A. L. Kaplan

Author: A. L. Kaplan

  • Freedom Jump

    “Quae me domum ad locum regione viarum.”

    Ramone spoke the words of the spell as he ran, praying that the improvised components he had collected would work. Powdered rat liver just wasn’t the same as that from a hippogriff. Same went for the cockroach legs he had substituted for locust. But it was all he had.

    Vines tangled his feet, sending him crashing into the hard packed dirt and rock. He muttered curses as the spell slipped from his grasp. Ignoring the lancing pain in his knees, he scrambled to his feet and continued to run. Only once had he seen the outside of the island prison, fifteen years ago when they had shipped him here, but he had heard plenty of stories through the years about the snake infested jungle and deadly cliff that sandwiched the place.

    That same cliff loomed ahead. The other inmates called it the leap to freedom. Ramone had no more desire to die than he wished to rot in a dark stone cell. He wanted true freedom. It had taken years to dig a tunnel under the walls. Now his only hope lay in a handful of junk and a half remembered spell. Behind him the hounds closed in, close enough to hear their panting.

    Grasping the last of the components, Ramone repeated the spell.  This was his last chance.

    “Quae me domum ad locum regione viarum.”

    He leaped from the cliff’s edge just as the portal opened and disappeared into the void.

  • Toucan Rescue

    “Damn it, Winona, leave that thing alone. Humans are nothing but trouble.” Sam flapped his wings and clicked his long yellow beak. The vine they stood on swayed with his movement. “My cousin went to investigate a human and was never heard from again.”

    “This one doesn’t carry a thunder stick. He isn’t even fully grown. Poor child looks absolutely terrified. See how he’s running, crashing into every bush and bramble?”

    Sam plucked a nearby berry, ignoring the human and those chasing him. “The silly land dweller won’t live for long. There’s a jaguar fifty feet ahead.”

    “Look out! Look out!” Winona dashed after the child, swooping low over his head. “Turn around.”

    The human stopped, hiding his head with his featherless wings and gasping for air. His eyes widened at the sound of running feet and began to leak fluid. Winona didn’t need to think about it. She swooped down, grabbed one of his flailing limbs and yanked him to the side. At first he resisted, but finally, he followed her to a nearby hiding place. The child crouched behind a rock just as a whole herd of humans came into view. These humans waved thunder sticks, yelling as they barreled right into the waiting Jaguar.

    The boy closed his eyes, trembling at the sounds of battle. Once the jungle had quieted, he pulled a young toucan from his bag and held it out to Winona and Sam.

    “Goodness,” said Winona. “I told you this one was different.”

  • Dominator

    Flies swarmed the carcass and I cursed. This was the tenth heifer that had been ripped to shreds. A low rumbling growl made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I spun away from the remains and came face to face with Fang. His lips curled back, teeth gleaming. Five other coyotes circled the carcass. What devil drove these beasts to confront a human in broad daylight? And since when did coyotes hunt in packs?

    Fang glared with an almost human hatred. I raised my gun, shaking so hard the shot went wild. The coyotes didn’t flinch. Gramps thought the wild horses were a problem, thought they would ruin the field and contaminate our cattle. At least horses didn’t kill. I fumbled to reload, dropping a cartridge. Fang leaped before I could raise the weapon. I stumbled back, tripping over the carcass. Sixteen was too young to die.

    Something flew over my head, crashing into Fang. Dominator, the chestnut stallion that led the wild horses, trumpeted his challenge. A strange reddish hue glimmered in Dominator’s eyes and the white patch on his head shone like some weird third eye. His sharp hooves made short work of Fang and the other crazed coyotes, trampling even those who tried to flee. Was this the same bold colt I had spotted only two years ago? I stared in wonder, thankful to be in his favor. Dominator seemed to nod once with an eerie intelligence. Then he trotted off.

  • My Favorite Vampire

    The mourning doves were singing July 19. Their soft hoots greeted me as I woke. Each long mournful call filled my ears. It was the first time I had heard them this summer and it seemed odd. But there were things to be done, so I shrugged it off and went about my tasks. A few hours later I heard that Marty Gear had passed away the day before. I have to ask, how did those doves know? It seemed as though they were announcing to the world that a remarkable man had left us. Other than one small hoot Saturday morning, they’ve been silent since. Believe me, I’ve been listening.

    So who was Marty Gear? Born Alexander Martin Gear, Marty was a fixture at the Baltimore Science Fiction Society. Since 1981, Marty also served as Master of Ceremonies for the Balticon masquerade. There isn’t enough space here to tell his whole story, but a quick Google search got me over 9,000,000 hits. Give it a try. Look up any variation of Marty Gear, Martin Gear, or Alexander Martin Gear.

    In his 74 years, Marty touched thousands of lives. He encouraged writers and costumers of all ages, helped found the International Costumer’s Guild, put books in the hands of children, inspired countless people, and was a treasure trove of bad vampire jokes. He helped run and worked at many different conventions in the world of fandom and costuming, his last, just two week before passing.

    I remember the first time I met Marty. It was at my first Balticon. He was registering people for the masquerade contest. Not an on-stage kind of person, I’m still not sure how he talked me into entering. There were many entrees that year, so for several hours I waited for my turn, listening to Marty, in his Vlad persona, tell more vampire jokes than I knew existed. I left that year with a ribbon and ideas for more costumes.

    Vampires—Bats— I couldn’t resist. Marty’s passion for vampires and bad jokes was contagious. For my third masquerade, I designed a bat costume with a nine foot wingspan and a giant bell. It was titled “There’s a Bell in My Batfry.” Winning a ribbon was great, but the best thing was listening to Marty chuckle after my presentation. It took a minute before he was able to announce the next contestant. Goal achieved. Even after many years, Marty remembered that costume. I will always remember him. 

    Marty Gear (1939 – 2013) You will be remembered.
    Marty Gear
    1939 – 2013
    You will be remembered.

  • Strange Adoption

    Perri pounced on the snake as it struck, snapping its neck with his hooves before anyone else could react. He smashed the serpent until bloody pulp littered the forest floor. No doubt another carnivore would soon take advantage. An odd thrill raced through Perri’s limbs.  It felt good to protect his family.

    “Oh dear! Oh dear!” said, Henrietta, his adoptive mother. Her panicked squawks rose in pitch as she ran in circles.

    Tom’s big red waddle trembled like Jell-O. He stood rooted to the ground, every feather on his body fluffed out. The snake’s head lay at his feet, its deadly fangs millimeters away. Perri stopped Henrietta and nuzzled her until she calmed.

    “Papa, snap out of it,” said Perri. He gave Tom a nudge. The big turkey nearly fell over.

    Tom closed his beak and backed away from the snake. “I’m alive,” he whispered. Then his voice rose in volume. “Dammed good thing I insisted on taking you in after your mama died. Henrietta would have left you shivering in that clearing for sure.”

    An indignant squawk escaped Henrietta’s beak. Perri rolled his eyes. Nothing like a near death experience to alter memory. Tom constantly reminded Perri what a burden he had been as a clumsy young fawn. Henrietta had been the one who had insisted on caring for Perri. Even so, both turkeys had raised him, kept him safe from danger. They made a strange family, but a family none the less.

  • Empty

    Eyes

    Dark rimmed

    Moist

    Where is tomorrow

    Does it exist

    Do I

    There are no tears

    Only emptiness

  • Elak Dŏd

    Startled awake by the clanking club on the cell door, Johnson’s body trembled. He blinked, disorientated. Then the guard’s ugly face came into focus, staring through the bars. Today was execution day, FRY-day as the guards called it. Seething hate churned in Johnson at the audacity. Death wasn’t the end, not for him.

    Only moments ago he had been walking down a beach with his dream girl. He could still smell her perfume, feel her silky hair, hear the waves crash, and taste the sweetness of her lips. That damn guard yanked him away too soon. Well, he knew how to find Sarge. He knew how to slip into his dreams and twist them into a nightmare. No one would ever know what killed him.

    The man they called Johnson would die today, as had the other shells he’d inhabited, but he wouldn’t. Life and death had no meaning for Elak-Dŏd. He’d jump to his new vessel, the young man at the beach. Already Elak-Dŏd had manipulated others at the resort to pay for his needs.

    And the woman, she was a young spirit, just learning to dream-walk. Already she strode his dark path. The look in her eyes had shown him a future he had never thought possible. She was the one. For her, he would do anything.

    This time there would be no mistakes, not with centuries of experience. The Dream Guardians would never find them. If all went as planned, Elak-Dŏd would finally have children to battle that pompous clan.

  • Hit Job

    “Get in. He wants a word.”

    Sweat trickled down Amos’s back, but not from the heat. The carriage creaked as he and Seth climbed in, carefully averting their eyes from the figure seated on the other bench. A dark straw hat obscured the man’s eyes, but there was no doubting the anger in his posture. Seth’s hands shook like an old man and he clasped his bag, the one that held his camera. They both jumped as the reins snapped. The rhythmic clopping of the horse’s hooves offered no comfort today.

    “Your partner is already gone. Seth will leave tomorrow night,” said the Amish patenonkel. “The three of you should never have returned after your rumspringa if you weren’t going to abide by the rules. Neglecting to pay my tithe from your illicit photo studio is bad enough, but photographing my niece?”

    Chills ran down Amos’s spine. For three years they had run the studio without paying the mafia one cent. Now they were toten because he fell for a beautiful brunette with hazel eyes. She had looked so seductive in that black dress, her bonnet clasped between her teeth as she undid her bun. Just the thought set his heart pounding with desire. The pictures had been beyond gorgeous.

    “Punishment is necessary, Amos, but Emma shouldn’t pay for your transgressions. From now on you shoot for me.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Good. Don’t be late tomorrow morning.”

    “Sir?”

    “For your wedding to Emma. You owe me healthy enkelkinder.”

  • Marooned

    Benny twisted the last bits of salvaged wire together. He wanted to hang with his friends before heading to college. Instead he ended up as first mate on a tour boat. His dad’s idea. Leave it to Captain Hill to shipwreck them on an uncharted island first trip out. Of course everyone blamed Benny, especially the captain. As if he controlled the weather.

    That was nearly a year ago. The others had slowly lost their minds, even the captain, but Benny had a firm grip on reality. At least he thought he did. No one else on the island could see the pretty woman who claimed to be his dream guardian. She had helped him fix the radio. Maybe he was hallucinating. He’d know soon. Benny just needed to keep that loon Caractacus Potts away from the radio. Potts thought he was some kind of genius professor.

    It wasn’t easy getting the sea charts from the captain, but Benny had managed. He paid Barron and Baroness Flemming with Truly Wood’s mud pies to get their extra coconuts. Movie star wanabe, Dee Dee Scrumptious, loved them. Scrumptious distracted Captain Hill while Benny snatched the charts. It had taken months to plan. Now Benny knew exactly where they were.

    Tiny bubbles surrounded the taro root battery powering the radio. Benny crossed his fingers and flipped the switch, then transmitted their identification and location. It didn’t take long to get a response.

    “Benny!!”

    Damn. The captain must have noticed the missing charts. At least help was on its way.

  • Fledgling

    Little fledgling

    So smart, pretty

    Some feathers sprout later than others

    Each more brilliant than the last

    One by one you stretch your wings

    Testing the wind

     

     

    With tears I watch

    Soon you’ll fly far away

    Return home soon my little fledgling

    Young, almost grown

    Powerful wings that no longer flutter

    A fledgling no more