South Village (Ash McKenna) by Rob Hart

The chickens peck at the dirt around us. I introduce them: Diana, Leah, Consuela, Mum, Joule. Mathilda is off causing trouble somewhere.
    Last stop is the goat pen.
    “And that’s Dana Cameron,” I say, pointing to a young, fuzzy goat chewing on something. “She’s mostly a pet and helps to clear land, but we do sometimes get milk for the non-vegans.”
    Dana looks up and makes a goat noise, goes back to chewing.
    “The goat has a last name?” Zorg asks.
    “I didn’t name her.”
    “This place seems kind of old,” Zorg says. “But Zz... I heard it’s only been open for about a year.”
    “It was built back in the seventies. It used to be called Middle Earth. Apparently the founders had a thing for Tolkien. It fell off, and people have tried to reopen it a few times, but it never lasted long. Tibo is making the latest attempt. He actually had some capital to invest, so I figure he has a pretty good chance of hanging in for the long run.”
    “It seems nice.”
    “It is nice.”
    “But you’re leaving.”
    He blinks his lizard eyes at me. I’m not sure why or how he’s asking the question, so I choose to shrug at him. “Can you keep yourself occupied until Aesop gets back to the kitchen?”
    He nods so I leave him in the garden.
     
    T he purple curtain on the library dome is drawn across the entrance, so I peek in to make sure the nude book club isn’t meeting. I also briefly wonder if there are so many nude activities during the colder months, or if this is a summer thing.
    This is my favorite of the domes. There’s a level of reverence here that doesn’t exist in the other domes, which are crowded and haphazard and sometimes dirty. Here, everything is immaculate. There’s one continuous shelf that starts at the floor and wraps up, running along the inside wall in a spiral to the roof, where there’s a skylight that brings natural light trickling down onto the round carpet and four wingback chairs placed around an Oriental rug. Off in the corner is a cluttered desk, which is occupied by Magda, bare feet crossed, wearing a tan sundress and tan shawl and tan ceramic jewelry that clacks when she moves. She looks up at me and smiles.
    “Ash,” she says.
    “Magda.”
    She places a finger to mark her place and puts the book down in front of her. “Looking for anything particular?”
    “ The Monkey Wrench Gang .”
    She tilts her head. Curious.
    “Cannabelle recommended it.”
    As if on cue, Cannabelle comes through the curtain, wearing basketball shorts and a white t-shirt, her short hair wet and pushed back on her skull like a greaser.
    “Speak of the devil,” I tell her.
    “I wanted to come see if you got sorted,” she says.
    We both look at Magda, who’s frowning. “Sorry, I don’t think we have that one.”
    Cannabelle sweeps around the shelves, looking at the start of the spiral running along the floor, where the author’s name would be. “I could have sworn I just saw it…”
    “Maybe I should invest in an e-reader,” I tell them.
    “Do you know how much an e-reader costs the environment, in terms of plastic and manufacturing?” Magda asks. “Not to mention what they do to bookstores. Electronic books are putting booksellers out of business. It’s a tragedy. Don’t even joke about that.”
    Her voice is shaking a little by the end.
    “I was kidding,” I tell her. “Deep breath.”
    She shakes her head, crosses her arms.
    Cannabelle’s path comes around to Magda’s desk. She reaches down and pulls up a book poking out from underneath a pile of magazines. “It’s right here.”
    “Oh well…” Magda seems to stumble a little. “Someone must have returned it and it didn’t get shelved yet.”
    Cannabelle nods and holds it over her shoulder. I cross the carpet and pluck it out of her hand, stuff it into my pocket. “I’ll have it back soon.”
    Magda nods and I leave. Outside Cannabelle comes alongside me.
    “That was a little weird,” she says, her voice