Peter set down the sonic wrench and looked at the hologram projecting from the card on the workbench. He’d finally tuned the satellite correctly and the heart-shaped galaxy hung in the air before him, twinkling and flashing. Must be interference, he thought, before closing the card and slipping it into an envelope.

***

“Peter,” his mother called as he entered the front door, “can you take a look at the card you gave me? Something’s wrong with it. The picture is gone.”

***

He’d checked and rechecked a dozen times, the satellite hadn’t shifted, the signal was clear. The galaxy had disappeared.

Nina watched the rusty station-wagon drive away, the dust of the old dirt road obscuring the USPS Rural Carrier sign on its side. She moved the letter from her right hand to her left and read the return address as she wiped her palm on her jeans—Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Her finger shook as it slid under the flap, its nail bitten short and ragged. Taking a deep breath, Nina dragged her finger along the envelope, tearing it open. She unfolded the letter and read the few short sentences inside.

The letter dropped.

Her arms raised.

And she danced.

“I can see it, man. Like, we’re all connected and stuff. Strings flowing through the world, the universe, binding us all together. It’s so beautiful.”

Goddamn cellists, Trevor thought. Everything is fucking strings to them, even when they’re tripping. He eyed the people on the couch opposite his chair. Three men and two women—he didn’t know their names, just what instruments they played. Like most of the people here, they were more friends of his girlfriend than him.

He wasn’t even sure why he was here. After the argument this afternoon, he’d been wandering around campus when he’d run into the cellist—Fred, Frank, F-something—and been dragged to the party.

The cellist was still tripping next to him, mumbling something about strings and octaves and quarks. What was it about the string section that turned people crazy? Caroline, his girlfriend, played the violin. This afternoon she’d started talking about commitment, the future, something about a red string of fate—he hadn’t really listened. She’d started railing at him when he hadn’t picked the right responses.

Trevor looked at his watch; it was after midnight. He drained the last of his beer and stood up. He’d taken a hit with the cellist but nothing was happening and he still had to walk several miles back to the loft he shared with Caroline.

He stepped over a couple sprawled on the floor, both flautists, and tossed his empty plastic cup on the kitchenette counter, adding to the already overflowing pile. He had to push his way through a group of timpanists to get to the door. He didn’t mind timpanists, they were fun at parties—the frat boys of the classical music world.

The party had spilled into the hallway, slowing him as he pushed his way to the stairs. Typical of the cheap apartments music students could afford, the place was on the 8th floor and the building had no elevator.

The late-night air outside the front door was cool and crisp, a welcome change after the hot, muggy atmosphere of the party upstairs and the eight flights of stairs he’d trudged down. Trevor inhaled again; the cold air felt like a sip from an ice cold glass of water on a blazing August afternoon. He rolled it across his tongue as he walked.

He drank in the sights and sounds of the city as he moved on. The light from the lamp on the next corner was bright, almost painful, throwing a sharp line of dark and light across the sidewalk. A train passed nearby, the rhythmical clanking of its wheels on the tracks loud in his ears, a melody he couldn’t quite grasp.

The air filled with the tang of yeast, drawing his eyes to the bakery across the street. Light spilled from the windows, cascading over the sidewalk. A shadow moved in the brightness, a humanoid figure stretched thin across the cold concrete.

He crossed the street to stare through the window. Behind the counter, a large man worked, kneading dough for the morning’s bread. As Trevor watched, the sound of a timpani filled him, matching the strong, heavy movements of the baker’s hands as they worked the dough. It vibrated in his mind, coming from inside the bakery but not passing through his ears.

Behind him, he heard the rev of an engine. A car was turning the corner; its headlights splashed across him, blinding. Music flowed from it, a string quartet playing Beethoven’s Op. 135. His vision cleared and he could see again as it passed. Through its closed windows he could see four people—friends—chatting. The music faded as the car moved away. Behind him, the timpani played on.

The sounds of the city faded around Trevor, replaced by music. He passed an open window, inside was a living room, and a TV he couldn’t hear. A old woman was seated in a rocking chair in front of the TV, a knit afghan across her knees. The strings of a violin, bowed in time to the rocking of the woman, filled him.

He passed a bar, still open and crowded at this hour—an orchestra, playing Mozart’s 40th symphony. A couple was arguing in an alley, an oboe and flute dueling. An etude here, a concerto there, he heard the music of life as he walked.

The songs were fewer as he entered a poorer neighborhood; the buildings in increasing disrepair as he moved on. The sound of a wheezing tuba came from an overgrown park. An obese man in a tattered army jacket stood next to a steel trash can, warming his hands over the fire inside. On the other side of the street, a group of youths sat on the front steps of a tenement, emanating chamber music.

The notes faded as he moved into an industrial area, abandoned years ago and empty of humanity. The silence deepened in the shadows of the broken factories, empty windows staring sightlessly as he passed. The soundless night grew more oppressive with each step, the hard soles of his boots making no sound on the concrete sidewalk, the music gone with the people. He snapped his fingers next to his ear—nothing.

He concentrated, listening for a noise, a note, anything. The silence was complete. Even the beat of his heart, pounding, could not be heard. Trevor hurried on, rushing past burned out hulks of rusting metal in an asphalt lot broken and overgrown with weeds.

He passed a junk-yard surrounded by a chain link fence, a dog barking at him from behind it, making no sound. He passed a homeless man, drinking in the shadow of a doorway. He heard nothing, no music.

He passed a building of faded red brick, its windows covered with plywood and graffiti, shrouded in silence. Then it came, faint but growing, the sound of a harp. It grew stronger, loud enough to follow as each note was plucked out.

Trevor focused on the sound, relief flooding him. The music buoyed him, keeping him sane. It seemed to flow from inside him, carrying him on. His heart beat slowed, matching the tempo, his feet hitting the pavement in time.

The buildings around him were no longer falling apart. He passed a person here, a car there, the streets no longer empty. The song of the harp continued, vibrating through him.

He smiled at a group of college women heading home from a night of partying, nodded to the bouncer standing in front of a local club. Across the street he saw a friend waving and tired to turn toward him—his legs continued on.

The music changed, speeding up, and his pace followed. He tried to stop, to slow, to separate himself from the music. His legs refused to obey.

The song continued, carrying him down the sidewalk, an audience of one to the music controlling his body. He approached an intersection, struggling for control; the harp played on.

G—he took a step. A small light shone in the corner of his eye, the headlights of an approaching car.

A—another step. The car was closer, moving fast. The lamp at the corner was broken, leaving a deep shadow around Trevor.

C—Trevor covered his ears, trying to block out the sound. The driver couldn’t see him, wouldn’t see him until too late. He took another step.

E—his hands grabbed at his legs, trying to slow them. The song moved on, Trevor with it. He was at the edge of the sidewalk.

F—another step, into the street. The car was only a foot away, its driver finally seeing Trevor as he stepped into the headlights. Time slowed. The car inched closer.

“Nein, nein, nein.”

The music stopped, and with it, the world. Trevor could see the horrified face of the driver, could feel the heat of the engine, inches from his body. The edges of the world shimmered, blurred. Another world overlay it, like a television tuning two channels at once.

Trevor saw a living room, heavy with dark wood and antique furniture. In the center stood a harp, a young woman sitting on a stool behind it, her hands stilling the strings. A tall man, thin, with graying hair, stood beside her. He pointed to the music stand between the two.

“Das ist eine halb Note, eine halb Note.” The man clasped his hands behind his back. “Erneut.”

The young woman nodded and lifted her hands.

G—Trevor was back on the sidewalk, the world once again in sharp focus. The car was approaching and the music was playing. He took a step.

A, C, E—three more steps. He was at the edge of the sidewalk, the car roaring closer.

F—A half-note, a half-step. The car roared past, inches away, the wind of its passing tearing at his face.

Trevor stared at the car as it sped away, the sound of its engine loud in his ears, its horn echoing down the street. The music was gone, the sounds of the city surrounded him.

Typical, just typical, Trevor thought. I get a glimpse into the inner workings of the universe and what does my life hang by? A harp string. A fucking harp string.

Contest Theme: Strings

After five years, the droning message emerging from the loudspeakers spread throughout the town had become nothing more than a back beat for the lives of the townfolk. “Support the war. The enemy is evil. Work for the good of the nation. Obey your leaders.” The words changed but the message stayed the same. A message that enveloped Edmond, reassuring in its familiarity, as he slowly drifted awake. I wonder what woke me?

“Eddy, it might be Saturday but that doesn’t mean you can sleep all day,” his mother’s voice blared from below. Ah, yes, that would be it.

Slipping from the covers, he winced as his feet hit the chilly tiles where his slippers were supposed to be. With a muttered curse on all bratty sisters who didn’t properly respect their older—and wiser—brothers, he hopped back onto the bed and sent one arm questing beneath for his errant footwear.

“Eddy, get up!”

It’s not Eddy, Mom, it’s Edmond, he said for the hundredth time—in his mind, at least. At sixteen years old, one could reasonably expect not to be called by such a childish nickname, or so his friends told him.

His legs worked as he took the stairs two at a time, taking the last four in one giant leap.

“Good, you’re up. I need you to—”

“Can’t talk now, meeting Ian at the square.” Careful not to make eye contact, Edmond grabbed his shoes and coat and rushed out the door. Outside, the droning was louder but Edmond ignored it without a thought. Ian’s house was two doors down and they better get their stories straight, just in case.

* * *
“It can’t be done.” Ian’s voice broke on the last word, shifting high and then low.

“Sure it can,” said Edmond as he nodded to James, waiting for them at the fountain in the center of the town square. “My dad showed me the blueprints. All you have to do is cross a couple of wires.”

“What can’t be done?” asked James, having overheard the exchange.

“Edmond says he can rig the warning system to shut off without anyone figuring out it was him.”

“Do it! Dooooo it!” said James. “It’d be ultimate.”

“Wait a minute, I’m just saying it can be done, not that I’d do it,” said Edmond with his hands raised.

“Come on, don’t wimp out on us now.”

“You can set it up for the festival tomorrow,” broke in Ian. “It’ll rock.”

* * *
The warning broadcast system didn’t require much in the way of maintenance. Judging by the amount of dust, no one had been here in years. Edmond wiped his hands on his jeans and peered around the room, the light from the open window behind him leaving streaks in the air. With the blueprints in mind, he hoisted his knapsack to his shoulder and moved through the room, looking for the power relay.

On his second circuit, he recognized the power symbol beneath the layers of grime covering a large metal cube in the corner. A few twists of a screwdriver and Edmond was staring at a jumble of wires and breakers that only vaguely resembled the diagram he had seen.

Thinking of the crap his friends would give him if he left now, he began to painstakingly trace the circuits. After ten minutes—the tension ratcheting higher with each one—he had the two circuits he needed.

Working quickly, he stripped the insulation off with his teeth. From his knapsack he pulled a dead rat—found in a trap in his attic. No reason to get in trouble for a simple prank. A few twists of hair against the transformer as a time delay fuse and everything was ready. The rat would fall on the wires and short the system, shutting everything down until the backup kicked in.

A moment to replace the cover and a few more to smooth out the dust and he was back out the window, home free.

* * *
The square was filled from edge to fountain with booths, bands, and babies, all entertaining the milling crowd. Edmond glanced at his watch as he pushed his way toward the fountain and his friends. Any time now, he thought, just before the speakers went dead.

For a moment, no one seemed to notice. Then the first conversation stopped. And then another. Soon the entire square was silent, all eyes looking to the speakers hanging overhead. No one moved. They didn’t even seem to breathe. Like robots without orders.

A baby began to cry, afraid of the silence it had never known. The sound caused a wave of motion as heads turned. But no one moved, not even the baby’s mother.

The baby’s cries grew more strident as the seconds ticked by, the growing panic on the faces of the citizens mirroring it’s distress.

“—our troops. Buy war bonds.” The backup power had switched on. The sound filled the square along with an explosion of relieved smiles.

Pushing his way back through the crowd, Edmond ignored his friends, their faces glowing with excitement. He no longer felt like celebrating.

Random seed phrase: dronish warner

The air was close, stifling. The culvert smelled of metal and rot. The heat was slowly cooking me in my own sweat. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to move but I couldn’t, he would find me.

I heard a scream—Johnson. He was new, raw. He didn’t know the lay of the land and it had cost him.

I wasn’t new. This was my third year. I knew the best places to hide, lay low. You had to become part animal to survive, to find a safe hole.

Another cry, closer now—Smith. How much longer could I do this, survive? I thought of Mother and cookies and milk. Of Father and mitts and baseball.

I could hear him breathing now. His footsteps right above me. Would this be the time I failed, got caught?

More footsteps, heavier ones. Had he brought reinforcements?

“Did you find him, Billy? Class is about to start.”

“No, Mrs. Harrison. He’s too good at hide and seek. I never catch him.”

The bell—recess was over.

How many more until I could go home?