It was expected to be the biggest middle-weight fight in years. The Bronx Brawler, Chris McGee was defending his title against Kid Lemon; the hottest prospect anyone had seen in years. The Kid was 19-0-1, quite a record, and most of his victories were skilled knockouts in the 9th or 10th round. The crowd was primed for a memorable evening. And it was, but not the way anyone expected.  The first four or five rounds were classic. Bronx McGee was an old-school, heavy-hitter, who usually took down his opponents with an unexpected blow from his hard left fist. There wasn’t a lot of finesse in his approach, but his fans adored seeing him take a man down. Still, he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and his last few title defences had been against swarmers, and that style of fighter can really wear a boxer out.  The Kid was light on his feet, a real strategist, probing and jabbing as he worked out his opponent’s weakness. Betting was running 2:3 in the Kid’s favour. In the end, it did...

Kid Lemon’s girlfriend reminded me of a beer served in some hoity-toity hotel: tall, blonde, and a head full of bubbles. That was a first impression only, mind you, and it turned out to be wrong.   “So what can I do for you, Miss…” I offered her a seat and waited for her to suggest a name. I’d seen her at ring-side, but we’d never been introduced. “It’s Billie,” she answered, “Billie Harland.” I was almost disappointed; I expected ‘Simone’ or ‘Scarlett’ or one of those names that’s obviously made up by a small-town cutie when she washes up in the big city, looking for her big break. ‘Billie” was pure farm girl. “I seen you at the fight,” Billie told me. “Somebody said you’re a reporter.” So much for any hope she was flying to my arms for comfort, after her unfortunate loss. “That’s right, Miss Harland” I said. “I thought maybe you’d like to look into somethin’,” Billie said. “You know, for a story?” Everything she said ended on a rising note, like a little kid, worried that they’d ...

 Of course, I’d have felt more comfortable without the barrel of a pistol digging into my ribs, but I guessed that wasn’t an option. “You know,” Nikita said, breathing in sharply through his slightly yellow teeth, “You and your questions have been causing me…what’s that word, Paulie?” “Concern, Boss,” Paulie said, digging the hard barrel further into my ribs just to remind me that, whatever caused Nikita concern, was an immediate concern to me, as well. “Yeah, that’s it, concern. I’m real concerned about these questions,” Nikita said. “I’m even more concerned about who asked you to look into my biz-zi-ness.” The way he sounded out all three syllables made the simple word chilling. “What?” I answered, playing dumb for as long as I could get away with it. “I’m just wondering. Big, healthy guy like Kid Lemon collapses in the ring, it just seems odd.” Nikita looked at me, a hard, sharp look that could bore through granite, if you gave it enough time. I looked back at him, my face compo...

  “Nikita is a perfectly respectable businessman,” said the man in the silk suit, as he sat down at my table. He reached across, took my lighter and pack of cigarettes, and lit himself a smoke. “I got no idea why you reporters make up so much stuff about him.” Both the pack and the lighter disappeared into his pocket, but I didn’t need to look at the two, powerfully built, unsmiling giants who stood behind him, slowly and rhythmically grinding one fist into the open palm of their other hand, to know that objecting might prove harmful to my health. “I swear that Nikita is nothing more than the President and founder of the Waterfront Honest Businessman’s Benevolent Association,” the man said. “You swear on your mother’s grave?” I asked, rather recklessly.  “What?” said the man, sharply, before relaxing once more and giving me a chilling smile. “Yeah, yeah. That’s right, ‘on me mudder’s grave.’” He gave a wheezing laugh, which sounded as if it was seldom used. “You’re a funny guy...

At the edge of a tangled woodland there stood an enchanted tower. In the top room of the tower there was a huge book, as tall as a full-grown man. The Wizard, who lived in that tower, wrote in the Book all the goings-on in the woods, and everything the creatures did, who dwelt therein. Nothing, good or bad, happened that the Wizard had not written down; the joys and happiness of the creatures of the woodland realm, their sufferings and sadness, all were spelled out on the pages of the Book, as the Wizard wrote them. But the Wizard was getting old; there was still much to write and he feared that he would not live long enough to write it all. If the Book was left unfinished, then all the creatures in the woodland, both the greater and the lesser, would cease to be, and this made the Wizard sad. So he thought and thought about how best to finish the tale of the tangled woodland, and, in the end, he wrote one last sentence in the Book. Under the cover of the darkest night, he took the Boo...

  The beauty of the sunset was obscured by the forest of industrial cranes. The sky blue was washed out by the orange haze of photochemical smog. Henry Potter the Third stood on the banks of what had been, in his childhood, a salmon stream where clear water danced over pretty pebbles. Now he watched as the green, slimy, water oozed by with an oily sheen. He breathed deeply and savoured his success in bringing progress to Bedford Falls. How his grandfather would have envied him. -- 30 --

  The Great Silence only wished to set everything right. Eons ago, the divine quiet had been disturbed, but the Great Silence had worked through all the ages since to restore what once was. The Brothers of the Great Silence vowed to do everything in their power to help spread quiet throughout the universe, no matter how long it took, no matter how many were martyred to the holy cause. It was hard, sometimes, but, through the long novitiate each of the brothers stayed silent for longer and longer periods, until at last each took the Great Vow of Silence. After that, the brother spoke no more; what was there to say? Their cause was holy, fated, and beyond dispute. Too much noise made thinking harder; it seduced all sentient life to gossip, to joke, to idle and vain boasting, to lies.  Ever since Noise had entered into the Darkness, and broken the Primordial Silence, chaos, violence, and confusion had reigned in the Universe. But slowly, inevitably, the Great Silence had asserted...

Choosing to do nothing is still a choice, after all. Someone might have chosen to get involved, but the man at the bar was at that stage of inebriation where everything anyone says seems an insult. No one knew him, and his behaviour didn’t provide much incentive to remedy that lack of familiarity. O ne by one, customers drifted away from the loud and bellicose  man at the bar, seeking out shadowy booths and distant tables; they all knew Karl didn’t like drunken blowhards in his bar. He stood behind the counter, wiping it slowly in clockwise circles.  “Gimme a whisky!” the loudmouth demanded. Karl just shook his head.  “I said, gimme a whisky!” the lout repeated, lumbering toward Karl. A sober man might have noticed the sharp sound of deep inhalation from all the other customers, and realised that he’d miscalculated, but the man wasn’t sober.  It happened, as it usually did, with blinding speed. One moment the man was striding confidently toward Karl, and the next mom...

 “Second place is insignificant,” the coach always told them. “No one remembers the losers.” He was an intense man. Maybe he meant well, nor maybe he just wanted the glory of building them up from nothing. He drilled the team over and over, pushing them, hectoring them to do more, to be better. The boys hated him. Last year the coach had just let them play pick-up ball whenever they wanted; they’d had fun even if they’d finished dead last. This year they were winning, getting better, and had a good shot at a regional championship, maybe even provincial. It wasn’t fun though, now. It was a chore, work.  Sure, some of the guys had gotten into it. The desire for championships and scholarships had taken over, and they weren't the same guys they were last year.  For the other guys, the average players, the boys who were just there for fun,   the team had become one more weight to carry. -- 30 --

It was the fuzzy morning after a bibulous night; half the chessmen were on the floor and the bottle of port was tipped on its side and empty. From the throb in my head I must have drunk most of it myself. There was no sign of Willy, however, other than the letter and the dried, shrunken trinket he’d left lying there on the board. I picked it up, marvelling at the Victorian taste for repugnant things: they’d killed noble beasts and hung their heads on walls,  shot breathtakingly beautiful birds and preserved their feathers under glass domes, for example. The leathery, wizened head now resting on my chess board was just such an object.  Willy Jacobs had an insatiable curiosity for things that were out of the ordinary, so I wasn’t surprised he’d picked it up. But the letter that came with it told a story too horrible to be true, but too unforgettable to be easily dismissed.  I wondered why he'd chosen to leave it here, with me, instead of holding on to it. If only I had gues...

  “I swear to God it wasn’t there last night,” Clancy said. Most people in the park ignored his agitation; it was a big city, after all, and city people get good at ignoring anyone they don’t know.  He’d tried pointing the problem out to a few of them, but they looked, shrugged, and walked on as if there was nothing out of the ordinary, hanging over their heads. How could they all go about their business as if there was nothing unusual at all, Clancy wondered. “What’s the big deal, man,” said a guy who looked like he was on his way to a rave. “It’s just the moons.” That was the problem, of course. It was ‘moons’, plural. Clancy knew there had only been one last night, and all the nights before. Earth only had one Moon, but there it was. The smaller moon hung in the sky, a little North of the Moon Clancy remembered, and further toward the zenith. The small moon had an orange cast, and there were more craters on it, or something. He was no astronomer, but he knew it was differen...

It was the radish that left the bitter taste in his mouth, not the note Yvonne had left on the table. Ray didn’t even notice it until he finished the salad she’d left in the Frigidaire. Ever since he read it, he’d been trying to wash the bitterness away with Export, but the beer hadn’t worked. He switched to rye. He looked at the letter, once more, just to be sure, but there was no mistake. She was leaving him for her boss. He downed the rye in one shot and went to pour another one, but the damn glass wouldn’t stay still on the table, and ended up rolling off onto the floor. Typical, really. There must have been an earthquake, or something; the floor kept moving as he walked over to the sofa, but he made it and sat down, heavily. When the room stopped spinning, he leaned forward and flipped through the channels on the black and white TV. He was going to buy one of the colour ones with his tax refund but, right now, blowing it all on drink seemed like a good idea. He watched Chet Huntle...