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Use by Ken Poyner

There is a skeleton in the closet. It came with the house. I don’t think we paid extra for it.

We have the skeleton arranged so what space he takes up is equally spread against floor shoe space and hanger space.

The good thing is that it forces us to consider whether some shoes, sweaters, and shirts are beyond their service lives. When we toss out the suspect clothes, the closet skeleton leaves us with neither space gain nor loss, but less useless clothing to care for.

Did the former residents apply this wonderful skeleton as skillfully as we do?

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Ken Poyner

Ken’s nine collections of brief fiction and poetry can be found at most online booksellers. He spent thirty-three years in information system management, is married to a world-record-holding female powerlifter, and has a family that includes several rescue cats and betta fish. Individual works have appeared in Café Irreal, Analog, Danse Macabre, The Cincinnati Review, and several hundred other places.
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Jimtown Road by Dennis McFadden

“Freak Of Nature Brings Fear To Many Hearts Last Sunday”

“…and fear, in more or less degree, descended on the populace.” 

– Jeffersonian Democrat, September 28, 1950

Curly Smathers was not a little man, but the closer he got to home, the old farmstead carved into the forest north of Hartsgrove, Pennsylvania, the smaller he became. It was a week to the day after Black Sunday. Above his head, across the sky, a skein of geese pointed him homeward like an ancient arrow, Smathers following in an old Ford pickup, clattering over the rock-hard dirt of Jimtown Road.

Just ahead, where the road crested the hill, two girls turned to stare at the truck crawling toward them, pails a-droop from the clutch of their fists. The hilltop meadow, gold in the afternoon sun, commanded a sweeping view of the colorful crowns of the surrounding hills, where the woods blazed red and orange. At the crest, the two girls stood on the horizon, surrounded by blue sky, anchored by golden ground, halfway between heaven and earth, almost afloat. Smathers shivered at the grace of the vision. A squeal escaped the brakes as he pulled to a stop beside them, watching their stares go wide, their mouths falling open. Neither had ever seen a head so bald on a man so young, with eyes so bright and gay.

“Afternoon, ladies,” said Smathers, flashing his jagged jack o’ lantern smile. The older girl closed her mouth and nodded, the younger still showing the absence of her two front teeth. “Where you off to?”

“We’re going berrying, mister,” the taller girl said.

“Where bouts?”

“Grandpa says there’s a big patch just over yonder by the edge of the woods.”

“Oh,” Smathers said. “Them’s just blackberries—me, I’d sooner eat a nice fat bumbleberry any day.”

“Bumbleberry?” said the younger girl.

“Umm umm. Puts me in mind of sugar candy.”

“Mister,” the older girl said, “there ain’t no such a thing as a bumbleberry.”

“Why, there sure is,” Smathers said. “Lady by the name of Carrie May—she was my stepmama—she showed me a patch of ’em one day when I was just about your age.”

“What do they look like?”

“Bluer’n a blueberry—rasbier than a raspberry. Some of ’em’s bigger’n your nose.” The little girl’s eyes widened again. The older’s were full of doubt. “Who’s your granddaddy?” Smathers asked.

“Perry McCracken,” said the older girl.

“Heck, I know old Perry,” Smathers said. “That’s his place just down the road there a piece.” The little girl nodded. “Why, I went to school with his boy Luke.”

“That’s my pa!” the little girl lisped.

“Sure, me and Luke goes way back,” Smathers said. “What’s your names?”

“I’m Mary Lou,” the older one said, “and this here’s my sister Katie.”

“Nice to meet you, ladies.”

“What happened to all your hair, mister?” Katie asked.

“Katie!” said Mary Lou.

Smathers laughed. “My papa calls me Curly.”

“I’m sorry, mister,” Mary Lou said, blushing for her sister. “Katie don’t know her manners yet.”

“Well, you ladies take care now. I believe I’m gonna go pick me some bumbleberries.”

“I want to pick me some bumbleberries,” Katie said.

“No!” said Mary Lou. Then, to Smathers, “We’re gonna pick blackberries. Our Grandma’s gonna bake us up a pie.”

“Just as well,” said Smathers. “It’s a secret patch anyways. Carrie May made me cross my heart and hope to die I wouldn’t ever show it to nobody else.”

“He’s just teasing you, Katie,” Mary Lou said.

Smathers craned his neck to look up at the sky, an expanse so blue and clean he could not imagine it holding darkness. “Sure hope it stays light enough to pick ’em, though—heard tell it got mighty dark up hereabouts last Sunday.”

“It was like nighttime in the middle of the day!” Mary Lou said.

Smathers nodded. “Musta been a little scary.”

“Abner got scared!” Katie said. “He started in yipping and howling!”

“All the birds commenced their evening songs!” Mary Lou said.

“Pa thought the Russians dropped an automatic bomb!” Katie said.

“Atomic bomb,” Mary Lou said. “Grandma got scared too—she figured it was Judgement Day coming.”

“That’s what that piece in the paper said,” said Smathers. “I was setting in this here little diner in Paducah, Kentucky, last week when I seen this piece somebody was reading in the newspaper—said, they thought the world was coming to an end. Somebody’d drew a picture next to it, of where it got dark—looked like this long, black finger pointing me right back thisaway, right back toward home.”

Smathers lit up his jagged jack o’ lantern smile, and it grew. The sweet nostalgia of his homecoming filled him to the brim, and kept on filling, overflowing, spilling from his eyes. He was no longer small. How he grew, along with his smile. And still the filling went on. It was a moment so rare and euphoric that he’d experienced no other like it in his thirty years on earth; only once or twice had he come close. The whole sky filled him, all its vast and immaculate expanses, and he understood in some way beyond the reach of his knowledge the oneness of the universe and all that was in it, from the giddy heights of heaven to the two bewildered little girls before him.

At the bottom of the hollow, just past the plank bridge where the brook was the color of rust, Smathers Road forked off Jimtown Road, heading up the hill through the deep, cool shadows of the forest. On either side were banks knee-deep in lush fernery. At the top of the ridge, the road followed cleared pastures—Smathers wondered who farmed them now—to more woods, even thicker. These were the woods he knew, where he’d trekked for hours, gun in hand, bloody meat in his poke; these woods were virgin timber, dark and hilly, scattered with boulders like the marbles of God. They extended forever northward, becoming the great Allegheny Forest. Two miles up Smathers Road, the woods on the left thinned, then ended—more or less—where the first of the No Trespassing signs appeared, at the beginning of the old Smathers farm, eighty acres over four fields, now being reclaimed by the forest: young saplings and evergreens, thick undergrowth, a tide of browning ragweed speckled with Queen Ann’s Lace. Up the easy slope, the road dead-ended at the farm.

At the sight of it, the memory of Carrie May stirred in his mind like a flower in the morning sun; the memory of the old man quickly followed, and his stomach rolled. He stopped the pickup where the road ended and the crabgrass commenced, near the burnt-out ruin of the barn. He was small again, incredibly small, the vast universe shrunk to this old farmhouse, boards weathered raw, tin roof curling to rust. He stepped from the truck, running a hand over his gleaming scalp, taking in the dereliction of the place: A few apple trees in the remnants of the orchard, and an unkempt garden near the house—scraggly corn stalks, tomato plants—were all that remained of the fertile acres, while the ragweed pasture beyond the charred relic of the barn hadn’t been grazed upon in years. A scattering of scrawny chickens strutted and pecked. By the tilting outbuildings, a scramble of roses gone wild: Carrie May’s roses. The surrounding woods inched closer and closer, a pack of wolves circling in for the kill.

He remembered going into the hen house the first time alone as a youngster to fetch the eggs; when the rooster had squawked up a ruckus and come straight for his face, he’d panicked and run, his heart slapping like the wings of the bird. Carrie May had marched him right back in again to face him down, insisting he be meaner than the bird. He’d left home, maybe ten years later, a couple of years after Carrie May was gone. It occurred to him that maybe he hadn’t been leaving for the reason he told himself—to find Carrie May’s aunt—maybe he’d been running away again. He felt his pulse reaching out to the tips of his fingers.

The old man stood on the porch, leaning into his stare. “I’d recognize that head o’ hair anywheres!”

“Papa,” Smathers yelled, heading toward him. The old man came down the steps. A puppy scrambled down beside him, a brown, knee-high, yipping bundle of energy.

The old man sized him up. Big Vern was still bigger than his boy, who’d been Little Vern before he became Curly. The old man’s cheeks were sunken, as were his eyes, frosty as his boy’s were warm. His mustache might have dripped like dirty icicles from the ragged white thatch of his hair. Smathers was oddly comforted by the sight of his papa’s shotgun, Old Aimee, still dangling from the crook of his hand.

“Your face looks familiar,” the old man said, “but your feet has grown out of my knowledge.” Then, to the puppy, still yipping, leaping like a trout around Smathers, “Bonehead, shut the hell up.”

“Jesus!” Smathers said. “He’s pissing on me!”

The old man nodded. “Happy to see you. We don’t get much company.”

“This here’s a brand-new suit.”

The old man nodded again. Then he kicked the puppy hard, and the puppy yelped away across the yard. Smathers’s ribs throbbed at the sight, old bruises rolling over. “Mighty fancy suit of clothes,” said the old man, in his lusterless overalls.

Smathers shook his dampened leg. Neither man moved close to the other. “He your guard dog, is he?”

“Bonehead,” the old man muttered. “So you’re alive?”

“Alive and kicking,” said Smathers. The old man spat in the dirt and turned back toward the porch. Smathers said, “Damn dog’s happier to see me than you are.”

The old man turned. His mustache rustled, hinting smile. “Hell, c’mon up. I’ll be pleased to piss on your leg for you.”

Smathers had to grin as he started toward the porch. Because he glanced down for the first step, he never saw the old man’s backhand coming, a wallop so hard it knocked him backwards, where he sprawled in the rubble of the yard.

The old man stood on the top step. “That’s for running off. And never letting a body know whether you was dead or alive.”

“Damn, Papa,” said Smathers, rubbing where the gnarled knuckle had torn his cheek. He felt like giggling, so giddy was he in relief and delight. “You made me rip the ass right out of my pants.”

The old man nodded again, and Smathers thought he saw an actual smile this time. He was happy to see him. “Them fancy suits of clothes don’t wear too good up here in the country,” the old man said.

***

Smathers had worked up an appetite and his mouth was watering for fresh meat, not for the venison jerky and tinned beans begrudgingly offered by his papa. He set off with his old hunting rifle, a Marlin 30.06, down the easy slope of the wasted pasture, parallel to the road. He remembered sliding wild across the snow crust of this same field with Carrie May—he couldn’t have been more than four—wedged between her knees in a cardboard box, her shrieks of delight as they tipped near the treeline and rolled laughing in a spray of snow. Carrie May was a splash of color on a gray slab of memory.

She’d been Carrie May Wonderling until, orphaned by a car crash on Sugar Hill, she’d married Vernon Smathers, recently widowed when his wife bled to death giving birth to Little Vern. Carrie May’s age, halfway between that of Smathers and his father, made her an odd hybrid of sister and mother, daughter and wife. She was a small woman with large, capable hands, and a wide face full of eyes. When her eyes went big—in curiosity, concern, wonder, delight or any of a hundred other emotions that caused them to widen with every other blink—bright green irises floated free in pools of white.

When Smathers was ten, Carrie May’s aunt brought her to Paducah to see Aimee Semple McPherson and her Foursquare Gospel Evangelical Revival. Carrie May came home converted. Her eyes were never bigger as she described the experience to her Little Vern—the glory and the joy—how she actually felt the Lord entering her body and taking her soul in His warm, loving arms. Then she set about, as Smathers later suspected her aunt had intended, the conversion of the old man and the boy.

The boy was an easy mark. Having lived all his life at the mercy of the moods and whims of an almighty father, the leap from Papa-fearing to God-fearing was not all that great. He never knew when the wrath of the father might be visited upon him, when the cruel blows might rain down again—for a chore poorly done, for the look on his face, or for nothing but being in the middle of his sleep like a nightmare when the moonshine fumes hung heavy on the air. So he prayed with Carrie May because it pleased her, though he never knew for certain what became of the words once they left his lips, and nothing ever entered his body, that he could feel.

The conversion of Big Vern was less successful. From the first day Carrie May suggested he set aside his jug, the friction mounted. Little Vern sensed it for the most part, too young to see this cause or that effect, except for one: how much harder the old man now hit her. He’d never suspected him of pulling his punches before, when Carrie May, often as drunk as him, fought back, feisty and fearless, until afterwards, when she began turning the other cheek.

Then Carrie May was gone, simply swallowed up by the forest. Little Vern was thirteen, coming into manhood, and his papa thrashed him more viciously than ever, beating him for two, out of loneliness and rage, beating him for challenging his manhood by the mere claiming of his own, for pushing him headlong toward the grave. And almost overnight, not long after Carrie May was gone, Little Vern’s hair fell out. Within a week, he was bald as Old Aimee’s butt, and the wrath of the father was forever altered; it intensified, while becoming less physical. Having lost respect for him, he beat his boy less, cursed and derided him more, sneeringly calling him Curly, despising him for his perversion of the natural way of things, for his weakness, his softness and smoothness, for his seeming reversion to infancy—for challenging his manhood by the abandonment of his own.

Now Smathers was back, brought home by the long, black finger of God, to face down his demons. After her conversion, Carrie May told him she faced down her demons every day. She confessed to all her sins, past and present: drunkenness, waste, lust, wantonness—the latter two Little Vern had never suspected.

He remembered her chattering as she fried potatoes for breakfast in an iron skillet, his papa at the plain board table contemplating his cup and his jug, his overalls stinking of silage and muck. He remembered a prosperous farm, a hired hand, the legend of his great-grandpa Smathers clearing the land with an ax, a farmhouse trim and fresh. But his visions of the past and present farms were unconnected. They existed in separate times and worlds.

Smathers thanked God from whom all blessings flow as he spotted a doe and two fawns through the trees, grazing on the forest floor, tails working in nervous blinks. He crept into range, distracted by the breeze on his backside. Sighting down the barrel of his Marlin, the raw flesh of his wounded cheek was tender on the gunstock. Smathers squeezed the trigger, the doe dropping in a heap amid a shower of golden leaves before the report had finished echoing through the trees and off the boulders. He gutted her where she lay, then dragged her back through the woods. Emerging from the trees, the sun low in his face made it impossible to see beyond the moment, so he remembered Carrie May, unaware of the long shadow stretching out behind him, connecting him to the tree line, to the mountains beyond, to the very dawn of time.

They cooked venison steaks and roasting ears on an open fire Smathers built at twilight near the ruins of the barn. The old man butchered the doe, Smathers watching how he relished the wielding of the knife. After Smathers had rigged a spit to roast the meat and tucked the ears of corn into the red-hot coals of the fire, he and his papa munched on soft tomatoes and stunted apples. It had been a hungry day’s work. The old man never offered to share the jug from which he took his frequent pulls, so Smathers fetched himself water from the spring. Bonehead lay quiet and drooling, transfixed by the smell of the sizzling meat. After they’d eaten, Smathers foraged for dead wood to feed the fire as darkness spread over the farm, and they listened to the forest and fields come alive with the noises of the night.

“Where was you at last Sunday?” the old man asked.

“Illinois,” Smathers said, “eating beans.”

“Git dark up there? In the daytime, I mean?”

“Nope.”

“Got blacker’n the inside of a grizzly here, middle of the day. I ain’t lying. Got all dark and cold, but it wasn’t no dark like night, and it wasn’t no cold like winter. Some kind of a sign, I figured—wasn’t no good sign neither. I figured the Lord was fixing to call me on home. Why, I said hallelujah.”

“Read where some folks believed it was World War III commencing,” said Smathers.

The old man spat into the fire where it hissed. “Chickens all went to roost. Middle of the goddam day. Old Bonehead, he lays up there on the porch shivering in the corner like a coward. Quiet, too. Like a grave. I figured it was Dooms Day come. I was listening for the trumpets.”

“Hallelujah, Papa.”

“Chester Craven down at the store told me what it was was smoke. Forest fires up there in Canada. Wasn’t true. You couldn’t smell no smoke. I can smell a fire a mile away, and there wasn’t a goddam whiff of smoke.”

Clear on the air came the sound of baying hounds, from the far ridge, miles off, carried close and loud by the echo over the hollow. Below, fog had begun to float from the ragweed, low puddles of cloud forming down the pasture. Hearing the hounds, Bonehead looked up from the bone he was gnawing and began to howl.

“Newspaper said it was fires too, Papa. Must of been too high up to smell it.”

“That wasn’t no smoke, you little piss ant, you wasn’t even here. What it was was a sign.  Wasn’t no good sign neither.”

Smathers said nothing. Bonehead howled.

“Put me in mind of a bruise,” the old man said. “First it gets all yellow, sickly yellow, then it goes to purple before it gets black. Like the worst shiner you ever seen in your life.”

“You oughta be a expert on shiners.”

“Wasn’t just the sky, mind you. It was all around you. Almost like it was coming up out of the ground. Like you was setting here in the middle of a goddam bruise.”

“Like maybe the Lord give the whole world a licking?”

The old man stood to piss. Smathers saw a shooting star over his shoulder give a dazzling counterpoint to the puny, sputtering stream in the firelight. “Then you turn up.”

“Lord works in mysterious ways,” Smathers said. “Carrie May was always saying that.”

“Bonehead, shut the hell up,” the old man said to the howling puppy. But Bonehead howled on, at the far sound of the baying hounds across the hollow. “Half expected her. Figured maybe that’s what the sign was for.”

“She’ll maybe turn up yet.”

The old man took a pull from his jug. “She’ll turn up all right. Come Dooms Day, she’ll turn up.”

“And the earth shall pour forth its dead. Ain’t that in the Bible? Something like that?”

“You’d have to ask Carrie May.”

“Maybe she just up and run off. Like I done.”

“She never would of left less she was dead. She needed me to beat the devil out of her. You might not of thought so, boy, but we got along pretty good. Even cats and dogs get pretty sweet on one another once they been laying down together a while. We kept one another in line. She was a mean little jigger, she was.”

“So how’d she get dead, Papa?”

Bonehead never knew what hit him. The old man caught him in mid-howl with the butt of Old Aimee, and he ran yelping into the darkness toward the house. “Goddam puppies, never know when to shut the hell up,” the old man said. “For a long time, I blamed you.”

“Blamed me?” Smathers ran his hand over his smooth scalp.

The old man nodded, then drank from the jug again. “I figure she got herself mauled by a bear up in the woods. Musta been a sick bear, maybe hurt. Then for a while I was thinking, if you’d of been with her like you usually was, like you should of been, that bear never would of took the both of you. But then the more thought I give it, I figured you’re such a little piss ant anyways, he probably would of. Took the both of you.”

“So you forgive me then? I thank you kindly.”

They tried to pin it on him, the old man told him indignantly. He told him about the sheriff and his court papers and his bulldozer digging up half the farm, and Carrie May’s kin—the Wonderlings from over in Dagus Mines—trying to burn him out, and the retaliations by Old Aimee and himself.

Smathers heard the baying of the hounds across the hollow growing louder. God works in mysterious ways. The old man’s suspicions were contagious. It might have been a sign; after all, hadn’t it pointed him homeward?

“What brung you back?”

Smathers shrugged. “Ain’t had nobody to call Papa in a long time.”

The old man spat. “So you done a little time, did you?”

Smathers was impressed by his papa’s perception. “Done a little.”

“What for? Spitting on the goddam sidewalk?”

“For sticking a city slicker.”

“What’d you stick him with? A hat pin?” The old man tried to chuckle, a cracked sound, the joy all withered out of it.

The sound of the baying hounds across the hollow grew louder still. It was too loud to ignore, but Smathers said nothing about it, and neither did his papa.

The old man stood with Old Aimee and a wobble, then bent unsteadily to retrieve his jug. He started toward the house. “When you leave, leave quiet. Me and Bonehead needs our beauty rest.”

“So that’s my homecoming, is it, Papa?”

The old man turned and swayed. “Ain’t your home no more, boy.”

The fire popped and hissed, sending red embers dying toward the stars that speckled the black of the sky. Smathers made no connection between the dying embers and the old man, nor between the embers and the stars. He could only wonder at how so many points of light could try and fail to illuminate the night.

The hounds yowled on, an incessant mantra. From the porch, Bonehead soon took up the chorus, realizing the old man was safely inside.

Smathers lay on his back, awed by the first skyful of stars he’d seen in twelve and a half years. He drifted here and there on the pain and glory of the howling and the baying. Vividly in his mind, as much rumination as dream, Carrie May became Aimee Semple McPherson in a towering pulpit, arms outstretched like the wings of an angel, dazzling white robes flowing down like honey from heaven. Beneath the robes she was naked as the day she came into the world—naked as the day she departed. Naked as the woman he’d watched skinny-dipping in the moonlight. Her eyes of round delights shot lightning from above as the congregation cowered in awe, and trumpets sounded. She warned of damnation, fire, brimstone. Black smoke rose up all around her. She promised salvation, streets of heaven lined with gold. With the laying on of her hands, she could heal the sick, the infirm, the insane.

Could she also raise the dead?

Smathers had killed his mother claiming his own life. That knowledge had always fortified him, leaving him impervious to pain. From the porch, Bonehead’s howl was full of terror, terror at the message of the hounds, terror at the smell of the smoke, terror at his utter inability to associate the wrath of the gods with his own howling, yipping, unalterable behavior. Smathers stood by the dwindling fire, stretching. Growing. Dew was beginning to dampen his new suit of clothes, and a half moon had topped the horizon. A few yards away the pickup hulked like a dark creature. Smathers went and lifted the tarp in the bed, like peeling back the night. A righteous chill of goosebumps swept up his back toward the pure, clean skin of his skull, where the moonlight glinted like a halo.

He walked toward the house, ten feet tall. Picking up a rock from the rubble in the yard, he crushed the puppy’s skull. There was already blood from the doe on his pants, so a little more wouldn’t much matter.

He wondered if the old man would hear him. He figured not; he figured him to be too deaf to hear thunder by now if he hadn’t heard the ruckus of the hounds searching for the McCracken girls across the hollow. The Trumpets of Dooms Day would sound, and the old man would miss them as well.

Sure enough, he never stirred as Smathers came into his room, tiptoed over Old Aimee, and sat on the edge of the bare bed where the old man lay shrouded in burlap. Moonlight cast a pale glow. In the shadows at the foot of the bed, Smathers detected the old butter churn, wondering for an instant why it was there before the image came to his mind of Carrie May, sitting churning on the porch, glistening with sweat, smiling, eyes wide and dancing. When his papa opened his eyes, Smathers held the glistening knife in front of his face.

He wondered if the old man could hear. “This here’s the bone-handled knife I stuck that city slicker with, Papa. Same one.” Smathers lit up his jagged jack o’ lantern smile, bigger than the night. He wiped the blade of the knife on the burlap. “Dragging that doe up through the woods there kindly put me in mind of Carrie May. Yes sir, Papa. They say you always remember your first.”

Picture of Dennis McFadden

Dennis McFadden

Dennis McFadden, a retired project manager, lives and writes in a cedar-shingled cottage called Summerhill in the woods of upstate New York. His short story collection, "Jimtown Road," won the 2016 Press 53 Award for Short Fiction; another collection, "Lafferty, Looking for Love," is forthcoming from Cornerstone Press. His novel, "Old Grimes Is Dead," was selected by Kirkus Reviews as one of the Best Indie Books of 2022. His stories have appeared in dozens of publications, including The Missouri Review, New England Review, The Sewanee Review, The Massachusetts Review, and The Best American Mystery Stories.
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Sacrificium – Part Two by Andrea Modenos Ash

As we walk down the street to the park entrance, there is a barrage of activity. Several police officers are hurrying about, pushing homeless people into a van, and tossing makeshift tents and sacks into a garbage truck. I crane my neck to make sure none of the people being taken away are him.

One of the herded breaks away and rushes towards me. He is lithe, blonde, his eyes ice blue.

He whispers gruffly, “In the meadow. Near the Oaks. Past the lake.” And then he flees from the cops and sprints down into the park, disappearing. A messenger.

“These homeless are out of control!” my husband yells out. “Don’t go in there at all today. Walk on the sidewalk.”

“I’ll be okay,” I say, pushing away from him as he tries to kiss me goodbye. As soon as I enter the park, the eagle screeches above me. I follow it and head further in, where the messenger said: down past a tunnel, across an empty field, and off the beaten path.

Looking around, the crowds are gone—no joggers or bicyclists or Tai Chi. The world feels eerie. Before today, I would never have wandered to this part of the park alone. But am I really alone? I feel 10,000 eyes on me; hidden in the brush, behind trees, beneath the dirt. And then I spot him.

He is lying down on the wet ground beside a bench, an old tarp beneath him. His eyes are closed and he’s shivering. He looks gray.

I rush towards him, the wheels of my carriage struggling on the wet ground. I kneel down and touch his forehead.

“Leave him!” A harpy screech. A middle-aged woman, shoe polish dyed brown hair painfully pinned to the top of her head, dark painted eyebrows arching maniacally, and red lipstick smeared across the top of her lip and her yellow teeth. She glares at me. Her eyes are as crisp and blue as his.

“Leave him,” she snarls, rushing towards me. She is wearing a moldy old fur coat with large holes cut throughout. She probably found it in the trash of an upscale store, the slashes made so the poor can’t wear them. A tattered old silk scarf with the feathers of a peacock hand painted is wrapped around her blue-veined neck, its frayed turquoise edges floating in the wind.

Her feet are strapped into silver sandals with thick tube socks. They are wet and dirty. She smells as bad as him. She hovers near me, hissing. I pull away.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is he okay? He looks sick. Does he need help?”

But she isn’t listening to me. She circles the carriage, clutching at her throat, her eyes wild, staring at my baby, frantic.

“Fuck shit fuck shit fuck, you fucking shit,” she stutters, tearing at her head. “Is this one of his?” She shrieks and the baby wakes and cries, and then…she smiles.

“Oh, brown eyes!” She cackles, clapping her hands. “How dull.”

Her demeanor completely shifts from batshit to regal as she glides away from me and daintily sits on the bench next to him. She laughs again but then stops short, noticing something on the ground. She leans down and picks up a dirty cigarette butt. She fumbles in her shredded coat and finds an old pack of matches. She struggles to get one lit. Finally, she does and puffs the tarred stub until it comes to life. Crossing her legs, she chokes on the acrid smoke.

“Did you bring him an offering?” she asks, spitting smoke in my face.

“I did,” I say, and I rummage through the diaper bag. I hand her the little parcel.

“Who are you?” I ask. She snatches the sandwich.

“Me? Why I’m his…Sister!” she says laughing again.

An old woman appears next to her. A Crone, darkly wrinkled, mouth sunken, whisps of white hair beneath a woolen scarf sitting upon her head. An old dirty winter coat covers her thinly layered house coat, knee high stockings, and torn sneakers. Brambles and burs from the bushes and from sleeping on the ground adorn her. Her hands are gnarled, joints swollen.

“Have you seen my daughter?” she cries, grabbing at my lapels. She seems demented, but her eyes are as crisp and blue as his. I firmly push her off me.

“She was in the meadow, picking daffodils,” she says. “Have you seen her?” She points to the barren field full of mud and snow. She walks over to the carriage. I barely see her feet move as if gliding on air. She peers at the baby.

“Kori?” she whispers breathless. She reaches to touch her with her dirty hand, and I push the carriage away.

“Easy, Sister,” the woman with the fur coat says. “Here,” she hands her a piece of sandwich. The old woman sucks on it, savoring the flavor without her teeth.

The old man groans on the ground, unmoving.

“What happened to him?” I ask.

“He is waiting,” the Crone says, her mouth full of lamb.

“For what?”

“Where is your offering to the god who saved you, girl?” the woman in the fur coat cries, flicking the still-lit butt, and even though the ground is wet, it catches fire and burns steadily. The air has shifted, as if I’ve stepped into a dream. I feel uneasy but can’t pull myself away. I fumble through the diaper bag.

“I have this,” I say, and as soon as I pull out the flask of wine, a young man appears from the fog. He’s thin, no coat, sleeveless t shirt, his arms pock marked from addiction. Dark oily ringlets adorn his face, once-beautiful, now sunken and hollow. He’s wild-eyed, dirty clothed, the collar of his t-shirt cut down low, exposing his chest. He must not feel the cold. His dark curls bounce in sync with the movement of his body. He takes the flask from me, opens it and sniffs. His eyes close, and he weeps in recognition. He drinks.

“No!” the woman in the fur coat cries and snatches the flask. “This is for your father!” She pours it into the wet mud next to the sleeping old man. The young man writhes in a dance around him. The two women ululate, and the man on the ground wheezes as the color returns to him. He glows a golden hue. His ice-blue eyes snap open. He seems to float up, hovering off the ground.

“More!” he gasps, his hand out to me.

“More!” the dancing man says to me, pushing the flask in my chest.

“I don’t have any more. I’ll go to the liquor store!”

“No,” the old man says, unstable on his feet. The women help him sit on the bench.

“What do you need?” I ask.

“An offering, you stupid girl!” the woman in the fur coat hisses.

“An offering!” the young man says, writhing ecstatically around me.

“An offering!” the Crone cries, as if in pain.

“An offering,” a young woman calls, jumping from a high limb of a tree, landing flat footed on the muddy ground right beside me. She is sallow, wild-haired, a string of dead rats adorns her neck.

“An offering?” I whisper.

“TO BURN!” the old man cries, his iced blue eyes aglow. He grabs me. He is rough—his dirty fingernails scrape my hand. I’m breathless, aroused, and I feel like hot melting wax has been poured on my skin.

The young man blows a strange dust into the fire, and it explodes high, the wild smoke stinging my eyes and nostrils. I become woozy. The old man smiles, his eyes wicked, his teeth sharp, and horns seem to grow from his head. The young man dances wildly with the young woman.

“More!” they cry. “More!”

“I am the god that saved you!” the old man bellows. Thunder cracks and my mind splits inside my skull.

My eyes go dark. I hear the eagle screech, and I am back on the crag of the cliff. The bull saunters to me in slow motion, hot breath steaming from his nostrils. It licks the wounds on my breasts. I look down, and my daughter, now a young woman, waves up to me from a field of daffodils. Then the earth opens, and she is swallowed into the darkness.

I cry out to try and save her, and then I fall. Backwards, down, down, into an ancient dark labyrinth. I am chased by a naked man with a golden bull mask—he is hard, aroused. He grabs me. I pull the mask off and it’s my husband. I startle as he pushes me down to the dirt to lie on top of me, but when he tries to kiss me, he morphs into the old man. His sharp canines tear into the flesh of my neck as I am sucked into the mud beneath us. Swallowed up. Buried alive.

A hand pulls me out. It’s the young woman with the rats.

“Let’s hunt!” she says and hands me a spear.

We run wild through the mud. I feel free, like a wolf running with its pack, my nostrils full of blood scent, my skin tingling with excitement of the chase.

We run together, in synchronicity, through dirt and then hard ground. The snow comes down harder as we rush into a maze of stones and tall grass. Then she stops short and puts her fingers to her lips. I hunch down, silent, holding my spear to my side. She motions. I peer out.

A lioness is sleeping, lazing in the sun.

“She’s yours,” she whispers, her breath hot in my ear.

“An offering,” I whisper back. She nods.

Every sense of me is awakened, on fire. I silently stalk it and then pounce, tossing the spear, killing the screaming lion, then tearing at it with my hands until it stops moving. I hear screams and then…

Blackness.

And then we are standing at a massive marble altar, the lioness burning, its fur singing the air with acrid smoke that stings my eyes, my throat.

The old man stands before the altar and blows the smoke towards me, wafting it all over my body. He smudges me, cleansing me. The fur coat woman holds a golden chalice full of red wine to my lips. I drink.

It’s blood.

She smiles at me, the blood pouring from her mouth, staining her teeth and lips.

“You have been purified,” she says as they all surround me, howling. I spin around and around.

“I’m alive!” I scream. And they scream, and I spin until I fall, and then—

I open my eyes. I am lying in the mud. The old man is alive, grunting. The fur coat woman is bent over the park bench, and he’s thrusting into her. She stares at me and moans like a cow, then licks her dirty red lips, and laughs.

The old woman is holding my baby, cooing. The fire soars higher, it smells like burnt hair and meat. I jump up and grab the baby from the Crone.

“No!” she cries and tries to snatch her back, but I push her away, and when I do, I catch a glimpse of orange fur in the fire.

Oh god. Is that the bodega cat? Did I kill it? I’m confused, dizzy.

Then sirens scream, flashing lights. The old man and the rest scatter like roaches and disappear into the mist. The cops encircle the fire. They stop. They stare at me. I am alone, full of mud, clothes torn, scratched. My baby is crying.

“Miss? Are you alright? Miss?” a policeman asks. Their flashlights blind me as I hear the eagle scream above me. 

Picture of Andrea Modenos Ash

Andrea Modenos Ash

Andrea Modenos Ash is a hard-working, full-time accountant and mom by day, and a writer of all things strange by night. She has a degree in Classical Studies, and her love for the gods has continued through her writing. She lives in Long Island with her family and a menagerie of pets: two dogs, two guinea pigs, a hamster, a gecko, and a bunch of fish. Her dream is to be a full-time writer, organizing and reconciling words instead of numbers.
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The Movers – Part One by Zack Zagranis

“Move, for Christ’s sake!”

Jeremy Collins knew yelling at the cars wouldn’t make them move faster, but he found it cathartic. He sighed and glanced at his phone. It was 7:05, which meant he was already late.

“Goddamn it!”

Jeremy sighed again and started drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He hated sitting still. Moments when life seemed to stand still, like now sitting in traffic, drove him crazy. The desire to move forward gnawed at him. He fiddled with his rearview mirror just to give his hands something to do.

What a great way to start the day!

***

By the time Jeremy got to school, his first class had already started.

He powerwalked down the hall to his classroom, stopping briefly to tuck in his shirt before entering the room.

“Mr. Collins! How thoughtful of you to join us!”

He grimaced. Franklin Price had taught at the school since Jeremy was a student there—possibly since Jeremy’s father was a student there. It was hard to pinpoint just exactly how old Frank was. He looked like he could be sixty-five or eighty-five. After fifty, it all looked the same to Jeremy.

“Hey, Frank, sorry I’m late. The traffic was—”

“Mr. Price in front of the students, if you don’t mind.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes but corrected himself, nonetheless.

“Excuse me, Mr. Price, sorry I’m late. Traffic was a nightmare, and I—”

“Yes, well, that is why one should endeavor to leave for work a few minutes early every morning just in case one should run into any unforeseen circumstances.”

The students sat quietly, watching both men like hawks. They were still at an age where watching two adults argue in public was a novelty.

“Of course,” Jeremy said through gritted teeth, “I’m so lucky to have a seasoned veteran like yourself around to dispense such sage advice.”

“You certainly are,” said Mr. Price, matching his tone. “Anyhow, you’re here now, so I shall take my leave. I already took attendance.”

“Thank you,” Jeremy said, putting his backpack on the floor beside his desk.

“My pleasure,” said Mr. Price as he walked out of the classroom.

As soon as Frank left, Jeremy made a silly face and a rude gesture in the direction of the door, prompting laughter from his students.

“All right,” he said, addressing the class, “where did we leave off yesterday?”

“Um…I think we started talking about those things that can’t be true one way but can’t be true the other way either…” said a boy in the front row.

“Parallaxes!” shouted the girl in the seat behind him.

“ParaDOXES,” Jeremy corrected her. “We started discussing paradoxes. I remember now.”

“Can we do the one where the cat is dead but alive at the same time?” asked one of the students.

“Schrodinger’s Cat,” Jeremy said with a smile. “That’s a good one, but no. Today I’m teaching you about my favorite paradox.”

He walked to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk.

“Has anyone here ever heard of the arrow paradox?” he asked the class. He finished writing on the board and clapped the chalk dust from his hands before facing his students.

“Anyone?”

No one raised a hand.

“Ok, well, here it is in a nutshell. Motion is not real.”

“Movement,” continued Jeremy, “is an illusion, at least according to Greek philosopher…” He pointed to the blackboard where he had written the word Zeno.

“Ok, but like, I’m moving right now?” said a student in the back of the class. The teen waved his arms around frantically, prompting laughter from everyone, including his teacher.

“Of course you are. All of us are constantly moving. That’s what makes it a paradox. Jeremy chuckled. “Zeno came up with a thought experiment that, when spelled out, makes it seem like nothing ever moves. But since we know things move constantly, it’s a contradiction.”

He could see by all the blank faces that no one was getting it.

“Ok, before anyone blows a logic circuit trying to figure out what I’m talking about, let me explain. An arrow is flying through the air towards a target—”

A student’s hand shot up.

“Yes, Rebecca?”

“Who shot the arrow?”

“Doesn’t matter. Your mom shot it. How about that?”

The whole class chuckled.

“So an arrow is flying through the air. Let’s say you take a picture of it while it’s flying. In the picture, the arrow isn’t moving, correct?”

Most of the class nodded.

“Ok, good. For the sake of argument, let’s say you whipped out your phone and took a bajillion photos of the arrow during its journey. If you can break down an arrow’s flight—from the bow to the target—into an infinite number of still images, that proves the arrow’s movement is an illusion, right?”

The class uttered a collective “Huh?”

“Here’s another way to think of it. If a car—”

The bell rang and cut Jeremy off.

“I’ll explain it better tomorrow, I promise!”

***

The rest of Jeremy’s day chugged forward slowly, without interruption, until the last bell. After work, he went straight home. He graded some papers, ate dinner, took an edible, scrolled through TikTok for a while, and passed out.

***

Jeremy woke up with the vague feeling something wasn’t right. The back of his neck felt prickly like someone was staring at him. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. The hair on his arms crackled with static electricity like someone had rubbed them with a balloon. He couldn’t shake off the feeling something was lurking in his apartment. Just out of sight, but there, nonetheless.

Jeremy threw off his comforter and sat up in time to see what looked like a hand disappear under the bed. A thick blanket of morning fog covered his brain, giving his thoughts a hazy quality. He blamed what he saw on some forgotten dream lingering in his subconscious and headed for the bathroom.

His bladder felt like it was going to burst. Distracted by the need to pee, he didn’t notice the other pair of hands helping him raise the toilet lid.

He stared at the wall and hummed as he relieved himself. When he finished, he flushed the toilet and turned on the faucet to wash his hands. A tiny creature stood in the sink, pulling strands of translucent thread from the tap. It took Jeremy a second to realize those threads were water. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The tiny thing shimmered in and out of existence like it only had one foot in the third dimension. His eyes tried to focus, but the creature continued to slip from his vision. Jeremy felt a migraine forming behind his eyes. The pain worsened the longer he stared at the thing in the sink until it ached so bad he had to look away.

He had better luck with his peripheral vision, but it was like looking at the color magenta—his brain couldn’t process what it was seeing, so it made something up. Jeremy watched out of the corner of his eye as the tiny goblin continued pulling the stop-motion water from the faucet. He would never know what the creature really looked like.

He turned off the faucet, and the creature stopped what it was doing and scurried down the drain. Jeremy stepped back and looked in the mirror.

“Am I going insane?” he asked, his reflection.

He wondered briefly if the organism could have been a hallucination from the edible he’d taken the night before but quickly dismissed the thought. He’d been smoking pot on and off since he was fifteen, and it had never caused him to see anything like that.

Maybe I’m still asleep?

He knew he wasn’t, but he was running out of explanations for what he saw. He decided to make some coffee, hoping the caffeine would help him think more clearly.

Jeremy went to the kitchen sink to fill his Keurig but couldn’t bring himself to turn on the water. He grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge instead. He chugged half the can and paused to burp before drinking the rest. He went to toss the empty can in the recycling, but something grabbed it as soon as he let go. A tentacle-like appendage carried the can through the air and placed it in the bin.

A wave of dizziness washed over him. He struggled to remain upright as the tentacle’s owner stood beside the recycling bin, pulsating grotesquely in and out of focus. The creature was somehow every color imaginable, yet no color Jeremy had ever seen.

He sat down at the kitchen table until the dizziness passed. His eyes wandered over to the beast standing next to the recycling. Its whole body seemed to beat like a heart flickering on and off like a faulty Christmas light. Every time Jeremy thought he had an idea what he was looking at, the creature became slippery and hard to make out.

He picked up a drinking glass from the table and attempted to drop it on the kitchen floor. As soon as he let go, the recycling bin monster waddled over and plucked the cup from his fingertips. The beast lowered the glass to the floor, where hundreds of tiny imps suddenly appeared to break it into shards. The inch-high creatures scattered the jagged pieces around the floor as if the glassware had shattered organically.

The whole thing happened so fast that Jeremy could barely follow what was going on. He got up and walked carefully around the broken glass to the cabinet above the sink, where he kept his cups and plates.

He took out a coffee mug and raised it above his head. The creatures—big and small—stood there throbbing but otherwise entirely still. He let go of the cup, and the same tentacle snatched it out of the air. Once again, it guided the cup to the floor, where the imps waited. They had the mug broken and scattered around the floor in less than a second.

“What the hell is going on? WHAT ARE YOU???” Jeremy screamed at the group of strange life forms skulking around his kitchen.

The larger beast turned what his brain registered as an eyeball in his direction but didn’t make a sound.

He backed slowly out of the kitchen and into the living room, where he collapsed onto the couch and closed his eyes.

***

What could those things be? Jeremy wondered. A man of science, he immediately ruled out anything supernatural, like demons or ghosts.

They have to be interdimensional. Jeremy reasoned. That would explain why I can’t see them very well. They must exist at a frequency beyond what humans can comfortably observe.

That still didn’t answer the biggest question: what were they doing in his apartment?

A nagging voice picked at the back of his skull the way a vulture picks at roadkill: What if it’s not just your apartment?

Jeremy jumped off the couch and sprinted toward the front door. He stopped when he realized he wasn’t wearing pants and ran to his bedroom instead. He went to his dresser and threw open the drawers, looking for something to wear. A freakish squid-like being leaned against the side of the dresser, helping Jeremy open each drawer. It had several limbs, some ending in claws, others in gaping orifices that secreted a viscous fluid of unknown origin. A couple of appendages even ended in fleshy nubs that resembled fingers that hadn’t developed properly in the womb.

A grotesque curiosity overtook Jeremy, and he reached out to touch one of the creature’s limbs. His fingertips screamed as the nerves in his hand shorted out. The squid thing felt hot to the touch but also cold at the same time. The creature’s skin, for lack of a better word, crackled with electricity.

The being recoiled from Jeremy’s touch and howled in a pitch not meant for human ears. Jeremy’s nose began to bleed, and his eyes bulged painfully in his head. He collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony until the creature stopped.

He slowly got up, keeping his still-aching eyes on the squid creature. It dipped in and out of reality like the others, contributing to his migraine. He grabbed some clothes, taking extra care not to touch any part of the squid-thing, and went to the bathroom to change. He sniffed at his armpits and made a face in the mirror. Blood was still trickling from his nose, and he looked haggard.

I could use a shower.

An image of the creature pulling the water out of his faucet popped into his head, and he shuddered.

Maybe just some deodorant, then.

He rubbed on some Old Spice and called it good enough. He threw on his clothes and left the apartment.

***

Jeremy stepped out his front door and into an eldritch hellscape. A school bus moved down the street carried on the back of a giant millipede. The gargantuan insect’s countless legs skittered across the asphalt, clacking like an old typewriter. It left behind a trail of putrefied jelly as it went.

A mutant the size of a gorilla pushed a child on a bicycle. It had a deformed paw on the child’s back, guiding the bike forward. Bones poked through the soft tissue on its feet, scraping the concrete as it walked. He winced at the sound it made—like teeth grinding.

Something soared above him, carrying a pigeon. The airborne terror gripped the pigeon tightly, flapping the bird’s wings like a toy. The flyer looked like something from the lowest circle of hell. Looking at it made Jeremy’s teeth itch.

Across the street, a slug with four arms was posing a mail carrier as if she were a Barbie Doll. Another creature—this one an indescribable jumble of tooth, nail, and fur—was doing the same thing with a jogger. The two women met, and the creatures pushed and pulled them into the correct stance to converse. The whole scene resembled a twisted children’s fantasy come to life. It reminded him of how he used to pose his GI Joes as a kid.

“Excuse me!” he shouted at the mail carrier.

The slug creature turned the mail carrier’s face toward him while the toothy furball did the same with the jogger.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Jeremy said as he ran across the street toward them.

“Can I help you with something?” The slug moved the mail carrier’s jaw up and down like a ventriloquist dummy.

“Just had a quick question.” He was unsure whether to look at the mail carrier or her disgusting puppeteer.

“I was just wondering, er, have you seen anything weird today?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how stupid he sounded.

“Weird, how?”

“Well,” said Jeremy hesitantly. “Like weird creatures, or—”

“Um, we were having a conversation, buddy,” interrupted the jogger puppet. “You’re being incredibly rude right now.”

“Uh…”

He suddenly felt uneasy talking to what were essentially two life-size marionettes.

“Do puppets know they’re puppets?” he mumbled to himself.

“What?” asked the jogger. The creature controlling her had placed the jogger’s hand on her hip to punctuate how annoyed she was.

“Er…nothing. Sorry to bother you.”

He turned away from the two women and started walking. Everywhere he looked, repulsive horrors of all shapes and sizes were moving humans around like pieces on a chessboard. Jeremy’s brain glitched trying to process everything, and he bumped into a woman carrying groceries.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

A creature that was nothing more than a giant mouth wrapped a fleshy, mucous-covered tongue around the woman’s arm and moved it to get a better grip on her grocery bag. The tongue slithered up the woman’s arm all the way to her face and pushed down her brow in a look of disapproval. He groaned and backed away.

He was in such a hurry to escape the woman—and the gaping maw behind her—that he didn’t see the stray cat crossing in front of him until he tripped over it. A footlong cuttlefish opened the cat’s mouth so the poor animal could cry out in pain. Jeremy struggled to regain his footing and stepped directly on one of the tentacles dangling from the cuttlefish’s face.

The creature howled in the same demon pitch from earlier. Jeremy covered his ears with his hands, but it did no good. The sound vibrated in his bones and shook the fillings in his teeth. More creatures joined in, creating a cursed symphony that grabbed him by the stomach and squeezed violently.

Bile crawled up his esophagus and scorched his throat. Blood ran from his nose and ears, and his eyes felt tight enough to pop. The screeching droned on, driving Jeremy toward complete and utter madness. He bashed his head against the concrete sidewalk in a desperate attempt to get it to stop.

The monsters eased their discordant symphony before he managed to do any permanent damage to his skull. Shallow breaths escaped his lungs as he lay on the sidewalk and stared up at the sky. The air high above him seemed to ripple and slither like a snake. He imagined a great cosmic wurm, Leviathan herself, wrapped around the Earth, slowly spinning it and dragging it around the sun. Maniacal laughter erupted from his diaphragm and didn’t stop until the paramedics came.

Picture of Zack Zagranis

Zack Zagranis

Zack Zagranis is punk rock Jedi slumming it in New Hampshire. His short horror stories have appeared in anthologies from Creature Publishing, Black Hare Press, and Sinister Smile Press. Occasionally, people pay him to string words together haphazardly. Zack is a husband, father, geek, misanthrope, feminist, and caffeine addict—not necessarily in that order. A mentally ill college dropout, Zack started writing later in life following a string of dead-end jobs, mainly convenience stores and fast food joints. You can find him on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and on his couch, scrolling through his phone instead of working.
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They Land by Sierra Silver

This plague that stole her voice will decimate the planet’s population. Silent anguish vibrates through her. Tears fall, clouding her premonitions.

The invasion will start so benignly. Just a handful of them at a time. They’ll seem friendly, helpful. A show of faith. Offerings of agricultural technologies, processes. Enhanced medical technology—physiology too different for their medicines.

That alone will stymie them, slow them. But not stop them. They’ll turn to the food, the water. Slower but just as effective.

Blinking, back in the present, she watches the humans’ ship land. Her visions had lied.

They’d poisoned the water first.

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Sierra Silver

Sierra Silver is an author of dark fiction, weaving tales that delve into the depths of human nature. Ranging from horror to dark romance, her works can be found in several anthologies.
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Unearthed Love by Gabrielle Sawdo

My knees hit the ground, and I wept once more. My hands pulled at the grass atop Declan’s grave. Dirt caked beneath my fingertips as I plunged my fingers into the earth and clawed away at it. I could not see what I looked like or what sounds left my parted lips, though I’d wager it frightened anyone who dared walk that night alone.

***

There are no more soft breaths from his side of the bed. No matter how far I stretched my hand upon the opposite side there was nothing. Just the cold empty sheets, and a hollow divot where he once lay. My pillow hadn’t dried from the tears before. I forced my husk of a body to sit, and I sobbed. I grieved for an unknown amount of time.

I pressed my hands together and prayed he was safe in heaven. I prayed that God had been more merciful to him than he had been to me. I prayed and prayed until there was nothing more I could say. And the room descended into silence once again.

The windows are kept covered. I cannot bear the sight of the graveyard beyond. Life continues out there, except for my beloved Declan. The only rest he knows now is below the crushing weight of dirt, where he will decay. And I am stuck here in an empty bed.

“Come to the window,” a voice whispered in my ear.

My hands shook. I pulled the quilted sheet away and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. As if some infernal being possessed me I dragged my feet to the curtains. The metal rings scratched and caused an abhorrent scraping sound. Moonlight poured in and shone down upon the grave of my dear late husband.

“It’s a wretched thing you’ve done to leave me here,” I said. A pang of guilt surged through me. I clutched at my chest. How barren, how vacant it had become without him. A shiver prickled my skin, and I moved my hand back to the glass. It was warm to the touch, and the hum of cicadas was just audible.

“Isabel,” the voice of my departed Declan said.

I turned back to the room as my name was whispered. There was a noise beyond the ringing in my ears. My heart raced. Taking a deep breath, I mustered what little courage I had and called out to the sound.

Again, there was a whisper.

“My love, Isabel.”

My trembling hands pulled out the cross I wore, gripping it so tight I was certain the delicate thing would snap. I muttered a prayer, hoping whatever vile demon was trying to trick me would leave.

“Come to me,” he repeated. “Let us be together again.”

There in my stomach, I felt the flutter of hope. Maybe my prayers had been answered. I could see Declan once more. His voice grew softer and further away. I moved through the empty house, forfeiting shoes or a coat. Even the front door to the house, I did not bother to shut.

The night was warm and damp. Humidity filled my lungs as I panted and struggled to run into the graveyard. The only time the ground was not slick with midnight dew, it was coarse and uneven from the raised roots of ancient oak trees. How I managed to make it to his grave without falling I cannot say.

But there it was. There he was, below my feet. I challenged my brain to recite a verse of the holy book that brought me comfort. The cicada sang their song as they waited but I could not recall. Not one line, not a single verse could fill the part of me taken in his passing. The only thing that filled my mind were questions. Why was he gone? How could God have been so cruel? There was no answer.

***

The sun crept its way into the window, blinding my eyes. I tucked my face away into the chest of my Declan. I ignored the acrid scent that permeated his body and instead focused on the earthen smell from which I had brought him back. I did weep once more but in joy.

Finally, we were reunited.

Picture of Gabrielle Sawdo

Gabrielle Sawdo

Gabrielle Sawdo, better known as Bee, is a 23-year-old student at Full Sail University in Florida. They are currently working on their BA in creative writing, intending to pursue a master's in something film related. Most of their work leans into a darker side of any given genre but loves fantasy the best. When they’re not coming up with a new story idea they’re spending time with their fat, black, contented house cat named Binx or enjoying time with their family.
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Truly Dead by Linda Saprks

I am so tired of waiting.

It seems like I’ve been pinned to this cold slab for a very long time. When I first arrived here, I tried to keep track of the days and nights, but it was impossible. I used to mark time by the movement of the sun, or the hour displayed on my watch, but now I have no point of reference.

It is maddening.

When I first awakened, I felt confused, disoriented, and totally repelled by an awful stench. It took me a while to realize I was the source of the noxious odor. I reeked of rot.

My body was disintegrating, its molecules morphing into a full-fledged physical act of kamikaze destruction, yet I was powerless to halt it or to even slow this activity. I had not chosen this mortifying putrefaction process. In fact, I had always prided myself on following excellent hygiene practices.

When I first became aware, I felt claustrophobic, jammed into this dark place that was airless and reeked of previous occupants. It certainly was not a five-star accommodation, but then, I had not even made a reservation to occupy this space.

My mind was fogged a bit, and I tried to be sensible and think back to exactly how I had managed to find myself here alone and, obviously, forgotten. It did not make sense. I reached through the spiderwebs tangling my thoughts and tried to sweep them away so I could clarify my contemplations. It seemed I would start to ask a question and then find myself drifting off, and later, although I cannot say for certain if it was minutes or hours or even days later, I sparked a continuation of that thought. There were several important questions burning in my brain. If only I could keep my mind alert long enough to focus upon those questions and then I might possibly find answers to my queries.

The odd thing was that I could not feel my body. I wondered if it was because I was currently being housed in a limited and narrow space. Then I tried to open my eyes. It felt like a flash of cognitive brilliance that I had not considered this sooner. Maybe I believed I was in total darkness because I had not opened my eyes.

I focused on trying to open my eyelids as I attempted to use the power of my determination and my thoughts. Such a simple thing to open or close the eyelids, yet I could not feel any change. In fact, I could not actually feel my eyelids or my orbits/eyeballs at all. It was very strange.

The blackness took me again for a while. When I was cognizant once again, I tried to remember what I had been doing and why it had seemed to be a crucial objective. If only I could see just a little bit of light.

Had I gone blind? Why was I lying here in the abyss, seemingly unable to move, and weaving in and out of time?

Time? I thought about that odd demarcation and how time had once seemed so important, but now meant absolutely nothing to me.

Once again, I struggled to open my eyelids, but with the greatest frustration, I determined I had absolutely no control over them. For all I knew, I was staring into the darkness with my eyes completely open and yet I was unable to tell if this were true or not.

Vaguely, I thought of unborn children sequestered in the womb. I knew they could hear sounds and their mother’s voice but I did not know if they could see. After all, they were surrounded by darkness and the cavern of the uterus which cocooned them against harm and provided a cozy home for babies in waiting, growing like a wildfire in a forest, devouring all that was provided through the maternal placenta.

Why was I allowing my thoughts to meander back to the beginning? Yet, I did know babies demonstrated open eyes on ultrasonic photographs that were stashed in an album awaiting the arrival of the newborn. Did I have children? It seemed important to know the answer to that question.

Was it possible that I was an unborn child awaiting my birth and my expulsion from this darkness into the light, and I’d be forced into the grim reality of having to suck oxygen into my lungs to continue my viability?

I paused on that thought. It was fleeting and hovering like a winged fairy of the old tales. Then I lost it.

It did not seem possible because I was quite certain fetuses moved in the womb, and yet I was unable to stir a muscle or even lift an eyelid.

Anger should be my usual response, but I could not invoke it. It was far too exhausting.

What of this breathing thing? I could not feel my chest rise and fall. I could not even move my tongue to taste the precious flavor of oxygen. That thought was ominous, and I shut it down.

When I was aware again, gently, I decided to try to move my head. I focused my thoughts upon that with all the power within me. I could not move even a fraction, and the effort wiped me out and the blackness swallowed me once again.

Why did I continue to futilely struggle against this imprisonment, this paralysis, this stifling and odious attempt to regain power? I knew it was important and I had to keep trying. I had to know why I was here and if there was some avenue of escape. I could not spend eternity in this darkness, in this reeking chamber of foul odors that intensified each time I became aware again.

And how was it that I could smell at all? Or was this but a freakish tendril of my imagination?

The times between expanded into lengthier intervals. Even though I no longer had any access to measurement of time, I just felt it was true.

If I were a fetus in the womb, then certainly I would hear my mother’s heartbeat, and I would also be able to kick her bladder and force her to wet herself. At this thought, I imagined a smile upon my face as I touched this memory, even though I did not know or understand its origin.

The only sounds I could hear were muffled and appeared to be far away. There were no words spoken, only the sounds of movement, and as I began to listen more attentively, I occasionally captured the sound of laughter. There had to be humans nearby. Why didn’t they see or hear me? Yet I could not make a sound to signal them. Certainly, if they knew I was in this dark place, they would try to assist me.

A thunderous crashing sound awakened me. Had I been sleeping? Why did I require sleep and not food or drink?

I tried to identify the sound. It was like a door being opened and something being pulled out as though it was on rollers, like a turkey being pulled from the oven to be basted. It was an odd thought. I remembered that I did not like to eat turkey, but I loved the smell of the bird roasting in the oven and warming the house with a sense of happiness and family.

Family? I was being threaded back to that idea of mother again and children. This was a very strange dream. I had not considered it earlier, but it must be true that I was dreaming. Undoubtedly, it was a nightmare (with the exception of the roast turkey idea), and I would awaken soon, though I had to recognize this was more of a sleep paralysis as I could not move.

Aliens. I had been abducted by aliens and they were keeping me in a compartment and taking me out to poke and prod me at their leisure. It seemed to be the simplest conclusion.

I really needed a bath. My odor was overwhelming and foul. If I had eaten, I might well be in danger of vomiting. Would someone come and clean the mess? Or would I be left to wallow in the pigsty of my own emesis?

Those voices. People talking, followed by a god-awful howl, followed by horrendous weeping. If I were able to move, I would have shivered or cringed or tried to creep into a corner far, far away from that terrible sorrow.

I wanted to blank out, to escape from this tragedy, even though I did not know its cause, but I remained aware.

“My son,” a woman sobbed.

My body should be shivering. It was damn cold in here, but the emotional onslaught of her voice nearly shattered me. I could not escape it. The blackness refused to come.

“Thank you. You are a strong woman,” a male voice responded, and then their voices were muffled as he seemed to lead her away, and, at last, I had the peace of silence and oblivion.

When I was aware again, I remembered the words spoken and their voices and, despite the sadness I had experienced, I also felt relieved I had heard human voices, and I had understood the words. I had missed an opportunity to make myself known. Why hadn’t I shouted? Why hadn’t I let them know I was here waiting? Didn’t I deserve caring and also tears? Could it be possible I was someone’s son?

I shimmered in and out of cognizance and always tried my best to hang on to something solid so I could build on that awareness with each awakening. Where did I go when the darkness swallowed me? Did I truly slumber, or did my mind leave this place entirely. If so, I was unaware of its journey.

After a while, I forgot to think about the smells, and it was a relief. I had often been cursed with hypersomnia and smelled odors more acutely than others did. That ability seemed to be easing up a bit. Still, I could not imagine why someone had not come to bathe me.

Was I in a state of suspended animation or cryostasis? Or a medically induced coma so I would be able to heal without the trauma of feeling excruciating pain? I fumbled for ideas and possibilities and came up lacking.

I was just rising from a rather protracted and lengthy period of unconsciousness, when I heard the voices closer now. It was two males discussing something and there was obvious aggravation or irritation in the voice of the one male. I felt as though I was eavesdropping on a secret assignation, and it was entirely possible I would not wish to hear what they were discussing. I had no options. I could not move. I could not run. I could not even open my damn eyelids—although now they felt different, as though they were thinning or crumbling, and I did not understand how that could be possible. I had certainly not overworked them, even though I had tried my best to cause them to function appropriately.

“I’ve encountered lots of trashy behavior in my career, but this one really rises to the top for selfishness,” a male voice said, in between causing loud sounds as he opened and closed doors or drawers. I still could not determine which it was.

“They don’t teach you this. It’s learning as you go. You have to try to understand human nature and it really can reveal the ugliness of human beings during these times,” another male stated.

“I know. You’ve been at this for a lifetime. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you always treat everyone with respect, even when they are behaving like beasts.”

Sharp laughter erupted and I wanted to put my hands to my ears to shut it out, as I found the sound to be abrasive, but then I remembered I could not move my hands. Did I even have hands. I also could not feel them.

“I just try to treat everyone the way I would want to be treated in a similar situation. It’s just common sense and a bit of biting the tongue. Even when there is obvious ignorance, and even downright hatred being spewed, I maintain my calm. I am the captain of this ship and here to guide them through these events and this process.”

Laughter again, although this time it was a bit less abrasive.

I tried to determine exactly why I was feeling so befouled and dirtied by this conversation which I was already finding it rather difficult to understand. Words did not flow easily in my mind anymore, as though I was losing context and comprehension, and that I might never fully recover the ability to understand.

“Okay, Charles. What irritates you the most about this situation?”

Charles. I now had a name. Or at least I had to believe it was the name of a human. I tried to consider whether I had known anyone who had named their dog or cat Charles, and I could not come up with an answer. I did not understand why names were even important. Like time, names had been sucked down a rathole and I really didn’t care at all what happened to them.

“They’re filthy rich.”

More laughter. I could not understand the reason for the laughter and why being rich was funny, or was it just the filthy part that was humorous?

“They can’t take it with them. That’s what they all seem to forget. You might be buried with your favorite motorcycle but that takes a huge amount of money and special approval and there’s a trail of people pissed off because they didn’t get to keep that motorcycle or, at the very least, sell it and go on a Caribbean cruise with the money.”

There was silence and it sounded like the rattle of a bag of potato chips. I remember that sound, as I loved snacking on potato chips. Yet here I was, a listener, and no one was about to offer me chips or even a sip of water. Too late, I wondered at the possibility I was in the famed and dreaded place called Hell.

Their words were starting to run together, and I was concerned I might go dark again and not understand where this conversation was going. It seemed crucial. If I had hair on my head or the nape of my neck, those hairs would now be rising in warning, but I had absolutely no idea whether I was bald or wearing a full mop of hair.

“Yah. I read in the paper there was a big court battle over finances. Besides insurance, there is allegedly a massive fortune stashed away in several banks. They couldn’t wait to get multiple copies of the death certificate.”

“Yes. I had a copy of a death certificate when my grandmother died. I paid for the extra copy because I wanted to see the cause of death and whether or not I should try to sue the hospital and physicians for malpractice.”

“Ah. So, you’re one of those ambulance chasers?” More laughter erupted and it truly was grating on my nerves.

“No. Just needed to be sure. I actually cared about my grandmother. She was a sweet old lady and died under rather mysterious circumstances.”

“Well, we all know about those death certs. One guy pronounces death but doesn’t actually have a clue to the cause of expiration.”

There was a low-grade mumbling and the sound of the chip bag being crinkled and tossed.

I could almost taste the salt which was very strange as I most certainly could not move my mouth or my tongue.

“So. What are we going to do with this guy?”

Prickles of anticipation crawled across my head, and, somehow, I knew I was the guy, and they were talking about me. It meant they’d known I was here all along and they had done absolutely nothing to try to assist me. I should not be here. I should be anywhere but here. Perhaps even riding the motorcycle they were speaking about so cavalierly.

“Well, they grabbed the money and ran. Probably in Acapulco right now, sunning themselves like lizards and drinking banana monkeys.”

“Do people really drink those things?”

“Yes. Not bad. Exotic. Enough of those will do your liver a nice big abscess.”

“I think I’ll pass on that. I’m in no hurry to induce cirrhosis or any other unfriendly disease.”

“Yah. Wonder if this guy knew those banana monkeys would bring him to our place? Apparently, they don’t come with warning labels.”

“Does anyone read those warning labels anyway?”

“No.”

“So, how long has it been? I know the guy has been cooling his heels for quite a while now.”

“Six months. Good thing we had plenty of space in the cooler.”

“Are you heading to Mexico for a signature?”

“Nah. Trying to handle it as peacefully as possible. They beat the hell out of each other squabbling over the fortune, and most of that is settled now. Still waiting for our part of it.”

“Okay. Going through the legal maneuvers?”

“Yes. The issue is that they got the death certs and filed for the money, but no one would sign for the important detail. Until today. Finally got the courts to press the issue. If we get paid for it, that will be a bonus, but now the important thing is to do right by this guy. He had loads of money, but apparently it wasn’t enough for his family to take proper care of his final disposition.”

“How often do you run into these issues?”

“A few cases here and there. No one wants to sign because they think it means they’ll have to pay the bill.”

“Sad story.”

“We finally got the go-ahead from the judge, and it will probably be a freebie as its nearly impossible to get money from these devoted family members.”

“You’re beginning to sound a bit jaded, Charles. Time to retire yet?”

“I’ll probably fall in when we are firing it up.”

More muffled laughter but this time I felt a chill creep up the back of my neck and then I actually blinked my eyes. I wanted to shut my ears and snuff out any possibility of auditory information slapping me. The words they were about to speak were unspeakable to me and, most certainly, unbearable.

“Did the old guy happen to make his wishes known? Funeral? Pristine casket? Or cremation?”

“He got his money by being quite conservative so opted for cremation in his final planning, although I can bet you, he never thought he’d ever actually die. Other people die. Never happens to millionaires, right?”

If I had any hair on my head, I was quite certain it would now be on fire. Someone’s rotten and greedy family had grabbed a fortune but refused to sign or pay for final disposal. It appeared that was my ungrateful family, and I had been lying here in this dark place for the past six months while my beloved family was drinking banana monkeys in Mexico, refusing to spend even a dime of my hard-earned fortune on a burial, a funeral, or even a cremation.

How had it come to this? What was the true cause of my death? Who had signed the death certificate? Did they check the last drink I had or test for toxicology? Then I recalled I had been attending a family gathering, despite the fact I preferred not to gather with my relatives who always whined about their incessant need for funds, just to see if they could get a loan from me. It was also my birthday. They’d gone all out with me footing the bill of course. A pretty, young girl jumped out of a massive cake and then lap-danced me which I did not protest. She also kissed me smack on the lips. I remember the odd bitter flavor to her kiss and thought I was losing my touch. I had considered myself to be a bit of a Romeo in earlier years.

Well, I’d made my fortune by being ruthless, and I was now certain that talent and skill had not deserted me. I would make sure each one of them involved in this plot would pay dearly. I stretched my neck a little, testing it, knowing I would regain movement and do so quickly. I now had a purpose.

Death? You see how easily I skipped over that. What was going on here? Was I really and truly dead? But then how come I was aware and rotting and reeking but quite capable of causing hell, a price that must be paid? My rotting lips shed a bit of skin as I twisted my mouth into a sinister smile.

I began to plan with all the excellent skill necessary to achieve my revenge on this worthless family of mine.

Of the greatest importance was knowing I had to hold this body together and keep it from being cremated while I was still aware. I hated fire and was quite certain I would hate it even more if I was shoved into the crematory, and they lit her up and I was still awake and not even able to scream and let them know I was dead but not truly dead.

Picture of Linda Sparks

Linda Sparks

Linda Sparks is a poet and author of horror poetry, stories and books. She has been published by Ravens Quoth Press, Clarendon House Publishing, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spillwords, Kaidankai and many others. She also served as editor for Valkyrie Magazine.
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Jackson’s Signature Soup by J.B. Corso

The aroma of fresh chicken broth fills a back alley kitchen. A massive iron cauldron balances on stone supports over a blazing bonfire within the room’s epicenter. Candlelight glows around the room, casting shadows of tall spice containers and vegetable baskets against the brick walls.

A childhood melody plays between Jackson’s lips. He ladles warm soup over his bald head. The liquid cascades over his nose and mouth. He sticks a curious tongue under the cascading rush. Bobbing chopped chicken sections mingle with carrot chunks around his hairless chest and back. He sips the savory broth from a wooden spoon. A deep smile pulls across his face.

“Ah, that’s good soup. It should get better reviews than my cousin’s attempt,” he says to a wayward celery piece. “If only I’d be alive to taste my own masterpiece.” He swallows a yellow pill, washing it down with a spoonful of tasty warmth. “At least Genevieve will have some fun turning me into a hearty meal.”

Jackson’s eyelids grow heavy. His face slips under the seasoned broth.

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J.B. Corso

J.B. Corso is a mental health clinician who has worked with vulnerable populations for nearly 20 years. They enjoy spending time with their children, writing, and pondering existential questions. They live with a supportive partner in the Midwest and enjoy car rides relaxing to the Grateful Dead. Their writing motto is "Developing stories into masterpieces." They are a Horror Writer’s Association member and a NaNoWriMo winner (2021, 2022). They’re an international author with works published with Sirens Call Publications and Black Hare Press.
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The Girl Who Lived in a Shoe by Hari Navarro

Vanessa feels wettened fingers in her ears as they snap at the knuckles, and then, slowly, she closes her eyes. 

It is suddenly so deliciously hot as the clenching billowing maw above opens, and plastic scented light pours over her, gathering and pulling at her skin.

This artificial aroma; she remembers it as the cheap sun lotion she’d once lathered into her pores. Those dreamy chemicals that stuck in the grooves of her lips. That so filled her nostrils with memories of sand and bearded, moated boulders, and dunes that unraveled as skinny legs plowed through and up to their peaks.

And again, just now, the ground beneath suddenly tips as one foot slumps lower than the other. There is screaming, but it is not human. It is a wail that sucks into itself, and then something cool and sharp plays and runs through her hair.

She needs to be in the pit.

She feels safe in the pit.

***

Vanessa stands on the shore and contracts her feet into the strata lines of ruddied foam, sighing into its cooling swallow. This is a memory of teenage toes and grains that fouled sandwiches that cracked between the, then, effortless twitch of her smile. But, this is now, and her dry lips thin and split as she pulls them back against her teeth. Her mind leaching, bleeding them of any part of joy.

She stands alone with her eyes closed so tightly she can feel them beat, and she plugs her toes ever deeper, down and into the sand.

“I am Drowner of the incessant silences. Drowner of the septic naked thing that purged from the ragged canal in a gush of amniotic roadside wash.”

In this fuddled moment she feels intimately connected to this far beginning, and just short of the end of many a thing. The sand; it has changed its counsel over these long years, she thinks.

In her youth, its rub was a soothing and searing balm to the soles of her feet. But now, it offers only abrasion. Painful mutterings that echo of the very Earth’s approaching demise. Its slow remorse as the moving water forever scratches and wears away at its skin.

***

Vanessa opens her eyes, and for a moment, everything is blue. The sky is ripped of its clouds, and the sea is calmed and without its white-licked peaks. Above and below merge into something terrifying and lovely, and infinite and connected, and so very blue.

“How am I here?”

She loses herself sometimes. She gets lost amid sentences, and on familiar streets, and in the ramping beat of her panting as she claws randomly found flesh into her zenith release.

She gets lost in the question of whether she is cold or hot. A God or not. Sick or not. She gets lost in the not knowing if she is bad or if, indeed, she is good.

She hears sea birds, and she opens her eyes and marvels at how freely they drop and bounce through the currents. To fly.

Vanessa has to work today so surely she didn’t abuse the boys, she wonders. The boys is the name she has given to the capsules that bustle and ruminate in the shoebox beneath her bed—the team she is on as she tries to neatly fold her past. An attempt, of a night, to put it all most soundly to sleep.

Spittle crests and runs the edge of her lip, and her head falls away to the side and bits of shell between her toes poke at her eyes as they play in the sun, and the world pulls back into step.

The ancient sand. Wet cement fragments in time copied so perfectly her feet as she ran.

***

Vanessa is standing naked with her skin torn and rubbed raw at the points where her clothes were torqued and drawn until they snapped and raped from her flesh.

“What am I?”

She knows this place—this bent scoop cove with thrusting walls of failing rock and dripping clay that pantomime at her back. Cliffs that fold to the ever-angered, and at once, so very meek waves that bite and chew. An incessant hunger that crumbles the farmland splaying out from and cowering at its very top.

She knows it well.

There is a ladder of sorts leading down from this top. Not all the way, as it stops twice on little ledges that allow her to swivel and adjust her stance. The ladder is formed from found things. Its main poles are mill-shaved lumber, but the struts are nailed branches of manuka and parts of window frames and such—an old street sign, that even now, as the salt picks and plays at her bare eyes, she wishes the name would thicken, and spill from her throat.

But it doesn’t. Her past does so lock itself in corridors of identical rooms.

***

Before her now, a beautiful ghost wades into the waves with a towering fishing rod in his grasp. This, she knows at once, is her grandfather, the massive height of the rod playing in his hand, begging only to be cast.

She struggles to grasp just how she is here. How she now sees this rod, or still just how the mangled line, wound within its long-neglected reel, passes so perfectly up through its guides and now hangs before him and her, replete with sinker and lavishly baited hook.

She would have thought an apparition such as this would weld his rod in the pristine condition he always maintained it in life. Not projecting it, as it now sits, neglected in the rafters of her grandfather’s long-since visited shed.

He seems full of tiny holes that allow the wave-spun breeze easy passage as it passes through him and beats against her skin.

The old man flips the bar that locks his reel in place and secures his finger to hold the nylon just so against the pole. Then he steps one foot forward, to widen and steady his stance, and arches backward, and with his other hand gripping firmly at the rod’s base, he heaves it backward over his head.

She is sad as the line passes through her mind, and even sadder that she doesn’t flinch in the slightest as it does.

Nothing now is tactile. Everything is hollowed, and she cannot clutch nor caress the form of most anything. Just wisps of husk and shell remain.

“Please don’t speak,” she begs silently of the old man’s back. “Please, I don’t think I can bear it after all this time you’ve been gone.”

“Come now, little whip. What is it that you hope to catch?”

“Myself. As always, Grandad, you know. Always there to wordlessly syphon off my self-pity and loathing with one of these dear trips to the beach.”

The old man smiles as he violently lurches forward, thrusting his bottom hand down to cast his line out. And the lead at its end pours into the ascendant before then falling, the dive probing the farthest distant swell.

***

She thinks she is mad.

She thinks she is mad, as she can feel, again, hands at her back, shuddering as they continue to flail the clothes from her body.

There is a threadbare waterfall that excretes from the cliff behind her. It forms a small pool at its base, and then dribbles down between her parted legs. A stream that splits at the base of the pole she now holds, and then deltas through the sand before her, spilling the clay’s rusty tint further down, veining into the sea.

“So that’s why the foam is red.” She sighs through a briefest smile of relief.

Her hooked finger feels a tug on the line. Then nothing. This pull it is that thing. That thing she tried so hard to ignore as she slipped into the bath with lipstick smiles at her wrists.

It tugs again, and the reel hisses as it plays out. She cranks the handle at its side, and the guide bar flicks back into place. She stops and she waits, and then again it tugs and runs off to the left. She winds again, heaving back the rod, and then stops and locks the line, and heaves it back again.

Time now races, and she can see but flashes of the moon and the sun as they chop and change in the sky. Her name is Vanessa, and she wants to carve it into a sea log so that it might float away, and when found, someone could care to wonder just what it was she was for.

The tip of the rod bows and it whips from side to side. She can see it now; this gathered floundering thing, fighting in the nearby roll, and she wades into the waves and winds and winds and winds.

It flaps and it screams, and then, this mass, it distills in the splaying foam. A great hook scooped into the corner of her scream, and torn out through the puff of her cheek.

She is human. Black hair shaved back to her scalp. Her face pulled apart and leaking like fruit torn to its pith.

Vanessa falls heavily at her side. Guilt throbs in her fingers as she holds the poor girl’s head and, with a long ago practiced twist of her wrist, she removes the hook from her face.

“I’m so sorry, look how I have ruined you,” Vanessa pleads as her voice bends and cracks against the gutted ripped flap of flesh that now slides beneath her hand as she tries to hold it in place. “I so wanted to catch you, but now I have, all I want is to throw you back,” she says to herself as she cups her own head, running her hand across the crust at its fire-scorched brow.

***

She’s seen wonderful things. With her job, she has visited the world entire. She has sat alone in empty bars at dawn and sucked the head off fizzing amber shafts of filthy glass. She has marveled at the flustered faces of commuting crowds packed into trains, and wept as they looked so happy.

Grooves within a lock, clicking and clicking and clicking into place.

“I am a pilot, and I need to get back to the pit. The pews which sit behind me there, worshiped my invisible power to give them all wings to skirt the globe. To find safe passage. My sermon gave them comfort, and now look at the harvest I’ve lost.”

You were in the sky, and you left the cockpit, and as the switches passed above your head, you thought of nothing. Nothing.

Vanessa?

It is now late afternoon, but still the sun, it reaps. Vanessa lies naked and jagged and dead as the returning tide pushes and pulls at the holes in her body.

The bay is strewn with bomb-gouged bodies, and bits of headrests and plastic cups, and private things that float.

Her right leg floats atop the gentle surge of the tide. Its foot remains bound and safe in a shoe—it now the only thing that holds her in place.

The sea sways and sauces the sand, and the sand, it grates and parts and parts again. Smaller and smaller, until finally Vanessa becomes nothing at all.

Nothing but a single shoe to be found on a beach by a stranger.

Picture of Hari Navarro

Hari Navarro

Hari Navarro has, for many years now, been locked in his neighbour’s cellar. He survives due to an intravenous feed of puréed extreme horror and Absinthe-infused sticky-spiced unicorn wings. His anguished cries for more dip can be found via Black Hare Press, Black Ink Fiction, Hellbound Books, 365 Tomorrows, Breachzine, AntipodeanSF and Horror Without Borders.
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