Author Edward Bryant, selected "KEYS" by Jonna Laster for First Place from 132 entries in the 2007 SFWoE SF/F Contest. Jonna has given SFWoE permission to place her story on our web site for all to read.

     Keith Demanche has created a fitting piece of art for the story. Below is what he had to say about his artwork.

     "I found the use of ceiling mirrors reflecting back to the reader all that was happening in the story intriguing. Not only do the characters reflect on themselves, but as readers we can see parallels in our world to the utter reliance on technology and institutional systems to control our everyday activity. It's a scary situation, and I wanted to bring some of that angst to my image."

     Who is Keith Demanche? Well, take a few mimtues and check the links below.

     Keith Demanche owns his own Marketing and Design firm Haunted Milk, and works for clients big and small with his wife Stacy and dog Fritz. In his spare 45 minutes or so a week he plays in the rock band Porter, creates art, and travels as far as he can.

           

     Jonna Laster, in her story below, gives us a young woman named Lee who is a citizen of Colony Five, a hermetically sealed city with a government about as chummy as Singapore's, only raised another quantum level. Keys are all - important to the citizenry. Everyone carries a ring of keys that represents access to food, shelter, transportation, everything. Lose your keys and you're dead meat.

     Jonna has demonstrated she can craft a tight little slice of tough life in a chill clime. Cleary she's got a good literary tool kit and knows how to use the contents. Including the power tools.

     Read her story and enjoy. This could be your future.

           

     Now, enjoy reading Jonna's story below. After you have read the story, if you care to make a short comment about her story, you may do so by clicking on the "SUBMIT YOUR OPINION" link.

		--- Gil Reis
		SFWoE Administrator

     Lee had trouble remembering where she had put them. In the upper left bureau drawer? The long narrow shelf in the living room cabinet? She lay on the carefully made bed, trying to recollect.

     Today was Colony Five's allotment day. Lee blinked back tears. She studied herself in the wide ceiling mirror: sleek dark hair cut like a close fitting cap, slender body, proportionate, well adjusted. Her left eye twitched as she tried to force a look of contentment onto her pallid face.

"Keys" by Keith Demanche

     There were, of course, procedures relating to lost keys. Claim forms could be filed with the proper authorities. Usually a new set of keys would be issued within a week or two. A person could starve in that amount of time, especially if she had no connections. Lee winced. She wasn't sure if she had a support system or not.

     Then, there were the occasions when no set of keys arrived, ever. Either the person was locked in their apartment or locked out, permanently. No reason was given, publicly, concerning the non-renewal of keys.

     Perhaps even more fateful was the advent of a skeleton key. Such keys were sent out to the unfortunate member who made any transgression classified as irrevocable. April, on the seventeenth floor, had made that sort of error, something to do with illicit copies of passkeys.

     The thin brittle, useless skeleton key was a sure, immutable, sign of the Pariah. April had never been seen again. It was assumed by the Colony Five members that she had taken the only acceptable way out of such a dilemma.

     Shivers rippled under Lee's peach colored skin. Her eyes bulged. If only she hadn't taken off her key chain, if only she hadn't gone totally nude into Sandy's welcoming arms. Somehow they had lost themselves, gotten tangled up: arms interlacing, faces and lips merging forgetfully. Their mirrored images had writhed with abandon.

     Naturally, Sandy had slipped away during the night. Now allotment day was here and Lee's storage bins were empty, her vacation spent, and her keys, a hard lump pressed against her throat. Her keys were misplaced.

     The high flat mirror made a terrible caricature of her fear. Disagreeable lines creased her face. Sooner or later she would have to actually get up and physically search the apartment for her bundle of keys. She used the fashionable antique facsimile keys as opposed to the more streamlined bar codes favored a decade ago; surely they would be easy to find.

     What had possessed her to lift the tinkling chain from her neck? She tried to recapture the moment, to play back the point in time when she so stupidly cast off the keys to her survival.

     Groaning, Lee swung feet onto the carpeted floor. She paused by the intercom. Should she call out to Sandy? No, someone might overhear. Who was Sandy anyway? Just someone who had coincidentally carried the same key for the same Holistic Lounge, just someone who chose to unlock the door only moments after she had entered.

     Lee grasped at a bureau's edge. Maybe someone stole her keys. It had been known to happen. Sandy had been so slick, so assured. His timing had been perfect . . . a professional?

'If only', Lee thought regretfully, 'I had filmed last night.' But Sandy had prevented her from inserting a reel view disc. He had chosen that moment to pull at her ear lobe with his teeth.      Lee continued to totter by the bureau. Allotment day was dawning. It was time to return to work and she had none of her keys. None. Not even her interior keys, the small blue keys, which mated with the pill cabinet lock, the storage bin, the door.

     Dimly, Lee recalled Sandy's broad face smiling up at the ceiling, such boldness. His large blue eyes had roved around the room. His long fingers had drummed over her belly, expertly bringing forth cries of delight. The dirty whore. Now he had her key chain. Lee was positive.

     Angrily she paced the thick carpet. She had been manipulated, sucked in, and now her keys were gone. Her job. Her food. Her companionship. Gone. Her life. Lee ran to the front door and pulled, hysteria frothing, was she going to vomit? To her surprise, the door flung inward. Curious neighbors peered in from the corridor. She thought she saw Sandy turning a corner. Quickly Lee retreated.

     Incredulous, she left the door slightly ajar. Had she forgotten to lock up? What narcotic had Sandy slipped into her wine? What could induce such blatant forgetfulness? Or, had Sandy been remiss, leaving the door askew when he left?

     Lee executed a thorough search for her keys. She turned over cushion chairs, slid low tables to the side, pried into and around faux vintage furniture. She looked in places that were unlikely, absurd. The longer she looked, the less hope she had, and the greater were her suspicions.

     She could get in touch with the manager, she could report the theft. But where was her proof, who would believe such a tale? The manager, no doubt, would laugh and demand more details about the love scene. The authorities would simply ask her to apply for another set of keys. Then what? Two weeks of begging and scrounging.

     Lee's movements quickened. She was, now, a choppy automaton going through the motions. The keys were gone, she could feel it! Last night, Sandy's eyes had fastened on her pendant of keys. 'I don't want to chip my teeth,' he had explained, promising that she wouldn't be sorry.

     Lee sensed the blood leaving her face. She glanced up at the ceiling mirror; yes she looked awful, she looked sick. She hurried into the cosmetic room. Her teeth ground together. Sandy had been here. Powders were spilled, rouges and glasses were tipped on their sides. Etched in red on the long illuminated mirror was a crude rendition of a skeleton key.

     'Proof,' snapped a voice in Lee's mind. The fool had practically left his signature. She rummaged blindly for a cam tape. With a misleading steadiness, she took three clear close-ups of the vandalized cosmetic room.

     The rigidness left her body. She crumpled. She slid to the floor like discarded clothing. She huddled there, curled up on a pastel rug. Her night makeup trickled into dark rivulets, flowing across her smooth round face.

     Pictures of the savagely scrawled evidence were worthless. She had lost her keys. She, alone, had displaced her validity. Rolling onto her back, Lee stared coldly at the ugly image, which stared down.

     After admitting that the broken reflected woman was herself, Lee began to reconstruct. Sandy, it appeared, had opened her pill cabinet, taking most of the contents. However, enough suppressants were left to curb Lee's anxiety, her appetite, and her rage.

     She bathed, applied a subtle day mask then added a confident musky hint of odor, a hybrid of jasmine, designed to attract and elude. Carefully she picked an unobtrusive outfit that consisted of a muted wrap around tunic worn over shimmering leggings: work clothes.

     Once she was completely dressed, Lee went about her apartment straightening up; putting every pillow and chair in just the perfect place. With total concentration she wiped away the remnants of Sandy. No red smudges marred the cosmetic mirror. Offensive bedding had been replaced and the spilled powders swept away. All traces of Sandy had been effectively erased. It was as if she had never been foolish enough to allow a partner into her apartment. Before leaving, Lee sprayed a gentle keeping mist over her face and hair. It was going to be a long day.

     In the crowded flow of chatter, which incessantly filled colony corridors, Lee voided her final apprehensions. She had a plan. People were always brighter, more energetic on allotment day. It would be easy to blend in with the fervent mass as they poured forth into thoroughfares, their faces suffused with consuming passion. Pills and foodstuffs had been depleted, conversation had grown stale; here was an opportunity to shop, to replenish supplies, to renew acquaintances and to find new partners.

     The wide corridors emptied into many narrow, muted, passageways which spiraled downward, eventually joining with subterranean walkways. Tubes of pale green and orange light ran throughout the tunnels. Faint strains of music soothed commuters as they walked.

     Only a few workers ever bothered using the drab exits which led to the outer ring. Most of the outside entrances had, long ago, been effectively sealed from rampant winds and winter blasts.

     Some people had, reputedly, lost their keys due to an unhealthy curiosity or obsession with these old doors. Such deviants were not only deluded but sadly lacking in common sense; where, outside, were there any usable key holes? The entire concept of venturing outward reeked of archaic philosophy and bygone eras of insecurity.

     Lee considered her options. Getting into a store without the proper passkey was improbable, getting out: impossible. None of her friends would be of any use; their reciprocity dealt only with parties and party favors, the introducing of partners and sharing of gossip. Lee knew that she, herself, would never stoop to help someone so careless, so dangerously stupid as to loose vital keys.

     In a way, she felt relief. There would be no long, drawn out explanation, no pitying looks, no pleas, and no denials. All thoughts of help from Cassie, or Dax, or Karen were dismissed.

     Casually, Lee followed a curving hall. Occasionally she stopped, as if to examine one of the many circus red posters of light advertising a new, indispensable key. There were: limited edition keys, keys to dreams, keys to the dark, keys to friendship, success, weight loss, spiritual awakening, and keys to an index of fantasy and pleasure.

     Lee hesitated, letting the continuous parade of vaguely familiar faces surge past her. At her tenth detour from the crowd, Lee glanced a broad, shiny face which smiled continuously. Sandy nearly brushed against her. No shadow of recognition palsied his pretty face. His unhurried gait conveyed sexual innuendo and social prowess. Lee was convinced that Sandy considered his crime complete. What could be more debilitating than stripping someone of her keys and leaving her to rot in a locked apartment? He sauntered by without a sideways look. He, apparently, had very short-term visual memory.

     Lee's neck muscles tightened, her lips drew up, her porcelain blue eyes sparkled; she followed Sandy. The two of them moved in concert, a slow lockstep down a murmuring, meandering thoroughfare.

     She studied the thief's wide shoulders, his sculpted hair. She noted the way his hands were thrust into his pockets. He wore the latest simply by chance style quite well, with practiced ease.

     She recalled a brief statement he had made the night before, something about keys irritating his skin, leaving a faint rash. Now, as he strutted along, Lee could see no chain about his neck, nothing to scratch, or damage his chest. She chuckled without moving her lips.

     Small pangs of hunger quickened her pace. Sandy abruptly stopped near the dark archway of an old style arcade. Open to all, the arcade was one of the few unlocked amusement stopovers and provided a lucrative income for corridor maintenance.

     Sandy glanced at his wrist and entered. Lee stepped briskly after him. She was close enough to stroke his muscled back. Dim shapes hunkered over throbbing machines. Hips nudged cool metal. Voices coaxed, or cursed, as beaded light shot in frenzied pulses across screens. Lee moved closer. She could smell him: sweat underlying the scent of soap and a faint trace of jasmine.

     He was bent over a round screen. His full lips moved in unheard litany. He twisted and pulled at the levers. Colors spun, then fused, then faded. Sandy shoved thin coins into the steel slot and the game. resumed. A contralto voice kept score while Sandy grunted and pulled two levers at once.

     Lee approached Sandy's swaying back. Patterns on the convex screen writhed. Sandy grinned back at his reflection. He was winning. Lee took no chances. She stretched out both arms, emptied both of Sandy's pockets, greedily clutching whatever her fingers closed over. She felt the jagged, grooved outlines of keys. She turned and ran. A burst of warmth flowed into her limbs. Her carefully made-up face broke into a smile. Her knees shot up as she ran faster than she had ever run before.

     Morning customers filled the arcade. Jutting elbows and levers struck at Sandy. Shadows blocked the way and blurred the gap left by his assailant. The drugged and dizzy air of the arcade sucked at him, slowing him down.

     Convulsively Sandy slapped at his pockets. He dropped to the shaded floor and grappled against lustrous tile. His hands strayed, disconnected from thought, flapped and flailed in the air. He screamed, "I've been robbed. Robbed!"

     Players edged away. Faces, as smooth as untracked eggs, gaped at him with neutral surprise. Others looked slightly embarrassed and scuttled off.

     The arcade matron, a thin sallow woman, stooped over Sandy. "Get out," she hissed. A large percentage of her business was leaving. Several of the humming machines stood idle. She urged Sandy towards the corridor. Her eyes narrowed at Sandy's blank expression. "Why aren't you wearing your keys?" Her words were an accusation not a question.

     Sandy fingered his low neckline. It was beyond his capacity to explain. He had seen only the retreating form of his attacker, a dim outline that hinted at some previous encounter. He strained to remember, amorphous faces smiled and faded; his mind refused to comply. He struggled to his feet and howled.

     A tuneful klaxon interrupted the continuous music of allotment day. People drifted to the far side of the corridor. Very few commuters stopped to watch. Discreet ceiling embedded security beacons pulsated.

     Sandy stumbled from the arcade. He swung in clumsy circles. He searched for a friend, someone who could help him out. Just for a few days. A week at most. Sandy chewed at his right fist. Connections. He needed a connection.

     The subtle shift in traffic alerted Sandy to his more immediate problem. Authorities had a habit of disregarding complaints. They would calmly, and ineffectively, reassure him; offer him application forms, and record his erratic behavior. It was, after all, better to eliminate a risky key that to risk breaking a lock.

     Sandy grimaced, his mask was a distortion, his facade disintegrated. He wheeled, seeking a face, a lover, an acquaintance, anyone. A slim dark haired woman paused and peered sideways at Sandy. He lurched. She grinned and stepped back.

     "I know this woman," he shrieked, batting at the shopping cart she pushed, straining to make out the identification key which hung, with many others, around her neck. "Please," he implored the two officials who were clearly growing impatient, "I know her . . . we are . . . she was . . ."

     "Do you know this man?" The official who spoke had an air of cold authority.

     Lee smiled, "Never seen him before."

     The female officer winked once, nodded sternly and dismissed her with a curt gesture. Lee moved down the corridor, fingering her keys. There was a shrill cry of rage and recognition; Sandy was not behaving as the typical victim of such a crime. His emotion was raw, his terror palpable.

     Corridor security officials, Sheri and Bill, escorted their detainee along a narrow secondary hallway lit intermittently with sputtering bulbs. A cool breeze of dubious origin whispered in the hallway. Their footsteps echoed, collectively, and squeaked against worn tile.

     Sandy apologized. He pleaded. He threatened. Sheri raised her eyebrows. Bill nodded. They halted by a faded exit sign, whose florescent letters had peeled into oblivion. Only an orange X was now visible.

     Safely tucked away in her apartment, Lee settled down. Electrically warmed pillows molded to her contour, softer than a caress. She tilted back her head and studied the soft creamy triangle under her chin, reflected in the ceiling's dark mirror. She whispered a child's rhyme, "Mirror, mirror up above . . . . . Tell me, tell me the key to love."

     For a brief moment Lee's disposal unit chewed with a grinding ferocity. A set of keys had been effectively reduced to dust. The last vestige of Sandy had been removed.

     By the cold rusted door Sandy begged, chattered, screamed. Sheri's only comment was, "I think we'll save the Keynote some trouble, and some time."

     The door slammed before Sandy's distended mouth could form another plea. He was outside. He battered at the door, then ran along the frozen street. He tripped over chunks of ice. He slammed against doors which never gave. He twisted at knobs, pulled at latches; but everything was locked.

     Snow drifted through empty avenues, whistling between windowless towers, battering at metal shutters and whining. Gradually, Sandy realized that he was not alone. Wrapped in layers of shifting white ice, other men bent over concrete steps or lay on stoops. Women were frozen to keyholes, pinching bent bits of wire or the sharp ends of ice. A thousand blue dead people pried at locked doors.

     Some of the faces, Sandy thought, he knew. He had sold that man's identify key for seven bottles of the finest absinthe. He had bought a night of pleasure with another's keychain. Dark fragmented skeleton keys littered the cracked slabs of concrete. Frost heaves buckled the frozen outerscape.

     With renewed energy, Sandy hammered at a door. He pelted chunks of ice at blind panels that resembled windows. He shouted curses that found no access. He shouted until his stiffened face could no longer shout. He slumped against a door. He slept, dreaming that he shouted, screamed, and defied. But he was mistaken; it was the ceaseless voice of the wind which ranted and gnawed the edges of steel. It was the glacial wind which snow-blasted granite, and prodded at the seams between frame and door. It was the wind which wept and picked at twisted keyholes.

     Heedless of the prying wind, the city slept, its doors, windows, drawers, boxes, rooms, ears: locked. The city nuzzled its master key and slept a dreamless, deepening sleep, and was secure.

SFWoE Note:   SFWoE thanks Jonna Laster, the author of "KEYS," for allowing SFWoE to place her SFWoE 2007 Contest First Place Story on the SFWoE Website.

     Well, what's your opinion of Jonna's story? SFWoE invites you to send us your comments on "KEYS." Please keep your opinion relatively short and to the point, and we will place your remarks online.

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NEWSLETTER

           

     Just finished reading "Keys." I found the story intriguing and well written.

     Great job.

--- Angie Lofthouse   Elk Ridge, UT  USA

           

     Jonna, your story pulled me right in. Masterful writing! Tremendously satisfying to see Lee’s revenge and Sandy’s very fitting end.

     Keep up the good work.

--- Germaine Bleile   Calgary, Alberta  Canada

           

     Your well written story touches everyone. We have all lost keys.

     You have a gift. Keep writting.

--- Terence Hoft   Akron, OH  USA

           

     Jonna, your story reads well and Keith's artwork brings your story to life.

     Thank you so much for sharing your story with all of us.

--- Sally Mineford   New York, NY  USA

           

     Short and Sweet. You write well and to the point. I really enjoyed your story.

     Do us all a favor and keep writing.

--- Jack Walton   Fort Worth, TX  USA

           

     Thank you, Jonna, for your story "Keys." It is a story that after one reads it they want to read it again and tell their friends to read it.

     You are on the right track. Keep going!

--- Anna Mauser   Hamburg, Germany

           

     A real good read. I am so glad that I do not live in that place. I have lost my keys more than once!

     Keep up the good work.

--- Mary Lewis   Dallas, TX  USA

           

     The artwork for "Keys" is absolutely wonderful! Keith Demanche perfectly captured the visual texture of the story. His illustration is subtle, incorporating the old fashioned and futuristic fusion that underlies life in Colony 5. When I wrote "Keys" I very consciously embedded reflective surfaces as a way to explore a society that is at once narcissistic and fearful. It is a new experience for me to see an artist's illustration of one of my stories.

     Keith Demanche has indeed set the bar very high. Thank you Mr. Demanche.

--- Jonna Laster   Palmer, AK  USA