair and full set of teeth. In front of the television slumped a couch that looked like a large person in a hospital gown who’s numb to the bad news. There was no easy chair. Throughout the inside were more plants and flowers. Quite an array of them, too. Seedlings, aloes, cactuses sat on the sills and counters. Their containers ranged from the standard terra cotta to paint cans and Fast Food cups. Doc’s Daughter stood in the bathroom, re-applying her lipstick in the mirror. After a quick self-inspection, her soft feet delicately tapped the linoleum floor and she opened the door, showing me the way out. 

That way my Saturday ritual. Doc would be out. She let me in. I would forget I was supposed to be on my route. One afternoon looking at the old photo, I swear there were some flowers growing on the barbed wire that now grew outside. But the black and white didn’t help. Each Saturday she showed me out and each Saturday I longed to stay. I stopped drinking at the Six-Pointer. Sitting in a dark room when the sun was out made me sick. I hated being in my mail truck, so I walked as much as I could. Even in the rain. Especially in the rain. I was taking longer showers, but a cold soaking downpour from Mother Nature made me come alive. Almost as much as being with her. It ate at me every time I had to leave. One Saturday morning she opened the door and I asked if there was ever a possibility for us to spend more time together. 

“Soon enough,” was her sweet reply. My last Saturday, she was waiting outside, sitting on the busted seat of one of the old mowers. Her bare legs surged out of a pair of jean cut-offs that were made of more frayed threads then denim. She grabbed my collar and pulled me in close, like always. My fears of being out in front of everyone were gone. The simple desire of putting down roots here with Doc’s Daughter swelled in my stomach. I dropped my mailbag. Letters and magazines fluttered away, with some most likely ending up in that beautiful creek with its raging and pure waters. The longer she kissed me, the more the earth pulled at my feet. She stopped and bent over to gather my un-needed Government issued clothes. All I could think was…soon enough. That was August 22nd, 1987. I’ve grown here in Doc’s Yard for many summers. The hot sun is all I have to gauge time. Grow, wither, freeze and grow again. I haven’t seen my reflection, so I don’t know what genus I am. New carriers have come and gone on my route. Hell, I even saw the old timer sub in once or twice way back. Oh, to shout out to him and say that he was wise. He hobbled right past me in that garden prison. Doc wandered the grounds for many years, chatting it up with those of us outside. This was a method he came up with to hold and move prisoners in wartimes. He says there’s nothing he can do for us. Since the state took away his license, he can’t drive to get us the antidote. So he says. He died some time ago. But she’s still here. She still takes men in. All ages, races, occupations. I recognized the Dog Warden from Hoover county. He’s a few yards away from me, a patch of yellow flowers. Some stay in the house. Others are out here. But here were are. Where we always wanted to be. In this little part of Shangri-La.

Keenan Odenkirk is a Chicago based actor originally from Tucson, AZ. He grew up with a deep love for fantasy and sci-fi, favorites being the Martian Chronicles, Harry Potter, Eragon, Hyperion, and Shakespeare’s more fantastical plays. I am an ensemble member of Quicksilver Shakespeare Co. and most recently appeared in the Valiant Theatre New Works Festival.

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Gateways: “Utopia Ain’t What it’s Cut Out To Be” by Hadley Frost read by Rachel Granda-Gluski

Art, Literature, Science Fiction, , , , , , , ,

Hadley Frost (they/them) is a TTRPG and Visual Story Telling creative writer and producer. He is currently personally studying creative writing. WIth little professional experience, he hopes to grow his portfolio in both a professional setting and novel writing. He is currently developing a visual story tell festival to take place in 2021. Hadley Frost lives in Boise, Idaho.

“Welcome to Eden Sister. Let me show you around, there is so much to see! Once you’re finished, I’ll show you to your new home.”

How did I fall for something so obvious?

 I had heard rumors of Eden but never thought it was anything more than a fever dream thought up by Sam down at the pub before he disappeared. I mean, who really believes in a community without problems? No crime? No fear? Maybe in the old days but things have changed. That’s what I had thought until Alice mentioned a new companion she was head over heels for.

Alice babbled on about her new sweetheart who was going to whisk her away to Eden and bring her salvation. When I asked his name, her eyes went wide with excitement. I’d be happy to introduce you! Almost as soon as I’d mentioned him, Alice stood me up and ran me to the old church building. It looked like no one had set foot in it for over a decade. Its decrepit frame barely held the cracked clay tiles that covered the gambrel roof. Stepping inside was like walking into a different universe. Where the exterior of the chapel appears aged and overgrown, the interior stands timeless. The white marble floors unmarked, the stained glass windows immaculate detail maintained, and even the mahogany pews stood. The hall stood empty before Alice and I except for a gentleman sitting quietly amongst the stalls.

He introduced himself as Vizier Anthony “But please, call me Anthony.” Every question I asked him seemed to slide off like a raindrop off a windshield. ‘Who are you’ turned into ‘How can I help’. ‘How’d you meet Alice’ changed to ‘Let me buy you a drink’. We soon left the chapel and returned to the pub, leaving Alice to go home. With a pint in my hand, he started to ask about me. What I wanted, what I dreamed of. Soon all my questions were forgotten to cups as he pried my story out of me as if I was a novel he plucked off a library shelf.

The weeks to follow all seem like a blur. I would bump into Anthony every once in a while. We’d chat and share a smile and maybe invite me out. He took me to the bar, out for walks, just simple things. Quickly, I started to enjoy his company, and soon after that I almost longed for his voice in the silence of the night. Why couldn’t I get him out of my mind?

 One evening, I thought I was being clever and I changed the game up. Rather than waiting for Anthony, I went to him. I had assumed he would be back at the chapel where we had met, but Anthony wasn’t anywhere to be seen. A group of people sat in the chapel. When I entered several of them turned to face me with a fever in their eyes. They ran at me with ravings of the apocalypse soon to come. They screamed to forget what we have, soon we’ll be lost. Nervous and unsettled I ran from the steeple and back home. Almost like he knew I would be there, Anthony was waiting.

“It’s time to go, it’s not safe here anymore. Let me take you to Eden.”

 Anthony then went on to describe a town with no disease, no crime. It’s the perfect place. “It’s a place I can keep you safe.”

 The very next day, we loaded a carriage and began our trek across this new city, Eden. Anthony further described how fruit slipped from the heavens for all to eat and the waters are as pure as diamonds. I told him I’d believe it when I saw it.

But sure enough, just like Anthony described. Boardwalk pathways that lead over crystal clear streams and through the cobblestone streets where horse drawn carriages carried man, mother, and child alike. The building stood tall and strong with a seamless construction of wood and stone fused together in a beautiful chaos. Greek pillars morphed into elegant archways stabled an overhead garden filled with different fruits. It was all like  it was taken out of a dream. “You’ll be free to live as you please without worry here Sister” his words laced with ecstasy. “Come now, I’ll show you your new home.”

Anthony guided me through the winding streets of Eden waving to passers-by and greeting some by name, and on occasion Anthony would introduce me. “This is our newest Sister, I’m helping her get a proper introduction with the city” Each and every meeting was greeted with a smile and a bold Welcome to Eden Sister.

After walking for nearly 30 minutes we came into a new district of Eden. Where the hanging gardens stood in the previous areas, there stood tall statues carved of angelic white marble depicting a variety of people who seemed to invite you into a courtyard before a cathedral-like building. Inside was just as fantastic as the rest of the city. Lavish rugs covered the floor, brilliant paintings decorated the walls, and a mosaic depicting a fruitful vineyard enriched the ceiling. A long, ornate conference table took over most of the space within the entrance hall. “Have a seat. It’s time to add your name to the family.”

As I sat down he placed a large tome in front of me. Gently he opened the book to nearly the end where a large line of names was inscribed. “Simply sign your name in the book and you are the newest Sister to our town” the words almost crawled from Anthony’s lips as he placed an inkwell to my right. Quickly I sign my name below the last name Alice. Excited to know what was next I turned back to Anthony expecting some sort of praise, but no congratulation awaited me.

Where a kind mask sat before, Anthony’s grin was less of an invitation, but more of a demand. “Finally, you’re one of us” he said clamping a metal band around my wrist. Inscribed on the band was the number 503. “There’s just one more thing we have to do.” 

 

Without another word Anthony led me by the wrist past the conference table and deeper into the halls. Confused and worried I questioned what was happening but got no reply and any attempt to pull away was only met with Anthony tightening his grip. Crashing into a dimly lit room he sat me down in a tall strapped chair and buckled me in.

As if to himself, Anthony began to ramble while pulling open drawers looking for something. “You see it now? Soon we’ll all be together. Soon we’ll all be free. I envy you. You get the blessing so soon.” Any questions I asked fell on deff ears as he scrambled around for different materials. After what felt like an eternity he found what he was looking for and turned back to me. He was sewing a doll, one that looked strangely like me. “The last touch, something personal”. As he said this he plucked a single hair from my head and tied it into the yarn hair of the doll. 

“Welcome to Eden Sister” With those words I felt a strong wind blow over me and everything went dark. When I finally came to I wasn’t in the chair anymore, nor was I even in the same room. I was sitting on a shelf somehow, and I couldn’t move. Across the room from me a window showed a glimpse of the outside world where I could see Anthony standing next to someone… Standing next to me.

I’ve been sitting on this shelf long enough I’ve lost track of the days. Occasionally Anthony will walk in with a grin and another doll.

I guess Utopia isn’t what some say it is.

Rachel Granda Gluski is a Chicago based voice actor and movement professional. She currently enjoys working with radio play company Starlight Radio Dreams. She also performs every summer with the Bristol Renaissance faire. When she’s not performing she enjoys being a huge nerd and hanging out with her cats.

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Gateways “The Bluff of Summer Grove” by Daniel Mendoza read by Evin McQuistin

Art, Literature, Science Fiction, , , , , , ,

TRANSCRIPT: Daniel Mendoza is an up and coming Latinx storyteller, based in Chicago, Il. Daniel is thrilled to be included in Gateways Story-writing series. He spends the little free time he has writing D&D campaigns and feeding his cat.

People are dying to get into Summer Grove. A diverse, healthy, affordable gated community, where anyone would want to sign a lease to their very own home. Unfortunately for most, Summer Grove is near impossible to get in. You sign up for a lottery system and wait until someone moves out then a person is selected at random and they have 24 hours to respond to the invitation. No amount of money, fame, or connections could secure anyone a spot; it relied on pure luck. 

“You must be Chris and Abigail. I’m James, President of the homeowners association, which doesn’t make me the most popular guy around but sacrifices have to be made. Let me open the gates, and show y’all to your new home.” 

The tall, light skinned man adjusted his thick framed glasses, and drove off on his golf cart, with the young couple behind him driving past the small streets surrounded by specialty shops with incredible smells, a lake that seemed to stretch over the horizon, and a park filled with the laughter of children. They drive until they reach a sky blue house that looks identical to every other but has 217 on the mailbox. With one last congratulations and a smile, James hands our couple the keys, and begins to drive away. 

“Where are my manners, I’m having a little get together at my place. Could serve as a nice meet and greet to introduce you to the neighborhood. It’ll be real casual so don’t bother unpacking your black tie.” James chuckles as he drives off. 

Chris and Abigail spend most of the day unpacking, it’s a trip down memory lane with a quick detour of disbelief that they were actually here. Suddenly a harsh knock. Abigail opens the door to reveal a couple in their 60’s smiling at the door. 

“I’m Ashton, and this is Phil, my husband. We saw James driving off and we knew that must mean new neighbors! We brought over some cookies and wanted to say hi!” Ashton said. 

“Nice to meet you, we were actually getting ready to head over to James’ place for the get together,” Abigail explains. Ashton and Phil’s faces go pale as if they’d seen a ghost. 

“We didn’t hear about a get together, but I suppose perhaps it’s just for newer folks to Summer Grove.” 

Ashton says through a forced smile. 

“I don’t think he gave us his address though so he can’t want us there very much,” Chris jokes. 

“It’s just a walk down the street, the red house, you can’t miss it,” Phil says emotionless “We should let you get going, let James know we said hello,” Phil continues as Ashton and he leave. 

“We shouldn’t have said anything, now James is gonna feel really weird,” Abigail said. “It’s a small get together, I’m sure he invited us as a courtesy,” Chris assures. They arrive at the red house, it is the only red house on the street, and quite possibly the only red house in the entire community. They approach the door and suddenly feel nervous, Chris gives the door a sturdy knock. Every second that passes from this moment on feels like a century, they feel beads of sweat build on their foreheads, they are completely silent. James opens the door and relief fills their universe. 

He has switched out his suit and tie for a hawiian shirt and bermuda shorts as he welcomes them in. They are met with what seems like most of the community. As Chris and 

Abigail mingle with the crowd. James approaches Chris and asks him to help bring in the trays he’s had in the smoker out back. Immediately, almost everyone else volunteers to help. Outside, Chris notices a dog house. 

“I didn’t know you had a dog.” James whips his head and replies, “Yes, the community does allow small pets but they must be kept inside at night to avoid disturbing the neighbors. River is on his night time walk with the community walker. I wish I could walk him but certain sacrifices have to be made.” 

As the night goes on, Chris and Abigail begin to notice the community is incredibly tight knit as they are invited to join the community garden, weekly game nights, book clubs, and to help organize the next block party. Summer Grove is everything it advertised as. 

Time passes and Chris and Abigail settle in. They have friends, they are part of groups, they feel like part of the community. Chris arrives home from the local butcher. 

“Hey, did you know Danny moved?” “No, I thought we scheduled a movie night with him and Maggie,”Abigail responded. “Maybe we can ask around at James’ game thing tonight,” Chris suggested. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, work unloaded a bunch of cases on me tonight. If I don’t jump on them now I’m gonna have to skip fishing tomorrow with everybody,” Abigail said, sounding exhausted already. 

“That’s fine, we don’t have to go,” Chris started before Abigail interrupted with, “No, you should still go, we’re still new here, and James has been so helpful. I’d hate to seem ungrateful.” 

“I’ll make an appearance and say hi to everyone and bring you back a plate, how about that?” 

“Sounds good to me,” Abigail responded. It’s late at night as Abigail works, rubbing the temples of her head with exhaustion. She looks out the window on to the street and sees a shadowy beast-like figure standing in the dark, her naked eyes not being able to make sense of the creature. Right as the street light goes off it vanishes. She grabs her coat and steps out the door, and sees a large, imposing man holding a leash. 

“Have you lost your dog?” She shouts. The man turns to her and assuredly says, “Just visiting some old friends, nothing to worry about. Head back inside.” 

Abigail slowly closes the door as she re-enters the house. She takes one last look out the peephole as the man walks to the edge of the street light and pets the beast-like figure as he pulls a severed arm into the light. “That’s a good boy” 

Abigail covers her mouth as she gasps with terror. She tells Chris everything when he gets back. 

“Gail, everything is alright, the man was probably the walker we haven’t met yet and look at your caseload, of course you’re imagining things like severed arms, it’s all ok. James also wanted to invite us to an evening cookout he’s having next friday, he wanted to let us know early.” 

As the week passes they hear that Phil and Ashton moved out, Abigail runs into James outside of the Butcher. 

“James, what do you know about the walker?” Abigail questions. 

“He’s very trusted, why? Are you getting a dog soon?” James responds 

“Do you know why Danny moved? Or Asthon and Phil?” Abigail continues. “Why are you asking me?” James asks “Something is weird about this place, and you seem to be the leader around here.” James cuts her off. “I don’t know what you mean by leader, I have the authority to ask you to put your trash can away after trash day but that’s all. Danny violated multiple rules, he was forced to leave. Phil and Ashton wanted to be closer to family, that’s why they left. Everything requires sacrifice, I didn’t think I had to publicly announce their business.” 

Abigail feels a bit embarrassed. “Sorry I’ve been so stressed from the precinct, I must’ve brought it home. Should I bring anything tonight?” 

“It’s been cancelled, sorry this week has been hectic, I’ll let you know when I can reschedule,” James says as he walks away. 

That evening, Abigail is just settling in for the evening when she sees she has a voicemail from Chris. 

“Hey, sorry I didn’t have a chance to send a message but I ran into James and promised I would help set up for tonight, I’ll see you when you get here.” 

Suddenly a scratch is at the door followed by heavy panting as Abigail looks out the window of their room to see the dog walker approaching her home. 

“That’s a good boy, River” 

She tries to call Chris but no one responds, She then calls James and is met with the message, “I’m sorry I can’t be everywhere at once, but certain sacrifices must be made. I’ll get to you as soon as I can.” 

It relied on pure luck, no amount of money, fame, or connections could secure anyone a spot. You sign up for a lottery system and wait until someone moves out, then a person is selected at random and they have 24 hours to respond to the invitation. Unfortunately for most, Summer Grove is near impossible to get in. A diverse, healthy, affordable community, anyone would want to sign the lease to their very own home. People are dying to get into Summer Grove.

Evin McQuistin is an actor/director who reads a lot of Shakespeare and digests a lot of sci-fi. He mostly blames the sci-fi (via Star Trek: The Next Generation) for getting him into the Shakespeare.

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Gateways: “Community Service” by Zack Peercy read by Jasmin Tomlins

Art, Literature, Science Fiction, , , , , , , ,

TRANSCRIPT: Zack Peercy is a legally blind playwright based in Chicago. He has a residency at Three Brothers Theatre, where his play That’s Fucked Up premiered in May 2019. His play Kubrickian was recently presented as part of Intrinsic Theatre Company May Play Podcast reading series. He has placed in a few contests you haven’t heard of and was rejected from all the contests you have heard of. He can be found on instagram and twitter @zackpeercy. His plays can be found on NPX.

We knew we wouldn’t like the taste of Henry Joyner just from the smell. 

No one was sure why he volunteered, but now as his sour roasting stench wafted down 

Main Street, we assumed there must have been an underlying sickness. Most of us thought it was a cowardly sacrifice, but all agreed it was a nice respite from the tough flesh of the elderly. The crackle of the fire echoed through our small town, chattering about Henry Joyner in a way we never could. 

We went on with our work day, our noses becoming used to the odor. 

Robert Townsend delivered milk along the stretch of white picket fences. 

Marjorie Green opened the Depot and packed the day’s rations, including an apple pie 

packet for tonight’s special occasion. 

Kasey Skinner mowed the lawns uniformly in neat rows and columns. 

Janice McCormick collected the previous day’s trash and dumped it off the edge of our 

sky-scraping suburb to the surrounding wasteland below. 

We all worked together, every day, to maintain our community. Everyone lent a hand 

without a word because we knew we were all equal. Jealousy, greed, war, and fear were 

emotions of the past. We had moved above them to a place of cooperative bliss. We celebrated our successes, grieved our losses, and when it came time to welcome a new community member, we sacrificed ourselves to keep our population balanced. As the Zimmermans prepared for their child’s arrival, we watched Henry Joyner start to brown in the late-morning sun; the smell becoming tolerable, more familiar. 

Some fundamental community members still thought of it as The Rite of Fire, but most 

of us knew it for what it was: a barbeque. Late last night, after the children were asleep, the town council opened their hands for volunteers and Henry Joyner silently rose from his seat. He was a sizable supply of flesh, but younger than average; sterile, no living relatives left. He was a surprise candidate, but we’ve made tougher choices. Several cycles ago, Phyllis Dewitt’s Daughter volunteered at the age of twelve. Doctor Montgomery had diagnosed her with Particle Lung a few months prior, a rare case even those days, and she wanted to offer herself up to the flames. She didn’t want her body to be thrown to the wasteland. We respected her choice. 

Before the morning sun, Henry Joyner was prepared by Doctor Montgomery. Some of us went to Main Street to clean the fire pit and chop fresh wood. Most of us went home to our families. Janice McCormick made a special pre-dawn trip to the doctor’s office to collect the waste: nails, teeth, blood, hair, and organs not fit for consumption. She threw them off the edge for the unseen scavengers below. Pure silence was briefly interrupted by a far echoed thud, a snarl, and a yip. 

By the time most of us were starting our day of cleaning, domestic repairs, and crafting, 

the body was already on the spit, a fresh fire licking the smooth flesh. 

After another lunchtime of powdered rations, we all strolled down Main Street to get a 

glimpse at the golden brown carcass, savoring the odor, trying to hold it in our nostrils as we went back to our chores and tasks. We thought Henry Joyner was holding up well on the rotisserie. We remembered last cycle when Barbara Townsend’s frail body didn’t last the morning before her meat split from the rod and fell onto the fire. We didn’t notice for half an hour, but a slight char never hurt anyone. We ate well that day and even had enough left for a lasting jerky. 

Our children quietly ran around in the mid-afternoon sun working up an appetite. The 

young ones played on the back lot’s trampoline, fashioned from an old Army parachute we no longer had a use for. We taught them Crack the Egg, where you had to ball yourself up as the other children tried to bounce and crack you, and Sizzle the Bacon, where you laid out as the other children stomped and sizzled you up. The teenagers were more meditative, preferring to bake in the sun and read. The Zimmermans looked over all of them from their porch swing. We knew they were thankful to be part of our community. 

In the late-afternoon, we rang the bell. Everyone snapped into action; we had been 

anticipating this all day. The long wooden table was assembled down Main Street. Kasey 

Skinner went house to house collecting chairs from dining rooms and setting them along the table. Henry Joyner’s auroma was hypnotizing, tantalizing. Our mouths watered, our bodies ached. We took our seats and waited for Marjoirie Green and Doctor Montgomery to carve. 

Our silent anticipation was broken by Phyllis Dewitt. She was now the oldest community member and only made appearances for the ceremony. Since her daughter’s cycle, she has sung for us before every carving. Only a few of us remember what it meant to sing. At 

night the children try to mimic the sounds with their mouths, but barely muster a squeak. The song ended and plates began their passage down the line. 

Main Street was soon filled with the sound of gnashing teeth and saliva slurping; 

mouths full of Henry Joyner. No one made eye contact. He was juicer than Barbara Townsend, but not as tender as Phyllis Dewitt’s Daughter. A portion of the thigh was ground and wrapped for the Zimmermans to mix with their newborn’s rations. 

We ate to our fill and the leftovers were collected to be dried and cured. The table was 

disassembled and stored until the next cycle. Everyone brought their chairs home. We washed our juice-soaked hands and mouths. We laid in our beds. 

As the night crept on and we were alone with our thoughts, we weren’t a community; 

just individuals in bed. Those moments were when our repressed selfishness seeped to the forefront of our minds. We’d never want these doubts to show on our faces, but here in the dark, bellies full and minds free to wander, we questioned. 

When the time came, would we be able to stand up and volunteer? 

Would we be able to eat our own child, if we had to? 

What would they think we smelled like as we roasted over the fire? 

The only answer was our silence.

Jasmin Tomlins has been making noises with her mouth for 33 years, as a determined vintner on the streets of the Bristol Renaissance Faire, reading all of Shakespeare online with the 14th Night Players, and—of course—here at Gateways. She is grateful for the opportunity to give voice to these stories, and to receive the meaning that stories give voices.

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